Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy
Read Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy Online
Authors: Patricia Burroughs
Digital Books by Patricia Burroughs
Book View Café Edition
July 16, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-61138-279-2
Copyright © 1989 Patricia Burroughs
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.
First published by Harlequin Silhouette New York. This is a work of fiction.
Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination,
and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover designed by
MJ Butler
Back in the dim mists of time when this book was first written,
I thanked three very special friends who were always there for me.
To Carol Budd and Maria Greene,
whose friendly bayonets always knew
when and how hard to nudge.
And to Carol Jerina.
It’s all your fault!
Today I offer special thanks to Jennifer Stevenson for beta-assistance bringing Cecil and Jeff’s story to the 21
st
century.
Also, kudos to Lauri Weaver for volunteering to proofread when I sent out my first S.O.S.
And huzzahs to Barbara Tarbuck, who came in at the end and provided fresh eyes for continuity details.
Ladies, you all rock!
Any errors that remain are all mine.
Pooks
Dallas, Texas
July 10, 2013
CHAPTER ONE
IT COULDN’T BE him.
Cecilia’s heart pounded as she plastered herself against a toy rack and counted to ten. That man—the one who had whizzed past the toy aisle with only a cursory glance in her direction—couldn’t be who she thought he was.
Cecilia edged to the end of the aisle and peeked around the corner just in time to see him again. His profile was clear and sharp as he hesitated at the head of the third aisle down. Her heart leaped into her throat.
It couldn’t be him—but it was.
It was definitely Jefferson Smith, all six feet of him, standing fifteen strides away from her, impeccably dressed in a charcoal gray suit that bespoke the success their high school yearbook had predicted for him. Jefferson Smith, most likely to succeed—most likely to cause heart failure to one Cecilia Greene Evans all these years later.
Cecilia retreated to the relative safety of the toy aisle, one hand clutching the stretched neck of her Dallas Mavericks sweatshirt, the other clutching her stomach. She felt weak, sicker than before.
She turned toward her four-year-old and her already roiling stomach plummeted. “Anne-Elizabeth!” she gasped.
Her overall-clad daughter was scaling the shelves, balancing precariously as she groped for the top shelf. “I want finger paints,” Anne-Elizabeth announced loudly.
Cecilia darted across the aisle, snatched the straps of the child’s overalls and lifted her to the floor. “We’ve got to go home,” Cecilia whispered. “Now.”
“I know. Mommy’s sick.” Anne-Elizabeth stared at her solemnly, then pointed upward. “I want finger paints.”
“Over my dead—” Cecilia began.
“You pwomised!” Anne-Elizabeth folded her plump arms across her stomach, her glare mutinous. Then her eyes grew limpid, her woeful expression calculated to break a mother’s heart. “Pwease, Mommy? Pwease get me the paints.”
Cecilia squeezed her burning eyes closed and swallowed hard. All she had needed from the grocery store was two pizzas, and look where that had gotten her. Yes, in a weak moment she had promised a toy—but not finger paints to smear from baseboards to ceilings. But now, right this very minute, Jefferson Smith was three aisles away. She’d do anything to escape the grocery store without running into him.
Not about to scale the shelves herself, she swatted at the box, trying to knock it askew so she could grasp the lower corner. Instead, when her fingertips grazed its bottom edge, the box fell forward and crashed to the floor. Anne-Elizabeth gleefully grabbed the paints. Cecilia hoped two things: one, that Jefferson Smith didn’t round the corner to investigate the commotion; two, that the paint jars were plastic.
“Come on, sweetheart,” she hissed, and grabbed her daughter by the fleshy part of her upper arms and hoisted her into the basket. Cecilia propelled the cart in the opposite direction from Jefferson Smith as fast as her trembling knees allowed.
Then she tripped over a loose shoelace, stumbled and caught herself on the cart. Damn and blast and God bless America.
“Oops,” Anne-Elizabeth said, peering over the side of the basket at her mother’s dirty sneakers. “Can I tie ’em?”
“Later, sweetheart,” Cecilia said sweetly through her teeth. She glanced over her shoulder, then grabbed two pepperoni deluxe pizzas that weren’t even on sale from the end of the frozen food aisle.
She rolled the basket into the checkout line farthest from the express lane, her heart pumping hard and temples throbbing. She felt sick, grimy and cornered. Why the heck was Jefferson Smith in her grocery store, wearing an Italian suit on a day when she wasn’t wearing a speck of makeup? After all these years... She hadn’t realized he lived in Dallas anymore. And her hair! She reached instinctively for her hair, a frizzy halo similar to her daughter’s tousled red curls. Neither had received the benefit of comb or brush or mirror since morning.
“Walph needs dog food and I want candy.” Anne-Elizabeth swung a leg over the side of the basket and climbed out. Cecilia was too tired, too achy, to argue. Besides, she was darn grateful her daughter had reminded her of the dog food. She wasn’t up to another trip.
Anne-Elizabeth grabbed a chocolate bar and sauntered toward a display of play balls at the end of the coffee aisle. Cecilia scanned what she could see of the store. As long as Anne-Elizabeth stayed in sight it was simpler to let her wander than to fight with her.
Just let me get out of here without facing Jefferson Smith, she pleaded silently to whatever twisted fates had doomed her to such a disaster. The last thing in the world she needed or wanted was to cross paths with that arrogant jerk!
~o0o~
As he clutched a small can of decaffeinated coffee, Jeff glanced at his watch and grimaced. April 15 was exactly one month away. With Kiera on maternity leave, he’d have to work long past ten again tonight. How could an accountant as careful, as meticulous as Kiera schedule a baby at tax time? His frustration mounted as he studied the coffee display and decided to hell with it.
He replaced the can and snatched a foil bag from the shelf, dumped its coffee beans into the self-serve grinder and flipped the switch. The grinder whirred, the bag filled, and the aroma of heavy-duty, industrial-strength, keep-your-eyes-open-’til-midnight Sumatran coffee filled the air. Just the smell of it was enough to wake him up.
“That thing’s noisy.”
He stopped in the midst of detaching the bag from the grinder and glanced toward the tiny girl watching him from the end of the aisle, her large green eyes wide and accusing.
“My mommy doesn’t get that kind.”
Jeff stared down at the urchin, at her tangled mop of red hair, her purple T-shirt, her faded overalls and her ridiculous red high-topped sneakers with purple shoelaces. “I...I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“My mommy says that kind’s too ’spensive.” The child’s full lips clamped into a stubborn, chocolate-smeared line.
“Well,” Jeff said sternly. “Your mother is welcome to her opinion, but I’m sure that I—”
Suddenly a hand reached around the corner, grabbed the straps of the child’s overalls and yanked her out of his sight.
“But Mommeeee... ” He heard the little girl’s fading wail.
Jeff forced his attention back to the coffee, frowning. He meticulously folded the top of the bag over three times. His curiosity getting the better of him, he walked to the front of the store to see if he child was safely contained. Her loud protests were easy to follow as she was herded through the automatic doors. His gaze swung from the child to her mother and froze. The woman bore a startling resemblance to—
No. It must be someone who looked like her, that’s all. Her blazing hair was the same, but many women had such hair. The oversize sweatshirt and tight jeans fit the image of the teenager she had been the last time he had seen her, but after all, that was seventeen years ago. It was a coincidence, nothing more, he told himself firmly.
But he didn’t listen to himself.
He hurried to the front door and squinted through the glass as the woman and the child climbed into a red minivan. It was hard to tell from this distance, and a misting rain was falling, as well, but damned if she didn’t look like...
Cecil.
Just the thought of Cecilia Greene made him take a couple of steps backward. Had she seen him? The door whooshed closed in front of him and he clutched the coffee in a white-knuckled grip. Cecilia Greene, the albatross around his neck, the perpetual-motion dynamo who had made his life a living hell his last year in high school. His stomach burned.
He plowed his fingers through his hair, torn between curiosity and trepidation. No, it wouldn’t be her after all these years. Just a coincidence, he told himself again, returning to the express checkout. The last person in the world he wanted to see was Cecilia Greene.
There were only two people ahead of him, so in minutes he was headed through the automatic doors with his coffee. As he walked toward his car he passed the empty space where the red minivan had been. A peacock blue wallet beckoned from a shallow puddle of water.
The tension crawled down his neck and spine. His instinct of self-preservation warned him to leave it alone. Instead he stooped and retrieved the dripping wallet. He was being ridiculous. That frazzled woman with the untidy tot couldn’t possibly be the hoydenish Cecil Greene.
He opened the wallet, saw the name imprinted on the checks inside and groaned.
~o0o~
Cecilia drove into her neighborhood and waited for the surge of relief to sweep over her. But her chest kept pounding and her racing pulse refused to slow. She couldn’t believe that after all these years the sight of Jeff could still shake her up. “I think I have the flu,” she rationalized aloud.
“Look!” Anne-Elizabeth’s shrill voice pierced through the fog of Cecilia’s reverie. “It’s a po-weece car!”
Cecilia glanced at the flashing red lights in her rearview mirror. “Oh, no.” She checked the speedometer; she wasn’t even speeding.
