Cursed by Love (28 page)

Thank
you for reading,
Cursed by Love
, the second
book in the Good Riders Series! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed
presenting it to you.

Meet Your Mate
, the first book in the Good Riders
Series is available now at
Amazon.com
.

Meant for Me
, the third book in the Good Riders
Series will be available in January 2015. 

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Chapter
One

“A
nd the winner of this year’s
Community First award is—” Annabel heightened the imaginary suspense with a
mental drum roll as she pulled into the local television station’s parking lot.
Beelining
for an empty spot at the end of the row,
she allowed hometown favorite George Clooney to announce, “Challenging Destiny,
Lasting Productions, Annabel Morgan and Howard Lasting, producers!”

Normally,
she only conjured up her favorite career fantasy in dark and private moments,
but today she’d paraded it out in bright sunlight to distract herself from a
raging case of stage fright. After all, she didn’t appear on an afternoon talk
show every day. Or in
front
of a television camera
ever
. Her
nerves were stretched tighter than her budget.

Easing
through the tandem parking slot from one side to the other, she pictured
herself at the upcoming award ceremony. Dressed to impress in something
sophisticated and expensive, she’d step up to accept the award that would
change her life. Just as George took her in his arms for a meaningful exchange
of glances and a long congratulatory kiss filled with infinite possibilities, a
sickening crunch jolted her back to reality.

The
front bumper of her ten-year-old Saab was metal-on-metal with a small, flashy
vehicle attempting to back into the space she’d been sliding into headfirst.

Grimacing
over her carelessness and the certainty of another insurance claim on the heels
of her seventeen-year-old stepdaughter’s mishap the month before. Annabel
shifted her car into park. She clutched the hem of her mini-skirt to keep it
from rising to indecent heights as she stepped out to meet her victim. Good
thing it was May, not January, or she’d freeze her butt off.

“Hey,
lady,” a testosterone-laden voice growled over the slam of a car door. “You
should keep your mind on your driving when you’re behind the wheel.”

Fresh
from her bout of daydreaming, Annabel bit back the urge to tell the chauvinist
where to stick his opinion. She glanced at the slight crease in her fender and
the deeper dent in his, relieved that the damage hadn’t been worse. Shoulders
squared, she turned to exchange info with the other driver and admit her guilt.

Damn.
Investigative reporter ‘Mad Max’ Williams. An apology died on her lips. Even
though he worked at the television station, he spent most of his time out on
assignment. She’d hoped she wouldn’t run into him today. And now she had.
Literally.

She
crossed her arms and studied him with a chilling look. Professional
acquaintances and personal opposites in work habits and lifestyles, he was her
biggest rival for the community service award she coveted.

Aside
from their award competition, she’d worked with him on several projects for
Lasting Productions. Her work involved insignificant details like
scriptwriting, casting, editing, and scheduling. His duties included the more
challenging tasks of sitting in a booth and recording the voiceover, flirting
with female assistants, distracting male interns with assorted hijinks,
generally creating chaos, getting paid the big bucks, and receiving most of the
recognition.

Everything
about his flamboyant image and overbearing self-confidence rubbed her the wrong
way. It annoyed her to admit that the broad shoulders and rugged good looks the
television camera loved were even more compelling in person than they were on
the small screen. But the less-than savory details she’d witnessed and heard
about from others prevented her from lusting after the exterior packaging that
rivaled Clooney’s.

Smoothing
down her skirt, she waited for Max’s leisurely perusal to move from her new
pointy-toed high-heeled shoes and past her uncustomary form-fitting outfit to
her face. As expected, the interested gleam dimmed from his eyes and switched
to disbelief as recognition kicked in.

“Nice
legs, Morgan. First time I’ve seen you in anything but your Iron Maiden
costume. You should show that figure off more often.” He lounged against the
hood of her car and let his gaze travel her body a second time. “This new look
is almost enough to excuse you from rear-ending me. But not quite. What had you
so distracted?”

“What
do you mean?” Like she’d be willing to share her hopes and dreams with him.

“You
sure weren’t thinking about your driving, and you couldn’t have been
preoccupied with your love life since everyone knows you don’t have one.”

“Whereas
you,” she countered, poking a finger into his rock-solid chest, “were probably
thinking about the bevy of mud wrestlers, rodeo queens, and strippers you’re
currently dating.”

“Hey!”
He straightened up with mild indignation. “Candy
LaBar’s
not a stripper. She’s an exotic dancer. Her act’s very artistic.”

Already
running late, Annabel didn’t have time to trade childish insults with Max. She
dismissed the response with a flick of the wrist. “I’ll bet.”

He
whipped his phone out, then took pictures of the damage to both bumpers. As she
stepped toward the television station’s main entrance, his fingers clamped
around her elbow. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He jerked a thumb toward
his car. “Damage? Repair? Insurance?”

“It’s
just a scratch.”

He
shook his head at her dismissive attitude. “It’s just a scratch on the bumper
of a vintage Porsche I’ve spent two years restoring. Whether they fix it or
replace the bumper, it’s not going to come cheap.”

That
figured. “I’ll have my insurance company contact you.”

“They
better, or I’ll send the repair bill straight to you.”

“Fine,
fine.” Annabel marched forward, eager to leave Mad Max behind. But he fell into
step alongside her with his customary swagger.

“By
the way,” he said, “congratulations on the Community First nomination.”

She
slid a peek at him from the corner of her eye and examined his comment for
sarcasm. His expression remained suspiciously sincere. “You, too.”

“Who’d
have thought we’d be nominated in the same category?”

“Not
me. The mind still boggles over my documentary about inner-city high school
students competing with your four-part exposé on botched boob jobs.”

“That’s
one way of describing them,” he said before urging, “Just remember what they
say.”

“What
do they say, Max? Sex sells?” Why does he always manage to bring out my inner
bitch?

“No-
oo
. It’s an honor just to be nominated.”

She
coated the smile she turned on him with pure sugar. “You remember that when
they call out my name from the podium.” She prayed they’d call out her name.
Her professional and financial future hinged on winning the award.

“Yeah,
right. I’ve got the award all but in my hands.” He raised her show of bravado
with an ante of overconfidence.

“And
how many judges did you sleep with to make that happen?” The accusation almost
shamed her as she made it.

“Talent
earns its own reward.” A glint of real pride moved behind his dark brown eyes
as he veered away from her, toward the news team’s entrance. “See
ya
later, Morgan.”

“Not
if I see you first,” Annabel muttered to his retreating back.

Against
her better judgment, she watched him stride masterfully toward the building.
Then, he looked over his shoulder and caught her watching him. Lifting her
chin, she turned to glide into the main entrance. Her face flushed when she
twisted her ankle on the new heels.
Damn
,
he probably saw that
.

Putting
the incident behind her, she hurried into the lobby where Carly waited. Her
stepdaughter bounced in anticipation of their joint television appearance. A
quick hug went a long way toward banishing Max from Annabel’s thoughts and
quelling her preshow anxiety. “Been waiting long?”

“Long
enough to find out everything we need to know.” Excitement widened Carly’s
bright blue eyes to saucer-size. “First, sign in here, then follow me.”

Annabel
had visited the station many times and knew her way around, but she allowed the
bouncing teen to lead her the makeup room anyway. After they’d settled into
chairs, an energetic elf with purple-streaked hair introduced herself as
“Voila!” then set to work. She dabbed foundation on their faces, swiped blush
on their cheeks, and applied goop to their eyes.

“Not
so much, please.” Annabel pushed
Voila’s
hand away.
She didn’t want to look like a clown, and Carly’s fresh appeal didn’t need much
enhancement.

Voila
frowned. “You’ll look washed out without it.”

“You
know she’s right,” Carly agreed. “And I want you to look awesome. Please?” Her
stepdaughter’s coaxing did the trick after the makeup artist’s opinion had
failed to win Annabel over.

Voila
hurried to apply a few finishing touches. Annabel assessed her reflection in
the mirror then blotted off a coat of shiny magenta lipstick. She tugged the
lapels of her snug teal jacket together. As soon as she released them, they
separated into a wide V that exposed the barely-there cleavage created by her
new push-up bra.

“I
don’t know how you talked me into buying this suit. I’m touched by the attempt
to update my image, but I have plenty of other, more suitable clothes.”

 “More
boring, you mean.” Carly brushed Annabel’s hands away from the lapels. “You’ll
be in front of a camera instead of hiding behind one for a change. You should
wear something that makes you look young and hot, instead of old and frigid.”

“She’s
right, you know. Let’s take your hair down to really boost your image.” Voila
pulled pins out of the bun at the base of Annabel’s neck.

“No.”
Annabel covered her hair with her hands to keep
Voila’s
busy fingers out of it. “It’s too curly and flies around when it’s not pulled
back.”

“Hmmm.”
Voila cocked her head and considered for a moment before sweeping Annabel’s
locks into a French twist with just a few loose tendrils. The style softened
the angles of her face and enhanced the shape of her light-gray eyes.

If
her stepdaughter weren’t sitting right there beside her with Carly’s own brand
of youthful, natural beauty, Annabel wouldn’t have recognized herself.

“You
look gorgeous,” Carly enthused as they made their way to the green room next
door. “Super hot!”

“You
look fabulous, too.” Annabel pulled the girl’s long French-braid in front of
her shoulder as they stepped into the waiting room. “But we’re going on a
program to discuss successful stepparent/stepchild relationships. We’re not
trolling for guys on the internet.”

“Close
enough,” murmured a pencil-thin woman nibbling a carrot stick by the snack
table.

As
they took seats on a lumpy sofa, Carly refused to meet Annabel’s eyes. Never a
good sign. Annabel studied the seven other sets of parent/teen duos.

While
a couple of parents glanced at her curiously, the others flicked pitying looks
her way. None of the teenagers managed to look her in the eye.

A
wary tingle replaced stage fright as the reason for her damp palms. “Close
enough to what?”

Before
anyone responded, a chipper production assistant buzzed in, wearing a headset
and clasping an electronic tablet. “My name’s Justine. On behalf of Tess
Hartley, I’d like to welcome all of you to
Let’s Talk
. We’re going to
open with the kids on camera. If you’d head that way, please...” She motioned
the younger group toward the door. “I’ll come back for the parents shortly.”

Carly
squeezed Annabel’s hand. The teenager’s excitement fizzed palpably between them
like a carbonated cola.

“Good luck, Anna,” Carly whispered.
“Please don’t be mad,” she added before slipping away.

Don’t
be mad?
That simple
plea put Annabel’s parental alarm system on full alert. She was all too
familiar with the way the high-spirited girl’s best intentions frequently
misfired. “Mad about what?”

From
the doorway, Carly flashed a mischievous smile and escaped with the other
teenagers. Except for the gurgle of an espresso machine in the corner, the room
swirled with awkward silence. Annabel thought of all the editing waiting for
her back at the production studio and longed for the safety of her ordinary
routine.

A
military-type with ramrod-straight posture and square jaw stopped at the end of
the sofa. “When you came in,” he said, “I wasn’t sure if you were a parent or
one of the kids.”

The
flattery tickled Annabel. Only fourteen years older than Carly, people
occasionally guessed they were sisters. But she couldn’t imagine anyone
mistaking her for a teenager. Maybe the kick-ass outfit Carly chose for her had
shaved off some years.

“Stepparent.”
She glanced around the room, trying to interpret the spike in atmosphere.
“Aren’t we all?