Linda Miller - Only Forever

New York Times Bestselling Author

Linda Lael Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

As far as Vanessa Lawrence is concerned, jocks are bad news. Once married to one of baseball’s superstars, she’s coped with betrayal, divorce and the tabloids. She’s worked hard to establish her career, and now her ex-husband’s tell-all autobiography threatens to destroy everything she’s achieved.

When ex-football hero Nick DeAngelo takes to the playing field that was once her heart, Vanessa’s not about to let another sports-crazed womanizer ruin her life. But Nick’s not prepared to let Vanessa get away. Instead, he tackles her stubborn pride, her obnoxious ex and the gossip columns head-on. Because the day he saw Vanessa, he knew he’d found his destiny….

The daughter of a town marshal, Linda Lael Miller is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than one hundred historical and contemporary novels, most of which reflect her love of the West. Raised in Northport, Washington, the self-confessed barn goddess now lives in Spokane, Washington. Linda hit a career high in 2011 when all three of her Creed Cowboys books—A Creed in Stone Creek, Creed’s Honor and The Creed Legacy—debuted at #1 on the New York Times bestseller list.

Linda has come a long way since leaving Washington to experience the world. “But growing up in that time and place has served me well,” she allows. “And I’m happy to be back home.” Dedicated to helping others, Linda personally finances her Linda Lael Miller Scholarships for Women, which she awards to those seeking to improve their lot in life through education. More information about Linda and her novels is available at www.LindaLaelMiller.com. She also loves to hear from readers by mail at P.O. Box 19461, Spokane, WA 99219.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

This particular strain of flu, Nick DeAngelo decided, had been brought to Earth by hostile aliens determined to wipe out the entire planet—starting, evidently, with an ex-jock who owned one of the best Italian restaurants in Seattle.

Sprawled on the hide-a-bed in the living room of his apartment, he plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the mattress beside him and crammed them against his face just in time to absorb an explosive sneeze. He was covered in mentholated rub from his nose to his belly button, and while his forehead was hot to the touch, the rest of him was racked with chills.

He wondered when Mike Wallace would burst through the door, wanting the story. It was time to alert the masses to impending doom.

Did you actually see these aliens, Mr. De-Angelo?

Call me Nick. Of course I didn’t see them. They must have gotten me when I was sleeping.

The imaginary interview was interrupted by the jangling of the telephone, which, like the box of tissues, was in bed with Nick. Hoping for sympathy, he dug the receiver out from a tangle of musty flannel sheets and rasped out a hoarse hello.

“Still under the weather, huh?” The voice belonged to his younger sister, Gina, and it showed a marked lack of commiseration. “Listen, if I wasn’t afraid of catching whatever it is you’ve got and missing my exams next week, I’d definitely come over and take care of you.”

Nick sagged against the back of the sofa, one hand to his fevered forehead. “Your concern is touching, Gina,” he coughed out.

“I could call Aunt Carlotta,” Gina was quick to suggest. She was a bright kid, a psychology major at the University of Washington, and she knew which buttons to push. “I’m sure she’d love to move into your apartment and spend the next two weeks dragging you back from the threshold of death.”

Nick thought of his aunt with affectionate dread. It was in her honor that he’d slathered himself with mentholated goo. “This is not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill flu, you know,” he said.

Gina laughed. “I’ll alert the science department at school—I’m sure they’ll want to send a research team directly to your place.”

Privately Nick considered that to be a viable idea, but he refrained from saying so, knowing it would only invite more callous mockery. “You have no heart,” he accused.

There was a brief pause, followed by, “Is there anything I can get you, like groceries or books or something? I could leave the stuff in the hallway outside your door—”

“Or you could just drop it from a hovering helicopter,” Nick ventured, insulted.

Gina gave a long-suffering sigh. “Why don’t you call one of your girlfriends? You could have a whole harem over there, fluffing your pillows and giving you aspirin and heating up canned chicken soup.”

“My ‘girlfriends,’ as you put it, are all either working or letting their answering machines do the talking. And chicken soup is only therapeutic if it’s homemade.” Nick paused to emit another volcanic sneeze. When he’d recovered, he said magnanimously, “Don’t worry about me, Gina, just because I’m putting you through college and paying for your car, your clothes, your apartment and every bite of food that goes into your mouth. I’ll be fine without…any help at all.”

“Oh, God,” wailed Gina. “The guilt!”

Nick laughed. “Gotcha,” he said, groping for the remote control that would turn on the TV. Maybe there was an old Stallone movie on—something bloody and macho.

Gina said a few soothing words and then hung up. It occurred to Nick that she was really going to stay away, really going to leave her own brother to face The Great Galactic Plague alone and unassisted.

There was, Nick decided, no human kindness left in the world. He flipped through the various movie channels, seeing nothing that caught his fancy, and was just about to shut the set off and try to focus his eyes on a book when he saw her for the first time.

She was a redhead with golden eyes, and the sight of her practically stopped his heartbeat. She was holding an urn that was suitable enough to be someone’s final resting place, and there was a toll-free number superimposed over her chest.

With quick, prodding motions of his thumb, Nick used the control button on the remote to turn up the volume. “My name is Vanessa Lawrence,” the vision told her viewing audience in a voice more soothing than all the chicken soup and mentholated rub in the world, “and you’re watching the Midas Network.” She went on to extol the virtues of the hideous vase she was peddling, but Nick didn’t hear a word.

He was too busy dredging up everything he knew about the Midas Network, a nationwide shopping channel based in Seattle. The enterprise was a new one, and one of his friends—an executive with the company—had urged him to invest because he was certain that telemarketing would prove to be the biggest hit with consumers since the tube itself.

Nick shoved one hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end in ridges that reeked of eucalyptus. Undoubtedly, he thought, he was experiencing some kind of dementia related to the virus that had been visited upon him.

Without taking his eyes away from the screen, he groped for the telephone and punched out the office number. His secretary, a middle-aged woman named Harriet, answered with a crisp, “DeAngelo’s. May I help you?”

“I hope so,” wheezed Nick, who had just finished another bout of coughing.

“You don’t need me, you need the paramedics,” remarked the secretary.

“At last,” Nick said. “Someone who understands and sympathizes. Harriet, find Paul Harmon’s number for me, will you please? I’m in no condition to hunt all over for the phone book.”