More than just make-believe

Librarian Phoebe O’Dunn deals in stories, but her passion for history has taught her that happy endings are rare. Her life in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts, is safe and uneventful…until she discovers the hidden room.

Among its secrets is a cache of vintage clothing, including a spectacular gown—perfect for a gala masquerade in Boston. In the guise of a princess, Phoebe is captivated by a handsome swashbuckler who’s also adopted a more daring persona. Noah Kendrick’s wealth has made him wary, especially of women: everybody wants something.

When Noah and Phoebe meet again in Knights Bridge, at first neither recognizes the other. And neither one is sure they can trust the magic of the night they shared—until an unexpected threat prompts them to unmask their truest selves.

After all, it takes more than just the right costume to live out your personal fairy tale. It takes heart…and the courage to be more than you ever dreamed.

Praise for

and her novels

“[A] beautifully described tale that rewards readers with an intriguing mystery as well as a deliciously satisfying romance.”

—Library Journal on Secrets of the Lost Summer

“Neggers captures readers’ attention with her usual flair and brilliance and gives us a romance, a mystery and a lesson in history.”

—Top Pick, RT Book Reviews on Secrets of the Lost Summer

“Only a writer as gifted as Carla Neggers could use so few words to convey so much action and emotional depth.”

—Sandra Brown

“With a great plot and excellent character development, Neggers’ thriller, Saint’s Gate, the first in a new series, is a fast-paced, action-packed tale of romantic suspense that will appeal to fans of Lisa Jackson and Lisa Gardner.”

—Library Journal

“Saint’s Gate is the best book yet from a writer at the absolute top of her craft.”

—Providence Journal

“Cold Pursuit is the perfect name for this riveting read. Neggers’ passages are so descriptive that one almost finds one’s teeth chattering from fear and anticipation.”

—Bookreporter.com

“[Neggers] forces her characters to confront issues of humanity, integrity and the multifaceted aspects of love without slowing the ever-quickening pace.”

—Publishers Weekly

That Night on
Thistle Lane
Carla
Neggers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To my three sisters, Bonnie, Hilda and Gretchen—nothing like jumping into a cold brook on a hot summer day!

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Dear Reader

One

Bumblebees hummed in the frothy catmint on the edge of the stone terrace, the only sound to disturb the hot New England summer afternoon. Phoebe O’Dunn watched a solo bee hover above a purple blossom, as if debating what to do, then dart past the green-painted bench where she was seated and disappear across the herb and flower gardens. None of its fellow bumblebees followed.

Phoebe had met on the terrace with her sister Maggie and her friend Olivia Frost to discuss the upcoming vintage fashion show at their small-town library, but inevitably talk had turned to the charity masquerade ball tomorrow night in Boston, two hours away. Maggie and Olivia were going. Phoebe wasn’t, but she just might be able to help with costumes.

The dresses would be perfect.

If she’d had any doubts, they’d been dispelled when Maggie and Olivia sank into their chairs at the round, natural-wood table across the terrace and said they were stumped. With just twenty-four hours before they had to leave Knights Bridge for Boston, they had no idea what to wear.

Phoebe did. She’d already had the dresses cleaned and now they were hanging in the back room at her little house on Thistle Lane, just off the Knights Bridge common. She hadn’t mentioned them yet because—well, she didn’t know why, except that she couldn’t help feeling as if she were handling someone else’s secrets. She’d discovered the dresses two weeks ago in a mysterious hidden room in the library attic. So far she hadn’t told anyone about them or the room.

“We should have figured this out sooner,” Maggie said from the shaded table. Like Phoebe, Maggie had wild strawberry-blond hair, hers a tone darker and four inches shorter. And they had freckles. Lots of freckles, Maggie especially.

“Dylan didn’t give us much notice,” Olivia said without a hint of criticism. Her fiancé, Dylan McCaffrey, had purchased tickets to the masquerade ball to support the cause, a neonatal intensive care unit at a Boston hospital. He’d handed them to Olivia just before he and several friends took off to the White Mountains for a few days of hiking. She added with a sigh, “I’ve never been to a masquerade.”

“Neither have I,” Maggie said. “We must know someone in Boston who can help with costumes.”

Phoebe listened to the bumblebees hard at work in the catmint. She and Maggie had been friends with Olivia since preschool. They were gathered in Olivia’s backyard. Fair-haired and pretty, she’d returned to Knights Bridge in the spring to convert her classic 1803 center-chimney house into The Farm at Carriage Hill. In the process, she’d met and fallen in love with Dylan, a former hockey player, now a wealthy San Diego businessman. His arrival in Knights Bridge had turned the out-of-the-way rural Massachusetts town on its head.

Pushing back stray curls, Phoebe got to her feet. She and Maggie both wore sundresses and sandals, but Olivia had on shorts and an old T-shirt after spending the morning in her gardens. When she’d left Boston, she’d put her graphic design skills and boundless energy to work in transforming her historic house into an idyllic spot for showers, meetings, girlfriend weekends and the occasional wedding—including her sister’s upcoming wedding in September and her own in December.

“You’ve been awfully quiet, Phoebe,” Olivia said. “Any ideas what we could wear?”

“I was just thinking...” Phoebe tried to sound casual. “What if you two dressed up as Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly?”

Olivia pushed back her chair and eyed Phoebe with obvious interest. “How would we pull off Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly? Do you have something in mind?”

Maggie, a caterer with two young sons, stood with her iced tea, the sprig of peppermint and wedge of lemon that she’d artfully hooked onto the glass now floating among the ice cubes. She cast Phoebe an amused look. “Do you see me as Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly? Either one?”

Phoebe smiled at her sister. “Sure, why not?”

“You really do have an imagination,” Maggie said. “What are they, dresses that came in for the vintage fashion show?”

Phoebe hesitated, framing her explanation. As director of the Knights Bridge Free Public Library, the vintage fashion show was her brainchild, an end-of-the-summer event that would involve the entire community. It would showcase clothing from 1900 to 1975. The various library reading groups were focusing on twentieth-century books, the historical society was helping out, local businesses were donating food and staging materials—it was an all-consuming project that now, finally, was well in hand.

Phoebe had discovered the tiny hidden room while looking through the library attic for anything she could use for the show. It was as if she’d stepped into a time capsule, a secret hideaway. The room was filled with reproductions of dresses from movies up through the 1960s and from different historical periods—Medieval, Regency, Victorian, Edwardian, Roaring Twenties.

Who could have predicted such a thing?

She wanted to know more before she told anyone. Who had set up the room? Who had worked there, left everything behind? Why?

Did anyone else know about it?

She’d started volunteering at the library as a teenager and working there in college, and she’d never heard a word about a hidden attic room.

Finally she said, “Everyone’s been going through trunks and boxes in closets and attics for the fashion show. It’s been loads of fun so far.”

Olivia nodded. “I helped Gran load up her car trunk with old clothes from her and her friends. They’re all getting a kick out of the idea.”

“I can think of several dresses that would be perfect for a costume ball,” Phoebe said. “Two in particular. I’m not positive about sizes, but we can alter them if we need to.”

“Easier to take in a seam than let one out,” Maggie muttered.

“If we need to let out seams, we could add a strip of similar or contrasting fabric,” Olivia said. “It’s a costume ball. No one’s going to kick us out if our costumes are a little quirky.”

“You’ll be wearing masks, too,” Phoebe said.

“Ah, yes. Plausible deniability.” Olivia grinned, obviously liking that idea. “No one else has to know it’s me trying to pass myself off as Audrey Hepburn.”

“Not as Audrey Hepburn herself,” Phoebe amended. “As one of the characters she played.”

Olivia laughed. “Well, that just makes all the difference, doesn’t it? Hey, if one of these outfits works, I’m all for it.”

“Me, too,” Maggie said, with somewhat less confidence. “You’re sure it’s all right? We won’t be stepping on anyone’s toes borrowing a couple of the dresses?”

“It’ll be fine,” Phoebe said, leaving it at that. “Why don’t you come by my cottage later? We can open a bottle of wine and you can see if the dresses work for you.”

“What about you, Phoebe?” Olivia asked. “You have to come with us now. We can’t go off to the ball like the wicked stepsisters and leave you sweeping the ashes out of the fireplace. Dylan left a half-dozen tickets. No one will use them if we don’t.”

Whenever Olivia mentioned Dylan, Phoebe could see how very much her friend was in love with him.

A happy ending.

Phoebe’s favorite books and movies were ones with happy endings, and she welcomed a real-life romantic happy ending, as rare as it could be.

She waved off a bee that had found its way to her. “It’s very generous of Dylan. A neonatal ICU is a great cause, and it’ll be a wonderful night for everyone, I’m sure, but I can’t go.”

“Why not?” Maggie asked, obviously skeptical.

“I have things to do.” Phoebe glanced at her watch and winced. It really was later than she expected. “I have to get back to the library. I have story hour, but I’ll be home by six if you want to come by then.”

“We’ll be there,” Olivia said, then turned to Maggie. “I guess I shouldn’t speak for you.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Maggie said. “I want to see these dresses and I need a costume.”

Aware of her sister’s eyes on her, Phoebe offered to help clear the table of the iced-tea glasses and plates of tarts they had sampled for possible addition to the Carriage Hill catering menu, but Olivia shooed her away. “You need to get to story hour. The kids will get restless if you’re late.”

“An understatement,” Phoebe said with a smile as she snatched a tiny apple-pear tart. “This one’s my favorite, but they’re all fabulous. I’m off. I’ll see you later.”

Instead of going back through the house and disturbing Olivia’s dog, Buster, asleep in the mudroom, Phoebe followed a bark-mulch path through basil, oregano and dill plants soaking up the summer sun, then crossed a patch of shaded lawn and went around the side of the house to the front yard.

She had the door open to her Subaru, which she’d owned since she’d started commuting to the University of Massachusetts in nearby Amherst, when her sister burst out from the kitchen ell, a later addition to Olivia’s old house. Phoebe didn’t have a chance to get into the car before Maggie flew down the front walk and caught up with her.

“Phoebe, what on earth is wrong with you?”

She knew exactly what her sister was getting at. “I pay my own way, Maggie. You know that.”

“It’s not as if Dylan offered to pay off your mortgage for you. The tickets are his donation to a worthy cause. It looks good if the ball is well attended. It’s great publicity for the neonatal ICU and what it does, and it gets other people thinking about giving. Everyone wins.” Maggie sighed at her older sister. “We can’t be grinds all the time.”

“I’m not a grind,” Phoebe said. “I love what I do. I have fun—”

“And you live within your means and never take a false step,” Maggie finished for her, then winced. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“It’s okay. It’s just...” Phoebe stared at the tiny tart in her hand, suddenly wishing she had left it on the table. “It’s a slippery slope, wanting more than you can have, but I take lots of false steps. We all do. I’m not being morally superior.”

“Oh, Phoebe, I know. You’re the kindest person in Knights Bridge. Probably in all of New England.” Maggie’s rich turquoise eyes shone with emotion. “I just don’t want you to miss out on a good time.”

“Dressing you and Olivia for a masquerade will be a great time,” Phoebe said, smiling at her sister. “I have to go. Those boys of yours will be tearing up the library.”

Maggie groaned. “They’ll be full of energy after spending the day with Mom. She lets them do whatever they want. When I picked them up yesterday, they were helping her muck out the goat barn. Knee-deep in you-know-what. I wouldn’t care except they didn’t have a change of clothes. I’ll never get the smell out of my van.”

“It’ll wear off in time but you probably don’t want catering clients to get a whiff.”

“No kidding.”

Phoebe commiserated even as she was amused at the image of her mother and her young nephews. “I’ll see you in a little while. I hope I wasn’t rude to Olivia—”

“You weren’t, and she’d understand if you were. Don’t worry. She’s trying to figure out things herself. This is new territory for her. For Dylan, too. He never pictured himself living in a little town like Knights Bridge until he met Olivia. He obviously still loves San Diego, too.” Maggie stepped back from Phoebe’s car and waved a hand. “They’ll figure it out. I should have such problems.”

“What would you do with a fortune like Dylan has?”

Her eyes flashed with humor. “Get someone to paint my house. I hate ladders.”

Phoebe laughed as she climbed into her car, but she also felt a pang of uncertainty about what was next for Dylan and his millions, and what it would mean for quiet, picturesque Knights Bridge.

She left her car windows open and drove back toward town. She could smell the clean, cool water of a stream that ran along the edge of the narrow road. Carriage Hill was the last house on the dead-end road, two miles from the Knights Bridge village center. The road hadn’t always been a dead end. Once it had wound into the heart of the picturesque Swift River Valley. That was before four small valley towns were depopulated in the 1930s and deliberately flooded to create Quabbin Reservoir. The reservoir now provided pure drinking water for metropolitan Boston.

Boston must have seemed so far away back then.

It seemed far enough away now. Barely two hours, but so different from her life in Knights Bridge. She’d never lived anywhere else. Olivia and Maggie had both lived in Boston for a few years before returning to their hometown, Olivia in March, Maggie last fall. Phoebe’s biggest move had been from her mother’s house—or madhouse, as she and her sisters would say fondly—to her own place on Thistle Lane. It was a cottage, really. Perfect for just her. She could even walk to her job at the library.

Phoebe appreciated the peaceful back road as she pulled her thoughts together. Story hours were a favorite part of her job, but her visit with Maggie and Olivia had left her feeling edgy and frayed.

Questioning, wanting...dreaming.

I like my life, she reminded herself as she came into Knights Bridge center, known as one of the prettiest villages in New England with its shaded town common surrounded by classic houses, a town hall, library, church and country store.

Phoebe parked in front of the library, a solid, rambling brick building filled with endless nooks and crannies. Persistent stories said the library was haunted, to the point that the producers of a television series about ghosts had considered it for a show before choosing another supposedly haunted New England library. Phoebe often heard creaks, groans, moans, whistles and—once—what she would have sworn were whispers. But she’d never considered she might encounter an actual ghost.

Specifically, George Sanderson, founder of the library in 1872.

Upon his death in 1904, he left the library his extensive collection of books and archives, a Steinway baby grand piano and a dozen straw hats made at one of the small mills he’d owned in the valley. The last Sanderson had vacated Knights Bridge during the Depression, when the family mills were demolished ahead of the damming of the Swift River for Quabbin. Homes, businesses, barns, fences, trees—everything in the valley went. Even graves were moved to a new cemetery on the southern end of the reservoir.

Old George’s portrait still hung above the fireplace in the library’s main room. He was handsome and stern-looking, not exactly the sort Phoebe imagined would encourage story hours for small children. As she headed up the sunlit brick walk, she heard squeals of laughter through the open front window, where the children’s section was located.

Her five-year-old nephew, Aidan, Maggie’s younger son, pressed his face against the window screen. “Hey, Aunt Phoebe!”

“Aidan Sloan, do not poke that screen,” she said firmly, picking up her pace.

He giggled and disappeared from sight.

Phoebe ran up the steps and went inside, welcoming the cool, solid wood-paneled interior, hardly changed since the library was built to George Sanderson’s specifications. The main room included a small stage, the piano tucked on one end. Before Phoebe’s arrival as director, the library had seldom used the stage and the trustees had complained about the “wasted space.” With careful planning, she’d gained their support and found the money to launch a modest concert series, with musicians who didn’t expect more than a few dozen in the audience, and opened up the stage for art and garden shows. It was where the library would hold its vintage fashion show in less than two weeks.

We make use of all that we have.

That was Phoebe’s motto for the library as well as her own life. Why moan about what she didn’t have when so much was right within her grasp?

Her older nephew, Tyler, almost seven, was sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor in front of the stage with a book about raptors in his lap. “Aunt Phoebe, did you know that raptors have three eyelids?”

“In fact, I did, Tyler.” She laughed. “You’d be surprised at what a librarian knows. Would you like to see a raptor’s eyelids sometime?”

He nodded eagerly.

“We’ll have to figure that out, then. Right now, though, let’s go in with the other kids.”

“I want to stay here.”

Tyler—as redheaded as his mother—preferred to read a book on his own than to be read to, especially with his squirming younger brother. Phoebe put out a hand, but he ignored it and stood up on his own. He shuffled past her into the children’s section, his head down, shoulders slumped, as if she’d asked him to walk the plank.

He and Aidan would be tired after spending most of the day with Elly O’Dunn, their energetic maternal grandmother. She’d taken the afternoon off from her job at the town offices to look after the boys while Maggie catered a lunch and then met with Olivia at Carriage Hill. Phoebe, her mother and her two youngest sisters were doing what they could to help Maggie as she managed two young boys and a catering business on her own, without Brandon Sloan, her adrenaline-junkie carpenter husband. Phoebe didn’t have all the details, but she knew Brandon’s construction work in Boston had been on-and-off at best the past year or so. It had to have put a strain on his marriage. He had a tendency to take off into the mountains or up the coast when things got tough, instead of talking.

Brandon was the third of six Sloan siblings—five brothers and a sister. His family owned a successful construction business in Knights Bridge and would welcome him back, but returning to his hometown would signal defeat in his eyes. Phoebe had known him since nursery school. He’d wanted out of Knights Bridge at ten. Then he and Maggie fell for each other as teenagers and married in college. Almost no one in town had believed their marriage would last. Phoebe had hoped it would, because they were so much in love.

She sighed. She could be such an idiotic romantic. Hadn’t she learned by now?

She gathered the dozen boys and girls onto a round, dark red rug. They came quickly to order, even her nephews. They were reading Beatrix Potter and had just started The Tale of Peter Rabbit, their last book of the summer, and they couldn’t wait to find out what happened next.

* * *

With Peter Rabbit and Knights Bridge’s little ones safely back with their families, Phoebe locked up the library and walked across South Main Street and through the common to Main Street and the Swift River Country Store, a town fixture for the past hundred years. It sold everything from galoshes to canned goods and fresh vegetables to a decent selection of wine. The afternoon heat had eased but it was still warm when she headed back to the library with two bottles of pinot grigio, already chilled. Olivia would bring a bottle of some kind of red from a California winery owned by Noah Kendrick, Dylan’s best friend and founder of NAK, Inc., the high-tech entertainment business that had made them both fortunes. The only thing Phoebe knew for sure was that her choice of white wine wouldn’t be nearly as pricey as whatever red Olivia brought.

Having a friend fall for a wealthy Californian had its unexpected advantages.

Normally she’d have walked home but her visit with Maggie and Olivia meant she had her car. She got in, set her wine on the front seat next to her and shut her eyes a moment, listening to the rustle of leaves as a gentle breeze floated through the shade trees on the wide library lawn.

Finally she started her Subaru and turned off South Main onto Thistle Lane. The library stood on the corner. Thistle Lane led away from the common, connecting to a back road with views of the reservoir in the distance. On her trips to the library as a girl, Phoebe had dreamed of living on the quiet, tree-lined street, away from the chaotic life she had out in the country with her parents and younger sisters. Thistle Lane represented order, independence and, at least to a degree, prosperity.

In less than five minutes, she turned into her short paved driveway. An old American elm graced the corner of the yard next to hers, holding on against the ravages of Dutch elm disease, in part due to intervention by the town. It was a beautiful tree, a symbol of the past and yet very much part of her everyday world. When she bought her house eighteen months ago, she’d thought she was being practical, never mind that she was the only one to make an offer. The house was built in 1912 by one of the early directors of the library, then sold to a series of owners, until, finally, the town was forced to take possession when the heir to the last owner couldn’t be located and property taxes went into arrears.

Phoebe rolled up her car windows, shut off the engine and collected her wine bottles as she stepped out into the shade. With its new roof, furnace, windows, wiring and plumbing, the house was no longer a notch above a tear-down. It still needed a new kitchen and bathroom, but she had to save up before she tackled any more big projects. Right now, she was concentrating on some of the fun cosmetic work—paint, wallpaper, gardens and restoring flea-market and yard-sale finds.

With her painting skills and eye for color, Olivia had been a huge help, but The Farm at Carriage Hill and her new life with Dylan were creating uncertainties for her. Phoebe had welcomed having Maggie and then Olivia move back to Knights Bridge, but that didn’t mean more changes weren’t coming. Change was inevitable, Phoebe thought. Her own life was more settled than the lives of her sisters and most of her friends. Her job at the library was secure. She had no plans to move, go into business for herself or get involved with a man.

Five years from now, her life would likely look more or less as it did now.

“Just without an avocado-green refrigerator in my kitchen,” she muttered happily as she headed down the curving stone walk with her wine.

The narrow clapboards of her small house were painted classic white. At Olivia’s suggestion, Phoebe had chosen a warm, welcoming green for the front door. It was framed by pink roses that she’d pruned and trained to climb up the white-painted trellis by the porch steps. When she’d moved in, the yard was an overgrown mess. She didn’t have Olivia’s green thumb, but she’d nonetheless managed to save many of the shrubs and perennials that had come with the property.

As she started up the steps to the small, covered porch, she saw that her twin sisters had arrived ahead of her. They were seated on wicker chairs that Phoebe had reclaimed and painted white, adding cushions in a mix of pink, blue and white flowers. Ava and Ruby, at twenty-three the youngest of the O’Dunn sisters, were fraternal twins, but they were so much alike that people often assumed they were identical. In both appearance and temperament, they took after their late father, Patrick O’Dunn, an auburn-haired, green-eyed, gorgeous-looking dreamer, as hopelessly impractical as the widow he’d left behind almost ten years ago.

“Thanks for coming,” Phoebe said as she unlocked the front door. “Olivia and Maggie will be here any minute.”

“This is going to be so much fun,” Ruby said, tucking a pink rose blossom behind her ear. She had on a long black skirt and a white tank top, her short, wavy hair dyed a purple-black that made her skin seem even paler, more translucent. “We brought all our goodies. Makeup, wigs, hairpieces, curling iron, needles and thread. We’ve already done up a half-dozen masks. Three are simple. You’d be able to recognize whoever’s wearing them. Three are more elaborate. It’d be tougher to recognize who’s wearing them.”

Ava smiled. “We will not fail you.” She twirled a rose stem in her fingertips. Her hair was its natural reddish brown, trailing down her back in a loose ponytail. Her skirt, which came to just above her knees, was a deep, warm red that worked surprisingly well with her turquoise lace top. “A masquerade ball in Boston. It doesn’t get much fancier than that.”

Phoebe pushed open the door. “Dylan has extra tickets if you want to go.”

“I wish,” Ava said wistfully, tossing her rose over the porch rail into the grass. “We have to work, and classes start again next week.”

“Otherwise we’d go in a heartbeat,” Ruby added.

No doubt they would, Phoebe thought. “It does sound grand,” she said as she led them inside. “Maggie and Olivia are counting on your theatrical flair. What do you think of Maggie in the blue gown Grace Kelly wore in To Catch a Thief and Olivia in Audrey Hepburn’s black dress from Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”

Ava turned, intrigued. “Do you have the dresses?”

Phoebe nodded. “I have the dresses.”

“Oh, wow. Excellent. Ruby?”

“Grace’s icy-blue chiffon gown? Audrey’s little black dress?” Ruby laughed. “That’s fantastic.”

“I even have pearls and a cigarette holder,” Phoebe said.

“Where did you get them?” Ava asked.

“I’m thinking of including them in our vintage fashion show,” Phoebe said evasively. Her sisters followed her into the kitchen, where she put the wine in the refrigerator, a relic that, somehow, still worked.

Ava leaned against the counter, a cheap wood that Phoebe had painted creamy white, her first renovation when she’d moved in. “So, Phoebe,” Ava said, crossing her arms on her chest. “Have you decided what you’re wearing?”

Phoebe got out wineglasses and set them on the cracked Formica counter, sidestepping her sister’s question. The twins were in graduate school—Ava in New York, Ruby in Boston—but they were spending the summer in Knights Bridge, living at home to save money. They had student loans that would take years if not decades to pay off, and big dreams that might never pay off, but Phoebe hoped everything would work out for them, believed in them. She knew they felt the same way about her but suspected they had their doubts about her choices. Not her library work. Her solitary life—or what to her sisters seemed like a solitary life. Meaning she didn’t have a man.

She’d had one, once. She’d been on the road to marriage and a happy ending of her own, but it hadn’t worked out that way.

Everyone in town knew her story—Phoebe O’Dunn, jilted at twenty, within forty-eight hours of finding her father dead from a tree-trimming accident. She’d shielded her mother and sisters from the depth of her pain, but the shock had taken its toll. Broken hearts healed but that didn’t mean life was ever the same. Phoebe had deliberately shut the door on romance, at least for herself.

But it was fine, all fine, because she was fine. She loved her work, her family, her friends, her town. She couldn’t be more content than she was right now.

Ava looked out the window over the sink at the backyard flower garden, dominated now, in mid-August, by hollyhocks that ranged from soft white through three shades of pink to deep maroon. “You’re not going to the ball, are you, Phoebe?”

Phoebe changed her mind and decided to pour the wine now. She grabbed the pinot grigio out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter. “No, I’m not going,” she said matter-of-factly as she rummaged in the utensil drawer for a corkscrew. “Do you both want wine?”

Ruby plopped her tote bag onto a chair at the table. “Phoebe, you know you’d have a great time. You never go anywhere—”

“I have so much to do here. I’m taking vacation days before the end of the summer. I’ll go someplace then.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Someplace.” Phoebe held up a glass. “Wine?”

“Sure,” Ruby said with a sigh. “Just don’t think I’ve given up.”

“Me, either,” Ava said. “You should go to this ball tomorrow, Phoebe. Maybe you’ll change your mind when you see the masks Ruby and I made. Anyway, wine for me, too. I’ll get our goodies out of the car.”

“Hang on, I’ll help.” Ruby withdrew a square of golden-colored soap from her tote bag and tossed it to Phoebe. “Check it out while we’re setting up. It’s a new soap Mom, Olivia and Maggie are trying out. Mom wants your opinion.”

Olivia and Maggie were experimenting with making their own artisan goat’s milk soaps to sell at The Farm at Carriage Hill. If it worked, Elly O’Dunn’s goats could go from being an expensive and impractical hobby to earning their own keep. Phoebe was happy to do what she could to help and knew Ava and Ruby were, too, although Ava in particular wasn’t crazy about their mother’s goats—especially when she had to clean up after them. They all appreciated the mildness and purity of the soaps.

Phoebe took in the gentle lavender scent of the bar Ruby had tossed her. “It really is lovely, isn’t it?”

“Olivia’s already designed the labels,” Ruby said. “Dreams do come true, Phoebe. Olivia’s are.”

“I know. I want yours to come true, too.”

Ava stopped in the hall doorway. “What about your dreams?”

“My dream,” Phoebe said lightly, abandoning the soap for her wine, “is to see Maggie and Olivia all set for their charity ball. Go grab your stuff. I’ll get the dresses.”

* * *

Three hours, two and a half bottles of wine, a pot of vegetable curry and much laughter later, Phoebe was again alone in her kitchen. Olivia and Maggie had precise instructions, beautiful handmade masks and everything else they needed to transform themselves into their own versions of Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly.

The dresses had worked out even better than Phoebe had imagined.

The dresses.

Ava had recognized them first. “Phoebe, these aren’t like the dresses Audrey and Grace wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and To Catch a Thief. They are the dresses.”

“Close copies,” Phoebe had said, then again deflected questions about where she’d gotten them.

She turned out the light in the kitchen and walked down a short hall to a small back room. For most of the past eighteen months, she’d used it to store paint supplies, tools and junk she’d collected from the rest of the house but wasn’t sure what to do with. Then, on a rainy night earlier that summer, she’d cleaned everything out, wiped down the walls, mopped the floor and considered the possibilities. A guestroom? A study? A spa bathroom?

In another life, it would have made a great baby’s room.

She felt the same pang of regret she’d felt that night, but it was ridiculous. If her father hadn’t died and her steady college boyfriend hadn’t given her an impossible ultimatum, she wouldn’t have ended up on Thistle Lane at all, with or without babies.

Florida.

She’d have ended up in Florida.

She tore off the dry-cleaning plastic to a third dress she’d had cleaned along with the Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn dresses. It hung on a hook in the back room.

She stepped back, marveling at the creativity and the workmanship of the gown. It was Edwardian, one of the period pieces in the hidden room. Its creator had chosen a warm, rich brown silk satin, decorated it with sparkling beads, lace and embroidery, all in a matching brown. It had an empire waist, a deep square neckline and loose, belled lacy sleeves.

And there was a matching hat.

It was as romantic and beautiful a dress as any Phoebe had ever seen.

A gown for a princess.

She tried to shake off the thought. She’d had too much wine. Just two glasses, but she felt...well, a little reckless.

And why not?

After all, what could be more perfect for a masquerade ball than a gorgeous, mysterious dress from a secret attic room?

Two

“I could pass for a swashbuckler right now,” Noah Kendrick said as he stretched out on an expanse of granite near the base of Mount Washington, the tallest peak in the White Mountains of northern New England. “If I don’t shave or shower before tonight, I’ll be all set.”

Dylan McCaffrey shrugged off his pack and sat on another boulder. Noah saw no sign that four days of hiking had had any effect on his friend beyond sweat, stubble and a certain grubbiness. Two of Dylan’s hockey player friends had joined them but had split off that morning for several more days of tramping in the mountains. It was Dylan’s and Noah’s first time hiking in the White Mountains. They were in good shape, but Mount Washington was a hell of a climb, their last summit before heading back to civilization.

And a charity ball.

Great, Noah thought without enthusiasm.

He doubted that anyone at NAK, Inc., had needed to reach him in the past three nights and four days. He was the founder of the high-tech entertainment company that bore his initials—NAK, for Noah Andrew Kendrick. The convergence of technology and entertainment had fascinated him for as long as he could remember, and he’d managed to turn it into a profitable business. NAK was just four years old but had gone public last fall, a grueling process that had consumed him and his senior managers.

He’d stepped down as CEO in June. His idea.

One of his smarter moves had been to get Dylan, fresh out of the NHL and looking for something new to do, to help with NAK. He’d eased back from day-to-day involvement now, too.

NAK would have gone bust within months without Dylan’s help. Dylan knew how to read people. He knew how to fight in a way Noah didn’t.

They were both keenly aware that a central challenge for a newly public company was to figure out what to do with the founder. Sometimes the best thing for the company was for the founder to stay on as CEO, or at least remain deeply involved in the stewardship of his or her creation.

Sometimes the best thing was for the founder to find something else to do.

Like spend a few days hiking on the other side of the continent.

Noah decided to focus on that problem another time. “I promise I won’t step foot in that ballroom until I’ve had a shower,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to scare the ladies.”

Dylan grunted. “More like turn everyone off their hors d’oeuvres.”

Noah grinned, leaning back on one arm as he surveyed the view of the mixed hardwood forest they were about to enter, a relief after the rugged, open terrain above the tree line. At over 6000 feet, Mount Washington was the highest peak in the east and one of the deadliest mountains in the world, in part because of its proximity to a large and mobile population, in part because of its changeable and often extreme weather conditions. Noah liked it because unlike the other mountains in what was known as the Presidential Range—a series of high peaks named after U.S. presidents—Mount Washington had a weather observatory and a full café with hot dogs at the top.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had hot dogs, but he’d helped himself to two on his brief stay on the summit.

“It’s a beautiful spot, Dylan,” Noah said, meaning it, “but the same mosquito that bit me yesterday at the Lake in the Clouds has found me again. I think it followed me up and down this mountain.”

“It’s not the same mosquito, Noah.”

“I hate mosquitoes.”

“At least it’s only one. It could be a hundred.”

“Maybe my lack of showering discouraged reinforcements.”

Dylan grinned at him. “You and mosquitoes. Imagine if you didn’t have bug repellant.”

“No, thanks.”

“You never hiked up Mount Washington while you were at MIT?”

Noah shook his head. “Never even considered it.”

“Too busy doing math problems,” Dylan said, amused.

Math problems. Noah sighed. He had explained countless times in his long friendship with Dylan—practically since first grade—that “math problems” was too simplistic. It didn’t explain how his mind worked.

“I’m not good at math,” Dylan added.

“You don’t like math. There’s a difference. And your idea of ‘math’ is arithmetic. Adding fractions.”

“I can add fractions. It’s multiplying them that does me in.”

Noah glanced at Dylan but couldn’t tell if he was serious.

“We shouldn’t sit too long,” Dylan said. “We don’t have much farther to go, but we want to make it down the mountain in time to get to Boston and turn into swashbucklers.”

For a split second, Noah imagined himself lying back on the boulder and taking a nap. They’d encountered high winds, fog and temperatures in the low fifties on the last thousand feet or so to the summit. He appreciated the clear, quiet weather and relative warmth lower on the mountain. It was even sunny. By the time they reached the trailhead at Pinkham Notch, it would be in the seventies. He’d peeled off his jacket on the descent and continued in his special moisture-wicking Patagonia T-shirt and hiking pants. Dylan, who was built like a bull, was in Carhartt. Noah was fair and lean, more one for sessions in the gym or dojo than treks in the wilderness. Dylan had decided a few days in the White Mountains would be good for Noah.

Same with the masquerade ball tonight.

Good for him.

Noah had gone along. Why not? It wasn’t as if he had a whole lot else to do. Not like even just a couple of months ago. A year, two years, ten years ago, he’d navigated a hectic schedule that would have flattened most people he knew. So had Dylan.

“You couldn’t sign me up for a simple black-tie ball,” Noah said, sitting up straight on the New England granite. “No. No way. My best friend since first grade has to sign me up for a masquerade. I have to wear a costume.”

“More or less. It’s not like Halloween.” Dylan was clearly unmoved by Noah’s complaints. “All in the name of fun and a good cause.”

“Right.” Noah drank some water from his water bottle, relieved that he didn’t see any mosquitoes. “I’ve agreed to dress up in whatever swashbuckler outfit you’ve managed to find for me, but I’m skipping the long-haired wig and funny beard.”

“Just not the sword,” Dylan said.

Noah grinned. “Never the sword.”

“A reenactment musketeer rapier is waiting for you in Boston. No one needs to know it’s you behind the black mask. I understand you don’t want your photo turning up on some gossip website asking if the most eligible bachelor in San Diego has lost his mind.”

“Dylan, why do I have the feeling you aren’t taking my concerns seriously?”

“Because I’m not. You’d have even more women flocking to you if they could see you in your sword-fighting duds.”

Sword-fighting duds. Noah shook his head. Expecting Dylan to appreciate proper fencing terminology was a waste of time. No doubt he felt the same when it came to Noah and the nuances of hockey.

“The costume has a cape, too,” Dylan added.

“There’s no hope for you, my friend.”

Dylan shrugged as he drank some of his own water.

“You used to be the most eligible bachelor in San Diego,” Noah said.

“Best-looking. You were always more eligible. You just have a habit of choosing the wrong women.”

Noah tucked his water bottle into the side mesh pocket on his pack and got to his feet, lifting the pack onto one shoulder. “What wrong women?”

“Hollywood babes for starters,” Dylan said, standing with his pack.

“Only recently. I haven’t been the same since I got dumped by that computation engineer my senior year at MIT. She was brilliant, cute—”

“Not that cute. I remember her.” Dylan jumped onto the trail. He didn’t seem to consider that he might slip and hit his head, twist an ankle or fall off the damn mountain. Of course, he landed lightly on his feet. “She wasn’t as cute as your latest actress.”

“Her show just got canceled, and she’s not cute. She’s gorgeous.”

“Smart?”

“Yes, I guess so. We didn’t get that far before we went our separate ways.”

“Not many people are smart compared to you. It’s a relative term.”

Also one Noah seldom considered, but he had learned through hard experience that not everyone thought the way he did. And what did he know about relationships? His latest “relationship,” with the cute/gorgeous actress of the canceled Sunday-night show, had lasted three weeks and ended that spring. He’d known from the start it wasn’t an until-death-do-us-part match, but he’d thought it would last at least through the summer.

He was the one who had ended it. Just had to be done. Expensive dinners, gifts and such were one thing. Manipulating him to bankroll a movie she could star in was another.

“It’s good you had this time to enjoy nature,” Dylan said without any evidence of sarcasm.

“Right. Sure. I didn’t even bring a cell phone.”

Waving off a mosquito that seemed to have singled him out, Noah joined Dylan in heading down the mountain. In a few minutes, they were in dappled shade, and he could hear water tumbling down a rock-strewn stream. Several hikers passed them, ascending the rugged, steep trail. There were no guaranteed safe trails up Mount Washington, but thousands climbed it without incident every year. Preparation and the right equipment were key, but so was the right mindset—a clear understanding of one’s abilities and a willingness to turn back if conditions warranted. A foolish risk on Mount Washington could prove dangerous, even deadly.

When he’d decided to start his own business, Noah had assessed his situation with the same clarity and objectivity as he had when he agreed to join Dylan and his hockey friends hiking in the White Mountains. He’d realized within weeks of forming NAK that he needed Dylan McCaffrey on his team. They’d grown up together in suburban Los Angeles, but Noah had gone on to MIT and Dylan into the NHL. After a series of injuries ended Dylan’s hockey career, he had blown most of his money and was sleeping in his car when Noah knocked on his window asking for his friend’s help.

Dylan’s instincts and no-nonsense view of people and business helped Noah get NAK going and keep it going. Its success had exceeded their dreams. Now Dylan was marrying a woman from a small New England town and reinventing his life.

Noah had no idea what he was doing beyond taking a hot shower when he was back in civilization.

More mosquitoes descended on him when he rounded the next bend in the trail, but by then he didn’t care. He could hear cars. After three nights sleeping in a tent, he was ready to check into a five-star Boston hotel, even if a B-movie swashbuckler costume was waiting for him.

* * *

Dylan had booked a room at the sprawling Mount Washington Hotel, a National Historic Landmark that opened in Bretton Woods in 1902. Noah would have happily stayed there for several days and enjoyed the resort amenities and the spectacular views of the surrounding mountains, but he and Dylan had to get to Boston.

They took turns in the shower and changed into fresh clothes.

Noah didn’t shave. Dylan grinned at him. “Four days’ beard growth is essential for a swashbuckler, I take it.”

Noah shrugged. “I’m just hoping it will help keep anyone from recognizing me.”

He slipped into a black sport coat, which he wore over a silky black T-shirt and black trousers—the uniform he’d adopted after graduating from MIT. He didn’t remember why, except it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Dylan insisted it was because he wanted to appear older. Maybe it had been. Whatever the reason, now people expected him to show up head-to-toe in black.

He cupped his iPhone in one hand and started out into the hall.

“How many messages did you have?” Dylan asked as they left the room.

“What makes you think I looked?” At his friend’s roll of the eyes, Noah answered with an exaggeration. “Ten thousand.”

“You mean ten, and one you answered.”

It was close. That was Dylan. He could read people.

They headed down wide, elegant stairs to the main lobby, then outside onto a sweeping porch overlooking expansive lawns and the stunning mountains where they’d spent the past four days and three nights.

As they walked to Dylan’s car, he frowned at Noah. “Everything okay?”

“I got bit by mosquitoes. Do you worry about West Nile virus?”

“No, and you don’t, either. What’s up?”

Noah shook his head as he climbed into the passenger seat of Dylan’s Audi. He’d bought the car for his Knights Bridge residence now that he was spending most of his time on the East Coast. Noah didn’t offer to drive.

He needed to think.

In fact, he’d had one call from San Diego that made him uneasy. He would have to return it once they arrived in Boston. He had no choice.

He could see that Dylan was on alert. He would help in a heartbeat if Noah was in trouble. NAK trouble, personal trouble. It didn’t matter.

This time, Noah didn’t want Dylan to get involved.

The San Diego call was his problem.

Dylan seemed to guess that asking more questions would get him nowhere. His years on the ice, practicing, playing with a team, had honed his natural instincts about when to make a move, when to hold back. Noah had always been more of a solo operator.

As he started the car, Dylan took a breath, obviously reining in an urge to interrogate Noah. Finally he said, “Olivia’s done a lot of work on her house since you were there in April.”

“That’s good,” Noah said neutrally. Olivia’s house had needed a lot of work.

“We’re tearing down my place,” Dylan added.

“Ah.”

As far as Noah was concerned, it was the only sensible option. He’d been to Knights Bridge just that one time, in early spring, not long after Dylan had received a handwritten note from Olivia Frost demanding he clean up his property, an eyesore for potential visitors to the getaway she was opening down the road from him.

Except her note was the first Dylan had heard of her, Knights Bridge or his ownership of a house there. He’d had no idea his treasure-hunter father had bought the house and left it to him upon his death two years ago. It was built in the 1840s but wasn’t the architectural gem that Olivia’s home was. In fact, it was a rundown wreck.

Dylan hadn’t expected to discover that he had roots of his own in the out-of-the-way Swift River Valley, and he certainly hadn’t expected to fall in love with Olivia Frost.

Despite the miles he had hiked over the past few days, Noah felt restless, frustrated with his situation, even trapped, but at least he didn’t have to keep the players straight in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. He stuck out enough in Southern California but he enjoyed relative anonymity there compared to what he would endure in a small town straight out of Norman Rockwell. Dylan had tried to explain to him that, despite appearances to the contrary, time hadn’t stopped in Knights Bridge.

Maybe it hadn’t, but it was still small.

Really small.

Noah stared out the window as the mountains and woodlands of northern New England gave way to the suburbs of metropolitan Boston. Dylan drove with occasional suspicious glances at him, but Noah didn’t budge. He wasn’t talking.

When the Boston skyline came into view and traffic picked up, he sat up straight, wide-awake.

This was familiar territory.

Dylan valet-parked at the same five-star hotel in Copley Square where the charity event was being held and they each had booked a suite for the night. Their costumes for the evening would be delivered to their rooms.

“Noah,” Dylan said as he climbed out of the car.

Noah knew there was no point denying there was a problem. He shook his head. “Later.”

“Anytime. You know that.”

“I do. Thanks.”

When he reached his suite, Noah dug out his iPhone and stood in the window overlooking the familiar city streets as he dialed Loretta Wrentham’s number in San Diego. Loretta was Dylan’s personal lawyer and friend, a striking woman in her early fifties who recently admitted she’d been his father’s lover, at least briefly. According to Loretta, Duncan McCaffrey had never told her why he’d bought a house in Knights Bridge, either, but it had changed his son’s life.

That was Duncan, Noah thought. He’d been a restless soul, divorcing Dylan’s mother, traveling the world, having adventures. Fifteen years ago, he’d turned up in Boston when Noah was a freshman at MIT. Noah had been homesick, feeling like a misfit even among people just as dedicated to math and science as he was. Duncan McCaffrey had suggested Noah take up a martial art. “Karate, tae kwon do, tai chi, fencing. Something.” Noah had signed up for his first fencing lesson that week. Duncan had already gone off on some expedition.

Noah had known Loretta since she’d started working with Dylan during his early years with the NHL and considered her a friend.

She answered on the first ring. She must have pounced on the phone. “I haven’t found out a thing,” she said. “Not. A. Thing.”

That wasn’t good. Loretta was a hound. One sniff, and she pinned her nose to the trail straight to the end. This one had her stumped.

A few days before Noah flew to Boston for his hike in the White Mountains, he’d spotted a mystery man on his tail in San Diego. Or what he thought was a mystery man on his tail. He’d first noticed the man outside a waterfront restaurant, then at his fencing studio and finally outside the NAK offices in downtown San Diego.

On that third sighting, Noah had raced outside but got there too late. The man was gone. Loretta was on her way into the lobby of NAK’s stylish high-rise. Noah asked her if she’d seen anyone. She said she hadn’t, but offered to find out what she could. As a friend.

“It could just be my imagination that this guy’s following me,” Noah said, as he had a little over a week ago when he’d explained the situation to Loretta in San Diego.

“Do you have an imagination?” She caught her breath. “That didn’t come out right. I don’t mean it as an insult. You’re just so...evidence-oriented. I’m a lawyer. I can relate.”

Noah had learned not to dwell on people’s stereotypes about him but he was tempted to tell Loretta that if he didn’t have an imagination, there would be no NAK, Inc.

Nor would there be a fortune for anyone to scheme and fight over.

If that was what was happening.

He didn’t know if the man’s reasons for tailing him were personal, professional or money related—or even involved him.

“This guy could be a reporter,” she said.

“I suppose,” Noah said, unconvinced. So far, most journalistic interest in him since NAK had taken off had been legitimate, professional. No sneaking around, no following him.

“I wish you’d gotten a better look at him. Tall, gray hair, trim, wearing a dark gray suit. That’s not much. You’re sure you’d recognize him again if you saw him?”

“Yes.”

Loretta sighed. “Maybe he’s looking into one of your Hollywood ex-girlfriends. A paparazzi type.”

Noah grimaced as he watched a young couple run across Boylston Street hand in hand. “All I need is some idiot with a camera popping up out of nowhere and snapping shots of me dressed as a swashbuckler.”

“A swashbuckler?” Loretta gave a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. “That I’d like to see. Dylan says you’re damn good with a sword. Master fencer, right?”

“Something like that,” Noah said. The couple disappeared from his sight. He drew back from the window. “I should get ready for this thing tonight. I really appreciate your help with this situation, Loretta.”

“Happy to do what I can. I dealt with a few crazy stalker fans back in Dylan’s hockey days. I’m not saying that’s what’s going on here, but you might send me a list of your ex-girlfriends.”

It would be quite a list. “I’m not going that far, Loretta. Not without more to go on.”

“See? I said you were evidence-oriented. I’ll pick at a few more possible leads, but I’m not optimistic. Keep your eyes open. If this thing gets serious and I think you have a real threat on your hands, I’ll take additional steps.”

“Such as?”

“Calling the police. Recommending a bodyguard.”

Noah shook his head as if she were in the room with him. “No bodyguard. Not without an actual threat.”

“Have you told Dylan about this guy?” Loretta asked.

“No. I don’t want to distract him. He’s moving on from NAK, as he should.”

“He’s still your friend. What if your mystery man is on your tail because of Dylan? Have you considered that?”

He had. “Now we’re speculating. First things first. If there’s a reason, I’ll talk to Dylan. Right now there isn’t.”

“All right. Fair enough. How was your hike?”

“There were mosquitoes,” Noah said with a smile, then assured Loretta he’d keep his eyes open and let her know if there were any new developments.

After they disconnected, he did a series of stretches. In addition to a master fencer, he was a brown belt in karate. He’d concentrate on advancing to black belt once he got over the nonstop work and pressure of taking NAK public—and the loss of his best friend and closest business ally to New England.

And to pretty, talented Olivia Frost.

She was the love of Dylan’s life. And he of hers.

No question.

Noah centered his mind, focused on his movements, the rhythm, the technique. Everything else—doubts, questions, fears, noise—fell away as he did his basic shorin ryu karate warm-up routine of calisthenics, blocks, punches and kicks, then eased into a series of simple katas.

When he finished, he was sweating and loose, and he felt grounded, aware, in the moment.

His costume arrived. He laid it on the bed as if it were a dead musketeer and took another shower. He debated tripling his donation to the neonatal ICU and bowing out of tonight’s festivities. He could stay in his room and watch movies.

No point. Dylan would just hunt him down. Might as well get on with it.

Still damp from his shower, Noah donned the all-black costume, including the cape and the fake sword. He winced at his reflection. It wasn’t so much that he looked bad or foolish. He just didn’t look like himself.

At least there was a mask. It, too, was black, but fortunately it covered most of his face.

In San Diego, someone might recognize him even with the mask. In Boston?

Unlikely.

“Good,” he muttered, and headed down to the ballroom.

Three

Phoebe couldn’t take her eyes off the man coming toward her as if they were the only two people in the crowded, glittering ballroom. As if nothing could stop him and he was determined to reach her.

She was standing by a pillar, next to a table of empty champagne glasses. She’d arrived twenty minutes ago, wanting just to watch the festivities with a glass of champagne. Olivia had left one of Dylan’s extra tickets behind in case Phoebe decided to go after all, but she’d been so adamant about not going that now she didn’t want to have to explain why she’d changed her mind. Because she was captivated by a dress, by the fantasy of an elegant masquerade ball?

Best just to be the proverbial fly on the wall, then go back home with no one being the wiser. Let Olivia and Maggie enjoy their evening without worrying about her.

She adjusted her mask. Of the half-dozen masks Ava and Ruby had made for tonight, this one provided the most coverage. Her eyes and the line of her jaw were all that anyone could see of her face.

Perfect.

With this swordfighter gliding toward her, Phoebe appreciated the anonymity.

And he really was gliding. He moved with such smoothness, such an air of masculine purpose and self-control. He didn’t pull away to the bar or meet up with another woman. His mask covered most of his face, as hers did, and he was tall and lean, wearing a black cape over sleek black trousers and shirt, with a sheathed costume sword at his side. He looked as if he could handle the sword, fake or not.

His eyes locked with hers.

Phoebe started to duck away, but she was transfixed.

Why not stay?

There was a lull in the live music provided by a small, eclectic band near the separate dance floor. Her swordfighter continued toward her, his eyes still on her. She stared right back at him, ignoring the quickening of her heartbeat, the rush of self-consciousness.

Do I know him?

She shook her head. Impossible.

So far she’d managed to avoid running into Maggie and Olivia. It definitely helped that she knew what they were wearing. Even so, she’d almost turned back several times before arriving at her pillar. First, when she’d started onto Storrow Drive into the heart of Boston. Then when she’d eased her car into a tight space in the parking garage. Finally on the escalator up to the ballroom. She’d glanced down at the hotel lobby, full of giant urns of fresh flowers and artfully arranged sofas and chairs. Above her, she could hear people gathering outside the ballroom.

If she hadn’t been on an escalator, she’d have bolted then, for sure.

Once she reached the ballroom, she got caught up in the crowd, the music, the lights, the laughter and especially the costumes. Her mysterious Edwardian dress passed muster—she’d known it would—striking just the right note of elegance and daring.

The swashbuckler stopped a few yards from her. His eyes were a clear, striking blue, sexy and captivating. It wasn’t just the contrast with his black mask or the glow of the chandeliers or even her few sips of champagne at work. They were great eyes. Fantastic eyes.

She held her glass motionless in one hand as a couple passed in front of her, blocking her swashbuckler from her view. When they were gone, he was right in front of her.

Phoebe didn’t breathe.

I don’t belong here.

Then she remembered she was alone, anonymous and dressed as an Edwardian princess. Why not play the part? Why not be a little bold, even a little reckless?

With a deliberate smile, she raised her champagne glass in a flirtatious toast, hoping the man couldn’t tell that her heart was hammering in her chest.

Next thing she knew, he was at her side, an arm around her waist. “Dance with me,” he said, his voice low, deep and impossibly sexy.

Phoebe nodded without saying a word. He took her glass and set it on the table, then swept her onto the dance floor. His movements were sure, fluid and strong. He’d obviously known what he’d do the second he reached her.

She stifled a jolt of panic. A real princess would know how to dance better than she did. At least she had on strappy sandals that had seen her through several weddings and library events, and she managed not to stumble.

“Just follow my lead,” he whispered into her ear.

She licked her lips. “All right.”

Somehow he got her arm in position on his shoulder before she realized she had moved. She felt the ripple of lean muscle under his black cape and noticed the stubble of tawny beard around the edges of his mask. She had no idea who he was and expected it was the same for him with her. She’d followed the instructions her younger sisters had given to Olivia and Maggie in applying her makeup, but she’d had to figure out her hat and wig on her own. They felt secure, and she refused to consider what would happen if they flew off, revealing her pinned-up strawberry-blond curls.

The room spun as her dance partner whirled her among the hundreds of guests in costumes and masks in various shapes and colors. The feel of his palm on her lower back, the way he held her right arm—the way he moved with her—made dancing easy. He was confident, physical and strong, and Phoebe let herself pretend that he really could fight off bandits and scoundrels.

“Do you know how to use that sword?” she asked.

“I do, but it’s a fake.”

“You’re a fencer?”

He smiled but didn’t answer. The music switched to a faster tune. Phoebe barely paid attention to the actual music as her swashbuckler spun her across the dance floor. She was glad her dress was a good fit. If not, she’d have been bursting buttons and hooks-and-eyes. As it was, the dress revealed more cleavage than was her custom.

She felt sexy, lithe, wanted.

Not herself at all.

When the music ended, Phoebe realized they were on the opposite side of the ballroom. She gave her hat and mask a quick, subtle check to make sure they weren’t about to fall off while her dance partner accepted two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to her.

“Nice dancing with you, Princess,” he said, clicking his glass against hers.

“That was wonderful. Thank you. You’re quite a dancer.”

He laughed. “I watch a lot of movies. You’re not so bad yourself.”

“That’s kind of you to say. What should I call you? D’Artagnan? Are you a king’s musketeer?”

“That works for me.”

Phoebe sipped her champagne, wondering if their dancing had loosened a strawberry curl or two from under her wig. Would her musketeer care that she didn’t really have raven-black hair?

What does it matter? None of this is real.

She shut her eyes a moment, bringing herself back to reality. This was her secret night out on the town. She would be Phoebe O’Dunn again before dawn. Probably before the stroke of midnight.

“What brought you here tonight?” her swashbuckler asked.

Phoebe quickly reminded herself she was playing a part. Flirtatious, confident, rich. An Edwardian princess could afford to pay her own way to a charity masquerade ball and wouldn’t feel bad if she hadn’t. “It’s a great cause,” she said, settling on a vague answer.

“That it is.”

“And you? What brings you here?”

He shrugged. “I owed a friend a favor.” His so-blue eyes narrowed on her as he drank some of his champagne. “And it’s a good cause.”

The music started again, a slow, romantic song. He took her champagne glass from her and set it and his glass on a small table, then drew her into his arms and back onto the dance floor.

Phoebe laughed, feeling light-headed and free. She didn’t want the night to end and yet she knew it would. Her swordfighter would go back to being whatever he was—a pediatrician, a hospital administrator, a lawyer, a Boston businessman, a professor at one of the local colleges. She would go back to Knights Bridge. They lived in the real world. He wasn’t a musketeer and she wasn’t a princess.

Just for tonight...

His hand eased lower, subtly, over the curve of her hip. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

Phoebe did as he asked as he held her even closer. She had one arm around his middle and one on his shoulder, could feel the warmth of his skin through the black fabric of his costume. He wasn’t a man she’d conjured up on a lazy, hot, quiet afternoon at the library. He wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

As they danced, she heard only the music, felt as if they were floating together, as one. When the music finally stopped, he kept her close as she caught her breath and opened her eyes. “That was amazing,” she said with a smile.

His lips brushed hers. “You’re amazing, Princess.”

Phoebe started to tell him that she was no princess, but the words stuck in her throat. She didn’t want the fantasy to end. For a while longer she wanted to be a princess. She lowered her hand from his shoulder and opened her palm on his chest. Who was he, really? Did she even want to know?

Then she saw Dylan, dressed as a cross between Zorro and the Scarlet Pimpernel, standing with Olivia in her Audrey Hepburn dress. They gave no indication they recognized her or even were moving toward her. Phoebe glanced around for Maggie but didn’t see her.

Her swashbuckler released her and stood back a few inches, the muscles in his jaw visibly tensed as his eyes narrowed on something—or someone—behind Phoebe. “Excuse me, I have something I need to do,” he said, shifting back to her. He was enigmatic, decisive. “Will you wait for me?”

“I will. Yes, of course.”

“Do you have friends with you?”

“I’ll be fine. Please, do what you have to do.”

He touched a fingertip to her lips, then was gone in an instant. Phoebe watched him as he headed quickly through the crowd, his black cape flowing, his movements smooth and controlled.

She hoped he would come back but wasn’t at all sure what she would do if he did.

She dipped out of Dylan and Olivia’s line of sight and stopped at an hors d’oeuvres table. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her sister at the far end of the table in her gorgeous Grace Kelly gown. As a professional caterer, Maggie always liked to check out the food offerings at an event. Before Phoebe could decide what to do, her sister abruptly abandoned the hors d’oeuvres and whirled back toward Olivia and Dylan. At first Phoebe had no idea why. Then she saw a man dressed as a rogue of a pirate and she knew.

Brandon.

Phoebe immediately recognized her brother-in-law—Maggie’s soon-to-be-ex-husband—as he stopped at a tray piled high with miniature brownies. She tried not to react to his unexpected presence or call attention to herself in any way, but she was too late. His eyes met hers and then he grinned that grin that Phoebe had first seen in nursery school and her sister had fallen for at fifteen.

She groaned inwardly. It just figured Brandon Sloan would turn up as a pirate, and that he would have no trouble recognizing her in her Edwardian costume.

Phoebe didn’t dare bolt. That would only draw more attention to her. Instead, pretending to be casual, she helped herself to a bit of apple and cheese and moved down the table to him.

“Oh, this is too good,” Brandon said. “Phoebe O’Dunn in sequins and a feathered hat.”

“Maggie and Olivia don’t know I’m here,” Phoebe said through her clenched teeth.

“Dylan?”

“No.”

Brandon polished off a tiny brownie in one bite. “I didn’t think you were the type to sneak into a charity ball. I’m proud of you, Phoebe.”

“Do not make fun of me, Brandon.”

His dark eyes softened behind his mask. “Okay, I won’t. You’re shaking. Is everything all right? I saw you dancing—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All right. We won’t talk about it. Why are you here on the sly?”

“Just because.”

“You’ve been doing too many kids’ story hours. You sound like Aidan and Tyler.”

Phoebe ignored his teasing her and peered into the crowd. She didn’t see her swashbuckler. Everything she hadn’t noticed while she was dancing she noticed now. A cluster of people here. Another one there. A woman shrieking with laughter. A man spilling a drink down his front.

Clinking glasses.

Waiters with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

Reading materials and displays about the neonatal ICU.

What was I thinking, coming here tonight?

How had she let herself get caught up in dancing with a perfect stranger?

They were both playing a role.

“Phoebe?” Brandon took her by the elbow. “You look wobbly. Do you need to get out of here?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“How are you getting home?”

“I have my car.”

He grinned. “You drove? Good for you.”

She glared at him. “Brandon—”

“I’m not patronizing you. I meant it. Driving in Boston is no picnic even for someone used to it. Do you have your cell phone on you? Call me if you need help. Got that? Maggie would kill me if I knew you were sneaking out of here alone and didn’t look after you.”

“I don’t need looking after. Really. I’ll be fine. Thank you.” Phoebe started to leave, but stopped and turned back to him. “Brandon, if you see the man I danced with...” Was she completely mad? “Never mind.”

She spun into the crowd before he could respond. As she came to the large exit doors, she scanned a knot of people gathered there but didn’t see her swashbuckler. When she reached the relative quiet of the ballroom lobby, she hesitated instead of plunging straight onto the escalators. Maybe she should go back to the ballroom and find him. Olivia and Maggie would understand that the only way she could have come tonight was exactly the way she had—on her own, without telling anyone.

If she hadn’t been on her own, hadn’t been anonymous, she never would have danced with her swashbuckler. He might never have noticed her—or she him—if she’d been hanging out with Maggie, Olivia and Dylan.

Suddenly her head itched under the raven-colored wig, her makeup felt like paste and her feet hurt in her strappy sandals. She turned away from the escalator. She’d freshen up, get her bearings, before heading to her car.

As she started down a carpeted corridor to the restrooms, she heard a man’s voice and realized it was coming from a coatroom. “He’s here,” the man said. “I saw him with my own eyes. He’s dressed head to toe in black as a swordfighter or some damn thing.”

Phoebe held her breath. Was he talking about her swordfighter? She edged to the wide-open doorway and peeked into the coatroom. A man was there, alone, his back to her as he spoke into a cell phone. He had short, dark hair with gray streaks and wore a black suit. He wasn’t wearing a mask and he wasn’t in costume.

“The bastard spotted me,” he said. “He’s looking for me now. We don’t have enough time to take action. We need more.”

Phoebe stiffened but didn’t move from her position by the door.

Who’s we? What kind of action?

“You should have seen him dancing. The guy can move. He was with some woman dressed up like she was about to board the Titanic.” Another pause, then a sigh. “No, I don’t know who she is. I’ll find out. It shouldn’t be hard.”

He snapped his phone shut.

Phoebe bolted down the hall and into the ladies’ room, the door still swinging behind her as she ducked into a stall. She let out a breath. Should she try to find her swashbuckler and tell him what she’d just overheard?

What had she just overheard?

She wasn’t used to this kind of night. The crowds, the glitter, the elegance. She was out of her element. How could she judge the snippet of one-sided conversation with any clarity? For all she knew, her swashbuckler was in the middle of a divorce and tonight was his night to cut loose with a perfect stranger.

In which case it really was time to get back to Knights Bridge.

Phoebe left the stall and washed her hands at the sink, avoiding her reflection in the mirror, grateful she was alone in the ladies’ room. Should she peel off as much of her costume as possible before venturing back into the corridor?

No.

She didn’t have another outfit to change into, and if the man she’d eavesdropped on saw her, he could recognize her dress, snap a picture of her with his phone and there she’d be, strawberry curls, freckles and all. He’d have her name and address in a heartbeat.

Best just to make her exit now.

She’d planned to drive home tonight, anyway. She’d only had a few sips of champagne and was wide-awake. Dylan and Olivia were staying at the hotel, Maggie at Olivia’s small apartment in town. Phoebe could join her sister, but that would mean telling her what she’d done.

What I’ve done is gone completely mad.

Easier just to stick to her plan and stay anonymous.

The dress had come with a tiny matching purse that hooked onto the waist. She pulled out the bright red lipstick that she had chosen from Ava and Ruby’s theatrical makeup kit and reapplied it, noticing that her hand was shaking. What a night. She could be home with a nice cup of lemon-chamomile tea and a good book, or tucked on her couch watching a summer rerun of a favorite television show. Instead she was in Boston, dodging a stranger, her friends, her own sister.

Dancing with another stranger.

A sexy stranger at that.

Had he spotted the man in the coatroom? Was that why he’d left her so abruptly?

What was he hiding?

Phoebe tucked her lipstick back in her purse and pulled out her car keys as she finally took in her reflection. Her cheeks were flushed. Brandon hadn’t been lying about that.

The dress and the hat and the elegant mask really were amazing.

She had no regrets, she realized. Even if someone recognized her now, as she made her exit, the night was worth any possible embarrassment. So what if her friends and sister discovered she was the one who’d danced with the swashbuckler?

She’d had a blast.

Phoebe returned to the corridor and made it to the escalators without running into the man in the black suit, or anyone else.

As she stepped off the escalator, she glanced around the hotel lobby, half wishing that her dance partner would appear and sweep her into his arms again.

Maybe more than half wishing.

She kept putting one foot in front of the other until she was in the parking garage unlocking her car door. She kicked off her sandals and threw them in the back. She’d tossed gym socks and a pair of sneakers onto the passenger seat. She slipped them on, feeling more normal as she settled behind the wheel and pulled off her wig. It wouldn’t fool anyone now, anyway. At this point, if the man she’d overheard spotted her, he had only to jot down her license plate to find out who she was.

The same with her swordfighter.

Her car started without any trouble. She’d visited Maggie, and even Olivia, often enough during their time in Boston that she had no trouble finding her way back to Storrow Drive. When she reached Route 2, she finally let out a long, cathartic breath.

She’d done it.

Now her coach could turn back into a pumpkin and she could get back to her life in Knights Bridge.

Four

Maggie would have sworn the woman who had danced with Noah Kendrick was her sister Phoebe, but that just wasn’t possible. It was wishful O’Dunn thinking at its craziest.

Even crazier was thinking the pirate sauntering through the crowd was her husband.

She gulped more champagne than she should have. She was letting herself get upset over nothing. No way would any Sloan, and especially Brandon Sloan, show up for a masquerade ball.

Of course, if Brandon did show up, it would be dressed as a pirate. She needed to get a better look at him.

“It can’t be Brandon,” Maggie said under her breath. “It just can’t be.”

Olivia eased next to her. “The pirate, you mean?”

She was stunning in her black Audrey Hepburn dress, complete with a revealing slit up one leg and multi-strand pearls. Maggie didn’t feel nearly as elegant in her blue chiffon Grace Kelly dress.

“He reminds me of Brandon.” She tried to sound dismissive. “I must have had too much champagne.”

“Ah.”

Maggie gave her friend a sharp look. “Olivia? Is it Brandon?”

“I don’t know but I had the same thought when I saw the pirate. Dylan gave away so many tickets but he didn’t mention Brandon. Several of his hockey buddies are here. Maybe the pirate’s one of them.”

“That must be it. He’s one of Dylan’s NHL friends.”

“Do you want me to find out?” Olivia asked.

“No! Not when I’m dressed up as Grace Kelly. Brandon would suck all the fun out of the experience.” Maggie polished off the last of her champagne. It wasn’t the reason her head was spinning. That pirate was. She forced herself to smile at Olivia. “Several people have recognized my dress. I’m enjoying the fantasy, personally. The whole evening has been perfect.”

“I’m glad. You deserve this break, Maggie.”

“I do, don’t I?” She laughed, but she was on the verge of tears again. She had to put Brandon out of her mind. “But I wouldn’t change a thing about my life right now. I love my work, and the boys are the best—I’d walk on hot coals for them. You’re happy being back in our little hometown, aren’t you?”

“I don’t miss Boston as much as I thought I might,” Olivia said.

“Having Dylan up the road helps. Where is he, by the way, and when do I get to meet Noah? I’m glad you pointed him out to me. I’ve seen pictures of him but I’d never have recognized him in his costume.”

“It’s a great costume, isn’t it? Dylan’s with a couple of his NHL friends. I haven’t seen Noah but I want to introduce you to him.”

Given her relationship with Dylan, Olivia was naturally more attuned to the other attendees at the ball. Masks or not, most people had obviously recognized Dylan and were intensely curious about her. Maggie liked being able to enjoy the festivities with a measure of anonymity.

“Are you going to see Brandon while you’re in town?” Olivia asked.

“No,” Maggie said without hesitation. “I’m heading back home first thing in the morning and I’m Grace Kelly tonight. I’m not Mrs. Brandon Sloan. I won’t be for much longer, anyway. Might as well get used to it.”

“Maggie...”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I brought him up.”

Olivia hesitated, then smiled. “Would you like more champagne? And have you tried the mini frittatas? They’re great.”

Maggie frowned at her friend. They’d known each other since they were tots and Olivia was clearly not telling her something. They’d driven to Boston together, taking Maggie’s car. They’d dropped off Maggie’s things at the small apartment Olivia still had from her days with a Boston design studio and then walked over to the hotel. Dylan was already there, in costume, with Noah and his NHL friends.

Olivia drank some of her champagne. Her behavior was definitely awkward, Maggie thought. “Olivia? What’s going on?”

“I wouldn’t bet good money that Brandon’s at a sports bar watching the Red Sox tonight.”

“What? Olivia—is the pirate Brandon?”

“I told you I don’t know for sure.” Olivia again hesitated. “I think Brandon may have been in touch with Dylan.”

Maggie felt her mouth drop open but she quickly snapped it shut again. “In touch how? Why?”

“I don’t know. The Sloans are working on Dylan’s place. Maybe Brandon stopped by.”

“He doesn’t live in Knights Bridge. That’s my life.”

“His family’s there. The boys.”

“Believe me, I know.”

Maggie heard the bitterness in her own voice and regretted it. Don’t do this tonight, she told herself. Let Brandon live his own life. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? She shook off her confusion, her sense of violation—as if he had deliberately inserted himself into the new life she was building for herself, without him. She took in a deep breath. She prided herself on staying calm amid the chaos that her life sometimes threw at her as she juggled the multiple demands of her busy catering schedule, her two young sons, her three sisters, her widowed mother.

Her estranged husband.

She looked into the crowd to see if she could spot the pirate. It had to be Brandon.

She forced another smile at her friend. “We’ll sort everything out later. We’re Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn tonight, right?”

Olivia looked visibly relieved at Maggie’s cheerful tone. “Come on. Let’s go find Dylan. Noah’s around here somewhere, too. You’ll have to meet him.”

Maggie spotted Dylan alone by the doors out to the ballroom lobby. “He’s on his way over here now. Why don’t you two dance?”

“I’m not going to abandon you if you’re upset about Brandon—”

“Nothing I’m not used to. Don’t worry about me. If Brandon is the pirate, he had his chance to annoy me and resisted. I’m fine, honestly. Go.”

When Olivia turned, Dylan was already in front of her. He took her in his arms and whisked her onto the dance floor. He moved like a hockey player on ice, Maggie thought, smiling as her friend snuggled close to her fiancé. Olivia had reinvented her life, too. She was doing well, and Maggie was glad to see her so happy.

A thick arm went around her waist. “No wallflowers allowed,” the pirate whispered into her ear.

Brandon.

Maggie recognized his deep voice, his touch, but she pretended not to know it was him as she put a hand on his shoulder and let him spin her onto the dance floor. She’d be Grace Kelly in her flowing blue dress. Cool, calm, controlled, as if she were dancing with Cary Grant. But why was Brandon here? She let her questions die on her lips as he pulled her close to him. Did he know he was dancing with her—with his wife, the mother of his children?

Of course he knew.

He settled a hand on the curve of her hip. “Shh. Let’s just dance.”

It was what she wanted, too. Just to dance. To pretend he was about to lift her into his arms and carry her off as he had so many times in the past.

How long had it been since he had held her like this?

There had been only one man in her life. Brandon Sloan. They had been so right together...and then so wrong. Money, pride, dreams, the busyness of life. They’d let them all erode what they’d had together.

She had so many questions. So much she wanted to say to him.

“Do you know Dylan McCaffrey?”

Brandon didn’t hear her, or pretended not to as he held her close.

Maggie almost didn’t notice when the music stopped. He released her and smiled that rogue’s smile of his. “You’re beautiful, Maggie O’Dunn Sloan.”

Then he was gone, and by the time Maggie pulled herself together, she was standing alone on the edge of the dance floor, wondering if she’d imagined him. Tears burned in her eyes but she hoped, with the mask, that no one would notice.

Suddenly she felt hot in her Grace Kelly dress, ridiculous.

Noah Kendrick eased in next to her in his swashbuckler costume and slipped off his mask. “Maggie, I’m Noah Kendrick. Dylan’s friend. Can I get you a glass of water?”

“I’m all right, thanks. Just...just hot.”

“The costumes have their drawbacks.”

“They get us thinking about fantasies, don’t they?” Maggie appreciated his diplomacy. As Phoebe had said yesterday, it was a slippery slope to want what you knew you couldn’t have. Maggie cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders, wondering if it really could have been her sister who had danced with the California billionaire. Dylan’s friend, and now Olivia’s friend. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Noah.”

He gave a mock bow. “A pleasure to meet you, too, Maggie.”

“Have you enjoyed your evening? Who was that you were dancing with?”

He frowned. “I never got her name. Did you see where she went?”

Maggie shook her head. “Sorry, no.”

His eyes settled on her. “Do you know her?”

“I never talked to her,” she answered carefully. What if it was Phoebe who had danced with Noah? Had she realized who he was? Would she want Maggie blabbing her identity to him?

She gave herself a mental shake. She was being crazy. It wasn’t Phoebe.

“I was just impressed with how you two danced together,” Maggie said.

“I was distracted for a moment.” He seemed to want to go on but sighed. “Well, it’s nothing for you to worry about. You and Olivia look lovely. Great costumes.”

“Thanks. They’re fun. My sisters helped. I should call it an evening. My mother has my sons for the night, and I want to check in. They’re live wires as it is, and she tends to—” Maggie broke off. She wasn’t going to criticize her mother in front of a man she barely knew. “They always have a great time together.”

“You’re feeling better, then?”

She nodded. “It was just one of those things. I’ve learned to have my moments and move on. Are Dylan and Olivia still dancing?”

“They’re good together,” Noah said simply.

“Yes, they are,” Maggie said without hesitation. “I hope you enjoyed your hike in the White Mountains.”

“It was an experience,” he said with a smile.

Noah was quiet, but he radiated a confidence that Maggie hadn’t noticed at first, probably due more to her preset ideas about him than anything else. She hadn’t expected a high-tech genius, a hard-driving entrepreneur, to be so self-possessed. “A good swordfight more to your taste than mountain climbing?”

“Than staying a step ahead of a cloud of mosquitoes, for sure.”

Maggie laughed, feeling more herself again. “Brandon and I climbed Mount Washington before the boys came along. What an experience. The views stay with you forever, don’t they?”

“I liked the hot dogs at the top,” Noah said with a wink.

Dylan and Olivia joined them, and Maggie pulled off her mask. The evening was winding down and she wanted to change back into her regular clothes, forget any wild fantasies she’d had. She glanced around for her pirate husband, but he had disappeared. She expected to feel relief but she had to acknowledge a pang of disappointment, too.

And of loneliness, she thought. For so long, she and Brandon had been at each other’s sides. Lovers, best friends, parents to their two little boys.

How had they let that get away from them?

Maggie pasted a smile on her face. She wasn’t going to think about what had gone wrong between her and Brandon right now. She turned down Olivia and Dylan’s offer to walk with her back to Olivia’s apartment and instead headed out alone.

The night was warm and still, Copley Square filled with people. Maggie told herself she needed this time on her own. She’d loved living in Boston, but she didn’t miss city life as much as she thought she would when she’d packed up herself and the boys and returned to Knights Bridge. Her hometown had plenty to offer, and it was a great place for Tyler and Aidan. They’d made new friends, loved being close to family. It was the same for Maggie. Even her work was better in Knights Bridge. In Boston, she’d worked part-time for different caterers. Now she had her own catering business, and it was getting off the ground faster than she’d anticipated or even had hoped it would.

She cut down to Commonwealth Avenue and continued on to attractive, residential Marlborough Street. She’d always wanted to live in Back Bay, but she and Brandon had rented a series of apartments in less expensive parts of the city. It wasn’t just a question of finances, she’d finally realized. It was what he wanted, where he was comfortable. Back Bay wouldn’t suit him.

She used Olivia’s keys to get into the apartment. Olivia planned to give it up, but it definitely came in handy tonight. Maggie wouldn’t have wanted to drive home after her evening as Grace Kelly.

She caught her reflection in the entry mirror. She’d managed to avoid mirrors all evening and was a little shocked at how she looked. Sexy, a little devil-may-care. Leave it to Ava and Ruby to get creative and theatrical. Phoebe’s discovery of the look-alike dress from To Catch a Thief was perfect, but the twins were responsible for the subtle Grace Kelly makeup, the push-up bra, the blond wig and the glittery mask.

Maggie pulled off the wig, then unpinned her hair and let it fall to her shoulders.

Already she looked and felt more like Maggie O’Dunn, mom to two young boys, second of four sisters, caterer to showers, weddings, meetings, reunions, fundraisers and even the occasional wake.

If not always the most practical person, she was at least able to manage on her own.

Did she look and feel like the wife of Brandon Sloan anymore?

Had he left the hotel and found his way to a sports bar?

Everyone liked Brandon. He was easy to like since he didn’t have to deal with the details of paying bills, raising their sons, figuring out their future. When faced with unemployment, he’d taken off for the mountains with a backpack and his dreams. He’d never meant to be a carpenter forever. He was good at it, he even liked it—but he thought he should be doing something else. Maggie didn’t even know what anymore. She doubted he did, either.

She put him out of her mind and dialed her mother’s house. Tyler picked up. “Gran’s making hot chocolate.”

“Hey, Tyler. Why are you still up?”

“The bat woke us up.”

“I see.” Bats weren’t unheard of at her mother’s farmhouse, especially in summer. “Where’s the bat now?”

“Gran shooed it outside with a broom. I helped.”

“Good for you. What about your brother?”

“He hid under his blanket. He’s having hot chocolate, too.”

“All right. Well, you two be good and help Gran. Tell her I called, okay?”

“I will, Mom. When are you coming home?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Did you see Dad?”

She couldn’t lie to her son. “I did, but just for a few minutes.”

“He’s taking me and Aidan camping.”

Maggie heard the questioning note in Tyler’s voice and responded without hesitation. “Yes, absolutely, he’s taking you and Aidan camping.” That was one thing she knew for certain: Brandon would keep his promise to his sons. “Go enjoy your hot chocolate. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When she disconnected, she threw her phone onto the entry table and sank onto the sofa. It opened out into a bed. She would sleep there.

She kicked off her shoes and noticed a side seam in her flowing dress had split an inch, probably from dancing with her husband.

“Why aren’t you here with me, Brandon?”

She hugged her arms around herself and burst into tears.

* * *

Phoebe could hear the pitter-pat of rain on the library roof as she sat cross-legged on the wood floor of the hidden attic room. Too wired to sleep after the masquerade ball and the drive back to Knights Bridge, she’d changed into yoga pants and a lightweight fleece tunic, intending to do a few stretches on the living room floor, but she’d ended up grabbing a flashlight and heading out into what was then a light drizzle. As she’d breathed in the damp night air, she imagined her swashbuckler’s arms around her.

What a night it had been.

She’d walked down Thistle Lane to the library, letting herself in through the side door. Putting aside thoughts of ghosts, she’d debated a moment before starting up the back stairs. A more formal set of stairs in the main room led just to the second floor. In her five years with the library, she’d seldom ventured up to the attic. One of those rare times was two weeks ago, and it had resulted in the discovery of the dresses that she, Olivia and Maggie had worn tonight.

It was pouring rain now, pitch-dark outside. Phoebe had never been up to the attic at night. She half expected a bat to fly out from its dark recesses, crowded with cast-off library furnishings, archives, books and everything her waste-not, want-not predecessors over the past century-plus had thought might come in handy someday.

She’d come upon the hidden room accidentally, when she’d lifted a small paper bag sitting on top of an old filing cabinet and a dozen antique marbles broke out of the bottom. They dropped onto the floor, rolling every which way. Several rolled under two tin closets standing side by side, filled with more junk and treasures. She’d edged between the closets, determined to collect the marbles.

As she’d bent down to retrieve a colorful swirled boulder, she noticed a door behind the free-standing closets. She’d had no idea it was there. Madly curious, she’d tucked the marble in her dress pocket and shoved the closets back just enough to give her room to get at the door. It was unlocked but obviously hadn’t been opened in a while. It hadn’t given way easily.

She’d expected to find that it was a closet, probably stuffed with more of the mishmash of materials in the rest of the attic. Instead the door opened into a small room that she hadn’t even realized existed. It was lined with shelves and cupboards neatly arranged with fabric, patterns, buttons, zippers, needles, thread, notions, buttons—everything an avid seamstress might need.

A secret sewing room.

It felt like a hideaway, a tiny retreat where someone could sit and work in peace and quiet. Another door opened onto a remote corner of the sprawling attic, by a small window that overlooked the town common. A dusty sewing table was positioned so that a seamstress could work with a pleasant view and a bit of natural light.

The only thing that seemed to be missing for a fully equipped sewing room was an actual sewing machine.

Phoebe had done a quick survey of the contents of the room and discovered the Hollywood-inspired and period dresses in two matching cedar-lined trunks and several hanging garment bags. Leaving everything undisturbed, she’d replaced the tin closets in front of the door and decided to keep the room her secret for the time being.

A few days later, she’d gone back and picked out the three dresses to be cleaned.

Now, tired, a little spooked with the dark night and rain, she raised the lid on a sewing basket. Given the conditions, she was ever-watchful for mice and spiders but the sewing kit yielded only pins, needles, thread, embroidery floss, a tracing wheel, cards of zigzag and seam binding.

Who had sewn up here? Why leave so much behind?

Phoebe took a sharp breath. Had the sewer of all these clothes died? Was that why the incredible dresses were still here?

I have to know.

She pulled all the notions and other items out of the sewing kit and laid them on the floor, looking for any clues that would help identify who had sewn the dresses she, Maggie and Olivia had worn to Boston tonight.

Her Edwardian gown had attracted her swashbuckler and hidden her from the scrutiny of the mystery man in the coatroom.

A night of mysteries, she thought, untangling several zippers.

A browned sheet of paper was matted to the bottom of the sewing basket. Phoebe carefully peeled it off and saw that it was a practice sheet of the conjugation of the French verb to be in a neat, feminine handwriting: Je suis, tu es, il/elle est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils/elles sont.

Phoebe had taken French in high school and college but she was rusty and wasn’t sure she could have managed to conjugate even a simple verb. Had the seamstress gone to high school in Knights Bridge? Had she been a student when she’d set up this room?

So many questions.

Phoebe returned the sheet of French verbs to the sewing kit and carefully replaced all the supplies. She stood, finally feeling the effects of her long day. She grabbed her flashlight and shut the door, moved the closets back into place, then headed back down the steep, dark stairs. The creaks and groans of the old building normally didn’t faze her, but the hidden room had her thinking about ghosts as she locked up.

It was still raining when she started back down Thistle Lane. She’d gone out without a raincoat or umbrella, but it was a warm, gentle rain, as if to remind her what was real and what wasn’t real.

Pretending to be a princess and dancing with a mysterious swashbuckler at a Boston charity ball had been a fleeting fantasy, a peek into another kind of life.

Someone else’s life. Not hers.

Five

Noah slept fitfully and awoke wishing he had sent a check for the neonatal ICU instead of attending the masquerade ball. He could have gone straight back to California after hiking in the White Mountains or stayed in California altogether. Either way, he’d have spared himself meeting the potential love of his life and letting her slip through his fingers.

It was his own fault. He never should have left his princess and chased after his mystery man, if, indeed, that was who he’d spotted.

There had to be a way to find her.

He decided he didn’t want to deal with email and voice mail and “accidentally” dropped his iPhone in the water-filled bathroom sink.

The people who truly needed to reach him would figure it out.

He got dressed, appreciating his normal black trousers and black shirt. No more hiking clothes, no more swashbuckler cape. He went down for breakfast and tried to act as if he’d had a good night.

Once he had coffee, he decided he probably shouldn’t have tossed his phone into the sink.

He’d run into people last night from his MIT days. Rumors were circulating about what was next for him now that NAK had gone public. One account had him staying on as CEO, another shifting into research and development. Focusing on his Central Coast winery. Getting deeper into venture capital, starting a new business, devoting himself to philanthropy, moving into academia.

None of the rumors were true, if only because Noah had no idea what was next for him beyond whole-wheat pancakes and warm Vermont maple syrup for breakfast.

He’d finished his pancakes when Dylan and Olivia wandered into the restaurant and joined him at his table. Waiters quickly brought out fresh place settings. Olivia had on lightweight jeans and a green linen top that matched her eyes. Dylan was in jeans and a hiking shirt, as if he hadn’t thought about being at the Boston hotel this morning. Noah hadn’t, either. He just generally wore the same thing.

Olivia sat next to Dylan. She looked radiant, comfortable in her own skin in a way she hadn’t on Noah’s brief trip east in early spring.

He’d been assaulted by black flies then, he remembered.

“Loretta called,” Dylan said. “She said she emailed you and left you a voice mail and thought she’d hear back by now.”

“Phone’s broken.”

“Dropped it again?”

“In the sink. Water damage.”

“Ah.” Dylan shifted his gaze to Olivia. “Noah breaks a lot of phones.”

“You get distracted and drop them?” she asked.

Noah ignored Dylan’s obvious amusement at her question. “You could say that.”

Dylan grinned. “He gets pissed off and kills his phone.”

“Not often,” Noah said, keeping his attention on Olivia. “Dropping my phone in water is an indulgence but the alternative is to get distracted by the thing.”

“It’s how his mind works,” Dylan said, leaving it at that. “What does Loretta want with you?”

Noah glanced past him and looked out tall windows as Boston slowly came to life on a quiet, sunny Saturday morning. “I guess I’ll call her and find out.”

“Noah?”

He heard the concern in his friend’s voice and shifted back to him. “It’s all good, Dylan. No worries.”

Dylan was clearly unconvinced. “Loretta has no official role with NAK. She’s my lawyer and business manager, and my friend. You two aren’t cooking up a surprise party. Something’s wrong. What?”

“You’re moving on. I don’t want you to worry about this stuff.”

“What stuff?” Dylan asked, eyes narrowed, alert. “What’s going on, Noah? You might as well tell me. I’m not going to quit badgering you until you do.”

Badgering was one of Dylan’s qualities that had been most helpful and necessary during the past four years. It also could be inconvenient and, occasionally, annoying. But Noah saw that he had to tell him.

He shrugged. “Some guy’s on my tail. He was here last night. At least I think it was him. I could be wrong—”

“But you’re not.” Dylan took a breath. “Early fifties. Six feet tall. Dark hair with a lot of gray. Black suit. No costume.”

Noah wasn’t surprised Dylan could describe the man. Between his years on the ice and at NAK, he missed nothing. He’d honed his natural instincts about people, their motives and character. He’d turned down a larger role with NAK, but he’d been indispensable in transforming Noah’s ideas and technical skills into a viable—and ultimately highly successful—company.

“Did you talk to this man you saw?” Noah asked.

Dylan shook his head. “He was watching you dance with your princess. Was she with him?”

“Why would you think that?”

“She left the ballroom right after he did. I tried to follow her but she disappeared before I could catch up with her. I didn’t see the older gentleman.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No,” Dylan said without hesitation, then turned to Olivia. “What about you? Did you see this man?”

She set down her coffee cup. “I spoke with him briefly. I think he’s the one you’re talking about. He asked what I knew about the woman Noah was dancing with.”

“How did you respond?” Noah asked, keeping his tone neutral.

“I didn’t, really. I just said I was there to enjoy the evening. I had the feeling he knew you, Noah. I didn’t think anything of it. We spoke for less than a minute. Then he moved on. Is he a problem?”

“He’s an unknown.” Noah poured himself more coffee from a small silver pot. “He might not be a problem at all. I spotted him a few times in San Diego.”

“How many is a ‘few’?” Dylan asked.

“Three. At a restaurant where I was enjoying a nice fish dinner with a friend.”

“One of your actresses?”

Noah ignored him. “Then at the fencing studio. Third time was outside our offices. I ran into Loretta and we agreed she’d see if she could find out who he is and what he wants.”

“Why not use one of your own people?”

“Who are my people nowadays, Dylan?”

Dylan tapped his fingers on the white tablecloth. “Noah, is there any reason this guy would bird-dog you? Personal, professional—anything?”

Noah pushed away his untouched coffee refill. “Not everyone needs a reason.”

“What does Loretta say?”

“She’s stumped. I hoped it’d turn out to be a case of too much time on my hands. Then I saw this strange man again last night. It’s too big a coincidence for me to spot him in San Diego and then in Boston.”

Dylan sat back. “I’ll talk to Loretta and take care of this.”

Noah shook his head. “No, Dylan. Thank you, but Loretta and I are handling this on our own.”

“Any ideas who he is, what he wants?” Dylan asked.

“No.”

“Is he stalking you or what?”

“I wouldn’t say stalking.”

Dylan took in a sharp breath. “Maybe you should involve NAK security. You’re worth a lot of money. Your company recently went public. You’ve made a few enemies in the process.”

“I don’t think this is about money, enemies or power. It feels different.”

“Personal?”

“Maybe.”

“An ex-girlfriend’s father?” Olivia asked. “Something like that?”

Noah smiled at her. “You’re assuming I have an ex-girlfriend.”

“More like a legion of them,” Dylan muttered. When Olivia raised her eyebrows, he added, “Noah’s high-profile. A lot of women want to have a night on the town with him, at his expense. Deep down, though, he’s still the high school geek who was better at math than most of his teachers. I wasn’t, in case you were wondering.”

“In other words,” Noah said, his eyes on Olivia, “I have a low threshold of trust where women are concerned.” He sat back, wishing now he’d waited longer to have his pancakes. “I also get dumped a lot.”

“Because you don’t like being used,” Dylan said. “Maybe you flipped the switch of one of your actress’s crazy uncles, or someone is seizing the moment to see what they can get off you. We can speculate all morning. It won’t get us anywhere.”

“And it’s not a problem until it’s a problem,” Noah said.

“This man hasn’t made direct contact with you?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Maybe he sent you one of the emails you didn’t want to read this morning.”

“I’m not worried, Dylan,” Noah said truthfully. “If he wanted to physically harm me, he’s had several chances.”

“He could know you’re a master fencer and a brown belt in karate.”

“I hope he does.”

“What if he’s looking up dirt on you so that he can harm NAK?” Olivia asked. “What if he wants to harm you—your reputation?”

“Let him try. I have no skeletons in the closet.” Noah gave her a slight smile. “I’m not that interesting, Olivia. More than likely this man is just angling for money.”

Dylan eyed Noah. “Any chance there’s a connection to me?”

“I have no reason to think so, or that there’s a connection to Knights Bridge.”

“Knights Bridge?” Olivia sat forward. “Why would there be a connection to Knights Bridge?”

Noah regretted his offhand comment and tried to reassure her. “I’m sure there isn’t one.” He decided to change the subject. “Unless my princess is hiding there. Are you positive you two didn’t recognize her? She had quite arresting eyes. Almost turquoise. They reminded me of your friend Maggie’s eyes but the color was deeper.”

Olivia reached suddenly for the cream pitcher. “Really? I wonder who she could be.”

She greeted the waiter a little too cheerfully when he arrived with her and Dylan’s breakfasts. Noah glanced at Dylan and saw that he noticed her reaction, too.

The description of his dance partner had obviously struck a nerve with Olivia.

Noah smiled. His princess might not be so lost, after all.

* * *

Knights Bridge was even prettier than Noah remembered from his visit in early April. Having leaves on the trees helped. He sat up front with Dylan while Olivia pointed out various landmarks from the backseat. She explained that the building of the Quabbin Reservoir and the subsequent flooding of much of the Swift River Valley had changed the development of the town, putting it off the beaten track and giving it a “time has stopped here” feel that was, both Olivia and Dylan again insisted, deceptive.

Maybe so, Noah thought, but that didn’t mean he wanted to do more than float in and out again. He had a chartered jet scheduled to meet him at a nearby private airport that evening.

Of course, his princess could change everything. He’d hang out for a day or two in Knights Bridge and brave mosquitoes and its one restaurant if there was a chance he’d find out more about her.

Dylan turned onto a back road that wound toward Quabbin, his ease with the twists and turns suggesting a familiarity that reminded Noah that his best friend was, without a doubt, moving on from NAK. Less certain was whether he and Olivia planned to keep a home in San Diego. Noah would. Four New England winters during his years at MIT were enough for him.

Not that he had any reason to move to Knights Bridge or anywhere else in New England.

The Farm at Carriage Hill was located in a picturesque mix of meadows, woods and stone walls. Its hand-painted sign, decorated with a cluster of chives, worked with the 1803 house with its cream-colored clapboards and rich blue front door. As he followed Olivia through her kitchen out to the stone terrace, Noah could see that she was turning her vision for her historic house into a reality. Even subtle changes were infused with her sense of color and design, and her love for her hometown. According to Dylan, she’d always planned on returning to Knights Bridge to open her own version of a bed-and-breakfast, even if her departure from Boston hadn’t been entirely on her terms.

“Dylan and I will make lunch,” she said. “You can wait out here and familiarize yourself with New England herbs and flowers.”

“You’re assuming I want to know New England herbs and flowers.”

She laughed. “Yes, I am.”

She went back inside, and Noah sat at the round table and observed the backyard. It really was attractive. Small-town life suited Olivia. He hadn’t known her when she lived in Boston and worked at a prestigious design studio, but he knew from Dylan that she’d lost a major client in an underhanded way to a friend whose career Olivia had helped revive. The experience had served as a catalyst for her to transform her life.

One could only move forward from where one was standing, Noah thought as he stretched out his legs and tried to relax. Pretending otherwise was a fast way into trouble. He knew from hard experience that where he was standing at any given moment wasn’t always where he wanted to be, or should be. That was just life. Not everything was under his control. Mistakes, incompetence, good intentions, bad intentions, good luck, bad luck, human nature—lots of things beyond his control played a role.

Of course, a lot under his control played a role in determining where he was, too. His own screwups, his own limitations, his own lack of vision and purpose.

Were they what had this mystery man on his tail?

Noah sank back in his chair, appreciating the quiet surroundings. Olivia certainly did have a knack with flowers and herbs. She came through the back door with a tray of sandwiches, her big, ugly dog trailing behind her.

He looked up at her as the dog, a German shepherd with a healthy mix of black Lab and probably several other breeds, promptly flopped down under the table, his big black-and-brown head on Noah’s feet. “What’s his name again?”

“Buster,” Olivia said, placing the tray on the table. “He adopted me when I first moved back here.”

Dylan followed her onto the terrace, carrying two glasses of iced tea. He set one in front of Noah. “Maybe you should get a dog, Noah.”

He eased his foot out from under the dog’s head. “Does Buster have a brother?”

“I hope not,” Dylan said with a mock shudder.

Olivia grinned at him. “I thought you and Buster had bonded.”

“We have, but one Buster is enough.” He winked at her as he handed her the second glass of tea and sat across from Noah. “All the world needs.”

Buster gave a deep, satisfied sigh from under the table. The dog was visibly calmer than when Noah had met him in April. A few months in Olivia’s care no doubt had helped. Buster had clearly endeared himself to Dylan, despite an inauspicious meeting.

Now here they all were—Olivia Frost, Dylan McCaffrey and Buster.

Noah smiled at what a great family they made. He’d never seen Dylan happier, and Olivia was fast becoming a friend herself. Noah helped himself to a chicken salad sandwich. It had some kind of herb in it. Fresh tarragon, he thought. If his princess was in Knights Bridge, was she into herbs, too?

“Who’ll be minding Buster while you two are in San Diego?” he asked casually.

“Maggie will be in every day,” Olivia said. “She and I are basically business partners. We’re thinking about doing the paperwork to make it official. We work so well together.”

“And she lives in Knights Bridge and likes herbs,” Noah said.

“She also likes her mother’s goats,” Dylan added, his tone neutral. As he’d explained to Noah, the bonds between the people of Knights Bridge were sometimes tricky to navigate. The Frosts had been in the Swift River Valley and surrounding hills for generations. Despite Dylan’s newly discovered roots in the region, he was still an outsider.

“Maggie loves herbs and goat’s milk,” Olivia said with a laugh. “I don’t know that much about goats, but the milk is perfect for the artisan soaps Maggie and I are making.”

Noah tried to keep any reaction to himself as it sank in that he was talking goats and soap at a two-hundred-year-old house on a dead-end road, surrounded by meadows, shade trees, green grass and a lot of flowers and herbs. It was a first.

The goats, he’d learned, belonged to Maggie’s widowed mother and were a source of both tension and enjoyment within the O’Dunn family.

Obviously in a happy mood, Olivia sat between him and Dylan. “I’ll give you some samples of our goat’s milk soap. We’re still tinkering before we test-market it here. Maggie’s on top of all the regulations.”

“Complicated?”

“Not too bad unless we make actual medicinal claims.”

“Which you won’t?”

She shook her head. Noah saw that his interest surprised her, but she was the love of his best friend’s life and he wanted to know about her and what she enjoyed. With Carriage Hill getting off the ground and the betrayal of her friend over stealing a client behind her, Olivia’s natural optimism had clearly returned.

Falling in love didn’t hurt, either.

Noah thought of his princess. He could feel the curve of her hip, see the warmth in her eyes, the soft swell of her creamy breasts. Why had he left her? Why hadn’t he let the mystery man come to him?

Because he hadn’t wanted his life in San Diego—who he really was—to intrude on the moment. The fantasy they both were enjoying.

Either that, or he hadn’t known what the hell he was thinking.

He wasn’t thinking she’d disappear, that was for sure.

“Noah?” Dylan asked with a frown.

He sighed. “Mind drifting. Thinking about hiking in the mountains, then playing a swashbuckler at a ball—I’ve got mental whiplash.”

“Not a chance,” his friend said without hesitation. “You never have mental whiplash, whatever that is.”

“It’s a big change to go from waking up in a sleeping bag on a mountain to dancing at a charity ball that night.”

Dylan was still obviously unconvinced. “You knew the deal. There were no surprises.” He shifted, then smiled. “Except for your princess. I guess she could have you whiplashed in a number of ways.”

“Funny, Dylan,” Noah said.

He grinned. “I thought so.”

As they finished their simple lunch, Noah noticed a woman come out of a small shed at the far end of the yard. She had a cobalt-blue scarf tied around her head and long, dark strawberry curls trailing down her back. She started up a bark-mulch path, and Noah saw she wore a deep red top that accentuated her breasts and shorts that shaped slim hips. Her sport sandals, though, looked as if they’d gone up and down Mt. Washington a time or two.

When she reached the terrace, she stayed on the path and motioned toward a raised flower bed as she addressed Olivia. “The slugs got to the miniature dahlias, Liv. They’re so gross. I put out slug bait and trimmed back the worst of the damage.” She shuddered, then smiled brightly. “I was admiring the gardens and couldn’t resist going on slug patrol when I saw the carnage.”

“Yuck,” Olivia said. “I hate slugs. Only thing worse are ticks.”

Noah glanced at Dylan. Slugs? Ticks? What had happened to bucolic small-town New England?

Dylan seemed to read his mind, with obvious amusement. “Ticks suck blood and can be hard to see,” he explained, not that an explanation was necessary or desired.

“Oh, sorry,” Olivia said. “Noah, this is my friend Phoebe O’Dunn. Maggie’s sister. Phoebe, this is—”

“Noah. Noah Kendrick.” He got to his feet and put out a hand. “A pleasure, Phoebe.”

She wiped a palm on her hip and smiled as she shook his hand, her skin warm, soft, her fingers long and slender. “I wore garden gloves when I took on the slugs, but you never know. It’s nice to meet you, Noah. I hope you’re enjoying Knights Bridge.”

“Hard not to on such a beautiful day, despite images of slugs and ticks.”

“Sorry about that,” she said, the twinkle in her eyes belying her words. “Are you here for long?”

“That’s not the plan.”

Noah saw that her eyes were a similar turquoise to her sister’s but shook off any comparison with his princess from last night. The false eyelashes, the heavy makeup—how would he be able to tell for sure? He doubted he’d recognize her voice. He wasn’t good at that sort of thing.

Now if he could touch her hips...

He shook off that thought, too. Whatever Olivia knew about his dance partner and wasn’t saying, it didn’t involve this attractive slug-hunter in scarf and muddy clothes.

Definitely not the same turquoise eyes.

With one smooth movement, Phoebe pulled off her scarf and gave her curls a shake once they were free. She seemed natural, unselfconscious. In her element, he thought.

“Well, if you do decide to stay on,” she said, “we’ll make sure you’re not bored.”

Noah felt his eyebrows go up and heard Dylan give a little cough behind him.

“Phoebe’s the town librarian,” Olivia added quickly.

“She can keep me in reading material, then.” Noah smiled at Knights Bridge’s redheaded librarian. “Nothing like a good book.”

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