The Heart of Winter: An Anthology - Softcover

Shayne, Maggie; Jones, Linda Winstead; Leclaire, Day

3.82

107 ratings by Goodreads

9780373837588: The Heart of Winter: An Anthology

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0373837585 ISBN 13: 9780373837588

Publisher: Harlequin Anthologies, 2011

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This trio of irresistible stories from New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Maggie Shayne and USA TODAY bestselling authors Linda Winstead Jones and Day Leclaire touch the heart of who we are and what we desire....

Prepare to be...

Tempted

Melinda Terwilliger is a mild-mannered teacher—until she accidentally becomes The Toughest Girl in Town. But she meets her match in an undercover cop determined to get to know the real Melinda...with kisses hot enough to melt any woman's heart!

Sediced

When law secretary Nell Rose is snowbound with a handsome stranger, keeping her New Year's Resolution becomes nearly impossible. Why swear off men when a romantic weekend with a reclusive writer seems to be the ideal way to ring in the new year?

Swept Away

Plain Jayne Myleston seduced her office crush at a masked ball—and then found she'd turned up the heat with the wrong man! Even after the ball, she can't say no to her Mystery Lover. That is, until Jayne finds out who he really is!

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About the Author:

RITA Award winning, New York Times bestselling author Maggie Shayne has published over 50 novels, including mini-series Wings in the Night (vampires), Secrets of Shadow Falls (suspense) and The Portal (witchcraft). A Wiccan High Priestess, tarot reader, advice columnist and former soap opera writer, Maggie lives in Cortland County, NY, with soulmate Lance and their furry family.

New York Times bestselling author Linda Winstead Jones has written more than seventy romance books in several subgenres—historical, fairy tale, paranormal, contemporary and romantic suspense. She is also a six-time RITA� Award finalist and winner of the 2004 RITA� Award for paranormal romance. Linda lives in north Alabama with her husband of forty-two years. She can be reached via www.Harlequin.com or her own website, www.lindawinsteadjones.com.

USA TODAY bestselling author Day Leclaire is described by Harlequin as “one of our most popular writers ever!” Day’s passionate stories warm the heart, which may explain the impressive 11 nominations she's received for the prestigious Romance Writers of America RITA Award. “There's no better way to spend each day than writing romances.” Visit www.dayleclaire.com.

"My walk home from the train after work at night always takes me past groups of those slathering dogs, but this was the first time one broke away from the pack to follow me."

Rodney Foster, Melinda Terwilliger's best friend and part-time therapist, nodded. He was always nodding during their "sessions." He was only a grad student, but his father was one of the most brilliant minds in psychotherapy, and Rodney was planning to follow in his father's footsteps.

Melinda didn't mind being his lab rat, really. Their sessions were informal, helpful and free. And, most important, she trusted him.

"When did you first become aware the thug was following you?" he asked.

Melinda's muscles tensed as she felt transported back to the events of a few days earlier. "I felt his eyes on me. I know he turned his head to watch me as I walked quickly past, and there was some kind of warning bell going off in my head, telling me something was up. But I didn't know what to do, or whether to trust it." She felt like an idiot now for having ignored what, in hindsight, seemed so obvious.

"Not surprising," Rodney said. "You know, the instinctive awareness of danger is something animals have, particularly in the wild. There's no reason to assume we humans don't have similar senses. I happen to believe we do, but we bury them in things like reason and logic and even good manners. Often, to our own detriment."

"That's exactly what I did." She nodded slowly as she recalled the incident. "I didn't turn around, didn't look back, but I heard his footsteps behind me, and I knew he was following me. A cold shiver rushed up my spine, just like people always say it does. I felt it so palpably that I wanted to slap it away. No, no, that's not what I wanted to do. I wanted to break into a dead run. Everything in me told me to run. I had to fight not to."

"At least you know your instincts were working. You just weren't listening to them."

"I will next time, that's for sure."

"There you go, something positive came from this."

"You and your positive thinking," she muttered.

Rodney shrugged his skinny shoulders in a distinctly feminine way. "It works for me. But back to you. Why do you think you didn't want to let yourself run, Melinda?"

She shrugged. "I guess I thought I'd look like an idiot."

"To whom? The thug? Why did you care?"

"I don't know."

"And yet, you didn't run. You basically put your chronic worry about what other people think of you, your constant need to please others, to be liked and approved of by them, ahead of your own well-being."

She pursed her lips as he touched on her most sensitive issue. "I—I quickened my pace, though."

He sighed, but didn't press her on what he called her Doormat Tendencies. "And then what happened?"

She drew in a nasal breath and caught a whiff of her own perfume, tender-scented sweat pea. It gave her little comfort. She even smelled like a 'fraidy cat, she thought miserably. Why couldn't she be strong and tough and self-assured the way some women were?

"He quickened his pace, too," she said. "And there was a dark alley up ahead, the last one before my duplex. The one that always gives me the worst case of goose bumps when I walk past it after dark. I just knew he was going to yank me into that alley when I got close enough. So I started to cross the street. That's when he grabbed me."

"Stop right there," Rodney interrupted. "Answer quickly, without thinking first. What did you feel when he grabbed you?"

"Panic, of course."

"Surprise? Now try to answer honestly."

She frowned. "No. No, I was expecting it by then."

He nodded. "I think you've been expecting it for months. Ever since those thugs moved into that house on the corner."

"They're ruining the neighborhood. It used to be so nice, but now...you just see those four who live there, lurking around all the time. Looking like gang members or something. The fat one, the skinny one and the heroin twins."

He smiled a little. "That's a great nickname for the two females. It fits them."

"I just know they're dealing drugs out of that house, what with the lowlife scumbags that are in and out of there at all hours of the night. More and more of them are hanging around longer. They don't seem to have jobs or lives or, God forbid, bathtubs. They just stand around, taking up space in the streets and making the neighbors nervous. You know Mr. Peabody's coffee shop was robbed last week?"

"I know."

"Broad daylight, guy in a stocking mask, waving a gun around. Got away with eighty-seven bucks. Probably went straight to that drug den and spent it, too."

"Did your guy have a gun? Your mugger?"

She shook her head, refocusing. "He had a knife. I felt it pressing into my side. He said not to make a sound, and I didn't. I just stood there and let him take my purse. I already had my keys in my hand, but he got everything else. And I just let him take it."

"Given the circumstances, that was probably the smartest thing to do, Melinda."

She shook her head. "After it was all over—after I unfroze enough to look around me and he was gone and I was alone—I realized there was a tear in my coat. From that knife. He'd pressed it hard enough to tear my coat, and he could have torn my flesh just as easily. It was like my body suddenly snapped back to life. I broke into a run and didn't stop again until I was behind my own door."

"That's the fight-or-flight response."

"Well, why was it so slow in coming?"

Rodney frowned.

"Why does my fight-or-flight response only kick in after my 'deer caught in headlights' response gets finished? Why couldn't I have broken into a run before I passively handed over my credit cards?"

"Because that's what you expected yourself to do. Look, hon, we've been having these sessions for almost a year now, and all your problems are just new versions of the same basic story. You're a doormat. You're a victim. This is just the blown-up version of the same tale."

"Oh, come on, getting mugged isn't the same as—"

"As what? Doing your colleagues' work for them without pay? Letting your sister drive your car while you take the train and make the payments? Loaning money to every ex-boyfriend who asks even though you know you'll never get it back? How is this different? Tell me? This guy didn't know it, but he didn't even need that knife. All he had to do was tell you he needed your purse and you'd have handed it over."

"I would not!" she denied.

"You're a sucker, Melinda. You are taken advantage of constantly because you expect to be. And, I believe, because you think people won't like you if you say no to them."

"I don't—" She drew a breath, sighed. "I do. You're right, I do that. Maybe not to the degree you say, but yeah. Why, though? Why am I so weak?"

"Because you believe you are."

She rolled her eyes and sat up. She'd been lying on her own sofa, as if she were in some cliched shrink's office, telling Rodney about her latest drama. And instead of helping her, or telling her how to get stronger or at least how to feel better about being the victim of a violent crime, he'd gone off on his usual tangent about her creating her own experiences. If she really wanted to change, she would do so. She must be getting some kind of gratification from being used, or she would put a stop to it. If she let him keep going, he'd get onto the flimsiness of reality as we believe it to be and quantum physics and dead cats in boxes.

That was where he usually lost her. "I'm going to make some more herbal tea," she said, to distract him. "You want some?"

Rodney sighed loudly. "Sure." Then he was quiet for a long moment as she padded past him in her socked feet and headed to the tiny kitchen to put a kettle on the four-burner range. When he spoke again, he was on an entirely new track. "How are things going with the new math teacher?"

"Going?" She didn't know what he meant. There was nothing going whatsoever. Just because she got goose bumps and a little queasy feeling in her belly every time Matt MacGuire flashed his to-die-for dimples in her direction, didn't mean anything. She never should have mentioned the new math teacher to her busybody, well-meaning friend. "I haven't even met the man yet. Why on earth do you ask?"

"Because you're attracted to him."

"So?"

"So, I suggested you go up and introduce yourself, ask him out to lunch. Have you done that?"

She was very glad he couldn't see her face just then. It heated at the very thought. "I'm not one of those aggressive, make-the-first-move types, and you know it. If he has any interest in me, he'll let me know when he's ready."

"Shoot, how's he supposed to know there's anything to be interested in? You make yourself practically invisible."

She rolled her eyes as she took cups from the cupboard. "I like being invisible."

"No, you don't. You're miserable. Constantly asking me to tell you how to change your life, and then never listening to the advice I give. What good can I do if you won't even listen to me?"

He stayed where he was, in the easy chair by the window. She leaned back away from the range, so she could see him through the doorway. It was snowing again, big fat flakes falling past the window at his back. "I thought the shrink was supposed to listen to the patient," she said.

"I'm more than a shrink. I'm your friend."

"Best friend." She said it softly, glancing back at him through the doorway. "Fine, I'm listening. Talk."

Rodney shrugged. "You keep telling me you want to stop being a doormat."

"I do."

"Then here's your answer. Stop be...

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