I want more than romance. I want down-and-dirty, toe-curling, sweaty, steaming, screaming sex. So, honey, you’re just gonna have to cool your jets for a few more weeks while I get my strength back. Got it?”
Savannah swallowed hard and considered fanning her face. “Yes, dear.”
“Good. Okay, then. Are you ready to leave? I have to go meet my mother.”
“Yes, dear.”
Savannah fought a smile, knowing her eyes were twinkling as she walked up next to him, appropriated the picnic basket, and slipped her arm through his. “Zach, can I ask you one question?”
He sidled her a suspicious look. “Just one?”
“Just one. I promise.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“Are you taking your vitamins?”
“Damn right I am.” His lips twitched, then he leaned down and pressed a sweet kiss against her cheek. “Come on, Peach. Let’s go home.”
At two o’clock that afternoon, grasping Savannah’s hand in a viselike grip, Zach stepped up to the door of Nightingale Cottage along the bank of Angel Creek on the grounds of Angel’s Rest Healing Center and Spa. He rapped on the door.
Footsteps approached. The door swung open. A trim woman with auburn hair dressed in jeans, boots, and a University of Colorado sweatshirt opened the door. She had wounded blue eyes, high cheekbones, a thin straight nose, and full lips that needed some color.
She was short. Five foot three, five foot four at the most. Did he have the right cabin? How the hell had this woman given birth to four sons well over six feet tall and a daughter who stood five foot nine in her stocking feet? “Mrs. Romano?”
“Yes?”
He swallowed hard. Savannah squeezed his hand reassuringly. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m …”
He couldn’t say any more. He had a boulder of emotion in his throat. Trying again, he said, “My name is—”
Her gasp cut him off. She took a step forward. Placed her hand against his chest. Touched him. Then the hand traveled up to his face, warm and soft.
“Giovanni. Oh, sweet angels above. You are my Giovanni.”
For the angels who bless my life
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to the entire team at Ballantine for their fabulous support: Libby McGuire; Gina Wachtel; Scott Shannon; Linda Marrow; Lynn Andreozzi and the art department; Janet Wygal and the production department; my editor, Kate Collins; and Junessa Viloria. A special thanks to retired sheriff Mr. Jim Brand and my legal team in Boston, who assisted me in the development of Savannah’s criminal history. To Nic Burnham, Mary Dickerson, Christina Dodd, Lisa Kleypas, and Susan Sizemore—Eternity Springs lives because of you. Thank you.
Read on for a preview of Emily March’s next novel in her Eternity Springs series:
MIRACLE ROAD
When Hope Montgomery’s gaze snagged on the date in her curriculum planner, she sucked in a sudden breath: March 15.
She closed her eyes and absorbed the hurt. This was the way it happened now, four years later. Rather than being her constant companion, the pain would slither up and strike when she wasn’t prepared and braced for it.
“ ‘Beware the Ides of March,’ ” she softly quoted.
She shut her planner and set it aside, then reached for her coffee. Her hand trembled as she raised the china cup to her mouth, but she concentrated on savoring both the smell and the taste of the aromatic, full-bodied brew. Using her senses helped anchor her to the present, and besides, the coffee at Angel’s Rest was truly sublime.
Nevertheless, she teetered on the brink of tears until Celeste Blessing swept into the old Victorian mansion’s parlor saying, “I’m so sorry I’m running late, Hope. It’s been one thing after another today. First we had a plumbing problem in the showers beside the hot springs pools, then one of our guests suffered a death in the family, the poor dear, and I helped arrange emergency transportation home. Finally, my sister phoned, and I’m afraid I lost track of time.”
Hope stood and smiled at the woman whom she’d come to view as the matriarch of Eternity Springs. The vital, active, older owner of Angel’s Rest, Celeste wore black slacks, a gold cotton blouse, and a harried smile.
“Celeste, I love your new haircut,” Hope said.
“Thank you. I do, too.” Celeste lifted a hand to fluff the short, sassy style, her blue eyes twinkling. “One of my guests told me I look just like Judi Dench. He’s an old flirt, and I think he was hoping for a discount on his bill, but I’ll accept the compliment.”