Someone to Watch Over Me Read online

  Dear Readers,

  I hope you’ll notice the dedication to my grandson, Spencer. He’s sixteen years old now, and I was right about everything I said of him. (I love being right; don’t you?)

  For reasons other than that, however, I am very partial to Someone to Watch Over Me. Different heroes appeal to different women for different reasons. Michael Valente totally appeals to me. I like everything about him, particularly his masterful, sometimes humorous way of dealing with any obstacle in his path.

  From my standpoint, there’s something else that’s unique in Someone to Watch Over Me: I created a secondary male character who was so sexy and so compelling that I had to do frequent rewrites to keep McCord out of the limelight.

  The only thing I would have done differently now is that I would have let more time lapse before the romance between Leigh and Michael Valente caught fire.

  Oh, and there’s one more thing: One of my treasured possessions is a small pewter knight that was given to me at a writer’s conference by a reader who also loved Michael Valente. It’s on the bookshelf in my office as I write this.

  I hope this book lives up to all of your expectations, and that your expectations are very high.

  Warmly,

  Judith McNaught

  JUDITH McNAUGHT

  “one of the finest writers of popular fiction”*, delivers a pitch-perfect duet of suspense and intrigue in her dazzling new bestseller

  SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME

  “One of the pioneers of the romance genre returns in a sizzling tale. . . . [An] intriguing suspense plot. . . . A page-turner and pure romance fun!”

  —Romantic Times

  “Skillfully blending suspense with not one but two romances, McNaught has penned a tale that is difficult to put down. The characters . . . are distinctive and deftly drawn, the sexual tension sizzles, then sparks, and there are plenty of plot twists to keep readers guessing. . . . [A]n engrossing tale of romantic suspense with likeable, engaging, multilayered characters, tender romance, and a top-notch mystery.”

  —AOL’s Romance Fiction Forum

  “A compelling mix of dark desires and unexpected dangers. . . . This expertly crafted page-turner is sure to reward McNaught’s eager fans!”

  —Barnesandnoble.com*

  MORE THAN 30 MILLION COPIES OF JUDITH McNAUGHT’S BOOKS IN PRINT!

  NATIONAL ACCLAIM FOR HER SPLENDID NOVELS

  The #1 New York Times bestseller!

  NIGHT WHISPERS

  “Never miss a McNaught! Night Whispers heads like the Titanic toward its iceberg of a climax—with shocking revelations. . . . Judith McNaught has written her most stunning work of fiction to date. Sexy, smart, and page-turning, this is a must-read.”

  —Barnesandnoble.com

  “Fiery passion, taut suspense, and unforgettable characters. . . . McNaught has truly outdone herself. . . . Equal parts romance and suspense, this is a must-read for mystery and romance fans alike. . . . You’ll find yourself delighted with this excellent book.”

  —Rendezvous

  REMEMBER WHEN

  “McNaught has a lot of fun with a marriage of convenience that turns out to be anything but.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Romantic, witty, and entertaining. . . .”

  —San Antonio Express-News

  UNTIL YOU

  “Delicious. . . . A perfectly wonderful story. . . . A laughing, loving book, a page-turner and a delight.”

  —The Advocate (Baton Rouge, LA)

  “Brilliantly done and completely entertaining . . . a surefire hit.”

  —Ocala Star-Banner (FL)

  PERFECT

  “Judith McNaught undoubtedly knows a thing or two about love. . . . Perfect is a steamy romantic escapade.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “[The] chemistry sizzles.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  PARADISE

  “Another incomparable love story Judith McNaught’s readers are sure to cherish.”

  —Dallas Times Herald

  “A blockbuster. . . . An absorbing and heartwarming story.”

  —Rendezvous

  A KINGDOM OF DREAMS

  “Wonderful!”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  WHITNEY, MY LOVE

  “The ultimate love story, one you can dream about forever.”

  —Romantic Times

  Thank you for downloading this Pocket Star Books eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Pocket Star Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  For Spencer Shelley

  Dearest Spence,

  In keeping with tradition, I want very much to give you a letter of advice like the one I wrote for your brother in the dedication of my last book. But I can’t. I’m so awed by your charm and entranced by your laughter, that I can’t wait until you’re older so that I can ask you for advice. How do you make people smile whenever they look at you? I know where you got your eyes, but where did you get your joy? Where did you get so much magic?

  I have so many questions to ask you, but you’re only two now, so I’ll have to wait for my answers. The only thing I know for certain is that you’re going to chart your own course through life. And if that course happens to be one that causes great trepidation in the hearts of your parents, then you can count on me to soothe things over. In the meantime, I will give you this one little piece of grandmotherly advice: Don’t let any of us change you.

  Acknowledgments

  * * *

  I write novels about exceptional men, men of great character, wit, compassion, and strength. In real life, I’ve known men like that. One of them was Gayle Schroder; he was my friend. The other was Michael McNaught; he was my husband. All of us who loved these two extraordinary men miss them terribly. In life, they were admired and cherished by us; now it is their memory that lights our lives—and our way. How blessed we are to have known them at all.

  Writing a novel is a prolonged, solitary endeavor for me. I survive it only with the support and empathy of my family and close friends. Thank you, Clay, and Whit, and Rose, for understanding the lack of phone calls and visits, and never complaining. I love you so much for that! Thank you, Carole LaRocco and Judy Schroder and Cathy Richardson, for being such steadfast friends.

  Writing a novel like this one also requires the advice and assistance of many people with knowledge of my subject—or it requires only one person with vast knowledge, endless contacts, and limitless patience. In this case, Steve Sloat. Steve, you’ve been a prince. I can’t thank you enough.

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  “Miss Kendall, can you hear me? I’m Dr. Metcalf, and you’re at Good Samaritan Hospital in Mountainside. We’re going to take you out of the ambulance now and into the emergency room.”

  Shivering uncontrollably, Leigh Kendall reacted to the insistent male voice that was calling her back to consciousness, but she couldn’t Seem to summon the strength to open her eyelids.

  “Can you hear me, Miss Kendall?”

  With an effort, she finally managed to force her eyes open. The doctor who had spoken was bending over her, examining her head, and beside him, a nurse was holding a clear plastic bag of IV fluid.

  “We’re going to take you out of the ambulance now,” he repeated as he beamed a tiny light at each of her pupils.

  “Need . . . to tell . . . husband I’m here,” Leigh managed in a feeble whisper.

  He nodded and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “The state poli
ce will take care of that. In the meantime, you have some very big fans at Good Samaritan, including me, and we’re going to take excellent care of you.”

  Voices and images began to fly at Leigh from every direction as the gurney was lifted from the ambulance. Red and blue lights pulsed frantically against a gray dawn sky. People in uniforms flashed past her line of vision—New York State troopers, paramedics, doctors, nurses. Doors swung open, the hallway flew by, faces crowded around her, firing urgent questions at her.

  Leigh tried to concentrate, but their voices were collapsing into an incomprehensible babble, and their features were sliding off their faces, dissolving into the same blackness that had already devoured the rest of the room.

  WHEN LEIGH AWOKE AGAIN, it was dark outside and a light snow was falling. Struggling to free herself from the effects of whatever drugs were dripping into her arm from the IV bag above her, she gazed dazedly at what appeared to be a hospital room filled with a riotous display of flowers.

  Seated on a chair near the foot of the bed, flanked by a huge basket of white orchids and a large vase of bright yellow roses, a gray-haired nurse was reading a copy of the New York Post with Leigh’s picture on the front page.

  Leigh turned her head as much as the brace on her neck would allow, searching for some sign of Logan, but for the time being, she was alone with the nurse. Experimentally, she moved her legs and wiggled her toes, and was relieved to find them still attached to the rest of her and in reasonably good working order. Her arms were bandaged and her head was wrapped in something tight, but as long as she didn’t move, her discomfort seemed to be limited to a generalized ache throughout her body, a sharper ache in her ribs, and a throat so dry it felt as if it were stuffed with sawdust.

  She was alive, and that in itself was a miracle! The fact that she was also whole and relatively unharmed filled Leigh with a sense of gratitude and joy that was almost euphoric. She swallowed and forced a croaking whisper from her parched throat. “May I have some water?”

  The nurse looked up, a professional smile instantly brightening her face. “You’re awake!” she said as she quickly closed the newspaper, folded it in half, and laid it facedown beneath her chair.

  The name tag on the nurse’s uniform identified her as “Ann Mackey, RN. Private Duty,” Leigh noted as she watched the nurse pouring water from a pink plastic pitcher on the tray beside the bed.

  “You should have a straw. I’ll go get one.”

  “Please don’t bother. I’m terribly thirsty.”

  When the nurse started to hold the glass to Leigh’s mouth, Leigh took it from her. “I can hold it,” Leigh assured her, and then was amazed by how much effort it took just to lift her bandaged arm and hold it steady. By the time she handed the glass back to Nurse Mackey, her arm was trembling and her chest hurt terribly. Wondering if perhaps there was more wrong with her than she’d thought, Leigh let her head sink back into the pillows while she gathered the strength to talk. “What sort of condition am I in?”

  Nurse Mackey looked eager to share her knowledge, but she hesitated. “You really should ask Dr. Metcalf about that.”

  “I will, but I’d like to hear it now, from my private duty nurse. I won’t tell him you told me anything.”

  It was all the encouragement she needed. “You were in shock when you were brought in,” she confided. “You had a concussion, hypothermia, cracked ribs, and suspected injuries to the cervical vertebrae and adjacent tissue—that’s whiplash in layman’s terms. You have several deep scalp wounds, as well as lacerations on your arms, legs, and torso, but only a few of them are on your face, and they aren’t deep, which is a blessing. You also have contusions and abrasions all over your—”

  Smiling as much as her swollen lip would allow, Leigh lifted her hand to stop the litany of injuries. “Is there anything wrong with me that will need surgery?”

  The nurse looked taken aback by Leigh’s upbeat attitude, and then she looked impressed. “No surgery,” she said with an approving little pat on Leigh’s shoulder.

  “Any physical therapy?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. But you should expect to be very sore for a few weeks, and your ribs will hurt. Your burns and cuts will require close attention, healing and scarring could be a concern—”

  Leigh interrupted this new deluge of depressing medical minutiae with a grin. “I’ll be very careful,” she said, and then she switched to the only other topic on her mind. “Where is my husband?”

  Nurse Mackey faltered and then patted Leigh’s shoulder again. “I’ll go and see about that,” she promised, and hurried off, leaving Leigh with the impression that Logan was nearby.

  Exhausted from the simple acts of drinking and speaking, Leigh closed her eyes and tried to piece together what had happened to her since yesterday, when Logan had kissed her good-bye in the morning. . . .

  He’d been so excited when he left their Upper East Side apartment, so eager for her to join him in the mountains and spend the night with him there. For over a year, he’d been looking for just the right site for their mountain retreat, a secluded setting that would complement the sprawling stone house he’d designed for the two of them. Finding the right site was complicated by the fact that Logan had already completed the drawings, so the site needed to be adaptable to the plans. On Thursday, he’d finally found a piece of property that met all his exacting qualifications, and he’d been so eager for her to see it that he insisted they should spend Sunday night—their first available night—in the existing cabin on the land.

  “The cabin hasn’t been used in years, but I’ll clean it up while I’m waiting for you to get there,” he promised, displaying an endearing enthusiasm for a task he’d always avoided. “There isn’t any electricity or heat, but I’ll build a roaring fire in the fireplace, and we’ll sleep in front of it in sleeping bags. We’ll have dinner by candlelight. In the morning, we’ll watch the sun rise over the tops of the trees. Our trees. It will be very romantic, you’ll see.”

  His entire plan filled Leigh with amused dread. She was starring in a new play that had opened on Broadway the night before, and she’d only had four hours of sleep. Before she could leave for the mountains, she had a Sunday matinee performance to give, and that would be followed by a three-hour drive to a cold, uninhabitable stone cabin, so that she could sleep on the floor . . . and then get up at dawn the next day.

  “I can’t wait,” she lied convincingly, but what she really wanted to do was go back to sleep. It was only eight o’clock. She could sleep until ten.

  Logan hadn’t had any more sleep than she, but he was already dressed and eager to leave for the cabin. “The place isn’t easy to find, so I drew you a detailed map with plenty of landmarks,” he said, laying a piece of paper on her nightstand. “I’ve already loaded the car. I think I have everything I need—” he continued, leaning over her in bed and pressing a quick kiss on her cheek, “—house plans, stakes, string, a transom, sleeping bags. I still feel like I’m forgetting something . . .”

  “A broom, a mop, and a bucket?” Leigh joked sleepily as she rolled over onto her stomach. “Scrub brushes? Detergent?”

  “Killjoy,” he teased, nuzzling her neck where he knew she was ticklish.

  Leigh giggled, pulled the pillow over the back of her head, and continued dictating his shopping list. “Disinfectant . . . mousetraps . . .”

  “You sound like a spoiled, pampered Broadway star,” he chuckled, pressing down on the pillow to prevent her from adding more items to the list. “Where is your sense of adventure?”

  “It stops at a Holiday Inn,” she said with a muffled giggle.

  “You used to love to go camping. You were the one who taught me how. You even suggested we go camping on our honeymoon!”

  “Because we couldn’t afford a Holiday Inn.”

  With a laugh, he pulled the pillow away from her head and rumpled her hair. “Leave straight from the theater. Don’t be late.” He stood up and headed for the door to their
bedroom suite. “I know I’m forgetting something—”

  “Drinking water, candles, a tin coffeepot?” Leigh helpfully chanted. “Food for dinner? A pear for my breakfast?”

  “No more pears. You’re addicted,” he teased over his shoulder. “From now on, it’s Cream of Wheat and prunes for you.”

  “Sadist,” Leigh mumbled into the pillows. A moment later she heard the door close behind him, and she rolled onto her back, smiling to herself as she gazed out the bedroom windows overlooking Central Park. Logan’s enthusiasm for the mountain property was contagious, but his lighthearted mood was what mattered most to her. They’d both been so young, and so poor, when they got married thirteen years ago that hard work had been a necessity, and then it had become a habit. On their wedding day, their total combined assets were eight hundred dollars in cash, plus Logan’s new architectural degree, his mother’s social connections, and Leigh’s unproven acting talent—that, and their unflagging faith in each other. With only those tools, they’d built a wonderful life together, but during the last few months, they’d both been so busy that their sex life had been almost nonexistent. She’d been immersed in the preopening craziness of a new play, and Logan had been consumed with the endless complexities of his latest, and biggest, business venture.

  As Leigh lay in bed, gazing out at the clouds gathering in the November sky, she decided she definitely liked the prospect of spending the night in front of a roaring fire with nothing to do but make love with her husband. They wanted a baby, and she suddenly realized that even the timing was right for conception tonight. She was dreamily imagining the evening that lay ahead when Hilda walked into the bedroom wearing her coat and carrying Leigh’s breakfast tray. “Mr. Manning said you were awake, so I brought you breakfast before I leave,” Hilda explained. She waited while Leigh struggled into a sitting position; then she handed her the tray containing Leigh’s ritual breakfast fare—cottage cheese, a pear, and coffee. “I’ve tidied up after the party. Is there anything else you’d like me to do before I go?”