Love Read online

  Love

  Sherryl Woods

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Prologue

  Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of Boston’s Whitehall Episcopal Church early on the morning of June 21, as three glowing brides walked down the aisle—one of them very pregnant.

  Jason Halloran stood next to his father and grandfather in front of the altar and watched the three generations of women come toward them. He was every bit as nervous today as he had been a year ago, when he’d waited alone. Today, however, Jason was worried that his wife might not make it through the renewal of their vows without going into labor. Dana had a habit of bucking tradition.

  As she had done on their original wedding day, Dana caught his eye and winked. The unexpected audacity in the midst of the solemn occasion brought an immediate smile to his lips. His wife was as uniquely irreverent as ever, and he was as enchanted with her now as he had been then.

  He glanced over at his grandfather and saw that Brandon’s normally fierce expression had gentled as he regarded his wife-to-be. Jason knew this day was one his grandfather had dreamed about for close to fifty years. It had been suggested by Brandon and his beloved Elizabeth that all three generations of the Halloran family use the occasion as a chance to give thanks for the blessings of their marriages.

  Brandon’s voice held steady, but there was a sheen of tears in his eyes as he gazed at Elizabeth Forsythe Newton, whose adoring eyes never once left his.

  “I, Brandon, take thee, Elizabeth, a woman I loved and lost and have been blessed to find again, to be my wedded wife. I promise to cherish thee all the rest of my days.”

  Next the minister turned to Jason’s parents. Kevin Halloran looked shaken as he kept his gaze fastened on the lovely, gentle lady who’d been his wife for nearly thirty years. They had met as children, fought for the same causes in the turbulent sixties and loved each other with equal passion and exuberance. Later they’d found themselves changing. Jason knew the road had not been easy for his parents, but they had survived. Today was their chance to tell the world and each other that time and change had not destroyed the foundation of their marriage.

  Jason saw his mother’s hand tremble before his father enfolded it in his own.

  “I, Kevin, take thee, Lacey, a woman who has stood by me through hard times and good, who has provided love and understanding, I take thee again to be my wedded wife. For the blessing of your undying love, I thank God. For the joy of our family, I thank you. And I promise to honor you and all that you have meant to me all the rest of my days.”

  Jason heard the heartfelt commitment in his father’s voice and knew that it mirrored his own deep feelings of commitment for his wife. The last year with Dana had been filled with joy and laughter, with unpredictability and unstinting love. She was a woman who had learned in childhood to reach undaunted for the elusive brass ring and to hold on tight. She faced each new day with optimism and determination, and she had given him the same joyous—if occasionally unorthodox—outlook.

  When their turn came, Dana handed her bouquet of spring’s brightest wildflowers to Jason’s mother, then placed her hands in his. Her eyes shimmered with tears, but there was no mistaking the strength of purpose in their sapphire depths. Her generous mouth curved into a smile that radiated warmth.

  His voice suddenly choked with emotion, Jason began slowly, “I, Jason, take thee, Dana, to be my wedded wife all over again.”

  He felt the reassuring squeeze of her hands, and his voice steadied. “I thank you for a wonderful year filled with the unexpected. As we await the birth of our first child, I pray that he or she will be blessed with your imagination and your generous heart and guided by your sense of loyalty and your love of family. And today as all of us reaffirm our vows before God and our friends, I promise to love you and care for you and our children all the rest of our days.”

  As he said the special vows he’d labored to put into words, Jason thought back to that incredible winter day when Dana Roberts had come bursting into his dull, predictable life and changed everything.

  Chapter One

  Boring. Predictable. Tedious. As he crossed Boston Commons, Jason Halloran ran through an entire list of adjectives describing the way he felt about his so-called charmed life. He might have blamed his mood on the heavy, overcast skies that promised snow by nightfall, but he’d been feeling this way for weeks now. He knew his state of mind was one of the reasons for this lunch today with his grandfather. Brandon Halloran had lost patience. Jason had been ordered to appear at Washington’s Tavern at noon on a Saturday for what would no doubt be a stern lecture intended to snap him out of his doldrums. Jason didn’t hold out much hope that it would work.

  At the corner Jason paced impatiently, waiting for his tall, distinguished grandfather to stride through the weekend throng. The blustery winds cut right through his topcoat made of Halloran Industries’ finest cashmere-and-wool blend. Shivering, he glanced at his watch and realized that he was early. Brandon Halloran was a creature of habit. He would not appear until precisely noon and it was now barely 11:30, another indication of the boredom of Jason’s days. After picking up the new VCR he’d ordered earlier in the week, Jason had then rushed to get to the one engagement on his calendar that held any promise of challenge.

  The VCR weighed a ton and there was no point in freezing to death while he waited, he decided after several more minutes. So he headed for the restaurant. Inside the overheated tavern with its elegant antique mahogany bar, gleaming brass fixtures and private, well-cushioned booths, Jason shrugged out of his overcoat and slid into the booth that was reserved daily for his grandfather’s use. A waiter placed a Scotch and water on the table mere seconds later.

  “Shall I bring you something more while you wait?” the dour-faced man inquired. He’d looked exactly the same since the first day Jason had come here with his grandfather nearly twenty-two years before. Jason had been six at the time and had been dressed in his best suit in honor of the occasion.

  “Another one of these,” Jason said, finishing the first drink in two gulps.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Jason caught the faint sniff of disapproval as the waiter retreated. It would be just like old Giles to feel duty-bound to cut him off. Jason’s gaze followed the elderly man as he crossed to the bar, his back ramrod stiff as he placed the order. Once assured that the drink would be forthcoming, Jason surveyed the other occupants of the tavern—the handful of people who’d sought refuge from the cold even though it wasn’t quite lunchtime.

  The usual stuffy crowd. Even on weekends everyone had an uptight, button-down look about them, he’d decided until his glance fell on the woman at the end of the bar. For the first time in ages he felt a stirring of interest. Among those dressed in Brooks Brothers basic black pinstripe and those sporting academic tweeds, she stood out like a vibrant wildflower in a field of grass.

  Her boots caught his attention first. They weren’t the elegant Italian leather boots favored by the style-conscious women in his crowd, but heavy black boots suitable for riding a Harley-Davidson. Even so, they couldn’t disguise the long shapely legs they covered to midcalf. Black jeans, faded nearly to gray, kept his attention as they hugged slender, boyish hips. The jeans nipped in at an impossibly tiny waist, where a bright orange sweater with a jagged thunderbolt of purple was tucked in. A
black leather jacket completed the ensemble. Again the style was more suited to motorcycles than a Rolls-Royce.

  Jason was both appalled and fascinated, even before his gaze reached her incredible, heart-stopping face. Her skin was pale as cream, her features delicate. Full, sensuous lips looked as if they’d just been kissed to a rosy pink. Short blond hair stood up in spikes, not from some outrageous styling, he guessed, but from a nervous habit of running her fingers through it. The result was part pixie, part biker.

  The look in her eyes was definitely streetwise and every bit of her attention seemed to be as riveted on him as his was on her. Though he couldn’t explain the attraction, he was jolted by the first genuine excitement he’d felt in weeks.

  Forgetting all about the second Scotch, forgetting the boredom, forgetting just about everything, he slid out of the booth and crossed the tavern’s wide plank floor. At twenty-seven Jason knew all about seduction, all about provocative charm. It was the one thing at which he was very successful. His walk was deliberately slow, paced to increase the mounting tension already sizzling between them. He kept his gaze locked with hers and felt another shock of pure adrenaline when she didn’t blink, didn’t look away. That serious, hard stare remained boldly fastened on him.

  Jason was two steps away from her, poised to introduce himself, when she came off the barstool in one fluid, graceful motion—and slammed a fist into his jaw. Before he could recover from the shock of that, she was all over him, pummeling him with more fury than skill, landing just enough blows to assure him she was deadly serious. Her colorful curses turned the bar’s genteel air blue while an expectant hush fell over the room.

  If the respected Halloran image hadn’t been deeply ingrained in him since birth, Jason might have laughed with sheer exhilaration at the unexpectedness of the attack. As it was, he knew if his grandfather caught him brawling with a woman in public, Siberia wouldn’t be far enough away for him to run.

  Jason hadn’t boxed at Yale for nothing, though even that hadn’t quite prepared him for the unprovoked fury of this tall, lanky stranger. He dodged her next well-aimed blow, which had obviously been intended to do serious harm to his masculinity. He grabbed one of her arms and pinned it behind her, then latched on to her other wrist. Pressed tight against her and all too aware of every inch of invigorating contact, he looked straight into wide eyes that had turned an exciting, stormy shade of blue. Amusement tugged at his lips as he murmured, “Have we met?”

  Apparently she was in no mood for his dry humor. Muttering another string of curses, she hauled off and kicked him. When Jason gasped and reached down to rub his injured shin, she twisted free and came at him again. Obviously she wasn’t nearly as familiar with the Marquis of Queensberry rules of fighting as he was. She got in two or three more solid shots before he wrapped his arms around her from behind and held her still, his blood pumping like crazy.

  The bartender hovered nearby, obviously in shock. The tavern probably hadn’t seen this much action since the Revolutionary War. “Should I call the police, Mr. Halloran?” he inquired with an obvious air of dread at the stir that would cause.

  Jason felt the woman stiffen in his arms. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said, then added more softly for her ears alone, “Will it?”

  Her shoulders sagged in defeat. “No.”

  Jason had learned the hard way not to trust her docility. “If I let you go, will you come with me quietly so we can talk about whatever’s on your mind?”

  When she failed to answer, Jason chuckled. “So, you can’t bring yourself to lie. That’s good. It’s a basis for trust.”

  Eyes flashing, she glared at him. “I wouldn’t trust you if you were the last man on earth.”

  “I wonder why, since to the best of my recollection I’ve never had occasion to lie to you.”

  “You’re worse than a liar. You’re scum. You’re evil.”

  Her voice rose with each charge, which seemed to fascinate the rapidly growing crowd of onlookers. The words cut far more than the flying fists. Hallorans were rarely humiliated in public. Jason could just imagine how the gossips would enjoy the news, which he had no doubt would spread like wildfire by evening. It would probably make the Sunday papers as well. The faint amusement and exhilaration he’d felt vanished, replaced by a sense of growing outrage. Who the hell was this woman and where did she get off calling him scum? he wondered indignantly.

  To his growing fury, it sounded as if she was just getting started. In fact, she might have gone on berating him, but Jason decided enough was enough. He ended the tirade by clamping a hand over her mouth and nudging her firmly across the room and into the booth. She gasped as her knees buckled, but she sat. Just to be sure she stayed until he could wrestle some answers from her, Jason wedged himself in beside her.

  “Start talking,” he commanded in a low voice.

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Amazing. Not more than sixty seconds ago, you couldn’t shut up.” He rubbed his aching jaw and wished for the first time in his life for a little anonymity. Too many people seemed as interested as he was in her answers. She disappointed them all by remaining stonily silent.

  Jason had plenty of experience in social graces, but this situation defied the conventions. To the best of his recollection no one had ever defined the etiquette for chit-chat following an unprovoked attack by a woman he’d never seen before in his life. It she’d been a man, he could have slugged her back and felt avenged. As it was, he felt a little like Perry Mason stuck with a reluctant witness.

  “Dammit, you owe me an explanation,” he said, sensing as soon as the words were out of his mouth that they were wasted.

  “I owe you nothing.” The spark of fury in her eyes hadn’t dimmed a bit.

  Jason sighed. Something told him right then and there to send her packing, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it without satisfying his curiosity. “Okay, let’s try this another way. How about a drink?”

  “Not from you.” Patches of color on her cheeks emphasized her indignation.

  “Fine. You can pay for it.”

  “With what? Sammy gave you every dime I had saved.”

  Jason stared at her, startled by the depth of her anger and the unwarranted accusation behind it. Despite his own conviction that it was time to cut his losses, he was undeniably intrigued by the puzzle she represented. The women he knew did not enjoy scenes, much less creating them. This woman appeared totally unfazed by the stir she’d caused. If anything, she was itching for another round, still righteous in her fury. At least in that they had something in common—he was charged up enough to do a full bout with her.

  “Who the devil is Sammy and why would you think he gave me your money?”

  Apparently startled by his blank response, she studied him thoughtfully, then shook her head. “Nice act. You’re really good. For a minute there, I almost believed you.”

  The sarcasm had a nasty sting to it. Even considering the source—a wacko woman he’d never met before in his life—Jason was offended by the attack on his honor. “I’m not acting, dammit. I’m losing patience. Who is this Sammy?”

  She shot him a look of pure disgust. “I told you I’m not buying it. You know perfectly well who Sammy is.”

  With a sense that he was in over his head for the very first time in his smooth, well-ordered life, Jason tried a little deductive reasoning. “Is Sammy your husband?”

  She shook her head.

  The response cheered him in a way that probably didn’t bear close examination. “You’re too young to have a son who’s stealing cash from the cookie jar,” he decided.

  “I’m not as young as I look.”

  “Sorry. Of course not. You’re probably ancient—maybe even twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Like I said, ancient. So what’s the story with Sammy?”

  She huddled in the corner of the booth, as far from him as it was possible to get in the confined space.
Her expression settled into a mutinous glare. Whatever her problem with him was, apparently she hadn’t thought much beyond beating the daylights out of him.

  “Hungry?” Jason inquired politely, hoping to catch her off guard by trying a different tack. She ignored him.

  “No problem,” he said then. “I’ve got all afternoon.” To prove it he settled more comfortably in the booth and took a sip of his drink.

  Her eyes widened at that. “You can’t keep me here all afternoon.”

  “Oh, but I can,” he said mildly. “You can talk to me or you can talk to the police. I’d say we have enough witnesses to make an assault charge stick.”

  “I’ll swear you were coming on to me.”

  “I was coming over to you. There’s a big difference.”

  “Where’d you get your law degree? In jail?”

  “No law degree. No jail.”

  There was a faint glint of curiosity in her eyes before she banked it and fell silent again.

  “I’m waiting,” he reminded her.

  “Sammy’s my brother,” she said finally. “He’s only sixteen, which makes what you did particularly reprehensible.”

  It was a start, but the woman definitely had an attitude. She clearly intended to be stingy with her information. “So your sixteen-year-old brother stole your money?” he prodded.

  “Every cent I’d saved for the past three months,” she confirmed wearily. Her fingers swept through her hair, leaving more spikes.

  Jason was filled with the sudden and astonishing urge to find this Sammy and pummel some sense into him. “Haven’t you ever heard of banks?” he asked instead, astounded by the notion of someone leaving large amounts of cash lying around the house.

  She gave him a scathing look. “It was in a bank. Well, it was in a cookie jar actually.”

  “Which means when Sammy turned larcenous—or hungered for chocolate chip cookies—all he had to do was lift the lid.”

  “Okay, it was stupid,” she admitted, abandoning her hair to fiddle with a napkin. Little strips piled up in front of her. Her gaze rose to clash with his. “It didn’t seem to make much sense to go to all the bother of opening an account for a couple hundred bucks. I have a checking account to pay the bills, but this was just savings. If I’d put the money in the checking account, I’d have used it to pay the rent or the electric or something.”