Moving Too Fast

Bay. If you have read TOO SCARED TO BREATHE in the original Destiny Bay Series, you have already read a version of this book.

A sweet old-fashioned girl—

—isn't what Grant Carrington is looking for. A man who lives for speed and danger, he's only slowed down because he's been forced to by an injury. Carrie Harlow isn't his type, but he needs her in order to heal. She knows she's playing with fire, but she feels she can help him and she goes for it—even though she knows she's endangering her own heart as she fixes his.

Recipe for Carrie's Chicken Picatta included

(Excerpt from MOVING TOO FAST)

Grant Carrington stood in the wine cellar doorway. Panic flashed through her again, stopping her in her tracks. She didn't want to be alone with this man—not anywhere, but especially not here. And behind him she was dimly aware of the door beginning to close.

Her heart fell with a swooping dive.

"No! Don't let it..."

She reached out as though she could stop the inevitable with her hand, but it was too late. She heard the now familiar click and she crumpled.

"We're locked in!" she cried. "Why did you let it close?"

He turned and tried the handle, just as she'd done a few minutes earlier.

"You're right," he said calmly, eyes sparkling with something that might be humor. "We're locked in."

She looked at him, going beyond the sensuous and startling blue of his eyes. Dressed in a polo shirt that clung to his lovely bulges and jeans that gave the appearance of being lovingly shrink-wrapped, he looked like an athlete—a swimmer with broad shoulders and tight, narrow hips.

She could imagine him surfing or standing at the side of a pool, cool, silver rivulets of water running across golden muscles that were finely honed. There was something very California about him. Something very attractive—but with that lingering air of danger that had so disturbed her outside.

"Sit down," he said abruptly.

She looked back at him warily.

"Sit down."

He gestured toward the only chair in the room, a hard little wooden bench set at the small desk where the wine cellar records were kept.

She glanced at his injured leg with professional concern. "Why don't you take the chair?" she said quickly. "I'd much rather—"

Before she could complete her sentence he'd put down the bottle and moved to her side. Taking her arm, he steered her firmly toward the chair.

"Don't patronize me because of my injury," he advised coldly. "I'm learning to cope. And I don't need any pity from you."

He pushed her firmly down into the chair, took two glasses down from a rack, then reached for the bottle and a corkscrew.

She sat on the hard chair and watched him pour out the shimmering wine. She didn't seem capable of saying anything right—not in front of him—and she was beginning to resent it. He handed her a glass and raised his to her. She grudgingly raised hers to meet it.

"To chance encounters," he said, his eyes making the statement provocative.

"To miraculous escapes," she countered, her chin rising with the challenge.