R

AINDROPS

A

ND

R

OSES

…I don’t believe in insta-love or what some call love at first sight.

But sometimes the chemistry between two people is so strong and so
compelling it’s overwhelming. A time when normal commonsense
takes a vacation and anything approaching rational thinking goes
along with it for the ride.

For me, this was one of those times. And I knew he felt it, too.

That’s why we continued to sit here, staring at one another like we
were under a spell or something.

“Can I buy you a cup of tea?” he asked.
“Umm…” I tried to break eye contact and failed. I knew I was in

trouble. If I had any sense, I’d make up an excuse and go, now, while I
still had the chance. And do what? Wonder what if, wish I’d acted
differently and then come back in the hope he was still here?

The waitress placed a pot of tea and a bowl of soup in front of

Michael. “Your sandwich will be up in a minute,” she said before
turning to me. “And what can I get for you, sir?”

“I…er…I don’t know. I…” I glanced around for inspiration, a

menu, wishing I didn’t feel so unsure, so vulnerable, so completely
unlike my normal self. I gripped the edge of the table in an effort to
get my thoughts back on track. I don’t do flustered. I’m the calm, cool,
collected type. The guy people turn to when things get out of hand and
panic sets in.

“Bring him the same as what I’m having,” Michael interjected

smoothly. “Thanks, Sara.”

The waitress left, and he reached under the table and laid a hand on

my knee. “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay.” I forced a grin. “Just a tad discombobulated, as they

say…”

A

LSO

B

Y

C

HRISTIANE

F

RANCE

And The Cat Came Back

Anything You Can Do

Blues In The Night
Chance Encounter

The Club At Cool Harbor

The Cop And The Drifter

Crossing The Line

French Twist

The Gallery On Main Street

I’m Sorry

The Impossible Dream

Independence Day I & II

It Happened In Las Vegas

Les Hommes, Vols. I & II

Love Matters

Missing Presumed Dead

Oh, George

On Days Like These

Once Upon A Secret

Reincarnation

Some Place Only We Know

Strangers In The Night

A Taste Of Honey

This Time For Keeps

Wishing On The Moon

RAINDROPS

AND ROSES

BY

CHRISTIANE FRANCE

A

MBER

Q

UILL

P

RESS

,

LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

T

ITLE

A

N

A

MBER

Q

UILL

P

RESS

B

OOK

This book is a work of fiction.

All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the

author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales,

or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or

reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in

writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief

excerpts used for the purposes of review.

Copyright © 2012 by Christiane France

ISBN 978-1-61124-356-7

Cover Art © 2012 Trace Edward Zaber

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For Roy and The Boys. And for Ro,

who loves kitties as much as I do.

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

1

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

London, September 30

I’ve always found something infinitely sad about a wet day,

and watching the raindrops slide down the window of my London
hotel room only made it worse. For me, rain goes hand-in-hand
with sad events like funerals, lost chances and empty dreams.
Today, it signified the end of a brief affair I wished could last a
lifetime. A cosmic cleaning service to wash away the memories
and drown out any hope that, just maybe, tomorrow things would
be better.

Except tomorrow won’t be any better. Or the day after that, or

the next one, or any other day in the next hundred years.

If…

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

2

If I hadn’t been between projects at work, I wouldn’t even be

here. And if I hadn’t decided to check out that cute basement
teashop, I wouldn’t have tripped on my way down the stairs. Of
course, if I hadn’t tripped, I wouldn’t have been saved from
possible injury and certain embarrassment by a stranger’s quick
thinking and outstretched arms. And if none of that had happened,
I wouldn’t be standing here now feeling as if my life was over.

I’d known the moment Michael touched me and our eyes met I

was heading for heartbreak rather than love everlasting. My
assignment in London had finished yesterday and today I would be
leaving. All that was left for me to do was finish my packing and
get through the last few hours. Knowing that, I should have
thanked him politely and made a quick escape. Instead, I’d
lingered. We’d had lunch together and chatted the afternoon away.
I have no idea what we talked about, just meaningless chitchat to
hold onto the moment. Then, when the teashop closed, instead of
going our separate ways, we’d gone to his place and listened to
music.

Later, we walked to Soho and dined at a tiny, very romantic

Italian restaurant he knew about. We ordered the house special,
spaghetti Bolognese, or spag-bol as Michael called it, and a bottle
of Chianti, then spent last night together.

By this morning, I was in so deep I didn’t want to leave.
“Hey, Drew, what time did you say your flight goes?” Michael

gave me a hug, along with another unnecessary and painful
reminder our time together was all but over. “Is it two or two-
thirty?”

“Two-thirty.” Another hour, and I’ll call the front desk to have

someone collect my luggage and find us a cab.

We’d agreed not to make stupid promises to keep in touch. If

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

3

we were meant to be, then it would happen. But we both knew a
long distance affair would never work; we lived too far apart. And
I shouldn’t have prolonged the agony by agreeing to let Michael
see me off, but he’d insisted, and I hadn’t had the heart to say no.

Goodbyes are a total bitch and I could already see this one

playing out in my mind: After I check in with the airline, the two
of us will have a drink or two at the bar. Then, like the characters
in an old black-and-white movie, we’ll rehash the past twenty-four
hours and get to feeling more and more miserable while we watch
the minutes and seconds tick away, until the time finally comes to
say our last farewells.

Already my throat feels tight, but I’ll do my best not to cry and

make an idiot of myself. If I do, I can see it now… Michael, his
expressive gray eyes dark with pain, will try to comfort me by
saying something trite like, “Too bad you don’t live here.” Or
maybe, “Too bad we didn’t meet the day you arrived.” For one last
time, he’ll hold me, pressed tight against his hard body. And for
one last, wonderful, but agonizing moment, I’ll smell his special
scent and feel his mouth on mine. He’ll walk with me as far as the
security check, where we’ll hesitate. And then, before I continue
on and he turns away to retrace his steps, he’ll hand me the single
red rose he bought on our way back from breakfast and tucked in
his buttonhole for safety. We’ll smile and blow each other one
final kiss. I’ll take a deep breath, blank my mind, and walk away.

With a little luck, this time tomorrow, Michael Dawson,

England, and the past twenty-four hours will be nothing more than
a memory.

I moved away from the window to give the room a final check,

make sure I hadn’t left anything behind. I don’t dare look at
Michael, or—

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

4

The phone rang.

* * *

London, two weeks earlier

I deplaned at London’s Heathrow to what one of the flight

attendants announced were clear blue skies, a gentle breeze and
warm September sunshine. It sounded like a nice welcome after
the high winds and torrential downpour I’d left behind in Toronto.

I looked around at my sleepy-eyed fellow passengers as we

made our way through the airport. I’m not crazy about overnight
flights. For me, it’s like being pulled out of my comfort zone and
dropped off in unknown territory. I was tired, irritable, and having
trouble believing I was even here. But the company had needed a
body to solve a problem, and I’d happened to be available.

I glanced at my watch. A few minutes after six in the morning

British time, and passenger traffic was a mere trickle compared to
the crowd scene I’d expected. I didn’t know if it was due to flight
delays from elsewhere or if I’d just been lucky and hit a temporary
lull. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t about to complain. Instead of
standing for hours in long line-ups that moved at a snail’s pace, I
cleared passport control, claimed my luggage and was through
customs inspection in record time. As I exited through the door
into Arrivals, I scanned the waiting crowd until I caught sight of a
uniformed limo driver holding up a sign marked Drew McEvoy,
Falton International. I beckoned the man forward and introduced
myself.

I hadn’t slept on the plane and I hoped to catch a couple of

hours once I checked into the hotel. But by the time we made it out

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

5

of airport parking and onto the highway, I knew that wasn’t likely
to happen. Traffic into the city was the complete opposite of my
trip through the airport—morning rush hour, which translated to
one huge traffic jam, or tailback as the Brits call it. Resigning
myself to the joys of stop and go for the entire journey, I
swallowed a yawn, leaned back against the soft upholstery and
closed my eyes.

I’d been with Falton International since graduating college. The

company specializes in the renovation and restoration of old
buildings and has completed jobs all over the world. When I
started, like every other new employee, I’d begun at the bottom
doing a little bit of everything, slowly moving up as I learned the
business until I reached my present position as a senior project
manager.

The company CEO, Grey Falton, is one of those hands-on, has-

to-do-it-all-himself types. The kind who keeps a close check on
every aspect of the company’s business and its employees, and
insists on daily status reports for each and every job on the books.
When Grey intercepted me on my way into the office yesterday
morning, I’d had no idea what he wanted, but he’d cut straight to
the chase.

He said he’d quoted on a couple of jobs in England he figured

he hadn’t a hope in hell of getting, but a few days ago, the
unexpected had happened. The company he’d expected to succeed
had withdrawn due to what were rumored to be financial problems,
and Falton was declared the lowest bidder. This put us in
possession of what promised to be two very lucrative contracts:
one to restore an abandoned, old-money family estate on the
outskirts of London into habitable condition; and the second to
restore the building, but modernize the kitchens and bathrooms of

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

6

a once-famous but outdated hotel property on the south coast with
a view to it regaining its former popularity.

He said work was scheduled to start over the next few months.

Office space had been leased in London and a skeleton staff hired
to set things up. What he needed now was someone to provide a
stabilizing head office presence in London while he found the right
person to act as general manager to oversee both projects.

While he was thrilled to get the work, the fact remained that

thanks to the lousy economy, all the big international corporations
were under constant scrutiny by the media. Exhibit the slightest
problem or expose the smallest crack and our public image could
suffer. To reduce the risk of anything like this happening to Falton,
he needed to send someone over to hold the fort. And if I hadn’t
already guessed, that’s where I came in. He needed someone in the
London office for two weeks, absolute max. I was between jobs
and if I would kindly get my ass on the first available flight for
London the problem would be solved.

For now, any and all preliminary work related to the contracts

was being handled from Toronto. All I would be required to do
was look busy, push some papers around, answer any questions
from the media with the standard line that everything was on track,
smile for the cameras and leave it at that. In other words, he
wanted someone to act as interim window-dressing and make it
clear to all interested parties that Falton International was up for
the job.

Privately, I thought he was paranoid, or at the very least

worrying for nothing, but I kept the thoughts to myself. The ink on
the contract was barely dry, and good faith had been shown by
opening and staffing a London office. What more did the media
hounds want? They had to know Falton getting the work was the

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

7

result of another bidder’s misfortune. Juicy stuff like that is
impossible to keep under wraps. But I knew Grey was right about
the media’s penchant for sniffing out the slightest hint of trouble
and making it sound like a double-dipped major disaster instead of
a minor glitch. And that being the case, I couldn’t fault him for
taking precautions.

If a hotshot reporter found out Falton was still for looking for

someone to take overall charge of the projects, the situation would
be blown out of all proportion. No allowances would be made and
no excuses given. The report would be slanted just enough to stir
things up, make the company look incompetent, and encourage the
public to ask stupid but provocative questions.

The driver slammed on his brakes, jerking me out of my

reverie. I opened my eyes and glanced out the window. I saw
nothing I recognized, just a depressing view of post-WWII
housing, neglected patches of garden and what I figured were old,
abandoned buildings awaiting either a buyer with money to spend
or demolition.

The last time I was in England was the summer after I

graduated from college. A group consisting of five friends and
myself spent three months backpacking through Europe, hitting the
must-see spots like London, Paris and Rome, but that was a
lifetime ago. We were young, on our own, free from authority
figures, and desperate for new experiences. As a result, we’d
pushed the limits and done everything to excess. When I thought
back now to all the crazy fun we’d had, it seemed more like
something I’d dreamed about after a hard night’s partying than
something that had actually happened.

We’d hung out in town squares and sung for our supper. We’d

slept on the beaches when our money ran short. And there were the

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

8

times we’d attached ourselves to bus tours and visited museums
and other tourist attractions for free, just to prove we could get
away with it. Most of what we got up to was innocent fun, but
there had been a few things that were not. Such as running out on a
restaurant check we knew we couldn’t afford before we sat down,
and snagging beer and smokes while the store owner’s back was
turned. Then there was the time one of the guys in our group tried
getting friendly with a local girl, and she’d responded by yelling
for the cops and screaming rape. Lucky for him, the girl was drunk
and known to the cops for making false accusations. They let him
go with a warning, but it was a nasty few hours and a salutary
lesson for us all. We hadn’t needed a second reminder to
understand there’s nothing fun or romantic about a foreign jail, or
that getting thrown into one can be a whole lot easier than getting
out.

The traffic was, at last, beginning to pick up speed. I noticed

Marble Arch a short distance ahead, but then we turned off at the
next set of lights. After what seemed like a crazy switchback ride
through a series of narrow streets, the limo came to a velvet-
smooth stop in front of what the driver announced was my hotel.

I’d checked Jasper’s out on the Internet while waiting for my

flight. The location is great. It’s near Oxford Street, London’s main
shopping district, and occupies a fabulous, newly renovated, multi-
story, centuries’ old, red brick building. It’s one of the new, super
trendy, upscale boutique hotels, no doubt expensive as hell as no
prices were mentioned, and it was Grey Falton’s choice rather than
mine. Which was fine with me since he was the one picking up the
tab.

Grey said there were several reasons why he preferred Jasper’s

to the big chain hotels: it was quiet, comfortable, no more than a

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

9

five-minute walk from our new London office, and with the
property being owned by an old friend, he’d been able to negotiate
an attractive corporate rate. On top of that, Jasper’s served the
most delicious full English breakfasts, and I was to be sure to
check out the wonderful French bistro across the street—Chez
Moustique, where the cuisine, in Grey’s opinion, was unequaled in
all of London.

I tipped the driver, took possession of my luggage, and walked

through the open door into Jasper’s lobby. If the boss wanted me to
have what amounted to a paid overseas vacation, I’d do my best
not to disappoint.

* * *

The guest rooms at Jasper’s were all individually named and

decorated. I was in the Robin Hood room on the top floor. The
décor was hunter green and white with touches of gold, heavy dark
wood furniture and the wall art a mixture of old-fashioned hunting
scenes set in bosky dells and sunny woodland glades. Too fussy for
my taste, but I didn’t have to live with it, just put up with it for a
week or two. The bathroom was a whole different story, like
something out of a magazine—the epitome of luxury, complete
with a shower massage, a whirlpool tub, plus a stack of thick,
white, fluffy towels and a basketful of expensive toiletries.

After I finished unpacking, I took a quick shower and dressed

to impress in a charcoal business suit, a plain white shirt and a
discreetly patterned tie. Window dressing or not, I was the face of
the company for the time being and I needed to look the part.

The office was located on the main floor of another older

building not far from Jasper’s. The door was wide open, so I went

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

10

in and introduced myself to the skeleton staff I’d been told was
composed of Rose, the receptionist-cum-secretary for now, and Ari
and Vineet, a pair of IT technicians who were busy unpacking and
installing computers. I explained that I was in charge temporarily
while a few last minute details were worked out back at head office
and they finished getting things set up here in London. Once that
was all that done, someone else would take over from me and more
staff would be hired. In the meantime, any questions or problems
should be directed my way.

I’d picked up a coffee and a newspaper on my way and, with

introductions out of the way, I snagged the only office that had a
desk, chair and computer, went inside and closed the door. I sipped
the coffee, glanced at the headlines, then leaned back in what was
an amazingly comfortable chair. I didn’t expect to receive any
phone calls or interruptions and I wasn’t disappointed. What I got
instead was almost three hours of deep, refreshing sleep.

I awoke starving, not too surprising since I don’t like airplane

food and my last meal was the burger and fries I’d eaten while
waiting for my flight in Toronto.

I told Rose I was going for lunch, then headed farther down the

street to a pub I’d noticed on the next corner. I ordered the daily
special, which happened to be a favorite—fish and chips with
mushy peas. I could tell it was a frozen entree rather than freshly
made, but washed down with half a pint of light ale, it tasted fine.

When I was through with lunch, I went back to the office, read

the rest of the newspaper, did the crossword and played computer
solitaire for a while. I stared at the phone a few times, willing it to
ring, but of course nothing happened. Just before five, I said
goodnight and see you tomorrow to Rose and the two IT guys and
left.

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

11

Holding the fort in London for a couple of weeks had sounded

great. But my days were normally spent trying to beat the clock
rather than watch it, and after one day of doing nothing, I was
bored.

Tomorrow, instead of twiddling my thumbs, I’d spend the time

surfing the Net—check out the clubs, the theaters, and the
restaurants and make a list of things to see and do while I was here.
One weekend I could rent a car and drive down to Brighton or one
of the other resort towns on the south coast. Or maybe find one of
those picturesque old inns where I could spend a day or two
exploring the countryside.

There were fors and againsts being alone in a strange city—the

fors meant not having to consider anyone but myself. The biggest
against was the loneliness factor, which was easily dealt with by
keeping busy.

With that thought in mind, rather than return to the hotel and

spend the evening watching TV or staring at the walls, I went for a
stroll along Oxford Street. After a couple of hours walking and
window shopping, I went into one of the better hotels for dinner,
ordered roast beef with all the trimmings and half a bottle of good
red wine.

I hate eating alone in a classy restaurant; it’s the pits. Linger

too long and who knows what the waiter might think or what ideas
some of the other lone diners might get. I’d already noticed an
older guy shooting speculative glances my way. Maybe I was
reading him wrong, but rather than let him think I might be
interested, I finished my wine, paid the tab and got the hell out of
there. I thought about checking out a movie or a bar, just for
something to do, but I wasn’t in the mood. Between jetlag and all
the walking I’d done, I was beat. I had two whole weeks in which

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

12

to sightsee and go clubbing, plenty of time in which to do it all.

* * *

London, September 29

After two weeks of mild temperatures and glorious sunshine,

the perfect weather for sightseeing, I awoke to dark skies and a
hint of rain. By noon, the hint had developed into a full-blown
downpour. Since arriving in London, I’d found a number of ways
to help fill in the hours between nine and five. One was going for a
walk each day before finding somewhere to have lunch. Today,
with no umbrella and a walk out of the question, I stopped at the
first place I came to—the basement teashop in the next block that
advertised homemade soups and hot snacks. I’d been intending to
check it out several times before and this was my last chance.

Yesterday, I’d received the call I’d been expecting every day

since I arrived: someone had been hired to take over the London
operation, and I’d been assigned a project I desperately wanted—
restoring a burned-out hotel in old Montreal. My return flight had
been arranged and this time tomorrow, I would be back with my
family, friends and the people I knew. My time in London had
been fun in many ways and I’d met some nice people. But after
two weeks on my own, I could hardly wait to get on that plane. I
was ready to go home.

Partway down the basement steps, my feet went out from under

me. Suddenly, I was in free-fall with arms flailing and hands
grabbing. But instead of landing on my ass or my face, I was saved
by a pair of outstretched arms attached to a deliciously firm body.

“Holy—”

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

13

“Hey. Steady on there.” The speaker was male, dark-haired,

several inches taller and a few pounds heavier than me. As I
regained my balance, he relaxed his hold, and I found myself
captured by a quizzical smile and beautiful, soft grey eyes.

I tried to look away, but something in his gaze held me

prisoner. I blinked a couple of times and rubbed a hand over my
face. “What happened?”

“I have no idea. Come sit down. Catch your breath.” He

returned to his table and pulled out a chair, indicating I should join
him.

I glanced back at the steps, then sat and checked the bottoms of

my shoes. Nothing! “It felt like I slipped on something.”

“Easy enough to do on a wet day like this.”
“I guess. I was in a rush to get out of the rain.”
A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “You’re an American,

right?”

I returned his smile. “Right continent, wrong country. I’m

Canadian.”

“Oops!”
“No problem. We’re the ones who say ‘eh’ rather than ‘gee

whiz,’ or so I’ve been told.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” He laughed and held out a hand.

“I’m Michael Dawson.”

“Drew McEvoy.” His handshake was firm, dry and lingered

about two seconds too long.

I don’t believe in insta-love or what some call love at first

sight. But sometimes the chemistry between two people is so
strong and so compelling it’s overwhelming. A time when normal
commonsense takes a vacation and anything approaching rational
thinking goes along with it for the ride.

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

14

For me, this was one of those times. And I knew he felt it, too.

That’s why we continued to sit here, staring at one another like we
were under a spell or something.

“Can I buy you a cup of tea?” he asked.
“Umm…” I tried to break eye contact and failed. I knew I was

in trouble. If I had any sense, I’d make up an excuse and go, now,
while I still had the chance. And do what? Wonder what if, wish
I’d acted differently and then come back in the hope he was still
here?

The waitress placed a pot of tea and a bowl of soup in front of

Michael. “Your sandwich will be up in a minute,” she said before
turning to me. “And what can I get for you, sir?”

“I…er…I don’t know. I…” I glanced around for inspiration, a

menu, wishing I didn’t feel so unsure, so vulnerable, so completely
unlike my normal self. I gripped the edge of the table in an effort
to get my thoughts back on track. I don’t do flustered. I’m the
calm, cool, collected type. The guy people turn to when things get
out of hand and panic sets in.

“Bring him the same as what I’m having,” Michael interjected

smoothly. “Thanks, Sara.”

The waitress left, and he reached under the table and laid a

hand on my knee. “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay.” I forced a grin. “Just a tad discombobulated, as

they say.”

“Falling down a flight of stairs can do that,” Michael said.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“No, but for a moment or two it throws the whole world out of

whack and leaves one quivering like a newborn left unattended on
a street corner.”

“You think?”

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

15

“I know so. It’s happened to me. You’ll feel better once you’ve

had a cup of tea and something to eat.”

He’d summed up exactly how I felt, but I didn’t see how tea

could help. And I wasn’t sure I liked a virtual stranger being able
to read me like an open book.

“I’m sorry. I should go.”
Before I could put my words into action, Michael gripped my

hand tightly, a flicker of something approaching panic in his grey
eyes. “No, please don’t go.” He hesitated. “At least stay and have
your lunch.”

As he slackened his grip, my need to run dissipated and I began

to feel more like my normal self. The self that reminded me
meeting someone as attractive as Michael was a rare occurrence.
That I should go with the flow and see what happened, even
though it was my last day here. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t.
After all, what did I have to lose? This time tomorrow I’d be at the
airport, waiting for my flight home.

Michael’s sandwich and my order arrived together. I’m not a

huge fan of cream of celery soup or cucumber sandwiches, but it
could have been a mixture of snails and puppy dog tails on toast
for all I cared. And while I almost never drink tea, once I took a
sip, I realized the hot, strong brew was exactly what I needed.

“Are you over here on vacation?” Michael asked.
“No. It’s a work-related thing. The company I’m with is in the

process of opening a London office. I’ve been helping set things
up.”

“So the position is temporary?”
“Until our head office finds a permanent general manager to

take over. What about you? You work somewhere close by?”

“I’m an acquisitions editor for a publisher. Their offices are

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

16

across the street, but I mostly work from home. Once or twice a
week I come into the office, drop off whatever I’ve finished
working on and pick up the latest crop of unsolicited manuscripts.”

“Have you ever found any bestsellers?”
“Only in my dreams.” His smile changed to a sigh. “Most of

the time, I despair of finding anything that’s even readable, never
mind publishable.”

I tasted the soup. It was better than I’d expected and definitely

not from a can. I reached for the sandwich and took a bite.
Mmm…I closed my eyes and sighed with pleasure. The bread also
tasted homemade, like it came straight from my grandma’s
kitchen. “This is so good.”

“I know. I’ve been coming here for years. Everything’s

homemade and they don’t charge a bomb.” He finished his tea,
then beckoned the waitress over and ordered a fresh pot. “And you
can also bring us a couple of your lovely scones with lashings of
strawberry jam and clotted cream,” he added. “I want to give my
friend here a real English treat.”

While we ate, we talked about everything and nothing. We

discovered we had a lot in common—we both loved visiting
faraway places, detective stories, black-and-white movies and jazz,
and that neither of us had any interest in heavy metal bands or
anything tagged as sci-fi. Long after we’d finished lunch we
continued to sit and talk, until Michael suddenly said, “Good grief,
is that the time?”

I followed his glance to the clock on the wall, surprised to see

the afternoon had disappeared and it was a few minutes after five
o’clock. The office had my cell number. If I’d been needed for any
reason, Rose would have called. I took out my phone and checked
for messages. Nothing!

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17

“Was there somewhere you needed to be?” I asked, hoping the

reverse to be true.

“No. What about you?”
The only items on my desk awaiting attention were a half-read

newspaper, a magazine I’d found in my hotel room, and an
unfinished crossword puzzle. In fact, meeting Michael had saved
me from what would have otherwise been my last afternoon of
complete and utter boredom. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

* * *

When we left the teashop, the rain had stopped, the sun was out

and the pavements were dry.

I hadn’t wanted to leave. I wanted to forget this was my last

day. I wanted to spend forever inside that magic bubble gazing into
Michael’s grey eyes, but the place closed at five so we were given
no choice.

It was put up or shut up time, and I didn’t have a clue what to

say or do. I’d thought we were on the same wavelength, but
Michael hadn’t said anything. Now I was afraid the first corner we
came to, he’d go his way, I’d go mine and that would be it. Maybe
I’d read him all wrong and he wasn’t interested. Maybe he already
had someone in his life. Maybe he was straight. No, I knew I was
wrong on all three counts. If even one of them were true, after
saving me from breaking my neck, he wouldn’t have lingered.
Once I regained my balance, he would have gone about his
business. He wouldn’t have treated me to lunch and stayed with me
the whole afternoon.

So, was he waiting for me to say something?
As we walked, I juggled a few ideas in my mind. I didn’t want

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18

to come on too strong and scare him off, but I didn’t want him to
just disappear. I thought about suggesting a movie, or if he
preferred, we could stop somewhere for a drink. Or what about
meeting up later for dinner?

We reached the corner. My nerves tightened; my mouth was

dry. I could barely breathe. This was it. Now or never. The traffic
lights were in our favor, but instead of crossing over the street,
Michael hesitated. “Do you have any plans for this evening?”

My breath escaped in a soft whoosh, and my heart skipped a

beat. Yes! “No. Why? You have something in mind?” I asked,
careful to keep my voice casual.

Just from the way he smiled, I figured he knew what I’d been

thinking. “I have to go home and drop this off.” He indicated his
bulging briefcase. “Would you care to come with me? It’s only a
ten-minute walk from here. We can listen to some music, have a
drink or two, and then later go out somewhere for dinner. What do
you say?”

“Sounds like a great idea to me.”

* * *

Michael’s home was above a bookstore some distance from my

hotel. Like Jasper’s, the building was probably several hundred
years’ old. But instead of fresh paint and flowers, all I could smell
as we ascended the stairs was “old building” and damp, along with
the lingering odors of food overlaid with a pine-scented floor
cleaner.

At the top of the stairs, Michael unlocked a door and preceded

me inside. He was immediately greeted by an orange-and-white cat
rubbing against his legs. The kitty looked up at Michael, then at

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19

me, then back to Michael. “Meoow?”

“Hello, Marmalade. I want you to meet my new friend, Drew.

Drew, this is my flat-mate. I found him last winter while he was
still a kitten. It was freezing cold, snowing like mad, and he was
outside on the steps, trying to get his tiny mouth around a piece of
moldy toast he’d found. Between that and his color, I figured
Marmalade was the perfect name. Poor little chap was so thin you
could feel his bones, and so weak I didn’t expect him to survive.
But now…”

Michael lead the way into the living room where he put down

his briefcase, picked up the cat and snuggled him against his face.
Both of them were clearly enjoying the contact and I had to admit
to feeling a trifle left out, even jealous. “We’re doing quite nicely,
thank you very much.”

I reached out to pet the animal. To my surprise, he pushed his

nose hard against my hand.

Michael laughed. “Well, look at this. He’s usually shy around

strangers, but he’s obviously taken to you.”

“He must sense that I like cats. We always had a couple at

home when I was growing up. I’ve often thought about getting one
of my own, but for one reason or another, it’s never happened.”

Marmalade jumped out of Michael’s arms onto a nearby chair,

then looked back and forward between the two of us as if to say,
Okay, guys, what’s the holdup? I want my dinner.

“Make yourself comfortable and please excuse the mess.”

Michael retrieved his briefcase from the floor and dumped it on an
already cluttered dining room table. “Give me a minute to feed His
Majesty, and I’ll find us something to drink.” He took off down the
hallway to what I assumed was the kitchen, with the cat in hot
pursuit.

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20

I sat on the sofa and glanced around the room. What Michael

seemed to think constituted a mess gave the room a warm, lived-in
feeling. The furniture looked like thrift shop specials, books and
papers littered the table, a navy sweater was draped over the back
of one of the chairs, and there were a couple of catnip mice on the
floor. Except for the cat and his toys, it was pretty much like my
place in Toronto. I rented the upper half of an old house just off the
Danforth that was in constant need of repair. But it had character
and the owner was retired and liked fixing things, so I had no plans
to move anytime soon.

Michael returned with glasses and a bottle of wine on a tray.
“I hope you like dry red.” He sat down and uncorked the bottle.

After half-filling each of the two glasses, he handed one of them to
me. “Cheers!”

I returned the toast and took a sip—dry without being tart,

smooth as velvet and delicious in every way. “Hey, this is really
good.” I picked up the bottle. French, from Provence, but not a
label I’d seen before. “Is this available in a wine store?”

“My sister is married to a Frenchman whose family owns

vineyards near Avignon. This is one of their private labels.
Intended for friends and family only.

“Nice! Thanks for including me. I feel honored.”
“Actually, I should have said for special friends.” He lifted his

glass, leaned back in his chair and ran his tongue slowly over his
upper lip, then he smiled and drank some of the wine.

A slow trickle of need slid down my spine and settled in my

dick. I moved my butt a little to ease the sudden tightness in my
pants. “Special friend, huh? That’s even nicer. Guess I should feel
doubly honored.” I knew Michael was flirting with me and I loved
the subtle way he was doing it. I also knew we’d end up in his bed

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21

before the night was over. My only question was: would it be
before we went out for dinner, in which case I suspected we’d
forget about dinner, or would we stretch out the anticipation by
waiting until we came back?

Michael put down his glass and turned his attention to a stack

of CDs on a side table. After sorting through them, he slipped one
of the discs into a small, portable player and pressed play.

The haunting notes of Acker Bilk’s clarinet playing “Stranger

On The Shore,” filled the room, heightening my need and making
me wish Michael and I had more than a few hours together.

He returned to his chair and once again captured my gaze. My

mind raced with ideas. I could call the office, tell them about the
fall, make it sound more serious and ask to delay my return for a
few days. Maybe take some of my unused vacation time. I had at
least a month coming to me. Or I could call and say I’d decided to
stay here in London.

And do what?
I was forty-two, not twenty-two. Chances were better than

good I’d have trouble finding anything even approaching a decent
job.

Getting swept off my feet with feelings this sudden and this

intense hadn’t happened to me in years, not since high school. I’d
fallen hot and hard for a classmate. Less than a week later, the
brief affair was over and done with, and I never understood why
I’d been attracted in the first place. I hadn’t even liked the guy.

Unless I was willing to risk history repeating itself, I needed to

take a step back and think. What if the way I felt about Michael
didn’t last? What then?

The cat, Marmalade, reappeared and jumped onto Michael’s

lap, turning around and around before finally settling down. He

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22

looked so damn comfy and cozy I wanted to push him off and bury
my face in that exact same spot. I wanted to feel Michael’s
warmth, assure myself of his need, and inhale his own unique
scent.

Michael began petting the animal, scratching him under his

chin and stroking his head. Marmalade responded by stretching,
then rolling onto his back, demanding a tummy rub. Michael
complied, and I looked away, fast.

What had started as a twinge of jealousy now burned both hot

and strong. I wanted to smack Michael’s hand away. I wanted to
tell Marmalade to get down and get lost, that Michael was mine.

God! I rubbed a hand over my face and quickly downed the rest

of my wine. I couldn’t believe I was jealous of a cat.

The last track on the CD faded away. Michael finished his wine

and put the glass on the tray. “Would you like more wine? Or shall
we go out and find somewhere to have dinner before it gets dark?”

“No more wine, but dinner sounds good.” I put my empty glass

beside his on the tray. The room was warm. It felt as if everything
was closing in on me. I needed to get outside in the fresh air where
I could breathe. “You have somewhere in mind?”

“You like Italian?”
“I love it.”
“Good. There’s this little place in Soho I know that makes the

best spag-bol.”

“And that is?”
“Spaghetti Bolognese. Pasta with meat sauce.”
Michael picked up his keys, and I followed him down the hall.

Just before we reached the door, he hesitated, then turned and gave
me a hug. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

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23

He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. You were looking a

little tense and introspective. I thought maybe you were having
second thoughts.”

“About what?”
“The two of us spending the evening together. If you don’t

want it to go beyond dinner and conversation, I promise not to
push.”

* * *

It was almost dark when we reached the flashing neon lights of

Soho with its clubs, pubs, sex shops, clip joints, bars and
restaurants. The night was cool, but the sidewalks were crowded.
Snatches of music and laughter erupted, then vanished as people
went in and out of the various establishments.

Soho is the center of London nightlife. Whether you’re looking

for a quiet drink, a meal, a little company, or something more
exotic, you’ll probably find it here within the square mile bounded
by Oxford Street, Regent Street, Leicester Square and Charing
Cross Road.

I’d been here several times over the past two weeks, checking

out the action at some of the eateries and bars. However, I hadn’t
noticed Lisetta’s until Michael turned off Greek Street into a
narrow alleyway and I saw the name in flaking gold script on a
window.

From the outside, the restaurant looked a little shabby and

rundown. But once Michael opened the door and I followed him
inside, I knew this was my kind of place. It was small, crowded,
noisy, and the enticing smells of garlic and roasting meat nothing
short of my idea of pure heaven, gastronomically speaking.

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24

The waiter showed us to a table for two and then, at Michael’s

request, left and returned a moment later with a bottle of Chianti
and a menu.

“We have two specials tonight,” the man informed us after

Michael tasted the wine and he’d poured some into each of our
glasses. “Roast leg of lamb and Spaghetti Bolognese. The soup is
minestrone.”

“I’ll have the Bolognese and the minestrone,” Michael said.

“Drew?”

I took a sip of the Chianti. The menu was handwritten and

virtually indecipherable. Rather than try to figure it out, I gave up
and handed it back. “I’ll have the same, but I’d like a small green
salad in place of the soup.”

While we were eating, Michael told me about a recent vacation

he’d spent in France and the town of Arles where his sister lived.

As he talked, I found myself wondering if I should mention this

was my last night in London, then decided there was no point.
Michael already knew my job here was temporary. If he’d wanted
to know more, he would have asked.

I finished my wine and refilled the glass to just below the

halfway mark. Between what I’d drunk at Michael’s place and now
this, my head was feeling a bit fuzzy. I needed to slow down.

Michael sprinkled on extra cheese, then twirled a few strands

of the spaghetti around his fork. “My sister took me to an
exhibition of everything Van Gogh while I was there. I found it
totally fascinating. Did you know Van Gogh used to live in Arles?”

“So I’ve heard. Apparently that’s where he did some of his

finest work.”

“And also chopped off part of his ear.” He stopped playing

with his food and put down his fork. “Are you interested in art?”

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25

“Me? No, not especially. I’m just a guy who knows what he

likes.”

“Yes. Me, too.” The way he suddenly narrowed his eyes and

looked at me made my blood run hot and my cock started to
stiffen. I knew we were no longer talking about art even before he
reached under the table and laid his hand on my thigh.

The only thing that mattered was the here and the now. We

both knew what we wanted and that we would be making love
before the night was over. Everything else was irrelevant. The only
question was where and when?

Michael removed his hand and went back to talking about his

trip, while I did my best to relax. But the tension between us was
rapidly tightening to the point it needed some relief.

I was ready to go as soon as we finished our entrees, but then

the waiter came by with coffee and a plate of complimentary
aniseed cookies. It delayed our departure by no more than a few
minutes, yet to me it felt like hours. When he returned with the
check, I handed him a couple of bills, waved away the change and
pushed back my chair.

“Where to now?” I asked after we left the restaurant and were

back on Greek Street.

Michael shrugged. “You want to go somewhere for a drink?

Maybe check out one of the clubs?”

“Not really. You?”
“No.” He took my hand and pulled me into the privacy

afforded by a dark doorway. “What I want is…” His soft lips
touched my mouth in the very briefest of kisses, then he pressed a
hand against my cock and laughed. “You know damn well what I
want. But not here.”

“Where? Your place or my hotel?”

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26

“My place is closer.”
This was what I wanted, too. I wanted to hold him, touch him,

taste him and never let go. The hard part would come later when it
was time for me to turn my back and walk away.

* * *

When we got back to Michael’s flat, Marmalade was asleep on

one the chairs. The cat opened one eye, then closed it again,
stretched, and returned to his kitty dreams.

Michael smiled at his pet’s reaction, then he collected the bottle

of wine he’d opened earlier, fetched two clean glasses from the
kitchen and led the way to his bedroom.

I watched as he set the bottle and glasses on the nightstand,

turned on the lamp, removed his jacket and shoes and stretched out
on the bed.

He changed position onto his side, then looked up at me and

smiled. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

“Just enjoying the view.” I swallowed the sudden lump in my

throat as I slipped off my own shoes and dropped my jacket on a
chair.

For some reason, I felt more nervous than I had all those years

ago the first time I slept with another man. I was shaky,
uncoordinated, and my hard-on of a moment ago had vanished. I
took a deep breath and released it slowly. If I didn’t get my
emotions under control, I’d be useless and that was the absolute
last thing I wanted to happen.

Michael got off the bed, poured a little wine into each of the

two glasses and gave one to me. “Here. A little Dutch courage.”

“You think I need it?” I took a sip, but my hand trembled and I

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27

put the glass on the bureau. “God! I feel like an idiot.”

He took my face in his hands, kissing me gently on the mouth

and putting his arms around me. “Hey, it’s all right.” He started
rubbing my back, digging deep to loosen the tight muscles, then
moving lower to squeeze my butt cheeks. “This isn’t the first time
for you, is it?”

“No. It’s…” I forced what passed for a laugh. “It’s nothing.

Just over-excited, I guess.”

“The result of too much anticipation?”
“Something like that.”
“It happens. Take off your shirt and pants and lie face down on

the bed. Maybe a massage will do the trick.”

I did as he asked, then said, “I should warn you a massage

usually puts me to sleep.”

He rimmed my ear with the tip of his tongue. “This one won’t.

And that’s a promise. Give me a minute to get my supplies.”

I figured he gone to fetch some kind of oil. When he returned

and I saw the other items he placed on the nightstand along with
the massage oil, I felt a quick thrill of excitement. This was our
first time, so I’d figured it wouldn’t go further than a little mutual
relief. Maybe a blow job, if I was lucky.

But if the container of lube, the handful of condoms and the

interesting strip of leather were anything to go by, Michael liked it
hot and a little kinky.

He straddled my body and poured a trickle of oil on my back.

As he began the massage, I wondered about the leather strip.
Would he use it to tie my hands? To inflict punishment? Or was its
presence supposed to tease and titillate the viewer? If so, between
Michael’s clever fingers and my thoughts, it was working. By the
time he got to my waist, my balls had developed a pleasant ache

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28

and my shaft was hard as a rock.

“Can you lift up a bit? Your boxers are in the way.”
He moved his weight off my legs, and I lifted my body enough

for him to slide them off. The loss of my shorts made me totally
vulnerable to his demands, but instead of being scared, it doubled
my feelings of arousal.

“I want you to get up on your knees and lift your butt high,

okay?”

Again, I complied, and again I began to tremble, this time with

excitement.

“That’s good. Just hold the position.”
I shoved the knuckle of my right forefinger between my teeth

and bit down, hard. I heard the rustle of clothing as he
disrobed…and then a soft curse as he struggled to open a condom
package

Please, please hurry!
He moved in behind me, and I felt his hot breath against my

ass. As he slid a finger down my crack, I almost lost it. Then his
tongue was everywhere, licking my back and teasing my balls,
while his fingers played with my dick.

I was so wound up, about to come, when he suddenly backed

off. I whimpered my disappointment at the loss of contact.

He laughed softly and bit my ear. “You ready for me to fuck

you now?”

I’d never been more ready for anything in my life. “You have

to ask?”

“I just wanted to be sure. Not everyone is happy about doing it

this way.”

I felt the shock of cold lube against my hole. Michael inserted a

finger, then a second, gradually working the muscle until it

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29

loosened.

Finally, the moment I was waiting for happened. He spread my

ass cheeks, positioned the head of his cock against my anus,
wrapped his arms around me and pushed.

The sensation of him sliding all the way inside me like that

made me sigh with pleasure. He pulled partway out, but before
going back in, he took possession of my penis. As he coordinated
his strokes, I rocked back against him, urging him on. We were
both too excited for anything slow and easy. We needed relief and
we needed it now.

Finally, that special moment arrived when everything felt

suspended, like a glass bubble hanging in space. I held my breath,
knowing it was about to happen, but wanting to savor every micro-
second. But then the glass shattered, the moment was over and we
collapsed in a heap of tangled sheets and limbs.

“Wow!” Michael pressed kisses against my back and neck.

“That was great, but over a whole lot too fast.”

“Give me a minute to catch my breath, and we’ll try for an

encore.”

“In your dreams, love.” Michael sighed. “I’m forty-five. These

days, I’m lucky if I can get it up once a week. Twice in one night is
out of the question.”

“Am I allowed to try?”
“Certainly you may. But first I need to pay a visit to the head.”
I went to the bathroom after Michael returned. I couldn’t have

been in there more than a couple of minutes, but when I got back,
he was already fast asleep.

I switched off the lamp, lifted the covers and got in behind him.

Then, wrapping an arm around his body, I found myself marveling
at what could happen in so short a time. Last night, I didn’t even

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30

know Michael existed. Tomorrow night— I pushed the thought
away. I needed to concentrate on the here and the now and enjoy
what little time we had.

* * *

When I awoke sometime later, the light was on and Michael

was lying on his side, staring at me.

I frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just watching you sleep.”
“Doesn’t sound too exciting.”
“You’d be surprised.” He smiled, then reached out and stroked

my face. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

“What did I say?”
“Actually, you mutter. About what, though, I don’t have a

clue.”

He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. “What

would you say to a trip to the country this next weekend? My
parents have a house on the river near Henley, and Sunday is my
mother’s birthday. She’ll be expecting me, so I’d love you to come
as well.”

The invitation caught me by surprise. “Sorry. I can’t.”
“Why not?” He laughed and poked me in the ribs. “A hot date

you don’t want to break?”

I considered making up an excuse, such as… Such as what? I

was having tea with the queen? “No.” The least Michael deserved
was the truth. “I won’t be here.” I got out of the bed and walked
over to the window. “This is my last day in London. I fly home
tomorrow afternoon.”

“But I thought…”

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31

“I know what I let you think. I realize I should’ve said

something, but I didn’t and I’m sorry.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”
“The sudden attraction I felt for you, the chemistry between us,

call it what you will. I wanted to hold onto the magical feeling as
long as possible. Stretch it out to the very last drop.”

“And you think if you’d told me it was your last day I’d have

cut lunch short and walked away?”

“I don’t know. Would you have?”
“I don’t know either. The chemistry was mutual, Drew. The

instant I touched you, it was like being sandbagged. I knew I was
in trouble. I wanted to hang on tight and never let go.”

“Me, too. That’s why I didn’t spell it out. There was no point. I

knew the most we could have was a few hours together, so I
figured why not enjoy them.”

“And you think that excuses you lying to me? You could have

told me and let me make up my own mind.”

“I didn’t lie.”
“Maybe not, but you deliberately misled me and that’s just as

bad in my book.”

“When we met in the teashop, I knew the attraction was there,

but most times things like that go nowhere. After lunch, I figured
you’d go your way and I’d go mine. Why would you care where
I’d be tomorrow or next week?”

“You could have mentioned it in passing.”
“Why would I?”
“Okay, so maybe not then, but why didn’t you say something

later? Like when I invited you over here and suggested us going
out to dinner.”

“Because by then it was too late. I was afraid if you knew

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32

you’d walk away. I would have sold my soul to stop that from
happening.”

“In other words, you were only thinking about yourself. Thanks

a lot. If it wasn’t four in the morning, I’d ask you to leave.”
Michael got out of bed, pulled on a robe and left the room,
slamming the door hard on his way out.

I wanted to yell at him to come back. I wanted to insist he put

himself in my place. Try to understand there are times in this life
when all you get is one tiny taste, not the whole fucking pie. Most
of all, I wanted him to forgive me. My eyes burned and I pressed
my forehead against the wall, hating myself for screwing up what
had been the best thing to happen to me in years. Michael had
every right to be angry. I’d hurt him by letting him believe what
we had was the start of something, when I knew damn well all we
had was one night. If he hated me for not making that clear, then it
was no more than what I deserved.

I collected my clothes from the chair and started to dress.

Anything I said or did could only make things worse, and I didn’t
want that. I needed to leave now. It didn’t matter it was dark
outside or that I didn’t have a clue how to get back to Jasper’s. I’d
figure it out.

As I sat on the edge of the bed to put my shoes on, the door

opened and Michael came back into the room. I knew he’d been
crying and that made me feel even worse.

He came over to the bed, then went down on his knees and

threw his arms around me, holding me so tight I could barely
breathe. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that for
something that was my own fault.”

“How do you figure it’s your fault?”
“When I asked, you said your job here was temporary. I could

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33

also have asked what that meant, but I didn’t because…

“You didn’t think it was any of your business?”
“Not even that. I just didn’t want to know. It’s not often two

people connect the way we did. I wasn’t about to spoil the
wonderful feeling by thinking about practical stuff, such as
tomorrow or next week or the fact you didn’t live here. All I
wanted to think about was now. If our positions were reversed, I
doubt I could have rained on our parade either. We live too far
apart to run back and forth on weekends, or make promises we
probably wouldn’t keep.” He hesitated and rubbed his eyes. “I’m a
great believer in Fate. What’s meant to be will be and all that.
Maybe all you and I were meant to have was these few hours.
What time is your flight?”

“Two-thirty this afternoon.”
He lifted his head and the look on his face almost broke my

heart. Despite the tear tracks on his cheeks and the way his lips
trembled, his beautiful smile was firmly back in place. “Good. We
still have a few hours left. Let’s not waste them. I’m truly sorry for
what I said. Please, don’t go, Drew.”

“I’m sorry, too.”
I urged him down on the bed beside me and pulled up the

covers. I would have liked for us to make love one more time, but
if all we could have was these last few hours locked in one
another’s arms, I would be satisfied.

* * *

London, September 30
Drew’s Hotel Room

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34

When the phone rang, I picked up, expecting it to be the front

desk wanting to know if I was ready for them to send the porter to
collect my luggage.

Instead, I was surprised to hear Grey Falton’s voice.
“Drew? That you?”
“Yes. What’s up?”
“What time’s your flight back?”
“Two-thirty out of Heathrow. I’ll be leaving here shortly.”
“Then thank God I caught you before you did. I was a little

worried there for a minute, trying to figure out the time difference.
Anyway, long story short, that guy I hired to take charge of the
London office changed his mind. I spent yesterday calling some of
the other applicants and then late last night it struck me.”

“What did?”
“You did. How would you like to spend the next year, year-

and-a-half over there? You’re well qualified for the job and you
have no ties here that I’m aware of. I realize it’s very short notice
and I’ll understand if you say no. But…what do you think, Drew?
Will you do it?”

“I, err…umm…” I didn’t know what to think or what to say.

My head was spinning and my legs felt weak and wobbly.
Something this wonderful didn’t happen in real life, only in
dreams. “Can you give me a minute?”

“You want to call me back?”
“No, it’s okay, just hang on for a moment.”
I pressed a hand over the phone and looked at Michael.

“You’re not going to believe this. No way. I’m not sure I believe it
myself.”

“So tell me.”
“It’s my boss on the phone. He wants to know if I’d like to stay

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35

on here in London. It would be for at least a year, maybe even
longer. What should I say?”

Michael’s reaction was pretty much what I expected. He

grinned from ear to ear and punched his fist into the air, mumbled
something about Fate and how could I even think about messing
with what was meant to be. Then he said, “What in hell are you
waiting for? It’s a yes! Just tell the man yes.”

C

HRISTIANE

F

RANCE

Christiane truly believes that love makes the world go round, so
she likes stories with both happy and bittersweet endings.
Christiane has been writing romance for the past twenty years and
lives near Niagara Falls with her husband and The Boys—two
black and white Persian cats.

* * *

Don’t miss Blues In The Night

by Christiane France,

available at AmberAllure.com!

To celebrate their reunion after a six-month work-related
separation, Alain and his partner James have planned to meet up
for the perfect dream vacation. When James calls with what Alain
expects to be details of his arrival time at the first stop on their
itinerary, James says he won’t be joining him. He’s met someone
new, the temporary assignment has turned into a permanent job,
and sorry, but their relationship is over.

Alain leaves the hotel, hoping the sights and sounds of the city will
help distract him from the shock of James’ desertion, maybe stop
him from trying to figure out ways of changing the unchangeable.
As evening turns to night, he continues walking, up one street and
down the next until music drifting up from a basement nightclub

catches his attention. The singer’s voice is distinctive, different,
and it sounds like Kenny Dumaine, a man Alain met in his
hometown a couple of years ago.

Kenny doesn’t remember him at first. But Alain is drinking heavily,
and when he mentions what sounds like a romance gone wrong,
Kenny recalls the circumstances of their first meeting. Alain had
helped him out of a bad spot, and now it looks like he needs the
favor returned. Kenny was attracted to Alain first time around, and
although things never turned physical, that hasn’t changed. As an
entertainer, always on the move, he’s learned to keep things
casual. His last performance is the following night, and the next
day he’ll be gone. Where’s the harm in offering an old
acquaintance a little badly needed TLC?

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