PAPERBACK VERSION

DIAMONDS and TOADS
A Modern Fairy Tale

ADULT Contemporary Romance - Humorous, HOT & STEAMY; 48K
$3.99 ebook / $9.99 paperback

Read some amusing snippets HERE
~or~
Excerpt Follows

From Romantic Times (RT Book Reviews)

4-Stars

Readers looking for a charming and entertaining read need look no further. Billed as a cross between Bewitched, Sex and the City and Gossip Girl, it certainly lives up to it. True emotion and plenty of heat mixes with laugh-out-loud humor to keep readers looking for more.

Sugar and spice and everything nice...and, oh yes, naughty--times twice.

Together, sweet Delilah and wicked Isadora make the perfect woman. But the Perrault family fairy is a troublemaker and imbues diamonds upon one sister and toads upon the other. Now up is down and down is up in a world where no good deed goes unpunished. Leather, blindfolds, and handcuffs purge sweet of all reserve. A few misspoken words of lust gives wicked a whole new meaning.

Once upon a time, there were two sisters, one cursed and one blessed by fairy magic...

Bibbidee-bobbidi-boo, They're naughty. How about you?

~Excerpt~

  
Excerpt #1:
Part One: Diamonds

PROLOGUE

Delilah Perrault fanned the perspiration from her cheeks with the folded Houston Press she’d snagged out of the dispenser and took a bite from her chocolate bar. She was supposed to meet Chas Regan here in front of the main branch of the Houston Public Library for lunch, but she was so nervous about it, she’d run down to its basement and bought the candy from the machine.

No, she wasn’t really hungry, and yes, she knew she shouldn’t be eating sugar and fat if she wanted to get that last six pounds off before the gala at the Crystal Ballroom eight days from now, but her compulsive need to fill her mouth with food wouldn’t let her be.

An old beggar woman in a faded-to-purple pea coat with a stained and frayed scarf around her neck pushed her shopping cart filled with--Delilah was sure--the woman’s life possessions across the cobbled pavement a few feet from where Delilah sat.

The poor thing looked as shop-worn as Delilah felt.

She glanced toward Delilah then dropped a hungry gaze to the candy bar.

Delilah lifted the cold Coke from the short marble wall she was sitting on and walked over to the woman.

“Here. You’re welcome to both of these, if you would like? I haven’t eaten much of the candy yet--Or--would you like me to buy you something else?” She scanned the area. “I’ll bet there’s a deli or something in that building over there. I could get you a sandwich?”

“What a kind girl you are. But no, these will do just fine.” The old woman captured the fare, captured Delilah’s gaze. Her eyes, silver blue and bright, were more youthful than Delilah expected.  Odd. Shivery goose bumps formed on Delilah’s arms. “I have a sweet tooth, don’t you know,” the woman continued.

“Oh--” Delilah jerked a nod. “Okay.” She turned away from her and walked back toward the two-foot-high granite wall she’d been seated on earlier.

“Bless you, Lila, dear,” the woman said.

Delilah stopped short.

A loud crack! split the air and Delilah whirled around. A sudden scent of patchouli filled her nostrils. All around her, a rosy watercolor haze washed over the landscape. A giddy bubble of fear tripped up Delilah’s spine as a spray of glitter dust drifted in the space where the woman had been. And in her place, a yellow parrot perched on the handle of the cart, staring at her from one beady black eye.

Delilah hawked a reflexive cough and something small, hard, and cold fell from her mouth into her palm. “Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” A diamond.

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

Chas Regan slammed the phone down. Fuck! What the hell was he supposed to do now? He leaned back in his executive chair, allowing the front rollers to lift off the floor, and dug the base of his palms into his eyelids. His heart still raced so fast that it caused a shot of stomach bile to blast into his throat.

The company was lost. Gone. No more. His entire family’s empire, a glimmering speck of its former glory lost in the vast abyss of others that had gone before it.

He could have saved it, too, he knew, if only he’d been able to come up with that measly five million in time. But he hadn’t been able to liquidate enough capital before tonight’s deadline. If only that blasted prospective buyer would loosen her grip on her cash, he’d have had his two-year-old thoroughbred sold a month ago and his problems would be solved.

He needed more time. More money and time.

The intercom on his phone buzzed, followed by his assistant’s voice saying, “Chas, Delilah Perrault is here to see you. Should I show her in?”

His churning stomach sank to his toes, but he couldn’t see a way out of meeting with her right now. He sprang into an upright position and did a quick finger-comb through his hair. “Yes. That’s fine, Sharon.”

* * *

Delilah walked into the office with a big grin on her face. She couldn’t wait to tell Chas all that had happened this morning. He’d been a sage advisor these past few months since they’d begun working on the charity together and she hoped he wouldn’t mind giving her a little more now.

After the strange encounter with the beggar woman two days ago--and the ‘found’ diamond--Delilah had called Chas and canceled their lunch. To tell the truth, if it weren’t for the diamond that rested in the bottom of her coin purse, she’d have tossed the whole thing off as a lucid dream.

She hadn’t told a soul about the encounter, either, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to.

“Hi,” she said, noticing immediately the sexy contrast between his slightly rumpled blond hair and his crisp, tailor-made suit. Her already jangled nerves started to tap dance across their endings the closer she came to him. Breathe in, breathe out. Thankfully, she’d managed to keep her deeper feelings for him to herself, thus far. She could just imagine how awkward their friendship would become if he ever realized what she felt. He probably wouldn’t want to work with her anymore.

It wasn’t until she’d taken a seat on his leather couch that she picked up on the tension lines around his eyes and mouth. “Is this a bad time? Am I interrupting something?” She shot to her feet. “I’ll just leave now. I-I shouldn’t have come without calling first. But I have got some exciting news to tell you, so maybe--could we meet for dinner?” She took a step toward the door.

Chas jumped up and waved her back to her seat. “No, no, no. Sit. Tell me the good news.”

She hesitated and then shrugged. “Well, if you’re sure?” She sat down and beamed at him. “Guess what?” She was so excited and proud of herself, she wanted to do a jig. Instead, she clasped her hands in her lap and said, “I’m a multi-millionairess as of ten-thirty-two this morning.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“How many? Two? Three?”

“More.” She sat forward. “It’s like all my years of training as a gemologist have finally paid off.” She bit her lip to keep from grinning like a buffoon and glanced down. Lifting her gaze to his, she said, “A couple of days ago, I got it in my head to put some of my savings in diamond stocks--not a lot--just enough to get my feet wet.”

Chas’s brows shot into his hairline. “A couple of days ago?”

“I know. Amazing. Anyway, today I made--I made a hundred million! Dollars.”

Chas jackknifed forward in his chair. “A hundred million? That’s--that’s near to impossible.”

She laughed. “Exactly! I feel like crowing! You were the first person I thought to tell because you’re so--so good with money. Will you help me to invest it?”

A strange look flashed in his baby blues as he studied her for a moment. It unnerved her. Maybe she’d overstepped their friendship with the request? She was about to apologize to him and tell him she’d find someone else to help her when he laughed and the look changed. Brightened. Became recognizable. Comfortable. Compelling. For the first time since she’d entered his office, his face relaxed into the boyish grin that had become so familiar to her since they’d started working together on the charity event months ago. “Well, I guess I can’t propose to you now. You’ll think I’m only doing it for your money.”

Her heart tripped, then hammered against her ribcage. It took every ounce of her willpower not to let on with her eyes, her hands, or any other part of her body that he’d just spoken her deepest wish, made it a joke. She hoped the grin she gave him was less hungry than friendly. “Hey, women do it all the time--why not a guy?” She linked the fingers of her hands together and did a little stretch. Did her voice sound as out of breath, wobbly, to him as it did to her? “Besides, I could use a financial wizard for a husband, now that I’m worth loads of dough.”

Chas’s expression grew serious. He swiveled around and pulled something from his desk drawer then rose to his feet and came toward her. Instead of sitting next to her, as she expected, he knelt down in front of her.

“What’s this?” A nervous chuckle escaped her throat. “What are you doing?” Against her will, his close proximity brought on a fiery blush.

He lifted both of her hands. When her fingers twitched over the velvet box in his palm, her breath caught in her lungs. “I know you think I wasn’t serious,” he said. “But I was. I’d been planning to ask you to be my wife on Valentine’s Day, but if I wait any longer, you’ll be suspicious of my motives.”

He released her hands and opened the box. Resting inside was a brilliant cut solitaire in a platinum setting. “Will you marry me, Delilah?”

A rush of euphoria made her head spin, but somehow she managed to say, “YES!”

* * *

Delilah was so high with happiness, she felt as if she floated across the parking garage toward her car. She sighed. They’d finally kissed. She lifted her fingers to her lips. They still tingled from the warm contact. It had been as wonderful as she’d dreamed it would be. He’d tasted so masculine, felt so strong. It’d made her feel feminine, sexy even.

She shook her head and grinned. She was going to marry Chas Regan. Amazing. All this time she’d been pining away for the guy and--who knew?--he’d been doing the same thing for her!

Since he’d returned to the family business a year ago, moved back to Houston from Boston, they had formed a companionable friendship. Based mostly on their shared interest in charity work. He was very much involved in funding for cancer research--his mother had died of a rare form of it a little less than two years ago--and that was one of Delilah’s pet charities as well.

Once they’d met up again at a charity benefit, become reacquainted, they’d started sharing meals together several times a week, sometimes twice in the same day. He’d even begun confiding in her about his devastation at his mother’s sudden illness and death, a thing, she was sure, he didn’t speak of with others. And the more she learned about him, the man he’d grown up to be, the more she’d fallen in love with him.

Of course, she, being the fat one in her family, never thought for a second that he could ever think of her in any romantic way.

She stopped walking and thrust her hand out in front of her. The ring sparkled, even in the dim light, and the fit was perfect. He must have done some sleuthing to get it just right. The thought of him planning for weeks such a romantic proposal gave her a giddy feeling in her chest. He loved her! Oh, he hadn’t said the words--he wasn’t the sort, she knew. So many men weren’t. At least that’s what she’d read in loads of women’s magazines. But she hoped that one day, somehow, she’d finally get him to say them aloud.

She started to walk again, and then it became a jog, and then a full-out run, which wasn’t easy in her floral print slim lined dress. She couldn’t wait to tell her stepmother and half-sister! Wouldn’t their jaws drop to the floor! Not only had she managed to pull their family back into the financial realm they’d been in before her father’s imprisonment, but, she, Delilah Perrault, had snagged the one perfect prospect her stepmother had pegged to be her skinny, beautiful half-sister’s future husband.

* * *

Chas hung up the phone. Relief washed over him. The creditors were going to give him until a week from this coming Monday to wire them the money now that he had access to some funds.

He sat back and gnawed on a piece of dead skin next to his fingernail. Okay, asking Delilah to marry him hadn’t been the noblest way to deal with his dilemma. But he’d been desperate. He’d briefly thought of simply asking her for the money, but he’d quickly nixed it. He needed this all kept under wraps, and keeping her in the dark about it while he ‘borrowed’ some of her money--just long enough to swing things back in his favor--seemed the best plan of action.

His already burning stomach twisted into a knot and he popped several antacids into his mouth. Okay. He admitted it. He’d taken advantage of a sweet girl who had a crush on him so that he could keep the hounds at bay a little longer--and get hold of those funds he needed.

He’d pay her back. With interest. And heck, he just might go through with the marriage, too. If she really wanted him. He liked her a lot. She was a good friend. And easy to talk to. Most times, made him feel calm and settled inside. His stomach hardly ever gave him grief when he was with her. That was something, wasn’t it?

She was pretty, too. Electric blue eyes, dark silky hair, long limbs, but soft and curvy. At five-eight, she was just right for his own six-three height.

And, dear God, that kiss they’d shared! It had sent shock waves all the way through him. No, it wouldn’t be such a bad match. Not such a bad match at all.

Except, he needed her to be on his arm over the next few months while he proved to his creditors that he was a responsible sort--they could trust him with their money. So, he’d best spend a little less time at the office and spend some real time with her. Not in bed, of course. He wouldn’t be that much of a bastard. Once he’d paid back the money, then yes. After that kiss--hell yes. But not until then.

His gaze dropped to the ring box on his desk. Good thing his last fiancée--the fourth to be exact--had over-nighted that ring to his office eight months ago. It had come in handy.

* * *

Excerpt #2:
Part Two: Toads

INTERLUDE 

i m n hell. i h8 it here.

Isadora Perrault punched each character with vigor into her BlackBerry. A few seconds later came the reply from her mother: Stay put. Look for the old hag with the purple coat. She’s the one.

With her mother’s oft-repeated dictum reverberating in her head to maintain the God-given social barrier between those of their rank and the unwashed masses, Isadora viciously tamped down her initial pang of sympathy and cringed away from the filthy street creature with foul-smelling breath and bad teeth that loomed much too close to her. “No,” she told him, then scooted further down the two-foot-high marble wall she’d been sitting on for the past hour across from the Houston Public Library and turned her attention back to her BlackBerry and her texting. Fine, she replied and hit the send button.

She lifted her gaze and scanned the perimeter for about the thousandth time. Would the old lady never show up? The so-called ‘beggar woman’ that her sister had given assistance to last week--the one that had then mysteriously, but most assuredly, blessed her with the ability to make loads of money in diamond stocks--was now of keen interest to both Isadora and her mother. “If anyone deserves to be a millionairess,” her mother said afterward, “it is you, Isadora--not that oh-so-sweet, goody-two-shoes half-sister of yours, Delilah.” Now Isadora was here with the express purpose of having the old thing toss a little magic her way as well.

A woman, professionally dressed in a red suit and matching pumps, walked across the paved promenade toward Isadora, her cell phone tucked against one ear while she dug inside her purse. Isadora turned a jealous eye on the shoes. Manolo Blahnik. Her feet are too fat for those.

The woman tripped on something and lost her balance. In the next second, she was flat out on the pavement, face-first.

Isadora shrugged. See? Too fat. The woman’s cell phone hit the ground and slid across the pavement, stopping an inch from Isadora’s foot.

Isadora glanced at the slim pink device, scooted down another few spaces and continued to scroll through the newest tweets on her Twitter page. “Jaded,” her favorite Aerosmith song, blasted from the BlackBerry in her hand at the same time her mother’s name popped up on the screen. She punched the answer button and lifted the phone to her ear. As she did so, she looked up. The lady in red, on her feet again, waved her hand in the air and fluttered her fingers in Isadora’s direction.

Isadora swiveled to her right, giving the strange woman her shoulder. “Hello, Mother,” she said. “No. Still no sign of her.”

A loud pop! and a sudden scent of patchouli wafted over to her from the direction she’d just turned from. With a jolt, Isadora swung her head around. Sparks flew and a cloud of glitter dust floated in the space where the woman had just been, but there was no trace of the lady in red. She’d vanished.

“Uh oh,” Isadora said. I think I just blew it, Mother. “Go blow yourself, Mother.” Huh?

* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

Two nights later, Isadora sat next to her mother at the head table in the ballroom of Chas Regan’s River Oaks mansion. Texas blue blood, 30-something finance guru extraordinaire, and now her lucky-duck sister’s fiancé. She was determined to keep her mouth firmly shut tonight--and maybe for many more to come. She’d already alienated her friends with her humiliating, uncontrollable, oddball tweets and handwritten gobbledegook. So, tonight she’d just pretend to have laryngitis or something. At least until she’d figured out how to get the fairy curse lifted.

“Will you look at Candace, that tart?” her mother said, not as quietly as she should, into her ear. “She has three fine prospects dancing to her tune already, and she only just walked through the door two seconds ago!”

Isadora nodded. How desperate can you get?? “She’s dexterous, I’ll bet.” She bit down hard on her tongue.

Her mother turned a bug-eyed look on her and then blinked. “Such filth! When out in society, a man wants a wife with gentille manners, not those of a street tramp.” She sat closer and whispered, “Do you have a fever?”

Isadora just shook her head. It was no use.

“Well, you’d best have this distasteful turn of behavior out of your system by the night of the gala at the Crystal Ballroom, because I promise you this: I shall not pardon it, I tell you this now.”

Isadora gave a docile nod.

“Honestly, Isadora,” she continued unappeased, “you haven’t been yourself since your fruitless attempt to find your sister’s fairy the other day.” Her mother shook her finger at her. “And don’t think I’ve forgiven you for that crude comment you threw at me that day, either.” Her mother’s spine stiffened and she tilted her head back, just enough to look down her nose at her. “Get a grip on yourself, girl. You’ve already stood by while your sister stole the husband I had earmarked for you and now you’re just sitting there while Candace gets her claws in every other eligible prospect here tonight.”

Isadora only nodded. Maybe she should tell her what really happened that day. Except. She couldn’t trust her tongue anymore. It twisted everything she tried to say. Besides, it’d only give her mother more reason to be angry with her.

If only the fairy would answer one of her calls or texts! Isadora’s fingers flittered across her silk clutch and then stopped short over the rectangular-shaped bulge. She’d left at least twelve dozen messages at the one and only number listed in the woman’s abandoned cell phone-- TIN-KER-BELL--with not a peep in response.

Isadora’s mother leaned toward her. “The Perraults have a long history with the fey folk--they followed your great-great grandpapa here from France--and I’ll not rest until you get your blessing from one as well. You quit it much too soon.” She gripped Isadora’s upper arm and jerked it. Not with so much strength that others could see, but with plenty to give Isadora the full understanding of her wrath. “You are such a disappointment to me, Isadora.”

Isadora’s stomach twisted and then sank.

“I’ve always expected more of you than I have of your silly half sister.” Her mother slid her hand from Isadora’s arm and took a sip of her wine. “It is you who have the beauty and the brains to get us reinstated in the social register,”--Isadora clenched her fists in her lap, but forced the muscles in her face to remain relaxed--“something that I am not convinced Delilah is going to be able to do--even with the money and the catch she’s made in Chas.”

Isadora felt the heat of anger, of frustration, and of her own disappointment in herself rise up inside her like molten lava. She swiveled around and looked at the band. The first chords of “I’ve Got a Crush on You” filled the air.

A second later, a warm hand fell on her shoulder. She started.

“They’re playing our song--shall we dance?” The familiar smooth-as-Kahlúa voice sent an unwanted thrill through her.

I only dance with men with 9-figures. “I only dance with men with 9-inchers.”

“Isadora!” her mother said.

A very masculine chuckle followed.

Mouth. Shut!

“Well, you’re in luck then.” He took hold of her hand and lifted her from her seat. She finally looked at him. Sam. Samuel Thomas Slade. The devil incarnate. Still gorgeous as ever. And by the dark tan of his skin and the sun streaks in his chestnut hair, clearly still a slacker scuba dude as well. What a waste.

Sam led her out onto the dance floor and they easily fell into the same old perfect rhythm they’d enjoyed so often during their short interlude together her sophomore year in college.

“I like your hair. I’m glad you’re not ruining the effect of all that sexy red with those blonde highlights anymore. This look suits you much better.”

“Mmm.”

“So--Chas and Delilah. I’ll bet you’re pretty disappointed. You’ve had your sights on the guy for a long time now--what is it? Seven-eight years?”

Seven. And a couple of months.

“Wait, don’t tell me. January of oh-four. The first party of the new semester.”

Isadora shrugged. No telling what would come out of her mouth if she tried to answer him.

“That certainly was a defining moment for me: finding my fiancée going down on my best friend.” He dipped her and then slowly brought her up, holding her much-too-close against him.

Her breath caught in her throat. She blinked and then looked him straight in the eye. His pupils dilated.

“That’s why I was a little surprised,” he said, “when I got this invite, having lost contact with him after that. But I was downright intrigued when I saw that it was Delilah’s name, not yours, on the card.”

The hot flush from his ungentlemanly reminder of her desperate attempt to snag Chas now traveled from her bosom, up her neck, to her cheeks. Yes, well, my sister’s made millions since then. “Yes, well, I’ve laid millions since then.”

Shut. Up.

“No doubt.”

The music stopped and Isadora all but leapt from Sam’s embrace.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Chas said from the riser, “we’ve got a real treat for you. Isadora, my fiancée’s lovely sister, has a handmade piece of videography she’s put together just for this wonderful occasion.” He held his hand out to her. “Isadora?”

* * *

A few minutes later, the first image blazoned across the 100-inch projection screen. It was Delilah’s first baby picture. Many oohs and ahs rose in the air at the sight.

So far, so good. She wouldn’t have to say a word. The film began then--a montage of scenes from Delilah’s childhood--along with her favorite song from that time: “Beauty and the Beast.”

The tight band of tension across her forehead and temples began to recede and Isadora settled more comfortably back in her chair. All right. Fifteen minutes of blissful peace, here in the dark, with only the sound of the film audio and the audience response breaking the silence. Her eyelids drooped closed.

“I BLAME YOUR FATHER.”

Isadora bolted upright and stared at the screen. Her mother’s image stretched across it. Oh, God. The fairy’s doing. It must be.

“HE LEFT US VIRTUALLY PENNILESS WITH HIS LAST SCHEME, AND NOW HE HAS NOT A CARE IN THE WORLD, ENJOYING AN EXTENDED VACATION IN THAT EXECUTIVE COUNTRY CLUB THEY CALL A PRISON.”

Shocked gasps and murmurs abounded in the ballroom, and Isadora felt the weight of every eye on her as she valiantly searched for the on/off switch. Wasn’t it just here? On the back of the projector? Blasted piece of machinery.

“WE CAN’T RELY ON THAT TWIT DELILAH, EITHER. AND NOW THAT YOUR FRIENDS HAVE DESERTED YOU, IT’S EVEN MORE IMPORTANT THAT YOU FIND YOURSELF A HUSBAND OF SUFFICIENT BREEDING AND WEALTH TO PULL US OUT OF THIS MESS.”

Isadora clawed at the tape that held the electrical cord snug to the floor, mindlessly breaking nails as she went, and then yanked the loosened cord as hard as she could.

“HERE’S A LIST OF ELIGIBLES I’VE DRAWN UP. WE’LL WORK THEM ONE-BY-ONE. MOST ARE IDIOTS--NOT LIKE OUR CHAS--

More gasps and now a few snickers from the assembled guests.

Please, please unplug!

--SO IT SHOULDN’T TAKE YOU LONG TO REEL ONE OF THEM IN. MEN THINK WITH THEIR NETHER REGIONS, MY GIRL, IT--”

The plug gave way. Finally.

The screen went blank, the room went as silent as death, and then: the clatter of high-heeled shoes, the harsh, heaving breath of a dragon in human form, and a rawboned, be-ringed, long-nailed hand gripping and twisting the flesh of Isadora’s upper arm. In the next instant, she was yanked through the black void, tripping and stumbling across the ballroom floor to the exit just to the side of the riser.

* * *

Rain poured from the purple-clouded autumn sky, pounding the roof of the limousine as it took the corner at the end of the private drive. Isadora repositioned the drooping strap of her emerald colored satin gown onto her shoulder. Her heart tripped against her breastbone and a lump of dread clogged her throat as she determinedly kept her eyes on the passenger window. It was swathed in a silver-gray watered silk veil of fog and wet.

As her mother arranged herself on the seat beside her, she tossed Isadora’s clutch in her lap and said, “Explain yourself.”

With effort, Isadora turned her attention to the woman beside her, whose feral amber eyes shot fire from beneath the angry hand-drawn brows. The much-cultivated blasé mask was off, revealing age-and-tension lines around the terse set of her rose-tinted lips. Time to come clean. I’ve been cursed, Mother. My life is ruined. “I curse you, Mother. You’ve ruined my life.”

In the dizzying millisecond that followed, the harsh hissing sound of indrawn breath pierced through Isadora’s spinning consciousness.

“Driver, stop the car.” Her mother’s damp, yellow silk-chiffon covered arm snaked around her and the door flew open. “Get out. You are no longer my daughter.”

The car was still rolling to a stop as her mother shoved her from the limo. Isadora’s foot caught on the rubber doorjamb and she ended up facedown in the front flowerbed of God-only-knew-who’s River Oaks mansion. She lifted her face out of the mud and opened her mouth to beg for forgiveness just as the limo wheels squealed and sent an arc of gutter water down her throat and up her nose. She hacked, gagged, coughed and sneezed for a good minute.

The frigid rain pelted her skin and stung her eyes, blinding her and making her even more miserable. With shaking hands, she dragged the hair off her cheeks and tried to get her bearings. After another several seconds of sitting there quaking and quivering, she crossed her arms over her chest and scrubbed at the gooseflesh.

Shelter. But where? She couldn’t knock on the door of any of the homes in the neighborhood in the state she was in and expect to be allowed entrance. Besides which, she couldn’t trust her tongue to say what it should.

She tried to stand, but her spike-heeled slingback pump sank into the mud, all the way up to her ankle, and she fell back hard on her elbows. As she tried to rise again, a sharp tingling pain shot through her wrist and hand and she toppled over once again with a yelp.

On her third try, she managed to gain her footing. As she stood there swaying a minute, still struggling to keep her balance, a mammoth black pick-up truck barreled past her, did a U-turn, and pulled up beside her. For the first time, she realized just how vulnerable she was, all alone--at night--even in this neighborhood. She looked behind her at the lit front porch of the mansion and turned and took a step. Or tried to. She landed face-first in the flowers again.

She heard the passenger door swing open behind her at the same time she heard a much-too familiar male voice yell, “Izzy!”

She scraped the storm-ravaged hair from her eyes, spit the earth-taste and flower petals off her lips, and blinked through the raindrops and dark night up into the concerned face of her long-ago fiancé. Will you take me to my house? “Will you take me to your house?”

* * *