A bestselling two-time RITA^® winner (with a further nine finalist titles), ANNE MCALLISTER has written nearly seventy books for Mills & Boon^® Modern™ Romance, American Romance^®, Desire™, Special Edition and single titles—which means she basically follows her characters no matter where they take her. She loves to travel, but at home she and her husband divide their time between Montana and Iowa. Anne loves to hear from readers. Contact her at: annemcallister.com

The Return

of Antonides

Anne McAllister

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Anne

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Extract

CHAPTER ONE

“GETTING MARRIED IS EXHAUSTING.” Althea Halloran Rivera Smith Moore collapsed into the back of the cab and closed her eyes, unmoving.

“Which is why you’re only supposed to do it once,” Holly said drily as she clambered in after her sister-in-law. She pulled the door shut and gave the driver her address in Brooklyn.

As the taxi edged back out into the late Saturday afternoon Midtown Manhattan traffic, Holly slumped back in against the seat. “Those dresses were horrible.” She shuddered just thinking about the pastel creations she’d tried on all day. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t worn identically repulsive bridesmaids’ dresses for Althea’s other weddings.

“This is the last time.” Althea put her hand over her heart. “I swear. I’m just too impulsive.”

In the eight years since Holly’s wedding to Althea’s brother Matt, Althea had marched up the aisle three times. And into divorce court each time shortly thereafter.

“But not anymore. This time is different,” Althea assured her. “Stig is different.”

Swedish professional hockey player Stig Mikkelsen had nothing at all in common with the aloof doctor, the extroverted stock broker and the pompous professor Althea had married previously. Stig had swept into Althea’s life six months ago, charmed her, teased her and refused to take no for an answer. He’d overturned her resolve never to walk down another aisle, and best of all, had somehow given Althea the greatest gift—helping her return to the sparkling, cheerful woman she had been before her three marital disasters.

For that alone, Holly blessed him. So when Althea began making wedding plans and asked Holly to be her “one and only bridesmaid, please, please, please!” Holly had gritted her teeth and agreed.

She’d even silently vowed—if necessary—to force herself into another stiff, ruffled, pastel cupcake of a dress. But even with just the two of them to please and all of Manhattan’s gauziest wonders to choose from, they hadn’t been able to find “the perfect bridesmaid’s dress.”

“Stig will know what we need. I’ll take him next time,” Althea said.

“He’s a nice guy,” Holly allowed. But if he went dress shopping with Althea, he should be nominated for sainthood.

“And he’s got teammates...” Althea shot her a speculative look. “Single ones.”

“No,” Holly said automatically. “Not interested.” She crossed her arms over her tote bag, holding it against her like a shield.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

Holly arched a brow. “Don’t I?”

Althea had the grace to look a tiny bit abashed, then gave a little flounce and lifted her chin. “Some of them are very nice guys.”

“No doubt. I’m not interested.”

“You’re not even thirty years old! You have a whole life ahead of you!”

“I know.” There was nothing Holly was more aware of than how much of her life there still might be—and how flat and empty it was. She pressed her lips together and made herself stare at the cars they were passing.

Suddenly Althea’s hand was on her knee, giving it a sympathetic squeeze. “I know you miss him,” she said, her voice soft but thick with emotion. “We all miss him.”

Matt, she meant. Her brother. Holly’s husband. The center of Holly’s life.

Just thirty years old, Matthew David Halloran had had everything to live for. He was bright, witty, handsome, charming. A psychologist who worked mostly with children and teens, Matt had loved his work. He’d loved life.

He had loved hiking, skiing and camping. He’d loved astronomy and telescopes, basketball and hockey. He’d loved living in New York City, loved the fifth floor walk-up he and Holly had shared when they’d first moved to the city, loved the view across the river to Manhattan from the condo they’d recently bought in a trendy Brooklyn high-rise.

Most of all, Matt had loved his wife.

He’d told her so that Saturday morning two years and four months ago. He had bent down and kissed her sleepy smile as he’d gone out the door to play basketball with his buddies. “Love you, Hol’,” he’d murmured.

Holly had reached up from the bed she was still snuggled in and snagged his hand and kissed it. “You could show me,” she’d suggested with a sleepy smile.

Matt had given her a rueful grin. “Temptress.” Then he’d winked. “I’ll be home at noon. Hold that thought.”

It was the last thing he’d ever said to her. Two hours later Matt Halloran was dead. An aneurysm, they told her later. Unknown and undetected. A silent killer waiting for the moment to strike.

Going in for a lay-up at the end of the game, Matt had shot—and dropped to the floor.

Simultaneously the bottom had dropped out of Holly’s world.

At first she had been numb. Disbelieving. Not Matt. He couldn’t be dead. He hadn’t been sick. He was healthy as a horse. He was strong. Capable. He had his whole life ahead of him!

But it turned out that Holly was the one who had her life ahead of her—a life without Matt. A life she hadn’t planned on.

It hadn’t been easy. All she had wanted to do those first months was cry. She couldn’t because she had a class full of worried fifth graders to teach. They looked to her for guidance. They knew Matt because he and Holly took them to the marina on Saturdays to teach them canoeing and kayaking. They shared her grief and needed a role model for how to handle it.

Psychologist Matt would have been the first to tell her so.

So for them, Holly had stopped wallowing in misery. She’d wiped away her tears, pasted on her best smile and resolutely put one foot in front of the other again.

Eventually, life began to resemble something akin to normal, though for her it never would be again—not without Matt to share it.

But even though she had learned to cope, she wasn’t prepared when friends and family began trying to set her up with another man. Holly didn’t want another man! She wanted the man she’d had.

But ever since last summer Althea had been dropping hints. Holly’s brother, Greg, a lawyer in Boston, said he had a colleague she might like to meet. Even her mother, a longtime divorcee with not much good to say about men, had suggested she take a singles cruise. At Christmas Matt’s parents had begun telling her she needed to get on with her life, that Matt would want her to.

She’d always done everything Matt wanted her to. That was the problem!

“At least you’re dating Paul.”

“Yes.” A few months back, Holly had determined that the best way to deter meddling family and friends was to appear to have taken their advice and gone out. Charming, handsome, smart, a psychologist like Matt, Paul McDonald was like Matt. But he wasn’t Matt. So no danger to her at all. It just kept well-meaning relatives and friends off her back. And she knew she wasn’t leading Paul on. Long divorced, Paul was a complete cynic about marriage.

“If you married Paul,” Althea said, oblivious to Paul’s lack of interest, “you wouldn’t have to hare off across the world to sit on a coral atoll somewhere.” She gave Holly an indignant glare. “I can’t believe you’re even considering that!”

Joining the Peace Corps, she meant. Last fall, fed up with the emptiness of her life and admitting to herself at least that she needed to find a new purpose, a new focus, Holly had sent in her application. They had offered her a two-year teaching position on a small South Pacific island. She was to start preliminary training in Hawaii the second week in August.

“I’m not considering. I’m doing it,” she said now.

“Paul can’t talk you out of it?”

“No.”

“Someone should,” Althea grumbled. “You need a man who will make you sit up and take notice. Paul’s too nice. You need a challenge.” Abruptly, she sat up straight, a smile dawning on her lips. “Like Lukas Antonides.”

“What? Who?” Holly felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the universe. She was gasping as she stared at her sister-in-law. Where had that come from?

“You remember Lukas.” Althea was practically bouncing on the seat now, her cheeks definitely rosy.

Holly felt hers burning. Her whole body was several degrees warmer. “I remember Lukas.”

“You used to follow him around,” Althea said.

“I did not! I followed Matt!” It was Matt, damn him, who had followed Lukas around.

Lukas Antonides had become the neighborhood equivalent of the Pied Piper from the minute he’d moved in the year he and Matt were eleven and Holly was nine.

“Ah, Lukas.” Althea used her dreamy voice. “He was such a stud. He still is.”

“How do you know?” Holly said dampeningly. “He’s on the other side of the world.”

Lukas had spent the past half dozen years or so in Australia. Before that he’d been in Europe—Greece, Sweden, France. Not that she’d kept track of him. Matt had done that.

Since Matt’s death she hadn’t really known where Lukas was. She’d received a sympathy card simply signed “Lukas.” No personal remarks. Nothing—except the spiky black scrawl of his name—which was absolutely fine with her.

She hadn’t expected him at the funeral. It was too far to come. And thank God for that. She hadn’t had to deal with him along with everything else. For a dozen years now she hadn’t had to deal with him at all. So why was Althea bringing him up now, when he was off mining opals or wrangling kangaroos or doing whatever enthusiasm was grabbing him at the moment?

“He’s back,” Althea said. “Didn’t you see the article in What’s New!?”

Holly felt her stomach clench. “No.” It was the end of the school year. She didn’t have time to read anything except student papers. “What article?” What’s New! was a hot, upscale lifestyle magazine. Out of her league. She wouldn’t normally read it anyway.

Since getting engaged to Stig, Althea always read it. Sometimes she was even in it. Now she nodded eagerly. “Gorgeous article. Just like him.” She grinned. “He got the centerfold.”

“They don’t have centerfolds in What’s New!” But the image it conjured up made Holly’s cheeks flame.

Althea laughed. “The centerfold of the magazine. There’s a double-page spread of Lukas in his office. Big story about him and his foundation and the gallery he’s opening.”

“Foundation? Gallery? What gallery?”

“He’s opening a gallery for Australian, New Zealand and Pacific art here in New York. Big stuff in the local art community. And he’s heading up some charitable foundation.”

“Lukas?” If the gallery and the centerfold boggled her mind, the notion of Lukas heading up a charitable foundation sounded like a sign of the apocalypse.

“It’s in this week’s issue,” Althea went on. “He’s on the cover, too. Surprised it didn’t catch your eye. The gallery is in SoHo. They showed some of the art and sculpture in the article. Very trendy. It’s going to draw lots of interest.” Her grin widened. “So is Lukas.”

Holly folded her hands in her lap, staring straight ahead. “How nice.”

Althea made a tutting sound. “What do you have against Lukas? You were friends.”

“He was Matt’s friend,” Holly insisted.

Lukas’s move into the neighborhood had turned Holly’s life upside down. Until then she and Matt had been best friends. But once Lukas arrived, she’d been relegated to tag-along, particularly by Lukas.

Matt hadn’t ditched her completely. Solid, dependable, responsible Matt had always insisted that Holly was his friend. But when Lukas’s father took them out in his sailboat, she hadn’t been invited.

“Go play with Martha,” Lukas had said. It had been his answer to everything.

His twin sister, Martha, had spent hours drawing and sketching everything in sight. Holly couldn’t draw a stick figure without a ruler. She’d liked swimming and playing ball and catching frogs and riding bikes. She’d liked all the same things Matt did.

Except Lukas.

If Matt had always been as comfortable as her oldest shoes, Lukas was like walking on nails. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Fascinating in the way that, say, Bengal tigers were fascinating. And perversely, she’d never been able to ignore him.

If Lukas was back, she had yet another reason to be glad she was leaving.

“He’s made a fortune opal mining, apparently,” Althea told her. “And he’s parlayed it into successful businesses across the world. He’s got fingers in lots of pies, your Lukas.”

“He’s not my Lukas,” Holly said, unable to stop herself.

“Well, you should consider him,” Althea said, apparently seriously. “He’s handsomer than ever. Animal magnetism and all that.” Althea flapped a hand like a fan in front of her face. “Seriously hot.”

“Hotter than Stig?”

“No one’s hotter than Stig,” Althea said with a grin. “But Lukas is definitely loaded with sex appeal.”

“And knows it, too, I’m sure,” Holly said. He always had. Once he’d noticed the opposite sex, Lukas had gone through women like a shark went through minnows.

“Well, you should look him up—for old times’ sake,” Althea said firmly.

“I don’t think so.” Holly cast about for a change in subject, then realized happily that she didn’t need to. The taxi had just turned onto her street.

Althea shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I’d pick him over Paul any day of the week.”

“Be my guest.” Holly gathered up her sweater and tote bag.

“Nope. I’ve got my man.” Althea gave a smug, satisfied smile.

Once I had mine, too, Holly thought. She didn’t say it. There was no reason to make Althea feel guilty because she had found the love of her life and Holly had lost hers. “Hang on to him,” she advised, getting out her share of the taxi fare.

“Put that away. The taxi is on me. I’m sorry we didn’t find a dress. Maybe next Saturday...”

“Can’t. I’m going to be kayaking with the kids from school next Saturday.” She’d only missed going today because Althea had begged her.

“Then maybe I’ll take Stig. Do you trust me to do it on my own?”

Trust her? After Althea had dressed her like a cupcake with too much frosting three times before?

Wincing inwardly, Holly pasted on her best resilient-bridesmaid smile. “Of course I trust you. It’s your wedding. I’ll wear whatever you choose.”

Althea gave Holly a fierce hug. “You’re such a trouper, Hol’, hanging in with me through all my weddings.” She pulled back and looked at Holly with eyes the same flecked hazel as Matt’s. “I know it’s been tough. I know it’s been an awful two years. I know life will never be the same. It won’t be for any of us. But Matt would want you to be happy again. You know he would.”

Holly’s throat tightened and her eyes blurred, because yes, she knew Matt would want that, damn him. Matt had never focused on the downside. Whenever life had dealt him lemons or a broken leg—though it had actually been Lukas who’d dealt him that, she recalled—Matt had coped. He would expect her to do the same.

“The right guy will come along,” Althea assured Holly as she opened the cab door. “I know he will. Just like Stig did for me when I’d given up all hope.”

“Sure,” Holly humored her as she stepped out onto the curb and turned back to smile.

Althea grinned. “You never know. It might even be Lukas.”

* * *

Lukas Antonides used to feel at home in New York City. He used to be in tune with its speed, its noise, its color, its pace of life. Once upon a time he’d got energized by it. Now all he got was a headache.

Or maybe it wasn’t the city giving him a headache. Maybe it was the rest of his life.

Lukas thrived on hard work and taking charge. But he had always known that if he wanted to, he could simply pick up and walk away. He couldn’t walk away from the gallery—didn’t want to. But being everything to every artist and craftsperson who was counting on him—and the gallery—when for years he had resisted being responsible for anyone other than himself made his head pound.

Ordinarily, he loved hard physical labor. Throwing himself body and soul into whatever he was doing gave him energy. That was why he’d taken over the renovation of not only the gallery, but the rest of the offices and apartments in the cast-iron SoHo building he’d bought three months ago. But the gallery cut into the time he had for that, and getting behind where he thought he should be was causing a throb behind his eyes.

And then there was his mother who, since he’d got back from Australia, had been saying not so sotto voce, “Is she the one?” whenever he mentioned a woman’s name. He knew she was angling for another daughter-in-law. It was what Greek mothers did. He’d been spared before as there were other siblings to pressure. But they were all married now, busily providing the next generation.

Only he was still single.

“I’ll marry when I’m ready,” he’d told her flatly. He didn’t tell her that he didn’t see it happening. He’d long ago missed that boat.

But more than anything, he was sure the headache—the pounding behind his eyes, the throbbing that wouldn’t go away—was caused by the damned stalagmites of applications for grants by the MacClintock Foundation, which, for his sins, he was in charge of.

“Just a few more,” his secretary, Serafina, announced with dry irony, dropping another six-inch stack onto his desk.

Lukas groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. The headache spiked. He wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. He was an action man, not a paper-pusher. And Skeet MacClintock had known that!

But it hadn’t stopped the late Alexander “Skeet” MacClintock, Lukas’s cranky friend and opal-mining mentor, from guilting him into taking on the job of running the foundation and vetting the applicants. He’d known that Lukas wouldn’t be able to turn his back on Skeet’s plan for a foundation intended to “Give a guy—or gal—a hand. Or a push.”

Because once Skeet had given Lukas a hand. And this, damn it, was his way of pushing.

Lukas sighed and gave Sera a thin smile. “Thanks.”

“There are more,” Sera began.

“Spare me.”

Sera smiled. “You’ll get there.”

Lukas grunted. For all that he’d rather be anywhere else, he owed this to Skeet.

The old man, an ex-pat New Yorker like himself, had provided the grumbling, cantankerous steadiness that a young, hotheaded, quicksilver Lukas had needed six years ago. Not that Lukas had known it at the time.

He would have said they were just sharing digs in a dusty, blisteringly hot or perversely cold mining area in the outback. Skeet could have tossed him out. Lukas could have left at any time.

Often he had, taking jobs crewing on schooners or yachts. He’d leave for months, never promising to come back, never intending to. But for all his wanderlust and his tendency to jump from one thing to next, there was something about opal mining—about the possibilities and the sheer hard work—that energized him and simultaneously took the edge off his restlessness. For the first time in years, he had slept well at night.

He felt good. He and Skeet got along. Skeet never made any demands. Not even when he got sick. He just soldiered on. And at the end, he had only one request.

“Makin’ you my executor,” he’d rasped at Lukas during the last few days. “You take care of things...after.”

Lukas had wanted to deny furiously that there would be an “after,” that Skeet MacClintock would die and the world would go on. But Skeet was a realist. “Whaddya say?” Skeet’s faded blue eyes had bored into Lukas’s own.

By that time the old man had seemed more like a father to him than his own. Of course Lukas had said yes. How hard would it be? He’d only have to distribute the old man’s assets.

Skeet had plenty, though no one would ever have guessed from the Spartan underground digs he called home. Lukas only knew of Skeet’s business acumen because Skeet had helped him parlay his own mining assets into a considerable fortune.

Even so, he had never imagined the old man had a whole foundation up his sleeve—one offering monetary grants to New Yorkers who needed “someone to believe in them so they could dare to believe in themselves.”

Who’d have thought Skeet would have such a sentimental streak? Not Lukas. Though he should have expected there would be a stampede of New Yorkers eager to take advantage of it when the news spread.

He’d had a trickle of applications before the What’s New! article. But once it hit the stands, the postman began staggering in with bags and bags of mail.

That was when Serafina had proved her worth. A fiftysomething, no-nonsense mother of seven, Serafina Delgado could organize a battalion, deal with flaky artists and cantankerous sculptors and prioritize grant applications, all while answering the phone and keeping a smile on her face. Lukas, who didn’t multitask worth a damn, was impressed.

“Sort ’em out,” he’d instructed her. “Only give me the ones you think I really ought to consider.”

He would make the final decisions himself. Skeet’s instructions had been clear about that.

“How the hell will I know who needs support?” Lukas had demanded.

“You’ll know.” Skeet had grinned faintly from his hospital bed. “They’ll be the ones that remind you of me.”

That was why the old man had created the foundation in the first place, and Lukas knew it. Back when it mattered, when he was in his twenties, Skeet hadn’t believed in himself. Deeply in love with a wealthy young New York socialite, poor boy Skeet hadn’t felt he had anything to offer her besides his love. So he’d never dared propose.

“Didn’t believe enough in myself,” he had told Lukas one cold day last winter, fossicking through rubble for opals.

They didn’t have heart-to-hearts, never talked about much personal stuff at all. Only mining. Football. Beer. Skeet’s sudden veer in a personal direction should have warned Lukas things were changing.

“Don’t pay to doubt yourself,” Skeet had gone on. And Lukas learned that by the time Skeet had made something of himself and had gone back to pop the question, Millicent had married someone else.

“So, what? You want me to play matchmaker to New York City?” Lukas hadn’t been able to decide whether he was amused or appalled.

Skeet chuckled. “Not necessarily. But most folks got somethin’ they want to reach for and don’t quite got the guts to do.” He’d met Lukas’s gaze levelly. “Reckon you know that.”

Then it had been Lukas’s turn to look away. He’d never said, but he knew Skeet had seen through his indifferent dismissal to a past that Lukas had never really confronted once he’d walked away.

Now, determinedly, he shoved all the memories away again and forced himself to go back to reading the applications. It was the first week of June. The deadline for application submissions was two weeks away. Now he had thousands of them. Even with Sera sorting through them, he needed to read faster.

He stared at the paper in front of him until his eyes crossed...then shut...

“Grace called.”

Lukas’s head jerked up. “What?”

Sera stood in the doorway frowning at him. “She says to pick her up at her grandmother’s at a quarter to eight. Were you sleeping?”

“No. Of course not.” Though from the hands on the clock above the file cabinet he’d been closing his eyes for over half an hour. Now he tried not to let his jaw crack with a yawn. He’d winced, realizing he had forgotten all about Grace. She was Millicent’s granddaughter, and Lukas sometimes wondered if she were Skeet’s own attempt at matchmaking from beyond the grave. The old man had found out a bit about Millicent’s life over the years. Chances were he’d known about Grace. He raked a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you put her through?”

“She said not to bother, to just give you the message.” Sera studied him narrowly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Lukas stifled another yawn. “Just bored.”

“Go meet Grace then,” Sera suggested with a grin. “You won’t be bored.”

“Can’t. Got to finish this.” He glanced at his watch. “Time for you to go home, though.”

“Soon. I have a few more applications to go through. You can do this,” she said briskly in her den-mother voice. Then she shut the door behind her.

Lukas stood and stretched, then paced the room, trying to muster some enthusiasm for dinner with Grace. He shouldn’t have to muster enthusiasm at all.

Grace was wonderful. His mother liked Grace. Sera liked Grace. Everyone liked Grace. Grace Marchand spoke five languages, had degrees in art history and museum conservation. She coordinated special exhibits for one of the city’s major art museums. She was blonde and blue-eyed and beautiful, looking a lot like her grandmother must have half a century ago. Skeet would have loved her.

Because of that, Lukas had taken her out several times since—to dinner, to a concert, some charity functions, a couple of command-performance family dinners. Grace was good company. She knew which fork to use, which was more than he often did. In his new more social role, he was grateful for that. But regardless of what Skeet might have been plotting or Lukas’s mother might be hoping, he wasn’t marrying her.

And now he really had come full circle because his head was throbbing again.

The door from the outer office opened once more, and Sera came in.

“I thought you were leaving?” Lukas said sharply.

Sera nodded. “On my way. Just finished the applications. There’s one that you should see.” She waved the envelope in her hand.

“I don’t want to see another application tonight.” He held out a hand to ward her off. “I’ve had it up to my eyeballs. Every person in New York City wants me to give them half a million dollars.”

“Not this lady.” Sera waved the envelope again. “She only wants half a boat!”

Lukas felt the words like a punch in the gut. “Half a—? What?”

Sera shrugged, grinning as she set the papers on his desk. “Half a boat. Can you believe it?”

Lukas crossed the room in three long strides and snatched up the papers from the desk. There was only one woman in the world who would ask him for half a boat—Holly.

Holly. After all these years. Lukas wasn’t bored anymore. His heart was pounding even as he stared at her signature at the bottom of a typed business letter on ivory paper.

Holly Montgomery Halloran. Firm, spiky, no-nonsense letters—just like the woman who had written them. He exhaled sharply just looking at her name. The letter had a letterhead from St. Brendan’s School, Brooklyn, New York. Where she taught. Matt had told him that a few years back. The letter was brief, but he didn’t have a chance to read it because with it, fluttering out of the envelope, came a photograph of a sailboat.

Lukas snatched it out of the air before it hit the floor and, staring at it, felt a mixture of pain and longing and loss as big as a rock-size gouge that there had been in the hull when he had last seen the boat in person. Someone—Matt—had repaired the hull. But the mast was still broken. Snapped right off, the way he remembered it. And there was still plenty of rotten wood. The boat needed work. A lot of work.

Lukas felt a tingle at the back of his neck and faint buzzing inside his head. He dropped into his chair and realized he wasn’t breathing.

“Yours?” Sera queried.

“Half.” Lukas dragged the word up from the depth of his being. It sounded rusty, as if he hadn’t said it in years.

Sera smiled. “Which half?”

There was no answer to that. He shook his head.

“I thought you must know her,” Sera said gently. “Holly?” Because, of course, Sera had read the letter.

“Yes.”

Sera waited, but when he didn’t say more, she nodded. “Right. Well, then,” she said more briskly. “Well, you deal with Holly and the boat. I’m off.”

Lukas didn’t look up. He waited until he heard the door shut. Then he picked up the letter, not seeing anything but the signature. Then he shut his eyes.

He didn’t need them to see Holly as clear as day.

He had a kaleidoscope of memories to choose from: Holly at nine, all elbows and skinned knees and attitude; Holly at thirteen, still coltish but suddenly curvy, running down the beach; Holly at fifteen, her swingy dark hair with auburn highlights, loose and luxuriant, her breasts a handful; Holly at seventeen, blue eyes soft with love as she’d looked adoringly at Matt; Holly at eighteen, blue eyes hard, accusing Lukas when Matt had broken his leg; and then, two weeks later, Holly on the night of her senior prom—beautiful and nervy, edgy and defiant. Then gentler, softer, laughing, smiling—at him for once.

Pulsuz fraqment bitdi. Davamını oxumaq istəyirsiniz?