Falling For Gracie. Susan Mallery

dump lots of money into the economy.”

      “Sounds like we have our work cut out for us.” Frank paused as if considering something, even though he’d long since made up his mind. “I don’t suppose...” he began.

      Holly leaned forward, her expression eager, her firm, young breasts swaying gently under her blouse.

      “I was thinking you’d like to draft a couple of speeches for me.”

      She sprang to her feet and stared at him. “Are you serious? You’d let me do that?”

      “I think you’d do a terrific job. You’re bright, talented, ambitious. Are you interested?”

      She laughed. “Absolutely. I could have two drafts to you by the end of the week. Is that soon enough?”

      “Of course.” Even better, he had a feeling her “drafts” would be word perfect. He rose. “Thank you, Holly. This means a lot to me.”

      “I’m really excited by the opportunity.”

      “I’m the one who’s excited. I’m taking advantage of you. You’re the kind of woman who makes a man go far.”

      Her smile turned knowing as she walked toward him. When she was only a few inches away, she reached for the waistband of her skirt.

      “You’re the kind of man who makes a woman want to do almost anything.”

      Her skirt dropped to the floor. Unable to tear his gaze away, he gave silent thanks.

      She wasn’t wearing any panties.

      * * *

      GRACIE TURNED THE CAKE onto the cooling rack and expertly tapped the bottom with just enough force to let everyone know who was in charge. A challenge, considering the moody, temperamental oven she had to work with. One of the joys of renting. She counted to five, tapped again, then lifted in one clean motion that left no room for second chances.

      The pan slid off perfectly, leaving the golden cake resting on the rack.

      “I love it when a plan comes together,” she said with a grin as she studied the multiple cooling layers that would make up a simple but elegant bridal shower cake.

      Her exposure in People magazine, not to mention a couple of raves in the wedding issue of InStyle had turned her small cake business into a growing concern. For reasons not clear to her, celebrities now considered her a “must have” for their weddings and sometimes their showers. Sort of like wearing a Vera Wang original.

      “I’m not about to complain,” she said happily as she crossed to the refrigerator where she’d carefully stacked all the fleurs-de-lis she’d made in advance of decorating the cake. All three hundred and fifty. She would actually need about three hundred and thirty—the rest were for breakage.

      The design—an elegant creation in white and gold—was a replica of a cake featured in a Renaissance painting. The bride-to-be, a popular actress with a career of movies on Masterpiece Theater, loved all things old. Gracie loved the challenge of something other than flowers, doves and hearts.

      She walked to the counter, prepared to make yet more decorations in advance of assembling the cake, when her cell phone rang. For a second her heart fluttered, as if anticipating some wondrous event. The problem was, no one that exciting would be calling.

      Oh. Yeah. Riley.

      A quick glance at the display of her cell phone told her the caller was her mother, or at least someone at the hardware store.

      Heartbeat quickly slowing to normal, she pushed the talk button.

      “This is Gracie,” she said.

      “Hi. It’s your mother. I’m confirming the meeting about the wedding. You’ll be there, right? There’s so much work to do to get things ready for Vivian’s special day. I’m hoping you’ll have some great ideas, what with all your wedding experience.”

      Gracie still felt the aftereffects of the previous evening when she’d been reprimanded by Alexis and left feeling more like an outsider than ever.

      “Is the wedding still on?” she asked. “Vivian seemed pretty upset.”

      Her mother sighed. “Oh, this happens about once a week. She’s flighty and impulsive, which isn’t a good combination. But marriage will settle her down.”

      Gracie was of the opinion one should be settled before getting married, but that was just her.

      “Sure. I’ll be there. Should I bring anything?”

      “Just your patience. You’re going to need it.” Her mother named the time and place, then excused herself to get back to customers at the store.

      Gracie hung up and set the phone back on the counter. She’d been worried about coming home for a lot of reasons she hadn’t been able to articulate. Now that she was here, she could easily list them, explain them, even file them by category.

      There was Riley—not just that the town hadn’t forgotten, which it hadn’t, but also her reaction to him. One would think that half a lifetime away from him would reduce his appeal, but one would be wrong. Second, her relationship with her family. She remembered a lot of screaming and fighting with her sisters, but also a lot of good times. Now Alexis and Vivian were strangers to her, but close to each other. She felt like the odd man out and she didn’t like it. Finally, there was her mother. She felt an awkwardness, a strain just under the surface, but she couldn’t explain why it had happened. Was it because she’d been gone for so long? Or was there something else she didn’t see?

      She turned back to her cooling cake and wrinkled her nose. This was one of the few times she wished she did something else for a living. Something that didn’t give her too much time to think. What she needed was a distraction...a really big one.

      * * *

      RILEY SAT IN A leather chair that had been custom-made for his uncle. Donovan Whitefield had taken over the family bank on his thirty-fifth birthday and hadn’t missed a day until he’d died forty-two years later. He’d been stern and difficult, a man who didn’t take vacations, forgive mistakes or appreciate the foibles of others.

      Or so he’d been told. Riley had never met his uncle. For nearly five years they’d lived in the same small town, but their paths had never crossed.

      Riley turned in the chair and looked at the large portrait on the tall wall opposite the door. The office was stately and elegant, befitting a bank president, and the painting reflected all of that. Donovan Whitefield had been immortalized standing behind this very desk, staring out into the distance, as if the future beckoned.

      Riley thought it was all a pile of shit. If he had his way, he would take the portrait down and burn it. But he couldn’t—not until he won the damn election and all this was his. Until then, he played the game, and that meant sharing office space with an old and crabby ghost.

      There was a quick knock on his door, then the heavy carved wood swung open.

      “Good morning, Mr. Whitefield,” his assistant said.

      Riley shook his head. “I’ve told you it’s not necessary to knock. You are never going to find me doing anything secret or suspicious.”

      Diane Evans, a sixty-something woman who had worked all her life, barely blinked.

      “Of course, sir,” she said in a voice that told him she would continue to knock until the last minute of the last day of her employment.

      Riley knew he wasn’t in a position to complain.

      Diane was efficient, quiet and knew everything about running the bank. If it hadn’t been for her counsel, he would have floundered more than once. He might be able to sniff out oil in the middle of a typhoon in the South China Sea, but the world of financial institutions was new to him.

      Diane had guided him through the past seven months without mussing a single strand of her