Molly O'Keefe - His Wife for One Night

Jack blinked at Mia’s words, his mouth suddenly dry. The apprehension exploded in his stomach again, darker, uglier. “Us?”

Mia’s smile was slight, her eyes unreadable. “Yes, us.”

“Why?”

She sighed, her breath fanning his cheek. She smelled like toothpaste.

“Is there…someone else?” he asked. He hadn’t thought of it, not really. There wasn’t any time in his life for him to find anyone else and it never occurred to him that she would be looking.

“Someone else?” She laughed. “Someone besides my childhood friend who married me as a favor and who I’ve seen all of five times in the five years we’ve been married?”

He couldn’t read her anger. Did she want more? Then why the divorce?

“I want…I want a real marriage,” she said, lifting her chin. “Your mom is gone. She can’t hurt my family anymore. And I want a family. A husband who lives with me. Works with me. Builds a life with me. Loves me.”

He stiffened, unable to process what she was saying. She wanted a family? Kids?

“And that’s never going to happen with you, Jack, is it?”

Dear Reader,

When I was five my parents took us on our first backpacking trip to Montana and Wyoming. We returned several times and some of my first memories are of the Rocky Mountains and Glacier National Park. One of those memories is falling off a horse and hitting my head on a rock. Despite this early brush with equine disaster, I wanted to be a cowgirl. Out West. With braids.

The next year, my parents booked a week at a Dude Ranch. My brother and his friend ate it up. They got to help with the horses, hang out with the cowboys, do cowboy stuff. I got to sit in the lodge and color. I was not happy. My parents were able to get my cousin and I on a little trail ride with a cute cowboy holding the reins. I remember being put on that horse and feeling it twitch under me. I remember how far the ground was from my feet. I remember how big that horse was and how little I was.

I started to cry, got sick and that was the end of the trail rides.

My mother-in-law owns a horse farm and I have since made my peace with those giant animals and even enjoy riding them. But I am no cowgirl. Despite that, I’m totally fascinated. So dreaming up my heroine Mia Alatore was a pleasure. Tough and salty, a crunchy outer shell around a vulnerable, gooey center. What’s not to love? My hero Jack was a tougher nut to crack. He’s a scientist closed off from his emotions, only able to think of relationships in terms of experiments and hypothesis. Getting these two to their happily ever after took some hard work! But it all pays off in the end. Please drop me a line at www.molly-okeefe.com to tell me what you think. I love to hear from readers.

Molly O’Keefe

This book is as close as Molly O’Keefe is going to get to fulfilling her childhood dream of being a cowgirl, since there are very few cows or horses in downtown Toronto where she lives with her husband and two children.

To all the teachers

who engaged and encouraged me.

Especially, Mrs. Jordal,

for not holding that math homework against me.

Mrs. Nelson, who handed me The Thorn Birds

and started this whole adventure.

Ms. Mayes,

who taught me it’s not good until it’s properly

punctuated. Ms. Weidman, who gave the misfits

a place to go and showed me art is equal parts

emotion and intellectual choice.

And Pillen.

Pillen who taught me how to analyze and

improve, hide my nerves, buy a proper jacket,

get over the hard stuff and disappointments

and that the only thing better than hard work

is hard work with chocolate.

Thank you, all of you.

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

THE MAPS were…wrong.

Jack McKibbon flipped through the latest topographical charts and compared them to last year’s. The permanent compound was being built too far away from the new drill site. His crew would have to take a damn bus between the two. He’d been staring at these maps for an hour and there was no other way to interpret the information.

Someone had screwed up, and considering they were heading back to fix the pump and redrill in El Fasher next month, these kinds of errors could cause serious problems.

He patted through the files, the aerial photos of the well site that needed repair and the embassy report on the recent cease-fire between the Sudanese government and the JEM rebel forces in the Darfur area until he felt the hard edge of his cell phone. The desks in hotels were never big enough.

He flipped open his phone and hit speed dial without even looking.

“Jack?” Oliver, his partner and friend, answered. “Is Mia—”

“Have you looked at the maps?”

“The maps? You brought the maps?” Oliver, a little more jolly than the average hydro-engineer, laughed.

“Of course. I had all the files couriered, they arrived a while ago. I thought you’d want to get a jump on things.”

“I can’t believe you brought your work to the hotel. One night is not going to make a difference, Jack. How about you take a break. We’re going to party. Mia’s coming—”

“I’d hardly call it a party,” he said, sorting through the mineral reports. He needed to recheck that silver count. That could change the water table information.

“There will be food and booze. By most standards, that actually is a party.”

“It’s a fundraiser meet and greet,” Jack scoffed. Jack was head of research at Cal Poly where Oliver chaired the hydro-engineering department. They’d been working on a lightweight drill and pump that could withstand the extreme desert conditions of Africa and Asia. And over the past four years, these fancy events had become standard operating procedure, before and after every summer, Christmas and spring break spent in the field. But after the success of their drill during last year’s sabbatical, Oliver and Jack had brought so much prestige to the school that the administration had decided that more torture, in the form of these cocktail soirees, was in order.

Particularly now, to raise some money for Jack and Oliver’s trip next month.

Which would explain why they were here, on the cliffs of Santa Barbara, miles from the university, in an effort to bring up the big bucks from Los Angeles. Africa was a popular charitable cause in Hollywood.

“Just try, Jack.”

“Christ, Oliver. The university is trotting us out like trained monkeys—”

“For Mia. Try to get your head out of the dirt for one night.”

Right. Mia.

“It’s been over a year—”

“I know how long it’s been,” Jack said. A year and two months, almost to the day.

The excitement of seeing her, when he remembered, was bright and hot, shooting out sparks.

But these maps…

“When is she supposed to arrive?” Oliver asked and Jack swore, checking his watch.

“Any minute,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

He hung up and ran a hand over the scruff covering his chin. He’d wanted to be dressed—at least showered—by the time Mia showed up. As if being clean-shaven would somehow make this reunion easier.