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  Table of Contents

  HERS BY REQUEST

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  HERS BY REQUEST

  KAREN ANN DELL

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  HERS BY REQUEST

  Copyright©2014

  KAREN ANN DELL

  Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-61935-456-2

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is dedicated to my brother,

  who has always been the man

  upon whom I model my heroes.

  While certainly not flawless,

  he is admirable in many respects -

  especially in kindness

  to his younger sibling.

  CHAPTER 1

  Devlyn MacMurphy’s procrastination had paved his personal road to hell for the three weeks since his discharge from Walter Reed. Granted, the purchase of WMES, a small indie radio station on Maryland’s eastern shore, had taken up considerable amounts of his time, but that wasn’t the reason he had put off finding Danny’s fiancée, Amanda Adams.

  Eight months had passed since his friend’s death and it was past time to keep the promise he’d made. He needed to find Amanda, make sure she was okay financially and emotionally. If she wasn’t, he’d do his damnedest to fix it.

  It was the very least he could do, considering he was the one who’d gotten Danny killed.

  Last night in the wee hours while he played his music and kept his on-air comments to a minimum, Dev had gone through the Annapolis phone book and made a list of possible addresses for Amanda Adams. Finished with his shift at seven a.m., he grabbed a cup of coffee and with the same enthusiasm he would have displayed stepping in front of a firing squad, he dialed the first number.

  On call number seven Rosemary, his middle-aged receptionist, her short, dark hair a mass of springy curls, poked her head in the doorway to say good morning. Seeing him on the phone, she retrieved his empty mug, returning in a few minutes with a refill. He nodded his thanks and continued down the list. On call number fifteen he hit pay dirt and almost spilled the fresh cup of hot coffee down the front of his shirt.

  Amanda had sublet her apartment in Annapolis. The young woman now living there was happy to give him Amanda’s new address. He sat staring at it for a few minutes, stunned to discover Amanda Adams now lived in Blue Point Cove, Maryland.

  All these months he’d thought she lived in Annapolis, a safe distance away. Now he knew she was close enough that he could have accidentally run into her in the grocery store or at a gas pump. Hell, she might even listen to his radio station. He frowned, tore the slip of paper from his notepad, and tossed his pen on the desk. Crap. One more excuse shot to hell.

  He grabbed his old Army jacket and told Rosemary he’d be back in a few hours. He’d drive through Blue Point Cove, just to look around. See firsthand how big the town was. Maybe . . . maybe, he’d drive by Gull Wing Lane, past the address on the piece of paper tucked in his shirt pocket. A little reconnaissance couldn’t hurt.

  Amanda settled into her ancient Honda Civic, crossed her fingers, and turned the key. The engine coughed to life and she breathed a sigh of relief. She glanced at the gallery where Zoe, artist and owner, rearranged some watercolors in the front window. Her friend looked worried—and rightly so, after the bad news Amanda had just delivered. If Zoe’s cash flow didn’t improve, there was a good chance she would have to close the Silvercreek Gallery.

  As she pulled away from the curb, the screech of tires and irate blare of a horn made her stomp on the brakes and whip her head around in panic.

  Despite the noise, the impact itself felt almost gentle. The bumper of a large dark green SUV kissed the front fender of her car just behind the headlight.

  Eyes wide, her gaze traveled over the mountainous hood to the windshield where an incredibly handsome man, square jaw clenched, threw up his hands in disgust. She bit her lip and winced. He backed his car away then got out to survey the damage, casting an annoyed glance at her on the way by her door. She shut the engine off and got out.

  Before she could begin an apology, he straightened from inspecting the dent and said, “You always pull out into traffic without looking first? Or were you shooting for the ‘dumb woman driver award’?”

  “Well, no, I—”

  “You’re damn lucky I’ve got good brakes, lady, or you’d be on the hook for a major repair bill.”

  Annoyed at his attitude, Amanda reminded herself that she was at fault and swallowed her caustic reply. “I’m so sorry! I’m completely to blame.” She fished in her purse for her wallet and handed him her insurance card. “Are you okay? And your car, is there much damage?”

  Zoe appeared at her elbow. “Mandy, are you all right? I saw the whole thing through the window. I thought you were going to get squashed by that big SUV.” She spun on the man. “You were going too fast through this shopping district. Don’t you read the speed limit signs?”

  “Zoe, stop. It was my fault, not his. He must have been in the blind spot of my rearview mirror, but that’s no excuse.”

  She returned her attention to the tall man. A thick lock of dark brown hair had fallen across his wide forehead and his jaw was shadowed with a day’s growth of beard.

  “I apologize again and I’ll be happy to pay for any repairs your vehicle needs.” The wind whipped strands of hair across her face and she swiped at them.

  Dev’s irritation subsided enough to let him take a closer look at the tall, slender blond in gray slacks a
nd black pea coat. His heart skipped a beat then ran double-time to make up for it.

  Fate was having a real belly laugh at his expense.

  Without doubt it was Amanda, his best friend’s—former best friend’s—fiancée.

  Sweet Jesus, she was beautiful. The picture Danny had always carried didn’t do her justice. Tendrils of hair the color of liquid sunlight curled around a heart-shaped face, the rest tied back in a braid. Her delicate features were enhanced by flawless ivory skin, and her incredible gray eyes, wide-set and luminous, were the kind that could look into your soul and discover everything you wanted to hide.

  With the woman standing two feet away looking like every man’s wet dream, his courage failed him. No way was he ready for introductions.

  “There’s no damage to my car, A . . . Miss.” The bumper of his behemoth didn’t even have a scratch. Her smaller car had taken all the damage. “As far as I’m concerned there’s no need to file an accident report. You can probably have that dent popped back out at a good body shop. Shouldn’t cost you much. Probably a lot less than whatever your deductible is.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mister . . .?”

  “MacMurphy. Don’t mention it. Just remember to look around next time.”

  “Oh, I will, believe me. And thank you for being so understanding.” She smiled and offered her hand. “My name is Amanda Adams, by the way. In case you discover later that there’s any problem with your car, here’s my business card.”

  He stashed the card in his shirt pocket, nodded brusquely, and climbed back behind the wheel, escape his first priority.

  Oh yeah, Fate was having a field day.

  Because despite all of his guilt, and a burgeoning sense of betrayal, he found himself undeniably attracted to his dead friend’s fiancée.

  No more worries about paving that road. He had arrived.

  This must be Hell.

  Amanda watched the SUV drive away. At the town’s only traffic light the handsome stranger made a left toward Easton.

  Zoe tugged on her sleeve. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, Zoe, really. Considering that the accident was totally my fault that guy was pretty reasonable. When he first got out of his car he wore such a scowl, I was afraid he was going to read me the riot act.”

  “Not if I had anything to say about it,” her friend huffed.

  Amanda grinned. “Yeah, it was like watching a Chihuahua challenging a Great Dane. He was at least six-two and you barely clear five-feet-three.”

  But that six-foot-two-inch frame was wide-shouldered, slim-hipped, and well-muscled. Once he lost the frown, his arresting good looks made her forget his abrasive comments. All in all, a very nice male specimen.

  Not that she cared.

  “Yeah, but he was one hot mess, don’t you think?” Zoe elbowed her in the ribs.

  “Objectively speaking, I’d have to agree with you. Are you looking to find a replacement for Jeff?” Amanda chuckled.

  “No, you fool. I was sizing him up for you.”

  “Well, don’t waste your time. I’m not interested. What you should be considering is the event planning business I suggested earlier.”

  “I know, I know. I can’t give up now that Jeff convinced Russell Manheim to do a major show here. Having a top-notch artist offer us an exclusive showing of his work won’t mean diddly if I can’t put together enough money for decent advertising. After all the work Jeff and I put into this place my bank account is on life-support and my credit cards are merely useless squares of plastic. We only need a few thousand dollars, but it might as well be a few million.”

  The irony of their situation wasn’t lost on Amanda. The second late notice on her student loan payment had come yesterday afternoon. They were both in the same boat and it was taking on water faster than either of them could bail.

  “Well, the budget for Mrs. Wyndham’s party floored me. She and the Admiral have a lot of high-level brass in their circle of friends and she’s sparing no expense. Someone is going to make a ton of money doing this party and I figured it might as well be the two of us.”

  She’d hoped her friend would be more enthusiastic about the idea since it seemed such a perfect fit for them. She was an expert at organization and number crunching. Zoe was creative, ingenious, and had a flair for the dramatic. Together, she thought they’d make an awesome team.

  “Think about it, Zoe. I’d hate to see you close this place.” She gave her a quick hug. “Call me soon and we’ll do dinner, okay?”

  “Sure thing,” Zoe mumbled, lost in thought.

  Amanda got back in her car. Stroking the steering wheel, she crooned, “Okay baby, I know you had a little scare and a nasty bump but don’t let it throw you. We’ll get you fixed up—someday soon.” She turned the key and obediently the little car started right up. Thank goodness. Cause that little dent was going to be there for quite a while.

  CHAPTER 2

  The second hand made its jerky approach to twelve on the wall clock and Dev took a swallow from the half-full glass of amber liquid next to the microphone. The short news feed from the network would end at precisely eleven-oh-five.

  Andy Phelps, the seven p.m. to eleven p.m. announcer, passed in front of the studio’s glass window and tossed him a semi-salute on his way out. Shoulder-length dirty-blond hair straggled around his face and he wore his usual attire—faded plaid flannel shirt, ripped-at-the knee jeans, dark blue hoodie, and shit-kickers. Dev tried to remember what he’d looked like in uniform. The fresh-faced, buzz-cut youth in fatigues was long gone after eighteen months in Iraq.

  Dev blew out a breath. Who was he kidding? He was no better. He just kept his disarray on the inside, hidden from the casual observer.

  Three. Two. One.

  He acknowledged the ‘go’ sign from the engineer in the control room and flipped the switch on the mike.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, lovers and loners, you’re listening to the Friday edition of Dev’s Dream Machine on WMES, 89.9 on your FM dial. Sit back and relax or snuggle up with your honey and come along with me. Back to the days when music was synonymous with the words Big Band. When vocalists were called crooners and had names like Ella, Frank, and Bing, and Hollywood was making musicals, lots of musicals—so that Fred and Ginger could wow you with their fancy footwork and leave you itching to get your partner in your arms on a dance floor.

  I’m going to open tonight’s time travel with Woody Herman’s rendition of Skylark. Eleven to midnight is our ‘by request’ hour and the phone lines are open. I’m waiting for your call, so dial 888-555-WMES and let me know what you’d like to hear.”

  The other shifts played top forty hits mixed with a judicious amount of golden oldies. Since he was the boss, he indulged himself for one hour on Friday nights to play the music he loved. Big band hits, classics from Gershwin, Ellington, Cole Porter, and jazz featuring Stan Getz, George Shearing, and Johnny Coltrane, among others. He figured since he took the whole eight hours of the most unpopular shift he was entitled to his eccentricities. Turned out a lot of his listeners liked his choices and his ‘by request’ hour was the result of their frequent calls. Most evenings the phone lines stayed lit the entire hour.

  Settling in for the night, Dev took another cautious sip of Jack Daniels—it had to last till morning—and tried to rub the ache out of his left arm. The Jack was another perk of ownership. No one else would dare bring alcohol into the studio. But it beat taking the pain medicine so many other veterans got hooked on while they recovered.

  He flicked the mike off and swiveled his chair around to sort through the stack of CDs he’d chosen for tonight’s show. Andy had left the studio a mess, the remnants of his McDonald’s dinner spread across the back table, the mostly-empty drink container serving as an ashtray with several butts—not a
ll cigarettes—floating at the bottom, and his own selection of CDs scattered haphazardly among the debris. Dev picked up the CDs then swept everything else into the trashcan under the desk.

  As the new owner, he made the rules, and although he was willing to cut his little band of misfits a lot of slack, this time Andy had crossed the line. He was due for a “Come to Jesus” meeting in the near future. Dev rubbed his left elbow, an unconscious habit he’d picked up even though it did little to ease the almost constant pain in that joint.

  Amanda snuggled under the two quilts and a blanket she had layered on the bed. After sunset, the electric baseboard heaters lost the battle with the cold drafts sneaking in around the windows. She had better pick up some caulk this week at the local hardware store. January in Blue Point Cove wasn’t merely chilly, it was downright cold.

  She slipped an arm out from under the covers and turned up the volume on her radio. “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore”, a tune composed by the great Duke Ellington was playing. The song lyrics so matched her life they brought tears to her eyes.