Beyond Ordinary
Can you outrun your past?Angel Donovan can't. The moment she crosses the town limits of Ordinary, Montana, she feels the weight of who she used to be looming.But there's one person who sees beyond her former wild-child self–Timm Franck. Too bad he's also the one person she's wary of…with good reason. Thanks to his journalistic skills, the private details of her scandalous upbringing are a matter of public record.Despite her efforts, avoiding Timm is an impossible task. The man has made it his business to stay close. To make amends?Or to give them a shot at a relationship they never had? Whatever his motivation, Angel can honestly say this is the last place she expected to find something–someone– so extraordinary.
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Timm felt her breath warm on his neck
Angelâs soft hair brushed his chin, tantalizing him, reminding him of his adolescent hopes and dreams, always of her. He experienced a moment of disbelief that the one heâd wanted was here, nowâ¦with him.
She gripped his biceps, her hands warm through his cotton shirt, her fingers tight. Her nails bit into his skin, bringing him firmly back into the moment.
He pressed closer. Her hip, firm beneath his other hand, burned his palm. With his eyes closed, he feathered the skin above her jeans, and it was softer than anything heâd ever felt.
He was drowning in her scent and her heat. He had to touch her more.
Dear Reader,
Most people wander this earth wearing hard outer shells to protect their vulnerable cores. But those exteriors donât reflect who they really are. The problem is that the world assumes what they see on the surface is all there is. What a shame. I wanted to explore this idea and look at what kinds of problems it can cause.
Angel Donovan has been forced into a certain role by fate and, no matter how hard she tries, canât get her hometown to see her differently, to recognize that she is not the same person on the inside as the beautiful face and killer body lead people to believe. I liked the idea of a woman breaking free of preconceived perceptions to show the world that she has depth, that the person on the inside is every bit as beautiful as the one on the outside.
Timm Franck has the opposite problem. He is a decent, smart, nerdy guy who was burned and still carries the scars. He has no problem showing people who he really is on the inside. He just doesnât want to show them his chest full of scars.
I know of too many people who worry about their outer shell not being beautiful enough and fail to show that what they have in their cores is much more worthy than surface beauty. Revealing ourselves to others can turn out to be the best thing weâve ever done! May you find the courage to do it.
Happy reading,
Mary Sullivan
P.S. I do love to hear from readers! Please contact me through my website at www.marysullivanbooks.com.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mary likes to break through the shells of new people she meets, discovering the pearls of their personalities. We all seem to have so much to give to each other. She has enjoyed meeting so many great people through her writing career, especially readers. This is her fourth Harlequin Superromance novel. Mary loves being part of the Harlequin family!
To my mum,
who enjoyed reading her daughterâs books.
Love always.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
ANGEL DONOVAN LIMPED home to Ordinary, Montana, on her wounded Honda Gold Wing, pulling to a stop on the shoulder of the highway a couple of miles shy of town.
Out of gas.
Sheâd been gliding on fumes for the past quarter hour.
She tugged off her helmet and brushed sweat-dampened hair from her forehead, then dismounted.
The hot breeze outrunning nightfall across the prairie feathered her hair around her arms and her back, in the space between her vest and the waistband of her jeans. She should cut off every last black inch of it.
With one strong swing of her arm, she heaved the helmet into the closest field where it rolled across dry soil beneath yellow wheat, its red gloss disappearing under the dirt it picked up.
She unhooked her saddlebags and laid them down a few feet away, took out the can of lighter fluid sheâd bought in Bozeman and sprinkled it over the bike.
It glowed golden in the horizontal rays of the setting sun, its chemical scent a counterpoint to the dry, earthy aroma of the fields.
When a pickup truck flew past, its rush of air pushed her toward the bike. Farther down the road, it slowed.
Whoever you are, keep moving. I donât need you meddling.
Striking a wooden match on the tight denim across her thigh, she threw it onto the bike and the lighter fluid ignited with a satisfying whoosh.
It crackled and whispered, spoke of things best laid to rest, smoked like a demon and obliterated the scratches and dents on the nearly new bike.
Neil, baby, this is for you.
The heat rising off the burning bike distorted the horizon in shimmering waves.
The pickup reversed down the road and came to a stop ten feet away. A man exited the vehicle with a fire extinguisher in his hand.
âNo,â Angel screamed, and tried to head him off, but he scooted around her.
He sprayed the bike and the fire sputtered, the flames hissed then died. Acrid smoke swirled into the air, choking her.
âStop.â She threw herself at the man and sent him staggering. His finger slid off the trigger, but not before he sprayed both of them.
Angel coughed. Her eyes watered.
âYou want this to burn?â he asked. She didnât recognize him, or care who he was.
âGo away,â she cried. âMind your own business.â
