Future Perfect Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  SUZANNE BROCKMANN

  INFAMOUS

  “NYT bestseller Brockmann goes back to her romantic roots with this charming tale of romance, ghostly matchmaking and murder.… The romance is tender, the danger real and the ghost a delight. What more can you ask for?”

  —Romantic Times (4 1/2 stars)

  “Infamous is the perfect combination of humor, mystery, danger, intrigue and romance. A very fun read.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  HOT PURSUIT

  “Brockmann continues to use her patented style of weaving intersecting story lines around a number of different protagonists and relationships. Like an excellent chocolate, a Brockmann book never disappoints.”

  —Romantic Times

  “The action grabs you and drags you along.… [Hot Pursuit] will immediately grab your interest.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  DARK OF NIGHT

  “Provides real chills … a true Brockmann masterpiece!”

  —Romantic Times

  “Once again Brockmann neatly blends high-adrenaline suspense and scorchingly sexy romance into an addictively readable mix.”

  —Booklist

  “Brockmann fans will cheer.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  INTO THE FIRE

  “Brockmann skillfully keeps her adrenaline-rich, testosterone-fueled plot moving at a thrilling pace. With its realistically complicated, beautifully crafted characters and captivating combination of romance, suspense, and danger, it’s another sure-bet winner from the always reliable Brockmann.”

  —Booklist

  “A multilayered tale that includes emotion, romance, action, and pulse-pounding suspense … Readers will root for new and old romances and worry about what the future holds for other characters—a trademark of Brockmann’s that increases fan anticipation for the next book.”

  —BookPage

  “Into the Fire is lucky number thirteen for fans of this ever-popular series.… [Brockmann] juggles multiple story lines while keeping the emotional quotient intact.… [Her] thrillers make you think and hold your breath!”

  —Romantic Times

  “A jaw-dropping ‘conclusion’ suggests more fireworks ahead.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  FORCE OF NATURE

  “Intense and packed with emotion, this book is truly a force of nature!”

  —Romantic Times

  “Brockmann deftly delivers another testosterone-drenched, adrenaline-fueled tale of danger and desire that brilliantly combines superbly crafted, realistically complex characters with white-knuckle plotting.”

  —Booklist

  ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

  “In All Through the Night, Suzanne Brockmann strikes the perfect balance between white-knuckle suspense and richly emotional romance.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “For the holidays, Brockmann gifts her readers with the culmination of a long-delayed love story—that of fan favorite Jules Cassidy. Of course, in true Brockmann style, this wedding tale is packed to the gills with plenty of danger, bombs, terrorists, and stalkers. But, most of all, it is a satisfying love story.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A winning, innovative runup to Christmas from the best-selling Brockmann.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  INTO THE STORM

  “Sexy, suspenseful, and irresistible … [This] novel has all the right ingredients, including terrific characters [and] a riveting plot rich in action and adventure.”

  —Booklist

  “Brockmann is an undisputed master at writing military and suspense fiction [with] action, danger and passion all rolled into one.”

  —Curled Up with a Good Book

  BREAKING POINT

  “Readers will be on the edge of their seats.”

  —Library Journal

  “An action-packed and breathtaking thriller.”

  —Romantic Times

  Future Perfect is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  2011 Bantam Books eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1993 by Suzanne Brockmann

  Excerpt from Born to Darkness copyright © 2011 by Suzanne Brockmann

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Originally published in mass market in the United States by Meteor Publishing Co., Bensalem, Pennsylvania, in 1993.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming novel Born to Darkness by Suzanne Brockmann. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53031-8

  Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover illustration: Gregg Gulbronson

  www.bantamdell.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Excerpt from Born to Darkness

  Other Books by This Author

  Chapter One

  The early morning air was biting, and the ground was white with frost. But Juliana Anderson opened the kitchen door and stood at the screen, welcoming the cold. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the chill air sweep over her flushed face, feeling the perspiration on her forehead grow icy.

  The smell of the pancakes cooking on the huge old griddle made her turn back to the work at hand.

  It was breakfast time at 31 Farmer’s Hill Road, the most illustrious bed and breakfast in all of Benton, Massachusetts.

  The only bed and breakfast in all of Benton, thought Juliana wryly as she plucked the sticky buns from the hot depths of the ancient oven with one mittened hand even as she flipped the pancakes with the other.

  She smoothed her apron, tucking away a stray wisp of her willful red-gold curls before hoisting up the heavy platter of warm buns and a pitcher of foaming milk. She opened the swinging door into the dining room with her back, smiling gently, always the gracious Victorian hostess, as she placed the food on the huge oak table.

  Five of last night’s six guests were already at the table. With any luck, the sixth would arrive shortly, and Saturday’s breakfast would soon be history.

  She smiled to herself at the expression. Life at 31 Farmer’s Hill Road tended to be mostly history all of the time.

  Juliana and her aunt Alicia ran the huge old Victorian house as if it were a guest house of the early 1900s, even to the point of dressing in period outfits when guests were in residence.

  This morning, Juliana wore a stiffly starched white blouse with a high, standing collar and leg-of-mutton sleeves that were puffy at the shoulder but formfitting from the forearm to the wrist. The blouse was carefully tucked into a pale-gray, high-waisted, full skirt that trailed behind her as she walked.

&nbs
p; “Will you be joining us this morning, Miss Anderson?” one of the guests asked as Juliana picked the large glass bowl of fresh fruit salad off the table.

  “Of course, Mr. Edgewood.” Juliana smiled. “After one more trip into the kitchen, I think.”

  Many of her guests stayed with her regularly as they traveled the Massachusetts Turnpike from Boston to points west. The Edgewoods had relatives in Ohio and booked a room whenever they passed through. She could count on seeing them at least four times a year. It was like a visit from friends. In fact, the Edgewoods had been among her very first customers when the bed and breakfast had opened nearly five years ago.

  She enjoyed their company and looked forward to seeing them.

  But not all her guests were like the Edgewoods.

  Juliana piled the pancakes onto a plate and put them into the oven, pouring more circles of batter onto the griddle.

  Some of her guests came and went without a word, without even a greeting. She shrugged. Products of modern times. Most people had forgotten how to be friendly these days. Or even polite.

  She crossed to the old-fashioned, rounded refrigerator, pulling a huge plastic container of cut fresh fruit from its chilly interior.

  Take, for example, last night’s mystery guest, one Webster Donovan. Mr. Donovan had been due to arrive yesterday evening. Juliana had waited up ’til long past midnight, but the man didn’t even bother to telephone. Bad manners. Very bad manners.

  Filling the ornate glass fruit bowl, she covered the plastic container and put it back in the fridge.

  Yet Mr. Donovan had booked a room for six consecutive weeks, she mused as she crossed to the stove and turned the pancakes. He was bound to turn up sooner or later. He was a writer—that much Alicia had told her after he’d called to make his reservation. Juliana had been hoping he was a little elderly man, someone friendly, someone who could entertain her with the stories of his life during the next six weeks of breakfasts.

  Please, she thought with a flash of desperation, let me like him. Don’t make me have to endure a silent, surly, unpleasant, modern guest. But if his failure to call last night was any indication of his manners, she was in for a long six weeks.

  Juliana crossed back to the glass bowl, peeled several bananas, and quickly cut them into the already huge mound of fresh fruit. With a quick stir, she mixed the fruit, then went back to the stove for the pancakes.

  Juliana picked up the plate heaped with steaming, aromatic pancakes and the huge bowl of fruit and backed toward the dining room door. But instead of the giving swing of the door, she slammed into something hard and unyielding.

  No, someone, she realized, as a large hand, attached to a strong arm, encircled her waist to keep her from falling. Another hand snaked out and grabbed the plate of pancakes, leaving her to concentrate on the bowl of fruit, which, much to her relief, she didn’t drop.

  “Sweet heavens,” she breathed, closing her eyes in relief. That bowl was an antique, a work of art, valued at over five hundred dollars. Alicia had been suggesting for months now that they stop using it as common dishware, and it would have been too awful for Juliana to have to explain that she’d dropped it.

  Juliana opened her eyes slowly, suddenly aware that whoever was holding her hadn’t let go. In fact, he had put the plate of pancakes down on the sideboard and now wrapped his other arm around her.

  She tried to pull free, but couldn’t. She turned her head to find the roughness of a several-days-old growth of beard against her cheek. She took a deep breath, prepared to order him sharply to release her. But she was stopped by the most intoxicating mixture of male scents she’d ever come across.

  He smelled like the outdoors, like the pine trees on the top of Sleeping Giant Mountain, like sun block, baby shampoo, and clean sweat. There was a touch of city about him, too. She could smell a trace of gasoline, or maybe it was oil, and an echo of stale cigarette smoke, as if he’d recently spent time with a heavy smoker. He didn’t smoke himself. Juliana knew that without a doubt. His mouth was inches from hers and smelled only sweet. Like apple cider.

  He must’ve stopped at Greene’s Orchards just a few moments ago, Juliana realized, feeling oddly off balance.

  Large fingers gently took the bowl from her hands, and still she couldn’t find the words or the will to protest.

  She turned her head to look up at him, and time seemed to stand still. It was only a few seconds, but it seemed like hours, days, centuries that she stood there, gazing into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. They were an unreal shade of pure, deep crystal-blue, framed by sinfully long, dark lashes. Those eyes dominated his face. And his wasn’t a face easily dominated. High cheekbones gave him an exotic cast. Thick, wavy black hair tumbled over a broad forehead. He had a straight nose, a strong chin, and a mouth … His lips were sensuous and beautifully shaped. Fascinated, she watched as he slowly moistened his lips with his tongue.

  And still he held her tightly. She’d turned so that she faced him, and she could feel his thighs pressing against her. Long thighs, lean thighs … This man was tall. Juliana couldn’t remember the last time she’d met a man that she couldn’t stare down nose to nose. But judging from the crick in her neck, this man had to be at least six and a half feet tall.

  His grip on her tightened, and she looked up into his eyes again. The sharp, crystal blue had somehow become softer, gentler, and she knew without a doubt that unless she moved quickly, he was going to kiss her.

  She pulled away, eyes wide, feeling a flush creep into her cheeks.

  “God almighty,” he said, his voice a rich, husky baritone. “You’re so beautiful.”

  She felt her color deepen. Unable to speak, she snatched the plate of pancakes and the bowl of fruit from the sideboard and disappeared into the dining room.

  Catching a glimpse of herself in the gilt-framed mirror that hung on one wall of the dining room, Juliana was amazed at how calm and composed she appeared. Her face was slightly flushed, but the heat from cooking often did that. Redness in her cheeks didn’t necessarily mean that a rough, handsome stranger had waltzed into her kitchen and grabbed her.

  “More coffee?” she murmured, filling Mrs. Edgewood’s cup with decaf.

  How dare he come into her kitchen like that.

  “Do sit down, dear,” Mrs. Edgewood urged.

  “One more trip to the kitchen,” Juliana said, years of practice keeping her smile serene. “And this one will be the last. I promise.”

  She put the coffee pot back on the sideboard and pushed the kitchen door open. When the door swung shut behind her, the man was still standing in the same spot.

  He was wearing a worn pair of jeans, stained and grimy with grease—that was where the oil smell came from, Juliana realized. Over a dark T-shirt, he wore an unbuttoned plaid flannel shirt. The sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, and veins and tendons stood out against long, sinewy muscles. His hair was too short to pull back at the nape of his neck, but too long to be called short. It curled wildly about his head as if he hadn’t bothered to comb it after waking up. And he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in at least three days.

  Yet somehow he managed to be the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on.

  He looked back at her steadily, his deep-blue eyes still soft, his expression oddly uncertain.

  Juliana felt another burst of anger—anger at herself for continuing to be attracted to this man. With very little difficulty, she managed to redirect her anger at him.

  “Do you always manhandle unsuspecting women?” she asked, her voice low, but her tone unmistakably disapproving.

  His expression shifted slightly. She saw disappointment flit across his face before his eyes seemed to harden, to crystallize. He smiled slightly, with just one corner of his mouth. “I ‘manhandled’ you so you wouldn’t drop that beautiful glass bowl,” he said, his controlled, accentless voice contradicting his roughshod appearance. “Why on earth are you using it for breakfast? It should be in a museum.”

/>   Was he an antique dealer? Juliana wondered, then quickly rejected the idea. If he were, he would have dressed to the nines, not come here looking as if he’d spent the past few days working underneath a car. And he would have pretended the bowl was depression glass and tried to get it away from her for forty dollars or less.

  “Are you Alicia?” he asked, his piercing gaze sweeping the length of her, missing no detail. It was all Juliana could do to keep from checking to see that her blouse was properly tucked in. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “No,” she said, her tone matching his, just as polite. “I’m Miss Anderson, Miss Dupree’s niece. You must be here to deliver the firewood. Please, just dump it next to the woodshed. Good day.”

  Juliana turned to go back through the swinging door, but he caught her arm. His large fingers seemed to burn her through the thin cotton of her blouse.

  She looked at him in alarm. His smile was slightly mocking, as if he was well aware that his touch made her pulse quicken.

  “I’m not here to deliver wood,” he said. “I’m here to check in.”

  Juliana stared pointedly at his hand until he released her. She didn’t allow her face to reveal the flurry of emotions passing through her. “Check-in’s not until two o’clock, Mr.…?” She let her voice trail off so he could fill in the missing name.

  “Donovan,” he said, and her heart sank down to her toes. “Webster Donovan.”

  Six weeks, Juliana realized. Six weeks of being harassed, of having her clothing removed piece by piece by his eyes, the way he was doing right now.

  “Do you always dress this way?” he asked.

  “I could ask the same question of you,” she replied tartly, chin up, meeting his exploring eyes almost defiantly.

  He looked down at his grubby jeans, frowning slightly, “Oh yeah,” he said, his voice apologetic. “Give me some time, and I assure you, I’ll look better.” He shot her a dangerous smile, an amused light in his eyes, and Juliana had to look away. He knew how good he looked, damn him, even splattered with grease the way he was.