Just One Taste.

A Romance Anthology.

Maggie Robinson.

Dear Reader, For those who know me only as an historical writer, you may be surprised by some of the novellas and short stories in this anthology. When I first decided to write, I was determined to stretch my wings and try everything. There are three paranormal novellas here, where I ultimately determined that magic, time-traveling hunks and shape-shifting cats are not really my thing. Jamie Frasier is safe. Meow!

I had a lot of fun reading through my older stuff, and an equal amount of fun fixing and polishing my rookie efforts to reflect what I hope has been my growth as a writer. One contemporary novella, Close Encounters, was written especially for this anthology and is sparkly-new. None of the stories, with the exception of the short Christmas scenes, have ever been seen before. The Christmas works were part of Ramblings from this Chick's annual holiday blog event, and some of the characters are related to heroes and heroines from my three historical series.

I also let Margaret Rowe out to play. She's my darker, more deranged alter ego, and the last story in this collection falls into the BDSM erotica category. You have been warned!

It's my deepest hope you'll like Just One Taste and look for a bigger bite! A complete list of my t.i.tles is at the end of this book. Thank you so much for buying this one! Reviews are always appreciated.

XO,.

Maggie.

For Elyssa Patrick, who has my back, front and keeps me au courant.

Close Encounters.

In November 2013, I was asked to be the guest speaker at the Norwich (CT) Woman's City Club's annual meeting. I lived in Norwich from 1987 to 1995, and belonged to the charitable organization. It was great to see old friends! I want to thank Nancy Gordon for thinking of me, and Andrea Mallon for being a loyal reader and friend.

At the end of my romance talk, I invited the members to brainstorm a story with me, and I promised them a first chapter to be posted on my website. They selected the names, the occupations and some of the storyline, and I had fun following their direction.

I soon discovered one chapter was not enough. Here's the novella that resulted. Thanks so much, ladies! This one's for you.

Alexandra Russell-don't call her Alex-finally has the chance to get herself and her daughter back on track again. Alexandra's worked hard and is tired of paying for her bad judgment-she's more than learned her lesson. No smooth-talking man is going to worm his way into her heart again with big diamonds and deception. She's all business now, an aspiring fashion consultant whose sales job at Chico's is strictly temporary. Alexandra's interview with media mogul Tonya La.s.siter is going to change everything.

If she can get there. That quick look in her rear view mirror to check for lipstick on her teeth has resulted in plowing into Will Garrity's construction truck. The last thing she needs is another car repair bill, or the att.i.tude from the scruffy, sawdust-covered builder. She remembers him from high school, and he hasn't changed a bit, except gotten bigger and rougher around the edges.

Will hasn't seen "Princess Alexandra" in over ten years. They didn't exactly run in the same crowd, then or now. She was still decked in pearls and superiority, and he didn't have time for that. Was she going to screw up the La.s.siter job for him because she couldn't see straight?.

Will tells himself he has to get her number for the insurance company. But her pretty pink card is burning a hole in his pocket. He can't stop seeing her in her pearls-and nothing else. He knows he's asking for trouble, but one date with Her Highness should get her out of his system, shouldn't it?.

Chapter 1.

April.

Chanel on the cheap. Not real Chanel, of course. She couldn't afford that, even if she'd found it in a resale store. But Alexandra was satisfied with her short boxy hound's-tooth jacket and black pencil skirt from T.J. Maxx. Her pearl bangles didn't clack against each other too loudly, and the rope of pearls-fake, of course-were knotted just so over her almost-silk blouse. She wore killer heels-the last pair of red-soled Laboutins she still owned.

She was dressed to impress Tonya La.s.siter. If she got the job, Alexandra would kiss Chico's good-bye and be responsible for wardrobe at four cable TV channels. She'd be dressing all the on-air personalities on the mini-media mogul's New York, Connecticut and Rhode Island operations, from weather girls to that weathered-faced guy who did the political commentary every Friday night in Providence. He was in desperate need of her help; his ties were hideous.

If she got the job, that meant she could travel a little and shop again. Not for herself, of course-her debts, well, Rick's debts, were still staggering. It would be a long while before they were paid off, and she needed a bigger paycheck than she got as a.s.sistant manager of the Chico's at Mohegan Sun Resort and Casino's shopping mall. There were times when Alexandra wondered if she should stick a dollar in a slot machine after work to improve her odds, but that's what got her ex-husband in so much trouble.

It wasn't slots, though, but blackjack. Racked up on her credit card. It had been worth it to borrow money from her mother to pay for the divorce.

Moving in with her parents had been a big pill to swallow three years ago, but where else was Alexandra going to go with a toddler and no job?

Her daughter Emma was the only good thing to come out of her marriage.

Enough with the gloom and doom. Alexandra shot a smile into the rear view mirror to perk herself up and check for lipstick on her teeth. She'd gone for a strong red lip, and there was nothing worse than- Wrong. Here was something much, much worse. A hulking tricked-up truck was coming around the bend in the narrow Norwichtown back lane straight at her.

Brake brake brake.

She hadn't been going fast-you couldn't on this winding road-but it was too late. Alexandra's ancient little Audi hit the vehicle with a sickening crunch.

d.a.m.n. She was just yards away from Ms. La.s.siter's secluded house. She could see the roofline through the treetops.

Out of the hulking truck came the Hulk himself, a grubby construction worker who looked extremely unhappy. He was...familiar. Someone she'd seen from the casino?

No, high school. It was that Neanderthal Will Garrity, who'd captained the football team and had given her such c.r.a.p when she was head cheerleader.

Good grief. They were a cliche, except they'd never dated. Alexandra's mother would have grounded her for life if she tried to go out with someone like Will Garrity. But then, her mother had loved slimy, lying Rick, so what did she know about men?

Eleven years had bulked Will up and didn't look like they'd improved his disposition any. Alexandra rolled down her window.

He towered over the car. "What the h.e.l.l were you doing? Putting on lipstick?"

It was too close to the truth. Alexandra lifted her chin and tried to smile. "Sorry. I didn't expect to see anyone else. There's only one house on this end." Alexandra had grown up in Norwich, and this road was unknown to most of its residents. It was private, expensive and exclusive. Tonya La.s.siter had other houses, but she retreated here for the quiet and anonymity in this sleepy New England town.

Will stepped back as Alexandra slid out of the car to inspect the damage. Her b.u.mper was toast, and one headlight looked ready to pop out to greener pastures.

His hazel eyes narrowed. "I know you. You're Alex Something, aren't you?"

"Alexandra." How she hated to be called Alex. One might as well call her Al and be done with it. She was worth those four syllables, d.a.m.n it.

"Alexandra Elliot, right?"

"Russell now." She hadn't changed name back, thinking it might be confusing for Emma.

He peered into the back seat, where her daughter's booster seat was in all its crumbs and glory. "Married with a kid, right? Well, if you want your kid to grow up with a mother, you'd better watch where you're going. Ditzy blonde."

The last two words were muttered, but Alexandra heard them all the same. "I beg your pardon. You were just as much at fault as I was. You could have killed me with that behemoth. Do you do those stupid monster truck rallies?"

"Of course I don't!" he said, annoyed. "This is my work truck. I'm on a job."

Alexandra's heart sank. "You're working at Ms. La.s.siter's?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but yes. My crew is putting up an addition. Office and media room. Two bathrooms, guest bedroom. And FYI, she hates it when people come spying down here. You'd better back it up."

"I have an appointment with her," Alexandra said in her iciest voice. She could hear the whine of electric saws and hammering now, breaking the silence of the leafy green countryside.

"I won't keep you then." He reached into his back jeans pocket and pulled out a tattered business card. "For the insurance company. I don't think we need to bother the cops with this, do you?"

As far as she could tell, there wasn't a scratch on his truck. Her poor Audi, on the other hand, was mangled beyond belief. Alexandra prayed Ms. La.s.siter would not look out her window as she lurched up the driveway. First impressions were important, and her car was the next best thing to a clunker.

She reached into the car and retrieved her used red Coach clutch. She preferred to view it as pre-owned. Vintage. Her brand-new cards were in a little leather case her mother had bought for her to celebrate her inevitable success as an independent fashion consultant and stylist.

Elizabeth Elliot did not like to think of her only, college-educated child as a mere shop girl.

Alexandra pa.s.sed him a pink and black card. Much thought had gone into it-she'd worked up the logo herself. Will's lip curled as he held it between two callused fingers.

"Clothes Encounters? You've got to be kidding me."

"I graduated from RISD. My degree is in apparel design." Alexandra even knew how to make fine leather shoes, not that she'd tell this big lug in his scuffed-up work boots. But she'd never really had the drive to succeed in the cut-throat fashion world, and once she'd married Rick she'd enjoyed being a Connecticut housewife in her big-a.s.s new-construction colonial, buying designer clothes rather than sewing them.

She'd had to sell most of them on consignment, and the house had gone into foreclosure years ago.

Alexandra still had a good eye, and she was only twenty-nine. There had to be more to life than ringing up sales at a high-end women's store. If she could get Tonya La.s.siter to give her a break, other doors would open.

But first, she had to knock on her door. "If we're done here..." She waved a well-manicured hand. Pale pink polish. No rings. She hadn't bitten the bullet yet to sell her three point five carat emerald-cut diamond engagement ring, but she never wore it. That rat Rick had wanted it back in the divorce settlement, but the judge disagreed.

Will Garrity noticed. "No wedding ring? Where's Mr. Russell?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm divorced. What about you..." she made a point of looking at his card as if she couldn't remember his name. "Mr. Garrity? Uh, William." Junior.

"No wives, no kids, no problems. Enough with the high school reunion. How do you want this to go? It's too narrow for either of us to turn around."

Backing up was not really one of Alexandra's skills. Apparently going forward wasn't either. "If you don't mind, I'm late. Could you...?"

"As you wish, Princess." There was that unholy spark of glee in his eyes she remembered so well. He'd teased her mercilessly. Thought she was stuck-up. Well, she probably had been, a little. It was hard to escape from Elizabeth's influence-her mother was a dreadful sn.o.b, and Alexandra had been raised with the best of everything.

Until Rick.

She got into her car and sneaked a glance at the rear view mirror again. Though her streaked blond hair was still pulled back in a neat ponytail, she felt decidedly ruffled. But she wasn't going to let a man like Will Garrity-or any guy-get under her skin or into her heart again.

Chapter 2.

Will put his truck in reverse. At least he'd be able to see if his crew was still doing what they were supposed to be doing. When the cat's away...He probably should have sent someone else on the coffee and doughnuts run anyhow.

Alex Elliot Whoevershewas better not screw this job up for him. Quite frankly, Will was a little afraid of Tonya La.s.siter. She was a tall African-American woman whose arms rivaled Mich.e.l.le Obama's, and she hadn't reached the pinnacle of success in her little media empire by being self-effacing. She knew what she wanted and was not shy about saying so and getting it done yesterday.

She kind of reminded him of the no-nonsense teachers he'd had at his parochial elementary school, only the woman was way better dressed. The nuns had never worn five-inch alligator heels.

Will knew she'd interviewed every builder in New London Country and for some reason she'd taken a shine to him, even though his portfolio was mighty skimpy the past couple of years. A lot of guys he knew had bailed out of building. Will had kept busy by adding porches and doing modest remodeling jobs-h.e.l.l, he'd even built a fancy dog house once. No job was too small or silly. He was lucky he had no family to support and his mother still expected him for dinner Sunday night. At least he was guaranteed one good meal a week.

This addition for Ms. La.s.siter would go a long way to getting him back in the game. A recommendation from her would have some cachet.

Cachet. Jeez, he felt like he was back in English cla.s.s at the Norwich Free Academy. Good old NFA. Will didn't think much about high school and didn't believe they were his glory days. Just because he'd been big and beefy for his age, he'd wound up doing okay in football and captained the team, but it was not as though he was ever going to wind up in the NFL. There was no football team at Three Rivers Community College, where he'd gotten his certificate in construction management.

Hid dad had been only too happy to turn the business over to him when Will was twenty-five, right in the midst of what the politicians called the greatest recession since the Great Depression. Thanks very much, Dad. For the past five years Garrity Construction had been on life support, but things were about to change. The economy was picking up, and Will had taken the leap and bought a vacant lot on Scotland Road. He was going to build a spec house or die trying.

A house like Princess Alexandra would love, with her pearls and expensive f.u.c.k-me shoes. As he recalled, she'd grown up in this part of town. He wondered where she lived now.

Her car was limping along the lane. Too bad about the b.u.mper. But if his insurance rates rose because of this, he'd be p.i.s.sed.

She hadn't changed much. Still looked like she could do a cartwheel and some splits, even if she'd had a kid. She hadn't let herself go, not that he was one of those body-shaming guys. He liked women in all shapes and sizes, just not lately. Dating was expensive financially. Relationships cost way more than he was willing to pay emotionally.

Will backed into the brick lined courtyard. Framing was going up even faster than usual-Ms. La.s.siter had promised a bonus if he could get the addition built ahead of schedule and his guys was so happy to get a paycheck every Friday they were unusually gung-ho. But he noted the hammering slowed when the princess parked next to a holly hedge. He couldn't help but watch as one heel hit the bricks, followed by the rest of her in one fluid move. Will wondered how her short skirt could behave itself so nicely. Two-sided tape? Sheer will?

She gave him a vague little wave and walked up the front path, ponytail swinging, as if she hadn't a care in the world.

Of course she didn't. She was Alexandra Elliot Whoevershewas, Norwichtown princess. Her mother ran the hospital auxiliary board, her father was a doctor, and they lived in an authentic eighteenth century mansion that had been restored to within an inch of its life. Will wasn't much for old houses-he was too tall for the doorframes-but he'd seen pictures in the paper when the place had been opened up to the public for a hospital fundraiser some years back. Gleaming copper pots, ma.s.sive fireplaces, tester beds, and paneling that screamed real Colonial craftsmen. He wouldn't mind checking out the woodwork. Might learn something.

Not that he'd ever be invited over for tea.

One of his idiots wolf-whistled. Alex's heel caught on a brick and she wobbled, then righted herself, nose firmly in the air.

"Brady! Shut it."