“Don’t you feel well?”
His eyes had the look of an approaching storm on a dark night. “This past week has taught me what it feels like to be a starving man, one who is only allowed to look at a feast and never allowed to eat it. Oh, Sheri, I need you so badly.”
She opened her arms to him, and he gripped her like a man clinging to life. “Come over here and sit down here with me,” she said, taking his hand. Sheri didn’t intend to rush through what she needed so badly from him. “Let’s have some of this rosé…” She handed him the bottle and a corkscrew.
“It’s a good wine. I thought you were planning to bring it back home with you.”
“I bought it for us.” She took two wineglasses from the mini bar.
He filled them and patted the seat beside him on the sofa. “To the woman who is quickly becoming my world,” he said. He sipped the wine and let the lush liquid slide down his throat.
He gazed steadily into her eyes, and Sheri realized that although the two of them knew they would make love, they didn’t know how to start. He’d promised to keep his distance, and she had pledged not to tease or provoke him into lovemaking. She drained her glass and put it aside.
“Uh…aren’t you going to kiss me?” she asked him.
“Sheri, love, if I have to kiss you and leave, I’d rather go right now.”
She leaned back against the sofa and removed her jewelry and the two-inch dangling earrings.
“Sheri, for heaven’s sake. I’m human.”
“I’m doing my best to show you that I know that.”
GWYNNE FORSTER
is a national bestselling author of more than twenty romance novels and novellas, as well as general fiction. She has worked as a journalist, a university professor and as a senior officer for the United Nations. She holds a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in sociology, and a master’s degree in economics/demography.
Gwynne sings in her church choir, loves to entertain at dinner parties, is a gourmet cook and an avid gardener. She enjoys jazz, opera, classical music and the blues. She also likes to visit museums and art galleries. Gwynne lives in New York with her husband.
Destination Love
ESSENCE BESTSELLING AUTHOR
Gwynne Forster
MILLS & BOON
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To Mary Mangan Sheffield and Jeannetta Harris, women who have blessed my life with faithful loyalty and friendship that I shall cherish all of my life.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for making Gwynne Forster’s romance novels such a success. We hope you enjoy Destination Love as much as her previous Kimani Romance novels, Holiday Kisses, Finding Mr. Right and Private Lives.
As in most of Forster’s novels, the main characters—Sheri Stephens and Dalton Hobart—are both highly ambitious and successful. However, they find themselves on opposite sides when one of them makes a decision that results in a major career setback for the other. Can these two overcome their hurt and resentment, or will pride and revenge get in the way of their journey to find love?
This year, Kimani Arabesque will publish a collection of some of Gwynne’s old and new short stories in a wedding-themed anthology called Yes, I Do, as well as a new book in the Harrington family series entitled Love Me Tonight. Be sure to look for both in the coming months.
Because Gwynne enjoys connecting with her fans, you can write to her at P.O. Box 45, New York, NY 10044, and send a self-addressed, stamped envelope if you’d like a reply. You can also e-mail her at [email protected] or visit her Web site at www.GwynneForster.com. For business purposes, please contact her agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins, at the Steele-Perkins Literary Agency, 26 Island Lane, Canandaigua, NY 14424.
Enjoy!
Chapter 1
Sheri Stephens walked down to the chairman’s office suite and took a seat in the conference room. As usual, she was the first of the professors to arrive for the dissertation committee. The other faculty members already had tenure—a fancy word for a permanent job—and she expected to receive tenure when she returned from summer vacation. They wouldn’t like what she was going to say, and neither would the doctoral candidate. But right was right and she’d made up her mind. She watched the chairman stroll in, along with Dalton Wright Hobart, the Ph.D. candidate, chatting as if the two were equals, but that wouldn’t sway her, either.
As soon as the department faculty had settled into the conference room, the chairman voiced his approval of the dissertation and his appreciation for the quality of Dalton Hobart’s academic accomplishments. Each of the professors asked questions and were satisfied with Hobart’s answers. Sheri knew that the graduate student was smart and possessed a superior mind. But, in her view, his job was to present his theory in terms applicable to the average American family.
“I don’t agree,” she said when it was her turn to speak. “It is certainly above-average work, and that is precisely why it should have practical applications. Unless Mr. Hobart revises his approach so that the average adult will find his conclusions useful, I cannot recommend this dissertation.” She ignored the reaction of the other professors.
“But that means he won’t receive his Ph.D. in June,” one professor said. “This seems a bit harsh to me.”
Sheri shrugged. “But you will have to admit that I have a point.”
She glanced at Dalton Hobart, whose dissertation she had just derailed, and saw that his eyes flashed fire. Indeed, she had never seen such hatred.
The chairman polled the group, but she knew the results before he questioned the others: no economics professor would deny the legitimacy of her position. Too bad, she thought, since Dalton was an otherwise brilliant economist. But the fierce anger evident in his demeanor was unsettling. What did he want from her? She’d given her honest opinion based on a sound academic approach, and she refused to give quarter.
Dalton Wright Hobart sat listless, in shock. The youngest and only untenured professor on his advisory committee had rejected his dissertation. The chairman and every other member of the committee had approved his work. But to be awarded a Ph.D., everyone on the academic advisory committee had to approve his dissertation or he wouldn’t receive his degree. And if he didn’t graduate in June, he could forget about that fellowship at the Brookings Institute. He doubted he’d find another one that was as prestigious. He couldn’t remember ever having been as angry with anyone as he was with Sheri Stephens.
Grin and bear it, man, he said to himself. If you’re mad, you can’t reason.
After