A Man in a Million

A Man in a Million
Jessica Bird

“Have you met Madeline Maguire?” Sure have, Spike thought. I saw her last night in my dreams. As far as sexy bad boy Spike Moriarty was concerned, Madeline Maguire defined female perfection. When they’d met, she’d walked up and asked to see his tattoos as if she wasn’t the most gorgeous thing on the planet. He – a tough guy who’d make grown men run – had just about passed out.Their connection was definitely two-way…it had to be. But could he ever be the man in a million she was looking for? Surely not with the things he’d done and seen. Still, for as long as she’d let him, he’d give her whatever she wanted, whatever she needed…

Madeline Maguire had a preoccupation.

Spike was coming to the party tonight.

“Looking for someone?”

Mad glanced over her shoulder at her friend Sean. She smiled, and lied to one of her nearest and dearest. “I’m not looking for anyone. Not at all.”

Unfortunately, Madeline was interested in Spike. But like most men, Spike didn’t say much while he was around her and he didn’t make a lot of eye contact. Yet when the door to the penthouse opened, Mad still flushed from her ear lobes to her toes.

His big body filled the doorway. The hall. The whole apartment, as far as she was concerned.

Mad swallowed. It was not possible for a man to be sexier.

JESSICA BIRD

graduated from college with a double major in history and art history, concentrating on the medieval period. This meant she was great at discussing anything that happened before the sixteenth century, but she wasn’t all that employable in the real world. In order to support herself, she went to law school and worked in Boston in health care administration for many years.

She now lives in the South with her husband and her beloved golden retriever. As a writer, her commute is a heck of a lot better than it was as a lawyer, and she’s thrilled that her professional wardrobe includes slippers and joggers. She likes to write love stories that feature strong, independent heroines and complex, alpha male heroes. Visit her website at www.JessicaBird.com and e-mail her at Jessica@JessicaBird.com.

Dear Reader,

I have to say I loved writing about Spike Moriarty and Madeline Maguire! Spike took my heart the minute he walked into earlier books but I thought, who could possibly be a match for him? He’s so outrageous and then…well, there’s his very difficult past. But, lo and behold, in came Madeline…strong, athletic, independent Madeline. I adored her from the get-go and knew without a doubt that she and Spike would have something special together. What a distance they had to travel, though, so many ups and downs…but that is often the course of love!

I hope you enjoy reading their book as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always, I would love to hear from you. E-mail me at jessica@jessicabird. com.

Happy reading!

Jessica Bird

A Man in a Million

JESSICA BIRD

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

With love to the better half of Writer Dog.

Chapter One

Spike Moriarty raced down Park Avenue, legs pumping, arms swinging, black leather jacket flapping behind him in the night air. Big, in great shape and properly motivated, he was like an SUV tooling down the sidewalk. Oncoming pedestrians got out of the way.

Damn, he was late.

And this was no fifteen minute, margin-of-error kind of thing. This was a two-hour black hole of social impropriety.

Usually the rules and regulations of polite behavior weren’t high on his priority list. He never went out of his way to offend people, but he wasn’t in bed with Emily Post, either. But tonight was different. Two of his favorite people were getting married and this was their engagement party. He was supposed to be helping the host and giving a little speech.

Sean O’Banyon, master of ceremonies, was going to kill him. Good thing they were buddies. It might buy him a quick and easy end.

Although it wasn’t as if he’d been dogging it on his couch. The drive from upstate New York to Manhattan had taken twice as long as it should have on account of a fiesta of automotive trouble.

The kickoff had been an eighteen wheeler jackknifing on the Northway right in front of him. Fortunately, no one had been injured, but the semi fell over onto its side and shut down the southbound lanes entirely. Like everyone else, he’d been diverted to Route 9 and had become tangled in rural traffic.

Tangled, that was, until he got nailed by an eighty-five-year-old man driving an ancient Pontiac. Then he’d been stopped dead in the road. Thank God only the Honda had been hurt, but then the real fun and games had begun.

Local cops showed up. The pair of them took one look at Spike’s hair and his tattoos and ran everything but his jockey shorts through every criminal check they could find. They probably even called Interpol overseas. The two had seemed bitterly disappointed when they’d found no outstanding warrants or parole violations. And to work off the frustration at not getting to use the cuffs, they’d detained him at the side of the road for about two hours.

By the time Spike finally made it back onto a highway, he knew he could kiss off any hope of making it to the party before the speeches started. Hell, he’d be lucky if he made it before folks left. After dropping a voice mail message at Sean’s, he’d had to resist the urge to red line the Honda’s speedometer. What stopped him was knowing that the last thing he needed was another run in with some badges.

Once he’d made it to the city, he’d dumped the car in a lot and started hightailing it. For the middle of May, the night was blessedly cool and clear so at least he wasn’t going to look like a total mess when he arrived.

Spike glanced at a street sign. Thank God. Only a couple more blocks to go. If he made good time, he figured he’d get to Sean’s before Alex and Cass—

The taxi came out of nowhere. One minute Spike was shooting across 71st Street, the next he was looking the grill of a yellow Chevrolet right in the teeth. Years of physical conditioning gave him the reflexes and strength to yank his six-foot-four body out of the way. But he did bounce off the car before ending up on his ass in the street.

The taxi skidded to a halt, and evidently the driver didn’t appreciate the assault on his hood ornament. He flipped the bird and hit the gas, kicking up some loose stones that pinged off Spike’s biker jacket.

Much as he could have used a breather, he didn’t hang around resting on his laurels. One: there was no time, not even to swear a little. Two: the asphalt was hard. Three, and most important of all: he had on black clothes, because that’s all he ever wore, so he was indistinguishable from the street. He probably looked like an odd-shaped pothole.

He bolted up and kept running, figuring he’d find out soon enough if anything hurt. When nothing howled, he went faster, letting the motion of his body clean any debris off his slacks.

Finally, he saw Sean’s building up ahead. He shot under the red and tan awning, peeled back the glass door and headed right for the elevators.

As he punched the Up button, a nasal voice cracked through the marble lobby. “Excuse me?”

Spike turned around toward the receiving desk. The doorman he knew wasn’t on duty tonight. But Colonel Klink’s evil twin was. The guy was a dead ringer for the Hogan’s Heroes commandant, just without the monocle.

Wait, that was a double negative of sorts. Klink was a bad guy. So maybe this was his doppelganger?

Spike shook his head, wondering if he had brain fry. Between pants, he managed to get out, “I’m here for…O’Banyon’s party. My name’s…on the list.”

Klink’s eyebrows arched in a haughty rendition of Yeah, right, loser. “Bike messengers aren’t allowed up in the building. You’ll have to leave whatever you’re delivering with me.”

Oh, man…

Sometime soon this night was going to end, Spike thought. One way or another, it was going to be over.

Madeline Maguire hung around the fringes of the engagement party, thinking that she didn’t really have her land legs yet. Or her interpersonal ones, either. As a professional sailor, she spent most of her life battling the ocean and it was always hard to downshift into some semblance of normalcy whenever she took a break.

So this kind of social playing field felt like Mars.

Part of the problem was a crushing lack of urgency. On a racing yacht, every word was significant, every creak a clue to be deciphered, every minute shift in direction an important event. As a result of years of experience and training, her instincts were finely tuned and hyperalert. And her capacity for multiprocessing what they told her was one of the reasons she was such a good navigator.

In this environment, however, there was absolutely nothing to respond to.