Love at First Sight
B.J. DANIELS
wrote her first book after a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist and author of thirty-seven published short stories. That first book, Odd Man Out, received a four-and-a-half star review from RT Book Reviews and went on to be nominated for Best Intrigue for that year. Since then she has won numerous awards including a career achievement award for romantic suspense and numerous nominations and awards for best book.
B.J. lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, and two springer spaniels, Spot and Jem. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards, camps, boats and plays tennis. B.J. is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, Kiss of Death and Romance Writers of America.
To contact her, write to B.J. Daniels, P.O. Box 1173, Malta, MT 59538, or check out her Web page at www.bjdaniels.com.
This book is dedicated to my mother, Marcy Jane Johnson, who taught me to cook and then passed on a legacy of wonderful recipes that she collected throughout her lifetime.
Bon appétit!
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
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER ONE
Saturday night, March 18
Just when Karen Sutton thought her evening couldn’t get any worse, her blind date spilled a full glass of Beaujolais on her best dress. Who was she kidding? Her only dress. After five years running her father’s business, her wardrobe was more Carhartt than Cartier.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Howie cried, sounding a little too much like Heloise as he began to explain how to get red wine out of velvet, as well as four other dress fabrics. Something told her he’d done this before. “Here, let me get a waiter—”
She grimaced as Howie called to a man dressed in black, mistaking him for a waiter. The man fortunately pretended not to hear and kept walking.
“Really, it isn’t necessary,” she repeated to her date and excused herself, less concerned about Howie’s clumsiness and the dress than taking advantage of the opportunity to escape—even if only long enough to drown her dress in cold water, if not herself.
“This is your own fault,” she muttered as she hurried off in search of the restroom. She’d been caught off guard by her sweet grandmotherly neighbor, Mrs. Talley Iverson, and while sampling warm chocolate-chip cookies fresh from the elderly woman’s oven, had somehow agreed to have dinner with a visiting grandnephew.
How could Karen have forgotten how much she hated dating? Probably because it’d been a while. Not that there weren’t plenty of men in her life. Builders, bricklayers, carpenters, plumbers, electricians. She even went out for a drink or dinner sometimes with them. At least with those men, she had something in common. And she didn’t have to wear a dress.
Howie Iverson, on the other hand, owned a floral shop in eastern Montana and knew the Latin names of all the species. Karen’s experience with floral arrangements was limited to other people’s weddings and funerals. Did real men still send women flowers? Not the men she knew.
Except for Howie Iverson. She swore an oath never to date any more of Talley Iverson’s relatives, no matter how sweet the woman or how scrumptious her cookies.
As Karen turned down what had to be her fifth long hallway, she realized she hadn’t been paying attention and was now lost.
Lost in the Hotel Carlton. Great. The wonderfully rustic old resort hotel on the edge of Missoula, Montana, was enormous and half-empty since it was off season. As she tried to backtrack in the maze of hallways, feeling like the little kid in The Shining, she heard voices. Hopefully someone knew the way back to the restaurant.
She turned a corner, now obviously in a far wing, and spotted a man wearing a baseball cap knocking at one of the rooms down the hall. She started to call to him, but just then, the door opened and a woman appeared. Liz?