The Third Mrs. Mitchell. Lynnette Kent
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A vision of Pete naked, with warm water glazing his skin, flashed into her mind.
Mary Rose shook her head hard and sat down on the sofa, sifting through the magazines on Pete’s coffee table, mostly law enforcement publications and racing rags. The summer they were together, she recalled, he’d read all the golf journals…and the racing rags. Some things never changed.
But some things did. Ten years ago—July 7, to be exact—she’d married Pete Mitchell. They’d lived together for a little over a month in the one-room apartment he’d rented, sharing the cheap furniture that came with the place, subsistence groceries and the red Mustang her parents had given her as a graduation present. Not to mention the fantastic sex.
After ten years they were obviously different people, at different points in their lives, not the kids they’d been long ago. Mary Rose didn’t act on impulse anymore. She considered options, made plans, evaluated results. Yet after ten years, here she was again…in Pete Mitchell’s place.
The Third Mrs. Mitchell
Lynnette Kent
For Kathy, Barbara and Julie, my sisters…in law and so much more.
Dear Reader,
As a navy wife, I appreciated the opportunity to travel across the United States and see firsthand the amazing diversity and beauty of this country. When the time came for my husband to retire, however, the choice of where to go was never in doubt…we couldn’t imagine settling down outside the South. Neighborhoods where all the children play together and treat each other’s houses, and parents, as their own, backyard vegetable gardens and lazy, sun-soaked summers, honeysuckle vines and moss-draped live oak trees—these are our childhood memories, this the lifestyle we wanted our daughters to experience. We’ve come close to our ideal in North Carolina, although the bustle of the modern world now penetrates all but the remotest country retreats. These days, even rural backwaters have their Internet cafés, rush-hour traffic and crime statistics.
Still, I have a deep affection for the real South and the people who live here. And so I’m offering Superromance readers a series of books set in a small Southern town, stories about folks who stayed nearby after high school or who have come back to make a home in the place where they were born. There’s plenty of material to draw from, since life gets complicated when you know everybody and they all know you, when your smallest transgression is the main topic of conversation the next morning over breakfast at the local diner!
Sometimes, though, the place that’s all too familiar is the best place to make a brand-new start. In The Third Mrs. Mitchell, Mary Rose Bowdrey discovers that coming home means dealing with the mistakes and misjudgments of the past…not to mention Pete Mitchell, the man she’s never quite managed to forget. Pete’s got his life all planned out; after two failed marriages, he’s taken himself out of the relationship game permanently. But when these ex-lovers keep running into each other, their best intentions aren’t enough to keep love from having its own way.
I hope you enjoy the first book in my AT THE CAROLINA DINER series. I love to hear from readers—feel free to write me at my new address: PMB 304, Westwood Shopping Center, Fayetteville, NC 28314.
All the best,
Lynnette Kent
Books by Lynnette Kent
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
765—ONE MORE RODEO
793—WHEN SPARKS FLY
824—WHAT A MAN’S GOT TO DO
868—EXPECTING THE BEST
901—LUKE’S DAUGHTERS
938—MATT’S FAMILY
988—NOW THAT YOU’RE HERE
1002—MARRIED IN MONTANA
1024—SHENANDOAH CHRISTMAS
1080—THE THIRD MRS. MITCHELL
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
THE RED PORSCHE flashed by at an impressive 84.7 miles per hour.
Parked within the deep shade of the pine trees in the median, Pete Mitchell sighed, pushed his shades up on his nose, then flipped the switch for the siren and the lights and eased his patrol car into the northbound lane of Interstate 95. Another day, another speeder, another hundred dollars for the county.
Traffic was light at 3:00 p.m. on a Thursday and he caught up with the Porsche before five miles had passed, noting the South Carolina license plate. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror as he moved over behind her in the right lane. Her fist hit the steering wheel in frustration.
“Gotcha,” Pete told her with a grin, staying close as she slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. After checking for oncoming traffic, he eased out of the car and set his hat straight on his head, then took his time getting to the driver’s window.
The windowpane slid down as he came close. A long slender arm stretched out with a driver’s license and registration sheet clipped between two pink-frosted fingertips. The diamond tennis bracelet weighing down that elegant left hand could easily have doubled as a handcuff.
“Trying out for a NASCAR berth, ma’am?” Pete slid the papers free. “I think you’ve confused Interstate 95 with Darlington Speedway.” He turned on his toe to head back to the cruiser, but one glance at the license stopped him cold. Taking off his shades, he checked out the name again. Looked at the face in the picture. Swore under his breath.
Mary Rose Bowdrey. Born May 1, 1974. Height, five-eight; weight, one-thirty. That hadn’t changed in ten years. Eyes, blue—the color, as he remembered, of the Atlantic Ocean at noon on a sunny