It was hot. Messy. Glorious.
âDamn it,â Chance growled, backing away from her as if she had the plague. âDamn it.â
âWhatâ¦â Ally had to clear her throat to speak. âWhat was that about?â
âNothing. It was just a kiss.â
That had been just a kiss?
Well, she was certainly glad heâd cleared that up for her, because sheâd been quite positive it had been more, far more, as in something from the heart, from the soul.
âI meant to stay away from you,â Chance said.
âWell, youâre not doing a very good job.â
âIâm going to try harder.â
âGood. Becauseâ¦â Allyâs throat tightened. She wanted him, plain and simple. And he wanted her, too, she knew that. But he didnât want to want her, and that hurt. Suddenly she missed her own quiet world. âI want my old life back,â she whispered.
He nodded curtly. âThen go get it.â
So simple. So why did it seem so hard?
Dear Reader,
Thereâs nothing more sexy than a hero who knows his own mind and isnât afraid to speak it. T. J. Chance is definitely one of those men: confident, gorgeous, not to mention ready, able and willing.
Ally Wheeler admires these qualities, and though sheâs naturally not superconfident herself, nor ready, able and willing, sheâs hoping to learn. From Chance.
Only, Chance doesnât want to teach Ally to walk on the wild side. He doesnât want to do anything with her, especially fall in love, which is exactly what happens. Hope you enjoy this last installment of the MEN OF CHANCE miniseries!
Jill Shalvis
P.S. You can write to me c/o Harlequin, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, M3B 3K9, Canada.
âYOUâRE FIRED.â
âWhat?â Ally meant to sound fierce but she might as well have been a squeaky mouse. âYouâ¦canât do that.â
âOh, yes, I can.â Professor Langley Weatherby III, every bit the antiquated snob his name suggested, peered over his small wire-rimmed spectacles. âYouâre no longer a librarian at this university, Ms. Wheeler. Consider yourself officially unemployed.â
âButââ Ally loved her work, loved everything about it, the feel of the glorious old books in her hands, the scent of aging paper, the pleasure of helping students soak up all that knowledge.
And the silence, most of all she loved the silence.
âWeâll give you two weeksâ severance pay,â the professor said. âMore than generous, given the scandal.â
Ah, yes, the scandal. Not that anyone had let her forget it for one moment. It hadnât been her fault, and feeling her throat burn, she swiped at the moisture in her eyes, as if flicking away a pesky piece of lint instead of her hopes and dreams.
The professor let out a heavy sigh and thrust a handkerchief beneath her nose. âYou do see our position,â he said gruffly, but with slightly less antagonism. âWe canât let you stay now.â
It was hard to believe that little Miss Goody-Two-shoes had gotten herself into so much trouble. First with the professor, then the head of the school himself, and finally, when no one had believed Allyâs story, with the authorities. Sheâd even had an eventful ride to the San Francisco police station for questioning, an experience that would surely headline her nightmares for the rest of her life.
Ironic, since in all of her nearly twenty-six years sheâd never so much as been sent to the principalâs office. âBut Thomas was the one who stole the classics,â she said for at least the hundredth time.
âThey were priceless first edition literary classics that had been at our university for decades, Ms. Wheeler. Your boyfriend used your special clearance to steal them.â
But what would she do without her job? Her heart and soul were embedded in these brick walls, because here she wasnât mousy Ally. Here she was important. She belonged.
âThis decision is final.â
She wouldnât beg. With her stomach somewhere near the vicinity of her feet, she stood, lifted her chin to the level of the professorâs aristocratic nose, and walked out of her beloved library for the last time. She passed the biology building, the Social Studies Hall and the Student Union before moving toward the park, her second favorite place on earth. Here was where she left her car every morning, so at the end of a day filled with books, she could unwind by feeding the squirrels.
Fired. Fired. Fired. The word rang in her head.
Well, if being let go was the worst thing to ever happen to her, then so be it. So sheâd been forced to leave the best job sheâd ever had. Sheâd survive. Probably.
But where was her car? Craning her neck, she looked to the right, then to the leftâ Oh, no.
Had she really thought her day couldnât get worse?
Her fifteen-year-old tomato-red Escort coupe, temperamental and spunky at the best of timesâof which this wasnâtâwas gone all right. It had rolled down the steep hill.