About the Author
About Mira Lyn Kelly
MIRA LYN KELLY grew up in the Chicago area and earned her degree in Fine Arts from Loyola University. She met the love of her life while studying abroad in Rome, only to discover heâd been living right around the corner from her for the previous two years. Having spent her twenties working and playing in the Windy City, sheâs now settled with her husband in rural Minnesota where their four beautiful children provide an excess of action, adventure and entertainment.
With writing as her passion, and inspiration striking at the most unpredictable times, Mira can always be found with a notebook at the ready. (More than once sheâs been caught by the neighbours, covered in grass clippings, scribbling away atop the compost container!)
When she isnât reading, writing, or running to keep up with the kids, she loves watching movies, blabbing with the girls, and cooking with her husband and friends.
Check out her website www.miralynkelly.com for the latest dish!
âOH, my God, isnât that your husband?â
Claire Brady stiffened at the urgent whisper. An instant before, sheâd been basking in the afterglow of a deal that, now struck, concluded her business for the next weekâmostly. The gallery was too much a part of who she was to ever truly be put aside, even for a single day. But in that moment, her phone had been quiet, her mind at peace, her senses drifting with the gentle breeze as sheâd absorbed the bustle and beauty of Romeâs Piazza Navona while light circles, courtesy of a dishy Italian seated to her right, stroked over her palm.
It felt good. She felt good. And sheâd wondered if maybe this time â¦
Well, so much for that.
She shook her head apologetically at Paulo, the dishy Italian under consideration, and then shot Sally, her best friend, assistant and perpetual alarmist, an emphatic no.
Sheâd known sharing the secret of her ex would come back to bite her, but balanced against the isolation of holding herself apart for so many years, Sallyâs occasional false alarm was a price sheâd been more than willing to pay. Still, this was the third âRyan sightingâ this month alone.
âThe man lives in California. The United States. Besides, if he were traveling abroad, weâd already know it,â she promised with a nod toward the newsstand at the corner of the piazza.
When all else failed, fell short or slipped away, there was one thing in her marriage to Ryan Brady that Claire could count on. And that was the media keeping her abreast of every sordid detail of his liaisons, financial conquests and daily adventures. No waiting by the door with a cocktail at five for her. She had the world news to tell her how his day had been and with whom heâd spent the night. And in this case, she had it on reliable authority that as of fifteen hours ago, Ryan Brady had been meeting with his lawyer in downtown L.A.
Sallyâs mouth pulled into a sideways twist that suggested she wasnât convinced. Her gaze darted between the newsstand and the fountain across the way. âHmm. But this guy really looked like him.â
Sure he did. âLike the homeless guy at the station looked like that actor ⦠Gerard Buââ
âHey, he could have been in disguise.â
âEating out of a Dumpster?â Claire tried to stifle her laughter, but then simply gave herself over to it. At the stubborn jut of Sallyâs jaw, she pulled her in for a quick hug, earning herself a good-natured pinch in the process. âOuch!â
âHey, maybe heâs a method actor or something.â
Laughter subsiding, she grinned at her friend and conceded, âMaybe.â
She sipped her espresso, enjoying the rich flavor rolling over her tongue, and set the shot-glass-size cup back on the paper-covered table.
Their trip couldnât be shaping up better. Getting away was good for both of them. Sally, because she needed more of a life outside the gallery than sheâd allowed herself over the last year, and Claire ⦠well, the timing had worked out providing a convenient excuse when sheâd rather desperately needed one.
Claire cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi where its Egyptian obelisk needled the washed-blue sky aboveânot so much looking for Ryan in the crush of milling tourists, as perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of this stranger who resembled him. Though as quickly as the thought processed, she pushed it back.