The One Worth Waiting For
Table of Contents
“Who’s there?”
came the voice that had haunted Garret over fifteen years and hundreds of thousands of miles.
He tried to find his own voice, but no words would come. Then the door cracked open, and he saw the long brown tangle of her hair. He tried to grin, but it was hard to grin from down on one’s knees, especially when the fever sent another racking chill through his body.
“Oh, my God,” Suzanne Montgomery said quite clearly in the night. The door flew open.
“I told you,” he managed to whisper. “I told you I’d be back someday.”
Dear Reader,
Wow! What a month we’ve got for you. Take
Maddy Lawrence’s Big Adventure,
Linda Turner’s newest. Like most of us, Maddy’s lived a pretty calm life, maybe even too calm. But all that’s about to change, because now Ace Mackenzie is on the job. Don’t miss this wonderful book.
We’ve got some great miniseries this month, too.
The One Worth Waiting For
is the latest of Alicia Scott’s THE GUINESS GANG, while Cathryn Clare continues ASSIGNMENT: ROMANCE with
The Honeymoon Assignment.
Plus Sandy Steen is back with the suspenseful—and sexy—
Hunting Houston.
Then there’s Beverly Bird’s
Undercover Cowboy,
which successfully mixes romance and danger for a powerhouse read. Finally, try Lee Karr’s
Child of the Night
if you enjoy a book where things are never quite what they seem.
Then come back again next month, because you won’t want to miss some of the best romantic reading around—only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Enjoy!
Leslie Wainger
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
The One Worth
Waiting For
Alicia Scott
Books by Alicia Scott
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Walking After Midnight
#466
Shadow’s Flame
#546
Waking Nightmare
#586
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At the Midnight Hour
#658
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Hiding Jessica
#668
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The Quiet One
#701
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The One Worth Waiting For
#713
*The Guiness Gang
ALICIA SCOTT
recently escaped the corporate world to pursue her writing full-time. According to the former consultant, “I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember. For me, it’s the perfect job, and you can’t beat the dress code.” Born in Hawaii, she grew up in Oregon before moving to Massachusetts. Now an avid traveler, she spends her time chasing after two feisty felines, watching Val Kilmer movies and eating chocolate when she’s not running around the globe.
She is currently at work on her latest project in Boston, where she awaits the discovery of true love or ownership of a chocolate shop—whichever comes first.
To my editor, Gail Chasan, for not only
believing in this series, but for improving it.
I can’t wait to see what we do next.
I
n the D.C. Dulles Airport, a man who’d seen better days finally boarded the plane. He was the last person on and people looked up with mild impatience at his boarding. One glance at the man’s face, however, and all eyes quickly turned away.
His midnight black hair fell past his shoulders, the strands tousled and streaked with what might have been mud. A large lump swelled out from his forehead while a long, angry red welt slashed down the side of his face, neatly slicing through several days’ worth of dark stubble on his cheeks.
He wore a button-down dress shirt that was now wrinkled and stained. The gray wool sports coat thrown over it was clearly too warm for the eighty-five-degree night, but there was no sign of sweat on the man’s face. In fact, he seemed to hunch inside the coat as if fighting off a chill. Or perhaps he was just trying to conceal the full muscular bulk of his physique, his broad shoulders and massive arms already straining the boundaries of the old coat and adding to his dangerous, disreputable air.
Garret Cagney had developed into quite a man in the years since he’d left Maddensfield.
He weaved a bit as he made his way to the back of the plane, and the people in the aisles instinctively leaned away, trying to put even more distance between themselves and what appeared to be a drunken bum. Even the flight attendants seemed concerned, but none quite had the courage to ask for his ticket stub.
When he finally reached the last aisle seat, Garret sat down abruptly, his face paling with the impact. For one moment, he swayed where he sat, a giant tree about to fall. Then his massive hands clenched the arms of the seat so tightly that his bruised and battered knuckles turned white. He steadied, and the grim expression on his face made his two aisle mates quickly turn away.
With the low hiss of someone releasing a pent-up breath, the huge man finally eased down into the seat. He pushed the seat back in spite of the explicit instructions not to do so, and in minutes, he appeared to fall into a deep sleep.
A flight attendant who had been approaching to ask him to straighten his seat back did a little double take and let the matter go. Somehow, it appeared wiser just to let this one sleep. Around her, people began breathing a little easier.
He slept through the takeoff, muttering every now and then in a language no one recognized. The two suited men next to him exchanged glances, then both shrugged. The man didn’t belong on a flight of mostly business travelers, but it was a short enough distance to Charlotte, and they could sustain their discomfort for that long.
Presently, the flight attendants began to move up the aisle with the cart of beverages and peanuts. The two men both ordered beers, looked at the passed-out man next to them and switched their orders to Coke. The attendant smiled as she handed them their beverages, then her gaze fell on the remaining man, as well.
He really did look like someone who’d run into serious trouble. But then she saw the rising color on his cheeks, the beads of sweat forming on his brow. And despite his disheveled, dangerous appearance, she felt the first touch of concern.
“Sir?” she asked politely, the two businessmen watching her with something bordering disbelief. “Sir? Are you all right?”
She reached out to touch his shoulder and instantaneously his huge hand snapped around her wrist. She gasped audibly, and the middle business traveler nearly dropped his drink.
The man’s eyes opened, and the feral gleam she saw in their dark depths made her heart leap and explode in her chest.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she squeaked. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Abruptly, he frowned as if seeing her for the first time. His eyes cleared, and he shook his head slightly as if clearing away some hovering mist. The movement made him wince, and the pain brought back the last of his consciousness. For the first time, he looked at his viselike grip on her wrist. He released her hand immediately.
“My apologies, ma’am,” he said, the words hoarse and rusty from disuse. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
She nodded and saw him wince again from the pain of speaking. She drew her hand back, clutching it protectively against her chest, but didn’t stop staring at him. Under all the bruises and scrapes, he retained the faint resemblance of a remarkably handsome man. Even now, rumpled and unshaven, he possessed a certain magnetism. Or maybe it was simply the aura of near-tangible danger.
“Can I get you something, sir?” she heard herself asking.
“Just rest,” he whispered, his eyes already fluttering closed.
She nodded again, then licked her lips. He really didn’t look in very good shape. “Maybe a glass of juice?” she found herself suggesting. “Orange juice would be good.”
His eyes opened again, and he looked at her with fresh assessment and new appreciation. He grinned, a slow cracking of his lips that had once made women practically swoon at his feet. Even now, the effect was noticeable. The flight attendant suddenly blushed a little, and she smiled back at him.
“Yes,” he managed to croak. “Juice would be perfect, ma’am. And water, too, if it isn’t any problem.”
In one corner of his mind, he was aware of how strange and foreign the words seemed on his tongue. He hadn’t spoken English for a long time, but what he’d spoken instead refused to come to mind. The mist remained, hovering in the back of his brain, blocking out all that had been and leaving him with only a sense of urgency about what was to come. He had to get to Maddensfield.
No matter what, no matter how, he had to get to Maddensfield.
And then, another woman’s face came to mind, soft and young with hazel eyes. She was standing at the bus stop, watching him go. And through the rain, he could see the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Suzanne. He had to get to Suzanne.
The attendant set down the two cups in front of him, and before he lost his strength, he picked them up one by one and tossed them down quickly, tasting nothing. He needed the liquid. He needed something to sustain him for the journey still to come. He managed one last smile at the kind woman in the aisle, then allowed the blackness to settle in yet again.