Bethany Campbell - P.s. Love You Madly

Olivia was stunned by Darcy’s news. “Sloan came there? I’m surprised. I thought he’d been sick.”

“He is sick,” said Darcy. “He passed out in the foyer. An ambulance had to come and take him away. He wasn’t in any condition to be checking out his father’s love life.”

“Oh, dear. Do make sure Sloan’s as comfortable as possible. He is our guest.”

“He’s not our guest. He just descended on us. He—”

“Now, there is absolutely no sense in you younger people having this Montague-Capulet mentality about our relationship.”

“Mother,” Darcy said with suspicion in her voice, “if you’re comparing John English and yourself to Romeo and Juliet—”

“True love can happen quite fast. I used to think it was a myth—but it’s not. Maybe you’ll find out yourself someday.”

“I might point out that Romeo and Juliet were kids who got into a lot of trouble by rushing into things. Utter disaster, in fact.”

Dear Reader,

This is a story about old-fashioned romantic things: flirting, love letters and courtship. But sometimes old-fashioned romance takes surprising, newfangled turns.

If Cupid loves mischief (and he does), he must adore e-mail. It gives him zingy new darts that are far-ranging, super-speedy and very, very potent.

Darcy, the heroine, is shocked when her beautiful mother falls in love with a man she’s met on the Internet. She’s even more stunned when that man’s son shows up on her own doorstep.

He’s determined to find out the truth about this unexpected love affair. So is she. The last thing they expect is a love affair of their own.

I hope you enjoy P.S. Love You Madly, and that it will bring you a smile or two.

Happy reading!

Bethany Campbell

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

837—THE GUARDIAN

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To My Roommate at Bentley’s

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

IT WAS A SATURDAY MORNING in May, and the Texas Hill Country was in bloom. Wild roses clambered up the fences, violets blossomed along the creeks, and the bluebonnets blanketed the fields so thickly, it was as if they were turning the earth into a second sky.

The Hill Country was celebrating spring, and at its heart, the city of Austin celebrated, too. It was the time of the yearly Old Pecan Street festival.

But on his long drive here, Sloan English had paid no mind to the beauty of the countryside. Now in the festival’s midst, he cared nothing for the city’s revels. He wanted simpler things: to get back to Tulsa, find some sorely needed peace, and start putting his life back together.

Instead, he had come to Austin against his will to track down a woman he didn’t want to meet. And she was not where she was supposed to be—right at the festival’s center. She had vanished.

Not only had she disappeared, so had her shop. At the address where it should have been was a candy kitchen. It advertised, among other things, The Best Little Horehounds in Texas.

Sloan went in, glad to escape the insanely churning crowd outside. There was no one else within except an attendant behind the counter, a chubby woman with an eager-to-please air. She wore a white apron spotted with colored sugar sprinkles, and a name tag that said Velda.

She told him she hadn’t lived long in Austin and had but an imperfect memory of the shop called The Prickly Poppy. “They lost their lease or something,” she said. “They been gone a couple months. You want to try the gumdrop of the day? It’s jalapeño flavored.”

He didn’t want the gumdrop she offered, which was neon green and shaped like a chili pepper.

He shook his head. “You said ‘they.’ There was more than one person involved?”

She nodded, which made her multiple chins bob. “They were a cooperative or something. All women.” She offered him a sample tray of nuts. “You want a spiced pecan? They just came out of the oven.”

He didn’t want a pecan. “These women—they were all artists?”

She took one herself and chewed it thoughtfully. “I guess. One made jewelry, and one did paintings, and one blew glass, and the other one—I don’t know what they call what she did.”

He narrowed his eyes, which were as green as a cat’s. “What would you call it?”

Velda gave an expressive shrug. “She made weird things. Scarecrows. Kites. These sort of doll things.”

“You mean like toys? For kids?”

She shrugged again. “Some of ’em was, some of ’em wasn’t. She sort of did her own thing, you might say.”

I’ll bet she did, he thought. He said, “You know where she went?”

Velda helped herself to another pecan. “I don’t know where any of ’em went. They’ve scattered. Like to the four winds.”

He was tired, he felt feverish, and the too-rich scent of chocolate made his stomach squirm queasily. He set his jaw and said, “Who might know where she is?”

Velda licked her upper lip thoughtfully. “They might know at one of the galleries. These artist types, they come and go. She might even be out on the street—it’s festival. Lots of booths and vendors. Just ask around. Somebody’ll know. You want to try a honky-tonk surprise? They got tequila filling.”

The last thing he wanted was a honky-tonk surprise. The pain was tripping in his temple like a tiny hammer. He thanked Velda and went back outside into the glare and the noise.

Sixth Street, with its bars and galleries and shops and restaurants, was considered the heartbeat of Austin, and today the heartbeat had gone mad with spring.

The arts festival was in full swing. The streets were roped off and bursting with tents that were cornucopia-full of Texas food and Texas merchandise. The scent of tacos and chili floated on the sun-warmed air. Young couples drinking champagne mimosas strolled the sidewalks, looking at the paintings, the pottery, the jewelry, the T-shirts.

The onslaught of the sun magnified the pain drilling at Sloan’s skull, and he slitted his eyes against the brightness. His eardrums danced with the street’s din. There were Native American dancers and lively Tex-Mex cajuno bands, country fiddlers, and even a harpist in medieval robes. A clown on tall stilts walked down the street with the swaying grace of a giraffe.

Fortune-tellers told fortunes. A face painter, crowned with flowers, painted the faces of children. Jugglers juggled. A large man with a bald head walked a pair of albino ferrets on a leash.

From a truck, a yellow dog wearing sunglasses watched the street with kingly indifference. Slowly, it turned its face toward Sloan, as if recognizing a fellow spirit. Its aloof expression seemed to say, Lord, what fools these mortals be.

Sloan thought, You’ve sure as hell got that right, dog.

But he set off on his own foolish errand, which was to find the woman.

The dog, looking more superior than before, stared after him a moment, then turned his attention back to the human carnival around him.

IN HER MAKESHIFT STUDIO beside the river, Darcy Parker worked alone. She had a deadline, and that meant she was spending her afternoon with a worm.