LITMIR.BIZ

      LYRICAL PRESS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Copyright

      Lyrical Press books are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2016 by Maggie Wells

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

      All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.

      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

      Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

      Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

      First Electronic Edition: April 2017

      eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0252-5

      eISBN-10: 1-5161-0252-5

      First Print Edition: April 2017

      ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0253-2

      ISBN-10: 1-5161-0253-3

      Printed in the United States of America

      Dedication

      To all those who doubt the existence of insta-love: I’d like to introduce you to my husband. It’s true. It happens. And when it does, it’s smokin’ hot!

      Acknowledgments

      Thank you Marci and Martin. Your continued faith in my work means the world to me. I have some mad love for Renee, Michelle, and the whole Kensington/Lyrical team. They are fantastic! Special thanks to my agent, Sara, for her unflagging enthusiasm and support. She truly is one of the most positive people I’ve ever met, and I am so lucky to have her on my side!

      To my new friends in the Seasoned Romance group on Facebook: it’s so good to know we are not alone!

      And, as always, I couldn’t do one bit of this crazy author thing without the backing of my Super Cool Party People – you are the super coolest women on the planet!

      Chapter 1

      Lightning streaked across the night sky. Even though she’d been expecting the crack of thunder, she jumped. Cradling her mug in both hands, Hope Elliot smiled and stepped closer to the paned patio doors, almost daring the elements to put on a show.

      The tea was too hot to gulp, but she took a tiny sip anyway, impatient and needing the extra warmth. The tile floor was cool under bare feet, but the room was warm...ish. Warmer than the drafty old chateau in France. A wave of homesickness engulfed her. To distract herself, she pressed her fingertips to a pane of glass. The next bolt of lightning cut a jagged line from the heavens to the horizon. She traced the pattern on the inside of the rain-spattered glass and centered herself in the moment. After all, living in the moment was her thing.

      She’d awakened ten minutes earlier, jolted from sleep by a house-shaking rumble. With only an hour or two of rest under her belt. Damn jet lag. She decided not to fight the insomnia. The shadows the tree limbs cast across her bed spooked her a bit. She had to blink several times before her mind engaged enough to send a cease and desist order to her hammering heart. But then another round of thunder rumbled through. Resigned, she gave in to its siren song and crawled out of bed.

      Nothing blew as hard as a Midwestern thunderstorm. Hope knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink until the storm cruised through.

      Bearings reestablished, she moved through her childhood home without turning on the lights. Moving silently down the wide upstairs hall took her back to her rebellious teenage years. Any attempts her parents made to thwart her late-night forays were futile. She’d reached expert-level escape artist before the age of fifteen. By the time she left for good, she’d given up shimmying down drainpipes and rose trellises altogether and graduated to dramatic door slams. She also excelled at hurling hurtful words at her parents or younger sister, before hopping into whatever escape vehicle awaited her and taking off.

      A small, sad smile curved her lips as she brushed the memories away and attempted another sip. Lightning marked the unseen cracks and crevices in the night sky. What a complete shit she’d been. Was it any wonder she never felt the urge to procreate? She’d probably end up every bit as controlling as her own parents had been. Wouldn’t that have been a kick in the pants?

      Hugging the warm ceramic to her chest, she tipped her head back, enthralled by the light show Mother Nature provided. Storms didn’t scare her. One might startle her out of complacency, or wake her out of a dead sleep, but she was never truly frightened by them. She loved their power.

      Her late husband claimed her parents should have named her Tempest rather than Hope. Once, after making love on a dark, blustery morning, John told her she embodied all the crackling energy

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