Carolina Girl

“VIRGINIA KANTRA DELIVERS.”

—Jayne Ann Krentz,
New York Times
bestselling author

“
Carolina Girl
positively sizzles with sexual tension and hums with the rhythm of life on a North Carolina island where family matters most and love really does conquer all. I loved it—read it in one sitting and cannot wait for the next book in the series!”

—Mariah Stewart,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Long Way Home

PRAISE FOR

CAROLINA HOME

“A story as fresh as the Carolina ocean breezes . . . It’s always a joy to read Virginia Kantra.”

—JoAnn Ross,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Kantra’s
Carolina Home
is intimate and inviting, a feel-good story featuring captivating characters who face challenges as touching as they are believable . . . Contemporary romance at its most gratifying.”

—
USA Today
Happy Ever After Blog

“It feels like coming home . . . Reading this book is like relaxing in a Hatteras hammock, gently swaying in the breeze.”

—
Dear Author
(Recommended Read)

“Truly enjoyable.”

—
All About Romance

“A wonderful contemporary drama with great characters, a touching romance, and the beginnings of a fantastic series.”

—
Romance Around the Corner

“A sizzling good time. Kantra’s story building is excellent.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Virginia Kantra is an autobuy author who has never let me down. Her skillfully crafted, character-driven stories and knack for creating a vivid sense of time and place bring readers into the heart of her stories and the hearts of the characters who populate them. I highly recommend it.”

—
The Romance Dish

“A thoroughly wonderful read.”

—
BookPage

AND FOR THE NOVELS OF VIRGINIA KANTRA

“Brilliantly sensual and hauntingly poignant.”

—Alyssa Day,
New York Times
bestselling author

“A lyric, haunting, poetic voice.”

—Suzanne Brockmann,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Virginia Kantra is one of my favorite authors.”

—Teresa Medeiros,
New York Times
bestselling author

“A really good read.”

—Karen Robards,
New York Times
bestselling author

“A sensitive writer with a warm sense of humor, a fine sense of sexual tension, and an unerring sense of place.”

—
BookPage

“You are going to
love
this book! I highly, highly recommend it.”

—Suzanne Brockmann,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Rich and sensual.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Entertainment at its finest.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(4½ stars)

“Virginia Kantra has given us another gem.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“Epic and wonderfully intimate.”

—
Dear Author

“Fiction that is smart, engaging, and original.”

—
Bitch Media

“Smart, sexy, and sophisticated—another winner from Virginia Kantra.”

—Lori Foster,
New York Times
bestselling author

“With lush writing, vivid descriptions, and smoldering sensuality, Kantra skillfully invites the reader . . . into the hearts and minds of her characters.”

—
Romance Novel TV
(5 stars)

“You will hate to put it down until you have read the last page.”

—
Night Owl Reviews
(Top Pick)

“Moving, heartbreaking, and beautiful.”

—
Errant Dreams Reviews
(5 stars)

Berkley Sensation titles by Virginia Kantra

HOME BEFORE MIDNIGHT

CLOSE UP

The Dare Island Novels

CAROLINA HOME

CAROLINA GIRL

The Children of the Sea Novels

SEA WITCH

SEA FEVER

SEA LORD

IMMORTAL SEA

FORGOTTEN SEA

Anthologies

SHIFTER

(with Angela Knight, Lora Leigh, and Alyssa Day)

OVER THE MOON

(with Angela Knight, MaryJanice Davidson, and Sunny)

BURNING UP

(with Angela Knight, Nalini Singh, and Meljean Brook)

Carolina Girl

VIRGINIA KANTRA

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

CAROLINA GIRL

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Virginia Kantra.

Excerpt from
Carolina Man
by Virginia Kantra copyright © 2013 by Virginia Kantra.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY SENSATION
^®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-0-425-25122-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62341-1

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market paperback edition / June 2013

Cover art by Tony Mauro.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To mothers and daughters, especially to my mother, Phyllis, and to my daughter, Jean.

You inspire me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to Evelyn Bonano, for talking me through the stages of Tess’s recovery; to Angela R. Narron, for walking me through the tangle of Taylor’s custody; to Robin Rue and Beth Miller of Writers House, for their encouragement; to Cindy Hwang and the wonderful team at Berkley, for their support; to Carolyn Martin, for her sharp insights and corporate expertise
; and, finally, to Mike Ritchey, for being my Sam and taking me to the Umstead.

One

A
T THIRTY-FOUR,
M
EGAN
Fletcher was determined not to turn into her mother.

She settled behind her desk on the forty-seventh floor, stowing her Louis Vuitton bag away in the bottom-right-hand drawer. Aside from her piled in-box, the gleaming surface was almost bare, every file in order, every pen in place. She rubbed absently at a fingerprint. Maybe she had inherited Tess Fletcher’s compulsive tidiness, Meg admitted. But image was important. An uncluttered work space was a sign of an organized mind.

She set her BlackBerry within reach. She’d deliberately kept her schedule free to deal with the long to-do list that had accumulated in her absence.

Her mother made lists, too, stuck on the refrigerator or scrawled by the phone. But while her mother spent her days making beds and baking cookies, readying guest rooms and running errands, Meg oversaw a department of thirty people and an advertising budget of seventy-four million dollars.

She slipped off her Vera Wang snakeskin pumps, surreptitiously wiggling her toes under her desk.

It was good to be back.

She surveyed her domain with satisfaction: the tasteful artwork chosen by a design firm, the waxy green plants watered and replaced as needed by a plant service, the sliver of Manhattan skyline visible through her window. Her private conference room, accessible through glass pocket doors.

Back in charge. Back in control.

As if the past two weeks had all been a horrible dream.

She powered up her Keurig and her laptop at the same time, intending to review the latest press release about the acquisition while her coffee brewed. But when she attempted to log on to the company network, an error message popped up on-screen.
INCORRECT PASSWORD.

She pursed her lips. Her password had worked fine all weekend. And earlier this morning when she’d logged on while standing at the bathroom counter, brushing her teeth. Her fingers danced over the keys again. Same result. Irritation licked like flame along the edges of her satisfaction. It just figured that on her first day back the system would go wonky.

She picked up her phone. Dead. Not the most auspicious start to her day.

Barefoot, she padded across her office and stuck her head out the door. “Kelly, can you please give IS a call? My computer and my phone are all screwed up.”

“Will do,” her assistant said cheerfully. “And Stan just called. He wants to see you.”

Stanley Parks, the chief operating officer. Meg’s boss. “What time?” she asked.

“As soon as you’re free, he said. He’s in the conference room now. He sounded really stressed out.”

Adrenaline buzzed through Meg’s blood, responding to the challenge. God, she loved her work. Another crisis brewing. Another opportunity to shine. This was what she did, what she lived for.

“On my way,” she said coolly.

Full speed ahead. She slipped on her pumps and strode down the hall like a batter approaching the plate, ready to knock one out of the park. It felt good to be back in the game.

* * *

F
IRED.

Meg stared blindly out the cab window at the gray blur of Manhattan rumbling by, her personal possessions in a cardboard box on the seat beside her.

Forced to let you go
, Stan had said, not quite meeting her eyes. The familiar, falsely reassuring phrases had thumped into her like stones.

Until an hour ago, when she’d still held the power of hiring and firing, before she’d been escorted to the street and deposited on the curb like so much garbage, she had used the same words herself.
Eliminating redundant positions across the board
, she’d written in press releases.
Human Resources will assist you with the transition process
, she’d said kindly, passing the tissue box across her desk.

She had always prided herself on handling such situations compassionately and professionally.
I understand you feel that way
, she had murmured, secure in her job, her record, her stringent standards of performance.

Betrayal seared her throat like bile. She hadn’t understood at all.

The words didn’t matter. The tone didn’t change a thing.

She’d been dumped. Sacked. Axed.

She wanted to throw up.

Tomorrow she would make a list. Make a plan. But now she wanted to crawl off like a wounded animal, to curl into a fetal ball in the closet and suck her kneecaps. Maybe huddled in the dark beside her untouched golf clubs and unused tennis racket, she could begin to sort through the hot mess of her emotions. The ruins of her career.

She had worked for Franklin Insurance since her graduation from Harvard, earning her MBA from Columbia at night, steadily rising through the ranks, every grade, every performance review, every promotion another rung on her personal ladder of success.
Never look down, never look back.

Until she’d walked into that conference room and saw Judi Green from HR sitting with a stone-faced Stan, Meg had never suspected that her own job could be in jeopardy.

That she could be considered replaceable. Dispensable.

This Parnassus acquisition shook things up for all of us.
Stan had frowned down at the folder open in front of him.
Your absence at such a critical time for the organization was . . . noticed.

The unfairness of it had hit her like a slap. Heat whipped her face.
Stan, my mother was in a car accident. I called you every day from the hospital. You told me to go. You told me everything would be fine.

Derek had told her everything would be fine, too.

Derek.
The smell of the cab assaulted her nostrils. Her stomach churned.

Derek Chapman, the company’s tall, blond, ambitious chief financial officer, wasn’t only a member of the transition team. He was the man Meg loved. She believed him when he told her this acquisition was good for the company and good for them. A larger organization meant more responsibilities, more opportunities, and more money.

He must not know. He would have stopped this.

She moistened her lips, sick at heart, frightened for him. If Derek wasn’t in the loop . . . What if he had been blindsided, too?

For the past six years, their corporate fortunes had been hitched together.
We make a good team
, he’d said the first time he’d asked her out at a company retreat in Arizona.

She had been flattered. Derek was perfect for her new life, intelligent, ambitious, career-focused.

After they returned to the city, it had become routine for them to spend Wednesday and Saturday nights together. With Derek, she never had to make excuses for working late or explain why she was too tired for sex. Soon she had a toothbrush at his place, closet space, a drawer. She had measured the progress of their relationship the same way she’d tracked the rise of her career. In steady, upward increments.

Two years after Derek had been named chief financial officer, three months after Meg’s promotion to vice president of marketing and public relations, Derek had suggested they buy the condo together.

What would they do now, if they both lost their jobs?

She needed to know that he was all right. That
they
were all right. Instinctively, she reached for her BlackBerry.

It was gone.

She stared at the empty pocket, a pit opening in the center of her chest. Her electronic lifeline had been stripped from her along with her company laptop and corporate credit card, her ID badge and office key. She clenched her empty hand into a fist.

“Fifteen dollars and seventy cents,” the taxi driver said.

She looked up. The cab was double-parked outside the discreet limestone façade of her Central Park West address.

She fumbled for a bill—a twenty—and thrust it through the plastic divider. Almost a thirty percent tip. Now that she was unemployed, she ought to curtail her expenses, she thought with the part of her brain that continued to function. Set a budget. Live within her means.

She climbed out of the cab, dragging the box across the seat. All the years of working, of scraping, of getting by, rose like a bad smell from the gutter to haunt her.

She took a deep breath, willing her stomach to settle.

She was hardly destitute. Her severance package included six months’ salary and health insurance. But the down payment on the condo—an investment in her future with Derek, she’d told herself at the time—had taken most of her savings. In this economy and at her level, she could be job searching for a year.

The doorman sprang forward to take the cardboard carton from her arms.

Meg clutched the box tighter, all she had left of twelve years with the company: two framed diplomas and a photograph of her family, her makeup bag, an extra pair of shoes.

No pictures of Derek. Their relationship didn’t violate company protocol. She reported to Stan, not Derek. But even though they were generally acknowledged as a couple, Derek didn’t feel it was appropriate to advertise their liaison at the office.

“I’ve got it, thanks, Luis.”

The doorman frowned, a solid, graying man in his sixties, round in the middle like a whiskey barrel. Luis had been at the building longer than she had. He might have to put up with rain and rude residents, but at least he had job security. “Let me give you a hand to your apartment.”

She forced her numb lips to curve into a smile. “No, no, I’m okay.”

His warm brown eyes narrowed in concern. “You sure? No offense, but you don’t look so good.”

A remark like that to another tenant could have gotten him in trouble. But Luis knew Meg had worked her way through college waiting tables and scrubbing toilets.

You don’t need to share all the details of your personal life with the doorman, darling
, Derek had chided.

But Luis had a grandson, Meg had a brother, in Afghanistan. It made a bond.

She opened her mouth and felt, to her horror, tears clog her throat.

“You sick?” Luis asked. “That why you came home early?”

“Yes.” Shame flushed her face like a fever. But what else could she say? Oh, God, what would she tell her family? “Yes, I had to . . . leave work.”

“I’ll get the elevator for you,” Luis said.

She was too exhausted to argue. She followed him down the hall to the elevators.

The third-floor, two-bedroom apartment she shared with Derek didn’t provide the Central Park view he had wanted. But the space had still cost more than Meg could comfortably afford. Despite Derek’s larger salary, she had insisted on their splitting expenses right down the middle.

Her parents had not approved of the condo or, she sometimes thought, of Derek. They could not understand why, after six years together, she and Derek didn’t simply get married.

Meg had dismissed her family’s concerns. She didn’t need a ring to establish her worth or validate her relationship. The joint investment in the condo was another step, another sign that her life and career were proceeding according to plan.

She swallowed hard. Or they had been until an hour ago.

She let herself into the empty apartment. Leaning back against the door, she closed her eyes. The living room had the chilled hush of a funeral parlor. The surrounding units were quiet, everyone at work. No scraping furniture penetrated into the apartment, no footsteps, no chattering TVs, only the muted sounds of traffic drifting from the street.

What was she supposed to do with herself in the middle of the day? What was she going to do?

She took off her shoes, her jacket, her earrings, divesting herself of her corporate armor piece by piece. Without it she felt naked. Vulnerable.

She wandered through the apartment like a sleepwalker, her limbs weighted by lethargy, her body infected by an odd, internal restlessness.

She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t text or call or go on-line. They’d never bothered to pay for a landline or personal computer. Why should they? The company provided everything. Now, even if she’d had her BlackBerry, her phone and e-mail contacts, all her personal network, were wiped out when IS had disabled her account.

No wonder her password had failed that morning.

She stopped at the window, staring down at people flowing by like twigs caught in a current: envoys from office buildings moving purposefully along the sidewalks, mothers pushing strollers on their way to the park, tourists wandering arm in arm, stopping to point or to kiss. Everyone had somewhere to go, someone to be with, while she stood alone, apart, removed from all of them.

Where was Derek?

He didn’t come at lunchtime. She was relieved. As long as he was at the office, he still had a job.

But he wasn’t home at five o’clock.

Or at six.

Or at seven.

Of course he couldn’t call, she told herself as the minutes and hours ticked by. She didn’t have a phone. And she couldn’t call him. She couldn’t leave the apartment, even if she planned to buy a phone, even if she knew where to find a pay phone. What if Derek showed up while she was out? She didn’t know any of their neighbors well enough to go knocking on doors. What could she say?
Hi, I’ve lost my job and I can’t reach my boyfriend, may I use your phone?
She shuddered. That would be a hell of an introduction.