LITMIR.BIZ

      Come back to Heyday.

      Tyler thought of the silly little city, where everything, even the coed prostitutes, had a circus theme. He thought of the old bastard Anderson McClintock, who had run the city like a feudal overlord. He thought of his brothers, Kieran and Bryce, whom Tyler had seen occasionally on the streets or in the stores, but had otherwise avoided.

      Now that he’d committed to writing this book, he was going to have to return to Heyday sooner or later. He was a good reporter, and he wouldn’t leave all those stones unturned.

      But he remembered the Heyday residents who hated his guts. He particularly remembered Mallory Rackham, who had run the Ringmaster Café, where the Heyday Eight had gathered to make their dates and count their profits.

      Mallory, who had let Tyler spend so many hours there, chatting her up and complimenting her coffee, never guessing that he was gathering notes for his exposé.

      Mallory, beautiful and ridiculously naive, whose husband had been one of the Heyday Eight’s best customers. Mallory, who had tossed a plate of French fries, complete with ketchup, into Tyler’s face when she found out who he really was.

      Mallory, who for some strange reason was the only person in ten years to put Tyler’s disciplined objectivity and emotional distance in jeopardy.

      “All right,” he said, ignoring the wriggle of doubt. “I’ll come back to Heyday.”

      Dear Reader,

      It’s not easy being the older sister. I should know—I’ve got one, and I’ve spent most of my life driving her crazy!

      My sister is only two years older than I am, but in our family she’s called the “mother pretend.” At five, I was afraid to go upstairs alone, so she trotted up into the darkness at my side. At ten, I broke the priceless Oriental vase, but she told our parents she did it. Later she pierced my ears, cut my hair and taught me that sometimes less is more, especially in bad boys and blue eye shadow. She played ambassador (“Let her go, he’s a nice guy”), counselor (“let him go, he’s a jerk”) and cheerleader (“look at her go, isn’t she super?”). I didn’t ask her to do these things. I didn’t have to.

      So when I had to write the story of Mallory Rackham, who suddenly finds that protecting her troubled younger sister will be both frightening and expensive, I knew where to go for inspiration. All I had to ask myself was—what would my sister do to save me? The answer was simple. Anything.

      A woman like that deserves a special man, someone who understands all about love and loyalty. But sexy Tyler Balfour hardly fits that description. The third brother in the complicated McClintock clan, Tyler is a confirmed outsider. He has no interest in getting involved.

      Then he meets Mallory.

      I hope you enjoy their story. And if you have older sisters or brothers like mine, give them a hug today. They’ve undoubtedly earned it!

      Warmly,

      Kathleen O’Brien

      P.S. I love to hear from readers! Please write me at P.O. Box 947633 or stop by my Web site, KathleenOBrien.net.

      The Stranger

      Kathleen O’Brien

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Three-time finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s RITA^® Award, Kathleen is the author of more than twenty novels for Harlequin Books. After a short career as a television critic and feature writer, Kathleen traded in journalism for fiction—and the chance to be a stay-at-home mother. A native Floridian, she and her husband live just outside Orlando, only a few miles from their grown children.

      CONTENTS

      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

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      MALLORY RACKHAM LOVED many things about owning a bookstore in Heyday, Virginia, but balancing the bank accounts wasn’t one of them.

      Balance? What a joke! Watching the numbers on her computer screen cling to the “plus” column was as nerve-racking as watching an acrobat bicycle across the high wire without a net.

      And she hadn’t even entered this month’s sales-tax payment. She typed a few keys, and, sure enough, the dollar total tumbled off the tightrope and somersaulted straight into the red.

      She put her head in her hands and groaned. Apparently living your whole life in Heyday did things to your mind. Heyday had been built around a circus legend, and from the Big Top Diner to the Ringmaster Parade it was a one-theme town. And now she was even going bankrupt in circus metaphors.

      “Mallory?” Wally Pierson, the teenager she’d hired to work the cash register in the afternoons, stuck his head through her office door. “The guy from the place is here. He wants to know if you need some more thingies.”

      She looked at Wally, wondering when teenagers had stopped using nouns. She was only twenty-eight, but Wally always made her feel old, with his tattoo and his piercings and his multicolored hair.

      “You mean the sales rep? About the bookmarks?”

      “Yeah.” Wally clicked his tongue stud against his teeth. “So you want some?”

      She stared at the computer screen. She wanted some, all right. They sold well, and the markup was extremely advantageous, much better than some of the books. But how was she going to pay for them?

      “Yes. But tell him just to replace what’s sold. Nothing new until next month.”

      Wally nodded and disappeared, leaving her alone with the computer screen, which was still blinking bright red.

      She was going to have to borrow money from her personal account again this month. She began typing. Goodbye to the haircut, even though she’d put it off three months now and her “breezy, low-maintenance” cut stood up in spikes that made her look slightly electrified. Goodbye to the steak dinner she’d been going to cook for Roddy Friday night—he’d have to settle for pasta, though if ever a man was a born carnivore, it was Roddy Hartland.

      Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. When she saw the final number in the home account, she grimaced. Not even enough for pasta. She felt herself sliding toward self-pity, so she closed her folder of bills briskly and wiggled her fingers to shake it off. Roddy was a millionaire. She’d make him take her out to dinner.

      “Mallory?” Wally’s head was in the door again, so she arranged her face in a calm smile. He knew she was doing the books, and of course he knew business had been off lately. Wally’s weekly paycheck wasn’t huge, but it was important to him. No need to make the kid wonder where his next Whopper was coming from.

      “Phone’s for you. Some rude guy, won’t give his name. Just said to tell you it’s about your

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