Laura Moore--Excerpts and Reviews

In Your Eyes

Reviews

Financial genius Alex Miller ends his relationship with Sydney Raines, who refuses to believe it is over. Though he was honest from the start, she thought they would marry. Now he regrets hiring her firm to oversee a gala he is throwing although she and her partner Harry Byrne are excellent at it. Instead, Alex looks forward to seeing "roller blades" skate in Central Park.

Grace Miller hires artist Gen Monaghan to paint a mural at Children's Hospital in Boston and even offers the young artist the use of her late husband's studio in Long Island. At the same time, Alex buys a painting done by Gen. When he finds out that his aunt is allowing an artist to use the studio, he has Gen investigated. However, when he meets Gen he is attracted and soon learns she is his fantasy roller blades woman. As they fall in love, her mentor currently in the Czech Republic wants her to join him and Sydney tells Gen she is pregnant; thinking that Alex is the father; Gen plans to join Jiri in Europe.

This is a fun contemporary romance starring a wonderful lead couple and some zany support players. The fatal attraction seems weak and unnecessary as Alex and Gen have enough to keep them at arm's length in spite of the obvious magnetism. Still the audience will appreciate this fine tale of love between a patron and an artist with his aunt as the matchmaking grandmaster fostering the relationship.

Harriet Klausner

4 Stars

Fate sometimes has an unexpected way of getting your attention. Finance whiz Alex Miller never dreamed that a fascinatingly mysterious Central Park rollerblader would turn out to be the artist his aunt had selected to create a painting for the new children's hospital.

Since she is losing her current studio space, artist Genevieve Monaghan is delighted to accept Grace Miller's offer to work from her home in the Hamptons while Gen creates the commissioned work. Gen and her wolfhound, Murphy, move in and discover there is one drawback: the dangerously sexy Alex. At first Gen is irritated when she learns he ran a background check on her and her family; now the problem is that Gen is finding him all too attractive. PR expert Sydney Raines has made it clear she considers Alex her property, but Alex has a different idea.

Alex and Gen come from two different worlds and perspectives, and these differences make for warm and inspired romance. Moore has really hit her stride as an author who explores emotions and passion with equal flair.

Jill Smith

4 1/2 Stars--Romantic Times

...IN YOUR EYES thrives on emotions as Alex experiences true love for the first time in his life. Gen is equally thrilled with Alex and treasures every moment spent with him. Though it is a fast-paced and poignant story, there are plenty of humorous moments to balance out the strong emotions of Alex and Gen. The comical dog Murphy definitely keeps the laughter rolling off the pages. Laura Moore has written a thrilling story that any romance fan will enjoy. Alex and Gen are a great couple and the reader will be eagerly anticipating the many wonderful moments between them. I highly recommended IN YOUR EYES as the perfect summer time treat.

Sarah W., Reviewer

Romance Junkies

Building the children’s wing on the local hospital is a labor of love for Alex Miller. It's to be a memorial to his late brother and sister-in-law and every detail must be perfect, especially the painting to hang in the lobby. Searching for the right artist has been an exercise in futility until Genevieve Monaghan moves in with his elderly aunt.

Gen is staying with Aunt Grace while her live-in companion is away, in exchange for the use of her late husband’s art studio. Although suspicious of Gen’s motives at first, Alex soon realizes she's a refreshing change from the money-hungry social-climbers he has a history of dating. She pours her emotions and her soul into her art, and it speaks to Alex's heart. The two find themselves falling in love, but Alex's former girlfriend, Sydney, is determined to win him back, no matter what the cost.

This story opens with a scorching love scene and just gets better from there. A very enjoyable read.

Tish Glasson, Reviewer

The Best Reviews

* * *

Excerpt

Alex awoke at six in the morning and in the semi-darkness of his room rummaged through the dresser for his running shorts and T-shirt. This was the perfect hour to run in the Hamptons, when the roads that led past corn and potato fields and tall privet hedges, planted to screen the houses hidden behind them, were still empty and peaceful.

He walked silently down the hallway so as not to disturb his sleeping aunt and descended the stairs. At the kitchen sink he poured himself a glass of water. As he drank, his eyes strayed involuntarily across the backyard.

No lights shone in the studio. In his mind he pictured Gen's delicately boned face, the fan of her dark lashes against her cheeks as she lay sleeping on the futon his aunt Grace had told him the local handyman had moved into the studio. "I offered Genevieve the bedroom opposite yours, Alex, but she insisted she was quite happy sleeping out there. Such an independent-minded girl--not at all like those New York City lemmings," she'd added with a sniff of disdain for good measure, so Alex would know this was meant as a pointed reference to his previous girlfriends.

Aunt Grace was right, he thought, and took another sip of water, his gaze still riveted on the studio. Gen was different from those other women. He'd known her for less than a week and already she had a more profound hold on his thoughts than any other woman. And his fascination seemed to grow each time he saw her.

Out of habit, Alex left the house by the porch overlooking the beach, so he could have that incomparable first glimpse of dawn-lit ocean. He stood at the railing, taking in the wide sweep of sand, the roll of incoming waves--and froze as he spotted two dark forms bobbing in the surf. Everything inside him went still, except for the heavy thudding of his heart, which beat in sync with the waves pounding the shore. Only the bite of the porch's wooden railing against his palms kept him from thinking that this was but a continuation of the dreams and fantasies he'd had of her.

Gen and Murphy were emerging from the surf, the dog bounding through the water in great deerlike leaps, she timing her advance with the rhythm of the incoming waves. Alex was filled with an instinctive, immediate urge to rush to her aid that eased only when he saw how comfortable she was negotiating the opposing forces of waves and undertow.

When he tensed again it was for a different reason.

She walked out of the sea like Venus at her birth, sleek, long-limbed . . . perfect nascent femininity. Alex had never beheld such a glorious sight.

Then Murphy gave a loud bark and shook himself vigorously, his long fur sending water spraying. Alex heard Gen's shriek as the water hit her bare skin. With a laughing reprimand to the dog, who had begun racing over the sand in crazed zigzags and circles, she bent down and grabbed a beach towel, wrapping it about her before scooping up the small bundle of clothes by her feet.

***

Gen trudged through the deep sand that was still cool from the night air, and stepped onto the wooden stairway that led right to the front lawn. The grass was prickly wet with dew. The moisture plastered the sand to her feet. As she crossed the lawn in the direction of the outdoor shower, a flicker of movement on the porch caught her eye.

"Good morning."

Gen stopped in her tracks at the sound of Alex's voice. Luckily her arms were clamped tight about her towel. Though little good that did. Even from the distance of the porch, his gaze was a physical thing. Her skin tingled with awareness. And against the thick weave of the towel, her nipples grew taught and aching. She shivered.

"Cold?" he asked.

No, she wasn't cold. She felt like she was melting from a single fiery glance. With an effort, Gen pulled herself together. "Uh, have you been sitting here long?"

"Yes. It's beautiful here in the morning; the view's always striking. This morning especially so. I liked your suit."

She decided to brazen it out. After all, she had no hang-ups about her body--at least she hadn't until three seconds ago. "Ahh, yes," she managed lightly. "That would mean my birthday suit."

"And a more becoming one I've never seen. By the way, your mother's wrong. You're not too thin. You're beautiful," he said quietly. She felt his gaze slide over her and knew he was stripping her bare, seeing her as she'd been a few minutes before. Her heart pounded in her chest. "Still, be careful swimming alone. Much though I enjoyed it, I won't always be her to watch over you."

With that, Alex turned and headed back into the house, leaving Gen to stare after him. His words flowed through her like a warm, heady current. Had she acquired her very own guardian angel? she wondered bemusedly. One who, instead of wings, came equipped with a private plane? Certainly he had the fierce golden beauty of the Archangel Gabriel. And increasingly, when Alex looked at her as he had just now, Gen was sure she'd find heaven in the circle of his strong arms.

Alex strode through the house, leaving by the kitchen door. His hands still shook with the need to unknot that damnable beach towel and caress every inch of her damp, salty skin. To touch Gen until she writhed, needing him as much as he needed her.

He ran, pushing himself, making his heart pound and the muscles in his legs burn as sweat poured off his body. He ran as an act of will to control his unruly mind and body. He ran, but couldn't escape the memory of Gen's naked, glistening body rising from the sea.

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Night Swimming

Reviews

Lily Banyon and Sean McDermott have known each other since the cradle. Their mothers are best friends, as are their grandmothers. Growing up, Sean and Lily tormented each other -- sometimes deliberately, sometimes unwittingly -- and challenged each other, but although neither would have admitted it, they also admired and respected one another. And both of them secretly yearned for the other's love. Lily left Coral Beach ten years ago to go to college, and she has never been back . . . until now. . .

. . .Although their work doesn't bring them into frequent contact with each other, their grandmothers do. Both Lily and Sean are dismayed to discover that the attraction between them has not faded over time; if anything, it's even more intense now. But neither one is willing to give an inch because both are certain that with the other on the scene things will soon go to hell in a hand basket. Can these two old adversaries possibly work together for the sake of their hometown? . . .

. . .NIGHT SWIMMING is a compelling, thoroughly entrancing story of love and families and second chances. Sean and Lily are multi-layered, very likeable characters, with fears and foibles, hopes and vulnerabilities that make them wonderfully realistic, and which will endear them to readers. . .

. . .Laura Moore writes knowledgeably and realistically about family dynamics, conflict, and passion, both adversarial and loving. Her descriptions of the small coastal town and of the reefs and the plant and animal life found there bring the setting vividly to life. A varied cast of secondary characters, from meddling grandmothers to greasy-palmed developers, rounds out the story, adding depth and texture to this wonderful, well-written tale.

For a captivating, almost impossible to put down story of love and second chances, I highly recommend NIGHT SWIMMING. Laura Moore is an author that readers will want to watch, for she may well be one of tomorrow's romance superstars.

Susan Lantz--Romance Reviews Today

For the full review, visit RRT

***

Laura Moore brings her readers another top-notch novel with NIGHT SWIMMING. This time instead of her excellent equestrian themes she delves into the life of Lily Banyon, a marine biologist who goes home to Coral Gables, Florida to do a job checking out the health of the coral reef that gave her hometown its claim to fame. Here she meets Sean McDermott, now the mayor, and the guy she’s never been able to forget. . .

. . .You'll enjoy seeing how these two extraordinary people come to grips with their long time secret attraction.

Ms. Moore stories are innovative, passionate and thought provoking.

Suzanne Coleburn--ReaderToReader.com

For this and more reader reviews, visit Reader To Reader

***

At one time in our lives we have wanted to escape our past and never look back. This is true for Lily. When she left for college she thought that she would never return to Coral Beach, that her past was just that. Now she is returning as a person who could save the most valuable thing in the town--its reef and shoreline. This story is filled with passion and reward. Take the time to find out what it is all about.

MLB--Rendezvous Reviews

***

Reminiscent of Jude Deveraux's contemporary romances, Laura Moore writes deeply emotional and passionate stories and her third book, NIGHT SWIMMING, is no exception. . . . It is obvious that the author has done her homework and knows a lot about coral reefs off of the Florida coast. The protagonists are both interesting and likeable. . . . All the secondary characters are good including Hal, the swim coach, Kaye, Lily's mother, and Dave, Sean's best friend. Then, of course, we have the smarmy bad guys that are trying to undermine all that the mayor and Lily are trying to do. It all comes together to make an engaging story. Laura Moore has written a page- turner with NIGHT SWIMMING.

Reviewed by Marilyn Heyman--The Best Reviews

For the complete review, visit Writer's Space

Excerpt (pp. 64-74)

"So what's got you in such a piss-poor mood?" Dave Cullen asked. "I thought the meeting went pretty well." He had his elbows propped on the Rusted Keel's scarred and pitted bar, one hand wrapped around an ice-cold beer. He took a long pull, swallowed, and added, "After all, the good guys came out on top today."

Seated next to him, Sean acknowledged his friend's comment with a tired shrug. He supposed Dave was right. But that did little to dislodge the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that with Lily Banyon on the scene, things would go to hell in a handbasket awful quick. Too tired to explain the hows and whys, Sean concentrated on his whiskey, savoring its smoky peat-flavored bite.

Unperturbed by Sean's silence, Dave nursed his beer, the fingers of his free hand drumming an accompaniment to one of the bar's perennial favorites, Otis Redding's "Dock of the Bay." which someone had selected from the jukebox's list. The Rusted Keel was Sean and Dave's preferred after-hours hangout, one of the few remaining places in Coral Beach the tourists hadn't taken over, most likely because from the outside the bar looked like a run-down bait and tackle shop. Stepping inside, one's second impression wasn't much better.

Though there were a few tables covered in ancient red-and-white checked plastic, no one in town came to the Keel for its spiffy decor. Most of the regulars avoided the tables, preferring to congregate around the pool table in the back, or to while away the hours throwing darts at the dartboard with unerring, unnerving accuracy. For those more vegetatively inclined, the battered TV above the bar where Sean and Dave were sitting was tuned to ESPN twenty-four-seven. And, of course, there was the jukebox, which hadn't been updated since Don McLean's "American Pie." five songs for a buck.

But the finest thing about the Rusted Keel was its clientele. Not a single person in the place besides Sean and Dave had a political bone in his body. After a hard day fighting the good fight, there was nothing so relaxing as the sweet scent of beer, salted peanuts, and political indifference. Sean had never once been approached by someone wanting to know how to obtain a building permit for a two-car garage, nor been badgered about why he'd voted for or against such and such a proposal. And while every now and again a disgruntled fisherman or boat captain shot Dave a hostile look, the tacit rule at the Rusted Keel was that while bitching about the Marlins' or the Dolphins' miserable season was acceptable behavior, griping to locally elected officials who only wanted to throw back a couple of beers in peace was not.

But Sean's drink of choice this evening was whiskey rather than Rolling Rock, and he was staring moodily at the dust motes, which told Dave he hadn't yet shaken off his mayoral responsibilities.

"Come on, Sean, quit worrying," he said. "You knew after the panel voted to continue the study that Ferrucci would be in attack mode. Ever since you beat him in the mayoral election he's wanted to kick your butt. He's not going to let an opportunity pass him by, especially not on this issue." He pushed a red plastic bowl toward his friend. "Here, have a peanut, it'll make you feel better."

Always nice to see words of wisdom penetrate, Dave thought, as Sean reached an scooped out a handful of the salted nuts. "So, what'd you think of the bodacious Dr. Banyon?" he asked while Sean munched. "Liked her photographer, too. Very sparkly."

"Forget it," Sean replied. The peanuts had apparently revived him. "Banyon's trouble with a capital T. Her assistants probably are too," Sean added between mouthfuls. "Should've told me you were planning on contacting the Marine Center. I'd have warned you to avoid Lily at all costs."

"Sorry, bud." Dave shrugged his shoulders. "I only learned yesterday that there had been a change of plans, that we'd be getting Banyon in place of Hunt. I couldn't exactly call back and say, 'Thanks, but no thanks.' Not that I would have anyway." He paused for a swallow of beer. "From that nifty recitation you gave earlier, you obviously don't need me to tell you she's one of the best. You read her latest book?"

"I've glanced at it," Sean muttered into his glass.

Dave looked at him out of the corner of his eyes. "Pretty thorough glancing," he said mildly. "Banyon's got a great track record. Not afraid to tackle tough issues or tough opponents. With someone like her on the panel, we'll be sitting in clover."

"Don't be fooled by Lily. As you'll discover, the experience is much closer to lying in a field of poison ivy."

Dave grinned. Dr. Lily Banyon did indeed look like the kind of woman who'd leave her mark on a man. He glanced at Sean, wondering. McDermott was behaving a bit peculiarly. Moody, tense, and edgy. Not Sean's usual m.o., that was for sure. "Come on, Sean," he said. "Banyon can't be as bad as you imagine. After all, she jumped in and saved her photographer when Ferrucci was going for the jugular. Pretty damned courageous, if you ask me."

Sean scowled but remained silent.

"Did you see how big Karen Masur's eyes grew when Ferrucci was tearing into her, all for the greater good of Coral Beach? I thought she was going to faint. Ferrucci did, too. Swear to God, his teeth must've grown four inches. Noticed it when he flashed his signature smile." Dave gave a mock shudder. "His smile disappeared damned fast, once Banyon leaped into the fray; so you see, that proves Banyon's got the right instincts."

"What that really proves is that Ferrucci's got a big mouth." Sean gave a small grin, suddenly looking more like his usual self. "Maybe I should write Pete a thank you note for being such an ass."

Dave laughed. "Be bighearted, send him a fruit basket while you're at it. So, how far back do you and the doctor go?" he asked casually.

Sean swirled the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass. "Pre-diaper. Lily's hated me from the womb. And probably will--right up to the grave."

Dave whistled softly. "Is this possible?" he asked in an awed tone of voice. '"You mean to say there's a woman alive who won't canvass the entire district for you on election eve?"

"Stuff it, Dave," Sean replied without heat. "When we were kids, Lily had a notebook where she listed all the reasons why I was the scum of the universe. Didn't take her long to run out of pages and move on to volume two. One of her favorite pastimes was to quote passages to me. I still remember a few of them." He drained his whiskey and signaled to Charlie for another round.

Dave shifted in his stool and studied Sean's closed expression. "That's it." His grin spread slowly. "You got a thing for the beautiful scientist."

"Yeah." Sean's shrug downplayed Dave's discovery. "But like I said, Lily's detested me forever. I doubt her attitude has changed much." And after the way he'd behaved toward her earlier, at the reef meeting, it was practically guaranteed Lily wouldn't be entertaining any warm, fuzzy feelings about him. Probably thought he was a bigger jerk than ever.

"So how lone have you been suffering the effects of unrequited, uh, you know . . ."

Sean tilted his head, his look measuring. "Would you believe eighth grade?" He smiled and waited.

"You're kidding!"

Sean solemnly shook his head. "I kid you not."

"Eighth grade," Dave mused aloud. "What'd she do?"

"Took off her sweater in Ms. Geller's English class," Sean replied with a sorry laugh.

"She took off her sweater?" Dave echoed, his expression mystified. Understanding dawned as he recalled what he'd been like at age thirteen, a hormone-crazed adolescent. "Oh yea, right." He nodded sagely as he brought his beer to his lips.

"I was a goner from that day on," Sean said. "Didn't matter where I was. One look at Lily, and my mind and body went haywire. The worst of it was, I never quite figured out how to shake the Lily Effect. the next four years in high school were absolute torture."

"Oh, man," Dave said with an appalled laugh as he clapped a hand to Sean's shoulder in a show of fraternal commiseration. "I'm sorry. That's a hell of a tough break."

They leaned back in their stools while Charlie set new drinks before them.

"Thanks, Charlie," Sean said, going for his wallet.

Dave stopped him with a wave of his hand. "No, let me. When I have a story this said, you buy the rounds."

"Thanks." Sean managed a rueful smile. His hand reached back to knead the kinks in his neck. "Yeah, it's a mess," he conceded. "On top of being Lily's public enemy number one, I've got Ferrucci trying to shove these development people down my throat--when he isn't attacking me on community TV."

"Don't waste your time worrying about Ferrucci's machinations, Sean. It's Lily Banyon you should be devoting your, uh, energies to. You're not a lust-struck teenager anymore. Why don't you spend some time with her, let her get to know the real you?" Dave ignored Sean's decidedly unenthusiastic grunt. "Hey! I've got it! You can tag along on the research boat as an observer."

"A monumentally bad idea," Sean said flatly.

"Why not? It's perfect. You ran on an environmental platform; this shows how committed you are to monitoring the reef's health. You don't need to go often--otherwise our friend Ferrucci will cry foul--just enough to dazzle her with that McDermott charm. So, how about it?"

Sean shook his head. "No dice, not in a million years. I don't want to be anywhere near her."

Dave wasn't cruel enough to tell Sean he was lying like a rug.

A brief silence ensued as they nursed their drinks, absorbed in thought. At the corner of the bar, a conversation rose in decibel, becoming animated.

"Yo, Frank, take a look at what just walked in! Is it Christmas already? 'Cause that sure is a pretty package."

"You got that right. . . . Wouldn't mind unwrapping her bows."

Instinctively, Sean cast a glance over his shoulder and groaned in despair. The scene from Casablanca played in his mind. . .Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she had to walk into mine.

This could not be happening. This was his turf, his town, his bar. She had no right to trespass.

Okay, so this wasn't Casablanca. This wasn't Rick's Cafe. Sam's fingers weren't summoning the haunting melody, "As Time Goes By," from the ivories of an old upright piano. There weren't any ceiling fans with long propeller-like blades slicing through thick clouds of cigarette smoke, nor were the voices that could be heard an exotic melange of foreign languages and accents.

But those differences were superficial, of no consequence. The only thing that really mattered was that Sean understood exactly how Bogie felt when his eyes lit on Ingrid Bergman. That terrible mix of bitterness, longing and fury eating away at him.

He groaned again.

At the sound, two men sitting at the corner of the bar broke off their conversation, eyeing Sean curiously. Just as quickly, they dismissed him and returned to their avid inspection.

"Must be lost or confused. Palm Beach is twenty-five miles north."

"Let's be friendly and give her direction. How 'bout that, Ray?"

"You frigging nuts?" The only directions I'm giving her are to the slip where my houseboat's moored." He elbowed his companion. "Stop drooling, Frank. She's coming this way."

Because of the Keel's gloomy interior, Lily didn't notice that he and Dave were at the bar until she was almost upon them. The second she did, her step faltered. She was doubtless debating whether to spin 180 degrees and march right out again.

He should have known Lily would tough it out. After that initial hesitation, she strolled--it was the only word Sean could find that adequately described the confident sway of her hips--to the bar.

Once there, her gaze flit over Sean and Dave with total disinterest, the kind of look one reserved for strangers--with whom one had no intention of ever becoming acquainted.

"Tequila and lime, please," she ordered quietly when Charlie approached.

"Coming right up," Charlie said with a nod. He set a shot glass and a tequila bottle in front of her. Disappearing through the swinging door that led to the kitchen, he returned shortly with a white porcelain saucer, lime quarters neatly arranged in a radiating pattern.

Sean's eyebrows rose. Lily was getting the royal treatment; most of the Rusted Keel's patrons considered themselves lucky if they got their limes tossed into a plastic red Solo cup.

Charlie poured a shotful. The bar fell eerily silent as Lily leaned forward. Holding the lime bracketed between index finger and thumb, she bit into its flesh, her teeh flashing white in the subdued lighting. She lifted the shot glass to her lips. With a quick backward toss, she downed its contents. Her eyes closed.

Watching her, Sean imagined the fiery yellow liquor racing down her throat, setting her aglow from within. Involuntarily, his eyes traveled the sinuous contour of her profile and down the length of her neck. And descended further still.

Gone was the short jacket she'd been wearing earlier. The top two buttons of her blouse were undone. The blouse, made of some kind of shimmery material, shifted bluish purple in the half light.

Shadows and mysteries. The glimpse of Lily's milky white skin exposed by the shirt's plunging vee filled him with wanderlust, a need to explore until all her secrets were revealed. he moved restlessly on his stool.

A solid thud of glass against wood resounded in the near-silent bar. Then Lily was laying a ten-dollar bill on the bar and heading toward the door. In the wake of her departure, male speculatiohn frothed in bloated bubbles.

Sean was already on his feet. He tossed a large tip on the bar. "Thanks again, Charlie. See you later, Dave."

"See you," Dave echoed. With a glimmer of a smile, he nodded in the direction of the parking lot. "Catching a ride?"

"That's the idea."

"Good luck."

"Thanks. I'll need it."

Sean had slipped his jacket off the back of the stool and was shrugging into it when one of the men seated at the corner spoke.

"Hey, McDermott, what's your opinion? Silicone for sure, huh?"

Sean paused to glance their way. Ray and Frank were partners in a small sport-fishing business. He knew them vaguely. Now he wished he didn't. He shook his head in contempt. "Think I'd tell you, Ray?"

Ray's eyes narrowed. "Like you actually know, McDermott. You claiming you've handled the goods, Mayor?" His tone matched the sneer on his face. "If so, the lady sure don't seem to remember." He poked Frank with his elbow. "Looked right through him, didn't she, Frank?"

"Like a pane of glass."

Sean ignored their snorts of laughter. "Let me give you some friendly advice." he said mildly. "I'd be real careful not to let the lady catch you staring at her like that."

Ray pulled a comical face, pretending to look scared, then laughed even harder.

Sean smiled in return. Yet when Ray opened his mouth to speak, he cut him off. "But if I'm the one who catches you gawking, if I hear you talking about her that way again--" he paused, and his smile turned dangerous, "--your sorry carcasses will be feeding the fish."

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Chance Meeting

Reviews

Because of her father's enormous wealth, 14-year-old Ty Stannard lives a fairly isolated life. Her one friend, Lizzie Ozbourne, shares her love of horses and show jumping. Ty and Lizzie are participating in a junior national show when they meet Ty's idol, Steve Sheppard, a young man rapidly rising in the show horse world. The brief meeting is mostly a disaster as Ty's bodyguard assumes the worst. However, Steve's kindness to a star struck teenager is something Ty never forgets.

More than a decade later, Ty has the chance to repay that act of kindness when a drug scandal and the death of his prize horse place Steve on the verge of ruin. His small horse farm, Southwind, is located on a choice piece of land. Ty knows that her ruthless father will snap up the property as soon as Steve defaults on his loan. Determined to stop her father and rescue Steve's career, Ty offers to become his partner.

Steve has no interest in gaining another partner. It was his first partner's reckless drug use that killed Steve's beloved horse and destroyed their business. However, with the foreclosure deadline days away, Steve has little choice.

Laura Moore's hot streak continues as once more she gives readers a book that is filled with multifaceted emotions, deep passion and romance. She is a star on the rise!

Jill M. Smith, Romantic Times Magazine

****

Horses are in and am I glad because nobody does it better than new author Laura Moore. She used her expertise in the field of horses and show jumping when she came out with her debut novel last year with RIDE A DARK HORSE and I fell in love with her writing. The minute CHANCE MEETING arrived in the mail for me to review I started on it right away. Hey, I'm hooked on Ms. Moore's writing.

CHANCE MEETING is another "blue ribbon" winner as Ms. Moore brings us a very unusual heroine in the wealthy Ty Stannard whose father expects her to be Miss Perfect in everything she does. She is tall and gawky and shy as she is growing up and only has one friend in school. She and Lizzie love horses and show jumping. When she is 14 and Lizzie 16 they meet Ty's idol and dream man, champion rider Steve Sheppard at a show, and Ty is in seventh heaven when Steve gives her a lucky medallion. Steve is tall and golden and a teenager's dream. Riding was the only escape she had from her demanding father, and all of that went to hell in a hand basket when she had a bad fall. At that point Ty's life changed and her father set her on another course grooming her for a place in society and his billionaire business in real estate. I was so mad at her father and ready to strangle him, I'll bet you will too when you read all about him. Grr!

Years later Ty is a beautiful woman and a smart savvy business woman determined to carve a pathway to leading her own life, especially when she hears that Steve is on the brink of financial ruin after a tragic accident involving his favorite horse and his business partner.... Steve is an excellent hero and it was wonderful to see him go through many changes throughout the book. And Ty is just incredible. She's just the type of person you would want on your side whether it was a calamity or a fun loving family get together. Ty cares about people and it shows big time.

I couldn't put the book down. I was so caught up in the horse shows and the fabulous romance between Ty and Steve that time just flew by... I hated for it to end. Darn! Don't miss this top-notch author.

Suzanne "Steve Sheppard was my HERO too!" Coleburn

"Laura Moore is fantastic! Her books are fresh and exciting just like her characters that work their way into your heart in no time. Don't miss this exceptional author, as she is a real find!"

Suzanne Coleburn, The Belles and Beaux of Romance

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Excerpt (pp. 173-183)

Where and when did this man ever sleep?

It was as if she'd stumbled into some Gothic novel, Steve Sheppard doing an excellent imitation of a tortured soul. Perhaps a haunted one, too. The past three nights had convinced her of that, one after the other following the same disturbing routine.

She'd be lying in her bed, tossing and turning, unused to her new surroundings and far too anxious about the tangled mess she'd landed in to do more than drift off for a few minutes at a time. For the remainder of the night, as the moon followed its path across the sky, Ty stared sightlessly at the ceiling, glancing occasionally at the bedside clock, frustrated thoughts of Steve racing through her sleepless mind.

The man was an enigma, one minutes distant and sarcastic, the next piercing her with such heat in his crystal-blue eyes that she was briefly tempted to believe he found her attractive. But before she could decide for sure, he'd have switched back to the coolly remote figure of before.

Was this Jeykll-and-Hyde routine past of a plan to make her feel so totally off-kilter she would give up and sign over her half of the partnership? Answers eluded her, leaving her to toss and turn some more.

But then, at roughly two A.M. each night, she'd hear the light tread of his footsteps pass her door, followed by the creaky grown of the wooden stairs yielding under his weight, and finally the muffled thud of the front door being shut.

All hope of a good night's rest shattered, she'd listen in vain for his return.

In the morning, no matter how early she arose, there he'd be, sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee at his elbow, horse journals, horse show entry forms, and auction notices spread out before him, a pen stuck behind his ear and a yellow legal pad filled with his bold scrawl. Not that he ever showed her what he'd written. As the days passed, it was becoming abundantly clear that other than writing out and signing checks to pay off his debts, she wasn't going to be trusted with a single important detail of his business. Their business, but Mr. Sheppard seemed too determined to ignore that particular clause of the contract.

Well, tonight she'd had enough of the mystery surrounding his nocturnal peregrinations. She'd had enough of a lot of things around here. Ty grabbed a matching sweatshirt and pants and pulled them over the silk teddy she'd worn to bed. After shoving her feet into a pair of sneakers, she was out, standing in front of Steve's bedroom door, and, before giving herself time to reconsider, was rapping hard against the wooden panel. The sound echoed loudly in the quiet house.

No response, so she knocked again, just to be absolutely certain his footsteps in the hallway minutes ago hadn't been a dream. Nothing but deafening silence the second time, too. Cautiously, she turned the doorknob and stepped inside.

It took her breath away. First the initial shock, swiftly followed by the burst of anger. She didn't know how long she stood there, looking around in disbelief at Steve Sheppard's room. "The sneaky rat!" She exhaled, primed for a major reckoning with her partner.

Half expecting to find him in the barn, she went there first. A couple of lights, casting a soft yellow glow, illuminated the perfectly swept aisles, the deep roominess of the box stalls.

Ty moved quietly down the center aisle, aware of the muted, muffled sound of horses breathing. The three sleepy equines that remained at Southwind didn't even bother to raise their heads to see who was trespassing upon their rest. She walked past them, past too many empty box stalls, and out through the slight gap left in the sliding carriage doors at the far end.

The glowing tip of his cigarette served as a miniature flare in a night where everything else was obscure. Recalling a technique described by an author she loved to read on business trips, Ty squeezed her eyes shut for several seconds, impressed by how much more her eyes could make out in the inky darkness when she reopened them.

He was off to the side, sitting by the wooden fence that enclosed one of the nearer pastures. His back was bowed, his head bent.

Her sneakers crushed the roughly mown field, made crisp with cold night air, giving him ample time to hear her approach. It wasn't until she was a few feet away that she understood where they were, why he was sitting there. Her brief flash of temper at his duplicity faded away.

"Mind if I join you?" Her voice sounded hushed, softer than the night sounds that surrounded them or the rumble of the ocean off in the distance.

"Go ahead. It's a free country." His voice was quiet, too, nevertheless, she detected the fatigue and resignation underlying it.

Ty sank down to the ground near him, and there they sat, the long, black, rectangular expanse of freshly dug earth before them. Sudden hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she stared at the uneven clumps of dirt. Her heart ached for him, for the depth of his loss.

She cleared her throat, searching for something to say. "I should tell you, the game is up. I went into your room a few minutes ago."

"So you've discovered my dirty secret." He didn't sound terribly surprised by her admission, or as if he even cared.

"Dirty isn't quite the adjective I'd use," she replied, remembering the understated simplicity of the bedroom's furnishings. The king-size bed, the row of bookshelves lining the opposite wall, the dark brown velvet sofa, brightened invitingly with colorful, plump cushions, the standing lamps placed at each end. The room was a haven, tastefully decorated with a keen, masculine sense of style. And not a single smelly sock in sight.

"Okay, I confess, I like things just as neat and orderly as you. Guilty as charged."

Her long hair brushed her shoulders as she shook her head in self-disgust. "Stupid of me to fall for it. I should have guessed it was a put-on the moment I figured out why you keep shoving all your filters in your front pocket. You can't stand for even a cigarette butt to fall on the ground and mess up Southwind," she accused gently.

"The filters on butts don't decompose."

"No, they don't, but that doesn't seem to bother any other smokers I've run into. Just to satisfy my curiosity, could you tell me how long you planned to let the rest of the house fall into unspeakable rot?" Ty inquired, her voice mild. "How long were you going to keep up the pretense?"

She felt the air stir as his broad shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. "Who knows?" It was a reasonable bet, thinking you'd clear out when you saw the state of the place. Wouldn't you have been tempted to play it the same way?"

"Maybe, but it was still a low-down rotten trick, and now that I do know, I'd appreciate it if you used the dishwasher." She hoped she sounded properly chastising but doubted she was succeeding--on reflection, her profound relief at discovering that she wasn't sharing a house with the world's biggest slob outweighed her annoyance at having been taken for a ride.

The image of his neatly ordered room flashed in her mind once again. "Did you study history in school?" The question was casual, as if she weren't deeply curious to know more about this frustrating and complex man. The titles of the books lining his shelves had been a surprising revelation. But at least now she knew why he'd made that crack about Ty thinking she was Marie Antoinette. She wondered how many people were aware of this side of him.

"You mean college? Didn't have time for it. I've been riding full-time since I finished high school. But there's a lot of free hours to read when you're on the road, stuck in airports, soaking horses' legs, sitting around during rain delays, that sort of thing. You can only shoot the shit with friends for so long, and , anyway, I've always liked books."

"And the photographs? Are they yours, too?"

The tip of his cigarette burned brighter for a second or two.

"Took a real good look, didn't you, Junior?" The tone was slightly mocking. "Check my sock drawer, too?"

When she didn't reply, Steve let out a heavy sigh. "Okay, yeah. My parents bought me a camera when I first went overseas. I got to know Europe pretty well, traveling from country to country, following the show circuit there. Photography's been a great way to record all the places I've been."

"They're very good." An understatement. The quality of the work she'd seen far surpassed the typical holiday snapshot. "Am I right in thinking the large one over your bed was shot near Zurich?" It was a stunning picture, taken at dawn, the morning sun mixing with the mist and mountain peaks.

"That's a couple years old, from when I competed at the Zurich International. Fancy Free won the Grand Prix for me there." Steve paused, staring blindly at the thick clumps of dirt in front of him, while memories of that summer swept over him. Fancy had been in tip-top shape, full of his signature razzle-dazzle. The crowd had gone wild, cheering madly as Steve and Fancy Free turned in perfect round after perfect round. Fancy had loved all the attention, knowing it was his due. God, he missed his horse so damn much.

Ty's voice broke into his thoughts. "I remember the beauty of those mountains, the peaks especially. The notion of time vanishes completely up there, perched on top of the world. There's no past or future, it's just you and clouds and air."

"Sounds as if you know the area well. Winter skiing?" he drawled.

"I was at a school in Switzerland, in Gstaad, for four years."

"Oh. Did you like it?"

"No." Her response was flat, unequivocal.

Steve was beginning to expect the unexpected from her. For the past three days, he'd watched her--surreptitiously, of course. Three days of observation to realize just how different a woman she was. Definitely not the spoiled, flighty type. No, she was a class act, unflappable and efficient. With no fuss or muss, Ty got things done. He'd dumped some shit jobs on her, too, both yesterday and today, waiting to see what she'd do--everything from paying the mountain of overdue bills that covered his office desk, to telephoning the insurance company and badgering them for information on the status of his claim, to cleaning out and organizing the tack room. He'd even given her water buckets to scrub. She'd tackled each without a murmur of complaint.

It annoyed the hell out of him that he was beginning to like her.

That she was way too bloody desirable for his peace of mind wasn't helping a whole lot, either. Especially when he could tell that most of the time, she wasn't even trying to turn him on. Like now. Simply sitting next to him, warm, quiet, talking to him as if she were trying to understand, as if it mattered.

He wanted to touch her. Badly. The thought hadn't ceased drumming inside his brain. He ached to wrap his arm around her shoulders, pull her close, and breathe in the intoxicating scent of lemon on warm skin that was her. As if of its own accord, his hand rose. Then stopped and dropped. Because doing what he wanted, holding her, kissing her, would be too fucking stupid for words, and his stupid quota was already maxed out.

Christ, what was it they'd been talking about?

Oh yeah. School. He wondered why a girl like her hadn't enjoyed being at one of those swank Swiss schools, the kind of school that has no need to advertise, its clientele assured: children of royal families, of oil magnates, of the ultra-rich. Her kind. "So what was wrong with the place?" he asked at last, picking up the thread of conversation.

"I don't think any one particular thing stands out in my memory. It was just the school's overall atmosphere. I didn't like being in a place where the teachers judged the students and the students judges each other solely in terms of their parents' bank accounts."

"Bet that's true in a lot of rich kids' schools."

"Yes, probably." She fell frustratingly silent.

"So, what'd they teach you there?" he found himself asking, just to hear her voice.

Her soft laughter had a musical quality. "Oh, everything. That is, everything they considered essential to producing picture-perfect representatives of the upper class. Lots of economics, languages, history, math. Of course, we girls were given extracurricular classes in ballet, table setting, flower arrangement, and comportment."

"Comportment?"

"You know, walking, standing, turning, descending stairs, getting in and out of a low-slung sports car dressed in a brand new pair of Manolo Blahnkis. All these skills were considered absolutely essential." Humor still laced her voice.

"What the hell are Manolo Blahniks?"

"An eastern European torture device designed especially for women."

"Come again?"

"Shoes," she explained patiently. "Very high heels."

"Jesus." He exhaled. "I thought you were talking about chastity belts." The corner of his mouth tiled, pleased that he'd made her laugh. "How'd you do?"

"At school? Oh, I was raised from birth to be an overachiever. Anything less than perfection is unacceptable to my father. I can run in my Manolos if I have to, though that wasn't actually required. Running was frowned upon."

Silence descended once again as Steve tried to imagine that kind of an upbringing. Then Ty spoke. "I was wondering whether I could ask you something."

"Depends what it is."

"Would you mind telling me what your plans are? As your partner, I think I have a right to know. You can't seriously intend to rebuild your business by having me scrub water buckets and groom your horses. Though I'm sure it probably hasn't occurred to you, it's possible I can help."

The momentary sense of camaraderie between them vanished into the frigid night. Steve's back stiffened. "Don't sweat it, Junior. The only help I need from you is the green kind. Matter of fact, I've been devoting most of my waking hours to mapping out how I'm going to spend all that 'ready cash' you've been stockpiling. That is, when I'm not thinking I should have my head examined," Steve finished softly, bitterly under his breath.

She caught it. She didn't miss much.

"Oh, please." Her own voice was now heavy with sarcasm. "Whatever for?"

"Who wouldn't in my shoes? First of all, I must have been frigging nuts to enter into this partnership with you . . ." Especially because I'm wasting way too much time thinking about how badly I want to jump your bones. When instead I should be figuring out how to get you to sign over your half of the partnership.

"Not everyone would immediately conclude that was a sure-fire sign of insanity," she retorted dryly. "And second?"

"And second, for missing a horse so goddamn much that every night, I'm either sitting in his empty stall or out here by his grave, looking for answers in the dark." The despair was as raw and ugly as the large rectangle of torn earth between them.

A sense of helplessness gripped her as she sat, not knowing what to say, her mind awhirl. There was so much anger and pain inside him. More than anything, Ty wished she could reach out and touch him but didn't dare. She was sure he'd only rebuff her, thereby making the situation between them even more awkward and uncomfortable.

"Everybody deals with grief in their own way," she observed at last, speaking quietly. "I don't think there are any special rules written down outlining appropriate behavior when you've lost something or someone you love."

"And you're clearly an expert." he fired back, eager to lash out, letting the words hang there, a razor sharp barrier between them.

Ty thought of the mother she'd never had, the woman who'd died giving birth to her. She thought of her horse, Charisma, vetted, sold, and delivered to new owners without her even able to say good-bye. Thought of the hurt of being packed away from home, from everything familiar. "No, I'm not an expert," she agreed, suppressing the slight tremor that threatened her voice. She wasn't entirely successful but prayed he wouldn't notice. Ty refused to lose her composure in front of someone who thought so little of her, who wanted nothing to do with her. Then, in a tone layered with the impeccable politeness drilled thoroughly into the students at Ty's Swiss alma mater, she spoke. "Excuse me, won't you? I find I'm suddenly tired." She rose swiftly, gracefully to her feet, her retreating figure quickly enveloped in the cold, black night.

If you'd like to read more, click here!

Now in German translation. Click here for photo of cover.

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Ride A Dark Horse

Reviews

Ride a Dark Horse is a romance novel by Laura Moore that takes place on a horse farm in Virginia. Its heroine, Cassie Miller, is left as guardian to five-year-old twins. In order to support her new family, she takes a job on Five Oaks horse farm and is given the job of training a headstrong horse for the Hampton Classic competition. As she gains control over the headstrong creature, the local veterinarian falls for her. Unfortunately, his ex-wife has a taste for revenge. Moore's gift for dialogue and character development make this first novel an irresistible read.

Michelle Gillett, Contributing Editor, The Women's Times, August 2001

****

If you've ever longed to read a true romance novel that incorporates the jumper world into its plot line, then Laura Moore has just written the book for you. Set in the Virginia countryside, Ride a Dark Horse is a story about love and loyalty, entwined in a well-written horse tale.

The novel opens at a horse show, where a jumper named Orion is not being ridden to his full capabilities. Standing ringside, Hank Sawyer, owner of Five Oaks Farm, and his partner, veterinarian Caleb Wells, debate the future of Orion.

While searching for a rider who can handle the large stallion, Cassie Miller arrives at the farm in hopes of filling the position....

....As all romance novels do, the plot moves as expected through their relationship, while we wait to discover the fate of Orion. Will the big stallion successfullly compete at their summer-long goal of the Hampton Classic? The surprises are few, but the story is light and enjoyable.

With very few equine-related vocabulary and terminology flaws, Moore has successfully introduced the sport into a romance novel without it being just a 'roll in the hay."

Michelle Gstattenbauer, The Chronicle of the Horse, Friday, April 27, 2001

****

Due to a bad decision by a divorce court judge, veterinarian and horse owner Caleb Wells lost ownership of his prize horse Orion. Caleb's ex-wife Pamela is allowing Caleb to slowly buy Orion back, but in the meantime, is making his life miserable.

Caleb and his partner Hank Sawyer dream of Orion winning the Grand Prix, but have been unable to find a rider/trainer. Then Hank interviews Cassie Miller, a gifted rider. Hank senses that Cassie is the right person for the job and she really wants to work with Orion. Her promising career was sidetracked due to a family tragedy. Now as the mother and guardian of her orphaned niece and nephew, Cassie is building a new life for them all.

Both Cassie and Caleb agree that Orion has potential to become a champion... if only Pamela doesn't sabotage their dreams.

It is always a thrill to discover a marvelous new talent in romantic fiction, and Laura Moore has immediately made her presence known. A strong and vibrant first book that is sure to gain Ms. Moore quite a following.

Jill M. Smith, Romantic Times Magazine

****

Wow, save time for this one! I was knee deep into another book when I casually picked up RIDE A DARK HORSE when it arrived and read the first page. Everything went out the window as I was glued to this fantastic story of Cassie Miller, a young woman, who is hired by Hank Sawyer to train and ride his partner Caleb Well's spirited stallion Orion, and make him into a winner on the show circuit. Cass is 24, a gorgeous blond, a woman who knows horses, and the mother of two twins, Jamie and Sophie, two of the cutest towheads you'll ever meet. Hank is a little nervous, as he's not too sure how Caleb is going to take his hiring Cassie without his meeting her firsthand and approving. Wait until you read about this first meeting. It's so special and original...

...The horse training and shows are marvelous and you can tell Ms. Moore has been around show horses and their training by the way this book is so well written. Ms. Moore's characters are so darn charming and loveable you feel like you know them. The supporting cast is exceptional and they worm their way right into your heart with their sense of humor. She also has some devilish ones you would like to strangle at a moment's notice. <grin> The whole book is fabulous so don't miss it. . . I want you to savor this humdinger of a romance just the way I did non-stop reading right up till the glorious ending.

Suzanne "Already Clamoring for Another Story by Laura Moore after Finishing Caleb and Cassie's Magnificent Story" Coleburn

"Laura Moore is an author I'm putting on my MUST BUY list right now! Her characters are out of this world wonderful as they snap, crackle and explode with excitement, sensuality, and all the right stuff that makes up dynamite read. Don't miss this fresh new voice!"

Suzanne Coleburn, The Belles and Beaux of Romance

For the full review, click here!

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Excerpt (pp. 339-348)

There were crickets chirping in the night air. The sound was incessant, violent. To her, it seemed an ominous sound,, echoing the terrible fear in her heart.

She raised her arm, hesitated and lowered it again. For the third time. Stalling, as she'd been stalling for the past two hours.

Melissa had driven her directly home, making sure to instruct Cassie to take a bath and pull herself together, and not to skimp on the makeup. Cassie wasn't exactly looking her best right now. A brandy might be a good idea, too.

Cassie hadn't dared to glance in the direction of Caleb's house when she returned, so she'd entered the larger, empty one with no one to greet her, not even the dog, Finnegan.

It was a horrible shock when she turned on the bathroom light and caught her reflection in the mirror. Medusa couldn't have been more petrifying a sight. Was that really her?

So she'd sat in the steaming bubble bath for what seemed an age, a cucumber mask covering her face, until she could easily have been mistaken for a stewed prune gone moldy.

Next, she went for the bracing, ice-cold shower, scrubbing her shivering body until it tingled, shampooing her hair countless more times than even the label recommended. Cassie knew enough popular psychology to recognize her behavior as falling into some kind of obsessive or compulsive category, but she was filled with the desperate need to wash her self away.

To emerge new, clean and strong.

And at least she didn't look so incredibly awful any more.

Another hour slipped by as she lotioned and perfumed herself, then dried her hair, making it shine and fall about her in golden waves. She took a barrette and clipped a few strands back, allowing the rest to fall down her back.

She dressed with seduction in mind. But also to please herself, determined that she be armed with as many weapons and as much self-confidence at her disposal as possible in her battle to win Caleb back.

Because she was terrified she'd lost him.

***

This time, she tried a different approach. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, picturing Caleb's smiling face as she lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles hard on the wooden door. In the seconds that followed, she held her breath, willing him to answer her knock.

She knew he was home. The windows of the converted carriage house were illuminated with a faint glow, and every now and then, she caught a note of music that escaped and drifted out into the evening air.

The door opened with a jerk. Caleb stood before her. Her eyes widened involuntarily as she took in his appearance. Disheveled was the first word that crossed her mind. Drunk was the second. She swallowed hard.

He was shirtless. Half hysterically, Cassie realized she'd never even seen him without a shirt before, simply learned the sculpted contours of his body through her touch. What a sight she'd been deprived of. He was so very beautiful. Perfectly proportioned, lean, honed muscle. Her eyes traveled down his broad chest to where a narrow line of dark hair descended, disappearing behind the fabric of his jeans. Her eyes flew upwards, shying away from the sight of that top button, and the raw memories of this afternoon.

Color flooded her cheeks. How many seconds had she stood there, raptly cataloging Caleb's assets? God, she had to pull herself together. She forced her eyes to meet his.

Caleb's face was a blank mask, his eyes equally unrevealing. His tall, muscular body planted just behind the threshold, not close, yet clearly barring her from entering his home.

"Go away."

"Caleb." Her voice trembled, so she swallowed and began again. "Caleb, please. I need to talk with you."

"Go away. I'm not nearly as drunk as I want to be, and you're interrupting."

The door slammed shut in her face, hard enough for her to feel the woosh of air following it cool her heated cheeks.

Unshed tears stung the back of her eyes as she stepped forward and knocked again. Nothing. Damn him, why wouldn't he open the door? Frustrated, she banged harder.

From inside the house, the music playing on the stereo grew louder, the notes mocking her in their clarity. Fine, so he intended to drown out the sound of her knocking with music, just as he intended to drown his hurt and anger with a bottle of whiskey.

Well, desperate times called for desperate measures. Cassie refused to give in to despair. If Caleb wouldn't invite her through his front door, she'd get in another way.

***

He sank deeper into the cushion of the large black leather chair in his living room, sipping slowly, letting the amber liquid fill his mouth before it slid down, like a river of fire, into his belly. He supposed she'd gone away. Of course, he'd known she would come. She'd had to. That was the way these things worked, right? So she'd come and now she could just leave him alone.

He drank again. Shit. He realized that he'd been the one who'd have to leave. Had to get out of here. He'd call the hospital tomorrow and tell them he was taking an early vacation. What did it matter if it screwed things up for a while. He was the head partner, after all. They could deal with it until he felt like coming back.

He reached forward, carefully, studiously pouring more whiskey into his empty glass, his long legs stretched out next to the bottle. His bare feet brushed the sharp edge of crisp white letter paper, dated today, informing him of Orion's sale, transfer of ownership effective immediately to a private group with the acronym TLM. HE knew he'd never need to read the letter again. The printed words were etched like acid in his mind, which no amount of alcohol could melt away.

Leaning back, he stared at his toes, not seeing them. Yeah, he had to go away. Didn't matter where the fuck he went. Didn't matter at all, just as long as he was gone. He'd drive to Washington National and hop a plane to God knows where.

No way was he going to stay here, near her.

Seeing her. Wanting her despite it all. Wanting her despite the fact that he knew it was over. Over before it had even begun.

All he had to do now was drink until he passed out. Simple enough. Hopefully, he'd be so sick tomorrow morning he wouldn't even be able to remember his own name, let alone hers.

Van Morrison's Moondance album came on. Perverse, masochistic bastard that he was, he'd added that CD to the stack and now the song came back to torture him with memories of Cassie, so very beautiful, standing next to his stallion in the dusty light of the barn. Looking like an angel. Killing him.

He closed his eyes.

***

Cassie crept around the perimeter of the house, fully aware she'd have made a lousy cat burglar, feeling increasingly foolish with each passing second. She hadn't found a single entry she could breach. All the windows she'd passed so far had been too high, except for the enormous picture window in the back. No matter how drunk he was, she doubted she'd be able to climb in through there without Caleb noticing her pretty quick.

No, she had to get in without his seeing her. That way, he'd have a much harder time throwing her out--she hope. Rounding the corner as stealthily as possible, she nevertheless whispered a fierce, "Yes!" in triumph as she spied a wide, rectangular window, a fraction above shoulder height. She pressed her face against the screen. The interior was pitch black, offering no clue to what room she was peering into. But at least the window was open and was a new one at that, sliding horizontally, rather than up and down.

Bless Caleb's parents for renovating the house and doing the windows, too.

The screen wouldn't budge. She pressed, tried sliding it, banged as hard as she dared. Nothing!

Her head pounding with frustration, she dropped it forward heavily against the dratted screen, pulling her hair. Inspiration struck. Reaching around, she fumbled with the metal clasp at the back of her head. Releasing it, she ran her index finger along its edge and set to work.

***

He was sprawled in an oversized black leather chair. From the soft glow of the standing lamp in the corner, she could make out the bottle of whiskey, and his bare feet, crossed one over the other, resting next to it. She stepped closer. His head was angled up toward the ceiling, his neck pressed back against the edge of the chair.

Another step now, near enough now to see his face. His eyes were closed. Oh, no! Panic shot through her. Please God, not asleep!

Alarm bolstered her courage. She cleared her throat. "Caleb, I need to speak with you. Please, can you look at me?"

He heard her voice, but didn't bother to open his eyes. Anyone who'd drunk as much as he would be hearing things. He let himself drift away once more into Van the Man's "Mystic."

A hand shook his shoulder, jostling his eyes open. "Caleb, you've got to wake up. It's me, Cassie. I need to talk with you."

He stared at her in silence, not quite sure whether he was delusional or just dreaming. Not that he particularly cared one way or the other. He closed his eyes.

She shook him again, more roughly this time. Annoyed, he brushed her hand off. She felt real, but then again, he was real drunk. Maybe she'd leave him alone if he told her to go away.

"No, I won't. Caleb, I'm really sorry I hurt you. I should have believed in you. It wasn't your fault."

He wasn't listening. He was trying to solve a really big puzzle. Front door was locked. He was sure of it.

"Go away," he repeated, just to see if it might work this time.

"No. I won't leave until you've forgiven me."

"Fine, I forgive you. Go away."

"No. I need to talk to you."

"How the hell did you get in here? Front door's locked."

"I know. I had to climb in through your bathroom window. Caleb, I'm really sorry, but I broke your screen."

He was listening now. He stared at her, blinking owlishly. "Say that again."

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, striving for patience. This conversation wasn't going at all the way she'd imagined it. "I ripped your screen when I came in through the bathroom window. I'll be happy to pay for it, but I really needed to . . ."

His laughter erupted, loud, uncontrolled. His knees closed about him like a folding chair, as he wrapped his arms around his middle. Caleb's paroxysms of mirth continued as Cassie stood there, wishing she weren't in love with such a total fool, a drunk one at that.

Finally, he managed to speak. Laughter still shaking his voice. "You. . .you came in through the bathroom window. God Almighty, Slim, that is just about the most romantic thing I've ever heard." He sang a line from the Beatles' tune. Horribly off-key. Succeeding only in setting himself off again, until wiping the tears from his eyes, he stood.

Holding a hand in front of him, he ordered, "Wait here. This I've got to see."

The first step was more of a lurch than anything. Then, recovering his balance, he headed off in the direction of the bathroom.

***

Yup, she'd really done it. He looked at the neatly torn screen hanging like a flag on a windless day, then at the dirty shoe prints soiling his white porcelain bathtub. He grinned. Probably had no idea where she'd end up when she hauled herself through. Pretty gutsy of her, he'd give her that much credit.

What the hell, maybe he was being too harsh on her. If the tables had been turned and he'd caught Cassie in such a compromising situation, finding some man kneeling with his hands up her skirt, would he have believed her, never suffering even a moment of doubt and hurt?

He turned to the sink and yanked the cold water on full blast, plugging the basin drain. Water rose quickly until he twisted the knob shut before plunging in his head. The cold water hurt, stinging him like needles, making him gasp, spewing water. Still, he continued dunking his head repeatedly, feeling the water slosh about his feet, the tiles underneath him turning slick as an ice rink.

Finally, he grabbed a bath towel and buried his face in it, rubbing briskly. He brushed his teeth, then pulled open the medicine cabinet door. He grabbed a bottle of aspirin, popping two, not really thinking they'd do any good, but figuring it was better than nothing. Then he reached for the bottle of Listerine and poured about half of into his mouth, gargling, swishing, spitting. He closed the top, shutting the medicine cabinet once more. It wasn't worth the bother looking at his reflection. He couldn't look like anything but shit.

***

She was afraid he'd gone and passed out in the bathroom or wherever he'd stumbled off to. Shouldn't she go in and make sure he was okay, wasn't lying concussed, perhaps bleeding on the floor? She dropped her head against the coolness of the window pane, staring blindly out at the trees shimmering in the night breeze. How could this day have started out so differently? She'd been so happy a mere twelve hours ago. Funny how a world could change so quickly. She should be used to it by now, but she kept getting caught off guard. If only . . .

She turned, sensing he'd come into the room. She spoke quickly, determined he at least hear her apology. She had to try to make it right.

"Caleb, I know how much I hurt you this afternoon . . ."

"It's okay, Cassie, I forgive you."

"That's what you said before. But you didn't mean it." Not believing he meant it now.

He smiled. "No, I dind't mean it. I just wanted you gone. I was pretty drunk. Probably still am. But this time, I do mean it. I understand how you might have thought . . ."

"No, no. I was horribly unfair. It's just," her voice dropped. "It's just that I was . . . jealous." Her voice faded into the quiet of the room.

He stepped forward, unsure. He moved close, close enough to read her lips in the half-light if necessary. Close enough to feel the whisper of her words on his flesh.

He might have been talking to a queen, his tone was so polite, his words so careful. "Excuse me, but would you remind repeating what you said? I must still have water in my ears." His hand lifted to his damp hair in explanation.

Her heart thundered inside her chest like a violent storm. She drew in a claming breath. Her words came out, a hushed confession. "I was jealous. I wanted to be her, to be every woman you'd ever looked at, ever touched. I wanted to be the only one."

He closed his eyes. The power of her words sinking deep into his heart. Healing him. Enriching him beyond his wildest dreams. He cleared his throat. He had to tell her.

"Cassie, there's more. She sold Orion."

"What? She sold Orion?" Her voice, though quiet, cracked with disbelief.

"Yes. I don't know what will happen now."

She was silent, absorbing the implications of what he'd told her before speaking, forming the words carefully. "She sold him."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"She sold him. Oh, Caleb, I'm so sorry." Then, "But that means she's gone."

"Yes."

The slow smile transformed her face. "She's gone, so . . .it's just you and me. Alone. Together. . ."

His breath lodged somewhere in his chest as he heard her repeat the words he'd spoken to her that first night, so long ago. In concert they moved toward each other, stopping mere inches away. He felt the shift of her body, her hands reaching out to bridge that small gap. Seeking, caressing the ridge of muscle and bone that as his ribcage. He felt her cool, soft lips press against his heated flesh, felt the space that separated their bodies as intolerable. His arms circled about her, bringing her where he needed her for . . . forever.

If you'd like to read more, click here!

Now in German translation. Click here for photo of cover.

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