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“I’m supposed to be seducing you.”
“You’ve been seducing me all night,” he said, leading her into the living room, slipping her purse off her shoulder and deftly tossing it aside.
“That dress, the way you smile, the curve of your neck, the way you plucked at your skirt in the car as we got closer to the house… all seduction.”
“I had no idea those little things could be considered seduction,” Lizzie said, and her mouth went dry.
Sam sighed. “Neither did I.” He sat on the couch and pulled her onto his lap. She did not land gracefully, but lost her balance at the last second and landed pretty hard. He caught her, held her, guided her into a leaning position and began to kiss her throat. One hand slid slowly up her thigh, just barely slipping under her skirt and then stopping. Now, this was seduction.
Dear Reader,
You hear it all the time. “Write what you know.” Well, I’ve never been a private investigator, never owned a taser, never had a nutcase come after me. But years ago I did paint my living room a lovely color—Blush—that my entire family (all male, I should point out) insisted was pink. And when I painted a room or two Sahara Sand not so long ago, I heard the same accusation. Pink. (They were mistaken both times. Sorta.) So when Lizzie started painting Sam’s office, that’s where I called on what I know.
And Edgar’s Bakery in Birmingham really does make the best strawberry cupcakes ever.
I truly enjoy a reunion story, a love that lasts. And who doesn’t love a man who will do anything for a woman? Anything at all. Love of family is something I identify with very strongly. These are the things I drew on for this story. Paint, cupcakes, family, and love. Always love.
I hope you enjoy Sam and Lizzie’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Linda Winstead Jones
About the Author
LINDA WINSTEAD JONES is a bestselling author of more than fifty romance books in several subgenres—historical, fairy tale, paranormal and, of course, romantic suspense. She’s won a Colorado Romance Writers Award of Excellence twice. She is also a three-time RITA® Award finalist and (writing as Linda Fallon) winner of the 2004 RITA® Award for paranormal romance.
Linda lives in north Alabama with her husband of thirty-seven years. She can be reached via www.eHarlequin.com or her own website, www.lindawinsteadjones.com.
COME TO ME
LINDA WINSTEAD JONES
For Kira Sinclair and Kimberly Lang. I’m so honoured and thrilled to be around to see you both succeed, and to celebrate your accomplishments. I know there will be many more.
Chapter 1
“You weren’t at the funeral,” Lizzie blurted. It was an awkward way to start a conversation with a man she hadn’t seen in nearly eight years, but she had a bad habit of saying whatever popped into her head. It was a trait that had gotten her into trouble more than once in her twenty-four years.
Sitting on the other side of a massive, polished walnut desk, Sam’s sharply featured face revealed no emotion as he said, “I was out of town and didn’t find out about your dad’s accident until days after the funeral. I’m so sorry. He was a good man and a good cop. Did you get the card?”
“Yes. Thanks for the thought.” The card had arrived nearly four months ago—a week after the funeral—and she’d almost thrown it out in a childish fit. Since Sam had been away, she supposed he could be forgiven for missing the funeral. It wasn’t as if she’d gone to any trouble to hunt him down and share the news. She’d been in shock, at the time.
In a completely perverse manner, Lizzie wished this man she’d once had a heart-wrenching teenage crush on had gotten bald or fat or horribly wrinkled in the years they’d been strangers. She wished she could write off her memory of him as the perfect specimen of a man as childish fiction. She wished she could laugh at her stubborn and unwanted habit of comparing every man she met to this one.
Instead, Sam Travers, once her father’s partner with the Birmingham police force and currently a successful private investigator, carried the years well. Too well. He was as perfectly handsome as she remembered. His dark hair, cut fairly short but gently mussed, was as thick as ever, and his eyes were even bluer than she remembered. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his now-thirty-two-year-old body, and the only wrinkles she could see were very faint lines around his fantastically blue eyes, lines that only made him more attractive. He wore a perfectly fitted suit these days, instead of the uniform or jeans and T-shirts she remembered, and she was dying to ask him how he’d gotten the small, almost invisible scar on his right cheek—but she didn’t.
Lizzie squirmed in her chair, uneasy and questioning her decision to be here. When planning her wardrobe for the day she’d purposely dressed down, determined not to make herself attractive for a man who didn’t deserve such efforts. Now she realized she should’ve gone to someone else. Sam looked a little harder than she remembered. He wouldn’t understand. This would never work!
The problem was she didn’t trust anyone else. Not with this.
“I have a sister,” she said, carefully placing the letters she’d found in her father’s papers on Sam’s desk and, after a brief pause, pushing them toward him with both hands. “Half sister, that is. I should say probably a half sister. If you read the letters, you’ll see there’s some question about that, though Dad seemed pretty sure. Her name is Jenna. According to these letters she’d be twelve years old now.”
Sam glanced at the short stack of envelopes but didn’t pick them up. “I’m sure finding out that you might have a half sister was a shock. What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Find her,” Lizzie said sharply, perturbed that Sam hadn’t figured out that part of it for himself. Some private investigator he was! The word from her father’s old cop buddies was that Sam was the best, a fixer of momentous problems, a man for whom no case was too difficult. He took on the toughest court assignments as well as private cases, and had built what had once been a one-man business into a well-respected agency.
“And?” he queried, tapping one long finger on the top letter in an annoying and strangely sensual rhythm.
Lizzie
