Somebody Wonderful

Released by Kensington, July 2004

See the Cover!

She is forced into one more escapade when she is kidnapped in New York. After she escapes unharmed she is knocked unconscious, and then rescued by Michael McCann, a recent Irish immigrant and New York City police officer. When she wakes in his flat, Timona is physically and emotionally stirred by a man for the first time. She hopes to stay with the generous and strong Mick. But first she must convince him they belong together. And she must elude would-be kidnappers and bureaucrats from her family's company intent on destroying her plans for her future with Mick.

Learn about the history behind this story.

Read an excerpt: from Chapter 4
[The efficient Mick has made plans to help Timona get back on her feet -- and out of his life.]

As they started towards Park Avenue, Timona decided to resort to basic tactics.

She grabbed at his arm and gasped. "Might we stop for a moment, Mr. McCann. I - I think I feel a little faint."

He looked so worried she felt a trifle guilty. Not ashamed enough to actually change tactics. "Oooo. Mr. McCann, I think I have to return to your flat. The world is spinning."

She made a soft moan. He grabbed her arm, pulled her close and wrapped an arm around her. It felt lovely to be pressed against his warm, solid side. At least she didn't ask him to carry her up the stairs.

The hideous Botty trotted along after them, Mick stopped to rub the dog's back. She figured the injuries extended to Botty's throat, for she already noticed that he didn't bark but made a huffing growl of a sound instead. He made the noise now, and half-closed his one eye in ecstasy as Mick rubbed his fur.

"That's enough now, Botty. I got work to do," Mick said. Botty immediately squirmed into his spot under the bureau.

The oppressive dankness of the dim room pressed in on Timona as she lay on the bed, watching Mick attempt to wash some of his clothes. What could he do to entertain himself living alone in a place like this?

"Mr. McCann," she said, trying to sound weak, but not desperately ill -- the man had worries enough. "What do you do on your free time? I mean other than walk out with Daisy Graves."

He straightened up from the large pan, where he was trying to scrub out a shirt.

"Don't get much free time," he said. He squinted at the shirt and poked it. "An ash must have landed here. I think this has got a hole burnt clean through. Small at least."

"I can see you are busy." Saving every forlorn creature in his little corner of the world was busy work. "Is there anything you do when you need, oh, I don't know, cheering up? Play cards. Go out for a beer. That sort of thing."

He shook his head. "Can't, often. My family back home needs every spare penny. Debts."

"Do you spend all your time here and work?"

He squeezed the water out of the shirt, threw it into the other pan, and put some other clothes into the tub.

"I see a show now and then. New York has some fine theater. The library is free and. . " He hesitated. The way he straightened up and began to fiddle with the cuff of his rolled-up shirt sleeve made her wonder if he was about to confess that he murdered and skinned kittens.

"So I do read. And I, uh, play the flute some."

She forgot she was supposed to feel ill and sat up excitedly. "Oh, do you? I love the flute. My brother plays. Do you have one?"

He reached behind the rickety bureau and pulled out a battered wooden instrument that didn't look like any flute Timona had ever seen.

"It was my da's. He started to teach me, but then he died. I messed about, but never got proper lessons. Back at home, I could screech on it all day long and no one but the sheep and the cow would care. It's crowded here, so I don't like to blow it for too long at a stretch."

"Please, will you play for me?"

"You certain you want to hear?"

She nodded. "Absolutely."

He sat, straight-backed, at the edge of the bed, and put the wooden instrument to his mouth. She was not prepared for the quiet, haunting music he played.

"My goodness," she breathed.

He stopped and grimaced. "I'm not trained you know, and the animals are not what you'd call good jud -"

"Michael McCann, hush. Play. Please."

He played for about five minutes. Some of it sounded familiar to her, but not the winding, climbing tunes that grew in complexity and then died away. His music was often sweet but she thought she heard hints of wild and wistful sorrow. Timona had heard beautiful music in her travels, but none that had filled her with such longing. She wished someone would discover dinosaur bones in Ireland so she could follow her father there, and find out if Mick played music from his homeland.

"You are wonderful," she whispered when he laid the flute on his lap and gazed at a spot on the bed somewhere near her feet.

She would never allow him to play for anyone else. Women would fall in love with him purely because of that flute. Or whatever it was.

He blushed and started mumbling again, nonsense about lack of training and she interrupted. "Mr. McCann. I have heard musicians from many countries. And I say you are wonderful."

"Eh, thank you," he muttered at last.

She must have been under a spell. "Mr. McCann."

"Mick."

"Mick. I was just wondering, would you consider marrying me?"

Mistake. He blinked at her. Then, thank goodness, instead of screaming in horror, he laughed. "I play that well?"

She forced herself to smile. "Yes," she said. "You do." She cleared her throat. "So you don't mind if I call you Mick? Would you call me Timona?"

"Timona? What kind of a name is that when it's at home?"

"I was named for one of Shakespeare's characters."

He rubbed his bristly chin and squinted at her as he thought for a moment. "Timon. Wasn't he the whatyemaycallit? The lad who didn't care for the company of his fellow man."

Timona gaped at him. Many well-educated people didn't know the play Timon of Athens -- thank goodness.

"Yes, that's the one."

"Mighty peculiar name to give a baby girl," he said, and she nodded her vigorous agreement. "D'you mind if I call ye Timmy?"

If anyone else had said such a thing, she might have drawn herself up and said, yes, she did mind. But the way he said it, drawn out in his melodic, slow voice. . . "Temmay," was so sweet. And intimate.

"Please. Be my guest," she said weakly.

He finished washing out his clothes and a stack of the Tucker kids' clothes. He shoved them into the pan to take out to the clothes-line. She pretended to sleep and actually dozed for a while.

She woke to the soft sound of splashing water. He had his back to her. He'd stripped the waist and was leaning over to rinse off in the large pan.

Well. There stood a sight she would never grow tired of. She wished the board that covered most of the room's one window was gone and the window faced something other than another building's wall. Anything so there'd be more sun lighting the scene.

His shoulders and back were almost ivory colored, and smooth. His arms were golden until just above the elbows. Perhaps the tan lingered from his days at the farm, for she did not imagine he rolled up his sleeves on his policeman's beat.

His back was broad at the top and narrowed down to his hips. The muscles under his skin moved as he scrubbed at his neck and shoulders.

If she were taking a photograph of a man's back, this would be the back she'd choose. And the angle she'd want. More light was all that was needed. He'd show up massive, strong as a mountain. Yet his shoulder blades and spine added a delicacy to the lines of his back's broad planes. As marvelous as any landscapes she'd attempted to capture.