Unforgettable

Unforgettable
Molly Rice

She Was Seduced By Her Past…Stacy Millman's search was supposed to lead to her family's secrets–not to a romantic fantasy! But there was no avoiding the rugged and oh-so-seductive Derek Chancelor. His small-town charm quickly captured her big-city heart. But how would the sexy sheriff react when he learned the real reason she'd come to town?He Was Seduced By Her Presence…First the red-haired siren lured him under her spell. Then she unveiled her hidden agenda–and Derek found himself caught between love and the law. There was no way he could help Stacy uncover her family's secret…without exposing one of his own.

Unforgettable

Molly Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

This book is dedicated to the babies: Myranda Sequoia Adams, Matthew Eugene Goepfert and Ashleigh Morgan Edwards—last, but not least—with my love.

And to Debra Matteucci, Bonnie Crisalli and Barbara White-Rayczek, the kind of editors who help a writer keep the faith. Thank you.

And to my very first official fan, Cindi Loudermilk.

Contents

Chapter One (#ua9bba9f8-37c6-5f86-8d67-0a96907bcb9a)

Chapter Two (#u67b5e3e9-01ce-5644-a05a-ea7555c7ebc3)

Chapter Three (#ud4247342-4c66-5b1a-a81f-0a49696b298f)

Chapter Four (#u291400f8-c7ab-5981-9b28-3a41649ca129)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

The scene shimmered and blurred and then came into focus. There was a road that seemed to go on forever and along the side, a sign.

She tried to read the sign but found her vision too blurred to make sense of the letters. She looked around.

There was a twisted tree near the sign and its branches brushed the ground like fingers searching for hold. Stacy felt herself walking along the road, could feel the gravel crunching beneath her feet, smelled the goldenrod waving in the breeze. But when she looked down at herself, she couldn’t see her body, nor the feet that trod the road. She turned in a circle. Turned, turned, turned. Dizziness. She fell and in the falling...

* * *

STACY GRASPED the next rung of the ladder and laid her forehead against her hand. One, two, three... She lifted her head, forcing herself to focus. She was in her own studio, standing on a ladder, a long-handled, paint-laden brush in her hand, working on her latest painting, a huge, detailed landscape created from the watercolor studies she’d done on-site the previous summer. She slid down the ladder on rubbery legs and stuck the brush in a can of turpentine before she stumbled over to the old davenport across the room beneath the wall of windows. Warm sunlight caressed her hair, and she waited for it to obliterate the chill that seemed to form from within even as she wiped the dampness of perspiration from her face with the paint-stained rag she kept in her overalls pocket.

There was a phone on a wobbly three-legged table next to the sofa. When it rang, she jumped. She leaned to the side and grabbed the receiver, knocking the table over in the process.

She swore vehemently as she bent to retrieve the table and almost dropped the phone.

“A simple hello would do it for me,” her agent, Beth Harri, drawled.

“That’s how I’d feel about a simple goodbye,” Stacy retorted.

“Don’t hang up, Stacy,” Beth shouted as Stacy was about to do just that.

Sighing heavily, she put the receiver back to her ear. “You’ve got thirty seconds. Go!”

“I got you a show and they want to hang a dozen of your paintings and a couple of dozen studies and watercolors and you’re booked for the third of December and that means you’ll get the big holiday play in the press as well as the street traffic and—”

“Whoa!” Stacy interrupted. She sat back and stared at the receiver. Gingerly she returned it to her ear, a doubtful expression on her face. “Start over. Slow.”

Beth repeated her good news, slowly, happily enunciating every word.

“The third of December?” Stacy counted under her breath, using her fingers. “That’s nine months away.”

“Are you saying you can’t turn in a measly dozen paintings in nine months?”

Stacy frowned. “I have six finished and one on its way. I guess they’ll be dry by then.” She looked over at the unfinished seventh and shook her head. “I don’t know, Beth. Maybe if I did the last five in acrylic.”

“Do it. I’ve been telling you for years, acrylic is as compelling and expressive in its own way. You’re just addicted to the smell of turpentine.”

“I know. If I go without it for a couple of days, I start seeing things.” Another chill shook her as she recalled the strange vision she’d had. She had to force herself to concentrate on what Beth was saying.

“Hey, I’ve an idea. Why don’t you paint some of those things you see, we could offer them up as ‘fantasies of a turp-starved artist.’”

They shared laughter, Stacy’s a bit shaky.

“Hey, Stace, what’s the matter? You don’t sound as thrilled as I expected.”

It began to sink in. This was the big career push she’d worked so hard for, for so many years. And Beth had worked just as hard, always believing in Stacy’s talent.

Beth deserved a better reaction than she’d given her.