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      VICTORIA PADE

      is a native of Colorado, where she continues to live and work. Her passion—besides writing—is chocolate, which she indulges in frequently and in every form. She loves romance novels and romantic movies—the more lighthearted, the better—but she likes a good, juicy mystery now and then, too.

      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 One

      “Cassie, I need to enlist you for special services.”

      Cassie Walker had been called at home and asked to come immediately into the office of the dean of Northbridge College. It was eight o’clock on a Sunday evening and there had been urgency in the summons, two things that had aroused her curiosity.

      “Okay,” she said tentatively, sitting somewhat stiffly in one of the two visitors’ chairs in front of the dean’s desk.

      “I want you to know that I’m speaking on behalf of myself and Mayor McCullum, because this is a matter of interest to him and all of Northbridge.”

      “Ah,” Cassie said, wondering what the dean could be possibly getting at.

      “Are you familiar with Alyssa Johansen?” he asked then.

      Northbridge College was a private school in the small Montana town of the same name. The total enrollment was a mere 237 students. Cassie had been an academic adviser and the coordinator of residential advisers for the dormitories since her graduation from the college with a master’s degree four years earlier. She wasn’t friendly with each and every student, but small colleges were like small towns—she was familiar with most of the names and faces.

      “Alyssa Johansen,” she repeated. “She’s a freshman. Not from Northbridge.” Which was why the eighteen-year-old stuck out in Cassie’s mind. The school didn’t get many out-of-state students. “I’ve spoken to her a couple of times since the semester started. But I wouldn’t say I actually know her yet. It’s only been three weeks, though I know she hasn’t been in any trouble at her dorm.”

      Cassie couldn’t imagine what about the pretty, vivacious, black-haired girl required the dean—on his own behalf and that of the mayor—to call her in on a Sunday evening.

      “Alyssa Johansen isn’t really Alyssa Johansen,” Dean Reynolds revealed as if it were a state secret.

      “Who is she?” Cassie asked.

      “She’s Alyssa Cantrell.”

      “Alyssa Cantrell,” Cassie parroted. “As in Joshua Cantrell?”

      That wouldn’t have been her first guess had it not been for the dean’s emphasis on the name.

      “Yes,” the dean confirmed.

      No one who picked up a magazine or a newspaper or stood at a grocery store checkout where tabloids regularly splashed pictures and headlines could have avoided knowing who Joshua Cantrell was. He was the Donald Trump of tennis shoes: the Tennis Shoe Tycoon, as he was referred to.

      “Alyssa is here as Alyssa Johansen to keep her identity secret so she can have some privacy and a normal college experience,” the dean explained. “There are only a handful of us who know who she really is. She’s Joshua Cantrell’s younger sister. His much younger sister. He raised her. And the press hound them mercilessly.”

      The dean paused a moment for effect, then said, “There have been distractions arranged to keep reporters and photographers from realizing where Alyssa actually is—it’s very important to her and to her brother that her real identity and her presence here be kept strictly confidential. But, as you know, Parents’ Week begins tomorrow. Many out-of-town family members are actually arriving today or tonight.”

      “Right,” Cassie said, fully aware of that fact.

      “We had planned for Kirk Samson to do what I’m about to ask of you. After all, he’s head of fund-raising. But Kirk was cutting a branch off a tree in his yard late this afternoon when the ladder he was on tipped over. He fell to the ground and hurt his back. He had to be taken to the emergency room and be X-rayed, and his wife called us only an hour ago to say that he’s on pain medication and muscle relaxants and will be laid up at least the whole week.”

      “I’m sorry to hear that,” Cassie said.

      “So we need you to fill in in a hurry,” the dean announced.

      “To fill in on what? I don’t know anything about fund-raising,” she pointed out.

      “As I said, it’s important for Alyssa to have as normal a college experience as possible,” Dean Reynolds said without addressing Cassie’s question or comment. “Having her guardian—in lieu of her parents—attend Parents’ Week is part of that. Plus, her brother plays an active role in her life and wants to be here with her and for her. He’s taken steps to keep the press from following him for the time being, but I need you to show him around. To be his private escort.”

      The request sounded slightly seedy to Cassie and the dean must have realized it after the fact because he amended it. “What we need is for you to be the school’s delegate. We can’t have anyone high-profile do it—like the chair of the board of regents or the president or the chancellor or even me. It might cast Cantrell into the spotlight and negate whatever it is he’s doing to throw people off his trail. But we want someone with him as much as possible to be his private guide to the school and the town. To make him feel welcome. At home. Comfortable. To make him feel like one of the Northbridge family.”

      “You know I just closed on my house,” Cassie reminded. “My things are all in boxes. I need to buy furniture. To get settled in. I was planning on using every minute I could spare to do that.”

      “I know you’re busy,” Dean Reynolds allowed. “But whether your boxes get unpacked this week or next won’t really make much difference, will it? It’s important that Cantrell get the personal touch so he feels favorably toward the school and the town.”

      “I don’t know,” Cassie hedged, not thrilled at

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