Alex sat, his back rigid, his mind frozen. He had dealt with many contemptible people, but Hardy exceeded the boundaries of villainy. How could he do this to Ellie? Gentle Ellie, whose only sin was to need tenderness, to make Alex a present of her unopened gift of passion, a gift Hardy had refused. His heart ached for her. How in the name of anything human could a husband betray no sign of altered emotion for six long months while harboring this swinish 'show and tell trash? He wanted to strangle the man, to force the color of suffering into that flat-white, lifeless face. He realized he'd already refilled his glass with port. His head was humming. His gaze moved from the decanter to the man behind the gun. Al1 that wine, and now the port. Had Hardy actually drunk any? What were his intentions? Certainly he would know the perfect potion for a slow death. And the gun.was it to keep them imprisoned at the table until the poison infiltrated their veins? Or did he intend to poison and shoot them, a Rasputinish overkill? He, who had been accused of the ability to read minds at countless negotiating confrontations, hadn't even a good guess.

Cathy Phillips returns to close the lake house where tragedy shattered her golden existence; she intends to leave her memories and carefully built, safe way of life intact. A vital stranger arrives to offer his help, then stays to challenge her to banish yesterday's ghosts and reach for tomorrow with both hands. Dare she take the risk, or is it too much too soon?

"awarded gold 5* rating." Barbra Critiques Ltd.

"Second Chance at Love one of best lines. Mary Haskell one of favorite authors." Waldenbooks (Bethesda, MD)

"Enlivened by good dialogue and strong characterization." Sensual Reads (Mellinda P Heifer)

Alex sat, his back rigid, his mind frozen. He had dealt with many contemptible people, but Hardy exceeded the boundaries of villainy. How could he do this to Ellie? Gentle Ellie, whose only sin was to need tenderness, to make Alex a present of her unopened gift of passion, a gift Hardy had refused. His heart ached for her. How in the name of anything human could a husband betray no sign of altered emotion for six long months while harboring this swinish 'show and tell trash? He wanted to strangle the man, to force the color of suffering into that flat-white, lifeless face. He realized he'd already refilled his glass with port. His head was humming. His gaze moved from the decanter to the man behind the gun. Al1 that wine, and now the port. Had Hardy actually drunk any? What were his intentions? Certainly he would know the perfect potion for a slow death. And the gun.was it to keep them imprisoned at the table until the poison infiltrated their veins? Or did he intend to poison and shoot them, a Rasputinish overkill? He, who had been accused of the ability to read minds at countless negotiating confrontations, hadn't even a good guess.