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Chapter 1
    I was lost. My brand new BMW decided to defy the dealer's promises of German reliability and break down after bringing me in to the middle of nowhere. I was stranded on a dirt road that meandered drunkenly for 25 miles through trees before staggering into a dusty collection of sun bleached shacks. Apparently either folks in this part of the country didn't believe that having a phone was vital to life or they liked lying to desperate strangers. Either way I was SOL. I kept walking in a circle doing what I'm sure looked like a deranged version of the Jitterbug, holding my cell up trying to find a signal.
    As I looked around the desolate countryside I realized it was like being stranded on the set of Wes Craven's The Hills Have Eyes , all that was missing was the gas station attended by a buck-toothed local bent on committing assisted homicide. As for the winding dirt track leading off to the edge of nowhere it seemed I was already on it. Although that thought alone made me want to huddle, whimpering, in my car while regretting my movie choices, my father's reaction when I didn't answer his summons scared me more.
    The fact was , I had made a mess of things by woefully misjudging the potential for disaster inherent in booking a vegan convention and a NRA convention in adjoining wings of the Jones- Westly Convention Centre, my Dad's latest and greatest convention complex. It had taken the city's entire police force to get the city core back to some semblance of order. Dad let me know, in no uncertain terms , that more, much more, was expected of his only child and executive meeting room manager. That conversation had taken place on the phone, now he wanted to give me the speech in person.
    To say that my father is not known for his understanding or compassion is an understatement of astronomic proportions. Which is not to say that he has never done anyone a favor, he has, it's just that he expects to get paid back for his favors- - with interest. One might almost say that he's made a business out of it, one that has nothing to do with convention centers. As he said to me once: make a lot of money with no apparent means of income and people tend to get suspicious. Thus the convention centers.
    Dad always harp ed on about the importance of family. " Rosa line ," my father would say, "You need to meet a man, someone nice, someone who will take care of you." I would roll my eyes and say, "Papa, I can take care of myself," at which point Dad would pinch my cheeks and hug me as if to say, 'How cute, look at my daughter, so independent.' Since I was the only child of a very traditional Italian family I had known from my early teens that I would be expected to marry and have children to continue the family line. And , honestly, I kinda like the idea of meeting Mr. Right and doing the whole Mom thing. One day.
    The problem is that, although I'm reasonably attractive–blond hair, smooth clear skin, an athletic yet curvy figure–as soon as a guy I like finds out who my Dad is, they head for the hills. Ordinary guys that is. Lots of people who work for Dad would love to be part of the family, but I am so not going down that road. It's unfair! Men either wouldn't touch me with the proverbial 10 - foot pole or they were falling all over themselves to ask me out . I wanted someone to want me for me , not my family connections. So I had no husband and no kids. Perhaps that's why Dad was so grumpy these days.
    Reluctantly, I left my 21st birthday present on the side of the road and started walking, hoping that the spot on the map I'd found indicated a town just ahead and not just that I was a sloppy eater.
    As I walked, the dying rays of the sun played along my skin and a breeze tickled the fine hairs on my arms, bathing me in the warm scents of late summer. I inhaled deeply savoring the intoxicating scent of wild honeysuckle. After only a half-hour of walking the beauty of my surroundings faded as I was reminded one does not buy