Since I’m ahead of schedule and yet spinning my wheels, I’m leaving Christmas for the day and working on something else. It has a little something to do with this:

Jack was on his third scotch, eyeing the wedding guests and idly pondering lithe brunette versus busty redhead—he’d been avoiding blondes—when his cellphone vibrated in his pocket.

He thought about not answering it—everybody whose call he absolutely had to take was in the reception hall—but yapping on the phone beat standing around watching other people have a good time.

The number wasn’t familiar to him. “Donovan.”

“Jack?”

The music was too loud, to say nothing of the voices and laughter, so he headed toward the door. Once he was on the other side of it, he could hear a lot better. “Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Isabella.” The name hit him like a hard shot to the chest. “Isabella Arceneaux.”

“Isabella,” he whispered, unable to get anything else past the logjam of emotion in his throat.

It had been almost a year since he rescued her from the guerrilla stronghold where she’d been held captive for over two years. Almost a year since he told her there was nothing between them but a little hero worship and put her on a plane out of Africa. It was the hardest lie he’d ever told.

“You told me if I ever needed you to call,” she said, and he heard the subtle tremor in her voice. “I think I need you now, Jack.”