Allie could only stare as he closed the distance between them
“What about you?” Dean asked as he reached out toward her as if to touch her cheek. But then he fisted his hand and dropped his arm back to his side. “Do you have any secrets you’d like to share?”
She swallowed in an attempt to work moisture back into her mouth. “Nothing quite as dark as arachnophobia.”
“You sure?” His eyes were steady. Intense. “Because you know what they say about confession being good for the soul.”
Except she didn’t need confession. Not when she’d already taken care of her penance on her own.
“I’m positive.”
“Everyone has secrets, Allison. And I’m guessing yours are more interesting than most.” He leaned forward, and she slanted away. “Guess I have my work cut out for me,” he murmured.
Fear, irrational and unsettling, filled her. “What work is that?”
One side of his mouth lifted. “Finding out what your secrets are.”
Dear Reader,
I was seventeen when my best friend’s mother gave me a Harlequin novel to read. I was immediately hooked, but between finishing school and figuring out what I wanted to do with my life, my reading time dwindled.
It wasn’t until after I was married and became a young stay-at-home mother that I rediscovered Harlequin books. I became so addicted, I read while my son napped as well as when I cooked, ran the vacuum and worked out on the stairclimber!
No matter what type of story I was in the mood for—passionate, suspenseful, humorous or sexy—Harlequin had the book for me and, best of all, each one had a satisfying central love story and a happy ending.
It was during this time of rediscovery that I realized exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be a romance author for Harlequin Books.
That dream came true on August 21, 2007, when I sold my first book to Harlequin Superromance. I have to say the reality of writing for this publisher is better than anything I’d ever imagined, and a large part of that is due to the guidance and patience of my wonderful editor, Victoria Curran, and Harlequin Superromance’s senior editor, Wanda Ottewell.
This year Harlequin Books is celebrating sixty years of pure reading pleasure. Whether you’ve read these books for years or have recently discovered them, I hope you’ll join me in wishing Harlequin a happy sixtieth birthday!
Thank you for reading His Secret Agenda. I hope you enjoy Allie and Dean’s story! I love to hear from readers. Please visit my Web site, www.bethandrews.net, or write to me at P.O. Box 714, Bradford, PA 16701.
Beth Andrews
His Secret Agenda
Beth Andrews
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning author Beth Andrews is living her dream—writing romance for Harlequin Books while looking after her real-life hero and their three children. A self-professed small-town girl, Beth still lives in the Pennsylvania town where she grew up. She has been honored by her kids as The Only Mom in Town Who Makes Her Children Do Chores and The Meanest Mom in the World—as if there’s something wrong with counting down the remaining days of summer vacation until school starts again. For more information about Beth or her upcoming books, please visit her Web site at www.bethandrews.net.
To Mom and Dad for always believing in me.
I love you.
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
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
DEAN GARRET HAD TWO WORDS to describe the town of Serenity Springs, New York.
Freaking cold.
And to think just last week he’d been complaining about the weather in downtown Manhattan. Guess mid-February wasn’t the best time to head north into the Adirondack Mountains.
Lesson learned.
The brisk wind blew through his coat—the coat that had kept him plenty warm during the past three winters in Dallas—and pricked his skin like shards of ice. Snow stung his cheeks and collected on his eyelashes as he made his way across the parking lot to The Summit bar.
When he’d arrived yesterday he’d thought the snow was sort of cool. The way it covered every available surface, all pristine white and fluffy, made the town look like a postcard. Or one of those snow globes his aunt Rita collected.
But still, enough was enough already. How did people live with this all winter?
Thank God he had no plans to stay in town longer than a few weeks. That is, if all went according to plan.
He opened the door, stepped inside the warm building and took off his Stetson, hitting it against his thigh to dislodge the snow. He scanned the bar, noting the exits, plus a short hallway and swinging doors that must lead to the kitchen. A guy with a shock of wiry gray hair nursed a beer at the end of the bar. A couple of college-age kids were shooting pool, while three men in suits sat at a table by the jukebox, stretching their lunch hour into two. Or three.
A sharp-featured redhead in snug blue jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, carrying a bottle of wine in each hand, pushed through the swinging doors. With her short, spiky hair and slim figure, she deserved the second look the college kids gave her.
Dean walked up to the bar. “Allison Martin?”
“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not Allie,” she said over her shoulder as she set the bottles with the rest of the stock in front of a large mirror. “I’m Kelsey Martin.” She took one look at him, her green eyes shrewd, and grinned. “But don’t worry, if you’re straight, you’ll get over any disappointment real quick once you meet Allie.”
He blinked. If he was straight?
He switched his hat to his other hand. “I’m Dean Garret. I—”
“Hold that thought,” she said, before crossing to the cash register, where one of the businessmen waited.
Dean drummed his fingers on the scarred wood, realized he was doing so, then stopped. He set his hat on the bar and studied her as she swiped a credit card through the machine. How should he play this? Over the past two years he’d had a number of