The Lottery Winner (25 page)

We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Superromance.

You want romance plus a bigger story!
Harlequin Superromance
stories are filled with powerful relationships that deliver a strong emotional punch and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Enjoy four Harlequin Superromance stories every month!

Connect with us on
Harlequin.com
for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

Other ways to keep in touch:

Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com

At First Touch

by Cindy Miles

CHAPTER ONE

Cassabaw
Station
Early August

I
F
ONE
MORE
person accused Reagan Quinn of having PTSD, she was going to lose it. She knew what it was, knew many others had it, and it was a serious, dangerous condition she wouldn't wish upon anyone. But she didn't have it. Not at all.

She was just, simply and bluntly to the point, pissed off. Bottom line.

Mad. As. All. Holy. Hell.

She was blind. Not on the edge of insanity.

The doctors had insisted her
other
senses would kick in to make up for the loss of sight. It hadn't happened yet. How could it when your vision was literally knocked from your skull? They'd said it would be like the cells in her body would swarm to all other areas in order to perfect them—to try to make up for the loss of that one particular sense. The doctor had said it would happen, and in an excited sort of way. Like it was cool. Superhero kind of cool. She distinctly remembered telling one doctor in particular to go screw himself. Twice. He'd compared her to Daredevil. The blind lawyer from Hell's Kitchen. She was nothing like Daredevil. Well, with one exception: she could see shadows, outlines, forms. Nothing definitive. Just like the blind superhero. But she doubted her vision would return to see something special like a rainstorm, where everything was all magical and beautiful and poignant. It sounded a lot cooler in a Marvel movie, instead of real life.
Her
life.

And now she was coming home. A place she hadn't returned to since the tragic accident that had taken the lives of her parents. She was basically helpless, depending on others, which she hated. Oh, the government was also helping her with a check for her troubles.

And that was great, having a government check. Even free college. She'd loved the service and defended her country with pride.

But what in the holy of all hell was she going to do with herself now?

“I spy with my little eye something...” Emily Quinn's pause lasted...and lasted. And lasted. “Brown. I mean tan. Definitely tan! Okay, more like a sort of, oh, I don't know, a—”

“The marsh.”

“Dang it, Reagan, I swear,” Emily huffed. “I just honestly swear.”

They'd been playing I Spy ever since Emily had picked her up at the airport. A really idiotic game to play with a blind person who could see only heavy shapes, but who was she to judge? Maybe her older sister didn't know what exactly to do with her. No one did, really. Not anymore. Walk on eggshells? Treat her like an invalid? Pretend nothing's wrong? Every option was completely and utterly wrong. All she wanted to do was get the hell home and go to bed. Sleep for a week. And pretend this nightmare wasn't truly happening. Maybe, after a week or two of slob-like slothery, she'd awaken and an epiphany would strike. An idea on how to fix this stupid situation. But for now, it was I Spy. Or not. “No more,” Reagan insisted. “Seriously, Em. I'm kinda beat. It was a long trip.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, you're right.” Reagan jumped when Emily's warm fingers threaded through hers. It'd take some getting used to—touches occurring before you see them coming. “I missed you so much, Rea. I just... I'm so glad you're home. Here, you relax and I'll turn the music up a bit. There'll be time for girl talk later.” Silence for a moment. “I'll just be quiet.”

Emily's quirkiness actually made Reagan fight a smile. At the same time, the quiver she'd noticed in her sister's voice saddened her. Her older sister had always been different. Did her own thing, no matter what anyone said. Reagan had liked that about her. “I missed you, too, sis,” Reagan answered, and squeezed her sister's warm hand. She had, too. More than Emily would really ever know. They only had each other, the Quinn girls. Well, she supposed, Emily now had the Malones. She was engaged to the middle son, Matt, and if Reagan remembered correctly, he was a cocky pain in the ass.

Girl talking, yes—they'd be doing plenty of that. She knew Emily Quinn's inquisitive mind, and Emily would want to know every detail of the accident. She would want to know her present condition, limitations. Feelings. Everything.

Reagan would tell her. Just not now. Extreme exhaustion and jet lag clawed at her. Made her grumpy. Made her short of patience.

The volume increased, just a little. She rested her head back and listened to Emily's unique addiction to vintage music—Benny Goodman, maybe. Funny. Reagan vaguely remembered her mother listening to the same kind of music. The neighbors' grandpa, too. Soon to be Emily's grandfather-in-law. Their neighbors on the river. That was another thing she'd have to get used to. Insta-family. Insta-everything, really. Insta-different-life.

Sleep didn't come—not in Emily's Jeep. Jeeps were great, especially living on an island, but whether in domestic driving or in the armed forces, they were jolting and bumpy. It was simply their nature to scramble your innards. So no matter how exhausted she was, sleep wouldn't happen. And since attempting to focus on distant shapes in a moving vehicle tended to make her queasy, Reagan kept her head slightly turned toward the window and her eyes closed, allowing the sun to warm her skin. It also made her sister think she was napping. The whole thing worked until they reached the river house. There her shenanigans ended. Abruptly.

Sleep and slothery wasn't going to be happening anytime soon.

The moment Emily cut the engine, voices rose over the marsh to greet Reagan's ears. Close, but not too close, laughter. Male laughter. One older voice swearing. An old blues singer's voice from a record player carried on the briny breeze that wafted through the open Jeep. The wind rustled her hair. A wind chime clanged softly nearby. As she peered through her shades, she could vaguely make out the shape of the river house.

The smell of...something delicious hung in the air, too.

“Happy homecoming, little sister!” Emily said with excitement. “A hero!” Again, Reagan's hand was enveloped and she jumped. Soft lips pressed against Reagan's cheek as Emily kissed her. “I wanted to surprise you!”

Reagan sighed and inwardly cringed. “Well, you did that, Em.” God Almighty, a freaking party? That's the very last thing she'd wanted. Especially with a bunch of strangers. But she didn't want to come across as a total unappreciative ass, so she pasted a grin to her face and squeezed Emily's hand. “Thanks, sis.” Her voice sounded strained, even to her own ears. But in Emily's excitement, her sister missed it completely. These people, Emily knew. She didn't. Maybe once, but that was a hell of a long time ago.

“Okay, come on and meet everyone!” Emily said with excitement, then her voice faded a little. Footsteps hurried away and they, too, grew quiet and became lost in the music and voices and swearing. Reagan reached for her walking stick on the Jeep's floorboard. Hopefully, she wouldn't trip over a pine root and go sprawling on her face in front of everyone. It wouldn't be the first time since the accident. Probably wouldn't be the last.

“Oh! Shoot!” Emily said. She sounded at least fifty feet away. Footsteps began crunching against something she couldn't immediately identify? Pine straw? “Reagan!”

“Stand down, my overanxious and soon-to-be sister-in-law,” a teasing male voice said, closer. A tall figure loomed, and along with it a clean, soapy scent met her nostrils and blended with the river brine. “Wow. Reagan Rose Quinn.” The male voice connected to the looming shadow drew closer. Close enough that his body heat clashed with hers. “I've got a confession.” He paused, and she felt him lean closer. “Ever since your sister showed me a picture of you in full gear, I've had a major crush on you.”

Instantly, she stiffened, and he laughed, and it was a deep, male sound. “At ease, Quinn. Welcome home.”

Reagan kept her shades in place. Who was this guy? She had to keep reminding herself that she wasn't a hundred percent, pitch-black blind; she merely saw dark, discolored shadows. Not enough to see features. Not enough to see tree roots, either. Just barely enough to see outlines. Forms. But she imagined the look on his face was a cocky one. “Uh, thanks. A Malone?” she said. Honestly, she had one in five shots. She couldn't be wrong. Apparently the one who came to drag her from Em's Jeep was the one with no filter.

A large, callused hand grasped her elbow and tugged, urging her out of the Jeep. “That's a crap guess, Quinn. You already know there are five of us living next door. Which one am I?” the voice teased. Reagan could hear the amusement.

She allowed his help, but the moment her stick touched the ground, she leaned away from him. Usually that was signal enough for someone to let go. He did not. “Eric,” she announced with impatience, and wondered why he acted as though he knew her. He didn't. None of them did. Not even Emily.

“Ha! Lucky guess!” he announced with almost too much joy. “Now quit trying to pull away from me and just come on,” he said quietly, for just her to hear. “I can tell you want a party as much as you want me escorting you right now, but both are happening whether you like it or not.” A slight swoosh of wind pushed past as he drew closer. “So just smile that gorgeous smile you have and get through it,” he said against her ear. “Your sister means well. You're all she's talked about. She's been planning this for a week. Besides, Jep's shrimp cakes are legendary—almost as much as the dipping sauce he makes to go with them. Plus, I just heard your stomach growl so I know you're starved. Now,” he said, not quite as close. “Can you see anything at all?”

Reagan gave a half laugh. Eric Malone hadn't changed too much. He'd been filterless as a kid, too, and apparently hadn't outgrown that quality.
Gorgeous smile?
What a line. The last smile he saw on her, she'd probably been missing teeth. “Actually, yeah. I can see shadows. Shapes. Forms. Which is why you can let go—”

“All right, good to know,” he interrupted, and did not let go of her arm. “So can you tell we're cutting across your yard and heading down the lane to mine? Do you remember?”

Peering through her shades, Reagan knew they made it difficult to see—especially when her condition was exacerbated by sunlight. But as she stared, she could see darkness on both sides, and a lighter pathway in the center. “I can. And yeah, I do remember.”

“Good times, huh?” Eric Malone moved at her pace—not pulling or tugging. People tended to do that. Just pull her along. “All right, lots of roots in here,” he announced. His voice wasn't too deep. It had an even cadence that wasn't too brash or too smoky. Amusement. He had a lot of that. Always had.

“Does it still smell the same, Reagan Rose? Take a big whiff,” Eric suggested, and he inhaled deeply and loudly, then pushed it out in an exaggerated exhale. “Can't beat it, can you? That good ole river brine?” He chuckled lightly. “To me, that's the smell of home.”

“Smells like sea sewage to me.”

He chuckled as they picked their way along the lane that as kids they'd run through at top speed. “Well, then,” he said beside her. A little closer. A little more amused. “Give it some time. It'll grow on you.”

“I doubt it.” She knew her answer sounded acerbic. She'd meant it to.

“Hey.” The air shifted as he leaned closer. “Open your mind, Reagan Rose Quinn. And your nostrils. There are a lot of great experiences just waiting to happen.” She felt a nudge as Eric gently elbowed her in the ribs. “Glad you're home, by the way. It's been too long.”

Before Reagan could recover from Eric's comment—actually, from any of them—dark shadows accompanied by voices descended upon her.

“My God, look at this grown-up girl,” a deep male voice said. The form grew closer, and Reagan's hand was enveloped by a large warm one. “Good to see you home again, Reagan.”

In what she hoped was the right direction, Reagan turned and smiled. “Thank you, sir,” she replied.

“That's my dad, Owen,” Eric said beside her.

“Oh, sorry, honey,” Owen said. “I should've warned you before grabbing your hand, eh?” His chuckle was lighthearted and gruff at the same time. What was with all this friendly familiarity? She hadn't seen any of these people in more than fifteen years. It made no sense to her.

No matter how often she was reminded that she couldn't see, Reagan always tried. She peered through her shades—squinted hard, as if that would in some way help clear the blur. Brighten the darkness. It didn't. So she held up her hand and gave her head a soft shake. “No, it's fine, really,” she said. “It— I—take some getting used to, I guess.”

“Warning, I'm about to hug you,” another of the forms called out, and in the next second Reagan's body was being squeezed. Firm lips grazed her cheek. “Nathan,” the voice advised. “You still look like a brat, by the way.”

Memories flashed before her. “Your favorite name for me.”

“I guess I can almost rightfully call you sis, huh?” another voice said. Spoke, but didn't grab. Didn't hug. Didn't touch.

“This is grown-up Matt, Rea,” Emily spoke beside her, then giggled. “My fiancé and your soon-to-be brother.”

Reagan turned her face toward Matt's form. “I've heard...all about you.”

Matt chuckled softly. “I bet you have.”

“Well hells bells, no one told me the party was going to be in the side yard,” a deep, gravelly voice said. Another shadowy form moved toward Reagan, and she could tell a limp made him wobble a bit as he made his way to the group. Winded, he cleared his throat. “Gotta tell an old man these things, you know. Say, darlin', can you bake? Not sure if I want any pies baked by a blind girl, but I'll give anything a try once—”

“Dad,” Owen chided. “Forgive old Jep, Reagan,” he said. “The years have stolen his manners.”