They left the picnic basket at the edge of the clearing. Crossing the stream on stepping stones, Angelica laughed and Kirk turned to look at her.
“This is so different from New York City,” she explained.
“Better.”
She nodded.
“We’ll be there soon,” he said, turning and heading on again.
When they reached the pool, Angelica was hot and out of breath. The waterfall was a three-foot-tall curtain spilling over a wide lip of rock. She thought she’d love to swim beneath it and have it rain down on her.
Kirk stopped by the edge and trailed his hands in it. Then, mischief in his eyes, he flicked her with water.
Angelica shrieked and turned to run. Laughing so hard she almost fell, she reached the edge of the water. Stopping, she looked at Kirk, who had followed her. “Thanks for the picnic and bringing me here. This is such a lovely place.”
He nodded in acknowledgment, then leaned over and brushed his lips against hers.
Praise for Barbara McMahon
“A fresh spin on some tried-and-true plot elements makes this story work beautifully—and its outspoken, honest heroine is a delight.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Daredevil Tycoon
“Barbara McMahon takes a simple love story—employer falls for the employee—and turns it into a tale filled with romance, heartache and love. While the basis for this novel may be timeless, the issues both Caitlin and Zack face are enough to give this novel the feeling it has never been done before. These two characters rock!”
—loveromancesandmore.webs.com on Caitlin’s Cowboy
“A great story, The Tycoon Prince is fit for any woman (and perhaps a few men) who wished they kissed a few less frogs and had more princes to sweep them off their feet!”
—aromancereview.com
Angel of Smoky Hollow
Barbara McMahon
Barbara McMahon was born and raised in the south U.S.A., but settled in California after spending a year flying around the world for an international airline. After settling down to raise a family and work for a computer firm, she began writing when her children started school. Now, feeling fortunate in being able to realize a longheld dream of quitting her day job and writing full-time, she and her husband have moved to the Sierra Nevada of California, where she finds that her desire to write is stronger than ever. With the beauty of the mountains visible from her windows, and the pace of life slower than the hectic San Francisco Bay Area where they previously resided, she finds more time than ever to think up stories and characters and share them with others through writing. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at P.O. Box 977, Pioneer, CA 95666-0977, U.S.A. Readers can also contact Barbara at her website. www.barbaramcmahon.com.
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
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
ANGELICA CANNON STEPPED OFF the bus into another world. Dragging her backpack down the steps, she made sure she did not let the precious violin case hit anything. The air was thick with humidity, sultry and hot. The trees that lined the street offered scant shade with the sun directly overhead, but gave some illusion of cool, dashed by the reflecting heat from the asphalt.
Running away wasn’t as easy as she’d thought when she stuffed a few things into her backpack and left without telling a soul where she was headed. Withdrawing a hefty sum from her bank account, before buying a bus ticket south, she was officially off the grid. She’d pay cash for everything and defy anyone to find her before she was ready.
She did not expect to be stepping into another world. Maybe—just maybe—she’d bit off more than she could chew.
Three pairs of eyes watched her disembark from the old bus. Two men had to be close to eighty, their scant gray hair covering little of their heads, their overalls looking as if they’d been made during the Great Depression. They sat on rocking chairs, but were still, as if watching people get off the bus was too important to miss by rocking back and forth.
The third set of eyes latched onto hers and for a moment she caught her breath, unable to step away from the bus, unable to breathe. The man leaned casually against one of the posts holding the roof above the wide porch. His stance was decidedly male.
Dark and dangerous, his eyes reflected the image perfectly. His black hair was wavy and longer than that on the men she normally associated with. He could be the grandson of the other two, as he couldn’t be much over thirty. Buff and brawny—she almost swallowed her tongue as she stared at him, consumed by the spark in his eyes, the way he let his gaze move slowly over her then snap back to hold her eyes in that compelling stare. Her heart sped up. Her sophisticated veneer shattered. She’d never felt such an instant raw sensual attraction before. It was as if every cell in her body became attuned to his. And she hadn’t a clue who he was.
She took a breath and, conscious of someone waiting behind her, stepped away from the bus—toward the trio on the porch of the rough-hewn building that served as bus terminus, general store and gas station. And a place for old men to watch the world go by. A place for a man to mesmerize with his stare.
Wide shoulders, muscular arms and chest, nothing was hidden by the skintight navy T-shirt he wore. Faded jeans tucked into motorcycle boots covered long legs. His face was all angles and planes, tanned a dark teak. She’d never seen anything as gorgeous in her life. The fluttering feelings inside kicked up a notch and she wished she could check makeup, hair and clothes. And find something scintillating to say that would impress him with her wit and sophistication.
Clothes—darn. She looked down at her outfit. The two of them almost matched. She wore a cotton top and faded jeans. So unlike her normal attire. In fact, she’d bet her mother didn’t even know she owned a pair of jeans.
Not that she was going to think about her mother! The great escape included thoughts about her parents, her job, and where she was going in the future.
“You miss your stop, sugar?” the man asked as she approached the porch.
Attuned to musical pitch and tone, Angelica almost swooned with the deep baritone voice and sweet Southern drawl. Talk some more, she almost said. Instead, she replied,
“Is this Smoky Hollow, Kentucky?”
“Last I heard,” he acknowledged.
“Pretty thing,” one of the older men said, as if she weren’t standing six feet in front of him.
“Why’s she here? Kin of anyone we know?” the other asked.
“Just fixing to ask that myself.” The fascinating man stepped off the porch in a casual and utterly masculine manner that had Angelica wondering if her hormones had spiked in some weird way since crossing the state line. She wanted to step up and flirt.
Flirt?