Meant to Be Hers Read online

  Some loves can’t be denied

  A lot has changed for musical prodigy Finn Farrell since he spent his summers practicing with his piano teacher—and falling for her socialite niece, Carly Maxwell. After blowing his audition for Julliard, Finn turned his back on performing, his romance with Carly collateral damage.

  When their paths cross a decade later, it’s impossible to ignore how much they’ve grown apart. But what hasn’t changed is how comfortably they fit, or their heart-pounding attraction. Now a high-powered executive, Carly has a life a world away from songwriter Finn’s, but she has big dreams for both of them, if she can show Finn he’s worth it.

  “Are you in your old room?” Finn asked.

  “Uh-huh. Down the end of the hallway.”

  “I know.”

  Carly twisted her head to peer at him. “How d’you know?”

  “I used to watch your lit window on summer nights.” He’d ridden his bike across town, from his family’s small home in a poor neighborhood to this heritage home on South Hill—which his mom called Snob Hill. Except that Irene was no snob and Carly...well, she’d never once made him feel lesser because of where he lived or who he was. But her father was an investment banker and Carly seemed to have inherited his drive to succeed in business. Finn had no problem with a good work ethic; he had one himself. But what had Irene said? Carly was pushing herself too hard, working all the time. What did she have to prove?

  Carly’s face lit with a delighted grin. “You couldn’t have seen anything. I always drew the curtains.”

  “Your silhouette was very sexy.”

  “Liar. I was a beanpole.”

  Not anymore, he thought. She was shapely in all the right places.

  Dear Reader,

  Writing this final letter to you is bittersweet—my first published romance novel was a Superromance and the line will always hold a special place in my heart.

  It’s only fitting that my final Superromance, Meant to Be Hers, is a book of my heart. In my twenties I lived in a series of group houses where friends, friends of friends and strangers who became friends created a kind of family. We lived together, ate together, drank together, shared the rent and the chores and the ups and downs of everyone’s lives. Just as in Meant to Be Hers, a lot of the socializing took place in the kitchen and around the dining table. In the last group house I lived in I met my husband-to-be. We went from housemates to falling in love to getting married and starting our own family.

  Meant to Be Hers is about other things, too—rediscovering a career passion, dealing with loss, navigating a path to happiness and, of course, finding that special person, the one you’re meant to be with.

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing the journey with me.

  Joan Kilby

  PS: This isn’t goodbye. I’m still writing, with many more stories to tell. Look for them at joankilby.com.

  JOAN KILBY

  Meant to Be Hers

  When Joan Kilby isn’t writing her next Harlequin Superromance title, she loves to travel, often to Asia, which is right on Australia’s doorstep, so to speak. Now that her three children are grown, she and her husband enjoy the role reversal of taking off and leaving the kids to take care of the house and pets.

  Books by Joan Kilby

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  Home to Hope Mountain

  Maybe This Time

  To Be a Family

  Protecting Her Son

  Two Against the Odds

  In His Good Hands

  Her Great Expectations

  How to Trap a Parent

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com

  for more titles.

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  This book is for all my readers, everywhere. Because of you, I’ve spent my life doing what I love—telling stories.

  Contents

  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

  EXCERPT FROM NAVY SEAL’S MATCH BY AMBER LEIGH WILLIAMS

  CHAPTER ONE

  WHERE WAS FINN? Carly Maxwell scanned the funeral guests clustered around her late aunt Irene’s living room for the tall, dark-haired musical prodigy. Finn Farrell had been Irene’s star pupil, his family’s greatest hope and Carly’s teenage crush. He should be here. He’d disappointed her aunt enough during her lifetime. Did he have to add to it after her death?

  Carly moved among the guests, pouring tea from a huge earthenware teapot, trying to hold herself together when all she wanted to do was curl up under the covers and bawl her eyes out. It didn’t help that she was still on New York time and jet-lagged.

  “More tea, Brenda?” Carly paused before her cousin, a comfortably plump blonde in her early forties who had sunk deep into soft sofa cushions.

  “Yes, please.” Brenda’s blue eyes were sympathetic as Carly poured unsteadily into a hand-thrown pottery mug. “You’ve been on your feet since early this morning. Can I take the tea around for you?”

  “Thanks, but no,” Carly said. “If I stop moving I might never get going again.”

  In fact, she hadn’t stopped the entire week, from the moment she’d heard about Irene’s death. Finn’s Facebook message had popped into her work inbox like a Molotov cocktail, exploding her crammed diary into shards of missed meetings, unreturned phone calls and hurried apologies. Rushing back to her apartment, she’d listened to voice mail messages from her aunt’s neighbor, Frankie, who was worried about Irene’s dog, and Irene’s lawyer, Peter King, who said her aunt had listed Carly as next of kin.

  Carly had caught the red-eye from New York to Seattle, rented a car, and driven up to Fairhaven, Washington, an historic district at the south end of Bellingham. Grief-stricken and in a daze, she’d arranged for a celebrant, put notices in the newspapers and on Irene’s social media, organized the funeral home and the caterers. After the service Carly had invited everyone to Irene’s three-story Queen Anne home on South Hill for the reception.

  Now here they all were. With barely a moment yet to shed a tear she had a feeling she would look back and think the organizing and activity was the easy part. Dealing with her grief was going to be harder.

  “Sit down a moment, at least.” Brenda patted the taupe cushion next to her. “We haven’t had a chance to talk.”

  Carly sank onto the couch, cradling the warm teapot against her navy suit jacket. “Could you hear me okay when I was giving the eulogy? I wasn’t sure if I spoke loudly enough.” She’d choked up, every painful pause thick with sorrow. Several of Irene’s friends and music students had also spoken. One young girl broke down completely and had to be led off by her mother.

  “You were great.” Brenda clutched a damp, shredded tissue. “I couldn’t have done it.”

  Carly blinked away the salty moisture burning her eyes. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Only fifty-eight.”

  “Fifty-eight goin
g on eighteen,” Brenda said with a watery smile. “She was so much fun.”

  “Thank God she isn’t alive to witness her own funeral.” Carly glanced around at the somber faces. A girl drooped over the keyboard of the Steinway grand piano, softly picking out minor chords. The gloomy atmosphere was at odds with Irene’s uproarious house parties in happier days. “She would have hated all this weeping into hankies.”

  “Everyone’s shell-shocked,” Brenda said. “Irene was so full of life, it’s hard to believe she could die so quickly. I guess that’s what can happen with a brain aneurysm.”

  “Is it?” Carly asked dully. “I have no idea.”

  “I Googled it,” Brenda said. “Sometimes people survive but have brain damage. Sometimes they go like that.” She clicked her fingers.

  “Don’t, please,” Carly begged. “I can’t help thinking that if someone had been with her, she might have survived.” And not just anyone—her. If she’d accepted Irene’s invitation to go on the Alaska cruise, her aunt might be alive today.

  “You shouldn’t torture yourself. That’s an impossible question to answer.” Brenda sighed and patted Carly’s arm. “It’s good to see you, even under the circumstances.”

  “Are you staying in town long?”

  “I have to go back to Portland tomorrow. Work.”

  “I should be going back to work, too, but there’s too much to do here.” Carly chewed the inside of her cheek, tasting blood. The timing of Irene’s death couldn’t have been worse from her perspective. Her high-pressure job as a recruitment consultant for executives had started only a few months ago and already she’d had to ask for time off.

  But she wouldn’t have had it any other way. Irene had been like a mother to Carly after her own mom died when Carly was nine years old. An only child, she’d spent every summer after that, and sometimes Christmas, with her aunt. At any rate, there was no one else to organize the funeral. Irene had never married and had no children. Her brother, Brenda’s dad, was on a sailboat somewhere in the South Pacific. He’d been notified by ham radio but it would be weeks before he could get back. Carly’s father, who might have helped, or at least been a support, was in London on business.

  Where was Finn? If anyone should pay his respects to Irene, it was him. As far as Carly knew he hadn’t set foot in Fairhaven for twelve years, not since he’d fled town after his disastrous performance at that year-end concert. But she and Finn had been friends, good friends, or so she’d thought. Although what kind of friend ran off to Los Angeles and never contacted a person again?

  She roused herself to put an arm around her cousin’s shoulders in a quick hug. “We should stay in touch. Come and visit me in Manhattan sometime.”

  “I will,” Brenda promised. “And you’re always welcome in Portland.”

  Rising, Carly glanced out the bay window overlooking the quiet residential street. A vintage red Mustang had just pulled in to the curb. Her heart leaped as a man, easily six foot three, unfolded himself from behind the wheel. He ran a hand quickly through his wild dark hair and straightened the long black waistcoat beneath the slim-cut, asymmetrical suit jacket in ebony satin.

  Finn Farrell, at last. Carly saw him glance at the house and his mouth drew down, tight and sad. She could feel his grief from here and her own chest grew heavy. Then he took a deep breath, unclenched his hands and started purposefully up the front path. He was almost at the steps when around the side of the house, a dog barked. Rufus, Irene’s ditzy Irish setter. Finn changed direction and headed for the side gate, disappearing from view behind a camellia bush in bloom.

  Carly carried on dispensing tea but her gaze kept drifting to the hall from which Finn would appear if he entered by the back door. She accepted condolences and offered hers in return. Her generous, loving aunt had touched so many lives.

  A warm, furry body nudged the back of Carly’s thigh. Rufus had been distressed all week, restlessly searching the house for Irene and whimpering outside his mistress’s closed bedroom door at night. Now he bumped Carly’s hand, his red, silky body wriggling for attention, already forgiving her for banishing him to the backyard during the reception.

  “Where did you come from?” she said, even though she knew Finn must have let him in. “I’m sorry but you have to go—Rufus, no!” The dog rose on his hind legs and planted his front paws on her chest. Tea jostled out of the pot onto her silk blouse. “Rufus, get off! Help, someone!”

  “Down, Rufus. Sit.” Finn grabbed Rufus’s collar and hauled the dog off. He looked at Carly, his dark eyes connecting with hers. The years apart dissolved in a moment of shared grief. Then his gaze turned curious as he took her in, cataloging the changes, no doubt. Her blond hair a shade darker, and shorter, just brushing her shoulders. A few extra pounds. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes. He had those, too, as well as laugh lines around his mouth.

  Coming as she did from Manhattan’s Upper East Side, Carly had once thought of the poor-but-talented Finn as a modern-day combination of Byron and James Dean—sexy, poetic and tragic. Naturally, she’d grown out of that silly fantasy. Poetic and sexy he might be but he wasn’t tragic, just unreliable.

  “Take him out.” She dabbed at the wet splotch on her blouse. “Please.”

  “Sorry I missed the service.” Still holding Rufus’s collar, Finn leaned in to kiss her cheek. His warm breath stirred old memories, which she ruthlessly shoved away. “I wasn’t thinking. As soon as I heard, I just got in the car and drove. Should have taken a plane.”

  “Irene would have understood.” No matter how badly Finn had let Irene down, she’d always forgiven him. Carly wasn’t quite so generous. She didn’t mind for herself, but her aunt deserved better treatment. She forgot now why she’d wanted him here so badly. He caused ripples, disturbed the equilibrium. People were glancing over at the dog, at the larger-than-life figure Finn cut, shaken out of somnolence.

  “How’ve you been?” Finn’s gaze searched hers, oblivious to everyone but her. “You look terrific.”

  “Good. Well, not so wonderful at the moment obviously.” She felt her cheeks heat, and she couldn’t take her eyes off his face, drinking in the thick straight slashes of eyebrows, the curling bow of his upper lip, the sexy mole on his right cheek. The eyes that saw everything. Despite his trendy suit, he had a slightly disreputable air about him. How could she possibly feel a tug of attraction after all this time, and everything that had happened between them? Or rather, hadn’t happened.

  “Help yourself to food.” She gestured to the dining room through the arched doorway where the table groaned with sandwiches and cakes. “Do you want tea? Or there’s coffee.”

  “Yeah...no.” Finn’s gaze skimmed her classic dark suit and discreet heels. “You’ve gone all corporate. When did that happen?”

  “When I grew up and got a real job.” The day she’d signed her current work contract she’d gone on a shopping spree to upgrade her wardrobe and was still paying off the resulting credit card bill. She gave him the same once-over. “You’ve gone all Hollywood.”

  “Camouflage. It helps to look the part.” He swiveled to survey the clusters of dispirited guests. “Irene would have hated this. So hoity-toity, so stuffy.”

  Even though he echoed her earlier comment, she was irked. Was that a judgment on her? “It is a funeral.”

  “It should be a celebration of her life. She found something positive in every situation, no matter how dire. She brought people joy.” Finn’s eyes narrowed a moment and then he snapped his fingers. “I know. We’ll have a wake. A good old-fashioned Irish knees up. I know where she kept her good whisky.”

  A trio of Irene’s women friends standing nearby—an older woman in a long skirt, a well-dressed businesswoman and a grandmotherly type—turned, their faces brightening.

  Finn winked at them. “These gals are up for it.”

  “Behave yourself,” Carly protested, b
iting back a smile. Typical Finn, he managed to fluster, annoy and amuse her all at the same time. “For Irene’s sake.”

  “This is for Irene’s sake.” He removed the teapot from her hands and passed it to the woman with the expensive haircut. “Take care of that, please. We’ll be back.”

  With one arm around Carly’s waist and the other hand in a firm grip on Rufus’s collar, he steered them out of the living room, across the entrance hall and down the corridor into the kitchen. Deciding it was useless to protest, Carly allowed herself to be led. It was a relief to get out of the gloom.

  Finn shooed Rufus into the yard. “Sorry, boy. It’s only for a couple of hours.” Then he put his hands on Carly’s shoulders and gently pushed her into a chair at the long oak table in the middle of the country-style kitchen. “Sit down before you fall down. You look as if you’re about to break into a million pieces.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. She wasn’t, of course, far from it, but she wasn’t going to spill her guts to Finn. They’d been too long apart. She didn’t know him anymore.

  “Now let’s see what we’ve got.” He rummaged through the cupboard above the fridge and took down a bottle of Glenmorangie. Grabbing a pair of water glasses he poured triple shots. Handing one to Carly, he raised his glass. “To Irene.”

  Carly swirled her glass. She didn’t usually drink hard liquor but the smoky amber liquid beckoned. Still, she hesitated. “The guests...”

  “We’ll get them a drink in a minute.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She took a tentative sip. Silky smooth and fiery, the scotch burned her throat and set up a warm glow in her empty stomach. As if by magic, her frayed nerves calmed. She took another swig. And another. Then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and thrust her glass forward.

  Finn poured another two fingers of scotch. “Careful, don’t get plastered. This is sipping whisky. Have respect.” He gazed into his glass, a thumb rubbing the rim thoughtfully. “Did my parents come to the funeral?”