moved to Silhouette over a decade ago. This is “home” for me, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to be part of our Celebration 1000. When I write a Desire novel, I feel as if I’m talking to a fellow sister. I know you. You believe in love and commitment the way I do; you believe in families and healthy relationships…and you have the same problems I do as a woman living in the nineties. My books are to you as well as about you—and that caring between reader and writer is something that someone outside the romance field probably wouldn’t understand. Romances are about us—our struggles, our hopes, our needs. I never had to “work” to create a heroine…she’s every one of you, coping with the problems and trials of a woman today, striving to make the best life she can—and hopefully with a special lover, a man who deserves her.
I see our Celebration 1000 as a celebration of you—all of you Desire readers are the heroines of today. We share our dreams together in every love story.
My best wishes to all of you.
Someone was violently knocking on her front door, which Paige Stanford ignored. The phone had been ringing incessantly for the past hour, which she’d blithely ignored, too.
Growing up, her sisters used to tease her that she was so absentminded that she’d probably forget her own wedding. Paige had always vociferously resented that accusation. She wasn’t in the least absentminded. She simply had a gift for intense concentration.
Like now.
Heaven knew what time it was. Paige wasn’t sure when she had last eaten, either—and didn’t care.
Watery winter sunlight poured through the south windows on the bench counter and cement floor. Her whole workshop was strewn with veiners, gravers, chisels and pumice stones, grindstones and Eskimo stylers, drills and sanders and files. None of it would make a lick of sense to anyone but her. A stranger had no way to understand that sometimes it took chaos and a dusty mess to create a treasure of incomparable beauty.
Her eyes were riveted on the exquisite piece of jade. Weeks ago, the jade had been nothing more than a jagged lump of stone.
Now it was a finished cameo.
Paige couldn’t take her eyes off it. She’d made the cameo for her older sister, Gwen, whose birthday was six months away. Starting the project so far ahead was necessary, because it could so easily go wrong. There was no way of knowing, ever, what an innocuous lump of stone or shell would turn into until she started carving. Every stone held a mystery. Years ago she’d picked up an old saying in the sculpting world: “The truth is always there. You don’t have to find it. All you have to do is carve away what isn’t the truth.”
Discovering that truth was what she loved—and what challenged her—but Paige knew better than to claim credit for the result. Maybe it took talent and skill to reveal the stone’s secrets, but either there was beauty and truth intrinsic to the raw material or there wasn’t. As it happened, this particular piece of jade had hidden a damn near breathtaking treasure.
But holy kamoly. When she’d stepped back to study the finished cameo, it was as if a ghost had walked on her shadow. Her arms still had goose bumps, and her pulse had picked up an uneasy, disturbing beat. Her whole work studio seemed flooded with an eerie silence. She felt edgy and unsettled, almost…frightened.
Normally it took an avalanche to shake Paige—and she’d have been real annoyed at the avalanche. She couldn’t even remember being scared since she was sixteen, and that was an incident that had totally changed her life around. She was a practical, no-nonsense, unbudgeably tough cookie these days, and for Pete’s sake, she’d made hundreds of cameos. To have some strange emotional reaction to this one was not only stupid but downright confounding.
Someone thunderously knocked on her front door again. The sound registered like the vaguely annoying buzz of a gnat. She heard it. She just paid no attention.
With an impatient scowl, she examined and reexamined the piece from every angle. There had to be a reason the cameo was giving her the willies. Paige being Paige, wasn’t about to drop the problem until she figured it out.
The slab was a rough oval, perhaps ten inches across, and the image that had gradually emerged from the stone was simply a scene with a woman. Nothing frightening about her. Nothing weird. Like some primitive woods maiden, the woman was bent over a pond of water, gazing at her reflection with an expression as if she were discovering what she looked lite for the first time. She was bare, sitting with her legs tucked under her, the carving revealing full breasts and the slender slope of her spine. A mane of long, flowing hair streamed down her back. Her profile revealed a sensual classic beauty—high cheekbones, a slim nose, mysterious deep-set eyes. Something in those eyes spoke of innocence, a woman untouched by man, yet that innocence was a striking contrast to the inherent sexuality and sensuality in everything else about her.
Paige reached up and scratched her chin. The piece was good. Beyond good. It was totally wrong for her sister—Gwen was unshakably traditional and would have a conniption fit at the nudity. Paige never set out to carve the woman with bare boobs; it was just how the stone came out. Thankfully she had enough time to make an entirely different gift for her sister, but that problem shouldn’t take away from her own artistic sense of satisfaction. Without question, the cameo was one of the best things she’d ever done. She’d lucked out. The jade had magic. And it was always a thrill when she found a stone’s secrets were this wondrous, this precious.
Except for this time. For some absolutely ridiculous reason, her hands were trembling.
From her denim overalls to the calfskin Uggs on her feet to the long, practical braid hanging over her shoulder, Paige wasn’t the trembling type. All her life she’d been a rebel. As a teenager, she’d taken that too far, but as an adult she’d been grateful for those sturdy New England individualist genes. If she hadn’t had the guts to beat to her own drummer, she’d never have had the courage to take up cameo carving as a profession. Being a little weird didn’t bother her, but at the vast age of twenty-seven, she’d never been so ditzy as to believe in the fanciful or impossible.
The woman in the cameo appeared painfully familiar, when she couldn’t be. Paige could not possibly know that woman, that face, that scene. The stone revealed its own secrets, and those secrets had nothing to do with the artist—no sculptor could impose or force an idea that wasn’t inherent in the raw material. The woman had no special meaning for her. Couldn’t. Period. Pfft. End of subject.
So why couldn’t she shake this stupid, silly, and damnably eerie déjà vu feeling?
For a few moments, she was vaguely aware that the repetitive pounding on her front door had finally ceased. But then a new sound intruded-in the background. Apparently her unwanted visitor had entered the house, because she heard a voice calling out. A deep, booming, male voice—positively one she didn’t recognize—coming from the muffled distance of the front hall.
On a scale of one to ten, her interest in chitchatting with a stranger was a negative five. Paige figured it was an even-Steven chance the guy would take off if he found no one home, and she was hidden pretty good. The workshop had once been a porch off a spare bedroom, tacked on to the old Vermont farmhouse as if it were a surprise and handily buried at the end of a wing. She didn’t imagine
