Out of the Past (Heritage Time Travel Romance series, book #1)
A second place finisher in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards
Free for Amazon Kindle and
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I returned from my book tour on May 16th and had
only one day at home to do laundry and clean house before I drove to Des Moines
to stay with Derek for the weekend and to schmooze with some of his clients for
dinner and drinks both Friday and Saturday night.
So on Saturday night, I found myself sitting in downtown Des
Moines at the lovely Cosmopolitan Lounge, stirring my very apropos Cosmo drink
and nodding mechanically at the stylish, dripping-with-expensive jewelry, and very young wife of Derek’s client who I
refer to privately as, Mr. Middle-Aged Moneybags. I listened to her describe
how she had lived enough to fill ten novels with her exploits into the
fast-paced world of the rich and famous.
“You should do it. You should write a novel,” I urged her
with as much sincerity as I could muster.
“Oh, I just couldn’t!” she hooted, followed by a ringing
high-pitched cackle of a laugh that sounded a bit like a deranged hyena. Derek
glanced over briefly, likely as surprised as I was that a sound like that could
come out of a human being, but he went back to his conversation without missing
a beat. My companion placed a hand over her mouth briefly with a self-conscious
flush coming up in her cheeks, floored by the notion.
“Oh no, not me but if you ever run out of ideas, I would be
more than happy to share,” she offered magnanimously.
“I’ll definitely keep that in mind—can’t have too many good
ideas,” I said distractedly as I reached for my black clutch that was vibrating
on the oversized-leather chair beside me. I pulled out my smart phone and
swiped open the face to read a text message. It was from Dave.
“Wow, that little black dress is killer!”
In shock, I looked up and around the room, finally finding
him seated at the bar halfway between me and the stage at the far end. He was
relaxed, seated on a bar stool, drink in hand. He raised his glass to me in
salute and grinned.
Oh, I thought
seeing his smiling face, I had missed Mr.
Cameron. I hadn’t had a chance to see him in Fremont before I’d left to
come to Des Moines for the weekend and having not seen him for over two weeks, it felt as if it had been ages.
“Would you please excuse me?” I said absently to the table
in general, and then I scooted my chair out and on my little black stiletto
heels, made my way across the room.
Dave watched me approach with a friendly enough smile on his
lips but those eyes of his; they roamed over every inch of my body, from the
tips of my high-heeled shoes to the very top of my head and back down again,
ending with a ‘have mercy’ roll to
them as if to swoon, just as I arrived.
“Would you mind going back and doing that one more time? I
want to be sure to commit that strut to memory for my future private use,” he
requested dreamily.
I shook my head and rolled my own eyes at his rather bawdy
remark.
“How’s the hand?” I asked to change the subject.
He immediately lifted it for my inspection and I held it in
my two hands, smoothing an index finger over the back of his hand and along
what was now no more than a thin pink line marring the golden brown of his
tanned skin.
“Looks good,” I said approvingly. “Glad to see that you’re
still in possession of all five of your fingers,” I observed and released his
hand from my grasp.
I crossed my arms over my waist and gave him a look up and
down not unlike he had just given me, from the top of his head to the tips of
his very expensive looking black dress shoes.
“No missing extremities,” I observed. “All body parts appear
to be present and accounted for. I’m very happy the see that you survived my
absence unscathed.”
“Very funny,” he said dryly.
“So now my next question must be what on earth are you doing
in Des Moines? And how is it that you just happen to be in the same bar as me?”
I asked flabbergasted. “Taken up stalking me, have you?”
“I’m not saying that wouldn’t likely be an extremely entertaining endeavor, all
things considered but—no,” he said playfully. “I knew Max Eubank was playing
here tonight, and my date lives downtown at the Plaza, within walking distance
so—”
“Your date?” I interrupted, goggling at him open-mouthed. I
don’t know why that should surprise me so much but it did.
“She’s in the restroom just now,” he said easily with a
grin, obviously amused by my reaction. He reached out an index finger and
lightly touched my chin.
I promptly closed my open mouth.
“Hmmm,” I murmured as I tried to digest this new
development.
I was a little shocked by the incalculable coincidence of
seeing him in this place and seeing this other side to Dave Cameron that I’d
never really considered. He was meticulously groomed and dressed in a great
looking dark-blue dress shirt and tie with some nice gray trousers, and those
dress shoes—something other than the
work boots that were his usual daily wear, at least in my experience. Not that
I don’t appreciate the way that he looks on a day to day basis. I can honestly
say that I’ve never seen him looking anything but perfect to my discerning eye
but this—he looked amazing. I
couldn’t even think of any eloquent
adjectives fitting enough to describe his sexy hotness, and I’m a freakin’ writer!
“Hey, you clean up nice, buddy,” I finally managed to say
nonplussed.
He sat up a little taller in his seat, lifting his chin
which showcased a knife sharp jawline and with a wry twist of a half-smile,
straightened his tie and gave me his famous one-liner.
“I have my moments.”
Just then, a very beautiful and very young woman, blonde and stylishly dressed in an expensive
designer outfit that flattered her numerous curvaceous attributes, arrived and
stood next to me and I belatedly got the hint and moved to provide her access
to what was apparently her seat next
to my employee.
Dave rose from his bar stool and kept standing briefly until
she had seated herself with, I noted, effortless grace and fluidity. She
swiveled on her stool toward me and I couldn’t help but notice her reach out to
lay a familiar hand on Dave’s upper thigh to steady herself while she crossed
her impossibly shapely legs and joined our conversation.
“Sharon Johnson, I’d like you to meet, Torie Mills. Torie
this is Sharon,” Dave gestured between us, making the introductions and Sharon
and I shook hands and made small talk about how nice it was to meet each other,
how much we were both looking forward to hearing the singer tonight, blah,
blah, blah—while Dave sat placidly sipping at his drink and looking on with his
head tilted to one side and a slight smile upon his lips, seeming to be
enjoying this little tête-à-tête immensely.
“Well,” I finally said extricating myself when our
conversation had quickly stumbled to an awkward pause. “It was very nice to
meet you, Sharon.”
“Nice to meet you, Torie,” she reciprocated with another
shake of my hand.
I moved my attention back to Dave, finding his eyes were on
me and a soft smile was upon his lips.
“Dave,” I said. “I need to get back to Derek, but I’ll be
able to help with the house part of next week.”
“I’ll be there, bright and early,” he assured me, nodding
and taking my hand into his for a cordial shake and said softly. “Really great
to see you.”
It was just then that the lights dimmed, bringing any
further conversation to an end as Max Eubank took his place on stage to a round
of enthusiastic applause and began strumming the intro to “I Won’t Make You
Feel Romantic.”
Sharon wiggled her manicured fingers toward me in a final
friendly farewell and swiveled her chair around to face the stage while I
quickly retreated to my table at the back of the room but I couldn’t help my
eyes drifting again and again, across the room to watch Dave and his date as
they sat cozily together, enjoying the music and quiet conversation with each
other. Dave had his arm along the back of her chair, leaning in to whisper over
her shoulder and she was leaning back against his chest, tilting her head so
that he could speak directly into her ear and doubtless his lips were lightly
touching there, his breath probably tickling and warm against her neck. I had
to admit to myself that they appeared to be sharing a very romantic and
intimate connection with each other as they listened to the singer and his
acoustic guitar.
Me? Oh, I was treated to listening to Derek drone on and on
about market conditions and equity index funds while at the same time
shamelessly stroking his client’s already inflated ego like a two-bit car
salesman and expecting me to do the
same for the guy’s gold-digging trophy wife!
