Laura Wright - Hearts Are Wild

Maggie broke into a wide smile, suddenly feeling as if she were walking on a cloud.

Be still my heart, she mused, then paused at that thought. Wasn’t she the one trying to find him true love? The woman of his dreams? She swatted away all thoughts of making a match for this gorgeous man. She wasn’t finding him anything or anyone. Not tonight, anyway.

Well, this was it. Decision time. Did she buy a ticket to Uninhibited City or stay in Safe-and-Dull Junction forever? She grabbed the champagne from the tray and was about to take a sip when Nick stopped her.

“We haven’t made a toast.” He raised his glass, his eyes smoky. “To a magical night.”

Maggie smiled, clinked her glass with his and added, “To a magical night for everyone.”

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has spent most of her life immersed in the world of acting, singing and competitive ballroom dancing. But when she started writing romance, she knew she’d found the true desire of her heart! Although born and raised in Minneapolis, Laura has also lived in New York City, Milwaukee and Columbus, Ohio. Currently, she is happy to have set down her bags and made Los Angeles her home. And a blissful home it is—one that she shares with her theater production manager husband, Daniel, and three spoiled dogs. During those few hours of downtime from her beloved writing, Laura enjoys going to art galleries and movies, cooking for her hubby, walking in the woods, lazing around lakes, puttering in the kitchen and frolicking with her animals. Laura would love to hear from you. You can write to her at P.O. Box 5811 Sherman Oaks, CA 91413 or e-mail her at laurawright@laurawright.com.

To Julie Hogan, you’re the best!

And to David Ankrum—a big thank-you, my friend.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Tired Of Kissing Frogs? Find Your Prince Or Princess Today, And Live Happily Ever After!

Maggie Conner drew a line through the ninth slogan idea scribbled on her yellow legal pad. It was ten-thirty in the morning and already she was sweating. June in Santa Flora was paradise, seventy-two degrees with ocean breezes to make you sigh, so obviously the heat that raced through her blood stemmed from her encroaching anxiety, not the weather.

After years of working days, weekends and holidays at an assortment of jobs, Maggie had saved enough to open her own matchmaking service. Her family’s legacy would finally be recognized now that she’d hung her shingle over the sandy sidewalk that ran along the main drag of the small California seaside community she loved so much.

Even though Maggie’s Matches wasn’t officially opening for another four weeks, her sign had been out for a few days and word was spreading fast. She’d already had several people sign up in advance. Sure, they were all women, she mused as she flicked an errant strand of long, dark hair back off her heart-shaped face. But the men would follow. At least, she prayed they would.

Leaning back in her chair, Maggie glanced up at the picture that hung above the front door. The photograph that would always serve as a reminder—a testament, really—that love can always be found especially if you have a determined Conner matchmaker in your corner.

In the black-and-white photograph, the Santa Flora Botanical Gardens served as backdrop to three figures dressed in forties garb. A man and a woman faced each other, hands held, gazes locked, mouths curved into brilliant smiles. And standing beside the happy couple was Maggie’s grandma, not a day over thirty, beaming like a new mother. It had been her grandma’s first “case.”

Her grandma was retired from matchmaking now, but Maggie could still look at that picture and feel the woman’s pride at bringing those two people together.

Throughout most of her twenty-five years, Maggie had yearned to feel that pride, longed to capture that look of happiness that twinkled in her grandma’s eyes. And Maggie just knew that carrying on her family’s legacy would give her that happiness for the first time.

“Well, Mags,” she said, glancing down at slogan number ten. “You sure won’t be a success without customers.”

Get A Good Girl Here! the next slogan read.

Maggie rolled her eyes. That one definitely came from the four-in-the-morning brainstorming pile.

Don’t Let Your Soul Mate Slip Away! the last one read.

She snorted and dragged the pencil over the scrawled line until it was completely obscured. Everything was riding on Maggie’s Matches being a hit, but she wasn’t ready to resort to scare tactics.

The bell over the door jingled as she tore off the piece of paper, crumpled it up in a ball and tossed it across the room. “This is hopeless,” she said, and heard the defeat thick in her own voice. “I’ll never come up with the perfect slogan for this place.”

“How about, Warning—Dangerous Curves Ahead. Turn Back Now?”

Maggie gasped at the unfamiliar baritone and looked up. Straight into a pair of the sexiest green eyes she’d ever seen. For a moment, she was hypnotized by the man standing before her. Her pulse racing, she stared—into the two deep, playful and highly mysterious pools of emerald—as the moments ticked anxiously by.

Swallowing hard, Maggie forced her gaze away and fought for the control she’d always prided herself on. From the day she’d discovered that the men in her family didn’t stick around, she’d also learned how to keep men from affecting her.

And she’d been darned good at it, too, Maggie thought as she reached for the locket around her neck. Her pulse hadn’t hopscotched about in her throat at the sight of a good-looking guy for years. But then, she hadn’t met too many men with eyes like this one.

After standing and smoothing the wrinkles from her wrinkle-free pants, she met his gaze once again. “I’m sorry, sir, but I was—” She stopped midapology and blinked. Several times, in fact. Perhaps it was time to get her eyes checked, because just a second ago, with the sun pouring in behind him, she would’ve sworn that this man was dark, suave and sophisticated. But he wasn’t. Far from it.

Sure, he was tall with a powerful, well-muscled body, as far as she could tell under all that leather and denim. But, she mused, taking in the motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm, unless the Harley-Davidson that she was certain sat parked outside happened to be named Sophistication, he was far from refined. Rugged was the word that best described him. A sexy, rough-and-tumble kind of man that you might see in an action-adventure movie.

Her gaze moved over his strong, angular face. His rich-brown hair was pulled into a long, loose ponytail. His hands were large and callused and he had a few days’ growth of stubble on his jaw.