Along Came Love Read online

  Dedication

  To my readers, who continue to make this journey possible.

  Thank you.

  Contents

  Dedication

  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 Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By Tracey Livesay

  An Excerpt from Intercepting Daisy by Julie Brannagh

  An Excerpt from Mixing Temptation by Sara Jane Stone

  An Excerpt from The Soldier's Scoundrel by Cat Sebastian

  An Excerpt from Making the Play by T. J. Kline

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  INDIA SHAW’S STOMACH twisted into a Gordian knot. She pressed a hand to the still-­flat surface, cursing the unfortunate mingling of nerves and nausea.

  Settle down, Nugget. Please.

  She lifted the starfish pendant that hung from the long silver chain around her neck and brought it to her nose. She inhaled, grateful when the sweet, bracing aroma of peppermint had the desired effect. Exhaling, she squinted against the bright San Francisco sun and watched the uniformed doorman assist the exiting man pushing twins in a top-­of-­the-­line stroller, a leather messenger bag slung across his body. Sending them on their way with a wide smile, the doorman turned back to Indi and the indulgent expression melted from his countenance.

  “Was there something else?” he asked, his tone managing to convey his disinterest in her response. He eased past her and reclaimed his post behind the chest high amber-­colored glass cubicle.

  Indi cleared her throat, choking on the Asshole that yearned to escape her lips. “About that list—­”

  “You’re not on it.”

  “That’s not possible.” She took a deep breath, pushing back the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. “Can you check again?”

  He ignored her and continued studying the large computer screen in front of him.

  She braced her hands on the rich wood-­grained counter and shifted her weight forward, trying to see the spellbinding monitor.

  The man tightened his thin lips and shifted the screen, further obstructing her view of the list. “I don’t need to check again. Your name isn’t on the list of approved entrants for Penthouse A.”

  Her stomach churned again and she slid back to the ground, her boots knocking against the bag at her feet and echoing on the marble floors. This couldn’t be happening. What was she going to do? Where was she going to stay? And how could she have forgotten that Chelsea and Adam wouldn’t be home?

  Because from the moment she’d seen those contrasting pink-­toned, parallel lines, her brain had been as disordered as a greasy diner’s breakfast scramble.

  Sorry, Nugget. Bad analogy.

  But how else to explain her sudden resignation from her job as a craft beer server at the brewery, her mad dash to the Seattle train station, and her having endured loud one-­sided phone conversations and bone jarring bumps and rocking for the thirty-­five-­hour trip? She’d eschewed freshening up at the train station before heading to the apartment—­preferring necessity over propriety—­and assumed she’d sidestep her sister’s interrogation, take a much-­needed shower, grab food and a nap, then talk to Chelsea about her situation.

  Not for one second had she thought gaining entrance to the apartment would be an issue.

  Looking at the stack of brochures proclaiming the expanded hours of the restaurant off the lobby, she straightened them, making sure the edges lined up neatly and all the papers were facing in the same direction. “Clearly there’s been a mistake—­”

  “This may be new to you, especially if you live in the Tenderloin,” he said, scanning her braids, cable-­knit sweater, long floral skirt, and leather ankle boots, “but here at the Hermitage at Avalon, we take pride in protecting the privacy of our homeowners.”

  Indi frowned. She didn’t know what “live in the Tenderloin” meant—­how could someone inhabit a piece of meat?—­but his arched brow, curled lip, and eau de condescension was enough to clue her in to his opinion of her.

  Did this man think he could intimidate her? She’d been thrown shade by ­people more elite and more proficient at it than him. She plastered on a bright smile.

  “I’m sure Chelsea and Adam appreciate that, but it’s not required in this case. You’ve met Chelsea, right?”

  “Mrs. Bennett?”

  Indi rolled her eyes. “Technically, but she’s keeping her last name. We used to talk about it when we were younger. She’d say she wasn’t going to work hard to establish her career and name only to give it away when she got married. So, see? How would I know that if I didn’t know Chelsea? We’re sisters.”

  Lines creased his forehead. “Mrs. Bennett doesn’t have siblings.”

  She swallowed. “Why would you say that?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Because I heard her mention it to Mr. Bennett.”

  Why would Chelsea tell Adam she didn’t have family? Was it happening already? And if it was, could Indi blame Chelsea for wanting to embrace the happiness in her future and forget everything—­and everyone—­who reminded her of the past?

  Indignation battled with anxiety and disappointment.

  And nausea. These days there was always nausea.

  “You were eavesdropping?” she challenged. “Is that part of the ser­vice the Hermitage at Avalon provides?”

  “Maybe not,” he said, his gaze darting away from her, “but a good concierge uses whatever tools are at his disposal to help him do his job. That’s how I know you’re not related to Mrs. Bennett.”

  “Your tools are a little dull. Chelsea and I aren’t sisters by blood, we’re sisters by circumstance. Foster sisters.”

  The doorman smirked and turned his back to her, but Indi reached across the desk and grabbed his arm. “Don’t underestimate the bond we created. We’re very close.”

  She couldn’t imagine loving a biological sibling more. Her chest tightened at the invisible wound created by that bond being severed.

  He looked down at her hand on his arm and then back at her. She unclenched her fingers and removed her hand, holding both up in a gesture of peace.

  “Look, I appreciate you’re just doing your job, but Chelsea and Adam would want you to grant me access to their house.”

  “I’d have no problem doing so, despite my personal opinion, if they’d put you on the list. But they didn’t, so . . .” He shrugged, not bothering to finish the sentence.

  “So if Chelsea or Adam called and said it was okay, you’d put me on the list?”

  His eyes remained glued to the screen as his fingers flew over the keyboard. “If they called and used their password, then yes, I’d put you on the list.”

  She couldn’t even bask in the fleeting moment of satisfaction she’d experienced at his acquiescence. They wouldn’t call because they were on their postponed honeymoon. She didn’t remember where they’d gone, or even how long they’d
be away, just that Chelsea had mentioned something about a resort in Fiji where Adam wouldn’t be able to use his devices and they’d be free from any contact with the outside world for at least a week.

  Dammit. She bit her lip and stared at the professionally garbed patrons dining next door. What if . . .

  “Does it have to be Chelsea or Adam?”

  That got his attention.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said ‘on the list,’ so one must already exist for them. Is it fair to assume it contains other names?”

  He crossed his arms tightly across his chest and stared down his nose at her. “Possibly,” he said, drawing the word out into several syllables.

  Indi nodded. If this list granted access to their house, it would be populated with the names of ­people they trusted. If Chelsea had set it up, Indi’s name would’ve occupied the top slot. Their stint through the foster care system solidified their relationship. They’d experienced ordeals that either caused ­people to never speak again or bond for life.

  Chelsea trusted her. Of course she did.

  Are you sure?

  Indi refused to take notice of the splinter of doubt that implanted itself just beneath her skin.

  That meant Adam had probably established the list and moved on to his next task, not thinking Chelsea’s input was necessary. To say the gorgeous genius and CEO possessed a single-­minded focus understated his intensity. And suddenly, Indi was certain of who was on the list. Adam’s two best friends, Jonathan Moran and Mike Black.

  Sensation bobbed and weaved in her belly.

  Oh, so you recognize the name, huh, Nugget?

  Mike.

  Memories she’d tried desperately to suppress came skipping to the fore of her mind. His brilliant blue eyes holding her gaze while his hands learned the contours of her body. His unruly blond curls clutched between her fingers, while his lips skimmed across her skin. His lean muscled body nestled between her thighs as he coaxed back-­arching orgasms from her.

  He was Adam’s best friend and Chief Operating Officer of their immensely successful technology company, Computronix. He’d played an instrumental role in Chelsea and Adam meeting and almost losing each other forever. The man was tenacious, ruthless, and self-­righ­teous. But after three tequila body shots, she found him charming, fascinating, and panty-­meltingly sexy. Why hadn’t she learned her lesson in five semesters of college?

  Nothing good ever comes from tequila.

  She refocused on the point she wanted to make. “If a person on the list called you, could they verify that I should be on the list?”

  “No.”

  Crap. She twirled one of her long braids around her index finger. But—­

  “If a person on the list showed up and requested entrance, you’d have to let them in, right? Even if they were with a guest?”

  His face contorted as if he’d swallowed something unappetizing.

  Score! It’s your birthday, it’s your birthday. Go Indi, go Indi.

  And yet, once again, she had to deny herself the taste of victory. Jonathan, a James Beard Award-­winning chef wasn’t in the city. At Chelsea and Adam’s wedding he’d informed everyone that he’d be spending the next year in DC, opening a new restaurant.

  That left Mike as her only option.

  She couldn’t call him. The last time she’d seen him, she’d been leaving his bed at the crack of dawn after a sex-­filled—­and -­fueled—­weekend. The last time she’d spoken to him had been the night before she’d crept away: she’d screamed his name and dissolved into an orgasm when his tongue pushed against her clit. She couldn’t call him now and say, “Hey, I know I disappeared on you and ignored your calls and texts, but can you put that behind you and help me?”

  And that would be the easiest part of their conversation.

  No, she couldn’t contact Mike. Not yet. So what was she going to do? Despite her travels, she’d never been to San Francisco. Besides Chelsea, Adam, and Mike, she didn’t know anyone else in the city, and she’d spent most of her cash on the train ticket and the cab from the station. If she’d stayed in Seattle and worked in the brewery until the weekend, she could’ve made more than enough in tips to—­

  Her lips parted on a gasp.

  Her stash.

  Sporadically over the past few years, she’d entrusted some of her earnings to her sister. A personal savings account that earned no interest because Indi refused to let Chelsea deposit it in a bank. And Chelsea always had it, no matter where she’d been living. It was here. Indi could take some of that money and get a nice hotel room until Chelsea and Adam returned from their honeymoon.

  “When does Barney’s shift begin?” she asked, changing tactics. “He was on duty when I stayed here three months ago during the wedding.”

  The doorman blinked. “Barney is on indefinite leave.”

  “Oh no!” she gasped. “Is he okay? Was it his wife?”

  The doorman’s eyes bulged briefly before receding back into his face. “I cannot discuss his private information.” He hesitated. “But how did you—­”

  “The last time we talked she’d just been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I volunteered at a hospital where they’d had successful trials using a cancer drug to treat some of the symptoms. I gave him some information so he could mention it to her doctor.”

  “Oh,” he said, tapping his thumb against his bottom lip.

  Was that a weakening in the levee? “How would I know that if I hadn’t spoken to Barney? And I’d only have spoken to him if I was here and spent time with him and that would only have been possible if I actually knew Chelsea and Adam.”

  She waved her hand with a flourish. That had been a persuasive argument. Surely he couldn’t refute that logic?

  “If I recall it properly, we had really low temperatures a few months back. Maybe you stepped in from the cold, and Barney, being the nice guy he is, chatted with you while he let you thaw out. Maybe you have been here before, but to visit other ­people. Or maybe you’re a stalker and that’s how you know the information.”

  She frowned. Come on. She hopped up and down on her toes, attempting to hold off the encroaching exhaustion. “This is silly. I’ll only be a second. You can come with me. There’s something I need to get—­”

  “You’re not on the list.”

  “Enough with that fucking list!”

  The door to the restaurant opened and the overpowering odor of garlic wafted over and immediately snuffed out her ire. The assault to her senses was devastating. She placed a hand on the counter, bent over at the waist, and took several deep, cleansing breaths. She grabbed her scent necklace, willing the peppermint to assist Nugget and the nausea in chilling the hell out.

  Most ­people would’ve shown her some compassion, some consideration. Not the doorman. He offered no assistance, just delivered his final poisonous barb.

  “Did you ever consider that you’re not on the Bennetts’ list because they didn’t want you to be?”

  His words were more disruptive then the garlic. They snaked their way through her, winding their way around the handles and flinging open the doors behind which she’d hidden her deepest fear.

  Indi was no longer the most important person in Chelsea’s life. And she’d continue to tumble down that list as Adam’s friends, family, and kids arrived on the scene.

  Her muscles tightened and her belly fluttered. Indi straightened and pushed her shoulders back.

  Don’t worry, Nugget. I don’t care what that asshat says. I’m getting into that apartment.

  WITH A SATISFYING click the last tumbler settled into place. Indi removed the bent hair clip from the lock, dusted her hands together, and pushed to her feet. The fact that the lock was still an old-­fashioned tumbler and key and nothing more high tech was her first clue that Chelsea and Adam still hadn’t settled in.
/>   ­People thought very little of expressing their opinions about her “frivolous” tendency to move from city to city, job to job. But she learned something important from each relocation experience, whether it was a clearer understanding of what she didn’t want to do or a skill she could cultivate for later use. In this case, working with a private investigator in Greensboro yielded more than the money she’d needed to get to the next city.

  She hefted her fringed backpack over her shoulder and edged open the door. She’d left the building after her encounter with the doorman only to sneak back inside when he’d provided assistance to a guy delivering several large packages. She paused, listening for the telltale beeping of an alarm system. Hearing none, she slipped inside, turning to quietly shut the door . . . and causing her backpack to crash against a pile of boxes stacked near the entrance. She cringed and watched as the box on top clattered to the marble floor in horrifyingly slow motion, the noise resounding throughout the cavernous foyer.

  Dammit.

  Had that been as loud as she feared or was the reverberated noise amplified by the pounding of her heart, the ringing in her ears? She stared at the mess she’d created and recognized the contents as accessories from Chelsea’s apartment in LA. Working quickly, she stacked the gold-­framed pictures and books back into the box. She rescued a lamp that dangled by its cord, frowning at the frosted glass bowl that lay in pieces on the floor.

  “This is all the doorman’s fault,” she told Nugget, using her boot to sweep the pieces of the bowl into a pile. “If he’d just let me in like I’d asked, I wouldn’t have had to stoop to these tactics.”

  Indi headed down the short hallway. The sun glinted off the bare beige walls and spotlighted another stash of boxes piled beneath the chair rails. In her LA condo, Chelsea had displayed her vibrant art collection. Their absence here was her second clue that the penthouse hadn’t become their penthome.