Prodigal Prince Charming. Christine Flynn

she couldn’t help feeling that her agreement meant far more to him than anything else they’d discussed.

      Living in the Ridge, she knew how crazy things could get when other people started poking their noses into someone else’s business. She had never considered it before, but she supposed that poking its figurative nose in people’s business was exactly what the press did every time something went into print. It occurred to her that he routinely faced the nosiness of the Ridge on a global scale.

      “Okay,” she said. Considering all he was willing to do for her, and having no desire to sabotage any of it, she took his hand. “Just between us.”

      His grip tightened. “Thank you.”

      Her heart did an odd bump against her ribs at his relieved smile. Not sure what to make of the little tug of sympathy she felt toward him, she slowly withdrew her hand.

      “You have my number,” he continued, once more relaxed. “Call me with the name of the dealership for your truck and to set up a time for you to come to my place Saturday. I’d like dinner around eight.”

      It occurred to her as she watched him give her a nod, go to the door, then hold it so two other customers could walk in before he walked out, that she hadn’t actually agreed to do his party. They’d only been in the discussion stages, and the last she remembered, she’d been balking because she truly didn’t feel ready. Yet somehow in the course of their conversation he had managed to let her know what he wanted, for how many and when, and walked out the door as if there had never been any question about whether or not she would take the job.

      “Hey, Madison,” Mike called as, insides shaky, she headed for the door at the back of the bar. “Who was that guy? He looks familiar.”

      “Just someone who’s going to help me replace my truck,” she replied, too excited about the opportunity Cord offered to feel railroaded, too apprehensive about it to overlook his knack for talking her into what he wanted.

      Unfastening her fanny pack from around her waist, she took out the key to her apartment. She really didn’t want to go into details with Mike now, but she couldn’t leave him with only that. “It got totaled on a construction site.”

      A dozen heads turned toward her. “You all right, girl?” old Tom asked.

      “Oh, I’m fine,” she assured, pushing open the door to the kitchen. “I wasn’t anywhere near it when it happened. I just have to order another one now.”

      Mike set the glass he’d just dried on the shelf behind him. “What about your route?”

      “I have a van for the breakfast and break runs. I’ll tell you about it when I come back to make dough.”

      She would mix up dough for her cookies and dry ingredients for her muffins after she dumped the ice chests, swept out the inside of the van and came up with a way to provide her customers with coffee. It relieved her to have those things to do. Being occupied kept her from thinking about things she didn’t want to think about. And right now what she didn’t want to think about was the man who had totally wrecked what had started out to be a perfectly pleasant day.

      Unfortunately, her reprieve was short-lived. Word was already out about her truck.

      Chapter Three

      News of Madison’s misfortune spread through the Ridge at roughly the speed of light. By the time she left for her modified route the next morning, she had heard from no less than a half-dozen people, her mother included, who felt she should sue Callaway Construction, the crane operator, the company that had made the crane and anyone else a good attorney could come up with to see that she got a decent settlement. After all, she could have been in that truck. Emotional distress was worth a fortune in court these days.

      One of the Donnatelli boys, the one with the law degree, even volunteered his services. She found his message on her answering machine when she returned that afternoon.

      A few hours later she ended the constant flow of advice, along with the fun everyone was having spending her imaginary money, when she told her grandmother, who told Mavis Reilly, who told everyone else, that she wasn’t going to sue anyone because she had parked where she shouldn’t. She had even seen, and ignored, a warning sign.

      She didn’t mention who had told her to park there. Aside from the fact that she’d agreed to keep Cord’s name to herself, she had finally calmed down enough to remember that she’d had a feeling she shouldn’t have parked where she had. Since she’d done it, anyway, part of the blame was hers. Once everyone realized that she wasn’t merely a victim and that her truck was being replaced, the juice went out of the gossip—and she was no longer the topic du jour on the local grapevine.

      That relieved her enormously. Though there were those around her who thrived on others’ problems and seemed to think it their duty to dissect, discuss and decide how best to handle them, Madison preferred to handle her life on her own. She had carved out a neat little niche for herself with her work and her family, and as long as her days were full and she took care of those who counted on her, she had nothing to complain about.

      She just couldn’t stand to be idle. And with her work load cut, she would have been desperate to fill the time she now had on her hands had it not been for Cord’s dinner party. She could whip up batches of muffins and cookies practically in her sleep. She could chop, slice and dice the makings for chicken salad and tuna sandwiches while shuttling cookies from oven to cooling racks and wrapping muffins in between. On Sundays, when she cooked for her family, she breezily pinched and dashed her way through marinaras, braises, paellas and pastas. Her favorite bedtime reading was a good cookbook. Bon Appetit and Gourmet magazines formed little towers on her coffee table and nightstand.

      If there was anywhere she possessed confidence, it was in the kitchen. At least, she’d once possessed it there. The need to impress Cord’s guests resulted in three long afternoons of experimenting and tweaking. Yet, by the time Saturday rolled around, she still wasn’t convinced that what she planned to serve was absolutely, totally right.

      The need to impress Cord himself only magnified the anxiety she was trying to hide when she pulled into his driveway twenty minutes early.

      The directions the secretary from Callaway Construction had given her had been complicated. She had even been told that the house was apparently easy to miss. Afraid of being late, Madison had given herself an extra half an hour to get there. She was glad she had. She’d passed the single-story cedar-and-shake structure twice, secluded as it was in the forest of bushes and trees edging Chesapeake Bay.

      Wanting everything to be as close to perfect as she could make it, she quickly checked to make sure her seat belt hadn’t wrinkled her white blouse and black slacks too badly before she pulled a cooler with the components of her appetizers and main course from the back of the van. Leaving the cooler by the front door, she returned for a box of utensils. She made a third trip for the large bag of fresh ingredients she’d shopped for that morning and the dessert it had taken her three attempts to get just like the picture in Cuisine.

      Balancing the bag in one arm and her chocolate raspberry mousse torte in the other, she rang the doorbell with her elbow and drew a deep breath.

      Thirty seconds later the breath came out, and she rang the doorbell again.

      When no one answered after nearly a full minute, the anxiety she felt turned to a different form of unease.

      Wondering if Cord was even home, she peered through the wavering lines of stained glass that framed the large door to see if she could detect any movement inside.

      She hadn’t talked to Cord directly at all in the four days since the demise of her truck. He hadn’t answered his home phone when she’d called to give him the name of the dealer she’d ordered her first truck from, so she’d left the message on his answering machine. Within two hours, he’d left a message on her answering machine indicating that he was out of town, and telling her that Matt Callaway’s secretary would take care of everything in his absence. The next morning she’d received a call from the dealer,