“Lara…”
Bryce had stretched his hand out, so that the tips of his fingers were only an inch away from her shoulder. One inch.
She didn’t move a muscle. “What?”
He remained motionless, too. His long fingers didn’t close the distance between them, but they didn’t retreat, either. It was like a freeze frame, the two of them suspended in time, only an inch apart.
She asked again, because the tension of that inch was unbearable. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, his voice oddly vague. “It’s just—”
She was acutely aware of her heartbeat, which seemed to be the only part of her still moving. One inch. If she leaned his way even the slightest bit, their bodies would connect.
But she couldn’t. The distance between them, even if it was only an inch, was his distance. He had put it there, and only he could take it away.
“It’s just that… If you wanted my respect for what you did today—for what you’re trying to do with your life… You’ve got it.”
Respect… Numbly she thanked him, said goodbye and climbed out of the car. Respect was cold, completely without passion. You respected your congressman, your pastor, your fifth-grade teacher and your elders.
Respect had no power to do the only thing that mattered. It could never close that final, fatal inch.
Dear Reader,
What is the mystique of small towns? So many stories are set in them, including this one. They must have something that speaks to our deepest fantasies.
I grew up in Tampa, Florida, which, though not New York or L.A., hardly qualifies as “small.” But I, too, feel the small-town magic, lean longingly toward the peace and charm. Is it the sweet air? The big sky? The unlocked doors, the homegrown stores, the creeks and glens and quiet places?
Yes, all that. But perhaps there’s something even more profound. Perhaps we’re all yearning to connect—and to believe our connections are “forever.” Maybe it’s appealing to think that, even if we are shy or injured or just born loners, the close bonds of a small town could save us from ourselves. They could pull us in, banish isolation, promise permanence.
Heyday is that kind of town. Bryce McClintock left in scandal and disgrace fourteen years ago, vowing never to return. But when he finds he has inherited one-third of his father’s estate, he must come back to the town that officially labeled him The Sinner.
He tells himself it’s temporary. Just until he can sort things out. But that’s before he meets the stray dog and the crazy tenants. Before he discovers he’s got a new niece he didn’t know about, and a new job he doesn’t want. Most of all, that’s before he learns that Lara Lynmore, the one woman who ever got under his skin, has come to live in Heyday, too.
Bryce is about to find out one more thing about small towns—and about true love. Once they claim your heart, they never really give it back.
I hope you enjoy this story.
Warmly,
Kathleen O’Brien
P.S. I love to hear from readers! Write me at P.O. Box 947633, Maitland, FL 32794-7633. And visit me at my Web site, www.KathleenOBrien.net.
The Sinner
Kathleen O’Brien
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
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
“NO KIDDING, th-that’s your job? You get paid to guard Lara Lynmore’s body?”
Bryce McClintock flicked a look at the name tag of the stammering young man next to him. Ted Barnes, Assistant Event Manager, Eldorado Hotels. Ted was a just-barely-twentysomething kid whose silver, European-cut suit said he wanted to be all Hollywood glamour, but whose freckled face said he’d just stepped off the bus from Iowa.
The way the kid’s mouth hung open as he looked at Lara Lynmore gave him away, too. Real Hollywood types took celebrities for granted. And Lara Lynmore wasn’t even technically a “star” yet. Although ever since her first leading role, as Bess, the doomed black-eyed beauty in the high-budget movie version of “The Highwayman,” had premiered this summer, she was getting pretty close.
Close enough to have attracted about a million innocent, panting fans, like this guy.
And one stalker, an obsessed former stuntman named Kenny Boggs.
Kenny wasn’t just annoying. He was dangerous. Bryce had seen the irrational, increasingly hostile letters the stuntman had sent to Lara Lynmore after she rejected him. He’d heard the threats on her answering machine. Kenny meant business.
Bryce had seen way too many creeps like Boggs—for these past eight years in the FBI they’d been his whole life. That was why he’d quit. That was why, as soon as he could find someone else to take this idiotic position of guarding America’s sweetheart, he was headed straight for the Bahamas, where his biggest problem would be figuring out how to beat the house at blackjack.
However, Ted wasn’t to blame for Bryce’s career problems. Ted was just a sweet sap who was going to break his corn-fed heart trying to Be Somebody, and then slink home to marry the patient girl who would never guess that every time her sensible husband made love to her, he’d be thinking of Lara Lynmore.
So instead of telling him to buzz off, as he had planned, Bryce just nodded. “Yeah. I’m her bodyguard. But it’s no big deal. It’s just a job.”
A sighing silence. Though Bryce didn’t want to take his eyes off the crowd for long, he glanced over at the kid one more time. Was that drool he saw shining at the edge of his open mouth? God.
“Movie stars are people, Ted. They’re pretty, but they’re just people.”
Ted didn’t even blink. “Not Lara,” he whispered. “Lara Lynmore isn’t just people. Look at her.”
Bryce didn’t have to look at Lara to know what Ted was talking about, but he did. And he saw what he’d seen every day, every night, for the past six weeks. A twenty-six-year-old brunette with the long-legged, ripe-breasted body of a wet-dream goddess and the sweet, wide-eyed face of the girl you’d loved and lost in high school.
It was that off-kilter combination that got you. Bryce was tough—he prided himself on it—but even he wasn’t so tough he didn’t feel it. It was like a one-two punch, sharp and below the belt.
Today Lara was giving a speech to the ladies of the Breast Cancer Awareness luncheon, so she wasn’t wearing her usual party-girl getup—no dagger-cut necklines, no sequins, no peekaboo lace.
Which wasn’t to say no sex. She looked