Beth Andrews - A Not-So-Perfect Past

“I really am the most dangerous guy you’ll ever know.”

Nina’s mouth was dry. Her head was light; she couldn’t catch her breath.

If Dillon let go of his hold on her, she’d probably fall at his feet.

She tried to step back, to break the contact between them. But his large hands, placed so intimately, didn’t budge.

His gaze fell to her mouth and he bent his head.

“Stop me,” he murmured.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. How could she stop him when he looked at her with such…intensity? Such hunger. How could she stop him when he made her remember how it felt to be held by a man? Touched by a man.

Wanted by a man.

by

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Award-winning author BETH ANDREWSis living her dream – writing romance for Mills & Boon while looking after her real-life hero and their three children. A self-professed small-town girl, Beth still lives in the Pennsylvania town where she grew up. She has been honoured by her kids as The Only Mum in Town Who Makes Her Children Do Chores and The Meanest Mum in the World – as if there’s something wrong with counting down the remaining days of summer vacation until school starts again. For more information about Beth or her upcoming books, please visit her website at www.bethandrews.net.

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A Not-So-Perfect Past

by Beth Andrews

For the talented, supportive and just plain awesome women of Writers At Play and Romance Bandits.

Thank you all for being such great friends!

And as always, for Andy.

You give me hope.

AW, HELL. Not “Jingle Bells.”

Dillon Ward grit his teeth as he entered the brightly lit bakery. Red and green decorations and twinkling colored lights took up every inch of the large room. The effect was cheerful, bright and filled with so much Christmas spirit, it hurt his head.

He stomped his boots harder than necessary and brushed snow off his jacket. Luckily, the smells of yeasty bread and sweet pastries and chocolate helped ease the shock of the faux Christmas wonderland.

He scanned the room as he crossed to the front counter. Only two of the dozen or so small tables had customers, but Dillon figured that had more to do with it being twenty minutes before closing time on a Sunday afternoon, and less to do with the snow falling steadily outside.

It’d take more than an early December storm to keep the citizens of Serenity Springs, New York, from their donuts.

An elderly lady turned from the counter, her step faltering when she noticed him. She clutched her white bakery bag to her chest, lowered her head and scurried out.

Dillon took off his knit cap and pushed a gloved hand through his hair. Even though he’d lived here for almost two years, people were still wary of him. Still looked at him with the mix of curiosity, fear and revulsion usually reserved for circus acts.

Or killers.

He took off his gloves, stuffing them in his pocket. “This month’s rent,” he said, holding an envelope out to Nina Carlson.

From behind her cash register, the curvy blonde looked past him to the large picture window. “You didn’t have to shovel the walk.”

He shrugged. “It needed it.”

Because she hadn’t reached over for the rent check, and because he was tired of holding it out, he set it on the top of the pastry-display case and slid it toward her.

“Well, I appreciate it.” She cleared her throat. “Why don’t I get you some lunch? As a thank-you?”

Usually his cupcake of a landlord could barely meet his eyes, let alone stammer out a few words to him. Now she wanted to give him lunch? “Why don’t I just take ten dollars off next month’s rent? And we’ll call it even.”

Staring at the counter, she picked up the check. “Actually, I was hoping to talk to you…”

“About?”

She blinked several times. “Just a few things. About the apartment.”

“If you’re raising the rent—”

“I’m not. It’s more complicated than that. If you can’t stick around until closing, I could come up to the apartment when I’m done working.”

To his place? Alone? Wouldn’t that go over well with Serenity Springs’ moral majority? Sweet single mother Nina Carlson going to the lion’s den.

Or in this case, the ex-convict’s lair.

He doubted she even had the courage to climb the stairs.

Whatever she wanted to talk to him about must be important. And as always, his curiosity got the better of him. Never a good thing.

“I’ll wait,” he said, noting the relief on her face.

Dillon picked a table by the far window on the opposite side of the room from the middle-aged couple finishing their coffee. He sat with the window to his right, allowing him a clear view of the entrance, the kitchen and out onto the street.

Prison had taught him to protect his back.

A few minutes later, the kitchen door swung open and Nina came out, a coffeepot in one hand, a tray of food in the other.

She set the tray in front of him. “I’m finishing up with your sister in the kitchen—she’s tasting wedding cake samples—and I thought I’d bring you something to eat while you wait.”

He slouched in his seat and hoped Kelsey stayed in the kitchen. At least until he was gone.

Nina leaned over and poured a cup of coffee he hadn’t asked for and didn’t particularly want, and he caught a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. He frowned. He’d bet his brand-new nail gun she’d run screaming from the room if she knew where his thoughts went at the sight.

“It’s today’s lunch special,” she continued, placing a shallow bowl and a large plate on the table. “Tomato parmesan soup, a ham and provolone Panini on my honey wheat bread and a raspberry bear claw.”

She tucked the tray under her arm and watched him expectantly. He almost refused the food, but his stomach chose that moment to remind him the only thing he’d eaten all day were two slices of cold, leftover pizza.

His resolve was nothing up against hunger. Or a pretty blonde.

Especially this woman, with her big gray eyes. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans that accentuated her generous curves and a bright pink, V-neck top that clung to her breasts like frosting on a cake. Knowing he was beat, he picked up his spoon, sampled the steaming soup and grunted in appreciation. She smiled, producing a small dimple in her left cheek. Her loose braid swung in time with her hips as she walked away.

He’d gotten the better part of this deal. Great food and a full stomach while all she’d gotten was a cleared sidewalk. He glanced out the window. A sidewalk that would be covered again within the hour.

Halfway through his sandwich, the nape of his neck prickled, telling him he was being watched. He slowly shifted his gaze to the left and stared into a pair of guileless blue eyes.

Emma Martin, with her soft halo of blond hair, grinned up at him. “Hi, Uncle Dillon,” she said around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie. “What’re you doing here?”