When life throws you a curve ball…

Venus deMarley has just been hit with a wild pitch. At forty she’s finally found the perfect fiancé, when Sophie—the daughter she gave up for adoption twenty years ago—suddenly reappears. Venus has another crisis on her hands as well: her eccentric millionaire dad just died and willed her his pet project—a rag-tag minor league baseball team called the Bronx Cheers—if Venus and Sophie can reconcile and once again become a family. Venus knows diddly about sports, but Sophie’s a jock, unlike her glamorous mom. And after two decades apart, these two women know nothing about each other, and rarely agree on anything. But maybe—just maybe—they have more in common than they think…

Leslie Carroll is the author of twenty books in three genres, including a series of five nonfiction titles on the loves and lives of European royalty: Royal Affairs, Notorious Royal Marriages, Royal Pains, Royal Romances, and Inglorious Royal Marriages. She also wrote an illustrated hardcover “coffee table” book on a thousand years of British royalty commissioned by Sterling, the publishing arm of Barnes & Noble. She and her husband divide their time between the high-rises of Manhattan and the high elevation of Denver.

Choosing Sophie

By Leslie Carroll

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2008 Leslie Carroll
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780060871376

Chapter One

Top of the First

“My knight in shining armor,” I purred gratefully, as Tom stepped onto the balcony and placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of me. “Where would I be without my morning fix?” I teased, reaching up to run my hand through his hair.

“The coffee or the New York Times online?” Tom leaned over and pressed his lips to the top of my head. “Mmmm . . . you smell good. Must be all this Colorado sunshine.” He kneaded my shoulders and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet mountain air. “I can never get enough of this,” he said, gesturing to the wide world beyond as if he owned the place. “If this is ‘God’s country,’ as they say, it’s almost enough to make a man a true believer.”

I kissed his hand and rested my cheek against it. The view of the mountains was indeed spectacular. In Tom’s chalet-style house I felt like a modern-day Heidi. “The longer I stay here, the greater the urge to yodel,” I kidded, turning back to my laptop.

“What could be better to look at than this?” Tom glanced over my shoulder at the laptop and frowned at the screen. “A garbage strike, another rapper shot in front of a nightclub, record-breaking heat—this is as close as I ever want to be to your precious New York City.” He shuddered dramatically, faking a visceral adverse reaction that he knows always gets my goat.

“Hey—no picking on my hometown!” I squeezed Tom’s hand. “I thought you didn’t mind it so much when you lived there.”

“As a grad student. With an exit visa. Two years of business school and I knew I was coming back to the slopes. There are no decent places to ski in your state.”

I took a sip of coffee, savoring its warmth as it coursed down my throat. Tom had brewed it just the way I like it—strong enough to stand a spoon in. “Oh, c’mon!” I gently bit his knuckles.

“Ow!”

“I told you not to insult New York. We’ve got great mountains! What about the Catskills? And the Adirondacks? This coffee is perfect, by the way.” I tilted my head to beam at him. “So, I guess I’ll keep you, after all.” I twisted my engagement ring with my left thumb so the diamond would catch the morning light. “Yeah,” I sighed happily. “You’re a keeper. Even if you dis my city all the time. After all, it’s so hard to get a great cup of coffee these days.”

Tom took my left hand in his. His skin felt warm against mine. “The Catskills? Those aren’t mountains. Those are hills. These,” he said, gesturing expansively toward the incomparable vista of the jagged Ten Mile Range, “these are mountains.”

The sky was impossibly blue. “Della Robbia blue” as Blanche Dubois would have called it. A color found in early Renaissance ceramics and the Colorado sky. Another perfect day in Paradise.

I turned back to the computer screen, where a Times headline announced the indictment of a city council member. “You don’t really hate New York that much, do you?” For some reason, I found Tom’s over-the-top distaste for the city more amusing than annoying; it was writ so large that I found it hard to take seriously.

“It’s a nice place to visit.”

“What about as a place to get married?”

“I thought we were going to get married here?”

“But all my friends are in New York. Except for your family, I don’t know anyone here but you.” And we’d only known each other since February. I’d treated myself to a ski vacation over Presidents’ Day weekend, or whatever the calendars call it these days. Tom was conducting a clinic at Breckenridge that was really designed to introduce potential customers to Elliott and Sons equipment—the company that’s been owned by his family for four generations. Nowadays, there are Elliott daughters in the business, but the name remains a Victorian-era throwback. By the end of the holiday weekend Elliott and Sons had taken my credit card number in exchange for a state-of-the-art pair of boots and bindings, new skis, and poles—and I’d given my heart to the CEO.

Sometimes you just know.

“We’ll fly your guests out here, Ollie,” Tom offered.

“You’re not that rich!” I teased. “Nor am I. And you know I hate it when you call me Ollie. Shades of a dragon puppet from a long-gone TV show. Besides, no one else does.”

“Which is why I do. I figure the husband-to-be ought to get some special privileges or something.”

I placed his hand on my breast. “You already do.”

“Yay!” Tom’s jubilant exclamation came out like a soft peal of music. He grinned. “I’m so glad you want to be Mrs. Tom Elliott of Breckenridge, Colorado.”

“Mmm . . . aren’t you an old-fashioned guy?” I nuzzled his knuckles. “Actually, I’ll still be Ms. Olivia deMarley, late of New York for most of her years, and Las Vegas for several, by way of Massachusetts for three of them.” I guided his hand over the mountainous landscape of my chest. “But I’m still looking forward to marrying Number One Son of Elliott and Sons ski company and manufactorium.”

“Is manufactorium a word?”

“It is now.” I laughed and craned my neck to meet Tom’s lips as he bent toward me. “You’re the only man I’ve ever even considered marrying.”

Come to think of it, I haven’t had too many offers over the years. Burlesque dancers don’t tend to be the kind of women a guy brings home to meet his mother. They hear what you do and figure it means you’re a stripper. I’ve spent half a lifetime explaining the difference in order to justify my existence to people who don’t deserve the disclaimer. But the truth is that most of my relationships tanked long before the subject of marriage (doing it, as opposed to avoiding it) was on the table.

Continues…
Excerpted from Choosing Sophieby Leslie Carroll Copyright © 2008 by Leslie Carroll. Excerpted by permission.
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