From celebrated author Sandra Chastain comes the sensual tale of a compassionate nurse who is determined to heal her patient . . . and mend his shattered heart. After a series of football injuries leave him broken in both body and spirit, former star quarterback Joe Armstrong decides that his life is over. Wanting nothing more than to sit alone with a strong drink, Joe is less than pleased when he receives an unexpected visit from nurse Annabelle Calloway. Finding the golden-haired angel impossible to ignore, Joe reluctantly lets Annabelle into his home.
Although she’s seen her fair share of tough cases, Annabelle isn’t sure how to reach the troubled Joe. But having almost succumbed to depression herself, Annabelle feels an instant connection to her charge. A connection that becomes undeniable. Enveloped by passion and filled with longing, Annabelle will stop at nothing to give Joe a reason to live—and a reason to love.
Includes a special message from the editor, as well as excerpts from these Loveswept titles: The Reluctant Countess, Wild Rain, and Silk on the Skin.
Release date:
February 11, 2013
Publisher:
Loveswept
Print pages:
240
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Joe Armstrong sloshed the last swallow of Scotch around in his glass and grimaced. When had he started drinking Scotch? he wondered. As a college student and in his early years as a football player, he hadn’t drunk at all.
Joe Armstrong, the son of the Reverend and Mrs. Jacob Armstrong of Eufaula, Alabama; the boy who became the darling of the sports world; the player who led the fumbling Atlanta Falcons to the Super Bowl for the first time in history—that Joe Armstrong hadn’t touched a drop. But he wasn’t that guy anymore—not since the accidents.
Joe shrugged his shoulders and let his eyes drift over to the television set, where a popular late-night host was switching back and forth between his California studio and the crowd gathering in Times Square. The scene seemed as cold and flat as Joe’s mood.
The ring of the telephone cut through the silence. Joe didn’t move. He listened as the answering machine cut in with his standard message, “It’s your quarter, start talking.”
The caller was Ace, another of the endless chain of old teammates who’d become casual acquaintances in the last months. “Where are you, Joe? Time’s a-passing. You’re going to miss ringing in the New Year. Get your blankety-blank ass over here.”
The message was recorded, and instantly filed away with the other callers who’d invited him to celebrate the New Year. Joe hadn’t responded. What was there to celebrate? The last thing he wanted in his life was a new year to screw up. His friends wouldn’t appreciate his frame of mind. They’d be better off without him.
He lifted the glass and swallowed his drink, then grimaced and struggled to his feet. The evidence of his holiday hell lay all around the condo. A sad little Christmas tree, sent over by some woman who was unable to give up her hope of reviving a dying relationship, leaned against the wall in the corner. He hadn’t even plugged it in, forgetting about it unless the weight of his steps set off the sleigh bells that served as its primary decorations.
Empty pizza boxes, beer bottles, and square little white boxes that once contained Chinese food dotted the table and floor like dilapidated tomb-stones in an old cemetery.
Cemetery. Joe was back to thoughts of death again.
Death. The first time he’d met death had been when his parents had died. The loss had almost killed him. When his pal Jack died, he wished it had.
Joe closed his eyes and opened them again. Of late he hadn’t been able to drum up even a little emotion. Other than Rob, his agent, the man at the liquor store, and the fast-food deliverymen, he hadn’t spoken to anyone he knew personally for weeks. He felt like a character in a movie he’d seen who had been condemned to live one single day of his life over and over again.
Stumbling to the window, Joe looked out, expecting any minute to see the Ghost of Christmas Past glide through the glass and zap him back in time.
“No way, Armstrong,” he groused. “You can’t go back. You had your chance and you blew it.” As always, the haze of the alcohol seemed to evaporate much too soon. He was certainly too sober to expect a diapered, bright-eyed babe in a top hat to appear. The only guest he’d get was the old man in flowing robes with a long beard.
What the hell? What was the point of prolonging the inevitable? At the time when he’d expected to provide for his father and mother, who’d worked all their lives to see that he got what he needed, they weren’t there to be provided for. At the time when he expected to be at the zenith of his career, his career was fading. At the time when he’d normally be celebrating with Jack, there was no Jack.
Even Rob was beginning to lose patience. Image, Rob had explained, was all Joe had to market, and his career was alive only as long as his name stayed in the public eye. But Joe wasn’t comfortable hawking products and he didn’t have the quick wit and inflated opinion of himself necessary to do broadcasting.
His ability was suspect, and he wasn’t sure he wanted any part of coaching. That would mean taking responsibility for other men. Joe Armstrong was definitely not strong on responsibility, not even on his own team.
A sprained knee had taken him out of the game over a month ago, and in spite of prodding by the coach and the trainer to return to practice, Joe hadn’t even dressed out for the last two weeks.
At thirty-six, Joe Armstrong was a football quarterback whose arm and knees were gone. A ballplayer whose heart had been chiseled away a sliver at a time. He didn’t know how to do anything else. He had nothing left to give, and tonight he was through pretending. He didn’t deserve to be the one still alive.
Maybe he’d go for a long drive, find a bridge, and become the James Stewart of the nineties. He didn’t believe in angels and he no longer looked forward to a “wonderful life.”
If Joe Armstrong disappeared off the face of the earth, who’d miss him?
The stark truth was—nobody.
Joe lifted the glass once more, then realized it was empty. The low sound of the partygoers on the television set suddenly rose. The apple at the top of the tower at Times Square had begun its descent. For a moment Joe watched it, every click signaling the last dying moments of a miserable year.
“Thirty seconds.”
“Twenty seconds.”
“Ten.”
“Nine.”
“Eight.”
Joe took his keys from his pocket and lurched to the door, turning back one last time.
“Three.”
“Two.”
“One.”
The apple reached the bottom.
Joe reached for the doorknob.
The crowd yelled.
The doorbell rang.
“What? Who the hell?” He jerked open the door. “Go away. I told you—”
The woman standing on his doorstep looked like one of the snowflakes from the Nutcracker ballet. No, with a mass of feathery golden hair nestled with a crown of jewels, she looked like an angel. She was wearing some kind of sassy, short gold dress, gold stockings, and gold shoes.
He must be hallucinating.
“You haven’t left yet,” she said in relief. “I didn’t expect snow, and I was afraid I might miss you.”
Joe closed his eyes and opened them again. “Snow?”
“Yep. It started about an hour ago. I should have allowed for the unexpected, but I thought you’d appreciate my arrival more if I looked glamorous and exciting, so I bought a new dress. What do you think?”
Joe didn’t think. He couldn’t. The ethereal creature with the impossibly long legs and high-heeled shoes had whirled around, moved past him, and turned back to smile at him once more.
“I must be dreaming,” he said.
“You’re not dreaming. I promise.”
“You’re real?”
“Do you want me to be?”
Somebody was playing a joke on him. His vision was beginning to cloud, and he didn’t feel too steady on his feet. “I want you to explain yourself. No, cancel that. I want you to get out of here and leave me alone. I was about to—”
“I know. You were about to do what you didn’t do before—end it all. Find a curve at the top of a slick road and just drive off into tomorrow. Close the door. I didn’t want to mess up the image I was going for by wearing a jacket, and I didn’t have one that would match. Now I’m turning into an icicle.”
Joe closed the door and leaned heavily against it. “Who are you?”
She could have told him that she was Annabelle Calloway, but that wouldn’t have meant anything to him. Besides, in this case, it wasn’t who she was but what she was there for that counted, and she might as well get started on explaining that.
“Does it matter? You’ve been sitting here all night wishing you had someone to care about you. Now you do—me.” She glanced around. “Just look at this place. Good heavens.” She paused, then laughed lightly. “I can’t believe I said that, but then I guess there’s nothing good about hell, is there?”
Heaven or hell, he didn’t really care. At least this figment of his imagination was a new twist on the nightmares that he’d been having. It was a damned sight better than accidents and pain. He might as well see where the hallucination went. “Okay, I’ll play along. Who sent you?”
“Does it matter?”
“I mean are you some kind of ‘angelgram’? Where are your wings?”
“I’ve been called an angel. But I prefer to call myself a kind of retriever.”
Joe laughed in disbelief. “The only retriever I know is a dog who belongs to a friend, and it’s in the kennel for the holidays.”
She only smiled. She’d allow him to work out his questions in his own way. Considering her past fiascoes, being seen as a dog was better than being an angel.
“I need another drink,” Joe said, and lurched back to the art-deco bar some decorator had thought appropriate for a playboy jock.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
