The Last Man She'd Marry

“Maybe you need to let your guard down a little more,” Jonas said.

“G-Man, that’s what got me in this condition.” Lifting her gaze to meet his, Alyx added, “And look who’s talking—Mr. Ask Me No Questions So I Don’t Have To Spin Tall Tales.”

“I don’t recall you asking me anything that I couldn’t answer,” Jonas said.

“That’s because I wasn’t interested in classified information,” she countered.

“Why do you think I made all those trips down to Austin?” he asked.

“You said you were working on cases.”

“Over holidays? C’mon, Alyx. We spent every spare minute you had together. Didn’t that give you a clue to how I felt?”

In the reverberating silence Jonas suspected he’d gone too far. Sometimes there was nothing left to do but cut to the important thing. Clasping his hand to the back of her head, he claimed her mouth with his.

Dear Reader,

Two characters that lingered in my mind from my last Special Edition novel, A Man to Count On, were Alyx Carmel, the divorce attorney and friend of heroine E. D. Martel, and FBI Special Agent Jonas Hunter, an old school friend of the hero, Judge Dylan Justiss. It was clear from the start that there was chemistry between Alyx and Jonas, but aside from their irresistible physical attraction, it seemed we were dealing with an oil-and-vinegar couple.

The more I thought about this couple the more I saw parallels to Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Both Alyx and Jonas have great professional pride and their perceptions of each other are weakly based on minimal information and experience. As fate would have it, the more they’re resolved not to reexamine those faulty perceptions, the more their paths cross, until they can’t help but be forced into seeing that while they differ on surface issues, they share important qualities and values that, given the chance, could enhance the passion they otherwise bring out in each other.

I hope you enjoy their journey of discovery and love, and as always, thank you for reading.

Warm regards,

Helen

The Last Man She’d Marry

Helen R. Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

HELEN R. MYERS,

is a collector of two-and four-legged strays, and lives deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas. She cites cello music and bonsai gardening as favorite relaxation pastimes, and still edits in her sleep—an accident, learned while writing her first book. A bestselling author of diverse themes and focus, she is a three-time RITA® Award nominee, winning for Navarrone in 1993.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

A bad day wasn’t the half of it.

Alyx Carmel didn’t speak the words out loud, but the first strains of a current pop tune all but mimicked her as it blared through the audio system of Mesa Rehab-Fitness Center. She clenched her teeth and released the handles of the resistance machine she’d been working on. While the machine swooshed, then thudded to a rest position, she considered hunting down the stereo system, wondering how much it would cost to replace the annoying thing, since she was of a good mind to toss it through the nearest window.

Yes, she was having a bad day, year, life. All that was needed to propel her over the edge was another glass-half-full dose of mind-numbing music and she would challenge any court to hold her responsible for her behavior.

“Come on, Alyx, you have to try a little harder.”

The girlish voice belonged to none other than blond, ponytailed Sharleigh Moss, a California transplant, who retained the tan to look the part, although by her own admission Shar avoided actual sunlight more than an Ann Rice vampire. Alyx had to admit that the instructor knew her equipment, but her obvious hunt for a man to rescue her from the need of a paycheck was as insulting to Alyx as her voice was annoying.

And one more thing, she fumed to herself without generosity: how could anyone operating a business in a geographic location advertised to be as harmonious and spiritual as Sedona, Arizona, let this fuse-busting lady longlegs run a rehab center like some kind of torture chamber?

Increasingly irritated with the trainer-therapist, who had just excused the man with the barely bandaged knee from finishing his quota of leg pumps, Alyx strained to sit up. “No, actually, I don’t have to try harder. I have to protect myself because it’s clear there’s no one else watching out for my well-being but me.”

Her injuries might not be immediately visible, but if she ripped open the neckline of her T-shirt to look like some cover models, everyone in the room would probably gag. With that certainty embittering her, Alyx pushed away Shar’s extended hand and pushed herself to her feet.

“Was that necessary?”

The way she glanced around self-consciously had Alyx wondering. She’s worried about her reputation. Shaking her head in weariness, she managed civility if not warmth. “I’ve been trying to tell you that the regimen you devised for me is too much. I can barely drive to the house at the end of the session, let alone function once I get there.”

“You’ve only been at this for a week. It’s always difficult in the beginning.”

Who cared? Alyx didn’t like to test her limits on anything except her mental prowess. The closest she came to being athletic was an occasional soak in a hot tub. Granted, she had started some yoga in the year before the attack, but that was for stress relief.

“I’m thirty-nine, not nineteen,” she reminded the twenty-something spa employee, “and I’m starting from scratch—just like your other clients.”

“I know you think I’m giving other patients preferential treatment, Alyx. But please consider this—you’re late in getting help. Odds are some damage is already permanent, which makes me the automatic bad guy. The harder I push early on, the greater progress we may achieve before fatigue has you seriously locking those mental brakes.”

“Good grief, you poor saint. I’ll just haul my insensitive self out of here to give you more time with people who are gluttons for punishment.”

As she began to rise, Sharleigh signaled caution with a raised hand.

“Look, I can take the sarcasm. In fact, I prefer it to those who kick or bite me. I’m just trying to impress upon you the great mistake it would be to give up.” Regaining some of her perkiness, Sharleigh tossed her gloss-enhanced ponytail over one shoulder before crossing her arms under her lemon-yellow sports bra. “Come on, help me out. I have a reputation to protect.”

For relief, Alyx visualized a pot of cooked cabbage dumped over the annoying kid’s head. Lukewarm, of course. “You haven’t lived long enough to have one.”

“Pardon me?”

Once upon a time in a courtroom, Alyx could have rendered Shar mute using a minimum of words. But she’d lost her stomach for those kinds of power plays. Rising, she leaned over and replied in a conspiratorial whisper, “I promise to keep it a secret that you wasted your time on me.”

Barely resisting the urge to massage the throbbing ache that ran from shoulder to wrist, Alyx decided her best bet was to head for the lockers and get out of here. A hot shower at the house would keep her from the temptation of popping pills or worse.

It was August now, seven months since the attack that fiercely cold January day in Austin, Texas, that had changed her life forever. Contrary to Shar’s opinion, she’d been trying to follow medical advice at home but was beginning to conclude that the pain wasn’t worth the lack of results. Her surgeon had been one of the tops in his field and he’d warned her about that, warned that some of the damage done by Doug Conroe, ex of her deceased client Cassandra Field Conroe, would probably be permanent. With her usual survivalist bravado, Alyx had assured him that she would be fine. After all, she was alive, while poor Cassandra was buried back in Austin, Texas; what’s more, her work didn’t entail anything more physical than carrying briefcases, climbing stairs in high heels, and punching the heck out of a BlackBerry. Considering the hours she billed, she’d told her doctor, she could afford to hire someone to handle everything but her vain commitment to wearing high heels. The doctor refused to be amused, and about ten days ago Alyx had stopped pretending.

She’d walked away from her practice, her home, from everything and almost everyone who had been part of her life. The timing had seemed ordained—her cousin, Parke Preston, an artist whose work graced an increasing number of hotels and restaurants in Sedona and elsewhere in the southwest—had been about to cancel out on an invitation to take a trip to Europe. Parke’s dilemma? She had no one to watch her home and beloved dog, a rescued greyhound named Grace. Although Alyx was no animal hugger, she and Grace were getting along better every day. Alyx wished she could have been as enthusiastic about Parke’s health club.

Once outside in the blazing Arizona sun, Alyx all but stopped in her tracks. The drier summer air had her wanting a bottle of water. She was used to a more humid environment back in Texas, thanks to the Gulf of Mexico frequently wafting moisture up into southern plains. In this higher elevation, man-size-cactus country, the environment was even less friendly to sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt over a sports bra after the sun rose. But it was her outfit of choice to hide her scars.

Maybe it was time to consider an adjustment, she allowed as she snatched her keys out of her bag and slung the straps over her good shoulder. Yet, although her leg cuts were all but healed, she still woke at night from spasms of pain. The doctor had assured her they were psychosomatic, ghost pains, and would ease in time. She was waiting and wondered—if they were wrong about that, what about the rest of her prognosis? At least she’d managed to wean herself off those tempting and addictive pain pills.

Wanting nothing more than to get to the house and take a soothing shower, she slipped on her sunglasses and nodded her thanks to the driver in a car that stopped to let her cross into the aisle where she’d parked Parke’s black SUV. Within minutes, she was at the exit of the strip mall ready to merge with traffic.

As usual, the town was already abuzz with activity, no surprise for such a tourist spot and spiritual haven. While some shops were welcoming early shoppers, many hikers had been well on their way up and down the multitude of trails winding through the valleys and up the cliffs that surrounded the community since before she’d first left the house. The rest—residents and longer-term visitors like herself—strove for patience navigating through all of that. About to zip past a tour bus, Alyx realized she was at the shopping center where Parke had directed her to buy groceries. Ducking back into the right lane, she heard the motorized equivalent of “the finger.” She had managed to press another native’s patience besides Sharleigh’s.

“Sorry, sorry!” Waving and cringing, Alyx turned into the parking lot and found a slot blessedly close to the market. All she had to do was get inside, find the produce section, and sack enough fruits and vegetables to guarantee a two-or three-day break from human contact, she thought. By then, surely she would have regrouped to where she could formulate plan B toward recovery without breaking into a cold sweat.

This time last year such pitiful reasoning would have made her snort “Wimp,” in disdain. Alyx Carmel afraid of the public and shunning mirrors? Alyx Carmel a shrinking violet? Her detractors would choke on their martinis in shock.

What a difference a year made.

She all but sighed in ecstasy upon finding the store virtually empty except for some clerks still restocking shelves. Alyx grabbed a red plastic basket instead of a wagon, and maneuvered around the stack of dried fruit to tug free a plastic bag for bananas. No sooner did she reach for a bundle than a strong, hair-covered masculine hand closed over hers.

Alyx recoiled as though stung by a scorpion. “Excuse me—”

“My fault. Guess we have the same good taste.”

A sleepy-eyed, whiskered man close to her own five foot eight took a shuffling step back and, offering a jocular smile, bowed with courtly charm for her to continue. “After you.”

“I didn’t see you,” Alyx said, disconcerted by her preoccupation. She could have sworn no one had been nearby, couldn’t even use the excuse that her vision had been hampered by sunglasses. She’d removed them the moment she’d nearly had a head-on collision with a soda machine by the entrance of the store.

“That’s what I get for charging around like the place was my own backyard,” the stranger said with a toss of his unkempt mane. “Go ahead, please. I’d rather watch a beautiful woman any day than deal with a shopping list.”

Oh, brother. Even if she hadn’t been in this vulnerable mood and he had been washed, never mind drop-dead gorgeous, Alyx would never fall for such a mediocre line. Casting him a thanks-but-no-thanks look, she grabbed at a decent-looking bunch of bananas on the far side of the display.

“There’s a bruised one on that,” the stranger said, leaning over her shoulder. “The next one behind it is better.”

Stiffening against the invasion of her personal space, Alyx hardened her voice. “But more than I wanted.”

“Hey, no wedding ring? Me, either,” he said, wiggling the fingers of his left hand before her face. “I’m Denny. Put back that crummy bunch and I’ll pick you a better one.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m in a hurry.” Ignoring his offer, she stepped around the man to get to the tomato display. Unfortunately, Denny soon proved himself to be the type not easily dissuaded.

“They’ve got decent coffee at the deli,” he said close on her heels. “Can I buy you a cup?”

“Thank you, but no.”

“Why not? You don’t look dressed to where you have to hurry back to work.”

Internal alarm bells sounded inside her. That was a subtle put-down if she’d ever heard one, and as a divorce attorney, she’d heard plenty—from personal attacks and from stories told by clients, spouses of masters of passive-aggressive behavior. What a cheap way to make a woman grateful for a man’s attention. All it did to Alyx, though, was to remind her of those wounded people she’d tried to help, people who had listened to such drivel for longer than was sane—or safe. Well, this lover boy was about to learn that he had made a poor choice if he was looking for his next doormat.

Giving him her most chilling look, she enunciated, “Let me make this as clear as possible—I. Am. Not. Interested.”

He shed her remark like water off a duck’s back. Beaming back at her, he asked, “Why not? You look like a nice person. I know I’m a nice person.”

“Who told you that, your mother? My hunch is she lied to get you to leave the nest.”

Denny laughed, but something in his gaze sharpened. “You’re tough.”

“You don’t want to find out how right you are.”

Giving him what Alyx hoped was her best courtroom ice-queen look, she snatched a bundle of vine-ripe tomatoes in a net bag. “Lettuce and milk,” she muttered to herself. Then she could put this nonsense behind her.

“Aw, now, tell me you aren’t a vegetarian?”

Was there a hidden TV camera catching all of this for some silly reality show? Alyx doubted she was that lucky. Either this character was honing some creepy method-acting muscles, or she had a stalker candidate on her hands. “Sir,” she intoned, “can you not take a hint?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about.” He shrugged as though she hadn’t spoken. “I’m a true-blue beef lover myself, but I can risk turf-and-surf as a change of pace if it means spending the evening with you.”

As her scalp started prickling, Alyx knew that if she didn’t get out of there, she would be facing a full-fledged panic attack. In desperation she looked for a market employee—naturally, they’d all vanished, either they had gone to different aisles or back into the warehouse for more supplies.

“Okay, Hard Time,” she said, turning on the man with grim determination. “Either go away or I call for the manager.”

“Shoot, he’s my uncle.”

It was all she could do not to gape. Why hadn’t Parke warned her about this great mental and physical lug? It sounded like this self-anointed Casanova was a regular fixture in the store.

Her cousin was the eye candy: coal-black hair inherited from Welsh ancestors, and piercing black eyes that could hint at a great soul, but didn’t apologize for temper when necessary. Truth be known, Alyx had coveted her dramatic coloring when they were kids—her own coloring had been teasingly called Welsh-light—and had emulated Parke more than once during tough cases when the situation warranted the Lone Ranger style of help-or-get-out-of-my-way approach. It had usually worked. She could use a dose of her cousin’s verbal strength now.

“Your uncle? What’s his name?” When Denny failed to answer, Alyx drew a deep breath and called, “Uncle of Denny! You’re needed in Produce!”

Denny’s smile flattened. “That wasn’t funny…or polite.”

“Neither is bothering women who don’t want your brand of special attention.”

She dropped the tomatoes into her basket with less care than they deserved, and strode out of the section; spotting the aisle sign for bread, she veered left. A third of the way down it, she had to sidestep a deliveryman pushing a tiered cart to restock shelves, then she grabbed the first loaf of oat-nut bread she came upon. In the next instant she was gasping with pain as a vise closed around her wounded upper arm and she was swung around.

“No!”

Training as much as instinct had Alyx shoving Denny away from her. Unfortunately, that sent him into the wheel-based tower of fresh bread. She watched in a mixture of fascination and dread as the surprised man triggered an avalanche of plastic trays full of baked goods. Denny ducked and dodged; then, growling with anger, he charged again.

Still swallowing against the pain in her upper arm, Alyx wrapped her good arm around the damaged one and dropped into a tight ball on the linoleum in the hope of escaping further injury. She heard a crash and looked up to see that this time Denny was being fully buried under trays and bread. Had she done that?

“Are you nuts? Hey, mister! Help get him out from under there!”

Blinking, Alyx saw Denny being hoisted by the collar out of the pile of bread and plastic like a scrappy pup, an impressive feat, considering the size of the guy. More amazing was that while her rescuer was taller than Denny, he was leaner—but what a great butt for jeans.

Wait a minute, she thought. I’ve had that response before.

“Get lost,” her hero snarled. “Pull that stunt again and so help me, I will drag your sorry backside through every cactus between here and Agave Ground Zero.”

Jonas?

Alyx stared in growing horror as the man with the silvering blond hair shoved a dazed Denny the rest of the way out of the aisle. By the time he turned to face her, she didn’t need to see his face for confirmation; every angle of him was imprinted in her mind—although her brain was feeling as if she’d just suffered the second concussion of her life.

Passing the slack-jawed deliveryman, Agent Jonas Hunter of the FBI squatted before her. “Are you okay?” he asked, frowning as his gaze swept over her face.

“What are you doing here?” It was a rude response, considering that he’d just rescued her from a guy who had been a serious handful. She should be hugging him with gratitude, but as the pain spasms eased, the one emotion she was aware of was dread, snowballing dread that felt as though it was about to crush her.

“Yeah. Small world.” He nodded at where only he knew she hurt and kept his next words low. “Can we get you to your feet and finish this conversation elsewhere? You look like you need fresh air—or a barf bag.”

Over his shoulder, Alyx saw that the bread guy was unsure as to whether to offer his assistance to her or run. For his sake more than anything, Alyx allowed Jonas to assist her to her feet.

“I appreciate what you did,” she said loud enough for the route salesman to hear.

For his part, Jonas’s gaze stayed on her. “Did he reinjure your shoulder? Do you think you need to go to the hospital?”

That rallied her spirit somewhat. “It would take a battalion of marines to get me to another of those,” she said with a pointed look. “I can live with a little soreness.”

Jonas snorted. “You’d carry your own limb into Emergency and chide the fainting internist for being a weenie.”

“Now who’s being overly dramatic?”

“Then let me point out there isn’t a drop of blood left in your face.”

She took a stabilizing breath. “I was startled. Now I’m fine. Speaking of which, where did my basket go?”

“I’ve got it.” He quickly scooped it up from between the trolley and shelves, then switched it to his other hand to keep it out of her reach. “Is there anything else you need? Why don’t you go sit in your car? I can finish for you. On second thought, let me escort you outside to make sure that guy isn’t waiting around the corner or something.”

He was being as considerate and kind as though they’d had breakfast together this morning and parted with a kiss, when, in fact, they hadn’t seen each other in months—seven to be exact. They also hadn’t parted well. The fault had been hers, but Alyx didn’t want to think about those days again, let alone deal with this. Then she reminded herself that Jonas was being the consummate professional; he wasn’t treating her with any special attention, he would do this for anyone.

She gestured for him to give her the basket. “Really, I can take it from here, but thank you for your kindness.” When he failed to comply, she stepped closer to take hold of one side and tugged gently. Had she been wrong about him? Well, she couldn’t let him prolong this; people were starting to collect at the end of the aisle and stare. “Please, Jonas.”

His frown remained quizzical. “Sorry. I’m still trying to get it—what are you doing here?”

He was surprised? So much for her first assumption that this was some kind of a romantic ploy of his making. As embarrassment sent a rush of heat into her cheeks, she scowled back at him and yanked. “You didn’t tell me, why should I tell you?” At least the tug succeeded in her taking possession of the basket.

“Stubborn woman.” He glanced at the gawkers, then offered a negligible shrug. “I’m helping a friend. Now you?”

“The same—only it’s a cousin.”

“Weak save.”

“Believe me or not, it makes no difference.”

He looked instantly regretful for his mockery, touched her arm, and nodded to indicate they should start toward the front of the store. “I want to understand,” he said under his breath as he fell in beside her. “I did from the first. You shut me out.”

Oh, no more, please. She so wanted not to have this conversation again. “I was doing you a favor. You had a job to get back to.”

“I would have been willing to take some extra time off.”

He’d never said that. At any rate he didn’t have the luxury, that much she understood. “You don’t have a job, you have a career.” There was a vast difference. Men like Jonas put in their twenty-something years with pride and dogged determination regardless of what was asked of them. Dedication wasn’t easy to walk away from, and after all of the effort and expense invested in developing an agent, the FBI wouldn’t make it easier. What’s more, the grim truth was that they’d had a fling. A few weekends here and there when he could fly down from Washington, D.C., to Austin, Texas. It was hardly what anyone could have called a relationship. Actually, the one gift in all of what had happened—to use the term darkly—was that it had ended before she had to worry that they were, indeed, heading toward some sort of understanding and all that meant.