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Chapter One Kelly O'Brien lugged her heavy canvas bag of books into the back door of the university newspaper office. The spring day was hot, and a trickle of sweat dripped uncomfortably down her back. She heaved the book bag onto her desk with a crash, and pushed back the damp strands of long, dark hair that had escaped from her bun. With a sigh, she peeled off her jacket and undid the top buttons of her sleeveless blouse, shaking the neckline slightly to let fresh air circulate against her overheated body. "Psst." Kelly looked up to see Marcy Reynolds, the school newspaper's student photographer, hissing at her. Marcy's brown eyes were lit with excitement, her pixielike face alive with curiosity. "There's some guy sitting in the front office, waiting for you," Marcy said, handing Kelly several pink phone message slips. "No. Correction - this is not just some guy. This is a Man, with a capital M. And quite possibly the most gorgeous man who has ever crossed the threshold of this humble establishment." Kelly smiled. "Oh, come on -" "I'm serious," the younger woman said. As she shook her head, her large hoop earrings bumped the sides of her face. "We're talking major heart-attack material. Very tall, blond, green eyes - he's a dead ringer for Mel Gibson's cuter, younger brother. The man is a walking blue jeans ad, Kelly. His legs are about a mile long, and those buns ..." Kelly laughed in disbelief. "He sounds too good to be true," she said. "He looks like one of the heroes from those romance novels you're writing. He's been sitting there for forty-five minutes," Marcy complained, running her fingers through her short black hair, "totally blowing my concentration." "Is he a student?" "He's too old," Marcy said. "I mean, unless he took some time off from school, but not only a few years, like you. Like serious time, maybe ten years. I'd say he's maybe thirty. He's got those sexy little crinkly laugh lines around his eyes. Check him out - he's a total babe." "Maybe he's a professor," Kelly said. "Did he say what he wants?" "You're what he wants." Marcy smirked. "That's all he said. I told him I didn't know when you'd be back - that you could be gone for hours. But he just said he'd wait. He said something about waiting seven years, and that another few hours wouldn't kill him. Have you been keeping this man on the shelf for seven years?" "Seven years ago I was only sixteen," Kelly said. She moved to the glass partition that separated the front office from the back. The blinds were down and shut, and she moved one aluminum slat a fraction of an inch and peeked out. Her heart stopped. T. Jackson Winchester the Second. It couldn't be. But it was. He was the only person in the outer office and he sat by the door, one ankle resting on one knee, leaning casually back in his chair, as comfortable as if he were in his own living room. He wore a royal-blue polo shirt with both buttons open, revealing his sun-kissed neck and chest. His shirt was tucked into a pair of faded blue jeans that hugged his muscular thighs. On his feet he wore Docksiders but no socks. His ankles were strong and tan. He was reading the latest copy of the school newspaper, and his eyes were down, hidden by long, dark lashes. Kelly didn't need to see his eyes to know they were a remarkable mix of colors, with a ring of yellow gold, like solar flares, that surrounded his pupils. The edges of his irises were brilliant green. And sandwiched between the green and the gold was the ocean. Like the ocean, his eyes changed. They could be stormy gray, or dark blue-black, or even a deep, mysterious shade of green. She could remember looking into his eyes, into a warm swirl of colored fire, his lips curving up into a smile as he bent to kiss her - Kelly shook her head, pushing the thought away. She looked at him again, closely this time, searching for signs of age, signs of change. He was wearing his golden hair longer than she'd ever seen him wear it before, hanging down several inches over his collar, thick and wavy and blond and soft. His face had a few more lines, but if anything, he was even more handsome than ever. He looked really good. But he'd always looked good. He'd looked good when she'd first met him, and he'd been hung over at the time. She could still remember that morning as if it were yesterday, not eleven years ago.... Twelve-year-old Kelly had opened the door quietly, carefully, then slipped into the darkened guest bedroom. She had heard the clock ticking, and the sound of slow, steady breathing. Her brother Kevin's mysterious college roommate was lying sprawled out on the bed, long legs escaping from beneath the covers that were twisted around him. One arm was flung above his head, the other lay across his bare chest. His name was T. Jackson Winchester the Second. Kevin had called from school to tell her parents about the freshman dorm and about his roommate. Kelly had been particularly impressed by the length of his roommate's name. Kevin had told their father that T. Jackson was from Cape Cod, and he drove a Triumph Spitfire. What did the T. stand for? Kelly had wondered. And what color was the Spitfire? Red. She'd made a point of looking out onto the driveway first thing when she woke up. The Spitfire was shiny and red, with a black convertible top. Kelly stepped closer to T. Jackson Winchester the Second, to get a better look at him in the dimness of the room, to see what a rich college roommate looked like. He had an awful lot of muscles. Kevin was eighteen, and he had lots of muscles, too, but Kelly had never given his muscles a second glance. He was her brother, sometimes a pain in the neck, sometimes a creep, but mostly fun. This guy, however, was not her brother. She swallowed hard, looking down at his messy blond hair and his handsome face. He was definitely a ten. A living ten. Kelly had seen some tens before on television or in the movies. But before this, she'd never met one face-to-face. His face was perfectly shaped with a long, straight nose and a strong jawline. His eyebrows were two slightly curved light brown lines above the thick eyelashes that lay against the smooth, tanned skin of his cheeks. His lips were neither too thin nor too thick, and nicely shaped. Even in sleep, they tended to curve upward, as if a smile was his natural expression. Kelly leaned even closer, wondering what color his eyes were, then wondering with a flash of giddiness what color his underpants were. She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep a laugh from escaping and backed away from the bed. She'd come into this room with a purpose, and although checking out T. Jackson Winchester the Second was interesting, that wasn't why she'd crept in. She moved quietly to the closet. The door was closed, and she silently slid it open, carefully stopping it before it bumped the frame. (Continues...) |
