Bethany Campbell - P.s. Love You Madly

Darcy crossed her arms again. “Emerald, that letter was hardly written by a ‘total innocent.”’

Emerald threw out her arms in despair. “But don’t you see? She’s at a terrible disadvantage here. She’s only had experience with real men.”

Darcy frowned, trying to digest this logic.

“This man is a fantasy,” Emerald persisted. “He can pretend to be anything she wants. That’s what she doesn’t understand. I grew up with the Internet. But she has no idea what it’s about—do you?”

Darcy felt an uncomfortable sense of disadvantage. She could use the computer for basic things, but she knew only a fraction of what Emerald did. Emerald had spent most of her teenage years cloistered in her room, communing with cyberspace.

“Well, do you?” challenged Emerald.

Darcy looked down at the library’s bookworm, curled up at her feet. She thought about books and research and computers and networks of knowledge.

Defensively she said, “It’s about communicating. And information. It’s about accessing vast reserves of—”

“No, no,” Emerald said with emotion. “The Internet is about lying.”

Darcy gave her a skeptical look. “That can’t be true. Al Gore wouldn’t like it so much.”

“It is—it’s about lying,” Emerald repeated emphatically. “You get in these chat rooms. You write messages to people you don’t know. You can’t see them and they can’t see you—so what does everybody do? They lie.”

Darcy shook her head stubbornly. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“It’s not,” Emerald tossed back. “Suppose I’m wandering around the Internet, and I meet a guy who seems interesting. Do I tell him I’m short, that I have a thirty-one-inch bust? That I’m blind as a bat without my contacts? That I’ve been on Prozac for four years? Of course not!”

“Well—” Darcy said. “Withholding a few facts at the start isn’t lying…exactly.”

“Right,” Emerald replied sarcastically. “So this guy doesn’t tell me that he weighs four hundred pounds and has the social skills of a clam. Or that he’s a fourteen-year-old horny geek. Or worse, a horny old married man. Either way, he’s horny. Because, first the Internet’s about lying. And second, it’s about sex.”

Darcy blinked in displeasure. “Maybe that’s true for some people. But Mama’s an adult—”

Emerald narrowed her eyes. “Mama’s a babe in the cyber-woods. And she’s a rich widow. You think there aren’t men out there waiting to pounce on women like her? Oh, they’ll sweet-talk you, these guys. They’ll make themselves sound like God’s gift to women. Darcy, I’ve been there.”

Darcy’s confidence took an unsteady stagger. She realized that she had entered a realm where, for once, Emerald was far worldlier than she was. Emerald might be dressed as a creature of fantasy, but her words had the ring of cold reality.

“He’s talking to her about investing,” Emerald said ominously. “In Florida—swampland, probably. He’s already sweet-talked his way into her bed. Next it’ll be her bank account.”

Darcy’s muscles tightened. Olivia wasn’t exactly conservative with money. To protect her, Gus had left her a generous monthly allowance dispensed from a trust fund, as well as a large sum to tide her over. But Olivia had already spent almost a third of the ready money on the property in Maine.

The rest of her inheritance was tied up in bonds and real estate. But not so tightly that a clever and determined man might not untie it—the lake house was already for sale.

The nickname of Olivia’s new paramour echoed in her mind like an evil prophecy: BanditKing. Darcy thought, My God! He could be a con man. He could ruin her. Take everything she’s got.

Emerald said, “Mama’s never had much luck with men. This could be, like, the final insult. He could take all her money and destroy her pride.”

The two women looked at each other, and Darcy knew they were thinking of the same thing: Gus’s will.

To each of my stepdaughters, Gus had decreed, I leave the sum of $10,000 in cash and the solemn charge to watch over the welfare of their mother. She’s a wonderful woman, but stubborn, and frankly, sometimes she doesn’t know her ass from a muffin.

Only Gus would have slipped such a phrase in as staid and somber a document as a will—but there it was. Olivia, of course, had been furious, and the girls had only shrugged and smiled sadly.

Neither of them had expected to exert any control over Olivia, or to even have to. The purchase of the house in Maine was inevitable. She had talked about it for years. Gus, of course, had hated Maine. “It’s cold, it’s spooky, it’s full of bears. Stephen King lives there. What does that tell you?”

Emerald squared her shoulders and put her hand on the hilt of her sword. “We were given a solemn charge to watch over mother. It’s a matter of honor. You’ll have to do something—right now.”

“Me?” Darcy said, startled. “Do what?”

“You figure it out,” said Emerald, raising her chin. “You’re the oldest. Call her. Talk some sense into her. Call her now. Do you know her number?”

“I can’t jump into it just like that,” Darcy said. “I’m going to have to think of a way to do this tactfully. If that’s possible. Good grief, the situation couldn’t be worse—”

The phone rang again.

“What now?” Darcy sighed and plucked up the receiver. “Yes?”

Rose Alice’s voice was rich with suspicion. “There was this man just drove up, come to the front door. He wanted you. He wouldn’t identify himself. He’s on his way around there now. I said to him, ‘Hold it, buster,’ but he wouldn’t stop. Gus’s rifles are still in the gun cabinet. You want me to load up, come over there, show this guy the way out?”

Darcy struggled not to flinch. Rose Alice had once been imprisoned for shooting off a man’s ear. “No, no,” she said. “I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Rose Alice promised. “Don’t you worry, honey. Rose Alice is right here.”

The line went dead. Darcy heard footsteps stalking up the front walk to the cottage. She and Emerald both turned toward the living room door.

There was a furious knock, so forceful that the very air of the studio seemed to shake.

“Who is it?” Darcy demanded.

There was no answer except another hail of knocking, even more earsplitting.

“All right, all right,” Darcy called, anger rising. “Don’t bang the door down.”

“What is this?” Emerald asked apprehensively.

“I don’t know,” Darcy said, stalking to the door. “Rose Alice says it’s some man.”

She flung open the door.

A tall man stood there. He was expensively dressed, but his black tie was askew and his suit coat was off. His white shirt looked crumpled, and its sleeves were rolled up unevenly on his forearms.

With a jolt, she realized he was an extraordinarily handsome man—or would be, if he were not so lean that he was almost gaunt. His thick brown hair was unruly, and the fore-lock fallen over his brow gave him a dangerous air. His lips were unsmiling. His brows were dark and stern. His eyes were a feline green.

He looked at Darcy, then Emerald behind her, then at the bookworm curled on the floor. “Which one of you is Darcy Parker?” he demanded.

“I am,” Darcy said. Her eyes locked with his. His gaze glittered with a frightening intensity. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sloan English. I’ve come from Tulsa. Your mother and my father are…acquainted. They seem to have met on the Internet. I think you and I had better talk.”

A kaleidoscope of disjointed impressions reeled through her mind.

This man is hostile—