Helen Myers - The Last Man She'd Marry

“G-Man, that’s what got me in this condition.” Lifting her gaze to meet his, Alyx added, “And look who’s talking—Mr. Ask Me No Questions So I Don’t Have To Spin Tall Tales.”

“I don’t recall you asking me anything that I couldn’t answer,” Jonas said.

“That’s because I wasn’t interested in classified information,” she countered.

“Why do you think I made all those trips down to Austin?” he asked.

“You said you were working on cases.”

“Over holidays? C’mon, Alyx. We spent every spare minute you had together. Didn’t that give you a clue to how I felt?”

In the reverberating silence Jonas suspected he’d gone too far. Sometimes there was nothing left to do but cut to the important thing. Clasping his hand to the back of her head, he claimed her mouth with his.

Dear Reader,

Two characters that lingered in my mind from my last Special Edition novel, A Man to Count On, were Alyx Carmel, the divorce attorney and friend of heroine E. D. Martel, and FBI Special Agent Jonas Hunter, an old school friend of the hero, Judge Dylan Justiss. It was clear from the start that there was chemistry between Alyx and Jonas, but aside from their irresistible physical attraction, it seemed we were dealing with an oil-and-vinegar couple.

The more I thought about this couple the more I saw parallels to Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Both Alyx and Jonas have great professional pride and their perceptions of each other are weakly based on minimal information and experience. As fate would have it, the more they’re resolved not to reexamine those faulty perceptions, the more their paths cross, until they can’t help but be forced into seeing that while they differ on surface issues, they share important qualities and values that, given the chance, could enhance the passion they otherwise bring out in each other.

I hope you enjoy their journey of discovery and love, and as always, thank you for reading.

Warm regards,

Helen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

is a collector of two-and four-legged strays, and lives deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas. She cites cello music and bonsai gardening as favorite relaxation pastimes, and still edits in her sleep—an accident, learned while writing her first book. A bestselling author of diverse themes and focus, she is a three-time RITA® Award nominee, winning for Navarrone in 1993.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

A bad day wasn’t the half of it.

Alyx Carmel didn’t speak the words out loud, but the first strains of a current pop tune all but mimicked her as it blared through the audio system of Mesa Rehab-Fitness Center. She clenched her teeth and released the handles of the resistance machine she’d been working on. While the machine swooshed, then thudded to a rest position, she considered hunting down the stereo system, wondering how much it would cost to replace the annoying thing, since she was of a good mind to toss it through the nearest window.

Yes, she was having a bad day, year, life. All that was needed to propel her over the edge was another glass-half-full dose of mind-numbing music and she would challenge any court to hold her responsible for her behavior.

“Come on, Alyx, you have to try a little harder.”

The girlish voice belonged to none other than blond, ponytailed Sharleigh Moss, a California transplant, who retained the tan to look the part, although by her own admission Shar avoided actual sunlight more than an Ann Rice vampire. Alyx had to admit that the instructor knew her equipment, but her obvious hunt for a man to rescue her from the need of a paycheck was as insulting to Alyx as her voice was annoying.

And one more thing, she fumed to herself without generosity: how could anyone operating a business in a geographic location advertised to be as harmonious and spiritual as Sedona, Arizona, let this fuse-busting lady longlegs run a rehab center like some kind of torture chamber?

Increasingly irritated with the trainer-therapist, who had just excused the man with the barely bandaged knee from finishing his quota of leg pumps, Alyx strained to sit up. “No, actually, I don’t have to try harder. I have to protect myself because it’s clear there’s no one else watching out for my well-being but me.”

Her injuries might not be immediately visible, but if she ripped open the neckline of her T-shirt to look like some cover models, everyone in the room would probably gag. With that certainty embittering her, Alyx pushed away Shar’s extended hand and pushed herself to her feet.

“Was that necessary?”

The way she glanced around self-consciously had Alyx wondering. She’s worried about her reputation. Shaking her head in weariness, she managed civility if not warmth. “I’ve been trying to tell you that the regimen you devised for me is too much. I can barely drive to the house at the end of the session, let alone function once I get there.”

“You’ve only been at this for a week. It’s always difficult in the beginning.”

Who cared? Alyx didn’t like to test her limits on anything except her mental prowess. The closest she came to being athletic was an occasional soak in a hot tub. Granted, she had started some yoga in the year before the attack, but that was for stress relief.

“I’m thirty-nine, not nineteen,” she reminded the twenty-something spa employee, “and I’m starting from scratch—just like your other clients.”

“I know you think I’m giving other patients preferential treatment, Alyx. But please consider this—you’re late in getting help. Odds are some damage is already permanent, which makes me the automatic bad guy. The harder I push early on, the greater progress we may achieve before fatigue has you seriously locking those mental brakes.”

“Good grief, you poor saint. I’ll just haul my insensitive self out of here to give you more time with people who are gluttons for punishment.”

As she began to rise, Sharleigh signaled caution with a raised hand.

“Look, I can take the sarcasm. In fact, I prefer it to those who kick or bite me. I’m just trying to impress upon you the great mistake it would be to give up.” Regaining some of her perkiness, Sharleigh tossed her gloss-enhanced ponytail over one shoulder before crossing her arms under her lemon-yellow sports bra. “Come on, help me out. I have a reputation to protect.”

For relief, Alyx visualized a pot of cooked cabbage dumped over the annoying kid’s head. Lukewarm, of course. “You haven’t lived long enough to have one.”

“Pardon me?”

Once upon a time in a courtroom, Alyx could have rendered Shar mute using a minimum of words. But she’d lost her stomach for those kinds of power plays. Rising, she leaned over and replied in a conspiratorial whisper, “I promise to keep it a secret that you wasted your time on me.”

Barely resisting the urge to massage the throbbing ache that ran from shoulder to wrist, Alyx decided her best bet was to head for the lockers and get out of here. A hot shower at the house would keep her from the temptation of popping pills or worse.

It was August now, seven months since the attack that fiercely cold January day in Austin, Texas, that had changed her life forever. Contrary to Shar’s opinion, she’d been trying to follow medical advice at home but was beginning to conclude that the pain wasn’t worth the lack of results. Her surgeon had been one of the tops in his field and he’d warned her about that, warned that some of the damage done by Doug Conroe, ex of her deceased client Cassandra Field Conroe, would probably be permanent. With her usual survivalist bravado, Alyx had assured him that she would be fine. After all, she was alive, while poor Cassandra was buried back in Austin, Texas; what’s more, her work didn’t entail anything more physical than carrying briefcases, climbing stairs in high heels, and punching the heck out of a BlackBerry. Considering the hours she billed, she’d told her doctor, she could afford to hire someone to handle everything but her vain commitment to wearing high heels. The doctor refused to be amused, and about ten days ago Alyx had stopped pretending.

She’d walked away from her practice, her home, from everything and almost everyone who had been part of her life. The timing had seemed ordained—her cousin, Parke Preston, an artist whose work graced an increasing number of hotels and restaurants in Sedona and elsewhere in the southwest—had been about to cancel out on an invitation to take a trip to Europe. Parke’s dilemma? She had no one to watch her home and beloved dog, a rescued greyhound named Grace. Although Alyx was no animal hugger, she and Grace were getting along better every day. Alyx wished she could have been as enthusiastic about Parke’s health club.

Once outside in the blazing Arizona sun, Alyx all but stopped in her tracks. The drier summer air had her wanting a bottle of water. She was used to a more humid environment back in Texas, thanks to the Gulf of Mexico frequently wafting moisture up into southern plains. In this higher elevation, man-size-cactus country, the environment was even less friendly to sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt over a sports bra after the sun rose. But it was her outfit of choice to hide her scars.

Maybe it was time to consider an adjustment, she allowed as she snatched her keys out of her bag and slung the straps over her good shoulder. Yet, although her leg cuts were all but healed, she still woke at night from spasms of pain. The doctor had assured her they were psychosomatic, ghost pains, and would ease in time. She was waiting and wondered—if they were wrong about that, what about the rest of her prognosis? At least she’d managed to wean herself off those tempting and addictive pain pills.

Wanting nothing more than to get to the house and take a soothing shower, she slipped on her sunglasses and nodded her thanks to the driver in a car that stopped to let her cross into the aisle where she’d parked Parke’s black SUV. Within minutes, she was at the exit of the strip mall ready to merge with traffic.

As usual, the town was already abuzz with activity, no surprise for such a tourist spot and spiritual haven. While some shops were welcoming early shoppers, many hikers had been well on their way up and down the multitude of trails winding through the valleys and up the cliffs that surrounded the community since before she’d first left the house. The rest—residents and longer-term visitors like herself—strove for patience navigating through all of that. About to zip past a tour bus, Alyx realized she was at the shopping center where Parke had directed her to buy groceries. Ducking back into the right lane, she heard the motorized equivalent of “the finger.” She had managed to press another native’s patience besides Sharleigh’s.

“Sorry, sorry!” Waving and cringing, Alyx turned into the parking lot and found a slot blessedly close to the market. All she had to do was get inside, find the produce section, and sack enough fruits and vegetables to guarantee a two-or three-day break from human contact, she thought. By then, surely she would have regrouped to where she could formulate plan B toward recovery without breaking into a cold sweat.