âWhat do you want?â Nick asked.
âYou,â Tyler purred.
It was a word heâd have begged to hear in other circumstances. âTyler, Iâ¦â
She moved toward him. âPlease. Canât we just pretend? I want to go back to the moment when I first walked into your office. Only youâre not the P.I. my grandmother sent me to. Youâre just a man and Iâm a woman.â
Nick sighed. If this was what Tyler needed right now, he couldnât deny her.
She ran her hand along his chest. âIâve wanted to do this since the first moment I saw you. I felt as if Iâd die if I didnât touch you. I felt I might die if I did.â
Her words had his mind clouding, his blood thickening. He wanted to reach for her but he wasnât sure he could lift his arms.
âAnd then I would have done this.â Rising on her toes, she brushed her lips against his, then pressed tiny kisses against his neck, his chest. âOnce I started, I wouldnât have been able to stop.â She moved her mouth lower. âAnd Iâm afraid I canât stop nowâ¦â
Dear Reader,
What would happen if a happily engaged woman suddenly met Mr. Absolutely Wrongâat the right time? Thatâs what happens to my heroine, Tyler Sheridan, when she discovers through âThe Personal Touch!â that her fiancé isnât planning to make an appearance at their wedding.
Writing Otherwise Engaged was so much fun! First of all, it allowed me to create the Romano family. Theyâre fun-loving, hardworking and, with the exception of Nick, all great cooks. They remind me a great deal of the Italian side of my own family.
Secondly, it gave me the opportunity to write the kind of story I like bestâwhere two people from very different worlds meet and canât help themselves from falling in love. Nick is a street-smart New York P.I. Tylerâs a prim Boston socialite. They never should have met. And they wouldnât haveâ¦if not for an ad in âThe Personal Touch!â
I hope you have fun reading about Nick and Tylerâs romantic misadventures. Iâd love to hear what you think. Write to me at P.O. Box 327, Dewitt, NY 13214.
Enjoy!
Cara Summers
TMSâSorry Iâll miss the wedding. Iâll be in touch.
Remember Scarlet and Annie. RJL
DISASTER. Tyler Sheridanâs fingers had started tingling the moment sheâd read the ad. They always did when something bad was about to happen. And getting a Dear John letter from her fiancé in the Personals went way beyond bad!
Her first reaction had been to close her eyes and pinch herself. But when sheâd finally steeled herself to look again, the ad was still there, the message still the same. That was when the rational part of her brain had kicked in. It had to be a mistake. It was someoneâs idea of a joke. Richard couldnât have placed the ad. Sheâd just call him and heâd be able to explain.
Sixteen hours later, sheâd had to face the fact that Richard James Lawrence, prominent Manhattan accountant, the man she was supposed to marry in a week, couldnât explain anything because heâd disappeared.
She had to get him back! Her whole future as CEO of Sheridan Trust, one of Bostonâs most prestigious investment firms, depended on finding Richard and convincing him to go through with the wedding. A jilted bride was not going to inspire the confidence of her board of trusteesânot when she was already on probation.
The panic bubbling up inside her had sent her to the special file her grandmother had given her just before she died. In it was a business card and a letter of introduction she was supposed to use in just such an emergency. Isabelle Sheridanâs exact words had been âIf you want something done quickly and with the utmost secrecy, go to Manhattan and hire Nick Romano.â
But now that she was here and about to enter the offices of Romano Investigations, her fingers had begun to tingle again. Had she come to the right place? The neighborhood wasnât quite as upscale as sheâd expected, and the building was old. Seedy was the word that came to mind as sheâd taken the elevator to the fifth floor, and nothing she saw as she started down the dim hallway dislodged it. Try as she might, she could not picture her grandmother, the strong-minded, impeccably groomed woman whoâd ruled Sheridan Trust with an iron hand for thirty years, ever coming to a place like this.
Fishing the business card out of her pocket, she glanced down at the address and once more assured herself that sheâd come to the right building, the right floor. No one had answered when sheâd called from her hotel, but a recorded voice had informed her the office would open at nine. As she reached the end of the hall, she saw that it hadnât lied. The bold black letters on the frosted glass read N. Romano, Private Investigations. And the door was wide open.
In the light filtering through the broken blinds, Tyler could make out a battered desk with a goose-necked lamp. The scene was suddenly very familiar. Hadnât she seen it before in old movies where the desperate heroine sought out the help of a street-wise private eye? It certainly wasnât a part sheâd ever expected to play in real life. And she couldnât imagine Isabelle Sheridan playing it, either.