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The Way Back
Stephanie Doyle


Starting over sounds good…in theory!The reality? Well, Gabriella Haines isn't enjoying that so much. Once a top-rated TV host, suddenly becoming the junior editor at a publishing house isn't playing to her strengths. She does have one chance to fast-forward a few career steps, however. If she can manage the impossible–convincing former American hero Jamison Hunter to finish the autobiography he owes them.Too bad he's resistant to all her tactics. Worse, that little star crush Gabby had on him before his downfall? She isn't quite as over it as she thought. In fact, the more she knows the real him, the more she wants to uncover the truth about what happened. Because restoring him in the public eye may be the best chance they have at a future together.







Starting over sounds good…in theory!

The reality? Well, Gabriella Haines isn’t enjoying that so much. Once a top-rated TV host, suddenly becoming the junior editor at a publishing house isn’t playing to her strengths. She does have one chance to fast-forward a few career steps, however. If she can manage the impossible—convincing former American hero Jamison Hunter to finish the autobiography he owes them.

Too bad he’s resistant to all her tactics. Worse, that little star crush Gabby had on him before his downfall? She isn’t quite as over it as she thought. In fact, the more she knows the real him, the more she wants to uncover the truth about what happened. Because restoring him in the public eye may be the best chance they have at a future together.


“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Jamison was smiling like he’d won a small victory, but the muscle in his cheek was twitching as though he was trying to hold himself back. “Tell me you don’t want me to move closer. That you don’t want me to reach my hand around your neck and pull you into me so I can kiss you.”

Jamison Hunter wanted to kiss her.

She wanted to kiss Jamison Hunter.

And the problem was…?

“What if I’m not big enough for you?” It shouldn’t have been a question, she thought. It should have been a statement, because it was true. Gabriella Haines was not big enough for Jamison Hunter. Not even close.

He scooted closer along the bench seat until their thighs were touching. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tugged her more tightly against him. Then he leaned back and looked out the windshield into the blackness. His relaxation made her relax by default. Not all of the tension dissipated, there was still the sexual kind, but the awkwardness of the date was finally behind them. Like they were starting again at a drive-in theater, watching a movie and it was the moment when the screen went blank right before all the action began.


Dear Reader,

People who know me, know I’m a huge golf fan. In particular, I’m a Tiger Woods fan. So on that fateful Thanksgiving day when his car crashed…or his wife took him out with his own golf club…I, like everyone else, was shocked and not a little heartbroken that my golf hero proved to be not very heroic.

In the years since, I’ve watched the greatest player in the game fall from the very top to the very bottom, and watching that fall of course made me consider all the ramifications of it.

Now, I’m certainly not justifying Tiger’s actions, yet I couldn’t help but imagine what a person would go through after such a collapse. More importantly, how a person might find it in himself to make his way back. This story is my spin on how sometimes the best thing that can happen to a person is to lose everything and try to earn it back. Including love.

I love to hear from readers! I can always be reached at www.stephaniedoyle.net.

Enjoy!

Stephanie Doyle




The Way Back

Stephanie Doyle







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephanie Doyle, a dedicated romance reader, began to pen her own romantic adventures at age sixteen. She began submitting to Harlequin Books at age eighteen and by twenty-six, her first book was published. Fifteen years later, she still loves what she does as each book is a new adventure. She lives in South Jersey with two kittens who have taken over everything. When she isn’t thinking about escaping to the beach, she’s working on her next story idea.


To Kevin, Trevor and Ryan

No matter where life takes you as you get older…

we’ll always have the beach


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#ufbe69360-844e-5984-8fde-6fe3beb40ac2)

CHAPTER TWO (#uc71bd96a-69db-5c5e-9a64-75bdb4e0f7a1)

CHAPTER THREE (#u70e37855-3d6c-57cf-a15f-5c0f53190b02)

CHAPTER FOUR (#uaa3a25dd-b211-56b1-9435-39cc79af5d4a)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

“GABBY, I THINK you should do it. What do you say?” Melissa Smith, senior editor at McKay Publishing, sat at the head of the table wearing an expectant expression.

Gabby Haines looked at her boss. Oh, no. Melissa was talking to her. She expected her to say something in return. The proper response would have required listening. Probably not the best time to admit she’d been thinking about what she would have been doing at her old job at this time of day. Not when she was only two days into her new job.

“Well?”

Let’s see, Gabby thought. She was a junior editor in her first editors’ meeting and her boss was calling her out to do something. She was probably being asked to do a low and vaguely demeaning task such as fetch coffee. Best to simply go with it.

“Absolutely. I’m on board. Tell me what you need.”

Melissa clapped her hands. “Excellent. Go bring back Jamison Hunters’ tell-all biography with a nice pink bow on it.”

Gabby blinked. Okay, she had not imagined hearing Jamison Hunter’s name. No way would a conversation containing those two names, Jamison and Hunter, occur that her ears didn’t perk up and her brain immediately focus. Not to mention other parts of her body.

“I’m sorry? Who…?”

Melissa smiled. “That’s right. The elusive author we want you to track down is none other than Jamison Hunter.”

“Jamison Hunter? The astronaut. The legend. The…cheating pig bastard?”

“That’s the one.” Melissa nodded as the other editors surrounding the massive conference table chuckled.

Apparently everyone was in on the joke except Gabby.

“You’re the new kid on the block and we always send the new kid on the block.”

“I went three years ago,” Mary Jane, an editor who focused on cozy mysteries and self-help titles, chimed in. “Disaster. The man had me in tears in mach two seconds.”

“I don’t get it,” Gabby said, trying to catch up with what she’d missed. “You want me to bring back his story? The autobiography of Jamison Hunter? He’s one of the most reclusive people on the planet. He hasn’t been heard from in years. I’m talking J.D. Salinger level hermit. You’ve got better chance of getting President Clinton to give us a tell-all about his days with Monica Lewinski than you do of getting this guy to talk.”

“Yes, I know,” Melissa agreed. “But here’s the thing we have with Hunter, which we don’t have with President Clinton—a binding contract. Hunter—in a major deal, I might add—agreed to give us his story. Granted, that was a few weeks before the scandal hit. Afterward, he tried to return the advance, but we refused it. We thought he might change his mind, might want the world to know his side of the story. And when that time came, he’d already be committed to us. Given the sizeable advance we paid him, we’ve got a lot at stake. So every few years we send an eager new face to meet him and personally give him a nudge.”

Eager and new were not two words Gabby would necessarily associate with herself. Washed up and worn down were more accurate.

Get a grip, Gabby. You got fired, not murdered.

It was her inner therapist at work. Just because she lost the hottest job on morning television in Philadelphia to a younger, thinner, hipper version of herself did not mean her life as she knew it was over. Her ego had taken a punch was all. And her self-esteem. And her self-confidence.

And her wallet.

The truth was, she’d been lucky to land this job—even if it was an entry-level position. Even if at thirty-three she felt more like sixty-three working with so many young twentysomethings. Twentysomethings who were all ahead of her on the corporate ladder. Twentysomethings to whom she would have been teaching the ropes at her old job.

But after coming to the realization no other local morning programs were looking to hire a slightly overweight, aging host, she’d had to scramble for a new plan. Openings in her field of journalism were few and far between, so it seemed like a reasonable idea to try the other end of writing and look at openings in publishing.

Apparently publishing houses were often looking for junior editors. When they told Gabby what her starting salary would be, she understood why.

Still it was a job and a new start.

Plus there were advantages. Gabby loved to read. She could bury her head in books without anyone caring there were wrinkles around her eyes, or what clothing size she was currently wearing. She could earn enough money to keep her from having to move in with her mother—which, at her age, would be the most pathetic thing evah. Most importantly this job would give her time. Time she desperately needed to figure out what she wanted to do for the rest of her life.

And now, a handful of hours into this new career, Melissa was offering her the chance to meet Jamison Hunter.

Jamison Hunter, the epitome of all good things men could be. Proof that not all men were asses. The crush of her life, the man she’d idolized above all others…until he smashed every one of those romantic dreams with a single horrible press conference. He’d broken not only the nation’s heart, but hers, too.

Jamison Hunter.

Huh.

Funny where life took you sometimes.

She was nodding before she let herself think maybe this wasn’t the best idea given her particular mental state right now. Facing the man who had set her expectations about what a man should be, only to then confirm the worst of what she knew a man could be, would definitely be treading some rocky emotional ground.

Her mouth opened. The words came out. “I’ll do my best.”

Before she could reconsider Mary Jane leaned toward her and whispered, “Trust me. Take a box of tissues with you.”

* * *

“WOOF!”

Jamie Hunter watched his ancient dog Shep slowly stretch and push himself into a standing position alerting him that company was coming. Shep sighed and creaked, but finally he was on all fours.

A second later the doorbell rang.

“Poor, Shep, you are definitely feeling your age, my man. There was a day you would have given me a five-minute heads-up.” Jamie patted the loyal German Sheppard’s head as he rose from his recliner—not as quickly as he once did, either.

Dropping his book on a table and removing the glasses he needed to read—as ridiculous as it was, he was slightly self-conscious about wearing them—the two aging warriors made their way down the hall to confront the intruder. After eight o’clock on a Tuesday night, it was a good bet almost every one of the eight hundred and twenty-two inhabitants of this island town were bunkered for the night.

Unless there was trouble. Jamie picked up his step.

“Yeah?” he said, opening the door half expecting it to be the sheriff asking for help with something.

The female face on the other side of the door was a complete surprise.

“Jamison Hunter?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. He took in the business suit, the low-heeled pumps, the hand thrust out in welcome. “Are you a reporter?”

It wasn’t possible. He was old news. Yesterday’s story. A forgotten has-been with a sad legacy no one wanted to remember because he depressed them. Unless someone had found out about— No. He wouldn’t even allow himself to think it.

He noticed she was huffing slightly from the forty steps it had taken her to reach his house from the road. If she was a reporter, she definitely wasn’t a beat reporter. Too soft.

“No, I’m Gabriella Haines. I’m from McKay Publishing.”

He ignored the hand completely. “Oh crap, not you people again. When are you going to figure it out? I’m not writing the damn book.”

She blinked twice. Okay, maybe he didn’t have to be quite so harsh. It wasn’t this woman’s fault the company was so persistent. Not her fault at all. But he knew if he maintained his hard attitude, she would leave faster. He knew this from experience.

“Come inside. I’ll write out the check. Again.” He opened the door wider.

She didn’t move immediately. Probably wondering if either he or Shep bit.

Shep had never bitten anyone in his life.

“Inside, lady. That suit you’re wearing isn’t warm enough for this weather. No doubt you’re freezing.”

She nodded and stepped inside. As soon as he closed the door behind her she began to rub her hands over her arms. “It was sixty-five degrees when I left New York.”

“And this is an island off the coast of Maine.” If she’d checked the local forecast, she would have figured out to dress more appropriately. He walked toward the rear of the house to his office where he kept his checkbook. When McKay had refused to accept the advance the first time he’d offered to return it, he had put the money in a separate account he never touched. That way he would always have it at the ready whenever they came asking for it. He’d figured after a year or two they would come politely begging for the cash. He definitely hadn’t anticipated their persistence.

“You should tell your boss I’m making a tidy sum off the interest,” he said over his shoulder. “And I’ve got no qualms about spending that interest, either. It paid for a new deck last year. I’m almost sorry to have all that extra cash come to an end.”

Jamie glanced up and saw she hadn’t followed him. No doubt she’d stopped by the fireplace to warm up. He wrote out the check then tore it from the book and headed to the living room. As expected, he found her in front of the fireplace, her eyes raised to the skylights in the high, wood-beam ceiling.

Skylights so he could see the stars on a clear night.

With her jaw open and her arms crossed over herself, she looked more like a lost little girl than the grown woman she obviously was. Despite whatever protective instincts her appearance might spark within him, Jamie had no intention of being swayed. He didn’t rescue lost little girls anymore and he certainly didn’t rescue grown women.

“You know there’s no ferry service back to the mainland tonight?”

She looked at him. “I know. I started driving early today, but there was an accident on the Tappan Zee Bridge and then I hit rush hour out of Boston. I saw it was the last ferry run, but I didn’t want to stop. I felt if I stopped, I would…”

Jamie found himself wanting to hear the rest, wanting to know what she feared would happen if she stopped. She was dressed professionally with long dark hair loose around her shoulders. She appeared to have it all together, but somehow with the way her hair seemed to swirl around her—as though the brutal wind on the island had done a number on it—you knew there was nothing but chaos inside.

“They usually send the newbies to hassle me,” he said. This woman was no newbie—in her thirties, if he had to guess.

Her lips curled. “Believe it or not, I am the newbie. At least at this job.”

It made a little more sense. No wonder she wanted to keep going even though it was late. She had something to prove, lost ground to make up. He was sure of it.

Not that he cared, he quickly told himself. He was not about to get caught up in whatever her story was.

“Well, there is a B and B on the island. They’ll have plenty of space this time of year. Follow the road into town, it’s the biggest house. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I have a room waiting for me.”

He held out the check. “Go on, take it.”

She glanced at the check with a similar expression to the one he imagined he’d given her hand when she offered it at the door. Like he’d rather touch a dead fish.

“I’m not taking the check.”

“Lady—”

“Gabby. My name is Gabby Haines.”

“Ms. Haines, I don’t have the patience for this. I really don’t. Here is how this situation will go. You’ll make your pitch and try to persuade me to write the damn book. I’ll refuse—just like I’ve done since the first time I tried to cancel the contract and return the advance. You’ll be stubborn, thinking that might sway me. It won’t. We’ll keep the stand-off going until eventually you’ll break down, maybe even start crying, reminding me you’re new and really need this job, and if you don’t get at least a commitment from me to write the book, you’ll be fired. There will be begging and pleading, maybe even some threats of legal action. None of that will change my mind. So let’s save ourselves the aggravation, shall we?”

“Gee, no wonder Mary Jane cried.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. See, here’s the thing, Mr. Hunter. As you so accurately pointed out I’m not some fresh girl with her first real job. I’ve wrestled with a tough subject or two. I’ve been to the top. I’ve been on TV. Until they ripped it all away from me.”

He noticed her voice was gaining in volume and shrillness. Any second Shep would start whining.

“Now I’m starting over and you and your story might be the thing that will change my whole life. During that ridiculously long drive, I thought about all the reasons why you might be resistant to doing this book. And one of the things that occurred to me was that you had discovered you can’t write—or at least, not well enough to write an entire book.

“Well, I can solve that problem for you. I’m a writer. I majored in journalism. I wrote magazine columns and I blogged long before I started hosting a television show. Maybe what you need is someone who can bring a certain skill set to the table.”

“I’m not telling my story.”

“Don’t say that. At least not yet. Think about it over night. I’ll come back in the morning and we’ll talk about this like reasonable people. You can be reasonable, can’t you?”

“You clearly don’t know much about me, if you can ask that.”

This made her laugh. In fact, his comment made her nearly double over with laughter. He was obviously dealing with a slightly hysterical editor-slash-writer. Terrific.

“Oh, I know about you,” she said, pulling herself together. “I know of you very well.”

And there it was. That look he’d seen before in the eyes of women. Women who had idolized him or fantasized about him. Women who thought they loved him even though they had never even met him and knew jack about him. Women who felt as if he’d cheated on them, too.

Yes, Gabby’s look of betrayal wasn’t the first one he’d witnessed. But hell, he didn’t have to see it in his own house.

“Get out. Take the check and don’t come back.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she took the slip of paper and flicked it into the fireplace. They both watched a flame lick up and obliterate it.

“I’ve got more checks.”

“I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He met her eyes again and saw it. A determination he wasn’t easily going to squash. But squash it he would. Because he wasn’t telling his story. To anyone.

“You can show yourself out.” With that he dismissed her and went back to his leather recliner and his book. He held off putting on the reading glasses until she walked past him. A few seconds later he heard the door close behind her.

Gone. For now.

Gabby Haines. With the long dark hair that swirled around her shoulders. A sudden image of his fingers digging into her thick hair stirred something inside him and had him shifting in his chair.

Man, it had definitely been too long if he was getting turned on by some half-crazed New York editor who would probably make his life hell for the next few days until she ultimately gave up.

At least the next few days weren’t going to be boring.

* * *

JAMISON. HUNTER.

She felt as though she’d met Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and George Clooney all rolled into one perfect fantasy. She took a deep breath. She was supposed to be cool about this. She was a professional. She wasn’t supposed to regress to teenage behavior, but…wow. Jamison Hunter.

And they had talked. Okay, mostly he’d dictated and postured. Then she’d gone crazy lady on his ass.

What had she been thinking?

She hadn’t. That was the problem. She’d taken one look at the check and thought about returning to New York and her tiny cubicle, mission not accomplished. She imagined standing in Melissa’s office admitting she’d failed. The awareness of how far she had fallen had hit her again and…she sort of snapped. She couldn’t go down without a fight.

That idea she’d had on the long drive—offering to ghost write Jamison’s story—was a good one. Maybe fate had sent him into her life for this very reason. Maybe she was supposed to do more than get a promise from him. Maybe what she really needed to do was tell his story. Write about his life and his downfall and finally give answers to all the questions everyone had about him. She didn’t have to be the enemy. She didn’t have to be some two-bit employee of a publishing company who wanted to use his story to make money.

Instead she could help him bring his side of the story to life. They could empathize with each other. Bond over tragedy. After all, she knew what it was like to be on top and have everything taken away. Not on his scale certainly, but on her own.

Unfortunately he didn’t see things as clearly as she did. She would have to work on that. But she wasn’t backing down.

Standing on the other side of the door separated from the fireplace’s warmth, she quickly took a chill. He was right. Business suits and heels weren’t the best for a Maine island spring. Luckily she had thrown some jeans into her bag. Melissa had given her a few days to work her magic and Gabby planned to do it wearing comfortable clothes.

The question was how long would Melissa give Gabby if Hunter did agree to allow her to help him write his story. Would Melissa even go for the idea? No point worrying about it now. First Gabby needed his consent, then she would work on her boss.

For now it was best to head into town and to her room for the night.

She thought about the mountain of stairs she’d climbed and cringed at how heavily she’d been breathing when he opened the door and she’d gotten her first look at him up close. But that was fine because it was all part of the master plan.

Step one: start new career.

Step two: get in shape.

Step three…

Well, the first two steps were fairly significant. Step three could wait.

Turning, she considered the long and winding wooden stairs which zigged right and zagged left over the jagged landscape. The light above the door gave her some guidance, but there was no railing to hang on to—nothing to stop her fall, should she stumble on the uneven surfaces. Coming up, she’d been fueled with fear, adrenaline, excitement and determination.

Going down was going to be a little harder.

Cursing even the low heels, she took her first cautious step. Only thirty-nine more to go.

What had taken her minutes to climb felt like forever to descend. Shaking with tension and cold and still reeling from the major life event of meeting an idol, Gabby finally reached the road again. She wanted to weep.

She got in her car and jacked up the heat waiting for the engine to respond to her desire to be warm. Rubbing her hands together she laughed to herself. She’d done it. She had a plan now. She wasn’t going to sit back and passively take orders doing a job she didn’t really want. She was going to remake herself. A writer. It was perfect.

All she had to do now was wear him down. Win him over with her charm and personality until he trusted her. Trust would lead to comfort and comfort would lead to his story.

Charm and personality. Two things she used to have plenty of. Surely she could drudge them up again.

One thing was for sure, she needed to get over this crazy starstruck feeling. Seeing him in person had been like fire bolt to her system. It had taken her ten seconds to remember her name and why she’d come. He might be halfway between forty and fifty, but, damn, he still looked good.

She’d met semi-famous people when she’d been the host of Wake Up Philadelphia. There had been the mayor of the city, the governor of the state, sports figures, local actors and performers who had made good. She’d interviewed Kevin Bacon for Pete’s sake. Once you knew him, you were basically connected to everyone else in Hollywood. It was a known fact.

Jamison Hunter wasn’t any of those people, though. He was more. At least to her. Growing up without her father during her teenage years, it wasn’t hard to understand how she had formed such an attachment to a media figure—especially one who had seemed so perfect. A girl had to look for heroes where she could find them.

Of course, she hadn’t been some silly twelve-year-old when Colonel Jamison Hunter first captured the world’s attention. No, she’d been twenty-three, engaged and starting her career. She’d had the world in her hands and had believed her father’s abandonment hadn’t made a single dent in her perspective or her life choices. Maybe she wasn’t the most romantic person, and wasn’t overly sentimental. However, she had committed herself to a relationship. That was an achievement. Something to be proud of.

She really hadn’t had a reason to fall into a crush with an image on the TV screen. Something about him had captivated her.

Air Force Colonel. Astronaut. American hero.

It was a story everyone knew. As embedded into the American psyche as Apollo 13, the Challenger tragedy and Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. Colonel Hunter had commanded a space-shuttle mission to help with repairs on the international space station. Once there, the crew of the station informed him the situation was more critical than first realized. In fact, they feared an imminent explosion would not only take out the station but the shuttle docked to it, as well.

In an unprecedented move originally not sanctioned by NASA, Hunter did the unthinkable with an unplanned, untethered, space walk. He set out to make the repairs, knowing if he didn’t find and fix the problem, the lives of his crew and those on the station would be lost.

Gabby never understood all the specifics of what he’d done. Reporters explained the science, the possible complications and ultimately the risk he took, but none of it mattered to her. All she cared about was after he’d taken that brave action and was safely on American soil and she watched him being interviewed time and time again, she felt safe.

The world was a safer place because Jamison Hunter was in it.

Gabby wasn’t alone in her hero worship of him. It seemed everyone had all come together to place him on a pedestal. It was one of the reasons he’d fallen so hard and so far when the scandal broke.

A sunny day in Florida. A motel not too far from Cape Canaveral. A picture of Jamison Hunter standing in the doorway of the room with a woman wearing only a sheet. Next to them stood his wife with a look of sheer horror on her face. His deception had crushed the world. It had devastated Gabby. How could a man capable of such honorable and heroic actions cheat on his wife? And if he could cheat on his beautiful, accomplished wife, what chance did an average woman have of preventing much less heroic men from doing the same? Gabby couldn’t stop asking herself that question and becoming deeply suspicious of her own fiancé as a result. In retrospect that suspicion was a good thing…and warranted.

Finding her fiancé in bed with her half-sister might not have happened if she hadn’t started looking for signs.

Gabby owed Jamison Hunter for saving her from a marriage with a cheating scumbag—something for which she was eternally grateful. But she also blamed Jamison for her inability to make any other relationship in the past ten years since Brad work.

“Stop it, Gabby.”

The sound of her voice startled her. She needed the reminder though. She wasn’t here to contemplate her life and dwell on her failures. She was moving on with her life. Fresh start, et cetera.

The drive into what the residents of Hawk Island considered town was short. The car had finally heated up, but still Gabby shuddered against the chill. It was late, she hadn’t eaten since lunch and her stomach was grumbling so loudly she didn’t think she could wait until the B and B’s breakfast.

Of course she should. She had more than enough stores of fat on her body to hold her through the night. But the rational side of her brain reminded her starving wasn’t a healthy method of weight loss. She needed to fuel her body at regular intervals to keep her metabolism up.

There weren’t many options, though. The town consisted of four or five mom-and-pop shops—currently closed for the night—ranging from a small grocery, liquor and hardware stores to an antique toy place and an exclusive clothing boutique. Obviously those last two were targeted to the tourists who were starting to discover the charm of an island situated off the coast of Maine.

No fast food. No twenty-four-hour grocery stores. Everything was locked up and dark.

She spied one place that still had the lights on. Pulling up, Gabby peered through the window, which was painted with the name Adel’s. She could see booths lined up along the window and a counter with stools suggesting this was a diner. Food. According to the sign that dangled from the doorknob she had seven minutes to get some.

Hopping out of her car and sprinting as fast as she could, Gabby reached for the door and heard the satisfying ring of a bell overhead.

“Oy, you’ve got to be kidding.” The tall girl behind the counter stopped wiping the surface in front of her and scowled.

“The sign says you’re still open.”

“For only seven more minutes.”

At first the Gabby didn’t understand the woman, then she realized what had sounded like meenoots, was actually the word minutes. “I’ll be quick.”

“You’ll make a mess.”

“No, I swear I’ll order only a salad.”

The girl huffed and rolled her eyes. “Sit.”

Gabby didn’t have to be told twice. She plopped her butt on a round stool and tried to appear super hungry so the server would understand that she wouldn’t have come in here unless she was really desperate.

“Adel, there is someone here who wants food.”

An older woman pushed her way through a swinging door, carrying a tub of what appeared to be clean coffee cups.

“Oh, crap.”

Gabby shifted. “I’m sure you all don’t mean it but I’m starting to feel a little unwelcome.”

Adel plunked down the tub with a rattle. “No, sign says we’re open until nine, so I guess we’re going to have to feed you. Coffee?”

“Please.” She saw the young girl pour what was no doubt multiple-hours-old coffee dregs into a cup, but Gabby didn’t mind. It was piping hot.

She shivered as the heat transferred from the cream-colored ceramic to her hands. It had been spring in New York when she left this morning. She was sure of it. She took a tentative sip. It was as foul as she expected but it warmed her throat all the way down.

“What do you want?”

This was easy. She’d already committed herself to a salad so there would be no reason to look at the menu and tempt herself with any of the other offerings. Willpower, Gabby. Willpower.

“House salad, oil and vinegar dressing is fine.” Then she caught herself. “On the side. I need the dressing on the side.”

“Oy.” The girl rolled her eyes. “One of those. On the side this, on the side that. If you want it all on the side to put together yourself, go buy groceries and do it at home.”

Said the girl with the long legs, tiny torso and high cheekbones. She was gorgeous—model thin with long, straight brown hair that looked as though it might actually touch her bottom.

Gabby naturally hated her on sight.

“Zhanna, give it a break.” Adel finished stacking the cups under the counter and stared at Gabby for a moment. “You look hungry. You sure a salad is going to be enough to hold you?”

“Absolutely.” Not. But this is what happened when you let yourself get careless. When you enjoyed food instead of counting calories. When you didn’t accept you were thirty-three and not twenty-three and couldn’t shed five pounds in a weekend. When your metabolism worked against you, but no one let on there was a problem until it ended up costing you your job.

A woman had to pay the price.

Gabby felt her price might have been slightly steeper than any another woman’s, but those were the breaks. Especially in television.

“A salad is fine,” she said.

“Right.” Adel exited through the swinging door and Gabby was left with the decidedly unfriendly Zhanna. If she was staying on the island for a while, it would probably help to make an effort to get to know the locals.

“Zhanna, that’s a beautiful name. Where are you from?”

Zhanna stared at Gabby as though trying to discover her true intention in asking. She must have concluded it was no more than mild curiosity because she answered, “Russia.”

The way the R rolled off her tongue was dramatic and Gabby couldn’t help but be a little impressed. She was just chubby Gabby from Philadelphia. While this girl was the exotic Zhanna from Russia. That comparison made Gabby wish she had more of an accent. “How did you find yourself here?”

“How did you?”

Not exactly a conversationalist, this Zhanna. “I took the ferry.”

“Me, too.”

Small talk over. Okay. Clearly, this local wasn’t someone Gabby was going to win over. After a few minutes of silence, the kitchen door swung open again. Adel set the large plate of green stuff in front of her.

Gabby wished she could be more excited about it, but veggies had never really done it for her. Still, she needed to fill her stomach, so she started eating. Halfway through she was actually starting to feel better. Then Adel came out of the kitchen carrying a slice of pie.

Hot apple pie if the smell and tendrils of steam emerging from it were any indicators. To compound the evil temptation she scooped up some vanilla bean ice cream—the easy-to-detect brown bean flecks suggested it might be homemade—and plopped it on top.

“Figured you ate the salad, you might as well have a little pie.”

Don’t do it, Gabby told herself. Do not eat that pie. Being forced to eat the pastries, the gourmet cupcakes and all those delightful things the local chefs who were featured on the show’s kitchen segments had ended up killing her career.

Gabby didn’t think she wanted to ever return to television to expose herself to that scrutiny again, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she had been responsible for destroying her life and not the show’s executives.

“It’s not going to kill you,” Adel said as she simultaneously slid the pie in front of Gabby while she cleared the salad plate. “It’s pie. Not poison.”

“You don’t understand,” Gabby said wearily. “I’m trying to change my life.”

“Really?” Zhanna asked, leaning on the counter. “Your life? Why do you need the changing of it?”

Oh, sure, Zhanna couldn’t talk about making her way from Russia to Maine, but Gabby was supposed to come clean with all of her secrets. The odd thing was, late at night, alone in a café with a girl who rolled her R’s and a woman who looked as though she knew what a lifetime of hard work meant, Gabby found herself wanting to confess.

“I got fired from a morning talk show because I put on too much weight and I’m getting too old.”

“Bastards,” Adel hissed. “A woman’s always got to be young, thin and beautiful. Is that it?”

“For men,” Zhanna said. “Yes. Go on.”

“I realized I had nothing in my life but the job. Which meant without it I had nothing. I was nothing.”

“Tragic.” Zhanna’s face was a study of sympathy. “Russians, we understand tragedy.”

“I needed a job, so I took this entry-level position at a publishing company, but I know it’s not where I want to be. I feel like an old lady among kids.”

“You must find a new path for yourself.”

“Yes,” Gabby declared. “That’s what I want to do. I thought this job would help me buy time, but now I think it’s given me something even better to do. I think I want to write.”

Adel leaned on the counter next to Zhanna. “Writing. Interesting. What are you going to write—murder mysteries, thrillers, romance?”

“I love the romance books,” Zhanna said. “Especially the American ones where nobody dies at the end.”

“No, I’m not a fiction writer,” Gabby said. “I was sent here to get Jamison Hunter’s story and damn it, I’m not only going to get his story, I’m going to tell it.”

At the mention of his name both women straightened. Zhanna scowled and Adel frowned. Gabby was trying to figure out what she said to garner this reaction when Zhanna grabbed the plate of pie and dumped it under the counter.

“On second thought, you don’t need the pie.”


CHAPTER TWO

GABBY FOLLOWED THE scent of coffee downstairs the next morning. She could only hope Adel and Zhanna hadn’t made it a point to stop by the B and B to rat her out to the owners. Their reaction to the news she wanted to write a book about Jamison was startling, and took her completely off guard. She understood wanting to protect a friend’s privacy, but their instant hostility had been extreme. Even after explaining she wasn’t some seedy journalist from a trash magazine, or a person looking to earn a quick buck by writing a lurid tell-all, the two women had still been cold. They’d accepted payment for the food, but had refused to take any tip.

Gabby had left the café with her head down and her enthusiasm for a new start somewhat diminished.

She’d left without a taste of that gorgeous pie, too.

Based on their conversation last night when she’d checked in, the inn’s owner Susan had seemed like a nice middle-aged woman with a gift for making people feel welcome. Gabby didn’t peg her as the type to withhold essentials such as coffee and toast simply because she didn’t like what Gabby was planning to do.

Unfortunately there really was no way of knowing. If Zhanna and Adel were any indication, Gabby probably wasn’t going to be the most welcome person on the island.

But this was a new day and she’d woken herself up with a pep talk.

She’d been fired. Nothing remained to go back to so she needed to make this new job work. If she could accomplish what no editor had accomplished to date, maybe she could leapfrog over a few people in the company and have an above entry-level position. If she actually convinced Jamison to tell his story to her while she wrote it, maybe the publishing company would line up more biographies for her. That was a role she could get behind.

Jamison’s biography, as written by her, would hit bestseller lists. She would be back on the talk-show circuit, only this time as the interviewee. A sneaky thought drifted through her conscience, pointing out this crazy need to have more instead of being happy with what she had, but she squashed it before it fully formed.

Gabby stopped at the bottom of the stairs and poked her head into the dining room. There was one table for all the guests and on it sat a pitcher of juice and what appeared to be a pot of coffee. With not a little awkwardness, she took the seat over the single place setting laid out and hoped it was for her. Then the door on the opposite wall—that presumably lead to the kitchen—opened and Susan entered wearing a crisp white apron which made her look like a young Julia Child. She set a basket of assorted breads next to Gabby and smiled.

“Good morning.”

Gabby felt a little more confident now. The diner women had not been in contact. “Good morning.”

“I hope you don’t mind eating alone, but you’re my only guest right now.”

Actually, Gabby preferred it. She’d been living on her own since she was eighteen—except for that brief stint with Brad—and she’d always felt mornings were sacred time. Silence was needed to get your head straight for the events of the day. Silence was also needed until the coffee kicked in.

“Not a problem.”

“Now there is juice and coffee…”

Gabby didn’t wait for the rest. She turned over the cup in front of her and reached for the pot. The smell of it as it poured out was life changing.

“Here are some pastries. But what can I make you? I can do eggs and bacon. Or, if you don’t mind waiting a bit, I can do homemade French toast.”

Gabby tried to pretend her mouth wasn’t watering over the French toast. Strength. Willpower. “Just wheat toast if you have it. Dry.”

Susan’s expression fell. “Dry wheat toast? That’s it?”

“I’m watching my figure.” Gabby patted what she considered to be an only slightly larger than average hip.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Your figure is fine.” Susan sighed. “But I suppose if it’s all you want, then that’s easy enough. You know, this isn’t a normal time of year for vacationers. Not that I’ve ever had that many. Even in the summer the water is too cold to swim in, which puts us low on most people’s lists of vacation spots. But in the fall folks like to come for the foliage. You’re darn near my first guest in the month of April.”

“Do you run this whole place on your own?”

“Yep. Just me. My husband—sorry ex-husband—used to be around to help, but it wasn’t his life. He said, ‘Susan, I’m not living my life.’ I said, ‘George, then you go do what you need to do.’”

Gabby nodded as she sipped her coffee. Her separation from Brad had been slightly more acrimonious with a great deal more foul words.

Even before Susan spoke next, Gabby could sense her purpose. “Back to you, April is somewhat of a strange time to take a trip north.”

“Actually, I’m here working.”

“Oh. That makes more sense. Working on what, dear?”

“A novel,” she lied. “I’m a writer. Fiction. Pure fiction. I want to set my story on an island, so I came here to do some research.”

Susan clapped her hands. “Oh, isn’t that fascinating. A writer. Have I heard of you?”

Gabby wondered how much trouble she would get into if she lied and said her pen name was Nora Roberts. Best not to go too far out on the limb. “No, I’m just starting.”

“Well, good luck to you. You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you like. I’ve got no reservations for at least the next six weeks, which means you’re going to be spoiled, spoiled, spoiled. I hope you don’t mind.”

Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled. That would be a first for Gabby. One of the downsides of living alone was you had to do everything for yourself. She never minded it really, but she also had no problem trying on spoiled to see how it fit.

Susan left Gabby to her coffee and thoughts. She’d gone to sleep last night thinking about what her next step should be. Obviously, Jamison wasn’t open to the idea of his story being told. And as obviously, some of the locals were hostile, too. That meant she was going to have a hard time getting people to talk about him. It would be a lot easier to write this book with his buy-in.

A story like the one she imagined McKay wanted would have to be big in scope. It would need the color and depth of the perceptions from the locals who he’d lived among for the past eight years to help shape it. That wasn’t going to happen, not unless she got him to trust her.

The next step was clear then. She needed to get to know Jamison Hunter—not as an editor who had an agenda, but as a person he might consider working with. She needed to let him see she didn’t intend to sensationalize him or vilify him. Gabby wasn’t interested in salaciousness for the sake of selling books. Of course, McKay might have a different view—scandal sold. But she imagined anyone interested in the story of Jamison Hunter was looking for more than a few sordid facts about his infidelity.

People wanted the truth. They knew what he did. What they wanted to know was why. Why a man of seemingly high honor and definite bravery could become a lying, cheating scumbag. It was the contradiction that made him so fascinating. That’s what she wanted to write about. That’s what she wanted to read about.

She needed to go to his house. At the very least she wanted to get a sense of how he lived and why he chose to live here. Not that it was all so far-fetched. Hawk Island was a perfect backdrop for a recluse. Accessible from the coast only by ferry, it was almost its own country separated from the U.S. by a couple of miles of cold north Atlantic water.

Where else would a man hunted by the world go to hide? Anyone not a local was easily identifiable. And if he’d done something to win over the locals here, which he’d obviously done with Adel and Zhanna, they could take extreme measures to make life difficult for anyone trying to pursue him.

Like denying people pie.

Adel and Zhanna. What had he done to win them over? Given his reputation it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that he’d seduced them. Adel was close to fifty if she was a day, but she was lean and strong and probably closer to his age than Zhanna.

But Zhanna was young and beautiful and exotic. The perfect target for a man on the prowl. Had he had his way with both? And if they were that loyal, did it mean he was that good?

Gabby shook the image from her head. Sex—especially Jamison having sex—was the last thing she needed in her head, combining with all the stuff about him in there. She’d had a crush on him, she’d been hurt by him. She’d even cried tears over him. Hell, she’d had a whole relationship with the man and she’d never met him until last night.

Bottom line was none of it mattered. Her crush, her anger, her wounds…none of it. She was over him, over the infatuation. She needed to be if she going to be objective in helping him tell his story.

Gabby Haines was a professional and she would act like one. Even if it meant working with and getting to know a man who was—she had to face it—a liar.

Gabby hated liars. She’d had enough of them in her life. From the father who always said he would come to see her after the divorce, but didn’t, to her fiancé who said he loved her, but didn’t, to her half sister who said she hadn’t meant to fall in love with Gabby’s fiancé, but did.

When Susan brought the toast out it was exactly as ordered—dry and consequently difficult to eat. Or it might have been thinking about Kim and Brad that left a bad taste in Gabby’s mouth. Fortunately, the quality of the coffee almost made up for it. Either way she had enough fuel to start her day.

Brand-new start plus good coffee equals a great day, every time.

She had parked the rental car on the street in front of the B and B, but that didn’t seem to bother anyone. There were no posted signs about places and times to park. Definitely not like Manhattan where there was a plethora of signs telling people where they couldn’t park—among other things—and people choosing to disobey those signs.

Looking at the practical beige Ford rental, Gabby couldn’t help but remember the powder blue Beemer with gray leather interior she’d bought herself as her thirtieth birthday present. It had been a declaration of her success and she loved driving it. But once she’d decided to move to New York City, it was clear she didn’t need a car. So, her heart breaking one more time, she’d sold it and used the money to help pay the rent on her apartment in Brooklyn until she found a job.

Besides, after losing her job, she’d felt like a fraud in the car. It was a reflection of everything she had been, but no longer was. Its perfection ridiculed her whenever she got behind the wheel.

Look everyone. See how far Gabby Haines has fallen.

Not allowing herself to descend into doom and gloom mode, she focused on the task at hand.

Jamison’s house was about ten minutes up a winding road from where the main street cut through the island. On the map there were only four documented roads that crisscrossed the island leading north, south, east or west from the main street that occupied the epicenter. In reality, there were also a number of smaller roads that looked more like paved driveways, which led to the scattering of homes and cabins peppering the tiny island.

Jamie’s house was situated on what must be the highest point of the island. That position probably guaranteed him a view of the water from the second level of the house. It also set him far apart from the other homes guaranteeing no neighbors within at least a half a mile of the place.

Perfect for a recluse.

Parking the car where she had last night, Gabby didn’t relish climbing the stairs again. Nor did she anticipate a friendlier welcome simply because it was morning.

So how did a person go about striking up a conversation with someone when said target would not allow her into his home?

Confront him outside his home.

It seemed plausible. Your basic run of the mill, bump into you, hey, good to see you again, type of moment. Gabby peered through the windshield and spotted the dirt path which must be his driveway. She could hang out in her car, wait for him to leave, follow him to wherever he was going then pounce when he least expected it.

What if he’d already left to go to work? Did he even have a job?

She would ask him when they spoke. She couldn’t imagine what he would do on this island. The man had been an astronaut for crying out loud. How did anyone, disgraced hero or not, come down from a job like that?

She didn’t picture him selling screwdrivers in the local hardware store or flipping burgers for Adel. There wasn’t much else in the way of labor on the island. It was possible he ferried to the mainland daily, but the commute would be enough of a hassle to outweigh the privacy of island living.

Since there was no point waiting for someone who wasn’t even home to leave, Gabby got out of the car.

Wind whipped around her and she snuggled into her winter coat. She’d worn jeans and a sweater today, adapting to the local climate. But the only real practical shoes she had were her loafers. She had packed sneakers since step two in her new life was to transform her body and she had the vague notion that daily, hour-long speed walks would accomplish that. But she couldn’t fathom the idea of using them for any other purpose than to work out. Did Barbara Walters interview people while wearing sneakers? Did Oprah? Certainly not.

Her feet managed to go from cozy to frigid in minutes, but she didn’t let it stop her. She walked up the dirt driveway making sure to stay to one side in case a vehicle came down and she had to make an emergency dive into the bushes.

She laughed at that image of herself attempting to hide in the foliage as Jamison approached. She suspected her feet in the air might give her away. Still she clung to her plan as she climbed—or more accurately stumbled since the loafers provided little traction—up the driveway.

Gabby couldn’t help but wonder what type of car he might have. Something sleek and fast. High performing and responsive. A man who had flown jet fighters would need something to keep up with him, wouldn’t he?

What if he had a motorcycle?

The image of him on a bike, flying down the road without fear or caution seemed accurate. Definitely a motorcycle, she decided. Or, at the very least, a convertible.

Which is why the old white truck was such a letdown. It sat alone at the top of the driveway parked a short distance from the house. Gabby remembered the dog from last night and listened for the sound of barking to announce her presence, but she heard nothing.

A dumpy, old white truck. Not fast, sleek or high performing. Maybe when he’d walked away from his former life he felt he needed to go to extremes. This truck was it. And a pretty good symbol of a man who once had everything and now had nothing.

Yeah, when they did finally talk, they were going to have a lot in common.

A muffled woof startled her. The sound wasn’t close and followed by an even softer bark, so she could tell it was moving away from her.

Circling the vehicle she looked toward the house and could see the new deck extending from the rear. The deck McKay Publishing paid for apparently.

In the summer it would provide a magnificent vista of green leaves and blue water. But the leaves had yet to come out and all she saw was a barren landscape leading down a hill to what she imagined was a narrow shoreline. The gray water seemed to blend with the overcast sky.

“Shep. Come on, old man.”

Gabby instinctively ducked at the sound of Jamison’s voice, not sure she was ready to announce her presence. She could see he was already heading down the hill that ran away from his house. She spied the top of his head, then a few seconds later his dog followed.

The dog stopped briefly, turning his head in her direction, but another command from Jamison had Shep moving forward tentatively, until eventually his master met him on the path, picked him up and carried him out of sight.

The plan had been to wait for Jamison to leave the house then meet him on neutral ground. A beach was fair game, wasn’t it? Gabby couldn’t imagine he owned all the property from the house to the water, so it wouldn’t be trespassing. She was just a regular tourist, out for a walk on the beach on a blistery April morning in Cole Hahn loafers.

Okay, not great. But it was better than if she’d been in stilettos.

Scrambling, she reached the edge of his deck and saw a path down the rocky hill. She waited a good two minutes to follow because she didn’t want to risk him spotting her on the approach. Not to mention each oomph, ow, oh, yikes she muttered as she tried to descend would certainly give her away. By the time she actually reached the beach, which was no more than a stretch of rocky pebbles approximately twenty feet wide, her ankles, calves and thighs were screaming.

“Don’t suppose you’re lost?”

Gabby shrieked at Jamison’s comment. There he was standing not ten feet away with his arms crossed over his chest.

He looked different in the daylight. A little older—maybe because of the gray hair. But there was nothing old about his physique. In a tight zip-up jacket and jogging pants he looked younger than she did. Lean, fit and strong. Definitely strong.

He should have been several minutes ahead of her on the beach by now. The fact he wasn’t meant stealth was not her strong point.

“You heard me coming.”

“Even Shep heard you coming.”

The brown and black German Sheppard tilted his head in acknowledgement.

“I was out for a walk.” Gabby tried not to cringe at the way her voice went up at the end of what should have been a statement.

“You were trespassing. We do have a sheriff on the island. I have every right to call him and have him pick you up. A few hours in a holding cell in the mainland might cure you of your curiosity.”

“Please don’t.” It seemed like a silly plea but she couldn’t stop herself. She’d made all that effort to get down the stupid path. Her feet were like blocks of ice. Here closer to the water the wind had picked up and was throwing her hair all around. And she was hungry because she’d only eaten dry toast for breakfast. So, no. Being arrested was not a good way to start her life over.

“Look, lady—”

“Gabby. Remember? Gabby Haines.”

“Gabby, I’m not going to give you what you want.”

“Why not?”

That seemed to give him pause. He opened his mouth and then closed it. “Because.” Then, as if realizing it was a ridiculous answer, he added, “What makes you think I would?”

“Because it’s been, what? Eight years?” she said taking a step forward. The dog let out a warning growl and she stopped. “It’s time people heard the whole story. There were so many rumors, so much speculation. You walked away without any explanations and left people assuming the worst about everything. As bad as what you did was, I can’t imagine you were as awful as the media painted you at the time.”

The rumors had been awful. He was cast as a high-flying jet jockey with women all over the world. Illegitimate children spread from Russia to China to Brazil and beyond. Alcohol, drugs, sex. One article said he used to take cocaine before getting in his F-16 to fly missions over Iraq.

He grimaced. “I never— Some of those rumors— Well, some of them weren’t true.”

“I know. Talk to me. Tell me who you were. Let me tell others.”

“What makes you think anyone would even care? Like you said it’s been ten years since the space station event, eight since my personal life imploded. Other stories have come and gone. The days of my infamy are long over.”

Gabby nodded as if in complete agreement. But they both knew he was leaving out a very significant reason why people might be interested in Jamison Hunter again.

“You’ve heard the reports about the trouble they’re having with the Space Station again. I know you have. Even on this island they must have cable.”

“Satellite. It’s the only way to go,” he muttered. “You think NASA might come and call me out of retirement for one more space walk, huh?”

“You don’t?”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it, lady—”

“Gabby or Gabriella,” she corrected. She wasn’t sure why she offered him her full name. Nobody ever called her by it.

“Sorry, Gabriella. I’m an old man. A washed-out hero whose day is over. They have younger and more qualified men and women for whatever space mission they are cooking up. Trust me.”

“You talk like you’re ready for the nursing home. You’re forty-five.”

“I might as well be eighty-five to NASA.”

“John Glenn went into space when he was seventy-seven.”

“I’m no John Glenn.”

“No, you aren’t,” she admitted. The sad fact of his disgrace would forever separate him from the other astronaut heroes. “But you did what Glen didn’t do. What so many astronauts before you never did. You saved fourteen lives that day. You should be remembered for your achievement.”

“Isn’t that what the internet is for?”

Gabby sensed a stalemate approaching. She had to be happy she’d gotten this far. They were talking. Communicating. She’d made her opening pitch. Now it was time to back off.

“You don’t have to make any decisions today.”

He chuckled. “I’ve already made my decision.”

“Look, can’t you take some time to get to know me? You’ll see I’m not all that bad and I’m not out to destroy you or rehash the terrible things said about you. Maybe you’ll come to trust me.”

“Doubt it,” he said. He considered her for a moment, but she had a hard time interpreting the gleam in his eye. “You want me to get to know you, huh? Are you asking me out on a date?”

As if. Gabby couldn’t reign in her laughter. A date. With Jamison Hunter. Yeah, right. Pigs could fly and the sky was green. A date. The word was so foreign to her it might as well have been…well, foreign.

“Uh, no.”

His face fell a little bit then. “Right. No point in going out with someone you think will cheat on you.”

That had nothing to do with her reaction, but now he said it she figured it was true, as well. Gabby had been down the betrayal path and had scars to prove it. As a result she’d spent every day since avoiding situations where she might be betrayed again.

Of course, that hadn’t really worked out, either. Her boss at the station, a woman she considered a friend, had been the one to fire her.

“Can’t we just talk a bit? I can go with you on your walk.”

“I don’t walk. But if you can keep up, you’re welcome to talk.” He turned and started jogging, his dog valiantly trying to follow close on his heels.

Seriously? He wanted her to jog with him? Actually, no. He wanted to get rid of her. He probably thought this was the best way. Outrun the girl with the chubby cheeks, why don’t you.

A fit of anger overtook her. She wasn’t an invalid for Pete’s sake. She’d eaten a few too many French fries was all. She could run. At least as fast as that. Ready to shove his words back down his throat, she started off on a pace slightly faster than what he was doing so that she’d catch up.

The loafers on the rocky soil weren’t helping though. After a few steps she could feel sand filling up the spaces around her feet.

Cursing, she stopped once to shake each shoe out, then started after him again. She’d almost caught up to the dog when she tripped. She stumbled on the ground, her hands sliding out to break her fall, collecting some scrapes along the way.

Jamison turned back, scowling at her the entire way. He lifted her to her feet as if all those French fries were a figment of her imagination. For a second their hands brushed and she tried to pretend her stomach didn’t flip as a result.

“Are you all right?”

“I guess,” she said grudgingly. Except she was embarrassed, her knee was throbbing and she suspected she was about to burst into tears at any moment. She’d fallen down in front of him. He’d had to pick her up. How much more pathetic did it get?

“If you can’t keep up, you can’t keep up. See you around.”

Great, she thought as she stood there watching the man and his dog take off down the beach without her. She knew it was probably her imagination, but the dog’s tail seemed to wag a little harder.

Even Shep was mocking her.


CHAPTER THREE

THE NEXT DAY, Jamison headed for his daily jog, but was stopped before he could even start. Perhaps he should have been surprised by the sight of Gabby on the beach waiting for him. He wasn’t. As a man who prided himself with being honest—at least with himself—he had to admit he was…delighted to see her again.

He really didn’t want to think about what that reaction meant.

Instead, right now he had the persistent editor who wanted to be a writer to deal with. He’d much rather deal with the attractive woman, but it was clear her professional persona came first.

Damn.

After leaving her in his dust yesterday, Jamie knew he hadn’t seen the last of her. She’d been wounded and humiliated, but he got the sense she wouldn’t quit so easily. He’d expected to find her stalking him into town. Or maybe hiding out in his bushes. What he didn’t anticipate was her making a second attempt to keep up with him running.

Her hair was tied in a ponytail. Those long dark waves hanging down her back were giving him fits at night. He was imagining all sorts of dirty things he’d like to do with that hair. Not the least of which was grip it tightly in his hand while he thrust into her from behind.

Swell, he was getting aroused before his run. That was not going to be comfortable.

“I wasn’t prepared yesterday so I went shopping,” she said, indicating the Lycra running pants and pullover she wore.

“I see that,” he murmured. Her legs looked long in the sleek black material. The pullover she wore came down over her hips, which, like most women, she obviously wanted to hide. But the legs were all out there for him to see and they looked pretty damn good. “You think you can keep up now you have the right equipment?”

She raised her arms over her head and put one leg behind the other as if she was stretching. Then she switched legs after only a moment letting him know she had no clue what she was doing.

“I’m going to give it my best try. You did say we could talk while we run.”

Right. He ran five eight-minute miles every day. As an obvious novice she had no hope of keeping up.

“That’s what I said.” Jamie bent to rub his dog’s collar. “I’m going to do my usual pace, buddy. You can hang back with her.”

The dog shook his tail.

“Yeah, I know you don’t like it, but those legs are getting too old for the pace. At least today you’ll have company.” It bothered him that Shep was stopping earlier and earlier into the run. It didn’t seem that long ago that Shep would outpace him for the entire five miles.

She hopped up and down a few times and he could see the cold air puffing off her lips. It wasn’t frigid this morning but the coolness would make it harder for her to breathe. He couldn’t help but wonder how long she thought she would manage.

He didn’t wait to ask her. Instead he trotted down the beach at his normal warm-up speed. He could hear her crunching behind him, her rhythm quickly becoming erratic.

“You do this every day?” she called.

“Every day,” he said without turning around. He didn’t want to give her any encouragement although he wouldn’t have minded watching the ponytail—or other parts of her body for that matter—bounce around.

“So if NASA did come calling, you could tell them you’re in good physical shape.”

“I’m in excellent physical shape,” he said trying not to brag. “But it still doesn’t mean I would be a viable candidate.”

“Because of the scandal?”

He tried not to wince at the word. It was so dramatic. “Because I’m retired.”

She was puffing now and falling back a few steps as he increased his speed. “But what if they really needed you?”

What if they did? Jamie shook his head. They wouldn’t. There were always others to fill the spaces opened by those who retired. The finest pilots. The best minds. If the Space Station was truly in trouble and the International Space Committee asked NASA for help, NASA had a rich pool of talent to select from.

Besides, he couldn’t fathom any reason why he would put himself through it all again. The press. The media. The spotlight. Hell, no. Jamie Hunter’s days of standing in front of a camera were over.

“Can you hold up a minute?”

He stopped and saw her several yards behind. She was bent over with her hand grasping her waist. Trying to breathe out a cramp no doubt. She’d barely lasted five minutes.

Rookie.

“Sorry. You know the rules. If you want, you can walk with Shep.”

* * *

GREAT. THE DOG AGAIN. Gabby wondered how much insight into his master Shep could provide.

“I’m guessing not much,” she wheezed. “Right. You’re not talking about him, either. Oh, my goodness, this is painful.” She was finally able to work out the cramp in her rib cage. Several deep breaths and she could stand upright. She thought about starting again, but her legs felt like rubber.

Best to walk it out for a while. As she put one foot in front of the other the dog came to walk by her side. Crazy, but she sort of liked the company and she felt sorry for a loyal friend who was getting too old to keep up with his master.

Her performance was pathetic. That she had deluded herself into thinking she’d be able to run with Jamison… Well, she would have laughed if she’d had the lung capacity. Intellectually she knew a person didn’t get in shape overnight. Not when it had taken so long to get out of shape. She never really saw it happening. She’d never been a work-out fiend. In her twenties what she ate or drank never impacted her figure at all. A couple of times a week at the gym, thirty or so minutes on the treadmill or a stationary bike and she was fine.

It wasn’t until her work weeks started getting longer and her trips to the gym grew fewer that everything changed. Gradually, the inches had packed on. Not enough to make her worried, but enough to maybe shop for clothes one size up than what she’d been wearing. Or to pick a top that hid the little extra around her middle.

Certainly there had to be some forgiveness. At that point, she’d been working harder than she ever had before. Giving more of herself to the show rather than her personal life. Yes, she knew the demographics and format were aimed at a younger audience. A local show competing against a major network had no shot of beating them, but it could target a certain age range.

The guest singers were in their teens, the actors promoting their TV shows and movies were barely into their twenties and Gabby never considered interviewing an athlete over thirty. Only really famous movies stars and the city’s mayor could break the no-one-over-thirty rule.

It wasn’t until last year that she finally stopped for a second and took notice of the people she was working with, the people she was interviewing, even the people she was working for. In an instant she felt older and bigger than she should. For Pete’s sake, how old was Katie Couric when she landed the Today Show?

But Gabby Haines wasn’t Katie Couric and Wake Up, Philadelphia wasn’t the Today Show. And she’d gone up two dress sizes. When her boss suggested a Botox treatment Gabby had flipped. She was smart, she was personable. People opened up to her. She was a damn good interviewer. And they wanted her to inject poison into her skin to help the ratings?

After she refused she’d been fired.

“Fired,” she sighed. The word still sat like lead on her heart.

Woman and dog made their way down the beach, which framed the north end of the island. Moving around one bend, the vista opened up for a piece. She could see a few docks stretching out into the water with skiffs and bigger sail boats tied to them bobbing with the ocean’s movement.

Way up ahead she could see Jamison. Still running. Completely uncatchable.

No doubt when the dog tired, he would simply lay down and wait for his master to return. After about a mile or so the dog plopped down in the sand letting the sun warm his belly before resting his head on his paws.

“Yeah, I’m beat, too. You tell him, though, this isn’t done. Not by a long shot.”

At least she hoped it wasn’t done.

* * *

“SO HOW IS IT GOING?”

“Good,” Gabby lied, glad Melissa couldn’t see her wince. She knew cell phone technology was advancing so people could face time instead of just talk. Gabby had no plans to purchase one of those phones anytime soon. She’d been walking to her car when she got the call and picked up immediately the way any good employee would do.

Opening the door she sat on the driver’s seat glad to no longer be walking. “We’re talking,” she added confidently. At least that much was true.

“Has he changed his position about writing the book at all?”

“Uh…” Nope. “I think he’s looking at all the possibilities. Let me ask you, Melissa, who would do the actual writing? I mean, the man’s an astronaut not a writer obviously. Maybe that’s what is holding him back. A bad case of writer’s block.”

“We could hire a ghost writer. We do it all the time for celebrity autobiographies. Heck, we did an autobiography of a rock star who, I was pretty sure, didn’t know how to read let alone write.”

“How does a person get that job? Would she interview or provide some samples…what?”

“What are you getting at, Gabby?”

Apparently Gabby hadn’t been very subtle. She could hear Melissa’s sharp tone loud and clear even though the cell reception on the island wasn’t the greatest. “You know I have a background in journalism. I’m a solid writer. I’m also a good interviewer.”

“You want to write Jamison Hunter’s story.”

It wasn’t a question—was that good or bad? She hadn’t been working with Melissa long enough to tell. “Am I the first newbie to suggest something so crazy?”

“No. But you’re also the only newbie I know who has actually gotten him to talk and hasn’t been crying when I called for an update.” She paused. “Look, Gabby, I can’t promise anything. But if you can convince him to do this book and you’ve forged some kind of connection with him, well, that will definitely be taken into consideration. First things first, though—we need a commitment. A time frame. Something, anything we can plan with.”

“I’m working on it,” Gabby assured her.

“Do it. And Gabby? An FYI. You’ve basically let me know you have no real desire to be an editor. So you better make this ghost writer thing work for you because I don’t know how much of a future you have as a junior editor at McKay Publishing. I know it sucks. But I don’t need people filling in time here while they search for a different career. I need people who want to do the job they have.”

Gabby swallowed hard before she could speak. “I understand.”

“Okay, good. Now, get me that book.”

Gabby ended the call and felt the air in her lungs swoosh out of her.

So this is what it felt like to burn a bridge.

* * *

IT WAS AFTER SEVEN o’clock at night and Gabby finally had to admit she was starving. After her jog-slash-mostly-walk, she’d returned to the inn to shower, change and then set about doing what she imagined most successful ghost writers did—research and write down observations she had about her subject.

She’d contemplated using a recorder to capture her thoughts, but having tried it once to prepare verbal notes for interviews, she knew she felt silly talking aloud into it. Not to mention when she paused during her thought process she made this weird breathing sound she suspected she made a lot but was able to ignore as long as she didn’t hear it played back through a recorder.

Instead she typed random thoughts into her laptop and saved the document simply as Hunter.

Things she knew about him so far—he didn’t want to be interviewed. He was shorter in person. He was hotter in person. She deleted that point. His natural instinct was to help her when she’d fallen even though he didn’t want to be bothered by her. He drove a truck instead of a motorcycle. He spoke to his dog in soft affectionate tones, which made her shiver a little. She deleted that point, too.

Not exactly ground-breaking biographical material at this point but she was just starting out.

After the past hour of staring at the screen and telling herself her stomach wasn’t growling, she finally had to admit it was. Which meant going in search of food. After the horror at the café two nights ago, she’d chosen a convenience store hot dog for last night’s dinner. On the island there was one gas station with a small food store next to it. In the store there was a rotisserie containing three hot dogs she was fairly sure had been sitting on the rack for minimum of two years.

The store was down one hot dog and she was down about five Tums to digest the thing, which meant she wasn’t going back.

Earlier in the day she’d tried to hint to Susan an inn that served dinner probably would be a smashing hit, but the caretaker merely smiled and said breakfast was her forte. But for a fine meal Gabby could do worse than the café down the street.

Unless the café people hated her.

There was always the hope she could be worried for nothing. Maybe Adel and Zhanna didn’t work every night. Or if one of them did, maybe they would stay in the back and Gabby would have a different waitress serve her. Perfect. Where there was hope, there was food.

Gabby put on her sneakers. She concluded that as unfashionable as they might be, they were the only practical shoes she owned. Anything less than heavy socks and total foot coverage was plain stupid for as cold as it was. Bundling into her coat, she trotted down the street and crossed in front of the café. No jaywalking signs. No clearly marked pedestrian walkways. In this town you looked both ways and, if there were no cars coming, you crossed.

If there were, and you chose to ignore them, you got hit.

Seemed pretty straightforward to her and a lot simpler calculating if you could get across the street with the seconds counting down on the pedestrian traffic light.

The bell chimed as she stepped inside the restaurant and her hopes were quickly dashed.

“Oy, it’s you again.”

“Hello, Zhanna. Nice to see you.”

“Sit,” the girl said pointing to an empty booth. “I’ll be with you when I choose.”

Gabby took encouragement she hadn’t been told to leave. If she was sitting, there was a good shot they would feed her. She didn’t allow herself to reach for the menu. She didn’t want to know the sumptuous specials they were offering tonight. All she needed was a salad. With the dressing on the side.

On the side. On the side.

“Don’t let her scare you.”

Gabby looked to the man sitting at the counter who swiveled his seat in her direction.

“Too late.”

He laughed. “It’s just her way. Deep inside she’s got a heart of gold. I’m pretty sure anyway.” He hopped off his stool and offered her a hand. “I’m Tom. I’m the lone vet on the island.”

She shook it and answered his smile. It was nice to feel a little welcomed. “I’m Gabby. Nice to meet you.”

“What brings you to Hawk Island?”

“She wants to expose Jamie to horrible ridicule and humiliation,” Zhanna stated, her order pad in her hand as she practically pushed herself between Tom and Gabby. “You don’t want anything to do with this one, Tom. I’m fairly certain she kills little animals for fun.”

Gabby’s jaw dropped. “I do not.”

Tom chuckled. “Don’t let Zhanna get to you. She’s all bark, Gabby. Good luck with whatever.”

“Do you want to get pie from me or not, Mr. Tom?”

His eyes twinkled. “Honey, I always want pie from you.”

“Oh, hush now. Go sit on stool and I’ll fix you something hearty. You are always too skinny.”

Tom wandered to the counter and Zhanna’s eyes stayed with him for a minute longer than was natural. Then, as if shaking herself out of a trance, she focused on Gabby.

“Now you. What do you want?”

“A salad. With the dressing on the—”

“Got it.” Zhanna walked away before Gabby could finish speaking.

Digging into her purse Gabby pulled out a pen and pad and started writing. One of the keys to weight loss she read was to document everything she ate in a day plus her amount of exercise.

Dry toast again this morning. Extensive jogging for five minutes. Salad with dressing on the side…

Zhanna plunked a plate in front of her. It sounded much too heavy for salad. It smelled way better, too.

“You did say hamburger and fries, didn’t you?”

“No.” Gabby looked at the plate of food and nearly wanted to cry. A large patty with cheese drooping down the side mocked her. Lettuce and tomato were merely camouflage. The big soft bun was made out of white flour instead of whole wheat. Not fair.

She stared at it and tried to ignore the rest of the plate which was teaming with crisp golden French fries.

She was starving. It smelled delicious. These women were evil.

The door to the café opened and Gabby glanced up to see Jamison enter. Zhanna turned and gave him a silly half smile.

He walked to her and clucked a finger beneath her chin in greeting. “Hello, brat.”

“Hello, my favorite customer.” The tone was sarcastic but friendly. These two knew each other well. Not a surprise given Zhanna’s loyalty to him. Once again thoughts of how Jamison might have seduced the young woman filtered through Gabby’s mind. But watching them, she did have to admit there were no sexual sparks between them. More like easy friendship.

“Gabriella.”

“Jamison.” Great. The one person who knew she could barely run for ten minutes spotted her behind a plate of artery-clogging—and very delicious-smelling—food. She felt her cheeks flame up and she blurted, “I didn’t order this.”

He laughed. “Then why did Zhanna bring it to you?”

Gabby figured ratting out his friend probably wasn’t a smart idea.

“Ah, I see,” he said, grasping the situation. “And what did you order?”

“A salad with dressing on the side. I ordered it…on the side.”

He nodded. Then gave Zhanna a slightly disapproving glare. “Having a little fun with the new person in town?”

“She wants to write about you,” Zhanna said sulkily.

“I know. How was the burger done?”

“Medium.”

Jamison lifted the plate and set it on the table in the empty booth behind her. “Bring her the salad, Zee.”

“Oy. Always the forgiving one.” With a huff she went into the kitchen.

Gabby could feel him settle down directly behind her. He wasted no time digging into her burger.

“Thank you.”

Around a mouthful of meat, he mumbled she was welcome.

“You should know if you hadn’t come in I probably would have eaten it. I don’t have much willpower.”

He didn’t comment.

She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to confess to him, but it was important she not seem hypocritical. At least with herself. She wasn’t perfect. There was no point pretending she was. If he knew that about her, it might make it easier for him to trust her.

Adel emerged from the kitchen a minute later. The salad was big and brimming with vegetables. The dressing was in a cup on the side.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

It seemed her relationship with Jamison’s dog was the best one Gabby had cultivated so far.

The café remained empty except for the two of them in the booths and Tom at the counter who was definitely taking a very long time to chose his meal. Despite the impatient way she’d treated Gabby, Zhanna did not seem to mind his indecisiveness.

As Gabby picked through lettuce, cucumbers and tomatoes she could hear Jamison’s fork hitting the plate and imagined him diving into those decadent fries. It seemed awkward to have him behind her. But he hadn’t asked to join her and she didn’t want him to think if she invited him, she was doing so only to get information from him.

She wasn’t out for the story tonight. A little company, however, would be nice.

Picking up her plate and dressing, she moved booths and sat across from him before he could object. He raised his eyebrows to let her know she’d been a bit daring, but before he could speak she did.

“Relax, I’m not going to grill you for facts about your life.”

“I wouldn’t give them to you if you did.”

She ignored that. “It seems stupid the two of us eating alone.”

“I eat alone most nights.”

So did she. Most meals in fact. She preferred it that way. Or at least she thought she did. It had been the idea of him being there, only a foot away from her, but still separate that had bothered her. Two days of trespassing, two days of being left in his dust, yet Gabby was beginning to feel a connection. Sort of.

“Can’t we have a normal conversation?”

“We could. If you were a normal woman and not a writer. But then, if you were a normal woman, this might be a date and we both know you wouldn’t consent to that.”

Just the word date made her nervous. “It can’t be a date if neither person asked the other to be with them.”

“Right. You didn’t ask. You barged. Kind of like you did when you came to my house, then again on my beach. You know you what you are,” he said shaking a fry in her direction. “You’re a barger.”

“That’s not a word. But I have a solution. Tonight I’m not a writer or a date. Let’s call me a tourist.”

“And what am I?”

“You’re the local. You tell me what it’s like to live on an island.”

He pulled another fry from the pile and chewed while he contemplated her suggestion. Because she’d already told him she was weak-willed, she didn’t feel guilty at all about snatching one of his fries for herself.

It was delicious. Maybe a little more salt.

“Please, feel free,” he said as she sprinkled some salt on one corner of his plate.

“You want a cucumber in exchange?

“Is that a joke?”

“Right. So, tell me what it’s like here.”

“It’s quiet. What you would expect. A few small businesses, but most of the folks here are fishermen. Lobstermen to be exact.”

“Lobster. That’s right. This is Maine.” It was odd. Suddenly Gabby felt like Dorothy emerging from her tornado-tossed house. She wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

He scowled at her. “You don’t know where you are?”

“I know where I am,” she snapped. “I guess it just occurred to me where the place was. I’ve been more focused on the journey. By way of Philadelphia.”

“So what happened?”

She wasn’t sure what he meant and her face must have shown that.

“You. Here. The big story. Something sent you on your way. Turned you back into a newbie.”

She shifted in her seat. Telling him the story wasn’t as easy as it had been telling the women. “I got fired.”

“And you’re here to start your life over. I knew it.”

“Something like that.”

He shook his head and pushed away the plate. He’d devoured the burger and between the two of them they’d eaten every fry. Gabby took another stab at a tomato to counterbalance the fat.

“I’m nobody’s do-over.”

“I didn’t say that. Look, at first I thought this was going to be a simple retrieval assignment for my boss. But I realize there is something more here. Something bigger. I don’t want to write anyone’s story. I want to write yours.”

“You’ll need to get used to the disappointment. Since I didn’t order the burger I figure dinner is on you.”

Vaguely, Gabby wondered how she might sneak it into her expense report. Although she didn’t imagine McKay would mind her buying their meal ticket dinner. “Done. But you need to leave the tip.”

“Why?”

“They won’t take my money.”

He slid out of the booth and dropped a five dollar bill on the table. “You better get used to that, too. Folks around here won’t take kindly to what you’re doing.”

“What are they going to do? Kick me off the island?” She thought she’d made a joke. But he didn’t smile.

“They might.”


CHAPTER FOUR

“WHAT’S THIS?” GABRIELLA held out the neatly typed piece of paper to Susan the next day so she could see it clearly. “I found it under my room door this morning.”

“Yes, dear. It’s your bill.”

“But isn’t that typically something you give to someone at the end of their stay?”

Susan smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sure you’ve seen all our little island has had to offer. Surely you have all the material you need for your book. Your fiction book.”

The jig was up. Either Zhanna or Adel had talked. Or word got out simply because that’s how a small town rolled. Now Susan was trying to be polite and sweet while at the same time kicking Gabby out on her ass.

“I’ll go pack my things.”

“Yes, dear. I’ll have your dry wheat toast waiting for you downstairs for your last breakfast.”

Gabby nodded and went to clean out her room. After choking down the toast, she loaded the rental car with her suitcase. She’d changed into her running clothes since the plan had been to attempt another late morning jog with Jamison. She could still meet up with him, perhaps farther along the beach. Her unphysical fitness would prove to be a blessing in this case because she didn’t need to worry about working up a sweat when she had nowhere to shower.

But she told herself not to be ridiculous. Surely there had to be some other place on the island where she could stay. A motel. Another B and B.

She would ask Jamison while they ran.

* * *

“NOPE.” JAMISON PUFFED as they headed down the strip of beach together.

“No other place to stay on this whole island?”

“Not a one. Guess it sucks for you. Oh, well. You gave it your best shot. Good luck getting this career started in New York.”

Gabby watched him go from warm-up mode to high-gear mode. In the space of a minute he was yards and yards ahead of her. Eventually she came to a stop. She caught her breath and kept walking only to realize Shep wasn’t plodding along next to her. When she turned around she saw him lying on the sand.

Something about the way he was laid out bothered her though. She called for Jamison but he was out of earshot. No doubt trying to put her as far behind him as fast as possible.

Approaching the old dog, Gabby got down on her hunches. “Hey, are you okay?”

A soft wine and whimper was her answer.

She tried to give him a little nudge up on his feet but the dog only whimpered more. He wasn’t moving. He certainly wasn’t walking anywhere.

Now what was she supposed to do? Jamison wouldn’t loop back here for at least another forty minutes. She couldn’t leave the poor dog sitting on the beach. And she sure wasn’t going to wait around while something awful might be happening when she could have gotten him to a vet.

Decision made, Gabby began to use her foot to draw out some letters in the sand. That done she bent down and hauled what had to be forty pounds of German Sheppard into her arms and over her shoulder. As old as he was, he didn’t carry a lot of weight, but still he was as much as she could handle.

“Okay, boy, stay with me now.”

Carefully she made her way up the incline. Stopping a few times to catch her breath. This workout was way worse than jogging, but fortunately the old dog didn’t fight her, just laid over her shoulder with an occasional whimper. No struggle at all in fact.

It made Gabby feel worse. Obviously something was wrong for the dog to be this complacent. Reaching the top, she spotted Jamie’s truck. It would be a whole lot faster to use than making her way down the long driveway to where she left her rental car. Taking a chance Jamie was a leave-the-keys-in-the-car person—wasn’t that a thing most small-town people did?—she opened the passenger door and settled Shep inside. The poor dog simply curled in on himself and closed his eyes.

Running around the car to the driver side she opened the door and checked the center console for the keys. Nothing. She lowered the sun visor and found nothing there, either. Last shot was the glove compartment otherwise she would have to move Shep again—something she didn’t want to do.

Pay dirt. A fat key ring sat in the compartment but the car key was the heaviest and easy to identify. Partway down the drive, she realized when Jamie returned from his run he would need to follow her. She reversed to where her car was parked, dropped the keys on the front seat, then drove on.

She really had to hope the stuff about small towns being safe with low crime rates was true.

“Okay, Shep we’re on our way.”

Thanks to the coincidental meeting in the café last night, she knew the island had a vet. Of course, she didn’t have a clue where his office was located. She figured she could simply drive into town and someone there would help her. If not for her, then certainly for Jamison’s dog.




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