Kathleen O'Brien - The Cost of Silence

Allison took a deep breath before clarifying. “About the money or the contract.”

Red smiled. “What contract?”

She couldn’t help smiling back, but she gave it a wry twist, so that he would know she was onto slick guys like him. He’d promised he wouldn’t talk about the contract, and he wouldn’t—at least until he thought he had her softened up. He wasn’t a fool. But neither was she.

“But the truth is…I got the impression that you really cared about Victor, that the two of you were close. And that you might be sincerely concerned about the welfare of his family.”

He nodded. His expression was guarded, now, less slick but no less handsome. That great bone structure and that dramatic Black Irish coloring weren’t dependent on a twinkle or a grin. As she poured the thick cream into her cup of coffee she found herself wondering whether he was married, or engaged.

Then she told herself to stop wondering things like that.

Dear Reader,

One of my favorite quotes says, “If you don’t make mistakes, you don’t make anything.” I heard it long ago, at a time when I really needed it. I’m not much of a risk-taker, and that quote opened my eyes to a new way of looking at my life.

Even though taking risks is daunting, always playing it safe can be scary, too. Isn’t every important move forward a risk? Wouldn’t it be safer never to fall in love, have children, start a business, travel the world or even write a book? And yet…how boring utter safety would be! Think how much we’d miss!

Allison York has just made one of the biggest mistakes of her life, and she wants only to hunker down and protect her infant son—and her heart. No more risks. No more blunders.

But then sexy, charismatic Redmond Malone enters her world—the one man who poses a threat to everything she holds dear. Letting him in might well be the ultimate mistake…but does she have the strength to send him away?

I hope you enjoy their story. And I hope that, as you go through life, all the mistakes you make turn out to be blessings in disguise!

Warmest wishes,

Kathleen O’Brien

P.S.—I love to hear from readers! Visit me at KOBrienonline.com, on Facebook or Twitter, or email me at KOBrien@aol.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Kathleen O’Brien was a feature writer and TV critic before marrying a fellow journalist. Motherhood, which followed soon after, was so marvelous she turned to writing novels, which could be done at home. A born sentimentalist, she believes a person can never have too many old friends, sad movies, spoiled pets or corny songs. She’s never met a book about a baby that she didn’t love.

To Ann Evans.

Your friendship, your generosity and your talent

have made all the difference.

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

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

REDMOND MALONE HAD BEEN PARKED in front of the Windsor Beach Peacock Café for a full five minutes. He kept going back and forth, one minute gazing at the ocean—which glittered invitingly between the buildings—and the next minute glaring at the restaurant, with the blue-and-green-striped awnings and kitschy matching outdoor umbrellas.

So what was it going to be? Hit the gas, find a beach shop that sold surfboards and trunks, and wash his cares away in the Pacific? Or open that shadowy café door and scope out the mysterious, adulterous Allison York?

Yeah, right. As if he had any choice.

With a heartfelt, under-the-breath curse, he met his own eyes in the rearview mirror. Note for next time: don’t make deathbed promises. First, obviously everyone’s too emotional to think straight when a good friend is dying. And second, promises like that are set in stone. Impossible to renegotiate them when you wake up and realize you’ve stepped in a big pile of—

The thought broke off as, without warning, his parked car lurched forward sharply. Simultaneously, he heard a grating, metallic sound. Harsh, piercing, up close and personal…

Aw, hell. He swiveled to look out the back window. Some jackass in a fat black Rolls Royce just rear-ended him.

God, could this damned errand get any worse? He yanked the keys from the ignition, shoved open the door and climbed out. Luckily for the blind fool in the Rolls, Red wasn’t the yelling, punching kind, or the “ouch, my neck” kind. But the fool had better have insurance.

The other driver was slower to emerge, so Red was almost at the door of the Rolls when it opened. Great. The guy must have been eighty, easy. Suit, tie, pocket kerchief…definitely overdressed for early-morning pancakes, so maybe he hadn’t been headed to the Peacock Café. Maybe the bank down the street.

“You all right, son?” The man’s long, seamed face looked worried. He reminded Red of a wood carving of an ancient Chinese philosopher.

“I’m fine. How about you?”

“Nothing broken.” The old guy slowly eased out his legs, as if he balanced raw eggs on his knees. Where his hand gripped the door, his fingers trembled on the shiny black paint like long, pale flower petals.

He tilted his chin to see over the huge hood of his own car, all the way down to Red’s low-slung Mercedes.

“Oh, dear. That is a shame. I am sorry, young man. I didn’t see your little automobile until it was far, far too late.”

On a normal day, Red might have been amused by the old-world style. Unfortunately, he, too, had gotten a good look at the rear panel of his SLK 300, which he’d bought only three months ago and still liked better than any woman he’d ever dated. So, yeah. Not amused.

The old man tottered over to the sidewalk and gingerly mounted the curb, balancing himself on the parking meter. Apparently drawn by the sound of the collision, people had started to gather in front of the café. A couple of men grimaced when they saw Red’s car, but most of the onlookers clustered around the old guy, clucking sympathetically, as if he were the victim.

“Are you okay, Bill? Did you hit your head? Does anything hurt?”

Red might as well have been invisible. Which suited him fine. He dialed the operator on his cell phone. “Windsor Beach Police Department,” he said, propping his phone between his shoulder and his ear so that he could search for his insurance card and registration. “Nonemergency.”

“No, wait!” A female voice raised itself above the general hubbub of curious gawkers. “Wait. Don’t call the police.”

He glanced up from his wallet. A young woman had emerged from the crowd and was heading toward him. She wore a blue-and-green-striped uniform, so he assumed she worked at the café. She waved her hand vigorously, as if to demonstrate that he absolutely must hang up.

Yeah? He didn’t think so.

When he didn’t lower the phone, she frowned and moved faster. She reached him two seconds later, while the unanswered call was still ringing against his ear. And ringing. And ringing. For the Windsor Beach police, apparently nonemergency meant no response.