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Overview
While Joy Lynn Starr had plenty of the former--her roommate was missing, and she couldn't get anyone to believe her--the latter was in short supply. Until she happened on Scott Cavanaugh, her brother's irresistible business partner, and a cop. Perhaps he could calm her down about Yancy's whereabouts. But who was going to calm her down about him?
Though he had his doubts about her story, Scott couldn't help but rise to the bait of Joy Lynn's damsel-in-distress routine. Soon he found himself a believer--in Joy Lynn's version of events that fateful night, in her magnetic Southern charm, and in the possibility of their having a future--together....
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781426877582 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Silhouette |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2010 |
| Series: | Starrs of the West , #2 |
| Sold by: | HARLEQUIN |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| File size: | 522 KB |
About the Author
Kathleen Creighton believes the gift--or curse--of writing comes in the genes. While growing up in the vast farming and ranching country of Central California she spent many hours with her elbows propped on the old kitchen table in her grandparents' house, listening to the tales her grandfather told. "He spoke with an eloquence that made your eyes shine and your pulse quicken," Kathleen recalls. "Papa could make you feel as though you'd been there."
"But Papa was an orator, not a writer. It was my grandmother who wrote everything down: lists, notes, diaries. I believe that those two gifts combined and got handed on to me, courtesy of my mother--who is, incidentally, far and away the best writer I know."
Kathleen discovered her writing gene not long after she learned to read, thanks to an early and constant exposure to books. "I wanted to read all the time," she says, "even though on the farm, reading was a luxury, something you did only after the work was done. And while writing was considered a normal part of living, it wasn't exactly an occupation to which one could reasonably aspire."
Even so, she began submitting short stories to national magazines while still in her teens, and sold her first--for a penny a word!--to a "pulp" magazine called Ranch Romances when she was 18. That sale failed to catapult her into the literary career she'd dreamed of, however. "The poor editor kept pleading with me to do another like the first one," Kathleen recalls. "I tried, believe me. But since I didn't realize that what I'd written was a romance, I could never duplicate the feat. It took me 20 years to figure it out."
Meanwhile, marriage and four children intervened, and for the next two decades, Kathleen was a contented full-time mom and PTA volunteer. The writing bug bit again, fatally this time, after she was injured during a training session for AYSO soccer coaches. Finding herself bedridden and out of reading material, she appealed to a friend who brought her a grocery sack full of old Harlequin and Silhouette romances. "As soon as I read the first one," Kathleen says, "I knew I'd come home."
Still, success didn't come easy, and hasn't been without its sacrifices. The birth of her writing career, with the sale of her first romance novel to Silhouette in December of 1983 and an appearance on Good Morning, America! coincided closely with the breakup of her marriage. The story has a happy ending, though. Subsequently, she met the love of her life and moved with him to South Carolina, where they've been happily engaged in building their dream house together. "As anyone who's ever tackled even the smallest remodeling project with a spouse knows," Kathleen says, "if a relationship can survive that, it can survive anything!"
Although her roots remain deep in the mountains and deserts of California, Kathleen has developed a deep love and appreciation for her new home, the rural South. "I live in Paradise," she says, "on the shores of a lake with the man I love. Together we watch the squirrels build their nests in our great old oaks trees, and count the birds that come to our feeders. Thrilled as children we call each other to the window to see the great blue heron feeding, or a beaver exploring in our cove. Deer walk down our lane and browse on our camellias. How rich, how blessed we are!"
Even when she's working to make a book deadline, Kathleen tries hard to find time to keep in touch with her son and three daughters, her mother and the numerous friends and family members she left behind in California. "It's not easy to keep the bonds strong over such a great distance," she says, "but I believe it can be done if the love is there and both parties work at it. I try hard to stay a part of their lives on a day-to-day basis."
As for her daily life--"it's pretty boring, actually," she says, "but that's the way I like it." When not writing, she is usually either working on some project or other with her husband--most recently they built a whole wall of bookshelves for her office!--or gardening. Landscaping a chunk of Southern red clay carved out of a forest hillside is, she believes, every bit as great a challenge as writing a new book!
Read an Excerpt
An Order Of Protection
By Kathleen Creighton
Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
Copyright © 2004 Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-373-27362-2
Chapter One
"I'd like to report a missing person."Sergeant Stemple of the NYPD sighed inwardly and it was with some reluctance that he lifted his gaze from the reports he'd been slogging through. It had been a long day and his shift was about to end; another report added to the pile in front of him he did not need.
When he saw who was standing beside his desk, though, the first thing he did was suck in his stomach. He didn't intend to, it just happened. Automatically, as if somebody'd punched him there. Second thing was, the direction of his gaze had to be adjusted downward; the woman was shorter than her voice had made her sound.
"Yes, ma'am? Can I help you?"
The woman hesitated, then placed the manila envelope she was clutching as if it were the last remaining copy of the Declaration of Independence on his desk. "It's my roommate. I think something terrible has happened to her." Her voice had taken on a breathless quality that made Sergeant Stemple feel as if his own breath was in short supply.
"Why don't you have a seat?" he said, putting on his gruff act to make up for the debilitating effect she had on him.
It was a not very well-kept secret in the precinct that Stemple had a heart like a marshmallow, but aside from that, he couldn't figure out what it was about this lady that was making it hard to remember he was a married man. Taken feature for feature she wasn't that gorgeous, not really. Okay, sure, she had nice, shiny brown hair that looked like it would be soft to touch, belling out from under the purple beret she was wearing. And when was the last time he'd seen a woman wearing a beret? True, her brown eyes had a way of angling upward through her thick dark lashes as she looked at him with a sleepy-eyed gaze, as if she'd just gotten out of bed.
He coughed and reached for a pen, pulling a pad of paper toward him. "What makes you think 'something terrible' has happened to your roommate? And ... this would be a woman, right?"
"Well, of course." The woman seemed faintly surprised by the question, and Stemple looked down at his hands and felt unaccountably ashamed.
He muttered, "Ya never know, nowadays."
She lowered herself gracefully into the chair beside the desk, and when she crossed her legs, he saw that they were clad in jeans and high-heeled boots. That surprised Stemple because her light-gray jacket was feminine and curvy and nipped in at the waist, and was the kind that usually went with a matching skirt and that hardly anybody ever wore nowadays, either, come to think of it. And the rose-pink blouse with the deep V-neckline she was wearing underneath the jacket didn't exactly go with blue jeans, either. The lady definitely had her own unique style. Looked good on her, though.
"I haven't heard from her. And she always keeps in touch. Always." There was that breathlessness again.
Stemple ran his hand over what was left of his salt-and-pepper hair, which, at his wife's suggestion, he'd just ad cut toothbrush-short. He sat back in his chair, mentally re-focusing on the job at hand. "Okay. So, when was the last time you saw your ... uh ... Sorry, this roomie got a name?"
"Oh - Yes, it's Yancy - Yancy LaVigne. Well, actually, her real name is Mary Yancy. LaVigne is more like her professional name, but it's the one she goes by, so I guess ..." She floundered to a halt - probably, Stemple figured, because she was watching him pick up the manila envelope and pull out the photographs that were inside. Photographs of the roommate, he assumed; she'd come prepared, he'd give her that.
"Whoa," he said, rearing back. His eyes flicked to the woman in the chair and back to the photo again. Impossible not to notice that the woman in the photo was drop-dead gorgeous. "Nice lookin' girl," he said, mentally putting his eyeballs back in their sockets. "What is she, some kinda fashion model?"
"No, a fashion reporter. She works for La Mode magazine. You might have seen her on TV, too - sometimes she's on those morning news shows, and, you know, Regis and -"
"Yeah, my wife, she watches that stuff." Stemple put down the photograph reluctantly and picked up the pen again.
"So, when was the last time you saw, uh ... Ms. LaVigne?"
"Three weeks ago. She -"
He fixed the lady before him with a narrow-eyed stare, no longer noticing so much the cute beret and bedroom eyes. He was, first and finally, a cop. And, if he did say so himself, a pretty damn good one. "And you're just now getting around to reporting her missing? Why is that?"
"You asked how long since I've seen her. She went on vacation - to Florida."
Looking flustered, the lady placed one small hand on the desktop not far from Stemple's big meaty one. She leaned forward, and his gaze dropped - all by itself, he'd swear - to the deep V of her rose-pink blouse.
"It was supposed to be for two weeks. And she was supposed to call me." Her voice quivered, and she tightened her lips and quelled it like a misbehaving child.
"I know what you're thinking," she said, which Stemple devoutly hoped she did not. "But it's just that Yancy's very young." She smiled suddenly, which made Stemple feel a little like an adolescent himself. "She doesn't always make the best choices, so I guess I try and look out for her. She was supposed to call me every couple of days to let me know she was okay. I gave her one of those phone cards so she wouldn't have to use her cell. Roaming charges can be awful. And she did call the first week. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped. I thought she was just having a good time and forgot, but ... she didn't come home. I went to the airport to meet her flight, and she wasn't on it."
It was a moment or two before Stemple became aware of the silence and realized she was waiting for him to say something. He shook himself, coughed, picked up the photograph again and frowned at it.
"Yeah - okay. Uh, you say she's young? How young, exactly? She's not underage, is she? Because if she is -"
"Oh, no. No, Yancy's thirty - just turned. In April. She's an Aries - an infant soul. I'm Pisces, we're very old souls. Which is why I ..." She stopped once more. Her cheeks had turned a softer version of the color of her blouse. "Oh, sorry."
Stemple gave another inward sigh. He supposed it was just as well the lady was something of a dingbat; on top of everything else, brains would have been just too much. He shifted in his chair and started again.
"Okay, Miss -"
"Starr. Joy Lynn Starr. And it's Ms."
Perfect. "Ms. Starr. That's not a 'professional' name, too, is it?" He had unsettling visions of smoky rooms and the lady slithering naked around a pole. Which would explain a lot.
Possibly because she'd been reading his mind, Ms. Starr said in a chillier tone than the one she'd been using up to now, "Starr is my maiden name. I'm divorced."
"Okay ... Ms. Starr," said Stemple, rubbing at his temples.
He was once more reminded that his day was drawing to a close and the pile on his desk wasn't getting any smaller. "Have you tried contacting the authorities down there in Florida?"
"Of course I did. Right after I called the resort and found out Yancy had checked out three days early. They told me -"
"Hold on. You say she checked out of her hotel. She did - herself, personally?"
"Yes, the desk clerk remembers -"
Stemple's pen hit his desk blotter with a gentle snapping sound. "Ma'am, it seems to me, wherever your friend might have gone, looks like she went there voluntarily and of her own free will." He realized he was frowning and drew a hand over his face to erase it. "You're not her mother, and even if you were, she's a grown woman, she's got that right. Now, maybe you feel like she shoulda called you and filled you in on her plans, but maybe she didn't feel the same way about that. I'm sorry, but I have to tell you, unless you can give me some kind of concrete evidence or a damn good reason why I should think otherwise, that's what I'm gonna have to go with here. It's just not the police department's job to go chasing after law-abiding adults, you understand what I'm sayin'?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from An Order Of Protection by Kathleen Creighton Copyright © 2004 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
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