FIRST KISS

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

  Epilogue

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  Chapter 1

  ^ »

  A few minutes before midnight, Tom Flynn said good night to the last of his guests, left the caterer's staff to clean up from the party, and sought out his office. There he switched on the lights and opened the safe concealed in the mahogany credenza. The envelope he wanted bore a warning scrawled in careless writing: Private. Keep out. Ignoring it, he tore loose the tape that sealed the flap and withdrew the paper inside.

  It had been written on his sixteenth birthday, with various additions and strikeouts added over the past twenty-four years. He'd been living then in a fifth-floor walk-up that was barely habitable. His mother had just died, he'd never known his father, and he'd come to the realization that if he was going to have any sort of life, he would have to make it for himself. And so he'd written out his goals.

  The clock on the wall gave two soft bongs as midnight, and his birthday, arrived. Carefully he unfolded the paper.

  His first set of goals had been simple. Stay alive. Stay out of jail. Finish school. Find someplace warm. And the last, written in capital letters and underscored: GET SOME MONEY!!

  He'd added more goals over the years. Go to college. Graduate from law school. Get a good job. And later still: Earn your first million. Buy a great house. Buy a Rolex. Buy a Porsche.

  Buy, buy, buy. That had been his primary activity for a lot of years. Buying whatever the hell it took to show people how rich and successful he'd become. Buying whatever it took to make him forget how poor he'd once been.

  Every goal on the list had been marked off but two. Earn your first 50 million. Taking a pen from his desk drawer, he drew a line through it. As of yesterday, his net worth had rolled over 51 million, thanks to his CEO position at McKinney Industries.

  That left only the last goal, written at the bottom of the page. Get married. It was the one thing virtually everyone he knew had already done, some two or three times over. He intended to do it only once, then finally he would be a satisfied man. With the acquisition of the perfect wife, he would have fulfilled more dreams than that cold, scared, hungry kid who'd started this list had been able to dream.

  First he had to find the perfect wife. She had to be beautiful, sophisticated, and intelligent, able to discuss anything with anyone, plus be a consummate hostess. She would understand his reasons for marrying—would probably share them—and wouldn't burden him with messy emotional needs or demands.

  She would be the envy of all the women she knew and would make him the envy of all the men he knew.

  So where would he find her?

  He didn't have a clue. But he would find her.

  Grinning at the prospect, he started to slide the paper into the envelope when he noticed a line of writing—his handwriting—on the back side.

  Fall in love.

  Hell, he must have indulged in too much booze before he'd gone through this ritual last year, though he honestly couldn't imagine the amount it would have taken to make him think such an idea, much less add it to his list. The list was sacred. If he wrote a goal on it, he was honor-bound to do his best to achieve it. He never would have added that particular one.

  But he had. The proof was there before his eyes.

  Fall in love.

  The idea was ridiculous. Impossible. Tom Flynn wasn't going to fall in love. He was a coldhearted bastard who felt nothing for anyone. Learn to love some woman? Wasn't gonna happen, not this year, not ever.

  His first impulse was to scratch out the line. But if he'd ever allowed himself to tamper with the goals, he never would have gotten past the first ones. They'd seemed impossible, too.

  Besides, he would know what it had said. He would know that in a weak moment, he'd wished for the one thing his money couldn't buy. The one thing his hard work and determination couldn't earn him.

  Fall in love.

  He had accomplished so much in the past twenty-four years, but he might have finally set for himself an unattainable goal. For the first time, he might face certain failure.

  But he was honor-bound to try.

  As soon as he figured out how.

  * * *

  Though she knew the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer didn't carry more than halfway up the stairs, Holly McBride could swear she heard time counting down as she let herself into the second-floor suite reserved for Tom Flynn. Her invitation to his birthday dinner at the McKinney house was for seven o'clock, but she'd been delayed with a hundred and one problems around the inn. With each passing second, she was that much closer to being late, which she didn't really mind, and frazzled, which she did mind, but there were still a few small details to take care of before she could leave.

  The two rooms were spacious and beautifully decorated with lots of warm color and texture. It was a perfect home away from home, not that Tom cared. He spent so much of his time here in Bethlehem working that she doubted he would notice if the rooms were stripped bare, as long as he had the ability to compute, fax, and E-mail. The same probably applied to his apartment in Buffalo. He was one of the few McKinney employees who chose not to relocate when Ross had moved the main headquarters from Buffalo to Bethlehem.

  She straightened a vase of fresh flowers on the night table, then moved a dish of homemade chocolates from there to the sitting room. Next she laid the package she'd brought with her on the cocktail table, then moved it to the desk, the dresser, and finally the night table.

  The wrapping and card were neither sentimental nor overly friendly, and the gift inside was impersonal enough to give to any acquaintance.

  In fact, it was so small, she still debated giving it at all. She didn't know Tom that well, though not for lack of trying, and the fact that she'd like to know him better didn't count for a lot. Perhaps she should simply hand it to him without making a big deal of it. Maybe she should replace it with something fabulously expensive that would impress on price alone. Or maybe…

  Hearing the relentless tick-tick in her head she drew back from the gift, spun around, and left the suite. The back stairs took her directly into the kitchen, where the pastry chef was putting the finishing touches on the cake Maggie McKinney had asked her to bring.

  "Looks wonderful, Edward. Box it up, please, and I'll be back for it in five minutes. And the wine?"

  "Over there," he said with a nod toward the counter.

  So far, so good. Now if she could just get herself thrown together…

  The closet in her private quarters at the back of the inn had been a guest room until her most recent remodel. But a woman who owned an inn had far less need of one more guest room than a woman who loved to shop had for closet space. Now she could see every outfit she owned. She just couldn't decide which one to wear.

  Her latest purchase, a barely there little black dress, could get a girl arrested in some states. It had cost a fortune, looked fabulous on her, and all but shrieked, Look at me! Not that Tom would be paying attention.

  So she went for a green woolen dress instead. Simple, elegant, and a good color for her, with her red hair and hazel eyes. She chose a pair of pumps and a handbag that matched, touched up her makeup and perfume, and switched earrings from diamond studs to dangling emeralds. On her way back to the kitchen, she fastened a bracelet around her wrist and shrugged into her black coat.

  At the door she literally bumped into her newest employee. The young woman had recently moved to Bethlehem, had been at the inn only three days, was quite possibly the most inept person on the face of the earth, and went by the name of Bree. She'd been a disaster at every task she'd been given, but she tried, Holly kept reminding hersel
f. She really did try. But even carrying a boxed cake appeared beyond her ability. Only Holly's quick grab saved it from a run-in with the floor.

  Bree's fair skin turned pink. "Thought I'd save you a minute or two since you're running late."

  Holly eased around the woman. "Do me a favor, Bree. Don't help me right now, okay? I just need to get the wine, and I'll be out of here."

  "Okay." The girl stepped out of the way, hands behind her back, and gave Holly a clear path. She calmed herself on the drive and arrived at Maggie and Ross's place a mere five minutes late, looking as if she'd pampered herself all afternoon. The doorbell echoed through the old house, then a moment later the door was opened. By Tom.

  The man looked incredible. His brown hair was mussed, and his blue eyes were penetrating. He leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, dressed in elegant clothes that couldn't disguise the strength of the could they covered. In her more vulnerable moments she wondered if he owned a pair of faded jeans and a snug T-shirt. Knowing that he did might be more than she could stand. She had a terrible weakness for him, and a terrible weakness for bad-boy types. Put them together, and she just might dissolve into a puddle at his feet.

  He looked totally at ease, as if he were accustomed to answering other people's doors. She would have loved a chance to find out what other activities he was so totally at ease with. Billion-dollar takeovers. Meet-and-greets with the rich and powerful. Sex. Ah, yes, sex.

  "So the mystery guest arrives," he remarked.

  "You weren't expecting me?"

  "Actually, I was. But no one acknowledged the fourth setting at the table, so I didn't ask."

  She smiled coolly. "Maggie didn't have many options. I'm her only unmarried friend."

  He took the wine from the crook of her arm and studied the label. "Nice vintage."

  "I aim to please. If you approve of the dessert, do I get to come in and stay?" she said with a sarcasm-tinged smile.

  He stepped back so she could enter, then closed the door behind her. "Let me help you with your coat."

  His tone was dry, just a bit sardonic. She might have taken offense if she hadn't known that dry and sardonic, or arrogant and haughty, or disgustingly self-assured and commanding, were the faces Tom presented to the world. But, oh, boy, did she wish she'd actually worn the little black number. The snug-as-a-second-skin-and-backless-all-the-way-down-to-there black dress. Then she would carelessly stroll away and leave him with his eyes popped out and his tongue gathering dust on the floor.

  Instead, as his long, warm fingers curled around the collar of her coat and brushed her skin, it was likely to be her tongue on the floor. Was he really taking his sweet time? Or was it merely wishful thinking on her part?

  At last he pulled the coat free, and she gave a soft sigh of relief—or regret. "Where are Maggie and Ross?"

  "In the kitchen."

  "Maybe I should offer my help."

  He took her arm—another touch, quite possibly setting a record for them—and steered her into the living room. "If what I've heard is true, maybe you shouldn't."

  He set the wine on the coffee table. She laid the cake beside it, took a shrimp-and-rice hors d'oeuvre from the tray there, then sat in the nearest chair. "You should know better than to believe everything you hear. Why, if I believed everything I've ever heard about you, I'd be quaking in my Sophie Garel pumps." Crossing her legs, she displayed one pump to show how relaxed and steady she was.

  "Are you implying that I can't make you quake?"

  Her smile was slow, sensual. She'd smiled it at so many men so many times that it felt almost real. "I'm sure you could. And I'd be happy to return the favor."

  "I'm sure you would." The acknowledgment was all he offered. It wasn't followed by an invitation. It never was.

  In a perfectly normal voice, she said, "Happy birthday."

  "Yeah. Thanks."

  "Not so happy?"

  "I've had better."

  "When?"

  "Last year." He took a seat on the sofa and stretched out his legs. They were so long that his feet rested only inches from hers. If she moved just the slightest bit forward, they would touch…

  "What did you do last year?" she asked.

  "I was in China. I didn't know a soul in the country, and I wasn't accepting calls that day from anyone outside the country."

  "So you could pretend it was just another day."

  "It was just another day."

  She wagged one finger at him. "That's sad. You should always do something special for yourself on your birthday."

  "I'm here," he said with a shrug. "And we had a party last night."

  "We? You and your latest blond bombshell? What's her name? Brandi? Tiffani? Cyndi?" Though she pretended ignorance, she knew. She'd heard a little about Deborah over Thanksgiving dinner, then a little less at Christmas.

  "I've never dated a Brandi."

  "But you plead guilty to Tiffani and Cyndi."

  "Don't get too smug. Holly fits right in."

  Her smile was cool and steady. "But you never dated me."

  "I'd face an awfully long drive home when the evening was over."

  "Not this evening." His suite was in the middle of the second floor. Her private quarters were at the back of the inn. A quick stroll through the kitchen, up the back stairs, and down the hall, and he'd be home. Better yet, he could give the housekeeper a break and just stay with her. She would make him feel right at home.

  For a moment he looked as if he was considering the possibilities. Holly wondered what always held him back. Loyalty, maybe, to the other woman temporarily in his life. Concern, perhaps, that his employer, Ross, might disapprove of a short-term affair with one of Maggie's close friends. More likely an attraction that simply wasn't strong enough to overcome whatever misgivings he had.

  Before he could respond, Maggie, looking radiant in maternity clothes, came through the kitchen door. "Sorry we weren't here to greet you," she said as she hugged Holly. "I needed Ross in the kitchen."

  "I volunteered to help, and Tom looked appalled. What have you been saying behind my back?"

  "Nothing that the whole town doesn't say to your face," Maggie replied cheerfully. "Besides, he's a fine one to talk. I bet he doesn't even know where the kitchen is in his apartment."

  "I know. It's the room where the housekeeper puts the cold beer." His tone was edged with caution, as if he expected Maggie to turn on him at any moment. Holly knew that things had never been smooth between them. She'd thought he brought out the worst in Ross's ambition. He'd believed she held him back. When the marriage had fallen apart, she'd wanted to put it back together. He'd wanted Ross to end it once and for all.

  Maggie didn't hold a grudge, but then, it was easy to be gracious when you'd won. She'd gone from politeness to affection, something Tom couldn't quite accept as genuine because he did hold grudges. The same distance that cropped up between him and Holly was also present between him and Maggie. And between him and Ross. Between him and everyone Holly had ever seen him with.

  Ross came in. "Hey, guys, dinner's ready. Holly."

  She stood to greet him, presenting her cheek for his kiss. "I brought wine," she said, gesturing to the bottle Tom had picked up, "and cake, so far untouched by these incapable hands."

  Ross grinned. "Your hands are quite capable. It's just that your talents lie elsewhere."

  She gave both Tom and Maggie a smug smile, then went with them into the dining room. It was deep coral with white trim, with plenty of light from a chandelier, welcoming warmth from the fire sizzling and popping on the grate, and an antique table laden with an appetizing array of dishes.

  Maggie and Ross sat on one side, Holly and Tom on the other. He held her chair for her, his fingers brushing across her shoulder as he drew back. That made three times for tonight. Ooh, maybe it was a sign. Put out the Do Not Disturb sign and warm up the bed sheets. This might be Holly's lucky night.

  Rolling her eyes at her own sarcasm, she turned her attentio
n to the wonderful meal. Before she realized it, dessert plates and ice cream were on the table.

  Excusing herself for another trip into the kitchen, Maggie pitched her voice loud enough for them to hear: "What's the use of a birthday if you don't get a chance to wish for your heart's desire? So…"

  Walking slowly, she came into the room carrying the cake on a platter. The flames of the candles she'd added wavered and sputtered with every step. "Happy birthday, Tom. Blow out the candles and make a wish."

  He straightened in his seat and studied the cake, which Maggie set in front of him. Candlelight danced across his face, turning his skin golden. He looked uncomfortable, and Holly couldn't help but wonder why. Did he think he'd outgrown the tradition? Had it ever even been his tradition? He'd grown up poor, with no one but his mother. Maybe there had been no money to spend on luxuries like birthday cakes, and no hope to waste on futilities like wishes.

  Or maybe he merely had nothing to wish for. He was wealthy, powerful, admired, respected. Success naturally came his way. So did women. What more could he want?

  After a moment, he leaned forward, drew a deep breath, and blew. How big a sin was it to make a wish on someone else's candles? Holly wondered as the flames flickered in a brief, wild dance. Probably a huge one, but she did it anyway. She closed her eyes and sent up her own silent wish: Wish for me.

  For an instant, time stood still. Everything went silent—the conversation, the crackle of logs in the fireplace, the creaks and sounds of the old house. The lights overhead seemed to brighten, then dim. One instant in time drew out, lengthened, as the echo of her wish faded, and then, in a breath, everything was normal again.

  Holly blinked once, twice. No one else seemed to have noticed that little burp in time. She must have imagined it. Earlier it had seemed that time was running out, and now it had stood still. It was just her frazzled brain playing tricks on her. Everyone knew time couldn't stop and wishes never came true.

  Then Tom glanced at her and smiled, and she quickly revised that last thought. Wishes rarely came true. But hers just might.