Harlequin Shorts Online Part 08

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Runaway Hearts Invitation To A Murder Opposites Attract The Tycoon's Runaway Bride Desert Prince, Bartered Bride The Cowboy Next Door Unfinished Business Living the Fantasy The Doctor Everyone's Talking About A Perfect Match Royal Peril Operation: Second Honeymoon Perfect Passion Sophie's Sheikh Too Close For Comfort His Gambler Bride Nowhere to Run A Christmas Refuge The G.P.'s Christmas Miracle His Christmas Captive Melting the M.D. Red Rock Cinderella Lucky In Love Cowboy All Night Daisy and the Duke One Crazy Kiss Cafe Romeo Bold as Brass Donnelly's Promise Hideaway Hero Whatever Happened To Babycakes? Degrees of Romance: Night of the Living Wed One Perfect Night Titanic: a Date with Destiny Flirting with Fire No End in Sight

By Beth Cornelison By Vicki Hinze By Kathryn Shay By Christine Rimmer By Marguerite Kaye By Linda Warren By Amy J. Fetzer By Joanne Rock By Fiona McArthur by Emilie Rose By Rachelle McCalla By Debra Webb By Day Leclaire By Alexandra Sellars By Jacqueline Diamond By Rebecca Winters By Elle Kennedy By Rebecca Winters By Alison Roberts By Caitlin Crews By Tanya Michaels By Judy Duarte By Muriel Jensen By Tina Leonard By Janice Maynard By Penny McCusker By Kristin Gabriel By Christine Bell By Cheryl St.John By Kathleen O'Brien By Darlene Gardner

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By Michele Hauf

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By Teresa Southwick By Marguerite Kaye By Wendy Etherington

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By Dana Mentink

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Till 332…

* eHarlequin, US ^eHarlequin, Aus rest of them Mills and Boon, UK

** others

#India

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Runaway Hearts By Beth Cornelison Kayla's nine-year-old son, Matt, had run away and now he was alone and lost in the Absaroka foothills of Montana, and night was falling. She had made some mistakes in the past, but this time her son's life depended on her doing everything right. Even if that meant joining forces with her ex, rancher Ben Radley. Kayla was the last person Ben wanted to see again. Ten years ago she'd left him and their small town of Maple Cove for the rodeo—where she'd met and married his wild brother. That wild streak had gotten his brother killed, and Ben feared if he didn't take control of the search, Kayla's own recklessness could endanger her and Matt. But being close to Kayla was a danger all its own. After all the pain she'd caused him, could he put the past aside to rescue Matt in time? Family. Lies. Full Exposure. Don't miss the stories of Cole Kelley and his five siblings in The Kelley Legacy miniseries: Private Justice by Marie Ferrarella—July 2011 Special Ops Bodyguard by Beth Cornelison—August 2011 Cowboy Under Siege by Gail Barrett—September 2011 Rancher Under Cover by Carla Cassidy—October 2011 Missing Mother-to-Be by Elle Kennedy—November 2011 Captain's Call of Duty by Cindy Dees—December 2011

Chapter One "Matt!" Kayla Hamilton Radley called as she scanned the rugged Montana landscape for her missing son. "Matt, answer me!" But she heard no reply. Fear and regret weighted her chest as she flicked her reins, urging her horse to move faster. More than an hour had passed since her nine-year-old son had shouted how much he hated her for moving him to Montana then bolted from her father's ranch house. When she'd heard the engine of the ranch's only allterrain vehicle roar to life, Kayla had run outside just in time to see Matt race off toward the Absaroka foothills. Worried for Matt's safety, she'd immediately saddled Rascal, her father's strongest horse, and ridden out after her son. Since then, she'd searched the rolling hills near Maple Cove, the small town where she'd grown up, to no avail. Matt and the ATV were nowhere to be found. The vast ranch property covered thousands of acres of rough terrain, from rocky mountain slopes to sprawling cattle pastures. She considered all the hazards—wild animals, dehydration, disorientation, exposure. Even the smallest of roots could upend the ATV and trap her son…or worse—and the hazards would only increase when night fell. Finding Matt before dark was urgent. "Matt, where are you?" Her voice echoed through the valley, answered only by the lonely screech of a hawk swooping overhead. She understood why her son was so upset. Losing his father this year had been hard on both of them. Since his father's death in a rodeo accident, Matt had been rebellious, testing his boundaries—and Kayla's patience. Matt was at a precarious age where he needed a male role model more than ever—one of many reasons why she'd moved back home to Maple Cove and her father's ranch. Today Matt had accused her of trying to control his life, and the echo of her past had made her snap at him, unfairly.

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When she heard approaching hoofbeats, Kayla turned in her saddle to see who was coming. She held her breath, hoping the arriving rider was a messenger with news Matt had been found. The sorrel mustang and the man atop it wearing a black cowboy hat were not from her father's ranch. And yet something about the way the cowboy sat his horse seemed familiar to Kayla. A prickle of recognition nipped her neck. "Is there a problem, ma'am?" he called to her. Kayla's heartbeat stumbled. She knew that voice. Intimately. She drew a deep breath, steeling herself as he rode closer. Kayla knew the instant he recognized her because shock flitted across his face for a split second before he tensed his jaw. "Kayla." His tone was flat, unwelcoming. "What are you doing here?" The rich baritone voice belonged to the man she'd dreaded running into since returning to Maple Cove. One of the reasons she'd stayed away as long as she had. The man with the power to break her heart. Her late husband's brother. "Hello, Ben."

Chapter Two Very little could rattle Ben Radley's composure. But Kayla Hamilton always had. And apparently still did. He tried to tell himself that the jolt of adrenaline racing through him was due to the surprise of seeing her after ten years rather than any leftover feelings he had for her. Deep down, though, he realized that was a lie. He'd tried hard to forget Kayla since she'd left town and later married his brother, but he still found himself thinking of her in moments when his guard was down. Gripping his reins tighter and clenching his teeth, he gave her a tight nod in greeting. "I hadn't heard you were visiting." "I'm not. Visiting, I mean. I… We've moved back here." Ben took a moment to absorb her announcement. His gut pitched as he considered the ramifications. Kayla was back. God help him. He arched an eyebrow. "We?" "My son and me. We've moved in with my dad until we can find a place of our own." She glanced away for a beat, her brow wrinkling with concern before she faced him again. Her pale blue eyes still sent shock waves through him, but he quickly doused the spark of desire that crackled through him. He'd learned the hard way what losing Kayla could do to a man's heart, and he had no intention of going down that path again. "Matt's had a rough time dealing with Joshua's death. I thought moving home to Maple Cove would be good for him. But…" She sighed and sent another frowning glance across the horizon. "But?"

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"He's mad at me for taking him away from his friends and moving him to 'the middle of nowhere.'" She aimed a worried frown at Ben. "He ran away. So to answer your earlier question, I'm out here searching for him." Ben scowled. "By yourself?" "I thought I could catch up to him before he got too far." Her horse tossed his head impatiently, and Kayla patted the gelding's neck. "But he took off more than an hour ago, and I haven't seen any sign of him. I'm getting worried. He's too young and inexperienced with this terrain to be out here alone." Ben tapped his hat back and angled his head. "Same could be said about you." She jerked a sharp look toward him. "I'm not going home until I find Matt." Ben gritted his teeth, fighting for patience and questioning the sanity of what he was about to offer. "I figured as much. I'll help you look for your kid." "I didn't ask for any favors." Kayla glowered at him, and he realized his tone had been less than gracious. Sighing his frustration and already regretting that his decision would mean working closely with Kayla for the next several hours, he shoved his hat in place. "No, you didn't. I'm volunteering. You're on Cole Kelley's ranch property now. I've worked with Cole for eight years, so I know this area like the back of my hand." He narrowed his gaze on her, adding, "And in case you haven't done the math, your son is also my family. I'm taking over the search because he's my nephew."

Chapter Three "Taking over?" Kayla bristled at Ben's high-handed decree. "How typically bossy of y—" Ben snapped his reins and took off toward the foothills before she could finish, leaving her to follow or be left behind. Gritting her teeth, she tapped Rascal's flanks with her heels and hurried to catch up. "If you want to help," she said as she pulled alongside Ben, "why don't you head to Cole's ranch and ask for volunteers to broaden the search?" Her words sounded choppy thanks to the jarring ride as Rascal loped to keep up with Ben's bigger horse. "I think it's time we called the sheriff. We're losing daylight, and we have a lot of ground to cover." He cut a sidelong glance at her then shook his head. "No way. I'm not leaving you alone out here. You'll end up lost, and we'll be forming search parties to find you." Kayla growled her frustration. Clearly Ben hadn't changed. Even after all these years, he thought he could tell her what to do. Well, he was wrong! She would do whatever it took to find Matt, and she wouldn't let Ben's controlling nature get in her way. "Ben, we need more—" "Radley to base," Ben interrupted, speaking into a hand radio he'd pulled from a clip at his belt. "Are you there, Cole?" He held the walkie-talkie to his ear, listening for a response. When he raised a reply from Cole Kelley's ranch, he detailed the situation and their approximate location. "Tell them he was wearing a red T-shirt and blue jeans when he left," Kayla said.

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Ben passed on the information, adding, "If the sheriff can round up a search team in the next hour, we might still locate the boy before dark." Before dark. Kayla shivered at the thought of being out here after the sun went down. This far away from the lights of Maple Cove, the rolling hills would be shrouded in blackness. She sent Ben a worried glance. "What if we don't find him before dark?" He stowed the radio on his belt clip then swiped perspiration from his brow. "Then we go home and start searching again in the morning." She shook her head. "No. I'm not going home without my son." "Kayla, be reasonable. You're not equipped to be out here after dark. It gets cold at night and— Hey, slow down on this hill!" They'd reached a steep incline where loose rocks littered the ground, making the footing for the horses more treacherous. She leaned back in her saddle as Rascal picked his way down the hillside. Ben grunted. "Kayla, slow—" With a loud squawk, a pair of hawks took flight from a scrub bush just as they reached it. Tossing his head in alarm and stumbling on the loose rocks, Rascal reared up and Kayla lost both her balance and her grip on the reins. With a startled gasp, she slid from the saddle and fell to the hard ground with a tooth-rattling thud. Whinnying his fright, Rascal bolted down the hill and took off across the open plain at a run.

Chapter Four "Kayla!" Ben's heart leaped when Kayla tumbled from her horse and landed perilously close to the kicking hooves of the startled gelding. His own horse, rattled by the commotion, pranced uneasily and pawed the rocky ground. Ben reined Blaze in and swung down from his saddle, his heart in his throat as he approached Kayla's prone form. "Are you hurt?" She blinked and groaned as she sat up, rubbing her elbow. "Only my pride." Relief shuddered through Ben, followed by a spike of irritation. Kayla's recklessness was exactly the reason he had to stay with her. If she pushed too hard in this unforgiving terrain, she could end up in a wheelchair, same as her father. Or dead…like Joshua, his adrenaline-junkie brother. He needed to rein in her overzealousness on this search, or they could all end up hurt. "I warned you to slow down." "I was going slow enough, Mr. Bossy! It was the birds that spooked—" She rolled her eyes. "Oh, forget it. I remember your opinion of my riding ability." "What does that mean?" He offered Kayla a hand up. When he wrapped his fingers around hers, he couldn't help but notice how small her hand felt in his. The word vulnerable flickered through his brain, but he quickly dismissed it. Kayla might be petite and slim, but she was as self-reliant, headstrong and capable as they came. Even if she didn't know her limits. She glared at him. "You didn't think I was good enough to compete in the rodeo. You thought I was better off staying in Maple Cove." 5

Resentment spurred him. "Wrong. You were good enough, but you were also overconfident and took too many risks, just like your father did before his accident. I didn't want to see you in a wheelchair, too." He'd only been trying to protect her, but in the end he'd made her hate him and driven her away. When she'd left him to ride on the rodeo circuit, she'd called Ben's pragmatic nature and desire to stay in Maple Cove to work with local ranchers boring. He really hadn't been surprised to hear she'd hooked up with Josh on the road. They were a matched set of daredevils. Despite the lesson of the careless ranching accident that had paralyzed her father, she'd always pushed the limits with her barrel racing. Dangerously so. He gritted his teeth, wondering if she still saw him as the staid brother, the dull one. He hauled her to her feet with enough strength to bring her body flush against his. She found her balance by gripping his shoulder with her free hand. Her eyes rose to meet his, her pupils dilating, and she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. Heat shimmered in her bright blue eyes, and a familiar crackle of desire arced between them—desire she'd rejected in exchange for the rodeo and freedom from her father and their small town. She wanted excitement? Ben knew just the way to get her hot and bothered. In fact, he'd love the chance to show Kayla the passion she'd passed up when she picked the rodeo, then Josh, over him. As if reading his thoughts, Kayla sucked in a deep breath and wiggled free of his grasp. "Thanks," she said, sounding as breathless as Ben felt at that moment. Stepping back, she looked down the hill in the direction her horse had run. Message received. She still wanted nothing to do with him. Ben shoved down the jab of hurt her rejection stirred. "Now that we only have one horse, I'd say our best move is to head home and start tomorrow with a full search team." She set her shoulders and sent him a determined glare. "No, we'll lose too much time if we ride home then start over in the morning. Matt could be hurt." Her brow creased in worry. She closed her eyes, clearly struggling to stay calm. "I won't let your I-know-what's-best-for-everyone attitude get in the way of rescuing my son." Ben scowled and strode to Blaze with his spine stiff and his pride bruised. "Then we'd better hurry if we're gonna catch up with your horse." His pulse kicked like a bronco when he realized she'd have to ride with him on Blaze…her tush snuggled close to his lap, his arms around her to grip the reins. Torture. Sweet, sensual torment was what it would be.

Chapter Five Kayla dusted her backside and marched over to Blaze, where she hesitated. She shot Ben a nervous glance, realizing what their riding arrangement would be. Get a grip! You can do this. Squaring her shoulders, she raised her chin and swung up on Blaze. As he took his place behind her, she tried to ignore the scent of leather and sandalwood that clung to him. She tried to ignore the memories of 6

that same mellow aroma surrounding her as he held her, kissed her…made love to her. Once. Years ago, before— A flash of color on the hill snagged her attention. "Ben, wait!" she cried, wiggling free of his grasp and sliding out of the saddle. She scrambled up the rocky embankment and grabbed the item she'd spotted. Matt's baseball cap. Her pulse leaping, she spun around to show Ben the hat. Kayla's heart pounded with an odd combination of joy and fear. "We're on the right track," she said, casting a frantic glance around the valley. "Matt was wearing this cap when he ran away!" She turned in a circle to scan the landscape in each direction. "Matt, where are you?" Ben swung down from Blaze's saddle, but instead of helping her search the horizon, he squatted and eyed the ground. "What are you doing?" "Looking for tracks from the ATV or his footprints." He shaded his eyes, squinting against the sun. "If he came this way, his tracks should give us a fix on the direction he went." He cast his gaze around then pointed to where the sparse grass lay slightly flatter than the rest. "See? He drove the ATV there, headed that way." He aimed a finger north, following the path of the tracks. "Looks like he was trying to stick to the valley, so that's where we'll head." Kayla studied the barely visible tracks and goggled at Ben. "How did you notice that?" He gave a dismissive shrug. "I've been trained as a tracker. A useful skill when we're searching for lost cattle in this vast terrain." She gave him an appreciative grin. "Amazing." He winked as he climbed into his saddle. "Told ya you needed me." Despite the warm September sun, Kayla shivered…remembering. Through the years, she had needed Ben for things his brother couldn't give her. A passion that reverberated in her soul. The feeling of completeness and destiny she'd known only with Ben. The sense of security and stability she'd hungered for as her wanderlust faded and her son grew older. In that moment, a sobering truth settled over her—years ago, reeling from the hurt of Ben's refusal to support her rodeo career and desperate to break free of her father's control and this suffocating small town, she'd made a terrible mistake. She'd married the wrong Radley brother.

Chapter Six Ben had made a terrible mistake letting Kayla ride in front of him, he decided several minutes later. Having her bottom snuggled against his groin, the subtle rock and sway as they rode causing a tantalizing friction, was indeed a sweet torture. He gritted his teeth and battled down the surge of lust that spiked in his blood, praying they found her horse soon.

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But an hour later, with the sun dipping low in the sky, they hadn't caught up with Rascal, and they decided the higher priority was to follow the tracks left by the ATV. They followed the tire impressions through the valley that lay between two rocky ridges, but they saw no sign of Kayla's son and received no answer when they called for Matt. As the afternoon wore on, Ben sensed Kayla's growing desperation as tension vibrated through her body and worry echoed in her voice as she called for her son. Speared by sympathy and his own concern, he covered her hand on the saddle horn with his and squeezed. "We're going to find him, Kayla, and he's going to be all right." She craned her neck to glance over her shoulder at him. "You don't know that. Anything could have happened to him. You said yourself it's dangerous out here, especially for someone inexperienced with the area." He sighed and kept his tone calm, reasonable. "Yeah, I said that, but it also does no good to borrow trouble. Worrying yourself sick won't help us find—" He paused when a flash of movement to his left drew his attention. Half-hidden by a chokecherry shrub, Kayla's horse stood nibbling the berries from the bush and swishing his tail. "Well, there's one missing party we can scratch off our list." They dismounted and approached Rascal cautiously, even though he seemed calm now. "Hey, how ya doing, Rascal?" Kayla crooned as she crept up and took hold of the horse's bridle. She stroked Rascal's nose and patted his neck. "Good boy." Taking advantage of the break, Ben pulled a bottle of water from his saddlebag and offered it to Kayla. He watched her tip her head back to drink, arching her slim, graceful throat as she swallowed. The desire to nuzzle that neck and nip the arc of her shoulder kicked him hard in the gut. Muttering a curse under his breath, he averted his eyes to scan the surrounding hills. Why did he have to find everything about this woman so damn sexy? Probably because she was so damn sexy. He'd always thought so. An opinion Joshua had shared. Yet Joshua hadn't been so foolish as to let Kayla walk out of his life. He, on the other hand, hadn't seen her even when Matt was born. She and Josh had avoided Ben for the past ten years, he thought with a scowl. She finished drinking and met his eyes. "What is that look about?" Ben gritted his teeth. "Just wondering… I know things were strained and awkward between us after you got pregnant and married Josh, but…" Kayla's expression grew guarded, as if she realized what was coming and was bracing herself. Ben drilled her with an unyielding stare. He deserved the truth. "Does Matt know I'm his uncle?"

Chapter Seven "Does Matt know I'm his uncle?" Kayla drew a slow, deep breath then shook her head. "He knew Joshua had a brother, but…we never told him any specifics about you." 8

She saw a flash of pain on Ben's face before he schooled his features and glanced away. "Why not?" She firmed her mouth and thrust the bottle of water toward him. "It's complicated." He took the water from her and tipped it up for a drink. Wiping his mouth with his hand, he said, "How complicated could it be? The boy has a right to know his family." She tucked her hair behind her ears. "I think Joshua was jealous of you, of…what we'd had together before…" She sighed. "He asked me once if I wished Matt were your son instead of his." Ben tensed. "And you said…?" "How cruel do you think I am? I couldn't tell him I wished that was true!" she said hotly, angry to feel tears pricking her eyes. Then she gasped, realizing too late what she'd said. Ben's expression told her he hadn't missed her slip, and she spun toward Rascal and shoved her foot in the stirrup. When she tried to climb onto the horse's back, Ben caught her arm, and her heart stilled. "Say that again." Kayla closed her eyes, swallowing hard. She'd known there'd be a day of reckoning if she moved back to Maple Cove, back to Ben's turf. "I said," she began slowly, quietly, "I wish…wished…that Matt were your son." His grip on her arm tightened, and he drew her around to face him. She gathered her courage before meeting his penetrating dark gaze. "Why?" "Because I loved you. Not Joshua." His pupils widened, darkening his eyes even more, and a muscle in his jaw jumped. "Don't get me wrong," she rushed to explain, "I cared about your brother. Deeply. He was good to me, and we had a good life together. But he was never…" She licked her lips, and he tracked the gesture with hooded eyes. "He wasn't you." "If you loved me—" He glanced away, his mouth taut and his nostrils flaring as he sucked in a harsh breath. Warring emotions played across his face—frustration, anger, confusion…and pain. "If you loved me, why did you marry my brother?" "Because I was pregnant with Joshua's baby." The impatient look he gave her said the pat answer was not what he wanted. He wanted—deserved—the truth. The unblemished, from-her-heart truth. "After we broke up and I joined the circuit, I was lonely. I missed home. I missed you, and when I saw him at an event…I was seduced by the little bit of home he represented. I guess I also did it to prove to myself that I was over you, that I could put you behind me and grab hold of the life Josh represented." She sighed and swiped a tear from her eyelashes as she raised her gaze to his again. "Only I never forgot you. I never really got over you." Ben tensed, his body going rigid for an instant. And the next thing she knew, he'd pulled her into his arms, and his mouth closed over hers in a searing kiss. 9

Chapter Eight Heat streaked through Ben's veins as he sated the craving that had dogged him since he'd first spotted Kayla across the grassy plain this afternoon. He groaned his satisfaction when she angled her head, allowing him to deepen the kiss and savor the moment more fully. Who was he kidding? He'd been waiting for this moment for much longer than this afternoon. He'd wanted Kayla back in his arms from the minute she'd walked away from him ten years ago. He'd never forgotten the sweet taste of her mouth, the heady rush of adrenaline when he held her close, or the earthshaking bliss when they'd made love. And if this sample was any indication, nothing about Kayla's fiery passion had changed. Her body trembled as he parted her lips, and she greeted his tongue with hers. He drew greedily on her mouth, and she answered with a soft hum of pleasure, a breathy sigh that taunted him with images of wrapping his naked body around hers. He plowed his fingers into her thick hair, holding her head between his palms, hoping to satisfy his restless hunger for her. But rather than quelling his need, every stroke of her tongue, every gentle tug of her lips fueled a greater, deeper yearning in him. He longed for more than just the physical. He longed for the intimate, spiritual connection he'd had with Kayla years ago. They'd been more than lovers then. He'd believed in his heart that Kayla was his soul mate. Until she'd left him for the rodeo and ended up marrying his brother. Like plunging into an icy pool, the sharp ache of that memory doused the fire in his blood and yanked him to the sobering, cold reality. She'd left him and married Joshua. She was his dead brother's wife. He jerked his head back, abruptly breaking their kiss and thrusting her away from him with a firm push. For a few crazy minutes, he'd lost his head and acted as irresponsibly as his brother used to. He might expect Kayla to follow her heart rather than common sense, but he could not let her sidetrack him from the business at hand. He had a duty to keep them safe, and he needed to find Matt. He couldn't do either if he let himself be recklessly distracted by Kayla's allure. Still clutching the front of his shirt, Kayla raised confused eyes to his, blinking him into focus. "Ben?" Her querying tone and dazed expression asked a myriad of questions—questions he wasn't ready to face, much less answer. He schooled his expression and stepped away. "We should get moving. It's getting late." "No." She folded her arms over her chest—a gesture that drew attention to her cleavage—and frowned at him. "You can't kiss me like that then pretend it didn't happen." Without looking at her, Ben climbed onto his saddle and shoved his cowboy hat firmly into place. "There's nothing to say. It is what it is." Kayla gaped at him and snorted a sarcastic laugh. "What kind of bull is that?" He sighed his exasperation. "Kayla, it was just a kiss. It meant nothing."

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Liar, an inner voice shouted at him. The chemistry is still there. So what are you going to do about it?

Chapter Nine "Look, I kissed you because I wanted to. Simple as that," Ben said blandly, as if he were talking about the weather. "Can we go now?" Kayla squeezed her hand in a tight fist around her reins, her temper spiking. "You can't kiss me that passionately then tell me you felt nothing!" "Fine!" he growled, shooting her a dark glare. "It was a hot, erotic kiss, and I was turned on. Is that what you want me to say?" "I want your honesty. You owe me the truth." He jerked a startled glance toward her, his expression incredulous. "I owe you? For what? For walking out on me? For throwing away what we had so you could marry my brother when he was careless enough to get you pregnant? Forget that, Kayla! I owe you nothing." His tone was sharp and sour, and beneath the anger, she heard the pain he tried not to show. But she knew him better than anyone. He'd rather die than admit how deeply she'd hurt him. A stinging ache lanced her heart, and years-old regret roiled in her gut. "Ben, I'm sorry. I know I hurt you. I was young and stupid and had my priorities all mixed up." He turned his head away, pretending to be searching the landscape ahead for tracks or Matt or…whatever. But his stiff spine and white-knuckle grip on his reins told her he was battling to contain his emotions. She remembered how Ben hated dealing with anything as fickle and unpredictable as emotions. He prided himself on being the responsible, rational brother of the Radley family. "Ben, it's hard to explain, but the thing is…I left you because…you scared me." His eyebrows lifted then furrowed in a frown. "Scared you? How?" "Everything about you was so…intense. You were only twenty years old, but you knew exactly what you wanted from life. You were not only content to stay and work in Maple Cove, but you were talking about raising a family and buying your own ranch here someday. I felt trapped in Maple Cove and controlled by my father. He wanted me to give up the rodeo, but I couldn't let him dictate my life. Then you asked me to quit the rodeo tour, and I thought you were trying to control me, too, so I freaked." She bit her lip and blinked back the sting of moisture in her eyes as bittersweet memories rushed through her mind. "But the scariest thing for me was how much I loved you. I thought if I admitted my feelings and stayed with you, I'd come to resent you. I thought loving you meant giving up my dreams and my wanderlust." "And Joshua?" His tone held a dark, jealous edge. She dropped her gaze to the dusty ground, guilt biting her hard. "I told you, Joshua represented home to me. I was lonely and missing Maple Cove. I know sleeping with him and getting pregnant is just the kind of recklessness you think I specialize in. But for the record, I don't consider Matt a mistake. I love him

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dearly and don't regret a thing about the way he changed my life. Even giving up barrel racing to stay home with him." Ben remained silent and surly. "I know we left a lot of things unsaid, and my mistakes hurt you." She sighed and attempted to gauge how her conciliatory tone was being received. "But I'm trying to make a fresh start, trying to make amends for my bad choices. I want to rebuild my relationship with my father. I want Matt to know his grandfather…and his uncle."

Chapter Ten Ben flinched. Barely. But she saw the telltale twitch. "And," she added, "if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I'd like for us…to be friends." Kayla held her breath, watching Ben's face for his reaction. From beneath the brim of his hat, he sent her an unreadable gaze. "Friends?" Ben glanced away, his jaw rigid, before shooting her another hooded look. "After that kiss we just shared, do you really think we could ever be just 'friends'?" Kayla's pulse scampered, heat flashing through her as she thought about the toe-curling kiss he'd given her just minutes ago. Her lips still felt scorched, swollen…tingling in anticipation of more of the same. "For Matt's sake, I had hoped—" "Kayla," he cut in, "I wouldn't be out here with you now if Matt weren't important to me. I want to be part of his life, but—" He huffed his frustration and left his sentence hanging. "But…?" she prodded. After a moment, he glanced toward her again, the setting sun casting shadows across the sharp angles of his profile. Kayla's heart clenched, and the air caught in her lungs. Ben was so handsome, his face as rugged and breathtaking as the Montana landscape. She'd been such a fool to walk away from him. "But…" he said in a low voice, "when you left me, I moved on. You and I are over, Kayla." Ben saw the hurt and surprise that flickered in Kayla's eyes, and he steeled himself against the twinge of regret that stirred in his chest. Did she really think that after all these years he was still waiting around for her? Aren't you, though? a nagging voice in his head taunted. "I've made a life for myself, ranching with Cole Kelley, saving for my own land and herd one day soon. It's a good life, and I'm not looking for it to change." Was he trying to convince Kayla…or that nagging voice? He scowled and gritted his teeth. "I'm not interested in repeating past mistakes." She lifted her chin and sent him a quasi-confident look. "Would it really be so terrible to be friends with me? Can't we find some common ground for Matt's sake?"

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Ben scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "For my nephew's sake, I plan to do what I can to fill the void left by his father's death." He firmed his mouth and sent her an unyielding stare. "But don't think that means we'll all be spending holidays together like some big happy family." She scowled at him, and he added, "And don't think it means I'll be filling Joshua's place in your bed, either." Now Kayla glared at him hotly. "Did I ask you to? For your information, I've been in Maple Cove for two weeks. If I were here trying to get in your bed, then why haven't I sought you out?" Her question caught him off guard. In fact, the idea that she hadn't come to see him, if only to introduce Matt to him, rankled. He didn't like the jab of irritation that poked him, because it implied that he was the one still carrying a torch for her, despite all his protests and hard-headed denials. Ben muttered a curse under his breath. After all these years, Kayla still had the power to hurt him. He had to face the uneasy truth that she was still firmly rooted in his heart.

Chapter Eleven Seeing a protected overhang of rock on the hill ahead of them, Ben brought Blaze to a stop, though he knew Kayla would hate the decision he'd made. "What are you doing?" she asked. "The space under that outcropping will provide good protection tonight. We'd be wise to make camp here and start searching for Matt again in the morning." He dismounted and held a hand out to help Kayla climb down, which she ignored. "That's it?" She gaped at him, her tone reflecting her dismay. "We're stopping for the day?" He gave a tight nod. "We won't be able to find him in the dark. Our best use of time now is to make camp and gather some wood for a fire." "You make camp. I want to spend these last few minutes of daylight looking for Matt." Ben groaned. "Kayla, I know you're worried about him, but once the sun goes down behind that ridge, it will be dark in a matter of minutes. You'll be completely night blind." "But Matt—" "Trust me on this, please. I know what I'm doing." She hesitated, casting one more concerned glance across the horizon before she slid from her saddle. "I guess you're right." He gave her shoulder a squeeze, pleased that she'd seen the sense of his decision. Maybe she wasn't still as reckless as he thought. "I think there's enough around here for the horses to eat." "What about us? What are we going to eat?" Her worried expression said her real concern was what Matt would eat tonight…if Matt would eat. Her disappointment and anxiety over not finding her son vibrated from her in palpable waves. In the fading sunlight, tears shimmered on her eyelashes, and the proof of her worry landed a sucker punch to his gut.

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"I have a couple of energy bars and some beef jerky in my pack." He fished out the food and handed it to her. "Let's get camp set up before we eat, though." Over the next several minutes, he showed her how to make a protective cavelike shelter from the overhanging rock and a few tree branches lashed together. He built a small campfire, knowing the temperature would drop quickly once the sun set. "Bring the saddle blankets from the horses," he instructed her. "We'll use them to make our bed." Kayla did as he asked then settled beside him as he stoked their campfire to a glowing blaze. She fell silent, staring out into the inky night with a knit in her brow. Ben sighed, sympathy plucking at him. "I know it's hard not to worry about Matt, but there's no point borrowing trouble." "How can I not worry? I'm his mother. It's my job to protect him, but—" Kayla's voice cracked, and her face crumpled as she broke into tears. Ben's heart twisted, and before he could analyze the wisdom of holding her close, he drew Kayla into his arms and pressed a kiss to her hair. He murmured platitudes to her about Matt's safety, promises meant to calm her that he prayed were also true. She clung to his shirt, crying softly, and when she shivered, he wrapped a blanket around them both and cradled her on his lap. Holding Kayla felt good, so good…so right. The years seemed to melt away, and he could have sworn he was twenty years old again, holding Kayla in her father's hayloft while they watched the summer stars. Like that summer night long ago—the first and only time he'd made love to Kayla—he felt swept away by the one-two punch of lust and affection that battered his heart. Ben squeezed his eyes shut and dug deep for the strength to resist the lure Kayla had always held over him. Before he could ever give in to his feelings for her again, he needed reassurance that Kayla had changed, that he wouldn't be setting himself up for more pain. Kayla shifted on his lap, pressing her body more fully against his, and he groaned. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Twelve "I would have married you, you know." "What?" Kayla tipped her head back to meet Ben's gaze. His dark eyes reflected the campfire and danced with a wild and provocative glow. Caught in the spell cast by his penetrating stare, her body hummed with desire. "When you found out you were pregnant. Even though the baby was Joshua's, I would have married you, if you'd come home to Maple Cove. I loved you." Kayla shook her head. "You'd have resented Matt. He'd have always represented my tryst with your brother." Ben shook his head. "I'm a bigger person than that. Your choices weren't Matt's fault."

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She frowned and stroked a hand along his cheek. "Then you'd have resented me. Or Josh. I mean, when we called to tell you we'd gotten married, you were so angry, you couldn't even talk to Josh. There was a rift between you two until the day he died." Ben twisted his mouth in thought. After a moment he asked, "Did you love him? Ever." Kayla bent her head and curled her fingers into Ben's shirt. The intimacy created by their campfire and the tiny cave encouraged confidences and honesty. "Not the way a wife should. Not the way I loved you." Holding her breath, her heart pounding an expectant rhythm, she met his gaze again. "And I don't think he ever really loved me, either. He cheated on me." "So why did you stay with him? Was the rodeo that important to you?" Unlike earlier in the day, his tone held no condemnation. A humorless laugh bubbled from her throat. "Hardly. Traveling with a baby got old really fast. After a while, I stayed home with Matt while Josh toured." Ben scowled and shook his head, his hold on her tightening. "Then my question is the same…why not divorce him if you were unhappy?" "I wasn't unhappy, per se. I got along with Josh, and we had a child together, a child we both adored. And when I married Josh, I took a vow to God and to him that I intended to keep. I wanted to live up to my commitment to him. I wanted to make it work—for Matt's sake, if nothing else." "That's not the Kayla I knew." Ben's brow dented with a dubious frown as he searched her eyes. The intensity of his gaze and the raw emotion on his face filled her with a warmth that chased the Montana night's chill from her bones. "No, it isn't." She traced his lips with her fingertip, and she heard him catch his breath. "I changed. I grew up." "So you did. But…some things don't change." Ben's pupils were wide pools of desire as he lowered his gaze to her mouth. She could feel the crackle of attraction that arced between them. "I still want you more than is healthy for my sanity." Heat flashed through Kayla, and she raised her chin until his lips hovered a breath away from hers. "Sanity is overrated." With a needy sigh, she brushed her lips along his. "I want you, too, cowboy. Make love to me, Ben." A groan of satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he deepened the kiss and laid her back on the blanket to fulfill her request.

Chapter Thirteen Kayla woke the next morning with Ben's arms securely around her, his warm chest at her back and his soft breath tickling her neck. Surrounded by the scent of horse sweat from the blankets, a hard rock beneath her and the first rays of daylight in her eyes, she couldn't think of anywhere she'd rather be. A smile ghosted across her lips for an instant, but her happiness dissipated in a heartbeat when she remembered why she was camping in this cave with Ben. She bolted to a seated position, adrenaline jump-starting a rapid-fire beat in her heart. "Matt!"

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Ben groaned and threw an arm over his eyes, blocking out the bright sunbeams. Kayla nudged him and threw off the saddle blankets. "Come on, Ben. It's daylight. Let's get moving." He grumbled as she gathered the blanket for Rascal and headed down the hill to get saddled up. "Move it, Radley!" she called when he didn't emerge for several minutes. "When I'm done saddling Rascal, I'm leaving. With or without you. Every minute we waste could be the time it takes Matt to run into trouble or get hurt. It's bad enough we couldn't look for him after dark last night. I'm not wasting a second of daylight." She tightened a strap on the saddle then glanced back at Ben, who was groggily picking his way down the rocky slope. When he reached Blaze, he fished an energy bar from his pack and tossed it to her. "Breakfast." She caught the package and ripped it open with her teeth. "I hear a stream over that way," she said, hitching her head farther down the valley. "Before we set out, we need to let the horses have a good drink." He nodded his agreement and said, "So are we going to talk about what happened last night, or are you going to pretend it didn't happen?" She sighed and shook her head. "I honestly don't know what to think about what happened between us last night. Can we do this later?" He grunted. "That's right. It's daylight now, so it must be time for you to retreat. Time to tell me it was a mistake and head for the hills." Sarcasm and pain weighted his words equally. "I didn't say that! I just… How am I supposed to sort out what's happening between us while my son is still missing? I have to put Matt first." Without comment, Ben scowled and led Blaze toward the sound of babbling water. Kayla followed, her thoughts of Ben and Matt and her future tangling together in confusing disarray. Once the horses were drinking from the stream, Ben pointed out a nearby hill. "I should radio the ranch, and that elevation will help re—" Stopping midsentence, Ben grabbed her arm, and with a jerk of his head, he directed her gaze to a spot ahead of them. Kayla turned, scanning the area he indicated…and froze. Fear spiked adrenaline through her blood. No more than fifty yards ahead of them and headed in their direction, a grizzly bear lumbered toward the creek.

Chapter Fourteen "Oh, no! Ben…" she rasped, instinctively shrinking against the solid wall of Ben's chest. But even Ben was no protection against a 500-pound grizzly. His fingers tightened around her arm, and he whispered, "Stay calm and don't run."

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She nodded stiffly. Having grown up in grizzly country, she knew the protocol. Her gaze darted nervously to the scrubby brush around them, searching for loose branches. "We need to make ourselves seem big." "Right." He sent a worried look toward the horses. "She hasn't noticed us yet, so let's back up. Slowly and quietly. I have pepper spray and a gun in my saddlebag." "You can't shoot her!" He shook his head. "Only if she attacks." He tugged her arm. "Come on." Kayla's feet felt leaden as she held her breath and inched away from the bear with Ben at her side. She clung to his arm for balance as she stumbled backward over the uneven ground. She prayed the babbling of the water in the stream was loud enough to muffle their noise. But would the bear smell them? As if in answer to her question, the sow stopped and raised her head, her nose testing the air. Kayla gripped Ben's arm tighter, digging her fingers into his skin. "Steady. I've got you." His breath feathered warmly in her ear, his presence more reassuring to her than any defense spray or weapon. Deep in her marrow, a certainty seeped through her, spreading a calming balm. Ben will protect me. No matter what. Just as he always has. The flash of clarity, viewed through the eyes of a mother who'd do anything to protect her son, jolted her. Was what she'd always seen as Ben's controlling nature really just his effort to protect her? And what about her father's dictates when she was younger? Wasn't she having the same trouble with Matt, only in reverse? Matt considered her love and protectiveness an attempt to "run his life," just as she'd accused her father and Ben ten years ago. The realization made her knees weak, and she sank against Ben's broad chest for support. Ben put an arm around her, holding her up. "Here she comes." Her gut tightening, Kayla looked for herself. The bear had noticed them and was stalking forward. Though her manner seemed more curious than aggressive, the grizzly's interest still ramped Kayla's pulse into the stratosphere. "Grab the horses' reins," Ben said, producing the handgun from his saddlebag. "They may spook." She followed his instructions and gave him a nod when she was ready. His jaw tense, Ben aimed the gun in the air and fired twice. The concussion reverberated in Kayla's chest and echoed off the surrounding hills. The bear jerked, startled, then turned and ran back in the direction she'd come. When Rascal danced and bucked, Kayla clung to his reins. "Whoa. Easy, boy." Ben lowered the gun and nodded to Kayla. "She's gone." "Do you think she'll come back?" Kayla asked with a glance to the spot where the bear had disappeared. 17

"Eventually. But I don't plan to be here when she does." Kayla grabbed her saddle horn and prepared to climb onto Rascal when a sound reached her over the gurgling water. A voice. "Help! I'm here! Help!" Kayla gasped and spun toward Ben. "That's Matt!"

Chapter Fifteen "Matt!" Kayla called as she scrambled up onto Rascal. Ben had already taken off, following the creek and shouting for Matt to answer. With her heart in her throat, she rode downstream, listening for Matt's voice and searching for his red shirt among the green-and-brown foliage and gray rocks in the water. "Help!" came the small voice again. Kayla redirected her gaze and tried to gauge the distance to Matt, but a tree blocked her view. "Down there." Ben aimed a finger at the water. "Hang on, sport. We're here." "Matt!" Kayla dismounted and ran, stumbling over the slick, wet rocks to reach her son, but when she ducked past the tree branches that had obscured her view, all she saw was her father's ATV lying on its side in the creek. "Matt?" Ben was crouched on the other side of the ATV, and he cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting to her over the noise of the water. "He's pinned. We've got to get the ATV off him." Pinned? Icy panic sluiced down Kayla's spine as she splashed into the creek toward Ben. "Matty!" "Mom…" Her son's weak voice reached her the same moment she cleared the ATV and saw Matt lying in the frigid water, his legs trapped under the large machine. Matt's skin was deathly pale, his lips white, and his body shivered violently. "Oh, my God! Matt!" A wave of horror washed through her. How long had he been in the cold stream? She thought of the frigid night just past and wanted to cry for Matt's suffering. She dropped to her knees beside her son and grabbed his hand. "Oh, Matty, I'm here, sweetheart. We're going to get you out." "I heard y-you calling and was trying to f-find you. B-but I hit a b-big rock and f-flipped." Matt's grip was limp, his speech sluggish. "Then you weren't trapped here overnight?" "N-no. Just th-this morning." A measure of relief flowed through her, but Matt's pale complexion still worried her. She sent Ben a frantic look. "He's hypothermic! We've got to build a fire, get him dry, warm him up. Fast!"

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Ben returned a grim gaze. "I know, but first we have to lift the ATV off his legs. Give me a hand." "Lift it?" She gaped at Ben. "That thing's got to weigh a ton! How are we supposed to lift it?" Ben got in position at the side of the ATV and motioned for her to push near the handgrips. "Get a good footing. We're gonna need leverage. Lift with your legs. Once we reach the tipping point, push. Let its own weight rock it back onto its wheels. Got it?" Giving Ben a nod, she took her position and braced her feet. "Ready." Ben counted to three, and they lifted in unison. Kayla's muscles quivered and strained. The ATV rose an inch, then another. Her wet fingers slipped on the metal frame. Forcing down a spike of panic, she gritted her teeth and clung desperately to the front fender. Suddenly, the weight of the ATV shifted, and the vehicle dropped the rest of the way over onto its wheels. Relief washed through Kayla, leaving her knees weak. With a quick grin of thanks to Ben, she turned back to Matt and knelt beside him. "Matty?" Her son's eyes were closed, and he was unresponsive. Kayla tensed, a dark fear crawling through her. "Matty!"

Chapter Sixteen Kayla's terror-filled cry sent a chill down Ben's spine. He stopped checking Matt's legs for broken bones and glanced up at his nephew's wan face. "Kayla, what—?" Matt's eyes opened suddenly, his expression wild and confused, and he screamed in pain. Kayla's face drained of color, and she raised frantic eyes to Ben's. "What's wrong with him?" Ben glanced down at Matt's legs, worried he'd done something to hurt his nephew, when realization struck. "He's getting circulation back in his legs. The ATV had been cutting off his blood flow but now the blood is rushing through again. I've heard that's really painful." As Matt continued moaning in agony, Kayla's expression flooded with sympathy and regret. She clutched Matt's hand to her chest and bent to press a kiss to his forehead. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry. Hang on, sweetie." "Let's get him out of the water." Ben nudged Kayla aside and carefully placed his arms behind his nephew's neck and legs to lift him. "Go get the matches from my saddlebag and gather some small dry twigs to get a fire going." Kayla seemed reluctant to leave Matt's side, and Ben couldn't say that he blamed her. But the boy's condition was precarious, and they needed to work fast to get him warm. Giving Kayla a useful task would also help her to not give in to the panic and concern he knew were threatening to overwhelm her. With one last kiss on Matt's cheek and a murmured reassurance in his ear, Kayla scrambled to the shore and hurried to gather the materials for a fire.

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Ben lifted Matt in his arms and carried him past the shaded creek bank to a grassy spot in the morning sun. Pulling the hand radio from his belt, he tried to rouse someone at Cole Kelley's ranch. "Radley to base. Come in, base." He paused, listening. Not even static answered his call. He checked the handset's volume and still got nothing. "Damn it!" he snarled as Kayla arrived with the matches and first handful of twigs. "What?" Her blue eyes were wide with concern. "I left the radio on overnight. The battery is dead." Kayla's shoulders slumped. "Meaning no help is coming." He pressed his mouth in a taut line and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Kayla. We've got to warm him and get him to Cole's ranch by ourselves." A hard, determined look set her face, even as tears puddled in her eyes. "Then let's do it. I won't let my son die."

Chapter Seventeen Admiration for Kayla's courage in the face of potential disaster swelled in Ben's chest. As he watched her tend to Matt, he realized that what he'd considered recklessness on her part yesterday had in fact been the desperation of a loving mother trying to protect her son. He'd known the same gripping fear, helplessness and need to protect Kayla ten years ago when she'd hurtled around the rodeo arena at death-defying speeds, taking perilous risks in order to win her rodeo events. But his desire to protect her had morphed into an unfair demand that she give up the sport she loved. In trying to protect Kayla, both he and her father had come off as controlling tyrants, all but assuring Kayla's flight from Maple Cove. Now, seeing her motherly concern for Matt and the maturity that had transformed her, he wondered how he'd ever survived losing her…and if, with all the changes in her life, she had room in her life for him. Pushing aside that worry for later, he caught the nape of her neck and tugged her close long enough to press a reassuring kiss to her lips. "We've got this, honey. He's gonna be okay." Kayla swiped at a tear that dripped onto her cheek and nodded, then set to work removing Matt's wet clothes. Ben quickly cleared a space of grass and lit a small fire with the twigs. Once a small flame caught, he located a few larger sticks and added them to the growing conflagration. By the time he finished, Kayla had Matt stripped to his underwear and was buffing his arms and chest with her hands. "We need something dry to wrap him in," he thought aloud, then whipped his shirt over his head, knowing it wasn't enough. Kayla met his gaze with a look of gratitude as she accepted his shirt and draped it around Matt's shoulders. "The saddle blankets."

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Of course. Ben shoved to his feet and ran to collect the quilts from Rascal and Blaze. As he bundled the blankets in his arms and rushed to Matt's side, he prayed their efforts weren't too little too late. For the next several minutes, wrapped in the blankets with Matt, Kayla rubbed her son's hands and arms, hoping to restore his circulation and body heat. Ben busied himself brewing some hot tea over the fire in a small camping pot from his saddlebag. "Ben, look!" Kayla said. "His lips are getting pink again." Ben leaned forward to study Matt's color. "That's a good sign. Very good." Relief and joy bloomed in her chest, loosening the grip of anxiety that squeezed her lungs. "Let's try the tea." Ben lifted a small tin cup to Matt's lips, and Matt's eyelids fluttered open. "Drink some of this, sport. It'll help heat you up." Matt's eyebrows knitted in a frown as he stared at his uncle. "Who are you?" Kayla's heart clenched. She'd hoped Matt could meet Ben for the first time under better circumstances. "His name is Ben. He helped me find you." Her son took a tentative sip then pushed the tin cup away. "He looks a little like Dad." Kayla bit her bottom lip, and her gaze darted up to meet Ben's. Ben tugged his mouth into a lopsided grin. "Really? Your dad must've been a handsome guy, then." "Yeah, I guess." Matt smiled weakly and drank some more tea before sinking back into the blankets with a shiver. "Honey, Ben looks like Dad because…he's your uncle. Your dad's brother. He lives here in Maple Cove and works on the ranch next to Grandpa's." Kayla held her breath, anxious over how Matt would receive the news. Ben gave Matt's hand a squeeze. "I hope we can spend some time together in the weeks ahead. I have lots of funny stories about when your dad was a kid, if you're interested." Matt smiled weakly. "Cool." He shifted his gaze to Kayla, and asked, "C-can we go home now?"

Chapter Eighteen Kayla's heart swelled with a tender ache. Not only did Matt seem okay with learning about his uncle, he'd called the ranch home. Ben tipped his head as if sizing Matt up. "We'll head back soon, but the timing depends on you, buddy. How are you feeling?" "My legs d-don't hurt as bad now, but I'm s-still really cold. And t-tired."

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Kayla was glad to hear Matt wasn't in as much pain, but his color hadn't returned as much as she'd have liked it to before they attempted to move him. Ben twisted his mouth as if in deliberation then lifted the blanket over Matt's feet. "Can you wiggle your toes for me?" Matt wrinkled his nose in concentration, and with what seemed a great deal of effort, he moved his feet and bent his toes. "Good job," Ben said, smiling and giving Matt a gentle pat on the calf. The affectionate gesture and warmth in Ben's expression twined around Kayla's heart. For the first time in many days, she knew she'd made the right choice moving back to Maple Cove. Ben would be a good uncle to Matt, a good male role model. A good father. Her pulse leaped when the stray thought filtered through her mind, and her gaze darted to Ben. He cocked his head and gave her a curious look. "What?" Kayla lowered her eyes and fumbled with the edge of the blanket, embarrassed for being caught with such raw, open emotion on her face. "Not now." But over the next couple hours as they warmed Matt enough to move him then rode back to Cole Kelley's ranch, Kayla couldn't forget that thought. The protective and loving way Ben held Matt in front of him on Blaze during the trip home cemented the idea in Kayla's head that Ben could be more than just a good uncle. Once upon a time, she had daydreamed about having a family with Ben—before fear of her own powerful emotions and a youthful restlessness had led her to give up the man she loved. But she knew now that Ben's responsibility and stability and the security of raising her son surrounded by family in Maple Cove were what she truly wanted in her heart of hearts. The way Ben had come through for her—helping her rescue Matt—proved he was someone she could count on. Last night, making love to him had proved they still shared a magnetic attraction. So why was she fighting fate? Cole Kelley met them in the ranch yard and directed them inside. After Ben had settled Matt on Cole's living room couch to wait for the ambulance, Kayla tugged him aside. "Ben, we need to talk."

Chapter Nineteen Ben's chest contracted when he saw the naked vulnerability in Kayla's face. With her son safe and an ambulance on the way, her apprehension likely had something to do with the two of them. If he was honest, their lovemaking, their relationship, their future had been on his mind throughout the long ride home this morning. The time had come to face the proverbial music. "Here you go, darlin'." Hannah Brown, Cole Kelley's housekeeper, bustled in from a back room with a pillow for Matt. A black dog with a gray muzzle slowly trotted in behind her. Hannah plumped the pillow and put it behind Matt's head on the couch. "Can I get you anything else? I bought a cherry pie from Ira's Diner today. Their pastry chef, Kate Rogers, makes the best desserts in the state. Want a slice?"

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"No, thank you." Matt snuggled into the pillow, clearly enjoying the older woman's pampering. "Well, feel free to watch TV…" Hannah turned on the large flat-screen television, handed Matt the remote then paused to pat the dog's head. "Ole Ace here will keep you company while I fix you something to eat. Just give a shout if you need anything." On the TV, a news anchor recapped the day's headlines, and a name jumped out at Ben, snagging his attention to the screen. "Allegations of extramarital affairs with numerous women continue to plague Senator Henry Kelley. Two more women stepped forward at news conferences today, claiming they, too, had been involved with the senator from California." The image of a beautiful blonde woman at a microphone filled the screen, and Ben scowled. While Senator Kelley deserved the scandal and bad press for his illicit affairs, Ben hated what the revelations in the press meant for Cole. Senator Henry "Hank" Kelley was Cole's estranged father. With a grunt of disgust, Ben took the remote from Matt and changed the channel. "What do you say we find some cartoons for you to watch instead, sport?" Matt shrugged. "Whatever." Trusting that his nephew was in good hands, he followed Kayla to the dining room, where she stopped by a tall window to stare out at the activity on Cole's ranch. "Something on your mind?" he asked, though her furrowed brow and troubled eyes confirmed as much. "I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for leaving you all those years ago. For hurting you. I was wrong. I thought I knew what I wanted from life, but I was just scared by my feelings for you. I'd never loved someone as deeply as I loved you." Ben frowned and shook his head. "So you're saying you left me because you loved me too much?" She raked her hair back with both hands. "It's crazy, but that's how confused I was then. But I know what I want now. I know what is truly best for my life and for my son." Ben narrowed a searching gaze on her. "And what is it you want now, Kayla?"

Chapter Twenty Ben held his breath, anticipation tingling along his spine. When Kayla moved closer, sliding her hand over his chest to his nape, a jolt like electricity sizzled through his veins. "I want you, Ben. I've always wanted you." She looped her arms around Ben's neck and leaned into him, a tender appeal in her eyes. "Tell me it's not too late for us. Tell me you'll give me another chance." She caught his lips with hers, and Ben allowed himself to savor the heat in her kiss for several moments…remembering. Then, seizing her shoulders, he pushed her away and gave her a hard stare. "Okay, so we still have sexual chemistry to spare. The fire between us was never the problem. But I have no use for any more broken promises or heartache. If we give our relationship another chance, how do I know you won't change your mind and walk away from me again?" Tears of contrition filled her eyes, but she didn't back down. "Because I'm not the same stupid girl who left you before. I'm a mother. A widow. A woman who knows what is important in life. I understand now that 23

when you love someone as much as a parent loves a child—or as much as we loved each other—that protectiveness and concern shouldn't be mistaken for being controlling." "The risks you took in the rodeo scared your father—and me—to death. I'm surprised you didn't understand that after what happened to him. We couldn't stand to see you get hurt." She sighed sadly. "Or killed…like Josh was." He nodded and kissed her temple. "Well, I understand it now, and my priorities are all different. I want to build a safe and loving home for Matt, establish roots and reconnect with my family. I want all the things I threw away ten years ago." A tear dripped onto her cheek, and she swiped it away with a knuckle. "I know I don't have a right to ask you to believe in me after the way I hurt you, but…I still love you, Ben. That never changed." Ben tangled his fingers in Kayla's thick hair, reflecting on the changes in her that he'd witnessed while they'd searched for Matt. Her dedication to her son, her unwillingness to go home overnight for fear of losing precious time to search, her loyalty to Joshua even though their marriage wasn't a love match, the way she'd handled herself with the bear and how she'd never questioned him in a crisis. The Kayla he'd spent the past twenty-four hours with was someone he could trust his heart to, someone he could build a future with. Someone he still loved with a soul-deep passion. He caught her chin between his thumb and fingers, and his eyes held hers. "We have a lot of years to make up for. I want to get to know Matt, and I want to learn more about this new woman you've become." "Oh, Ben…" A smile lit her face, and he dropped a kiss on her nose. "I never got over you, either, Kayla. I've had a hole in my life since the day you left Maple Cove." Tears of joy sparkled in Kayla's blue eyes. "Does that mean you're willing to give me another chance?" Ben pulled her into a firm embrace and seized her lips in a deep, lingering kiss. A sense of peace and contentment flowed through him, and he knew he was where he belonged. At Kayla's side. "It means I'm willing to give us a chance. The three of us. As a family. I love you, Kayla. Welcome home."

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Invitation To A Murder by Vicki Hinze

Chapter One It’s Emma, Chloe. Marcus wants you dead…

Chloe St. John, Princess of Astoria, principality of Denmark, listened to the voice-mail message from her good friend twice and still couldn’t believe it. But it didn’t change.

And slowly, certainty that it wasn’t going to change pumped through her veins and into her heart, which sank into her strappy red Jimmy Choos.

Marcus Abbot Sterling III, a man Chloe had been certain loved her for herself and not her fortune or title, wanted her dead? Why would Emma say such a thing?

Standing in her airy apartment overlooking Central Park, Chloe squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out her floor-to-ceiling view of night falling over Manhattan. She breathed deeply until her insides stopped shaking.

It was Sunday; her housekeeper was done for the day, and her lifelong driver, Frank, had gone to Madison Square Garden to see a boxing match. She was alone, free to react without damaging her “perfect princess” image. But keeping everything inside was just too ingrained.

She should be outraged, but she was more confused than anything. She and Emma had known each other for years. When Renee-Dalton Sinclair had opened Gotham Rose Club to heiresses and debutantes to raise money for charity, Chloe and Emma had been among its first members.

Of over 200 who had joined, they’d also been among the first of nearly twenty Roses inducted into Renee’s secret spy organization to bring about the arrests of high-society white-collar criminals.

Each Rose had been brought into the secret segment for a specific reason, and Chloe’s was, of course, her title. It gave her access to those mere money couldn’t — as had been proven on her last two assignments, which had resulted in aristocratic arrests.

Why would Emma levy a charge like this on Marcus? It didn’t make sense. Chloe didn’t believe 25

it for a second — Marcus wanting her dead? — but there had to be something to it. Emma wasn’t inclined to overreact.

In the past men had used Chloe, trying to get to her money or title — sometimes both. But Marcus had a fortune of his own, and he couldn’t get her title by killing her, only by marrying her. Of course, he could marry then kill her. But they’d only even flirted with the subject of marriage. Nothing more. It didn’t fit.

In her gleaming cream-and-marble kitchen, Chloe made herself a sympathetic cup of tea and leaned against the countertop, waiting for it to steep. She just couldn’t figure any motive in Marcus’s case.

He was wealthy, established in their high-society social circle. He chaired one of the most widely respected legal firms in the nation, and Rubi Cho, the In the Know with Rubi Cho columnist for the New York Reporter, considered him one of the top two most eligible bachelors in the world — Ryan Greene was the other.

Marcus and Ryan were both drop-dead gorgeous, but Chloe had always preferred tall blondes with broad shoulders and smoky blue eyes. Marcus had both — and everything a man could want. Emma had to be wrong about this. Still, she couldn’t have just dreamed up something so awful.

Chloe sipped from her bone china cup, wisps of anger swirling low in her stomach. She’d been through this, dealt with it, and with the trust issues that came from never being certain a man was interested in her and not in what she had. Nothing could eat a woman alive like those kinds of fears and doubts.

Now, thanks to Emma, they came rushing back. Chapter Two

The phone rang. Heavy-hearted and uncertain, Chloe answered. “Hello.”

“Don’t even think it,” Emma said. “And don’t bother saying you’re not thinking it because I know you are.”

Chloe debated lying but it’d be futile. They’d been friends too long; there was no lying to Emma. 26

“It’s there,” Chloe confessed. “If this is true — and I need some strong evidence to believe it is, Emma — then how can I not wonder what the hell is wrong with me? This ‘use-Chloe’ stuff just keeps happening. But I don’t believe it, Emma. Marcus is different. He already has it all. He has to want me.”

“If he had any sense, he would. But apparently he doesn’t.”

“Why are you saying this?” The pain Chloe should have felt on hearing that Marcus wanted her dead finally hit her full force. She didn’t believe it, but she did have doubts. And she was angry with Emma for raising them. Damn it, she’d finally been happy. Her knees went weak. “Don’t you want me happy, Emma?”

“God, don’t you dare freak out and go stupid on me. You’ll end up dead,” Emma huffed. “We are not going there. Of course I want you happy. ”

“I’m falling in love with him.” Chloe squeezed her cup. “He can’t want me dead.”

“I’m sorry but he definitely wants you dead. I heard him say it, Chloe.” Emma grabbed a shuddery breath. “Fortunately, he has no idea that I know, which means he has no idea that you know. That gives us a chance to stop him.”

She heard him say it? Oh, God. Tears rose in her throat. “What exactly did he say?”

“Well...” Emma searched for words. “It was something along the lines of ‘Princess Chloe will be killed.’ There was more, but that’s the part I heard clearly.”

Chloe thought for a moment, her heart pounding. “That doesn’t sound as if he’s going to kill me...does it?”

“It sounds like it to me! Chloe, I know what I heard. The way he said it...the tone...it was pretty menacing. We need to stop him before he follows through on this!”

Chloe took a deep breath. How could she not trust Emma? “Okay, so we stop him — provided evidence warrants it.”

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“Prepare yourself, okay?” Emma paused. “You know you should strike first.”

Chloe’s heart skipped, then fell like a stone. “You know that if I blow a great relationship with this man and you’re wrong, I’m going to seriously kick your butt.”

“I’m not wrong.” Emma’s voice softened. “I wish I were. I know it hurts...” Chapter Three

More doubt heaped up inside Chloe. Emma sounded so sure. But it couldn’t be true. Chloe would have sensed it. She’d have known something...

“We could ask a few of the Roses to look into it,” Emma said, bringing up the secret Rose agents and their assets. “Although I wouldn’t advertise it to Renee.”

Not tell their boss and fearless leader? “Why not?” Shouldn’t they use all available assets? Hmm, maybe Emma had a little doubt, after all.

“Because you don’t believe me,” Emma said. “I don’t mind saying that from my perspective, that sucks. I’ve never lied to you and you know it. But you love the guy, so I’m overlooking it.”

“Let’s investigate,” Chloe compromised. “If we need the agency, then we’ll tell Renee. But I’m betting Marcus is innocent — and I’m not putting a man I love on her radar without proof he should be there.” That was fair. “Go ahead and issue a Rose Alert. Perrini’s, noon tomorrow.”

Normally she’d call on the Roses first thing in the morning, before their busy social schedules took over the day, but Chloe had an important interview with Jack Quaid — an old acquaintance — at 9 a.m.

“Fine,” Emma said. “We’ll see what Mr. Marcus Abbot Sterling III has to hide.”

Tight-jawed, Chloe hiked her chin. “Yes, let’s.”

****** 28

Jack Quaid was not like Chloe remembered. He was still a solid 6’6” with black hair and gray eyes, but he rode a motorcycle now and had a five o’clock shadow that had to be a week old.

Suddenly the soft cream cashmere tank and sage brocade skirt she’d donned for this meeting seemed too conservative. At least the spiked gold sandals, courtesy of her favourite shoe designer, Jimmy Choo, gave her a boost. Chloe had been crazy about Jack for at least half-a-dozen summers in the Hamptons. Unfortunately, Jack had always been in a long-term relationship, and the simmering attraction she’d felt between them had never gone anywhere.

Now, among other things, he was a reporter with Architectural Restorations and was giving her some press on her pet restoration project — Eleanor Towers, the building she’d bought about a year ago and had recently moved into.

“Princess Chloe?” Jack asked, when she stepped into the garage.

Her attendant had doubted Jack’s authenticity and had called her to come down. She nodded her okay to the attendant and turned her attention to Jack. “Princess Chloe?” She recoiled. “Good grief, Jack. If we’re going to be that formal, I’m not sure I feel comfortable taking you upstairs.”

“It was a test.” Jack brushed a kiss to her cheek. “I was checking to see if you still hate being called by your title.” He smiled. “Clearly, you do.” Chapter Four She smiled back at him. “I haven’t seen you at any Gotham Rose Club functions for months. You’ve been missed.”

“I’ve been out of the country.” He went serious. “Renee and Mother talk, of course. She says you’ve raised a fortune for the New York Women’s Clinic. That’s good.”

Most Gotham Roses had separate and varied careers — Chloe’s was investments — but every Gotham Rose had a special charity she supported with fundraising efforts and her time. This told Renee most of what she needed to know about which Roses had the character, connections, skills and the will to become successful spies.

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Chloe nodded. “I work hard at it, Jack. The women with eating disorders need so much, but their challenges lack the sensationalistic appeal of other challenges, so they often get overlooked. I’m determined to keep that from happening at the Women’s Clinic.”

“Good for you.” Admiration shone in his eyes. “Before we go upstairs, I want to show you something. While I was waiting for you, I noticed some crumbling around the support beams over here.” He motioned left, toward the street. “It’s significant, Chloe.”

“Really?” She walked over, looked. Surprised by the depth of the cracks and the amount of crumbling concrete, she told Jack, “I know Sal Mancuso, the city inspector, signed off on the foundation, but this still concerns me. I’ll call Buzz Denton, the chief architect handling the restoration, and make him aware of it.”

“Good idea.” Crouching down, Jack fingered a deep crack. “They could be just on the surface, but frankly, it doesn’t look like it.” He stood up and swiped his hands clean. Chloe gave Jack the tour of Eleanor Towers. On the advice of Madison Taylor-Pruitt, a real estate magnate and sister Rose who was not one of Renee’s spies, Chloe had bought the building from Marcus. Though she and Marcus had traveled in the same circle for years, it wasn’t until then that they’d become close.

Chloe had essentially gutted the building because, over the years, people had made extensive, haphazard modifications that had to be undone before the restoration work could really begin. Chloe loved the work. So did Jack, and they became absorbed in it, discussing materials and plans.

On the seventh floor, he stopped to look at new plumbing going in, and glanced back over his shoulder at her. “Copper? Very expensive.”

“Yes, it is.” She nodded. “But if you haven’t yet guessed, this project is a labour of love. I want it to be right.”

“I’m sure it’ll be as beautiful as you are,” Jack said and then caught himself. “Sorry, Chloe. I got caught up and forgot why I’m here.”

Certain he hadn’t had to apologise often, she smiled and touched his sleeve. “It’s okay to tell a woman she’s beautiful, Jack. Actually, it’s very pleasant to hear.”

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“These days, it’s hard to tell.” He looked into her eyes. “Some women like hearing what’s on your mind, and others consider a compliment harassment. Either way, most women wouldn’t like being compared to a building.”

“Coming from a man who loves them?” She shrugged. “It’s high flattery.”

“True, but I’m in a work environment and I know you’re involved with Marcus Sterling. I was out of line.” The warmth in his eyes cooled. “But don’t worry. It won’t happen again.”

“That’s too bad.” Chapter Five Chloe tilted her head and frowned. “You have no idea how much a genuine compliment can mean to a woman.” Especially to one who has known so few of them and now fears — despite her determination not to — that the man who professes to love her is planning her murder.

“Still gracious, too.” He sounded surprised, and warmth returned to his eyes.

“Normally, I’m not,” she confessed. “But I’ve always liked you, Jack. You’re as attractive on the inside as the outside, and that’s rare — likely nearly extinct.”

“Ouch.” The skin between his brows wrinkled. “Rough relationships, eh?”

“Aren’t they all?”

“The ones that matter seem to be,” he admitted, then frowned as if worried. “Chloe,” he said, hesitant. “You do know that Marcus and his law firm represent a number of questionable characters, right?”

Very diplomatic. Endearing, that. “Suspected mafia members, you mean.”

“I guess you do know.” That seemed to bother him.

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“Everyone is entitled to legal counsel, Jack. But there’s no evidence of wrong-doing. Marcus can’t refuse representation based on suspicion or rumor. That wouldn’t be right.”

Jack turned the subject. “You mentioned another appointment at noon. I have a few more questions. Would you mind meeting again later to finish the interview?”

A little bolt of pleasure rippled through her chest. She condemned herself as a fool.

Now was a lousy time for a renewed attraction to Jack. Marcus was good and kind and she loved him — even if she was fighting doubts about him.

Thank you, Emma.

Angry with her, Chloe decided to refuse Jack, to offer to finish up by phone. But when she opened her mouth, other words spilled out.

“I’d love to. Why don’t you come by again tomorrow morning, same time?”

He nodded, and she smiled.

“If I could, I’d delay my noon appointment,” she said about meeting the Roses for the alert, “but it’s a meeting I can’t afford to miss...” Chapter Six Seven Gotham Roses sat at a table in Perrini’s best private dining room, a sparkling array of the sharpest of Manhattan’s blue bloods. All were among the Rose agents who performed covert missions for Renee.

The spy segment of the Gotham Rose Club had to be kept top secret because blown covers would render Rose agents useless to Renee and her superiors, and that would jeopardise every Rose agent on every mission — and every future mission.

Renee answered to the Governess, a powerful woman who held a high-level, classified position

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somewhere in the government. Exactly where, or exactly who she was, even Renee didn’t know. Her anonymity was for everyone’s safety and protection.

Chloe nodded at Emma as she walked in. “Let’s get this done, then.” Her heart couldn’t take much more of this doubt — or frankly, of the tension between her and Emma.

Chloe needed the truth.

She wished Madison could be here — she had handled the purchase of Eleanor Towers — but neither she nor Porsche, who had an amazing nose for truth, were agents.

Julia, Samantha and Emma sat on the left of the table. Samantha’s unique style, which included green, spiked hair, stood out among the smooth, high-fashion gloss of the other women. Vanessa, Alexa and Becca sat on the right.

Since Chloe had called the Roses together, she sat at the head of the table. Normally, Roses would chat and share the latest gossip and social events. But not today. Not Rose agents about to discuss Rose business.

“Okay, let’s get to it.” Chloe nodded at Julia. “What can you tell me about Marcus Sterling?”

“His real estate investments are diverse,“ Julia said, “but his client list is even more interesting. Half the mob retains him, yet I failed to find a speck of dirt. So did my associates,” she added, referencing her contacts in the FBI, and other secret organisations in the U.S. and Europe. “Nothing illegal there.”

“I ran some bank records,” Emma said. “Honey, he did not need your money before you bought Eleanor Towers, and he sure doesn’t need it now.”

Samantha looked at Emma through the spikes of green hair that framed her face. “The man’s so clean he squeaks. Are you sure he was serious about wanting Chloe dead?”

“Extremely serious.”

“Is there a chance he’s the Duke?” Samantha asked. 33

The Roses were in constant pursuit of the criminal mastermind they all called the Duke. He was the Governess’s obsession, and the majority of the Roses’ missions involved him. So far, they’d disrupted several of his operations, but he had eluded them. Chapter Seven “Marcus has the assets,“ Chloe said, trying to distance her emotions, “but he doesn’t have the stomach for the kinds of crimes the Duke commits.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Vanessa said. “When I was modeling, I saw men do things that would curdle your blood.”

“I have to agree, Chloe,” Becca said.

“Ditto.” Alexa shifted on her seat, as if her bad leg was bothering her. “Anyone is capable of anything. Just hit on the right motive. That’s all it takes.”

“Usually. But in this case, I can’t see it,” Julia said. “The Duke is all about the dark side. Chloe’s right. Marcus doesn’t have the guts for that kind of business. Bottom line, he’s pretty spineless.” She shrugged. “Sorry, Chloe. I know you love him, but truth is truth.”

Chloe bit her tongue. She wanted truth, and she was getting it. Brutal though it may be. “So far as I know, he’s not into anything on the dark side, and I don’t consider him spineless.” Why did Julia?

“Of course you don’t. You love him,” Julia said. “I don’t.”

She wasn’t being bitchy, just stating what love can do to judgment. Considering Chloe’s reaction to Jack, maybe her antenna did need a little fine-tuning. “If this is true, and he’s not after my money, then he must be after my title.”

“It’s usually one or the other,” Samantha said, triggering grumbles of agreements around the table. “We’ve all been used by men for something.” Samantha paused. “But if it is the title, and he wants you dead, he’ll marry you before he kills you.”

Oh, God. Maybe it was true. 34

Chloe smoothed an unsteady hand down her skirt, playing with the slightly rough pattern of the brocade, reluctant to reveal what she must. “He called me on my way over here. He wants us to have dinner tonight, here — to discuss something extremely important.”

“Oh, no.” Julia groaned. “That’s definitely proposal-warning language.”

Chloe bunched the sage brocade in her hand, mentally apologising to Vera Wang at the unsightly wrinkles she created. This couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.

“Proposal, hell.” Emma lifted her wine glass. “It’s an invitation to a murder.”

Chloe glanced around the table, looking into the other Roses’ eyes. What she saw shot fear through her, and she cringed. They all believed Emma was right.

Dinner was an invitation to a murder. Chloe locked gazes with Emma. “If you all are right, then the murder is mine.” Chapter Eight Chloe arrived at Perrini’s promptly at 8 p.m., dressed for battle in a confidence-raising black silk cocktail dress with a flattering princess neckline.

Not by her favourite designer, Vera Wang, this time, but it had seemed appropriate to emphasise her royal status to Marcus.

When she stepped out of the limo, the hair on her neck lifted up. She didn’t question it, just eased her hand into her evening bag, and gripped her .38.

When she’d come of age and begun living on her own, she’d insisted on no longer having bodyguards. But she suddenly thought that just this once, having at least one would have been reassuring.

“Ah, Princess Chloe.” Lucas Perrini, a silver-haired, father figure of a man for whom she’d developed an affection, stepped forward with a broad smile. “Welcome back.”

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“Chloe, please, Lucas.”

“In my heart, my dear,” he whispered, leaning to kiss her cheek. “But my respect must be voiced.”

Tyres squealed. Startled, Chloe shoved Lucas away from her, spun, and saw a black SUV and a man in the back seat with a scoped rifle aimed out the window. She didn’t have time to pull her gun. The man fired. She dropped to a crouch at the limo’s rear and shot out the SUV’s tires.

The rear tyres blew, and the SUV fishtailed. The gun at the window disappeared, and the car crashed into a limo parked across the street. Metal clashed, glass broke and the SUV slid to a stop. Both doors opened and two men rushed out, hit the ground running.

Chloe charged after them.

“Princess Chloe, no!” Lucas shouted. Already people poured out of the restaurant and into the street.

Ditching her black suede Jimmy Choo heels, Chloe ran barefoot down the street. The driver slipped into an alley. He was the faster of the two, and she had to either shoot him or let him go and pursue the second man.

She needed to know who had hired them, so she opted for the latter, and stuck with chasing the lagger. He slowed down to check her position, and she gained on him, lunged, and they collided.

Falling to the ground, he threw a sharp right to her jaw. Pain exploded in her face. She saw stars, gasped and fought back.

“Chloe!” Julia shouted from half-a-block back up the street.

The man heard her name, hesitated, and Chloe went for his throat. He rolled, twisted away and scrambled to his feet, then took off like a shot and disappeared into the dark street. Chapter Nine

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Winded, more out of breath than she should be — the Roses’ personal trainer, Jimmy, would have a fit — Chloe swept her hair back from her face and looked at her purse. Her favourite black Gucci evening bag was destroyed. “Damn it.”

Julia caught up to her, looked her over. “Well, I’m glad to see you’ve survived, but the bag is definitely D.O.A.”

Samantha ran up next. “Well, Chloe,” she said, finger-styling her green hair back into its spikes. “I guess Marcus was serious.” She pulled a lip-gloss from her sequined hobo bag and glossed her lips, looking both tough and feminine as she did so.

Leave it to Samantha. Pragmatic and unflappable. Wishing for a dose of that, Chloe said, “We don’t know that he had anything to do with this,” and headed back to Perrini’s with one of them at each side.

“Emma warned you, now there’s an attempt on your life, and you’re still going to hear his proposal?” Julia asked. “Tell me you don’t need an assassination attempt by your lover to come off a mountain etched in stone to believe it, Chloe.”

Chloe looked her right in the eye. “Not in stone, no. But I absolutely am going to see if he proposes.”

“Why?” Samantha looked at Chloe as if she’d lost her mind. “Emma is not going to believe this. She’ll have a fit and blame me. Julia, do something.”

Julia clasped Chloe’s upper arm. “Stop right now and tell me why.”

Chloe paused to pick up one of her shoes, which rested toe up on the street. “The path to the truth is in giving Marcus exactly what he wants.” Where the hell had her other shoe landed? She’d left them at the same time.

“Chloe, are you nuts?” Subtle as mud, Samantha grunted. “He wants you dead.”

Julia nodded knowingly and passed the missing shoe.

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“Does he really?” Chloe still had doubts — major doubts. “If he’s after my title, why assassinate me now? He doesn’t have it yet.”

“Obviously they were hired pros,” Samantha said. “But she’s got a point.”

“You need Renee in on this,” Julia said. “It’s past the point of no return.”

“Not just yet.” Not until Chloe indisputably connected events to Marcus. Half the people from all the buildings stood on the street, discussing what had happened, including — God help Chloe — her least favourite reporter in the world.

“Run interference for me with Rubi, Samantha,” Chloe whispered, and made for her driver, Frank, who stood right outside Perrini’s door. Chapter Ten Wiry-haired, Einstein-like, and pushing seventy, Frank looked far too worried for her liking. “I’m fine,” she said preemptively, watching Samantha and Julia intercept Rubi. Naturally, the reporter would be on the street. “What’s the word on the car?”

“Lucas had a friend run the VIN.” Lucas Perrini’s connections were on par with the power of his clientele. Chloe wasn’t surprised that he’d gotten answers so fast. “It was stolen.” Regret filled Frank’s eyes.

“Of course it was.” Well, that limited Chloe’s options. Now, if she wanted the truth, she had no choice. She had to talk to Marcus Abbot Sterling III. “Handle the police for me,” she said softly to Frank. “I have a vital meeting inside.”

He nodded. Chloe excused herself, then walked to the restroom, where the incident hit her fullforce. The bullets fired at her had been real.

When fired on before, she’d never been on her own private turf. And it drove home that, this time, the attack had been personal. There was nowhere safe.

Surely it couldn’t be Marcus. His timing made things look bad, but that had to be coincidence. If those killers had been successful, he wouldn’t have gotten her title. 38

God, just please don’t let him propose. If he doesn’t propose, I’ll know it’s not him. I’ll know it’s a nutcase.

But that it could be him sent fear and doubt screaming through every cell in her body. Her muscles spasmed and she turned clammy.

She splashed some water on her face and pulled herself together. In the mirror above it, she appeared surprisingly undamaged by the scuffle. Amazed by that, she flicked her bangs. He won’t ask me. He won’t.

She went to the dining room, praying she was right.

Marcus stood to greet her, tension lining his face. “Chloe, what happened out there?”

“Nothing,” she lied. Her stomach in knots, she leaned in and pressed a breath of a kiss to his cheek, then sat down and quickly reached for her water glass to rinse out the bitterness burning her mouth. “Drive-by shooting, I guess. I just happened to be close by.”

“How awful.” He sat facing the dining room, looking nervous and deeply troubled. “I heard there were two men. Were they caught?”

Marcus hadn’t gone outside? Odd. Seemingly everyone else had. “Stolen car, I heard someone say.” Her doubt doubled, gnawed at her heart.

Wheels seemed to be turning inside his mind, and from the pained expression in his eyes, his thoughts were dark. But was that because he was responsible for the men who shot at her, or because he was a man about to ask a woman to be his wife? Either could rattle any man to the core. The room settled down, and like the others, they ordered and tried to talk normally through the wait and then their salads — but the strain was obvious. Why was he stressed? Chapter Eleven When the main course was on the table, Marcus turned the topic to Eleanor Towers. “Your interview with Jack Quaid went well?”

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“Of course.” She nodded. “We’ve known each other for years, and Jack loves buildings with character. He’s a fan.” She didn’t mention the concrete.

Marcus gave her a perfect smile yet remained distant and preoccupied. He might be seated at the table, but his mind definitely had wandered elsewhere, and his hand was shaking something fierce. “How is the restoration coming?”

He was afraid, she realised. Of what? “So far, so good.” She sipped from her wine glass, staying intentionally general. No one, especially not Marcus, was going to taint her enthusiasm for the project. “What was your day like?”

“The usual. Legal mayhem and murder,” he said, obviously bitter. “Are you ready for dessert?” He waited for her nod, then added, “I’ve asked Lucas to prepare something special.”

Oh, God. No, no, no! Oh, please, no!

“Are we, um, celebrating something?”

“I hope so.” He motioned and Lucas and two waiters approached the table with a sheet cake large enough to feed everyone in the crowded dining room. On it was written, “Will you marry me, Chloe?”

The diners seemed to collectively hold their breaths. Chloe’s heart shattered and she shook down to her toenails.

It was true. Oh, God, it was true!

She had planned to go along with him to learn the truth, but this proposal was far too public. Everyone, including her parents, would know about it before dawn.

How could she explain becoming engaged like this? It wasn’t acceptable for the perfect princess. Her mother would hyperventilate for six months.

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New situation. Think, Chloe. No tears. Think. Forget your broken heart. The man must want you dead.

If she agreed, he’d milk the engagement for all the publicity he could get while trying to have her killed. Or he’d marry her and then have her killed.

If she refused, she would never discover why he planned to kill her...or he might kill her for screwing up his plans. Either way, she’d be dead.

But by accepting, she could buy time to find out why he was bent on murdering her — and who had tried to kill her tonight. Of course, in a glaringly bald moment she decided, considering her circumstances, that being murdered might be easier to endure than this engagement. Chapter Twelve “Well, Chloe?” Marcus buried his upset and looked at her with the perfect balance of hope and fear.

And everyone in the dining room noticed. Her tattered heart rebelling, she allowed herself tears. Observers would think they were tears of joy not grief. “Yes, Marcus,” she said, her voice soft and hollow. “I’ll marry you.”

The room burst into applause. Held breaths were released, diners gasped and sighed. All around them, people laughed and smiled and lifted their glasses in toasts.

Rubi Cho, the In the Know with Rubi Cho columnist for the Reporter snapped a photograph of Marcus putting a diamond ring on Chloe’s finger.

Ever gallant, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to it. Then he laughed hard. “Whew!” That struck a familiar chord with the married men and set off another round of laughter.

Chloe slid her gaze to Frank, who stood across the room near Lucas. Both men had special roles in her life, though she never discussed them with others. And both men were looking at her with worry, and as if she’d lost her mind. Unfortunately, she couldn’t reassure them.

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“Darling, will you stand up?” Marcus snagged her attention then added, “Rubi wants to take a few photos.”

Chloe and Rubi weren’t on the best terms and Chloe should refuse. Instead, she asked a question. “How did Rubi know to be here, Marcus?”

He lifted a shoulder, looked her right in the eye, and lied. “I don’t know, darling. Maybe she came in after the drive-by shooting.”

“She was already here.” He’d tipped Rubi off. He wanted the publicity.

“I don’t know then.” His voice was solid, his tone as smooth as only a practiced liar’s could be. “Maybe she was hungry.”

With that remark, he set the rules of the engagement. She looked at Marcus, still playing nice with Rubi, and wondered why she’d ever thought he was attractive, why she’d allowed herself to think she could love him.

She thought of Jack. Since the first time she’d seen him, he’d attracted her on every level known to her — and likely on those as yet unknown.

And suddenly it wasn’t her broken heart, but thoughts of meeting with Jack again in the morning that helped Chloe endure the devastating ordeal with Marcus.

She could see that Marcus was extremely upset. She eyed him suspiciously, wondering... What was he thinking of to get through tonight with her? Chapter Thirteen Thanks to the luxurious down mattress covers and blankets that surrounded her in her king-size bed, Chloe overslept and had to rush to be ready by nine. She walked quickly through her closet, a room about half the size of her bedroom that organised her warm and cool weather wardrobes and showed off every pair of shoes she owned.

She decided on a conservative Ralph Lauren pantsuit. She gave her brunette bob and bangs an extra squirt of shine and dabbed Remember Me, her signature Dior fragrance, onto her wrists. As 42

she slid into black flats, the doorbell rang. A shiver of anticipation rippled through her stomach, and her devastation over Marcus didn’t seem so intense. Jack Quaid had arrived.

She strode into the living room, where she’d asked her housekeeper to show Jack when he arrived. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” They chatted for a few minutes over coffee, served efficiently by the housekeeper. Jack looked terrific, but the animation that she’d seen in him yesterday was gone. Admittedly, she was more subdued, too. “Jack, is everything okay?”

He studied her a long moment. He set down his cup, rattling the bone china against its flowered saucer. Somehow the elegant design only made him look more masculine. “I read about your engagement in the newspaper this morning. Congratulations.”

Chloe stilled. He was saying all the right words, but it was obvious he wasn’t happy about her marrying Marcus, and that thrilled Chloe. She had always been very attracted to Jack, and had sensed innately that she could trust him.

But then, until Emma’s voice mail, Chloe had trusted Marcus, too. And she’d also trusted the two users before Marcus until it had been thrown back in her face. She couldn’t risk being wrong again, especially not now. “Thank you, Jack.”

He scooted forward on his seat. “Chloe, I have to ask. Is this marriage what you really want?”

“Excuse me?”

“Forget it. I’m stepping over the line,” he said with an angry swipe of his hand through his hair. “Did you talk with Buzz Denton about the foundation?”

She nodded, knocked off-kilter by the sudden topic shift. But Jack clearly had closed the personal conversation. She didn’t trust what she was seeing or feeling from him. But if she had, she’d say that her engagement struck Jack too close to the bone and he feared getting hurt, so he’d backed off.

Instinct warned her not to push. “Yes, I did,” she said about Buzz. “He was with Mancuso during

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the inspection. They tested the crumbling and cracks, and they are just on the surface. Everything is fine.”

“Fine?” Jack stood up, paced three steps between the sofa and a chair, then turned back to her. “I had my arm down one of the cracks up to my elbow, Chloe. That’s not a surface crack.”

“The architect and the city inspector tell me everything is as it should be.” She stood up. “What do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you not to marry him.”

She opened her mouth to rebut him, but what he’d said sank in. He was doing it again — changing topics without warning. “Why shouldn’t I marry Marcus?”

Angry and intense, Jack crossed the Persian rug and stood before her, his hands fisted at his sides. “Because when you talk about him, I don’t see the light in your eyes I see when you talk about this building — or when you look...at me. Why the hell are you marrying him? Is it money? A position or power kind of thing? A princess thing? What?”

Torn at seeing him so agitated, she stood and reached a hand toward him. “It’s a thing,” she confessed. “But one I’m not free to discuss at the moment.” She let him see that she cared in her eyes, silently praying that he wasn’t as jaded as she about trust, and asked for what might be the impossible. “Can you trust me on this, Jack? Just for a while?”

He closed his eyes, then opened them and looked deeply into hers. “Whatever this thing is, get it resolved, okay?”

Amazed, she nodded.

“But about the building,” Jack said. “I’m warning you that things are not fine. Promise me you won’t wait for the building to fall down before you investigate further. Promise me you’ll either investigate or move out.”

The urgency in his voice resonated with her. “I promise.”

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She stopped speaking as he pulled her into his arms. “I said I wasn’t going to do this as long as you wore Marcus’s ring, but I’ve waited so long already, Chloe.” And with that, he pressed his lips to hers and kissed her. Chapter Fourteen Chloe sank into Jack’s kiss and returned it, telling him with lips and touch all she couldn’t give him with words. Her breath quickened, her heart raced, and flutters filled her stomach.

His kiss was everything she dreamed it would be during all those summers at the Hamptons, when she watched him and wished, and denied feeling anything at all to keep from infringing on another woman’s relationship with him. And then it was more...

Jack backed away, letting his fingertips float over her lips. He looked into her eyes and searched her face. “I knew you didn’t love him,” he whispered. “I knew it.”

She couldn’t answer. While she sensed that her not loving Marcus was critical to Jack, she knew better than to dare trust her judgment. At the moment, she had no right to ask anything of him — she couldn’t say anything at all without violating his trust.

She squared her shoulders and decided to do what he did best...and changed the subject. “I’m not eager to see a building fall down that I’ve invested a year of my life renovating, Jack, and I’m not opposed to proof. I’ve questioned the architect and reviewed the inspector’s report, looking for it. They say Eleanor Towers is fine. You say it’s not. I appreciate your expertise, but I need hard evidence.”

“You saw the crumbling, Chloe.” Irritation lined his face, making the hard angles harder, and the gleam she’d loved in his eyes disappear. “You saw my damn arm sink down in that crack.”

“Show me.” She grabbed her digital camera from her office. “Right now. Let’s go get proof and take it to other experts. I assume you know some.”

“Yes, I do.” He walked to her apartment door, the tension between them thick and heavy. “For the record, are you ticked off at me?”

“For the record,” she closed the door behind her and joined him in the elevator across the hall.

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“I’m never ticked off at a man who thinks I’m beautiful, and is willing to trust me. Not on Wednesdays, anyway.”

He laughed, and pressed the button for the garage.

When they stepped out of the elevator, they headed back to the same area of the garage where he’d shown her the crumbling and cracks in the concrete. “This is the obvious place to start.”

Near the beam where they’d noticed the most severe crumbling and widest cracks, she crouched down and rubbed a bit of concrete between her fingertips. “It’s an odd texture, isn’t it?” She twisted her hand down into a crack, tested it again. She looked up at Jack, standing hands on hips beside her. “It’s like dust.”

Jack tested it, then moved to a second beam and tested there. “This one is grittier and the colour is different.”

“Strange.” Chloe snapped a few photos, then crouched beside Jack and rubbed at the concrete, checked the colour. Darker. Denser. “Something’s not right.”

“No, it isn’t.” He dusted his hands. “I’ll be right back.” He disappeared around the back bumper of a Jeep, and less than a minute later returned, carrying a tyre iron. “It’s not the perfect tool, but it will do.”

“What are you doing?” Chloe backed up a few steps. When he lifted the tyre iron like a baseball bat, she stepped back farther. “Jack, what are you doing?”

“Wait.” He stepped forward and struck the concrete, then hit it repeatedly, raising a thick cloud of fine dust that had them both choking.

Chloe pulled the front of her blouse up to cover her mouth. Whatever the hell he was up to, it had better be for a good reason. She was powdered in dust from head to toe. “Damn it, Jack, will you stop that and tell me why you’re busting up the foundation of my building?”

He stopped and brushed at something in the hole. His shoulders heaved, but he didn’t look at her. His gaze was pinned on the concrete.

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“Jack?” Chloe stepped closer, around him, and then looked down and gasped. “Oh my God.”

Protruding from the chunks of concrete was a pink polished toenail. Chapter Fifteen The police secured the scene with yellow tape and the medical examiner was on site with a swarm of investigators. Chloe called Madison at Pruitt & Pruitt, who’d handled the purchase of the property from Marcus and had obtained all the permits required for renovating it to commercial on the first floor and condos on all others.

“I need copies of every permit pulled on this building, Madison. Run a records search for the past year. My guess, gauging by what I’m seeing, is one was issued within a month of when I bought the place.”

After the woman’s body had been removed, Jack left to investigate further. They said goodbye and she gazed after him, feeling torn.

Someone tapped on Chloe’s shoulder. She turned around and saw her surrogate-mother and boss, Renee. “What in hell is going on, Chloe?”

Furious. More than furious. Renee was petite, sleek and sophisticated in her green Christian Dior suit, and she never lost her composure — well, rarely. But when she did, hell was coming to call. “Let’s go up to my apartment,” Chloe said. “We’ll talk there.”

Once upstairs, Chloe waved off the housekeeper and walked to the kitchen. “Seltzer?” Renee nodded, and Chloe pulled two from the fridge. “These are two separate things, Renee — Marcus and what’s happening here.” Chloe now had more doubts of his guilt — he had owned the building — and of his innocence. The permits had to shed light.

“Here first, then.” Renee led the way to the living room and sat down on the sofa as if she were queen to Chloe’s princess. “I understand a body’s been recovered.”

Chloe nodded, swearing she’d be seeing the poor victim in her nightmares for the next month. “She was strangled, Renee. The rope was still around her neck.”

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“Oh, my.” Renee frowned, and sympathy for the woman rippled across her face. “Any idea who she is, or how long she’s been there?”

“Based on observation, not long. Three or four months, maybe a little longer.” Chloe plopped down in her favourite chair, reeling from the horrific events in the past two days. “Since I bought the building.”

“Mmm, we’ll have to sort that out.” Renee sipped from her glass. “Now tell me about Marcus and this absurd engagement.”

“Absurd?” Chloe asked, but Renee didn’t respond. Just looked at her in her knowing way, which was more than enough. “Never mind. “ Chloe took a sip from her glass and then set it down. “It appears to some that he’s planning my murder.”

“So naturally you accepted his marriage proposal.” Renee’s sarcasm was thin and quick and sharp.

“I’m trying to find out if it’s true, and if so, then why he wants me killed.”

“Which explains why you called on the Roses, without telling me. And why you were shot at and didn’t report the incident. And why I had to read about your engagement in the newspaper — in Rubi’s column, Chloe.” Renee’s hurt surfaced. “Do you realise how much that upset me?”

“I’m sorry.” She tilted her head. “I’m not sure Marcus is guilty. I wanted to believe he wasn’t, and then Jack came for the interview and I — I —”

“Realised you’re as crazy about him now as you were during all those summers we spent at the Hamptons?”

“Yes!” Chloe couldn’t believe it. “I thought I loved Marcus, but I don’t. Still, that he could want to kill me is devastating, Renee. But I don’t know if it’s true. It appears to be, but I need to know for fact.” She paused, then added, “This engagement is not real. It doesn’t count.” Chloe hated bringing Renee pain. She’d been good to her and deserved better. “When I really get engaged, I swear you’ll be first to know.”

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“I’d better be. And next time, you come to me. I promise not to put anyone on a watch list without proof it’s warranted.” Renee let go of her hurt expression and lifted her chin. “Now, what can I do to help?”

She’d known exactly why Chloe hadn’t gone to her. “Nothing at the moment. Madison is pulling the building permits, and the Rose agents I contacted have been all over Marcus’s assets. There’s pretty much a consensus that he’s after my title, which gives us no motive for an assassination attempt. I have no idea why Marcus would want to kill me....”

“Darling, there is more to this than Marcus. Events reek of mafia tactics.”

“I know, and I’m aware of Marcus’s client list. I’m working as fast as I can to discover exactly what ‘more’ is. Believe me, Renee, I don’t enjoy being a target.” Chapter Sixteen Chloe’s doorbell sounded. Odd. No one had called up from downstairs to get past security. Had to be someone in the building already — or the police. Renee and Chloe waited as the housekeeper opened the door.

Jack walked in. “Chloe. Mrs. Dalton-Sinclair.” He nodded. “Sorry to intrude.”

Renee brightened. “You could never intrude, Jack. It’s wonderful to see you.”

“You, too.” He smiled and shook her hand. “You look well.”

“Thank you.” Renee nodded. “We missed you last summer at the Hamptons, but your mother shared your reports from Africa with us. Compelling stories.”

“It was quite an adventure.” Jack smiled.

“I’m certain it was.” Renee had always liked Jack, too, and it showed in her warmth toward him. “How are your parents? Still traveling?”

“They’re in Nice right now.” He turned to Chloe. “Sorry to change the subject, but I have news. 49

The police have identified the woman, Chloe. Sissy Mancuso.” Jack paused. “Do you want to come with me to talk to Sal?”

“Who is Sal?” Renee asked, clearly not following.

“Sissy’s husband,” Chloe said. “He’s the city inspector for this building.”

Renee lifted a hand. “Why in heaven has his wife turned up dead here?”

“I don’t know,” Chloe admitted, locking gazes with Jack. “But I think it’s critical that we find out. I’ll drive.” ****** “What do you want?” Sal Mancuso answered the door of his Queens town house, looking pale and beaten down.

Chloe dipped her chin. “I’m sorry for your loss, Sal. Jack and I are here to pay our respects, and to see if we can do anything to help your family.” She stepped closer, forcing him to look her in the eye. “I feel responsible. Your wife was found in my building.”

The look in his eyes turned gentle. “It isn’t your fault, Princess Chloe.” He stepped back. “Come in, please.”

They walked into a living room crowded with people. Chloe nodded hello, though she didn’t recognise anyone. Two teenage girls on the sofa had to be Sal’s daughters, gauging by the through-the-years photographs of them on every possible surface. “I’m very sorry about your mother,” Chloe said softly.

The younger of the two’s eyes filled with tears. The elder girl nodded.

Sal directed Chloe and Jack to the rear of the house, into a comfortable and quiet family room. When they were seated, he clasped his hands over his knees. “I don’t know why Sissy was in your building.” He cleared the gruffness from his throat. “She disappeared nearly four months ago. Police had found no trace of her. All we know is what my girls told me. They came home from school and Sissy said she was going to the store for milk and bread.” His eyes glistened. “She never came back.” 50

“That must have been very difficult, Sal,” Chloe said. “The not knowing.”

He nodded. “It’s funny. I prayed every day to just let me find her. I thought then all the questions would be answered.” He looked from Jack to Chloe. “But now she’s found and I still don’t know what happened. She was gentle, loving. Why would anyone hurt her?”

Jack leaned forward on his chair. “There’s a good chance that forensics will pick up some evidence, Sal. We didn’t contaminate...anything.”

Fear flickered through his eyes. Surprise chased it. “I hope so,” he said, though his expression seemed out of sync with his tone. “My girls need to know what happened to their mother. I need to know what happened to my wife.” He grunted. “I guess that sounds strange. Dead is dead and nothing will bring Sissy back, but she was our world.” He blinked hard, his throat and face flushed. “She and our girls — they’re everything to me.” He swallowed hard. “These past four months without her...” He sniffed, dragged a sleeved arm across his face. “Nothing works without her. It just doesn’t work.”

“I’m so sorry, Sal.” Chloe stood up. “I think we’ve kept you from your girls long enough. They need you now.”

“Yeah.” He stood up, sucked in a deep breath that heaved his shoulders. “They need me,” he said, more to himself than to Chloe and Jack.

Chloe extended her hand. “If I can do anything, please let me know.”

He shook it, and then reached for Jack’s. “Thanks for coming by. I appreciate it.” Chapter Seventeen Chloe and Jack walked outside. When they were seated in Chloe’s green Jag, she cranked the ignition, then pushed her sunglasses up on her nose. “I think Sal feels guilty, Jack.”

“Me, too.” Jack snapped his safety belt into place. “Do you think he killed her?”

“Off the cuff, no, I don’t.” She put the car in gear and took off, heading back to the Queensboro Bridge and loving the powerful feel of the sports car. Chloe liked to drive, although in Manhattan 51

it was usually more convenient to have Frank drop her off. This trip to Queens had been a good excuse to take the Jag for a spin.

Down the street, she passed a black sedan. It nudged to the curb at Sal’s. Marcus. What was he doing here? She didn’t point out Marcus’s arrival and hoped Jack wouldn’t notice.

He noticed. “There’s your fiancé. Aren’t you going to stop?”

“No, I’m not.” She didn’t explain, just kept driving down the street, away from Sal Mancuso’s house, and away from Marcus.

“Okay.” Jack didn’t hide his surprise at her avoiding Marcus, but he didn’t ask her why. “So if Sal didn’t kill Sissy,” he said. “Then who did?”

“I don’t know — yet.” She turned left. “But I’m wondering if Sal did something, or refused to do something that someone wanted done.” Someone like Marcus? The former owner of the building.

“It’s possible,” Jack admitted. “Though it could be totally unrelated to Eleanor Towers. That might just have been where the killer chose to dispose of the body. She could have been abducted anywhere.”

“True.” Chloe shifted into third and popped the gas. “But I want to know who killed her, how and where. Right now, I really need to know who did it.”

“Why, Chloe?” Worry lined Jack’s face.

She turned to him, solemn and grave. “Because I could be next.”

Before Jack could demand answers about why she thought someone might kill her next, Chloe’s cell phone rang. Recognising the number, she ignored waiting messages from Emma and Madison and took the call. “Hello, Marcus.”

“Why didn’t you stop?” he asked. “And who was that man in the car with you?”

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“Jack Quaid,” she said. “He’s writing a story about the towers renovation. Why?”

“Never mind. He’s not important,” he said, then switched the subject. “I’ve arranged a small gathering tonight — at Perrini’s, since it’s your favourite.”

Maybe Jack wasn’t important to Marcus, but he was to her, and she wasn’t exactly comfortable at having him watch her converse with Marcus. Jack saw too much; he’d sense her discomfort. “What kind of gathering?”

“It’s a family tradition to publicly ask the elders and parents for their blessings.”

Her skin crawled. Oh, no. Not tonight. “My parents are barely speaking to me because of the way our engagement announcement has been handled.” They had not been pleased to learn about it in Rubi’s column.

“Your mother’s helped me plan this,” he said, overriding her. “Be at Perrini’s at eight, and wear something...not red.”

Red was her favourite colour for eveningwear, and if she had to go to this thing, she should at least feel free to choose her dress. Vera Wang, of course. And, since he’d said not to, one in red. She hung up without another word, wondering how her mother really had reacted to that call. Chapter Eighteen “Pull over,” Jack said, motioning to the curb.

Near the park, Chloe slid the Jag over to the curb, ignoring angry honks from taxis. She put the gearshift in Park, then turned to him. “What?”

“No. No questions from you, only answers.” Jack turned in his seat and clasped her arm. “Chloe, what the hell are you doing with that guy? You just talk to him and you’re upset. There’s no joy in your eyes. What is going on here?”

She couldn’t lie, but couldn’t tell the truth, either. “I asked you to trust me.”

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“I do trust you. But help me understand.” He grunted. “Look, maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’ve developed an attachment here, and with you being engaged, I’m feeling a little like a sucker.”

Her heart softened and she cupped his face in her hand. “I have to go along with this engagement for right now. It’s critical.”

“Damn, you Roses are hardheaded women,” he muttered. “I have a bad feeling, Chloe. Reporter’s instincts. I want you to trust me enough to tell me what’s happening.”

“I can’t.” She kissed him instead. Sweetly, lushly, deeply, showing him that she had developed an attachment, too, and that it wasn’t recent but had been with her for a long time. Dormant for a while, but definitely reawakened.

He pulled back. “Don’t do that again until you take his ring off your finger.” Jack swallowed hard, his breathing ragged. “I mean it, Chloe. I’ll trust you, but you’re not going to play hardball with my heart.”

Because she had no choice, she nodded and turned back to face the steering wheel as he exited the car and walked briskly away.

When she reached to shift into Drive, her cell phone rang. If it was Marcus again, she was going to play the queen bitch. Telling her what not to wear...who did he think he was?

“Hello?” She crooked the phone at her ear.

“Chloe, where have you been? Did you get my message?” Being ticked off at Chloe fell under the panic threading through Emma’s voice. It was palpable.

“What’s wrong, Emma?”

“There’s been a development,” she said. “Get to G.R.C. as quickly as you can.”

Emma didn’t do panic, but she was definitely rattled to the bone now, and that rattled Chloe. She 54

checked her position, then her watch, and then gauged how long it’d take her to get to the Gotham Rose Club. “Fifteen minutes.” Chapter Nineteen On the Upper East Side, at 68th between Park and Madison, Chloe parked in the club’s private garage and entered the Gotham Rose Club. The building was a beautiful brownstone with a white façade that held secret chambers below ground — including a firing range, library and computer workstations, and other areas of importance to the Rose agents that the Roses restricted to street level didn’t know existed. The upper floors were Renee Dalton-Sinclair’s private residence.

Olivia Hayward, Renee’s personal assistant, greeted Chloe, ordered her to hurry, and then disappeared. Chloe walked past the huge fireplace and grand staircase and then into the closet, the entrance to the secret rooms.

She went downstairs to the conference room, where the other Roses who’d responded to her original alert were waiting. Renee wouldn’t be joining them. Chloe had seen her upstairs, talking with a few non-agent Roses about the Club’s latest charity event.

There was no idle conversation; the Rose agents were tense. And as soon as Chloe took her seat, Emma revealed the reason for their concern. “Ryan Greene and Marcus Sterling were joint owners of Eleanor Towers, Chloe.”

Ryan, a real estate magnate, had dated some of the Roses and often went up against Madison Pruitt on land deals, but Madison wasn’t an agent and was therefore not present. Chloe shifted her gaze to Julia, who was a real-estate attorney.

“It’s true,” Julia said. “Ryan sold his interest to Marcus just days before you bought the building.”

“So what are you saying?” Chloe asked. “Both of them are trying to kill me?”

“We think it’s only one person,” Samantha answered. “But we actually have several suspects. As it turns out, Sissy wasn’t a full-time homemaker. She worked for the city, too, issuing permits.”

An uneasy shiver raced through Chloe. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” It had to be; her husband, Sal Mancuso, was an inspector, for pity’s sake.

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Emma tapped a pen to the tabletop. “It would be if they worked under the same supervisor, but they didn’t. Separate offices, separate bosses and separate duties. Yet it is significant, Chloe. The concrete used to repair the towers’ foundation isn’t up to code.”

It all began to dawn on Chloe. “Did Sissy issue the permit for the work done just before I bought Eleanor Towers?”

Emma nodded, the other Rose agents stayed quiet, and a heavy feeling settled in, souring Chloe’s stomach. “So Marcus or Ryan could have killed Sissy because she knew about the bad concrete? Or Sal? Is that what you’re all thinking?”

Samantha lifted a hand. Today her green spiked hair sported pink tips. “Go ahead, Julia, tell her all of it.”

“Why me?” Julia frowned at Samantha, relented, and then shifted to look at Chloe. “Actually, honey, the killer could be Marcus, Ryan, Sal or Buzz Denton. Any of them could have killed and buried Sissy. Buzz handled the work for Marcus and Ryan, and Sal inspected it. Any combination of them had means and motive, considering the concrete is definitely not up to code.”

“But why kill me?” Chloe asked. “That’s what I don’t get.”

Emma speculated. “Before you found Sissy’s body, the motive could have been simply to keep you from finding her. “

“That still makes no sense. Anyone could have found the body and discovered the truth about the concrete.” Chloe stood up. “But we found it, and now the truth is out. So at this point, what possible reason could there be to kill me?”

“That’s a good question,” Julia conceded. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a good answer. We don’t have an answer at all. Nothing fits.”

Chloe began to pace. “Everything to do with Eleanor Towers, and all transactions in which the building played a part, will be under heavy scrutiny. Murdering me doesn’t gain any of them anything.” She tugged her lip with her teeth and shook her head. “No. No, we’re missing something. Something significant.” 56

“Oh, pardon. Pardon.” Samantha pointed her index finger at the ceiling. “Minor detail, oh royal one. If you’re dead, you can’t expose the murderer.”

“I don’t know the murderer,” Chloe insisted, dropping back onto her chair.

“Maybe you do and you don’t realise it,” Vanessa suggested. She drummed her perfectly polished nails on the tabletop, looking like African royalty herself. Chloe knew Vanessa had had brushes with backstabbing schemers during her modeling days. She probably knew more about twisted reasoning than some. “It happens, and maybe the murderer — because he’s guilty — doesn’t realise that you don’t have a clue. Maybe he’s going to kill you for what he thinks you know.”

“Well, Marcus wants you dead,” Emma said. “He’s looking likely as Sissy’s killer, Chloe. Best accept that.”

The evidence agreed with her, but Chloe just couldn’t believe it. Not while others appeared guilty, too. “Well, I hope to hell we find out who and why before he — someone — succeeds.”

“We’ll do our best,” Julia promised.

“Well, excuse me,” Chloe said on a grunt. “But I’d feel a whole lot more comfortable if I heard a couple, ‘Of course, we will. You bet.’ You know?”

The Roses gave her what she wanted, and while her insides were shuddering, she gave them what they expected. A smile.

“That’s better.” Emma stood up. “Chloe, let Jack know about the concrete. He’s calling everyone in the city, turning over rocks, trying to help find the truth about Sissy. I think at this point, the more of us there are aware of the details, the better our odds will be at uncovering someone’s motive to kill you.”

No joke. Frowning, she nodded. Jack had told her he would look into it, of course, and he did need as much information as possible. “I’ll call him right away.” Chapter Twenty

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Chloe left the Gotham Rose Club and headed toward Central Park. Two blocks from Eleanor Towers, she finally reached Jack and told him Sissy Mancuso had issued the concrete work permit just before Chloe had bought the building.

“It’s eleven o’clock now,” he said. “Where will you be after lunch?”

The background noise on his end was horrendous. “At my apartment. I’ve got some paperwork that has to be done before close of business today.”

On two different businesses, actually.

She was a silent partner in Perrini’s and in Adelphio, an up-and-coming line of women’s clothing. The black dress she’d worn the night Marcus had proposed had been created by one of Adelphio’s most promising new designers, and Chloe was happy to give the line a push.

“I’ll do some digging then, and come by with whatever I find.”

A little tickle of anticipation feathered up her back. “Come have lunch with me.”

“Can you give me an hour?”

She smiled. “Sure.”

“I’ll be there, then.” He ended the call.

Chloe dropped by Carmine’s Deli for one of its famous sandwiches and walked into her apartment when her phone rang. “Hello?” She set the bag of food down on the kitchen’s spacious marble-topped island.

”It’s me,” Emma said. “Let’s do lunch.”

“I can’t. Jack is coming over to update me on his findings about Sissy.”

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“Ah. You really like him,” Emma said. “I hear it.”

“I do.” That drove a stake of fear through Chloe’s heart. “But I don’t really trust that he feels the same,” she added, pulling a container of potato salad from the bag. “For the record, I’m not sure Marcus is guilty — it’s the attempted murder before we even became engaged that’s bugging me — but I’m sure he’s not innocent...not with a body turning up in the building I bought from him. I’m wondering if I’ll ever trust my judgment of men again.”

“I can’t say I blame you, but there are some good ones. Jack seems like one of them.” Emma paused. “Damn it. I cracked a nail — and I just left LaBella’s.”

Many of the Roses had their hair and nails done at LaBella’s. It was nearly impossible to get an appointment unless you knew someone who knew someone there, but the Roses all had just that type of connection. The salon had become a haven from prying eyes. Chloe had a standing appointment for a manicure and pedicure every other week.

“You’ll live.” Chloe would love for a cracked nail to be her most significant problem.

“Probably, but I’ll have to go back to get it repaired, and they were booked solid.”

The doorbell rang. “Oops, Jack’s here.” Chloe felt nearly breathless. “Gotta run.”

“Try to calm your enthusiasm just a little, okay? At least until you officially break it off with Marcus. You can’t explain to Jack, and you’ll come across as flighty.”

“Too late.” Chloe hung up the phone and did a quick hair check in the gilded entryway mirror, then answered the door herself. Chapter Twenty-One Their greeting was restrained, full of unspoken feeling. Jack said, “I’m still digging around on Sissy, but I’m hearing that things weren’t all sweetness and light between her and Sal.”

“Really?” Chloe led him through the living room into the kitchen, and pulled the rest of their meal out of the bag. She got plates and they sat at the kitchen island on wooden barstools to eat. She hated eating in the dining room and avoided it unless she had more than one or two guests. 59

“Her co-worker, Millie, says Sissy had even mentioned the big D.” Jack settled onto a barstool. “But when I asked if she’d been serious or just frustrated, she didn’t know. Sissy only mentioned divorce once, and things seemed fine afterward.”

“So it’s likely that she was just upset with him about something.” Women did that when angry — fleetingly thought of divorce. Then they got over the upset and divorce didn’t cross their minds again until the next time they got totally bent.

“Maybe. I’m not sure yet.” He snagged half a corned-beef-on-rye sandwich. “I ran into your fiancé at Sissy’s office.” Jack pointedly looked at her ring.

“Why was Marcus there?” Suspicion ran rampant through her. “Do you know?”

“He didn’t say, but he mentioned that he saw us leave Sal Mancuso’s. He wasn’t happy that we were together.” Jack paused, but Chloe didn’t respond, so he went on. “He said you used to have a crush on me and then invited me to the gathering tonight at Perrini’s.”

“What?”

She didn’t want Jack there. She didn’t want to be there herself, but she especially didn’t want Jack around while she was playing Marcus’s fiancée. What if Jack brought a date? She didn’t want to see him with another woman, either.

“He invited me to come,” Jack repeated. “To celebrate your engagement.”

Chloe tamped her emotions and looked at Jack, seeking some sign of how he felt about that, but his expression was closed and his eyes were guarded. “Are you going to be there?”

He stopped eating, looked her in the eye. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t be?”

“No,” she said with regret. Not without revealing too much. “There isn’t.”

“Then I’ll see you at eight.”

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****** “Chloe, it’s Emma.”

With the phone crooked at her ear, Chloe loaded the last of the reports due by 5:00 p.m. into the fax and hit send. “What’s wrong?” Emma sounded terrified.

“Tatiana found me at LaBella’s getting my nail fixed. She’d just left Ryan Greene’s office and spotted my car. She’d hoped you were with me.”

“What is it, Emma?” Chloe asked. Tatiana Guttmann wasn’t one of her favourite people; she had a fixation on Chloe’s crown and her own lack of one made her do and say totally stupid things. But she was brilliant when it came to money. Pure Midas.

“Don’t go to the gathering tonight. That’s the bottom line.”

Her parents and Marcus’s parents would be there. When she’d finally spoken to her mother about her “less-than-perfect-princess” engagement, she’d been shocked to learn Marcus had charmingly asked her father’s blessing, and her mother had forgiven him for not speaking to her, too. Her mother now thought Marcus was a perfect mate for Chloe. God help her. “Why not?”

“Tatiana was at Ryan Greene’s office today, going over his books.” Tatiana did everyone who was anyone’s books. “Sal Mancuso showed up. She overheard him asking Ryan for help with Marcus. The police have asked if Marcus and Sissy were having an affair.”

“Were they?” Chloe turned from the fax. Marcus...having an affair? That would help make sense of this...and would prove that Chloe had been wrong about Marcus from the start.

“Sal denied it, but apparently one of his daughters recognised a photo of Marcus. He came by the house just before she disappeared.”

“Why would Marcus do that?” Chloe didn’t see Sissy entertaining a lover with her daughters at home, and Marcus and Sal were professional acquaintances. Sal’s kids might know him through that association. Still, why would Marcus visit when Sal wasn’t there?

“Sal has no idea, which is why I don’t think you should be at that gathering. Sissy’s body being 61

found in your building was only part of this, Chloe. I briefed Renee and she agrees. We’re all worried this blessings dinner is a setup for another assassination attempt.”

Chloe just didn’t know if she could take another attempt on her life from people who were inside her social circle. She curled up in a living-room chair. “I think I need to talk to the Mancuso daughters.”

“Samantha figured you’d want to. She’s parked outside, waiting to go with you...” Chloe looked at the clock. If they left now, they might get to Queens and back in time for her to get ready for the evening — if they didn’t get caught in rush-hour traffic. And they would probably just miss Sal getting back from work. Chapter Twenty-Two Forty minutes later, Samantha and Chloe stood on the front porch, waiting for someone to answer Sal’s door. “He won’t like us talking to his kids without his permission.” Chloe had serious misgivings about this.

“If we asked his permission, he’d refuse.” Samantha motioned to the lemon cake they’d picked up at the bakery on the way. “Just shove cake their way and say we’re sorry to hear about their mother. Then this is a normal Gotham Rose Club courtesy call. He’ll say thank you, and that will be that.”

A gangly girl about fourteen answered the door, her hair gelled in six-inch spikes. “Yes?” She looked from Chloe to Samantha and her jaw dropped. “Oh my God, you’re Samantha. “ She looked back. “Melissa, it’s Samantha from Funky Town.”

Slightly younger, Melissa appeared at the cracked open door. “It’s her! It’s her!”

Chloe lifted a questioning eyebrow and Samantha smiled. “Magazine layout for teens,” she whispered.

The girls refused to let Chloe and Samantha inside; their father wasn’t at home, but they came out onto the porch with cans of soda and plates, forks and paper towels for napkins.

Midway through thick slices of tart cake, Samantha changed the subject from the teen magazine to their parents, and finally to Marcus. 62

“He called here all the time,” Melissa said. “But he only asked to talk to my dad.”

“About what?” Samantha asked, licking frosting from her fingertip.

“Work stuff,” Andrea, the eldest said with a bored eye roll. “He came by once when my parents weren’t home. I don’t think Mum even knew him. She never said she did to me. Did she to you, Melissa?”

“Uh-uh.” She downed half a can of soda. “But Dad was always mad when he got off the phone. I hated when that guy called. And Dad seemed upset when we told him Marcus had come by to see him.”

Things were not looking good for Marcus, but it didn’t sound as if he and Sissy had had an affair.

Chloe checked her watch. She had less than an hour to get to Perrini’s for the blessings dinner, and as much as she dreaded it, she had to be there. “Samantha, I’m going to be late.”

They said goodbye and then departed. Seated in Samantha’s car, Chloe sighed. “If Marcus and Sal were at odds, it’s more likely that Sissy wasn’t killed because of her job. She was killed because of Sal’s.”

“Yeah,” Samantha agreed. “I’ll get the Roses on that. You tell Jack so he stays on the right page and can go public with this when we get the answers we need.”

Answers they needed to find...very soon. Chapter Twenty-Three “A small gathering?” Chloe did her best to keep her temper from showing, but she was beyond angry. She was hostile. The entire dining room at Perrini’s was filled with her family — parents and her brother, Prince Erik — as well as scads of friends and far too many acquaintances. She hadn’t agreed to this.

And from the look on Lucas Perrini’s face, he knew it. “I’m sorry, Princess Chloe,” he whispered. “I had no choice. Marcus and your mother made all the arrangements.” 63

“Chloe, darling.” Her mother swept up to her and pressed an almost kiss to each cheek. “Vera Wang? Oh, Chloe. And Marcus specifically asked you not to wear red. Sapphire would have photographed so much better,” she whispered. “I’m so glad that you’ve finally chosen a man suitable for a princess.”

In protest, Chloe spun around as if showing off the brilliantly red, square-necked satin gown with its English net sleeves to her mother. The full-length skirt swirled around her ankles like a waving flag. She didn’t dare to speak. Didn’t dare.

She scanned the crowd of at least two hundred — and saw Jack. He’d looked gorgeous before, but in a tux...breathtaking. He nodded, and she nodded back, then asked her mother, “Why are all these people here for a family blessing?”

“We deemed it appropriate,” her mother whispered. “Don’t embarrass us.”

Us? Her mother and Marcus. Not her mother and her. The anger burned deeper. “Where exactly is...?” She turned to see Marcus standing behind her, his smile forced; he sensed her anger, but there was more. “You said family.”

“It grew.” He kissed her cheek. “Your mother and I started talking, and well, we’re so happy. We wanted everyone to celebrate with us.”

He was lying. Scared and lying. Chloe wasn’t happy; she didn’t want a huge celebration, but apparently, she didn’t get a vote. Didn’t it figure? The first man her mother gives the kiss of approval to, and he’s a lying man likely wanting to murder her. Her mother didn’t know it, but Renee did.

Stern-faced, she came to Chloe. “I need to steal Chloe for a moment.” Not smiling at her mother, Renee tugged Chloe by the arm into Lucas’s kitchen. “What in hell is all this?” Renee asked. “You’re not even supposed to be here.”

“I got the message,” Chloe assured her. “But this was supposed to be a family gathering. I didn’t know Mother and Marcus had formed an alliance and invited the world to make my life a living hell.”

“Well, they have.” Renee paced a short path in front of the door to the dining room. “The 64

Governess is going to flay me. You wait right here. Don’t eat or drink anything and, for God’s sake, do not go back into that room.”

“Wait for what?” Chloe held her voice down, but gestured with her arms.

“For me to come up with a way to save your butt and get you out of here.”

Walking through the swinging door, Jack said, “I can help with that.” He caught and shoved at the door again. It slammed into Chloe’s shoulder.

She fell back against the wall, pain streaming through her shoulder to her spine. “Damn it, Jack.”

“I’m so sorry.” He wrapped an arm around Chloe, looked at Renee. “I’d better take her to the hospital to make sure nothing is broken.”

Renee gave him a huge smile. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

“What?” Chloe stood up. “I’m not hurt.”

Lucas Perrini stepped over from where he’d been conferring with the chef. “Jack, use my car to take Princess Chloe to the hospital. There’s one in Rhode Island.”

“Rhode Island?” Chloe looked at Lucas as if he’d lost his mind.

“Go where you will,” Renee said. “But do it now — and don’t finish doing it until midnight. I’ll tell Marcus that you want him and your parents to stay here and continue the celebration, Chloe, so as not to disappoint your guests.”

“Thanks.” She allowed Jack and Lucas to lead her out of the restaurant through the kitchen door. Chapter Twenty-Four Lucas’s Rolls and his driver, Damien, were waiting just outside it with the engine running and the back door open.

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When she was seated inside with Jack next to her, Lucas bent in to say something to her. “Don’t come back here tonight, Princess Chloe. And keep Damien and Jack close. I know you are capable of protecting yourself, but they are capable of assisting, should you need it.”

More was at work here. A lot more. “What have you heard about tonight?”

Sadness filled Lucas’s eyes. “I regret to tell you this, my dear, but I intercepted a man I have before seen. Chloe, I’m certain he intended to assassinate you tonight.”

She gripped the door. “Why?”

“I don’t know, but he is a professional,” Lucas said without heat.

“Mafia?”

Lucas didn’t answer. “I’m told by my good friends he was not working alone. Renee knows those who belong here tonight. If there are others, we will find them. You will stay out of the way while we do.” He looked at Jack. “Keep her away from here, no matter what it takes.”

Jack nodded that he would and Chloe gasped. “No, I should be here. What if Marcus is innocent? He owned the building before I did,” she said, finally accepting that this was all related to Eleanor Towers. “If he isn’t guilty, then whoever is doing this could also target him.”

“No, my dear.” Lucas was deeply disturbed. “I’m very sorry, Chloe, and I would wish not to have to tell you this most of all.”

“What is it?”

“My good friends tell me that Marcus was being pressured. You were threatened to put him in line. Rather than conform and follow his orders, he chose to sacrifice you.” ****** “Why are you so angry?”

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Chloe reached down and adjusted her shoe strap. “Gee, Jack, I don’t know. Let’s see, Marcus arranges a small gathering with our parents and a few very close friends that turns into a huge three-ring circus. Lucas’s mob friends say hit men are out to kill me as retribution for something Marcus did or didn’t do. Renee yells at me for showing up tonight — clearly she knows more than I know. And then you damned near dislocate my shoulder and whisk me off in Lucas’s car to God knows where — I’m assuming, to avoid the assassin, though I don’t know how you even know about any of that, since I didn’t tell you. And you ask why I’m angry?”

“Sorry to interrupt the argument,” Damien said from the front seat. “But where do you want to go?”

“My place, please,” Jack said quickly. “Don’t give Damien a hard time, Chloe. He’s just doing his job.”

She had twisted her mouth to do just that, stopped, and swallowed. Her hand brushed the butterysoft leather of the seat. The rich feel of the material failed to soothe her. “I want to be back at Perrini’s at one minute past midnight,” she warned him.

Jack nodded, and they rode to his house on Long Island — him silent, her seething. Chapter Twenty-Five The house was an estate on the water, with clean-cut lines and flowering shrubs. There was an old-fashioned widow’s walk three stories up, and within half an hour, Jack and Chloe sat sideby-side in reclining chairs outside on it, sipping mojitos that Jack had mixed and watching the moonlight dance on the water.

“Chloe,” Jack said. “What did Marcus do, or not do? Why did he sacrifice you?”

“I don’t know.” True enough. The breeze felt cool on her heated face.

“Yet you’re not surprised by it.”

“No.” She looked over at him. “I had heard someone wanted me dead.”

Jack paused. “Who?” He shrugged off his tux coat and hung it on the chair’s back. 67

Renee and Lucas had put her in his hands, which meant they trusted him. But she didn’t trust him or herself, or her own judgment. “I don’t know.”

Jack clasped her hand, then went on. “Tell me why you’re engaged to Marcus when you can’t stand him. Tell me why you’ve agreed to marry a man you think wants to kill you.”

“It’s complicated.” She looked over at Jack; let him see the truth in her eyes. He pulled her to him, and she went, sitting on the edge of his chair, her hand still in his, her free hand braced on his chest. “The engagement means nothing.”

She wanted to feel safe and secure, and to kiss Jack Quaid just long enough to forget that a man who supposedly loved her had sacrificed her life for some unknown reason. That other men in the world were willing to kill her, kill anyone, for money.

She wanted to forget everything bad and hurtful and cruel, and to get lost in the sweetness and goodness in life. Just for a moment. Just long enough to remember the good that made the bad worth enduring.

Jack pulled her to him. “I’m crazy about you, Chloe, and I want that man’s ring off your finger. If it means nothing, won’t you take it off?”

She did, and slipped it into her purse, then returned to Jack, who waited with open arms. They kissed, shared the intimate wonder, testing and tasting and bonding, and her heart beat faster, awakening her senses to what was right and good and bittersweet and so long craved and so long denied.

Finally, finally, they were together at the right time and place, and at the right moment in time — their moment in time. She sank deeper into the kiss.

Soon, Jack separated their mouths, and she rested her cheek on his chest, felt his heart hammering. They half-sat, half-lay quietly, letting all that they had sensed, given and absorbed, settle between them.

Minutes later, Jack whispered, “That meant something, Chloe.”

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“Yes,” she confessed, then stilled and soaked in the quiet. The hours passed, with talking and without it; long stretches of being content to be together, stroking his chest, his shoulder, feeling him rub gentle circles on her back, on her nape.

Her mind reeled, but not frenetically, and she just let her thoughts move randomly at will. When the moon rose high, Jack kissed her on the neck. “It’s after midnight.” He led her toward the car. Feeling the rum hitting her hard, she changed the subject.

“Did I tell you that I talked with Mancuso’s daughters today?” she asked. He shook his head and she went on. “I think Sal or his job got Sissy killed. And Sal knows it, Jack.”

“How could he pretend not to know anything for four months, then admit that?”

“He didn’t admit it — I doubt he’d ever admit it, but he does know it.” She walked down the steps and headed toward the Rolls, where Damien stood waiting. “Which brings a great devil’s advocate question to mind. If Sal didn’t know it, then why did he ask Ryan Greene for help in dealing with Marcus now?” Chapter Twenty-Six Jack called Lucas, who said they found no other assassins and that the party was winding down. “It’s safe to bring her back now. I know she’s insisting.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

Chloe could hear both ends of the conversation, and slid Jack a warning look. When they arrived at Perrini’s, Marcus opened the car door, anger apparent in his every move. Chloe stepped out. Jack joined her. Marcus looked them over, his gaze telling her again what he thought of her dress. “Are you all right, Chloe? Renee said you were injured.”

She nodded, and he looked at Jack, disdain tensing his hard-lined face. “It appears that you both need to remember you’re engaged, Chloe.” Noticing she wasn’t wearing her ring, he stared pointedly at her hand. “Jack, consider this a friendly warning. The woman is mine. Forget it again, and I’ll ruin you.”

Jack spread his lips back from his teeth. “That’ll be difficult, Marcus. I work for myself.“ 69

“Today, you do. Perhaps tomorrow, you won’t.” Marcus clasped Chloe’s arm, moved to go inside. “Stay away from him.”

“Let go of her.” Jack’s voice held a frightening edge. “Now.”

“I beg your pardon?” Marcus stopped.

“It’s okay, Jack.” Chloe had a hunch and played it. “I need to talk to Marcus.”

Jack looked wary, so did Lucas, but neither moved to stop her. “Inside, where it’s safe.” Marcus flinched, and neither Jack nor Chloe missed it.

Inside, they sat at a table, Chloe with her back to a wall. Her evening bag in her lap, her hand inside it gripping her gun, she leveled a look at Marcus. “First, don’t ever tell me what to do. I’m responsible for what I do, and what I do will always be my choice.”

“I understand that you’ve been injured, but you’re not being reasonable, Chloe.”

“I’m being perfectly reasonable. If I were being unreasonable, I’d shoot you without caring why you’ve said and done what you’ve said and done to me. But I think you probably got in over your head with some of your clients and your pride wouldn’t accept that you were being controlled.“ Maybe things had gotten rough and he’d doubted they meant what they said, so they were making an example out of her. Then, Marcus would be a believer and he’d still be around to do whatever they wanted. “That’s why I’m giving you this opportunity to explain yourself.”

Anger chased terror in his eyes. “You spend the evening with another man when you should have been here with me, receiving familial blessings, and you tell me to explain.”

“Yes.” Her hard gaze didn’t ease. “Think professional assassins. Think sacrifice. Think Sissy and Sal Mancuso. And then explain it to me, Marcus, because from where I’m sitting, it’s looking an awful lot like you’re guilty as hell.”

He stiffened, starched his shoulders. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

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“I was afraid of that.” She sighed. “You know, Marcus, for a brilliant attorney, you’re making incredibly stupid choices. You typically hide that well. Just not well enough.” She stood up to leave.

“Do not do this to me.” He glared at her. “Humiliation isn’t something I suffer, Chloe, and I warn you, you’ll regret it.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” She dropped his ring on the floor at his feet and then walked away, heading out the door. Her red dress snapped around her legs as if applauding. Chapter Twenty-Seven Frank stood waiting by her limo. “Jack says you’re ready to go home and to tell you he’ll call you in a few minutes.” Frank nodded to his left where Jack and Lucas stood.

She smiled and nodded. “Jack is right. I am ready.” She needed to think.

As they drove away, she felt the tension ebb. She took off her red shoes and rubbed her bare feet. Her cell phone rang and she debated not answering it, but recognised the number as Jack’s. “Hi.”

“Nice workout on the mongrel,” he said. “Productive?”

That depended. He’d sacrificed her; of that she was sure. But for what? “Not really, but he certainly pushed the line.”

“Was that the tinkle of your engagement ring I heard bouncing on the tile floor?”

“It was.” Her heart beat a little faster, and she hoped she didn’t regret her fit of temper. She’d gotten angry, revealed too much, and dropped the plan. Whether or not that was a wise thing to do, only time would tell.

“Ah, good. I never liked him anyway.”

“You’re kidding?” She couldn’t resist a little sarcasm. “Tell me that tomorrow, when I’m over my snit. You didn’t tell me you worked for yourself — I thought they were family businesses.” 71

“I bought them out two years ago,” he said. “You didn’t tell me you had an interest in Perrini’s and in Adelphio, either. I guess we haven’t yet had time to close the gaps in what we know about each other. But we’ll get up to speed.”

An alert button went off in Chloe. “How did you know that about me?”

“I didn’t investigate you.” He laughed, but it was nervous laughter this time. “Renee mentioned one, and Lucas told me the other.”

He was lying. Lucas would die before revealing her interest in Perrini’s and Renee didn’t discuss anyone’s business — ever — because she didn’t want anyone asking about her own. Their work for the Governess was top secret. The Roses were able to investigate high-society criminals because they had access through their A-List status.

No way would Renee open that door. So why was Jack lying? He couldn’t be the missing assassin; both she and Renee had known him and his family all their lives. Had to be journalistic interest. What else was left?

“If you need company, I’ll come over,” he said. “I’m right behind you.”

She looked back and saw him. “You’re following me?”

“Just making sure you don’t have any trouble getting home,” he said. “So do you want me to stop over?”

She did. She really did. “What are you going to do if you don’t?”

“Try to find out what Lucas meant when he said Marcus had sacrificed you.”

Blunt enough, and he’d put together a lot of the puzzle. Thankfully, nothing that led him to the Rose agents. “Do that, then. I need to pout a bit.”

“Chloe, I know it hurts, honey. But a man with sense would never sacrifice you for anything.”

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Tears gathered on her lashes. “Thank you, Jack.”

“For the record,” he added, “I’m so glad Marcus doesn’t have sense.”

“Soon I will be, too,” she said. “But tonight I need to grieve.”

At home, Chloe showered and went to bed, totally exhausted. Tomorrow would be a rotten day. Her mother would be upset about Marcus — everything was pretty much a mess. But just too weary to worry another second, Chloe closed her eyes. Within minutes, she was sound asleep.

And hours later, she awakened just as abruptly...to the biting sting of an injection. Chapter Twenty-Eight Chloe came to with a drug hangover, slumped on a church pew, staring at a candlelit altar.

“Good, you’re awake. Stand up and put on this wedding dress.” Marcus clasped her arm. “We’re getting married, my dear.”

“No.” She fought the groggy feeling and his order to stand up. She was just too sleepy to stay awake. “I have no intention of doing that.”

“Standing up? Or marrying me?” he asked in a voice so pleasant the situation seemed even more surreal.

That sobered her into looking up at him. “I’m not marrying you, Marcus.”

“You will, Chloe,” he said sharply. “Now go put on this dress — it’s Vera Wang, your favourite — or I’ll have my men strip you down right here and put it on you. Not the way I’d prefer to treat a princess, but if you give me no choice, then you give me no choice.”

She looked over and saw three men, standing in the center aisle. They were all huge, bruisers, and they were all armed. Jimmy “the Heartbreaker” Valentine, her trainer for the Gotham Rose spy organisation, had taught her never to attempt a takedown without total confidence of success. In her current condition, she’d never win, so she opted for more subtle tactics.

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“Fine.” She snatched the dress from Marcus. “But I’m not changing in front of them — and I’m not marrying you.”

“Let’s tackle one challenge at a time,” he said. “First, the dress.” He dragged her to the back of the church, around the corner, to an anteroom. “Dress in there — and hurry up, Chloe. I have another errand, and it’s one I don’t want to miss.”

“By all means, go now. I have no desire to keep you from anything else.”

“Are you curious about why I’m doing this?”

“My title, obviously.” He nodded no, and she tried again. “So I can’t testify against you?”

“With your high profile, I didn’t think they’d really go after you,” he admitted. “After the attempt at Perrini’s, I knew they were serious.”

“What do they want you to do?”

“I won’t tell you that. It’ll make you vulnerable.” His eyes burned with regret. “I swear I didn’t believe they were serious. I thought they were bluffing, Chloe.”

“Well, they weren’t bluffing, and I can’t imagine being any more vulnerable than I am already.”

“You can be. Trust me,” he said. “This is the only way to protect you now.”

“Marrying me protects me?” Chloe’s skin crawled. “Have you lost your mind?”

His jaw tightened. “They have an agreement. They never go after wives, Chloe.”

“You’re crazy. Marcus, you’re not part of them — or are you?”

“No. And I’m trying my damnedest not to become part of them. Don’t you see?” 74

“What I see is a man who sacrificed me, calling a bluff. A man that’s in way over his head, got me involved, and now has kidnapped me to force me into a wedding I do not want.”

“They’ll kill you, Chloe.”

Like he wouldn’t? He’d never risk her leaking word of any of this, ruining his reputation. He’d be ostracized by his family, in their circle. He was scared and not thinking straight — and that could be to her advantage.

“Okay, I understand now. I don’t like it, but I understand.” She licked at her dry lips. “But, Marcus, I have to know. Who killed Sissy Mancuso?”

“I have no idea. I swear it.” He blew out a breath, checked his watch. “We’re short on time. Please, change clothes and let’s do this. You’ll be safe. I do love you.” The tenderness left his face. “After we’re done, I have a surprise for you.”

“I believe you do love me,” she lied. “But I’m weary of surprises.” She frowned and held it so he wouldn’t miss it, then grabbed the anteroom door, wishing she had the luxury of slamming it in his face.

“You won’t want to miss this surprise, my dear. It involves your friend, Jack.”

Shock ran up and down her back. “Jack?” Something sinister in Marcus’s expression warned her, made her sick on the stomach. “What surprise could you have for me that could possibly involve Jack?”

“Your construction crew is working tonight, correct?” His smile chilled her blood. “Buzz told you that, didn’t he?”

He had. The crew had been jackhammering since the police had released the scene, preparing to rework the foundation. The concrete was to be poured tonight. “Yes, so?” Marcus smiled. “Get dressed, Chloe. I promise, you won’t want to miss it.”

While fuzzy in the head from the drugs, she was still together enough to know he intended Jack harm. She shut the door, blocking him out. 75

In a small bath at the far end of the room, she splashed her face with ice-cold water, trying hard to clear her mind, and then stared at the wedding dress, a diaphanous creation she would have loved under other circumstances.

Suddenly, the puzzle pieces slid together in her mind. Eleanor Towers. Sissy. Concrete. Jack. Concrete.

Oh, dear God. Marcus might not have killed Sissy but he had buried her in the old foundation — and in the new one, he intended to bury Jack! Chapter Twenty-Nine Chloe had no intention of putting the dress on, although it was a beautiful lace and tulle gown. But Marcus had insisted on checking in to make sure she was getting a move on it, so she’d had no choice.

She peered out the window and saw a man walking the outside length of the building, guarding the church and the window. When he walked by and headed away from her, she climbed through, slid down the wall to the grass and took him out with a swift elbow to the temple.

When he crumpled onto the grass, she took off running, having no idea where she was, and no idea how to get to Eleanor Towers.

At the corner, she paused, but didn’t recognise anything around her — the church, a red light, a bank — she could be anywhere. She crossed over, hiked her dress, and ran full out, wanting to put some space between herself and the church.

Marcus would come looking for her any minute. He wouldn’t wait long; patience wasn’t one of his virtues.

Passing under a street lamp, she saw a ratty green pickup truck parked in front of a convenience store. She’d been heading in the opposite direction, but stopped and turned back. Grand theft auto didn’t hold much appeal, but Jack being buried in a concrete grave held even less.

The truck was running. And its cab was empty. She peeked through the storefront glass and saw two men standing at the counter talking. She inched back to the truck, slipped the gearshift into

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reverse, and stole out of the parking lot, hoping the man held a nice, long conversation. Why couldn’t he have a phone in here?

She rifled through compartments. No loose change with which she could call Renee. She developed a plan: put some space between her and Marcus, then call Renee collect.

She drove east toward a cluster of lights and hoped she’d get her bearings, come by a public telephone, and stay ahead of Marcus and his henchmen.

Three blocks later, she passed a city limits sign. She was at least half an hour from Eleanor Towers — if she hurried. She slammed her foot down on the gas pedal. The old truck lurched, coughed and lurched again, but then it sped up.

A police car moved in behind her. She debated stopping and asking him to call Renee or to help Jack, but what if Marcus had them on his payroll? He’d taken her to this specific place for a reason, and it seemed he covered his bases.

And what if the pickup had already been reported as stolen? She couldn’t risk stopping. She watched him steadily in the rearview, and saw him make a left-hand turn.

The gas gauge was low, but she should make it. At least that seemed to be in her favour. She braked for a red light. A man in the car beside her was talking on a cell phone.

A woman wearing a wedding dress. How threatening could that be? She rolled down the window. “Excuse me? Sir? Excuse me?”

His passenger window slid down. “What?”

“May I please use your phone to call my mother?” she asked, embellishing a bit to put him at ease. “I’m supposed to be at the church and I’m lost.”

He noticed the wedding gown, the veil, but still seemed wary. It was an odd time for a wedding. “Okay, but I dial.”

“Of course.” She smiled and reeled off Renee’s number. 77

“It’s ringing.” He passed the phone through the glass. “Don’t make me sorry I did this.”

“I won’t,” she swore and meant it.

Olivia answered the phone. Chloe nearly choked. “Olivia, it’s Chloe. I’m in trouble. Marcus drugged me and took me to a church in — damn, I can’t remember the name of this place, but I’ll be back in Manhattan in twenty minutes. I think Marcus is burying Jack in the foundation at Eleanor Towers. They’re pouring concrete tonight. Get Renee and the Roses over there, please. I’ll be there as soon as I can, but he needs help now.”

“Oh my God, Chloe, what have you gotten yourself into with him?”

“Not now, Olivia. You can lecture all you want later. Right now, just get Jack some help.”

“All right, I’ll tell Renee right away and issue a Rose Alert,” Olivia said. “Are you safe now?”

Safe? What was safe? “I stole a truck,” she said. “I’m heading home. I — I’m groggy as hell from the drugs, but I think I’m okay. And I’ve got to give this dear man who trusted me back his phone.”

“Be careful,” Olivia warned her. “This might not have started out as a mission, but it’s certainly developed into one. If that fool Marcus Sinclair went to all this trouble, he won’t just let you drive away. He’ll come after you.”

Chloe looked in her rear mirror. “He has. One of his men is behind me now. I’ve got to go.” The light turned green. Had he recognised her? Did he know that she was driving the truck?

“Bless you!” Chloe tossed the phone back to the other driver, then stomped the accelerator. Chapter Thirty Chloe screeched to a halt at the curb and jumped out of the truck. She’d have to run down the block to the building; concrete trucks had the street blocked. Carmine, who owned the deli across the street, was just closing his door. “Call the police, Carmine. Call the police!” She kept running.

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He fumbled with the lock and went back into the store. Chloe stopped at the edge of her building and caught her breath, then inched around to the garage door opening. The crew was working — about a dozen men — and none of them were anywhere near where Sissy had been buried.

For some reason, Chloe felt certain Marcus would have Jack put in the same spot where Sissy had been taken out — to prove that he could. After the stunt at the church, only a fool wouldn’t believe he was that arrogant. That area had not yet been poured and — she scooted around and scanned — Jack was nowhere in sight. God, please don’t let me be too late...

Samantha, Julia and Vanessa arrived all within seconds of each other. “You okay?”

Chloe nodded, then whispered, “I haven’t seen Jack.”

Within a minute, Renee, Emma, Alexa and Becca approached from the other side of the door. Renee lifted her shoulders. Chloe signaled “no visual yet,” pointing her fingertips to her eyes. Renee tossed her a gun.

Chloe caught it. Motioned for them to move in simultaneously on three.

Weapons concealed, they entered the garage, chatting and laughing, and moved toward the elevator, acting tipsy. Startled, the men watched but didn’t move to stop them. They made their way across the garage to the elevator door.

A black SUV pulled up inside, and a man Chloe didn’t recognise got out. He didn’t see them, and jerked open the back door, then pulled Jack out of the back seat. His eyes and mouth were taped shut. His hands were banded with silver duct tape. Chloe’s muscles spasmed at once.

Emma moved up behind her. “Fake it ‘til you make it,” she whispered so only Chloe could hear. “Keep it together.”

Crowding the door to the elevator, the women pretended not to notice the new arrival or Jack, and one of the other men jerked Jack around the corner and out of their sight. The other men, working the concrete that had been poured smooth, hadn’t noticed Jack had been brought in, much less that he was decked out in duct tape. Is that what had happened with Sissy?

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“Un-freaking-believable,” Samantha said.

“Let’s go get him.” Renee grimaced.

“I need another drink.” Emma elevated her voice, stepped back from the elevator and started back toward the garage door. “Where’s the closest bar, Chloe?”

“Me, too. Hell, it’s nowhere near dawn yet.” Samantha joined Emma and they strode side by side.

“We might as well all go,” Chloe said, taking the inside wall, closest to Jack. As they neared the door, she heard the concrete truck start churning. The sounds of concrete sliding down the chute echoed in the garage, and her heart jumped to her throat.

She rounded the corner, and saw Jack, prone beneath the chute, concrete splashing onto his chest. Oh, no! “Where are they? Where are the two men?” She scanned but didn’t see them, ran to Jack and half-pulled, half-rolled him out from under the chute, then tugged the tape free from his mouth. “Are you okay? Jack?” Why wasn’t he answering? Had they drugged him, too? “Jack?”

The Roses pulled their weapons, fanned out, searching inside and out. Renee, Emma and Julia teamed up, looking for the two who’d brought Jack in the SUV. Without a scuffle, Vanessa, Becca and Alexa stopped the workers and lined them up to wait for the police.

Renee came back to Chloe. “Is he all right?”

“He’s breathing fine, but not answering.” She looked up at Renee. “Apparently, they drugged him, too.”

Emma joined them, winded. “The two guys who put Jack under the chute are outside. One of them had the poor sense to piss off Samantha.” Emma dabbed at her forehead. “He’ll be picking bits of his teeth out of everything for the next week.”

“She Jimmy Chooed him?” Renee guessed, her eyes twinkling.

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“Caught the front eight in one kick.” Emma nodded. “Jimmy will be pleased.”

“Chloe?” Jack cranked his eyes open and looked up at her. Decidedly loopy, he gave her a lopsided grin. “Nice dress.”

****** When Chloe and Jack walked into Sal Mancuso’s office, Sal had a look on his face that said he knew the time for truth had come. “Princess Chloe, Mr. Quaid. Please, sit down.”

They sat in the visitor’s chairs near his desk, and he returned to his seat. “I’ve kept quiet because I was afraid, but after what happened to Sissy and you two, I can’t do it anymore.” He paused, swallowed hard, and then went on. “Marcus Sterling knew the concrete was inferior — he knew it wouldn’t hold up. Buzz Denton did, too, but he couldn’t do anything. It was all too closely linked to Marcus’s clients...his connections. The company they were using for the construction was one of theirs.”

“Did Ryan Greene know this, too?” Chloe asked. If so, he wasn’t going to be the Rose darling much longer, even if he and Tatiana were having a good time.

“No,” Sal said. “Marcus bought out Ryan Greene, and then did this. I refused to sign off on the inspection...which could have drawn some unwanted attention.” He looked down, fighting to retain his composure.

Chloe and Jack waited patiently until Sal was ready to go on. When he did, raw pain burned in his eyes. “Then Sissy went missing,” he said. “I worried Marcus had done something to her, but he denied it, and I had no proof. She was just...gone.”

“Until Sissy’s body was found at Eleanor Towers,” Jack said. “You knew then.”

“Yes, I did.” He stiffened. “But I had two daughters to worry about. His mob connections killed my wife. I couldn’t lose my daughters, too.”

“How do you know members of the mob killed your wife?”

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“He made sure I knew. And he swore to me that if I didn’t keep my mouth shut and stand by my report now, my daughters would be next.”

Jack stood up. “Sal, they found Marcus’s DNA on your wife’s body. He is going to be arrested for her murder. Are you sure he didn’t kill her himself?”

“Yes, I am.” He swallowed hard. “Right after I told him I was going to tell the truth, another man came to my office. I — I didn’t know him, but he was really scared. He said he and Marcus were taken to watch two men bury Sissy in the concrete.” Sal paused, wrestled for control, the demons creating images in his mind all too vivid. “They, um, wanted Marcus to withhold evidence on a case so charges would be dropped against one of their people. He refused to do it because he could lose his law license. One of the men cut Marcus’s finger and dripped his blood on my Sissy’s face.” Sal’s eyes filled with tears. “Then he told Marcus he could choose: his license, or his life.”

Chloe imagined the horror of that moment. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, Sal.” Chloe sucked in a ragged, steadying breath. “I understand your need to protect your children. In your position, I well might have done the exact same thing.”

He nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Chloe pretended not to notice them. “Detective Greer will be in to take your statement in a few minutes.” She shook Sal’s hand and passed him her card. “Call me for anything you or the girls need. If I can help you, I will.”

He cleared his throat and stood up. “Thank you, Princess Chloe.”

She walked out of the office with Jack then stepped outside. Chapter Thirty-One “You’re pale, Chloe.” Jack clasped her hand. “You okay?”

“Maybe... Yes... No, I don’t think I am. All of this has been pretty unnerving, Jack,” she admitted.

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“I know.” Jack frowned. “The question is where the hell is Marcus now? According to Emma, he’s eluded police. Do you think his mob friends picked him up?”

“Why would they? They don’t fear him, and he’s definitely afraid enough of them to keep his mouth shut forever.” Chloe thought about it all, and suddenly knew exactly where Marcus had gone. “He’s got to be at Ryan Greene’s, doing his best to con Ryan into covering for him.” Holding her Coach bag to her side, Chloe ran.

In Ryan’s opulent office, his reserved secretary tried to stay Chloe. “No, you can’t go in there, Princess Chloe. Mr. Greene is in a meeting!”

“Don’t even think about stopping me,” she warned the woman, then skirted around to Ryan’s private office. Her hand on her gun inside her purse, Chloe opened the door. A surprised Ryan sat behind his desk. Marcus sat in front of it. She moved quickly and shoved at his chair. “Do not make me ruin another perfectly good handbag, or I’ll shoot you in the face for pure revenge.”

“Chloe, what the hell are you doing?” Ryan started to stand up.

“Sit down and stay out of this, Ryan.” She spared him a glance. “Your former partner here drugged and kidnapped me last night and nearly got me killed by his mob friends. I’m in a really bad mood.”

His jaw gaping, he sat down. Shock rippled through his eyes. “Marcus?”

“Chloe, that’s not true. You know it’s not true.”

“It is true.” Jack walked in behind Marcus, who went statue still.

“Oh,” Chloe said. “Didn’t you realise that your crew failed to kill Jack, too?”

“What?” Ryan looked stunned. “Marcus? I can’t believe this. Marcus say something.” Marcus didn’t utter a sound.

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“Believe it,” Chloe said, then looked down at Marcus. “Call the police.”

Ryan lifted the phone and called Security. Moments later, four uniformed men entered Ryan’s office. “Please deliver Mr. Sterling to the police,” Ryan said. “I believe they want to talk to him.”

Chloe looked at the men. One of them seemed familiar, though she couldn’t place him. He’d probably worked off-duty at some fundraiser or something.

“I’m sorry, Chloe,” Marcus pleaded as he was led away. “I really am.”

“My partner for two years, and I had no idea,” Ryan said, angrily.

Chloe and Jack walked outside just as Marcus was being put into a black sedan by two plainclothes officers who Chloe had seen flash their NYPD badges to the security team.

“I need to let Renee know I’m okay,” she said to Jack. “She’s like my second mother, and I’m sure she’s worried sick.” Chloe dialed and Olivia put her through to Renee right away. Chloe filled her in on events, told her that the police had taken custody of Marcus, then added, “I’m going to take a day or two off, Renee.”

“By all means, darling,” Renee said. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Jack and I are going to grab a drink somewhere and unwind.”

“Excellent.” Renee laughed. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I sense approval in your voice.” Chloe looked at the cars inching down the street. A cabbie blew his horn. The shrill noise didn’t phase Chloe.

“Indeed, you do.” There was a smile in her voice. “I think Jack —“

An explosion sounded in the street a block ahead. “Oh my God!”

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People ran away from the billowing smoke and fire. Chloe and Jack moved toward it. “A car exploded, Renee,” she huffed into the phone.

“I’ll hold on. You run a quick assessment.”

Chloe knew before she got close. “It’s Marcus’s car. It’s his car.” She spoke into the phone, but locked her gaze with Jack’s.

He clasped Chloe’s arm. “Stay here. I’ll see what I can find out.”

She followed him, overhearing a man in an excited tone telling Jack what had happened.

“These guys stopped in their car,” the bent man said. “They jumped out, but this guy in the backseat I see is handcuffed to the door, trying to get out. Then boom! The car blows up. Sucker never stood a chance.”

“Renee,” Chloe said, tears running down her face. The “officers” she’d seen take Marcus away must have been mafia. “The mob just murdered Marcus.”

“I’m sorry, Chloe,” Renee said.

“I know he sacrificed me, but he didn’t believe them.” She let the tears fall unchecked.

“No, darling. He was a very frightened man that let money cloud his judgment. He should have never worked with the mafia. But the price was too good, or so he thought. We will find those responsible, Chloe,” she assured. “Is Jack okay?”

“He’s fine. He’s walking back over to talk to me, so I’ll call you later.”

“If you need me, I’m here.”

“Just find them, Renee. That will help me.” Chloe swallowed hard. “What Marcus did was wrong, but he didn’t deserve this.” 85

“The Roses will be on it within the hour, darling. You have my word on it.”

Jack walked up. “I heard,” Chloe said. “I was wrong.” She gave a little shrug. “I guess they feared Marcus, after all.”

“I guess so.” Jack frowned, then pulled her into his arms and hugged her fiercely.

How did he know that a hug is exactly what she needed? He had known her heart at sixteen, and he knew it now. She closed her eyes, took and gave comfort in the loving embrace.

Emma had been right from the start, Chloe thought, her cheek buried into Jack’s muscled chest. But thanks to Emma and the Gotham Rose agents — and Renee for inviting Chloe into the elite spy club — she’d live to see another day with the man she loved.

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Opposites Attract by Kathryn Shay

Chapter One Jase McKay hadn’t made many mistakes in his life. He couldn’t afford to, given his background. But as he looked across the small chapel in Hyde Point, New York, where his friends Riley and Jillian Sullivan were renewing their vows, he was confronted with a reminder of the biggest blunder he’d ever committed. Molly Kimball, Jill’s sister. Letting her go six weeks, three days and some odd hours ago had truly been the most foolish, destructive, hurtful thing he’d ever done. You didn’t let her go, asshole. You booted her out of your life carelessly and callously. Because he’d been afraid of what she was doing to his orderly existence. Still, he hadn’t realised the ramifications of leaving her - sleepless nights, an inability to enjoy the things in life he’d worked so hard to get, and utter misery every time he saw her, like now. He couldn’t even think about what their abrupt split had done to her. He knew unquestionably that she’d loved him. Telling himself to stop with the pity party, he focused on the Sullivans. He was happy for them. God knew, they’d suffered over their own split a year ago. As Riley’s divorce lawyer and best friend - they’d been college and law school roommates, too - Jase was privy to all of it. Amidst the flickering bayberry scented candles, he listened to their pledges to each other, on the sixth anniversary of their wedding. “Having lost you once,” Riley said in a deep voice, husky with emotion, “I promise never to do anything again to make you leave me.” Blond and pretty, Jillian wiped uncharacteristic tears from her eyes. Of course, she’d come back from their second honeymoon - two months in Paris - pregnant, so that was part of the reason for her sentimentality. “And I promise,” she said softly, “to share myself with you. To let you in, no matter how hard it is.” Jase remembered his own vows, his own wedding seven years ago. Mary Stevenson had been his savior, helping him to build the life he’d planned for himself; he’d loved her deeply. When she’d died in a car crash, he’d wanted his own life to end with her. But he had a son, so he kept going for Tommy. And her parents, Thomas and Thea Stevenson, had been a godsend. They were then, and still were, the family Jase always wished he had. In time, the wounds of loss had healed. As if drawn by a magnet, his gaze settled back on Molly. Just the sight of her made him feel as raw as knuckles scraped on sandpaper. Her waist-length, curly hair the colour of caramels shone in the candlelight; her deep chestnut eyes were misty with joy. And he could swear the scent of 87

wildflowers that always surrounded her wafted over to him. Tonight, her voluptuous body was covered with a coppery brown dress, long and flowing like most of the clothes she chose. Hippie clothes, he’d teased once as he unbuttoned a fringed top with beads on it. She’d grinned. I know. I belong in the sixties. You got that right, lady. He winced at the memory. He’d teased her a lot, but there was always an edge to the words. He didn’t like her clothes. He didn’t like her whole lifestyle, and it had driven them apart. That and her absolute refusal to compromise. In truth, Molly couldn’t accept him any more than he could accept her. Still, he’d been the one to end it. She’d wanted to work on their relationship.... Watch this movie with me. She held up Barefoot in the Park, an old film with Robert Redford and Jane Fonda. We’re like them. Different as snow and sun. But we can make it, Jay, like they did. He’d watched the film and been completely insulted by the comparison of himself to the Redford character. I am not that inflexible...that stuffy.... Hell, they’re so unmatched - why are they even together? Molly had just laughed and tumbled him into bed.... Well, they have this in common. Like us. Her words moved him. He’d brushed the hair off her flawless face. There’s more to us than this, Mol. What is there, Jay? I love being with you. You make me feel things, see things so intensely. I love being with you, too. You...centre me. It hadn’t been enough, though, and after two months on a roller coaster of emotion, he’d broken it off, just before Jill and Riley came home. He’d had second thoughts in those dark days after he’d left Molly sobbing in her apartment. Abject misery had forced him to wonder if they could try harder to mesh their disparate lives. So he’d gone back to her place, two weeks after their split, to tell her he wasn’t sure about what he’d done, he wanted to talk more, that he feared he’d made a terrible mistake. Logan Kane, her friend and goddamned protector, had answered the door in her apartment over the store she operated.

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The guy had growled when he saw Jase.... Get the hell out of here before I beat the shit out of you. I need to see Molly. You can’t. Look, I know you care about her; so do I. Kane had let loose with inventive expletives, then grabbed Jase by the shirt and thrust him against a wall outside the apartment. She’s sick, McKay. She’s been vomiting and shaking and sobbing since you dropped your little bomb a few weeks ago. I’m considering a hospital, she’s so overwrought. I swear to God, if you go near her now, I’ll take you apart. And because Jase hadn’t been sure then that he could give Molly what she needed, that they could make a life together, he’d left. In the weeks since, he’d missed her so much he ached with it. But when she’d recovered and seemed her old self again the few times they’d bumped into each other around town, he did stay away from her. It was the only decent thing he’d ever done for her. Now, though it was pretty colourless in Molly’s absence, his life had gotten back on an even keel. Thomas Stevenson had even introduced him to a new attorney in town, Sarina Matthews, whom he was dating, who was here with him tonight. Molly looked up and caught Jase staring at her. She gave him a half smile that cut him off at the knees. There was no bitterness on her face. No indictment. Only forgiveness. And the wariness a doe has in her eyes when faced with a hunter’s gun. Of course there was. Molly Kimball was well aware of the fact he could - almost had - destroyed her. But as Jase watched Molly, her smile turned into a small gasp and her hand slid to her waist. Her beautiful porcelain skin paled; she closed her eyes. And crumpled to the floor. ****** Molly Kimball opened her eyes to find her sister bending over her, her brother-in-law with his hand on Jill’s shoulder and Logan, her best friend, behind them. They were all in a stuffy little room that carried the faint scent of incense, and Molly was lying on a lumpy couch. Her head throbbed. “I’m sorry,” she said, squeezing Jill’s fingers. “I ruined your ceremony.” “Oh, honey, it was over anyway, except for the kiss.” She smiled, but her face was tense. “You’re sick. You need a doctor, so we -” “No doctor.” Her gaze sought Logan’s. They hadn’t planned on this coming out so soon. Damn. “I...I just didn’t eat.”

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“It’s probably that vegetarian diet,” Logan said, trying to help her out. Unlike Jase, he respected her preference to avoid red meat. Worriedly, Jill glanced over her shoulder. Molly tracked her gaze. Ian Chandler, an OB-GYN and friend of Riley’s who’d been at the ceremony with his wife, stood in the doorway. He shifted uncomfortably. Well, why wouldn’t he? After all, he knew what was really going on. Jill said, “We asked Ian to come in before he and Paige went to the restaurant. To see if you were all right.” Molly drew in a breath, trying to quell the nausea that came when she was upset. Ian cocked his head and didn’t say anything. Logan circled around Jill to stand by the couch and picked up Molly’s hand. A big man, with street-smart eyes, he said, “She’s okay, Jill. She just needs some rest.” As always, Jillian’s lawyer instincts went on red alert. From the skeptical look on Riley’s face, so did his. “What’s going on, Molly? Why don’t you want Ian to check you out?” Jill asked. Logan squeezed her fingers. He gave her an It’s time, I guess look. Oh, hell, it probably was. She couldn’t keep this a secret much longer anyway since she was at the beginning of her second trimester and was having trouble concealing her expanding waistline. Ian approached the couch. “Molly? What do you want me to do?” Poor Ian. “Nothing. It’s okay. I haven’t told them.” “I gathered.” He stepped back. “I’ll just wait outside.” After Ian left, she looked up at Jill. Her sister’s face was pale with worry. It wasn’t good for the baby. None of this was. For either baby. “Sit, Jill.” Instead she leaned against her husband and went from pale to ashen. “Nothing’s wrong with you, is it?” Molly’s smile was bittersweet. “Nothing’s wrong with me any more than with you, sis.” Jill frowned. She didn’t get it. But Riley did. “Holy hell, Molly. You’re pregnant, too?” “Yep.” Jill’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t...” She raised her hands, palms to the ceiling. “You aren’t seeing anybody that I know of.” 90

And that, Molly thought, protectively placing her hand on her stomach, was part of the problem. It had killed her to hear it.... I want to keep this thing between us quiet, Mol. Just for a while. Why? Because of Tommy. He already likes you too much. If it doesn’t work out, I don’t want to get his hopes up. You want to sneak around? No, just be discreet. And you can still see my son. Just not too much... She’d known then that Jase was ashamed of being with her. But she hadn’t objected, hadn’t called him on it, because she was so in love with him, she didn’t want to lose him. And, she thought, foolishly, as he got to know her, he’d love her too - really love who she was and what kind of person she’d become. It had never happened. In fact, things had only worsened. You’re kidding, right? You only eat, like, tofu and bean sprouts.... Don’t you ever tell Tommy something like that is all right again.... Come on, Molly, I’ll buy you some normal clothes.... To be fair, she’d been just as critical.... Do you know what red meat does to your arteries...? Hey, come on, Jase, live a little. Deep six the tie.... Let Tommy be a kid.... Logan sat down on the couch beside Molly. “It’s my child, Jill.” “Yours?” Jill shook her head. “You two said you were just friends.” Using his often well-concealed charm - people said he looked like Pierce Brosnan, especially when the actor played James Bond - Logan gave her a boyish grin. “Well, things changed.” “When?” Molly shrugged. “We got together when you were in Paris.” “Like hell,” she heard from the doorway. 91

Everybody turned. And there he stood, Jase McKay, the love of her life, filling the doorway with those wide shoulders she used to nestle into, with his perfectly styled dark hair that she loved to mess up. And with his beautiful blue eyes, which now were flaming. ****** In the small anteroom of the chapel where the Sullivans had just renewed their vows, Molly’s brother-in-law, Riley, stepped forward at the appearance of his best friend in the doorway. “Jase, what are you doing back here?” “And what do you mean, ‘like hell’ Molly got together with Logan while we were in Paris?” Jill asked. Bells chimed overhead as Jase’s gaze fixed on Molly and never wavered. His piercing stare made her shiver. “I’d like to speak to Molly alone.” Panic clogged her throat, threatening to choke her. She and Logan had discussed this. She couldn’t face Jase alone the first time. The hurt he’d caused her was still too fresh. Her gaze met Logan’s. Subtly, he shook his head and stood up, like the natural-born protector he was. It was why, after all, he’d suggested this little ruse. “You won’t be alone with Molly again, McKay.” Jase drew in a breath. Squaring his shoulders, he strode into the room as close to the couch as he could manage, given Molly’s watchdogs keeping guard. Immediately, his expensive cologne enveloped her. She remembered inhaling it on various parts of his body. “Do you want this to come out in front of everybody?” he asked her. His tone was low and intimate, betraying a closeness that even time apart hadn’t dulled. Because it hurt to be reminded of what he’d so cavalierly given up, Molly let her temper spark. “The secrecy was your idea, Jay.” He paled, but recovered quickly; he had an inner core, one she knew was honed from being the son of a labourer and working himself to the bone to go to Harvard and become a successful and respected lawyer. Too bad his need to keep overachieving drove an unbridgeable wedge between them. “Your choice then.” He faced Logan. “There’s no way you were sleeping with Molly when Jill and Riley were in Paris. She was in a relationship with me. And she sure as hell wasn’t spending time in anybody else’s bed. I know it in my gut.” He stared down at her. “Why would you lie about something like this?” His voice caught on the last word. Because I’m afraid of you, Jase McKay. Afraid of you hurting me again. Afraid of you taking this baby away from me. Afraid of myself, that I’ll change just to keep you... 92

But instead of being honest with him, she sat up and then stood. Linking her arm with Logan’s, she drew in a breath. “This isn’t your baby, Jase. After you...left, Logan was there for me.” She leaned into Logan as she uttered the bald lie. “He comforted me. This is definitely his baby and not yours.” Jill and Riley were openmouthed, literally. They’d known nothing about her relationship with Jase. Nobody had. Logan’s hands fisted. He knew too much. And Jase’s jaw went taut with cold fury. “I don’t believe you would have slept with somebody so soon after...” He didn’t finish. So she did. “So soon after what, Jase? After you dumped me because I wasn’t good enough for you and your standing in the community? After you hurt me so badly I wanted to die?” She tried to keep her voice even, but it trembled with remembered pain. “Of course I’d turn to another man. A decent man, who wasn’t ashamed of me.” That zinged him. She saw real hurt darken his eyes to the colour of midnight. It was because he had cared for her. Just not enough. “Now, I think we all have a party to go to.” She started to brush by him. Before anybody could react, he drew her close and put his cheek next to hers. It was a bit scratchy and so familiar it made her ache. So only she could hear, he whispered achingly, “Please, love, don’t do this. I need to talk to you. I need to tell you -” Because she wanted to sink into him, because she wanted to be part of him, to let him in her body and in her soul, she murmured, “Don’t, Jay,” and stepped away. When he went to grab for her arm again, she shook him off and Logan stepped between them. “Do it again, pal, and I’ll take you down. I’d like nothing better.” As tall and muscular as Logan, Jase nonetheless stepped back. “Fine,” he said, his gaze skimming the other man, then transferring to Jill and Riley. “I won’t ruin your celebration.” He zeroed in on Molly. “But it’s not over, Molly. Not by a long shot.” Chapter Two Kane’s Table was Hyde Point’s most chic restaurant. Painted a forest green - Molly joked it matched its owner’s eyes - with burgundy accents, the snazzy establishment was frequented by all of the town’s elite. Many of them were here now. They were Riley’s crowd. And Jase’s. Logan came up to their table and sat down. She smiled at him. “The party’s lovely. The food was delicious.” His chef had outdone himself with prime rib, crab legs and a Caesar salad to die for.

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“You didn’t eat much.” He gave her a knowing look. “And you can’t wait to crawl into bed.” “God, I’m so tired.” She placed her hand on her waist. “I can’t believe I’m only a couple of months along.” Her friend’s smile was wistful. “Pregnancy takes over your life.” She grabbed his hand. “How do you know that, Logan? Have you had experience with other pregnant women?” After two years, he was still an enigma to her. He’d told her once her acceptance of him without any disclosure on his part meant a lot to him. A little voice inside her nagged, But you couldn’t do the same for Jase. She remembered something.... Molly, please, this is so not me. I’m not comfortable with it.... Come on, grouch. Loosen up. You’re in grave danger of completely becoming the Robert Redford character in that movie.... “Yeah, I’ve had experience with pregnant women.” Logan kissed her hand. “Want me to take you up to your apartment?” “No, actually. Jill’s coming with me.” She rolled her eyes. “Little sister wants answers.” “What are you going to tell her?” “The story we agreed on. If I tell her the truth, it’ll cause problems with Riley.” “I -” Logan’s cell phone rang. “Sorry.” He answered it. “Kane.” Though he was stoic, Molly could tell by the way his jaw tightened he wasn’t happy. “Can’t somebody else do it?” A pause. “Okay. I’ll be there.” He clicked off. “Problems?” “I’ve got to go out of town for a while.” His gaze flicked across the room where Jase was sitting with his in-laws, the Stevensons, and his date, a sophisticated young woman dressed in a Chanel suit. She was perfect for him. “I hate to leave you now, but it can’t be helped.” “It’s okay.” She nodded to the phone. “You can share that with me, you know.” He shook his head, his face darkening. “You’re safer not knowing.” Molly saw Jill coming toward them. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’m here.” She stood up and kissed his cheek. “Ready to go?” Jill asked. 94

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She nodded to the back entrance. “Let’s go that way. I don’t want to say a lot of goodbyes.” And she didn’t want to risk facing Jase. Though she knew in her heart that would come soon enough. ****** “What the hell is going on?” Riley had cornered Jase in a private room off the main dining area where he’d gone to clear his head. Turning from the window, Jase stared over at his best friend. “You heard most of it.” “What I heard was not consistent with the man I know like a brother.” Jase looked back out as the September rain patted against the window. “Relationships are hard, Riley. You of all people should know that.” “But you and Molly are so different. What could have brought you together?” He pictured her chestnut eyes sparking with humor and heard her sultry laugh that was more potent than a shot of good bourbon. “I was drawn to her vibrancy. She’s so full of life. She liked my solidness. Opposites attract, I guess.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And then, apparently, can’t coexist.” “Did you hurt her as badly as she said?” The memory ambushed him. He’d gone to her apartment to break it off. She’d rushed toward him, full of her usual energy and gusto for life. Sometimes it had exhausted him.... Oh, Jase, I’m so glad you’re here. Her honey-coloured hair, secured in a ropelike braid, had bobbed with her excitement. I’ve got to tell you something. Something wonderful. I have to tell you something, too. She’d floated into the kitchen, fixing peppermint tea. Mine’s better. I bet it is. At his grave tone, she’d come back out. What is it, Jay? I can’t do this anymore. It’s not working for me. It? You mean us? Yes. 95

Her hand had gone to her waist and she’d looked as though she might be ill.... It hit him, now, in the dim room of the restaurant. “Oh, God.” “What?” “The night I broke it off. She was bubbling around like she’d won the lottery.” A vise gripped his chest. “She was going to tell me she was pregnant.” “Jase, if you broke it off that long ago, how do you know the baby isn’t Kane’s?” The thought of the guy touching her made him livid. He remembered how she was in bed with him.... It’s never been like this with anybody else, Jay. It hadn’t for him, either. But he couldn’t betray Mary’s memory and tell Molly that. Instead, he tried to meld himself with her, steep himself in her, show her with his body what he couldn’t say in words. “What are you going to do?” Riley asked him. “I don’t know.” “Maybe you should just stay away from her.” Determined, Jase straightened. “Remember how you couldn’t leave Jill alone? Even when you thought your differences were too great?” “Yeah.” “It’s the same for me.” He pushed away from the wall and headed out of the room to go to Molly’s apartment. ****** Once they were inside her apartment and Jill had fixed Molly some tea, they sat down on the couch, the slipcover of which was hand-painted. I’m afraid to sit on it. It looks like a drop cloth you used when you painted the walls. Molly had been hurt by Jase’s comment. She’d spent hours on the coverlet. But she’d said the same kind of thing on one of the rare occasions she went to his house....

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Jay, really, this looks like it came over from England on the Mayflower. She’d scanned the living room. This whole place lacks flare. It’s my taste, sweetheart. His tone had said she’d hurt him, too. “All right,” Jill told her. “Tell me what’s going on.” Molly sipped the lemony Earl Grey and watched her sister for a minute. They, too, were different as night and day. Jill had chosen to compete for her rigid and demanding parents’ approval by doing everything right, whereas Molly had totally rebelled. Maybe if she’d been more like Jill, Jase would have loved her. “You know most of it.” “What I know is that you and Jase shot sparks off each other every time you were together during my and Riley’s divorce proceedings.” “We hooked up at your going-away party.” When Jill and Riley had reconciled, Jill still had two months on her leave of absence from their law firm. Surprising everybody, Riley had asked for a personal leave for the summer so he and Jill could go back to Paris where they’d honeymooned. The party had been a wonderful, celebratory send-off. She and Jase had been the last two left.... Think we can make a truce now? he’d said, his baby blues twinkling. I guess. She grinned. He grinned back. Reaching out, he skimmed a hand down her cheek causing her stomach to somersault. This would be a mistake, Jase. I know. Still they’d gone home together, and the lovemaking had been cataclysmic. Molly never would forget the shattering union, the almost mystical intimacy, as their bodies came together. Right from the first time, that bond had made them think they could gloss over their differences. Jill’s sisterly instincts surfaced. “What happened?” She knew Riley and Jase were the best of friends and didn’t want to affect that friendship. So she purposely diluted the nightmare of what had happened. “We’re polar opposites. He admitted the futility of the relationship before I was ready to end it.” What an understatement. The pain had been bone deep. Sometimes, it still was. Oh, God, Logan. What am I going to do? I love him so much. Why couldn’t I have compromised more?

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“I’m so sorry, Mol. I wish I’d been here.” “Jill, I don’t want you in the middle of all this.” She reached out and took Molly’s hand. Hers was cold. “Honey? Is the baby Jase’s?” Here was the touchy part. Nobody else could ever know the truth. Though she hated lying to her sister, if Jase knew the baby was his, he’d want to be part of its life. Maybe even take the baby from her. Their views on child-rearing were worlds apart.... I don’t think Tommy’s ready for kindergarten. He won’t be five until October. The Stevensons think he should go. So little Tommy had started school. Come here, sweetie. Want to read this book? Jase had intercepted Tommy. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I don’t want him learning about those kinds of things. Molly looked at Jill. “She’s Logan’s baby.” “She? You know you’re having a girl?” “Yeah. Because of my age, I had an amniocentesis at fifteen weeks.” And she’d cried when she’d found out Jase McKay was going to have a daughter. The doorbell chimed, the normally soft sound like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. Jill stiffened. “It’s okay. I knew he’d come sometime. He won’t let it go until we have this out privately.” Jill and Molly rose. Saying a silent prayer for help, Molly crossed the Indian-print carpet and opened the door. Her heart twisted in her chest when she saw him standing in the archway. His face was as ravaged as the day he’d told her they were through. “Hello, Jay.” “Mol.” He swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. “Can I come in?” “Yes.” His shoulders were slumped as he entered the room. He didn’t sit, just stuck his hands in his pockets and watched her. Her sister glared at him. “Jilly? You need to leave.”

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“Are you sure?” “Yes.” She kissed Jill’s cheek and ushered her out the door. When she turned around, Jase was staring at her. “You okay?” he asked. Looking away, she nodded. “I’m having some tea. It calms my stomach.” “Have you been sick?” “No, not too bad. Tension makes me queasy.” He said, “I’m sorry if I’ve made you tense.” “Are you?” “Of course.” She crossed to the couch, dropped down on the stuffed cushions and folded her shaky legs under her. Picking up her cup, she warmed her hands on it. “Then let all this go.” He followed her and knelt down in front of her. Again, his nearness poleaxed her. His shoulders were so big and solid, his chest inviting her to cuddle. In a gesture that made her eyes sting, he reached out, cradled her stomach - where his daughter slept. “I can’t let this go. You know that.” “Logan Kane is the father of this child.” “You wouldn’t sleep with somebody else so soon.” His tender gaze locked with hers. Gently, he pressed his hand into her. “I haven’t been with anybody, either, since you and I were together.” She didn’t want to know this. “Maybe you haven’t been with someone else because you weren’t hurting so much that you didn’t care if you died.” His eyes turned bleak. “I was hurting that much.” She never expected this. And it made her angry. She pushed his hand away, unbalancing him. Rising abruptly, she stalked to the other side of the room and rounded on him. “Don’t tell me that, don’t you dare tell me that. You broke my heart.” He stood. “I broke my own, too.” “I don’t want to hear this.” “I came back. Did your new boyfriend tell you that?”

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Molly, you need to know something, now that you’re better. McKay came back. He said he wasn’t sure about what he’d done. You were so sick I sent him away. You did the right thing, Logan. He doesn’t love me, and that’s all that matters. “Yes, of course he told me. It doesn’t matter.” “Molly, there’s a baby to consider now. We have to try again. Do better this time accepting each other’s differences.” “No.” “I’m begging you.” “No.” His hands fisted at his sides. “And what if I don’t accept this?” “I’m afraid you don’t have any choice.” “Don’t I?” He crossed to her, and she backed up until she hit the wall. His forehead met hers, and he curled his hand at the back of her neck. Without her mind’s consent, she leaned into him and her hand went to his nape. “I don’t want to hurt you again, sweetheart. But I won’t let you do this.” Pulling back, he kissed her hair. “I made the biggest mistake of my life by walking away from you. I’m not going to do it again.” With that he was gone. Chapter Three Jase’s words haunted Molly for days afterward. She worried constantly about what he’d do. While she was helping a customer, Nora Whitman, the former proprietor of Serenity House, who often frequented Natural Options, she found out. “Try this lotion, Nora. It’s supposed to work miracles.” “I will.” Nora took the cream. “Thanks.” A strange man entered the store and approached the counter. “Margaret Kimball?” “Yes?” He handed her an envelope. “This is a legal summons.” “For what?”

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“I’m afraid I don’t know. Sign here, please, for authentication of receipt.” By rote, she scrawled her signature. He turned and left. Molly ripped open the letter. She read the three lines quickly. And wavered on her feet. “Oh my God.” Nora grasped her arm. “Molly, dear, are you all right?” All right? She was never going to be all right again. ****** “What do you mean she’s gone?” Jase had walked into Jill’s office three days after he’d gotten a judge friend of his to issue a paternity-test order, only to be told Molly had left town. Jill bridled. “My sister’s left Hyde Point.” She held up a paper. “Now, by ignoring this order, she’s broken the law, thanks to you.” His heartbeat speeded up. “Where is she?” “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me, so I won’t be an accessory.” Jill straightened. Her face was pale, and she looked thin and fragile. Riley was going to kill him for causing Jill grief. “Why the hell did you do this?” He raked a hand through his hair, feeling his stomach clamp into knots. “Look, I tried three times to talk to her again after that night in her apartment. She refused to even see me.” In truth, he’d second-guessed his decision to get the order but he was petrified of losing her. And every day, he felt more and more like the insensitive lawyer husband from Barefoot in the Park. “So I decided to force her hand.” Actually, he’d gone to Thomas for advice. Said he had a client who wanted proof of paternity from his estranged wife and asked what would be the best way to get it. “You are an absolute jerk, you know that?’” She tossed the paper on the floor. “God, I’m so worried about her.” “I’m sorry, Jill. This isn't good for your baby.” Tears clouded Jill's eyes. “Or Molly’s baby. She’s running around alone somewhere pregnant with no one to take care of her.” The thought gutted him. “Maybe she’s with Kane. I went to see him, but he’s out of town.” Though he hated that Molly would turn to another man, he’d rather that than she was alone. I’ve been alone all my life, Jay. You had Jill. 101

Jill had her own demons to fight. Besides I left home when I was seventeen because I couldn’t be what my parents wanted me to be. It hadn’t hit him until later that that was one thing they’d had in common. Jase had left a negligent single mother when he was sixteen and graduated high school early to earn his own way in life. “Logan went out of town the night of our party. No, Molly’s alone.” “What’s going on in here?” Riley appeared at the door. He took one look at his wife and said, “Oh, God, Jilly, are you...” He strode over to her. “Honey, is it the baby?” Burrowing into him, she shook her head. “Molly’s gone.” She explained the situation to him. Riley turned to Jase. “Shit, Jase, what were you thinking?” “I want her back. She won’t talk to me, let alone discuss the baby.” “This is a hell of a way to do it.” He cuddled Jill close. “Come on. I’m taking you home.” Before Jase could apologise to his friend, the Sullivans left. He picked up the papers Jill let drop and sank onto her couch. He read the order. Hell, he could see why she’d run. Damn, he’d made another bad decision. He was sitting there thinking how he’d blown things when a secretary knocked on Jill’s door. “Hey, Jase, is Jill here?” “No, Pam. Jill wasn’t feeling well.” Because of me. “Riley took her home.” “Oh dear. Is she all right?” “Yeah, mostly tired.” She held up a FedEx letter. “This just came for her. It says it’s urgent.” “Here, give it to me. I’ll take it over to them.” It was the least he could do. Pam handed him the letter and left. Idly he looked down. It was addressed to Jill. For some reason, he checked the return address. Holy shit. Well, at least he knew where Molly was. He ripped open the letter. ****** Paris was cool on this mid-September morning. Jase had flown all night, landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport at seven a.m., and gotten a cab. Amidst the honking and blaring of early-morning traffic, he’d been deposited at 16, rue Poulbot in the Montmartre section of the city by a taxi driver who didn’t speak English. Jase had no idea how much he’d paid for the ride. 102

He stared up at the narrow stone building, on the cobbled side street three blocks from SacréCoeur, where Jill had stayed with the two elderly shopkeepers when she’d fled here after her separation from Riley. Molly had come to this place because of Jill.... Jill, the note inside the FedEx envelope read. Don’t panic. I’m safe in Paris, boarding with the lovely old couple you lived with. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this, but I was trying to protect you. I can’t stay in Hyde Point. I’ve been in touch with Logan, and he’ll take care of the business when he gets back in town. I’ll call soon. Don’t worry, I’m fine.... God, Jase had driven Molly halfway around the world. What the hell was wrong with him? You know your problem, Jay? You think too much. You never live in the moment. He’d bristled. You want me to act like the guy in the end of that movie, don’t you? Where he has an epiphany and takes his shoes off and walks barefoot in central park to show her he’s changed. I just want you to be a little more spontaneous.... Well, this trip sure as hell was spontaneous. He’d talked to Nathan Hyde, the senior partner of the firm, and said it was an emergency and he needed to go out of town immediately. He’d been vague with the Stevensons, asking them to take Tommy. The hardest thing had been leaving his son.... “Where you going, Daddy?” “I have business in Paris.” “Can I come?” “No, but I’ll bring you back a surprise.” He was hoping it would be Molly. Though they hadn’t spent a lot of time together, Tommy really liked her and still asked about her often. Squaring his shoulders, Jase opened a street-level door and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hallway was clean, and the wood banister carried the scent of furniture polish. Two apartments faced each other. He knocked on 2A. No answer. He checked his watch. Eight. She might still be sleeping. Pregnant women got tired. And he hadn’t been there to tuck her into bed, to fix her tea, to rub her back when it hurt. Could he ever make up for all this? He knocked again. And again. Finally, the door squeaked open. At least she had a safety chain on it. “Oh, my God.” “Molly.” He could barely see her through the crack. “Hi, sweetheart.” 103

“Wh...” she cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was scratchy, as though she were well acquainted with Marlboros. “I came to see you.” He rapped lightly on the wood. “Let me in, love.” Leaning her head against the door, she whispered, “I can’t do this. Not now.” What did that mean? The door creaked open a slice, and he got a better look at her. Her face was flushed and sweaty, her dark eyes glazed. Fear struck him like lightning. Please, God, don’t let her have come to Paris for an abortion. “Mol, let me in.” She coughed. “Please, you’re sick, aren’t you?” “Yes.” She must have been really ill because she unlatched the door. And literally fell into his arms. He held on to her for a minute, then lifted her up to his chest. Kicking his bag inside, he closed the door and crossed to the couch. He lay her down on it and felt her face. It was warm. “Molly, baby, what happened? “I...caught some bug.” He let out a relieved breath that his child was safe. “Have you seen a doctor?” She licked her lips. They were parched and cracked. Picking up a glass of water, he held it to her mouth. She sipped, than sank back on the pillow. “Uh-huh. The shopkeepers Jill knew took me to their doctor. He says there’s a bug going around. I probably have it.” “Did he give you any medicine?” “No, it’s viral. It’ll run its course.” “What about something for the fever?” She gripped his arm. “He told me to take some ibuprofen, but I can’t, Jay. It could hurt the baby.” “Molly, you can’t let a fever go.” “It’s not that high.” It wasn’t, only a hundred and one when he took it, but she had to be hurting. “You should take something.”

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“No.” Of course she wouldn’t. The woman wouldn’t even eat red meat. She’d be vigilant about this kid. Since he knew it was his, he wanted her to be. But she was clearly suffering. “How long has this gone on?” “I’ve been sick since yesterday.” “All right. We’ll give it today. If the fever doesn’t break, I’m force-feeding you Tylenol.” It didn’t break by seven p.m. Jase was beside himself. He’d been bathing her with tepid water to lower her temperature, giving her liquids, which she miraculously kept down, but the fever hadn’t broken. He came into the bedroom with the medicine. “You’ve got to take this, Mol. Now.” Her eyes still cloudy, her hair damp around her face, she tried to lie. “I feel better.” “No, sweetheart, you don’t. Besides, I checked the Internet on my cell phone. Aspirin or some other analgesic won’t necessarily hurt a fetus.” “No drugs.” “Mol. I won’t take no for an answer. Your health is at stake.” She grasped his hand surprisingly hard. “The health of your baby is at stake.” “You’re not thinking clear -” He stopped. “My baby?” She sank back into the pillow. “Please, Jay, you can’t want me to risk your daughter’s welfare.” Stunned, he just held her hand. “My daughter?” “Uh-huh. I had an amniocentesis.” He laid his forehead against hers. “Oh, Molly.” “Please, hold off on the medicine just a bit longer.” “Okay.” Drawing back, he stood. His legs were wobbly. “I’ll get more water to bathe you.” He kissed her head. “But only a few more hours.” Unsteadily, he made his way to the tiny bathroom, like a man in a trance. He dropped down on the toilet seat, trying to gain control. He was going to have a daughter. Oh, God. He stayed there a minute, then stood. Fine. Now he knew for sure. Now he needed to plan for how he was going to make everything all right. One thing was for certain. No way on earth was he letting Molly or his daughter go.

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Chapter Four Jase sidled up to Molly on the top level of the Arc de Triomphe, a rooflike setting with iron spindles around the perimeter. The structure had been commissioned by Napoleon as a monument to France’s war veterans. Her and Jase’s own private battle had been declared a truce. He’d nursed her through the flu - sans fever medicine - helped her bathe, cooked her vegetarian food and slept on the couch for two nights. Once she’d recovered, he’d begged to spend some time with her. No discussions, no decisions, just time for them both to heal and relax before any more of the war followed. “Here, let me show you.” He pointed out over the sprawling metropolis. Since he’d studied international law in Paris at one point in his college career, he was well acquainted with the city. “Those are the six areas of the city. See how the streets are divided.” They looked like the spokes of a bike, encircling the famous landmark. She couldn’t help but lean back into him. As a soft wind lifted her hair, he secured the fall jacket he’d bought her at Printemps department store more closely around her. “It’s breathtaking up here.” He nuzzled her neck from behind. His mouth on her was familiar. Exciting. “Hmm. You’re breathtaking.” She giggled. “Paris is really going to your head.” “You’re going to my head. Like you always did.” He tugged her around and she burrowed into him. The leather blazer he’d purchased on a side street near the Sorbonne was buttery smooth against her cheek. With his dark hair and dramatic blue eyes, he looked good in it and the black T-shirt and pleated pants he wore beneath it. No doubt about it, Jase McKay was cover-model attractive in what she called his Paris clothes. He held her close. She could feel his heart beat steadily under her ear. “Tired?” “No.” She inhaled him. He wore a different cologne, one he’d gotten here. It was woodsy. “Where are we going next?” “The Musée d’Orsay.” He grabbed her hand and held on tight as he went ahead of her down the narrow stone circular staircase they’d had to climb to get up here. Their feet clattered on the steps. The structure reminded her of a medieval castle. Outside, he hailed a cab, and they arrived at 62, rue de Lille in minutes. Molly gasped when she entered the cavernous, modern structure. Its first-floor entry filled with arches and glass and exhibits was a work of art itself. She perused the brochure and noted the impressionist collection the gallery housed.

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“Jay, you don’t like this kind of art.” “But you do.” “All right. Only if we can go to the Louvre next.” Though she’d never been to Paris before, Molly had read that museum housed mostly classical artifacts. “You’re on, love.” And so they oohed and aahed over Degas’s The Dance Class and Van Gogh’s Bedroom at Arles. Then they went to the Louvre, a stunning structure with a huge glass pyramid as its entrance, to see the Mona Lisa and the Venus di Milo. By the time they got back to the apartment, she was dragging; when he tucked her into bed for a nap, she grabbed his hand and held it close to her heart. “You did this on purpose,” she said sleepily. “What?” “Showed we could compromise.” The backs of his fingers grazed his cheek. “Nah. I just want you to see the city.” The next day they visited churches. Molly was awed by the apse and flying buttresses of Notre Dame Cathedral; inside, the hallowed atmosphere was redolent of incense and filled with the low murmur of Mass being chanted up front. Amidst the ancient statuary, humongous stained-glass windows and one of the biggest pipe organs in the world, she reverently lit a candle. He slid his arm around her and for a moment, he just watched the flame flicker. “What did you pray for?” he finally asked. She shook her head, unable to tell him. At Sacré-Coeur Basilica, near where they were staying, he lit his own candle. “It’s for us, Mol.” Reverently he touched her stomach. “All three of us.” The next night he bombarded her with romance - dinner on the sunset cruise down the Seine on a Bateaux Mouches boat. They were serenaded by French singers and a strolling violinist. Then, outside, they enjoyed the tour down the river, given in six languages, which highlighted the sights: a replica of the Statue of Liberty and a likeness of Charlemagne; houses of famous Frenchmen like Voltaire; landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre and Notre Dame, which were stunning lit up at night.

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On the day before they were to go back to Hyde Point, they visited the Musée Rodin. They both loved the trailblazing Frenchman’s sculptures - they combined progressive thinking and classical overtones. Molly was particularly impressed by the outdoor gallery. Twice-life-size statues surrounded them. You could actually touch The Thinker, have your picture taken with The Burghers of Calais. Inside, they came across the The Kiss, which had always been Molly’s favourite statue. As she stared at the white marble depiction of the man and woman embracing, Molly’s heart hurt. She wanted this with Jase again. Though they were so different, there was some kind of irrefutable bond between them. The statue echoed it. He came up behind her and settled his hands on her shoulders. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Molly nodded and turned to him. Since it was early in the morning, they were relatively alone in the museum. “Kiss me, Jase.” He grinned and tugged her close. “Change your mind about no physical stuff, sweetheart?” Her eyes narrowed on him. “You knew what you were doing. Squiring me all over the most romantic city in the world.” “Me? I just wanted you to see Paris.” He smiled down at her. “But I accept the invitation.” And right there in the main room of the Musée Rodin, Jase took Molly in his arms. His lips were soft at first. And gentle. As always, she melted into him. Then he turned hungry. His whole body went taut and his fingers gripped her tightly. She’d loved it when Jase lost control during sex. It seemed that it was the only time he really let go. Against his mouth, she whispered softly, “Take me home, Jay.” ****** Making love was the same for Jase, but so, so different. Having lost her once, having thought he’d never have the right to touch her again, he cherished the chance to do so. He felt a spiritual reverence he’d never experienced before as he slid her out of the oversize sweater she wore; her skin was rose-petal soft everywhere and feeling it again made him suck in a breath. He tugged off her skirt, knelt to remove her boots and socks and eased off the scrap of lace at her middle. Molly never wore a bra. Even with pregnancy, her breasts were firm, though fuller. “Let’s lay you down, sweetheart. I want to look my fill.” He eased her onto the bed. Stretched her out fully. Placed her hands above her head. Though he was still dressed, he began his exploration. “Your features are so fine. Renoir should have used you as one of his models.” He traced her eyebrows, her upturned nose, her lips; his fingers tingled with the softness he found there. Then 108

he leaned over and kissed each feature. The earthy scent of the lotion she’d used that morning filled his senses. “I missed how you taste, Mol. So honeyed and sweet.” A fierce possessiveness shot through him, for this woman who carried his child. He cradled her breasts, felt them plump in his hands. She startled. “Oh.” He drew away. “Hurt?” God, he couldn’t remember anything about Mary’s body and her pregnancy with Tommy. “No, just tender.” She brought his hands back to her. “Don’t stop - it feels good.” Her eyelids closed as his fingers flexed on the warm, supple flesh. “I...pregnant women... I crave your touch, Jase.” His hand trailed lower, cradling her stomach. Gently, he leaned over and brushed his lips across her slightly rounded belly. “You’re bigger here.” “I’m almost four months pregnant.” “With my baby.” He’d sat up in time to see fear flash on her face. Well, it was nothing he didn’t deserve. Still, it hurt. “Say it, Mol. When you’re not sick and afraid. Say she’s mine.” He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Say you want her to be mine, and nobody else’s.” “She’s yours. I want her to be yours.” His heart sank at the catch in her voice. There were tiny starlike tears in her eyes. “Oh, Mol.” He kissed away the renegade drops when they ran down her cheeks. They were hot and salty against his lips. “It’s okay. I promise. We’ll work this out.” He held her to his heart until she calmed. Then he looked down at her. “I need to be close to you. As close as a man can get to a woman.” He stood and disposed of his own clothes. Gently, he drew her up and seated her on the bed with her feet touching the floor. Kneeling again, he kissed her, slowly losing his sense, which always happened with her. He never liked it, that loss of control, but tonight, in Paris, he let it happen freely and without restraint. He leaned over and suckled her breasts. She braced her arms behind her, threw back her head. He spread her legs, slid her to the edge of the mattress and cupped her. Her entire body flushed, and he could tell she was ready. He eased her down then, and covered her with his mouth. She came almost instantly. Little gasps. An “Oh, Jay.” Then “Oh, yes....” Pregnancy had sensitised her to his touch, but he remembered how easily he could make her spiral even before. How at his mercy, physically, she’d always been. 109

Then again, so was he. At hers. As if to underscore his thought, she tugged him down onto the bed and helped him scoot over. The mattress gave under his weight; his frame was too big and his feet hung off the end. She came up on her knees and began her own exploration of him. She inhaled his scent, murmured, “I missed this so much. I missed you.” He closed his eyes, let himself just feel. Her mouth was everywhere, tickling his chest...tonguing his nipples...nipping the inside of his thigh. By the time she got to the part of him that craved her touch the most, he practically ricocheted off the bed. But she didn’t stop. She loved him fully, and completely, as she always had. And he gave himself over to it. Later, he entered her gently. His back was against the headboard and she straddled him. Her hair was thick and wound around his fingers as if to show him it had missed his touch, too. He tunneled through the glorious mane that had haunted his midnights. “I don’t want to hurt the baby.” “You won’t.” Her eyes were already starting to glaze. “I won’t hurt you either, Mol. I promise.” She raised her hands to his mouth; she had calluses on her fingers from digging in the garden she kept. “Shh. Not now. Just be a part of me again, Jay. I missed this more than I’d miss breathing if it was taken away from me.” So he thrust, careful not to hurt her this way, vowing he wouldn’t hurt her any other way, either. She gasped at his entry. Emotion clogged his throat as he filled her, felt her wet and hot, closing around him. They climaxed together, which they’d always done, easily, without effort. It was earth-shattering. It was holy. It was right. He told her so, hours later, after they napped and she was refreshed. “We have to talk, Mol.” Snuggling into him, she pressed her body the full length of his. “I never liked conversations that started with that phrase.” He kissed her head. Hugged her close. “I want claim to this baby.” ****** Molly stared at the man seated next to her on the 747, which alternately hummed and roared as it flew them back to Hyde Point; he was a stranger, in so many ways. Today, in the suit and tie he’d worn to Paris, he looked so much like the Redford character from Barefoot in the Park that it made her heart clench. She wondered why they ever thought they could be together.... Last night, things had gone from bad to worse. She’d stiffened when Jase said he wanted claim to her baby. “Is that what this was all about?” she asked stiffly, a bone-chilling coldness replacing the warmth his body had given her.

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“No, this was all about you and me.” She hadn’t said anything, reeling from the phrase itself - he wanted claim - and all its ramifications. Reaching over, he’d switched on a light. Gently he tipped her chin up. The slumberous sexual haze was gone from his eyes. “You don’t trust me.” “Why would I, Jase?” “Fair enough.” He took in a deep breath. “I’ll just have to earn back your trust.” She swallowed hard. “You never had it. I don’t know if I can ever give it to you.” His hand slid down between them. Even after their sexual marathon, his touch made her shiver. He caressed her stomach. “Well, you’re going to have to try. You’re carrying my child and that changes things.” He’d seemed surprised when she drew away, slid out of bed and rummaged for a robe. Probably because she was the ultimate nudist; it had always bothered him how she walked around naked. “What’s wrong?” he asked. She tied the belt and went to stand by the window, looking out over Montmartre. Darkness had settled, but the streets were lit up and traffic beeped its way down the narrow cobbled roadways. “Do you realise what you said?” She cleared her throat. “Or rather, what you didn’t say?” “Did I say something wrong? Mol, I’m just trying to make this right.” She turned, holding back the tears. He was sitting up against the pillows amidst the light blue sheets, his dark hair sexily disheveled. “You said you wanted the baby, Jay. Not me. I’ll ask you again. Is that what all this is about?” “How can you accuse me of that after what just happened between us?” “Because of what you left out of your little seduction.” “Is it starting already? The bickering, the divisiveness?” She sighed. “I guess it is.” She looked to the ceiling, studying the small crack in the plaster. “Maybe it’s never going to work between us. Maybe we’re just too different.” With that, she’d turned and walked into the tiny bathroom. In minutes, he’d come to the door and pounded on it when he found it locked. “Open up, Molly.” She’d been crying too hard to move.

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“Open up.” Still she didn’t. She sat on the toilet seat and sobbed. Until he said in an anguished voice, “Please.” Slowly she’d unlocked the door. She sat back on the seat and he knelt in front of her. “I’m sorry.” She just cried. “I’m sorry you’re crying, Mol. But I don’t even know what I did. What I said.” And that, she thought, was the problem. He was able to hurt her so easily and he didn’t even know he was doing it. Having to explain it to him was like asking somebody to tell you he loved you. In the end, he’d coaxed her back to bed. Made empty promises. Touched her like she was spun glass and more precious to him than gold. Once again she’d capitulated.... ****** “Molly?” Reaching out, he clasped her hand. His was big and warm, yet anything but safe. “I asked if you were all right.” “I’m fine.” “We’re almost there.” “Good.” “I left my car at the airport.” “Oh, well, I called Logan.” “What?” “I called Logan about the store when we changed planes in New York. He’s going to pick me up.” “Why the hell did you do that?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Habit, I guess.” He swore then. “I hate your relationship with that guy.”

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She turned her face to the window. The glass was cold, like she felt inside. There were more surprises at the airport. Logan had Jill with him; she went to Molly and hugged her tightly. And Thomas Stevenson had brought Tommy to meet Jase. The child squealed and raced to his father; Jase scooped him up and held him tightly. Molly’s hand went to her stomach. In so many ways, Jase was a good father. Tommy caught sight of Molly. “Molly, Molly.” His five-year-old voice carried out over the airport din. She smiled. “Hey, Tommy Boy, how are you?” He scrambled down and ran to her, throwing himself at her when she knelt down. She cherished the feel of his chubby arms around her neck. “Jeez, Molly Golly, I missed you.” Over his shoulder she saw Thomas Stevenson slant a confused look at Jase. Molly felt his disapproval in the marrow of her bones. God, she thought she was done with letting people’s views of her hurt. “I missed you, too,” she told Tommy. He drew back and grasped a handful of hair. “Were you in Paris with Dad?” “I, um, I was there before your dad came. We met up.” “Neat.” He toyed with the long strands. “Can I come to the store again? I haven’t been there in so long.” He’d loved Natural Options, with its crystals and stones, its home-baked cookies and its astrology section. It also sported a children’s area. I don’t want him believing in that crap, Molly. It is not crap. Stones have psychological properties. Astrology is science. Dear Lord, the bad memories were coming back as soon as they set foot in this town. “You’ll have to ask your dad.” She stood and looked to Logan, a man she knew she could depend on. He came forward immediately. “Hi, honey.” Leaning over, he kissed her cheek. “You okay?” he whispered. “Get me out of here, please.” “That I can do.” He drew back and took her hand. He smiled down at Tommy. “Jet lag is catching up, kid. I’m gonna take Molly home.”

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She saw Jase stiffen. Thomas approached him. “I hope this was all right. After you called to let us know when you’d be in, Tommy begged to come to the airport.” His gaze locked on Molly, Jase said tightly, “It’s all right.” Logan tugged on her hand, then abandoned that and slid his arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go.” “Goodbye, Jase,” she murmured and allowed Logan to steer her to the exit. Once inside his car, she burst into tears. Chapter Five In her bedroom, lit with jasmine-scented candles, Jase held Molly close as her breathing settled down, waiting for his own heart to slow. He hadn’t expected to end up here, in bed with her, when he came to her place after work to apologise for upsetting her in Paris. He’d just wanted everything to be right between them. Once again, she’d forgiven him, and they’d made bittersweet, poignant love. “That was so good, love. When we’re like this, I think nothing can go wrong.” “Me, too.” “I missed you.” He felt her smile against his chest. “It’s only been three days since we got back from Paris.” “Forever.” He kissed her hair. “Are you hungry? I could fix you something.” He glanced at his watch. “No, I have to go.” “You’re not staying for the evening?” “No, the Stevensons are having a party for Tommy’s birthday.” He felt her stiffen. “I see.” “Your party yesterday for him was great. His buddies loved the pudding paint.” Molly had invited Tommy’s friends over to the store and in the children’s area, had set up a big table where the kids could fingerpaint with chocolate pudding - and eat it as they played. They’d been a sight when Jase had swung by to pick them up. Even Jill, who’d come to help, had gotten into it. She and Molly were covered with the confection. “I’m glad they enjoyed it.” 114

“What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” She slid out of bed and threw on a print kimono he’d never seen before. “New bathrobe?” “Logan got it in Indonesia.” “Oh, Logan. Of course.” She ignored the sarcasm. He ignored the fact that she was growing closer to the guy every day. He was her safety net, in case Jase let her fall. God, sometimes it seemed they’d made no real progress since he followed her to Paris. She was still treating him as if he was going to betray her any day now. He didn’t know what the hell she wanted from him. He’d made sure she got to spend time with Tommy. He invited her to lunch in town. They had plans to spend Friday night with Jill and Riley. “Tell me what’s bothering you.” She circled around. “I’m upset about not being invited to this party.” “It’s...” He didn’t know what to say. “I didn’t think you’d want to come. It’s just...” “It’s just family.” “Well, yes.” Systematically she circled the room and blew out every candle. “Fine, I -” The phone rang and she reached for it. “Hello?” A smile. “No actually, I don’t have plans.” She laughed. “Sure. Just a sec.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Will you be gone in twenty minutes?” ****** Jase couldn’t concentrate at work the next day. He kept seeing Molly in Kane’s robe and pictured her out with him last night. Of course, it had been Kane on the phone. He’d wanted to take Molly to some new vegetarian restaurant that had just opened on Main Street, which just further illustrated their differences. Jase hated vegetarian food, and would never have picked the Grilled Asparagus for a date with Molly. But the thought of her out with another man, especially after their lovemaking, killed him. Because of that, and the tenuousness of their relationship, he hadn’t slept well, haunted by the notion that he was losing her again. “Jase, good morning.” Thomas stood in the entryway of his office. “Are you busy? 115

“Still trying to catch up from my trip.” “I’d like a word with you.” His shoulders aching with fatigue, Jase sat back. “Sure, come on in.” When Thomas was seated, Jase said, “Thanks again for Tommy’s party last night.” Though he’d been upset to see Sarina Matthews there - it apparently wasn’t just family, which increased his guilt - the party had been a nice gesture. Adjusting his perfectly knotted tie, Thomas focused his keen gaze on Jase. “I’d like to know what’s going on with you, Jase. With you and the Kimball woman.” “Molly?” “I’ve been a lawyer a long time. I sense dynamics. This trip to Paris was because of her, right?” “Thomas, I’m not ready to get into this with you yet.” “Well, let me say one thing.” “All right.” “That case you asked me about a few weeks ago? I’ve done some research on paternity suits. Custody doesn’t always go to the woman anymore, particularly when the man is well-respected in town. In the case of a child, without the union of marriage, it’s easy enough to prove paternity and get at least partial custody, if not full custody.” He leaned forward. “I also checked into Molly Kimball’s background. I -” Jase heard a gasp in the doorway. Looking up, he saw Jill clutching the doorjamb. Her hand slid protectively to her stomach. Thomas turned around. “Oh, hello, Jillian. Jase and I were just discussing a case.” Her gaze turned flinty. “Yes, I heard. If you’ll excuse me.” Goddamn it, Jase thought. What next? He sought out Molly’s sister as soon as he could. She was behind closed doors with her husband. And they were yelling. He could hear them from the hall. “Stay out of it, honey.” “No. I won’t. Damn it, why doesn’t she answer?” “Jilly, calm down.”

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Knocking briefly, Jase let himself in the office. Riley was pacing and Jill was on the phone. They both looked up. “Well, if it isn’t Benedict Arnold,” Jill said. “Look, you misunderstood.” “I misunderstood? You and Thomas weren’t plotting how to take Molly’s baby away?” Jill’s piercing gaze was so frosty it chilled him. “No wonder she wouldn't tell you you were the father.” He approached the desk. “I’m not planning anything. Thomas made some suggestions is all....” Even to his own ears his explanation sounded weak. “You’re lying.” She crossed to the closet in her office and drew out her coat. “Where are you going?” Riley asked. “To Molly’s house. She needs to know what’s going on.” Jase stilled. “Please, don’t do that. Things are already precarious enough between us.” “And who the hell’s fault is that?” “It’s mine, I guess. I’m sorry I’ve hurt Molly. But I’m trying to make up for it. I’m trying to set this right.” “You want the baby.” “I want Molly, too.” At her doubting look, he added forcefully, “I wasn’t plotting to take the baby.” Jill came over to him. Coat on, she rose up on tiptoes. “You damn well were. But I’ll tell you this. I’ll fight you legally. Molly will make a wonderful mother. I’ll make sure she has the chance.” His voice hiked up a notch and he emphasised each word. “I don’t want to take the baby away from her.” “I don’t believe you.” Jill headed for the door. “In any case, I’m not the one to convince.” “If you tell her what you overheard, she’ll never believe anything I say.” “You should have thought of that before.” With that, Jill turned and walked out. ******

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Jill walked into Logan’s restaurant at noontime, ready to spit nails if her expression was any indication. Molly saw Riley hurrying in behind her, then Jase. She scowled and looked over the bar at Logan. Dressed casually in a green sweater that made his eyes glow like a cat’s, he put down the glass he was drying and came around the bar to stand next to her. “Jill?” Molly cocked her head. “What’s going on?” “There’s something you need to know.” Riley came up behind her. “Jilly, please. This is between her and Jase.” Jase reached them. His face was lined with exhaustion and worry. He said, “At least let me tell her what you overheard.” Briefly, Jill looked torn. Molly felt her stomach pitch. She knew in her heart this was going hurt. Bad. Riley grasped Jill’s arm. “Honey, think if it was us. Wouldn’t you want to work this out with me?” Leaning into him, she whispered, “You’d never do this to me.” Jase turned to Molly. “If you care about me at all, let’s go somewhere so I can clear this up.” Don’t do it, her mind warned. Let Jill tell you. But she faced Logan. He said, “Use my office,” then grasped her arm. “I’ll be right here if you need me.” Molly led the way back to Logan’s office. Like his apartment above the store, it was bare of any personal things. She reached the desk and leaned against it, folding her arms across her middle. Insufficient armor against the blow Jase was about to deliver. “Okay, what happened?” “Jill overheard a conversation between me and Thomas Stevenson this morning. She misunderstood what was going on.” “What was going on?” “Thomas wanted to know what was between you and me. And he said that if I wanted him to, he could help me get partial or full custody of our baby.” Molly’s world dimmed. She grasped onto the desk for support. “Oh, my God.” “Sweetheart, this came totally from Thomas. I never instigated any of it. I’d never try to take our baby away from you.”

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She recalled his words in Paris. I want claim to this baby. “How did Thomas know about the baby, if you weren’t in on the plot?” “It’s not a plot.” He ran a hand through his dark hair and swore. Like a guilty man. “I consulted him about the paternity testing.” “So you did tell him.” “No, I said I had a case where paternity was at issue. He advised me.” At her skeptical look, he added, “I never followed through on the paternity test order.” “Not yet.” “All right, Mol, I know this looks bad. But it isn’t what it appears to be. I told Thomas he was way off base, and I’d never do this to you.” If only she could believe him. Oh, God, her worst fear was materialising. “Look, I have a solution to all this. Let’s just get married.” “What?” “Let’s get married. Then it will be a moot point.” Lawyer jargon. “You mean merge, don’t you, so you’ll have legal claim as a father. Is that what Thomas advised you to do?” “I don’t deserve that. I’m trying to compromise, to make this right for all of us.” Her insides were cold. Numb. But her hands began to tremble. “Are you? Isn’t there something missing from your oh-so-romantic proposal?” “What?” She bit her lip so she wouldn’t cry. “I won’t marry you, Jase. You never said you loved me.” “Of course I love you. What do you think this whole thing has been about?” “Getting claim to a child you don’t think I’m fit to raise.” “Look, I know we have our differences. On life and child rearing. But I was wrong to keep you from Tommy. You're wonderful with him. We can compromise.” She turned her back on him to block out the words that she’d longed for months to hear come out of his mouth. “No.” 119

The wall clock ticked loudly in the tense silence. He came up to her. She shrugged him off. He didn’t step back, so she reached over to the desk and picked up the phone, pressed a button and when Logan answered, said, “Could you come in here? I need you.” Jase grasped her arms. Hoarsely, he said, “Mol, please. Don’t do this.” Like an avenging angel, Logan burst through the door. He jostled Jase out of the way to get to Molly. “Are you all right? Molly leaned into him. “Just make him go away.” Logan straightened and faced Jase. “Get out of here, McKay. For good.” Riley came up to Jase. “Come on, let’s go.” “Molly, please, don’t do this.” She didn’t answer, only clutched Logan’s arm. Finally, Jase turned and headed to the door, where he stopped and pivoted. “One last thing.” His eyes were hollow. “You never said you loved me, either. That didn’t make it any less true.” And with that he was gone. Hopelessly, she buried her face in Logan’s shirt. “God, Logan, he’s going to take my baby.” “No, he’s not.” He tipped her chin. “Look, I haven’t said anything before because I thought you might work it out with McKay. But I’ll say it now. Molly, I’m a powerful man. I have connections. Compared to me, the Stevensons are babes in the woods. Marry me, and I can keep them from ever touching you or the baby.” ****** “Molly, are you sure you want to do this?” Jill watched her in the mirror, as Molly stood adjusting the collar of the taupe-coloured, calf-length wedding dress. Her heart was a leaden weight in her chest and it showed in the smudges beneath her eyes and the strain around her mouth. “Yes.” She practically choked on the word. “I got another formal summons to have the paternity test.” Which she’d discarded without reading. “That about clinches it, don’t you think?” Her sister frowned. “I guess.” She fussed with the flowers Molly wore in her hair, which swung loosely to her waist. The way Jase liked it best. “But I’m having second thoughts about Jase’s motives. And Riley’s convinced he wasn’t trying to take the baby.” “Riley is Jase’s best friend.” Jill grasped her shoulders. “He’s been miserable all week at work. And I finally talked to him. He swears he wants you and the baby. He sounds so sincere, honey.” 120

Molly swallowed hard. “He came to see Logan, too, and said as much. I think even Logan’s wavering.” She sniffed back tears. “It’s still too much to risk. He doesn’t know about tonight, does he?” “No, we promised you we wouldn’t tell him. He’s at our law firm shindig at the country club.” “Probably with Sarina Matthews. Logan heard she’d been at Tommy’s party.” Apparently it hadn’t been just family. That, and the fear that consumed her, was making her do this thing, which now seemed obscene. She faced Jill. “How do I look?” “Like you’re on death row. Molly, you shouldn’t marry a man you don’t love.” You never told me you loved me, either. That doesn’t make it any less true. God, they were both so cautious. No wonder they couldn’t make it work between them. “Logan’s a dream come true for any woman.” “Why does he want to do this? Did he ever say?” “Just that something happened to him a long time ago and he’d never marry because of it. And that with his lifestyle - being away so much - a love match wasn’t going to cut it.” She sighed. “I know in my heart he’s an honourable man and, right now, his protection is what I need. I don’t have much other choice.” “We could fight Jase legally. You and me.” She took in her sister’s pale face. “You’ve been spending entirely too much time on my problems. And you’ve been at odds with Riley. It isn’t good for you two. Now, let’s go. I don’t want to be late for my own wedding.” As they headed out of the little chapel’s anteroom - ironically where Jase had found out about the baby - the pangs of misgiving hit her like a physical blow. She saw Jase in Paris - bathing her face when she was sick, holding her hand down the Seine, driving into her with the force of a man who couldn’t get enough of her. Oh, God, what if he did love her? What if she was making a huge mistake? ****** Staring into the mirror in the bedroom he’d shared with Mary, Jase finished doing up the bow tie of his tux. He looked good for near forty. He was going to have fun at the firm’s party tonight. “Who the hell do you think you’re fooling?” It had been one of the darkest weeks of his life. He thought he was miserable before, but now because he really believed it was over between him and Molly - he was despondent.

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He hadn’t contacted her personally. It was an unselfish act. Jill had said she was worried about all the stress on her sister, so he was leaving Molly alone for her health. And for his daughter’s. He’d also rescinded the paternity test order. He’d had it delivered, along with another document, so she’d finally see he wasn’t after the baby. There was nothing else he could do. “Daddy, this came for you.” He glanced up to see Tommy in the doorway of his bedroom. “What is it?” “A letter. It came after school. Nonny made me promise to give it to you. I forgot.” “That’s okay, champ. Hand it over.” Jase took the letter and after Tommy left, he absently scanned the envelope. No return address. It appeared to be some kind of invitation. Tearing open the flap, he pulled out the sheet and read it. His brain whirled. His heart leaped. And anger surged through him. “Over my dead body,” he mumbled and stalked to the door. ****** Logan looked like something out of GQ, dressed in a tux and with his longish hair trimmed. “Ready, honey?” he asked, taking Molly’s hand. She put her hand in his and they started for the altar. Logan held on tight, though he did glance over his shoulder a couple of times. She stopped before they reached the minister and Jill and Riley. “Logan, if you’re having second thoughts, we can -” “No, it’s not that. It’s...” “Stop right there, Kane.” Molly turned around and froze; Jase loomed in the back of the chapel, big and beautiful in a raven tux and snowy white shirt, which set off his dark good looks. She heard Jill say, “Oh, Rie, you said you wouldn’t interfere.” “I didn’t, honey. Honest.” “Then who...?” With Jase bearing down the aisle, Logan said quietly, “Give me a minute.” He stepped in front of Molly. “Hold on, McKay.” “No way in hell.” Confidence boomed from Jase’s voice. Logan arched a brow. “I’m trained to kill. I can do it to you with a flick of my wrist.”

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Oh, my God. Jase stood tall. “Well, that’s what you’ll have to do to keep me from Molly.” Molly’s jaw dropped as a real and rare smile dawned on Logan’s face. “That’s what I was waiting for, man.” “What?” Molly muttered. “I don’t understand.” Logan glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll be damned, Molly. He does love you.” Drawing in a breath, Molly wavered. Jase pushed Logan out of the way and strode to her. Wordlessly, he bent over and scooped her up, turned and headed down the aisle. Her arms circled his neck for balance...and out of relief. Her heart felt...lighter. “What are you doing?” “Keeping the woman I love from making a terrible mistake.” “Jase, no, this isn’t the answer.” “Marrying a man you don’t love because you’re afraid of me sure as hell isn’t.” Holding her to his chest, he nudged open the door and hurried down the sidewalk to his car. “It’s cool out, but the heater’s on, so you’ll be all right.” He managed to get her in the car. She sat where she was until he circled around and slid inside. Raising his arm to the back of her seat, he faced her squarely and grasped onto her shoulder. “I don’t understand why you’d do this, Mol. Yesterday, I sent you the paternity test rescission order along with a legal document forsaking all claim to the baby. You didn’t have to marry Kane to escape me.” “I -” She shrugged. “I didn’t open it.” Shaking his head, he turned to the wheel. “Women.” He started to drive. “Jase, listen, we need to talk.” “No, we’re done talking. “ “Where are we going?” “To a party.” “What?” “You’ll see.” She did when they pulled up to Hyde Point Country Club, an imposing Tudor structure lit up for the night. “The firm’s having a party. We’re going inside.”

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“Jase, I’m not dressed for this.” “You’re perfectly dressed.” He leaned over and kissed her hard. “For what I have in mind.” Before she could get out of the car, he was around the other side and leaned in and lifted her up again; then he carried her inside. Embarrassed, she hid her face in his jacket. But he didn’t put her down; he stalked into the ballroom, where the party was under way, and headed straight for the band. A sixties song was just ending. At the makeshift stage, he set her on her feet, and took the mike. “Hi, everybody. I have an announcement to make.” People, all in tuxes and gowns, turned to the stage. “This is Molly Kimball McKay.” Molly grasped his arm. “We just got married. I wanted all my colleagues to know.” Spontaneous clapping began. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a honeymoon to begin.” Ignoring the applause, he picked her up again like a real bride and went out the way they entered. Soon, they were in the car. “Jase, please, talk to me.” “No, that’s how we get into trouble. We’re done talking. Actions speak louder than words.” He started the car and drove toward downtown. “We’re not married.” A cocky grin complemented the devil in his eyes, making him look young. “Well, we’re going to have to tie the knot, now. Or you’ll embarrass me so badly I’ll be forced to leave town. And my job. And all my friends.” A small laugh escaped her. “This is so unlike you.” He chuckled. “Yeah, and isn’t it great?” His hand slid over and captured her knee. “But Mol, in some ways, I am like the lawyer in that movie, the Redford character. So, hang on....” “Jase, that’s not important anymore. It’s a stupid movie; those people aren’t us.” “Hush.” They reached the centre of town and pulled up to the park. He stopped the car and went for the door. “Jase, what are you doing?” “Watch.” He slid his legs out, but didn’t get up. Leaning over, he did something then before she knew it, he was out of the car and on the grass. Without his shoes and socks. Just like in the movie.

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From the middle of the park, he faced the car. Arms spread out, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “I love you Molly Kimball. I am a stuffed shirt, but I’ll change. I promise. Marry me!” Molly shook her head and leaped out of the car. She ran across the grass, and threw herself at him. “Oh, Jase. You don’t have to do this. I’ve been wrong, too. I’ve been inflexible. I’m so sorry. I’ll be better.” His arms banded around her and he went still. He met her forehead with his. “Then you’ll marry me?” “Yes, I will.” “Why?” he asked hoarsely, his lips on her ear. Drawing back, she looked up at him. “Because I love you.” “That’s all we need. “ He hugged her close. “We’ll be fine, you, me, Tommy and our daughter.” “I know.” “Yeah, sweetheart...” he kissed her hard “...so do I.”

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The Tycoon's Runaway Bride By Christine Rimmer Department store tycoon Jack McKay had no idea what had made his fiancée run out on their wedding and escape to Thunder Canyon, Montana. But he was going to find out. And then he'd bring Melody Kilkalen home, no matter what it took. Melody knew exactly why Jack wanted her to return to Texas with him—and it wasn't because he loved her. And yet…he seemed so sincere about his feelings for her. She had to know for sure whether Jack truly cared for her. Only this time she would call the shots, this time she was in control…and this time she was the one with the secret.

Chapter One Somehow, he had found her. Melody Kilkalen's pulse spiked. She set down her fork and lowered her hands to her lap so he couldn't see them trembling. Then, slowly, trying to look as though she couldn't care less, she turned her head away from the sight of him sitting there, alone at a table not fifteen feet from hers. She gazed out the wide window at a stunning view of Thunder Mountain. It was so beautiful; the craggy peaks were still crested with snow at the end of May. She watched the lengthening shadows that darkened the mountainside as evening came on. Damn you, Jack McKay. Why had he come here? The question echoed, loud as her own heartbeat, in her brain. What could possibly be the point of tracking her down? Following her? Hadn't her leaving him at the altar a week ago told him everything he needed to know? And how had he found her? She'd fled in her wedding dress right before the wedding march started, grabbing her purse and running, with no idea where she would go. A kindhearted trucker picked her up and took her all the way to Fort Collins, Colorado. She'd checked into a motel and slept for twelve hours straight. The next day, she'd paid the motel maid to get her some jeans and a T-shirt. The maid had admired her Vera Wang wedding dress, so Melody had given it to her. And then she'd called a cab and asked the cabbie to drive her to the nearest car rental place. Once she had a car, she'd been on the road again. She'd driven north until she found herself in a small Montana town called Thunder Canyon. She'd followed the signs to the Thunder Canyon Resort and taken a suite. And she'd been here ever since. The resort had everything she needed—several restaurants, boutiques where she'd bought a whole new wardrobe, a great spa if she wanted to pamper herself. Everything. She'd decided to splurge—she was on her honeymoon, after all. A honeymoon minus a wedding, and without a groom. She'd contacted no one back in Houston—well, except for her parents. Just to tell them she was safe, to ask them to call her bridesmaids and say how sorry she was to have left them at the church, all dressed up for a wedding that wasn't going to happen. She'd had a long talk with her dad, explaining how 126

betrayed she felt that he hadn't been honest with her, that he hadn't told her what he knew about Jack. And then she'd made both her mom and dad swear they wouldn't reveal to Jack where she'd gone. Had they broken their promise? She'd been so sure that they wouldn't. But Jack McKay could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. He might have the face and body of a street-fighting thug, but he was also skilled at turning on the charm. He could seem so sincere when he chose to be. The low-life lying bastard scum. Her parents must have told him where to find her. Or maybe he'd hired some detective to track her down. He'd had several days to work on it, after all. Which brought her back to the real question: Why? Oh, please. She knew why. And it wasn't for her. If a sad little flicker of hope had dared to flare in her heart at the sight of him, well, she needed to stomp it out. He was here because without her, he couldn't get what he wanted. She was part of the deal—in fact, without her, there was no deal. She picked up her fork again. See? Her hands were steady now. Even her galloping heart had settled to a more sedate rhythm. It wasn't right that he'd followed her to the resort, that he'd tracked her down to the place where she'd found refuge from his two-faced betrayal. She liked it here, and she planned to stay for a while—at least for the whole two weeks they would have been on Turtle Island for their honeymoon. All she wanted was to lick her wounds in peace, in the shadow of the craggy snow-capped mountain. Her stomach rolled—no! She refused to be sick here, in the beautiful Gallatin Room, the resort's best restaurant. Not while he was watching, seeking a weakness, trying to find an opening, a way to get to her. She kept her expression composed as she took a bite of tender prime rib. Her gag reflex tried to kick in. She didn't let it. She made herself chew and swallow. And then she ate another bite. And another after that. The food stayed down. Thank God. No way could she afford to reveal that to him. Her secret was her own. And she was glad, so glad, that she'd never shared it with a user like him. She ate the rest of her meal in a calm and unhurried fashion. She did not once glance his way again. And by the end of the meal, she'd come to a decision. She would confront him—which she probably should have done before she ran out on him. She would tell him exactly what she thought of him. And then she would demand that he go home. She would make him realize that he was wasting his time.

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It was over, and he wasn't getting what he'd schemed and lied to get. So he might as well just leave her alone. *** Jack McKay waved away the waiter's offer of dessert. "Just coffee." The waiter brought him the coffee and left him. He sipped, set the cup down and stared at Melody's delicate profile some more. She didn't look his way again. One glance was all she'd given him. So far. She probably thought that she could get rid of him if she refused to admit he was even there. Fat chance, Melody. It had cost him a bundle to find her. The best private investigators didn't come cheap. But he had found her. And now that he had, he was staying right here at this mountain resort in the middle of nowhere— staying on the same floor as hers, as a matter of fact—until she came to her senses and agreed to return to Texas with him. Jack wanted answers and he was going to get them. She'd made a fool of him in front of everyone who mattered in Houston. He needed to find out why she'd left him at the altar and fix whatever the problem was between them so that they could get back together and move on. Jack was not a man who gave up what was his. Melody ought to know that by now. He was a fighter and a winner, in spite of long odds. And Melody was his. He would make her see that, no matter what it took. But he was getting ahead of himself. Before he could convince her she'd made a huge mistake, he first had to figure out how to approach her, this woman who in an instant had turned into someone he didn't know. She was probably the most gentle, well-bred person he'd ever met, yet she'd behaved like a crazy woman. The few who'd seen her running away had said she'd simply come out of the dressing room off the church waiting area, lifted her white skirts high and sprinted out the church doors, running as if the devil himself were after her. Jack had done his research on her and her family before he'd decided to pursue her. There was no history of mental illness. It made no sense. And that meant he had no idea what she would do when he tried to talk to her. Burst into tears? Slap his face? Start yelling—or just turn on her heel and walk away? The possibility that she might behave rationally seemed remote at best. And if she started crying and shouting at him, well, where would he go from there? She was a small, slender woman, with big, innocent eyes. And he was tall and broad-shouldered, with plenty of muscle. If she told him to get away from her and he didn't go, some damn fool would be bound to come to her rescue. 128

Jack didn't want trouble. He just wanted answers and to take her home. How to get what he wanted from a woman who wouldn't even meet his eyes? That was the question. He sipped more coffee and watched her smile at the waiter and sign the check. Should he get up and follow her out when she left? At this point, he wouldn't put it past her to bolt. And he'd have to hunt her down all over again. She pushed back her chair and stood, her baby-fine soft blond hair shining in the light from the chandeliers overhead, her posture charm-school straight. She picked up her small clutch purse and turned toward him. And shocked the hell out of him when she looked straight at him. Her elegantly shaped mouth trembled. She started walking. Right for him. She didn't stop until she stood by his table. "Jack." Her voice was soft as a breath, musical, refined. Something down inside him went hot and tight. "Melody." He let his gaze slide downward to where she clutched her purse against her small breasts in her left hand. "You're not wearing your ring…" Had she ripped it off her finger and thrown it away as she ran down the church steps? Rich girls. They had no damn appreciation for the value of expensive things. Yet it wasn't the money he'd paid for it, he had to admit. In fact, the money wasn't what ate at him at all. He'd chosen that ring specially, all by himself, just for her. When he'd slipped it on her finger, he'd been the happiest man in the world. The thought of her tossing it out like trash, as if it meant nothing to her, as if he meant nothing to her. It galled him. And hurt him. A lot. "No, I'm not wearing the ring you gave me," she said with a civility he hadn't expected—an over-the-top graciousness that set his teeth on edge. "And I will never wear any ring of yours again." Her smile was etched in acid. She added, "We need to talk. Alone." Alone. Perfect. She'd made the first move for him. He smiled, pushed back his chair and followed her out of the Gallatin Room.

Chapter Two Melody got on the elevator and Jack followed her.

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The doors slid shut and she had a moment of pure panic. Was she out of her mind to volunteer to be alone with him? The elevator walls seemed to close in on her. He dwarfed the space, sucked up all the air. She felt small and fragile and insignificant and… No! She would not let her insecurities get the best of her. It had been a good move to take the lead, to face him down. A bold move. She was proud she'd taken the initiative. And this confrontation would be over soon. She would tell him exactly what she thought of him and send him away, and that would be that. At the fifth floor, the doors glided open—on a nice-looking guy named Roger. She'd met Roger the day she checked in at the resort. And he always said hi whenever he saw her. "Roger." She put on a smile for him. "Hi, Melody." Roger was a golfer. He wasn't carrying his clubs right then, but he was wearing a Puma golfer's hat, an argyle polo shirt and Bermuda shorts, probably on his way down to dinner at one of the resort's more casual eateries. "Still hoping to see you on the fairways." "Soon, Roger," she lied, smiling wider, stepping off the elevator, with Jack following much too closely behind her. Roger said goodbye and got on the elevator. Melody heard the soft rumble of the doors sliding shut as she turned down the hallway toward her rooms. She was sticking her card key into the slot when she glanced back at Jack. He stood halfway down the hall, tossing a golf ball toward the ceiling. Catching it neatly in his big hand, he tossed it up again. She tried not to roll her eyes. "Where did you find that?" "Next to the elevator." He threw it into the air once more. "Roger seems to be losing his balls." "You are not the least bit amusing." The lock light blinked green. She pushed the door wide and went in, letting the door swing shut behind her. If he didn't hurry up and catch it, so be it. He could stay out in the hall. That would be just fine with her. No such luck. Jack moved fast when he wanted to. He grabbed the door before it closed in his face and came through behind her. And she had that feeling again—that overwhelmed, trapped feeling. She ignored it. She set her purse on the table near the door, aimed her chin high and led the way into the sitting area. "Something to drink?" "No." He set the golf ball in a small crystal dish on a side table and dropped into a wing chair. She sat on the sofa across from him. Frowning, he studied her through narrowed hazel eyes. "You look tired." Oh, please. As if he cared. "Not your problem, Jack." He sat back and braced his elbows on the chair arms. "So who's Roger, anyway?" 130

"Just a guest of the resort. He came for the grand opening of the new golf course this past weekend." "You're playing golf with him? You hate golf." His eyes held hers. She knew he was remembering. She tried not to, but she was remembering, too. On their third date, Jack had talked her into playing a round of golf with him at Fazio Foothills in the Barton Creek Resort near Austin. In the middle of the game, she'd confessed that she disliked golf and hoped he wouldn't ask her to play again. He'd taken her hand, pulled her into his arms and kissed her, right there on the ninth green—a long, delicious, wonderful kiss. And then he'd ushered her into the golf cart and driven her back to the clubhouse. That was it for golfing when they were together. And why was she remembering that kiss on the golf course? So what if he'd actually listened to her when she told him she didn't want to play? That didn't make him any less of a liar now. "It's still true that I don't enjoy it," she said stiffly. "And no, I'm not playing golf with Roger." "Well, he's way too damn friendly." "He's a nice guy who happens to have a wife and a little boy." "So? A wife and kid didn't stop him from falling all over you." "He did not fall all over me. And Roger's not the issue here. You know it. I know it." His frown turned to a scowl. "All right. You want to get right down to it?" She refused to waver. "Isn't that why you came here?" "Fine, Melody. Let's go for it. I don't know what happened, why you ran out on our wedding, made a fool of me, left me and everyone else in that church wondering what the hell went wrong. I don't know. And it doesn't matter. I just want to work this out so we can go back to Houston and get on with our lives." Go back to Houston and get on with our lives? She wanted to laugh in his face. But she was afraid that if she did, she might start screaming—or burst into tears. She wrapped her arms around herself. Tightly. "You don't know what happened. Hah. That's rich." He leaned forward, intently. "I don't. I think you'd better tell me." "I can't believe you haven't figured it out—in fact, Jack, my guess is that you know exactly what happened. And you're just playing dumb. Since you're a very smart man, I'm not buying your act." "Stop talking in circles." Fair enough. "Think back." "Back to…?" "Two nights before the wedding, Jack. We went to my parents' house. Before dinner, you and my dad had a nice little private chat alone in his study…." 131

Jack's face paled. The sight was quite satisfying. "You heard our conversation." "Oh, yes. I heard. Dinner was ready. I came to tell you. The door was slightly ajar. You men really should learn to shut the door if you want to keep things secret." "Melody, I—" She put up a hand. "I'm not finished, Jack. You and my dad were talking about the little merger you were planning." Jack owned McKay's, a chain of very successful discount department stores. And Melody's family had been in retail for over a century. Kilkalen's was one of the oldest and most respected upscale department store chains in the country. "Kilkalen McKay. It has a nice ring to it," she said sourly. "Strange that neither you or my father ever mentioned any merger to me." "We planned to tell you everything," he said gruffly. "In time. We were still in the negotiation stages." "Were, Jack?" "Cut the crap," he said in that rough way of his. He might dress in beautifully tailored trousers and designer shirts, but underneath, he was a guy who'd come up from nothing, and sometimes he let that show. "Everything's on hold now. You have to know that." "Maybe because my father has his doubts about you now. Particularly given the fact that I ran from the church and kept running until I reached Montana, all so I didn't have to marry you." He was scowling again. "I don't get it. You didn't say a word to me about what you'd overheard. You went right on as though nothing had happened—that night, and the night after, and the day of the wedding. You got all the way to the church before you suddenly decided you couldn't go through with it…?" "All that time I was trying to convince myself that it would be all right. That we would be all right." He dared to look at her with reproach in his eyes. "You should have talked to me." She made a low sound of outrage. "Talked to you? I was in shock. Reeling. Hurt. I…" Tears pushed at the back of her throat. No way would she cry in front of him. She swallowed the tears down. "I thought you were different—better than half my girlfriends growing up, than just about every boyfriend I ever had. I thought you didn't care about my money, about what knowing me could get for you. I loved you. And then, two days before I almost made the biggest mistake of my life and married you, I overhear my dad telling you that he knew you had only gotten close to me to get close to him." He looked away. "Damn it, Melody…" "You didn't even try to deny Dad's accusation," she reminded him through clenched teeth. "And then…then he said he'd watched us together and thought we had something good between us. That he wanted me to be happy, and as long as you were ready to be a real husband to me, he could live with your original motives being…" She paused for a slow breath. "How did he put it? Oh, yes…'less than pure.'" Jack faced her again. "All right. That's true." "Of course it's true," she cried. "You thought you could claim it wasn't?"

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His blunt-featured face looked carved in stone. "I'm not trying to. Yes, I thought a merger with Kilkalen's would be good for both companies. Yes, I set out to meet you, to get to know you—to get close to you— as a way to get on good terms with your dad. Originally. But—" "But what? I'm supposed to just accept all that and meekly go back to Houston with you? I'm supposed to fall into your arms and tell you all is forgiven because you admit that you cheated and you lied." "I did not!" "You lied to me, Jack. It was all a lie." "That's not true. When I asked you to marry me, I wasn't thinking about how I would be Reid Kilkalen's son-in-law. I was thinking that I wanted you to be my wife." "Well, of course you wanted me for your wife. I'm Reid Kilkalen's only child and I stand to inherit a bundle. Not to mention the connections I have because of my name. Marrying someone like me is a pretty big step up for a guy raised in foster homes, a guy who never knew his dad, a guy whose mom died when he was barely out of diapers, a guy who had to claw and scrape for everything he ever got." He squared his powerful shoulders—and tried to take the high ground. "I'm not ashamed of where I came from, Melody. And I've done all right for myself. Better than all right. I never needed to marry you to get ahead." "That's not the point." "The hell it's not. I don't need your money." "No. You were after my connections. And I didn't say you should be ashamed of your background. You have a right to be proud of how far you've come. But the way you manipulated me, well, you could have a little shame for that, Jack. You could have a lot of shame." "Listen, I asked you to marry me because I wanted you—you, Melody. Not Kilkalen's. Not the merger. Not your big, fat trust fund. You." He paused. And then he delivered his best shot. "And if you had listened at your father's study door just a little bit longer, you would have heard me say that." She sat back against the sofa cushions. And she made herself speak coolly. "Actually, Jack. I did hear you say that." That took him by surprise. He even blinked. "You did?" She gave a nod. "I heard it. And I didn't believe it. Why ever would I? You've been lying to me since the day we met." "No, I haven't. I—" She cut him off. "Oh, come on, Jack. Why should I believe a word you say?" "I want to marry you, Melody." "You didn't answer my question."

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He said nothing. He held her eyes for a moment. And then he looked away. He got up and went around the end of the sofa to the window behind her. She turned to watch him. Beyond his tall form, the window provided another splendid view of the snowcapped Thunder Mountain—a shadowed view now. Twilight had come. More softly than before, she spoke to his broad, strong back. "Give it up. Please. It's over and you know it. We both know it. I want you to go back to Houston, get on with your life and leave me alone. Let me…get over you. I mean it, Jack. I never want to see you again."

Chapter Three She wanted him to go. She never wanted to see him again. Jack stared out the picture window in the sitting room of Melody's hotel suite. A trick of the twilight showed him both the snow-covered mountain peaks beyond the glass and also the shadowed reflection of the room behind him. He saw his own face: the broad forehead, the deep-set eyes, the nose that had never been straight—not even before he'd broken it in a school yard brawl. And behind him, he saw Melody. She had turned to look at him. Her sweet brown eyes were bigger than ever. Even in the window's dark reflection, he saw the sadness in those eyes. The hurt. And the disappointment. She watched him, waiting. For him to give up and leave. She really should know him better than that. He faced her again. "You can't tell me you think our entire relationship was a lie." She drew herself up. "Isn't that what I just said a few minutes ago?" "Then you're lying." He said it quietly. Her eyes changed as she remembered. It had been good with them. So good. So right. She glanced away. "That doesn't matter." "Oh, yeah. It matters." He started toward her. And he didn't stop until he stood looking down at her, with only the back of the couch between them. "It matters more than anything." "No." She sounded breathless now. "Yeah." He bent close, braced his fists on either side of her and shamelessly invaded her space. "It's true I had an ulterior motive at the start." She pursed her soft mouth. "So generous of you to admit that now."

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He loomed closer still. Close enough that she gave ground a little, swaying away from him. "You had your say. Now it's my turn—if that's okay with you." He laid on the sarcasm. She leaned closer again, getting right in his face. "Oh, by all means. Go ahead, Jack. Have your say." He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to kiss her. Instead, he continued where he'd left off. "Yes, in the beginning I arranged to be near you to get entrée to your dad. But I never would have married you for a damn introduction. Uh-uh. Right away, the first time I spoke to you—at that party in River Oaks, remember? After that ridiculous charity dinner. You were wearing a silk dress that was both brown and gold at once. Like your eyes…" "Bronze," she corrected in a whisper. "The dress was bronze." "Bronze," he repeated. "Yeah. You wore a bronze silk dress and you were so sweet and shy and beautiful." She bit her lip. "I'm not beautiful. We both know that." He shook his head. "I know what I see. You're beautiful, Melody. And I could tell right away that you were different. That you…would matter to me. So I changed my plan. Because in an instant nothing else mattered. I wanted you most of all. You were the real prize. I swear it to you. I wanted you from the first night we met. I still want you. Give me a chance to prove it, Melody." Her soft lips were a thin determined line. "You don't deserve a chance, Jack." "Maybe I don't. But we do." *** Melody tried to remain unmoved as she gazed up at him. But it wasn't easy. Because, in spite of everything, she wanted to believe him. She looked into his unforgettable hazel eyes and she wished… What? That things could have been different? Yes. All right. She did. She wished that he hadn't lied to her. That there was some way they might start over and do things right this time. Without the lies. He said it again softly, with what she couldn't help but recognize as real tenderness, as honest yearning. "Give me a chance." And she thought of her secret, of the truth she hadn't shared with him. Deep down, she felt more than a little guilty about that. Really, he wasn't the only one who'd hidden important information. Who'd lied. So just tell him. Now. Get it over with.…

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No. She couldn't. How could she trust him with something like this? The words wouldn't come. She might be weakening, finding herself starting to believe that whatever his motives had been at the first, he'd actually started to care about her. She could even almost accept that he'd meant it when he'd promised her father he loved her. But she didn't fully trust him. No way. Not yet. Once she told him her secret, he would have a whole other argument as to why she should become his wife. A very powerful argument. Right now, she couldn't allow herself to give him more ammunition to hurl at her crumbling defenses. He continued, speaking with an intensity and heat that sent a shiver of longing sliding under her skin. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving. Not until you come with me." She shrugged. But refused to give in. "Enjoy your stay, then. Alone. Maybe you and Roger can play a little golf." A muscle in his strong jaw twitched. He studied her for a long time. Finally, he said in a raw voice, "What do I have to do, Melody? Anything. I'll do it. Just say it." Call the merger off, she thought. Tell my father you've changed your mind, show us both that it really is me you want and not the deal. But she didn't say it. That offer was one he had to make of his own accord, not because she bargained their relationship for it. And he hadn't offered to kill the deal. She needed to remember that. He might actually care about her— more than she'd let herself believe when she ran away from their wedding. But he still wanted to merge his stores with Kilkalen's. Very possibly, he wanted that more than anything. More than her. Could she live with that? It shocked her that she could even ask herself such a question. But there was one painful truth that she couldn't get around. The thing she couldn't deny now that she'd seen him again, now that she'd heard his voice, looked into those tempting gray-green eyes. Now that she'd listened to him explain that he did care, that he wouldn't have asked her to marry him if he didn't want her and only her for his wife. Okay, she might as well face it. She believed him, even though her pride kept warning her not to. The painful truth was this: she still loved him. And she was having his baby. As much as he'd hurt her, well, love and a baby had to count for something. Love and a baby were worth more than a merger. They were worth fighting for.

Chapter Four "I want a week," Melody said.

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Jack wasn't following. "A week for…?" "A week of you and me. I want what's left of what would have been our honeymoon. We'll spend it here, at the resort. And in Thunder Canyon, too. We'll…take some time together. A lot of time together. We'll see how it goes." This was sounding really good to Jack. Excellent, as a matter of fact. He couldn't have come up with a better plan himself. If she needed reassuring, he was only too happy to reassure the hell out of her. "Yes. Absolutely. We're on. I'll move my stuff in here right now." He leaned in a little closer across the back of the couch to claim a kiss. Again. At last. She stopped him, laying her hand against his chest—a too brief touch. But one that lasted long enough for heat to blaze through him. And also to communicate clearly that the kiss he wanted was not happening. "Hold on," she said. He tried to look innocent, though he wasn't all that successful at it. Still, he did his best, widening his eyes, relaxing his mouth. "What?" "Get your own room." Damn it. "I already have a room, it just so happens—next door to you." She cast a glance toward the ceiling. "Why am I not surprised?" "I'm a determined man, Melody." "No kisses." She shook a finger at him. "Not until I say so—if I say so." He tried not to be too disappointed. She would be saying so. Very soon. He would see to that. He'd smother her in flowers, shower her with diamonds. "However you want it," he said in a heartfelt tone. "No flowers and no gifts." He had to shut his mouth to keep from gaping. How did she do that—read his mind like that? She'd been able to do it from the first night he met her. It was damn disconcerting. "What's wrong with a few flowers and a little bling?" Her soft mouth was set. "They don't prove anything. They're not what matters, Jack. You and me and trying to work this out. That's what matters." "Fine. Great," he grumbled. And then he went around the end of the couch again and dropped into the chair. "Have it your way. No gifts. No flowers." She faced him. "And that's not all." He had a bad feeling suddenly. He looked at her sideways. "What else?" She smiled. Much too sweetly. "You know, you really did sweep me off my feet, Jack. The diamonds, the pearls…" 137

Two diamond tennis bracelets, several gorgeous pairs of earrings, a triple-strand black pearl choker, with earrings to match. And a number of other pieces he couldn't specifically recall at that point. "I thought you liked them." "I did," she replied. "Very much. Oh, and the orchids…" He had sent her a lot of orchids. "You said you loved orchids." "I did. I do—that's not the point." She sighed. "And all those trips, Jack. Those romantic getaways…" "But you told me you enjoyed travel." "Not the point." "You keep saying that. Just tell me. What is the point?" She sat back on the sofa and spread her arms wide. "The point is that it's my turn." Okay, he was lost. "Your turn to…?" "To decide what we do. To be in control." He didn't get it. "You're going to buy me flowers and jewelry?" She laughed for the first time that night. The sound wrapped around his heart. He loved her laugh. And there had been a few dark moments in the past week when he'd wondered if he would ever hear it again. She continued, "No, I'm not going to buy you flowers and expensive gifts." Gruffly, he replied, "That's fine. I'm not real big on orchids, anyway." She crossed her slim legs, smoothed her skirt and leaned toward him a little. "We're going to do…simple things. Ordinary things. Take walks. Go horseback riding. Window shop on Main Street, right here in Thunder Canyon, arm in arm." It didn't sound too bad. "Whatever you want." "All right, then." She rose lightly to her feet. "I'll see you tomorrow. Good night." He stayed in the chair and frowned up at her. "Just like that? I'm being dismissed?" She held down her hand. "Come on. I'll walk you to the door." He didn't want to go. Not yet. They had a million things to settle first. But then again, well, at least she had some color back in her cheeks. And she'd actually offered him her hand. He took it and stood.

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She tucked her soft little fingers around his arm. "This way…" Reluctant but resigned, he let her lead him to the door. But he hadn't become a retail tycoon by taking no for an answer. Clearly, what she needed was a little more wooing. No problem. She wanted wooing? He'd woo the socks off her. *** At nine the next morning, Jack was on his computer in the middle of a videoconference with his Houston office when the room phone rang. "Give me a minute," he told his assistant and the two executives on the other end. He paused the session and picked up the phone on the sitting room desk. "McKay." "Breakfast," Melody said. He smiled at the sound of her voice. "The Grubstake. I'm waiting." He grunted. "The Grubstake—that's the coffee shop downstairs, right?" "That's it. Are you coming?" He sent a rueful glance at the open laptop. He really needed to finish this meeting. "I'm a little tied up right now…." A silence. And then, in a low, so-sweet voice, "Jack. If we'd gone on our honeymoon, would you be videoconferencing before breakfast?" How did she know he was video-conferencing? She always seemed to know way too much—about what he was thinking and what he might be doing. And he wanted to argue that they hadn't gone on their honeymoon, damn it. Because she'd run away from him. Plus, he had a company to manage. He didn't argue, though. After all, they did have an agreement. And he had a wooing campaign to wage. "Ten minutes," he barked into the phone. "I'm there." "Excellent." She hung up. Five minutes later, he left his room to go downstairs. He found Roger, the guy from the evening before, waiting for the elevator. Roger had a golf bag full of clubs and a boy of seven or eight with him, a Rogerin-miniature. The kid wore an argyle golf shirt and a Puma golf hat—and carried a child-sized set of clubs. "Hey," Roger greeted him, holding out his hand. "Roger Pemley. Last night? You were with Melody, I believe." "I remember." Jack took the guy's hand. "Jack McKay." "And this is Roger Jr.," the golfer said proudly. The kid beamed up at him, showing two teeth missing in front. In his little fist, he clutched a golf ball. "Junior, put that ball away," Roger nagged the kid. Then he 139

sent an apologetic glance at Jack. "He's always losing them. People trip on them everywhere—in the hallway, on the elevator, down in the lobby…" So, then. It wasn't Roger who was losing his balls. "I found one last night." "Sorry," said Roger. He gave his son a threatening scowl. "Put it away. Now." "Aw, Daaaaadddd…" But the kid did put the ball in the zippered compartment of his child-sized bag. The elevator came. Jack let the two Rogers and all their equipment get on first. Roger Sr. chatted like a happy magpie on the way down. He and his family were from Wisconsin. They loved the resort. They were having the time of their lives. Jack listened and nodded and left them on the main floor. In the coffee shop, Melody was waiting for him. She wore a sleeveless yellow shirt and a big smile and the sight of her made him feel like the sun had come up all over again. He sat down across from her and ordered coffee—he'd had breakfast delivered to his room earlier—and watched her put away a big plate of French toast with bacon. She always used to be a picky eater. But the mountain air must agree with her. She ate heartily. And the dark circles he'd noticed under her big bronze eyes last night? They seemed to have faded. He decided to take that as a good sign. She must be feeling better now that they were working things out. Come to think of it, he felt better, too. At least he had found her. And he knew that she was okay. Though he didn't really get how walking around some Podunk, Montana, town side by side, holding hands and looking in shop windows, was going to help her to see that he did care about her. But then, what did he know about how to make her realize what she meant to him? The diamonds and orchids he'd supplied in abundance were supposed to have done that job. But they hadn't, or she never would have run away from him. So all right. He had a thing or two to learn about intimate relationships. He supposed that wasn't really too surprising. He lacked experience when it came to the whole love thing. He'd never had his own family, never even had a brother or a sister to stand with against the world. He only knew that he wanted her, Melody. He wanted her in a deep and elemental way. He wanted her with him. He wanted to see her smile, to hear her musical laughter. He wanted to wake up every morning in the same bed with her. If doing "simple things" together was going to convince her that she really did matter to him, well, okay. Bring on the simple things. Swallowing a mouthful of French toast, she said, "Today, we're going into town—Old Town, to be specific. That's the side of Thunder Canyon originally settled back in the eighteen hundreds. New Town is east of Old Town, and it's—" "Let me guess," he offered dryly. "Newer?"

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She popped a piece of bacon into her mouth and grinned in a very self-satisfied way. "That's right. In Old Town, we're going to explore Main Street, check out the cute shops. Visit the Heritage Museum." "I can't wait." He tried to sound cynical. But her enthusiasm was contagious. Hey. As long as they were together, he didn't really care what they did. Scratch that. Given the choice, he'd rather have her alone in his suite, where he could take off that sunny yellow shirt and everything else she was wearing. He'd rather make love to her all day long. Her mind might hold out against him, but her body knew better. If he could only get his hands on her, he was sure he could quickly eliminate every doubt she had left about whether or not to come home to Texas with him. "I know that look, Jack." She shook her last piece of bacon at him. "Forget it. Not happening." And then she gazed at him from under lashes. "Not today, anyway." He saw his opening and went for it. "Tomorrow, then." She ate the bacon, wiped her tempting lips with her napkin. "I'm making no promises." "Maybe not in words…" She tried to appear stern. "No guarantees. We'll see how it goes." She signed the check with her room number. "All right. You ready?" He reached in his pocket and got out his car keys. "Let's go." "Put those away," she told him smartly. "I'm in control and that means I'm driving."

Chapter Five It was a great day, Melody thought. The sun was shining, the sky a clear, gorgeous faded-denim blue, with the occasional cottony cloud drifting around up there. Melody drove them down from the mountain in her rental car and parked in the lot at the corner where Thunder Canyon Road turned sharply and became Main Street, between a bar and restaurant called The Hitching Post Saloon and a cute little motel named the Wander-On Inn. They got out and started down Main. When Jack reached for her hand, she gave it. Why not? They were trying to work things out, after all. His hand was big and warm and solid as ever. She wove her fingers with his and let herself enjoy the shiver of excitement that radiated through her. Because she was with him. Because the simple touch of his hand seemed to promise so much. Everything. Their future, reclaimed. Their happiness, rediscovered. And really great sex.

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Not that she was going there today. She'd told him she wouldn't. She shouldn't let herself anticipate how wonderful it might be when—no, if—she did. But she did anticipate. She tried not to remember what it was like when Jack held her in his arms. But she might as well have tried to stop breathing. He knew her weakness. And he played on it. He eased his thumb between their joined hands and stroked her palm with it in a light and way-too-tempting caress. As they strolled along Main Street, he took every opportunity to move in closer to her, so their bodies touched. The seemingly accidental contact made her constantly, intimately aware of him. Every brief, brushing touch fanned the banked fires of desire that smoldered between them. She didn't tell him to cut it out. She just couldn't. It felt too good. They visited a couple of cute little gift shops. She bought some souvenirs: a Montana Gold T-shirt, a Thunder Canyon shot glass and a book about Thunder Canyon history called Gold Rush Grooms, written, the gift-store owner proclaimed proudly, by a local author. Farther down the street, Jack stopped in front of a bakery. "La Boulangerie." He read the sign painted on the window, mangling the pronunciation in his own endearing way. "French for bakery, right?" She'd lived in Paris for a year back in her college days and had learned to speak French fluently, though she was a little rusty now. At her nod, he asked, "Remember that time I took you to Paris?" She would never forget. "It was more than a year ago. In early spring. Our first trip together." The first time they'd made love. "I remember everything." He said it with gruff tenderness. She sighed. "The Tuileries gardens were spectacular. All those gorgeous tulips in bloom." He arched a brow. "Feel like a croissant?" Her heart seemed to get lighter inside her chest. He'd brought her croissants the morning after…they'd eaten them in bed, not even caring about the crumbs. He really was trying. And the way he looked at her, well, he didn't seem like a man who was only after her money and connections. "I would love a croissant." They went inside. The French baker behind the counter was not a friendly fellow. He scowled as he waited on them. But one bite of her croissant had Melody deciding that she didn't care if the baker had a lousy personality. He baked the best croissants she'd ever tasted—even counting the ones she'd had in Paris. Jack swallowed a big bite of the éclair he'd chosen and grinned across the round bistro-style café table at her. "So good…" She wholeheartedly concurred. She could have ordered a second croissant. Maybe even a third. Her appetite was huge lately—at least in the morning and early afternoon. At dinnertime, things got rockier. Whoever called it morning sickness didn't know what they were talking about…. And her thoughts had circled back to the baby again, to her dilemma—when to tell him? How? 142

He was frowning. "Mel? What's the matter?" Just do it. Just say it: We're having a baby, Jack. It shouldn't be this hard. But it was. She pasted her smile back on. "Not a thing." *** After the bakery, she took him over to Pine Street, where they visited the Heritage Museum. She kept him at the museum for over an hour, admiring the rooms full of authentic pioneer furniture, the glass cases packed with clothing and tools from days gone by. When she'd finally had enough, she announced, "I'm starving. We need some lunch." He teased, "If you don't watch it, you won't be able to fit into those skinny jeans that look way too good on you…" She laughed. "I don't know what it is. I'm hungry as a horse lately…" But she did know what it was. She was eating for two, as the old saying went. And she was going to tell him about it. Soon. Very soon… Back on Main, she ushered him into a tea shop called The Tottering Teapot. They ordered Darjeeling tea and sandwiches made with whole wheat bread and filled with wholesome ingredients: organic mayonnaise, free-range chicken and locally grown lettuce and tomatoes. He was the only guy in the place. He kidded her about that. "Looks to me like one of those places you should come with your girlfriends. No self-respecting man would be caught dead here." "Should I check your pulse? See if you're still breathing?" He shrugged. "Just sayin'. You're in control." And he sipped his tea from a delicate china cup. Next, they walked back to the little park in the center of Old Town, the town square. They sat on a bench, held hands some more and watched the young mothers play with their children in the grass and on the slide and the rings and the small jungle gym not far from where they sat. Strange how everywhere they went that day, she was reminded of the secret she kept from him. He squeezed her hand. "You seem quiet. You sure nothing's bothering you?" Again, she put on her liar's smile. "Nothing at all."

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He studied her face for a moment, and then he turned back to the play area. "Kids. Look at them. Not a care in the world. I don't ever remember it being like that. Life wasn't…safe for me. Not when I was little. If I ever have a kid…" He shifted and faced her again, pinning her with his gaze. But only for a moment—a little girl on the swings laughed and he focused on the playground again. "If we ever have kids, it's going to be different." A slight smile curved his mouth as he watched the little girl. Her pigtails flew as she swung high. "Our kids will have everything. We'll keep them safe." Her heart twisted. She should say it right now. It was the perfect moment. I'm pregnant. But doubts kept nagging at her. Was he only saying what he thought she wanted to hear? What kind of father would he be, really? He'd never had a family and he was such a driven man. If she told him there was a baby and went back to Texas with him, would he be there for their child? Or would he only use her pregnancy as another way to get her to do what he wanted, to convince her to marry him so he could make the merger happen? She longed to believe in him again. And she did. But not completely. Some small, wounded part of her heart continued to hold out against him. So she said nothing. *** Before they returned to the resort, they dropped in at the Hitching Post Saloon, where a painting of a beautiful woman draped in nothing but a few precisely placed scarves hung over the bar. "That's Lily Divine," said the bartender. "The story goes that back in the 1830s, Lily owned a house of ill repute called the Hitching Post in the original building at this very location. Some say she wasn't really running a whorehouse, though. That what she did was to take in prostitutes who'd been mistreated, or any woman who came to her in need of a helping hand and a way out of a bad life." The bartender gave the lady in the picture a thumbs-up. "I say, whatever you were up to, Lily, you are lookin' good." The pretty woman in the picture smiled seductively down at them. Jack ordered a beer and Melody had ginger ale. Since she'd never been all that fond of alcohol, he didn't question her choice of a soft drink over something stronger. But the truth was that she might have enjoyed a beer with him if she hadn't known she was pregnant—and if she wasn't already feeling her regular afternoon queasiness. They pulled in to the resort around four. By then, her stomach was seriously acting up. "You okay?" he asked her as they entered the clubhouse lobby, with its huge natural stone fireplace and soaring five-story ceiling. "Not really." She tried to make a joke of it. "Must have been the free-range chicken…" He had her arm and was guiding her toward one of the conversation groupings, a leather sofa and a couple of fat easy chairs. "Come on. Sit down. Relax for a few minutes." Not a good idea. She needed to get up to her room—and quickly. "Uh. No. I think I'll just go upstairs and lie down for a while." He frowned, worried. "The resort has an infirmary. I'll take you there."

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"No. Really. I want to go upstairs." She headed for the elevators. By the time they got on the car and started going up, she was absolutely certain she would chuck her cookies right there in the elevator. "Mel. Seriously. I don't like the way you look. What if it's something serious? I think I should take you to a doctor." She would not be sick in front of him. Absolutely not. And she wasn't going to the doctor, either. "I am fine!" She said it too strongly and she knew it. He glanced at her strangely, but at least he quit insisting on a visit to the infirmary. After an eternity, the elevator doors opened. Fumbling in her purse for her card key, she raced down the hallway. He was right on her heels. She reached her door, swiped the key, got the green light and shoved the door open. "Melody…" Somehow she managed not to lose her lunch all over him. "I'll be fine. I'll call you. We'll have dinner…" "But Mel, I don't—" She put up a hand, gently pressed her fingers to his lips to silence him. "An hour. Really. I'm fine." She slipped through the door and closed it in his worried face. And then she dropped her purse and bags of souvenirs on the entry table and ran for the bathroom. She made it just in time.

Chapter Six Jack stared at the door she'd shut in his face. He didn't get it. She'd seemed fine until a few minutes ago. And he'd had the chicken sandwich at that frou-frou girly place, too. Yeah, he would have preferred a chili dog and fries, but he didn't feel the least bit sick. That was how it went with food poisoning, though. Two people ate the same thing, but only one got the dangerous dose of salmonella. Was she okay in there? He lifted his hand to knock, to call out to her and demand to know that she was all right. And then he lowered his arm without making a sound. He turned and slid to the floor in front of the door. He would sit right here, in case she might need him. He'd give her ten minutes. Then he would call her and make certain that she didn't need the resort doctor. Food poisoning wasn't anything to fool with.

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He looked at his Patek Philippe, which was the plainest watch he'd ever owned. And a birthday gift from her. Leave it to Mel to buy only the best. He almost smiled, thinking of her—and then he scowled as he started to worry again. It was 4:15. Ten minutes. And when he called, she'd better be okay. With a grunt of frustration, he let his head fall back against the door. He waited. The next time he let himself check, it was 4:17. Longest two minutes of his life. The remaining eight would take forever. He let his head fall back again and he shut his eyes. The light nudge at his hip made him open them again. He looked down, saw the golf ball that had apparently rolled toward him until it had run into him. He picked it up. And that was when he heard giggling. Roger Jr. peered at him from down at the turn to the next hallway. He brought up his little hand and covered his mouth to stifle the sound of laughter. Kids. Sheesh. Jack rolled the ball back to him. Junior was ready for it. He scooped it up and vanished down the other hall. 4:22. Three more minutes. That was all he had to wait. Those minutes took a lifetime to pass, but at last they were over. He got out his BlackBerry and called Melody's cell. She answered on the second ring. "Jack. I said I would call you." She sounded…pretty good, actually. "Feeling better?" "I am, yes." A pause, then, "Thank you—and where are you?" "Sitting on the carpet outside your door." "Jack." She said his name reproachfully. But kind of sweetly, too. "So shoot me. I was worried." He half hoped that maybe she might let him in. But she only said gently, "I'm fine. Really. If I could just rest for a little while." "You're sure? Salmonella can kill you."

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"It's not salmonella." "How do you know?" "Because, um, I'm feeling better already. And how about this? Dinner. The Gallatin Room. Seven." "You're sure you're up for it? Because we could just—" "I'm sure. Seven, Jack. See you there." And she hung up. He went back to his suite and checked in at the office. Then he handled messages and email. And tried his damndest not to imagine the worst—that she might be lying alone in her room, writhing in pain, desperately needing him, but too weak to auto-dial his number. *** She showed up at the restaurant right on time wearing a little black dress and looking like a billion bucks. So okay. Maybe it wasn't salmonella after all. They got a nice, quiet table tucked away where they wouldn't be disturbed. Her eyes looked so big and soft. And she smiled and laughed and seemed as happy to be with him as he was to sit across from her. He thought about how much he wanted to kiss her. How much he wanted to spend the night holding her in his arms—that night, and all the nights to come. When they went back upstairs and got to the door of her suite, she kissed him, a kiss that reached down deep inside him. Heat flared across his skin. Her perfume, so light and tempting, like dew and roses, was all around him. He gathered her closer, slanted his mouth the other way. But then she pushed lightly against his chest. He lifted his head, demanded, "What?" in a voice very close to a growl. "Good night, Jack." And she turned, slipped her key in the slot and went into her room without him. He tried not to be too disappointed. Tomorrow night would be different. He could wait until then. *** But the next night was the same. A kiss at her door and a soft good-night. Likewise for Thursday and Friday, too. She was driving him crazy. But in a good way. They spent each day together, talking. Laughing. She spoke of her childhood, how she wished she'd had brothers and sisters. He said he understood. And he did. They were both "only" children, though she was born the golden princess of the Kilkalen empire. And he was born with nothing, a kid without a mom or dad, a kid nobody wanted.

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He ached to beg her to come home with him, to be his wife. Something kept him from that, though. Maybe it was the strange feeling he had that she was holding something back. Or maybe it was the agreement they'd made: a week together, to see how it went. Or maybe it was his own realization that he ought to be offering her the one thing that would really matter. He should give up the merger. He knew that if he did that, all her doubts about him would be silenced. She would come to him willingly. They could go home. But he wasn't ready to do that. Why should he? The merger was for both of them. They both stood to gain by it, and her mother and father, too—not to mention every single employee of both the giant retail chains. She ought to see that, accept that. The merger was good for everyone. Yeah, he should have told her what he was up to as soon as he realized he wanted a lifetime with her. He was wrong to have kept the truth from her. But by now it should be clear that he regretted his dishonesty. He couldn't see how, after all they'd shared in the past few days, she could doubt that she mattered to him. She mattered most of all. They went into Old Town again. They took in a movie at the theater in New Town. The resort had a large stable. They rented horses and explored Thunder Mountain's scenic trails, sharing a picnic high up, near the snow line, where the wind had a bite to it. Sometimes he would catch her looking at him and he'd have that feeling he so often had now, that there was something she wanted to tell him. He knew what it was—or at least, he hoped that he did. He hoped she was trying to figure out a way to admit that she believed in him again, that she no longer doubted that he loved her. To say that she was ready to go home with him, to marry him, to become his wife, as she should have done almost two weeks ago now. He was waiting for her to take his hand at her door each evening—and pull him inside. But it didn't happen. They met some people from Midland who were there for a wedding. Rose Traub was in her late twenties, possibly thirty. Her twin brothers Jackson and Jason were a few years older. Another brother, Corey, was the groom. The Traubs were heirs to Traub Oil Industries. Corey and his bride, Erin, lived in Thunder Canyon. Rose invited them to the wedding reception in the resort ballroom on Saturday evening. They dropped in after dinner, after the cake had been cut, when the band was playing and everyone was dancing. Jack took Melody in his arms and they swayed to the music. He tried not to be jealous of the bride and groom, who had married in a local church several hours earlier. He tried not to think about how, right now, he and Melody should have been married. Right now, she should have been his wife. She lifted her head from his shoulder and gazed up at him. Her eyes were shining. And he knew then. It had happened at last. During the past golden days together, she had learned to trust him again. "Jack," she whispered. And then the words that mattered most of all. "I love you, Jack."

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His heart lifted and he kissed her, right there on the ballroom floor, with a hundred other couples swaying around them. And later, when they stood at the door to her suite, she took his hand. She looked up at him, her tender heart shining in her eyes. And then she led him inside.

Chapter Seven Melody planned to tell him about the baby right then, that night, as soon as they entered her suite, before they made love for the first time in weeks. But as soon as the door to her room closed, he took her in his big arms and kissed her. And by then, all that mattered was the heat of him surrounding her, the feel of his body pressed to hers, the scent of that clean-smelling aftershave he wore. There was only the way his lips urged her to open for him…. She did open. His tongue swept in, claiming every secret space. His arms tightened around her and she was lost in the wonder of what they had together. In the pure, sensual splendor. He unzipped her silk dress and peeled it away from her. It fell around her feet and she shivered a little. He trailed kisses down her body as he took all her clothes away, every last stitch that covered her and hid her from his sight. Finally, she had only her high-heeled shoes and her little black panties. He knelt before her. And he wrapped his big hand around her ankle as he gazed up at her through eyes that burned her, eyes that seared her to her soul. He lifted her foot. She wobbled a little, laughed a breathless little laugh as she braced herself on his rockhard shoulder. He took off her shoe. And then he took off the other one. And then, still holding her eyes, he slid those big hands of his upward, skimming the vulnerable flesh of her bare legs. She trembled as he hooked his fingers under the elastic at her hips—and pulled her panties down. Melody sighed. He swayed toward her, pressed a kiss at her navel. She gathered him to her, weaving her fingers in his hair. He didn't stop there. He went on kissing her, touching her. She let her head fall back and she lifted her hips to him as he found the womanly heart of her and played it like a song. Until there was only his kiss and his skilled, knowing touch. Until she shuddered and cried out his name. Then, rising, he scooped her high against his chest and he carried her into the shadowed bedroom of the suite. He laid her down on the bed and stood above her, his eyes green fire, as he quickly, ruthlessly, stripped off his clothes. She reached for him as he came down to her. She enfolded him in her arms and he came into her, fully. Deeply. Completely. He groaned her name against her throat. She gave his name back to him.

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They rose to the crest and went over as one. Later, she held him in her arms as he slept. She stroked his thick, short brown hair with gentle fingers. Tomorrow, she thought. I'll tell him tomorrow… *** In the morning, Melody woke to the sight of him, glorious and naked, lying next to her. Snuggling close, she pressed her lips to the hard bulge of his shoulder. She'd tell him about the baby as soon as he opened his eyes. He opened one eye. "Melody…" And then he pulled her close. She wrapped her arms around him. And then her legs. She sighed in pleasure. There would be time to talk about the baby later…. After an hour or so, they got up and showered together. That led to more kisses. And kisses led to…other things. Finally, around eleven, they debated whether to order room service or go downstairs and have breakfast at the Grubstake. She teased him, "If we don't get dressed and get out of this room, we might never leave it." "Sounds like a great plan to me." She laughed. "Come on. Get dressed. Let's go downstairs." His dress shirt from the night before was a hopeless tangle of wrinkles. They stopped in at his suite so he could change into clean clothes. He kissed her as they were heading toward the door. And it was touch and go for a moment whether they would ever leave his room. But eventually, they pulled apart. "The Grubstake," she said, panting a little. "The Grubstake," he repeated, as breathless as she was. They got out of there and headed for the elevator—which had a big Temporarily Out of Order sign taped to the doors and a little note about how management was sorry for the inconvenience. Jack said hopefully, "Room service?" She shook her head. "Come on. It's only five flights and we'll be going down. Piece of cake." She turned and made for the red exit sign at the end of the hall and the steel door that led to the stairs. "Hey! Wait up." He started after her.

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"Get a move on," she called over her shoulder as she reached the stairwell door and pulled it wide. She should have been looking down, watching where she was going. But it never occurred to her that there could be a problem. Her foot landed on something hard and round—and went shooting out from under her. A shocked cry escaped her. And then she was tumbling, falling, rolling, bouncing like the golf ball she'd tripped on, down the stairs. She landed in a heap on the cold concrete slab of the next landing down. She heard Jack call her name. "Melody! My God…" The baby. She tried to put her hand over her stomach—and cried out as a pain sharp as knives speared through her shoulder. "Melody!" Jack raced down to her, his face white as a bleached sheet. But she was so afraid that it was already too late.

Chapter Eight She looked like a rag doll, broken on the stairs. Jack could hear the damn golf ball that Roger's kid must have left at the top of the stairwell as it bounced its way down the next flight of stairs and the next after that. Jack was already moving. In seconds, he was kneeling at her side. "Melody…oh, sweetheart…" She was still conscious. Was that a good sign? She reached out a hand—her left one. The right one hung at an odd angle. "Jack. So sorry, Jack…" Her soft fingers grazed his cheek. And then her arm dropped away. He probably shouldn't move her. But he couldn't just leave her there while he went for help. And if he stayed and tried to call, how long would he have to wait there beside her, helpless, until somebody came? He got out his BlackBerry. No bars. The stairwell must be blocking the signal. He would have to run back up to their floor to get reception. She whispered, "Don't leave me, Jack…" "Never." She reached for him again. "Jack…" He made up his mind. He put a hand under her neck and one under her knees and he gathered her into him. She didn't cry out. But a soft moan of agony escaped her. She wrapped her good arm around his neck and held on as he rose—that was a positive sign, wasn't it? She was not only conscious, but able to hold on… "Need to tell you…" She moaned the words through clenched teeth. 151

"Shh. It's okay. Tell me later. Not now." "No." Her voice was stronger. "Listen. Hear me." He started down. She said the impossible words as he reached the third-floor landing. "I'm having a baby. Our baby, Jack…" He didn't say anything. What could he say right then? Her words seemed to bounce around inside his head. A baby. My God, Melody. Pregnant. I'm such a damn idiot. I should have known.… There had been plenty of clues, he realized now. The food poisoning incident that was over by dinnertime. The way she sometimes looked at him, with secrets in her eyes. And how many times had he been sure she was about to tell him something important? Ten? Twenty? More? I should have known, should have kept after her to say what was on her mind. Pregnant with his baby. And not sure how to share it with him. And then overhearing him and her father, learning the truth he should have explained to her long before. He saw it all in a whole new light now. And what he saw did not make him proud of himself. No wonder she had run from him. He didn't deserve her. He'd never deserved her. He wanted to tell her…how sorry he was. How wrong he had been. But now was not the time to make amends. He had to get help for her first. So he kept moving. He didn't break stride. He put one foot in front of the other and he held her as gently as he could, tried to keep from jostling her, as he carried her down. At the lobby level, he managed to get the heavy door open and get them through. And then he was calling for the front desk staff, shouting, "Get the resort doctor. And call an ambulance, someone! Call an ambulance, now!" *** "A sprained ankle and an anterior dislocation of the right shoulder, which I've relocated manually with excellent results. Also, several bad bruises," said the doctor. It was past one in the afternoon by then. The doctor and Jack stood outside the private room they'd given Melody after her injuries had been treated. "No broken bones," the doctor added. "And somehow, she managed not to hit her head on the way down that flight of stairs." Jack could almost breathe for the first time since he'd watched her trip on that golf ball. "So you're saying she's okay. She's going to be okay…."

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The doctor nodded. "Yes. She's a very lucky woman." "And…the baby?" Jack swallowed convulsively as his pulse lurched into racing mode all over again. "The baby's fine," said the doctor. "Your fiancée is only in her first trimester; the fetus is very small and well protected within the womb. But we'll keep her here overnight for observation. Just to be on the safe side." "Good. Right. That's wise—can I see her?" "Go on in. She's resting." "I won't disturb her." The doctor pretended to look stern. "Make sure that you don't." Jack slipped into the room and went to the side of the bed. She was so small and still beneath the white sheet. But then she turned her head and tried to smile. "Oh, Jack…" He took her hand, smoothed the silky hair away from her forehead. "You're going to be all right." She caught her lower lip between her even white teeth. "We need to talk." "Later. Tomorrow. After they give you a clean bill of health. Rest now." Her eyes darkened, the gold fading so they turned deepest brown. "Are you leaving?" "No way. They would have to drag me out of here." *** Somehow, that scary day passed. Jack kept his word. He did not leave her room. The nurses put up with him, bringing him a tray, too, when they served her an early dinner. Around five, the Pemley family appeared—Roger, his wife, Midge, and Roger Jr. Roger wanted to apologize for the golf ball that had caused Melody's fall. Junior apologized, too. "I am tho thorry that you fell, Mith Kilkalen," he lisped through the space between his teeth. "I will never play with my golf ballth in the hallway again. Promith." Melody gave him her brightest, kindest smile and told him that he was forgiven. *** That evening, when the lights were out and Jack was just drifting off to sleep in the chair, she whispered his name. "Jack?" 153

"Hmm?" "I never threw my ring away," she said. "I couldn't. It's in the safe in my room at the resort." He had the strangest feeling then. A tightness in his chest, an emotion of equal parts pain and happiness. "You're serious? You didn't?" "I thought about it. But I couldn't." "I'm happy you didn't. But Mel, I…I could understand now, if you had." "Oh, Jack…" "Shh," he told her softly. "We'll talk tomorrow. Now, you need your rest." He heard her sigh. And then nothing more after that, except the soft, even sound of her breathing. *** The doctor examined her at ten the next morning. Afterward, when Jack reentered the room, she looked at him in wonder. "He says I'm okay. Can you believe it, Jack? I'm going to be fine. And the baby is, too." He went to her, bent close, pressed a kiss at her temple. "I'm so glad," he whispered prayerfully. "I can't tell you how glad." Her big eyes had tears in them. "I know I should have said something to you about the baby. I kept meaning to. I just…somehow, the words wouldn't come." "It's okay. I understand. I do, Mel. More than you know. You weren't sure, after the way I lied to you, after how I misled you, that you could really trust me. And I…" He took her hand, brushed his lips across her knuckles. "I've made a decision." She must have seen something in his face, something that scared her. She gasped. "Oh, no. What?" He squeezed her hand. "Relax. It's nothing that terrible. It's good, really, the best thing." "But what?" "It's the merger. It's…not right. I pulled strings to meet you and get close to you with the merger in mind. And even when I realized I wanted a lot more than a business deal from you, I kept that central lie in place. I never told you how wrong I was, never apologized for going after you for all the wrong reasons." "Oh, Jack…" "I'm apologizing now, Melody. Really apologizing. In the only true way I know how. I'm going to give the merger up completely. Even if your dad is still ready to carry on with it, I'll explain to him that it's not going to work. Whatever happens, even if you never feel you can go home with me and be my wife, the merger is off." 154

"Oh, Jack…" The gold lights were back in her eyes again. "Jack, I love you." He gave her a rueful smile. "And I just lied some more. I'm giving up the merger, but I can't give you up. Not you, and not our baby. I love you. I want to be a father to our child. I want that more than words can say. I want the family I've never had and I want it with you. No matter how long it takes for you to trust me again, I'm sticking around, Melody. I'm not giving up." She smiled at him then, a smile that was like the sun coming out after a long, stormy night. "Good. Because I'm ready to go back to Texas, Jack. I'm ready to go back with you, to stand up beside you, to be your wife." His heart stuttered in his chest. "Don't say it if you're not sure." Her bright smile didn't waver. "Oh, I'm sure. I am absolutely positive. I love you, Jack McKay. You're the only man for me—and I trust you. I truly do. Enough that I don't need you to give up the merger. It will be good for all of us." Right then, he didn't care in the least about the damn merger. "Say that again. How I'm the only man for you." And she did. "You're the only man for me, Jack." And then she whispered, "Kiss me…." "I love you, Melody. You are my heart. My soul. The one I've been looking for all of my lonely life." "Kiss me. Please." And he did. He kissed her slowly and tenderly. And she lifted her arms and wrapped them around him, wincing a little at the pain in her still-tender right shoulder. He chided, "Melody, your arm…" "Shh. It's fine. I'm fine. I love you." She held on tight. And, cradled close in her tender embrace, Jack McKay knew at last what it meant to come home.

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Desert Prince, Bartered Bride By Marguerite Kaye Kingdom of Djaradh, Arabia, 1819 As a diplomat's daughter, Silvia Bruntsfield has navigated many sticky situations with her sharp mind and practical nature. Now, a grave misstep by her father could cost him his career and the very tenuous alliance between Britain and the desert kingdom of Djaradh. So Silvia disguises herself as a man to plead her father's case with Prince Munir al-Khashqar, ruler of Djaradh. But nothing prepares her for what happens when the sheikh sees through her ruse and unveils her as an imposter…. Munir is intrigued by the plucky English girl. And he decides to make her a proposition: save her father and the alliance…by becoming his bride.

Chapter One Kingdom of Djaradh, Arabia, 1819 Her heart was racing. Little wonder, with so much at stake. What if her plan backfired? No, don't even think about that! Even this early the heat was searing, but the all-enveloping cloak and headdress she wore to disguise her identity was also welcome protection from the fierce sun. Around her, the city's souks were open for business, the air redolent with the scent of fragrant spices, heady perfumes and roasting meat. Welltravelled as she was as a career diplomat's daughter, she had never seen anything quite so colourful, nor so very exotic. But now was not the time for sightseeing. Her father's entire career was at stake. Silvia tightened her hold on the tasselled reins of her camel, resisting the urge to clutch at the sides of the high box saddle which swayed most unnervingly. Finally, she reached the massive portal to the royal palace. The letter, written in an elegant hand and stamped with the prominent royal seal, got her safely past the ornate iron gates and the impassive guards with their wicked scimitars. A tall bearded man in his fifties greeted her, his expression set in stern disapproval. "I am Bakri, his highness's Chief of Council. He is expecting you, Sir Francis," he said, as he waited impatiently for Silvia to dismount. Head lowered, she followed him along a labyrinth of cool marble corridors and through a pair of heavy double doors, where he bowed curtly and departed. Her heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely breathe. Her mouth was dry. Silvia blinked in the multihued light that streamed down into the long room through a stained glass window. A tall figure, dressed in a royal blue tunic trimmed with gold, was standing on the dais at the end of the room. Prince Munir al-Khashqar, ruler of the kingdom of Djaradh. Silvia's first impression of the man who held her father's fate in his hands was one of almost palpable power. Here was a man accustomed to rule, a man accustomed to unquestioning obedience. Sinking into a low bow, she stole a closer look at him. Younger than she had expected—in his midthirties, she estimated—with no trace of over-indulgence in that hard, muscled physique. A little frisson of awareness rippled through her. Prince Munir was as fiercely attractive as the desert kingdom over which he ruled. "Sir Francis, I bid you welcome," he said.

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"As-salamu alaykum, your highness. It is an honour," Silvia said gruffly, masking her voice. He came toward her suddenly, and, before she could snatch her hand away, knowing it would betray her, he engulfed it in an unexpected handshake. The dark tan of the sheikh's skin made her own seem milky white—and unmistakably feminine. A tingle shot up her arm at the contact. Her startled gaze met his. Dark brown eyes flecked with gold narrowed suspiciously at her. "Your Highness," she began, "I can—" But it was too late. The prince grabbed the igal which held her headdress in place and yanked it free, causing her hair—a heavy fall of burnished gold—to tumble down her shoulders. "Explain this treachery!"

Chapter Two Munir gazed in utter astonishment at the attractive woman dressed incongruously in male clothes, a female who was quite clearly not the British diplomat Sir Francis Bruntsfield. Tall, slim and creamyskinned, there could be no greater contrast between this woman and the sultry beauties who occasionally occupied his harem…yet there was something strikingly attractive about her nonetheless. Perhaps it was those wide-spaced hazel eyes staring at him defiantly, or the determined tilt to her mouth? Regardless, her behaviour was outrageous! "Who are you? Where is Sir Francis?" Silvia had visited any number of royal courts, met countless members of the aristocracy, but none had had the effect on her of this man. There was an edge to him that both attracted and frightened her at the same time. Like the wicked blade of his scimitar, glinting and deadly. Prince Munir could be ruthless when necessary, she knew—the brigands who had embroiled her father in their crime had been summarily executed. He glowered at her, his sensual mouth at odds with his forbidding frown. She took a deep breath. Years of playing the diplomatic hostess came to her aid. "Your highness, there is a perfectly rational explanation. I am Silvia Bruntsfield, Sir Francis's daughter. Unfortunately, my father was taken ill today. Knowing how very gracious it was of you to agree to the meeting, he sent me in his stead." "It is discourteous to send a mere woman on such an important mission!" He spoke the English words softly, his accent smooth as silk, though there could be no mistaking the menace in his tone. But it was his words that made Silvia bristle. "I have no doubt that my father would believe it more discourteous still to have failed to keep this appointment." "He does not know you are here?" She met the prince's gaze defiantly. "He was too ill to be consulted, but he would expect it of me. I am no mere woman. I have acted as his emissary on numerous occasions. I came to plead his cause, since he cannot do so himself. And to return this." Pushing back her cloak, Silvia unclasped the little leather pouch fastened to the belt of her tunic and handed it to the prince. "I swear he did not know its significance. In all the years he has served his country, Papa has never taken plunder, and certainly nothing so valuable. He thought it was a trinket." Munir opened the pouch and extracted the idol. Looking at the huge yellow stone set into its middle, he had to acknowledge that an untrained eye could easily mistake the diamond for glass. "The fact remains 157

that your father effectively stole a priceless artefact. The men who sold it to him in the ruined city of Djaradh-Laskit were brigands, thieves. Your father should have known better than to take any artefact from such a sacred place. There are still many people here in my kingdom who believe in the old ways, that the city is the home of the ancient gods. Were his actions made public, I could not guarantee his safety." "It was wrong of him, and foolish, but…" "Extremely foolish! As a consequence of his actions, I intend to cancel the treaty that would have granted your English government exclusive rights to use our port. I cannot be seen to do business with foreigners who violate our traditions." "I know," Silvia said quietly. "That is why I am here. I intend to make you change your mind."

Chapter Three Munir arched his brow inquisitively. "Change my mind? How, pray, do you intend to make me do that?" "I hadn't quite worked that part out," Sylvia confessed. "Throw myself on your mercy, most likely." The prince laughed. It was an attractive laugh, deep and sonorous with just a hint of devilment. "That assumes I am merciful. You do realize that you have risked death by coming here?" "If I had not come, if I cannot change your mind, my father's life will not be worth living. He will be ruined, the earldom he has been promised for thirty years of dedicated service to his country withdrawn. After so long abroad, he has been looking forward to returning to England, taking up his seat in Parliament and spending time with my sister and her family. My father is an honourable man, Highness. His unwitting crime weighs heavily upon him. I beg of you, do not punish him or his country, nor deprive your own kingdom of what will be a most profitable partnership." Munir could not help being impressed by her daring. She did not drop to her knees. She did not even lower her eyes. Did she know she was being disrespectful? He should call the guards and have her thrown out. If he had listened to Bakri, his Chief of Council, he would not even have granted Sir Francis an audience. But the deal with the English was too lucrative to walk away from without a second thought. His neighbour, Prince Ramiz of A'Qadiz, had made just such an alliance, and his kingdom was already seeing enormous benefits from the increased trade. "You have risked a great deal," Munir said carefully. "Tell me, Miss Bruntsfield, what is in it for you?" Silvia stiffened. "I'm here only for my father's sake. And for my sister, who would be tainted by association," she added, because despite everything, she had never wished Louise ill. Nor Matthew. Despite having just cause. An idea, an outrageous idea, was beginning to form in Munir's mind as he eyed Sir Francis's courageous daughter. She was slim, but the man's tunic she wore could not conceal the curve of her breasts, the length of her legs, the indent of her waist. Desire shivered through him. Her father would be in Munir's debt and could prove a worthy and lucrative ally—particularly if the debt were cemented with an even stronger alliance.

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And yet Munir's idea would undoubtedly enrage the Council. Was it madness to risk estranging them after he had worked so hard to repair the damage his father had done? Or more accurately, Halimah had done? No. The Council would bluster as usual when presented with an idea that was not theirs, but once they understood the manifest advantages, he had no doubt he could win them over. The plan was appealing to him more and more. Munir ran his finger down the curve of the Englishwoman's cheek. "Are you a virgin?" She jerked away. "That is none of your business!" He smiled at the blush that stained her throat. Her reaction told him all he needed to know about her experience—or rather lack of it. She smelled of flowers. A delicate English rose transplanted to the sultry desert heat. The combination could be intoxicating. It was most certainly arousing. "It would be very much my business," he said, "if you were to become my wife." Exhilarated by the quite unaccustomed recklessness of his offer, he pulled her into his arms.

Chapter Four Being enfolded in the sheikh's arms was, if anything, even more unexpected and shocking than his outrageous proposal of marriage. Silvia was so startled that by the time she thought to protest it was already too late. His kiss was like the desert—hot and exotic, excitement spiced with danger. By comparison, Matthew's kisses seemed tame. As Munir's tongue stroked along the soft skin inside her lower lip, a jolt of pure pleasure shot through her, and she opened her mouth to him. His hands were warm on her back, her waist. She felt tense and limp at the same time. His body was hard against her yielding flesh. Solid. She had never been this close to a man. Not even Matthew. Much too late, Silvia struggled to free herself. "How dare you!" Munir released her reluctantly. This haughty Englishwoman had a slumbering passion just waiting to be ignited. In fact, what he wanted to do was to take her on the dais and pleasure her, right here in the throne room. It was an established fact that no one woman could satisfy a man, but he suspected he would not tire easily of this one. It was a wholly unexpected and extremely distracting bonus. With difficulty, he forced himself to turn his mind to business. "You are quite right. There are other, more important matters to be settled first." "You weren't serious about marriage!" Silvia exclaimed, desperately trying to assemble her thoughts into something vaguely coherent. "I never say what I do not mean," Munir replied crisply. He rarely spoke so impetuously, either, but there was no need to admit that. "Tell me, why are you not already married?" "I have no desire to be married," Silvia replied, folding her arms across her chest. Her nipples were hard against the boning of her corset. She felt…she could not articulate what she felt. "Why not?" Munir persisted. "I cannot believe there has been any shortage of willing suitors."

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A veritable procession, many actively encouraged by my father in his obsessive desire to find his daughters an advantageous match, Sylvia thought bitterly. Realizing that she would get nowhere with Munir by prevaricating, she opted for the truth. "I never married because the one man I did love—who said he loved me—married my elder sister instead," she said baldly. "Louise inherited our mother's fortune, and was better connected through her godfather. My father arranged the match with Matthew— the earl of Inverkip, that is." "And as a result, you have rejected any attempts since by your father to find you a suitable husband?" Silvia's smile was twisted. "You make me sound petty. The real reason is that I have no intention of embarrassing myself by falling in love again. I have no wish to subject myself to the pain of that experience more than once. So you can see that your preposterous notion that I might be your wife is doomed to failure." Munir smiled. "In my kingdom, what I want, I have."

Chapter Five "In my kingdom, what I want, I have." Silvia folded her arms across her chest even more firmly as the intimidating desert sheikh held her gaze. "Somehow, I do not doubt that, Prince Munir. So it is well for me that my visit to your kingdom will be a brief one. I will be returning to England with my father as soon as my business here is settled." "You are looking forward to going home?" "Having spent most of my life travelling with my father to his various postings, I don't really think of England as home." "Where will you live?" "With my sister and her family. She has four children. I will no doubt be expected to play the good aunt." Silvia could not keep the bitterness from her voice. "By heaven, you cannot wish to reside in the same house as the man who rejected you for your sister!" "I don't have much choice." "But your concerns are not confined to your domestic arrangements, I think?" His perception surprised Silvia into admitting to her innermost fears. "Moving in the diplomatic circles my father occupies, I've become accustomed to a great deal of independence and to making a contribution. In England it will be…different," she said. "I confess I am afraid that I will find myself somewhat redundant." "If you became my wife, your contribution would be great indeed. You would be facilitating the forging of a bond between our two countries," Munir pointed out. "You would be the first, and therefore the most important, of my wives. The harem would be yours to rule." "The first!" Silvia could not keep the horror from her voice.

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"It is a fact that no one woman can satisfy a man. In England, men have one wife and many mistresses, and it seems to me that in that circumstance all women are treated disrespectfully. Here in Djaradh we respect and honour each of our wives." Silvia bit her lip. She could not argue with the truth of what he said. Not when everything she had seen in her travels—to say naught of her own experience—proved him right. But there remained, buried deep inside her, the illogical, romantic notion that true love could make one woman more than enough for one man. Yet she would never be that woman. And Prince Munir, by his own assertions, would most certainly never be that man. She swallowed hard. Whether she was his first wife or twentieth was of no consequence, what mattered right now was saving her father. "If I did agree to this fantastical notion of yours, my influence would be confined to the harem?" she asked carefully. "You would not consider a more public role for me as consort?" "As prince, I must be seen to rule alone. A prince must be invulnerable, infallible, superior to all men." "And women, apparently," Silvia said dryly. Munir thought of his aunt, Halimah, who in her ruthlessly manipulative ways had played his father like a puppet. He thought of the destruction her ambition had caused. The bloodshed. "And women," he said, more harshly than he'd intended. The Englishwoman's eyes widened at the bitterness of his remark. He took a calming breath and moderated his tone. "Consider the benefits. As my wife, you will have your own palace here. You will not have to return to the man who scorned you, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have saved your father's career and will be able to assist promoting your country's long-term relationship with mine. You will also have the honour of being the mother of my sons," he said softly, tilting her chin so that she had to meet his gaze. "And daughters." Munir laughed, as roused by her refusal to be embarrassed as he was by the challenge in her eyes. Marriage to this woman held a most definite appeal. "Sons and daughters. It will be a pleasure." Silvia flushed deeply. Desire hung in the air between them, heady as a perfume. Munir's fingers stroked down the long column of her neck, raising goose bumps, lighting sparks. His eyes darkened. She saw the sharp intake of his breath beneath the silk of his tunic. His blatant arousal was provoking. "What is your answer, Miss Bruntsfield?" he whispered seductively. "Will you be my bride?"

Chapter Six "Your bride!" Silvia pushed Munir away. "You cannot expect me to give an instant answer to such a question, asked by a man I have never met before." "Oh, but I do. Is it really so different from the marital matches your father has tried to foist on you?" Having set upon this reckless course, Munir wanted the deal concluded before her father or his Council had time to interfere. Djaradh deserved prosperity. The kingdom needed an heir. That he personally craved this woman was serendipitous. "The terms are simple. If you accept my proposal I will sign the treaty and smooth over your father's indiscretion. We will be married before he departs for England and a hero's welcome. If you do not, you, your father and your country must endure the consequences." Munir 161

stifled the tiny stab of guilt his ultimatum provoked. He was ruthlessly exploiting the situation, of that there was no doubt. "That's blackmail," Silvia said bitterly, seeming to read his thoughts. Munir's expression hardened. "A barter. May I remind you that you came here, unbidden, with the express purpose of making me change my mind. You implied you would do anything to save your father's reputation. I am offering you the opportunity to do just that." Silvia flinched. The stark choice she faced was of her own making. Her mind raced. To marry a virtual stranger, to commit herself to living in a country where she might be even more suffocated and constrained than she would be in England—it was madness. But to be forced to live in the same house as her erstwhile lover, to see him every day acting the husband to her sister, and to have nothing more to expend her energy on than playing aunt to their growing brood of children. No! That didn't bear thinking about. It may well be a choice between two evils, but Prince Munir's proposal most certainly seemed the lesser of the two. "But I know nothing about Djaradh and its people," she said distractedly. "I know nothing about you." "Djaradh has a history more ancient than any sovereign state in Europe, and our traditions and culture are richer by far than most Western civilizations. All of which you will learn in time. As my wife, you will want for nothing. And as to your knowing little about me…I am a prince and an honourable man. I do not offer love—we are both too wise to place any value on such empty protestations—but I will always treat you with respect. How many English wives can rely on that?" He did not love her. Of course he did not, and nor would he. Besides, she'd told him herself that she had abandoned any thoughts of love, which she had. His offer was tempting…. After all, would sharing a harem with his other wives and their children really be so different from life in England with Louise? Still, Silvia hesitated. Even though she did not love Munir, she didn't think she could live like that. She had no wish to share her husband or her household, and what's more, she wanted her husband to value her for more than her ability to bear him children. But there was a chance that she could prove herself to him, and by doing so, forge a future for herself in this alien country. Maybe, if she had a year… The idea appealed immensely. Silvia relished a challenge almost above all else. Her stomach lurched at the thought of what would happen if she failed, but she had already decided. She smiled, not her usual, quizzical smile, but a real one that lit up her eyes. "Very well. I have an answer for you."

Chapter Seven Silvia examined herself in the long mirrored tiles that formed the wall of the harem's bathing chamber. After the excited chatter and giggling of the army of maidservants it had taken to dress her in her wedding finery, the silence was a welcome relief. In the past week she felt as if she had been in a play acted out at top speed in her head. Her father's initial anger at the news that she was to marry Munir quickly shifted to relief and then astonishment at his good fortune. His talk was all of settlements and spheres of influence. He was so carried away with the consequences of his daughter's astounding betrothal that it didn't occur to him to question her actions. He'd said his goodbyes this morning after the formal signing of the contracts. "I'm damned proud of you. England will be proud of you," he'd said gruffly. After the ceremony, he would leave

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for England, and her last tie with her old world would be severed. Today, she would enter another world entirely. The figure gazing back at Silvia from the mirrored tiles was an alluring creature. Her skin was soft with scented oils, and her hair gleamed like burnished gold against the burnt-orange silk of her kaftan, which was weighted with semiprecious jewels woven into the gold-threaded passementerie. The pantaloons beneath were crimson organdie, full and pleated into her waist, yet almost transparent. Gold bells tinkled on her wrists, ankles and on the headband that held the gossamer-fine veil in place. Her hands and feet were painted with henna. Her kid slippers were embroidered with pearls. Around her neck was an intricately designed gold necklace with a shower of pink and yellow diamonds that Munir had given her. Munir… Custom forbade contact between them in the whirl of preparations before the wedding, and so she had spoken to him just three times since he had very reluctantly agreed to her terms. Tonight he would be her husband. And for the next year, she had made him promise she would be his only wife. "A year to prove that you can be all the woman I will ever need? I look forward to it," he had said with a wicked smile. As she followed her coterie of female attendants from the harem to the main body of the palace, an unsettling thought reverberated in Silvia's head. Before she could begin to erode the barriers that confined her to the harem, she must first prove herself within it. Before she could be useful, she must be desirable. And she had absolutely no idea of how to go about such a thing. With her nerves jangling, she could eat nothing of the feast laid out before her on gold plates. Through the grille that separated the men from the woman in this strange ceremony, she could hear the low rumble of masculine laughter. When they finally led her to the dais where Munir stood, magnificent in gold and blue and even more fiercely attractive than she remembered, her heart lurched. Her moods swung like a pendulum, from exhilaration to agitation, from anticipation to dread. And when Munir finally slipped the ring onto her finger, panic flared. What was she doing! Her eyes flew to his above her veil, sending a frantic message. Stop! Stop! Munir took her hand. He smiled at her reassuringly, anchored her firmly to his side. "Are we married?" Silvia asked tentatively. "Is it over?" He pulled her to him. "It has barely started," he whispered huskily, "for now the honeymoon begins."

Chapter Eight Stars glittered overhead, a thick carpet woven through the inky-black midnight sky. Silvia reined in her camel alongside Munir's. Before she could dismount, his hands were around her waist and he effortlessly lifted her clear of the seat. "What do you think?" he asked. Silvia gazed around her at the inviting cool of the deep, crescent-shaped oasis. A huge tent lit with braziers stood under the shade of the palms that fringed the water. "It's beautiful. Breathtaking." Silence lay heavy as a blanket. "Where is everyone?" Munir smiled. "This is our wedding night. We are quite alone."

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"Oh." Nerves clutched at Silvia like tiny tugging fingers. "Prince Munir, I…" "Just Munir. I am your husband now, Silvia." "Oh." It was the first time he had spoken her name. No one had ever made it sound like that before. So much depended on her doing this right. But suddenly, fiercely, she wanted it also to be special. "Munir, I—I don't know— Will you tell me…what I should do? I want this to— I don't want to disappoint you." She was blushing, but still she held his gaze. He could not but admire her courage and her honesty. Munir raised her hand to his lips. "You won't disappoint me, Silvia. I promise. Trust me." He kissed her palm, licking into the soft skin between each finger. His lips lingered on the wildly beating pulse at her wrist. She tasted delicious. "Trust yourself," he said huskily. "Do as your instincts tell you." All her life, Silvia's instinct had been to use caution. To wait. Think. Evaluate. But this could not be what he meant. She looked up at Munir. His eyes glittered, dark with something that she hoped was desire. What she wanted was for him to kiss her. What she wanted was to see her husband naked. What she wanted… She stepped closer, inhaled his scent. Desert heat. Something very male that made her feel absurdly powerless. In thrall. "Munir," she said in a voice she didn't recognize. She reached up to push back her veil, then she tugged his headdress off. His hair was jet-black and close-cropped, emphasizing the sharp planes of his face. She curled her fingers into his neck, pulling him toward her. Desire flared in his eyes. She heard the intake of his breath. Then she touched her lips to his. Not like before, his kiss. Deep, passionate, dark and hot, it set her instantly aflame. She twined her arms around his neck and he pulled her closer, moulding her against the solid muscle of his body, stroking her back, the curve of her bottom, all the while urgently laying claim to her mouth. Heat surged through her, pulsing out from where he touched, pooling in her belly. He picked her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing and carried her to the tent. She had a brief impression of sumptuous hangings when he set her down, then she forgot all about her surroundings as Munir—her husband, Munir—became the focus of her world as he set about inhabiting every fibre of her being.

Chapter Nine He undressed her slowly, as if he was unwrapping a precious gift. Kissing, stroking, caressing every part of her as it was revealed—her neck, her arms, her breasts. Especially her breasts. His hands moulded them, his mouth licking, sucking, making her moan, a strange sound that aroused her further. He discarded his own clothing at the same time, taking her hands, showing her how to touch him, to learn the map of his body, the contours of his shoulders, his chest, the concave of his belly. Naked now, she resisted the urge to wrap her arms protectively around herself and saw that she had done the right thing in the way he looked at her, with a hint of admiration and a gratifying blaze of desire slashing crimson on his cheeks. His focus intensified. He, too, was naked. She slanted her gaze down to the proud, thick length of his arousal. She burned with wanting and wondered how he could possibly… How they could possibly… 164

"Touch me," Munir said, taking her hand and laying it on his shaft. Hard and silken, so very, very different from anything she had known. So very, very arousing. He laid her down on the low divan and gently parted her thighs, his fingers stroking into the hot wetness between them, making her moan again. "Munir, what should…" He kissed her. "Nothing," he commanded, "you should do nothing. I am your husband, Silvia. It is my pleasure to teach you pleasure." He kissed her again. Her mouth. Her throat. Her breasts. Her belly. Lower. His mouth was on the tender skin between her thighs, his fingers parted her and then his tongue licked in. There! She gasped. Shock. Then a bolt, a surge of heat, as he licked into her again, coaxing and circling, stroking and stoking up the spiralling, clenching, tightening heat until she gasped again and let go because she could not hang on any longer, though she wanted to. She was hurtled and spun into the air, high, higher still and higher, and she wanted only this. To fly effortlessly. Even as she soared, Munir was kissing her mouth again, his body covering hers. Tilting her toward him, he eased himself inside her, riding on the ebb and flow of her climax. Her maidenhood gone, he pushed deeper still, so that Silvia felt herself gathering anew, tightening anew. He paused, waiting. For what? She arched, dug her hands into his buttocks, saw from the tautness in his face that he liked it. She arched again. His hands on her hips, Munir pulled her even closer to him. His wife. His wife! His. So strange to feel so possessive. And for this to be so much more intense than he'd ever experienced, much more so than he had ever imagined. He thrust into her, his length enveloped in her slickness, his movements making her shiver and tighten around him. Harder, higher, deeper he thrust, feeling himself swelling inside her until she let go, and then he spilled himself with a harsh moan, kissing her, clutching at her, lost in the raging tempest of his climax as he had never been before.

Chapter Ten Save for the mysteriously invisible servants who delivered food regularly, Silvia and Munir were entirely alone at the oasis. Seven days passed of blissful, sybaritic pleasure. They bathed naked in the warm, balmy depths of the pool by the light of the full moon, and lay together in the shallows, the water lapping over their skin as they stroked and caressed each other to fulfilment. Silvia exalted in the sensual power she held over her new husband, growing bolder in her touch, in giving as well as taking; her own pleasure increased by the pleasure she saw etched in his face when she sheathed him inside her. "We must return to the palace in the morning," Munir said at the end of the week, as they lay entwined in the cool of the dusk. "I have already been away far longer than I intended." "Doesn't the Council have the authority to act in your absence?" "The authority, but not the will. A legacy from my father's rule."

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Silvia propped herself up on her elbow to study his expression. For the first time since their wedding, Munir had that distant, forbidding look on his face. A week ago, she would have hesitated to ask, but now her desire to know more about the man she was to spend her life with overrode her natural caution. She stroked his cheek. "How so?" Munir sat up, knocking her hand away. "Silvia, I am well aware that you hope to use this year to persuade me to give you a role outside the harem, but it cannot be. Perhaps I should have made it plainer before we married, but the truth is…" He broke off, rubbing his forehead. "It is a painful subject." It was his hesitancy that touched her. Though she knew what he was about to confide was going to be unpalatable, she was moved by his wish to do so. Silvia took his hand. "Tell me." Munir closed his eyes, frowning. Then he nodded several times, something she'd noticed he did when he'd made up his mind. "My father was a very weak man," he said. "His sister, Halimah, was his elder by five years. Halimah means gentle. Never was a woman more wrongly named. She was self-seeking, ambitious, a tyrant who believed her royal blood entitled her to everything she wanted, and she would stop at nothing to achieve it. My father was her puppet, and the Council learned the hard way not to interfere. But her policies devastated the country, and I have spent the entire period of my reign unravelling the conflicts that are Halimah's legacy. Even now, some of our Bedouin tribes live on the knife-edge of war. The least little thing can set them off. There was this one time…" It was as if a wall had been breached. All the painful memories, the vicious arguments that had arisen as he'd grown up and attempted to exert his own authority, the agonies of conscience he'd had as he was torn between loyalty to his kingdom and to his father, it all poured out. Munir talked as the sun rose higher in the sky and the tent grew hotter, and Silvia listened in growing horror and dreadful understanding. "So you realize now why you must confine yourself to the harem," he concluded. "Never again can a prince be seen to defer to a woman." Silvia bit her lip. "You do that when you disagree with me, do you know that?" Munir said. "Do I? I don't know what I think, save that…I thought you valued my opinions. These last few days…" "I do, you have the mind of a man when it comes to politics, but such discussions can only ever be between us." "I see." For the first time since their wedding day, Silvia felt the fluttering of doubt, like a small caged bird trying to set itself free. She wrapped her arms around her husband and burrowed her face into his chest. The rough hair on her cheek, the scent of him, the hard maleness of him beneath her started up the thrumming pulse of wanting. He had pulled back the princely cloak of infallibility and let her into his confidence. It was a step. A big step. It would be enough for now.

Chapter Eleven On the following day they returned to the city, and so, too, did Silvia's doubts as the reality of her situation confronted her. Munir led the way imperiously through the city to the gates of the royal palace. His subjects threw themselves to their knees as their prince passed, leaving Sylvia to bring up the rear, barely 166

acknowledged by the cheering throng. Halimah's legacy had not only been wholesale unrest, she had obviously engendered in Munir's people an innate distrust of royal princesses. Bakri awaited them at the palace. "We did not expect you to be gone from us for so long, Highness. There are many matters now requiring your attention." "Come, Bakri, I am just married. Surely even you would allow my wife to claim my undivided attention for such a short period," Munir replied. "The wife of a great prince must learn not to make demands," Bakri said, making no effort to disguise the enmity in his tone. "My intention is to be a support to my husband, not a hindrance," Silvia said hurriedly, meeting Bakri's hostile glance with a placatory smile. "The burdens of state can be heavy, and I hope…" She stopped, for Bakri was staring at her in horror, and then he spat at her feet. Looking to Munir, she saw his mouth was set in a firm line. "You will excuse me while I see my wife settled in the women's quarters. Then I will be free to conduct our business," he said to Bakri in clipped tones. "Munir! There is no need—" He ignored her protest, sweeping her along the cool corridors, ignoring the hurried salutes of the guards. The harem doors closed, leaving them alone in the square courtyard with its central fountain shaded by lemon trees. Munir released her so suddenly that Silvia stumbled. She could see his pulse beating furiously at the base of his throat. Recalling her very first impression of him, that he was not a man to be trifled with, Silvia felt a flutter of fear. But it was lost as her own temper woke slowly, like a creature that had been hibernating. "What on earth have I said to make you so angry?" "I told you how things were with Halimah. You should not have spoken to Bakri of business." "Business! All I said was—" "I know what you said." "You were the one who made light of it in the first place. If you had not joked that I demanded your undivided attention—" "I am aware of what was said!" Munir cursed under his breath, something he very rarely did. He should have known better than to joke with Bakri, but in this last week with Silvia he had forgotten all his own dire warnings. He was furious with Bakri for the insult to Silvia, furious with Silvia for compounding the mistake, but more furious with himself for having made it in the first place. Snatching off his headdress, he ran his fingers through his hair. "You saw how Bakri reacted. You see now how it will always be." "I see that you will not change it," Silvia replied tightly, too hurt by the unfairness of Munir's anger to guard her tongue.

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"Cannot change it," Munir snapped. "And now, as Bakri pointed out, I have business to attend to. I will come to you when I can." Before Silvia could protest further, the heavy doors of the harem shut behind him.

Chapter Twelve Munir had intended to wait before seeking Silvia out, thinking that by introducing a distance between them it would enforce her understanding of the situation. But after a busy day of official business with every one of his opinions deferred to, he missed the counterbalance of her sharp mind. And after a sleepless night on a divan, which seemed to have grown far too wide, he ached for her body. "I've made a decision," he announced the next morning as he strode into the harem, surprising her at her breakfast. "It will be good for my people to see us together. You were right," he continued in answer to her unasked question, "some things can change. I don't want you following in my wake like a servant as you did yesterday. I will have you treated with respect." "Thank you." The previous day had shown Silvia the extent of the battle ahead of her, and she'd spent the hours since fighting off the depression that had followed. She was delighted at his unexpected change of heart. She had missed her husband—not just his body, but the man himself. Perhaps too much. She would do well to have a care, for it would not do to fall in love with a man who loved only his kingdom. Though when he took her around it, she could easily see why he was so devoted to it. Djaradh, city and desert, captivated her, and her obvious rapture, the questions she plied Munir with, delighted her husband. The hours passed too quickly. Afterward, in the sultry, sensuous ambiance of the harem, their lovemaking took them both to new heights. He needed no encouragement to show her more of the sites the next day. And the next. Over the next few months, he forgot all about putting distance between them. "A new gold mine has been found in the east," Munir said as he sank down on the cushions beside Silvia. Dinner was spread out on the table before them. He had not eaten in his own quarters for some time. Spending every spare minute he had in the harem with Silvia had become a habit. "Unfortunately, it spans the border of some disputed territory. You remember the two Bedouin tribes I mentioned?" "The ones your aunt set against each other? A bidding war over a bride, I seem to remember." Silvia bit into a delicate parcel of pastry filled with spiced meat. "This is delicious." "You are delicious." Munir leaned over to kiss away a tiny fleck of pastry from her lips. "The bride was only part of it. The enmity between the tribes has deep roots. A dispute over ownership of this mine could easily cause war between them." "And you're worried that it wouldn't be confined to those two tribes?" Munir nodded. "Bakri advises us to wait and see." "When does Bakri ever advise anything else," Silvia said wryly. Munir smiled. "Yes, but in this case, he's probably right. There is no dispute yet. And I have more than enough—how do you say it—on my serving dish?" "Plate," Silvia said with a chuckle. She hesitated, but forged on. "You know, I could help you if—" 168

"Please don't. You do help." "But I could do more if you would let me, Munir." "You are my sanctuary. My confidante. And my lover. What more can you want?" Your love. Silvia clasped her hands to her breast, as if to capture the words before they could escape, but already the truth had burrowed itself into her heart. The one thing she had sworn never to do again, and she'd done it all the same. She had fallen in love.

Chapter Thirteen Silvia paced restlessly from one end of the harem's courtyard to the other. She had fallen in love with her husband. The man behind the princely cloak had secured a permanent place deep in her heart. If only she could believe the same was true for him, but at times she felt as if she could actually touch the barriers he had placed between them. Why could he not see that his attempt to protect his kingdom by doing the opposite of what his father had done was only isolating him? He said he trusted her, but always there was a limit to that trust, and without trust there could be nothing of substance between them. Certainly not love. "And it's love I want from him, more than anything," Silvia said to the marble beauty in the centre of the fountain that had become her confidante. "I don't just want to be a helpmeet, a political pawn, a sultry secret hidden away in his harem. I want to be all the woman he ever wants or needs. I want him to see that I could make him so much happier, that with me at his side, he could be so much stronger. I want him to love me as I love him. I love Munir." A warm glow suffused her as she spoke the words aloud for the first time, but the statue, to Silvia's eyes, appeared unconvinced. "I know what you're thinking. Look what happened the last time, but this is different. My love for Munir makes my feelings for Matthew seem like smoke." She bit her lip. "You're quite right, it simply means Munir can hurt me even more. He doesn't love me. Eventually, perhaps even before our year is over, his passion for me will wane. I can't bear the notion of sharing him. I just can't! If he will not love me, and me only, then I must find another way of being by his side. For my own sanity, I must carve out a meaningful role for myself, else I would have been better off to return to England with Papa. Except that then I would not have loved Munir, and I cannot regret that. I have to find a way to convince him. I will." The opportunity to do so arrived when Munir appeared in the harem not long after. He looked tired. A crisis had blown up, the details of which she managed to extract by gentle questioning. Her suggested solution made him smile. "It is an excellent idea. If only I'd thought of it—but it is done now. We settled it another way." "If you'd talked to me earlier, perhaps…" "I could hardly have walked out of a Council meeting saying I had to go and consult my wife!" Munir laughed. "Is it so unimaginable?"

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His smile faded. "You know it is. Let us not go over old ground again. Already, I spend far more time with you than other men do with their wives." "I should be grateful, you mean," Silvia said, frustration and disappointment making her rash. "Grateful? For what?" Munir demanded. "In six months our agreement will be over. You will have another wife to make demands on your time," Silvia said, unable to keep the hurt from her voice. Munir stared at her in astonishment. The idea of another wife, another woman who was not Silvia, here in the harem…he could not imagine it. In fact, he had almost forgotten their agreement. A year had seemed such a long time. "Are you saying you are growing tired of me?" He held his breath while he awaited her answer.

Chapter Fourteen "It is rather you who will tire of me," Silvia threw at him, abruptly losing control of her temper. "It is you who said that one woman can never be enough. You are unfailingly attentive now, but in six months, perhaps earlier…" "I am unfailingly attentive because you are unfailingly satisfying," Munir snapped, unsettled and confused by the way she was looking at him. Even more unsettled and confused by the feelings those looks were rousing in him. He felt as if the rock he'd thought he was standing on was instead turning out to be only sand. Silvia flushed. She was angry, frustrated, hurt. And still she wanted him. She could not understand it, but she could not deny it. She wanted him just as fiercely as he wanted her. In this aspect of their relationship at least, they were equals. Quite deliberately, she ran her palm over her breast. Her nipple budded. "Then we should make the most of it," she said. "In six months…" Munir shook his head. He didn't want to think about what could change in six months. "Silvia, you cannot doubt that I want you." In truth, he could not imagine a time when he would not. "Prove it." It was a challenge he could not resist. Munir dipped his head and sucked on the hard bud of her nipple through the silken barrier of her clothes. Silvia clutched at his shoulders. The air was potent with their arousal, a salty, vanilla perfume all their own. It intoxicated them, making them tear at their clothing, clutch at each other, kissing thirstily. Silvia's nails dug tracks into Munir's back. His mouth bruised her lips. She tore his tunic to get at his chest. Her pantaloons fell to the tiled floor of the courtyard. He bent her over the fountain. She braced herself on its marbled edge, her hair trailing into the cool waters, scattering the silver fish that swam there. His first thrust made her cry out with pleasure. She pushed back against him. Their coupling was like a continuation of their argument, the thrust of one against the other, pushing to the limits, determined not to surrender until finally they came together in an explosive, shattering climax which left them breathless. Shaken by the depths of emotion their union had roused, Munir pulled his ruined tunic back over his head. He had always enjoyed their joining but this…this had been something different. He felt as if they had fought, and he wasn't sure who had won. 170

Silvia's hair dripped water. Her skin was flushed. He wanted to take her in his arms, to sleep curled into her. He had never spent the night in the harem: it was one of the lines he kept rigidly in place and he was not about to cross it now. He turned and strode away. But as he walked toward the harem door, he sensed her behind him, standing bereft. It took all his resolve to keep going.

Chapter Fifteen In the weeks that followed, a distance opened between them that quickly yawned into a chasm. Simple self-protection made Silvia close herself off from her husband. It was an agony, but nothing compared to the agony she would feel if she gave herself to him completely and he took another wife, as she was certain he would inevitably do. She knew it would kill her inside, and so instead she tried to kill her love for him. Their lovemaking took on an edge of desperation. Her retreat confused Munir, and she wished fervently that he would find a way to bridge the gap. But he left her every night, and she lay wide awake long into the morning, so alone. But her love refused to die, and Silvia realized she didn't want it to. So if she could not be his only woman, then she could still at least try to be the most valuable one. It was not enough, but a crumb was better than nothing. When Munir announced that the British Consul was coming to inspect the newly refurbished port, Silvia grasped the opportunity like a drowning man grasps at a rope. "I know Lord Wincester very well. He attended the same school as my father—they are old friends," she told him. Munir dropped onto the cushions beside her. "The trip should take three or four days." "I look forward to it," Silvia said with a bright smile. "You can't come with me," Munir said flatly. "You know how resistant some of the elders on the Council have been to change. Your presence would make it look as if this deal were your doing." Silvia frowned. "But it was my doing, in as much as our marriage facilitated it. And it is a good deal for the future of Djaradh." "A good deal, too, for your England." "It is not my England! My loyalties lie here now, with your kingdom." With you, she wanted to tell him, but could not. Our kingdom, she wanted him to say, but he did not. Instead, Munir shook his head. "Such business is the preserve of men." Silvia's temper flared. "You do not think that exploiting my personal connection to the Consul is more important than nursing your Council's fragile egos?" she asked tightly. "That clutch of children would run in terror at the very idea of making a decision. No wonder your aunt found it so easy to wrest control from them. I am your wife, Munir. Why will you not have me by your side?" "I am a prince first, and husband second," Munir replied, his mouth tight with anger. "I rule alone."

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"Then your destiny is always to be alone, no matter how many wives you take." Silvia dashed her hand to her eyes. She never cried in front of him, she would not do so now. "And I am destined to be a very lonely woman. If you are not willing to let me prove myself then…" An uneasy silence reigned for some moments. "Have a care, Silvia. Think, before you utter another word." The telltale pulse at his neck leapt. Colour streaked the sharp contours of his cheekbones. Silvia clenched her fists beneath the long sleeves of her kaftan. "I want you to leave," she said shakily. Munir stared at her for a long moment. Determinedly, she held his gaze. He turned swiftly on his heel and walked away. Silvia dropped onto the scatter of silk and velvet cushions and let go a storm of tears.

Chapter Sixteen Silvia woke up drained from her crying and the restless night that followed. Why did love have to be so painful? She loved Munir not just with her body, nor even just her heart, but with her soul. She loved him, but Munir would never love her. He ruled alone and he lived alone, inviolate. It was not that she wanted him to change, merely that she wished he would make room in his heart, in his life, for her. But she would always exist on the periphery, in the shadows of the harem. He would not admit to needing another person, for he would be admitting to being as weak as his father had been. Munir blamed Halimah for bringing Djaradh to the edge of ruin. But he couldn't see that had his father been stronger, his aunt would never have grasped power. Munir thought that isolating himself made him strong, but it only made him weak in a different way. He could not grasp that love, true love, could make him so much more powerful. Two days after he left for the meeting with the British Consul, Silvia was wandering listlessly in the palace's main courtyard when a messenger arrived. The gold mine that had been discovered on the border of the two Bedouin tribes was erupting into the very dispute that her husband had been worried about. Prince Munir was most urgently required to arbitrate, for the tribes were upon the brink of war. In the midst of the commotion caused by scurrying, harassed palace officials and an emergency meeting of the Council, Silvia went in search of Munir's junior secretary, Dabir, whom she had befriended in the long hours she spent reading in the palace library. She had already coaxed the full story from him when Dabir, realizing far too late that he should not have confided in the princess, began to retreat nervously. "Wait. Tell me, what has the Council decided to do?" Silvia asked. "They will dispatch a messenger to recall the prince from the port." "But he is more than a full day's travel away. And then it is at least another to the border." "All the more reason for a messenger to be dispatched urgently." "Is the situation really so grave?" "Indeed, Princess Silvia. Apparently hostilities may break out at any moment." "Surely it makes more sense for Bakri to arbitrate in my husband's place?"

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"I am afraid that the Council… They will not act without the prince, Highness." Silvia knew how proud Munir was of the hard-won peace he had established in his kingdom, knew that he feared a dispute like this could quite easily escalate into nationwide war. How could the Council not see it, too? Briefly, she contemplated petitioning them, but quickly abandoned this idea as beyond foolish. They would not listen, she would offend them with her presence and, more importantly, they would have lost precious hours. "There is no time for this. The matter must be addressed now." "Yes, Highness, but Bakri and the Council will not—" Silvia clapped her hands together decisively. "Never mind them. I will resolve the matter personally."

Chapter Seventeen Dabir stared at Silvia, openmouthed at her decision to deal with the political crisis herself. She would have laughed at his expression if her mind hadn't been whirring with possibilities. "I'll need a camel. No, two camels. And supplies. And—" "You cannot! If the prince discovered– Highness, you must not!" "What do you think my husband would prefer? To have war break out because no one took responsibility to prevent it? You know the answer to that, even if the members of the Council do not. I am not afraid of the danger. "Don't worry, I will travel in disguise," Silvia said in a hasty attempt to reassure the horrified secretary. Hadn't she done so once before, and hadn't it paid off? Pushing past Dabir, she hurried back to the harem. She still had the outfit somewhere. Doubt assailed her as she pulled the headdress over her hair and fastened the band in place. She was not only defying Munir, she was publicly usurping his authority. Or at least she would be, if he did not authorize her as his envoy. Which he could do retroactively. Encouraged by the thought, Silvia fastened a leather belt around her waist and slipped a jewelled dagger into the sheath, conscious that she was, with this single act, risking everything. Even if she did manage to broker a deal, even if Munir did place the veneer of authority upon it, it was possible, very possible, that far from being impressed with her resourcefulness, he would never forgive her. She would lose everything. Perhaps he might even divorce her. It was possible in his country. She would be shamed. She would have to return to England. And if that happened, Munir might even renege on the deal he was at this very moment going to discuss with the British Consul. But he had given his word, and that was one thing she did not have to doubt. Was she being foolish? Undoubtedly. Could she live with herself if she did not act? No. This was her one opportunity to make the man she loved see her in a new light. That was worth any risk. Resolutely, Silvia pulled the voluminous cloak around herself and made her way out to the main palace courtyard. Dabir was waiting, dressed for travel. "If I cannot persuade you to reconsider, Highness…" "You cannot," Silvia said, clicking her tongue so that her camel fell to its knees to allow her to mount. "Then I will be your escort," Dabir said. "Thank you, but I cannot allow you to get into trouble on my behalf." 173

"I am already in trouble," Dabir said sadly. "The prince will be angry with me for not preventing you from going. If I come with you, Highness, at least he will know that I tried my best to protect you. And besides, you are right. He would want everything possible done to prevent a war." Silvia hesitated. An escort would undoubtedly be useful, especially one she knew and could trust. "I will intercede with the prince on your behalf," she said. "Fear not." Dabir smiled weakly. His actions might cost him his job. But did the Englishwoman realize she might well lose her head? He could not help but admire her courage. Any man would be proud to have such a wife. Any man, with one notable exception. "May the fates smile on us both," he said fervently, as he followed the princess out of the courtyard.

Chapter Eighteen The missive dispatched by the highly insulted Bakri on behalf of the outraged Council reached Munir early the next morning. Lord Wincester, the British Consul, was with him when he broke the seal of the note. "Something wrong, Highness?" "I must leave at once. I am afraid the conclusion of our treaty must be postponed." "Postponed! But there are only a few formalities, a matter of a mere hour or so…" Lord Wincester spluttered. "A matter of a mere hour or so could be the difference between life and death," Munir said curtly. "My wife's." He blanched as he said the words. "So you will understand…" Lord Wincester fanned himself with his copy of the contract. What was it about these Englishwomen who came to Arabia? First Lord Armstrong's gal, and now this one. "Very well, very well," he said, making no attempt to keep the irritation from his voice. "I will await your Highness's pleasure." But the door had already closed behind the prince. Moments later, he could be seen disappearing out into the desert, a cloud of dust in the wake of his prized white camel the only thing visible, so fast was the beast travelling. Munir did not stop for sleep. He did not stop for food. He drank water from his goatskin flask while his camel pounded out the miles across the sand. Time and again his hand crept to the reassuring weight of his scimitar. At an oasis, waiting impatiently for his camel to take on water, he honed the wicked blade of his dagger on a rock. What was Silvia thinking, putting herself in such danger? She knew how delicate the peace was between these two particular tribes. With a sick feeling, he realized that her understanding of the situation was precisely why she had acted. Because his Council had not! He cursed. Silvia was braver, more resourceful and more courageous than every man on his Council. But she was not a man. Kicking the camel once more into a thunderous gallop, Munir tried desperately to quell the churning in the pit of his stomach. When the Bedouins discovered who they had in their midst, they would not hesitate to use her. She would not just be a pawn in the bartering game, she would suffer for Halimah's crimes. They would… They would… 174

"No!" He bellowed the word out loud at the moon that hovered fat and full over his head. Silvia was his. Only his. Always his. His wife. His heart. His love. "No!" This time the word contained a lifetime of anguish. He loved her. He needed her by his side. She was a part of him. How could he not have realized? Why had he not realized? She was the only woman he needed. The one woman he needed. He loved her. And Silvia—his beautiful, proud, brave Silvia— loved him. He could see that now, understand her retreat from him these past weeks as an attempt to protect herself from the threat of another taking her place. As if any woman could! How close Halimah had come to blighting his life along with his father's. How could he not have seen—as Silvia had so clearly—that his self-imposed isolation was wrong? That Silvia was no Halimah? This bold play of hers, to prevent war, she had done only for the good of his kingdom. Their kingdom. He'd never said it. He did not deserve her. "But I will learn to, if only she is safe," Munir shouted to the wind. He cursed his blindness. He cursed his history, which until today had bound him as effectively as Halimah had bound his father to her will. And then Munir prayed. Let Silvia be safe. Let her still love him. Riding pell-mell across the desert to come to the rescue of his love, Munir cast off the chains of his past. He forgot he was a prince. He was just a man. And he simply wanted his woman back.

Chapter Nineteen As he reached the borderlands, Munir reined in his exhausted camel. Drawing out his scimitar and jumping down from the saddle in one lithe movement, he strode toward the largest of the tents, intent on murder if necessary. But he stopped short as the heavy curtain that formed the doorway was thrown back and Silvia stepped out, wearing a man's tunic and cloak, but no headdress. His heart leapt. Munir ran toward her, sweeping her up in his arms. "Are you hurt?" "Munir, I must tell you—" "Are you unharmed?" She didn't recognize his expression. Anxiety? Fear? No, something else. He looked stunned. Silvia's heart began to beat too fast for her to breathe. She had to warn him…but the words fled. "Munir." She touched his face. Dusty, hot from the sun. "I'm perfectly fine. I promise." "I thought… I thought…" She touched a finger to his mouth. "Munir, please don't be angry. I had to do something to prevent war. It was not Dabir's fault. He could not stop me—no one could have stopped me—so if you must be angry…" "I'm not angry with anyone, save my Council." "Oh." The way he was looking at her made her nervous. He had never gazed upon her like that before. As if… As if… "The gold mine," Silvia said distractedly. "I should explain what's been agreed to so you can formally endorse it. They were only willing to accept me as your envoy if I promised that you would come personally. Dabir told me the Council had summoned you so I hoped—knew you would come. I need to explain, before the head tribesman…" 175

"No." For once, Munir had no interest in either his people or his kingdom. "No, whatever it is can wait. I have something of far more import to tell you." For a terrifying moment, the urgent note in his voice made Silvia fear the worst. He was done with her. As he strode away from the Bedouin settlement to the relative privacy of a rocky outcrop, pulling her along behind him, Silvia wondered if she could bear losing him. She felt nauseous, but gathering up the remnants of her courage, she prepared to fight one last time for her future. For their future. "Munir, let me explain…" His smile stopped the words in her throat. "There is no need. I understand," he said, pulling her to him, pressing her into his body as if he would make her part of him. "You did it for Djaradh. Our kingdom." "Our kingdom," she repeated in wonderment. "Ours," Munir said firmly. "Unlike my Council, you were willing to risk your life to protect it. Our kingdom. I am so proud of you, Silvia. But you must promise me never to risk your life like that again. I could not bear it." "Oh." Munir laughed softly. "It is not like you to be lost for words. Don't you want to know why I could not bear it?" She could not speak, could manage only a tiny nod. Munir took her hands in his. "The clouds have finally been lifted from my eyes. I have discovered that there is something—someone—even more important to me than Djaradh. I love you, Silvia."

Chapter Twenty "I love you," Munir said tenderly. "I love you with all my heart, Silvia. I didn't know. I didn't realize it, but I do now. Say it's not too late." "Munir!" "Say you love me, Silvia. I want you by my side. I want everyone to see you by my side, as my equal. That is where you belong. I understand now that my thinking has been so skewed by the past—but you are different. So very different. You are more than enough woman for me. I could never want another. I beg of you, put me out of my misery!" Tears sparkled on her lashes. The world narrowed, so that it contained only the two of them. "I love you, Munir. I feel like I've loved you forever. I can't believe… Do you really mean it?" She was crying and laughing at the same time. "I have never meant anything more in my life," Munir said. His lips touched hers. There was a tenderness in his kiss that melted her. Silvia wound her arms tightly around her husband's neck, opened her mouth and her heart and let him in.

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It was the cheers from the Bedouin tribesmen that brought them to earth some moments later. Munir colored, grinned, but did not release his wife. "So, diplomat's daughter, tell me, how have you managed to pour oil on troubled waters?" "I wish I could tell you that I had an inspired idea all of my own, that my skills alone brought about this truce," Silvia said, "but the truth is, apart from asking them to treat me as an honorary man and your trusted envoy, I had absolutely no idea what to do. So I asked myself what you would say, and I said that. And it worked. They listened, but only because I promised that you would say it again in person. I knew you would come, because whatever you felt about me, you would not allow war to break out, and—" "I came here for you and you alone, Silvia. You are my kingdom. The only star in my sky." Silvia blinked away a tear. "I was afraid that you would divorce me for disobeying you." His hand tightened around hers. "To be without you would kill me. I will never release you from my side again. And if that means taking you to Council meetings…" "Good grief, Munir, they would expire with shock," Silvia said, laughing with sheer happiness. "That won't be the only shock. I intend to put the majority of them into well-earned retirement. But enough of the Council, let us get the formalities of this treaty you have brokered over and done with. I want to make love to you." The gleam in his eyes made Silvia shiver. He stroked her breast, and heat pooled in her belly. "It is a full moon tonight," she whispered. "A honey moon." Munir's husky laugh gave her goose bumps. "I love you. Every night will be a honeymoon. I have no intention of ever spending another apart from you, I promise you, my wife." And it was a promise, like all his others, that Munir kept all the days of their lives.

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The Cowboy Next Door By Linda Warren Tyler Jakes couldn't believe the nerve of Eden March. Since she'd graduated high school, she'd always been after something bigger and brighter. Tyler had never understood what was wrong with the grandparents or the small Texas town she'd left behind. And now that her grandparents had died, she thought she was going to sell their property and use it for her next scheme? Not if Tyler had anything to say about it. And he did. He'd put all his hopes—and his last bit of money—into using her grandfather's land for his crops. Without it, where would he find the money to feed himself and his daughter…and buy her the clothing she always seemed to lose? There had to be a way to convince Eden that the house, the land, the town and even the cowboy next door were worth another look. And maybe worth a lifetime…

Chapter One She was back. Tyler Jakes reined in his horse and watched Eden March's blue Tahoe stop in her grandfather's driveway. When Ira March had passed away two months ago, Eden had been home just long enough to take care of her grandfather's affairs before she'd left town, much as she was known to do. Staying in their small hometown of High Cotton, Texas, for any length of time wasn't her style. But now she'd returned—and she wasn't alone, he noted as a white Suburban pulled up behind her. He peered closer at the sign on the car: a real estate agent. What the…? If she had plans to sell, he would have a say in that. He'd leased the land from Ira to grow corn and had already plowed and prepared the land for planting. He needed every dime from those crops, and he wasn't about to let Eden cut him out of the deal. Kneeing his horse, Tyler galloped toward the barbed wire fence that surrounded the fifty-acre property. He dismounted, tied Champ to a post and strolled through the gate toward them. Eden was talking to the lady and didn't spot him until they turned and started walking to the house. Pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head, she frowned. "Why is it when I come home you're always here?" Her blue eyes flashed with anger as they often did when she spoke to him. Ira had called her his beauty, and she was certainly that, with flowing blond hair and features that had to have been created when God was in a good mood. No question she'd been blessed in the looks department, but in others…he'd always thought she was flighty and irresponsible, constantly flitting from one harebrained scheme to another. While he had to pick up the pieces. He cleared his throat. "I take care of the place." "Who gave you permission to do that?" The sun picked out the silver highlights of her hair and he was mesmerized for a second. "Your grandfather did."

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"Pa isn't here anymore and I'd appreciate it if you'd stay off my property." She marched up to the door, twisted the knob and pushed. The door didn't open. She tried again. No luck. She swung toward him. "It's locked." "Seems like it. Don't you have a key?" The smooth lines of her face crunched into a bigger frown. "I suppose, but I'm not sure where it is. Pa always kept the door open." Her baby blue eyes caught his. "I'm betting you have one." He jammed a hand into his jeans pocket for the key. Strolling to her side, he shoved it into the lock and opened the door. Eden didn't move. She stood right at his shoulder, and a delicate fragrance reached him. For a moment he had difficulty concentrating. She held out a hand, palm up. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what she wanted. He laid the key in her palm. "Thank you. And from now on, please, stay away." But Tyler wasn't leaving it at that. Not when he had so much at stake. He offered his hand to the real estate lady, who seemed to be rendered speechless by the interaction between Eden and Tyler. "I'm Tyler Jakes. I own the property next door." "Mona Parker." The older woman eyed him. "Oh, yes. You're the rodeo guy." "Used to be. I'm a farmer and rancher now." "And he was just leaving," Eden said. Mona looked around. "How many acres with the house?" "Fifty," Eden replied. "That will be a big draw. People like a country setting where they can have horses and ride fourwheelers." "That is not happening," Tyler interrupted. "I lease those fifty acres and no one is riding ATVs over my crops." Eden stared at him, dumbfounded. "What are you talking about?" "I leased the land from Ira." "But Pa is dead, surely whatever agreements he made aren't still binding." "Ira's word is binding to me." Eden paled.

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"This is a problem," Mona said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Do you have a contract, Mr. Jakes?" Tyler was about to respond and make darned sure that he quashed Eden's attempt to sell—or at least stalled it—when he saw Chance Hardin drive into his yard. Chance was the foreman of the Southern Cross ranch. If he was in Tyler's driveway, it probably meant he had a job for Tyler. The large Southern Cross ranch was located across the road from Tyler's small spread, making it easy for him to pick up extra jobs. And since he needed every spare cent, he had to cut this short. "I…I have to go. But I'd love to tell you all about my long-term agreement with Ira. Do you have a business card?" Mona fished in her purse and handed one to him. "We really should get this straight. Ms. March, didn't you say you were in a rush?" Before Eden could respond, Tyler suggested, "How about if we meet here at nine in the morning?" "That's fine with me," Mona replied. Eden stepped to the side so only he could hear. "If you ruin this for me, I'll never forgive you." "Well, Eden, lucky for me that forgiveness is not something I need from you." He tipped his hat to the ladies and strode over to meet Chance. *** After Tyler and Mona left, Eden locked the door and flipped on a light. Her anger at Tyler disappeared as she stood in the living/kitchen area and soaked up the ambience of her grandparents. Two recliners sat facing a huge fireplace and a TV. The scent of Pa's pungent pipe still lingered. A moment of sadness and loneliness hit her. She ran across the hardwood floor, down the hall to their bedroom and fell into a big feather bed. It was soft, heavenly, and she could almost feel her grandmother's arms around her. "Everything will work out, beauty." That's what she'd said when Eden's parents, after ten years of marriage, had decided to divorce and go their separate ways. There was just one problem—what to do with Eden. Without much thought they'd left her with her father's parents. After Eden got over the shock of their abandonment, she realized it had been a good decision. Her parents had argued constantly and her life had been in turmoil. Her grandparents, by contrast, had never argued. They were a stabilizing force for Eden. She went to school in High Cotton, made new friends and started a new life, blooming in the love and attention that her grandparents showered on her. But there was a big, pesky fly in her happiness—Tyler Jakes. He was a child of a single mom, his father having died when he was young. Pa had been an agriculture teacher and Tyler was one of his favorite students—which meant Tyler was at their house asking Pa questions about growing coastal and corn, and what was the best feed his mom should buy for their cattle, and on and on. Her grandfather doted on him. When he was around, Eden felt invisible. 180

Even though Tyler was six years older, they always seemed to be competing for her grandparents' attention. She'd had a brief moment of happiness when Tyler graduated high school and joined the rodeo circuit. But two short years later, Tyler's mom had remarried and moved away, and Tyler quit the rodeo circuit to come home and run the ranch—which meant he spent even more time at their house, soaking up Pa's knowledge. She tried not to be jealous, but there didn't seem to be anything she was good at, nothing that made her feel special. Nothing in High Cotton, anyway. And by the time she turned eighteen, she couldn't wait to get away. She took fashion and design classes in Austin, still unsure what she really wanted to do. Her grandparents always told her how beautiful she was, so she changed courses and devoted every moment to studying acting and modeling. She headed for Hollywood to test her skills, but soon found there were thousands of girls more beautiful, more talented and more driven. But finally she landed a bit in a commercial and called home to tell her grandparents, wanting to prove to them that she could succeed. But they were more excited that Tyler had gotten married. She got a gig modeling for a catalogue and once again called home, only to be met with the news that Tyler and his wife had had a child. Everything she did seemed to pale in comparison to Tyler's life. A bit in a commercial and a brief job modeling did not equal success. But Eden March was nothing if not determined. She'd be a success yet. And now she had the ticket to that success. One day about two years ago, she'd gone to a craft store on a lark, bought supplies and started making her own jewelry pieces. People continually stopped her to ask about them and almost overnight she was making and selling her jewelry to craft stores and boutiques. Around the time her grandmother had passed away, one of the store owners had urged her to go to New York and sell her designs to the fashion industry. Eden knew as soon as the woman had said it that it would be her break. She'd gone home for her grandmother's funeral and to grieve with Pa, but hadn't said a word to him about her new career, wanting to have something to show for it first. Only he'd died before she could even get the money together. But that's why she was home—the sale of the house would give her enough capital to get started. It was her chance to prove to her grandparents, if only in spirit now, that she could be as big a success as Tyler. They would be proud of her. She was so close…and this time she wouldn't fail. She ran her hand over the handmade quilt on the bed. Her grandmother had made it. So many memories were in this old house. Could she let it go? Getting up, she walked into the kitchen and glanced out the window. She could see Tyler talking to Chance Hardin. Tall and lean, Tyler had brown eyes and hair and a swagger that was typical cowboy. She supposed he was handsome in a rugged sort of way. But she had never thought of him in that way. He'd always been her archenemy. And judging from the way he'd seemed intent on torpedoing her appointment with the real estate agent, nothing had changed. But this time, she'd be the one who came out on top.

Chapter Two As Tyler galloped toward his house, he thought of the encounter with Eden. She was home to sell the property. He smiled. Evidently she hadn't read her grandfather's will. She was going to blow a gasket when she found out he had a say in any potential sale.

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Ever since Eden had left High Cotton seven years ago, her trips home had been sporadic. When her grandmother had passed on right before Thanksgiving about a year ago, she'd stayed through Christmas to help Ira adjust. Tyler had stayed out of the way, giving them time together. Almost a year to the day, Ira had followed his wife. Tyler had wanted to comfort Eden in some way, but getting close to her was similar to getting close to a porcupine. She'd made it very clear with sharp barbs that she didn't need him. But now she did. At least if she wanted to sell the house. He dismounted as he neared Chance and shook his friend's hand. "Hey, Chance. What's up?" "Are you in for a little cowboying?" "Always. But don't you have your own cowboys who can do that?" "Yeah. But I got a situation that calls for an expert…so why not ask a national finals champion?" That always made him grin. "What's the problem?" "I got a Brahma bull calf with something in his foot. He's limping, but when we try to get close to the calf the momma charges. It's too far away from the corral and a hassle to take portable pens out there." "And you have a plan?" "The cowboys can cut the calf from the herd for a few minutes, but I need a good roper who can go in quick and get the calf down so I can examine his hoof." "Team roping?" "Yep. I'll be the header, but you'll have to be the heeler. It's going to take some magic to get the rope around his back feet, so that's your job." "I have to pick Jenny up from school in a few minutes. Will tomorrow work?" "Sure. I did mention this could be dangerous, that we only have a few minutes before the momma breaks loose?" He tipped his hat. "I can handle it." Chance glanced toward the March house. "Eden's back." "Yeah," Tyler replied without too much enthusiasm. "Wonder if she'll stay this time." "I doubt it. Her life is not in this small town." His friend watched him. "Still not getting along?"

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"Not even close," he admitted. "If I knew anything about women, I'd give you some advice. Since I don't, I'll keep my mouth shut. See you tomorrow." Tyler waved goodbye and noticed the real estate lady had left. He could go over and try to talk to Eden, but it wouldn't do any good. Once she contacted the lawyer, they'd be enemies forever. Which was fine with him. If the choice was between the money to feed his daughter and Eden March's current harebrained scheme, he'd fight her 'till the bitter end. *** The next morning Tyler was in a rush getting his six-year-old daughter, Jenny, off to school. He brushed her hair and gathered it together so he could loop a band around it. But it was the most difficult task he'd ever attempted. He couldn't seem to hold it long enough before strands slipped out. Roping a steer was much easier. God, he was inept at raising a girl. He was inept at being a father, period. At the third attempt, Jenny scrunched up her face. "What?" "You're not very good at this, Daddy." "No, I'm not," he admitted. "I can do it. I can do it." He handed her the brush. Things were so much easier when his mom was here, but Jenny was his responsibility. His mother had a right to her own life. She'd spent many years taking care of him. Still, being a single father was hell. He'd never expected Denise to run out on them. She'd said small-town life was stifling. They'd argued about moving to a big city, but his roots, land and job were here. Eventually the marriage ended and Tyler had refused to let Denise take his daughter. He'd been surprised when Denise had caved so easily. Oblivious to his dark thoughts, Jenny gathered her hair and whipped a band around it in two seconds flat. "See, Daddy." Big brown eyes stared at him. "It's easy." He hugged her. "You're growing up." But he hoped not too fast. "Now for the million-dollar question. Where's your jacket?" She shrugged. "Jenny." He sighed. "Daddy can't afford another jacket right now." Every time he turned around there was one more bill to pay. He was betting on the crops on his and Ira's land to get him back on his feet. That is, if Eden didn't sell Ira's land out from under him. Searching through Jenny's closet, he found an old denim jacket. "This will have to do."

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After she slipped it on, he gave it the once-over. It was a little tight in the shoulders and the sleeves were too short. His heart sank. He had to do better than this. "Don't worry." Jenny smiled, her two front teeth missing. "Everybody knows my daddy's a cowboy." A broke cowboy who was struggling to raise a little girl. "Let's go, pumpkin, or you're going to be late. I'll check with Mrs. Lofton. Maybe you left your jacket in her classroom." "'Kay." She followed him into the kitchen. "Do I have to stay 'til six today?" "Yes. Daddy has to work." The school had an after school program for kids whose parents worked, which was great for him but Jenny hated it. Once the crops were in from his land and Ira's he'd have more time for Jenny. After dropping Jenny at school and watching her run off in her too-small jacket, Tyler headed for Eden's, ready for battle. *** Eden was showing Mona around when Tyler walked in. He removed his hat. "Morning, ladies." "Mr. Jakes." Mona smiled at him. He seemed to have that effect on women. Damn him. "I was just looking at the house." "It's almost a hundred years old," he said. Eden glared at him. "Pa took very good care of it. He had it painted five years ago and the roof is new." Mona glanced at the floor. "Is this the original flooring?" "Yes," she replied. "Pa said they don't make wood like that anymore." "What a beautiful dining room set," Mona exclaimed as they walked around. Eden touched the dark oak. "It belonged to my great-grandparents." Every holiday they'd eaten at this table. Pa sat at the head, and Gran had her place at the end by the kitchen. Eden's seat was on the side and unless the planets were out of alignment, Tyler had sat across from her. And the conversation centered around Tyler and his accomplishments. Once she'd left for college and Tyler had gotten married, somehow she'd never been back during the holidays. Until her grandmother had passed away. She ran her hand along the surface of the table and could almost smell Gran's chicken and dressing that she'd made in a roaster older than Eden. So many memories. She'd loved cooking with her grandmother. There was so much love in this house. And she had to wonder why at times she felt so unloved. Maybe it had something to do with her parents abandoning her. And the fact she had to compete with Tyler for her grandparents' affection. "How is the house heated and cooled?" Mona was asking. Eden immediately brought her attention back to the conversation, but before she could respond, Tyler spoke up.

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"Window units and space heaters and, of course, the fireplace, but the house is very drafty in winter and hot in the summer." "It is not," Eden denied. "The fireplace warms the whole house and the window units adequately cool the place." Tyler knocked on a wall with his fist. "These walls are single, not double like they are today, so there's no insulation anywhere." Mona scribbled something on her clipboard. "I'm assuming there's a well for water." "Yeah," Tyler replied, "and it's old and tiresome at best. The pump has to be primed—a lot, and in the wintertime it's a headache. You have to keep the pump shed warm or the pump will freeze, and the pipes to the house have to be drained or they'd all bust. It takes—Ouch." She'd brought her shoe down hard on his boot, stopping his unwanted opinion. "Sorry. I didn't notice your foot." His brow knotted in resentment, but he didn't say anything else. "Well." Mona looked from one to the other. "I have all I need. Does the furniture go with the house?" "I'm not sure," Eden admitted. "Ms. March, it seems there's a lot to be decided before we can take this to contract. From the road, it's obvious the land is plowed and ready for planting. A potential buyer will see that, so," Mona shoved the clipboard into her big purse, "you and Mr. Jakes have to work this out. Take a few days and let me know your decision." As soon as the door closed, Eden turned on Tyler. "How dare you." His eyes darkened. "And how dare you. You waltz in here, trying to sell everything Ira and Mavis ever had without a second thought. What about Mavis's quilts and afghans? You gonna sell them in a garage sale? Take the money and run, is that your motto, Eden? How about her china and dishes? Just chuck them, huh? They mean nothing to you. Nothing in this house is of value to you. It never has been. Not even your grandparents. You never called and only visited sporadically. How do you think that made your grandparents feel? They loved you and wanted you here, you never cared about—" Before she knew what she was doing, she'd slapped him hard across the face. The skin-on-skin sound seemed to echo between them. She was horrified. She'd never done anything like that before in her life. "Tyler, I'm so sorry." She pressed her hand to his warm, roughened cheek, softly this time, almost a caress. She'd never been this aware of him. Never noticed that he smelled of a tantalizing mix of leather and sunshine, never noticed that his lips were full and oh-so-tempting… Suddenly, his eyes darkened even more and he framed her face with his hands, bringing her closer to him. In slow motion he brought his lips down on hers in a gentle kiss, but the force of her response made her knees buckle and she went limp against him, trembling. He let her go abruptly and, without a word or a backward glance, strolled from the room.

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After a moment, Eden regained her equilibrium and held a hand to her quivering lips, still feeling his touch, his masculine scent all around her.

Chapter Three The buzz of her phone brought Eden to her senses. She dashed to the bedroom to get it. Since she'd slept in her grandparents' room, she'd left it in there. Snatching it up, she flipped it open. It was her roommate in Hollywood, Paige. Her friend was from Dallas, and they'd hit it off as soon as they'd discovered they were from the same state. They were planning to stay together in New York, too. Eden had had to take odd jobs to pay her share of the rent, but she hoped to remedy her financial situation soon. "Hi, Paige." Her voice sounded raspy. Heavens, she'd been kissed before, but not quite like that—with so much emotion. "Are you okay? You sound funny." "I'm just tired from driving." "I guess you made it home safely then?" "Yeah. I arrived late yesterday." "Any luck in selling the place?" Eden sat cross-legged on the feather bed. "No. I contacted a Realtor, but I might speak to Judd Calhoun this afternoon. It would be much faster. He owns a lot of land here and might be interested. If he's not, I'll have to go with the Realtor and that's going to take time." "But without that money you're not going to be able to stay in New York long and your business is dead in the water." "Mmm." "We've already given notice at the apartment and our flight to New York is booked for just weeks from now. We can stay with my sister who works at Bloomingdale's until we find a place. It's going to be so exciting. I have your new, expanded website almost ready to upload. I hope your jewelry starts selling like hotcakes." Paige was a computer whiz and also a singer. They were both eager to try their talents in New York City. They talked for a while longer and Eden promised to call as soon as she wrapped up things in High Cotton, which, if she had anything to say about it, would be very soon. *** Eden spent the morning going through things in the house. There was so much stuff: the antique dining room set, the armoire Gran had received as a wedding gift from her parents, the wrought iron bed that had belonged to her grandfather's parents, Pa's silver dollar collection, Gran's handmade quilts, Pa's Purple Heart and the feather bed. She couldn't bear to part with any of those items. Tyler had been wrong. These things meant something to her. Storing them would be the logical decision, but first she had to find a buyer for the property. 186

Trying to keep her thoughts off Tyler, she grabbed her purse and headed for her vehicle and Judd's ranch, the Southern Cross. Thirty minutes later she had her answer—Judd wasn't interested in the place, but he suggested she contact Tyler Jakes, whose property joined hers and who already had crops planned for her grandfather's fields. That was not what she wanted to hear As she traveled from the big ranch, she saw trucks parked on the side of the road. At first she thought it was a wreck, but then she noticed several men had gotten out of their vehicles to watch a herd of Brahma cows. Curious, she stopped behind one of the trucks, opened her door and got out. In the distance, she saw a handful of cowboys on horses talking amongst themselves. Her eyes zeroed in on Tyler, looking handsome and rugged, sitting on a chestnut-colored quarter horse with three white stocking feet. Tyler and Chance Hardin, the foreman, seemed to be discussing something. Chance motioned to the cowboys and pointed to the herd. The cowboys weaved their horses through the agitated cows. Tyler and Chance readied their ropes. They were going to rope something. A rush of excitement shot through her. The cowboys worked steadily, trying to get a calf away from his mother. Cows threw up their heads in fear and loud bellows echoed. "They'll never get a rope on that calf," Mr. Hopper—one of the men in the crowd she'd joined—said, leaning on his truck. Rufus Johns, Chance's uncle, joined him. "You just watch, Ben. I taught those boys everything they know." Finally, the cowboys had the calf out in the open and tried to keep the momma in with the herd. Chance immediately bolted out and threw his rope around the calf's neck. In a split second, Tyler followed, standing in the stirrups and sailing his rope in a perfect loop under the hind hooves and the calf went down, bellowing. On cue, Tyler's horse backed up, as did Chance's, holding the calf flat and tight. Chance jumped off his horse and straddled the calf, examining the hooves. Pulling a small pair of pliers from his jeans pocket, he removed something and held it up to Tyler. He tipped his hat, grinning. Her knees felt weak. Then someone shouted and all hell broke loose. The momma cow had managed to get away from the other cowboys. Chance jumped into the saddle and he and Tyler simultaneously loosened their ropes and jerked. The calf was free, but the big cow charged straight for them. Eden held her breath. They kneed their horses and the animals responded beautifully, digging in their hooves and galloping toward safety. Out of harm's way, Chance and Tyler pulled up, watching the cow and calf. The Brahma pawed the ground and snorted, flinging her head from side to side, just daring them to take one step toward her baby. After a moment, the momma and the little one trotted into the woods. Eden noticed the baby limping. There had been something in its hoof.

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She was still reeling from the magnificent show of skill, coordination and horsemanship. No one did it better than Tyler Jakes. Her grandfather had told her that many times, but now something was different. It didn't take her long to figure out what it was. She'd acknowledged his talent on her own. "Didn't I tell ya, Ben?" Mr. Johns said. "Yep. Should have known better." Mr. Johns walked toward his truck and Mr. Hopper noticed her. "Miss Eden, you're home." "Yes. For a little while." She wrapped her arms around her waist. It was getting chilly. "I'll miss Ira. He was a good man." "Thank you." He opened his door. "Call if you need anything." "Thank you," she said again and climbed into her car. Everyone here was so friendly. She would miss that in New York. When she reached home, she carried firewood from the back porch and placed it in the fireplace. She loved making a fire and she had enough wood to last while she was here. As she stuffed old newspapers beneath the logs to light, she heard a tap at the door. It couldn't be Tyler. Could it? Against her will, her heart hammered against her ribs.

Chapter Four She opened the door and found a little girl—Eden judged her to be about five or six years old—standing there. She wore jeans stuffed into cowboy boots. The tops were pink. Her blond hair was in a ponytail. Big brown eyes stared at Eden. "Hi," the girl said, smiling with two front teeth missing. "My name is Jenny. What's your name?" Who was she? There were no cars in the driveway…. "How did you get here?" she asked, figuring it was the best way to start the conversation. Jenny pointed to Tyler's house. This had to be Tyler and Denise's child. Eden drew a long breath. "Does your father know you're here?" Jenny shrugged. "Daddy told me that Pa's granddaughter was here and I wanted to meet her 'cause I'm Pa's granddaughter, too." "What?"

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"I don't have a grandpa and he said he'd be mine. I took him to school for show-and-tell." For a moment she was speechless, but it sounded just like Pa. He had a very big heart. "Are you Eden?" Eden had never been good with kids, and she wasn't sure what to do with this one. Please go away, kid. "I'm sure your dad is worried about you. Maybe you should go home." Jenny shrugged again. "Can I sit in Pa's chair? He lets me do that." "I'm very busy, this isn't a good time." She stepped back and closed the door. The moment she did all she saw was that hurt little face. She yanked it open. "I'm sorry. That was rude." Jenny tried hard to keep her bottom lip from trembling and Eden felt even worse. How could she be mean to an innocent child? "You can sit in Pa's chair." The lip stuck out farther. "I don't want to now." Eden bent down to her level. "I'm making a fire in the fireplace. Want to help?" "No." Eden walked inside, leaving the door open. She found matches on the mantel and lit the newspaper. Soon the fire roared to life. As she was putting the screen in front of it, Jenny trailed in and then made a dash for Pa's recliner and jumped in. She reached for Gran's afghan on the arm and curled up. Jenny looked lost in the big chair, but it was obvious she was familiar with the house. She must have had a loving relationship with Pa. And yet Pa had only mentioned the little girl in passing. Maybe because he sensed Eden had conflicting emotions about Tyler. Where was Tyler? Did he allow his child to run all over the place unsupervised? Not sure what else to do, she left Jenny in the chair and went to the table where she had her jewelrymaking supplies laid out. While she had time, she thought she'd make matching sets of bracelets, necklaces and earrings to sell on the website. Stringing large lime-green and crystal beads with silver spacers onto a flexible professional wire, she noticed Jenny had made her way to the table. "Whatcha doing?" "Making a bracelet," she replied, without looking up. "Like, to wear?" "Yes. I sell them." "Gee. It's pretty." "Thank you." "Are you Beauty? 189

Eden dropped a bead and immediately picked it up. "Why do you ask that?" "'Cause Pa said he called his granddaughter Beauty and I wanted him to call me Beauty but he said there was only one Beauty." "Oh." Her throat closed for a second. "So he called me Cutiepie, and there's only one Cutiepie and that's me." Eden stopped stringing beads as she suddenly saw herself clearly in Jenny—the need to be loved. And the feeling she had to compete for that love. She realized her grandfather hadn't loved Jenny any more than he'd loved her, so why had Eden felt that need to compete with Tyler? The thought was unsettling. "My daddy says Mommy used to call me angel, but then…then she left me," Jenny blurted out. Pa had told her that Tyler and Denise had divorced, but Eden assumed Denise still saw her child. Obviously not. She stared at the little girl, recognizing the pain of a nine-year-old whose parents didn't want her. "My mommy left me, too." "Oh." Jenny's brown eyes opened big. "Did she love you?" Eden rolled a bead between her fingers. "I think so, but she didn't want to be a mommy." "Mine didn't, either, but I got Daddy." "And I had my grandparents." Jenny smiled. "We did good, huh?" "Yes. We did good." Why hadn't she focused on that all those years ago? Eden had felt as if she'd done something wrong, but she knew now that she hadn't. And neither had Jenny. Jenny pulled at the sleeves of her denim jacket, which was noticeably too small for her. "Don't you have a bigger jacket?" "I lost it and Daddy can't afford to buy me a new one." Jenny fiddled with a bead. "Daddy says when he sells the calves and the crops come in things will be better." The crops on her grandfather's land. The land she wanted to sell. Damn. She'd always thought Tyler had the Midas touch and it was surreal finding out that he had faults and troubles like everyone else. It made him human. And appealing. They both heard the pounding of hooves. "Uh-oh." Jenny quickly glanced around. "Where can I hide?" Eden smiled. "He probably already knows you're here."

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"Gee." Tyler knocked on the door. Eden looked at Jenny. "Do you want to get it? Or should I?" Her brown eyes brightened. "You can and I'll run out the front." "No, no." Eden tried not to laugh as she got to her feet. "You stay right here and I'll let your father in." Eden opened the door and Tyler came straight to the point. "Tell Jenny to come out." She waved a hand toward the kitchen. "You might want to do that yourself." "Jenny," he called, walking inside. His presence seemed to fill up the house and warm it more than the fire ever could. Jenny wasn't in the kitchen or the living area. Had she escaped? A blonde head popped up over the top of the recliner. "I'm sitting in Pa's chair, Daddy." "Let's go. I told you not to come over here." Jenny trudged toward her father in boots that seemed as if they weighed ten pounds each. "Yes, sir." "Go home and sit in the time-out chair. I'll be there in a minute." "Yes, sir." When Jenny reached the doorway, she looked back at Eden. "Bye." "Bye." Eden's heart ached at the sad face. Don't get involved. Don't get involved. As soon as the door closed, Tyler said, "I'm sorry if she bothered you." Sweat stained his shirt and dirt caked his jeans, but there was another awareness now. Broad shoulders, tight jeans, boots and a worn Stetson suddenly made her blood race. She never knew she liked cowboys. "How old is she?" "Six." "She's a ball of energy." "Some days she does me in." He raised his eyes to hers. "I'm sorry about earlier. I had no right to say those things." "And I had no right to slap you." 191

He nodded. "We have to talk." "Yes." "But I should get Jenny home. I'll come over later." As the door closed, Eden knew she had a big decision to make. She'd never dreamed Tyler depended on the crops he grew on her grandfather's land for his very livelihood. And Jenny's. But Eden needed the money from the sale of the land to start her business and her new successful life. What could she do?

Chapter Five Tyler went through his back door feeling lower than a snake. He hated disciplining Jenny. It took a little piece of his heart every time he had to. His blood pressure had spiked when he discovered where she was. He didn't want his kid in the middle of his and Eden's issues. God, he couldn't believe he'd kissed her. And he couldn't believe all the suppressed emotions it had generated. He wanted to kiss her again. To hold her, to be with her. But getting involved with Eden was too risky. Like Denise, Eden's life was not in this small town. And he and Eden had business to take care of that required cool heads. In the living room, he saw Jenny sitting in her little chair, facing the wall. He took a deep breath. "Can I get up now, Daddy?" "Yes." He walked to the kitchen table and sat down. She crawled into a chair. "Why did you disobey me, Jenny?" "I…I…wanted to sit in Pa's chair. I miss him, Daddy. Why did he have to go to heaven?" Big tears rolled down her cheeks. He gathered her into his arms, not sure what to say to her or how to make her feel better. Parenting a prayer at a time was the best he could do. He stroked her hair. "Remember you said goodbye to Pa and you gave him a big kiss." "But I didn't want him to go," she wailed. He held her closer. "He was sick, baby, and he was ready. He wanted to be with Mavis." "Uh-huh." He pulled her chin out from his chest. "What did Pa tell you?" "Every time I see a flower to think of him."

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"Yeah. Pa taught you about flowers, vegetables and fruit trees." Jenny nodded. "He knew all about that stuff, Daddy." He poked her chest. "Pa lives right there in you. All you have to do is think about him and all the things he taught you." Her eyes grew big. "Eden, too, Daddy?" For a moment he was thrown off balance. Jenny must have sensed it because she said, "Does Pa live in Eden, too?" "Oh. Yes. Eden has lots of memories of Pa." "Eden makes jewelry," Jenny announced. Tyler was sure his daughter had that wrong. "You mean she wears jewelry?" "No, Daddy, she puts it together with real pretty colors and she sells it." "Oh." He had no idea what Jenny was talking about. Eden was an actress and a model; Ira had raved constantly about how well she was doing. Why would she be making her own jewelry? To sell? That didn't make sense. "Her mommy left her, too." "She told you that?" Jenny bobbed her head. "Yep. And we decided we did good. I got you, and Eden had Pa and Gran." He was stunned. Eden had taken the time and bonded with his daughter over a very touchy subject. Usually Jenny never discussed Denise, but now she seemed happy that someone understood. Maybe Eden wasn't so flighty after all. The idea was jarring, and he decided not to hurt his brain by thinking about it. "Listen, pumpkin. How about this spring we plant a garden with flowers and vegetables? We'll call it Ira's Garden. How would you like that?" "Yeah!" She clapped her hands, her sadness forgotten. He wanted to ask more about Eden but didn't. He had to find out on his own. "Pumpkin, Daddy has to go out for a little while. I'll call Mrs. Hopper to see if she'll sit with you. I won't be long." "'Kay. She reads good stories." Tyler took a quick shower and changed clothes. Opening a desk drawer, he pulled out a large manila envelope. Waiting for Eden to talk to the lawyer about the will now seemed like the coward's way. He owed it to Ira to do it himself. 193

*** Tyler didn't call Eden. He just showed up. He didn't want to give her the option of saying she didn't want to see him. When she opened the door, he caught his breath. Her long silver-blond hair tumbled around her. Her perfect features were relaxed and not tight as they usually were when she was with him. Black slacks and a white pullover sweater showcased her gorgeous feminine body. Red socks were on her feet. "Come in," she said in a polite voice he hadn't heard in a long time. He soaked it up like raw cotton absorbs water. He followed her into the kitchen and stopped short. The table was covered with brightly colored beads, stones and various other things he didn't recognize. He took a seat, as did she. "Jenny said you made jewelry." She lifted an eyebrow. "You sound surprised." She nodded her head. "Oh. You thought I was still acting or modeling." "That's what Ira said." "My grandfather tended to embellish. A bit in a commercial and a gig modeling for a catalogue is not a big money-paying career. I make more selling my original jewelry now." "Oh." Tyler was confused, not sure how to fit any of this new information in with the image he'd always had of Eden. "So Jenny lives with you?" she asked. It took him a moment to concentrate. "Yes. I have full custody." "Oh." He shifted uncomfortably, and laid the papers on the table. Not sure where to begin, he said, "Thank you for being so nice to Jenny." "We have a lot in common. We both love Pa and have mothers who left us." "Even at nine you were very self-confident. It never occurred to me to think of how hard that must have been for you. I'm sorry." "It wasn't confidence. It was self-defense. Talking to Jenny earlier made me realize how desperately I wanted love and attention." "And instead I hogged your grandparents' focus." "It pissed me off…and it hurt me. I could never do anything as good as you."

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"And I could never do anything to make them love me more than they loved you. I lost a parent, too. My mom was a single mother, and didn't always have time to bake me cookies like Mavis, or teach me about planting crops like Ira. I needed their love as much as you did." Their eyes locked. The fire crackled in the living room behind him and she curled her feet beneath her. "They loved us both, just in different ways." "Mmm. We were the ones that made it a competition. We lost a lot of time with them because of it. I'm sorry for that." "You should be," she replied, and then smiled a smile that made his heart beat faster, made this lousy day brighter. She cocked her head. "Well, since we're making heartfelt confessions…what happened to you and Denise?" He swallowed. "Denise's idea of marriage and mine weren't the same. She liked to party and go to clubs. I didn't. She wanted to move to Houston. I didn't. We came to an impasse and I told her she could either stay or go. She chose to leave." "Without Jenny?" "I wouldn't let her take the baby and she eventually left without her. We went back and forth over custody until she met an older guy with money who didn't want kids. His were grown. After a few months, she signed over her parental rights. I have full and permanent custody." "That must have been a relief." "Yes…and no." He rubbed his hands together. "Jenny was barely a year old and I didn't know how I was going to explain what had happened when she got older. My mother advised me to tell her the truth and I did. Of course, I glossed over a lot of it and emphasized how much Denise loved her." "Wise decision." He stared at all the beads and stones on the table. "So your new line of work is creating jewelry?" "Yes. I design and craft the pieces. Clunky and bold is in these days." She moved aside a plastic container of turquoise stones. "I'm moving to New York in less than a month to get the business going in a big way. Only it takes money to start a business. I thought inheriting this house was the answer to my prayers, but… You said the things in the house didn't have any sentimental value for me, but they do. I'm not sure how to part with any of my grandparents' treasures." She glanced at her hands. "But if I don't, it'll be one more failure. Somehow I have to do this—I have to prove the time and the care my grandparents gave to me was worthwhile and that I can succeed at something." "So they'll be proud of you?" She lifted her eyes to his. "Yes, so they'll…love me. As silly as that sounds." "Eden, you never had to succeed to gain their love. You had it every day of your life."

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"I know…now, anyway. But it's too late… They're gone." She brushed away an errant tear, then another, and his heart twisted. He cupped her face for a moment, in awe of the softness of her skin, before his lips touched hers. The world rolled away, and he tasted her sweetness and her pain. He'd only meant to give her comfort, but everything feminine in her lit a fuse deep in him. She moaned and he took the kiss to another level. "Tyler," she breathed against his lips as he pulled away gently. "Shh…Eden. Everything's going to be okay. I'm going to make it okay." He forced himself to get up and walk out the door, the manila envelope clutched in his hand.

Chapter Six Tyler stayed up late going over his books. He had to find a way to make ends meet without the crops he'd planned to harvest on the March property. It was Eden's land. He had no right to it. He'd realized that when she'd talked of her dream in New York. He'd always admired her bravery, her courage to stretch her wings as far as they would go. Eden had a zest for life unmatched by anyone he'd ever met. Ira had wanted her to be happy. Tyler wanted her to be happy, too. So he had to step back and let it happen. He tore up the legal document and threw it into the fireplace. He would recoup his losses somehow and move on. Chance would give him all the work he could at the Southern Cross. Then he'd work his own ranch and plant crops after he signed off there. But he still had to make time for Jenny. It wouldn't be easy, but he wasn't taking anything from Eden that rightly belonged to her. And her dreams. Before he crawled into bed, he thought of the new feelings they'd shared lately—the intimate confessions…the romantic, passionate kisses. For a moment he wished it could lead to a lot more. But like Denise, Eden wasn't happy in small-town Texas. She had big-city dreams. Was he destined to always fall for the wrong woman? The next morning, as they walked out the door, Jenny asked, "Can I go to Eden's this afternoon?" Tyler forced himself not to show any emotion. Last night was still fresh in his mind. He steered Jenny in another direction. "Don't you have a project to finish for Mrs. Lofton?" "Yeah, but—" "Work on it first." "'Kay," she grumbled. He glanced at the March house. It was in darkness—she must be still asleep. He'd talk to her as soon as he dropped Jenny at school. She had to know he wouldn't stand in her way. *** Eden woke up to warmth. The feather bed was so cozy and she didn't want to move, but it was morning. And she had tons to do. In pajama bottoms, T-shirt and socks, she padded into the living room and saw the fire was almost out. She dashed to the porch, grabbed two logs and hurried inside. The temperature was low and she shivered. 196

Quickly she placed the logs on the burning ashes and stoked it. It burst to life. After replacing the screen, she went to make coffee. With a cup in hand, she curled up in Pa's chair and wrapped Gran's afghan around her. She should be making jewelry, she should be packing and cleaning and getting things together. Instead, she was agonizing about what had happened last night. She'd wanted Tyler to kiss her and it was everything she'd wanted it to be—exciting, exhilarating and passionate. She'd wanted to lose herself in him, to feel his arms around her, his hands on her skin. But just when she'd thought they'd go further, he'd pulled away, saying everything was going to be okay. What did he mean by that? Taking a sip of coffee, she stared into the glowing embers. At twenty-five, she'd been kissed before. She should be able to figure it out, but she was clueless. She just wanted to be with him again. Her stomach growled so she went into the kitchen to make toast. Yesterday she'd picked up Pa's mail and it was lying on the counter. It was probably junk, but she took a moment to flip through it. A large manila envelope addressed to her caught her eye. It was from her grandfather's lawyer. Pa had left everything to her so she couldn't imagine what it could be. Ripping it open, she sat down to read. She pulled out a legal document. It was a codicil to her grandfather's will. Her eyes froze on the page. For his dedication to me and my welfare, I, Ira March, hereby grant Tyler Jakes first choice to purchase said property. A legal description followed. For the said price. An amount was listed that blew her mind. Pa had practically given him her inheritance. She'd thought she'd gotten beyond the competition between them, but reading her grandfather's words made everything clear—he'd loved Tyler more. A knock sounded at the door. Tyler. She couldn't deal with him right now. Maybe if she didn't open the door, he'd assume she was still asleep. She didn't move a muscle. "Eden, are you awake?" Darn! She'd forgotten to lock the door. He walked in, bringing the cool January temperature with him. He was awesome in boots, tight jeans and a Stetson. Her stomach fluttered in excitement, even though she didn't want it to. She actually wanted to hit him again. "It's nice and warm in here," he said, holding his hands to the fire. "Why are you here?" she asked, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. She failed. Complete silence filled the room. The fire crackled and suddenly Eden was hot—hot all over—with renewed resentment. She fingered the document. She could feel Tyler's lips on hers and she hated that she'd been fooled so easily. "Could we talk?" He walked into the kitchen. "Have you spoken to Ira's lawyer?" "He asked me to stop by his office when I was in High Cotton. I'd planned to do that Monday. He said it was just a formality." She held up the envelope. "But I guess it's a whole lot more than that."

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"Eden, I'm sorry. I received a copy about two weeks ago." She stared at him. "You do realize the price is staggeringly low?" "I had no idea Ira had this in mind." "I bet you didn't." She got up and placed her cup in the sink. If her jewelry didn't sell, she wouldn't be able to stay in New York. Then where would she go? Tyler would have the only place she'd ever thought of as home. "Eden…" "I'd appreciate it if you'd stay away until I get my mind sorted out. But then there's not much to think about. It's a done deal. You're getting the property at a steal. Is that what you planned all along? Kiss up to Eden and she'll go along with anything?" "I didn't plan what happened with us. That was honest and real." "Oh, please." "I came over to tell you I'm not invoking the codicil." "Why not? Pa wanted you to have this place. You were the son he always wanted. I was just the flighty granddaughter." "That's not true…Eden." He moved close to her and his masculine scent did a number on her resolve. "Please, don't touch me. Leave me with some dignity." She ran from the room, tears streaming down her face.

Chapter Seven In her grandparents' room, Eden quickly dressed and called her grandfather's attorney. She had to have answers. A machine came on. She grabbed her purse, intending to be in Giddings, Texas, where Mr. Spencer's office was located, when he opened the door. Tyler was gone when she went through the kitchen to the door. As she neared the town, she phoned again and Mr. Spencer's assistant answered. Eden informed her she'd be there in five minutes. Mr. Spencer was waiting for her, and she followed him into his office. "My assistant said you sounded upset." Mr. Spencer waved a hand for her to take a seat, and he followed suit. She crossed her legs. "How did the codicil to my grandfather's will happen?" "It was Ira's wish. Since you were out in California, he knew you would never live in the house, and he wanted someone who cared about the place to own it. He wanted to give Mr. Jakes the property outright, but felt it would be a disservice to you, the granddaughter he loved." "Why did he want to give it to Tyler?" 198

Mr. Spencer looked uncomfortable. "Mr. Jakes was always there when Ira needed anything. He wrapped the pipes in winter, kept the well pump from freezing, mowed the grass, cut wood for the fireplace, fixed whatever was broken. And he took care of Ira in the last days of his life." A lump formed in her throat. "I don't understand. My grandfather was healthy until the heart attack." Mr. Spencer's brow knotted in confusion. "Ira had two heart attacks." "What?" "Didn't Ira tell you?" "About six weeks before his major heart attack he phoned and said he had a spell with his heart. I offered to come home, but he insisted he was fine." "He wasn't. Mr. Jakes found him in the yard, called 911 and Ira was life-flighted to Scott & White Hospital in Temple. The doctors wanted to operate but, because of his age, they only gave him a fifty-fifty chance. Ira decided to leave this world just as he came into it." The lump dissolved into tears. "Why did no one call me?" "Ira and I have been friends for a long time. I was at the hospital when Mr. Jakes asked Ira if he had called you, and he said he had." "But he didn't tell me what happened, only that he was okay and I wasn't to worry." Mr. Spencer crossed his hands over the file on his desk. "I'm at a loss at what to say, Eden. Ira had this idea that you were a lot like your father, Geoffrey, always with a big dream, always needing to be free. After your parents deserted you, Ira wanted you to have the best and for all your dreams to come true. He felt that would never happen here." Eden brushed away a tear. "I guess we didn't really know each other." "I think you did. Ira was stubborn and didn't want his beauty saddled with a sick grandfather. He wanted you to be happy." But I wasn't. I was so alone. She brushed away another tear. "So Tyler looked out for Pa?" "Yes. He moved in and took care of Ira." "What?" "Ira was very weak and Mr. Jakes didn't think Ira should be left alone." "What about his little girl?" "Mr. Jakes' mother came and took care of her, but Jenny was there a lot. Ira loved her."

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"How long did this go on?" "About six weeks. When Mr. Jakes saw the end was near, he loaded Ira into his truck and carried him to the hospital, calling you on the way, against Ira's wishes. He felt you should be given the opportunity to see your grandfather before he passed." "I did. I got to say goodbye." More tears flowed. Mr. Spencer got up and handed her a tissue. She blew her nose. All these years she and Tyler had warred for her grandfather's attention, to make him proud—a stupid competition, a trivial thing compared to what Tyler had done for her grandfather. In her heart she knew her grandparents had protected her from the moment she'd come into their lives, encouraging her to be whatever she wanted to be, even if it meant she was far away from them. Pa had done so right to the end. She couldn't be angry because he loved her. He loved me. Mr. Spencer leaned against his desk. "Eden, do you want to contest the codicil?" "No." She rose to her feet. "But I'd like to do something else. Draw up the papers to give Tyler Jakes the property as my grandfather wanted." "Please, think about this," he advised. "I have. It's the right thing to do." "Take a few days." She reached for her purse. "Call me when the papers are ready to sign." Walking out of the office, she felt better than she had in a long time. The truth had opened up the dark corners of her heart. So many wasted years misguidedly thinking her grandparents had loved Tyler more. In reality, her grandparents had loved them both, only in different ways because they'd needed different things—Tyler had needed a father, and she'd needed a home. Pa couldn't have loved Tyler more; love wasn't measured. It was freely given. She'd always known Tyler was special; she just never knew how special until she heard of his devotion to her grandfather. Not many men would make such a sacrifice. She had to have the courage to do something as meaningful. The money from the sale of the property would be a loss, but if she couldn't make it in New York on her own, then she didn't need to be there. *** Late that afternoon, Eden curled up in her grandfather's chair, soaking up his presence by touching the things he'd loved. How she wished she had the chance to tell him his wish would come true—his house and land would belong to Tyler and he would cherish it the same way Pa had. And she would move on to accomplish all the dreams he had wanted for her. Except for the one that could never be. The one that was right here in High Cotton. 200

"Eden?" She turned to see Jenny standing a few feet from her. "I knocked, but you didn't hear me." "Oh, sorry." Her thoughts had been inward. "Whatcha doing?" Without thinking, she replied, "Sitting in Pa's chair and remembering him." Jenny jumped in beside her. "I like to do that, too. We can miss him together." Jenny's face and hands were cold. "Where's your jacket?" She shrugged. "My teacher found it on the playground and I brought it home. But after that… I guess I left it in my room. Pa said Daddy should tie it around my neck." Jenny giggled. "He's funny." Eden tucked the afghan around the little girl and they sat, watching the fire and missing a man they both loved. After a second, Jenny said, "Daddy and me are going to plant a garden and call it Ira's Garden. You can help us." "That's real sweet." Eden wasn't sure she'd be here then, but there was no need to tell Jenny that. "We do missing good, huh, Eden?" "Yes, we do." The future lay before her and she wondered how it would all go. What would she miss when she left? Would she miss this house and the memories? Would she miss the cowboy next door?

Chapter Eight Eden smiled at the little girl on her lap. Since Jenny's two front teeth were missing, her words came out with a "th" sound. It was so cute. She noticed a piece of tattered paper in Jenny's hand. "What's that?" "I have to make something for school. But I'm six years old. I don't know how to make anything. And Daddy's hopeless. He can't even get my hair into a ponytail." Eden took the pink construction paper from her. "What is this supposed to be?" "A crown. I want to be a princess Barbie." She made a face. "But it's ugly. You make pretty things. Can you make my crown pretty?"

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"Let's go see what's in my bag of tricks." Jenny followed her to the table. Eden had bought some rhinestones so she could glue them on a belt she'd worn for a party. She searched for them, finally finding the right tray and pulling it out. Jenny sat close beside her, intently describing how the crown should look. Eden drew the shape on the construction paper and handed Jenny the scissors. The girl painstakingly followed the lines, her tongue sticking out. After that, Eden made a big O in the center and several stars along the sides. She glued on two rhinestones and then handed the glue stick to Jenny, letting her choose the colors, which turned out to be pink, red and purple. Chewing on her tongue, Jenny said, "This is gonna be so beau-ti-ful. I'm gonna win a prize." "Does your teacher give prizes?" "No, but she should." Eden smiled and watched Jenny work until the crown was almost covered. She stapled it at the back and placed it on Jenny's head. "Do I look like a princess?" "Oh, yes, you're a beautiful princess. And a cutiepie." Eden could see why Pa had loved Jenny and Tyler so much. She couldn't help loving them, either. But she wasn't going to analyze that thought any further. "We'll let the glue dry for a bit." "'Kay." "Does your dad know you're here?" Jenny bobbed her head. "I left him a note." "A note? Can you write?" "Yep. I can write my name and Pa's, so that's what I put on the note." "I see." Tyler's job was to decipher the rest. Jenny certainly kept him on his toes. "Where is your Daddy?" "He went to check on a cow. I'm supposed to be doing my homework." Evidently Tyler hadn't come back or he would be looking for his daughter. "I'll walk you home." She had to talk to Tyler, anyway. "'Kay. Can I wear my crown?" "Sure." They walked along a well-worn trail to the Jakeses' house, Jenny proudly displaying the crown. The old farmhouse with a wraparound porch was timeless. Two wood rockers and a sturdy swing decorated the front side. Jenny's bike lay on the plank floor.

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At that moment Tyler rode up to the barn on his chestnut mare. As he dismounted, he noticed them standing in the yard and strode toward them. "Uh-oh," Jenny said. "Daddy isn't happy." Within a few seconds he was in front of them, his handsome face etched into a scowl. "Look, Daddy." Jenny pointed to her head. "Eden helped me with my school project." "You weren't supposed to leave the house for any reason." "Yes, sir. I'll go sit in the time-out chair." "That doesn't seem to be working. You're going to bed an hour early and no TV." "Dad-dy." Tyler pointed to the door. "Go read one of your books. I'll be there in a minute." Jenny stomped inside and Eden could see the pain it caused him to discipline his daughter. She could tell he was a great father. She wished she'd stop discovering all his good qualities. *** Tyler took a breath and turned to face Eden. They had to talk about the codicil. He didn't want the land. It was hers. She sat on the stoop and he joined her. "Don't worry about Jenny coming over. She wasn't a bother," she said, and that delicate fragrance he associated with her relaxed him. "But I agree she shouldn't leave the house alone. That's why I brought her home." "I'm at my wit's end on how to discipline her." "Where's your mother?" "In Abilene with her husband. She worries about me and Jenny and comes about every six weeks to make sure I'm not starving her grandchild." "So it's just you and Jenny?" "Yeah." The sun was sinking in the west and the temperature was dropping. But for some reason he didn't feel cold. "Eden, I'm sorry about the codicil. I'm not exercising that right. The house and the land are yours totally. Besides, I can't afford it."

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"I spoke with Mr. Spencer and he told me the whole story, which my grandfather neglected to do. I had no idea he was so ill. When I'd called, he sounded weak. But he always said he was just tired, and I believed him." Damn! Why had Spencer done that? It accomplished nothing now but to upset her. "Eden…" "I'm glad he had you to take care of him and I'm so grateful." "Are you crying?" He couldn't see clearly as the darkness crowded in on them. "Just a little." He put his arm around her and she nestled into him. "I'm sorry I was jealous of you over the years." "Really? I rather enjoyed going head-to-head with you." "You did not." She turned and looked at him and he lost himself in the glistening blue of her eyes. Against every sane thought in his head, he cupped her face and kissed her softly, gently…until stronger emotions took control. Her hands slipped beneath his Carhartt jacket and he weaved his fingers through the thickness of her hair as the kiss deepened. He'd kissed her before, but not like this. This time they kissed as equals, aware of exactly what they wanted. After seconds—or minutes, or hours, he couldn't gauge—he rested his forehead against hers and his hat fell off. He didn't care about that. He only cared about the woman in his arms. "I have to tell you something," she murmured. "What?" "Pa wanted you to have the house and land, so I'm giving it to you. I just want some items from the inside." He drew back. "No, no! You can't do that." "I already did. I'll sign the papers before I leave town." "You're still leaving?" "Yes. I'm meeting a friend in New York to peddle my jewelry to designers. I'll let you know before I go." He frowned. "Then what was that kiss about?" She touched his face. "Goodbye, Tyler. I'll never forget the cowboy next door." She stood and walked into the darkness. *** 204

Tyler caught up with her. "Eden, I refuse to accept the property." "Tyler, please, this is what Pa wanted." The night wrapped around them and a million stars lit their path. "I believe what Ira really wanted was for us to spend time together so that we could get to know each other and stop competing. And we have. I used to think you were flighty, irresponsible, but I don't anymore. I got a glimpse of the real Eden and I like her—a lot. She's spunky, brave and reinvents herself when life doesn't go according to plan. That takes courage." "What are you saying?" She heard a heavy sigh. "I'm asking you to consider staying. I know you have plans…and this is sudden but… You don't have to be alone anymore." Eden threw herself into his arms and he held her tight. "I always thought you were the golden boy with the Midas touch who could do anything. I know now that's not true. You have troubles, heartache and pain just like everyone else. And you're so compassionate, caring for Pa and Jenny. I never saw that side of you." He kissed the side of her face and she trembled. "We've both learned something in the past few days. Love doesn't come from doing what's expected of you. It comes from the heart." "And achievement doesn't create love, either." "No." He cupped her face. "I was so sure I wouldn't fall in love again, but I'm nuts about you. I'm so afraid, though. Can you settle for a small-town life?" Eden thought about her plans in New York. They weren't so appealing anymore. In the past few days, her desperate need to succeed had been replaced by a need for someone else. A need for family. Everything she wanted was right here, standing next to her. She buried her face in the warmth of his neck. "Is it possible to fall in love this quickly?" "We've been falling for a long time. We just didn't realize it." "Mmm." She stood on tiptoes and met his lips with a fire that left no doubt about their true feelings. After a moment, he cupped her face once more. "Are you sure?" "I've never been more sure of anything. This is where I belong—with you and Jenny." "What about your plans?" "I'll just reinvent myself again. I can make Pa's house into a workshop and create my jewelry here. Paige will understand. Since she's doing a new website for me, I can ship items from the local post office. I really don't need the hectic lifestyle of New York, but I do need you and Jenny." He kissed her briefly. "You know, your bravery has inspired me. Maybe I'll reinvent myself and do something I've always dreamed of doing." "What would that be?" 205

"I gave up the rodeo when my mom remarried. I don't want to go back there, but maybe…I might start a rodeo roping camp. Boys are always asking me to teach them to rope." She snuggled into him. "A great idea, and I'll be here to help." He kissed her long and deep and the January wind blew against them. "I love you," he whispered against her lips. "I love you, too." They'd both found what they'd been searching for—love, right next door.

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Unfinished Business by Amy J. Fetzer

Chapter One South America, Night. The Southern Hemisphere was the pits. The jungle air reeked of rotting vegetation, thick enough to see. Wet enough to taste. That Rick was here, steaming like broccoli, searching for a woman he never wanted to see again, said something about his character. He just wasn’t sure if it was heroic or just masochistic. Crouched in the shadows behind a drape of vines, Rick Callahan held his breath as a guard wearing bandoleers and carrying an AK-47 moved past and headed toward the front of the building. Didn’t these guys sleep? He reminded himself to sit tight, he was being paid to rescue Megan O’Toole. Paid a lot. It was the only reason he was in this hellhole willing to face guerillas armed better than he was to get her back to her cushy lifestyle. Rick ducked out, hurrying to the edge of the slanting building. Crouching, he spotted her through the shack’s only window and feelings he couldn’t name shot through his chest like a blade. He wasn’t going to pick them apart. He had a job to do. Now. Before they both got waxed. Weapon out, with his back to the wall, he peered over the sill. Megan O’Toole, daughter of a billionaire, was in the centre of the room, blindfolded, gagged - a smart move on their part - and tied to a wooden chair. Her head was slumped forward, shoulders limp, and for a second he thought she was dead. And inside, he hurt. Sharp, angry. Then she stirred, lifting her head. He could hear her captors in the front yard, boozing it up and getting comfortable. They should; they’d just made their last demand on Cameron O’Toole, Megan’s father. Rick had negotiated it himself. Part of the service, he thought, and slid over the sill, dropping silently to the floor. He scanned the darkened room, the only light coming from a kerosene lamp on the dirt floor. Slumming for Megan, he thought. She was used to luxury, servants. A doting father who protected her like a dragon protecting its young. Doting enough to dismiss Rick as her bodyguard for falling under her spell. And getting shot. It was a humiliation he was still trying to live down. Holstering his weapon, he moved to her, closing his hand over her gagged mouth and pulling her head back against his shoulder. She fought him, and he tightened his grip to near punishing. 207

“Be quiet or we’re both dead. Understand?” She nodded, but the tension didn’t ease from her body. Letting her go, he cut her gag and ropes, ignoring her raw bleeding wrists and pulling her from the chair to the floor. Megan ripped off the blindfold, blinking. “If this isn’t for real, I’ll make you sorry,” she whispered in a gravelly voice and Callahan’s brows shot up. That didn’t sound like the Megan he remembered. “I’m as real as it gets. Can you walk?” he whispered, and she met his gaze, nodding, looking more angry than scared. He’d give up a lung to know what she was thinking right now. On her hands and knees, nearly nose to nose, Megan searched beyond the green and black clothing, the camouflage face paint that would give a child nightmares, and stared into dark unforgiving eyes. Familiar eyes. And a flood of memories coated her in slick greedy waves. Richard. The last time she’d been this close to him he’d been kissing her into mindless desire. For a second, she could almost feel the heavy warmth of his hands roaming beneath her clothes again, stroking her in places that called to only him, hear his soft erotic words while he was melting her bones with hot wet kisses. Yet with the steamy memories came the trouble she’d caused him. The bullet he’d taken to save her. And while she thought she’d actually meant something to her former bodyguard, he’d discarded her like day-old caviar and never looked back. “Daddy must be paying you a lot of money to do this.” “More than he first offered.” The insult stung, bruising her heart more than her ego. Just how much had it taken for Callahan to come all this way for her? And why had her father asked the one man forbidden to her? “You okay?” he whispered close to her ear, his irritation precise, biting. “Yes, peachy, but the service here is awful,” she snapped. “I shan’t recommend them again.” She could have sworn his lips actually curved in a smile. No. Not Callahan. Smiles would crack his chiseled face. Barely able to see him in the dark, she followed him across the dirt floor to the window. He slithered over the edge like a long black snake, pulling her after him. The sill cut into her hip and she bit down on her tongue to keep from groaning. And alerting her captors. They’d taken sick pleasure in smacking her around when the troglodyte they called a boss wasn’t around. Once outside, Rick grabbed her hand, yanking her ruthlessly into the jungle and running.

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After a few yards, her legs screamed in protest. “Callahan! Good grief, I’ve been sitting in that chair for nearly a week!” Without missing a beat, Callahan picked her up and like a caveman, tossed her over his shoulder. He ran. The air punched out of her lungs so hard she barely noticed his arm wrapped around her thigh, his hand shoved between her legs. She wasn’t going to complain, not that she could with her thoughts draining out of her head with her blood. He ran for what felt like a mile before she heard gun shots. “You just had to be a popular hostage?” he muttered accusingly, running a hundred yards before swinging her down, and setting her to her feet so hard Megan’s teeth clicked together. She shoved her hair out of her face. “Now what?” He was barely winded, damn him. “We run.” “Weren’t we just doing that?” “Not fast enough carrying you.” He forced her round and pushed her ahead. “Go, I don’t get paid for dead.” Good, she thought, that would keep her alive, and she obeyed, ignoring her burning muscles and pumping her legs like mad. Fear pushed her, fear of being hauled back again. Of being terrorised without sleep and food or water. They’d toyed with her. They would torture him. Leaves the size of small animals slapped her face, branches catching her clothing. She tripped and he grasped her elbow. “Keep going, dammit, move!” “I’m doing my best!” “Your best will get us killed.” They’d gone another fifty yards when the explosion came. It shook the earth, and he threw himself at her back. Together, they hit ground, the air leaving her in a hard punch. She spat dirt and said, “You set explosions?” “C-4.” “And warning me didn’t occur to you?” 209

“Nope. Not in the Rescue the Princess Manual.” Callahan flinched as debris hit his back, then he grabbed the waistband of her pants, dragging her to her feet as he stood. “There’ll be more,” he said and pushed her onward. The explosions would give them time, Rick thought. Exactly how much was an art form. “I see your Neanderthal style hasn’t improved.” The remark reminded him of what he didn’t want crowding his mind. “That didn’t stop you from indulging in the seedier side before, eh, princess?” She wished he’d stop calling her that. “That was then. My tastes have improved.” “I can die a happy man now,” he muttered dryly. “Because I don’t need another bullet hole, and the sooner we part company the longer I’ll live.” Stung, Megan gathered her composure before facing him. “Not if you want your precious money, Callahan. You’re stuck with me.” He loomed over her like the devil come to collect her soul. “I’m your only way out of here, so for the next three days, you’re stuck with me.” She swallowed. “Days?” Her horrified look didn’t give him the satisfaction he needed. “We’re farther from the nearest city than you think. If you can keep up, we might not miss the first rendezvous point.” Then he smiled. It was an evil grin, Rick knew. He’d saved it just for her. But in the dark, Megan saw only the bar of white teeth. Like fangs. He’s going to like this, she thought. That she was at his mercy. That she couldn’t survive out here without him. “Perhaps we should continue then?” Woodenly Megan swept her hand for him to lead the way. Rick trotted off and Megan stayed right behind him. She knew she had to, even if it killed her. And she was just about there. She wasn’t going to give him a reason to regret coming for her. He must have wanted the money badly to do this. He’d lost his job and a lot of blood because of her, hadn’t he? He’d never contacted her, and if he wanted to, he could have. Rules didn’t apply to Callahan. He stopped so suddenly she almost smacked into him. “Wait here.” He took a few steps away. She grabbed his arm. “Oh, I don’t think so. Do you know the kind of animals that lurk in this jungle?” 210

“Yeah, I do.” Rick pushed her hand off. “Be still, don’t scream.” Chapter Two Without another word, he moved farther into the forest. Just as cries of midnight creatures threatened her composure, he returned, wearing a backpack and holding a machete. “Let’s move. We have to get far enough away before sunrise.” “Would you happen to have any food in there?” He stared hard, then nodded, removing the pack and handing her some freeze-dried thing in a silver packet. She tore it open. Rick watched her shove the food into her mouth and guilt smacked him. “Good God, Meg. When’s the last time you ate?” Shrugging, she held up a finger, chewing the dry nutrition bar and forcing it down. He handed her a small bottle of water. “Swish it in your mouth first, spit, then drink.” She frowned, about to drink, then did as he said. Spitting was such a vulgar thing to do in front of a man, she thought, but didn’t care. She didn’t care about a lot of things anymore. And that scared her. She handed him back the bottle. “Do you need to rest?” he asked, and the words came out harsher than he’d intended. She lifted her chin. “I can keep up. God forbid we miss that rendezvous.” Rick eyed her, wondering what else had changed about her. The Megan O’Toole he knew two years ago was kind, considerate, and funny, but let’s face it, spoiled. He didn’t blame her or her father for that. If he’d had family, he’d have given them the world. But had a week in the hands of kidnappers really changed her that much? “Earth to Callahan? Rendezvous?” She waved in his face. “No more Meg? Big payoff?” He blinked, then scowling at her smug expression, he turned and hacked at the undergrowth, praying the kidnappers hadn’t survived the explosions. After a couple more hours of chewing bugs and sweating, dawn finally broke above them, yet the sunlight barely made it down between the trees. “Just exactly where are we going?”

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“Exactly? Twelve degree southwest.” Megan smirked at his back. Know-it-all. “Wouldn’t we be better off up there?” She pointed to the mountains. “We could see better.” “They grow poppy up there and unless you want to fight off drug lords too...” He let that hang for a second. “Do they have a bathroom? That might change my opinion.” He glanced back, the machete raised to chop. Then he let out a long-suffering breath and hacked through another spot and pointed. “Go in there.” She stared at the cut in the jungle. “My own boudoir. How lovely.” Then with a regal tip of her head, Meg walked into the forest. Rick sipped water, waiting. “There isn’t a mirror and perfume in there, come on, O’Toole.” She appeared minutes later, her red hair finger-combed back, her dirty clothing righted and smoothed. Fractures of morning light skipped over her face.

Damn, she was still beautiful, he thought, his insides clawing with a sudden sharp need to kiss her. She was under his skin and he didn’t want her there. Not now, not when her life depended on him being objective. He’d paid dearly for falling for her once. He wasn’t stupid enough to let it happen again. “You ready?” he said impatiently. “Yes, but the towel attendant needs a tip and I forgot my purse.” He smirked, shaking his head. ****** His energy was unshakable. He moved with quiet power, his long strides eating up the distance. Her legs were no match for his six-feet-something, yet she followed, trusting him. He fit into the jungle easily, his clothes, his dark hair melting into his black bandana and the camouflage paint concealing his skin. He’d been Marine Force Recon before he’d been her bodyguard. And he’d been her friend then, too. That he wasn’t now left her bleeding inside with a cut that wouldn’t heal. Still, she’d missed him. How she could miss cool black eyes and a lack of humor she didn’t know, yet there it was. She didn’t kid herself in thinking that if they’d made love that last night it would have mattered to him. He was dangerously handsome, and more than one of her friends had tried to draw him into her bed. The night she’d been in his, there’d been an attempt on her life. Almost nightly, she remembered him shielding her, the bullet that pierced through him and into her. Wounded, he’d disarmed the attackers and while she was in the hospital, Richard had disappeared. 212

And she’d never felt so alone in her life. Suddenly he was hauling her up by her arms. “I called you twice. Where the hell were you?” She blinked, hoping he couldn’t see her tears. “Off shopping at Saks, where else? It’s sale day.” Rick’s expression soured. “Stay more alert, O’Toole. Your kidnappers could come up on us easy." “Then I guess you’ll just have to fight them off if you want your payment, huh?" She shrugged off his touch. "God, you’re mouthy." “Forgive me, my debutante behavior got left behind when I was stolen from my bed at gunpoint.” Not for the first time, Rick considered what she’d been through in the past week. He didn’t like the images snapping through his mind. “We’ll bunk here for a while.” “Bunk?” “Sleep, rest, drink water.” Glancing around, Megan saw only thick vines and tree roots. Then Richard pushed back tall ferns, revealing a spot where trees bending to reach the chips of sunlight had cupped the earth. It looked like the Ritz to her. “It’s cooler in there and we’re hidden enough if someone comes along.” “Do you think they will?” Fear clouded her voice and she looked around. “Oh yeah, this is their backyard. And these guys are out their five million dollar package. They’ll want it back.” It. Megan felt suddenly very empty and alone. “Gee, nice to be so...necessary.” The hurt on her face devastated his senses. When had he grown so cruel? “Megan...” She cut him off before he could say more. “I’m a commodity. Like pork bellies or crude oil.” “That’s not true. Not to your father.” “Let’s not dissect this, please. I’m the pawn.” She raked her fingers through her hair and they snagged. “But if the kidnappers knew anything about my father, they’d know he would string

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them along till he got the upper hand.” She met his gaze, her eyes flat. “Which in this case was you.” She ducked inside the enclosure. Rick remained outside for a moment, then followed her. She was seated on the ground, removing her boots. “I didn’t mean it like that.” “Sure you did. You don’t get paid for a dead hostage. I’m a means to the end for everyone. For your money, their money, my father’s satisfaction that absolutely no one will take anything he considers his.” Megan adored her father, but she was twenty-seven and chief executive of South American Operations, yet with regard to her personal life, Dad often treated her like a hormonally challenged teenager. Dad thought he knew best. He didn’t. Or he’d never have fired Richard. “Your father loves you. Or he wouldn’t have hired me.” “Why did he ask you, Richard?” Hearing his name tugged somewhere deep inside him. She was the only one who called him that. It left an intimate calling card, a reminder of the last time he’d touched her. And how much he wanted to do it again. Now. “I’m good.” “Obviously.” She stared up at him for a second, thoughtful. “You’re a mercenary, a gun for hire, aren’t you?” “Sounds illegal when you put it like that.” “But it’s true?” He lowered himself to the ground. “I’m a hostage negotiator and retrieval expert.” That didn’t confirm her suspicions. “Amongst other things, I’ll bet.” “If the pay is good enough, I’m open.” Megan felt struck across the face. No matter how much she wished otherwise, to Richard Callahan, she was an opportunity. She really should be more judicious when she fell in love. “So what did it take for you to come for me, Callahan?” she said quietly, looking down at her hands, at the blood crusting on her wrists. “One million, two? Five?” Fresh blood dripped down her skin like a web and Rick realised when he’d pulled her along, he’d reopened the wounds. “We need to see to those.” He dug inside his pack for a medical kit.

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“It can wait and I’m tired.” She curled down on her side, using her boots for a pillow. His price must have been huge, she thought, and deep in her soul she wished he’d come on his own, for a dollar. “Meg. Those will get infected.” “They can wait,” she said on a yawn. She was asleep in an instant. Rick shoved his fingers into his hair, pulling off the bandanna and angrily snapping it aside. He had the social graces of a rhino in heat. Had he taken this job just for the chance to wound her? Or to show her that he wasn’t good enough for her then and wasn’t now? He was out of her league, and that he’d crossed the line with his charge was unacceptable to him. Her father had trusted him with her. Meg had trusted him and though she was more than willing to play with him two years ago, he should never have broken the cardinal rule. Never get involved with the targets. It would hurt too much when you failed. And he had, he thought, rubbing the old wound. He’d lost more than a job and a little blood that night. A part of his soul went missing, too. Carrying his backpack, Rick left the natural hut and set a couple nasty little surprises for anyone who tried to get past them. He wanted to get far away right now, but Megan needed rest and though he had no choice but to push her hard, it didn’t make him feel any better that she was hungry, bleeding, and he still didn’t know what they’d done to her. The way he found her said they hadn’t given her a single luxury and though most hostages had it worse, her situation had been pretty bad. Traps set, he reentered the enclosure, placing the main sensor before their makeshift entrance. The tiny red light blinked slowly and would hum when the sensor was tripped. While she slept, Rick cut an escape route in the underbrush surrounding them. This country didn’t have too many friendlies; it paid to have a couple of options. He settled down beside her, drinking some water and watching her. The bleeding had stopped, and when she rolled toward him, curling into a tight frightened ball, Rick’s reserve caved. He slid down to the ground, his back braced on the pack and pulled her into his arms. She whimpered, and struggled against him, and he whispered, “It’s all right, Irish, you’re safe.” She relaxed a bit, her fingers gripping his shirt as if he were the last thread in her life. Rick rubbed her back in slow circles, and crushed down memories of her willing in his arms, concentrating on getting them out of here when he knew in a couple hours the jungle could be crawling with guerillas. Men who wanted her for a money trade. Rick wasn’t much different. He might be saving her, but he was exchanging her rescue for cash so he could stop this life.

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And then what? Be alone? a voice asked and he looked down at Megan tucked in his arms. Gently he pushed her hair off her face. He could keep telling himself that it was for the pay, but deep inside, where he kept his secrets of loneliness and the need to end it, he knew he hadn’t come a thousand miles into the Amazon jungle for cash. Chapter Three A couple hours later, Megan stirred, feeling the solid warmth of a man against her. A second later, comprehension gelled and she jerked away, scrambling back on her behind. “It’s okay, its just me,” Rick said, her wide-eyed fear softening to wariness. “Don’t touch me.” Rick leaned on the pack, his arms folded across his chest. “You’re the one crawling onto my lap, princess.” Her face flamed and she rubbed her fist under her nose. “People can’t be held accountable for what they do in their sleep. It’s the subconscious at work.” “So subconsciously you wanted to be clinging to me like a vine?” A really luscious vine, but Rick knew better. He’d heard the whimpers, the pleas for water and rest to her captors. He didn’t doubt they’d kept her awake for days. It was a tactic to wear her down, though she had nothing to do with her release. It had been in her father’s hands and he’d tried to move mountains. “No, I did not. For pity’s sake, stop reading into every little thing.” She started putting on her boots. “You sound like a jilted lover.” “We never quite got to that stage, did we, Irish?” Irish. The old endearment stung and hot piercing eyes glared at him through a curtain of tangled red hair. “Go to hell, Callahan.” “Been there, got the scars to prove it.” “Want to compare a few? You’re the one who disappeared.” “I got fired, Meg.” He stood, gathering his things. “And you let that stop you?” “Your father has a way of making a lasting impression.” “What did he do?” Righteous fury lit her pretty face. 216

“Nothing that I couldn’t handle.” “I’m sure.” Meg could only imagine what her father had done. Money meant power and her father had plenty of both. “I didn’t know, Rick.” He looked down at her as she yanked on her laces. “So you thought I just played house with the boss’s daughter, let her get shot, then left without another thought?” “Didn’t you?” He withdrew his weapon and peered between the ferns and vines. “Well, didn’t you?” she persisted and when he didn’t respond, she yanked him around to face her. “Of course I thought of you. You were wounded because of me." “I was alive because of you. You took the bullet.” “And you wouldn’t have been hurt at all if I’d been doing my job instead of getting you naked.” A smile tugged. “You were doing a fine job of that, too, as I recall.” Rick ground his teeth, fighting the steamy memory clouding his brain. They flooded in just the same, like they did every time he thought of her. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter anyway. I broke a rule, paid the price, end of story.” It wasn’t over or they wouldn’t both be feeling like this, she thought, staring up at him. “We both paid, and you weren’t exactly alone in that rule breaking.” Rick winced, knowing she probably caught holy hell for being with her bodyguard. “My job was based on my reputation and I lost it,” he said, then stepped onto the path, motioning her to remain there. And because of that, she thought, she lost Rick. As Rick retrieved his sensors and traps, the truth bit him again. He hadn’t been worried about himself. Taking a bullet for her had been his duty, his job. But getting fired from the cushiest gig on the planet because it happened while they were in bed, and he’d been too hot for her to hear the intruders was disgraceful. Top that with the bullet grazing her, and he’d failed even more. Her father had been furious that his daughter actually wanted a man like him, but what happened to Meg afterward was a mystery. He’d spent a small fortune hunting her down, only to get close, and then she’d disappear again. After the third try, he’d given up, figuring she didn’t want to be found. What if she had wanted him to find her? he wondered as he returned. She was pacing the small confines. “Let’s go.” 217

“We need to talk,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Not now.” He ushered her toward the second exit he’d made. She could feel Rick close behind, and when the thicket was too dense, he handed her the machete and told her to start hacking. She didn’t know where they were going, but chopping through huge leaves and brush made her feel as if she had some control in a day that was twisting wildly in the wind. She was drenched with sweat in seconds. Anger at her father manifested, and at Rick for bending to the ornery Irishman, though in her heart, she knew if Rick wanted, he took, regardless of the consequences. She supposed she wasn’t worth it, unless, of course, it came with a hefty payoff. Rick glanced behind himself, walking backward a pace, then focusing ahead as Meg slashed through the heavy jungle. When she stumbled for the third time, he knew she’d expended her energy. He tried not to care, but he did. She was doing better than he ever expected. And he was proud as hell of her. “Let me have that.” Rick reached for the machete. She gave it up, flexing her fingers and Rick saw the blisters there. He grabbed her hand, examining the wounds. God, she was a mess. “Dammit, why didn’t you say something?” “The manicurist was off, so why bother?” she said dully and shoved her hands into her pockets. “I have gloves. I should have given them - God, I wasn’t thinking.” “Was that an actual apology?” “Do you actually need one?” His lips curved and from his pack he took out the canteen, and poured water over the blisters. She hissed and tried to pull away, but he held tight, blowing on the wounds. “I’ll take care of this when we’re far enough away.” He wrapped her palm with a green military bandage, taking great care and time they didn’t have. “What did they do to you, Meg?” he asked softly, suddenly. His tone was so genuinely tender, it made her heart drop a beat, and she tried to look under his bent head. Why was he asking? “Does it matter?” “It does to me.” He sounded almost frightened at what she’d say. “They blindfolded and starved me, kept me awake for the first five or six days.” She shrugged. “I lost count.” “Did they do anything else?” She knew what he was asking, and the tension in him had a taste all its own. 218

Rick’s question hung in the air between them for a moment before Meg answered. “No, they didn’t do anything but withhold food and sleep. I put a curse on them and they were too superstitious to come near me.” His lips curved and she thought she saw admiration in his smile. “But the threat of rape was bad enough. It doesn’t matter. Been there, have the scars. Now it’s done.” She took a step in the direction they’d been heading and he grabbed her elbow. She twisted, meeting his gaze. “What?” Rick searched her features. “You’ve changed.” “I told you I -” “Not your tastes in men,” he said sourly. “You’ve changed.” That’s because I’ve lost too much and had to get over it, she thought, but didn’t say it. “I’d ask if that was good or bad, but frankly I don’t care.” She didn’t have the strength to battle with Rick Callahan right now. “That’s it. You used to care.” “Yeah, sure, I cared about appearances, and what others thought. I learned the hard way that only a couple people in my life really mattered.” And Rick had been one of them. Rick pulled her closer. “Who’s on that list? Not me, I know.” She laid her hands on his chest and Rick felt the familiar bolt of heat shoot down to his boot heels. He could barely stand the sweet pulse of it through his blood and not do something about it. “Once upon a time you were the only one who mattered.” “Except maybe Daddy and his money.” Rick knew the instant the words left his mouth that he’d screwed up. Her expression said so. “Is that what you believe?” She shoved out of his arms. “Any reason I shouldn’t?” “No one paid me to crawl into your bed, Callahan. But then again, you were being paid to be my shadow.” “Shadow, yes - lover, no!”

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“Any reason I should believe you?” She turned on her heels, thrashing deeper into the jungle. Rick stared after her, wondering how this got turned on him, when he heard a sound that wasn’t part of the jungle noises. He raced to catch her, grabbing her by the waist and dropping to the ground with her. “We really have to work on your social -” He covered her mouth, and with her locked in his arms, rolled into the jungle and into a gully. Tucking her to his side, he lay on his stomach, his weapon out and aimed toward where they’d come. Chapter Four “I didn’t hear -” He glared and she shut up. Hidden below the ridge of dirt, Rick listened, his hearing tuned to beyond the screech of birds and creatures. Meg heard it and inhaled sharply. Footsteps. Thrashing. “Stay right here. Take this.” He pressed his weapon into her hands, folding her fingers around it. “Shoot anything that isn’t me.” Meg looked at the weapon, exhaled, then cocked the 9mm like a pro. Rick arched an eyebrow. “I’ll pretend it’s a hair dryer,” she said, then shifted to her elbows and focused on the path. He was still looking at her strangely when she said, “What are you going to use?” He rolled to his back. From his boot, he pulled out a wickedly long knife with a serrated base. It had U.S. Marines engraved on the black blade. Megan swallowed. That meant he had to get close enough to them to inflict damage, and worry skipped through her. Rick crawled to the path, then rose to a crouch, praying she wouldn’t have to shoot. If she did, then he’d already be dead. Bugs buzzed around her head as Megan waited, her skin itching with sweat. She didn’t dare put the weapon down and squinted down the sight, wondering if she could actually shoot another human being. She heard a gun shot and flinched, praying it wasn’t at Rick, praying they’d missed. Her mind tortured her with images of him bleeding somewhere out there. Bleeding to save her. Again. Seconds stretched to minutes.

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She flinched when she heard a rustling in the bushes, but couldn’t see anything. The noise grew clearer, then suddenly slow and soft till the sound vanished beneath the blood pounding in her ears. She imagined her captors: smelly losers with nasty guns - and they liked using them. She remembered the blows, the knife poised at her eye until she said what they wanted into the tape for her father. Then she thought of what they’d do to Rick and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. A twig snapped. If it was Rick, he’d say so. Her heart breaking that he was dead, she raised the weapon, shifting back on her knees. A figure appeared, looming over her, and she pulled the trigger. Nothing. She leapt to her feet and ran. Rick chased her, snatching her around the waist and lifting her off her feet as he yanked the gun from her grasp. “Meg!” She fought like a wildcat, clawing at his arm, kicking her feet against his calves. A string of curses he never imagined she knew spilled from her mouth. “Stop, stop, it’s me!” She stilled, twisting in his arms as he set her to her feet. He gripped her arms. “It’s me, baby.” She stared up at him, breathing hard, tears in her eyes. Then she batted his hands off. “I thought they’d killed you and they were coming for me. Don’t do that again, damn you!” She punched his chest. “I hate you for that. I was so scared!” She shoved him with every word. “I thought they’d killed you!” The last came in a long painful wail. He grabbed her against him. “Shut up, Meg.” She blinked. Tears trailed down her cheeks and he’d bet she didn’t know it. To see her come apart made his knees weak. He didn’t get that way often. Except with her. “Shut up? You bastard! I’m terrified for you and that’s -” Grinning all the way down, he slashed his mouth across hers, stealing her words, her temper. Her breath. He loved that she was afraid for him. Loved that he couldn’t think clearly, and sometimes

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with Meg that was a good state to be in. She was sharp and smart, and so much better than he was, but he was tired of lines in the sand and denying himself this woman. God, she tasted like home, like he’d been lost in this jungle and finally found his way to freedom. His tongue slid over her lips, prying them apart and pushing between. And she crumbled in his arms.

****** Megan melted. Right there in the Amazon jungle, she fell apart and came together in one soul ripping kiss. Her moans echoed into the trees, her hands crawled up his chest and wrapped around his neck. She hung on. Because the ground was disappearing beneath her feet. Because when Richard kissed, there wasn’t anything left to do but be absorbed in the thrall of it. “Oh, Richard, I missed you,” Megan sobbed against his mouth, opening herself to the slaughter of feelings pulsing through her, her heart spreading its wings and riding the current with him. “I missed you, too, Irish, damned if I didn’t.” Rick devoured her, his hands fisting in her shirt, pushing her into him, filling the length of his body with her incredible softness. Behind her back he still gripped the bloody knife. “More, more,” she whispered and he took her mouth again, hot and quick, not wanting their surroundings to intrude. He wanted to stay locked in the jungle with her. The squawk of birds pushed good sense back into his foggy mind. They weren’t alone in this territory. He drew back, loving that it took her a second to open her eyes. “What was behind that kiss?” Everything, he thought. “Seemed like a good way to cut through the hysterics.” She was smart enough not to argue that point. “Is that the only reason?” Her voice held a vulnerability he’d never heard before and he knew what he said in the next moment would make the difference between having her in his life again and feeling the biting loneliness again.

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The decision was so easy. He pressed his forehead to hers, his body humming to her tune. “No, Irish, I needed to kiss you, to feel you in my arms again.... Two years is a very long time.” Her gaze brushed over his face as if committing it to memory. “I can accept that.” He smiled, an honest grin. “Good, because I don’t usually kiss people who shoot at me.” Thank God for a safety, he thought. “It was a hair dryer. I was trying to blow you away.” He grinned. “Come on.” He patted her behind. “We have to keep moving.” She nodded, sliding her arms from his neck. She staggered and he flashed her a soft smile, caught her, then rolled his mouth over hers in a thick kiss before he bent and shoved his knife into his boot. Megan saw the blood. Her gaze jerked to his. His expression was unreadable, moments of tenderness wiped clean. It made her see that Richard Callahan was capable of more than she first thought. It didn’t scare her; it made her feel incredibly safe. Her gaze moved over him as if checking for wounds. “I’m fine.” She nodded, knowing it was either the kidnappers or them. “Are we safe?” “Yeah, for now.” Meg let out a heavy breath, and they pushed on. ****** The heat of the day bore down on them like the press of iron. Meg stumbled and Rick pushed food into her hand and pushed her onward. “Richard,” she said tiredly. “Not yet, Meg. I know you’re tired. Just a bit farther and we’ll have a place to hide for the night.” “I hope they have a bath.” “I’ll see if the management will accommodate.” She chose not to respond and concentrated on picking up one leg and setting it down. It was afternoon when the mist of the jungle grew lighter and cooler. She stopped and Rick passed her, chopping through undergrowth. 223

Then she saw it. “Oh my God.” Rick watched the smile bloom on her face and cherished it. Megan looked up and up to the top of the cliff and the glorious waterfall spilling a thousand feet into the river below. Water rushed over rocks with a deceptive power, then calmed to flat glass near the edge where she stood. Eagerly, she walked toward it, but Rick grabbed her arm. “No, not there, the water is too still.” Anaconda, she realised, stepping back. “We head up there.” He pointed to a plateau of rock to the right of the fall. “It’s going to take us another hour to get around that.” He gestured to the heavy vegetation between them and the fall. Vines dipped into the water, strung like lace over twisting trees. “It’ll be worth it. Lead on.” Megan followed, and just the sight of water made her skin scream for moisture and a good scrubbing. Her energy returned and when they had to crawl over tree roots the size of a car, Meg grasped a vine to swing down. “Meg, no!” Chapter Five She swung anyway, and Rick caught her, the force slamming her into him. “That was not smart.” “I was feeling very Jane-ish. You really need to lighten up.” His gaze moved over the terrain, alert. “When we’re out of here, I’ll wear a loin cloth and beat my chest for you.” “My personal savage, I can’t wait.” She smiled up at him. “But then what?” “Huh?” He was staring at her mouth, the rest of his body gearing up for action. “When we’re in civilisation with running water and room service, then what, Richard?” “Then you’re safe.” “And you get paid.” She nodded more to herself. “I forgot, coming here had a price.”

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“Sure it did.” He tipped her head back, gazing into her green eyes. “It was opening an old wound, Irish. It was seeing you again after I’d tried my damnedest to find you and got shot out of the water at every turn.” Her father, she knew without asking. “I’m going to kill Daddy.” “No, you won’t. If my daughter had been caught in bed with her bodyguard and wounded to boot, I’d have done more than send a couple of thugs after me.” “I’m sorry, Richard. No wonder you had to be paid to come here.” She pushed ahead of him, her heart feeling scored down the middle. Damn her father. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have come for anything less than five million.” Hurt painted her voice and Richard raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t give a damn about the money!” He followed her as she thrashed through the forest. “What do you want me to say, Meg? That I should have tried harder to get to you? Yeah, mistake one. That I regret you got hurt when I should have been doing my job? I do, mistake number two.” “That’s an excellent start. Want to try for mistake number three?” “Such as?” What was it? Open season on Callahan? “How about you believing I was on some hero worship trip when I came to your bed?” “You were.” She rounded and slapped him. He blinked, rubbing his cheek. “Feel better?” “No. Actually I’d like to beat the stuffing out of you for being a jerk, but clearly I’m outclassed in my weight division.” “I’d never hurt you, Meg.” “Like you aren’t now?” His expression hardened. “Why are you being like this?” she shouted. “Because I’m not the right man for you!” Her heart crumbled. ****** “Only a fool would presume he wasn’t the right man for me.” Rick sighed deeply. 225

“You’re thinking foolishly, Meg. I can’t give you the life you’ve led till now.” “Mistake number four. Who said I wanted it?” “Dammit, you know what I mean.” He swallowed, feeling like everything in his life was suddenly on the line. “I want more and you just can’t give it without giving up your father’s money.” Meg gave him a dirty look. “Thanks for the vote on my character, Callahan. I haven’t lived off my father’s money since I was twenty-one. I do have a job. Just because it’s in my dad’s company doesn’t mean I didn’t earn it. You know him. Would he give me control if I didn’t deserve it?” His eyes narrowed. She had him there. “Now, Callahan,” she advanced, fury in her bones. “You admit that the only reason you wanted to be with me was because I was forbidden fruit.” “Now who’s insulting who?” he groused, climbing the rocks to the fall. He tossed down his pack and machete, pacing like a caged animal. Overhead, warm sunlight ribboned down over the trees and vines growing out of the rock. Bright coloured birds soared and dipped. “If it was just an offlimits thing, I wouldn’t have searched. Or come here. Or be arguing with you now, would I?” Meg kicked off her boots, toed off her socks, then stripped out of her shirt. “You gave up on us.” “And you tried? I don’t have to get kicked in the teeth to know it hurts, Meg.” She met his gaze. “If you’d called me a week ago, Richard, I would have come running.” She let her pants fall to the rocks and Rick’s jaw tightened, all that lush skin turning him inside out. His gaze locked on her like a homing device, the sun dancing over her round behind in a skimpy thong. She was sunburned in spots, had a fingerprint bruise on her shoulder, but the rest of her was as perfect as he remembered. “If that’s supposed to make me stupid, it’s working.” “Good, don’t want to ruin a pattern, do we? Do you have any soap in there?” She pointed to the pack. Numbly, he dug and slapped the bar into her outstretched hand. “Stop looking at me like you’ve never seen me naked, Callahan.” Callahan. She was really mad, he thought. “I haven’t, not like that.”

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She peeled off her stretch camisole, flinging it aside. Thong panties followed, and his heartbeat rocketed to somewhere near his eyes. “Well, my Nubian slaves didn’t have time to oil my skin this trip.” The intensity of his gaze ripped through her. He stood still, his shirt open and baring carved muscles tanned dark from the sun. “You’re making me crazy.” “Join the club.” With that she dived into the water. Richard watched her swim under the clear water, popping up where the fall spilled into the pool. For a moment she just stood under the hard spray and with a clarity that gripped him in the gut, he knew why he’d come for her. He’d known it the instant he heard her father’s voice on the other end of the satellite com link while he was in another jungle a thousand miles away. When he’d dropped everything and raced to find her. He wondered if he had the guts to tell her. He stripped off his shirt and boots, angry with himself and glaring at the source. Her back to him, she washed her hair, his gaze following the ripples of soapy water sliding over her curves and foaming around her. She looked back over her shoulder and met his gaze. She hid nothing from him and they both knew it. Damn her. His groin thickened, blood throbbing in every cell of his body and Rick folded to the ground. Hunger and temptation burned inside every fibre of his being. Squatting at the water’s edge, he washed the camo paint off his face, then dunked his head, shaking like a dog. It didn’t do a damn thing for the fire crackling through his blood. Raking his hair back, he stood and stormed to the shore, yet his gaze moved back to her. Soap rinsed off her in slick waves, and like a bomb detonating, Rick felt his control snap. “I just know I’m going to hell for this,” he muttered, stripping down to his skin and walking into the water. “Stop right there,” she ordered. He didn’t, his body revealed and hidden beneath the crystal depths. Blood boiled under Meg’s skin, softening her knees, making her insides go liquid and hot. He advanced, bronze and dark and hard. The water deepened around him, his dark eyes skimming her with the power of touch. Already her body was coming apart for him. If she were smart she’d just give up and throw herself at him. But she wanted more. Sunlight gleamed off the scarred bullet hole in his shoulder and the last two years rushed back like a blast of cold air. Her gaze locked with his. 227

“Do you want me in your life or not, Richard?” He hesitated. “Meg.” “I see.” She turned her back on him. It was like a door slamming in his face. Rick reached, forcing her around. “Don’t do this, Meg. You don’t know what you’re asking.” “I know I want more than this day. I have for the past two years.” Grains of hope spilled through him. “Be careful,” he warned. “If you’re with me, Megan, you’re with me completely, forever, got that?” Her heartbeat skipped. “What do you mean?” “There is no halfway between us. There never was.” “So it’s all or nothing?” He nodded. “It works both ways, Richard.” Megan stepped closer, and Richard wondered if his world was about to cave or be resurrected. “I’m not as stupid as I look.” Her smile was tender. “I can’t be with a man who doesn’t love me.” His eyes flared, darkened. “Mistake number five. Why the hell do you think I came here?” Meg reined in her galloping heart. “For money and to exact a little revenge.” “Yeah, even I thought that at first, but it was a damn good excuse to get my hands on you.” “Why?” It was a gauntlet thrown down. He gripped her arms, drawing her closer, and Megan felt her world tilt at the darkly intense gaze locked on her. “Because I couldn’t take a breath without thinking about you. I couldn’t stand another day of wondering if we could have made it.” He plowed his fingers into her hair, tipping her head back and opened his heart “I’m in love with you, Megan O’Toole. Deeply, wildly, so-much-that-I-actstupid in love with you.” Her eyes teared. 228

Rick thought he’d shatter inside waiting. “Irish?” He swallowed. “Silence is not a good thing right now.” Megan smiled and a tear fell. “I’m absorbing the moment.” He made a frustrated sound, his gaze scoring her beautiful face. “I’m in love with you, Richard.” “Yeah?” “Oh don’t make another mistake and doubt me now.” He grinned, and his mouth crushed over hers, the force of his kiss bending her back over his arm. She gripped his bare shoulders. “Richard,” she whispered when she came up for air and he took her mouth again and again. “It’s been too long.” He lifted her from the water, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms around his neck. Smiling into each other’s eyes, Rick kissed her, his hands slicking over her wet body. He cupped her round breast, his thumbs circling her nipples. “We never got this far before,” he said, and anticipation spilled over her skin. “Unforeseen circumstances.” She kissed the bullet scar on his shoulder. Rick’s tongue slicked over the graze on her arm. Suddenly, he couldn’t taste enough, get close enough. He touched her and felt clean, washed of his sins, his loneliness. His hand sculpted her body, dipping, stroking and when she was breathless and whimpering he lifted her higher and closed his lips over her nipple, drawing it into his mouth. Her cry scattered a covey of birds. Cool water and the heat of his mouth spread like an erotic whisper over her skin. Trapped in her limbs, he carried her the few feet to the rocks. His hardness pressed and Meg wanted him inside her, wanted to erase the past two years of missing him and feel alive again. And when he lifted her to the edge of the rocks, Megan knew he meant business. And meant to take care of it now. His mouth trailed over her breasts, his tongue rasping as he dipped and laved. He palmed her body as he moved lower, loving the sounds she made, that she couldn’t keep still. He nipped the join of her thigh, her belly, then he met her gaze as he spread her wider. His expression was predatory, and he’d found his prey. Then he tasted her. Meg burned, her insides fighting their way out, to chase the fire and slick power. 229

He toyed and soothed, pulling her to the edge of rapture till she was pounding his shoulders to take her to the summit. But he wouldn’t, and she arched on the barren rock, pleasures abundant as savage luxury ripped and rode through her body in tremendous climax. She screamed his name and went boneless as her world softened. It wasn’t enough. She clawed at him, reaching. “Come to me now.” Kissing her, he carried her to the bank and laid her on the mossy earth. Water lapped at their bodies. She reached, pulling him between her thighs. His erection pressed to her softness, yet he didn’t move, gazing into her eyes. Meg saw more than she expected in Rick’s gaze - saw everything she wanted. Megan knew those eyes were warning her. Not that coming together would be good, that it would be forever. He didn’t say it, but at this moment, she’d give herself to him and go willingly into the fire. And he knew it, trembled with it. He pushed slightly, letting her feel the thickness of him. Her eyes flared wickedly. “You’re torturing me,” she said, lifting her hips. “You’ve been doing that to me for two years.” She stroked his jaw and he turned his face into her palm. “I love you, Richard. You belong to me. Come home.” He pushed into her, filling her in one hard stroke. Her gasp tumbled into his mouth and he drank it, lacing his fingers with her as he withdrew and pushed deeply. Again and again. His blood boiled, pleasure overflowing, and Rick went with it. There was no use restraining himself, Megan was all over him, her mouth, her hands. Driving him crazy. Then she rolled him to his back, straddling him. She laughed and rode him, never taking her gaze from his, never. The spray from the fall coated her in crystal beauty, her body undulating in the sun, and Rick was enthralled just watching her take him like an Amazon princess claiming her prize. The pulse of her climax clawed through him, gripping, demanding he join her now, and Rick thrust into her and let the wet ride take him over the edge. She leaned back, fused to him and in the South American sun, Rick’s heart shattered and he let it open. And like a fair wind, she swept inside and stole his soul. “I love you, Irish.” “And I love you, Callahan.” 230

Callahan. He gazed into her hazel-green eyes. “Am I in trouble?” “If you stop doing that to me, you will be.” “Next sixty years sound good?” For a second her breath caught and he rolled her to her back, their bodies still locked. She stammered, but no words came out. He laughed softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’ve left you speechless. It’s a good look for you.” When she only stared, he said, “Did you think I was going to let you get away this time?” He brought her hand to his mouth, laying a kiss there. “Marry me, Irish.” She searched his eyes, his face. He tightened his hold, his heart dangling by a string. “One word, Meg, that’s all it takes.” She blinked back tears. “Yes!” she said and he kissed her. With each pass of his mouth over hers, loneliness fled, and roots took hold in their love. ****** Seventy-two hours later, give or take a time zone, Rick leaned against the window frame, staring out at the Brazilian skyline. From the adjacent office Rick heard voices. He and Cameron O’Toole had already cleared the air, but apparently Megan wasn’t finished. Rick turned as Cameron O’Toole, silver-haired with a barrel chest like a prize fighter, came in, looking shell-shocked. “Feeling singed?” “By God, the lass has a temper like her mother.” Rick grinned. “Great, isn’t it?” Cameron laughed. “You’re twisted, lad. But if you love her...” Richard’s expression darkened to menacing. “Never doubt that, O’Toole.” “Daddy!” Megan said from the doorway, glaring at her father, then walked toward Rick. His ring glittered on her finger and despite the tailored blue suit, all he could think of was how good she’d looked earlier this morning naked and draped over him. “That’s a dangerous smile, darlin’,” she said softly, moving into his arms.

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“Make you want to go native in the jungle again?” he said before he kissed her deeply. Her father cleared his throat. Meg looked at Rick. “The money is yours, Richard.” “Got a dollar, Cameron?” Rick asked. Frowning, her father produced one. Rick crossed to him, taking it and shoving it into his pocket. He looked back at Meg. “I’d say we’re square.” Megan smiled brightly. “I pay my debts, Callahan,” her father said gruffly. Rick crossed to Meg, and felt a power like he’d never known in her arms. “Megan took care of that.” She blushed. “You’re so bad.” “Just some unfinished business we needed to conclude.” “Oh, we’re not done,” she said, pulling him toward the door and the priest waiting to marry them. He grinned. “Oh, Irish. I hope not.”

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Living the Fantasy By Joanne Rock Keira Hart was the stuff of every man's fantasy: feisty, passionate and beautiful. Maybe that was why hotel mogul Ryan Murphy had never been able to forget her. Certainly no one since had been able to compare. So when Ryan discovered that Keira was teaching in Fiji, he decided to buy a hotel property in the idyllic country and then maybe discuss a more…personal merger with Keira. But Ryan is shocked when Keira seeks him out first—with a protest sign and a bunch of picketers! Since she last saw Ryan, Keira has devoted her life to teaching underprivileged children in third-world countries. Ryan Murphy and his newly acquired hotel are threatening her school, and she's going to stop him—no matter how sexy he is in a suit. Ryan is willing to negotiate. If Keira stays in paradise with him….

Chapter One The whole place oozed romance. Keira Hart tried not to be distracted by the lush, exotic appeal of the Fiji resort. She was only there for business. But as her simple hand-woven sandals sank into powdery sand outside the elegant Venus Hotel, she couldn't resist taking a moment to breathe in the fragrant gardens that almost hid the main building from view. Birds of paradise clustered near bushes exploding with hibiscus blooms. Bright red heliconia flowers spilled everywhere, the long, chainlike blossoms stretching taller than she was in some places. A few orange doves nestled in the branches of a decorative palm, a bright contrast to the endless turquoise water that lapped at the beach nearby. No wonder this was a sought-after vacation destination for honeymooners. But Keira wasn't here for love. She was here to do battle. Dragging her eyes away from the view of the placid Koro Sea, she marched into the reception area of the Venus Hotel. "I'm here to see Ryan Murphy," she announced to a slim native Fijian woman dressed in a cream-colored suit. By comparison, Keira's wrinkled linen shorts and peasant blouse were a little on the shabby side. But then, that was the idea—she'd dressed to make an impression very much at odds with the highbrow experience offered by the Venus. The clerk peered to her right, where a wall of windows looked out over a courtyard and a landscaped pool. A few bikini-clad sunbathers dotted the area while two men in ties and button-downs sat at a patio table close to the windows. She recognized the one on the left instantly. The thick dark brown hair. A winning smile so adept at making the world bend to his wishes. And, once upon a time, so adept at turning her inside out… "He's in a meeting, miss," the woman behind the reception desk informed her. "Shall I leave your name?" 233

But before the other woman had finished speaking, Keira was already on her way toward the door to the pool. "Thank you, but I'll give it to him myself," she called over her shoulder, half hoping the receptionist would phone for security. Frankly, the more of a ruckus she made here today, the better it would be for her cause. Not sticking around to see what the woman would do, Keira pushed the handle on the door to the exterior and marched through it. Sunlight flooded her eyes, making her lose sight of her quarry for a moment as she walked. She blinked as her vision readjusted. And strangely, by the time her focus cleared, she was staring directly into the sea-glass-green eyes of her long-ago lover. Ryan Murphy. *** Ryan felt the recognition in his veins even before his brain supplied him with her name. It had been eight long years since he'd seen the earthy brunette stunner who'd just appeared on the pool deck of his company's newest resort acquisition. Eight years since his hands had tangled in those kinky, sun-streaked curls. They'd met on a college trip, backpacking around Nepal. For fourteen days, they'd been inseparable, scaling mountainsides and exploring the Himalayas. But she'd been an education major and a junior. He was squeezing in the trip right before graduating with his MBA, a onetime bid to be young and carefree before the responsibility of his family's corporate empire fell on his shoulders. He and Keira hadn't even tried to stay in touch, their lives destined to take very different directions. But he'd never been able to forget her, and recently he'd felt the urge to search for her, since she never seemed to return to her family's home in Boston—Ryan knew because he'd done some checking. A routine search for her had yielded references to a few exotic places around the globe, which made sense since she'd wanted to travel and teach. And when he'd received fresh information that suggested she was in Fiji, Ryan had suddenly had the inclination to investigate hotel purchases in this corner of the world, ultimately finding the Venus. He'd been caught up with the business takeover this week, but he'd planned to seek her out. Now, it seemed, she'd saved him the trouble. "Is everything okay?" the hotel's former manager asked him. They'd been meeting for the past hour, discussing the transition of the hotel into the Murphy Resorts family. The other man turned in his seat to follow Ryan's gaze. "Someone you know?" He started to answer but the question became moot as Keira barreled toward them, curls bouncing on her shoulders. Something about the determined set to her jaw suggested she hadn't experienced the same fond walk down memory lane that he had. She appeared…mad? "Yes. I need a few moments, okay, Jon?" Already on his feet, Ryan prepared to greet her, a surge of anticipation firing through him.

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"Excuse me." She arrived at the table and nodded to the former manager as the man departed. Then, she turned stormy gray eyes on Ryan. "Hello, Mr. Murphy." Mad. No doubt about it. He'd somehow managed to tick off a woman he hadn't seen in the better part of a decade—without even speaking. That was a new personal record. But he hadn't become a hotel mogul by being easily intimidated. And then he saw the sign in her hand.

Chapter Two "Keira." He took in her strappy sandals and short linen shorts that showcased her tanned feet and long legs, then the almost sheer blouse and the assortment of leather thong necklaces she wore around her neck, each necklace bearing a different colored stone. And then the sign in her hand that read Takeover = Tragedy. "It's a pleasure to see you." "I'm not sure you'll think it's a pleasure once I tell you that I've arranged a picket in front of your new hotel." She pointed to the window that led to the reception area. If he looked all the way through the glass wall on the other side of the building, he could see handmade signs and a small ring of protestors. Damn. He couldn't afford that kind of trouble here. Hell, Fijian politics were sticky enough without a protest to make the bureaucrats even more jittery. "Why would you do something like that?" Whatever she was about to say got lost in the shouts of security officers as they plowed through the door to the pool deck. Keira smiled as she saw them, as if she did this kind of thing every day. She hoisted her sign and, before he knew it, three hotel staffers were dragging away the most tantalizing woman he'd ever met. *** For a moment, Keira thought Ryan might really let his security team call the local authorities. And, no matter how much she'd wanted to cause a big stir today, the idea of ending up in a jail cell in a foreign country was frightening. In fact, it was something she'd been warned about as an American citizen who worked as a traveling teacher. So far, Keira had managed to work for eight years in underprivileged parts of the globe without seeing the inside of a prison, and she hoped fervently to maintain the streak, even if she did want to protest Ryan Murphy's hotel purchase. She'd just wanted to earn a spot on the local news and make some waves to draw attention to her school, not be arrested. So when Ryan didn't lift a finger to stop security from taking her away—not even when they tugged her back into the main building—Keira knew a moment's pause for her theatrics. "Wait!" the clerk in reception called to the men who held Keira. The woman had her phone to her ear and listened intently before covering the mouthpiece and shouting more instructions in rapid-fire Fijian. "What did she say?" Keira asked one of the men, a beefy kid who couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen.

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The locals almost all spoke English, and Keira herself spoke a reasonable amount of Fijian, but she'd missed the command that made her captors nudge her in a new direction—toward a cluster of back offices and into an empty conference room. The door closed behind them, sealing them into airconditioned privacy. Visions of a lengthy police questioning made her stomach clench. "What are we doing here?" she asked Mr. Beefy, hoping her twinge of panic didn't show. The door to the conference room swung wide and Ryan strode in. She drank in the sight of him, still knock-your-knees-out attractive. Tall and athletically built, he looked as comfortable in a silk suit as he had in a parka back when they'd been together. She'd always remembered him as a handsome man, but she'd forgotten the potent effect of his personal charisma. When Ryan walked into a room, he was the man everyone wanted to be close to. "Thank you, gentlemen." He nodded briefly to the guards. "You may go, but I would like you to welcome the guests who are carrying signs out front. Please invite them to lunch at the hotel's expense and show them where they can swim and enjoy the views." He moved aside from the door so his personal army of three—along with her sign—could troop out the door past him. Keira knew her picket protest was about to disintegrate, and she begrudgingly admired his tactic. "I'll never get my cause on the news if you're lavishing the picketers with food." Though she found it hard to be angry when she was still reeling with relief that he hadn't called the authorities. "But I suppose you already know that." "Perhaps we could discuss your cause instead." His magnetic green eyes sought hers in the quiet conference room as he closed the door behind the departed security guards. "Why don't you tell me what's behind all this?"

Chapter Three The air-conditioning blowing softly overhead wasn't nearly enough to mask the surprising flare of heat she felt as Ryan stepped closer. She had done her best to put Ryan Murphy out of her mind after their crazy and impetuous affair eight years ago when she'd been a giggly college coed, high on life and clean mountain air. Ryan had been a genius with a map on the daily group hikes. His strong and quietly commanding personality made him a natural-born leader. And while she wasn't usually very good at following, she'd been so out of her element and so eager to simply soak up the once-in-a-lifetime experience that she'd gladly sought him out to ensure she never strayed too far from the group. The long days together had led to long nights sharing…everything—his concerns about the massive shoes he'd be stepping into as his father's heir at Murphy Resorts, her need to change the world by touching the lives of underprivileged children. Funny how easy it was to confide your secrets to someone you thought you'd never see again. Those secrets—both of the emotional and the sensual variety—came roaring back to her now as Ryan reached out to her. To touch her? Her heart galloped, the past melding into the present. 236

"Please." He gestured toward a chair at the table. "Take a seat and we'll talk about this. Why are you picketing my hotel?" Realizing he'd only been trying to be polite, Keira shook off the moment and sat forward in the seat. "When you took over the Venus, the hotel's funding of my school was cut off. Fifty-five at-risk teens and underserved children are now losing their chance at an education thanks to you." *** "You work at the Moving Forward School." Ryan settled into a chair across from her, trying to focus on this cause that was so important to Keira and not his own reaction to her. Because, truth be told, that reaction had been fast and insistent. Even more intense than he'd imagined it might be after thinking about her so much over the past six months, ever since he'd broken up with the last of a long string of casual girlfriends. He'd remembered Keira had affected him differently, but he wasn't sure if the spark would still be the same. Now he knew the truth. The spark was hotter than ever. "I worked at what used to be Moving Forward," she corrected, her light brown eyebrows stitched together in concern. "We now have no budget to run it. The water and the electricity in our building have been shut off. I'm meeting summer students at local tearooms to try and help them finish their programs." "You've always been very dedicated," he observed, remembering how committed she'd been to teaching. "Unfortunately, dedication won't meet the students' needs," she countered, picking up one of the silver pens in front of each leather chair around the conference table. "I'm sorry about that, Keira, but the previous owners of the hotel were corrupt," he told her, hoping she would keep it quiet. "We need to examine their books in careful detail to see where the profits went. The Fijian government wouldn't allow a foreign takeover unless we agreed to transparent accounting. Until we can account for every dime, we have to shut down all outgoing revenue streams." "We're a school!" She leaned forward in her chair, the silver pen clutched tight in her hand. "We spend the support dollars on books and utilities. That's it. We're not even on Vanua Levu," she explained, referencing the more tourist-friendly northern island where they now sat. "The school is in Viti Levu, where poverty is much higher. I can assure you the costs are low." "That doesn't change—" "Look at me." She gestured to herself, rolling her chair back a few inches to give him a long view. "I'm not raking in the big bucks, Ryan. I do this job because I love it." Perhaps she wanted him to focus on her clothes, which were admittedly well worn and simply designed. But his eyes went to her subtle curves and the tan line of a halter bathing suit that she must have worn the last time she went to the beach. He imagined tracing that pale streak with his finger. His tongue. The visceral images, now seared into his brain, weren't the garden-variety diversions a man thought about when looking at an attractive woman. These were far more forceful. And given his recent

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disconnect from women—a hiatus that had gone on for longer than he'd intended—he couldn't help but pay attention. He wanted Keira again. And he could think of no reason he shouldn't have her. A plan started to form in his mind…. "Maybe we can help each other."

Chapter Four "Does that mean you'll reinstate funding to the school?" Keira wondered if this could be simpler than she'd feared. "I know Murphy Resorts has the resources to foot the bill, and the school would be a wonderful addition to the company's humanitarian efforts—" "I can't promise anything." Ryan's arm rested on the conference table, his crisp white shirt cuff folded back to reveal strong forearms and a watch that could probably buy the whole school building back in Lautoka on Fiji's larger southern island. "But I'm open to hearing your arguments. I'll be here for the rest of the week, if you want to stay and spend some time with me." "Spend time with you?" The suggestion was a shock given that she'd interrupted his business lunch and tried to stage a protest in front of his swank hotel. She twirled the pen on the conference table, trying to think through the implications of his offer. "I hear it's a long trip back to Viti Levu and the ferries don't run every day, anyhow. Why not spend a couple of days at the Venus so we can catch up?" He rose to his feet and extended a hand toward her. "Reservations are light this week. You can have your own villa by the water." Sliding her hand lightly into his, she rose a little unsteadily. Ryan Murphy wanted to spend time with her? Catch up? The heat in his eyes suggested he might like more than that. And frankly, she didn't have a good track record for resisting him, either. "I'm not sure." Her voice caught on a husky note as the pleasure of his touch washed over her. With an effort, she retrieved her hand from his. "Wouldn't that make me a sellout? You've already bought the silence of my protestors with cassava cake and coconut fish, I'll bet. Are you trying to make me cave to the decadence of this place?" Ryan grinned. An open, honest smile that didn't strike her as fitting his cagey CEO rep. He looked more like the MBA graduate she'd met in Nepal eight years ago. A guy who had thoroughly captured her heart. "Keira, I'd bet the family fortune that you're made of sterner stuff than that. One night in a posh villa isn't going to make you forget about the kids you teach. So why not enjoy yourself while you're here?" Because it wasn't the night in the villa that worried her. Standing here, caught in the charismatic charm of a man who was as commanding as he'd been all those years ago when he'd led her through the Himalayas, Keira feared that getting to know him better might lead to complications she wasn't ready for. Already, her heart beat like a native lali drum and her hand still tingled where she'd touched him. "I could use accommodations," she admitted. "You're right about the ferries. My return ticket is in three days. I came right here from the boat this morning."

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And she could hold strong against the allure of Ryan Murphy. Especially if it meant she'd convince him to reopen the school. "Great." He ushered her toward the exit, his hand a brief phantom touch at the center of her back before he opened the door for her. "I'll show you where you'll be staying. I've got the villa right next door."

Chapter Five Ryan gave himself a lot of credit for walking away from Keira earlier. He'd showed her to her beach villa—a bure, she'd corrected him—and almost swallowed his tongue at the sight of the open floor plan with the huge four-poster bed in the middle of the space. The bed overlooked the water, the whole structure open to the breezes in the mild climate. She'd obviously been dazzled by the property and the view. He'd been so tense standing that close to both her and a bed that he'd left her alone to be sure he didn't end up drawing her onto that mattress with him. So he'd made the short trek between her bure and his and arranged with the staff for a private dinner—a candlelit meal on a dock out on the water under the stars. He needed to soften Keira up for his real proposal: to explore the spark that still existed between them. He wasn't sure how she'd react to that news, let alone the revelation that he'd purposely bought a hotel in Fiji with the intent of seeking her out. He hadn't meant to cut the funding to her school. That had been the result of the Murphy Resorts' standard bookkeeping procedures after a takeover and the extra pressure from the Fijian government. But he felt sure he could smooth things out with Keira. First, however, he wanted to spend some time with her. "Knock, knock." He spoke the words since the door to the bungalow was propped open to the frangipaniscented breeze. "May I come in?" "Ryan?" Her voice hummed pleasantly along his skin as she drifted into view. A silky blue-and-yellow skirt was tied around her waist, leaving one leg exposed. A lemon-colored tank top went with it, but she still wore all the leather necklaces he'd seen earlier. Her dark corkscrew curls were damp in some places, and the waves were longer because of it. "You look beautiful." In eight years, he'd never dated anyone remotely similar to her. Then again, maybe he hadn't wanted to invite comparisons when Keira was so unique. "Thanks to the hotel gift shop." She picked at the skirt, thumbing the silky fabric gently. "It's the closest I've come to boutique shopping in a long time." Releasing the material, she turned off the overhead fan. "Shall we go? I'm starving." So was he, but he didn't think dinner would help. A spectacular pink sunset painted half the sky as he led her out into the evening. It made a nice backdrop for the small dock out in the water as they rounded a few bushes and stepped onto the beach. "Oh, wow." Keira stopped to take in the sight of lanterns ringing the wood planks and the white luminaries lining the narrow boardwalk down to the private eating area. "This is for us?"

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"For you, actually. I don't normally go to these lengths when I'm traveling for business, but I wanted to make up for the last time I bought you dinner." He took her hand, drawing her toward the long walkway over the water. Her touch was cool and sure, reminding him of all the times he'd guided her over fallen logs or through rocky passes in the mountains. "Who knew there would be meat inside those dumplings?" "It was a poor send-off for a vegetarian, and not exactly how I wanted our last meal together to go." He remembered they'd tried to put a light spin on the dinner, so certain they were all wrong for one another and it was better to say goodbye. Not realizing—at least he hadn't—that they'd found something rare together. But he kept that to himself. For now, he needed her to agree to another proposition. And this dinner was the first step in getting her to say yes. *** An hour and a half later, still picking at a dessert that was a slice of coconut-pineapple heaven, Keira enjoyed the moment and the man even as she waited for the other shoe to drop. She could tell he wanted something. It was in the way he'd avoided talking about her school or how they'd spend the next few days. It was even more apparent in this extravagant meal that felt like it was a part of his corporate mogul facade rather than the man himself. Ryan. She'd known a simpler, less calculating man eight years ago. A man who could start a fire seemingly out of thin air and who would rather take in the mountain views than join the group lunches. There hadn't been a shred of artifice in him or in their time together. It had been so real. So wonderful. And as much as she loved the candlelit dinner in paradise—and especially the coconut-pineapple cake— Keira didn't appreciate this cat-and-mouse game they seemed to have been playing over dinner. "Ryan, I'm having a hard time relaxing," she confessed finally, pushing aside her plate. "Would you feel more comfortable back at your bure?" he asked, instantly concerned. "I'd feel more comfortable if you told me what was really on your mind. Remember when we used to just talk—openly? Without all the maneuvering or the elegant trappings? The dinner was wonderful, but I feel like it's leading up to some scheme, and I can't enjoy myself until I know what it is." His dark eyebrows shot high and she knew her guess had been correct. He pushed aside his after-dinner wine—something dark purple and probably ridiculously expensive. "You're the only person I've ever known who has read me that easily." He leaned back in his chair to observe her, his skin visible in the open collar of his black shirt. He'd removed a cream linen jacket earlier and it now hung on the back of his chair. "Business adversaries have accused me of having the ideal poker face at a negotiating table." "Not with me. Remember, I knew you before you were a business kingpin." She smiled, enjoying that advantage a little more than she probably should. "So what's up? I can't imagine how I can possibly be of any assistance to your company or what I could do in return for your help with the school." 240

"It's not business. It's personal." She had no idea how she could feel the simmering chemistry between them burn hotter just then, but it definitely flared. It danced along her skin like an electrical shock, even though he hadn't moved any closer to her. "I don't understand." She shook her head, fearing she understood all too well. "I want to resurrect our affair."

Chapter Six "I want to resurrect our affair." "Why didn't you tell me that dinner came with strings attached?" Keira pushed away from the table and stood. "There are no strings." He remained in his seat, wary of spooking her when he could see she was already on edge. "I've enjoyed this night more than you can imagine, even if nothing else happens between us. But you pushed me to say what was on my mind before I'd massaged the wording, so there you have it. I want you, Keira." He'd thought it even before he came to Fiji. He'd known it for a fact as soon as he'd seen her this afternoon. But now that they'd spent time together, he wanted her all the more. "This isn't college." She crossed her arms and leaned on the wooden rail spanning one side of the small floating dock. "I don't jump into things like that anymore." She frowned. "I never did, actually—except with you." "And it's still me, so you wouldn't be jumping into anything. I'm a known commodity." He'd negotiated deals all over the world, but he couldn't remember a time he'd ever wanted his persuasive skills to work as much as right now. Then again, maybe he shouldn't think of this as a negotiation, especially since she wasn't impressed with his meteoric rise in business. Would she even like who he was now? While he'd been taking over premiere properties all around the globe to add to the Murphy hotel chain, Keira had been teaching in the poorest countries, seeing a very different world from him, even though they'd traveled to many of the same places. He admired that about her. "You're jet-setting from one world-class destination to another and I'm living in one of the most povertystricken parts of Fiji." She gestured toward the elegant bures and main building of the Venus that dotted the picturesque shore. "The kind of place you'd never buy a hotel. How is that conducive to an affair? We probably won't even be in the same hemisphere for more than a week." "Whether or not I'd buy a hotel near your school doesn't have anything to do with this." He rose and took a step toward her. He wanted to wear away some of her arguments before he introduced the most persuasive one. Just standing next to her felt like being near a magnetic field, the force tugging them together so real it made the hair on his arms stand up. "I think it does." She turned away to look out over the Koro Sea under the moonlight, her elbows resting on the railing. "It means the same things that kept us apart eight years ago are still a problem now."

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"But we never really tested it out back then, did we?" He leaned onto the wooden rail beside her. "We just assumed we couldn't pull it off because our dreams were so big and we couldn't see how to fit each other inside them. But while we're both living those dreams now, we also recognize that there's a dark side— career accomplishments don't keep you warm at night."

Chapter Seven "Career accomplishments don't keep you warm at night." The words made Keira shiver. Partly because they were right on the money, describing her situation with a prescient wisdom that surprised her. But also because she had a sudden urge to be kept warm tonight. By Ryan. Memories of sharing a sleeping bag on the attic floor of a Nepalese guest house flooded her senses. She remembered the woodsy scent that clung to them from a campfire. The cool press of the sleeping bag's metal zipper into her back as they rolled around the plank floor together, their skin slick with heat. "So what do you say?" Ryan took a half step closer so that his shoulder brushed hers. Their forearms aligned and then they touched, too. "We could give it the old college try." At the contact, the attraction that had been simmering between them cranked up a notch to a slow boil. She stared hard at the placid waters below her feet, where the sea lapped the dock, willing herself to cool down and think before she leaped into anything with Ryan. But that didn't stop her from feeling the press of his arm against hers or the slow stroke of his fingers up the inside of her forearm. He'd never been a clumsy lover, not even when they'd been so hungry for each other that they couldn't wait to take their clothes off. Ryan Murphy would make love to her with the same supreme competence he exhibited in every other aspect of his life. He gave a woman his complete focus. After all the hardships she'd endured these past eight years, all the sacrifices she'd made to bring knowledge and a little social healing to at-risk youths, how could she deny herself that kind of pleasure? For that matter, how could she deny herself the chance to fill the lonely part of herself that rarely had time or the resources to socialize? Surely she'd earned a day, a week, even a few hours just for herself. Did it even matter how long? Her school had been closed, so technically she was unemployed. And although she'd been meeting with students in the summer to tutor those who needed help to graduate, they had known about her trip to Vanua Levu to try and reopen the school. They didn't expect her back for days. She needed this. "Maybe you're right," she acknowledged, lifting his hand and his arm so she could slide underneath it. "I could use a break from reality."

Chapter Eight Ryan swept her off her feet.

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Keira smiled at the gesture as he carried her down the narrow dock and back to her bure. She locked her arms around his neck, her breath catching. "I'm pretty sure I could have managed the walk from the beach. I've built houses with my own two hands, navigated third-world ghettos and trekked the Himalayas, after all." She tucked her head to his chest, hearing his heart thrum beneath her ear. "All the more reason you ought to let me spoil you for a few days." He stalked over the dark beach toward the guest cottage where solar lights illuminated a path through night-blooming flowers. "We want a break from reality, right?" "It could be fun to live out a fantasy." "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours." "But you live the fantasy every day. Every property Murphy Resorts owns is as beautiful as this one." "Then I guess we'll just have to focus on your fantasies." They reached the deep front porch where a daybed full of cushions and flower petals overlooked the sea. A champagne bucket waited nearby. "I see you've waved your Midas wand here," she observed, overwhelmed by the beauty of the place and his thoughtfulness. "Thank you for this." "My pleasure." He settled her on the daybed and reached for a dimmer switch on the exterior wall. As he moved the lever, the exterior lights around the bungalow lowered and then went out. The only light came from the moon as a warm breeze drifted through the dense foliage all around the porch. When he returned to the bed, he sat on the edge while she lounged like a pampered diva. His arms bracketed her, his fists pressing into the mattress on either side of her hips. He looked into her eyes. Waiting. "I'm not sure if I should talk about fantasies with you. Not when we could be adversaries again three days from now." She didn't know what their future held, but she was certain she wouldn't give up trying to convince him to reopen Moving Forward. "You're okay with an affair, but talking about fantasies crosses a line?" "It's a different kind of intimacy." Although she wondered why she thought she could compartmentalize lovemaking like that. For a moment, she considered pulling back. Reconsidering this night that had her emotions running wild. But he didn't press it, instead leaning away to pull the champagne from the silver bucket on a nearby stand. "Then I'll have to keep running on blind faith and hoping I'm getting it right." He tugged off the foil and palmed the cork. "And I'm guessing you wouldn't mind a toast." Especially not with the kind of champagne he had access to. Long ago in Boston, she'd attended events that would warrant this kind of vintage. Her family was well off. And while she'd turned her back on the 243

self-indulgent lifestyle to pursue different dreams, she'd always had a taste for good bubbly. Her mouth watered. "Just a little, maybe." She accepted the flute he handed her, the fizz creating the lightest rain along her finger. He lifted his glass higher. "To chance encounters." "Cheers." Bringing the golden drink to her lips, she savored the sweetness, knowing it wouldn't last but wanting to enjoy every last drop.

Chapter Nine Ryan couldn't take his eyes off Keira's mouth. As she lounged on the outdoor daybed, her lips glistened from the champagne in the moonlight. Would she taste as sweet as he remembered? Or had he romanticized his memories of her because she was part of a youthful rebellion that had been one of the best times of his life? He'd put his responsibilities on hold and left behind the business and family obligations that ruled his existence 24/7. Only then had he met the beautiful, brash, fiercely independent woman before him. Setting aside his glass, he half feared finding out that he'd built up his sensual memories of her to unrealistic proportions. But he had to know the truth. "It's delicious," she murmured, her tongue darting over her lip as if to capture every drop. "Is it? Guess I'll have to taste for myself." Leaning close, he kissed her. Slowly. Gently. He took her mouth with deliberate care, remembering the soft contours and slick heat. But no matter how softly they connected, the power of that brief touch affected him like a jet in turbulence, knocking the floor out from under him. He grappled for control of himself, needing to rein in the desire that yawned wide inside. Because, yeah, she was every bit as sweet as he remembered. Sweeter even. Complex and exciting and very ready for more. With supreme effort, he drew back. Forced his eyes open. Only to find her staring at him, wide-eyed and…indignant? "I hope you know you can't start something like that without finishing it." Her voice carried a husky note that stroked him like a seductive caress. "And I hope you ate well because I'm going to be using up every ounce of your energy tonight." She arched an eyebrow. "You've never lacked confidence, have you, Ryan? Bring it on." ***

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He'd been so controlled all night. So content to wait and watch her. But Keira could see the moment he shrugged off the hold he kept on himself. There was a shift in his body language, some tension in his muscles that went from restrained to completely engaged in less than a heartbeat. Then his arms were around her. His lips rained kisses down the side of her neck and into the curve of her shoulder. He molded her body to his, her breasts flattening against his chest as he lowered her to the mattress. Stretched out on top of her. Things moved too fast and yet at just the right speed. She couldn't have withstood a slow seduction when her body was so keyed up. She hadn't even been able to wait for him to proposition her at his own pace tonight. All evening, she'd been tense and edgy, and now she understood why. It was because she'd been suppressing the urge for this. What she really wanted. The scent of jasmine wafted up as they crushed the white petals beneath them. Ryan kissed the strap of her tank top off, the fabric falling away until he tugged the bodice lower with his teeth. She moved to help him, her fingers clumsy from lack of blood flow when all sensation seemed centered on her breasts. Her sex. "It's been forever for me," she whispered, hoping to excuse her sudden fervor as she unbuttoned his shirt and splayed her fingers against his hot, naked chest. He untied the knot that held her pareo around her waist, baring her to her panties. "It's been forever since you," he returned, helping her as she tried to work the zipper on his pants. "That's what's killing me. It's been too long, Keira." He had them both naked in another minute, a condom already in hand. Her breath was so sporadic she thought she'd probably lose consciousness, but it didn't matter. It had always been like this between them. A desperate scramble to hang on to something fleeting and impossible. "Please," she urged between kisses, her fingers traveling down his chest, smoothing over hard abs and then over an even harder erection. "Hurry." The night breeze blew over her skin with teasing fingers when he leaned back to roll the condom on. Their gazes locked in the moonlight for a moment before he entered her in one smooth, sure stroke. She cried out, her body already pulsing with the warning spasms of her release. She held herself perfectly still, wanting to wait for him. Arm anchoring her waist, he held her right where he wanted her as he started a slow, steady thrust. Building harder. Faster. Holding back became impossible, and soon she succumbed to the full, lush orgasm that squeezed her muscles, over and over again. Dazed, she could hardly string words together in her mind as the deep, intense pleasure flooded her. But she had enough strength to lock her ankles around Ryan's waist and hold him tight.

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When his release came, the fierceness of it matched and exceeded hers. He held her through it, his hands trembling with the force of what was happening as he tangled his fingers in her hair and kissed her face. Her lips. Slowly. Gently. The moment was so beautiful she didn't ever want the night to end. And she knew whatever had happened between them eight years ago was just the tip of the iceberg compared to what they'd just discovered tonight.

Chapter Ten Three hours later, Ryan had depleted the supply of prophylactics. And despite the smack-talking he'd done earlier about wearing out Keira, he wanted tonight to be about more than sex. He wasn't sure when he'd come to that conclusion. Probably once he'd realized that she was every bit as fantastic as he remembered. Sexy as hell with a generous heart. She wasn't impressed by his family's money or access to five-star properties all over the world. And even though she'd definitely enjoyed the dinner and champagne, he could imagine her forgetting all about things like that for another eight years. If he let her. Right now, with the warm night breeze stirring the last of the crushed flower petals on the porch-front daybed, Ryan couldn't imagine saying goodbye to her again. Not in three days, anyway. He just hoped she wouldn't walk when she discovered their meeting on Fiji hadn't been an accident. Would she write it off as more negotiation and manipulation from the corporate shark he'd become? One more sign that his life revolved around wealth and privilege while she was most concerned with authenticity and people? "Where have you been the last eight years?" he asked as he pulled the sheet over her and smoothed the hair away from her face. Her curls were wild in the moonlight. "Teaching and traveling." She reached into the champagne bucket for one of the bottles of water stored beneath the ice. "I track jobs through an internet community of international teachers. I go to whatever schools attract me the most. Sometimes it's the story of a special student or an area that's really in need. Other times, I've made moves just to see more of the world." His chest tightened as he realized how vastly different their priorities had become. What would he have to offer a woman like her? "So where else have you worked besides Fiji?" "Laos, Bahrain, a few east African destinations that started when I went to Uganda." She sat up enough to take a drink and then set her water on the floor. "Do you ever make it home?" He remembered her family lived in Boston and that her father worked in the finance industry. "Do you see your family much?" "I've been home twice," she answered carefully.

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"Twice in eight years?" "I studied overseas in Morocco for my senior year and then I went home for graduation. My parents don't care to travel to 'questionable' parts of the world to visit me, so I only see them if I go home. I went back for a few weeks a couple of Christmases ago, but it was awkward." "They don't sound very supportive of your choices." "They think I've squandered my opportunities in order to pursue an ill-advised career." He wanted to ask more about her folks and why she didn't get along with them. It must hurt to have your own parents write you off like that. But something about her expression warned him away from the question. "My mom gives all of us a hard time if we don't come home at least three times a year," he offered. "Except for Danny and Jack. They went into the navy so they only have to show up on Cape Cod once a year, although Jack just got out so he'll have to put in his time at home like the rest of us. Mom is pretty hardcore about family." "Any woman who raises five sons and still has enough love and energy left over to foster a sixth would have to be committed to family." "She's great. And now that I think about it, I've got to call her soon. I haven't been home since Christmas." "You have amazing parents like that and you haven't been home since December?" She scraped up a few of the jasmine petals and tossed them playfully at his chest. "Boo. Hiss." "Hey!" He defended himself by trapping her throwing fingers. "If you don't like it, why don't you go home with me tomorrow? Hit Cape Cod for an old-fashioned lobster feast on the beach?" He wasn't sure what demon possessed him to ask—it sure wasn't a burning need to appease his mom. Maybe he just wanted Keira to see the one authentic connection he did have in his life. His family. He might not have formed many deep relationships or changed the world for at-risk kids the way Keira had, but whatever heart he possessed was rooted in his family and his home back on the Cape. And if he took her there, perhaps it would make her see him as more than a corporate shark. "Yes, if I had the Murphy family jet at my disposal I'm sure that would be easy. But I can't even go back to the other island until the ferry returns in three days." "But we do have the company jet at our disposal. And you did agree to spend a few days with me." Maybe the trip would also be a good time to tell her the truth about why he'd come to Fiji. "While I waited for a ferry, I had the option of hopping aboard Murphy Air?" she protested, although the argument seemed a little halfhearted. "Well, the plane's not scheduled to go to Viti Levu with a passenger of one. But it could take both of us to the Cape for the day. We could probably be there in ten hours." He wanted to do this for her even if she didn't set foot in Boston. She'd been working hard for years to make the world a better place. Didn't she deserve a few days of fun and indulgence?

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"You're insane." She shook her head, curls sliding along her shoulders where he wanted to touch her again. "No. I'm your break from reality, remember?" He tucked her closer so she could lay her head on his shoulder. "Come on, Keira. We only have a few days. Let's live the fantasy."

Chapter Eleven "Go fish." Keira rearranged her cards, double-checking that she didn't have a red three. She sat across from Ryan in his posh airplane on their way to Cape Cod. He'd told her the model but she couldn't remember what he'd called it. Her family had money to spare, but they'd never traveled much, so the world of private aircraft was all new to her. As someone who liked to see the world, Keira could definitely appreciate the benefits. Having the ability to tour new sights and jetting off to where she needed to be on a moment's notice would be great. And in their current situation, it felt decadent to drink iced tea and play cards to pass the time while they recovered from their long night together in her bure back in Fiji. "I can't believe this is the only card game you know." Ryan set down a matched set of black tens on the coffee table. "Teaching is the only sedentary thing I do. If you wanted to canoe or fish, I'd be all over it. But I never learned games that didn't involve a lot of activity." He tossed his cards on the table. "Then I've got the perfect game for you." She could tell by the heat in his eyes what it was. "Really?" Using the hand she'd been dealt, she fanned herself as she watched him. "How about a round of show-and-tell?" he suggested, surprising her. "We can ask each other pointed questions and burn off some energy as we, you know, show." Setting aside her cards on the polished oak table, she allowed her eyes to drift lower on his body. "I already know what I want to see." "But since I was winning at Go Fish, I think I get to ask first." She sighed, even though she was having fun with him. She still couldn't believe she'd hopped on a plane this morning with only a small bag of things she'd bought at the gift shop. But being with Ryan again felt like an adventure. She was beginning to realize that it hadn't just been the Himalayas that had made their time together so enjoyable. Ryan's sense of the unexpected—like playing show-and-tell on the plane, or making love under the stars last night—made her feel deliciously alive. "Fine." Edging out from the table, Keira rose to her feet and stood a few feet away from him. Her heart picked up speed as she waited for what would happen next. "What do you want to see?" Spinning a captain's chair toward her, he gripped the arms and made a leisurely perusal of her body. 248

On cue, everywhere his light green eyes touched seemed to come alive. Blood flowed faster, her pulse throbbing. Her mouth went dry while she waited for his request. "I want to see…" She leaned closer. "…your necklaces."

Chapter Twelve Ryan had wondered about the necklaces Keira wore. They were leather and looked handmade. There were probably ten thin strands around her neck, each one leading to a different charm or piece of colored glass. Now, she shook her head as she straightened, obviously surprised he'd used his turn at show-and-tell for a request that didn't involve getting naked. Of course, that would come later. He just wanted to get to know her better first. "You wicked man, making me think you wanted something naughty." "That's for my second question," he admitted, reaching out to cup her hips where she stood in front of him. "But I've been curious about the necklaces." Reaching into the neck of her simple white blouse, she tugged the mass of leather thongs out so that they lay on top of the cotton. "They're gifts from my students in Uganda, where I had my first teaching assignment." He rose from his seat so he could see them better. Fingering a yellow crystal, he watched the light prism through the facets. "Do you wear them all the time?" "Mostly. I like to keep my kids close to my heart. Since I can't wear gifts from each one, these represent all of them." "Each necklace is different." He found a pink charm that he recognized as a brand logo that might have been attached to leather goods. "I gave them the leather early in the school year to make necklaces of themselves. We made paper decorations to string on them. But at the end of the year, one of the girls organized the class to find more permanent objects to re-string them with." She flipped a tiny silver key to the front, the kind that might fit into a jewelry box. "They each found something unique." "You must have been touched." Though while he knew those kids had had an impact on Keira, he would bet she'd been even more of an influence on them. If he'd learned one thing in his hotel takeovers, it was 249

that you always kept the employees who were passionate about their jobs. That kind of dedication and joy in the work was easy to spot. And Keira glowed with it. "Do you have a picture of that class?" "Of course. I only have a million pictures. I don't go into my assignments with much, but I do take a camera. I plan a lot of activities with photographs, too, because the kids don't usually have access to them. I like to make keepsake photos for them with their friends. It helps them remember a healthy, safe place when they…" She cleared her throat as she tucked the necklaces back into her blouse. "When they have to go back to the world outside the school walls." Breathing in her scent and her goodness, Ryan counted himself fortunate to have found her again. And yet seeing how committed she was to children from all over the world, he had to wonder if he and Keira had a future. The same barriers that had been there eight years ago still existed. If anything, she was even more passionate about her work now. And he'd dug in deeper with his father's company, slowly taking full command and earning the CEO position. "You're an amazing woman." Ryan sketched a kiss along her cheek, cupping the back of her neck. She felt so right…but as he held her lightly in his arms, he knew his first doubt about his plan to win her. She didn't care about wealth and privilege—in fact had always sacrificed personal comfort for a job. But he'd built his life around wealth and privilege. Stripped of those, did he have anything left to offer her?

Chapter Thirteen Keira anticipated a bout of nervousness at being back in the same state as her parents. Venturing anywhere close to Boston reminded her of all the ways she'd fallen short of family expectations. She'd gotten past it for the most part, but sometimes she craved the kind of family that Ryan talked about. Still, she'd thought she'd squashed most of the nerves…until she saw Ryan's house. It was a mammoth structure perched on a hill in a little town called Chatham on the southeastern coast of Cape Cod. The home loomed before her as she stepped from the airport cab. Ryan paid the driver for bringing in their bags and she swallowed hard. "It's huge," she observed, wondering why one man needed a house that probably ran upward of four thousand square feet. "Not compared to the other houses on the block." Ryan tucked his arm around her and steered her toward the front door, his touch instantly reminding her of other, more sensual touches shared the night before. "I got it because of its location. My parents live a mile down the beach, which works well since my father and I do a lot of business from his home office. This gives me my own space, but it's close enough that I can quickly get to and from my parents'." His thumb made idle circles on her waist while he opened the lock. Goose bumps traveled over her skin and she wondered how she could want him so soon after all the attention they'd lavished on each other the night before. Or maybe the goose bumps came from seeing the way he'd built a home so close to his family—one of the best signs she'd seen yet that maybe Ryan wasn't all about being a corporate cutthroat. Hints of the man beneath the slick veneer were beginning to bleed through. As they entered, Keira noticed the historical marker on the exterior that said the house had been built in 1900. Inside, she was pleasantly surprised. The home lacked the showy details her parents packed in their living room. No grand piano or marble busts here. Ryan's walls alternated between bookshelves and 250

windows. The bookshelves contained pictures of his brothers—two were in their NHL uniforms, two were in military dress and one wore a suit as slick as anything Ryan had in his closet. But her favorites were photos of the brothers on the lawn of a big house on the water—throwing a football, pounding a volleyball, engaged in a fierce tug-of-war. She should have known the man who'd guided her around the Himalayas wouldn't be completely selfindulgent. He had family. Roots that he obviously cared about. "I like it," she told him honestly, stepping deeper inside where a fireplace nestled near a breakfast nook off the kitchen. "Very welcoming and livable." "Thanks." He tossed his keys on the dining table as he followed her toward the kitchen. "Can I get you something to drink?" "No, thank you." She turned as he reached her, intercepting him. "I'm glad I came." "Yeah? I wondered. You were so quiet on the way over here." "Old ghosts of the state. It will be nice to make some new memories here. Maybe wipe out the old ones." She hadn't said it as a come-on, but she could see by the heat in his eyes he took it that way. "That sounds like a challenge." He stalked closer, backing her toward a heavy column that divided the rooms. "And a Murphy man never walks away from a challenge."

Chapter Fourteen "I didn't mean it as a challenge." Keira toyed with one of the charms on her neck, drawing Ryan's attention to the quick pulse at her throat. He couldn't wait to taste her. "Nevertheless, that's what my brain heard. When you grow up with five brothers, you tend to hear a challenge in everything." His hands skated up her arms, fingers dipping beneath the short sleeves of her blouse to smooth over her shoulders. "So what do you say? Will you let me make some new memories for you?" "I say…" She peered heavenward as if actually debating the question. Then, her gray eyes finding his, she gave him a level look. "More action, less talk." "Yes, ma'am." He took the lead and drew her toward the staircase and up to the master bedroom. He'd barely furnished the upstairs, outfitting his room with just a king-size bed and a big-screen TV. Pausing first at the French doors overlooking the water, he popped the lock and opened them wide, sending a sea breeze drifting inside. "You live very well," she said softly, drawing in the fresh air while he walked her backward to the bed. "Now that you're here—yes. I do." His world was more vivid with Keira in it, and he planned to make sure she never wanted to leave. Starting right now. 251

Capturing her lips, he lowered her to the bed and tasted her. She wound her arms around his neck, short fingernails lightly abrading his skin as she drew him closer. Already his temperature spiked. Blood pounded. She affected him instantly. Not wasting a moment, he slipped a hand beneath her blouse, palming her taut stomach. She was so smooth and warm. Rolling her on top of him, he savored the sight of her. Dark curls spilling down to brush his shoulder. Her eyelashes fanning thickly along the tops of her cheeks. He couldn't get enough of her. The hunger for her grew too fast. Sliding apart the buttons on her blouse, he then turned to the fastening on her shorts and made quick work of those. He cupped her sex through her panties, loving the heat he found there. Stripping off the underwear, he settled her on his pillows and kissed his way down her body for a deeper taste. She cried out at the first flick of his tongue, her legs trembling on either side of his shoulders. He hugged her knees tight, roping them in while he kissed and suckled her. Her fingers tunneled into his hair while she whispered soft, incoherent sounds that damn near undid him. When her release came, he stayed there to work every last spasm from her, his hand cupping her hips. Once she relaxed, he moved up the bed to find the condoms. Sheathing himself, he entered her and thought he'd found heaven. Her body clenched his, legs wrapping around his hips while her sex pulsed with aftershocks. "Ryan." She breathed his name, her fingers gliding up his face. Their eyes met and he was lost. The climax delivered a one-two punch that pummeled him. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through him. Lying there afterward, his whole body high on endorphins, Ryan realized that he'd been hit hard by more than great sex. Something had shifted in their relationship today. Some irreversible knowledge had seeped into his brain when they'd been making love. They'd been making love. The stakes in their relationship had just skyrocketed. He'd fallen for a woman who'd liked him more when he was an MBA student than when he'd succeeded to the heights of the business world. He couldn't undo all he'd accomplished. Nor would he want to. But would Keira ever want the man he'd become?

Chapter Fifteen While Ryan made plans for their lobster feast on the beach that night, Keira settled in a big Adirondack chair by the pool and checked her email. The heated encounter with Ryan had left her feeling more than a little vulnerable, and she was grateful for the diversion. The director of her teaching agency had contacted her to say that Moving Forward would be closed indefinitely after a preliminary investigation by the agency suggested the school had misappropriated grant money. Their evidence? Apparently the new owners of the Venus Hotel had emailed the director to make her aware of the discrepancies. With that information, they could no longer support the school or keep Keira in Fiji, no matter how needy the students were. The director went on to ask Keira how soon she would be ready for reassignment. 252

Murphy Corporation had given her organization damning information about the school? Did Ryan know about this? Confused and worried, Keira closed Ryan's laptop. He had said that the former owners of Venus Hotel had been the corrupt party, but her agency was pointing fingers at her school. Worse, apparently someone at Murphy Resorts had tipped off her agency to the problem, thereby guaranteeing the school would be shut down and her kids left without help or support. How could she have taken a break from reality when the situation back in Fiji was this dire? Worse, could Ryan have encouraged her to leave the island to prevent her from protesting this? What had she been thinking to hop on a plane to the States when her school was in crisis? She had to return. To speak to the school director herself and find out what was going on and how she could help. Her work in Fiji wasn't done. Not when she had students so close to graduating. Behind her, she heard the screen on the French doors slide open. "Wait until you see the size of these suckers." Ryan came out onto the terrace, a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. "I found some great lobsters—" He paused when he saw her expression. "What's wrong?" She opened her mouth to speak and discovered she was too upset to know where to begin. "Keira?" He set down everything he'd been carrying and came closer. "Don't." She couldn't seek comfort from him, as tempting as that might be. Not when she didn't know if she could trust him. "Tell me the truth about your involvement in shutting down my school." "You know I don't have the power to shut it down." The way he clarified that point didn't bode well, in her opinion. "But I did authorize that all funds being sent to Moving Forward be halted until we investigated the irregularities we saw in the accounting." Her jaw clenched. She hated doublespeak. "No money means no school. You shut down the funding—" she'd already known that much "—but did you recently contact my teaching agency to tell them the school was no longer in business? Because I've now officially lost my job. I have to leave my kids."

Chapter Sixteen Ryan hadn't anticipated this. He'd brought Keira here to win her heart, not break it. But the disbelief in her eyes told him he'd messed things up in a way he might not be able to fix. Instead of wooing her with a new way of life back on his home turf, he had her all but sprinting to the airfield to return to that corrupt school. She stood on the terrace near the pool, the wind off the Atlantic tossing around her dark curls. Beside her on an Adirondack chair, the power light to his laptop blinked. That must have been the source of her information—an email from her teaching agency.

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"Keira, I know you hate doublespeak. So I won't point fingers." He believed in accountability. He expected it from other people in his organization, so he wasn't going to pass the buck himself. "I didn't write the email to your agency director, but I'm sure it came from my company. It's standard protocol when we're involved with pulling funding from a nonprofit group. We try to keep any creditors in the loop." "So that I'm assured of losing my job and the school is shut down." She ran frustrated fingers through her hair and he remembered how she'd felt tucked against him this morning. How he'd kissed the top of her head and allowed himself to think about a future with her. "So that you'd be aware you wouldn't receive your next paycheck. Some people count on that money to live on. We believe it's our duty to keep people informed of decisions that will have an impact on them." He couldn't just reinstate the payments to the school simply because she was involved, not without risking the takeover. It wasn't good business. Even though he'd looked into hotels in Fiji to get close to her, he also knew he couldn't walk away from a good deal for Murphy Resorts. "One of my senior students has a job lined up on an Australian cruise ship, but only if he can obtain his high school equivalency before the end of the month." She folded her arms and faced off against him like he was the enemy. "They hire once a year, Ryan. If he doesn't get in now, who knows how much trouble he could get in waiting around for the next chance to be hired." "I understand." It was the whole reason he'd fallen for her. The same reason that other women had never measured up. She cared about something a whole lot more important than boardroom politics and glitzy resorts. And she cared enough to back up her passion with hard work and complete dedication. "I don't think you do. We're not talking about losing a few dollars on overpriced widgets. We're talking about kids who could lose their whole future. Do you know how little it costs to educate them?" "Far less than what the Venus Hotel was paying out to Moving Forward." He reached for her, hoping he could still make her see his side. "Corruption often goes unnoticed inside nonprofit agencies. Traditionally, they don't have the checks and balances that profit-based businesses incorporate into their organizational structure. They're too understaffed. It's been a problem in more than one nonprofit my company has tried to sponsor." He didn't want to let her down. But he also hadn't gone to business school to throw money into corrupt practices. For a long moment, she said nothing. But eventually, she gave a stiff nod to acknowledge his point. "But this isn't the way to remedy corruption, not when the children pay the ultimate price." Her voice cracked. Her eyes were bright. "I understand you need to do business a certain way. But it's so far removed from the way I see the world, I just don't get how you can operate like this." What could he say? He hadn't been the one to work with the kids who would be affected by his decisions. At the end of the day, he still had investors to face. She had impoverished students. "I told you I would listen to your arguments to keep the school open and I will. I'll make the calls right now. But it has to follow due process."

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"That's kind of you." She seemed to nod her thanks. But her voice sounded remote. Distant. "I can assure you, I will find out what's going on at the school myself. If the owner of Moving Forward has been pocketing money, he'll have me to answer to." "That's not necessary—" "It is. I don't want you to think I encouraged an affair just to keep the school open." "And I don't." "Still, if you don't mind calling for your plane, it's best for me to go back where I belong."

Chapter Seventeen Keira didn't have much to pack. It took her only a few minutes to retrieve her toiletries and fold the clothes she'd worn the day before. But standing in Ryan's bedroom where the sheets were still rumpled from the night they shared gave her pause. They'd spent long hours in that bed. Every time she'd said she should get up, Ryan had pulled her back under the covers, insisting she'd have jet lag if she didn't rest more. Of course, his idea of rest had been pleasurable in the extreme. Even after eight years, he could still make her feel like a carefree college coed. How could he be such a corporate-minded shark on one hand and so down-to-earth and caring on the other? Sinking to the bed, she clutched her small overnight bag and smoothed her hand over a pillow, stirring his scent and making her heart ache. She'd known coming back to the States would be a risk. Not because she worried about running into her family, who'd written her off as a black sheep long ago. No, she'd known that spending so much time with Ryan and getting close to him would be a risk to her heart. "Keira?" As if called by her thoughts, he stood in the doorway, a shoulder leaning into the frame. He watched her from across the room, not making a move to come closer. "I'm ready." Standing, she tried not to think about her time in the big four-poster bed—or in Ryan's arms. "Did you call for a cab or should I?" Just asking made her feel unsteady. But getting back to her students—her real life—would make everything right again. Those kids were her world. And yet, while they'd always been more than enough in the past, she knew after this time with Ryan there would be a space in her life that couldn't be filled. "I called. The car should be here in twenty minutes." He took a step into the room. "Can I tell you something before you go?" She nodded, too weary and heartsore to sit in cold silence with a man she'd come to care about more than she ever would have guessed she could in such a short amount of time. Then again, maybe she'd 255

never let go of him eight years ago. Seeing him again had just brought all the old feelings to the surface and magnified them. He dropped onto the edge of the big bed, the only furniture in the room besides the flat screen mounted to one wall. "I came to Fiji for you." On the other side of the bed, Keira felt her knees give way and she ended up seated across from him, a sea of blankets and misunderstandings between them. "You…what?" She must have misheard him. "What happened with your school was a regrettable byproduct of my actions, it was never intentional." He opened a nightstand drawer and pulled out a travel guide to Fiji. "But I did look for a hotel to buy in Fiji because I knew you were teaching there. I'd planned to seek you out once I got the wheels in motion at the Venus." Stunned, Keira wasn't sure what to think. She brushed a hand across the cover of the book, tracing the pictures of palm trees and tropical birds. "You've been looking for me?" She'd been globe-hopping since the first time they'd met. "How did you know—" "I haven't kept tabs on you or anything, but I've scanned the internet a few times over the years to see if your name popped up. About six months ago, after a bad breakup, I realized that my good memories of you had lasted longer than any of my relationships." "You planned all this. Right from the beginning." She thought about the carefully arranged dinner on the water. The candlelit lanterns and jasmine petals on the bed. "You let me believe you were as surprised to see me as I was to see you." "And I was surprised. I knew you taught in Fiji, but not where. It was only when you showed up threatening to picket that I remembered seeing the name of the school on my list of frozen accounts for the hotel." "But you never thought of telling me the truth?" The knowledge felt like a spear to the heart. "I thought we'd grown so close. That we were having so much fun. Why did you even bring me all the way to Cape Cod, all the way to your home? Was that some kind of seduction game for you?" Indignant, she jumped to her feet again, ready to walk back to the airfield herself. "Hell, no." Ryan planted himself between her and the doorway, his green eyes darker than she'd ever seen. "I brought you here because I'm in love with you."

Chapter Eighteen "I'm in love with you." Keira had been so stunned by Ryan's admission that she hadn't known what to say.

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She didn't have much experience with serious relationships since she'd never really been in one. She'd had a few brief boyfriends in the towns where she'd taught, always accepting that they were temporary. So what she felt for Ryan was completely foreign. The churning emotions and pendulum swings from anger and frustration to heart-melting affection were too confusing. In other words, she'd answered his declaration by pleading for time and space. She'd bolted for the cab like a coward. She hadn't been surprised when he'd ridden to the airfield with her. After all, he had business in Fiji, as well, so she'd expected him to fly back with her. But it had been an awkward car ride, and she kept thinking about the lobster she'd come so close to tasting. Now, on the long flight home to Fiji, she tried to reorient herself, but she had no idea what time it was with her internal clock so mixed up. They'd been on the Cape for less than twenty-four hours. And although they'd left at 9:00 p.m. East Coast time, she thought they would touch down at midnight Fiji time, with a day lost somewhere in between. But she'd lost more than a day on this trip. Settling into a couch for a nap after refusing the small bedroom that Ryan had offered her, Keira knew she'd also lost her heart, her job and the only man who'd ever said he loved her. Clutching her necklaces in her hand, she closed her eyes and hoped she could sleep through the rest of the trip. If this had been a break from reality, she'd be better off not indulging in fantasy anymore. *** "These are the best lobsters I've ever eaten." Videoconferencing a call to his brother Jack, Ryan watched as his sibling demolished the remnants of the dinner Ryan had planned for Keira. Jack sat alone in Ryan's dark kitchen with a beer and a bowl of melted butter at the counter island. "I'm glad someone's enjoying them." Ryan kept his voice down since Keira had fallen asleep a few hours ago. He worked in a pod on the other end of the main cabin, a more traditional business-class seat with a computer station and a folding wall for privacy if he wanted to convert the seat to a bed. "Must have been urgent business to make you run out on a meal like this," Jack observed, his short hair and jacked shoulders making him look the picture of a military man. Which he was—he'd gotten out of the navy last week after a four-year stint. It was good to have him home, and Ryan regretted not being able to see him on this trip. "Actually, it is urgent business for a change. Instead of flying off to some can't-miss board of directors meeting, I'm actually tagging after an amazing woman." Jack's eyebrows spiked. He even paused in the steady rhythm of devouring the lobsters. "So is Dad loaning out the corporate jet for chasing girls these days? I thought that was nixed the last time Danny tried to fly that old beater Cessna to see his girlfriend in New York." Jack imitated jerky airplane wings with outstretched arms. Their brother Danny was still in the navy and the wildest of an unruly crew of six. They all hoped the military would settle him out, but they hadn't seen him enough in the past few years to know if that was happening or not.

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"Actually, I'm in charge of the corporate jet, bro." Ryan smiled a little. "Working my ass off for the past eight years has at least won me that much." On the laptop's screen, Jack lifted a beer in salute. "Good for you, man. But you know what they say about all work and no play." "I'm aware." In fact he was quite aware of the consequences now. The thought of losing Keira returned and he felt like a pile of bricks had just been loaded onto his chest. "So why don't you move that computer around so I can have a look at this girl you're chasing." Jack lifted his eyebrow with mock teasing. "If you show me her picture, I'll tell you whether or not you have a shot." Ryan eased back the privacy screen on his pod just enough to see into the rest of the darkened cabin where dark curls spilled over the edge of the sofa. He wasn't sharing that vision with Jack, but he soaked it up for himself in case he didn't have the chance again once they touched down. "I have to have a shot, bro. I have to."

Chapter Nineteen Keira's dream brought her upright in the middle of the flight. Nightmare was more like it, since she'd been dreaming about a life without Ryan in it. He'd said he loved her and she'd walked away like it didn't matter, hung up on the way he'd handled his feelings when she couldn't even express hers. She slipped into the airplane's bedroom cabin to use the bathroom and take a shower, hoping it would clear her head. Half an hour later, no amount of hot water had been able to tell her how she and Ryan could make a relationship work, but it did tell her she was a giant chicken if she didn't go out there and confront him now about what was happening between them. Her hair was still dripping when she knocked on the wall to his pod. "Ryan?" She wore a plain white T-shirt she'd found in the drawer with the clean towels, and she'd put her own shorts back on. The glow from Ryan's laptop illuminated his face in an otherwise darkened cabin. He looked exhausted. His white dress shirt had lost its crispness. His pale blue tie hung halfheartedly around his neck where the top buttons on his shirt were undone. Despite everything that had happened between them, the urge to simply lie down along with him on that reclined chair was a fierce longing. "Are you having trouble sleeping?" he asked, closing his laptop. "I can shut down if I'm making too much noise." "Actually, I'm having trouble understanding why you would go to so much trouble to seduce me. You know, I would have been flattered if you'd just looked me up and came to Fiji to see me." 258

He set aside the computer and shoved away the movable desk. Then he raised his seat and nudged the ottoman closer to her so she could join him. Her heart beat faster, nervous of what he might say. But she sank onto the footrest and waited. "I didn't know how well the news would go over at first, since you were so upset about the school losing its funding." He shrugged. "Maybe there was no good reason not to tell you, but…I'd been looking for you for months before I found you, and I didn't want to risk scaring you off." "Why didn't you just call me? Why buy a hotel in Fiji?" "I wanted to get together, to get to know you again, see if we still felt the way we used to. And my business is hotels, so it made sense to investigate the resort industry in a place where I was planning to spend a lot of time." Her heart softened. He'd wanted to be with her for a while, obviously. Maybe he had put a lot of thought into seeing her again. But that didn't mean he'd been cold or calculating about it, the way she'd originally assumed. "And when you said you loved me last night—" "I meant every word."

Chapter Twenty Ryan debated his next course of action. His heart damn near went into overdrive at the thought of Keira giving him another chance. But should he wait for her to put the pieces together on her own terms and come to him? Or should he lay out his ideas for a future together to entice her closer? "Keira, I don't want you to think I'm a scheming guy, hell-bent to have you. But maybe my work has wired me that way. I see what I want and I go after it—in this case, you. I can't help that." "I'm starting to understand." A small, conceding smile was the sweetest gift she could have ever given him. "But what made you think of me after all that time apart?" Sitting forward, he took her hand in his, grateful as hell just to be touching her. "After my last breakup, I was banging my head against a wall, trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. I'd been with women who were great conversationalists or savvy businesswomen, but I couldn't imagine any of them at home with me on the Cape. With my family." He rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand. "I kept seeing you there instead." "Maybe two corporate sharks in the same house wasn't such a good idea." Her grin was more open this time. More encouraging. "I could see where we are a better balance." "Exactly." The urge to pull her against him and kiss her was so strong he had to close his eyes for a minute to hold it back. "Keira, we could be a great balance. And I've been thinking about how we could be together—"

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"My work takes me away a lot." She bit her lip and he could tell this was a deal-breaker for her. "My job is important to me." "I know. And I wouldn't ask you to ever give it up. But I have a proposition for you to consider if you're interested in finding a way for us to be together." That's what he needed to know, damn it. She mattered to him more than his next breath and he still had no idea how she felt. "Being with you again…" She seemed to search for the right words while he held his breath. "It's made my heart sing." "That's a good thing, right?" She laughed and the joyousness of the sound answered the question even before she flung her arms around him. "It's a beautiful, amazing thing. I've been so happy being with you. Who else would play Go Fish with me? And no one has ever asked me about my students or my necklaces. It's like I'm in college again, sharing secrets with a cute MBA. Nothing's changed. You haven't changed, no matter what you think. I could see myself loving you for a long, long time. Except I can't figure out how I'd ever be a part of that house on Cape Cod with you." She turned worried gray eyes up to him, her wet curls soaking through his shirt. "If you feel that way about me, everything else is easy." He kissed her forehead. Her eyelids. "The rest is nothing." "You mean it?" "If I had to open hotels everywhere you went to be with you, I'd do it. Even if it meant personally turning around the economy of a third-world country. But it's not going to come to that because I have a plan. And if you don't like this one, I'll figure out another. And another." As he said those sweet words, Keira felt her heart slip away. It belonged to Ryan Murphy, always and forever. She'd given it to him without a second thought. He would take good care of it. She was certain. "You were always an excellent planner," she admitted, pulling herself more fully onto his lap, into the cocoon of his arms. "That's really why I started flirting with you back in Nepal. I would have gotten lost without you." "Oh, really?" He smoothed a damp curl away from her cheek. "I thought it was because of the powerful orgasms you knew I could give you." "Well, that, too." She kissed him full on the mouth, grateful there would be more where that one came from. "So when do I get to hear your plan for keeping us together?" "Besides the sex?" He nipped her shoulder with his teeth and then kissed the spot. "My first idea is for you to take over the humanitarian effort at Murphy Resorts." Everything inside her stilled. "Ryan?" She shook her head. "What did you say?" 260

"You've seen firsthand the kinds of problems we run into when we enter a new market and try to make a difference locally. It's part of our company mission to give back, but we want to invest in local schools and charity efforts wisely—" "You would give a job like that to me?" It was the first time in her life she would have applied the word flabbergasted to herself. "I mean, I think I would be able to do it well—" "There is no one I would trust with that job more. And I'm definitely creating the position, whether you want it or not, because we can't afford any more mix-ups like what happened with Moving Forward—" She didn't know what else he might have said. She kissed the ever-breathing hell out of him. When she finally pulled away, she had tears in her eyes. On her cheeks. And a heart full of happiness she couldn't begin to describe. "I take it you like the idea," Ryan observed, wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. "I love it." She kissed him again, wondering how soon she could marry this man who turned all her fantasies into reality. "And I love you, too, Ryan Murphy."

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The Doctor Everyone's Talking About By Fiona McArthur Zoe's Diary: I finally got up the nerve to start a conversation with the gorgeous Angus Raynor—talented surgeon, the hot topic at the hospital and infamous heartbreaker. I'm not worried about his reputation; after years of being treated like a china doll by my overprotective brothers, I'm about to strike out on my own on a round-the-world trip, so I don't want anything serious. But does Angus?

Chapter One Sun, surf and sand-dusted women in droves. Angus Raynor decided the bay at Coogee was a wicked temptress with striped beach umbrellas enticing him like the tips of her painted nails. Come closer. See what I'm hiding: women who haunt your dreams and make you wish you were capable of reasonable relationships. Not to mention the beach volleyball. The move to Coogee Beach was definitely one of his better choices. A pocket-sized dynamo in a polka-dotted bikini dived like a ballet dancer to flick the volleyball into a far corner of the court before she landed in a gloriously disarrayed heap in front of him. He grinned. Temptations like this had to be appreciated! When Angus leaned down to assist, he recognized her from the hospital. Her spiky black hair and sexy gurgle of a laugh had already drawn his attention. Last week. Attraction like an ocean rip that could pull you along no matter how strong a swimmer you were. It was her. She took his hand briefly and bounced into a standing position. Her fingers felt incredibly small in his. "Thanks. Oops. Nearly took you out." He wished. "Worse things could happen than going down in a tangle of limbs." He kept a straight face. She had to have a soft and luscious voice to go with it. Damn. She let go of his hand to brush off the sand then smiled, a joyous salute brighter than the sun over his head. It was about then he realized her mouth had the capacity to haunt his dreams. "Midwives rule." Her partner approached and Angus dragged his eyes from her face to lift his hand in greeting to the other woman, thankful for the distraction. Time for a cold dip. Urgently. "Great save," he said, then turned toward the surf. Not the best parting comment, Angus thought. His lips twitched. He hadn't been thinking about the ball, more the sheer luck that kept delightful body parts from escaping the fall. As he strode away, he heard someone say, "Great dive, Zoe. You guys deserved that one." The girls' voices faded. So her name was Zoe. He glanced over his shoulder as teams separated like fireworks taking off in every direction. Guess the game's over. He dropped his shirt on the sand and dived into a wave. When he emerged from the water twenty minutes later the day continued to improve. Zoe was coming his way.

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"Hello there." When she spoke, his feet slowed as if long sand-crusted fingers had hold of him along with a pair of Coogee-blue eyes. Goodness knows what expression was on his face. She was so damn hot. A swim this morning had been a good plan to get away from the hospital, get away from the feeling that he could have done more, get away from the sympathetic looks of the staff who, even in the short time he'd been there, knew how personally he took failure. Angus picked up his shirt and shook it. Zoe's unfairly cute face reminded him how good it was to be alive instead of disillusioned by the night. If only it were that easy all the time.

Chapter Two Zoe Silver wondered if maybe her brothers had it right when they said she needed some protection. At least Angus Raynor had stopped and looked at her. But what a look. Up close his eyes were like the sea. Fathomless and deep, deep blue like the water under your feet when you're way out of your depth. She persevered. Something she'd become known for. "You work at the hospital don't you?" He smiled cynically and she decided his eyes weren't blue at all, they were black, and as sexy as a pirate's, combined with the loose shirt he pulled on and wicked marauding gaze. She smiled back, unintentionally from the heart, and a dangerous edge crept into his grin, one that made her own smile slip a little. She wondered if it had been a good idea to strike up a conversation. "Yes, I do. And you?" Angus asked, a mocking lilt she didn't understand beneath his words. Zoe frowned. It wasn't the sand under her feet she was feeling. Her whole body was prickling. His voice was deep and low like the sudden heat in her belly. Then his words sank in and she was back to standing in hot sand. He hadn't even noticed her at work. Bummer. She quelled the little coil of disappointment. Too used to being the center of attention at home, my girl, she thought. Such a leveller when the real world intruded. This was why she needed to get away. Stretch her wings. Develop a sophisticated skin that would protect her. Cross the ocean that beckoned every morning from her bedroom window and show them all she didn't need their protection. Zoe had seen him watching her earlier in the game. Bit hard to miss when he was the hottest topic at the hospital and her antennae swiveled every morning to see if he was having coffee when she was. Ruby said that even though Angus wasn't a consultant yet, he was the first the other surgeons called when they struck trouble. "Ruby says you work like a demon in theatres." "Who's Ruby?" "My friend from the emergency department." Ruby also said he was the last man to play with. A heartbreaker. "She said they call you the registrar with the magic fingers." "Spare me." He grimaced and looked away. "Last night there wasn't any magic." Ouch. Poor choice to disclose that, then. Seemed she couldn't do much right today with him, but then again, danger had never stopped her before. 263

She lifted her chin. "Okay. I'm Zoe. I'm a midwife." The words still gave her a glow of fulfillment. "And I love my job." Her passion. It would lead her to a world of experience. And her brothers had said she was too much the princess to do it. "I'm Angus." He held up his hand in a sardonic little salute. "New grad?" He didn't sound impressed. Her face froze a little. So? Not good enough for him? "Got a problem with that?" To her surprise he smiled. A warmer one. He shook his head at her ire. "Youth is grand." She was so sick of people telling her she was young. Red rag to a bull. "Thanks for that, Grandpa." "Grandpa?" He blinked and then grinned. She glanced past his shoulder to the bustling street of Coogee opposite the beach. "Anyway, it's the last half of my grad year. Then I'm off to see the world." He shook his feet free of the sand and moved. "I can see you're a determined woman. Hope the world is ready." Abruptly, he turned and walked away. She watched him go.

Chapter Three Angus felt like smacking himself in the forehead. Zoe Silver was like a ray of light. An innocent Joan of Arc. The last type of woman he needed. New grad! Probably even younger than he thought. Angus scooped up the towel he hadn't used and slipped on his sandals to stride up Hill Street toward the hospital. He resisted the urge to look back. A brisk walk up the incline should knock some sense into him. Curiously, though, in the past few minutes he did feel less weighted down by his failure last night. But that would have had nothing to do with her. It was the beach, of course it was the beach, the place he'd moved to so he could ease his burden. *** "Saturday night. Party at our house." It was three in the afternoon, shift change on the maternity ward, and her volleyball partner and fellow graduate midwife, Tilly, picked up her bag to head home. "Think of something to bring. Or even those gorgeous brothers of yours?" Zoe grinned. "Wouldn't miss it. I so envy your freedom from family." Tilly, Ruby, Ellie from orthopedics and Jess from operating theatres shared a big old house just up from the beach and their Hill Street parties were always a hoot. And nobody cramped their style. Then she remembered. "Won't be early, though. I promised Col I'd do his last hour of beach patrol on Saturday." An active member since her eighth birthday, Zoe loved the patrol, although the shift work of the last year had played havoc with her ability to be consistently available. "You on duty that day, Til?"

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"Yep. So I won't be early, either. See you then." The Hill Street parties didn't start properly 'til after dark anyway. But she wasn't bringing her brothers to supervise. If she so much as looked at a guy they'd be watching. She'd take the margarita recipe and the makings. And wear that slinky little number she'd picked up at the thrift shop. Zoe waved and picked up the notes of the young woman in labor just admitted. "See you then," she said to her friend but already Zoe was focused on the door of the birthing suite. "Hello there." Tessa, her patient for the shift, looked waxen from holding back tears. Zoe wanted to hug her. "I'm Zoe and I'm looking after you." She glanced around at the otherwise empty room. "Is there anyone coming in to be with you?" Tessa sniffed. "My boyfriend's not out 'till Monday." She shook her head in frustration. "If I'd only hung on for two more days he could have been here. I'll just have to manage." Out? As in, jail? "Somehow I don't think that's your fault." Zoe decided women blamed themselves for some strange things but she admired Tessa's determination to cope anyway. "What about family?" Tessa shook her head. "Don't have any." Remorse tugged. And she complained about her family loving her too much. "That must be tough. But we'll be the team," Zoe said it with such absolute confidence Tessa even risked an unwilling laugh. "You're my number one priority. To help you let your body do what it needs to in your labor. To go with it, not fight it. Okay?" "Not much else I can do. I just wish Chase was here." Zoe couldn't do anything about that. But maybe she could distract Tessa for a while. "Why don't you tell me about him? It might make him seem nearer…."

Chapter Four Almost three hours later, Tessa was deep into labor, and though she'd started to gasp with the closeness of the contractions, she was in firm control. Zoe was so impressed with her. Tessa had spent the past two hours in the dim bathroom in the new large bath. Zoe sat beside her on the stool feeding her ice chips and checking mother and baby's progress. The girls had developed a sync that needed few words. Tessa seemed to doze between pains as she passed through the transition stage of labor and Zoe thought she must be almost ready to push. At a quarter to six Tessa suddenly moaned and clutched her left side. She stared at Zoe with fear—stark and unexpected—in her eyes as she tried to speak. "It doesn't feel right."

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Not what women normally say when they're going into the second stage of labor. Zoe took one look at the paleness of Tessa's face and pressed the bell for assistance. Always listen to the mother. Disastrous scenarios flashed through her brain. Emergencies from her training books bounced around in her head. Baby's placenta bleeding and separating? Amniotic fluid embolism? She slid the Doppler against Tessa's stomach and the baby's heart rate was a good twenty beats above normal and climbing. "I can see it hurts and you're scared, Tessa, but I need to get you back to the bed for the doctor." Seconds later the midwife in charge arrived, and after they had Tessa in bed she flew out to call the obstetrician. Within fifteen minutes Zoe was throwing clothes off and jerking theatre scrubs over her head as a room away Tessa was being prepared for an emergency caesarean. How could it all have gone wrong so quickly? What sort of condition was Tessa's baby going to be in when it was born? Were there warning signs she'd missed? Zoe pulled on her over boots and cap and fumbled with her mask, her heart racing the way the baby's had on the monitor. She took a breath and pushed through to the scrub room.

Chapter Five 6:10 p.m. When Angus arrived the operation was a sea of blood. "Mother's BP's falling." He heard the anesthetist's comment as he arrived backwards through the swinging doors of the operating suite. The garbed obstetrician gestured him closer. "That's not looking good for whatever's bleeding in there." Angus slid in between the assistant and the scrub sister. He took the handle of a pair of artery forceps. "I'll hold that." The patient's condition was going down. He didn't even want to think about the risk to the baby. Where was the pediatrician? To the left he saw a midwife waiting for the infant, and just that brief glance allowed instant recognition. Which was ridiculous. A few spikes of black hair and a porcelain forehead when he had trouble recognizing people he worked with all the time in theatre garb. What had she said they called him? Magic Fingers? He hoped he had some today, they just might be needed here. If the ped didn't arrive, Zoe would need some, too.

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The caesarean went ahead rapidly. The baby was as floppy as a pale rag doll when Dr. Fortune handed him onto Zoe's sterile blanket, but in less than a minute a weak baby's cry sounded and loosened a little of the tension in the room. Baby's okay, Angus thought gratefully. Just a few seconds of good assisted ventilation and cardiac massage. Good job, Zoe. Another quick glance and he saw Zoe relax her shoulders. He didn't blame her. Judging by the maternal loss of blood, the infant had been lucky. One good outcome at least, he thought with relief. The ped arrived just then and crossed to Zoe, allowing Angus to concentrate fully on his work. "Any other ideas where she's bleeding from?" "This tear in the lower segment of the uterus is obvious but there must be more. I clamped it but she's still losing a lot of blood," said Dr. Fortune, a hint of panic in his voice. "Blood pressure seventy on forty, pulse one fifty." That from the sweating anesthetist hanging replacement fluids as fast as he could. Angus felt the adrenaline surge. "Maybe a vessel tear? I'll ligate the femoral artery until we have a good look. Give us time." A few seconds later it was done and the team seemed to sigh in unison with the reprieve. The blood stopped pooling and he could see more clearly. "Now lift the uterus out again and I'll find the problem. Hang on, Tessa."

Chapter Six Five minutes after Angus started working on Tessa, the relief in the operating theatre was palpable. Zoe glanced across at the anesthetist who nodded with satisfaction at his monitor. Dr. Angus Raynor—looking more like a shining officer in charge of the cavalry than a pirate now—had found the tear over two minor arteries and repaired the damage. Tessa and her uterus would heal. Zoe glanced down at the little boy who'd begun to shift his head around and blink at the lights. The baby frowned a wrinkled forehead at Zoe as he stared, and she realized he was searching for his mother. Zoe blinked away sudden tears. Relief doused her unexpectedly in a wave of emotion and unobtrusively she sniffed. She didn't feel quite so sick, but the edge of danger Tessa had balanced on left her momentarily shaken. Angus heard the soft shuddering sigh. He flicked his gaze across to Zoe. Why did he feel so keenly the release that emanated from a pair of fragile bowed shoulders six feet away? She looked up, her eyes huge pools of distress and he couldn't help the visual embrace he sent her way. It's okay, he messaged. In case she didn't understand, he nodded, as well. Everything will be fine. Zoe had never felt so reassured in her life. But she hadn't been in many life or death situations, either. Another glance at Angus's bent head felt just as comforting. Tessa would be fine. Unexpected kindness to visually reassure her. Not something she'd noticed about him at the beach. 267

They'd all been so close to disaster, and just like Ruby'd said, he'd been able to pull them away from catastrophe to save the day. Well, she'd been here in that moment and she'd never forget it. Trouble was, this swelling in her chest, the soft smile under her mask and the fact she couldn't take her eyes off him as he said something to lighten the scrub sister's face, all pointed to a growing infatuation. That's okay, Zoe reassured herself. She could deal with that, but as she walked beside the orderly pushing her precious cargo on the resuscitation trolley back to the ward, somehow she felt this was not as simple as an infatuation. Apart from a minute's conversation on the beach she didn't know Angus at all…and yet she couldn't wipe the huge smile off her face.

Chapter Seven Three hours later, just as soon as her patient was awake and well enough, Zoe carried Tessa's son up to Intensive Care to meet her. Unexpectedly, she found Angus Raynor lounging in a chair beside the young girl, talking in a low voice about what had happened as if they'd known each other for years. For Zoe—worried Tessa would be terrified if she awoke alone in a strange ward—seeing Angus there was a relief. Maybe there was a flutter in her chest, as well, but relief was the big one. Honest. "Ah, here's Zoe." Angus stood up and her face heated. He'd remembered her name. "And with your son." He smiled down at their patient. "Congratulations. He's very handsome, Tessa." Then, with a small and slightly satirical smile for Zoe, he was gone. "Gosh, he's gorgeous," breathed Tessa in a post-anesthetic daze and Zoe looked down at the baby to hide her pink cheeks. And so's your baby, she thought. As Zoe slipped the little boy in against his mother's skin she was reminded how close this baby and mother had been to tragedy. Tessa gazed down with awe. "I'm gonna call him Bodie. He's so tiny. You sure he's mine?" Zoe blinked away silly tears and unraveled the little fist to show the blue name tag. Bodie's starfish hand waved at his mother. "Look. See? There's your name. I put those bands on five minutes after he was born while we were still in the operating room. He's been waiting to meet you." As if on cue, Bodie turned his head toward Tessa and opened his eyes wide to circle her face. Then he sniffed her skin and opened his mouth. Tessa leaned forward to shift his position, stopped and held her stomach. "Yowww." "No big movements for a day or two," Zoe advised apologetically as Tessa winced. "I'll try my best," Tessa said with a bitter little twist that made Zoe squeeze her hand. "But who's going to help until Chase gets out?" Zoe thought how sad it would be with nobody to share the responsibilities and baby joy with for the next few days. 268

"We'll all help you." And they would. By the time Zoe carried Tessa's sleeping baby back to the ward it was time to end her shift. After the emotions of the night, she'd never felt less like sleeping. In the deserted foyer of the hospital, the security guard—a friend of her brothers' who always seemed to be there when she finished at eleven—waved his torch at her. "You got a lift?" Zoe grinned. "Just about to ring." Her brothers were adamant she shouldn't take the bus, and she wasn't wasting her money on a car with her trip coming. She was planning on going on a world tour—if she could get her overprotective brothers off her back. They insisted on her phoning them for a lift if she didn't share a taxi with one of the four nurses from Hill Street. She reached for the mobile in her purse as she headed for the door. "Zoe?" She slowed. She knew that voice and her cheeks warmed again. "I can drop you home." Angus appeared out of the lift to her left and jingled his keys. Zoe glanced across at the security guard. He was frowning and she bit back a smile. That little bit of gossip would spread to her house faster than Angus could drive down the hill, but it wasn't going to influence her decision. You betcha. She smiled at Angus. "I live not far, down near the beach. If you're sure?" He didn't seem to mind. The night bubbled with promise.

Chapter Eight "You're on my way." Angus had seen Zoe when the lift doors opened and made a snap decision to ask if she needed a ride home. You'd think he'd have learned not to get involved with someone from work but it had seemed wrong not to reassure her Tessa would be fine. Of course that was reasonable. A few moments later it felt like he'd fallen into the best part of his day just to hand her into his convertible. "It's a warm night. Want the top down?" He leaned forward and pushed the lever he rarely used. "Be a shame not to on an evening like this." His car was like a lot of things in his life that he'd thought would make him happy. But for the first time, thanks to Zoe's delight in the mechanism of a moving roof, he felt like he'd had two beers on an empty stomach. Fizzing and fabulous. Maybe a bit of fresh air might not go astray. "You okay?" The question was probably superfluous because she looked relaxed and happy in the seat next to him with her arm along the door. "Terrific, thanks." The car drove off sluggishly and he frowned and glanced at the dash lights. Good grief. She'd looked so damn good he'd forgotten to take off the handbrake. Definitely another first.

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"It was nice of you to go see Tessa. She was so scared before theatre." Coming from the dimness beside him, even her voice made him smile. Until the words sank in and he remembered the edge of disaster. And why he'd sought Zoe out. "We shared some pretty tense moments today." And afterward her emotions in theatre had played on his mind. "Close shaves like that can shake you." Especially a sweet young thing like Zoe. "You sure you're okay now?" He couldn't help the protective surge. With no family of his own he'd always been the one in the orphanage to watch out for the little guys. "I was starting to get scared for Tessa." "She lost a lot of blood. Tricky blighters, posterior arteries. Tessa seems a really good kid." He heard her sigh beside him. It was a big one. Obviously relaxed with him, Zoe leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes with a smile on her face. "I'm so glad you see that, too. Tessa's lovely." So are you, he thought, and as if she'd heard him, she sat up a little and looked around. "And I think her boyfriend is more silly than bad. She told me that he has issues with authority. Didn't pay parking fines then kept driving his car without a license." She glanced across at him. "I hope you have a license?" "Darn." Angus smacked his forehead. "Meant to do that." When she laughed it made his chest swell with pride. He wanted to hear the sound again. More than anything. Well, almost more than anything. "Fancy a gelato? We could park on the headland and watch the waves while we eat, then I could take you home." He had a brief responsible thought. "Or do you start early? I can take you now." "Ice cream's great." She pulled her phone from her pocket. "I'll just text one of my brothers and let them know I don't need picking up." So she had a caring family. He was glad. He knew what the other side was like. He wondered what they'd think of him snatching their little sister for a night ride. He shrugged. It was just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Not likely to be repeated.

Chapter Nine Twenty minutes later, it didn't feel like a spur of the moment thing. Sitting next to Zoe in the dark made Angus feel happier than he had for years. With one hand resting on the steering wheel he looked up at the stars and realized how delightful peace was. The sensation was a million light years from the way he'd felt with every other woman he'd invited out. He'd always felt distant—as far away as the moon, even—with other women. But as he glanced across at Zoe he felt his hand tighten as if to stop itself from reaching out to her. "You look amazing in the moonlight." She smiled. "Thank you, kind sir." The silver glow on her skin made him want to spend the rest of the night just soaking her in. And a bit more than that. Too bad convertibles were hopeless for making moves in. "Would you like to walk a little?"

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"Not tonight. My brothers'll be worried." Such a little girl. What was he doing? The way he was feeling at the moment her brothers should be worried. "Of course." He leaned forward and started the engine. Zoe grimaced in the dark at her own prudery. Wasn't this what she wanted? Darn right, it was! Before he could take the handbrake off—and before she could change her mind—she leaned over and kissed the side of his mouth. A bit of a fumble but worth the rasp of a day's regrowth that had tantalized her since she'd got in the car. She sat back primly. "Thank you for the gelato and the lift." "Mmm, yes, it was nice," he said, and took his hand slowly off the gear stick, though he didn't turn the engine off—in case he scared her? She felt his glance on her face and then her folded hands, and then her face again. "I quite like the aftertaste." His tone was measured with just a hint of a smile. "Hang on a minute—just before we leave…" He shifted in his seat, leaned across and slid his arm gently around her shoulders. When she didn't resist he pulled her toward him. "Not the most comfortable place for this, but… Just one more taste," he said softly and then he kissed her properly. No peck on the side, this one. This was seduction with a long, slow introduction to the type of kissing Zoe had never encountered before. She'd kissed boys and a few men, but not with this sense of homecoming. Masterful yet teasing, nourishing and undeniably dangerous with little flickers of fire shooting away from the center of the world that just happened to be where their lips met at this moment. Zoe forgot about the waves, the moonlight, the soft leather under her—everything except the need to satisfy a starvation she hadn't realized she'd suffered from. The lumpy casing of the seatbelt digging into her side was so dim she barely noticed it. Until Angus eased away with a final, more chaste salute, and she was left unexpectedly bereft. She was sure she could feel his heated gaze on her mouth even though her eyes were shut. Zoe's head fell back against the seat and she slowly opened her eyes. Oh, my. "And on that note, I'd better move now or I'll never leave," he said into the night air. They smiled at each other and he started the car. Angus dropped her at her home and gunned the engine as soon as he was around the corner from her house. What the hell was he doing? Cradle snatching? She was ten years younger than he was and a hundred years younger in life experience. Yet she had an aura of magic that drew him like a lemming to the cliff edge. He who ran a mile from strong feelings. There is a reason for that, you fool. He knew deep inside he wasn't lovable—four foster families attested to that—and he also knew that if he became involved with Zoe he'd only constantly dread the moment she would realize it, too. His mobile phone buzzed in his pocket—the hospital. He grimaced as he pulled over to answer it. He might as well go back to the hospital. There'd be no sleeping at his house for the rest of the night after that little escapade, anyway.

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Chapter Ten Zoe lay awake and stared at the ceiling. The waves on the beach sounded like whispers and the moonlight pointed accusing fingers of light onto her bed. It was the same moonlight that had looked over them in the car. She hugged her pillow close and screwed her eyes shut. How on earth would she look at Angus and not remember the feel of his arms around her or the pressure of his mouth on hers for those incredible few minutes? She rolled over onto her stomach and dug her toes into the bed. How on earth was she not going to blush when she saw him at work? She just wouldn't. That's all. Thank goodness he was an infrequent visitor to the maternity section. Except that when she turned up at work the next afternoon it was Angus who stood at the desk writing up medications. Zoe dropped her gaze to the floor in front of her to hide her hot cheeks. Then a horrible thought intruded. She looked up and tilted her head to read the name on the spine of the folder he'd just sat back on the desk. Tessa's? Embarrassment forgotten. "Is she okay?" "Hello, Zoe. Just bringing her back to the ward from ICU. Hasn't had much sleep with all the blood transfusions." "And she's well enough to be here now? She's stable?" "She is now." He smiled at Zoe but she must have still looked worried because he went on. "She's good. Trust me on this." She did feel reassured. "Of course." On this, anyway. She smiled to herself. They'd both made a move last night. Though his had been better. She had a horrible feeling her emotions were written on her face. She opened her mouth then shut it. She'd just end up deeper in trouble. When she looked up, he had that gleam in his eye that said he was amused by her. Fine, it's like that, then. I can be nonchalant, too. She grinned at him and moved away. "I'd better get into handover." *** Later that night, after her shift, Zoe walked through the foyer. Angus was waiting. Her friendly security guard's eyebrows almost disappeared under his cap. She waved as if everything was normal but her pulse rate said it darn well wasn't. The most gorgeous man in the hospital was waiting for her, again, and she didn't know what to think. "Lift?" In the end there wasn't a lot to think about. "Thank you." Not much was said until he seated her, strode around to his own side of the car and slid in. Then he glanced across the seat with the devil in his eyes. "I enjoyed last night." She couldn't help but smile. "Me, too. But not good for sleeping." 272

He grinned back. "Tell me about it." "And I'm on the early shift tomorrow." "Righto." He leaned forward, started the engine and opened the roof. "I can do direct travel." The car glided out of the car park with the roof still compacting itself back into the boot. "So how was your shift?" She could get used to this. How had they gotten so comfortable so quickly? "Great. We had a woman come in and birth within twenty minutes. Gorgeous boy. She's great, going home in the morning. That's the way to do it." He grimaced. "Not the tough way, like Tessa." "Poor Tessa. She seems pretty philosophical about everything that happened." "We talked about it again." So he'd gone to see her again. He really did care. "She must think it's a miracle to find another person who understands. Your support's really helped her, you know." He looked away. "I'm glad. Someone told me she was in foster care."

Chapter Eleven Foster care… The memories rushed in on dark wings. Unwanted. Oh, how he remembered those miserable years. And what they'd taught him: never rely on anyone. "I know that hell." Had he just said that? Confessed something that he'd never told anyone? Angus hurried on, swearing like crazy in his head, hoping she hadn't heard. "But I'm not the only one who's stood by her. She's had your support throughout." His face felt frozen as he stared ahead. Even if she had heard, hopefully she'd see he didn't want to talk about it. To his relief she changed the subject. Other women hadn't been so understanding. More points for Zoe. "Are you coming down to the carnival on Sunday? The lifesaving club's got our annual fete on." When he didn't respond, still half bogged in the past, she added, "I'm on the kissing stall." He glanced across. He played her words again in his head. Had to look at her after that statement. "You're what?" Zoe laughed. Mischief radiated from her face like a school kid and he remembered how young she was. "Joking. We don't have a kissing stall." She gave him a much older look. "By that reaction maybe we should?" Good grief. "How about you don't." He wasn't sure why—or didn't want to think about why—but the thought stirred up…very strong feelings. Not that he could reveal them to her… "Bet your brothers wouldn't like that." Good comeback, he congratulated himself.

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She shrugged. "I'm sure they'd provide a bouncer if anyone came on too strong." He'd bounce anyone, all right. Angus realized his hand was death-gripping the steering wheel. Thank goodness they were pulling up at her house. "Thanks for the lift." He wondered if she'd repeat yesterday's goodbye, and to his delight she did lean across. He wasn't going to miss the opportunity so he kissed her quickly, harder than he intended with a vestige of the horror that remained from the thought of the kissing booth. Her eyes widened. He softened his mouth in an apology and inhaled the scent of jasmine. Suddenly they were wrapped up awkwardly under the streetlight, lost to the world— Until someone slapped the bonnet. "Hello? Squirt?" A large young man was glaring at them. Angus and Zoe broke apart and his fingers trailed away from her cupped cheek reluctantly. "Squirt?" he queried with a grin. She straightened the hair off her face with her eyes still shut then she opened them slowly with a little sigh. "I'm their pet." She glared at her brother. "Angus, this is my brother, Bruce—almighty." Angus nodded at the young man who stood legs spread at the front of his car. "Bruce," Angus said. Bruce's extreme height and width made the nickname fitting. He bit back a smile. Angus opened his door and moved to the passenger side to help Zoe alight. The way she smiled at him as he reached down made the whole juvenile episode worthwhile. When she stood beside him she glanced at her brother and jerked her head. Bruce sent one warning frown their way and disappeared into the house. "Thank you for the lift," she said softly. "My absolute pleasure."

Chapter Twelve Angus drove away sedately this time, in a dream, until he remembered how hopeless he'd been at letting people close in the past. So how come Zoe was sliding in? What would happen when she realized how useless he was at relationships? He was in trouble. He didn't do fixation on one woman, or sweet nothings or romantic drives without sex at the end. Okay, he was a little old-fashioned in that he liked to pay for meals, open doors for a woman, and if she wanted them, flowers were always a good idea. But with Zoe he felt like shielding her from the world or even just capturing her slender hand in his and never letting go. He could imagine just lying together at night on the sand and talking about the stars. Dumb things like that.

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Teenage stuff he'd never done and wouldn't have known about if one of his foster mothers hadn't dragged him to old Elvis movies and shown him. Actions he'd sworn were not his way at all. Feelings she'd said would find him one day and he'd never believed. He needed a safety net and he needed it fast. *** Zoe finished work at three-thirty the next day and caught the bus back home. Before she left, though, she couldn't help glancing around the foyer in case Angus appeared like a genie. Still, she was glad she had the rest of the weekend away from the hospital after one of those rare quiet Saturday shifts she could have done without. Far too much time to think about Angus and how her stupid big brother had embarrassed her. She couldn't wait to get away from the constrictions of people trying to protect her and run her life. She just didn't have the mean bone to fight for it at home. Leaving was the only option. She'd bet that never happened at Tilly and Ruby's house. Those girls managed fine without family around. She was so looking forward to getting out and going to the party tonight. She wondered if Angus would be there. Lots of young doctors from the hospital turned up. She loved those parties. Zoe almost skipped off the bus outside her house and hurried up to her room to change. She just had an hour of beach patrol before they packed up for the night.

Chapter Thirteen When Zoe arrived at the beach she could see two rips dragging foam out to sea. It was rough today, and too many people were swimming outside the flagged area. She started her patrol, and Col thanked her profusely before bolting for his car and an appointment with his fiancée. Tilly waved and came over. "So have you invited Angus to come tonight?" "Haven't had a chance." She fought back a blush from Tilly's knowing grin. Trouble was she didn't know where he lived, or whether he was on call, or if he'd want to see her again. She smiled. She had gotten the impression that he did when he'd kissed her and said goodbye last night. "Sometimes he looks like he could do with lightening up a little," Tilly said as they both watched the swimmers. "From what I've seen of him, he's fun." Though she had an inkling he might lean toward being overprotective, like her brothers. She hoped not. Tilly walked down to the edge of the flagged area to pick up a little girl knocked over by the waves, and Zoe watched a couple of young boys on bodyboards who were happy to ignore the flags that were set up to designate safe areas to swim. A larger-than-average swell snuck up on one of the boys and dumped him in the deeper water. Zoe winced as he tumbled in the undertow. When his board surfaced without him she signaled to Tilly. They 275

both grabbed rescue boards and splashed through the shallow water, then paddled swiftly out to check he was okay. He wasn't. *** Angus arrived at the beach for his swim and did a double take when he saw Zoe with another girl dragging large rescue boards. They were the lifesavers? He shuddered. Dwarfed by the size of the board, they looked too small out in the vast ocean to save anybody, and Angus shoved down the urge to call them back. He glanced at the tower to see what sort of reinforcements they had. A thickset man in a lifesaver shirt was on his phone, Angus assumed calling in more lifesavers because he was gesturing out to the ocean as he talked. Sickness in his gut, Angus glanced back toward the breaker line and saw that Zoe had reached her quarry, saw the flash of red singlet as a limp body rolled with the shore-dumping waves. He looked at his watch to keep an eye on the time it took to get the unconscious victim to shore. His stomach clenched again as a wave reared over Zoe's head and threatened to dump her, as well, but she managed to cling to her board. Angus jammed his fists against his thighs and strode toward the tower, glancing constantly over his shoulder as he watched her battle against the swell. She should not be out there. This was crazy stuff for a slip of a girl. Where were all the men? Her partner was having the same difficulty, but in a brief lull the girls cleverly floated the boy's limp body onto one of the boards and, with Zoe wedged between his legs, they paddled swiftly toward the shore. About bloody time. Angus glared at the tower. Spinal injury maybe as well as unconscious? He jogged the last few feet toward the lifesaver to see what rescue equipment they had so they could meet the girls at the water's edge. The captain had picked up a backpack and a long board. "I'm a doctor. Anything else to carry?" "Great. Grab the spine board and oxygen. I've got the neck brace in here. Ambulance on the way." When Zoe reached the shore he saw she had to be careful they didn't get dumped off their boards. When she looked up he was there with the chief to steady her cargo. She slid off and they picked up the board and carried their load carefully up to the dry sand and began to work on the boy. The siren of an approaching ambulance wailed in the distance as she bent to help.

Chapter Fourteen Fifteen minutes later, Angus stood with Zoe and watched the ambulance pull away. He'd bet her heart rate was only now settling down to normal. He wondered if she could feel the waves of anger radiating like a force field off his chest. "That was a crazy risk to take." Angus honestly had tried not to say anything. But he couldn't stop himself. She could have died! "If you'd drowned that wouldn't have helped anyone." 276

Her hands went to her hips. "I didn't drown and we did help someone. In case you didn't notice." "I noticed." She'd been amazing. They'd been amazing, he reminded himself, but… "Damn it. The situation was too risky." "And your point is?" Her voice was silky, but unfortunately for Angus he didn't pay attention to the warning. The image of working on an unconscious Zoe was still too vivid in Angus's head for caution. He tried not to loom over her but it was hard when she was so small. "My point is you're five foot nothing and the sea is relentless. Lifesaving's not a job for you." "Thanks for that." She smiled with her teeth and spun around to walk away. "You're angry, too?" He caught up and walked with her back to the tower. It was after five so he supposed they'd pull down the flags now and pack up. Maybe he could help and she'd understand he wasn't trying to order her around. "I'd say that's a fair comment." When she looked at him her eyes were cool and dismissive. Nothing "little girl" about the message she was sending now. More of an outright GO AWAY. "I'm reminding myself I don't need another protector when my aim is to lose the ones I have." "I'm sorry if I've upset you, Zoe. Maybe I did overstep the mark. But I can't believe your brothers allow you to risk your life like this." "Look, Angus. Thanks for your help. This is what I do on my days off." She gestured to the beach. "It's what we all do. And it's my choice. And I'm up to here—" she gestured to her neck "—with people saying I'm too young, too short, too fragile to do what I want. Got it?" Whoa, there. He really had pressed her buttons. Chest heaving, eyes flashing, hands on hips, she looked ready to spit. Damn shame her temper only made her more attractive to him. "I'll go." He tried not to smile at how ferocious she was. "I'm sorry. Maybe we can talk when you've cooled down." He knew as soon as he said it he'd made a mistake. "Don't you dare patronize me. Go before I say something I'll regret." He could feel the chasm between them now and he'd caused it. The ironic part was he'd been looking for a way to stop his growing attraction to her. Looked like he'd found one. Try to protect her and she'd drop him like a stone.

Chapter Fifteen Zoe tried not to watch Angus walk away. She'd asked him to leave. Told him to, actually. Even from behind he made her weak with the urge to call him back. How inconsiderate was chemistry. She really didn't need to be attracted to this guy now. Especially after he'd shown his true colors today. He might as well have called her Squirt. She didn't want to listen to the little voice that suggested she might have overreacted a tad. So much for asking him to the party now. *** Angus turned up at the Hill Street party an hour after Zoe arrived. She'd been almost ready to leave. 277

She'd even brought her brothers for someone to talk to, because she'd known she wasn't going to do anything to upset them that night. Tilly was very pleased with her, but Zoe just wasn't in the mood. She couldn't even smile at Ruby's creative vegetarian dishes, which usually amused her. She didn't see Angus at first. He'd arrived with the senior registrar from the emergency department, who seemed to be eyeing Ruby from the bottom of the stairs. Then she felt someone's attention. When she did see him, he moved across the room straight to her. He had his pirate shirt on and that pillaging smile. "Anyone seen a big, tough lifeguard around here?" Smart Alec. "You looking for one?" "Can't seem to help myself." He glanced at the small space on the lounge beside her. No way was there enough room for him unless she sat on his lap. The idea wasn't altogether unappealing. "May I sit here?" "Not if you're going to tease me." "Perish the thought." He squeezed in and the space miraculously widened as the rest of the people on the lounge squashed up good-naturedly. His arm crept along the lounge behind her and she guessed he really didn't have anywhere else he could put it. "So this is what hospital workers do on their time off, is it?" "Only the sociable ones." She could feel the whole length of his hip against hers and the warmth of his arm building between them. She had to move or she was going to end up leaning across him to steal another one of those spontaneous kisses he seemed to inspire in her. "Let's dance."

Chapter Sixteen He stood first—like a cork from a bottle—off the lounge, and the others sighed in relief. She had to smile. Then he put a hand out to help her up, except that after she stood, neither of them let go. He smiled down at her as he drew her into the middle of the room, where couples danced cheek to cheek in time to a slow ballad. She slipped into his arms, feeling a bit like a jigsaw piece that had slid into place. Snug. Perfect fit. "Your hair smells nice," he murmured. "So does your chest." She couldn't help burying her nose in it farther. She sighed and leaned into him. No use pretending this wasn't exactly where she wanted to be. Though there was no use pretending she hadn't forgiven him, either. "It's been an interesting forty-eight hours since we met." Only she'd seen him before that. "I saw you a week ago in the cafeteria." "And I saw you," he said into her hair. "No, you didn't." She remembered the beach. "You asked if I worked at the hospital."

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He chuckled. "I was being devious." The dance ended and he pulled her gently out the front door and toward the swing seat on the porch. "You two seem to know each other very well." Her brother Bruce appeared beside them as they'd just settled into the seat. Angus didn't look at all perturbed. "We were just discussing the amazing rescue your sister was involved in today down at the beach." "What rescue?" Great diversion, Zoe thought with resignation. She kept it short. "A boy was dumped unconscious in the surf." Bruce frowned. "The sea was rough. I thought you were working at the hospital today." "I did an hour on the beach after work. Col needed to get off at four." She stared her brother down and after a loaded silent message he walked away. She glared at the man on the swing next to her. "Thanks for that, Angus. Usually one of the boys does the same roster as me if they know I'm lifesaving. I didn't tell them about this extra hour." She was so over this. "Sorry. Poor choice to divert him." He stood up. "How about I get you a glass of something as penance and when I come back we can be friends again?" He grinned down at her and she couldn't help smiling back. How did he do that? One smile and she was a puddle at his feet. And she guessed the subject had sidetracked Bruce away from their cheek-to-cheek dance. "I'll think about it." She watched him walk away and couldn't erase the smile. Ruby wasn't smiling when she appeared beside her and sank down into the swing. "Are you insane?"

Chapter Seventeen "No more than usual. Why?" Ruby gestured with her head to Angus as he disappeared. "What if he breaks your heart?" "He won't if I don't let him." "He broke Harmony Gage's heart." "Who's Harmony Gage?" "She worked at Sydney Central, the hospital he worked at before here. And there was a young resident doctor before her. Took them out a few times and then he just up and left. He could do the same to you." She seemed to think about it for a moment. "Of course you're a whole heap nicer than Harmony. But…"

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"Stop worrying. I'm the one who's leaving. Remember?" But she couldn't help feeling the cool draft of being dropped so quickly like that. Even with the few times they'd been out together, it could be excruciating. Ruby just looked at her. "If he asked you to stay in Coogee, would you?" Zoe had to think about that. She hoped not. "Sorry. Don't answer that." Ruby touched her arm and stood up. "It's not like my love life is a success. I'm paranoid. I'm sorry. Just…please be careful." Zoe watched Ruby walk away. Unwelcome advice but true. Maybe she had a point. She was becoming a tad obsessed about a guy she knew very little about. And he was getting all protective on her. She was always spouting off about how she could protect herself. But what if she couldn't save herself from falling for him? "What's wrong?" He was back, and after a puzzled glance at her face his smile slipped. She shook her hair as if she could shake the uneasiness left over from her friend's warning. "Nothing." "Something is. You're different from when I left." He tilted his head and considered her. "And not in the way I'd hoped." She looked up at him and saw him hesitate before he sat down. "Why are you paying attention to me?" she asked abruptly. Angus put the drinks down on the log beside the chair. "Umm. I find you attractive. Where'd that come from?" "I just think it's all happening pretty fast." Whoa, there, Angus thought. "What's happening?" He looked around. He needed a sign to spell out what had changed. "Has anyone seen the girl I left here five minutes ago?" He looked at her again. She still looked gorgeous—but very distant. He hadn't expected this. Though he should have. Whenever things were going well, or he started to care, something happened to take it all away. It had happened as a kid every time he felt like he'd started to fit into a family—and it was the biggest reason he knew he shouldn't try for anything but one-night stands in his personal life. Maybe he had been moving in on her. But everything finally felt right. Things he hadn't felt before. It was so incredibly easy to be with Zoe—like coming home. He cut that sappy thought off and plastered a non-committal smile on his face. He was good at that. It had been years since anybody had seen through it. "No problem." He picked up his own drink. "Catch you later."

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Chapter Eighteen On Sunday Angus didn't come down to the fete. If he had, Zoe thought she might have set up a kissing stall just to annoy him. But he was waiting for her after work on Monday. It was broad daylight and a lot of people saw him cut her off in the foyer so she couldn't escape. But a lot of people had seen him walk away from her at the party, too, and that hadn't been pleasant. He'd upset her and upset Ruby, who'd been devastated because she'd felt partially responsible. "Lift? Maybe we could go for a drive?" "I've got a lift, thanks, Angus." "Where?" "That big blue bus out there. A weekly ticket." "Thought so." He smiled at her and she could feel herself soften. Cave in. Pathetic weakling. Maybe it needed finishing properly. "Okay." Zoe tossed her hair and walked out into the doctors' car park with her head high until he opened her door and waited for her to get in. "Truce," he said as the roof went back. She ran her fingers through her hair. She did love this car. "I didn't know there was a war." "Maybe a skirmish—but all's fair in love and war." He glanced across and that cynical almost-smile made her want to lean over and kiss the real laughter back into him. She sighed at her own weakness. Back to square one with the magnetism of this guy. Maybe he lusted after her as much as she realized she lusted after him. But no one had said anything about love. "I think we need to sit down and talk. Because there're issues in my past that make me behave in a way I'm sometimes not proud of." "Like Saturday night? Dropping me like a hot potato?" "Hmm," he said and they drove for five minutes in silence after that until finally he glanced over his shoulder and pulled onto the side of the road beside the beach. Angus switched the engine off and they sat there in silence for a few seconds watching the waves. Then he turned in his seat until he faced her. "I abandoned ship pretty quick at the first hint of you wanting out. I'm sorry." "Is that what you thought? Are you that insecure?" "I'm not insecure at all if I don't care about someone." 281

Not a bad way to be. She guessed she was the same. The thought that he cared for her sat warmly inside her. "I didn't really want out. Just had a little episode of cold feet. That if we got too serious I might never get to experience standing on my own. Or see the world." "Your trip in six months?" He nodded as understanding dawned. "You'll still see the world." He raised his eyebrows suggestively as if to gauge her reaction. "I could visit." If he was looking for the right thing to say he'd stumbled on a good one there. That fab idea could be thought about later. But there was more to this than that. "I'm a little touchy when people try to protect me from doing what I want." "Maybe I could learn to trust your instincts a little more? As long as you ask when you need help?" This was sounding serious. And reasonable. "I could do that." "And it's not like you don't try to protect people yourself. What about Tessa in labor? You weren't oblivious to worry or making sure she was looked after." He had her there. Funny she'd never thought about it from that point of view. "So tell me why you abandoned ship, as you called it."

Chapter Nineteen Angus ruffled his hair, not looking happy with having to explore the pain in his past, and she wished she could call the question back. "I mentioned once I was fostered." She nodded her head. She remembered. "It was pretty clear you didn't want to talk about it that night." "You were good to pick that up. Not a lot of women would have left it there and I appreciated that." "So don't talk about it now if you don't want to." "That would be the easy way out." He shrugged. "Maybe you make me want to take risks…" Zoe bit her lip. That must have been tough to say, and she admired him for his honesty. He went on in a matter-of-fact tone, "Let's just say lots of families tried me and I wasn't what they wanted." She could hear the self-mocking tone in his voice and she wanted to reach out and take his hand. But she was scared he'd never finish what he needed to say. "My case worker said it was bad luck, not me, but I grew a protective skin and a skill for keeping people at a distance. Apparently that didn't make me more attractive." He looked pretty darned attractive to her. "I don't know about that."

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But now she understood. She felt the answers slide into place. Well, that explained last night. One hint of eviction from her and up went the walls and he was out of there. Zoe did take his hand then and it felt powerful and safe in hers. In complete contrast to his description of his childhood. "A little mix from both of us could be the answer." Angus smiled at her and finally there was no self-ridicule. The sight warmed her. "That's why I love being with you. It's as if you understand me. And it feels amazing. Bear with me while I practice believing you for a bit." She'd never had those sort of worries. The direct opposite, really. She knew her family adored her and only protected her because they cared. Maybe she should just let their protectiveness wash over her. Maybe she needed Angus's help. "So I'll hug you when you need it, and you can help me be more independent without alienating my family." "I could do that. Though I'm still not sure I'm lovable." Now why did she think he was teasing? "That would be my problem not yours." He smiled at her, all devil and daring and dark desire. "So now will you kiss me?" "My absolute pleasure." It seemed with Angus she might not have to take drastic action in order to live an exciting life.

Chapter Twenty Angus walked with Zoe out of the foyer of the hospital on Monday after her shift. He'd dropped into the ward to say goodbye to Tessa but she'd discharged herself before he got there. They found her outside the hospital clutching her baby with tears running down her face. Zoe hurried over and he followed. "You look miserable. What's happened?" Tessa burst into tears. "He's not here. He said at three, but Chase isn't here. He said he'd be here fifteen minutes ago." Angus wanted to strangle her boyfriend. He knew this feeling so well. She hugged Bodie tightly against her. "He doesn't love me or Bodie. Of course he doesn't." Zoe looked at him and Angus said, "I'll take you and Bodie home." Zoe added, "In his fabulous car," but just as the words were out, a large, mohawked man covered in tattoos hurried up to them. Angus glared at him until he saw the guy looked ready to cry, too. Maybe fairy tales did happen. Angus slid his hand into Zoe's and stepped back as the young man tried to hug Tessa still burdened by a huge blue rabbit and a bunch of wilting flowers. "So sorry, babe. I couldn't make the baby seat fit in the car." Tessa sniffed and smiled tremulously as if she couldn't believe he was there.

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Zoe leaned forward without letting go of his hand. "You must be Chase. Here. Let me hold these for a sec." She took the rabbit, which she handed to Angus. Then she took the flowers. "Ta." Chase glanced at Zoe briefly but his eyes were all for Tessa. "Babe. I love you. And our little man." Angus squeezed Zoe's hand and they both looked away to hide smiles. Tessa's Chase had a marshmallow centre. Especially where his lady and his baby were concerned. Tessa turned damp eyes to Zoe. "My lift's here, but maybe Dr. Angus should take you home in his car?" Angus put his arm around Zoe and squeezed her gently against him where she felt so right. "I just might do that." Zoe raised her brows. "And I might just let you." *** Ten minutes later, with the roof down, they were parked under a tree at their favorite beach. Finally they broke apart. Angus stroked her face with his finger as he sat back, and his soft smile made her glow. "So how do I get to be a lifeguard's boyfriend?" That was easy. "Keep kissing me like that." "So where do we go from here?" She grinned. "Anywhere with a more comfortable seat." He reached forward and started the car. No delay at all. "See, I thought you only loved me for my car." "Maybe I love your car because of you?" "As long as you love me." She looked at him. Her gorgeous, slightly insecure, amazing man who so wanted to do everything right for her. "More every day. But you'll have to get used to the boys. I might even have to forgive them because they kept me safe for you." "They're already my favorite people. Next to you…"

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A Perfect Match by Emilie Rose

Chapter One No man should be forced to endure a baby shower.

Tate Sumner fingered the irregularly shaped piece of cardboard in his pocket. He’d been ordered to mingle until he found the guest whose puzzle piece linked with his, and then they were supposed to mimic the way the pieces fit together with their bodies.

Leave it to his matchmaking sister Sandy to turn her baby shower, traditionally a females-only affair, into a dating service. Ha, ha. Hilarious. Not. At thirty-four, he sometimes felt out of sync too young for marriage and all it entailed, but too old for singles games.

In the last hour he’d worked his way through the crowd without a match and without enthusiasm, although he had to admit, there’d been a few amusing tussles as the mostly single, twentysomething guests linked up. No doubt the free-flowing alcoholic beverages had loosened their inhibitions.

He didn’t overindulge anymore. The hell-raising and skirt-chasing days he’d once enjoyed had come to an abrupt end after a building collapse landed him in the hospital last year, making him realise how short life was.

Before that life-changing event, he’d have let one of the blond twins beside him convince him to go home with her tonight. He subtly checked his watch and then shot another glance at the front door. No offense to Tia or Leah, but he’d rather catch the second half of the Braves game.

The doorbell rang. His sister unearthed herself from a pile of torn pastel wrapping paper and waddled to answer as fast as her due-any-day-now pregnant belly would allow.

And then she screamed and launched herself at the poor victim on her welcome mat. With his luck the newcomer would be his match, and he’d be making a human puzzle piece out of himself soon. Not an anticipated event.

His sister dragged the visitor into view, and Tate nearly dropped the glass of spiked lemonade someone had forced into his hand. Faith King. He hadn’t seen her since his youngest sister Sandy had married Faith’s brother, David, two years ago. Faith’s strawberry blond hair hung in a 285

smooth, glossy curtain curling just below her jawline. He missed the tangles he’d created during their passionate night after the rehearsal dinner.

Desire kicked him in the gut. They’d torched the sheets that night, so he hadn’t understood the deep freeze Faith had treated him to the next day at the wedding and reception.

Sure, he’d expected a little morning-after awkwardness since they’d fallen into bed without the usual get-to-know-you dance, but he’d hoped they’d fill in the gaps during the remainder of the weekend. It hadn’t happened. Faith had avoided him as if he’d exposed her to something contagious.

And then, in a fit of wounded pride, he’d had a pint too much champagne at the reception, danced with every female present and shot off his mouth with a lousy toast. Yeah, he’d been a real prize. A prize idiot. Chapter Two “I’m sorry I’m late.” Faith dragged her rolling suitcase over the threshold. “The storm delayed my flight. I didn’t even stop by the hotel. I had the taxi bring me straight here.”

Her slightly husky and somewhat breathless voice sucked Tate right back to their middle-of-thenight tussles. They’d christened his sofa, his bed and even his kitchen counter.

For years he’d craved the carefree bachelor life he’d been denied while helping to raise his younger sisters, but in the days preceding Sandy’s wedding Faith had made him want more than one wild weekend. She’d tempted him to forget the promise he’d made to himself to savour the freedom that came with getting his last sister out of the house and finally being responsible for only himself.

“You have men at your baby shower.” Faith scanned the gathering with a frown, and then she spotted him and his wannabe companions. His heart kicked irregularly as her shock-widened blue eyes inspected him from cowlick to boots.

Her lush lips compressed, and her gaze hit his with the same arctic blast he remembered from their final encounter. After seeing off the bride and groom that day, he’d asked Faith for her 286

number. She’d slammed the car door in his face. Her glare tonight indicated they wouldn’t be sharing a fond reunion. The knowledge slid down his spine like a hot cinder.

His sister Sandy wiggled her fingers, motioning Tate forward. He excused himself from the twins and joined his sister. “You remember David’s sister, Faith, don’t you?”

Oh yeah. Every luscious curve of her. He had no trouble recalling Faith’s scent, the silkiness of her skin, her gasps of passion or the hot, wet clench of her body.

“She wanted to be here for her niece’s arrival.” Sandy’s words dragged him back to the present.

He locked gazes with the woman who starred in his dreams far too often. “Faith.”

“Tate.” Her tone could give a man frostbite, but the blush tinting her cheeks confirmed she hadn’t forgotten what had happened between them, either.

“Faith is checking into the Hilltop Inn for a few days. Next week she’s closing on a brand-new house here in Chapel Hill.” Sandy nudged him. “Put her suitcase in my room for now, would you, Tate? And get her a drink, please.”

His heart pumped harder. Faith would be living minutes away in town instead of eight hours away in Atlanta. He offered her his glass. “Here. Take mine. I haven’t touched it, but watch out for the kick. My twisted sister enjoys watching her guests get sloshed while she stays sober.”

Faith extended her hand. Their fingers brushed as she took the drink and current flowed from her fingers to his. Her eyes widened, but quickly filled with wariness.

“Thank you.” 287

Chapter Three His sister took Faith’s umbrella and propped it against the wall. “Do you have your puzzle piece?”

Faith blinked and averted her gaze. “Yes. It’s in my purse.”

“Dig it out, introduce yourself to everyone until you find your match. Tate can explain the rules of the game. I need to sit down.” Sandy winced, pressed a hand to her lower back and waddled slowly back to her chair, leaving Tate with Faith in the foyer.

“How are you?” he asked. Faith looked incredible - still curvy in all the right places.

She dug in her leather purse and withdrew the puzzle piece. Tate rocked back on his heels.

Interesting.

It didn’t take a fireman who spent too many hours of downtime at the station assembling puzzles to see that Faith’s piece was counterpart to the one in his pocket. His impatience with the stupid party game evaporated, and his blood hummed in anticipation of fitting his body to hers.

Coincidence? Or was his sister matchmaking?

“I’m well. Good to see you again, Tate. Excuse me, I need to mingle with the other guests and find my match. Don’t let me keep you from your friends.” She delivered the words in a polite, but chilly, brush-off.

He produced his piece of the puzzle and aligned it with hers. “No need. I’m your man.”

“Match!” shrieked Sandy from the living room, confirming Tate’s matchmaking theory. God bless little sisters. He took back every negative thing he’d ever said about the baby of the family.

“Know what that means, Faith?” He took the tumbler out of her hand and set it on the credenza.

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She shifted on her feet and bit her luscious bottom lip. “No.”

“It means we get to simulate the interlocking puzzle pieces with our bodies.” Damn, he couldn’t wait. He barely restrained himself from rubbing his hands in glee.

Scowling, she looked at her piece. It had the jutting male projection, whereas his had the indented female shape. The pieces fit together perfectly - just as he and Faith had that night.

A moment passed and then Faith lifted her hands to his shoulders. He cupped her waist, and his heart thumped in expectation of her tongue in his mouth, but then she swiftly lifted her knee toward his groin. He sucked in a swift breath and tensed in anticipation of pain.

She stopped just short of her target. “Need I continue?” Chapter Four Faith King watched the gleam in Tate - the snake’s - green eyes turn from seductive to cautious. She ignored the strength and heat of the thick shoulder muscles beneath her hands, lowered her knee and stepped out of reach before the urge to tangle her fingers in his short dark hair and seal her lips to his won out over common sense.

A muscle ticked in Tate’s rock-hard jaw. “You’ve made your point.”

Two years ago she’d been rapidly cartwheeling into love during her brother’s pre-wedding festivities. Tate had been playing a game...or so Faith had learned when she arrived at the church to dress with the bride and the other bridesmaids.

The women had been laughing about firefighter Tate’s reputation for starting sensual fires all over town, and wagering on which wedding guest he’d go home with that night. No one had known Faith had just spent the most passionate night of her life in his bed.

In seconds, she'd gone from euphorically believing she’d finally found Mr. Right to the sinking realisation that she’d been just another body to Tate Sumner.

Sandy had explained that Tate had wild oats to sow because he’d spent his teens and twenties

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acting as a father figure to his four younger siblings after their father died. If Faith had doubts about Tate’s interest in a long-term relationship, his wedding toast had certainly clarified them.

“I don’t know why any man under fifty would settle for just one woman, but good luck, pal, and by the way, I’ll break your legs if you hurt my sister.”

“You’re moving to town.” Tate’s direct gaze pinned her in place and caused her pulse to quicken. She’d forgotten how good he smelled and how his brawny build made her feel delicate and protected.

She hadn’t forgotten the strength of his arms as he held her, but not for lack of trying on her part. Nor had she forgotten he was a charmer like her father.

“Yes. I wanted to be near David, Sandy and my soon-to-be-born niece. I’ve accepted a position as a physician’s assistant at the hospital.”

“How about dinner tomorrow night?”

She nearly choked. Did he think she’d fall back into his bed as easily as she had the first time? Never mind that Tate had the sexiest, greenest eyes she’d ever seen or strong, capable and talented hands.

She was wise to his seductive ways and had no intention of being sucked in by his charming smile or clever words again. “No thanks. I try not to repeat my mistakes.”

He blinked, briefly covering his eyes with long, thick lashes any woman would envy, but his confident smile didn’t waver. “Your loss, Faith. I remember how hot we were together even if you don’t.” Chapter Five Faith hardened herself against the sexy rumble of his voice and tried to ignore the temptation nipping at her heels. “Perhaps your memory is faulty.”

A wicked grin lifted one corner of his edible mouth and carved a crease in his cheek - a crease she’d traced with her tongue once upon a time. “Maybe you’re afraid you can’t live up to my memories.” 290

Her molars clicked together. “And maybe you’re overestimating your charms and those memories are not worth revisiting.”

His grin faded. “I didn’t hear you complaining. In fact, I could swear your screams of pleasure are what made my neighbour hammer on the apartment wall and ask us to keep it down. He didn’t realise keeping it down around you was impossible.”

Fire rushed through Faith’s veins. She lifted her chin and pretended that incident hadn’t been the most embarrassing and yet hilarious moment of her life. Tate had carried her from the kitchen back to the bedroom where they’d made love with silent laughter.

She’d never had so much fun making love before. “It’s amazing how far a woman will go to bolster a man’s ego. If I remember correctly you needed a little... encouragement.”

Tate’s eyes darkened. “For crying out loud, we’d made love three times in as many hours. Did you expect me to go off like an adolescent each time? And I don’t remember you complaining about the extra action.” He grabbed her suitcase and marched with it toward the bedroom.

Faith fisted her hands and counted to ten. Was she an idiot? Why goad him? Certainly, his stamina had put her previous lovers to shame.

And yes, she’d loved the fact that Tate had unselfishly delayed his pleasure until she’d found her own. And darn it, why couldn’t she forget how good he’d made her feel in bed and out of it?

Swallow your pride and keep it friendly, Faith. Sandy worships her brother, and David is the only family you acknowledge. Exclude Tate and you could be excluded. “Tate, wait.”

She followed him into Sandy and David’s bedroom and then wished she hadn’t. Standing beside Tate and a bed melted her like candle wax. He’d been an amazing lover. Probably because he’d had so much practice, she reminded herself bitterly. “My gift for the baby is in my suitcase.”

His thick biceps bunched as he effortlessly lifted the case onto the bed as if it hadn’t gone over the airline’s weight limit, and then he stepped back to allow her access, but he didn’t leave the room. Chapter Six 291

She wished he had as soon as she unzipped and opened the case. Her lingerie lay on top, and her skin burned as she dug through the colourful bras and panties to reach the gift-wrapped package cushioned beneath them. She shoved a pair of pink panties - the ones he’d pulled off her with his teeth that night - to the bottom of the case.

“Where is the house you’re buying?” he asked.

She closed the case before meeting his gaze. Clutching the gift to her chest she replied, “Rocky Creek.”

“Nice neighbourhood. My district. Station Six. Give me your address and I’ll have the platoon look out for you when I’m off duty.”

Faith shifted her jaw and considered his words. “Are you being nice or are you just trying to get my address?”

“I could get your address from Sandy or David, but I’m asking you. You’re family now.”

Family. Everyone seemed to have their own definition of the word. Faith shoved back her hair and immediately recalled the gentle tangle of Tate’s fingers in the strands. “Why can’t you just accept that night was a mistake, and I’m not interested in a repeat?”

“Because when you lie you get a tiny red patch right here.” He traced a blunt finger over the skin at the top of her breastbone just below her locket. Faith’s breath hitched and her pulse leapt. Her brother had a big mouth. He must have told Tate about the telltale sign. That spot had been the bane of Faith’s childhood. She’d never been able to get away with anything.

Tate’s warm fingers curled around her nape, choking off coherent thought. He erased the distance between them. Heat radiated off his body, and his woodsy scent enclosed her in a seductive fog. “Are you going to deny you’ve thought about that night?”

Deny it. But she couldn’t form the lie. Her mouth watered and her lips dried. What little resistance she had evaporated as his head lowered. Faith pressed her hands against his chest. His heart pounded beneath her palm, and his warm breath swept her lips a split second before his mouth took hers in a slow, lazy kiss.

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He sampled her mouth with lips, tongue and teeth until her knees buckled. One big hand stroked down her spine to cup her bottom and support her weight, forging her to his length.

Wow. She’d forgotten his potency and seriously overestimated her willpower. Her skin tingled and her belly tightened. She couldn’t find the strength to shove him away and was on the verge of dragging him onto David’s bed and making a fool out of herself again when her common sense rallied.

Good grief. Get a grip. He’s just like your father. She yanked free and moved out of reach. “Between playmates, Tate?”

Before he could reply, Sandy stumbled into the room looking nauseated. “Sorry, guys. I think I ate too much guacamole. I need to lie down. Tate, can you give Faith a ride to her hotel?”

Tate’s jaw muscles flexed. His gaze drilled hers. “Be glad to.” Chapter Seven What do you mean you’ve given up my room?” Faith sounded nearly hysterical.

Tate considered diffusing the situation, but he was in the mood to chew nails right now and he’d probably make matters worse by intervening. How could Faith stubbornly deny the attraction between them?

Hell, she’d melted in his arms with one kiss. He hadn’t found that potent a chemistry before or since their night together - not because he hadn’t looked.

“I’m sorry, Ms. King. It’s graduation weekend for both of the local universities, and it’s almost midnight. When you didn’t arrive by seven p.m. as expected we thought you weren’t coming, and we released your room.”

“Then give me another one.”

“We’re at full occupancy.”

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Faith made a noise of disgust. “Are you telling me there’s no room at the inn?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Find one,” Tate barked.

The clerk startled. “Sir -”

Tate straightened to his full six-feet-four inches and glared. He didn’t use his size to intimidate often, but once in a while it came in handy.

“I’ll try. One moment, please.” The clerk picked up the phone and made several calls in rapid succession while Faith paced in front of the marble counter - an action that gave Tate time to admire her legs beneath the just-above-knee-length skirt and to remember how good they’d felt wrapped around him.

Ten minutes later the clerk nervously cleared his throat. “Ms. King, the only room I can find is at the Streetside Motel.”

“I’ll take it,” Faith insisted.

“No way,” Tate replied. “The place is unsafe, Faith. Streetside rents rooms by the hour.”

Her eyebrows puckered and then rose. Wide-eyed, she stared at him. “You mean - ?”

“Yeah. Hookers.”

Her cheeks turned rosy. She studied her shoes. “Never mind. I’ll borrow David’s couch.” Chapter Eight “You could always stay at my place. At least you know my bed’s comfortable.” He couldn’t resist the dig. Not that they’d slept much that night. And he wouldn’t sleep a wink knowing she

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was back between his sheets, alone, but he’d just begun his four-day-off rotation. He’d catch up on sleep tomorrow.

Her spine stiffened and her straight little nose lifted. “I don’t think so.”

“David’s couch it is.” He carried her bag back to his pickup truck, helped Faith into the vehicle and headed back where they’d come from. Five miles down the road his cell phone rang. “Sumner.”

“Tate, it’s David. Sandy’s in labour. We’re on the way to the hospital.”

His stomach bottomed out. His baby sister. A mum. Jeez. Where had time gone? It seemed like only yesterday Tate had been stuck at home babysitting his sisters and resenting every minute of it while their mother worked nights and weekends to support them.

After high school graduation he’d immediately gone into firefighter training instead of college as planned. His dad’s life insurance payment was running out and they’d needed the income. Tate had believed life and fun were passing him by while he juggled the roles of Mr. Mum and man of the house. The building collapse last year had reminded him of what was really important. Family.

The sound of Sandy’s moan through the phone made Tate feel helpless. As a firefighterparamedic, he was trained to dash in and rescue people. He could even deliver a baby if the situation demanded it, but there were parts of his sister he’d rather not become acquainted with. “I’ll relay the news to Faith and then Mum. David, your sister will be staying at my place tonight. The hotel screwed up her reservation.”

Faith squeaked indignantly beside him. Tate sent his love to Sandy, finished his conversation with David and disconnected before turning to Faith. “Sandy’s in labour and on the way to the hospital. I don’t have a key to their town house. Do you?”

Faith pinched the bridge of her nose and scrunched her eyes closed. “No.”

“Then you’re bunking with me unless you have a better idea.”

Her shoulders sagged. “No, no better idea. But I won’t sleep with you. I’ll take your couch.” 295

His mother and sisters would have his hide if he put a female guest in the den. Too bad Mum now lived in Florida with his aunt, and Faith couldn’t use Mum’s guest room. “Not a chance. The sofa’s mine - if you refuse to share my big ol’ king-sized bed.”

“I do refuse. Besides, you sleep in the middle.”

Grinning, he pulled his truck into his assigned parking space and killed the engine. “Only with you, Faith.”

An expression of disbelief crossed her face. “Does that line usually work for you?” Chapter Nine He deserved her sarcasm. Two years ago, a good time was all he’d wanted, but bachelorhood wasn’t as great as he’d imagined, and whether Faith knew it or not, she was the only woman with whom he’d ever spent an entire night.

He usually said his goodbyes before the awkward morning after. He circled the truck and met her beside her door. “It’s not a line.”

She ignored the helping hand he offered. “You have a reputation for starting fires all over Chapel Hill, Tate. Don’t try lighting one with me.”

“Me? I’m a firefighter. I put out fires.”

Her lips compressed. “Not with women.”

Understanding clicked into place. His little sister always had yapped too much.

What had Sandy told her? “I’m thirty-four and single. Am I not allowed a personal life?”

“You might want to warn the women involved that you’re only in it for the fun and games before you take them back to your black leather and chrome bachelor pad.”

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His heart missed a beat. “Were you wanting more than fun and games that night, Faith?”

She snorted. “In your dreams, hose jockey.”

Hose jockey. Slang for the newest recruits. “I’m a captain now.”

She waved a hand and shoved back her hair. “Whatever. It’s late. I’m exhausted.”

He was anything but tired. Adrenalin raced through his veins. He attributed his restlessness to Sandy’s labour...and Faith’s return. “Let’s get you tucked in.” Ignoring her scowl, he hefted her case from the truck bed and led the way to his second-floor apartment.

They’d both been a little tipsy from champagne and overheated from some heavy petting in his truck the last time he’d brought her here.

She’d been twined around him like a kudzu vine with her legs circling his waist and her tongue in his ear when he’d carried her from the parking lot straight to his bed.

He’d been seconds away from detonation and the hottest sex of his life. Too bad tonight wouldn’t be a repeat.

But there was always tomorrow. Chapter Ten Faith reluctantly entered Tate’s apartment. Everything was uncomfortably familiar to her from their long-ago tryst - the sofa, even the kitchen held memories of the intense passion they’d shared...

Returning to the scene of the crime held no appeal for her. The crime? Tate had stolen Faith’s heart two years ago and none of the frantic dating she’d done in the Atlanta singles scene since had repaired the damage.

How could you replace a man who seemed to anticipate your every thought, every need? But

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then, according to Sandy’s bridesmaids, Tate had more experience with women than a librarian had with books.

Anticipating a woman’s needs was probably second nature to him. Faith paused in the doorway of his bedroom. Her palms moistened and her blood raced. The kiss at David’s hadn’t helped the situation. She had to get through this weekend with heart intact and her knees together.

“You remember where everything is?” Tate asked from just behind her. His gravelly voice slid down her spine like the drag of a callused fingertip. She shivered, cursed the warmth puddling in her belly and nodded. “Then help yourself to towels and whatever else you want.”

She couldn’t look at him. Instead, she studied the wide black leather headboard and the black comforter. She’d spent too much time pressed against the first and buried beneath the second first in person and then later in her dreams. “Please wake me if David calls with news about Sandy and the baby.”

“Sure, but it’ll probably be hours. There are extra hangers in my closet, and here’s an empty drawer if you want to unpack.”

The intimacy of the situation made her uncomfortable. She’d never lived with a man. “Do you need to shower while I unpack?”

“That’d be great.” He disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

Faith struggled to block out the sound of running water and the image of his naked body beneath the spray, but her brain insisted on recalling his slick flesh in graphic detail. Her breathing turned shallow. They’d shared his shower that night. She’d been convinced he was Mr. Right. How could she have been so wrong?

She shoved her underwear into the drawer. It wasn’t like her to tumble into bed with any available male, but she’d been vulnerable before David’s wedding. Chapter Eleven She’d lost her mother six months earlier, her thirtieth birthday had loomed, and her friends had been marrying and producing children at an alarming rate.

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David was moving out. Faith had felt alone. The final straw had been her father’s insensitive request days before David’s wedding. He’d wanted to bring his girlfriend to the ceremony.

Faith sank onto the bed and put her head in her hands. She’d known her father was a liar and a cheat since she was twelve years old. Her parents argued often and after each argument her father would beg forgiveness and swear not to stray again.

Her mother had forgiven him every time, but Faith had seen the pain in her mother’s eyes. Had the pain of betrayal weakened her mother to the disease that had taken her life?

Faith’s head had been reeling when she’d met Tate. He’d seemed so family-centreed and devoted to his siblings - the antithesis of Faith’s selfish father. Had the shattering of her world made her susceptible to Tate’s rugged charm and blinded her to his womanising ways?

A man who belonged on a hunky fireman’s calendar probably had women throwing themselves at him regularly, and the blondes vying for his attention tonight at the baby shower proved he liked women plural, didn’t it?

The bathroom door opened and Tate exited in a cloud of steam. Water droplets clung to bare chest and broad shoulders and sparkled in his damp hair. The towel knotted at his waist revealed his long, strong legs.

Her mouth dried and her blood simmered. She wished the chemistry between them would evaporate along with the bathroom steam.

“Faith, are you okay?” He crossed the room and stopped in front of her.

She was a fool for wanting a man with so much charisma. Tate, like her father, was movie-star handsome. Also, like her father, he worked many hours away from home. Could she trust him? Rhetorical question. Tate wasn’t looking for forever, just for now. “I’m just tired.”

“Are you sure?” He knelt beside the bed and cupped a long-fingered hand over her knee. Heat raced upward from the point of contact. Was the concern in his eyes genuine?

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She didn’t trust her judgment, but she seriously wished she could lean her head on his broad, damp shoulder. Had David told him about their father’s repeated infidelities? She shook her head and rose, displacing his hand. Chapter Twelve Tate stood beside her. “Call if you need anything...like someone to scrub your back.” The teasing glint in his eyes made her stomach flip-flop. Where was her common sense?

“Good night, Tate.” As soon as he left the room she rushed through her shower, trying to forget that just minutes before he’d been naked in the glass stall. She turned out the bedroom light and darkness swallowed her.

She slid between the sheets and his scent enveloped her. Her pulse pounded. Faith closed her eyes and courted elusive sleep.

******

“Faith.” Tate’s rough voice nudged her toward consciousness. She smelled coffee. Were they going to make love in the kitchen again? Last time she’d knocked over the canister and spilled coffee grounds all over the counter.

She nuzzled deeper into her pillow. “We can’t. Not again. Your neighbour will hear us.”

“Faith.” His voice sounded harder, more insistent this time.

”Again? Are you insatiable? Go away, Tate,” she mumbled into the down.

A hand shook her shoulder. “Faith. Wake up. Sandy had the baby.”

She jerked awake and rolled over. Sunlight beamed through a gap in the curtains, nearly blinding her. Tate sat on the edge of the bed. She’d been dreaming. Good heavens, what had she said? She snatched the sheet to her chin. “What?”

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Beard stubble darkened Tate’s jaw and his hair stood on end as if he’d just awakened. He looked delicious. Edible. “Our niece has arrived. Want to go and meet her?”

Comprehension dawned. “Anna’s here?”

His grin was boyishly sweet and oh, so sexy. “Yeah, all eight pounds of her.”

Faith bolted up in the bed and hugged him. The scalding heat of his bare chest permeated her thin gown. She gasped and pulled away, but his hands encircling her waist prevented escape. His green eyes darkened and burned into hers.

Air lodged in Faith’s lungs and refused to circulate. Her heart pounded and warmth suffused her. Why did he affect her this way when no one else ever had?

And why couldn’t she just accept today as it came, the way her more liberated friends did, without needing the promise of tomorrows? Because she wanted a family of her own. “Tate -” “Shh.” His mouth covered hers. Chapter Thirteen He sipped from her lips, nuzzled and nipped until she opened for him, and then the kiss turned ravenous. Hot. Slick. Wet.

Determined to push him away, she slid her hands over his supple skin, but somehow her fingers ended up threaded through the short, crisp hair of his nape. Her breasts tightened and pushed shamelessly against his chest.

His mouth devoured hers and his hands roamed her back, her waist, and finally, he cupped her aching breasts. Faith moaned into his mouth as he plied her flesh.

A knot of need formed between her legs. Last night before drifting off to sleep, she’d created a list of reasons why their affair shouldn’t be repeated. At this moment, she couldn’t recall a thing. She skimmed her nails down his back and reveled in his shiver and groan.

Tate eased her back onto the pillows, following her down. He caught her nipple, gown and all, in 301

his mouth and suckled. One big hand delved beneath the covers, raking up her leg and finding her moist centre.

He stroked her with unerring accuracy, igniting the embers smouldering inside her until flames of need swept through her. Faith gasped. Her body throbbed. She cradled Tate’s bristly face and urged him up for a kiss.

Tate lifted his head and kissed her deeply before drawing back. “You know I’d rather spend the day here with you, but I promised David we’d bring lunch to the hospital within the hour. This afternoon, I’m all yours.”

So much for her vow to keep her legs together.

***** Tate would never understand women. This morning Faith had been hot and his. This afternoon, the ice queen had returned. Déjà vu. But her rejection and his resulting confusion didn’t stop the persistent throb behind his zipper.

In Sandy’s hospital room, Tate cradled his tiny niece. The same surge of protectiveness he’d experienced each time his father had placed one of Tate’s baby sisters in his arms welled up in him today.

His other sisters had married and followed their careers or their husbands’ across the country. They lived too far away for Tate to be a hands-on uncle if they ever had children.

As much as he’d once yearned to cast off the responsibility he felt for his sisters, now that they were gone he missed having them underfoot and making demands on his time. He missed being needed.

One of these days, he’d like to have kids of his own, but first he had to find a woman who’d have him - a woman who engaged his brain, made him laugh and set his sheets ablaze. Two years ago he hadn’t been ready. Now he was.

Was Faith that woman?

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Chapter Fourteen Tate’s gaze met Faith’s and his breath caught at the yearning in her blue eyes. Now that he understood. Faith wanted a baby. From what David had told him about Faith’s work with children as a physician’s assistant, Tate suspected Faith would be a good mother.

He crossed the room and stopped before her. “Want to say goodbye to Anna before we get out of here and let David and Sandy get some sleep?”

Faith took the baby from him. Their hands brushed and a jolt of electricity zapped him. She cuddled Anna and cooed nonsense. Something inside Tate shifted, softened.

In that instant, he knew he wanted to be the man who fathered Faith’s babies. His father’s claim that he’d fallen in love with Tate’s mother at first sight suddenly seemed plausible. Could love explain this powerful push-pull between Tate and Faith since they’d met? He didn’t intend to let the sun set without finding out.

He kissed Sandy’s cheek and shook his brother-in-law’s hand. “Congratulations. Anna’s a beauty. You know I’m only a phone call away if you need anything.”

David’s grip tightened. He leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “Remember your toast at our wedding? Ditto. I’ll break your legs if you hurt my sister.”

Surprised, Tate rocked back on his heels. He looked from David’s scowl to Sandy’s smile and thumbs-up. Definitely matchmaking. “That’s not in my plans.” But he did plan to get to the bottom of Faith’s deep freeze.

He escorted her back to the truck and headed for his apartment. He glanced at the pleat between her brows and the tired shadows beneath her eyes and detoured down the road toward University Lake.

“Where are we going?”

“I thought you might enjoy a rowboat ride. Twice a week, weather permitting, I row laps around the lake. The exercise clears the garbage from my head and gives me a chance to think.” The dock was deserted on this overcast day. He parked his truck, rented a boat and rowed them out into the centre of the lake. 303

Out here Faith couldn’t escape his questions. Chapter Fifteen “You were very good with Anna.” Faith broke the silence. She sat in the bow, facing him.

“Years of practice. Why haven’t you married and had kids of your own by now?”

Faith’s startled gaze met his. “I’ve been busy with my training, and I haven’t met the right man.”

Could he be the right man for Faith? He reconsidered the days leading up to Sandy’s wedding. He and Faith had been forced together for most of the events.

He’d expected being stuck with her to be a burden.Instead, he’d become addicted to her smiles and her laughter. He’d relished her intelligent, thought-provoking questions.

Leaving her each night had grown progressively more difficult, until they’d ended up staying together that last night.

The chemistry between them today was as strong as ever. Each touch and glance packed a wallop.

Yeah, he was the right man for Faith King, and if fighting dirty was the only way to get her to admit it, then so be it. “Come here.”

Her brows rose. “Excuse me?”

“Sit here. See how relaxing rowing a boat can be.” He scooted back on the flat seat, making a space for her between his sprawled legs. His movements rocked the boat.

She gasped and grasped the sides. “I don’t think -”

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“Don’t think. Just come here. It’s good exercise. Better than those gym machines you city girls use.”

With a distrustful look on her face, she cautiously crawled from her seat to his, turned and scooted into place. “No funny stuff.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He sucked a sharp breath as her butt brushed his groin, and the strawberry scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils. “Grip the oars just above my hands.”

She did as he instructed, but her spine remained as rigid as cold steel. “Now what?” Chapter Sixteen “Follow my moves. Take over when you think you can handle it. Don’t drop the oars or they’ll fall out of the oarlocks and into the lake, stranding us out here.” His bare arms and legs bracketed hers as he rowed them along the water’s edge.

With each stroke his chest brushed her back and his blood headed south. When Faith took command of the oars, Tate shifted his hands to her waist. She stiffened. “Keep rowing, Faith.”

“I said no funny business.” Her voice quivered.

He massaged alongside her spine with his thumbs. Her telling shiver was all the encouragement he needed. Lowering his head, he nuzzled aside the collar of her knit shirt and pressed a kiss in the curve of her shoulder. She didn’t pull away.

“Tate.”

“Shh. Row.” He ignored her warning, pushed aside her hair and nibbled her earlobe. Her breath hitched. “Concentrate on keeping your stroke even or we’ll turn in circles. Don’t lose the oars.”

“No fair,” she whispered in a breathless middle-of-the-night voice. Her spine curved into his chest, and her fingers tightened on the wooden oar shafts until her knuckles whitened. “Why are you doing this? Why me?”

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“Because you melt in my arms each time I touch you, and, Faith, you have the same effect on me.”

She turned her head, and he saw the uncertainty in her eyes. How could she doubt what she did to him; what they did to each other?

He shifted on the narrow seat until her bottom cradled his erection. She gasped and her eyes widened. Her lips eagerly met his.

Conscious of their very public location, Tate kept his hands on her waist when he’d much rather drag his palms over her sleek legs and beneath the hem of her shorts or cup her breasts.

Their tongues dueled. She bit his bottom lip. His pulse pounded.

Thud. He jerked his head back. They'd hit the shore. An overhanging tree provided a thin veil of privacy, but not enough for what he needed. Chapter Seventeen Tate deepened the kiss and slid his hands higher until his thumbs teased the underside of her breasts. She leaned into his touch. “Let’s go back to my place.”

She hesitated, and he expected her to chill him out. “Okay.”

“You’re sure? Faith, if I take you home I’m not going to be happy until I’m inside you.”

Faith’s eyes closed and her swollen lips parted on a shaky breath. When she lifted her lids, the passion in her blue eyes tempted him to say to hell with waiting until they got home.

He wanted her. Here. Now. And damn the consequences.

She licked her lips. “I’m sure.”

Tate battled the urge to pull her close and grabbed the oars instead. “Let’s go. But do me a 306

favour first. Move back to the bow. If you don’t, I have a feeling we might spend the afternoon in jail, and I’d much rather have you in my bed.” ****** Seeing Tate gently cradle baby Anna in his big hands had filled Faith with a need so strong she couldn’t ignore it.

In the park just a short time ago, that need had been matched by a physical desire stronger than any she’d ever known - stronger, even, than it had been during their first meeting. Who was the real Tate Sumner? The man she’d believed to be Mr. Right had swept her off her feet two years ago, pulled her into the crowd of strangers gathered for David and Sandy’s wedding and made her feel right at home.

He’d also made Faith feel like the most intelligent and desirable woman on the planet, and he’d made love to her until she couldn’t lift her exhausted head off his pillow.

She desperately wanted to feel that way again - as if she belonged somewhere and to someone. Did she dare risk it?

But what if the real Tate was the charming womaniser Sandy and her bridesmaids had described? Chapter Eighteen Tate knew how to push female buttons and he liked to play the field. At the wedding he danced with every woman under eighty and made wedding toasts about not settling down until he turned fifty. He, like her father, wouldn’t know the meaning of fidelity.

One was the man of her dreams, the other an express train to heartbreak. Would the real Tate Sumner please stand up? Had she completely fooled herself into believing Tate was a familyoriented guy?

Could she trust her instincts or was she blinded by the powerful attraction between them? Could she cautiously proceed with Tate, but still guard her heart? How would she know if she didn’t take a chance?

But she’d witnessed her mother’s pain at her father’s philandering, and taking that chance scared her spitless. 307

Tate pulled into his parking space and killed the engine. Faith swallowed the lump in her throat. If she was going to play it safe, then now was the time to call a halt to the proceedings. But what if he was the right man and she let the moment pass?

He turned in his seat and examined her face with a gaze so hot and intense she couldn’t breathe. Wow. He caressed her jaw with one lightly callused hand and she shivered. Need pooled in her belly. “Changed your mind?”

Her conflicting emotions nearly paralysed her. She wet her lips and gulped down her doubts. “No.”

Tate’s fingers tangled in her hair. He pulled her into a kiss so passionate her reservations receded farther out of reach.

Faith curled her fingers around his thick biceps and leaned into his chest, reveling in the pressure against her sensitised breasts.

Tate sat back with a groan. “Inside.”

He tugged her across the bench seat and out his side of the vehicle. Hand in hand, they hurried into his apartment. Chapter Nineteen As soon as the door closed, Tate pressed her against the wall and kissed her until Faith’s knees collapsed. He caught her in his arms and carried her to his bedroom without breaking the kiss, and then set her on her feet beside the bed.

Locking his dark green gaze with hers, he reached for the hem of his shirt and yanked the fabric over his head.

Faith mirrored his movements, shucking her shirt, shorts and then shoes. Her heart raced, making her dizzy with desire. This frantic need to get naked was so not like her usual cautious self.

She paused, wearing only her bra and panties. Was she strong enough to withstand the pain of loving Tate and losing him? Please don’t let this be a mistake, she thought to herself. 308

Tate’s gaze burned over her like a flash fire, sweeping her face, her breasts, her legs and back again. “You’re more beautiful than I remembered.”

Faith’s breath hitched. She desperately wanted to believe that wasn’t a practiced line. “I’m not beautiful.”

“You should see what I see.” The gravelly edge to his voice made her tremble.

She visually reacquainted herself with his broad shoulders, narrow waist and washboard abs. Her gaze followed the dark line of hair bisecting his belly to the long, thick ridge barely contained by his briefs.

A palm-sized scar on his upper thigh caused her heart to skip a beat. A burn? Had Tate been injured on the job? Her medical training kicked in. The damaged skin was a shiny pink, not red.

Not new, but not old enough to have faded to white. Before she could ask her questions, Tate’s arms enfolded her, soldering her to the solid heat of his body.

He devoured her mouth with breath-robbing thoroughness while his hands painted a swath of goose bumps over her skin. Faith skated her palms over his muscular back to cup his buttocks. Tate had an amazing butt. Chapter Twenty Tate groaned and then planted a line of openmouthed kisses down her neck. He traced the lace of her bra with his tongue and then her bra was gone, and Tate had her in his hot mouth.

She tangled her fingers in his hair and fought to stay upright as need twisted inside her. Surely something that felt this good couldn’t be wrong?

Tate’s briefs impeded her need to touch him. She shoved the fabric over his hips and then curled her fingers around his hot length.

Tate sucked a sharp breath through his teeth, whisked her panties down her legs and found her wetness with devastating, mind-wrecking results.

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Within moments his deft strokes brought her to the edge of release, held her there for several heart-pounding moments and then pushed her over. Faith collapsed against him, gasping and clinging to his shoulders.

Tate pressed a hard, swift kiss on her lips and then put a few inches between them. He reached into the bedside drawer for protection, which he quickly donned, and then he fell back on the bed, pulling her over him like a blanket.

Her thighs straddled his hips and his erection teased her core. She slid against him, teasing him and herself. His splayed fingers cradled her bottom, stilling her motions.

“You’re killing me, Faith. I need to be inside you,” he said through clenched teeth.

She’d never had a lover who made her feel as powerful, womanly or needed. Faith curled her fingers around him and lowered one excruciating inch at a time.

His growl drowned out her gasp as he filled her. Tate’s grip on her hips tightened, and he surged upward, driving deeper and faster. His hands found her breasts, tweaking her until she felt as taut as an over-wound clock.

She braced herself against his chest, clutched his shoulders and held on as pleasure built inside her.

Tate tangled his fingers in her hair and tugged her down for an explosive kiss that mimicked his thrusting. His hand shifted to the joining of their bodies.

Faith climbed higher and higher with every stroke until she tumbled off the summit in a free fall of rapture. Tate arched off the bed and groaned against her neck as shudders racked him. Chapter Twenty-One Faith’s muscles turned fluid, too weak to remain upright. Tate eased her down beside him, tucking her head into his shoulder and kissing her brow.

The room fell silent except for their laboured breathing. When they were together like this, Faith could almost forget her doubts and fears. 310

Could she trust a charmer like Tate to remain faithful?

The overhead ceiling fan cooled Faith’s sweat-dampened skin, and her pulse returned to normal. Tate’s breath slowed and evened out.

Had she found her soul mate or was she just in heat?

She could almost hear her best friend ask, “Is being in heat a bad thing?” Not if she remembered it was temporary. But Faith didn’t want temporary.

She wanted a family. She wanted forever. And she wanted both with Tate.

The knowledge scared her and left her vulnerable. She didn’t want to go through life alone, but loving Tate meant opening herself up to pain, loss and betrayal.

Faith dragged her hand down Tate’s chest to the scar on his leg. It was superficial and not at all unsightly, but it was a warning flag - a reminder that even if Tate wasn’t a womaniser, she could lose him all the same.

The scar was proof that he could be taken from her at any time, and love, that fleeting emotion, offered no guarantees of happiness.

Did she really want to lose her heart and risk the pain? The weight on her chest told her she already had.

Was it too late to repair the damage? Chapter Twenty-Two Tate rolled over in bed. Empty. He squinted at his alarm clock. He’d slept like the dead for hours. He tossed off the sheet and sat up. “Faith?”

No answer. Where was she?

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He crawled from the bed, checked the bathroom, the kitchen and the deck overlooking the pool.

No Faith.

The same clammy clench he’d felt before entering the building that had fallen in on him, squeezed his gut. Intuition? Tate retraced his steps and looked in his closet and drawer.

Her stuff was gone.

“Dammit. This hot/cold thing is getting old.”

Tate yanked back the curtains. She must have called a taxi because his truck was in its usual spot. How in the hell had he slept through her leaving? Blame it on too many twenty-four-hour shifts covering end-of-the-year fraternity parties.

Tate dug his cell phone out of the pants he’d shed beside his bed and punched speed dial for David’s number. As soon as his brother-in-law answered, Tate asked, “Is Faith with you?”

“No, she left here with you. What have you done to my sister, Tate?”

He understood David’s anger. “Nothing.” Except fall in love with her. He massaged the knots forming in the back of his neck. “Call my cellular if you hear from her. Please.”

“Find her.”

“I will. Count on it.” He disconnected and made another pass through his apartment, this time searching for clues. Where could she have gone?

He found the phone book on the kitchen counter open to the S section of the hotel listings and swore. Thanks to all the graduation ceremonies going on this week, the sleazy Streetside was the only hotel in town with rooms available.

Was Faith willing to put herself in danger to get away from him? 312

Chapter Twenty-Three Tate lifted the phone and called a police officer buddy he’d known since high school. He’d take months of ribbing for his request, but he didn’t know what else to do.

“Jay, I need a favour. My sister-in-law has taken off. I need to find her. Her name is Faith King. Thirty-one. Strawberry blonde. Blue eyes. Medium height. Start with the Streetside hotel.”

“Did she do anything illegal?”

Could their encounters be classified as hit and run? His heart sure felt as if it had been run over. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

“Want me to bring her in?”

“No. Just locate her and don’t let her leave before I get there. For God’s sake keep her safe if she’s in that dump.”

****** Thirty minutes later, Tate parked his truck beside Jay’s cruiser in the hotel parking lot. Jay led him toward the back of the hotel. “She checked in ninety minutes ago. Room six.”

“I owe you, man.”

“Pizza and a beer should cover your debt, but I’m gonna want details later. You’re usually a little smoother with the ladies.” Jay motioned Tate away from the hotel’s paint-chipped door. “Step aside, Sumner. If you’ve pissed her off she’s not going to open the door for you, but she’ll open for me.”

Tate sighed and flattened himself against the wall a few feet away. The fact that he’d made a fool of himself over a woman would be all over Chapel Hill in a matter of hours, but it’d be worth it if he could work this out with Faith.

Whatever this was. Was it love? What else could explain the sinking feeling in his gut?

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“Deal.”

“And don’t do anything stupid or, friend or not, I’ll have to run you in.” Jay offered the last warning as he lifted his fist and rapped on the door. Chapter Twenty-Four The door eased open. Tate heard the chain catch. At least, she’d had sense enough to use it.

“Faith King?” Jay asked.

“Yes.” Tate hated the fear in her voice. He’d forgotten Jay’s ugly mug could make the Godfather thugs look like beauty contestants.

“Step outside, Ms. King.”

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

The door closed. The chain scraped, and then the door reopened. Faith stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk. Tate’s heart slammed against his ribs.

She turned her head, spotted him and her eyes widened. “What’s wrong? Are David, Sandy and Anna okay?”

“Your family is fine, but Sumner needs to talk to you.” Jay indicated Tate.

A different kind of tension entered Faith’s face. “I don’t think we have anything to say.”

Tate smothered his anger, his pain. “You can’t keep running, Faith.”

Her chin lifted, revealing that telling red spot at the base of her throat. “I’m not running.” 314

Jay’s radio squawked. “Can you two handle this now? I have a call.”

“Yes. Thanks again, Jay,” Tate replied.

“There’s nothing to handle,” Faith said simultaneously, but Jay had already turned toward his cruiser. Seconds later he hit the siren and peeled out of the lot. Chapter Twenty-Five “What are you afraid of?” Tate stepped closer.

The quarter-sized spot on her skin glowed like a streetlight. “Nothing.”

Tate circled the splotch on her chest with his finger. “This says otherwise.”

She flinched out of reach. Covering her chest with her hand, she backed into her room. “Go away, Tate.”

Tate followed, kicking the door shut and sealing them in the seedy hotel room. “I rescue people from danger. I don’t leave them in harm’s way. I’m not leaving you here.”

“Why can’t you accept that we had a one-night stand and let it go? You should thank me for not asking for more.”

His heart thumped harder and his mouth dried. “Ask.”

Her lips parted and her eyes widened. “Wh - what?”

“Ask for more, Faith.”

“I don’t want more.” The desire in her eyes and the hunger in her lips when she loved him said otherwise.

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“You’re not a no-strings kind of woman.”

“Says you, and you barely know me. Tate, we’ve only known each other a week total.”

“I can accept it if you think we’re moving too fast and you need more time, but I won’t accept your refusal to give us a chance.”

He saw the flash of fear in her eyes before she looked away. “I can’t. Go back to your other women...and your job.” Chapter Twenty-Six Fear? This was all about fear?

He remembered her touching the scar on his leg as he drifted off to sleep. He’d thought Faith up to the challenge of being a firefighter’s wife. Evidently, he’d been wrong.

“I never expected you to be a coward, Faith.”

“You think I’m a coward?” Faith’s skin prickled at the accuracy of Tate’s remark.

Tate shrugged. “If the shoe fits...”

”I have good reason to be cautious.”

He widened his stance and parked his hands on his hips. “And that is...?”

Where did she start? “Did David ever tell you about our father?”

“Only that he was a jerk.”

Faith winced. “He’s a pilot with charm and good looks to spare. He has a woman in every

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layover city. My mother knew about his infidelities and it broke her heart. I don’t want to live like that. I don’t want to love a man who’ll hurt me over and over and not care.”

Tate’s brows dipped and his shoulders squared. “You’re comparing me to your father?”

“That night before the wedding, I was well on my way to falling in love with you, but you were playing a game. The next day at the church you flirted with every female present.”

He made an exasperated sound. “Only because you blew me off.”

“Are you denying you’d had a reputation for keeping your affairs short and sweet?”

Tate shoved a hand through his hair, making his cowlick stand up. “No.”

“And were you expecting more than a brief affair after Sandy and David’s wedding?”

His jaw muscles bunched. “No.” Chapter Twenty-Seven Faith exhaled slowly and hugged herself. Well, nothing like hearing your fears confirmed. “That’s what your sister and her bridesmaids told me. They took bets on which wedding guest would be foolish enough to fall for your charms. I was too ashamed to tell them that I already had.”

“Remind me to muzzle my sisters.” Tate crossed the room, stopping inches away. His woodsy cologne teased Faith’s senses, and his serious green gaze held hers.

“As far back as I can remember, I was the man of the house. I filled in when my dad was on duty, and after his death my mother and my sisters looked to me to keep things normal. I gave up my dreams of college, and signed on as a firefighter because we needed the money to put my sisters through college. I resented the hell out of it. I was young and all I wanted was to party and get laid. Hell, I was twenty before I lost my virginity.

“Sandy was the last of my sisters to leave home. When Sandy met your brother the year before

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they married I thought I’d finally found freedom, and I was determined to make up for lost time. I tried.” He shook his head with a rueful smile on his face.

“God, I tried. Then I met you, and I panicked. You made me want more than just hot sex. You threatened my newfound freedom. When you blew me off after our night together, I was angry and decided to show you that I didn’t care. I wanted to make you jealous, and I wanted to make sure you knew what you were missing. I’m sorry. I was an ass at the reception.”

“Yes, you were.” But hearing the reasons why gave her a new perspective.

He grimaced. “You were the right woman for me, Faith, but I was too stupid to recognise it. Give me a chance now to show you how right we are together, and I promise you won’t regret it.”

Her heart missed a beat, but fear held her back. “How can I trust you not to hurt me? I need someone who’ll love me forever, Tate, not just when it’s convenient.”

“There are no guarantees in life. You have to set aside your fears or they’ll paralyse you.” Chapter Twenty-Eight That’s exactly what had happened.

Faith yearned for a family of her own, and yet she never dated a man more than a few times. As soon as she began to grow attached, she broke off the relationship.

She’d been envious as her friends married and found happiness, but Faith was afraid to try it for herself. The one time she had - with Tate - she’d been burned.

“Even if you’re not as fickle as my father, any fire call you answer could be your last. Your leg...” She motioned to his thigh and bit her lip as fear choked off her words.

“Any time you get in your car to drive to work could be your last trip, but you won’t see me locking you in my apartment. I won’t deny my job can be hazardous. I was injured in a building collapse because I ignored my training and entered an unstable situation. I figured I had nothing to lose. Now I do.” He brushed a soft kiss over her lips.

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Faith’s breath caught and her resistance ebbed. “You make me weak, Tate. I tell myself not to fall for your charm or your lines, and then I do anyway. Do you know my only goal for this weekend was to keep my knees together around you? And I failed.”

His tender smile tugged at her heartstrings. He lifted a hand and cupped her jaw. “That’s because your heart knows better than your head. And you’re not weak, Faith. The woman I see when we’re together is one who knows what she wants and takes it. It’s your follow-through that needs work.”

“I’m afraid of being wrong, of being hurt.” And she was afraid of being alone, but wasn’t she alone now?

“I run into burning buildings for a living, but nothing scares me as much as losing you.” Tate pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply. Faith clung to his broad shoulders.

Hope flickered to life inside her. Chapter Twenty-Nine The unmistakable banging of a headboard on the adjoining wall startled them apart. Moans of passion followed. Tate released her and grabbed her suitcase.

“Let’s get out of here. I’ll be damned if I’ll propose in this dump.”

Faith’s heart stopped and her mouth fell open. “You’re going to propose?”

Tate yanked open the door and paused on the threshold. “I guess the only way you’ll know for sure is if you find the guts to come with me.”

The door swung shut behind him. Faith stood in the centre of the sleazy room paralysed by indecision.

She wanted a husband who always put family first; a man who made her feel womanly and wise.

She needed a man brave enough to fight his own demons and hers. 319

She pressed a hand over her thumping heart. Tate Sumner was that man.

He offered the love she’d dreamed of and wanted more than anything else in the world, but she had to find the courage to seize it before it was too late.

He hadn’t said he loved her. Did he? Suddenly, Faith had to find out. She picked up her purse and followed him out.

She had so much to lose, but so much more to gain. She was ready to put her heart on the line. Chapter Thirty Tate helped her into his pickup truck without a word. Neither of them spoke as he drove toward the lake and parked in the shade.

He climbed from the cab and headed toward a big boulder on the lake’s edge.

Faith followed and stood beside him on trembling legs as he stood gazing out over the windwhipped water.

“My father claimed he fell in love with my mother at first sight. As a kid I thought that was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard,” Tate said without looking at her, and then he turned his head and Faith’s breath stalled in her lungs at the love in his eyes.

He took her hands in his. “And then I met you, and I knew exactly what he meant. I love you, Faith, and I promise you that I’ll keep on loving you until the day I die.”

Emotion welled within her, spilling from her eyes in big, fat tears. “I love you, too.”

“Marry me. Today. Tomorrow. Whenever you can trust in what I feel for you.”

A watery smile wobbled on her lips. “I trust in your love now, and I think today or tomorrow or as soon as we can arrange it would be perfect.”

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Royal Peril By Rachelle McCalla Arianna Raff opens the backpack at her feet, expecting to find her clothes and travel documents. Instead she finds guns. Too late she realizes her mistake—she opened the bag of the thugs at the table next to hers. And now they aren't just going to let her go. Because Arianna has stumbled into a dangerous plot. The men are more than thugs—they are assassins. Arianna's only ally is Sergio Cana, a soldier from the neighboring country of Lydia. With their pursuers just a breath behind them, Arianna and Sergio race across the Albanian countryside, desperate to deliver their warning…before it's too late.

Chapter One Arianna reached for her backpack and froze. Two identical backpacks rested against the leg of her chair. Not good. She'd bought the red plaid backpack upon her arrival at the Albanian airport after the zipper on her own bag had broken. She hadn't considered that the style might be common in this country. Glancing around the wayside restaurant, Arianna noticed for the first time the burly men who'd taken the table next to hers. The other bag must belong to them, she reasoned, though she had no intention of interrupting them. It wasn't the tattoos or their military clothing that frightened her so much as the scowls on their faces and the way they were arguing in guttural, angry voices. Nope, much easier to peek inside the backpacks. She'd take whichever one held her wallet, passport and clothes. She unclasped the buckle on the backpack tipped nearest her leg and lifted the flap. Papers had been stuffed atop the contents. Were they hers? She'd shoved her itinerary and the directions to her brother's house into her bag in such a hurry, there was no saying where it had ended up. Cautiously she peeled back the papers—and saw the guns. Oh, so very not good. Growing up as a minister's daughter, Arianna hadn't even been allowed to watch television shows with guns, let alone get near a real one. Yet something told her these were serious weapons, not the kind somebody's spinster aunt kept in her bedside drawer. No, the tough guns fit with the tough guys arguing at the next table. Arianna let out a slow breath and clutched her fingers around the firearm-free backpack, then quickly moved to the front counter to pay, hoping to discretely distance herself from the men and their weapons. When she opened the pack, she was relieved to see her own papers and her wallet, nestled next to the toy train she'd brought to surprise her nephew. The sight of the innocent plaything reminded her of why she'd come on this trip—to visit her missionary brother and his wife in time for her nephew's third birthday. She was less than thirty miles from their tiny Albanian village, and according to the bus schedule she'd picked up when she got off the train, her ride would be leaving in ten minutes.

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Perfect. Arianna glanced back at the men and found one of them staring at her, his steely eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a grim line. One of the other men plucked up their backpack. Had they seen her look inside the bag? Did they think she'd read their papers? Stuffing her change into her pocket, Arianna hefted her pack over her shoulder and hurried out the door, trying to get as far away from the men as quickly as she could. Whatever they were involved with, she didn't want to have anything to do with it. She practically ran down the yellow clay road toward the bus station, whose sign rose into the sky two blocks away, one of the few landmarks in the miniscule town. As she approached the station, she noticed a man in a soldier's uniform parking a motorcycle next to the curb, and she instantly recognized him—Sergio Cana. Sergio had been assigned the seat next to hers on the train ride, and they'd struck up a lively conversation. He was from the bordering kingdom of Lydia, and he traveled to this village in Albania every other weekend to visit his Grandma Rosa, borrowing his late grandfather's motorcycle when he visited. "Running errands for your grandmother?" she asked when he looked up and smiled at her. He nodded. "The grocery store closes soon. She's almost out of bread. You're headed to your brother's village?" "My bus leaves shortly." "Ah." He nodded, and something like disappointment flashed across his face. "You should get moving, then. It was nice meeting you." She met his eyes as they exchanged smiles. Sergio seemed like a sweet man, in spite of his imposing size and the biceps that bulged under his soldier's uniform. For an instant, Arianna wished she had more than a moment to spend with him. "I can't afford to miss my bus," she reminded them both before waving goodbye and scurrying away up the sidewalk. She saw that the bus had already arrived at the station up the street, and knew that once it left, there wouldn't be another until morning. As she hurried along, her heart squeezed out a silent prayer. If God wanted her to spend more time with the handsome soldier, somehow their paths would cross again. She looked back, catching a glimpse of Sergio heading toward a small grocery store…and the four burly men leaving the wayside restaurant. They were turning their heads, scanning the street, and jostling each other. Were they looking for her? Arianna could have kicked herself for leaving so hurriedly. Had her abrupt exit made them suspicious? Rather than stick around to find out, Arianna ducked down a side alley that looked like a shortcut to the bus station and picked up her pace, hoping to leave the intimidating men far behind.

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But moments later, the sound of boots pounded up the alleyway behind her. She spun around just in time to see the men running in her direction. Before she could duck out of their way, the one in the lead leapt at her and wrestled her backpack from her shoulder. "No! It's mine!" Arianna grabbed the bag as the burly man tore it away. Wishing she could open it and show him the contents, it was all she could do to tighten her grip on the strap as he pulled her backward. Did they think she had stolen their backpack? Or taken something from theirs? One of the men pulled out a gun. Arianna immediately let go of her backpack and raised her hands in the air. "Please, no, don't shoot!" But the man only growled and raised the weapon, pointing it at her. She flinched and started to duck. A boot sliced through the air, knocking the gun from the man's hand. Arianna looked past the boot to the man who'd kicked the gun free and was now locked in hand-to-hand combat with her attacker. Sergio! With terrifying efficiency, he knocked the first man out cold, just in time for the other three men to leap on him. Three on one. The odds were against the soldier, but Sergio clearly knew how to handle himself. In a flurry of flying boots, he leveled one of her attackers prone at her feet. The man had been carrying both backpacks. With no chance to sort out which one was hers, Arianna grabbed them both and jumped away. While Sergio fought with the third man, the fourth leapt at her. Arianna swung the heavy packs toward her assailant's head, and the solid contents of one bag sent him staggering backward. He tripped over his fallen comrade and smacked into the ground. "Come on!" Sergio reached around her, scooping her close to his body, both backpacks clutched in her hands. "This way." Arianna glanced at the soldier as they ran out of the alley and toward his motorcycle. She didn't really know him. Everything had happened so quickly. Could she trust a man she'd only just met on the train? With a quick, silent prayer, she asked God for guidance. A cross dangled from a chain around Sergio's neck. Did it mean anything? Plenty of non-Christians wore cross necklaces—at least in the United States. But here in Albania? Sergio pulled her toward the motorcycle and thrust a helmet at her. "Hop on. Hurry!" He shoved a key into the ignition.

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Arianna had only managed to swing one leg over the bike before an angry shout went up behind her and another attacker leapt at them, wrestling Sergio to the ground. She ducked back, and to her horror realized that all four men had regained their feet and come after them again. Two rushed her from either side. She tried to jump away, but her legs were caught up on either side of the motorcycle. One man grabbed the heavier, clunkier backpack, and she let him take it. The other had a firm hold on the softly bulging pack she was nearly certain held her clothes, her passport and the train for her nephew. He tried to wrest the bag from her. "No! It's mine!" She yanked backward, wishing she could make him understand. The man swung a hard fist at her jaw and lights exploded across her field of vision. Arianna felt herself falling, and then the rough kiss of gravel against her skin. She blinked, forcing her eyes open, fighting to see. Through bleary eyes she watched the men dragging Sergio's slumped figure away. A van with no windows pulled up and they threw him through the rear doors—along with both backpacks. As darkness closed over her eyes, she heard the van peel away.

Chapter Two Arianna forced her eyes open and lifted her head. Pain shot from the spot on her jaw where the thug had punched her. Pushing up, Arianna crawled the last couple of feet to Sergio's motorcycle. The key still dangled where he'd shoved it into the ignition moments before the thugs had knocked him out and driven off with him in their van. Sergio. He'd come to her aid. The sweet soldier she'd met on the train who visited his grandmother every other week was at the mercy of those four men. And from what she'd seen of them, his captors knew no mercy. What would his Grandma Rosa do if he didn't come back? He'd said she was almost out of bread. Arianna couldn't just walk away when he was in danger. She should go after him. The streets were nearly empty of people, and no one seemed to pay her much notice. A moment's doubt niggled at her. Clearly, Sergio was capable of looking after himself. Her clothes, her money, even her passport could be replaced. Perhaps she ought to kiss her backpack goodbye and get on the bus to her brother's village. But even as that possibility occurred to her, she saw the bus rumble away up the road. She'd missed it. And could she really ignore Sergio's plight? He had tried to help her and had been kidnapped for his trouble. From the looks of the men who'd taken him and the stash of guns she'd seen in their pack, Sergio's life was at stake. Should she go to the police? Even if she found a police station—which didn't seem likely in this tiny town—she didn't speak Albanian, and by the time she communicated the dire situation, the van would 324

have disappeared into the mountains along with every chance of helping Sergio or reclaiming what was hers. As she stood there debating, the van continued to rumble farther and farther away, taking with it the backpack that held her wallet, her passport, her clothes, the toy train for her nephew…and Sergio. He'd come to her aid. She would do the same for him. Blinking away the stars from her vision, Arianna pulled the motorcycle helmet on over her long brown ponytail. She could do this. Her brother had driven a motorcycle all through high school, and she'd borrowed it dozens of times. Of course, that had been nearly ten years ago, but wasn't it just like riding a bike? They said you never forgot. Looking up to where a cloud of dust faded on the mountain road, Arianna realized she'd have to hurry or risk losing sight of the van. If that happened, she might never get the toy train or passport back. She might never see Sergio again. No one might. Ignoring her fears, she revved the engine and rolled the motorcycle forward a few feet, finding her balance on the unfamiliar bike. Then she said a silent prayer for guidance and headed in the direction of the dust cloud. The road climbed steadily into the mountains, quickly leaving the village behind. After half a dozen twists and hairpin turns, Arianna came over a ridge to a long, level stretch of road and spotted the van up ahead. Her heart leapt at the sight of it, and she immediately slowed down, falling back so they didn't see her. Her jaw still stung where they'd punched her. She had no intention of confronting those men again. Night fell as she kept the van just within sight. Twice she thought she'd lost them at a fork in the road, but then she spotted their winking taillights through the trees and caught up to them again. She'd turned off her own lights to avoid detection. It had occurred to her that she could be endangering herself if anyone came up behind her and didn't realize she was there because her lights were off, but no one came up behind her. The mountain roads were eerily empty as they crawled up the winding gravel trail to a place where, surely, only trouble awaited her. As the darkness settled over her with its dank chill, Arianna wondered if she'd been foolish to follow the van. She had no idea where she was anymore. Where were they taking Sergio? If she found him, would he be able to direct her back to her brother's village? She prayed that somehow God would make everything turn out. Beyond that, all she could do was keep the van in sight. When the road gave way to rutted tracks and finally faded completely, the van stopped at a cabin, and Arianna killed the motorcycle's engine. She was still several hundred yards away from where the men leapt from the van, but the engine noise would surely signal her presence. Coming to a stop next to a wide, high-branched tree, she ducked behind its cover and watched. Lights flickered on in the cabin, and she heard the men talking in what had to be Albanian. They opened the twin doors at the back of the van and hauled out the two identical backpacks—hers, and the one full of guns. Then two men carried Sergio's still-prone figure into the cabin. Her heart clenched as his face passed through the beam of light that poured through the front door. Bruises stained his cheekbones and blood seeped from his temple. The men hauled him inside, and she caught enough of a glimpse through the window to see them tie him to a chair. For a moment it looked as

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though he was starting to come to, but one of them boxed him across the head and tied a gag into his mouth. They began to argue amongst themselves, and one of them pointed a gun at Sergio. But another man pulled his arm down. They were planning to kill him—she was nearly certain of that much—but they were fighting over where and when and how. Arianna watched in horror, her mind racing. She had to do something—but what? Should she try to go for help? But who would she turn to, and how would she find her way back—assuming she could locate a town at all after all the twisting roads they'd taken getting here? And what if the men moved on before she could return? Then Sergio and everything in her backpack would be lost. No, she had to do something. But she was woefully outnumbered and outgunned. There were four men— plus all their weapons—and she was just a girl with absolutely nothing on her person to use against the men. As she watched the cabin, her fingers clutching the tree for support, she fearfully licked her lips, which had been dried out by the motorcycle ride. Reaching for the lip balm tube she felt in her pocket, Arianna pulled it out, only to discover the narrow canister of sleeping pills she'd brought for her flight. She'd filled the prescription just before leaving, and had only swallowed one as her plane departed New York. The remaining pills rattled inside the tube. One tablet had knocked her out within minutes of takeoff and she'd slept like a log through the rest of her transatlantic flight. Movement at the cabin caught her attention. The men had a small keg of something perched in the shadows on the corner of the porch, and a man filled four mugs from it before going back inside. Arianna's heart beat hard. Crazy. It was a crazy plan. And yet, as she clutched the tiny canister of sleepinducing pills and stared at the jug on the porch rail, she couldn't help but consider the possibility of what might happen if she could get those pills inside the small keg. There were four men. She had a whole bottle of pills. Assuming the tiny pressed-powder tablets dissolved completely, that was several pills per person, though they'd be diluted somewhat, depending on how much the men drank. How much might those men drink? Another thought occurred to her—what if an overdose of the medicine adversely affected them? In place of the guilt she felt at that, Arianna considered the way the men had beaten Sergio and tied him roughly to the chair. She was willing to risk causing them adverse health effects. But how would she get the pills inside the jug without being seen?

Chapter Three Sergio kept his eyes closed and his head slumped down. Let his captors think he was still asleep—they were sure to knock him out again if he came to.

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He listened as they fought about something, cursing one another in Albanian. Though Sergio, as a citizen of Lydia, spoke English, he'd spent enough summers with his grandparents in Albania to speak Albanian fluently. They were trying to sort out who the woman was—Arianna Raff, that lovely woman he'd met on the train. Two of the men were certain she was a secret agent. They were convinced she'd purposely tried to swap out her backpack for theirs, and they wanted to return to the village and eliminate her. The other two figured she was an innocent tourist who was probably crying on her way back to the United States by now. The men were upset about him, too. He'd seen too much. They were going to dispose of him, but the timing was bad. If his body was found, it could draw the authorities to them at a crucial moment in whatever it was that they were planning. But they weren't about to let him live. They were certain he recognized them. They were right about that. Two of the men, at least, worked at the border crossing. Sergio had seen them often enough to describe them without difficulty. But first he needed to know what their plot was…. As he caught the gist of their conversation, he realized they were squabbling over the proper interpretation of an encoded message. "They must all die. Alfred, if the princess doesn't die in the initial blast, you must dispense with her." What were they talking about? Albania had no princess. But Lydia did. Sergio's heart clenched. Everything made sense. Lydia, a small Christian kingdom, had a royal family, including two princesses. He had landed in the middle of a rebel conspiracy to assassinate the entire royal family. *** Arianna crept through the trees to the porch, stealing through the moonlit darkness toward the jug on the porch rail. Finally, she stood behind the last large tree, not more than ten feet from the cabin. She could hear arguing inside. She prayed silently that she would go unnoticed and free Sergio without incident. And maybe, if God was feeling really generous, she could retrieve her backpack and the toy train inside it in time for her nephew's birthday. Fueled by a sense of urgency, Arianna bounded forward, ducking below the porch rail, eyeing the jug. With trembling fingers, she grabbed the container, happy to discover it wasn't heavy. The men would get a strong dose of the pills—assuming they filled up another round of drinks. Untwisting the lid of the pill bottle, she emptied the tablets into the liquid inside. Then she rocked the small keg to thoroughly dissolve the sleep-inducing tablets inside. Mindful that the men could step outside again at any moment, she hurriedly placed the jug on the railing and crept back into the dark cover of the woods, and waited. 327

Just as she'd begun to wonder if the men would ever fill their mugs again, the front door opened with a creak and one of the thugs headed for the keg. Arianna pinched her eyes shut and pressed her back into the wide tree trunk she hid behind. Would her plan work? Worse yet, what if they suspected something and came looking for her? She listened as the man filled four mugs and then retreated into the cabin with a slam of the door. More arguing. Gradually, slowly, the arguing died down. Though she didn't speak Albanian, Arianna was almost certain one of the men said something about going to sleep. The others heaved commiserative sighs, and one slurred a sentence that hung in the air, unfinished, until it was replaced by a rumbling snore. Arianna waited. She wanted to make sure the men were completely out before she stole her way inside. Finally, when a cacophony of snoring told her all four men were deep in slumber, Arianna crept around to the front door, pressed herself tight against the building and peeked in. One man slumped against a table. Two more stretched out on either end of a couch. The fourth man's head lolled over the back of his chair, his mouth gaping open. Guns spilled from a backpack onto the table. Her otherwise identical bag sat beside it, the train for her nephew tossed aside, her passport documents and the contents of her wallet spread out as though they'd been going through them. Even her clothes poured from the pack. Angry that her possessions had been manhandled, Arianna darted furtively inside. Sergio's eyes followed her as she approached him, and a smile rose to his lips in spite of the gag that bound him. She undid the gag first. By tacit agreement, neither of them spoke. The ropes around his hands were knotted tightly, but she spotted a knife among the guns and slit the cords. He massaged his wrists as she cut through the rope at his ankles and he leapt up as soon as his feet were free, grabbing her train and shoving it into her backpack even as she scoured the spilled contents of her wallet to be certain nothing was missing. She wasn't about to leave the men any way of finding her again. Sergio shoved several papers into her pack as well. She wasn't sure why he wanted them, but she wasn't about to say anything. They needed to hurry. Satisfied she had all her documents, she crammed the last of her possessions into her bag and buckled it, throwing it over her shoulder as they headed for the door. Sergio held the door open for her. She met his eyes silently and saw appreciation in them. Blushing at the almost reverent way he looked at her, she stepped past him into the night. They didn't speak until they reached the spot where she'd left his motorcycle hidden near the rutted path among the trees. He offered her the lone helmet and she hesitated. "It's yours." 328

"You wear it." She didn't argue. There wasn't time. But she did want to know what she was up against. "Who were those men?" She strapped the helmet on. "Rebels. If I overheard them correctly, they're plotting to overthrow the Lydian monarchy." Arianna settled onto the seat behind Sergio and wrapped her arms gingerly around him. She'd held on to her brother countless times, zipping around their hometown on his motorcycle, but holding on to the attractive soldier felt entirely different. Her heart was ramming against her ribs from more than just their narrow escape from the rebel thugs. "But I thought Lydia was a peaceful kingdom." "If these men get away with their plans, it won't be peaceful for long." He started the engine and maneuvered the bike through thick leaves to the rutted path. "They plan to assassinate the entire royal family." Arianna gasped. The two princesses of Lydia were slightly younger than she was. She couldn't stand the idea that they and their brother and parents would be murdered. "We've got to do something—to warn them." "That's what I plan to do." Sergio coaxed the bike to greater speeds as the path leveled off in front of them. Light splashed across the trees. Headlights bore down on them, and Sergio swerved out of the way of a truck headed toward the cottage. "Who—?" Arianna started to ask, but Sergio gunned the bike. "We've got to hurry. Once the men in that truck reach the cabin, it won't take them two minutes to realize where we came from and where we're headed." A door slammed behind them. Arianna looked back at the cottage in time to see a number of men—more than she could count—lumbering through the doorway, shouting and pointing. The rebels split up, some leaping into the van she'd followed earlier and the others raced into the truck. Another two ran behind the cabin, zipping out moments later on four-wheelers. "Hurry!" Arianna urged Sergio. "They're coming after us."

Chapter Four Gunning the nimble bike forward over the uneven ruts of the path that served as a road, Sergio did his best to stay ahead of their pursuers. At the same time, he wondered about the woman who clung to him as they made their escape through the Albanian mountains. Could he trust her? He needed to know more…. "You're American, right?" "Yes."

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She'd told him as much earlier when they'd met on the train, and the thugs had confirmed it when they'd gone through the contents of her backpack. She was Arianna Raff, a schoolteacher from New York—at least that was her cover story. With her wide brown eyes and innocent-schoolgirl look, it was a fitting cover. "Special Forces? CIA?" "Uh, no." She held on to Sergio more tightly and she tensed. "Schoolteacher." "You can tell me. I'm not on their side." "I teach third grade in the Bronx." "Right." Okay, he wasn't going to press. Let her keep her secrets. But it did bother him that she didn't feel she could trust him, even after what they'd just gone through and his attempt to rescue her back in the village. "How did you disable the rebels?" Laughter rippled through her. "I put sleeping pills in their drinks." "Smart idea." "Not really. Those men woke them up." "But we got away." "Did we?" He could feel her glance back, no doubt looking to see how much the rebel thugs had gained on them. "We will." No sooner had he spoken the words than a shot sounded, kicking up dirt on the path ahead of them, just to their left. A near miss. "They're not supposed to be operating motor vehicles for twelve hours after taking those things," Arianna murmured. Her comment brought a smile to his lips, but it was quickly erased as more shots sounded. Hopefully their drugged pursuers wouldn't have very good aim—but that didn't mean the men who'd just arrived wouldn't. "Hold tight." He ducked lower over the handle bars and swerved deliberately as another shot rattled nearby leaves. "Move with me and the bike. On these roads, we have to lean into the turns or risk tipping." Her fingers gripped his midriff more securely. Sergio swerved again and dipped, all the time aware that the more effort he put into evasive maneuvers, the less quickly they'd move forward. The rebels would gain on them. It was only a matter of time. He prayed. There had to be a way out. White moonlight pooled down from the starlit sky, transforming the clay path into a golden trail. Off to his left, up ahead, a mountain stream cut a ravine through the widening valley. Beyond it, glinting like heaven's streets of gold in the moonlight, another road led away. 330

A flock of sheep slept peacefully on the hillside between their road and the stream. Sergio scanned the side of the road where the well-traveled path had worn a ledge half a meter deep in most places. Swerving right, then left, he kept them just ahead of the rebels and the gunshots blasting around them. "Ow!" Arianna flinched behind him. "Are you all right?" "I think that shot hit my backpack." "Are you injured?" Silence. "Arianna?" He could hear the fear in his own voice, and was startled at the meaning that it implied. He cared what happened to this woman. Not just out of Christian compassion; he really cared. She'd been so easy to talk to on the train. He'd felt an instant sense of attraction, and if they didn't live on two different sides of the globe, he might have asked when he could see her again. "Sorry," she responded finally, her shoulders shifting behind him. "I'm trying to figure out just what they hit. I don't think I'm injured, but something hurts." "Hold on tight." "What?" Sergio spotted a place where branching tree roots eliminated the ledge that boxed in the sides of the road, and he pointed the bike up the ramplike slope the roots offered. "Where are we going?" "Across the stream." He picked up speed, frightening the sheep who'd been slumbering so peacefully. The animals ran as a herd for the road, and he could hear their frantic bleating as the ATVs took the ramp onto the hill, as well. "There's no bridge!" "We'll jump it." "Can you do that?" "We'll see." He didn't have to tell her to hold on tight. He didn't have time, anyway. With all his attention focused on making the jump, he surveyed the stretch and prayed as the stream drew nearer. It was wider here than it had looked from the road. He could make the jump alone, but would he make it with Arianna on the bike with him?

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Pushing the bike to even greater speed, Sergio rose so that he was almost standing, his knees slightly bent. He could feel Arianna behind him, mimicking his movements. He aimed for a spot where the ridge formed an upward-angled lip, creating a natural ramp. As he hit the jump, he punched the throttle and let the bike rise up under him. For a second he feared Arianna might panic and throw the bike off course, but she moved with him as he brought the front wheel up to land, and again as he sunk lower, letting his legs take much of the shock of the landing. They came down hard on the other side, and the soil was softer than he'd anticipated. The bike shifted left as they touched down, spilling sideways even as the motor turned at top speed. He pushed off the ground, somehow righting them, and the motorcycle chugged through the soft soil. "Are you okay?" Arianna let out a shaky breath behind him. "My leg." He could feel her tension as she fought the pain. "Hold on. We'll take a look at it as soon as we get out of range of their gunfire. Did any of them try to cross?" Arianna shifted behind him. "One of the ATVs is stuck on this side of the bank. The van and the other four-wheeler are stopped on the other side. The truck is making a run for it. I think he might try to jump it." "What about the stuck ATV? Can he get it free to come after us?" "It looks like he's sliding back down. The truck is spinning his wheels in the stream. I think we're in the clear." "Good. I'll find a place where I can examine your leg." His heart pinched at the thought that she'd been injured. Hopefully it wasn't bad, though the pain in her voice indicated otherwise. But that was the least of his concerns. Though he didn't want to let on to Arianna, there was every likelihood that the rebels would find a place to cross the stream and meet up with their road, wherever it led. He gunned the bike on, glad it hadn't been damaged. They had to stay ahead of their pursuers. They had to warn the Lydian royal family. Arianna shifted behind him. "I don't see any sign of them. Maybe they gave up." "No. These rebels will never give up. From what I overheard, it sounds as though their assassination plot is ready to be carried out. If we fail to get the warning to the authorities, the entire royal family—and likely many other innocent people, as well—will be murdered." "Why are they so determined? Is the royal family corrupt?" "No. They are a good family, a Christian family. As a soldier, I have served alongside Prince Alexander on many missions. He saved my life once. And now I have the opportunity to save his." Sergio fell silent,

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fighting the rest of his fears. Not only would the incident make the rebels more determined, it was bound to make them desperate. They'd only become more ruthless, too….

Chapter Five Arianna peeled up the leg of her jeans, which had begun to stick to the bloody wound on her ankle. The wide hem permitted her to lift the fabric without further irritating her injury—an ugly scrape from the brambles she'd bashed into when their motorcycle had almost tipped. Sergio made a sympathetic sound as he studied the bloody mess of cuts. "None of it looks too deep. Have you got anything to bandage it with?" He pulled her backpack from her shoulders and settled it onto the hillside of the small knoll where they'd pulled off from the road, hoping to stay out of sight of their pursuers behind a thick stand of bushes. The moonlight provided just enough illumination for them to see. "I've got a couple pairs of tube socks. That should hold it for now." She reached for the pack and rummaged through the contents, gasping as she pulled out the toy train she'd brought to Albania all the way from New York to give to her nephew. "What's wrong?" She held out the severely dented train. "It must have blocked the bullet that hit the bag." She reached around and felt the painful spot on her back. "All I got was a scratch." "Let me take a look." Sergio stepped past her, gingerly lifting up the hem of her shirt slightly to examine her back. "How bad is it?" Gentle hands touched close to the tender spot near the base of her spine. "You'll have a nasty bruise from the impact. That die-cast train took the brunt of it—and likely saved your life. The injury on your leg looks far worse. I'm sorry I couldn't keep the bike from tipping." "I'm amazed you made the jump at all," she told him truthfully. "If you hadn't, I'd have far worse than a bruise. Those rebels weren't playing games." "No, they weren't." Sergio took the tube socks she'd pulled from her pack and eyed her leg skeptically. "I wish we had a way of cleaning your injury, although I suppose you've lost enough blood to flush out most of the contaminants. Have you had a recent tetanus shot?" "Two years ago." "Excellent." He wrapped the long socks around her leg like a bandage. "Is that too tight?" "Fine." She glanced around them warily, the light fading as the moon made its circuit across the sky. The deep darkness of the wee hours of morning felt that much darker as clouds crept past, blocking even the light from the stars. "I suppose we should get moving?" "Not now. This road has very few branches, and the cliff sides further down can be steep. If we encounter the rebels on this road, we'll have no escape." 333

"Then what should we do?" "If we lie low here, there's a good chance they might pass by without seeing us. If we continue on in a couple of hours, we'll have a better chance of making it to a paved highway and from there to the Lydian border." He tucked the toe of the last sock under the tightened strip above her injury, attaching it securely. She unrolled her jeans back down over the improvised bandage. Her questions about what was to come rattled like fear through her breath as she exhaled slowly. "Will we be able to warn the royal family in time?" *** As he considered her question, Sergio eyed the remarkable woman who'd come to his aid, only to be injured in the process. How much could he tell her? He still wasn't sure who she was working for. Her story about being a schoolteacher sounded believable enough, but there were too many coincidences— like the fact that the rebels had targeted her and the ease with which she'd disabled them in order to rescue him. He would have set aside his fears had the stakes not been so high. But according to the coded message he'd grabbed before they'd left the cabin, his captors were part of a rebel group, planning to attack the royal family of Lydia. As a soldier in the Lydian army, he had a duty to protect the royal family. More than that, as a friend of Prince Alexander, Sergio would never forgive himself if anything happened to his friend's family. Not when he had a chance to prevent it. "Sergio?" Arianna prompted him softly. Clouds gathered in the sky above them, blocking most of the moon's light. It was fortuitous for them—the low light would make it much more difficult for their pursuers to spot them. He'd covered over the reflectors on his motorcycle the moment they'd first hidden behind the hillside. They were almost invisible. In fact, in the dense darkness, Sergio could barely see Arianna's face. He leaned toward her instinctively. Though spring would soon give way to summer, the night air in the mountains was cool. Arianna wore a jacket and so did he, but as he closed the inches between them, he could feel warmth radiating from her, and was nearly tempted to pull her into his arms. How strange. They'd only just met that day. He'd never been forward with women. And yet, he'd felt an attraction to this American the moment they'd met, and her allure had only grown as they'd chatted on the train ride and she'd enthusiastically shared her plans to surprise her missionary brother, his pregnant wife and her soon-to-be-three-year-old nephew with her visit and the toy train she'd brought. The train that had taken the bullet and saved her life. As he thought about it, he realized her story had to be true. CIA agents relied on body armor—not diecast toys—to protect them. The realization came to him like an answer to prayer. He could trust her. He would tell this woman everything. That way, if anything happened to him, she would have the information she needed to warn the royal family of the rebel plot against them.

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"I'll do whatever it takes to warn them. The Mursia River forms the border between Albania and Lydia," he explained. "There is only one highway connecting the two countries, and an international checkpoint at the bridge." "So we'll have to cross there?" "No. It's far too risky. I recognized two of my captors. They're both border agents—I cross through that checkpoint every other week on my trips to visit my grandmother. It would be foolish of us to hope we could make it through the checkpoint undetected. If the rebels are looking for us—and you can be sure they are—then we don't dare cross the Mursia at the bridge." "But the Mursia River is several times larger than the stream we just jumped, and we barely made it across that. How are we going to get into Lydia to warn the royal family? And if the rebels have men working as border agents, who are we going to send our message to? How will we know who to trust?" A break in the clouds let through a beam of light, revealing her earnest face mere inches from him. Sergio smiled. "You're sure you're not working for the CIA?" She laughed, and Sergio felt a sudden temptation to lean forward and kiss her.

Chapter Six Sergio shook off the temptation to kiss Arianna. What was he thinking? The rebel forces could catch up to them at any moment. He needed to stay focused. The lives of the entire Lydian royal family were at stake. Fortunately, Arianna didn't seem to sense his ill-timed impulse. She answered his question about her background without hesitation. "No, I'm not CIA, or Special Forces, or any of that, although I am flattered that you might think so. I'm just an aunt who wanted to bring her nephew the toy train he's wanted for so long." She held up the battered die-cast locomotive, blasted almost beyond recognition by a rebel bullet that had been intended for them. "As you can see, I've failed at that." Her voice caught with emotion, and tears welled in her eyes. While he knew he shouldn't kiss her, there was no reason not to give the woman a hug—certainly not after she'd saved his life and been injured in the process. He shifted nearer to her on the hillside, but before he even got his arms around her, she leaned into his embrace, sniffling on his shoulder. He pulled her close, surprised by the flood of emotion that washed over him as he held her—and at the same time, not really surprised at all. He'd known she'd feel right in his arms. But he was overwhelmed by just how right she felt. As if she belonged there. "Shh." He quieted her in what he hoped was a soothing manner, aware that, though she needed comfort, they also had to listen for their pursuers' approach. And he had to relay the rest of what he'd learned about the plot against the Lydian royal family. "I'm okay." She sniffled. "It's just been a little too much, with my injured leg, and the train." The last of her words were lost as she fought against her tears. Sergio tightened his hold on her, wishing he could go back in time and erase those painful experiences. But there was nothing he could do except keep her safe from now on. 335

"Sorry." She sniffed back her tears after another minute of crying. "Please, tell me what you were going to say." She moved her head to the side, but instead of pulling away from him, she stayed in his arms, her cheek resting against his shoulder. It was a handy spot because it meant he could whisper quietly and she'd still hear him. It also kept the chill of the night at bay. And, if he was honest with himself, he wanted her to remain close to him for as long as he could keep her there. He cleared his throat and focused on the urgent matter at hand. "From what I overheard the rebels discussing, they're planning to ambush the motorcade as the royal family is en route to the Lydian state dinner. They were carrying a message in that backpack—no doubt that's why they jumped you, thinking you'd intercepted it. Those are the papers I grabbed at the cabin. So now you do have the message in your backpack—instructions for any members of the royal family who are not killed by the initial blast to be dispensed with before the smoke clears." "Dispensed with?" "Killed." A shudder rippled through her. "How do they plan to get away with that? Don't the members of the royal family have bodyguards?" "It sounded as if some of the bodyguards are double agents, working for the rebel forces." "Then how can we possibly warn them? We won't know who can be trusted." Sergio sucked in a long breath. He'd wondered at first whether he could trust her. So far, the information he'd told her, though a delicate matter of national security, wouldn't be news to her if she was working for the rebels. But if he answered her question he would reveal details that could give away the Lydian royal family's only advantage. He prayed silently for God's guidance. "This might sound silly at a time like this…" Arianna shifted in his arms, turning to face him. "But I noticed earlier the cross you wear around your neck. Are you a Christian?" "A devout Christian. Most Lydians are." She smiled. "I'm a Christian, as well." She looked as though she wanted to say more, but held back. "What is it?" He asked after she'd been silent for several moments. "I was thinking…" She began hesitantly. "Ever since I was a girl, when I wasn't sure what to do, or the situation was beyond my control…" She shrugged her shoulders, clearly moving beyond her comfort zone in sharing what was in her heart. "I'd feel better if I prayed." "Good idea." He took her hand and squeezed it. "I should have thought of it sooner." Arianna tipped her head forward as they prayed, and listened to the soothing sound of Sergio's voice as he murmured heartfelt prayers, not only for their safety, but that of the Lydian royal family. Then she joined in, praying for God's wisdom and guidance and protection. When they said amen, she felt the pressing fear that had seized her heart loosen its grip, and a sense of peace enveloped her. It occurred to her that, although she'd been uncertain about trusting this man whom 336

she'd met only hours before, God had provided just the person she needed to save her when the thugs attacked her, and to help her warn the royal family. She laughed a little when she realized how God had already been working through the turmoil of the night to answer her previous prayer. "What?" She felt a blush rising to her cheeks, and was grateful the darkness would hide her embarrassment from him. "Earlier in the village, when I had to leave to catch my bus, I asked God to make our paths cross again if…" "If?" Unsure exactly what she had meant by that, or why she'd been so brave as to confess her feelings to Sergio, she let her voice drop below a whisper. "If we were supposed to see one another again." Sergio's heart warmed. The lovely Arianna felt the same way he did, the emotions only intensifying through the events of the night. He leaned closer to her in the darkness, rethinking his earlier resolve not to kiss her. But a sound like distant thunder divided his attention. Approaching vehicles. In spite of the near-total darkness, he saw Arianna's eyes widen. She'd heard it, too. "Don't move," he whispered. The woman didn't even blink as the noise rumbled nearer. His heart thudded out a prayer so frantic he feared their pursuers would hear its violent thumping inside his chest. As a soldier, he'd experienced many heart-stopping moments on the brink of danger. But never in all those missions had he feared for the life of the woman in his arms. It was true, he had a duty to warn the royal family. But he also needed to keep Arianna safe. As the noise drew closer, Sergio distinguished the sound of two vehicles, possibly more. "What do we do if they find us?" Arianna asked, her voice nothing more than a breath. "We'll have to run for it. If anything happens to me, head for the Mursia River. There's a footbridge eight kilometers north of the border checkpoint. Cross there, then head south. Deliver the message to an outpost in Lydia that goes by the name Sanctuary." Arianna's eyes widened, but she didn't respond. There wasn't time. The vehicles slowed as they approached the spot where the two of them had left the road on their motorcycle. A rough voice carried through the night. "Tracks! They lead beyond that hill!" The men spoke in English—not in Albanian, as Sergio's earlier captors had. Which meant that these were likely not the same drugged men who'd shot at them earlier. No, these men would be more alert—and better shots. Sergio gripped Arianna's shoulder as he waited, ready at any second to pull her up and

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make a leap for the motorcycle if the men came around the hill. How quickly could he get the bike started? Would the bushes slow their pursuers down? How could they possibly escape?

Chapter Seven Terror raced through Arianna as she listened to the sounds on the other side of the hill. Arguing voices and the idling rumble of motors—of how many vehicles, she couldn't tell. Too many. She stared at the hillside, waiting, wondering how her innocent intentions to visit her nephew for his third birthday could have gone so horribly awry so quickly. If their pursuers spotted them, they'd be done for. Sergio gripped her shoulder, her only comfort in the midst of danger. He'd already saved her life at least once tonight. Could he do it again? Footsteps crunched through the undergrowth and two figures appeared from around the hill. The traitorous clouds peeled back from the moon, shining light down upon them. "There!" A rebel drew his gun at them and fired. Sergio pushed her flat to the ground. Between the depression in the hillside and the cover the motorcycle offered, parked between them and the gunmen, she was protected from the shots. With a sickening clink, three bullets hit the motorcycle. Had they crippled it? "Not on foot, man!" one of the rebels shouted. While the men retreated around the hill for their vehicles, Sergio sprang up, tossing her on the motorcycle as he swung his leg over and started the bike. Arianna hauled the backpack over her shoulder and prayed. The engine sprang to life, and Sergio coaxed the bike forward over the uneven terrain. They hit a fairly level stretch and picked up speed. "Where are we going?" "Cross country. I couldn't see what they were driving, but we'll try to lose them in the hills. When it looks clear, we'll hit the road and head for the Lydian border." "How much fuel do we have?" "I filled her up the last time I took her out. We should be able to make it to the border." Arianna tried to feel reassured by his words. Should. Assuming they didn't use up precious gas by zipping around through the hills, or worse yet, have their fuel tank shot out by the trigger-happy rebels. Gunshots sounded behind them. Arianna looked back. Clouds danced across the moon. In the shifting light she saw three all-terrain vehicles behind them. Not good. Though the ATVs wider wheelbase might not be able to fit between every bush and boulder, the ATVs were more nimble than Sergio's aging motorcycle. 338

Arianna prayed and gripped Sergio's waist more tightly, trying to shift her weight with his to keep the bike from tipping, rising off the seat with him as they leapt over rocks and ledges. "Here's a big one!" Sergio braced himself and ducked low. Mimicking his movements, Arianna lifted up as the bike launched into the air. "That had a fence under it," Sergio observed as they landed smoothly. Behind them, Arianna saw one of the three ATVs tangled in the fence wire. "One down, two to go," she whispered, urging Sergio on. "How much longer can we afford to stay in these hills?" "Not long. That stream we crossed earlier connects to another up here. It's too big to jump. We'll have to get to the road and use the bridge." "How much further to that footbridge you told me about?" "Hard to say. From the road, maybe ten kilometers." The sound of gunfire nearly drowned out his words. Sergio dipped and weaved the bike to avoid the shots, but Arianna still heard the sickening thunk of a bullet hitting the bike. Though she couldn't be sure, she feared from the sound of it and the sudden smell of gasoline that the rebels had pierced their fuel tank. "Can we ride the bike across the footbridge?" Sergio didn't respond, but headed straight for a ledge that dropped off into darkness. They went airborne, landing with a thump in the soft dirt. Their pursuers had stopped shooting, their attention apparently focused on keeping up with the motorcycle and avoiding any more entanglements. "The footbridge—" Sergio picked up her question as though nothing had happened "—is from preCommunist days. It hasn't been maintained in decades." "Are you sure it's still there?" Arianna looked back and saw that both ATVs had made the jump and were on their tail again. "It was when I was a teenager. My cousins and I used to dare each other to step out onto it." "So, you've crossed it before?" "Not crossed. Stepped on. But it held my weight then." Arianna's heart sank. "There's no other way across?" "Not unless you want to walk right into the clutches of the rebel double agents at the border station." He zipped the bike back onto the road.

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Grateful for the smoother ride, Arianna held on tight as the ATVs behind them fell back, not capable of the same speed as Sergio's motorcycle. As the bike hurtled down the road, Arianna allowed herself to hope they would reach the footbridge ahead of their pursuers. The sound of the rebels' engines gradually began to fade. Then the motorcycle's engine chugged. "What's that?" Arianna asked as the bike gave another ominous lurch. "We're running out of fuel. Don't worry. We're close. Less than a kilometer to go." The engine gasped and shuddered. The bike slowed. "Now what?" Sergio settled the bike onto its side, blocking much of the narrow dirt road. "Now we run!" He grabbed her hand, pulling her forward. Pain speared from her injured leg as Arianna struggled to keep up. Already she could hear the ATVs drawing closer. "Go on without me!" She winced as her leg throbbed with pain. "You've got to get the message across. You've got to warn the royal family. Go!" She pushed him forward. Instead he surprised her, grasping her about the waist and slinging her onto his back as though she weighed nothing at all. "I'm not leaving you!" Horrified, Arianna realized if she tried to hop down from his back, she'd only slow him down that much more. The ATVs screamed up the road, just out of sight behind the last hill. In the shadowy darkness up ahead, Arianna caught sight of the rickety footbridge Sergio had told her about. Gaps leered between several boards, and far below that, gurgling and roiling like a hungry leviathan, the Mursia River surged with melting mountain snow and spring rains. The river looked icy cold, and far, far wider than she'd imagined. She gasped as Sergio eased her from his back, hoisting the backpack more securely onto her shoulders. "You're lighter. You go first. I'll follow once you reach the other side." Arianna stepped gingerly onto the first board, favoring her uninjured leg. With the sound of the approaching ATVs goading her on, she gripped the fraying ropes of the side rails. Forcing herself to look at the bridge and not at the swirling waters below, she took each step as quickly as she dared, trying not to scream as the creaking bridge swayed with her every movement. "Hurry!" Sergio called from behind her. "They're right behind us! I won't be able to wait for you to cross!" "Come on, then!"

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She felt the bridge rock the moment he stepped onto it, its turbulent swaying exacerbated as he closed the space behind her. Then the ATVs squealed to a stop. A gruff voice shouted. "Don't shoot her here—we need to retrieve that backpack!" Grateful she wasn't about to be shot, Arianna pressed on toward the safety of the other side. Twenty feet more. Fifteen. Ten. She could hear Sergio panting behind her. The thunder of boots on the other side sent the bridge rocking as the rebels tore across at a dead sprint. Arianna clutched the side ropes and forced herself to move forward. Eight feet more. Seven. Six. Over the sound of the roiling river, she could hear the ropes snap behind her. She screamed as the bridge swung free and she swung down toward the water.

Chapter Eight Arianna slammed into the side of the cliff, gripping the rope rails for dear life. Behind her, she heard men screaming. Two thunderous splashes echoed up from the river below, followed by agonized squeals and then, silence. The snapped bridge bounced against the cliff side, then settled to stillness. "Sergio!" "I'm right below you. Can you climb to the top?" Relieved that Sergio hadn't fallen—it must have been the two men who'd chased them—Arianna tried to pull herself up. She felt the backpack sag down her back. "I don't think so." It was all she could do to hold on. "Hold tight, then." Sergio's voice drew closer with each rocking movement of the dangling ropes. A moment later she felt him brush by her legs. "I'll go around you. Then I'll pull you up." "Take the backpack," she urged him as he made his way, hand over hand, up the ropes, as though climbing them required hardly any effort. "That way if I fall, you'll still have the note." "I'm not going to let you fall." Effort carried through in his voice as he moved past her and over the rim of the cliff. "Now, hold tight." Arianna did as she was told, and felt the ropes gliding upward as Sergio pulled the framework of the broken bridge over the high bank to safety. She clutched the earth, crawling forward trepidatiously, panting once she lay flat against solid ground. "What happened to the two rebels who were chasing us?"

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"They went under. The water's frigid. Between the rocks and the undertow…" Sergio extended his hand to her and pulled her to standing. "They never came back up." His eyes met hers. The rosy glow of dawn bathed them both in gentle light, and as Arianna looked into Sergio's eyes, she was tempted to kiss him. But this wasn't the time, she chided herself. "We've got to get this message to the royal family." "This way. Can you walk?" "Walk? Yes." She took a few tentative steps on her injured leg, and found the pain wasn't enough to keep her from going on. "But running might be a bit much to ask of me." "I don't think those two relayed our position before they chased us across the bridge. Assuming the Mursia's frigid waters were the end of them, we just might make it to the Sanctuary outpost." "What is Sanctuary?" "It's an international Christian relief organization which primarily helps refugees find asylum. They're an underground ministry. I wouldn't know anything about them except what Prince Alexander of Lydia told me when we needed the organization's assistance on a previous mission. Since Lydia is a Christian nation, they help Sanctuary's efforts. If we can get this message to the Sanctuary agents at the outpost, Sanctuary can help the royal family." They plodded along until the sun had risen, chasing away the cold and shadows of night. Soon an inconspicuous riverside cabin came into view. "Stay here." Sergio found Arianna a hiding place behind a tree. "I'll check it out." He approached the building from another direction, knocked and exchanged words with the man who answered. Before long, he waved to her to come out of hiding. Arianna hobbled over to join him and they were welcomed inside. There were two agents stationed there who offered them a warm breakfast, hot drinks, access to a telephone—which Sergio used to contact his grandmother—and the opportunity to freshen up. Glad for the chance to wash off the mud and grime, Arianna pulled the coded note from her backpack and left it with the men. Then she took her bag upstairs for a quick shower, and dressed in fresh clothes. She was relieved to find her leg injury wasn't deep, nor did it appear to have grown infected. With bandages and antiseptic she found in the medicine cabinet, she bound the wound. When she went downstairs, Sergio and the men had their heads bent over the coded message, but Sergio quickly approached her. "Do you have somewhere safe you can go?" "I was going to visit my brother, but I don't want to risk leading the rebels to him. Besides, he's in Albania. The bridge was destroyed. We can't get back again." One of the Sanctuary agents spoke up. "If you have a location, we can get you there safely. You don't have to worry about being followed. For your protection, the official story will be that the two men who ended up in the river turned informant and delivered the coded message to our outpost. No one will have to know you were ever involved."

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The other agent nodded his agreement. "It might take us a few hours to pull this together. You can rest upstairs while we get it sorted out." Though she couldn't imagine how they expected to get her safely across the Mursia again, Arianna was too exhausted to worry about it. She found the bunk rooms upstairs and collapsed onto one of the beds. A knock at the door awoke her, and she glanced at the bedside clock, surprised to discover she'd slept almost four hours. She would have loved to sleep longer, but hurried to answer the door. Sergio had showered, shaved and changed into clean clothes, as well. He smiled as she stepped into the hallway, and she couldn't help returning his smile. She had forgotten how handsome he was in the light. "I've got good news. The Sanctuary agents have a helicopter waiting. They'll take us across to Albania, where a car will meet us at a neutral location. From there, we can travel to your brother's village." "We?" The look in his eyes grew tender. "I want to make sure you arrive safely. But I cannot stay with you—I'll return to Lydia to keep the plot against the royal family from succeeding." She was surprised by the deep pang she felt, realizing they would soon be separated. But at the same time, her heart warmed at the knowledge that he wanted to ensure her safety. "I can leave anytime." "Good. Let's go now." She followed him aboard the nimble helicopter. As she settled into her seat for what promised to be a short flight, Sergio pulled something from the bag he carried. "The train!" "It's not the same one," he confessed, "but it was the best I could do on short notice. I knew you didn't want to meet your nephew empty-handed." Tears of gratitude welled in her eyes as Arianna accepted the toy train. "I think my nephew will like this one even better than the one I had picked out for him. Thank you, Sergio." She leaned across the seat toward him, intending to hug him, but he bent his head forward at the same moment and his lips brushed hers. Arianna relished the contact for a moment. Then, pulling back just an inch, she gave him a questioning look. "How long will you be in Albania?" he asked softly. "I thought I might stay the summer." "Good. I… I'd like to visit you at your brother's, if I may." She grinned. "I'd enjoy that very much."

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Sergio unclasped the cross necklace he wore around his neck. He extended it toward her, as though to put it on her. "May I?" "Your necklace?" "My grandparents gave me this when I made my Christian vows as a young teen. I have worn it since then." "I can't. It means too much to you." Emotion simmered in his eyes. "It is a symbol of how much you mean to me, and a promise that I will come back, once I've made sure that the royal family is safe." She leaned forward then, and he clasped it around her neck. The cross settled over her sternum with a gentle, reassuring weight. "You saved my life," Sergio whispered, leaning close. "And quite possibly the lives of the entire Lydian royal family." Not trusting herself to speak, Arianna drew closer to Sergio, and he kissed her, more solidly, more soundly this time. And she felt in that kiss a promise of more to come. Perhaps even a lifetime.

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Operation: Second Honeymoon By Debra Webb A gun battle wasn't on the itinerary.… Lucas Camp and Victoria Colby-Camp had planned a quiet second honeymoon in Mexico—open-air cafés, unique little shops, breakfast in bed and visiting an abandoned town that one of their old investigators was bringing back to life—with all the concerns of the Colby Agency left behind. Until the ambush. Suddenly under a storm of gunfire, Victoria and Lucas found themselves outmanned and outgunned—and they had no idea who their attacker was. Had they made a new enemy…or was the strike planned by someone much closer to home?

Chapter One Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, August 20, 1:00 p.m. Lucas Camp gazed across the table at his lovely wife, Victoria. It was the most beautiful day and yet not nearly as beautiful as she was. Their seventh anniversary was coming up soon. The truth was he could no longer remember his life before she was a part of it, first as his best friend's wife, then as his closest confidante, and finally as the woman with whom he would spend the rest of his days. She was the only woman he had ever loved, had ever wanted to share his life with. "A penny for your thoughts." She smiled and he melted a little more inside. He, Lucas Camp, the master spy who had gathered intelligence in the most dangerous of places, against the deadliest of enemies, got all squishy just looking at her. "I'm simply enjoying the view." "Lucas," she scolded gently, though he heard the delight in her voice his words had aroused, "we've been in Mexico only a few days. There is far too much to savor to be distracted by a sight you see at home every day." She gestured to the mystic city around them that blended the past and present with the skill of an artist layering bold contemporary strokes of color against the historic sun-bleached whites. The small open-air café they'd chosen for lunch was nestled comfortably between a sleek art gallery and an old crumbling church. All accompanied by quiet conversations and the soft roar of the sea just a few steps away. "Let's walk." Victoria rose from her chair, the pastel blue cotton dress she wore providing a stunning contrast to her innate elegance. Lucas left payment for their meal and took his wife's hand. As they strolled to the Malecon, he rubbed the gold band that encircled her ring finger. He would never forget the day he had placed it on her finger or the day she had removed the other band she'd worn for more than two decades. She'd knelt at the grave of James Colby, her first husband and Lucas's best friend, and explained that she was finally ready to move on with her life. She'd carefully buried that golden band at the base of James's headstone. So much had happened since that day. Her son, Jim, had found his way home after nearly twenty years. As a child he had been abducted by an evil man who had sworn vengeance against the Colby family. Since Jim's return, grandchildren had filled Lucas and Victoria's lives. Unfortunately there had also been the typical trials related to their work. Lucas had made many enemies in the world of intelligence gathering and adversary interception, as had the Colbys in their endeavors to right the wrongs done to those who sought help at the Colby Agency. 345

More recently, a newcomer, Slade Keaton, had created a disturbing series of ripples. He'd taken over the Equalizers, Jim's private investigations firm that didn't always play by the rules, and proceeded to insinuate himself into every level of Lucas and Victoria's lives. There was something about Keaton and the way he watched their every move that nagged at Lucas. But Keaton was a forbidden topic on this vacation. Today, Lucas was focused on his wife. They were many, many miles from work. No one here knew their true identities. They were nothing more than a pair of tourists enjoying a late summer day in paradise. No work. No worries. Well, except for the small, carefully hidden weapon he carried beneath his jacket. Even Victoria understood that a man like Lucas would never be caught unarmed. "I'm concerned that we haven't heard from Sloan." Lucas chuckled. "Now who's distracted?" Trevor Sloan lived near Chihuahua with his wife and two children. He had once worked with Victoria at the Colby Agency. He and his wife were, at this very moment, in the process of welcoming baby number three. Victoria squeezed Lucas's hand. "You're right. Sloan will call when there's news." "He will." It was a flat-out miracle the agency hadn't called. But then Mildred, Victoria's assistant, had sworn that nothing outside an absolute emergency would interrupt their long-awaited second honeymoon. "I'm looking forward to the visit to Pozos. The rebuilding Sloan described sounds marvelous." Mineral de Pozos was a small village in the central highlands of Mexico. Once a booming silver mining town, it had been nothing more than a ghost town until a few years ago. But a resurgence, prompted by artists from the U.S. and elsewhere, was underway. Sloan had helped to rebuild a small school there. His enthusiasm had inspired Victoria to suggest she and Lucas take a detour from their itinerary to visit the town. If Lucas knew his wife, and he did, she would be filling those new classrooms with computers and books and most anything else needed. "Me, too. I think we should leave for Pozos early in the morning," Lucas suggested. "Take our time. Stop along the way if we stumble upon something interesting." Victoria paused and turned to him. "Not too early, I hope." She tiptoed and placed a kiss on his jaw. "Sleeping in again would be interesting, too." "Ten or so is certainly early enough." Lucas savored the warmth her slightest touch initiated. A delectable array of fruit and soft, sweet cream from room service would be in order for breakfast. Rich coffee and perhaps juice. He would need his strength tomorrow if this morning was any indication. Contentment settled deep in his bones. This trip was exactly what they had needed. "This is the shop I told you about." She tugged him toward the open doors of a small, lovingly restored stone building filled with sixteenth-century-style pottery and stunningly colored masks. Lucas indulged his wife though they'd explored dozens of shops exactly like this one already. She wandered the carefully orchestrated clutter, her expression filled with admiration as she touched the handmade treasures. Whatever her heart desired was exactly what his heart required. Lucas stood at the large open window and watched the passersby on the street. Most were struck by the beauty of the sea that lapped languidly at the silky white beaches bordering the city. Or, like Victoria, were fascinated by the local artisans. But Lucas was more interested in the people. He was everconscious of his surroundings and those who roused his suspicions. No matter that he was far from work; old habits die hard. 346

A crowd of American tourists—they were as easy to spot as ketchup on a white shirt—strolled past the café where he and Victoria had dined. Hadn't they read the warnings about traveling in Mexico? Don't dress and act like a tourist. Lay off the jewelry and designer wear. Apparently they hadn't gotten that part. As the tourists walked on, Lucas noticed a lone diner sitting at the same table where he and Victoria had been only minutes before. Lucas frowned. The woman studied the menu but something about her profile seemed familiar. As if she felt his attention on her, she turned and looked toward the shop and toward the window where he stood. Their gazes locked across the distance as if it were mere inches rather than several yards. The fragrant sea air evacuated his lungs. Tension exploded inside him. "Impossible." The muttered word startled him despite its having crossed his lips. Lucas hurried out the door, his prosthetic slowing his movements when only this morning he'd felt like a young, virile man half his age. He wove through the crowd that cut off his path in the street. His entire body shook by the time he reached the café. The table was empty save for a stylishly stemmed glass of white wine. Couldn't have been her. Not possible. "Por favor," he said, stopping a passing waiter. "Where is the lady who was at this table a moment ago?" "She had an emergency, senor. I am afraid she left. Was she expecting you?" Lucas shook his head and thanked the man. He struggled to compose himself before walking away. No. It could not have been her. He surveyed the street, the people walking leisurely past. His gaze landed on Victoria, standing in the door of the shop obviously looking for him. Lucas drew in a deep, ragged breath. Victoria waved to him. He waved back, manufacturing a smile. Surely he had only seen someone who merely looked like her. It had been nearly thirty years…. Though the length of time mattered little, Lucas was certain that if he ever actually saw her again, he would know. He smiled for his wife and banished thoughts of the past. Nothing and no one was going to ruin this special time.

Chapter Two Mineral de Pozos, August 21, 5:15 p.m. Victoria Colby-Camp was amazed by the work Sloan and his friends had accomplished. The massive old church-turned-school was ready for attendance, opening in just one week. As she surveyed the

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playground she smiled. Bright, welcoming colors adorned the swings and slides and jungle gym. The children would love this escape from the instruction inside. "We are truly blessed," confessed Salvadore Hernandez, their guide and one of Sloan's partners in the community work continuing in small villages throughout central Mexico. "Senor Sloan has devoted much time and many resources to helping the children of our country." "Sloan is a man of honor," Victoria said proudly. There had been a time when tragedy and loss had left him a hollow shell, but his wife and children had categorically changed that sad fact. As Tasha, Victoria's daughter-in-law, had done for her son, Jim. Love overcame all and would not be conquered. She reached for her husband's hand. He had been distracted today. She knew him too well to be mollified by his insistence that he was simply enthralled by their surroundings and the serenity of these past few days. Lucas felt anxious about something and he refused to share. She hoped the trouble wasn't related to Slade Keaton. Keaton was a fixture in Chicago now. Both she and Lucas needed to get used to the idea that as odd as the man was, so far he had done no harm—at least none that could be connected back to him. Time would reveal the truth. It always did. Until then there was little they could do other than follow an adage that had proven beneficial many times: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. A surprise attack was far less likely that way. "The necessary teachers are in place, you say?" Lucas asked Salvadore. "Absolutely." Salvadore nodded with the same enthusiasm as he did everything else. "Classes begin next week." Lucas looked to Victoria, then to their guide. "A few more computers and perhaps a van that could be used as a school bus would be welcome donations, though. And I know just the donor…." The delight that lit in Salvadore's eyes brought emotion to Victoria's. She longed to be more involved in work like this. Last night she and Lucas had discussed options for pitching in. It felt good knowing the difference their decision would make. The realization that there was so much more to do in so many places had her pondering another concept. The time to consider retirement was coming. Victoria felt confident that efforts like this would be every bit as fulfilling as her work at the Colby Agency. "No question, Senor Camp." Salvadore gestured to the Jeep. "If you and Senora Victoria would like to see our next endeavor, I will gladly provide a tour." Lucas looked to Victoria. "Sure, we have no other plans." She nodded eagerly to their guide. "Perhaps after the tour you will join us for dinner." Salvadore's smile widened. "It would be my pleasure." No plans. No agenda of any sort other than this enlightening and inspiring side trip. Victoria wondered as Lucas assisted her into the Jeep what it would be like to have the days and weeks stretch out before them with no particular schedule. Strangely, she felt as if she could get used to the idea very quickly. Of course, drifting through the days would grow boring equally quickly, but Victoria felt confident that she and Lucas would have no difficulty finding projects. She doubted boredom would ever be an issue. Something to think about, she decided, as they drove west. It was time.

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The sun had settled atop the mountains, its warmth fading with the light. The night would bring the desert chill and the not-so-subtle reminder that nature still ruled. Dinner and drinks at their hotel's fabulous restaurant would help to chase away that chill. She looked forward to the hours she and Lucas would spend in front of a blazing fire in their room afterward. Her husband had checked all three of the newly refurbished hotels in Pozos until he found the one room that included a fireplace for just that purpose. Lucas would never admit as much, but he was a romantic at heart. She'd flipped through a few of the thrillers that were his preferred reading and so far not one failed to include a hint of romance between the main protagonists. She smiled to herself. Just something else she loved about her own private hero. His body was fit, muscles strong and well-toned. No one was a better marksman. Yet, deep inside—where it counted—Lucas Camp was a man of heart with emotions that ran soul deep. Their destination had once been a large monastery. An unfinished church sat alongside the ruins of the monastery. A few decades ago, renovations had been started in hopes of creating a retreat for those in search of solitude and emotional healing. But the endeavor had been abandoned when funding dried up and the place fell into disrepair once more. The architecture was a stunning example of majestic old Mexico: adobe walls, columns and walls set amid the rough, rolling dunes of clumpy brown dirt and scrub grass, with only a single mesquite tree to provide a breath of shade from the harsh sun. In spite of the neglect, prickly pear cacti thrived while desert trumpet vine bloomed a breathtaking pink. "A hospital?" Victoria asked as Salvadore explained the plan for the refurbishment. "Si, senora." He parked the Jeep between the monastery and the orphaned church that had never seen fruition. "There is little in the way of medical care between Pozos and San Luis Potosi. The facility will offer those in the surrounding villages much needed care." Excitement kindled in Victoria's belly. "What a spectacular idea!" She and Lucas exchanged a look that verified his thoughts were forming along the same lines. "We would be very interested in helping," he offered. "Can you tell us what stage you're at with the planning of the hospital?" He gestured to the sky. "Sunset is quite close. Why don't I continue the tour and we can discuss the planning in more detail over dinner?" Lucas and Victoria agreed, and Salvadore led them through the building. The extensive tour and briefing underscored the overwhelming amount of work to be done. The outer walls were crumbling in areas. A massive iron gate welcomed those who dared to enter despite the warning signs posted. Salvadore had closed and locked the gate after they drove through it, explaining that the locks helped to deter the ocupa. Squatters were an issue with abandoned buildings, even one that had little to offer beyond basic shelter. The courtyard sprawled before the massive main structure, which opened to a large front room. Somber steps led to a second level. A separate narrow and winding stone staircase climbed to the bell tower. Long ago that bell had clanged regularly, heralding news and reminders to those who dwelled inside. Numerous other smaller rooms and narrow corridors threaded through the adobe walls of the main floor. Though the burden of transformation was extensive, Victoria could imagine the rooms filled with the equipment and medicines necessary for healing. Salvadore provided an eloquent and detailed story of the broad revitalization plan. Victoria sensed his determination and fervor. The job would get done. Long shadows had fallen, overtaking the high walls around the monastery by the time Victoria strolled back into the courtyard. The cool breeze made her shiver, but inside she felt warm with contentment. The promise of this effort made her giddy. 349

Lucas draped his arm over her shoulders. "Sloan will be pleased we're interested in this project." "He will indeed." Victoria wished their friend would call. The news a few hours ago had not been the best. His wife had suffered complications in delivery and things were touch and go. "I hope he has better news about Rachel and the baby by now." "I'm certain they're in good hands." Victoria knew Sloan—he would ensure only the best treatment for his family. Still, she worried. The distinct, cold sound of bullets exploding from their muzzles suddenly echoed in the air a split second before the hollow crack of rounds boring into ancient adobe shattered the silence. Lucas closed himself around Victoria like a cloaking armor and they tumbled to the ground. "Stay down. Stay down," he murmured in her ear. It wasn't until he'd rolled away from her quaking body that she became aware of moaning to her right. Not daring to raise her head, Victoria scrubbed her face through the dirt in order to turn far enough to see. Salvadore was hit. He lay facedown. Blood spread across the dirt around him in a crimson pool. The deep-throated blasts of a large caliber handgun and the softer thwack, thwack of another lesser weapon filled the air. They had been ambushed. Victoria's heart burst with fear. Where was Lucas? With her next breath her mind calmed and she focused on the wounded man. Lucas could handle himself. Salvadore needed help. She grabbed her courage and began to scoot toward him.

Chapter Three Three shots sent the enemy scattering from the gate. The silence lingered a full ten seconds but Lucas held his position behind the old stone well. The timeworn wooden bucket still hanging from a frayed rope rocked ever so slightly in the cold desert wind. The two men who'd fired through the towering iron gate were still out there. There was no guarantee there weren't more. For now Lucas had gained a reprieve. His heart dropped into his gut when he looked over at Victoria. She dragged Salvadore's lifeless body toward the monastery's open doorway. Lucas's gaze swung back to the gate. Still clear. He scanned the top of the crumbling wall for as far as he could see. If these bastards scaled the wall, he and Victoria would be in trouble. Lucas didn't dare call out to his wife and risk drawing the enemy's attention to her. All the while monitoring the perimeter, he held his breath as he gauged her struggle with the man's weight. The sky grew darker with every passing moment. The night would work to their advantage once they were all safely inside. For now, he needed to keep a distance apart from Victoria in order to draw the fire his way if their assailants regrouped and reengaged. Cell phone service was sketchy at best. Calling for help would be all but impossible.

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Victoria hauled the fallen guide through the entrance of the ramshackle structure that was their only sanctuary. Thank God. Lucas pulled in a breath. He couldn't measure how badly Salvadore was injured. Very, judging by the broad, dark pattern of blood on the ground. Lucas listened for movement beyond the walls. Nothing. His muscles tensed in preparation to make a run for the monastery door. Still quiet. Go! He rushed for the entrance. Two rapid blasts splintered the quiet. Lucas hit the ground. Rolled. He fired once at the gate. The darkness was too thick now to see the gunmen, but their shots had come from that direction. Staying low, he scrambled for the doorway. A third shot plowed into the earth next to him. He dove for the floor inside the monastery. The echo of another shot followed him inside. "I've slowed the bleeding," Victoria called out. "His pulse is still strong." Lucas pushed to his feet and moved toward the sound of Victoria's voice. By the time he reached her side, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness well enough to make out hers and Salvadore's forms. "How bad is it?" Lucas knelt beside the man's still body. Victoria held her cell phone over the man's exposed abdomen. The dim glow from the screen provided sufficient light for Lucas to see that the entrance wound appeared low enough not to have hit a lung or his heart, but it could have hit other major organs that could prove life threatening. "Judging by the exit wound," Victoria said quietly, "I'm hopeful. The head wound was the biggest source of the bleeding." The light roved upward. A plug of his scalp was missing but the bullet appeared to have only grazed his head. Lucas placed a hand on his wife's arm. "Find a place to hide. Do what you can to keep him alive." The rooms and corridors they had explored on the tour they'd taken reeled through his mind, but he couldn't recall a particularly good hiding spot. "I'm going up to the bell tower. I don't have enough ammunition for a proper defense but I'll hold them back as long as possible. I can try to pick them off one at a time if they come over that wall." Victoria touched his face, her trembling fingers trailing across his jaw. "Be careful, Lucas. We still have much to do." He couldn't see the fear in her eyes but he could hear it in her voice. He grabbed her and kissed her hard and fast. "And we'll do it all," he promised. He and Victoria had known each other for more than thirty years. He didn't have to spell it out to her. They were in trouble. Whatever these bastards wanted, leaving survivors would not be a part of their plan. The narrow winding steps that led to the bell tower were uneven and crumbling. Lucas stumbled twice before reaching the top. Moonlight melted down the walls surrounding the monastery. The sallow glow allowed him a degree of surveillance. He'd fired four shots, leaving eleven in the clip. He reached beneath the hem of his trouser leg and touched the bulge in his sock. A second clip waited there. It wasn't much but he was damned glad he never failed to prepare for the unexpected even after retirement. And even on vacation. The training was ingrained far too deep.

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Victoria hadn't been pleased when he'd met with a private arms source after arriving in Mexico. Since traveling by air with weapons was near impossible, he'd armed himself upon arriving. They couldn't travel via the Colby Agency jet because it would have nullified their carefully arranged plans to remain anonymous. It wasn't a perfect world and unfortunately such steps were necessary. If he'd had any doubts, this ambush proved his analysis. A shadow passed the gate. Lucas took aim. "Come on, amigos." He hadn't gotten a good look at the two men, but he felt relatively certain they were Hispanic. Americans, whether traveling on business or for pleasure, were often targets of kidnap-and-ransom schemes. Evidently someone had seen through the security precautions Lucas and Victoria had taken and thought they were good targets. A woman's image flashed through his mind. He shook off the idea. He had to have been mistaken. If she was even still alive… Why would she be here? And if somehow she were, she had no bones to pick with Lucas. She had provided intelligence to him from time to time, for a price. They had shared a brief physical encounter. End of story. This ambush would have nothing to do with her. Another image elbowed the woman from Lucas's thoughts. Keaton. Fury boiled to an instant simmer in Lucas's gut. Victoria would dismiss the notion that he was involved in this. But every strand of DNA in Lucas's being screamed at him to beware the man. His suspicions remained as yet unproven but the facts were shaking loose, slowly but surely. Right now, however, he zeroed in on the shadowy movement atop the east wall. Survival was the single relevant factor. His forefinger tightened on the trigger of his 9 mm. A fierce pop reverberated around him. The shadow dropped to the ground inside the perimeter of the wall. The tension eased in Lucas's muscles. He scanned the courtyard, then the wall and finally the gate. There was no way to guess how many assailants were out there. Two at least. His position provided a full 360 view of the wall and the grounds around the two structures. The old well, the mesquite tree and two half walls that had once divided the courtyard provided potential cover for the enemy. No matter how long this standoff lasted, Lucas couldn't afford the slightest hesitation in his monitoring. Sharp focus was the key. He prayed Victoria had found a decent hiding spot. If the worst happened, he wanted her protected. Without a weapon, her wits were her only means of defense. Lucas would lay odds on her wits any day.

Chapter Four Victoria's heart thumped as the sound of gunfire faded. She prayed Lucas had safely reached the bell tower. She listened for any indication that the gunmen had invaded the walls. The wind whipped furiously, a chilling score to the otherwise silent night. Leaning close to Salvadore, she whispered, "I'm going to look for a place we can hide. Lie still. I'll be back soon." Leaving him was a difficult choice, but there was no other option. Finding some level of protection was necessary. As far as she could determine, Salvadore was not conscious, but just in case, she wanted him to know that she was not abandoning him. As she moved through the darkness, she used her hands and her memory of what she'd seen on the tour to guide her. Each step she made was carefully placed. Reserving the battery in her cell phone was essential. Though on last check the phone was useless as far as making a call, the small amount of light it provided could prove invaluable. 352

She paused at the narrow pathway that led up to the bell tower. Her lips compressed to prevent calling out to her husband. Sparing the time to go up and check on him could cost far more in the end. He didn't need the distraction. Lucas was counting on her to do what needed to be done. Victoria cautiously continued. If she could find a place to hide Salvadore, perhaps then she could help Lucas. Without a weapon? Frustration burrowed deep in her chest. There was little she could do beyond this immediate task. As she moved along each corridor and through each room, she roved her hands over the walls in search of a nook large enough to provide concealment. There were no closets as far as she recalled. A storeroom near the kitchen was too open. She moved on to the kitchen, the largest space near the back of the run-down structure. A rustic and decaying wooden cabinet lined one wall of the kitchen. The open shelves were bare save for dust. The walls were the same cracked and crumbling adobe as all the others. She hesitated in her search, her fingers tracing over the same spot twice, then three times. There was a crack but it was far wider than most of the others. She followed the path of the wider crack. Less than two feet across the top then the narrow divide diverted downward for maybe four feet to the floor. After listening for any sound and checking the open portals that served as windows, Victoria lit the screen of her cell phone to study the anomaly with the aid of its faint light. There was little difference between the cracks, but the pattern— once she scrutinized it at length—appeared to be deliberate. No hinges or handles were visible. Exasperation tugged at Victoria's brow as she allowed the screen to go black. She tried to dig her fingers into the crack enough to pry at the wall it dissected. The section inside the perimeter of the crack shifted but didn't open. Then she pushed. The wall moved inward. She pushed it as far as it would go then crouched down to peer inside. A touch to the cell phone's screen awakened it once more. There was no floor beyond the oddly jagged door. She leaned forward and looked down. Narrow, steep stairs led downward into the darkness. Carefully, Victoria eased onto the top stone tread. After inspecting the back of the makeshift door she found rusty hinges and a handle of sorts. With a deep breath for determination, she closed the doorlike section of wall. She sat and scooted downward, one dusty stone step at a time. The walls around the area were stone. A secret cellar? Maybe. It might very well have been necessary to conceal supplies during raids when the monastery had been occupied. Sheer survival in this remote area likely prompted the need for a hiding place. As she reached the final step, the dank smell filtered through her intent focus, pressing around her like a thick, sickening compress. Leaning forward she touched the floor of the room or cellar. Dirt. A soft whimper echoed in her skull as if someone had screamed in her ear. Victoria froze. Her hand a little unsteady, she held up the phone and nudged the screen to life with her thumb. "Who's there?" Across the ruins of wooden barrels and decomposing boxes, a woman stared back at Victoria. Next to the woman, a small child snuggled closer in fear. Startled, Victoria peered around the cluttered space. If the woman had any other companions they were hidden beneath the rubble. "Are you hurt?" The woman said nothing. Victoria picked her way through the mess. As she neared, the woman's breath caught as if she'd only just realized she and her child were no longer alone. Victoria eased into a crouch. "Are you all right?"

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The woman and child appeared to be Hispanic. Victoria was a little rusty but she managed to repeat the question fairly accurately in Spanish. The woman searched Victoria's face as if attempting to identify a possible threat. The light from the screen faded. "Help me." The words were soft, weary and in English. Victoria touched the screen, reviving the light. "Are you hurt?" She'd noticed no bruises or blood. That the woman had chosen to hide down here with her son suggested that she might be running from someone. Taking Victoria's free hand in her trembling one, the woman pressed Victoria's palm to her belly. "The baby is coming." Dear God. The woman's protruding belly was hard with a contraction. The child beside her, a little boy, made a distressed sound. Since the mother had spoken in English, Victoria assumed she possessed a fair command of the language. "Soon?" "Soon," she confirmed. Victoria didn't need the light to know this was no place for the event to occur. Then again, given the gunmen outside, this might very well be the only safe place under the circumstances. Whatever their attackers wanted, the result would not be good for anyone trapped inside. "Water," the woman pleaded, "please. My Emilio is thirsty." Victoria's heart ached for the child. There was bottled water in the Jeep. Outside. She patted the woman's hand reassuringly. "I'll get water for him." It was dark outside. Victoria could reach the Jeep. As long as Lucas knew to cover her. She needed to brief Lucas, get Salvadore down here, grab the water from the Jeep and then get back down here to prepare for the birth. Victoria swallowed back a rush of fear. Simple. "Who are you?" the woman asked, her voice frail with pain. "I'm sorry." She should have identified herself at the outset. "My name is Victoria. My husband and I are here to see what we can do to help with the new hospital." A low moan rose from the woman. She grabbed Victoria's hand and squeezed hard. Emilio wailed in fear. "I heard stories about the hospital," she said, breathless from the contraction. "We have no doctor in my village. I walked here… I didn't know the work had not even begun." Victoria felt her desperation. So many were without health care in these remote areas. How this poor woman must have felt when she walked all this way only to find a crumbling ruin. "What's your name?" Victoria gave her hand a comforting squeeze. "Lavina." "I'm going for water and help, Lavina. I'll be back soon." Victoria went through the steps in her head again—she would need Lucas's help. Move Salvadore to safety. Get the water. And bring a child into this world.

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All the while praying the enemy outside the walls stayed outside the walls.

Chapter Five Lucas didn't dare relax. Since he'd taken one man down, the enemy had been quiet. At least one was still out there. It was possible the remaining gunman could have cut and run, but Lucas felt confident he would have heard the engine of a vehicle if one had been started. Though his full attention remained on the wall and courtyard surrounding their safety zone, a part of him was with Victoria. Had she found a place to hide? Her safety was his top priority. He'd sent a text to Sloan but the communication had failed. Cell service in the area just wasn't reliable. The Jeep was parked inside the gate, the keys likely still in the ignition, but an escape attempt was out of the question without knowing how many assailants were out there. Though it would take only one lying in wait to lose this battle. Movement on the steps below his position pulled his attention and his aim to the opening that led into the tower. He tightened his jaw and his hold on the weapon. His gaze narrowed. A form rose from the darkness. Victoria. Lucas relaxed, instantly lowering his weapon. His heart thumped with equal measures relief and anxiety. If Victoria had risked leaving Salvadore and coming here, something had changed. "How is he?" "He's conscious and talking," she said softly as she crouched down next to Lucas. "The pain is bad but he's holding up." Lucas wished he could protect her from this. Victoria Colby-Camp had suffered far too much in her life already. She deserved peace and happiness. "How about you?" He scanned the wall and courtyard. "You holding up okay?" If only he could comfort her. He reached out and touched her cheek. She leaned into his touch, sending that sweet, familiar warmth through him. "I'm an old hat at this." She sighed. "I would, however, prefer to be armed." "I only have the one gun, I'm afraid. Any luck finding a place to lay low until this is under control?" He made it sound like a simple operation, but the truth was they were in serious trouble here. All the enemy had to do was wait them out. The chances of someone who might be able to lend assistance or spook the thugs coming to this remote location were zero to none. Odds of getting any sort of communication out were equally thin. They were on their own. His gut twisted with regret. "There's a hidden cellar," Victoria explained. "It's camouflaged enough to work better than anything I expected to find." Lucas felt a but coming. "But…" he prompted. "But," she allowed, "there are complications." Despite the unnamed complications she already had a plan. He knew her too well to believe otherwise. "A woman, Lavina, was already hiding there. She has her three-maybe-four-year-old son with her."

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"Hiding here?" Lucas surveyed the perimeter once more. "Why here?" "That's the sticky part." The burden on his shoulders gained a couple of tons. "She lives in a remote village and she'd heard rumors of the new hospital coming." Victoria sighed. Not a good sign. "She walked all the way here looking for medical attention. She didn't know the hospital was only in the planning stages." "She's ill?" If she needed immediate medical attention, like Salvadore, time had just become an even greater issue. "She's pregnant, Lucas. I don't know how long ago her labor started, but there isn't much time." "What do you need me to do?" A new rush of adrenaline wired his muscles for action. "There's bottled water and a first aid kit in the Jeep. I need them." Lucas was relatively certain that a first aid kit wouldn't provide much support for birthing a child or patching up a bullet wound. The water would be good. But Victoria going after it was bad. Very bad. "It's a big risk." "It is. But it's one I need to take. You can't leave your station. You can cover me." He handed her the weapon. "You hold down the fort, I'll make the supply run." Victoria pushed the weapon back at him. "You're the marksman. Between the two of us, these people's best hope for survival lies with you. I'll get the supplies." If she thought arguing with him was going to do any good, she was wasting her time. He wasn't going to let her walk into the sights of an armed assailant. He took her hand and closed her fingers around the butt of the weapon. "Watch the wall. One already attempted to come over. And the gate." "Lucas," she started to argue. He hushed her debate with a kiss. As he reluctantly pulled away, he reminded her, "Cover me." Lucas moved down the steps before she could toss out another reason he shouldn't go. In the main room he paused to check on Salvadore. "We're moving you to a hiding place shortly. You hanging in there?" "Mr. Camp," Salvadore said, the hint of a smile on his lips contradicted by the faintness of his voice, "as I told your wife, please do not concern yourself with me. Take care of her and the others." Lucas patted him on the shoulder. "Don't waste your breath, my friend." No matter the graveness of the circumstances, Lucas had to smile. Victoria would never walk away from anyone in need. He flattened against the wall next to the massive doors that led from the courtyard to the main entry room of the monastery. This wasn't the only way out, but the back exit would leave him in the open far longer. The Jeep was maybe twelve yards from the front entrance, but anyone approaching the gate would have a clear shot. Lucas took another moment to weigh the risk then he moved. 356

Staying low and close to the wall, he ran quickly to the Jeep. The wind had settled. A quick pause to scan the courtyard, then the interior of the Jeep. Clear. The Jeep didn't have doors, which was handy. No worries about interior lights or creaks. He grabbed the first aid kit from the floorboard, then the two bottles of water they had purchased for the trip. They had been so enthralled with the landscape that neither of them had bothered with opening the water. Tucking the goods under one arm, he moved away from the Jeep. Keeping an eye on the gate, he headed back to the front entrance of the monastery. The distinct sound of compacting sand and dirt bristled his senses. Lucas's fingers tightened around a bottle of water, the only available weapon, as he prepared to spin around. A gunshot fragmented the night.

Chapter Six The man crumpled to the ground. Victoria fired two more shots at the second man as he blasted off rounds from the gate. The bastard ducked for cover. Lucas fell to the ground. Victoria's heart stumbled as an instant passed with him not moving. He rolled then scrambled through the open doorway, escaping into the cover offered by the monastery. Victoria's hands shook as she ordered her grip on the weapon to loosen. A ragged breath rushed past her lips. Lucas was inside. He was safe…unless he'd been hit by the man firing from the gate. Fear twisted in her chest. She couldn't risk leaving her post. She couldn't call out to her husband. Pounding footfalls on the narrow stairs leading up to the bell tower jerked her attention to the right. "Are you all right?" Lucas. Thank God. Victoria dropped the weapon. She hadn't meant to, but her fingers would no longer hold the cold steel. Her arms went around her husband. He held her tightly to his chest. She roved her hands over his body, drew back slightly. "You're not hit?" He shook his head. "You made sure of that." Victoria collapsed into his strong arms, the tears she couldn't hold back flowing like a hot, salty river against the cold harsh reality of their situation. They were supposed to be enjoying this vacation escape. How much longer could they continue to fight this battle of good versus evil? Not just this one, but the ones that appeared to find them on a regular basis? He held her close, whispering soothing words that only opened the emotional floodgate wider. She could not lose him.

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She would not lose him. Victoria stepped from his embrace and squared her shoulders. "We're both going down there and we're staying put. If they want us, they're going to have to come in after us." "You're right." Surprised, she managed a decent breath. "Let's get Salvadore to safety and take it from there." Depending on how long this standoff lasted, they could very well have a baby to deliver, as well. Victoria served as lookout as Lucas helped Salvadore down to the long-forgotten cellar. Lavina moaned softly with the building contractions. It wouldn't be long now. Once Salvadore was settled, Lucas worked to secure the door as best he could with the available decomposing junk. Using the faint light from her cell as little as possible, Victoria cleared a place for making Lavina more comfortable. Her water had broken so time was short. Victoria found an old cotton tarp folded on a sagging shelf. The inside of the tarp would be less dusty than the outside, so she turned the best side up and spread the tarp over the clearing she'd arranged, then she helped Lavina to move there. Lucas offered his jacket for a pillow. Lavina and her son shared one bottle of water while Victoria helped Salvadore to a few sips from the other bottle. "Too bad we don't have any matches." Victoria glanced up just as her cell's screen went dark again. Lucas held his own cell in one hand, the screen glowing, and what appeared to be an old lantern in the other. "Do you think it still works?" Hope dared to prick Victoria's senses. "There's fluid in the base and a wick. I think so." "Here." Victoria turned to Salvadore. He reached toward her and she immediately moved closer. "I wish I had something for the pain," she said. The man was suffering but the first aid kit had offered nothing for pain relief. A small tube of antibacterial salve. Antiseptic hand cleaner and a few bandages. The gauze and tape had provided a dressing for his wounds. But nothing else. "Use this." Salvadore placed a small object in her hand. "I guess my bad habit has finally come in handy." A lighter. Victoria smiled. "Very handy," she agreed. She passed the small plastic lighter to her husband. Within a few seconds he had the lantern lit. Victoria pressed her fingers to her lips, gratitude welling inside her. With what they had ahead of them, the meager light was a true blessing. Lucas pulled Victoria to the side, away from the others. "When they figure out no one is monitoring movement around the courtyard, they'll move in." Victoria nodded. "We took down two, but there's no way to know how many more are out there." "I'm guessing two or three at most." Lucas looked thoughtful for a moment. "If there were more, they would have stormed the place by now. Still, they have to know our resources are limited."

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His point was valid. "We can take out at least one more if they try coming through that door." Lucas had done a fine job of making it a less-than-easy feat considering what he had to work with. "Maybe two if they charge in together." But the enemy knew they were armed. Their retreat to this hiding place would suggest that they were out of ammunition. "I'll listen for signs of their arrival," Lucas offered. "If you need me, just say the word." Victoria squeezed his arm before letting go. "We'll get through this." He brushed his fingers across her cheek. "Yes, we will. You have my word." Her determination and courage shored up, Victoria checked on Salvadore once more before settling next to Lavina. "Are the contractions closer?" Lavina nodded, her face constricted with pain. Her child sat on the other side of her. He held on tight to the sleeve of her blouse. His mother had warned him to be very quiet no matter what happened. "When did you and Emilio get here?" With all that had been going on, Victoria hadn't asked a lot of questions. "This morning." Lavina swallowed hard. "When I find building like this I wanted to go back home," she explained. "But the baby was coming. I look for a place to hide from the gringos who roam the desert." Victoria understood. The men outside were likely nothing more than sand pirates. Bastards roaming the desert looking for tourists to rob or kidnap. Or worse, drug or arms smugglers. "Did you have any difficulties when Emilio was born?" Victoria hoped not. Of course that didn't guarantee she wouldn't have problems this time, but it would give Victoria some understanding of what was to come. Lavina shook her head. "He came fast. No trouble." "Well." Victoria scrubbed her hands with the antiseptic cleaner. "Let's see where we are." Lavina bent her knees and widened them as Victoria tucked the skirt of her dress up to her thighs. Once undergarments were out of the way, Victoria barely stifled a gasp. The baby was crowning. She met Lavina's gaze. "Looks like this one is ready to join us." Lucas waved at Victoria then touched his lips. Her breath caught as she heard what had garnered his attention. Heavy steps overhead. The enemy was searching the monastery.

Chapter Seven Lucas took a position against the stone wall to the left side of the hidden entrance. He'd changed the clip in his weapon to be on the safe side. If the trouble came through that door, they were going down. No way were they getting past him.

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He braced for the worst. A low moan drew his attention to his wife. She leaned forward and whispered to Lavina. Victoria patiently stroked her hair and smiled comfortingly. The small boy sat silently watching. The scene tugged at Lucas's heart. His wife—the woman he loved more than life—was more beautiful now than she had been thirty some odd years ago when they had first met. Though they had no children together, he had been at the hospital when Jim was born. He'd paced the waiting room right alongside Jim's father. Years later Lucas had held Victoria in his arms as she grieved the loss of her first husband, Lucas's best friend. He had never loved anyone, never wanted to be with anyone but Victoria. Having her become his wife had been the happiest day of his life. He didn't intend to miss a moment of the rest of their lives. Together. The thugs tearing through the rooms upstairs weren't going to take that away from him. Lucas listened, tried to determine the number. Two, maybe three. Not such bad odds. He'd been in worse situations. The silence interrupted his musings. The enemy had either exited the monastery or gone still in an attempt to locate their prey. Not good. His fingers instinctively tightened on his weapon. Victoria's gaze lifted to the ceiling. Cobwebs lined the rafters that held up the floor separating the cellar from the kitchen overhead. The abrupt absence of noise had startled her as surely as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder. What were those bastards up to? The possibility that they had given up and gone on their way was too much to hope for. They were still there…watching and waiting. Lavina writhed with the pain of the next contraction. Victoria whispered soft encouragements to her. The baby would be here soon. Lavina pushed harder and the head was out. Joy burst in Victoria's chest. She cradled the baby's head and braced for the next contraction. They had reached the most difficult stage now. Emilio sat quietly just as his mother had told him to do. During the moment before the next contraction, Victoria watched her husband. He was as handsome as ever. Brave. Strong. He would give his life to protect hers, as she would to protect his. She closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer that neither of them would have to sacrifice so much. Lavina's body tensed. Victoria steadied herself, carefully supporting the baby. One long, hard push, then another. Lavina's fingers fisted in the old canvas tarp. Her face contorted with the effort of holding back her cries. The baby's shoulders were out and then the rest came quickly, its tiny arms and legs flailing. No matter the dire circumstances, Victoria smiled. A new life wiggled with promise in her hands. She wiped the baby's face, cleaned her nose—it was a girl. Victoria quickly placed the infant in her mother's arms and helped Lavina open the front of her dress. If the baby cried out… The newborn's wail filled the room. Lavina urged the baby's hungry mouth to her breast. Emilio looked ready to cry himself but he uttered not a sound. Salvadore's eyes had gone wide with both wonder and fear. Rushing footfalls reverberated overhead.

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Victoria ushered Emilio closer to his mother, pressed her finger to her lips and then extinguished the lantern. The room went black. Careful not to make a sound, she reared back into a crouch. She had no weapon, but she would fight to save these innocent lives. Two, no, three voices debated what they had heard. One man was certain he'd heard a child's cry while the other two remained dubious of their comrade's assertion. Victoria strained to make out the words. The man speaking sounded as if he were in charge. Their targets had no children in their company, he insisted. More arguing ensued as the one who'd heard the baby's cry stood by his contention. The man in charge cursed his companions for failing to accomplish the simple task of executing the man and woman more quickly. An icy mass of realization formed in Victoria's stomach. This was no kidnap and ransom attempt. Those men had been sent to assassinate her and Lucas. But why? Who would do this? They had both made their share of enemies, but none who seemed riled up at the moment. How had anyone learned of their vacation plans? They had been so careful. And yet, here they were, waiting in the dark for a deadly confrontation. Her gaze roved through the blackness to where she knew Lucas crouched, poised to protect her and the others. She didn't have to see him to know he would stand, battle ready and unhesitatingly prepared to fight to the death. A bead of sweat slipped down Lucas's brow. He quieted his heart rate, listening, waiting. They were close now. Gathered in the old, run-down kitchen, desperate to find their missing targets. One of the three voices—he had identified three distinct male voices—insisted the woman and two men had escaped and that his colleague was surely hearing things. But the dominant of the three was having no part of that theory. He knew they were still here. Hiding. Thunder seemed to rage overhead as the three started to bang on the walls in search of hidden passages. Lucas slowed his respiration and tightened his grip on the weapon. At the loud sounds, the boy who had until now been so quiet cried out. The makeshift door moved a bit. The obstacles Lucas had put in place held a little longer before the door rammed inward. Someone stumbled but quickly caught himself. The beam of a flashlight floated over the stairs. Lucas held his position. The light wouldn't be able to reach him until the attackers were halfway down the winding steps. He had to make every shot count. There was no margin for error and no room for compassion. His finger snugged against the trigger. He fired. The first of the three tumbled down the remaining steps. Lucas moved forward, putting his body between the path of the flashlight's beam and the others. 361

Gun blasts exploded in the dank cellar. The flashes of light from the barrels of the weapons pinpointing the exact location of the shooters. Lucas fired a second time. Another man fell. The golden beam bobbed in the darkness as the flashlight bounced down the steps. Moaning and wailing filled the emptiness that followed. Then the sound of running steps overhead warned that the third man had opted to flee. Lucas rushed after him. Victoria steadied herself, sucked in a much-needed breath and weaved through the clutter. She grabbed the flashlight and checked the two men who'd gone down, confiscating their weapons. More shots rang out somewhere overhead and fear tightened its noose around her heart. She hurried to Salvadore's side and pressed one of the weapons into his hand. "I have to help Lucas. Take care of things here." "Senora, I believe you should stay." But Victoria was already on her way up the steps before he'd finished his plea. She clicked the flashlight off and eased into the kitchen. The silence crushed in on her. Where were they? She prayed Lucas was safe. Forcing all other thought—and her fears—from her mind, she cautiously moved from room to room. A burst of shots in the distance guided her toward the front of the monastery. They were outside. The stars and moon seemed to light the courtyard like an airport runway after the darkness inside. Lucas stood over the man who had tried to escape. As Victoria walked closer she watched her husband disarm the man and then secure him with his own belt. She glanced at where the other two attackers had fallen, one by the wall, one near the Jeep. Her knees tried to buckle. It was over. This time.

Chapter Eight Hospital Angeles Leon, Guanajuato, Mexico, August 22, 10:45 a.m. Victoria squeezed Lavina's hand. "Your baby daughter is beautiful." Emilio sat at his mother's bedside. He had been so good. Victoria and Lucas had taken him for breakfast once Lavina, the baby and Salvadore were settled into rooms. Now, nearly three hours later, Emilio's cousins were en route to help him and his mother. Victoria had seen to it that Lavina and her little family would have everything they needed until she was on her feet once more. Salvadore would be released tomorrow and his recovery would be a speedy one. The man claimed he had far too much to do to lie around fretting over a mere gunshot wound. "Thank you, Victoria." Lavina offered a smile but her lips trembled with the emotion shining in her eyes. "I wish to name my daughter Victoria, if that is agreeable to you."

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Tears welled in Victoria's own eyes. "I would be honored to have such a beautiful child as my namesake." They talked a moment more and after hugs, Victoria went in search of her husband. He had been called away for more questioning by the authorities. They'd also heard from Sloan. Rachel and their new baby boy were through the danger and all was well. Victoria hadn't burdened him with their encounter. Later, when his wife and new son were home, she would fill him in. Of course, knowing Sloan, he would learn the details and call her before she had a chance to return to Chicago. Home. Victoria missed her family and her agency. She would be glad when she and Lucas were safely back in Chicago. This vacation, in her opinion, was officially over. She'd spoken to her son as soon as they had arrived at the hospital. He'd wanted to rush to Mexico but she had persuaded him to wait until later in the afternoon. She and Lucas would travel back to Chicago with Jim via the agency's jet this evening. Her son had insisted that security had to be top priority. Victoria paused. Lucas stood at the nurses' desk chatting with the doctor who had taken such good care of the three patients she and Lucas had arrived with in the middle of the night. The drive through the desert in that old Jeep had been a long one. Perhaps not really so terribly long but it had felt like an eternity. Lucas's jacket had been forgotten in the cellar back at the monastery. His white shirt was far from white and was torn in more than one place. His trousers showed signs of the struggle for survival. But he looked amazing. Tall, strong, handsome—even with that day's beard growth darkening his jaw. He turned, their gazes met and the world seemed to stop turning. Those gray eyes drew her to him as if he'd issued the command out loud. His arms went around her and she felt safe and so very happy. They were alive. Lucas drew back and ushered her away from the desk. "I hear there's a small café close by that serves the best coffee in all of Mexico." "I'm not so sure they'll want to seat us," Victoria said, reminding him of their disheveled appearance, "much less serve us." They were both a mess. Lucas turned her to face him, and his gaze roamed down her stained and tattered blue dress to the wrecked sandals on her feet and back up. He touched her hair. She'd removed the pins and allowed it to fall around her shoulders hours ago. Though she'd washed up as best she could, Victoria was certain she looked a fright. "How could they possibly deny service to the most beautiful woman in all of Mexico?" She shook her head and wrapped her arm around his. "Fine. Come along." She tugged him toward the elevator. "That coffee is sounding better and better." Mainly she wanted to see the sun and to smell the fresh air. And to be alone, sort of, with her own private hero. She looked up at him as they boarded the waiting elevator car. They had a fireplace back home. At least one bottle of wine somewhere in the house. Tonight would be a new celebration. One of happiness and immense gratitude. Lucas kept his wife close as they exited the hospital and strolled to the nearby café. The sun had chased away the last of the night's crisp air. It felt good to be alive. He glanced at Victoria. And to have her safely at his side.

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The Federales had suggested that yesterday's attack had been just another kidnap and ransom attempt, but Lucas wasn't so sure after what he'd overheard back in that monastery. The man they had captured refused to talk. A records check had confirmed that he had a long history of criminal activity, but he wasn't giving up a single word related to the attack on Lucas and Victoria—not even after the promise of a lighter sentence. As soon as they were back in Chicago, the Colby Agency would initiate an investigation of its own. They would get to the bottom of this mystery. Lucas couldn't help wondering exactly where Slade Keaton had been the past few days. Victoria would be annoyed that Lucas had even taken that mental path, but he couldn't ignore his instincts. "This place is lovely," Victoria said as Lucas pulled out a chair at their table. As soon as one of the nurses had told Lucas about the place, he had known he had to bring Victoria here. That ancient Mexican art and pottery she loved so much dominated the café's décor. He ordered their coffee and settled into the chair across from his wife. "It's still no match to my view." Victoria shook her head. "Lucas, you've always known how to make me feel like the most special woman in the world." He kissed her hand. "You make my work too easy." The waitress delivered their coffee. He and Victoria savored the warm brew as she directed his attention to various pieces of art. He loved just listening to her talk, watching her enthusiasm. There was no one else like her. The image of that other woman, the one at the café who'd disappeared so suddenly, invaded his head. No. He'd been mistaken. She had nothing to do with any of this. Who knew if she was even still alive. No matter what the local authorities said—or anyone else—Lucas knew who he had to watch. Slade Keaton. For today, for this moment, Lucas had something better to do. Enjoy his wife's company. He leaned forward, took Victoria's hand in his, and lost himself to the moment they had both earned.

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Perfect Passion By Day Leclaire Jett St. John had seen the happiness her company's matchmaking computer program could bring. Was it so wrong to want that for herself? And to do it without her father—Justice St. John, the head of Sinjin— watching her every move? Jett didn't think so, so she hacked into the program…and found him. He was successful, smart and gorgeous—in short, perfect. Now all she had to do was fly to a Caribbean paradise and meet the stranger who could make her dreams come true…. John Robert "Trey" Treyhearn had one all-consuming goal—to out-compete Sinjin in every way and take his own robotics firm to the top of the industry. And this match was his chance to do exactly that. But he hadn't counted on the program finding someone who was intelligent, warm and sexy—in short, perfect. How could he choose between the company he'd devoted his life to build and a woman he never dared hope he'd find? Especially when he discovered her name….

Chapter One Lonely. How long had she been feeling that way? Jett St. John frowned in consideration. Months? Years? Or, more likely, since birth, thanks to how awful her life had been before she was adopted. Oh, sure. She now had more friends and family than she could count. Was adored by them and adored them in return, particularly her adoptive parents, Daisy and Justice St. John. But in the ten years since they'd created that family, years in which she'd gone from a cocky, abrasive sixteen-year-old to a cocky, abrasive twenty-six-year-old, she realized she was missing one vital element in her own life. Love. But all that might soon change. Jett pulled out a round glass disc and set it on the table. Checking to make sure her office door was closed and locked, she touched a small button on the disc. Instantly a hologram of a man appeared, standing on the disc like something out of an old Star Wars movie. "PM-5468," the computer chip announced, reeling off the identification code the man had been assigned by the Pretorius Program. The Pretorius Program was the crown jewel of the software branch of Sinjin, Justice St. John's robotics firm. At sixteen, Jett had started working on the program alongside its developer, Pretorius St. John, her father's uncle. Of course, the program had nothing to do with robotics and everything to do with creating perfect matches for business, pleasure or matrimony. Ironic, to say the least, considering Jett's current plan. "Tell me about yourself," she requested. The recording the man had made kicked in, giving her an opportunity to study—and appreciate—the way he moved and spoke. "I gather I'm not allowed to tell you my name," he said, his mouth curving into an appealing half-smile. "Let's see… I'm an engineer in the electronics field and love my job. I have to admit I'm a bit of a workaholic, but I play almost as hard as I work. I enjoy sports, hiking, and prefer reading over TV or movies." He was gorgeous, Jett conceded, his movements clearly those of an athletic man, yet she could see the intelligence reflected in his aquamarine eyes and carved into the stunning planes of his face. But she also 365

caught a hint of wariness there and couldn't help wondering about it. Since she'd made a similar recording for the Pretorius matchmaking program, she knew what questions he'd have been required to answer and asked one from the list. "What are your goals in life?" she asked. PM's hologram flickered and when he reappeared, he lounged against a large desk made from a dark, glassy material that resembled her own desk. "I guess my goal is to be the best." A determined intensity echoed through his words and body language. "To beat out my competitors and be the top in my field." Okay, that reminded her of her father, and not in a good way. "And your dreams?" Jett prompted. The wariness reappeared, as though the question touched a part of him he normally kept hidden. "I suppose it would be to find you…my perfect match." His honesty was devastating, his smile filled with a self-mocking amusement. But it was his quiet stoicism that slipped into her heart and took root. A weariness that told her he expected the rug to be ripped from beneath his feet at any moment, a feeling she was all too familiar with. "Assuming you even exist." "Oh, I exist," Jett murmured. "I just didn't know you did." She hadn't expected him to touch something inside of her, a longing she'd kept carefully locked away. But listening to those brief comments had filled her with a yearning that became a physical ache. She wanted this man. Wanted to meet him. Talk to him. Dig down and find out what he hid behind his stoicism and wariness. A soft, rapid knock sounded at Jett's door and she quickly turned off the disc and tucked it away before unlocking her office door. Her best friend and coworker, Bailey, scurried inside, waving a paper in her hand. "Got it! The flight reservation just came through." "No one suspects PW-5467 is me?" Jett demanded. "You're positive we managed to slip my accessing the Pretorius Program past Dad and Uncle P?" Jett had been hesitant to use the Pretorius Program. Knowing her father, he'd no doubt laced the software code with booby traps for anybody who tried to hack the system. Even her careful search for the perfect soul mate could have set off alarms, warning the system—and her father—that she'd accessed the program. Even though she considered herself an outstanding hacker, there was always the chance they'd discover what she was up to. No way was she going to allow that to happen. "Positive." Bailey swung the door closed, closeting them in the office. "You're booked to head out on Friday for a glorious week on Sinjin's private Caribbean island to meet the man of your dreams." Jett gave what she hoped was a casual shrug to Bailey's romantic statement. "Time will tell." Bailey hesitated then shrugged as well. "Do you want to hack in again and find out who he is?" "I already know who he is." Bailey's eyes widened in shock and for some reason she turned a bit pale. "You do?" Jett smiled. "Sure. He's brilliant. Hard-working." She hesitated, feeling a hint of warmth sweep across her cheekbones. "Among other things." 366

"Wait a minute. You played his disc, didn't you?" Bailey accused. "And there's something else. Something that's making you blush. Is it something you actually know, or something else you've guessed?" "Guessed." Jett thought about her father's basic decency, then confessed, "He'll be nice." "Nice?" Bailey wrinkled her stub nose. "That's so mundane. What about good-looking? Or rich? Or even someone in the business?" "Nice," Jett repeated, though she already knew he was good-looking and in the software business. "A man who'll stick with me during the rough times. A man who might want a family someday. A man capable of love." She gave it a little more thought. "And if he rocks in bed, I can live with that." *** An hour later Bailey swung by Justice St. John's office. Not seeing anyone around, she poked her head in and gave him the thumb's up. "She doesn't suspect?" Justice asked. "Nope. She thinks she pulled off the hack without you guys catching on. She leaves Friday." Justice closed his eyes, hoping like hell he'd done the right thing. "Thanks for your help, Bailey." "Anything for you or Jett. You know that. I just want her to be happy." "Let's hope Treyhearn feels the same way once he meets my daughter." Otherwise, Justice wouldn't just take his main business rival out…but utterly destroy him.

Chapter Two John Robert "Trey" Treyhearn read through the material his PA handed him. "This is all the information they've provided for…" He checked the packet again. "For PW-5467?" "There's a recording. I believe it has an interactive feature," Les replied. "They've also arranged for the two of you to meet and become acquainted in the seclusion of some private Caribbean island that Sinjin owns. You'll stay on the island for one week and if it works out between you, the relationship continues from there. Otherwise…" He shrugged, making it clear that the two would part ways, no harm, no foul. Trey nodded, not really surprised. He'd understood that was part of the process. "Have you been able to track down the identity of PW-5467?" Les shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I was hesitant to try and hack Sinjin's system too far in case they caught me." "Let it go. I'd rather not send up any flags on that front." Trey frowned over the dearth of information provided by Sinjin. He fingered the glass disc. Maybe the recording would tell him more. If he hoped to create a program capable of directly competing with the Pretorius Program, he needed far more information than what he currently had in his possession. "Tell them we won't require flight assistance. Arrange for my jet, instead."

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"You sure you want to go through with this? There are other ways to take down Sinjin." "I prefer this method. I want to go head-to-head with Sinjin on all possible fronts and prove my company is superior in every way." "Then I'll send a confirmation to the Pretorius people," his PA said before exiting. Trey leaned back in his chair. Was that why Justice St. John had requested a meeting with him? Had St. John somehow found out Trey had been attempting to find a match through the Pretorius Program? If so, too bad. Once he analyzed how the program worked, he would develop his own version. If he succeeded in creating a superior program to Sinjin's, he'd be able to out-compete Sinjin in every arena and finally make his company, Dynamic, the number one robotics company in the world. It would give him everything he'd ever wanted. Trey sat and reviewed the information he'd received on his match a final time. The file contained PW's vital statistics. Five foot four, dark hair and eyes, 110 pounds. Software engineer. He put the disc on his desk and pressed the button, initiating the hologram of a woman. "PW-5467," the computer chip stated just before her image appeared. Okay, wow. She was intriguing, to say the least. Delicate, yet he could see her feistiness in both stance and attitude. Her hair was short and dark as a moonless night with eyes to match. She dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt, her thumbs hooked in her waistband while she stood in front of a desk very similar to his own. She gazed out at him, leading with her chin. Fascinating. "Who are you?" he murmured. "My name is—" A smile gave her an impish appearance. "Oh, I'm not allowed to say that." "Fair enough." His eyes narrowed in thought. "What do you do?" The hologram blinked and then the woman reappeared. "Hey, you can read that in the material. I thought you wanted to get to know me." She crossed her arms across her chest, openly challenging him. "The real me." He stood, circled his desk, utterly captivated. "Okay, tell me about yourself." The hologram gave another jump. "I'm not quite sure how to answer that." She hesitated, lounging against the desk, her eyes drifting shut for a moment while she gathered herself. "As uncomfortable as this makes me, I'll be really honest with you." A deep, feminine wariness flitted through her gaze. "I'm lonely, okay? I haven't met a man who's come close to being right for me. I'm not even sure he exists. But here's who I am. I'm intelligent and a bit sarcastic." "I'd never have guessed," Trey replied. She lifted her shoulder in a quick shrug, though he knew it wasn't in response to his irony since the program couldn't interact to that extent. "I guess sarcasm is my shield, something I learned to use as a kid to protect myself." She hastened onward as though she'd betrayed too much. Something about her past, he realized. Something that had had a profound effect on her. "I love nature in all its forms, its colors and shapes and its chaotic way of being. I don't know, maybe it's because the rest of my life is so structured 368

and linear." Now her wariness eased into vulnerability and her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "I want the dream, you know? I want what my parents found. Is that so wrong?" The question hit hard, the longing behind it slashing through his defenses and tugging at a heart he denied possessing. No, it wasn't wrong. He understood her desire, it just wouldn't happen with him. How could it when he didn't believe perfect love actually existed? Despite the Pretorius Program's claims, there was no such thing as perfection. Not when it came to true love or soul mates or whatever else this woman hoped to find. And yet… He gazed at the hologram, the woman's lovely features etched with longing. What if she ended up being his perfect match? Trey laughed. Yeah, right. Not a chance in hell. No doubt he'd have a terrific week with a gorgeous woman with a brain capable of doing more than calculating the latest discount at Bloomingdale's. At least she would if the Pretorius Program worked as promised. Even if she didn't, what the hell? Maybe he'd get lucky and spend the entire week in bed with her. And if she happened to possess any of the other attributes he considered a must-have in the woman he eventually married? Not possible. He'd realized long ago that he wasn't a man destined to know love. He didn't even believe in the emotion. Nor would he find someone who met most, let alone all, of his criteria—a woman who possessed unwavering loyalty. Who understood the concept of honor. Who was brilliant. Was capable of working alongside of him. Respected his work ethic. And yet, who also wanted a family. No, the woman of his dreams didn't exist, and wishing she did wouldn't change that fact. He gave an impatient shrug. Hell, best to be practical. If she rocked in bed, he could live with that. *** Les glanced around to make absolutely certain he wouldn't be seen or overheard. Flipping open his cell phone, he dialed the private number he'd been given. It was answered on the first ring. "Does he suspect?" "No, Mr. St. John. Nor is he aware of the identity of the match. He flies out Friday." "I appreciate your help, Les." "Mr. St. John… He still intends to take you down. He still blames you for—" "I know what he blames me for. But…she's my daughter, Les." "Trey's a good man in every regard except when it comes to you. I'm sure he'd never use her to hurt you." "If he does—" Justice fought to keep his voice even, though his gut twisted at the mere thought. "I will stop him." 369

"He needs closure. It's the only way. This is the only way," Les said. And prayed he was right.

Chapter Three Jett arrived on Destiny Isle late Friday afternoon, the final leg of the journey accomplished by boat. The island boasted a single mountain, which no doubt had been a volcano at some point in its life, but was now covered in banana and coconut palms. Though they approached from the south, they circumvented the island to its western side where she discovered that, rather than being round, the island was actually crescent shaped. A long pier extended from one of the sandy arms as it curved out to embrace a glorious aquamarine lagoon, complete with a powdered-sugar sand beach. The brochure had promised her a snorkeler's paradise and from what she could see it hadn't lied. Tucked snugly between lagoon and mountain sprawled a huge villa. "Why did they put the pier out here instead of in the lagoon?" she asked the boat's captain. He grinned, his teeth a brilliant flash of white against his dark face. "Coral eat da boat." She returned his grin. "That would be bad, right?" "Serious sufferation," he confirmed with a laugh. He pointed toward the lagoon. "No trade winds on dis side. Storms, they come from d'other side. Calm water for swimming and snorkeling here." The minute they docked, the captain transported her luggage to the villa. "We deliver Sa this morning." Sir, she interpreted. "He tallowah." Okay, she was clueless about that one, but considering the approval in the captain's voice, she'd take that as a positive. "Great." He accepted the gratuity she pressed into his hand with another wide grin. "See you inna di lights." She frowned over the words. "I hope that's soon," she said. "Oh, ya mon. Soon." And then he was gone, leaving her to face "Sa" on her own. Leaving her luggage on the wide verandah, she opened the door and stepped inside the villa. Sunlight filtered in behind her, revealing a shadow-draped foyer. She couldn't hear anyone, didn't even sense anyone. Overhead a fan revolved in lazy circles, which told her the island possessed a generator. That meant both A/C, lights and other modern conveniences, thank goodness. She walked farther into the foyer, the heels of her sandals clicking against the pale, bamboo hardwood flooring. So where the heck was Sa? No sooner had she thought the question than she sensed him behind her. Whirling around, she found him, his huge form taking up the entire doorway. With the sun at his back his features were cast in shadow. "PW-5467, I presume?" he asked. She recognized his voice from the disc, soft and deep and deliciously rough as it whispered across the space separating them.

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Jett deliberately lifted her chin in response. "And you must be PM-5468." "Guilty." He stepped across the threshold and walked toward her, pausing a scant foot in front of her. Dear God, he was gorgeous, even more gorgeous than his hologram suggested—and far more powerful and intimidating. How many times had she replayed his recording? Countless. And yet, it didn't do the reality justice. It didn't come close. He had to stand a full foot taller than her, his eyes almost the exact same shade as the water filling the lagoon. Best of all, it confirmed what she'd sensed from his hologram. Not only was he gorgeous, but intelligent. It was written all over him. She continued her appraisal, approving of everything she saw. His hair was a nutty brown streaked with blond highlights, and his face, while cut using a mold off the Beware: Heartbreaker shelf, had been beaten into even more intriguing lines by experience and character. While he studied her, she took her time studying him, allowing her gaze to wander from his face down over a body carved into tight, muscular angles and ridges—not to mention perfect masculine bumps and bulges—that would have left an envious Hercules crying like a little girl. When she looked up again, her gaze clashed with his. His eyes turned incandescent, burning with unmistakable desire. Without a word, he reached for her. His huge hands gently closed around the lapels of her blouse and he tugged her the final few inches separating them, allowing her to discover that all those angles and ridges, every bump and bulge was indeed, rock solid. And then he took her mouth. Set her world on fire and confirmed one key fact. This man would definitely rock in bed.

Chapter Four Trey couldn't explain what had gotten into him, couldn't explain why he'd grabbed her. Why he'd kissed her. Like a throwback to a far distant time in human development, he saw, he wanted, he took. Why the devil did they have to send him a pixie? And why the hell hadn't he realized from the hologram that's what she was? He must have replayed the various recordings a hundred times, unable to explain what drew him to this woman. And yet, for all his viewings, he hadn't realized just how tiny she'd be. He was a total sucker for those small, delicate types. He drew the pixie up, closer still, unable to get enough of her. Her mouth was soft as butter, her tongue a delicious duel, her urgent sigh threatening to blow the top straight off his head. And while she seemed so small and fine-boned within the safety of his arms, the curves pressed against him were all woman. Unable to help himself, he allowed his hands to stray into uncharted territory, mapping them, committing them to memory. Her shoulders revealed sinewy muscle, confirming that the Pretorius Program had proven successful in meeting one of his criteria. She was athletic. His hands drifted lower, cupping the weight of her breasts that fit his palms as though made for them. Her breath escaped in a gasp. "I can't believe this is happening," she said. "You and me both, PW."

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And still he couldn't bring himself to stop, to even pretend he possessed an ounce of sophistication or restraint. His hands slipped farther downward, found the minuscule waist, the soft, slope of her toned abdomen. The sexy curve of hip and backside. And then the heated core of her. One touch and he knew they both were in serious trouble. They broke apart at the exact same instant, dragging air into their lungs in collective gulps. He swore, furious at himself for acting the part of an utter ass. "I'm sorry. That was totally inappropriate." He focused hot eyes in her direction. "I have no idea what the hell got into me." Huge black eyes stared back at him, glazed with a combination of desire and confusion. "The Pretorius Program, I suspect." He smiled. "Okay, I can live with blaming my idiocy on one of Sinjin's programs if you can." Her mouth twitched in response, lush, ripe lips still swollen from his kiss. And then she shocked him again by bursting out laughing. "I have to admit I'm pleasantly surprised. I thought this week would be a total bust." She combed her fingers through her short, sassy black hair in such an automatic, careless manner that he knew she wasn't the sort of woman who obsessed over her looks. Another point in her favor. "Despite your recording, I figured good ol' PP would fix me up with some computer nerd who couldn't tell a woman's processor from her microchips." PP? An instant later, the nickname clicked. The Pretorius Program. "Trust me, PW, your processors and microchips are impossible to confuse." "Yours, too." She held out her hand. "Call me Jett. I prefer it over PW." For some reason the name rang a faint bell but he couldn't think why. "Trey." He took her hand in his and then gave it a gentle tug, bringing her body into his once more. He could see in her eyes that she expected him to lose control again. He deliberately refrained, settling for a slow, gentle joining of lips. Hats off to St. John. He was hitting all the right buttons and confirming Trey's fervent hope. This woman would definitely rock in bed.

Chapter Five Jett dressed for their first dinner together in a floor-length sarong-style gown in a deep ruby red. The instant she'd noticed it in the shop window, it had struck her as the perfect choice for her tropical getaway. She'd been told that a catering company from a neighboring island would provide their first meal and their last, but that she and Trey would be responsible for the rest of their food in order to create as much intimacy as possible between them. Sure enough, when she stepped into the small, cozy dining room, she found the table set with silver and crystal. Candlelight staged the romantic setting while flowers perfumed the sultry air. Like everything else so far, it couldn't have been any more perfect. Trey joined her a moment later. Like her, he'd dressed for the occasion, wearing a black tux that screamed designer and fit him so perfectly she knew it couldn't possibly be a rental. Interesting. That suggested money, though it hadn't been one of her requirements.

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He greeted her with a disappointingly chaste kiss before holding out her chair. "You look stunning, Jett." Then he turned her bones to water by tracing a series of heated kisses across her collarbone, lingering for a long moment at the sensitive curve between throat and shoulder. She struggled to regain her composure while he left her to take his seat, praying her expression didn't reveal how deeply he'd affected her. She waited until they'd been served the first course of their dinner by an unobtrusive waiter. Taking a quick, restorative sip of the crisp chardonnay that accompanied the meal, she asked, "So, Trey, why don't we get the mundane out of the way." She gave him a smile that told him she was laughing at herself. "What do you do? The information provided was a tad vague on that front." He hesitated just an instant too long, warning her that his response wouldn't quite be the entire truth. "Same as you. Software engineer." "In my case I really am a software engineer." She tilted her head to one side and regarded him over the rim of her wineglass. "Something tells me you're a little more than that." "Yes." She laughed. "Okay, fair enough. After all, we've only just met. We don't have to confess all our dirty little secrets during the first dinner together." She deliberately kept the conversation light and casual throughout the rest of the meal, delighted to discover they shared an interest in jazz, had both vacationed in New Orleans on numerous occasions and considered Cajun-style tiger prawns at Boudreaux's Bayou the only ones worth eating. They also both preferred their coffee thick as mud and black as tar, and were inexplicably drawn to blown glass, particularly the otherworldly creations of Josh Simpson. Afterward, they moved to the great room where soft music played in the background and a coffee service sat on a silver tray. As they walked into the room, instead of helping himself to coffee, Trey surprised her by pulling her into his arms and slowly moving her in time to the music. She drifted across the room with him, delighted by how well they moved together. It was amazing that they fit so perfectly in so many ways. Though why should that surprise her? She'd spent a full decade watching the Pretorius Program work its magic. Was it so wrong that she wanted the magic for herself? To believe that it could happen for her, too? She closed her eyes and melted into his body, giving herself up to the rhythm of their movements, the lovely slide of male against female. The embers that had ignited when they'd first kissed flared to life once again and began a slow, hot burn. "This is really nice," she murmured, glancing up at him with a smile. He returned her smile, but she could see something was bothering him. "Tell me, Jett. What are you hoping to get out of this?" He'd grown comfortable enough with her to ask a serious question, she noted. His fingers feathered along the length of her spine while a helpless shiver followed in their path. And he'd grown comfortable with other things, too…. "At the very least, a week of romance," she managed to say. "And at the most?" She shook her head, unwilling to take the lead. "Nope. You first." 373

His hand stilled for a beat. Then, as though unable to resist, he renewed its slow exploration. "Are you after marriage?" Trey's mouth twisted ever so slightly, warning marriage wasn't on his own to-do list. "Happily ever after?" "Not a fan of fairy tales?" she asked lightly. "Not even a little." Though the words contained a hard warning, his hands were gentle and protective, at odds with his statement. For some odd reason it gave her hope. "Then maybe you should answer your own question, Trey. What do you want? Why are you here? What were you expecting to find if not romance or marriage?" His eyes darkened, filled with shadows. Filled with secrets. Compassion flooded through her. Clearly, he'd been hurt in the past, been betrayed on some level. And he expected it to happen again. Her arms tightened around his neck. She wished she could somehow reassure him. Not that she could. She'd learned through her own difficult past that only time would prove to him that she wasn't like whoever had cause that horrible pain and distrust. "I don't expect to find anything," Trey stated abruptly. "But I was hoping for… Well, time will tell, won't it?" Jett's heart went out to him, recognizing his instinct to guard his heart. "Yeah, me, too," she whispered. Maybe it would help if she opened the door to her past a crack, allowed him to see that he wasn't alone. That she understood all about pain and distrust and betrayal. "I was sixteen when my adoptive parents found love. Lucky me. I watched them fall head over heels in love, witnessed how it could be done right versus…" She broke off, the dark memories choking her. He didn't back away from the darkness, which impressed the hell out of her. "Versus what you saw before you were adopted?" "Yeah. It…it was pretty ugly." He hesitated, his understanding sharp and yet, empathetic. "And you're afraid that ugliness is still a part of you, that it means you won't find your own perfect match." "Something like that, yeah." She looked at him, allowing her shadows and secrets to show through. "And you? Did you decide not to have any expectations because then you wouldn't be disappointed when you didn't get what you truly wanted? What do you want, Trey?" she asked again. "I want…you. You've brought me hope that the impossible might be possible." Then he shocked her by sweeping her up into his arms. "I want you, Jett. Now. No pretense. No waiting. Just a straight yes or no. Will you make love with me?" There was only one answer she could possibly give. "Yes." She melted against him. "In fact… Hell, yes."

Chapter Six Trey carried Jett to the master suite. Like the rest of the villa, it was the height of luxury, featuring a huge four-poster bed with a canopy of bridal-white tulle. If there was a bit more silk and lace than a man found comfortable, for some strange reason it suited the woman he held, so he supposed he could live with it.

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He set her on the bed, the deep red of her gown a vibrant splash against the paleness of the comforter. "I hadn't expected to take you to bed." Honesty forced him to admit, "At least, not this soon." "But I'm here now." "Which is convenient to say the least," he conceded. "But I don't want to take advantage of you." He waited, fighting to keep his hands to himself, determined to walk away if she changed her mind. Instead she reached for him and dragged him down. "Then why don't we take advantage of each other?" He'd always considered self-restraint one of his strongest assets, but with that single, softly feminine touch, his control melted away like a rain puddle beneath the hot Caribbean sunshine. He sank into her, took her mouth as he planned to take her body…thoroughly. He found the clasp holding her gown in place and released it. Unwrapped her like she was the most precious of gifts, baring the milky paleness of her skin to his gaze. "You are…" He shook his head, momentarily at a loss for words. "Beyond anything I could possibly have imagined." She tugged at the bow tie of his tux, tossing it aside. One by one, she stripped him of his shirt studs and then shoved his shirt down his arms and off. "Impressive," she said. She traced the width of his chest, her fingers light and tantalizing, causing his breathing to deepen and hitch. She looked at him, her eyes glittering like the stone for which she'd been named. "Very impressive." "Should we consider that another perfect match?" "Without question." He cupped her breast, a perfectly shaped handful with a nipple the color of raspberries. It begged to be tasted. Who was he to resist? She sighed at the first touch of his tongue, the sound a siren's call. Her skin felt just like the silk at her back yet warm and vibrant, quivering beneath his hands. Heat sparked. Caught. Flared. And then exploded between them. They fought, hands clashing in their desperation to strip the other of the rest of their clothing and take care of protection. And then came a brief hush. That moment when artifice vanished and vulnerability crept from the shadows. He reached for her. Gently. Tenderly. And she came to him, opened to him with a womanly softness and unmistakable eagerness. And he took with a man's aggressiveness and unmistakable urgency. Their bodies mated with a stunning perfection. How was that possible? How could a computer program have found a woman who matched him so exactly? She wrapped him up in an unbreakable embrace, moving with him to a rhythm a part of him instinctively recognized, responded to, celebrated. The pounding of their hearts matched the distant pounding of the surf against the shoreline, their sighs echoing the trembling of the leaves beneath the tropical breeze, their cries of climax part of the night's joyous call to the burgeoning moon. Never. Never had he experienced anything remotely similar to what he had this night with Jett. And that created a serious problem. He'd intended to use his experience with this woman to help him better understand how the Pretorius Program worked. After tonight, one thing had become painfully clear. 375

Instead of using her, more than anything he wanted to protect her…even if it was from himself.

Chapter Seven Jett woke to a glorious morning, held safe within Trey's arms, her head cushioned by his chest. "Good morning, gorgeous." His voice rumbled against her ear, laden with sleep and intense masculine satisfaction. She stretched against him, loving the abrasive slide of their bodies together, the solidness and power that made her feel so deliciously soft and feminine in comparison. "You mean, good morning, bed head," she responded with a teasing laugh. "You have spikes. It's cute. Makes you look even more like a wayward pixie." She winced. "Wayward, huh?" "Sure. Like you've wandered out of your natural element, tripped over a bit of fairy moss and found yourself in my bed." His description tickled her, but she wanted to make one fact very clear. "Last time I looked it was our bed." The correction caused him to smile. "Fair enough." She rolled onto her stomach, resting on her elbows, and cupped her chin in the palm of her hand. "Just FYI, you're looking a bit out of your element, as well." Trey speared his fingers through her hair and drew her in for a long, lazy kiss. By the time he released her she'd lost track of their conversation, though apparently he hadn't. "Out of my element? You don't think silk and lace is part of my natural lifestyle?" He flicked a drape of tulle that encircled one of the bedposts. "And whatever this stuff is?" She laughed. "Tulle. And no, I don't think it's part of your natural lifestyle." "Little do you know. My entire office is decorated in…" He made a face. "Tulle." "Liar." Jett tilted her head to one side. "I'd say your entire office is decorated in good, solid wood, all of it matching. Clean lines. Sparse furnishing. Practical and yet high quality." "Okay, I'm impressed. That describes it perfectly. What else?" She shot him a mischievous look. "Not a lot of color." He worked to appear offended. "Are you saying I have no artistry in my soul?" "In your soul, yes. But I question whether it's on your walls or splashed across your furniture." His brows drew together. "Well…hell."

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"Close?" "Nailed it dead-on." He focused the full intensity of those brilliant blue eyes on her. "My turn." "Uh-oh." "I'd say where I lack color, you run amok with it." "Amok?" "I'll get you a dictionary." Clearly in his element, he continued a tad too cheerfully, "I'd also guess that rather than matching furniture you go for something more eclectic. Either because you like the look, the texture or because it's butt-friendly." "Well…hell." His smile appeared downright sympathetic. "Payback's always a bitch." She traced a finger across his chest, drawing seemingly random patterns. "So, it would seem we're both pretty good at reading each other . Sort of surprising considering software geeks are renowned for being socially inept. You aren't. Why is that I wonder? Unless…" She speared him with a direct look. "You aren't just a software geek." "Truth time?" Jett shrugged. "I wouldn't mind." "Fair enough. I actually own the software company." "Impressive." "And you?" "Still a software geek." "But…?" he asked shrewdly. Laughter bubbled free. "But my father owns the software company I work for." She felt a sudden change in him, like the flick of a light switch. It was unmistakable. The stiffening. The alteration of his expression, flashing from relaxed and tender to totally closed over. Tough. Ruthless. Remote. "We never exchanged last names, did we?" "Oh, damn." She escaped the bed, dragging the sheet with her and wrapping it around her. Software. Trey. She was a total idiot. "Trey isn't your first name, is it? It's part of your last name. Treyhearn." "Guilty." He climbed from the bed, his nudity only adding to the sheer intimidation factor of the man. "And I don't suppose your last name is St. John?" "Also guilty." 377

And also a huge, dangerous, impossible-to-overcome problem. Her perfect match was the enemy.

Chapter Eight Trey stared in disbelief at Jett. No, not just Jett. Jett St. John. The daughter of his nemesis, the man he'd do literally anything to destroy. St. John had to be in on it. But why the hell had Justice St. John handed over his daughter on the proverbial silver platter? Why would he put such a powerful weapon in Trey's hands? There could only be one explanation. "This is a setup." Outrage flashed across Jett's face. "A setup? Are you kidding me? How do you figure that?" "St. John is hoping I'll say something indiscreet to you. That you'll get insider information you can use to take my company down." "Oh, yeah? Well, copy that, ditto and right back at you, pal," she snapped, stabbing a finger in his direction. "I had no idea who you were before I came here. In fact, my father didn't even know I ran myself through the Pretorius Program." Not true. Not even close to true, unless he missed his guess. But it did explain why St. John had approached him and asked for a meeting. What would he have said if Trey had agreed? Would he have pleaded for mercy? Offered a bribe? Made a threat? Not likely if he'd gone ahead and allowed Jett to come to Destiny Isle. So… What was St. John's ulterior motive? Trey had better figure it out, and fast. Trey folded his arms across his chest, fully aware that his nudity was unsettling her. Tough. "There's no way you didn't know who I was," he stated. "So cut the crap." "If I'd attempted to access your identity, I'd have tipped off my father and uncle." She grimaced. "They had traps set up everywhere in the program." He held up his hand. "Let's start over. Are you trying to tell me that you didn't come here on your father's request? That you ran the Pretorius Program on yourself?" He caught a hint of impatience flash across her delicate features. "Of course." "Without anyone at Sinjin aware it was you?" The impatience turned to embarrassment. "Yes," she confessed. "You really expect me to believe that story?" A painful vulnerability edged her expression, one that hit him hard and deep. He didn't want to sympathize with her. He wanted to suspect her of trying to deceive him, to know she'd set him up deliberately so that he wouldn't feel the least hesitation about taking her down with her father.

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Then she turned the tables on him. "What about you, Trey? Why are you here? Why would you agree to meet someone matched through a program created by your biggest rival?" He hesitated. "Curiosity." Then he held her with a hard gaze, slowly approached her even though he knew that his size alone made the act seriously intimidating. "Now for the million-dollar question…" She fell back a pace. "Trey—" "You're St. John's daughter. You have every possible advantage. Money. Social status. A job for as long as you feel like working." He paused directly in front of her, cutting off all avenues of escape. "Why would you run your name through the Pretorius Program? What's in it for you?"

Chapter Nine Why would Jett run her name through the Pretorius Program? What was in it for her? Did Trey really have to ask? She lifted her chin and glared at him. "I'd think that would be obvious, even to you." "Sure. You hoped to get insider information on my company that would help your father take me down." Jett started to plant her hands on her hips, then grabbed at the sheet when it began to fall. "Justice St. John doesn't need any help from me on that front. Not if you're as much of an idiot as you're acting." He flinched as though she'd struck him. "You think you can turn this back on me? I'm not the one who got you into this mess. You and your father managed that quite nicely on your own." "If I'd planned to somehow arrange for you to come here to gain insider information into your robotics firm, why would I have told you my real name? Since I'm lying about everything else, why wouldn't I have lied about that, too?" "Hell." He scrubbed his hands across his face, the hint of beard shadowing his jaw creating a raspy sound. "Okay, that's a valid point." "Thank you." His blue eyes pinned her, hot and intense. "Not that you've answered my question." "You know, I'd be a lot more inclined to answer your questions if you were actually dressed. For that matter, I'd be a lot more inclined to answer your questions if I were dressed, too. And had a shower. And a giant mug of hot coffee. So, you'll just have to wait until then to continue this discussion." She turned on her heel, the sheet trailing behind her and dipping low enough on her spine for him to see the delightful curves of her backside. Impatience speared through him and he swore bitterly. What the hell had happened to his legendary self-control? It was one of his defining characteristics, along with his patience. And yet all it had taken was a St. John pixie to totally shred it. Worse, she was right. They'd both handle this situation better once showered, clothed, coffeed and fed. At least, he hoped so. Though knowing her, she'd soon prove him wrong on that front, too. One other key question disturbed him. Whether Jett knew it or not, her father did know that she'd accessed the program…and knew who the program had selected as her perfect match. Why else would 379

he have asked Trey for a meeting? That put St. John in an extremely vulnerable position. It was something Trey needed to think long and hard about. A short fifteen minutes later Trey tracked Jett down in the kitchen, working on the coffee. Fair enough. He could manage some eggs and toast. They didn't speak, but went silently about their self-appointed tasks. Together they transferred breakfast to the dining room and took seats opposite each other. It was a far cry from last night's candlelit dinner. "Eat first?" Jett suggested. "Fine." Gazes locked, they made short work of the food. Downed coffee strong enough to tap dance across the table on its own. They each reached for the pot for a refill at the exact same time. He won that battle, but then filled her cup first. It didn't matter how angry he was, innate courtesy had been ingrained in him practically from the cradle, courtesy of his mother. "Thanks," she murmured. "You ready?" Jett sighed. "I guess." Her eyes wandered to the lush tropical paradise on the other side of the windows, and the wistful sorrow in her expression—something that looked painfully like the death of dreams—threatened to gut him. Here they were in a current-day Eden and a virtual snake had invaded—one carrying the name Justice St. John—preventing them from enjoying their surroundings. "Tell me the truth, Jett. Why did you run yourself through the Pretorius Program?" She looked at him then, bleakness in her gaze. "Because I was tired of being alone."

Chapter Ten Trey slowly returned his coffee cup to the table and stared at Jett. She flinched at the look of utter disbelief on his face. "You ran yourself through the Pretorius Program because you're…you're lonely?" he repeated. Stung, she shoved back her chair and stood. She crossed to the picture windows overlooking the dense rain forest beyond. It humiliated her to have to admit the truth to him now, when he so clearly distrusted her. "Why does that shock you?" Jett demanded. She forced herself to turn and face him. Why did he have to be so gorgeous? So perfect in every way? And why did her heart ache at the thought of "what might have been"? "And don't for one second think I'm some poor little rich girl. I didn't even know how a real family behaved until I turned sixteen. Before then I never had two nickels to rub together, or a soul to call my own. Never felt hope. Even after I was saved from all that, I worked for everything I have. Every last thing." He held up a hand. "Fair enough."

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She paced, unable to contain herself. "I've slogged alongside Uncle P on his program for the past ten years. I've seen what it's capable of. Is it so wrong to want for myself what so many others have experienced thanks to the Pretorius Program?" "No." Why did he have to be so calm and logical? So dispassionate? She stabbed a finger in his direction. "Exactly. No. It's not wrong. And isn't it just as understandable that I wouldn't want my father or mother or uncle running interference? Feeling sorry for me? Trying to fix things for me? Watching what happened every step of the way?" He stood, approached. "It's perfectly natural. You deserve your own happiness, sweetheart." She felt the prick of tears and shoved hard at them. Shoved hard at him. "Don't. Don't call me that. Not when you don't mean it. Not when you won't admit that you want and deserve your own happiness. Not when you think I'm trying to scam you or set you up for my father." He reached for her, caught her by the shoulders and pulled her into his embrace. Why did he have to feel so delicious? Smell as amazing as the tropical rain forest surrounding them? Make her insides melt with a desire unlike anything she'd ever experienced before? Understand her as no one else had. "I get why you ran yourself through the program on the sly." "They'd have interfered if they'd caught me. They'd have meant well, but every last member of the family would have had something to say about it. It would have been…" She squeezed her eyes closed and allowed his warmth to encompass her, surround and sink into her. "Humiliating." His laughter rumbled against her cheek. "I'm with you there." "But even worse, I was afraid…" He tilted her chin up and searched her expression with intense curiosity. "You don't strike me as the fearful type. What were you afraid of?" "That the program wouldn't find a match. It's rare, but it does happen. If everyone knew I was looking and no matches popped…" She shuddered. "That would have been the absolute worst." "How many matches did you have?" "A couple low-level sevens." She caught her lip between her teeth. "And one, only one, first-tier match." "Me." "You," she confirmed. "Which is almost as bad as no match at all. I mean look at us. Perfect in every way except one. And I don't see any way past that one ginormous stumbling block. Do you?" "Not unless we find a way to trust each other." "How likely is that?" "Not very," he confessed.

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"That's what I figured you'd say. And you're right. There's no way it will ever work out between us." He hesitated and she realized he'd come to some sort of serious decision. "In that case, maybe I can help us with that problem." Her eyes narrowed. "Confession time?" "Confession time. I came here for two reasons. One was to see whether the Pretorius Program was capable of finding my perfect match." He wrapped air quotes around the word perfect. A terrible suspicion filled her. "And the other reason?" "To try and figure out how the Pretorius Program worked…and create a superior model." "That's not possible," she said automatically. She should know. She'd worked on it with Uncle P for the past decade. Then the full impact of what he'd intended to do settled in, "Wait a minute… You would have used your match to create your own program?" Outrage filled her voice. His gaze remained on her, level and direct. "No. I'd have used the wrong match to help me create my own, better program. Because that's what I expected to find—an imperfect match that would enable me to create a better product." "But that's not what you found." He blew out a sigh. "No," he conceded. She gently disengaged herself from his embrace. "You realize this only leaves us with one option, don't you? That after what you've told me, it would be impossible for me to trust you." "What are you saying, Jett?" "I'm saying thank you for an absolutely amazing night. I'm saying thank you for being willing to give this— us—a try. And I'm saying…" She fought to keep her tone level, her emotions in check, though more than anything she wanted to weep from the pain of it. "And I'm saying goodbye."

Chapter Eleven I'm saying goodbye. Trey stiffened at Jett's words. "You can't be serious." She gave him a look, one every bit as stubborn as her old man's. "Quite serious. When the boat shows up next, I think we should leave before this goes any further." Before it's too late, is what she really meant. But he had the uneasy suspicion it was already far too late. Whatever had happened between them in the short time since they'd met, whatever emotions were now in play, they were serious and wouldn't easily be set aside. "There's another option," he found himself saying.

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He caught the momentary flicker of hope before she doused it. "I'm listening." "We continue to be dead honest with each other. We put our difference on the backburner, enjoy the rest of our week here and see whether or not we really are a good match." For some reason that elicited a quick smile from her. "In other words, maybe our relationship will suffer a catastrophic failure for a different reason, and then we won't have to worry about resolving the problem of us being bitter enemies, or the fact that you want to create your own Pretorius Program?" Well, hell. "Yeah, something like that." "What do you suggest, we snorkel and sunbathe and…" Her gaze strayed in the direction of the bedroom, a telling glance. "…and other things as though you and my father weren't fierce business rivals?" He shrugged. "Sure. Why not?" "Why not?" She blew out a sigh. "This is insane, Trey. A week in paradise doesn't change anything in the long run. Ours isn't a relationship that will ever succeed. If we stay here together, one of us could get hurt." "Been there, done that?" She hesitated, nodded. "Once before," she admitted reluctantly. The surge of protective fury caught him off guard. Where the hell had that come from? "What happened?" "He was a coworker. Ambitious." Trey swore. He could already see where this was headed. "And saw you as an easy way to a promotion?" She jerked her head in a brittle nod. "Straight to the top via the Jett express." "Did you love him?" "Thought so at the time." Did she have any idea how lost and vulnerable she looked? So fragile. More than anything he wanted to scoop her up and carry her off, wrap her up in some of that silk and lace and tulle while he chased away the memories by making love to her. "In hindsight I realize I was just lonely." "Ouch." For some reason his wince made her perk up. "Maybe that's all this is. I ran the Pretorius Program because I was lonely. Maybe everything I'm feeling for you is due to that. Just like Judd." Okay, he'd take a lot, but that just went one step too far. He came for her, snatched her into his arms. "If you want to go after me because of who I am, or because I'm your father's biggest competitor or because I want to create my own Pretorius Program, that's one thing. That's legitimate. But do not ever compare me to a Judd, to a man who would make love to a woman as an easy way to get ahead. If I were like him I'd never have told you about my plans to create a competing Pretorius program." He lifted an eyebrow. "Are we clear about that?" She nodded. "Crystal." 383

He lowered his head and took her mouth in a leisurely kiss. Her response came fast, giving of herself without thought or hesitation. It told him that despite their differences, she'd already developed feelings for him. Feelings she couldn't quite suppress, any more than he could suppress his for her. He wasn't quite certain how long the embrace lasted. But the expression on her face when she reluctantly pulled back revealed she was every bit as lost as he was. "So what now?" she asked. They could end their brief affair and leave the island, or… "What do you say we go on vacation?" he asked with a wicked grin.

Chapter Twelve The next few days were idyllic as far as Jett was concerned. They were both careful not to mention anything that veered the conversation too closely to Sinjin, the St. Johns or Dynamic. The instant it did, they quickly shifted gears to something more innocuous. Even with those restrictions, they found plenty to talk about. Art. Jazz. Current events. Books. Movies. Food. Favorite travel destinations. In some ways they were complete opposites. But Jett quickly realized that that opposition made Trey all the more interesting and offered a balance to her own idiosyncrasies. And in the areas they were similar she found a compatibility she'd never experienced with another man. They fit cleanly, without uncomfortable adjustment. Smooth and exciting and utterly delicious. Best of all were the nights. When darkness fell and candles flickered, when the night came alive with the lullaby of seduction and their defenses dipped to their lowest point. That's when she opened to Trey, allowing all of her barriers to drop and for him to slip through and in. Those were their most honest moments together. Desire reigned, unbridled. And she knew in her heart that this was the perfect man for her, offering perfect passion, perfect companionship. Perfect love. She recalled her father comparing that sort of relationship—the type of relationship he shared with her mother—to a complex mathematical equation. Some were plain. Some brutal. But others possessed an elegance of form and substance, the symmetry of them quite beautiful. And when two people found that elegance of form it was something to be treasured. To hold on to. Forever. It was during one of those nights of perfect passion that Jett turned to Trey, tracing the width of his chest—a chest she'd come to know so intimately—and asked, "You never mention your parents. Why is that?" "You never mention yours, either." "You know why. And I do mention them." She gave an easy shrug. "Carefully." "True. And as much as I'd rather not think highly of anything Justice St. John has ever done, I'm forced to raise my opinion of him if only because he adopted you." He gave her a quick, hopeful look. "Don't suppose your mother insisted?"

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She balled her hand and gave him a light punch in the arm. "Cut it out. You know it was his suggestion. It was my seventeenth birthday present. Now tell me about your parents. What do they do? What sort of relationship did you have?" "We had a great relationship. My mother is a teacher for special-needs children." "And your father?" "He died years ago." "Oh, Trey. I'm so sorry." "Yeah, me, too. He was a great guy. An engineer. Always coming up with ideas." "Now why does that sound familiar?" she teased. "Is it any wonder that you're a robotics genius like my father?" "Not like your father," Trey snapped back. He pulled away and tossed aside the covers. "Nothing like your father." Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "What's that supposed to mean?" "It means that unlike the great Justice St. John, I have a sense of honor, of integrity. I don't steal, I don't cheat and I don't lie about inventing something I didn't." She shot upright in bed. "My father wouldn't know a lie if it was ten feet tall, purple polka-dotted and covered with stickers that read, 'Warning! This is a lie.'" "Really?" Trey's expression turned cool. Remote. "Then why did he steal my robotics design and claim it for his own?"

Chapter Thirteen "What the hell do you mean my father stole your robotics design?" Jett demanded. "Have you lost your mind?" "There's no point in discussing it," Trey retorted, escaping the bed. "It happened years ago." Jett knelt on the mattress, sitting on her heels, hands planted on her hips. "Hey, you brought it up, not me. You can't just drop a bombshell like that and not expect me to insist on an explanation." He stood in the middle of the room, without question the most magnificent example of the male species she'd ever seen. Why did he have to be so perfect for her in every way, when they sat on opposite sides of a fence that was impossible to scale? She'd known since her teen years how unlikely it would be that she'd find anyone who came close to suiting her romantically. In recent years, she'd finally accepted that painful fact. Until she'd run herself through the Pretorius Program. 385

Until she'd discovered a man who couldn't have been more perfect for her if she'd designed him herself. "Where the hell did I leave my clothes this time?" Trey shot his hands through his hair in sheer exasperation. "And then explain to me why, why by all that's holy, do we always have our most serious discussions naked?" "Maybe because we can't keep our hands off each other." She reconsidered. "Granted, we can't keep our hands off each other even with our clothes on. But that doesn't change the overriding problem. So I suggest you start explaining right now why you're accusing my father of theft." "Because Justice St. John stole my robotics idea." Jett glared at him in defiance. "Not a chance in hell. How, when, where, why?" she shot at him, ticking the questions off on her fingers. "I want facts, Treyhearn." "Fine. I was sixteen. I sent him a design for a robotics idea. In return I received a letter of encouragement from him. Then I learned the design—my design—was part of a prototype robotic system he'd sold to the government." Jett's eyes narrowed. "How did you learn that?" "There was an announcement in one of the tech journals I read. The article didn't say much, but it had enough key information for me to know it was my design." "Did you contact my father and ask him?" "Of course. I even met with him. He denied it." "Because he didn't do it." Trey looked up toward the ceiling and gave a growl of disbelief. Sweeping his jeans off the overhead fan, he yanked them on. Having him somewhat dressed helped, Jett conceded, though not as much as she'd have liked, considering his pants were still unfastened and unzipped, leaving exposed a line of crisp brown hair, a pathway she itched to follow. "He wouldn't even discuss the design with me or explain how his differed from mine," Trey continued. "Instead, he offered a college scholarship with an apprenticeship at Sinjin. I told him to shove it and walked out." She followed his example, getting up and dressing in a simple, lightweight shift. "Sounds like you were quite the hothead back then." "I won't deny that. Though, thanks to your father, I've learned the advantage of restraint. You can't start a business or move it to the forefront of the industry if you're always angry. Self-control became my new best friend, emotion my enemy every bit as much as your father was. Is," he immediately corrected. Her mouth twitched into a teasing smile. "I haven't noticed much of that self-control since you arrived on the island." An expression flickered across his face, a deep and painful need which he swiftly shuttered. "This isn't funny, Jett." 386

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to make light of it," she apologized. "But there has to be a mistake somewhere." "There is. And he made it. Ever since then I've worked to take him down—any how, any way." He took a step toward her, deadly intent radiating from every inch of his body. "Interesting how fate hands you the opportunity when you least expect it."

Chapter Fourteen Jett stared at Trey in disbelief, her black eyes dominating her piquant features. "No." She barely breathed the word. "You wouldn't do that. You wouldn't use me to get back at my father. You're not that kind of man." "No, I'm not," he agreed. "I'm glad you realize that much, if nothing else. I'd never use someone for my own gain the way your father did." "That's not true! My father is an honorable man. He would never steal someone else's design." "You really don't know Justice St. John very well. Maybe because you've only been his daughter for such a short time." She closed her eyes and it was as though she'd slammed closed all the windows and doors to her heart and soul. He saw her shut down, witnessed the painful way she gathered in all the pieces of her personality, tucking them safely away. Safely away from him. It gutted him. More than anything he wanted to swear. Throw something. Smash something. Hit someone. "I didn't mean it like that, Jett." She looked at him then, which only made it worse. Those huge inky eyes stared at him as though he were a stranger. Cool and blank instead of filled with fire. Remote instead of warmly intimate. Dispassionate instead of brimming with an endless palate of delicious emotion. "You think I'm so grateful to my parents for rescuing me that I'm blind to their faults?" She shook her head, the spiky curls trembling with all she'd trapped inside of her petite, vibrant body. "I learned to recognize people for what they were by the time I was five." "Jett—" She cut him off with a chopping sweep of her arm. "No. It's my turn now. You leveled the accusations, now I'm answering them. I know what a thief looks like, the slyness hiding behind the innocence. I've lived with people who have no morals, no values. People who use others for their own gain. Do not dare stand there and tell me that my father is that sort of person. He is not. Somehow, someway, you've made a mistake. Not Dad. You." With that, she turned on her heel and swept from the room. A minute later he heard the distinctive slam of the villa's front door. For the first time since he'd discovered the theft of his design, Trey felt a momentary doubt. Could he be mistaken? Could there be another explanation for Sinjin releasing a design identical to his own? Even after all these years, it seemed too coincidental to be even remotely likely. And yet…Jett was so certain, so passionate in her belief in her father.

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Trey closed his eyes and scrubbed his hands across his face. Damn it to hell. How was it possible that her ferocious defense of St. John could make Trey doubt over a decade's worth of anger and lust for revenge? And what would he give to have someone like Jett in his own corner, defending him the way she'd defended her father? He wanted her on his side. Wanted her to spill that wealth of passion and love all over him, not her father. There had to be a way to resolve their differences. A way that would allow him to have Jett in his life and still extract his revenge against St. John. Suddenly aware that the room had been growing progressively darker, Trey crossed to the set of doors that opened from the bedroom onto the lanai and stepped outside. Dark clouds poured over the mountainside, the size and color ominous. Even as he watched, rain pelted earthward. He stiffened, filled with alarm. Jett was out in this, a storm that looked like it could develop into a bad one. He needed to find her. Now.

Chapter Fifteen Jett was in the middle of walking off her mad when the storm hit, drenching her in five seconds flat. It instantly woke her to her surroundings, making her keenly aware that she'd walked a long way from the villa and she wasn't entirely certain how to get back again. Through the palms and underbrush, she caught the distinctive glint and roar of the ocean. Okay, she'd simply turn around, continue on with the water to her left and work her way back around the island. Eventually, she'd make it to the villa. Jett shivered. The shift she'd yanked on just an hour earlier—was that all it had been?—didn't provide the least bit of warmth or protection. It clung to her, cold and uncomfortable and sopping wet. Well, if she wanted to get warm again, there was only one way. Get back to the villa as quickly as possible. She glanced uneasily around. The roaring wind bent the palm trees, causing the heavy fronds to slap and slash at the air, while the rain hammered at the island like it was intent on driving it back into the depths of the deep blue sea. Something crashed through the foliage farther uphill, causing the nearby trees to shiver in reaction. She had the uneasy suspicion one of the palms' brethren had just met an untimely death. Even worse, the ground beneath her sandals felt boggy, rivulets of water beginning to tumble from the upper reaches of the mountain downward toward the sea, making the going slick and treacherous. Time to pick up her pace. Jett moved as fast as she dared, ducking beneath angry swipes of palm fronds and skirting the painful slash of ferns stirred to a frenzy by the wind. Bits of jungle debris carried on the gusty winds stabbed her skin and plastered themselves to her goose-pimpled flesh. Time and time again, she was forced to pull her sandals free from the gluelike ground attempting to suck her shoes from her feet. After what seemed like an eternity, she began to recognize her surroundings—she wasn't too far from the villa. A more defined pathway opened before her and she began to run. Not much farther now. Around the next turn, over the little bridge and she'd be able to see the villa.

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She rounded the turn, then faltered. The bridge was there, but the water beneath it gushed and billowed around and over the structure. She didn't dare try and get across that way. She crouched in place, hugging herself in an attempt to preserve what little warmth remained in her body. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't. It was just rain on her face, not tears. "Jett!" She froze, not sure if her ears had deceived her. Then she heard it again. "Jett! Where are you, sweetheart? Answer me." She leaped to her feet. "Here! Trey, I'm here." He appeared on the far side of the bridge, larger than life, and the most welcome sight she'd seen in the past half hour. "I'm trapped." "Hang on." He disappeared into the rain forest above the pathway for a brief moment, then came into sight again before vanishing into the rain forest on the other side. This time he didn't reappear. She scanned the section of jungle where she'd last seen him, struggling to peer through dense foliage and an even denser curtain of rain. "Jett!" She spun around at the sound of his voice. He emerged mere feet from her side, somehow having gotten from one side of the flooding river to the other. Without another word he wrapped her up in a tight embrace, warming her in his heat. He lifted her face to his and kissed her. Nothing mattered but this, she realized in that instant. Not the howling wind or the pelting rain. Not the cold, or fear or conflict between them. She opened to him, let him in, gave herself utterly to him. She probably would have been content to remain in his arms until the end of time if a tree hadn't chosen that moment to fall, slamming to the earth a scant foot from where they stood. Trey wrapped a massive arm around her shoulder and shot from the pathway into the jungle, shoving aside ferns and plant life as he went. An instant later he paused beside the enraged river. "What do you say we head back to the safety of the villa?" "I'm game." She looked around in confusion. "One question… How?" He lifted a liana as thick as his wrist. It dangled from a tree on the far side of the river. "Me, Tarzan. You, Jane." Her gaze drifted from the vine to Trey. "Oh, please tell me you're joking."

Chapter Sixteen If Trey had thought Jett was pale when he found her, it didn't come close to describing the blanched white texture of her face now. She stood before him in the ivory shift she'd donned during their argument earlier, but it was now torn and smeared with mud and the rain had turned the cotton transparent. She hadn't bothered with a bra and the material clung to the soft mounds of her breasts, outlining the raspberry nipples the cold had shocked into tight pearls. Her panties were a minuscule triangle that didn't do much to preserve her modesty considering they were soaked through, too.

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Even covered in forest debris she was beautiful. Her dark hair was plastered to her head, making her black eyes appear enormous in her triangular face. The cold had robbed her of the rosy complexion she normally enjoyed, painting her the faintest shade of blue. In fact, she looked like some primeval sprite, part of nature's fury, at one with the riot of jungle at her back. Untamed. More myth than real. A passionate illusion. "Jett, we have to get across the river, no matter what it takes," he said in his most reasonable tone of voice. "And if that means using a vine, then that's what we're going to do. You're freezing cold. You need warmth and you need it fast." She took a hasty step away from him, edging deeper into the rain forest. Her gaze remained glued on the liana he held and she shook her head in disbelief. To his relief, he caught the flicker of outrage, the emotion returning the animation to her face. "You can't be serious. You don't honestly expect me to wrap myself around a vine and swing across that river like some sort of jungle princess. I'm not Jane. And you're not Tarzan. You're crazy, that's what you are." He kept his words calm and even. "No. I don't expect you to wrap yourself around a vine and swing across the river." She dragged air into her lungs and managed a poor imitation of a grin. "Oh. All right, then. For a minute there—" "I expect you to wrap yourself around me and I'll swing us both across the river." Her mouth dropped open and she sputtered for a brief second. Then, "Not a chance in hell, Treyhearn. What if it breaks? We'll be in Mexico before our bodies wash ashore." "How do you think I got on this side of the river to begin with?" He gave the vine a good, hard yank. "I'll test it before we swing back, but I promise, it'll hold us. You saw that tree come down. It's not safe out here. Even worse, you're frozen solid. We need to get you warm and dry." As though to punctuate the comment, another tree crashed to the ground and the wind shrieked in triumph, the bite of it colder still, the punishing shove of it more ferocious than before. Without another word, Jett came to him, gave herself to him. He encircled her hips and boosted her so she could wrap her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Then he snagged the liana and did a quick lift to confirm it would support their combined weight. He felt the slightest give before it held. "Ready?" he rumbled against Jett's ear. She nodded rapidly, her hold tightening. He could feel the desperate flutter of her heartbeat, felt the panicked give and take of her breath. If the vine didn't hold, this wouldn't end well. Chances were they wouldn't survive it. "On three," he warned. "Okay." "One." Her breath sobbed close to his ear. "Two." He heard his name uttered in a desperate, keening cry.

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"Three." Just before he jumped, he heard it. Just three soft words, fighting against the ripping claws of the wind. Fighting to be heard. "I love you."

Chapter Seventeen What had she done? Before Jett had time to consider the foolishness of telling Trey she loved him, or do much more than hope the wind had snatched away the words before he'd heard them, she felt the powerful surge of his muscles, followed by the clench and hoist as he grabbed the vine and sent them airborne. She strangled on the shriek in her throat as they soared through the rain, the wind battering at them in a desperate effort to send them tumbling into the raging water beneath them. Their rush through air and water seemed to last forever. At the last instant, she felt the abrupt give. Trey shifted her within his hold and then they were free-falling. Terror cascaded through her as she waited to be swallowed up by a torrent of water. Instead, she felt a sudden twist, followed by the jarring impact of the ground. It knocked the wind out of her, though she suspected it had been far worse for Trey since somehow he'd spun them so that she landed on top of him and he absorbed the brunt of the fall. They lay cushioned in a bed of ferns, foliage churning around their harbored nest, the trees overhead canopying them from some of the driving rain and wind. "Trey!" She levered backward and swept him with her hands. No blood. No obvious damage. "Trey, say something." He groaned and his eyes flickered open. Right then and there, Jett decided that aquamarine was her favorite color in the entire world. Ever so gently, he cupped her face and drew her down for a kiss. She shuddered at the first brush of his lips against hers. Heat flowed through her, replacing the cold, and she opened to him, moaning at the delicious taste of him. His tongue swept inward, initiating the bittersweet duel that echoed their relationship to date. "Are you all right?" he demanded. His hands swept over her just as hers had done with him and she squirmed beneath the delicious abrasion. "I'm fine. You?" "I'll survive." He hesitated and then he kissed her again. This time when his hands roamed across her body, it was for a far different reason. A far more earthy reason. An affirmation of life and need. And she responded without hesitation. There were no preliminaries. None were necessary. None wanted. He slid beneath her shift and ripped the bit of silk anchored at her hips, allowed the wind to consume it. She levered herself over him, let him fill her. For a brief instant they froze, melded as men and women had been since the dawn of time. Then she moved. Together they embraced the wildness that shrieked around them, wheeled with the wind and danced within the rain. With the earth to ground them and the fire of passion to set them aflame, 391

they rode the storm. Higher they rocketed, hotter they burned while the earth trembled and the rain wept. And then they climaxed, both storm and lovers. For a long moment, they hung there, one with the elements, one with each other. When he looked at her, he seared her in blue flames, drew her in and made her part of him, heart and soul. When he touched, it was with a gentle claiming, as well as a fiery offering of himself, one she didn't hesitate to seize. And when he spoke, it was the ultimate completion, bonding them with the words that had joined men and women throughout eternity. "I love you."

Chapter Eighteen Trey and Jett returned to the villa. She hadn't said a word since he'd told her he loved her. Of course, neither had he, maybe because he'd never said the words to a woman before. Had had no intention of ever saying them. And yet, they weren't something he could deny. He didn't understand how he could have fallen in love with someone so quickly…or so completely. But he had. He also realized that despite the words, nothing had changed. Justice St. John continued to hover between them like a great, dark shadow. If Trey were brutally honest with himself, he'd admit he doubted he could simply forgive and forget the man who'd betrayed him. For Jett's sake, he'd try. He'd do his level best to make peace with his bitterest enemy. But he couldn't help but wonder if the theft of his design wouldn't continue to creep into his relationship with Jett, poisoning it with constant suspicion and a decade's-old resentment. Only time would tell. Because there was no way in hell that he was letting her go. They stepped into the villa to darkness. "Power's out," Trey realized. Jett frowned in concern. "No power means no refrigeration or A/C. And the water is on a pump system, isn't it? That means we lose running water, too, right?" At his nod of confirmation, she asked, "Do you know where they keep the generator?" "Yeah, out back. Let's take a quick look." It didn't take him long to discover the problem. He suspected it had something to do with a tree that had landed on the shed that housed the generator and pump. "Damn. There goes our shower. I guess we can take a quick swim in the pool to get the worst of the debris off." "I can live with that." She kicked at one of the splintered pieces of wood from the shattered shed. "Okay, Tarzan. Tell me that in addition to swinging across raging rivers you also know how to build a campfire." He cleared his throat. "Not exactly." "I'm crushed." She jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen. "Let's see if they have some sort of propane or charcoal grill around here. I can't believe a robotics inventor wouldn't be able to take it from there." Unfortunately, they didn't find a grill, propane or otherwise. They did discover a fire pit and a cord of wood stacked beneath a tarp. "Seems fairly straightforward," Trey decided. "Wood plus match equals fire. Why 392

don't I play with this and you scavenge some food from the refrigerator. See if you can find skewers while you're at it. At the very least, we can wrap food in aluminum foil and burn it that way." Jett grinned. "Burn it?" "Only if we're lucky." As it turned out, their luck was incredible. The vegetables were a tad toasty, but the pork couldn't have been any more succulent. They curled up beside each other, eating with their fingers and feeding each other the choicest morsels. And there by the firelight, they made love again, this time slow and gentle and tender. Afterward, when the night surrounded them in a soft fist, Trey gathered Jett close, loving the strength over delicacy that was so uniquely her. "I'm almost afraid to ask this…" "Then don't," she urged. "But we're out of time. As soon as they realize we're without power and running water, they'll remove us from the island. We need to decide a few things before then." "I prefer the right side of the bed," Jett informed him brightly. He laughed softly. "Funny. I could have sworn you preferred the middle." Then his laughter died. "How do we handle things from here, Jett? Do we try and make this work? Or do we go our separate ways?"

Chapter Nineteen Jett closed her eyes, Trey's questions ringing in her ears. How do we handle things from here, Jett? Do we try and make this work? Or do we go our separate ways? She moistened her lips and gazed at him through the flicker of firelight, praying her desperation didn't show. "If we tried to work it out, what would that entail?" "Seems fairly straightforward to me. I live in California. You live in Colorado. Either I relocate my business or you come live with me. You could even work for me, if you're willing. The real question is whether or not we're both determined to do whatever it takes for our relationship to succeed." He tilted his head to one side and nailed her with a cool blue look. "So…are you willing?" It was possibly the most difficult choice she'd ever made. For the first sixteen years of her life she'd lived under the most egregious circumstances, had lived in pain and despair until her adoptive mom's family— the Marcelluses—had rescued her from all that by taking her in as their foster child. Even after her mom's parents—now her grandparents—had been unable to keep her, her mother, Daisy, had stepped in. Had given her a home, given her love, given her a family. Even more important, they'd proven to her that there were good people in the world, people who knew the difference between right and wrong and respected that difference. And when she'd met Justice St. John and his uncle, Pretorius, she'd found people who were just like her. A little geeky, perhaps, but their brains worked the same way hers did, and most important of all, they looked at life the same way, too.

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Now Trey was asking her to give all that up. To leave the family who'd come to mean the world to her. It was a lot to risk. It terrified her, in fact. The choice loomed before her—her family, or the man she loved, the man who loved her. She'd feared that she'd never be able to find someone who'd want to share his life with her. But she'd been wrong, she'd found someone incredible, someone…perfect. She knew what her parents would tell her. That love could overcome any obstacle. It certainly had with them. Maybe it was an easy decision, after all. Jett turned to Trey. Taking a seat in his lap facing him, she draped her arms around his neck. Then she feathered her mouth across his, taking her time and saying without words how she felt about him. "If you ask me, I'll come live with you. I'll even work for you. And whether you believe me or not, my parents will support my decision without hesitation." Trey lifted an eyebrow. "Without hesitation?" "Okay, they might hesitate," she conceded. "For a couple minutes. But only because they love me and worry that I'll get hurt." Now for the million-dollar question. "What about you and my dad? How do you plan to handle your relationship with him?" He opened his mouth to answer when they both heard it, the high-powered drone of an incoming speedboat. Definitely not the launch she'd arrived in, which could only mean one thing. Jett sighed. "You might want to decide fast, because I have a funny feeling you're going to have to give him your decision in person."

Chapter Twenty Justice St. John sat in the great room of the villa, candlelight flickering within the grim bleakness of his golden eyes. "It's in your hands now, Treyhearn. You know she's my daughter. She's informed me she intends to quit Sinjin and move in with you. Go to work for Dynamic. You know I'm completely at your mercy where she's concerned. That's why I wanted to meet with you before you came here. But now… You can destroy us both with a single word. So, tell me the truth. Do you really love her or have you been stringing her along? Choose. Savior or destroyer." "Tempting," Trey shot back. "Very tempting to say destroyer." Jett rested a hand on his arm, the only thing holding him back from verbally gutting St. John. "Please." She studied her father for a long moment and Trey could see she'd finally put a few pieces of the puzzle together. "You knew I accessed the Pretorius Program." Justice nodded. "Yes." "And you knew that Trey was my only real match." "Yes," he said again. "I asked him to meet me in order to discuss it with him, but he refused."

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Unable to restrain himself, Trey left Jett's side and paced the length of the great room. "You know why I refused. You stole my design all those years ago. You think I had any interest in hearing what you had to say after all this time? What excuses you might offer?" "I haven't been at liberty to say anything…until now," Justice replied, his calm such a brittle thing that Trey didn't doubt it would shatter with a single wrong word from him. "The design you sent me was almost identical to one I already had in production." "Bull!" "I couldn't explain it to you then, let alone prove it, because I was forbidden to do so." "Forbidden?" Trey didn't bother to hide his skepticism. "By whom?" "The government. It was a top secret project. I signed a confidentiality agreement, one I was released from only two days ago. If you want to see the original specs, I've been given permission to show them to you." No. No, it wasn't possible. All these years… All this time he'd been so certain, had built his entire company on his thirst for revenge, to prove to himself and to St. John that he was every bit as good as the robotics legend. Was it possible? Had he been mistaken? Could St. John be telling the truth? "You really have the documentation to prove it?" "Yes." Justice stood, approached. "Please tell me that you really love my daughter. That you weren't just stringing her along to get back at me." Trey turned to Jett. "Did I string you along? Was that my ploy?" He waited, waited to see whether or not she trusted him enough. Believed in him enough. She didn't hesitate. She flew across the room and into his arms. "I told you that I learned at a young age to recognize the criminals and thieves in this world," she told him. "All I see here is honor, both in my father and the man I love with all my heart." Trey glanced at St. John and smiled. "I do really love your daughter and I always will. She's given me more than I ever thought possible—the courage to believe in love." Justice closed his eyes and for the first time since his arrival breathed easy. "I saw your brilliance even at sixteen, Trey. The fact that you could come up with a design so similar to my own, and at such a young age, filled me with admiration. I was desperate to help you as much as I could, but my hands were tied. I offered you a scholarship. A job. The only thing I couldn't offer you was an explanation. But now I'm hoping to offer you something else—a partnership. Our two companies working in concert, instead of opposition." He offered his hand. "I think we could do a lot of good together." Trey took St. John's hand, grasped it firmly and grinned. "Somehow I think we'll both be highly motivated to work out a deal." Justice nodded, clearly overcome by emotion. "Then if you'll excuse me, I'll go make arrangements to have us transported off the island," he announced gruffly.

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The minute they were alone, Trey gave his full attention to the woman in his arms. "Marry me, Jett. I realize we haven't known each other long, but somehow I'm sure that how I feel now is no comparison to how much I'll love you the longer we're together." She smiled up at Trey, her love brighter than sunshine. "I adore you, Trey. I love you now, and I'll love you always. Yes, I'll marry you." She laughed then. "You'd think after all this time I'd stop being so surprised by how well the Pretorius Program works." And it did work well. Perfectly, in fact. Trey lowered his head and kissed her. As impossible as it seemed, a computer program had matched him with the perfect woman. Had offered him the perfect passion. And even more importantly, gifted him with a perfect love. What could be more…perfect?

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Sophie's Sheikh By Alexandra Sellars

What kind of trouble had her identical twin gotten her into this time? Vacationing in the Barakat Emirates, Sophie met Sheikh Sharif al Farid. Passionate and powerful, he attracted Sophie as no other man had before. For her sister\'s sake she needed to keep up the pretense, even when Sharif claimed that they had been lovers — and would be again. ) Chapter One Except for the rider on the black horse, Sophie had the beach to herself every morning. Just after dawn, with the sun climbing majestically out of the sea, she jogged half a mile along the water's edge from the hotel to the rock and back again. In the Barakat Emirates, she had discovered quickly, early morning was the only time cool enough for exercise. Every morning she saw the black horse and its stern-faced rider. He came galloping down from the distant point while she was on her way up, and when she had turned and was about halfway back to the hotel, he passed her again on his return. On the first morning, he had hardly seemed to notice her, galloping past in a swirl of white robes and sand dust. On the second morning, he went by in the water, sending up a spray of droplets that captured the rich sunlight and surrounded horse and man with a glittering net. Sophie lifted a hand in greeting. He responded with a regal nod. On the third morning, he watched her from narrowed black eyes as he galloped past, riding closer than before, his fierce gaze making her catch her breath and stumble in the sand. He must have cut his usual ride short, because he turned and came up on her again from behind, riding even closer and staring hard as he went past, almost as if he meant to frighten her. Sophie wondered if he resented her regular intrusion on his otherwise solitary exercise. She asked again at the hotel and was told the beach was open to hotel guests up to the big rock. So this wasn't trespassing, and she wasn't going to go away just because the stranger wanted the world to himself. It was hard to believe that no one else thought it worthwhile to come out to see the sunrise. She knew there was little tourism in the Barakat Emirates, but such solitude on a beach as beautiful as this was almost unbelievable. Or maybe the dark rider's tactics scared everyone else off. It was the most scenically stunning place Sophie had ever been, or could imagine. The silken sea mysteriously changed from emerald green to rich turquoise to sapphire, as if with shifting moods unrecognised by humans. Behind the beach rose a tree-covered escarpment, whose lush green shadows would offer solace from the burning, beating sun later in the day.

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The beach was softest sand, packed and firm underfoot at the water's edge, accepting the imprint of her feet for only a few minutes before the sea rushed up to obliterate the signs of her passing. The hoof prints of the horse were not so easily wiped away. Those marks went deep into the wet sand, each hoof gouging out a little hillock of sand. When the sea tumbled up over them, instead of destroying the little hollows scarring the shore, the water was captured to form a thousand little pools in a pattern that stretched all the way up to the distant point. Every morning since the first morning she had had the urge to keep going past the hotel's landmark, to follow the hoof prints to their source, to see where the rider came from. Every morning she turned her steps with inner reluctance, as if she were turning her back on something important. On her journey back to the hotel, always her own oncoming prints had already been washed away while those of the horse were still visible. Today was different. This was her fourth morning, and she had almost reached her turning point, but there was no sign of rider or horse. The beach was painted with the rich red gold of sunrise, her shadow stretched out beside her, long and narrow and reaching toward the trees. But there was no mark on the firm wet sand ahead. Maybe he did resent her presence. Was he exercising the horse somewhere else this morning? She was disappointed without knowing it. She had enjoyed sharing the beauty of the sunrise with the stranger, even if he was disapproving. Sophie reached the landmark, and instead of turning, jogged on. It was only a minute or two before she saw the black horse in the distance, galloping hard. He would be on her soon. With the thought came quick foreboding. Was she on private property now? What if he thought she was looking for him? Sophie stopped and quickly turned back. The hotel landmark was not far, but even if she made it before he reached her, her footprints would give the fact of her trespass away. The horse was coming closer. She felt the thunder of hooves in the sand under her feet, felt the vibration shiver up her spine. Foreboding flooded her, and of their own accord her legs shifted pace. She started to run in earnest, as if the dark stranger were a hunter, and she his prey. The rider galloped past her, so close she could hear the horse's breathing, then abruptly pulled up, swinging around so that man and beast blocked her path. Sophie stopped. For a moment they stared at each other, the silence broken only by the shushing of the waves and her nervous heartbeat. She was still twenty yards from the landmark. "What are you doing here?" His voice was harsh, and it matched his face. He looked like something chiseled out of hardwood with an axe. 398

His land or not, his tone annoyed her. How did he know she hadn't made an honest mistake? "And who is asking?" His teeth showed. "I ask! How dare you come here?" She was a total stranger to the country and its customs. She had no idea what it meant to trespass on private property in the Barakat Emirates. Or what an owner's rights were when he found a trespasser. The way he was looking at her, she told herself in grim humor, he might just have the right of life and death. The thought sparked rebellion. "If you want me to get off your land, move your horse out of my way," she said rudely. His dark head snapped up with almost regal fury. He was powerfully handsome, with the air of a desert warrior. She could imagine him taking up a banner behind the great Saladin and marching off to do battle with the infidel. She shivered involuntarily as his gaze stabbed her. "It is not wise for one such as you to use this voice with me," he said, with harsh contempt. In spite of the increasing heat of the sun as it climbed the sky, Sophie shivered. "One such as me?" she repeated. "Is there something a little less than obvious here, or does the mere fact of being a woman disqualify me from membership in the human race?" She turned to walk around the horse, but under its rider's instructions, it moved to block her again. Sophie pressed her lips together and glanced along the beach. No one. "It is not being a woman which does that," he said coldly. She was wearing gray exercise capris and a halter top, perfectly respectable at home in Vancouver. But she was suddenly very aware of how snugly they fit, the amount of flesh the outfit left bare. Her heart began to pound in hard, heavy thumps. He spoke good English, which must mean he was educated, but somehow when she stared up into his dark face all she saw was absolute power. She turned again, and again he maneuvered the black horse to block her path. "Let me go!" she snapped. "You should not have come here. Why did you?" He sat easily on the horse, as if he had been born there, one hand holding the reins almost negligently. But his hand would be firm enough when needed, she thought involuntarily. His other hand rested arrogantly on his hip as he gazed down at her, his mouth curling with disdain. "Maybe you haven't noticed I'm trying to leave your precious land." 399

"I do not mean this beach, and you know it." Sophie looked up. "You mean this isn't your land?" Her fear shifted gears. "Then what's your problem? And what business is it of yours —" He lifted his arm to point into the distance. "My property begins at the point. You know it." "Actually, that information wasn't included in the hotel's orientation pack," Sophie snapped. "Could it be you overestimate your importance?" The dark stranger snorted with exasperation. Her insult hadn't even scratched the surface, and Sophie longed to wipe the self-satisfied contempt off his face. "If you're one of the lords of the earth, I'm one who never got the news. How galling it must be," she added in mock sympathy. "Stop playing this game!" he demanded roughly. "What did you hope to gain by coming here and putting yourself in my way?" "You're dreaming!" Sophie cried in outrage, but she was on shaky ground. She hardly knew why she had continued on past the hotel's landmark, and maybe, unconsciously, it was because she was hoping to meet the stranger. But she wasn't going to admit that to him. She wondered how many smitten women he ran off his land every week. It was infuriating that he now thought she was one of them. "What gives you the right to think I came here looking for you? Are you sure you didn't come here looking for me?" The horse moved its rump around to keep her prisoner again even before she moved herself, so well did he understand her. Now she was standing by his knee, staring up at him with an expression of mingled fear and outrage. Her hair was flame red, and cut short, but she was beautiful still. The high, full breasts were the same, and the rounded hips, the long, curving legs, the slender ankles that he could span with one hand. His gaze ran over her face. Her wide, dark eyes held a sweeter expression than the mental image he carried. The full mouth was softer, kissed by innocence. No wonder he had been taken in. Nothing of her real nature showed. She seemed all a man could want, now even more than before. "Of course I came here looking for you," he said through his teeth. The simple, flat statement both startled and frightened her. Sophie stared up at him. The sun was behind him now, and she was doubly blinded, first by the burning expression in his eyes and then by a halo of sunlight. "Wh-what?" she breathed, torn between fear and anticipation. "I could not believe my eyes when I saw you. I ask again, why did you come?" 400

"What do you want?" she whispered. His eyes went black as he looked at her. "You know what I want." Her breath stopped in her throat. The sun was already hot, but a chill of nervous excitement traveled from her heels to her head. "And no doubt you think you've only got to ask!" she snapped, annoyed with herself for her weakness. "No," he said, with dry contempt. "But since you throw yourself so obviously in my way, I have learned to hope that you want something in exchange. How much? I warn you not to ask for the ridiculous sum you have doubtless calculated on." Her mouth opened in the wildest indignation she had ever experienced. For several seconds she simply could not speak. "Who the hell do you think you are?" she growled. "And who do you think I am?" "I know who you are, Sophie. Much more than I want to know." If he had thrown ice water over her she could not have felt more disoriented. Sophie gasped and jumped backward, panic flooding up inside her. "Wh-what?" she babbled. "Why do you pretend ignorance? Do you think to find me such a fool as that?" Her breath came in with a long, slow, frightened gasp. "Who are you?" she cried. "How do you know my name?" He threw back his head and laughed, but the sound was not pleasant. It was a laugh of pure outrage, and it was menacing. "Leave me alone!" she shouted, and in pure animal instinct, she turned and ran. Thought only caught up with her when she had passed the hotel's landmark. She slowed and listened for the thunder of hooves, but the only sound was the cry of some sea bird she did not recognise. When she glanced back, the beach was empty. Chapter Two "Hellooo," Zoe caroled over the phone. "This is a surprise! Are you having a good time?" Zoe always wanted everyone to have a good time. 401

"You were right, it's fabulous," Sophie told her. She was lying on the bed in her sumptuous room in the Sheikh Daud Hotel. She had spent half an hour trying to make sense of what had happened and then had phoned her sister in Vancouver. "I suppose it's too much to hope you've lost your obsessive virginity already?" Sophie only laughed. Zoe was far more obsessed about the state of Sophie's sex life, or lack of it, than Sophie was. For her it was a simple question of priorities. Sophie wanted sex to be meaningful. More than meaningful — she wanted sex with her husband or her husband-to-be. No one else. "Yup. Too much to hope," she said mildly. "Listen, Zoe, something very strange has just happened." "Oh, good! Was it a man?" "Yes. This —" "I always suspected that you'd be a pushover for one of those dark alpha males. Tell me all!" "Tell me something first…when you were here last year having such a brilliant time, Zoe, who were you?" The gurgle of laughter coming down the wire told her all she really needed to know. Her twin was incorrigible. "Have you found that out already? Did someone recognise you? I borrowed your passport, Soph, I confess it." "Honestly, Zoe, I wish you'd stop doing that!" Sophie exclaimed. "You don't know how unnerving it is." "No," Zoe agreed sadly. "Sometimes I think it would be kind of fun, though, if you would impersonate me, do something outrageous, and then leave me to pick up the pieces." "I'd be a little stretched trying to come up with something you would consider outrageous," Sophie pointed out dryly. Zoe laughed again, acknowledging the hit. They were an almost classic case of Good Twin – Bad Twin, except that Zoe wasn't really bad, just very original. Zoe wanted to have a good time in life, and she had understood very early that to have the time she wanted, she had to marry rich. Her sights had lighted on a man nearly three times her age, one of Canada's richest men, who late in life had decided to run for a seat in Parliament. Fresh out of university, Zoe had gone to work on his election campaign.

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She married him, and when Hamilton Brougham won the election, Zoe was just where she wanted to be. Except for the natural restrictions that came with the position. She had promised Ham when she married him that, whatever she did in private, she wouldn't embarrass him in public. That was where Sophie came in. Every now and then, when Zoe simply had to kick over the traces, she would pretend to be her sober, serious sister. And more than once Sophie had found herself telling a journalist that yes, she was the one in the photo dancing in the city fountain…. "So, exactly what pieces am I here in the lovely Barakat Emirates to pick up?" Sophie demanded dryly now. "Oh, honey, there's nothing like that!" Zoe protested. "I just wanted you to have a holiday." "I'm beginning to see why you were so determined that I should have a holiday just here and just now. Was I a fool not to have figured this out for myself? Yes," Sophie said. "It's not like that at all. Who did you meet? What did they say? It's not the hotel, is it? I paid for what got damaged, and very handsomely, too, so if they say a word, darling, you can tell them — " "Not the hotel, Zoe, they've been discretion itself. A dark, broody type down on the beach. Black eyes, black horse, black mood." She heard her twin's indrawn breath. "Aaaah. I'd forgotten the sheikh." ****** Sophie knew from her tone that Zoe hadn't forgotten the sheikh. "Well, you'd better remember fast, and tell me what I'm on the hook for," she said flatly. "What did you do to him?" Zoe laughed, a long, slightly false peal that did nothing for Sophie's peace of mind. "Do to him? Who could do anything to Sheikh Sharif Wahid ibn Arif al Farid? He's got a heart of stone." At the mention of the word heart, Sophie's eyes squeezed shut with horror. "Oh, God, Zoe, you didn't!" "Come on, Soph, you've seen him yourself. You must have noticed that he's too good to resist." "Zoe, this is — but — are you telling me the man thinks I've slept with him?" Sophie cried. "Tell me, did he show signs of wanting more?" "He showed signs of wanting me off his land." 403

A small gasp. "Well, there's no need for him to be as hostile as that. He's a Cup Companion, by the way. Did he tell you?" "What's a Cup Companion?" Sophie asked, with a sinking heart. "They're sort of like our cabinet ministers. Appointed by the prince. They advise him on various areas of government. Very aristocratic, very influential. That's why I had to be careful. We'd be news if it ever got out." "Oh, great," Sophie said. "So it's goodbye, morning jog." "Unless you want to pick up where I left off. But I advise you to choose someone else. Sheikh Sharif, as you may have gathered already, is a bit hard to handle." "Zoe, how did you make an enemy of him? Please tell me the truth." Zoe's laughter didn't completely conceal her irritation. "Can you believe it? He was deeply offended — quite fierce about it, really — to discover that I was married. As if it was any of his business! I told him he was a prig, but he didn't like that, either." "Gee, I wonder why." Sensing her twin's disapproval, Zoe added hastily, "I assumed that your new hairstyle would put him off the scent, if he did happen to see you." "The hell you did." "Soph, if you do meet him again, please don't blow the whistle on me? Ham would hate it, and you know he's in the running for a cabinet post." Sophie suddenly understood the wild impulse that had driven her to cut off her long blond hair and colour it red. She was tired of taking the fall for Zoe. But it wasn't going to help her avoid Zoe's sheikh, it seemed. She heaved a sigh. "So not only does one of the most powerful and influential men in the country think I've slept with him, he also thinks I cheated on my husband when I did it?" "Isn't it fun? And there you are a virgin!" "Here I am, a virgin," Sophie agreed. ****** Sheikh Sharif al Farid flung himself down off the black horse and thrust the reins into the groom's hands with a muttered word. Then he strode into the house, his face so thunderous the manservant discreetly disappeared. 404

The sheikh moved restlessly to the far end of the elegant room and stood for a long moment in front of an antique enameled cabinet, staring into space. It was almost a year since he had first seen her, surrounded by bemused merchants and urchins in the Sabzi Market, looking terrified. He had gone to her rescue, not that she was in real danger, explaining to the crowd that she was a foreigner, a tourist. "They are not used to seeing hair like yours," he had told her later, in the little café where he had taken her to calm her down. "Does not the hotel's information pack explain that the souq is out of bounds?" "I never obey rules like that," she had said. "They only want to spoil the fun." He didn't know exactly what had drawn him, but she had not hidden the fact that she had felt the pull, too. Only later did he realise how differently they had felt the attraction. And now she was back. He could hardly believe her brazenness. Thrusting herself upon his notice and then pretending ignorance — what was her reason for it? Did she not understand what a risk she ran? Did she think him so complete a fool? Perhaps, believing her disguise sufficient, she had foolishly imagined she could avoid him in her quest for some thoughtless new adventure? She could not avoid him. He had been content to let her go once. But she would not escape him again. He would have justice now. Chapter Three "These gardens were endowed over sixty years ago by King Daud, to honour his beautiful foreign wife, whom he named Azizah," the guide said. Sophie was with a small group in the grounds of the famous pleasure gardens, walking beside a series of pools and channels that descended in several small falls as they walked and climbed. "The name Bostan al Sa'adat means 'Garden of Joy.' The design took twenty years to complete, and still has not reached the perfection that the designers, who planned for the future as well as the continually evolving present, envisaged…." For two days she had avoided the beach completely, and by the third she was seriously missing the exercise. But Zoe was right — there was a lot to see and do in the Barakat Emirates, and if anything could take her mind off Sheikh Sharif al Farid, it was the fabulous fountains and gardens of Sheikh Daud's testament of love. Sophie dawdled behind the rest of the group, entranced by a graceful, multilayered fountain whose waters seemed to sing.

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It annoyed her that she needed anything to take her mind off the man. But the truth was, he haunted her. She couldn't prevent Zoe's sheikh constantly surfacing in her mind, couldn't stop wondering whether she would run into him again, and how she would face him if she did. The arrogance with which he had assumed she was sexually available infuriated her, even though she knew it was Zoe he thought he was talking to. "Good morning, Sophie." Sophie gasped as the dark figure stepped out from under a flower-draped archway as if out of her thoughts, blocking her path while, ahead, the rest of the group passed through a gateway in a high hedge. It was him. A thrill of fear zipped through her as the last stragglers passed out of sight. "Good morning, Sheikh al Farid." His eyebrows went up. He smiled mockingly. "Time has improved your memory, I see. But have you forgotten that you called me Sharif?" She bit her lip. She couldn't imagine calling this forbidding pillar of humanity by his first name, even to save Zoe's bacon. There were no statues in an Islamic garden, she had learned, but Sophie privately thought that the sheikh was a perfect stand-in. Just like a marble statue, he seemed to pulse with warm life. But he would prove cold and immovable if she touched him. Or maybe not. She wasn't sure which would be worse. "It's not really appropriate now, is it?" she said. His teeth flashed while his amused, mocking laughter rang out. She felt the sudden force of his personality, and for a moment, on a primitive, unthinking level, she understood Zoe's weakness. Not that she would ever be so weak. "Are you now concerned with the appropriateness of things? You have changed more than your hair, in that case." "Leave me alone," was all she could say, stepping sideways to pass him. But one strong hand moved and he caught her wrist. Sophie took a soundless breath and closed her eyes. Then, fearing what he might read into that, forced them open. For a moment they gazed at each other in the bright sunlight, and the only sound was the music of the tumbling fountain. In the distance a groundsman wandered among the plants. Otherwise they had the world to themselves. "You do not run on the beach anymore, Sophie?" "You approve the change, of course."

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His jaw clenched. "Do you hope to drive the price up by these tactics? You will not succeed. Beware. What is mine I take, by whatever means are necessary."

****** Sophie's eyes darkened as she stared into his, and his jaw tightened against the stir of arousal as shock mimicked attraction in her brown eyes. "What are you threatening?" she whispered. Sharif was angry and discomfited. He had believed that when he met her again he would see her for what she was. He had remembered the calculation in her eyes and told himself that his own mind had manufactured the sweetness in her lips. But instead of being less than what his memory had conjured up during the past year, she was more. She was too desirable. In retrospect he had told himself that she had used simple manipulation, playing on his ego and her own tricky sexuality to convince him she had depth. Now he saw that she was far more dangerous than that. No guile was apparent in her. Even now, knowing what he knew, he thought he could see a pure heart, a deep, honourable soul. Last year she had stirred his interest, his appetites, and he had felt the faint breath of some greater possibility. Today she aroused a deep, uncomfortable possessiveness in him, and he heard the clear promise of something eternal. He knew it for a lie. He would not be taken in. But against his will, the clasp of his hand tightened, and he drew her toward him. "No," Sophie protested on a gasp. But with the sudden harsh enfoldment of his arms her breath stopped in her throat. She gazed up into his face. Just how angry was he? How deeply had Zoe bruised him? And what was his idea of revenge? Sharif's black eyes burned into her as he bent her back over that steel-sinewed arm and lowered his mouth toward hers. "No," she whispered again, terrified of what might happen if she gave in to the uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling that threatened her. Like a flash flood, sweeping her away to a territory totally strange to her. He glared at her with all the fury of desire denied. "No?" he rasped. "This is not what you came for?" "Don't flatter yourself that I came all this way to spend more time in your bed!" 407

"Neither of us will be disappointed, then. What do you want this time, Sophie? Will I find it worth the price?" "Price!" she cried, as sudden anger flooded her. "How dare you! Let go of me!" Sharif's passionate mouth thinned as he reined in his hunger and dragged himself back to his senses. It was not what he had intended, and he was angry with himself at this evidence of his weakness. He knew what she was. A cheat. A liar. A thief. And completely unrepentant, or he would have heard from her long before this. He hadn't meant to make love to her. Until the moment when he had recognised her on the beach, he hadn't thought of her for months. He had been convinced that, having been made a fool of once, he was immunised. But in spite of all he knew, she might still ensnare him, even more deeply than before. "You find me as much of a fool as the last time," he admitted cynically. "As ready to fall into your trap as if I had never been there. But you mistake the place. This is not quite the Garden of Eden, Sophie." "And you aren't quite Adam!" Her eyes blazed at him. "Nice for the snake to talk!" "Whatever my own part, we seem to be agreed that you are Eve," he pointed out with a glimmer of humour. "Believe me, if I'm Eve, I have no apples to offer you!" she snapped. Then she wished she hadn't spoken, because his eyes narrowed and his look suddenly made her nervous. "Do you think I forget so easily? You have — an apple, did you call it? — that interests me very much. And believe me, I will not take no for an answer this time." ****** Sophie blinked at him in dismay, and a treacherous little doubt beckoned. She pushed it aside. "I don't know what you're talking about!" she snapped. All trace of humour had left his eyes now. "Do not add to your sins with more lies," he said flatly. "You do know, Sophie. You must know that I know." "What?" she cried, feeling goaded. What could her twin have done that she was afraid to admit to her? Never before had Zoe failed to tell her about any of the adventuring she had done in Sophie's name. "What do you imagine?" He straightened and dropped his imprisoning arm, but his other hand's grasp of her wrist was firm and unforgiving. 408

"Come," he said. She thought she went for Zoe's sake. But afterward, looking back, she knew that that wasn't her reason. ****** Half an hour later they were back at the sea, the sheikh's Land Rover pulling through broad gates in a white wall that enclosed a terra-cotta–tiled courtyard. The sheikh was driving. Sophie wasn't sure what she had expected — wild sports car or expensive limousine — but the ordinariness of the dusty four wheel drive had surprised her. Now, under the arches of a garage, she saw cars more in keeping with her unconscious expectations — a Mercedes limousine and a classic sports car among them. Sheikh Sharif al Farid put his foot on the brakes and stopped the engine, and for a moment Sophie stared around her. Palm trees shaded the courtyard, and except for birdsong, sound seemed excluded. She sighed. After the drive through the heat and noise of the Emirates' capital, the promise of tranquillity was sweet. He led her into the house and into a beautifully furnished room with a row of arched windows facing a shadowed cloister. The house, Sophie saw, was built in traditional Middle Eastern design, around a central courtyard where water and plants in lush profusion softened the harshness of the desert climate. Straight ahead across the courtyard, an opening under an elegant archway showed her the sea. "This is so beautiful!" she breathed. All around her were the kind of antiques you normally only saw in museums or magazine photographs — a group of richly jeweled swords and daggers, beaten brass ewers on minutely inlaid tables, intricate paintings on ivory, tapestry hangings, the finest Arabic calligraphy glinting with gold. She gazed, breathless with wonder, from one to the other. "You have admired my possessions before." His cold voice destroyed her fascinated trance. She flicked a nervous glance at him. Though Zoe hadn't said so explicitly, she had probably spent the night here. How many nights? How familiar was she supposed to be with the place? Sophie grimaced inwardly. "Have I? Well, they're worth a second look," she said simply. This wasn't the first time she'd had to be quick on her feet picking up after Zoe, not by a long way, but somehow this time it felt different. She'd never before felt the real brush of danger. But 409

then, Zoe had never messed with a man like Sheikh al Farid before. He looked like nobody's fool, and he made Sophie nervous. "And a third, and fourth," he agreed blandly, with an expression in his eyes she couldn't interpret. "What does that mean?" But Sharif al Farid was already turning to the servant who had silently appeared, and was giving him some order. She was unconsciously drawn to a magnificent oil portrait of a turbaned man with darkly compelling eyes like the sheikh's. Sharif al Farid smiled. "What game are you playing now, Sophie? Do you imagine that so many women have stood before that portrait that you can convince me I have confused you with another?" She refused to be cowed. "Or maybe I've stood in front of so many ancestors' portraits I've forgotten yours," she suggested. "That I can believe," he said, with so obvious an implication she wanted to hit him. "How is your husband? Do you manage to keep him separate, at least?" Chapter Four "Go to hell!" Sharif al Farid smiled a grim smile and shook his head. "Not for your sake, my temptress." Fear stabbed her suddenly. There was something here she didn't understand. What exactly had gone on between Zoe and Sheikh Sharif al Farid? It was more than the simple one night stand Zoe had implied, it had to be. Why had Zoe sent her here, where she was sure to meet the man, sure to be mistaken for her twin? "Why did you bring me here, Sheikh al Farid? If you have something to say, please say it, because I want to get back to the hotel," Sophie said, in a flat voice, struggling for calm. The sheikh lifted his eyebrows in surprised disdain, as if there were something obvious she was missing. "Back to the hotel?" His chin moved in regal summons, and he crossed to the windows and opened a door. Sophie saw that each of the arched windows along the length of the room was in fact a door. When every door was open, the room would give onto the cloister through a series of arches. She followed him out of the air conditioned room into the sudden heat and then along the shadowy cloister till he paused before another arched door. Sophie couldn't help staring out at the profusion of plants and flowers that tumbled over balconies, climbed around pillars, bowed and nodded over four perfectly geometric channels feeding the magnificent fountain in the centre of the courtyard — water tumbling out of a graded series of bowls held up by stone lions. "Is that a copy of the fountain at the Alhambra Palace?" she asked, forgetting everything except awe. "This has an earlier date." His mouth moved in another humorless smile. "I see you are better prepared than before. What else have you researched?" She clenched her jaw. "What makes you so sure you know everything?" 410

"A year ago you knew nothing of the treasures of the Alhambra, Sophie. Have you forgotten?" She had no answer. Impossible to inform him that she had been majoring in Art and Architecture while Zoe was deep in Political Science. The sheikh opened the door and guided her through into the room beyond. Her skin rippled with sensation as she stepped past him, in a mixture of turbulent emotions — she could detect anger and fear — which she had never experienced before. Then she stopped as if she had hit a wall and stared around the room. It was strewn with her belongings — her empty luggage lying open, the contents in neat piles on the bed or hanging in the open wardrobe. Someone had gone into her room at the hotel to get all her things, and had brought them here. And then, by the look of it, had searched every pocket and nook. Shocked and disbelieving, she stepped back a pace, right against Sharif al Farid's chest. She felt his hands clasp her upper arms with firm possession. Suddenly she could smell the heady mixture of cologne and male sweat that was already familiar to her senses as uniquely him. She jerked to step away, but he held her. Sophie's head swam, and she had the crazy conviction she might faint from fear, or whatever emotion was suddenly enclosing her brain in its terrible mists. Her nerves were alive with tension, a thousand electric currents chasing through her body and mind. Questions tumbled over each other in her head without logical order. "Why have you brought my things here? How did you get them?" she asked at last.

As if from a distance, she felt him lift one hand and carefully, firmly, force her to turn in his grasp. When she was facing him, his hands closed on her upper arms again. She looked up, her lips parting to give her empty lungs oxygen. The sheikh's dark eyes ran over her face with a hunger that made her tremble. With slow inevitability he drew her close against his body, and his arms wrapped her. She put her hands on his chest to hold him away, but she might as well have pushed a wall. He muttered a helpless oath and his mouth came down on hers. Sophie struggled briefly, and then, sensation flooding her, she closed her eyes and gave in to the bone-melting pleasure of his kiss. For one moment of blissful forgetfulness, she abandoned everything except pure feeling. But only for a moment. Then a panicked voice in her warned, this is Zoe he's kissing. He thinks he's already your lover, and he's got a grudge. Though the heat of touching him seemed to burn her palms, Sophie pushed against his chest, hard. But as if he, too, had come to his senses, Sharif was already dropping his arms. She staggered back, and watched the rise and fall of his chest as he regained his self-control. "Did I call you Eve?" he wondered softly, shaking his head. "You are much more dangerous than that. How do you maintain that fiction of untouched softness even with a man who knows otherwise?" A response rose to her lips, but she had to bite it back. "Don't touch me again, Sheikh al Farid," she said instead. "What happened last year doesn't give you the right to make assumptions about me now." "If you have changed, there is a way to prove it," said Sheikh al Farid. "If you've brought me here under the delusion that you're such a wonderful lover I'd be happy to go along with a replay, I've already told you, I'm not interested." She spoke firmly, but inside she 411

was frightened. Not merely about what he intended, but about what his kiss had showed her about herself. "Are you such a fool as to imagine you are here for my pleasure?" Sophie blinked. "You give a pretty good impression of it," she snapped. "Your presence is no joy to me, Sophie. The sooner you leave, the better it will suit me. I said that you are a temptress, but do not waste your time trying to lower my guard again. Even if we made love a thousand times I would not trust you again out of my sight. In this house you will be guarded every second." If we made love a thousand times… "About two seconds in all, then," Sophie retorted, striding to the bed and beginning to throw her things into the open cases. "I want out of here, now!" "And you are very used to having things your own way. But not this time, Sophie. This time you will obey me." Her head went up, but her hands did not pause in their task. "You know nothing about me!" she cried furiously. "Have no fear. What I don't know you will have the opportunity to teach me." She shuddered. "What is it? What do you want?" "I have told you," he said, with a smile that made her light-headed with anxiety. "I want what is mine." "I am not yours!" Sophie cried desperately, chills racing through her so that her teeth almost chattered. "I told you before, I'm married! And if I didn't make it clear, my husband is a very influential man, so if you —" She broke off because of the cold, certain way he was smiling at her, his eyes black with furious contempt. "You?" he repeated with a disdain that set her teeth on edge. "What fantasy is this? It is not you that I want, Sophie. You know very well what it is."

Sheikh Sharif strode back into the long sitting room pushing Sophie in front of him, one hand hard on her upper arm. She was aware of reluctant curiosity. Whatever Zoe had done, it could not be very bad, so either he was making a mountain out of a molehill or he was completely mistaken. He stopped in front of a beautiful antique enamelware cabinet in deep ruby red inlaid with delicately formed black, white and green leaves outlined in gold. He let go her arm and reached out to open the two central doors. Inside she saw another display of treasures, too small or perhaps too precious to be set in the open, each on its own plinth or bed. A tiny, perfectly formed gold horse. A fabulously jeweled miniature dagger and sheath. A delicately painted bowl. A ruby pendant. One plinth stood high in the centre of the display, as if to offer the prize of the collection. It was empty. The sheikh gave her a moment to gaze at his treasures, then turned to her, one eyebrow high. A half smile curled his lips, but it was a long way from showing amusement. For a moment his eyes blazed such anger Sophie took an involuntary step back. "Now," he said, and his voice was grim, "it is not among your possessions here, and not in your safety deposit box at the hotel. I know that you came here with the thought of selling it back to 412

me. I am willing to pay you a reasonable sum, as I said, for its return. Where is the Jade Bowl?" Furious emotion flooded up in her. She was filled with angry disappointment, though she didn't let herself see it. She laid it all at the door of righteous indignation. She could believe many things of Zoe, but that she had stolen anything from this house Sophie would never accept. She glared at him. "Are you accusing my — me of theft?" He almost laughed. "Are you denying it?" "Yes, I deny it! Of course I never stole your bowl! What kind of a bowl is it, anyway?" She wished he would stop smiling in that damned superior way. Sophie was suddenly furious with Zoe for putting her in this intolerable position with a man like him. They both made her sick. "You did not admire it as much as other treasures, I remember. You were surprised that it was considered my family's prize heirloom. A carved jade bowl commissioned by my ancestor from the greatest artist of a golden age made no impression on your mind beside the solid gold horse of a much lesser artisan. "But you knew enough to take it. Was simple punishment in your mind? The loss of the horse would have meant little to me. The Jade Bowl is irreplaceable. Or was gain the motive? Did you sell it, Sophie?" the sheikh asked silkily. "I hope you understood its value." Shivers of danger played up and down her spine in a discordant symphony. "I never touched your damned bowl!" she said again. "I have no idea where it is! You probably mislaid it yourself!" He ignored that as if it wasn't worth a response. "Well, you will have time and leisure to remind yourself." Something in his tone made her stiffen, feeling that the danger that threatened was right outside her door. "What does that mean?" she demanded, choking so that her question was hardly audible. With a sideways glance at her, the sheikh closed the cabinet doors. He turned and put his hand on her arm, then, as if the touch burned him, broke the connection. Sophie put up her own hand to rub her arm. It ached as if in the aftermath of an electric shock. "Isn't it obvious? You are an educated, intelligent woman. You should not have to be told that you will not leave this house until I have in my possession again that which is mine." Late that night Sophie lay sleepless and uncomfortable in the strange bed. Chapter Five It had been a day tossed between dream and nightmare. The house and garden were more beautiful than Sophie could have conjured up in her wildest daydreams, but a constant cloud of suspicion hung over her, turning the mildest expression of admiration into a declaration of intent in Sharif al Farid's eyes. And his eyes were always close, always watching. Not satisfied to put one of his servants as a guard on her, he shadowed her himself. She went nowhere without him, except to her own room. The internal door was firmly locked. Sharif sat outside the door to the courtyard waiting, watching, so that she couldn't rest and was driven back outside into his presence. She hated it. His constant nearness drove her crazy. Her skin twitched, as if she were in a force field. It was like being on the receiving end of a constant static electric shock. Even her hair 413

seemed to stand on end, refusing to obey her comb. And when she complained, he only repeated it remorselessly, like a mantra: "If you do not like it, you know the solution." In spite of what he had said about not wanting her, when his black gaze rested on her, her blood churned up as if in response to his desire. Then she would remember his words. If we made love a thousand times. She told herself it was not Sophie, but Zoe, he wanted. He was remembering their lovemaking, that was all. Zoe was probably a brilliant lover, and if Sophie ever did give in to the attraction, he would find her a huge disappointment. Sophie, realising the direction her thoughts had taken, sat up and angrily plumped her pillow. Give in to the attraction? What attraction? She felt nothing for Zoe's sheikh but totally justified anger! And even if he was attractive, she hadn't kept her virginity all these years to throw it away on someone who despised her, and himself for wanting her. She sank back into the bed again. What was killing her was the knowledge that he was sleeping — if he was sleeping — in the next room. The door was slightly ajar, but she could hear nothing. Was he listening to her toss and turn? Did he imagine she was sleepless for his sake? How long could this go on? He had told her the hotel believed she had gone on an extended tour of the country and would be away several nights. If that was true, she could expect no help from that source. No one would call the Embassy to declare a Canadian citizen missing when a Cup Companion vouched for her whereabouts, she was sure. He would not let her make a phone call, and as long as she could not call Zoe, she could tell him nothing. Although she had at moments been torn with indecision, she knew she could not risk telling the sheikh the truth. Because whether Zoe had or had not taken his damned Jade Bowl, and Sophie didn't believe for a second that she had, the opportunity for this to cause Hamilton Brougham trouble was huge. When she asked him how he was so sure she had taken the bowl, he only gazed at her from those condemning black eyes and shook his head. "You know how I know, Sophie," he said. "When you finally understand that you cannot get away with protestations of innocence, then we will start to get somewhere." In spite of everything he said, she was certain he still wanted Zoe. But however much he yearned to have her back in his bed, Sophie understood that he would not make love to her knowing she was married to someone else. It was part of his personal code of honor. For once Sophie was glad of one of Zoe's lies. Being thought married might be the only shield she had against Sharif al Farid. She frowned as the thought stirred an idea in her. Was there a way of escape here? He had called her a temptress. Would he let her go if he was being tempted too far? Could she make keeping her seem like too much trouble? Early the next morning she showered and dressed in a deep green and black Lycra jogging suit. It hugged every curve like skin, and the black markings on the suit bottom were placed as if to mimic a tiny black thong. She was hoping to catch him still in bed, but the door to the courtyard opened when she turned the handle, and Sharif was waiting as she emerged, a small towel around her neck, water bottle strapped against her hip. "I want to go for a jog on the beach," she said. "I haven't exercised for days on your account, and I'm getting soft." "Never that," he said cynically. 414

It was too late to jog comfortably, the sun was already getting hot, and she had been expecting no more than a violent argument. But when he shrugged and turned to walk across the courtyard, of course she followed. Barefoot and in dust-coloured shorts and shirt, he wasn't dressed for jogging, and she wondered what he intended. He led her through the arched opening and out to a wide, open terrace overlooking the sea. The house was high on the escarpment, and the view was panoramic. She could see all the way down past the point towards the city, Barakat al Barakat, and thought she could even pick out the white of her hotel against the cliff. The smell of the sea came to her on a cooling breeze that probably would not be felt down on the beach. The cliff face was impossibly steep here, dropping sharply down for twenty feet before the incline became easy enough to allow trees to cling. Any attempt to escape this way would be perilously stupid. She wondered for a moment if he intended to have her exercise here, on the terrace. Well, she would argue that. She was going to be as much trouble as she could to Sheikh Sharif al Farid. If he thought she would be an easy hostage, he would soon revise his ideas. But he led her to a heavy, steel-barred wooden door in the high estate wall, unlocked it and went through. A few yards along the cliff edge, he paused, and Sophie looked down the steepest and longest staircase she had ever seen. Without a word, Sharif started down. *** Forty-five minutes later, sweating and gasping, Sophie staggered up the staircase again. Her hair was black with sweat, her suit was soaked, her towel was dripping. Her water bottle was empty. He had jogged beside her, barefoot and easy, down to the point and back up again. Sweat made his dark skin glow, his eyelashes glisten. Every toned muscle of his arms and legs gleamed. Sophie, on the other hand, felt and looked wrecked. Round one to the sheikh. *** "You're happy just to keep me here forever, are you?" she asked irritably that night as they sat over dinner. It infuriated her that he insisted on treating her as a guest, blandly offering her a drink and discussing food with her. "As happy as you are to stay," he observed. "Abdul asks how you like your steak cooked." "If that's true, then you hate it," Sophie said bitterly, and realised only when the words were out that the implication wasn't true. She didn't hate being here with him. She only hated the fact that he regarded her with suspicion and mistrust. She lowered her eyes lest he see the truth in them, and proceeded to hide from it herself. "Why won't you let me go?" "The solution is in your hands. When you tell me where the Jade Bowl is, you may leave. Medium?" "Don't you think if I knew where the blasted thing was I would tell you?" she exploded. "No doubt you hope to drive up the price. Do you prefer rare?" "Oh, for God's sake! I don't care if he burns the damned thing to a cinder! How long do you imagine you can keep me here? My plane leaves in under a week!" "Then you will want to take steps to make sure it doesn't leave without you." "I have a job to go back to!" "I have told Abdul that you prefer medium." "I'd prefer to have your head on a platter!" 415

"I feel sure that to see you dancing the dance of seven veils would even make it worthwhile," Sharif said. Round two, the same. For several days they were at an impasse. They were days in which Sophie learned to love the wonderful house, the heat, the passionate beauty of her surroundings. Only the sheikh, like the serpent in Eden, had the power to destroy her pleasure. In his presence she felt jumpy, edgy, as if the place were too close to a power station. But even that was not a constant. When she could forget why she was here, she enjoyed being with him. More, much more, than she would admit. In such moments she sometimes felt she was in a dream of Paradise. But feelings like that only frightened her when she became aware of them, made her more desperate to get away. She grew more and more anxious, but the sheikh showed no signs of impatience. Sharif was convinced that she would crack sooner or later, it seemed, and he did not mind which it proved to be. "Don't you have a job to do?" she asked once. "This must be a comedown, a Cup Companion acting as guard dog!" "The Cup Companions of a prince are expected to be more than ordinarily flexible," he returned blandly. "Flexible?" she sneered. "How much flexibility does it take to insist you're right no matter what?" He raised his eyebrows at her, inviting more. Foolishly, driven by her conflicting emotions in his company, Sophie went on. "If you'd said deaf now, I could see it! Are Cup Companions required to be deaf to anyone's else's opinions or professions of innocence?" "Not in the usual course of events," he replied mildly, as if her question had been a real one. "Oh, what a pity!" Sarcasm was getting the better of her, but Sharif only watched her, placidly chewing. "That seems to be your strongest suit." Sharif shook his head. "My strong suit is patient watchfulness. When the mouse comes out of the hole at last, I will be there. You have nothing to gain from these delaying tactics, Sophie, be sure of that." But the way his eyes looked at her in unguarded moments belied him. Sophie was almost certain that he found her presence here as much of a strain as she did. He was faking it to convince her that he could outwait her. It was a war of nerves. But Sophie had other weapons in that war. *** She hadn't watched Zoe's flirting all these years without learning how it was done. She never used her sister's tricks herself, because she was too aware that she would not follow through. But nothing like that had ever bothered Zoe. If a man is foolish enough to believe it, that's his problem, Zoe had explained her philosophy once. The men so treated usually reacted in one of two ways — either they danced around Zoe like puppets, or they disappeared completely, unable to stay near what they knew they could not have. Sophie's plan was rather vaguely formulated. It went like this — Sharif wouldn't make love with 'Zoe' now that he knew she was married. But he obviously was still attracted. All Sophie had to do was play up that attraction till he found the strain unbearable. Then he would either do whatever she wanted — let her go just because she asked — or want to get out of her orbit 416

because he couldn't stand it. Either way, she would be a free woman. She was ignoring the still small voice that warned her that Sheikh Sharif al Farid wasn't the kind of man with whom she could play a game like that. Equally dangerously, she lacked the consciousness of her own deep motivation. Sophie's instinctive femininity had been aroused by Sharif al Farid's powerful masculinity, and unconsciously it was urging her to challenge him to prove himself. Sharif al Farid had his own motivations, both conscious and unconscious. He was unlikely to turn away from such a challenge. At least, not one coming from Sophie. Rarely in the history of feminine wiles had there been a plan more likely to backfire. Sophie sat up in the bed, listening. It was the night of the new moon, and the darkness was almost total. Outside the open windows, beyond the deeper shadow of the cloister, starlight kissed a half-closed blossom, trembled on the still water. Some night insect or bird was calling monotonously. Though a faint breeze stirred through the window, the night was warm: a thin sheet was her only covering. Moving as carefully as possible, for Sharif had warned her he was a light sleeper and she believed him, she reached for the water glass on the little table beside her bed, and dipped her fingertips into it. Then she massaged the water into her scalp, all around the hairline, dipping her fingers again and again. She poured water into her palm and splashed it on her chest above the little silk tank top she wore as a pyjama top. Then the back of her neck, her forehead and cheeks. For good measure she sprinkled water into the centre of her pillow. Chapter Six Sophie sat up in the bed, listening. It was the night of the new moon, and the darkness was almost total. Outside the open windows, beyond the deeper shadow of the cloister, starlight kissed a half-closed blossom, trembled on the still water. Some night insect or bird was calling monotonously. Though a faint breeze stirred through the window, the night was warm: a thin sheet was her only covering. Moving as carefully as possible, for Sharif had warned her he was a light sleeper and she believed him, she reached for the water glass on the little table beside her bed, and dipped her fingertips into it. Then she massaged the water into her scalp, all around the hairline, dipping her fingers again and again. She poured water into her palm and splashed it on her chest above the little silk tank top she wore as a pyjama top. Then the back of her neck, her forehead and cheeks. For good measure she sprinkled water into the centre of her pillow.She moaned softly, and began to kick the sheet. ****** Sharif lay awake in his bed for an hour, listening to her soft stirrings in the room next door, tormented by indecision and confusion. What a fool he had been to bring her here. Only now that he was caught in the toils of his own making did he understand how fatally mixed his motives had been.

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She had proven long ago how unworthy she was. Laughing and mocking him in furious rage when he had condemned her. When she had disappeared with the Jade Bowl he had written it off to experience. He had been convinced that he had forgotten the incident. But that had been before she returned. Now he saw that he could never kill his passion for her, nor the irrational conviction that she must be his. Why had he brought her here? Not merely to learn the whereabouts of the family's most significant heirloom, he now realised, though that was what he had told himself. Not even so that close proximity would let him see through the cracks of her facade and into the shallow soul beneath, killing his love with knowledge. He had brought her here for one reason only — because in his heart she was his. Never again would he have the right to call any man fool. He fell asleep at last only to dream of her. In the dream she was all she seemed on the surface, her outward beauty a match for the beauty of her soul. His heart burst with need and cherishing. ****** He stirred from the dream with her soft cries ringing in his ears. Then suddenly he was wide awake. The cries were real, though scarcely audible, coming from Sophie's room. He sat up in darkness as thick as a blanket and stared at the clock. Two o'clock. "No," she begged softly. "Oh, please don't!" He heard a whimpered breath, as if she were crying. "Please!" He swung to his feet and listened intently. Silence. "Sophie?" he called hoarsely, but what came out of his stifled throat was only a rasping whisper. No answer. Only another muted cry. ****** He knew there could be no intruder here, but still — he made it to the connecting door in perfect silence and record time. His eyes had already grown accustomed to the darkness. He sidestepped the little brass-topped table just inside the doorway, and a moment later he was bending over her. She whimpered again in her sleep. "Sophie," he said with quiet firmness, his hand on her shoulder.

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He sank down onto the bed beside her and flicked on the light. Her face and the spiky red hair were damp with sweat, and she had kicked the sheet off, revealing one long, neatly muscled leg. "Sophie," he murmured, on a different note. Her eyelids fluttered and then her eyes were wide open, staring into his. And as they gazed deep into each other, past all the defences that were so strong during the daylight hours, he knew that he was seeing the truth of her clearly for the first time. He clenched his jaw and swallowed, his gaze raking her soul, determined to know everything. Sophie had planned for two contingencies. If Sharif tripped on the strategically placed little table, sending the brass tray flying, she would scream the house down, bringing, she hoped, every member of his household staff onto the scene. How humiliating for him! If instead he made his way to the bed, she would cling to him and sob out her dream, pretending she thought he was her husband, getting him thoroughly sexually aroused. Then she'd "wake up" and push him indignantly away. Either way, he was bound to start to feel she was more trouble than his precious Jade Bowl was worth. But when he sank on the bed beside her in the dark — big, and masculine, and way, way too close for comfort, Sophie lost her nerve. As the bedside lamp went on, she instantly "woke up". Her gasp at seeing him so close wasn't an act. She could have screamed then. But as his gaze probed her, as deep as anyone had ever seen her, the impulse died in her throat. She gazed up at him, and saw her future written in his eyes. "What's the matter?" she cried, sitting up and sliding away from him till her back was against the wall. "What time is it? What do you want?" "Calm down," he ordered quietly. "You were having a nightmare." "A nightmare? Was I?" She felt stifled. Her heart was beating hard enough to choke her. Sweat broke out for real on her forehead. What a fool she was to have started this! His eyes were darkly intent, burning across her skin, as if being wakened so roughly had stripped away a discipline she had only distantly understood he was exerting over himself. Sophie's breath came in little gasps. No one had ever looked at her before with such blatant passion. She seemed to have too much blood suddenly. It pounded through her body and into her head, till she thought it might explode. Her mouth was desperately dry and she licked her lips in an attempt to soften them. She couldn't seem to get the air she needed, and parted her lips to breathe.

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One shoestring strap of her top fell down over her upper arm, and her breath caught as if at a caress, making her breasts tremble behind the pretty silk. She suddenly realised that she had kicked the sheet into such a tangle that one long tanned leg was naked to her hip. The delicate lace of her brief pyjama bottoms made a pale stitchery on her bronzed thigh. She froze, afraid to move to cover it, afraid not to. Sharif's gaze burned along the length of her body, paused on her mouth and came to rest at her eyes. "Or perhaps it was not quite a nightmare," murmured the sheikh. ****** His hand, looking darker and much more powerful in the soft lamp glow, moved to imprison her fine-boned ankle in a warm, pulsing shackle. Rivers of sensation exploded up her leg at the lightly possessive touch. His eyes watched her face, drinking up every whisper of feeling that was recorded there. "Sharif," she whispered, half protest, half invitation. He did not smile. His hand released her ankle to flatten against the sole of her foot, and his heat burned up through her whole body. Then he began to massage her toes, gently, so gently. She was hypnotised. No man had ever started at her feet before, and she was completely unprepared for being so powerfully overwhelmed so quickly. She watched his hand massage her instep, then make its slow, determined way along her ankle again, her calf, her knee. "Aren't you — aren't you forgetting something?" she whispered at last. He smiled at her, the first genuine smile she had had from him, and it melted her. Her heart cried out that it wasn't fair that she had met him under totally false pretences. Might she have had a chance to mean something to him, if he had met her as herself? "What am I forgetting?" "I thought — I thought you didn't sleep with married women." His hand was on her thigh now, melting her into honeyed softness, making her yearn for the might have been. "You are too much temptation," he murmured throatily. "Besides, we are already lovers, are we not? One more night, Sophie. That is all I ask. Then you will go home to him, and we will forget." She felt a twist of sorrow, knowing that Zoe had won again. He was not the first man who had bent his principles for Zoe, but he was the only one whose bending would break Sophie's heart. 420

"Forget?" she murmured, her heart clenching. "Will we?" "Do you doubt it? When we met on the beach, you had forgotten me." She sighed sadly. "So you just want to get me out of your system?" His hand was on her arm now, and his other arm reached to draw her toward him and into his embrace. She could not fight the delight she felt in his touch, body and soul. He drew her upper body across his legs and bent down to gaze into her face. She saw in that look all she would ever want in a man — passion, tenderness, humor, true nobility, honor, and integrity — and a deep, deep hunger for her. His arms held her with a fierce knowing that touched her deeper than she had ever been touched, and her heart burned and twisted with the contradiction of desire and pain. "Get you out of my system?" he repeated, as if that were a ridiculous impossibility. Her heart leapt, but he smiled, and she knew she had mistaken his meaning. "Yes, Sophie, let us taste love just once more." Her lips parted in protest and invitation, and as if he could wait no longer he bent and smothered her mouth in a passionate, drowning kiss. Flames leapt up all around her, tiny hot lashes of white heat that flicked her in every pore. He was murmuring endearments that thrilled her soul. "Sweet, sweet…you are my heart. You are my soul." His hands were embodied flame now, enclosing her head, her back, her breast, trembling over her face. "You are mine, Sophie. Say it. Tell me you are mine." Sophie swooned and sighed. How often had she wondered if it would ever happen for her. And here was her answer. But it was an answer tinged with sorrow. Sharif had compromised his principles for passion's sake, but did that mean she could? ****** To ask the question was to answer it. Sharif only wanted a one-night stand. He did not mean what he was saying in any serious way. The way she felt about him was serious enough. She had only known him a few days, and once, a long time ago, she had believed only months or years would be enough to understand love well enough to know that it was real. But she had been wrong about that. Love could happen in an instant. You could know from the first moment. Even on that first morning, watching him gallop by on the black horse…even then she had somehow known. 421

But loving him was not enough. Could she go through with this, make love to him with all her heart, when all he wanted was her body for one night of lovemaking, when he despised her — or thought he did — in his soul? However sweet that lovemaking promised to be, could she betray herself in such a way? His mouth, with tender and delightful caress, was murmuring over her throat, her cheek, her ear. For one long, bittersweet moment Sophie gave herself up to it, thrilling to his touch and the firm intent she felt in him. "My Beloved," he murmured. "Ahsheqi." Her heart leapt with convulsive pain for what could never be. Then she sighed and struggled, and when he released her, sat up. "Sharif," she said quietly. "I have something to tell you." He was watching her expectantly, no surprise evident in him, only a kind of satisfaction. She wondered distantly if he thought she was about to confess the whereabouts of the heirloom. In the deeper understanding that had come to her over the past few minutes she saw that Zoe must pay for her own sins, if payment was necessary. Sophie could not save her sister from consequences now. She could not merely give him a "no." The price was too high. "I'm sorry, but I can't make love with you," she began. She wondered if he would think what was coming just another lie, another attempt at manipulation. "I know you think we've done this before, but we haven't. I'm not married, either. I'm not who you think I am. And I'm…I'm a virgin." She felt the tension rush up inside him, felt it in the convulsive clenching of his arms and jaw, the tightening of his grip on her. For a moment of what looked like white-hot anger, he stared at her, and she knew that if his passion got the better of him now, she was lost. She would not have the strength to say no a second time to what she was so desperate to experience. And for a wild, drunken moment she wanted that fate, preferred it over the empty future she foresaw otherwise. "A virgin?" he repeated, in a voice like gravel. Sophie swallowed. She couldn't say another word. She could only gaze at him, half hypnotized. His eyes widened and then narrowed with an emotion she couldn't read. She had never seen black flame before. Black heat, she thought, gazing into his eyes. Her heart kicked and leapt. Too late Sophie understood that he was a man who had been made a fool of twice. And she understood him enough to know that he would not take that lightly. ****** "How is this possible?" Sharif demanded. 422

"I'm not who you think I am," Sophie said. "Last year you met my sister." "Sister," he repeated, with a grim smile. His gaze still pierced her. "Which of you is Sophie?" "She's Zoe. We're twins. I cut and colored my hair because…" But there was no need to tell all of Zoe's secrets. His head was close to hers, his eyes searching. As if unconsciously, his grip was still firm. Possessive. But she knew it could not last. When the truth sank in…. "She sent you here? Why?" "For a holiday, she said. But I'm not sure what was really on her mind." Sophie took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. "You didn't guess?" "Guess? I guessed things could not be as I had imagined. I knew that there was some mystery to be understood. You were not the woman I remembered. The longer I was with you, the clearer that became. Either you had changed more than your hair, I thought, or - or you had lied to me before." His hand moved on her arm in a hypnotic caress that sent shivers of need into her blood. "Then tonight I saw the truth. I knew you were a different woman." Sharif's jaw clenched, and with a wrench of regret that made her gasp, she felt his grip loosen. I should have taken the chance when it was on offer, her heart cried, too late. She had passed up forever her chance to taste that burning passion in herself and him. To touch that place of deep connection in her soul. She knew that she was right in what she had always believed - such deep feeling is a once in a lifetime kind of thing. Even if it wasn't reciprocated, you should have taken your chance when you had it, she told herself, in bitter reproach. Sharif al Farid would have been hers for one night, if she had been brave enough to take the taste of paradise fate had offered. She had tossed the cup away without a sip. His eyes still burned her with accusation and blame. As he opened his mouth to speak, on the bedside table, the clock numbers flicked. She couldn't bear to hear his condemnation. Sophie said quickly, "It's yesterday afternoon in Vancouver. I want to phone Zoe and ask her about the bowl." "It will change nothing," he said harshly. But she couldn't believe that. If at least she could prove that Zoe had not stolen the Jade Bowl, it must change something. 423

****** Zoe giggled and gasped. "What, that old green bowl of his? My God, do you mean he's been imagining that I stole it all this time?" But her voice betrayed her. "Where is it, then?" Sophie asked firmly, and Zoe laughed outright, the way she always did when she was caught out in a prank. "Think of the Purloined Letter, Soph," she said tantalizingly, and then, when Sophie didn't bite, said, a little sulkily, "It's in the kitchen. On the top shelf, I think, behind some bigger bowls. I don't think much of his housekeeper if she hasn't found it after more than a year!" "Is that why you sent me here?" "I confess I was a little worried about the bowl. I didn't really understand how much it was worth till I got back here and looked it up. It's worth an absolute fortune, and I did start to think maybe the kitchen wasn't the best place for it. But I couldn't risk going myself, not with Ham in the situation he's in. Someone might have got hold of the story if they'd seen us together." "Oh, Zoe! "Sophie couldn't help complaining. "Don't tell me you're sorry. It hasn't escaped me that you're having this little heart to heart with the sheikh in the middle of the night there. Tell me, did he overcome his precious scruples with you? Did he make love with you thinking you were me? I hope it taught him a lesson!" "What lesson? What did you do it for?" "He was so damned self-righteous," her twin returned. "How was I to know I shouldn't mention my husband? Your darling sheikh practically kicked me out of bed. I've never been so insulted in my life. So what's it like with him? Did I miss the unmissable?" ****** "You threw her out of bed?" Sophie asked in a kind of awe. No man had ever done that before, she was sure. "Your sister exaggerates," Sharif said, with a smile. "As I remember the moment, she was sitting on the sofa, and kicked off her shoes with the casual remark that her husband had bought them for her and they didn't quite fit." "Oh!" They lay side by side on her bed, the light a soft glow enclosing them. She had never felt so safe.

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"She seemed to have no idea that her being a married woman would make any difference to me. She was very angry that it did. So angry that when I saw you on the beach I was half suspicious that you had returned to sell the bowl back to me at the price of my principles." Sophie gave vent to a little laugh. That was probably not far off what Zoe had imagined doing, but of course she wouldn't follow through - not with Ham's career as the price. "Would I have succeeded?" Sophie asked. "I was not happy to discover how tempted I was," Sharif admitted. "And yet you brought me here." "Perhaps because I am a self-deluded fool. But I would rather think that unconsciously I knew the truth. The first time I kissed you, my heart insisted you were innocent," he told her softly. His hand caressed her cheek, her arm, with a self-control that made him tremble. His mouth was tight with contained desire, his eyes blacker than ever. The flame of his need touched her, heart, and body, and soul. Sophie's whole self trembled at the brink of need like a bottomless chasm at her feet. "Yet I knew the opposite was true. I was determined to be on my guard. So I discounted the intuition that promised me you were the one I have been waiting for, all my life. That you belonged to me." A tremulous smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "You were so angry and suspicious that I thought nothing could ever come of my feelings. There didn't seem to be any point in telling you the truth. But tonight…." His arm was strong and tender against her back, a hold whose possession she could never break. "Tonight, I looked into your eyes and knew the truth about you," he murmured, and now his fingers toyed with a short, bright curl, sending whispers of electricity over her scalp. "It had been there to see from the beginning." "You didn't show any hint of that. 'Only one more night', you said." "I said that to drive you to confess the truth. I knew that you would not make love to me as part of a lie." Sophie smiled dreamily and curled her body into his. "Not as part of a lie, no," she whispered, and had the satisfaction of feeling his blood leap. He bent and kissed her, and delicious melting rippled through her. But he lifted his mouth too soon.

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"Sophie, I will not put pressure on you," Sharif said. "I know that you need time. My love for you is already certain, but it is only natural that you will want to be sure. Will you trust me to wait until you are sure of me, and of yourself?" "I trust you, Sharif," she said softly. "With all my heart. With everything I am, or hope to be." Smiling, she reached up her hand to draw his head down again for her kiss. "And I'm sure."

****** "The green bowl?" murmured Umm Abdullah, the cook, next morning. "Ah, yes! So pretty. I never saw anything so delicate! It was a pity to leave it there, collecting sand dust. It got into all the little petals." "What did you do with it?" asked Sheikh Sharif al Farid. "Why, I took it down to use it, of course! It is too small for a mixing bowl, but I have set it here, where I can admire it. You see that it is just large enough to hold a head or two of garlic." "Yes, I see," said Sharif. "It is the prettiest thing! Look at the rose he has carved, Lord. You can almost smell it! I admire it often while I cook. Do you know who carved it? If you are going to take this one, I would like to pay him to make me another." "You're letting her keep it in the kitchen?" Sophie asked in bemusement. "It holds her garlic," Sharif explained blandly. "But you -" "It is my fate to have been taught important lessons from unexpected sources just recently," Sharif said. "And what lesson did Umm Abdullah teach you?" "That a true eye will always see worth, whatever hides it. When I go to the kitchen and see the Jade Bowl there now, it will remind me not to overlook the jewel I am searching for when it is right before my eyes." His eyes told her what jewel he meant. Sophie laughed a tender laugh, and his mouth covered hers, and her laughter sparkled in his blood.

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Too Close For Comfort By Jacqueline Diamond

Chapter One “I know the cold medicine hit you hard,” said Idabelle Babcock, “but you’re the only waitress on duty today besides me. Take care of that new fellow who just wandered in, would you? I’ve got to get on with my baking or I’ll never be ready for the dinner crowd.”

“You mean the hayseed in the checked shirt?” Rita asked thickly. Usually her New York accent made a startling contrast to her boss’s Texas twang, but today her brain was full of cotton.

With her nose so stuffy, she sounded like a three-year-old who hasn’t quite gotten the hang of consonants. “I hope he’s not going to carry on like the last couple of guys.”

What was it about ranch hands that made them act as if they’d never seen a five-foot-six, blueeyed blonde before? There were plenty of attractive women in central Texas, although Rita had to admit she hadn’t seen any others who dyed the tips of their hair pink or had their eyeliner tattooed on.

“First of all, honey, we’re all hayseeds here in Skunk Crossing. Second, he’s good-looking enough to make the cows give ice cream instead of milk, so if he gawks at you, enjoy it. Go on, now, shoo.” Idabelle waved her out of the kitchen into the cozy coffee shop.

At three o’clock on a Monday afternoon, the dozen tables were less than half-filled. Rita took as deep a breath as she could, given her advanced state of nasal congestion, and strolled at a leisurely pace across the black-and-white tile floor.

Waitressing was her second least favourite thing to do, just ahead of scrubbing floors. At twentysix, she’d hoped never to have to fall back on either one again.

Much as she liked Idabelle, she wasn’t thrilled to be stuck here in this tiny town. The Black-andWhite Café, with its fake red carnations on every table, might smell tantalisingly of bacon and maple syrup, but it was a long way from her budding career as a Broadway actress and singer. Well, okay, Off Off Broadway, but she was working her way up. Rita had planned to beef up her résumé and her bank account with a month long stint at a dinner theatre in San Antonio. Problem was, her rattletrap car had taken its final curtain call en route, stranding her in the middle of nowhere. 427

When she called the dinner theatre producer, he’d informed her he had a policy against advancing money. He’d go with local talent, he’d said, and hung up. Chapter Two Since Rita’s theatre friends were as broke as she was, she’d had to rely on her waitressing skills. Thank goodness the gruff but kindhearted Idabelle had rented her a cheap room at the bed-andbreakfast and hired her on at the café. Even after three weeks, though, she still couldn’t afford the expensive parts her car needed.

Rita whipped out her pad as she approached the well-built man who sat fiddling with the ketchup bottle as if he couldn’t wait to douse something with it.

In his late twenties, he had a rangy, rough-hewn look, with melting brown eyes and hair slightly darker than Rita’s used to be before she reinvented herself as a blonde. The cowboy clothes were low-key and definitely well worn.

If she were casting a rodeo movie, she’d give him the part of the muscle-bound champion. Or, better yet, a nonspeaking role where all he had to do was drape himself picturesquely across a saddle.

“Hi, I’m Rita,” she said. “What can I get you?”

“Well, I’d like some hotcakes and…” The man looked up from his menu and stopped with his mouth open.

His gaze traveled up her figure as if peeling away the frilly white apron and black dress. The guy probably had an X-ray imagination, but then, what sex-starved backwoods Romeo didn’t?

“Like what you see?” Rita meant to be sardonic, but her tongue felt like an Olympic skater trying to perform a triple axel on ice cubes. To her dismay, the words sounded sincere.

“Honey, I sure do,” he said.

She had to admit, she’d asked for that. “What’ll you have with your hotcakes?”

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“I don’t suppose you’re available?”

Rita gave him credit for delivering that ancient line as if it were fresh. He got extra credit for the nice, even teeth, too. Somewhere along the line he’d collided with either a good orthodontist or an exemplary set of genes. “Afraid not. As you can see, I’m working.”

“Nobody works all the time.” The guy’s smile was such an intriguing blend of cockiness and hope that she almost smiled back.

She’d better get her attitude together or she’d never survive when she got back to New York. “I work every chance I get. There are bills to pay.” No point in going into none-of-his-business details. “You want hash browns or grits?” Chapter Three “Grits would be fine.” Without taking his eyes off her, he handed her his menu and the ketchup bottle.

“You can keep that,” Rita said.

He took the menu back.

“The ketchup,” she said.

“Sorry.” The man shook his head at his mistake. “I finished a cattle drive in Montana last week. I nearly forgot how it feels to eat in a restaurant.”

A cattle drive. So that explained the lean physique and the 110-percent sheer maleness of the man. “Just don’t spit tobacco on the floor. The management frowns on it.”

“If I promise not to, will you take in a movie with me tonight? A little female companionship might help to civilise me.” He leaned back in his chair and gazed at her invitingly. The man had guts, she conceded. And a thick hide, since she’d already told him no.

It was the wrong moment for Rita’s nose to get ticklish, because it cut off her natural inclination 429

to put the guy in his corn-pone-eating place. Also, it looked bad if you sneezed on a customer, so she held it until her eyes watered. There was nothing worse than having a cold in August, she thought miserably.

“That’s all right,” said the stud, misunderstanding. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I know I’m a stranger in town, but there’s nothing to be afraid of. My name’s Owen Ryder. I inherited the Twin Star Ranch from my uncle, Charley Ryder. I bet he used to come in here a lot to see a pretty girl like you.”

“No doubt.” Although Rita knew old Charley had died before she’d arrived in Skunk Crossing, she found herself reluctant to tell Owen any details, including the fact that she was a stranger here herself. “I’ll get your coffee,” she said, and made a getaway into the kitchen.

“Your cheeks are burning,” Idabelle told her.

Rita slapped down the order. “That guy is so full of cow manure, he shouldn’t be allowed off the range.” Chapter Four The café owner thumped a ball of dough onto a flour-sprinkled cloth and began kneading it for all she was worth. Her homemade bread was so popular, she could hardly keep enough on hand. “I’d be pleased as punch if a man like that took a shine to me. But then, I’m not some big-city woman.”

“Here’s the funny part. He thinks I’m a shy local girl.” Rita chuckled. “Maybe I’ll let him keep on believing it.”

Idabelle picked up the order form and squinted at it. “That’s strange.”

“What is?”

“What you wrote down,” said her boss. “Hotcakes, great teeth, guts.”

“That’s grits,” Rita said. “Forget the teeth. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

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“I do.” Idabelle made a kissing noise as she turned to pour batter for the flapjacks.

Rita grabbed a pot of coffee and a mug. “I never thought anything of the sort,” she said. “Not about that cowboy.”

They were ships passing in the night. Prairie schooners, Rita corrected herself, and went out to pour Owen some coffee.

With a little luck, maybe she’d spill some down his pants and scald his brains. Chapter Five By the time Owen finished his flapjacks, he’d reluctantly concluded that this stunning waitress had no intention of going on a date with him. Maybe she already had a boyfriend or, more likely, two or three.

He wasn’t the type to give up easily, though, not when he saw something he really wanted. And he liked everything about Rita, from the pink-edged blond hair to eyes so blue they set off a stampede among his red blood cells. He liked her spirit, too.

It was no use worrying about the fact that he didn’t plan to stay in Skunk Crossing, Texas. It would take him months to fix up the ranch he’d inherited so he could sell it for top dollar. As usual in a new place, he’d hang around until he found himself waking up at night raring to pack his bags and move on.

Since he was a teenager, Owen had been driven to search for something he couldn’t name, something that would satisfy him completely, something that probably didn’t exist. He hadn’t found it in the army or at any of half a dozen cities around the West and he knew he wasn’t going to find it in this middle-of-nowhere town.

In the meantime, if beautiful Miss Rita didn’t want to date him, he’d find another way to get to know her. In fact, he had it right in his pocket.

She stopped by again, smelling of the cherry cough syrup he’d seen her swallowing a minute ago, and slapped his bill on the table. “You can stay as long as you want, cowboy, but I’m off.”

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“I thought you worked such long hours you didn’t have time to date,” Owen teased, and then held up his hand to stop the sharp retort she was obviously fixing to launch. ”If you don’t want to go out with me, that’s fine.”

“Glad to hear it.” She had a funny accent, he noticed, but that was probably due to her cold.

“If you need money like you said, how come you’re not working the dinner shift? I’ve heard that usually pays better than lunch,” he said.

“I don’t have enough seniority to get that shift.” She released an impatient breath. Chapter Six “You must hate sitting around with nothing to do when you’ve got all those bills to pay,” Owen said. “Look at what I was about to take over to the Crossing Chronicle.” From his pocket, he unfolded the ad he’d planned to run in the local weekly.

Rita planted one hand on her hip while she read it. Man, she looked great from every angle, Owen thought.

He knew he was playing with fire. A small-town lady like her would expect her man to stick around. Well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

“A housekeeper.” Her nose wrinkled. “You couldn’t pay me enough to scrub your floors.”

That old ranch house needed a lot more than scrubbing. He’d be willing to play it by ear, though, just to have Rita on the premises. “I’ll do the heavy work myself. Mostly the place needs a woman’s touch,” he improvised.

“Do I look like Martha Stewart to you?”

“Honey, you look like a movie star to me,” he said.

Rita thrust the paper into his hand. When they touched, her skin burned against his palm, sending his masculine instincts slamming to attention. 432

“You didn’t mention a salary,” she said.

“It’s hourly.” Although he’d meant to offer eight dollars, Owen had a feeling she’d laugh in his face. Ten probably wouldn’t do it, either. Mentally, he did a quick calculation of the number of hours involved and compared it to his bank balance. No point in haggling, he decided. “Would twenty an hour interest you?”

Those enormous blue eyes swept over him like a vacuum cleaner. Coming to a decision, she nodded. “Okay. I can only work in the evenings, though. And my car’s busted. That’s what I need money for.”

It surprised him that one of her beaux hadn’t volunteered to do the job. What was wrong with the men in this town, forcing a woman to work extra hard when all she needed was a few repairs? Chapter Seven “I was a mechanic in the army,” Owen said. “I’ll haul your car out to the ranch and fix it myself. No charge.”

“It needs parts.”

“I’ll order them sent to my place. It won’t take long.” He might stretch it out by a few weeks, Owen reflected, trying to ignore a twinge of conscience. They needed time to get to know each other. “I’ll drive you to and from town.”

Rita eyed him dubiously. “You’d better not have any smart ideas about getting me alone on your ranch. You pull any funny stuff, buster, and I’ll overhaul your transmission myself.”

He whistled. “Your mama must have fed you hot chilies for breakfast!” Moving to close the deal, Owen added, “Why don’t we go fetch your car right now? I’ve got a tow bar on my pickup.”

She shook her head. “I’ll start tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why’s that?” The prospect of a delay made him edgy. Patience had never been Owen’s strong suit.

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“First, I’m going to check you out,” she said.

“I never lived around here. But sure, go ahead. Uncle Charley probably told people a few things about me.” He’d never broken the law and he’d only gotten drunk a few times in his younger years, so Owen wasn’t worried about what she might learn.

“If you come up clean, I’ll see you tomorrow. And for twenty bucks an hour plus free car repair, I’ll even scrub your floors.” Before he could frame a reply, Rita’s shapely bottom sashayed across the restaurant and out of sight.

For once in his life, Owen stayed where he was, held fast by pure masculine appreciation. Chapter Eight Rita stood in the doorway, gaping at the shambles inside the ranch house. When she’d agreed to work for Owen, she hadn’t figured on needing a bulldozer, a crane, and most likely a game warden before she could get into his home.

In one corner, cobwebs thick enough to catch a buffalo hung from an upright piano. So much paint had peeled from the walls that she could only guess at their colour, and the scarred coffee table listed sharply to starboard.

“Sorry about the mess.” Owen gazed around ruefully. “I didn’t realise it was this bad. Guess I was paying more attention to the rest of the spread.”

“Don’t tell me you sleep in here!”

“I sleep out in the trailer,” he said. “That’s where my uncle must have stayed the past few years, too, judging by the looks of this place. I guess he was in worse shape than he let on. If he’d told me, I’d have come and helped him.”

“I don’t know where to start,” Rita protested, even as her brain began organising a rescue operation. Messy though it was, this house could have swallowed half a dozen overcrowded apartments like the ones where she’d grown up in New York with her mother and her aunt’s family.

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Her dreams had kept her sane. Dreams of onstage glory. Dreams of wealth and vast Fifth Avenue apartments.

Of course, she’d matured since then. In singing and acting, she’d discovered not an avenue to wealth - far from it - but a way to live in the moment, to be truly herself. And as soon as she got her car fixed, she’d be heading back to the life she loved.

“I’ll tell you what,” Owen said. “There’s fence posts to mend and the barn to paint, but I’ll work in here with you until we get things straightened. I promised you no heavy lifting and I meant it.”

To demonstrate, he hoisted the broken coffee table, carted it to the front door, and heaved it into the yard, where it landed with a crash. In the summer heat, his plaid shirt clung to his torso, etching the muscles. When he turned to face her, Rita’s fingers itched to trace their outlines.

“Okay, let’s start with…” She paused, seeing a feathery black-and-white tail wave into view behind an ottoman. What a pretty cat, was her first thought, right before understanding dawned. The nearby town hadn’t been named Skunk Crossing for nothing.

That was when Rita screamed. Chapter Nine Rita’s close encounter with the skunk, which Owen had lured outside using an old bag of cat food, was only the first of her adventures. During the next week, she discovered exactly how badly his late uncle Charley had neglected the ranch house.

There were piglets rooting in the laundry room. Kittens mewling in a doorless kitchen cabinet. An owl nesting in the attic.

For twenty dollars an hour and the chance to get her car fixed so she could leave Skunk Crossing, Texas, she was more than willing to play Dr. Dolittle during the off hours from her waitress job. Besides, the kittens were cute, the pigs had personality, and the owl fascinated her with its knowing stare.

She was almost sorry when it departed for parts unknown.

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“We’ll need to find homes for these,” she said on Saturday as she knelt in front of the barn stall where she’d just moved the little cats. The mother, whom Owen had told her was named Patches, meowed and rolled over for a tummy scratch. “Unless you plan to keep them.” She rubbed the soft fur.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what to do with them.” Owen glanced down from the loft, where he’d been pitching moldy hay out the hay doors. The chaff in the air clogged Rita’s sinuses, which had barely recovered from her head cold. Even so, she caught a tantalising whiff of aftershave lotion and tangy male exertion.

In the August heat, sweat gleamed on Owen’s tanned, bare torso above low-riding jeans. There was something almost irresistible about a well-built man with his shirt off, Rita thought.

Absently, she plucked her low-necked blouse away from her steamy skin and then realized she’d just given him a clear view down her shirt.

He was a big boy. He could handle it, she mused, then checked upward and realized he’d grown even bigger since the last time she looked. Well, that was his problem.

“That’s a terrific sty you built for the piglets,” she said, hoping he hadn’t noticed the direction of her gaze. “You’ve got great carpentry skills.”

“I’ve worked on ranches most of my life,” he said. “You’ve got to be your own construction worker, mechanic, vet, whatever it takes.”

It was on the tip of Rita’s tongue to suggest that he’d be handy at building stage sets. She bit back the words. Chapter Ten For reasons she couldn’t explain even to herself, she still hadn’t wised him up to the fact that she was a stranded actress from New York instead of the local girl he assumed her to be.

She’d even caught herself softening her accent without meaning to. Thank goodness he didn’t get into town much or know anyone who might gossip about her.

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Of course, Owen hadn’t shared with her the fact that he planned to sell off this ranch rather than settling down. She’d learned about it by putting two and two together. At the restaurant, Idabelle had recalled old Charley saying that his nephew had a bad case of wanderlust.

Suzette, the local real estate broker, had mentioned Owen asking how much ranches were selling for.

Rita wondered if he was keeping it secret because he figured a small-town lady was more likely to get involved with a man who might marry her. If he only knew that she ran away screaming any time a man tried to tie her down, he might do something about that excitement of his, something she wasn’t sure she would mind.

“Where were you stationed in the army?” she asked. They’d been labouring so hard all week, they’d had little chance to talk about anything more personal than whether to clean the curtains or burn them.

“In Germany,” he said. “After I got out, I fixed cars at a garage in Boise for a while. Working indoors makes me feel like I’m in prison, so I gave it up.”

From the corner of her eye, Rita spotted a dust mouse from her morning’s work in the kitchen clinging to her hair and finger-combed it out. At least the kitchen was clean now, although it still needed painting.

Despite its condition, it felt luxurious after the kitchenette in the Manhattan flat she shared with three other actresses.

“What would you have done if you hadn’t inherited the Twin Star spread?” she asked.

“I was thinking about heading for California.” Owen slid down the ladder from the loft, his boots planted on either side as if he were a fireman scooting down a pole. At the bottom, he opened the cooler, took out two colas and tossed her one. “They’ve got ranches out there, I hear, although not as many as there used to be.”

“What’s so special about California?” After wiping her hands on her jeans, Rita popped the top and took a swig. It was so wonderfully cool that she pressed it to the valley between her breasts.

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“Nothing, except it’s a place I haven’t been.” His can uplifted over his mouth, Owen glimpsed what she was doing and spilled soda down his front.

“Hey! There’s a refreshing idea!” Rita teased.

Spluttering, he tried to brush off the sticky liquid. “Rita, didn’t your mama ever tell you not to distract a man when he’s drinking?” Chapter Eleven “You find this distracting?” she asked archly, and pressed the can between her breasts again.

His sharp intake of breath sent a delicious shiver down her stomach into private places. “I know you’re working for me, and I’m not the kind of guy to take advantage of a woman,” he said.

“But?” she challenged.

“Maybe we ought to take advantage of each other.” His eyes hooded, he set down his soda and shifted toward her.

Rita fought a rapid battle with her better judgment and lost. Instead of heading for the open door, she set her own can on top of the cooler.

Owen’s work-roughened hands caught her shoulders gently. He angled her toward him, scorching her with a hungry gaze. Tipping her chin up lightly with his fingers, he brushed a kiss across her mouth, tilted his head and probed more deeply.

Mesmerised, Rita felt her breasts swell and her knees melt as he gathered her against him. Somehow she’d expected a cowboy to be rougher, quick to pull her onto the fresh hay piled on the floor and nearly as fast as a New York male to whip off his pants. Even though she’d invited their embrace, she’d been prepared to squirm her way free.

Instead, Owen seemed to enjoy every simmering moment as he ran one hand through her blond hair and cradled her cheek against his palm. Taking his time, he trailed his attention down to the vee of her blouse, where he worked a button to reveal more of her cleavage.

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“You sure are lovely,” he said. “Fresh and sweet.”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t turned heads from Montana to…” What was some other Western state? Rita wondered. “…wherever.”

“I’ve had a few girlfriends,” Owen admitted. “There’s something different about you, though. Colours seem brighter when you’re around.”

“You’re full of pan drippings,” Rita shot back. Pan drippings? Where had that phrase come from? Chapter Twelve Owen chuckled. “I’m hot, all right. And so are you.” Talking didn’t hinder his talented hands, she noticed as his thumbs circled her nipples inside her bra. Ripples of pleasure radiated into her marrow, making it hard to remember that she needed to call a halt.“I’d say we’re getting a little too hot to handle.” Catching his wrists, Rita gave them a tug.

Instead of pulling away, Owen bent down and put his mouth where his thumbs had been a moment before. Rita knew she ought to object. And she was going to, any minute now.

That was the last rational thought she had before they sank onto the pile of hay together. ****** What on earth had she let herself in for? Rita mused as she lay half-submerged in hay and glowing with satisfaction. Next to her, Owen released a contented sigh.

His hard body looked so appealing that she almost forgot her doubts about what they’d just done. The man must spend a lot of time in the sun with his shirt off, Rita reflected, because he had a tan to put a surfer to shame, not to mention a build that would bring instant, envious silence to any gym he cared to ramble through.

Outside the barn, the August daylight was fading, leaving a mist of Texas heat. It would be easy to lie here forever. Or to go on doing what she was doing day after day, working mornings at the café and, after hours, helping fix up Owen’s ranch house. Was it really so important to hurry back to New York?

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The hay tickled Rita’s nose and she sneezed. She found her jeans on the ground and pulled out a tissue left over from her recently defunct head cold.

Speaking of pockets, that reminded her of what Owen had produced from his: a condom. Great idea, of course, except that it emphasised that he was a stud. Also, she recalled, he still hadn’t disclosed the fact that he planned to sell the ranch. Chapter Thirteen Like Rita’s father, who’d abandoned his family when Rita was ten, he gave only the illusion of being reliable. The sooner she got on with her life, the better.

That was impossible with her car out of commission. Come to think of it, he’d made no appreciable progress on fixing the thing in the past week.

“Owen?” Rita said.

He rolled over, took one look at her naked body and groaned. “Honey, you can ask me anything you want and I swear, I’ll do it.”

“I’m not in the mood for any more…”

“If you want, I’ll pick you up and carry you to the water tank for a swim. Or what do you say we stroll inside in the altogether and I’ll cook you a Spanish omelette for dinner?” His rich brown eyes widened hopefully.

Rita took a swig from her now-warm can of cola. “What I was wondering was when you expect those car parts to get here from San Angelo.”

“Car parts?” He looked baffled, as if the dirt-streaked white sedan weren’t sitting a few dozen feet outside the barn, where he’d unhitched it from his pickup.

“For my Oldsmobile,” she prompted.

“Oh, right.” Pulling his thoughts together with visible effort, the temporary rancher sat up and 440

reached for his own soft drink. “They’re on back order. There’s a shortage of parts for your model.”

“Have you tried eBay?” Rita asked sweetly.

He choked on the soda. It sounded as if it had gone up his nose.

“That’s on the Internet,” she said with pretended innocence. “Don’t they have that in Montana?”

“I, uh, forgot about eBay.” Owen had the grace to look embarrassed. “Guess you’re way ahead of me, as usual.” Chapter Fourteen Judging by the crimson stain on his cheeks, Rita figured the parts had either already arrived or were likely to be here any day. She hoped she’d shamed him into installing them fast.

His next question caught her off guard. “What’s your rush, anyway? I’m driving you to and from town, and you can walk anywhere you need to go in Skunk Crossing.”

Rita’s hand tightened on the soft-drink can. Until now, she’d let Owen assume she was a local lady without actually lying to him. She hated to spoil the moment after they’d made love by telling him the truth, but what was the alternative? ****** Owen had never seen a woman so unselfconscious about being naked. Or so gorgeous, either. It was a winning combination.

From the way Rita’s pretty mouth was working, though, he could tell his question had hit on a sore point. He finally organised his thoughts enough to reflect that she hadn’t volunteered much about herself this past week since she’d started working for him part-time. Such as, why did she live at the bed-and-breakfast, and where was her family?

He hoped the answers didn’t involve a man, particularly not one who had a claim on her. Such as a husband she’d run away from.

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“I’m not from around here.” Stretching out her long legs, Rita leaned against the barn wall, letting her pink-tipped blond hair tumble around her bare shoulders. “In fact, I was just passing through.”

If he hadn’t been so absorbed in male fantasies every time she was around, Owen realised, it might have dawned on him once her cold cleared up that she didn’t have a Texas accent. “Where is it exactly that you live?” Chapter Fifteen “New York,” she said.

“Upstate?” He’d heard there were farms in that region. Wineries, too.

“City,” Rita corrected.

His brain shifted gears with a subliminal grinding noise. He had to cancel the small-town assumptions and substitute - what?

“Never been there,” Owen admitted. “What sort of work do you do?” Thinking of her job at the Black-and-White Café, he added, “Waitressing?”

“Only when I have to,” Rita said. “I’m an actress and a singer.”

“Like in musicals?” he heard himself say through a sheen of unreality.

Sure, his new girlfriend was beautiful enough to be on stage. Men would probably pay just to look at her. But an actress? Never in a million years had Owen expected to meet such an exotic creature in Skunk Crossing.

“Exactly,” she said. “Mostly I’ve worked Off Off Broadway. I was on my way to a dinner theatre job in San Antonio when I got stuck.”

“Does that pay much?”

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“No,” she said.

He should have figured that, since she’d been eager to clean his rundown house for twenty bucks an hour. “I’d love to hear you sing.” Chapter Sixteen “Get that piano tuned and you can count on it.” Flashing him a dazzling smile, Rita scrambled to her feet and picked up her itsy-bitsy underwear.

“Going somewhere?” He hoped not.

“I’m starving and you promised me an omelette,” she said. “Any chance of eating soon?”

“You bet!” Owen hurried to his feet and grabbed his jeans.

“I never saw anybody take so long to get dressed. You move about as fast as rush-hour traffic,” Rita teased, and marched out of the barn without a backward glance.

Struggling to pull on his clothes, Owen hopped after her toward the ranch house. He didn’t want to let this lady out of his sight.

He’d figured Rita for someone special from the moment he laid eyes on her, but he’d never imagined anything like this. Owen had lived in a lot of places in the ten years since he’d turned eighteen. One thing he’d discovered about his girlfriends, though, no matter where they lived, was that the better he got to know them, the more alike they seemed.

Rita was different. Full of surprises and quick-witted, too. He suspected it would take one heck of a long time to get bored with her. Chapter Seventeen Owen proved to be a good cook, judging by his omelette. “Is this one of the things you cooked over a campfire during your cattle drive?” Rita asked as they carried their empty plates to the sink. “If it is, I might sign on.”

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Her body still hummed.

“We sure could have used an entertainer like you up there in Montana.” As Owen washed the dishes, Rita found herself fascinated by his powerful arms and hands, now that she knew exactly what he could do with them. “It’s beautiful country but after a while, I got tired of all that wideopen space with nobody around.”

“Where I grew up in New York, we knew from the sounds and smells what our neighbours ate for breakfast and which TV shows they watched.” It was a relief for Rita to be able to talk about her childhood, now that she’d admitted she wasn’t a local girl. “My mum and I had great scenery out the bedroom window, too - a brick wall. It had a funny blotch on it. I used to imagine it was a secret sign from my fairy godmother.”

“A secret sign about what?” Owen scrubbed the glasses with a practiced hand. The last fellow Rita had dated had never used anything but disposables, even his knives and forks. He’d been a one-man environmental disaster. A disaster in several other departments as well.

“A sign that my father was coming back.” She could hardly believe she was confiding this. Something about the ranch house, despite its years of hard use, made her feel at home. Something about the man made her feel she could trust him, too, although she knew perfectly well he was a confirmed wanderer at heart. “He left when I was little.”

“You lived alone with your mother?” After Owen tossed her a terry towel, Rita set to work drying.

“I wouldn’t call it alone. We shared a two-bedroom place with my aunt and her kids. She‘s a widow.” Rita loved her family and wished she could summon more nostalgia for happy times in the flat. Instead, all she recalled was taking refuge on the fire escape, dreaming of becoming a Broadway star.

Or, better yet, of having her father come home and never leave again.

“At least you probably had friends around.” Owen dried his hands on another towel. “It seemed like as soon as I made a friend, we moved on. My father was always losing his job and going in search of a new one. I think he liked it that way. My mum didn’t, though.”

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“Where are they now?” Rita didn’t object when he took her hand and led her outside. Darkness had fallen while they ate, and a thousand stars blazed across the sky, brighter than she’d ever seen.

“My dad died while I was in the army. Mum’s remarried and lives in Tucson,” he said. “I want to show you something, Rita. Look up there.”

He pointed at the sky. Not knowing the names of the constellations, she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking at. The important thing was that Owen cared enough to show it to her. “It’s beautiful, whatever it is.”

“Look at that star. Not those faint ones. The bright one, right there.” He indicated a part of the heavens that glittered with lights. “My daddy used to call it the Ryder Wandering Star.

He said he’d discovered it and one of these days he was going to officially put our name on it.” Chapter Eighteen Rita pretended to study it, although she still couldn’t tell which one he meant. “It’s an airplane,” she said at last.

“It is not!”

“Give me a minute,” she said. “If I study it long enough, I can tell you - I knew it!”

“What?”

“It’s a Southwest Airlines flight to L.A. with a stopover in Las Vegas.”

Owen let out a whoop of laughter and caught Rita in a hug. “You’ve got to be the most original woman I ever met!”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, cowboy,” she drawled. Being held against his broad chest gave her a warm, secure sense.

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Rita was about to suggest they go try out the new bed he’d installed in the house when she felt something brush against her leg. Something small and yielding and…alive.

She let out a squawk. “What is that? Tell me it’s the cat!”

Owen bent down. A whimpering noise greeted him, followed by a sharp yap. “It’s a puppy,” he said. “Half-grown and half-starved, too.”

Rita knelt beside him. Her eyes had adjusted to the moonlight enough to make out the nubbly fur on the darting form as the little dog jumped, desperate for attention. “At least he’s friendly.”

Owen’s expression sobered. “People who get tired of their pets sometimes dump them along the road. They figure the little critters will find a home on a ranch. I wish they could see how sad most of those animals end up.” Chapter Nineteen Rita ran her hand across the matted fur. The puppy licked her eagerly. “He shines with love,” she said. “Like a baby.”

“I wouldn’t figure a performer would have much use for babies.” Owen sounded amused. “Unless you’re planning on starting your own children’s chorus, like in The Sound of Music.”

Maria von Trapp on a ranch? Maria von Trapped was more like it! A shudder ran through Rita. She didn’t know why she’d mentioned babies. She’d seen how tough it was for women like her mother and her aunt when they were left to raise those babies by themselves.

“No babies for me,” she said. “I’ve got to keep my figure in shape for my next performance.”

“Do you have a play scheduled?” Disappointment roughened Owen’s tone as he knelt to scratch the puppy.

“Not exactly,” she admitted. “A friend of mine who’s done some producing wants to cast me in his next play. Pete’s trying to pull together the financing.” He was one of the people she’d called when her broken-down car stranded her in Skunk Crossing. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had any money to lend her. 446

“What kind of friend?” Owen rose abruptly.

Was that jealousy she detected? “Don’t worry, he’s already got a girlfriend and he’s not my type.” You are, Rita thought. If only you lived in New York. But then you wouldn’t be you. “That’s why I need my car fixed. If you can’t do it, I’ll…”

“Sure I can.” He ducked his head. “I put off ordering those parts, hoping you’d stick around longer. I’m sorry about that.”

“No problem.” If he hadn’t delayed her departure, they might not have made love today. Rita knew she would cherish the memory for the rest of her life.

“If that fellow offers you a role, I don’t want to be responsible for you missing your chance,” Owen said ruefully. “I’ve always wished I could figure out what I want from life. I keep hoping that the next place I go, I’ll run into it. You’re lucky to have your dream all cut out and pasted on the wall where you can look at it.”

“That’s an interesting way of putting it,” she said. Chapter Twenty The little pooch let out a high-pitched bark. Owen hoisted the puppy in his arms. “Let me put him in the utility room so he doesn’t wander off, and then I’ll drive you back to town.”

As Rita watched him cut through the darkness toward the lighted house, she almost called out to say that she would stay tonight, after all. She stopped herself. They’d already grown too close for comfort.

She had to go back to Skunk Crossing and, as soon as Owen repaired her Olds, to New York. Today, with their glorious lovemaking in the barn and quiet moment under the stars, had been an island in time, one she probably would never visit again.

Whether she wanted to or not.

******

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Owen had the parts for Rita’s car delivered the following Tuesday. The next two afternoons, while she fixed up the spare bedrooms, he worked on the Olds. It gave him an excuse to stay close to the ranch house, where he could watch her through the windows.

He’d never seen a woman look as good as Rita with a hammer in one hand and paint spattering her T-shirt and jeans. He wished she hadn’t been so insistent on keeping her distance since they made love on Saturday.

If only he could persuade her to stay for another month or two! By then, Owen figured, he’d probably be ready to move on himself. Although inheriting his uncle’s ranch and fixing it up to sell had temporarily given him a purpose, he knew that sooner or later the open road would beckon with its promise of excitement.

Still, he liked being here a lot better now that the fences stood straight, the barn and house bore new coats of paint, and the place smelled of fresh hay. He’d even allowed himself to name some of the animals, including the stray puppy, Baby.

Heck, if Owen ever did want to settle down, he’d probably buy a ranch a lot like this one. Even more important, he’d want to come home every night to a woman as much like Rita as possible. But he’d learned over the years that staying in one place simply wasn’t in his nature.

On Friday morning, he woke up with an idea. Rita wasn’t coming to work for him today because Idabelle needed her to cover the dinner shift at the café. Owen had a whole day and a half to execute his plan.

If he pulled it off, he was sure she’d be back in his arms by Saturday night. Chapter Twenty-One “He’s got it bad,” Idabelle said when Rita came into the kitchen on Saturday to enjoy a cup of coffee at the end of her shift.

The Black-and-White Café had been crammed all morning with ranchers and their families in town to do some shopping. The crowd had barely thinned out by midafternoon.

“Who do you mean?” Slipping off her pumps, Rita propped her feet on a chair and wiggled her toes. She had half an hour to change into casual clothes before Owen picked her up. 448

“That cowboy from Montana,” said her good-natured boss. Although nearly seventy, she showed no signs of slowing down as she kneaded her bread dough. “That handsome fellow who pays you to hang around the Twin Star Ranch looking pretty.”

“You think that’s all I do?” Rita gave an unladylike snort. “I work so hard, my blisters have calluses.”

“You get satisfaction out of it, though,” the older woman said.

“I get satisfaction out of the money he pays me.” Curiosity nagged at her. “What makes you say he’s got it bad?”

“I’ve seen the shine on his face when he looks at you. He’s right around the corner from being in love.” Idabelle didn’t miss much. It was rumoured that she always knew when a townswoman got pregnant even before the woman’s husband did.

She was wrong about Owen, though.

“From what I hear, he’s a rambling man. Sooner or later, he’ll be on his way.” Rita tapped some artificial sweetener into her coffee. “Not that I plan on sticking around, myself.” Chapter Twenty-Two “I’ve never known a rambling man who didn’t get his heart lassoed sooner or later.” Idabelle grinned. “Speak of the devil, there he is.”

Rita nearly fell off her chair. “He’s early!”

“Wait’ll you see what he’s driving,” said her boss.

Rita peered through the kitchen window. There it sat in all its glory, the car whose untimely breakdown had stranded her in Skunk Crossing in the first place. Owen had fixed it, washed off over a month’s accumulated dust, and waxed the white paint until it gleamed. “Fantastic!”

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Before running to greet him, she tugged her hair free from its clip and shook it out. “Where’s my purse? I need lipstick.”

Idabelle handed it to her. “Don’t bother with makeup, honey. You’re a knockout just as nature made you.”

She dug through the contents, pushing aside her cell phone and wadded tissues. No sign of the lipstick. At last, impatience won. “I’ll take your word for it. See you tonight!”

As she flew out of the room, Rita heard Idabelle say, “I wouldn’t count on it.”

Through the rolled-down car window, sunlight picked out golden highlights in Owen’s brown hair. His grin when he spotted her was as wide as Texas. “How do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful!”

“Hop in.”

She hesitated. “I have to change first. I’m not dressed for painting.”

“Forget working.” Owen beamed at her. “We’re taking the evening off to celebrate your car’s rebirth. I’m barbecuing dinner, plus I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“You don’t have to ask twice.” Rita slid into the passenger seat. Chapter Twenty-Three She loved having a man cook for her. As for the surprise, it was probably something silly. Owen had been claiming he could teach one of the piglets, Flirty, to walk backward.

Despite Rita’s scoffing, maybe he’d succeeded.

Foot on the gas, Owen shot off so fast she barely had time to fasten her seat belt. A chicken scrambled out of their path as they roared along the main street of Skunk Crossing. 450

As they zipped past the general store and the tiny post office, people turned to stare, then waved. Rita waved back. She recognised the faces of customers from the café and friends of Idabelle’s. She’d heard their life stories and supposed that, by now, they’d heard hers, too.

Soon they were speeding through open land, where the earthy smells and far horizon made Rita feel at home. Only five weeks ago, when she’d first arrived, she’d felt as if she were driving through an alien landscape.

When they turned onto the Twin Star Ranch, she saw that the welcome sign had been repainted and the double stars, hanging from a frame overhead, glittered with gold paint. “Is that the surprise?”

“What do you take me for?” Owen said. “When I promise a surprise, I don’t mean a little touchup to a sign.”

“Sorry.” Rita stared ahead through the windshield, more eager than she’d expected to be to get back to the ranch after a day and a half’s absence.

The outbuildings, the barn, and the house baked peacefully in the August sunshine as Owen rounded a grove of mesquite trees. Rita’s spirits soared. After a lifetime of cramped quarters, she loved the sprawling expansiveness of the place.

“Where is it?” she asked.

“Inside.” Owen halted at the foot of the walkway.

Without waiting for him to open her car door, a polite habit that had startled Rita the first time he did it, she hurried out. The front door was unlocked, as always. Chapter Twenty-Four When she stepped into the house, she inhaled the familiar scents of lemon oil and cedar. It was hard to believe she’d spent two weeks fixing this place up, and now she was leaving. After all, she’d only been sticking around until her car was ready.

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Then she saw it. “The piano!” With the wood oiled and a broken key replaced, the upright had been moved from the corner to a place of prominence. “Don’t tell me you got it tuned!”

“I had to fetch the piano teacher from Groundhog Station, and pay her plenty.” Standing behind Rita, Owen rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “You promised to sing for me before you leave.”

That was what this house lacked: music. Children, too, Rita reflected with a lump in her throat as, for a moment, she imagined two towheaded children peeking from behind the couch.

Now, why was she thinking about that? It must be her unconscious mind telling her something, she decided, and took her seat at the piano, already knowing what she was going to play. ****** Rita’s rich voice warmed the old ranch house, filling it with a nostalgia that brought tears to Owen’s eyes.

She’d chosen the song “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof. The emotion in her voice carried him into the scene of parents at a wedding, recalling the span of years as their children grew up and wondering how time had passed so quickly.

How many children had been raised in this house during the century since it was built? Owen wondered. How many more would reach maturity between these walls, and would any of them be his? Or was he destined to keep on moving, always searching for an elusive magic that remained beyond his reach?

As he watched Rita’s hands flow across the keys, Owen yearned to sit here forever, listening to her sing. Chapter Twenty-Five Rita had always figured that the only reason people cried at weddings was because marriage was such a disastrous idea. Like her father, most men didn’t stick around.

Yet she found herself wanting to trust Owen. Idabelle had been right. Love shone from his eyes as he listened to her singing.

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When Rita had performed onstage, the enthusiasm of the crowd had never matched what she saw on his face. His joy touched her more than any rush of applause ever had.

Maybe she’d been wrong about him.

People could change, and even a wanderer like Owen might not wander forever.

A sharp, electronic noise interrupted her playing. For a moment, Rita didn’t know what it was, and then recognition dawned. “My phone!” The darn thing hadn’t rung in days. She hadn’t missed it, either.

“Let it go,” Owen said.

“I can’t. Conditioned reflexes.” Digging the phone from the bottom of her purse, she flipped it open. “Hello?”

Her friend Pete’s voice vibrated with excitement. “Our funding came through. The theatre’s ours for a three-week run in October! Like I told you, you’ll love the part.”

She felt as if she’d missed something. “What part?”

“Didn’t you get my email?”

“I haven’t been checking my email.” Guiltily, she remembered the laptop computer sitting in her room, unused.

“It’s a play called Hard Scrabble,“ said the budding producer. “You play a farm wife who takes in a hired hand while her husband’s working in the city. There’s a strong sexual subtext and violence at the end. The critics will love it.” Chapter Twenty-Six Sex and violence? Rita heaved an inward sigh. “I don’t suppose there’s a happy ending?”

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“Are you kidding? Nobody does happy endings these days.”

Rita wanted a happy ending. Not only on stage, she realised suddenly. She wanted a real happy ending, and she wanted it right here in Skunk Crossing, Texas.

What she loved most about acting was the freedom from limits. Playing a role allowed her to shed her fears and inadequacies and become another person. Rita suddenly realised that she hadn’t missed that experience these past two weeks because, at the Twin Star Ranch, she’d been living life instead of acting it.

This was what Rita wanted, not to pretend she was a farm wife but to become one. And she could only do that by sharing her future with the man she loved. The problem was, she didn’t know whether he loved her, too.

“I’ll have to get back to you,” she told Pete.

“We’ve got a tight schedule,” he warned. “I don’t mean to pressure you but if you’re not available, I’ll have to recast the role.”

“It won’t take me long to figure this out,” Rita said. “I’ll call you back.”

“Twenty-four hours max,” Pete warned.

“I promise.”

When she clicked off, she saw Owen watching her with an unreadable expression. Could it be slow recognition that he didn’t want to lose her? Chapter Twenty-Seven “My friend offered me a part in a play,” Rita said. “A terrific part.”

His jaw worked and he ran his tongue across dry lips before saying, “Why didn’t you accept right off the bat?”

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Although Rita preferred to play it cool, she couldn’t afford to. She had to lay her cards on the table. “He wants me to play a woman who lives on a farm. But I don’t want to act like that character, Owen. I want to be her.”

If only Owen would nod eagerly, his face lighting up the way it had while she sang. Throwing himself onto his knees and pledging his undying love would work, too, Rita thought.

In a flat tone, he said, “You want to settle down here?”

“The idea crossed my mind.” Why wasn’t he throwing his arms around her, the idiot? Couldn’t he see that they had something special?

“I was hoping you’d stay for a while, but…” The words trailed off.

Disappointment knotted in Rita’s chest. While she’d been falling in love, Owen had merely been amusing himself.

She felt like a fool, and it hurt. “You’ll have to excuse me.” She heard the edge to her voice, and didn’t care. “We actresses tend to confuse fantasy with reality.”

“You sound angry.” Owen sat glued to his chair. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing I shouldn’t have expected.” Rita stuffed her cell phone into her purse and stood up. She hated feeling like a clingy woman, practically begging a man to marry her. Her, of all people! “Thanks for fixing my car. You can send my last week’s wages in care of Idabelle.”

“You’re leaving?” Finally, the man got to his feet and, for a moment, she thought he was going to block her path. Maybe she hoped he would.

But he didn’t. Chapter Twenty-Eight “You can hire someone local to finish my job,” she said. “I’m sure she’ll work for less than twenty bucks an hour.” 455

“I don’t want anyone else,” Owen said.

“There are other pretty girls in Skunk Crossing.” Rita headed for the door. “Just make sure your next girlfriend knows what the rules are. Of course, some of us know the rules, but we forget them anyway. It’s my own fault. So have a nice life, wherever you end up. California, that’s the next stop, isn’t it? Send me a postcard.”

Leaving him speechless, she hurried out to her car. Owen had left the keys in the ignition, because nobody ever stole a car out here in the middle of nowhere. Well, she was going back to New York, where people sometimes stole cars while you were still sitting in them.

It was just one more reason to be madder than fire at him. ****** That evening, the animals seemed unusually restless to Owen.

So was he.

At midnight, he was still lying awake, replaying his confrontation with Rita in his mind.

He should have said more. Done something. Promised her - what?

She’d caught him off guard with her admission that she wanted to stay on the ranch. Apparently she’d been hoping for a declaration of love and a proposal. The conversation had felt as if it were happening at jet speed while Owen lagged behind in a horse-drawn buggy.

He’d always imagined the future as a long road leading him toward some as-yet-undefined fulfillment. Until now, every woman he’d cared about had lost her sparkle before long and every place he’d lived, sooner or later, had grown wearying.

His chest tightened.

He didn’t want to lose Rita, but how could he be sure this time was different?

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How could he ask her to give up the opportunity she’d been waiting for when he was so uncertain? Chapter Twenty-Nine Far off on the highway, Owen heard a car passing. In the deep silence of the night, it sounded like Rita’s Oldsmobile.

Maybe it was her, setting off for New York. In a few more minutes, she’d be forever out of reach, his beautiful lady with her enchanting voice and a smile like sunrise over the plains.

Owen didn’t stop to think. He jumped up, threw a pair of coveralls over his pajamas and ran to his pickup.

By the time he jounced onto the highway, the car was long gone. If it was Rita, she had to be heading east, so he turned right and stepped on the gas.

Five miles later, the car grew larger and larger through the windshield. It was an Oldsmobile, all right, a dark green one instead of white.

To make sure she hadn’t painted it on a last-minute impulse, Owen drew close enough to see the license plates. They were from New Mexico, not New York.

He eased his foot off the gas, his heart thundering in his chest. Relief flooded him. Slowly, however, it shaded into alarm.

Sheer panic had taught him more than all the rationalisations in the world: He couldn’t bear to lose Rita.

The scary part was that maybe he already had. ****** “I’m real sorry you’re leaving,” Idabelle said as Rita loaded suitcases into her trunk on Sunday morning. “The café customers will be, too, when they find out.”

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“I’ll call you when I get home.” She hoped her makeup hid the traces of tears. “Come visit me sometime.”

“I’d love to see you in a play,” Idabelle said. “Be sure and send me your reviews.”

“Thanks for everything.” Rita gave her a hug. Chapter Thirty A familiar rattling made her swing around, her heart in her throat. A second later, Owen’s pickup jerked to a stop a few feet away and he climbed out, cowboy hat in hand.

Despite the lump in her throat, she loved seeing his muscular body and mischievous grin one more time.

From the truck came an assortment of animal noises. “What on earth?”

Owen lifted down the puppy. “Without you, Baby’s been crying all night.” The instant his feet touched the ground, the dog raced over and jumped at her knees. From a carrier, he retrieved Patches, who circled to give Baby a wide berth before rubbing against Rita’s calves. “The cat yowled something fierce, too.”

A sound that was half squeal and half snort issued from the truck bed. “Who else is in there?” she asked suspiciously.

“Flirty.” Gently, Owen set the piglet on the ground. “Come on, show Rita how you can walk in reverse.” He clapped his hands. After a hesitant moment, the little creature rocked back and stuck out one leg for balance. “You did it!” To Rita, he said, “See, I told you I could teach her!”

“Owen Ryder, what the heck are you doing?” Idabelle demanded.

“Setting the scene.” With a grin, he reloaded the animals into the truck, each in a separate compartment. “A major production needs a supporting cast, right?”

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Rita was in no mood for jokes. “If this is your idea of a farewell production, you can skip it. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.”

Fighting tears, she started toward her car. Halfway to the driver’s door, Owen caught her. His broad chest looked almost irresistible to lean on, but that was the point, Rita thought.

She couldn’t depend on him.

“There’s something I didn’t see until after you left.” Close to her ear, his deep voice vibrated directly into her core. “The Twin Star Ranch won’t mean anything with one of its stars gone.”

“Why should you care? You’re planning to sell it anyway,” she blurted. Chapter Thirty-One “You knew that?”

“I hear things,” Rita said. “Skunk Crossing is a small town.” “Okay, it’s true, I was planning to sell it.” In his earnestness, Owen talked faster than usual, although not up to New York speeds. “I’ve always had this restless yearning, as if there was something I’m meant to find and someplace I’m meant to be. I’ve been looking for those things all over the West.”

“And?” she prompted, almost afraid to breathe.

“It hit me last night that I was wrong,” he said. “There’s someone I’m meant to be with, and that person is you. Rita, I hope you’ll stay here, because I think we could both be happy at the ranch, but if you’re bound and determined to act in this play, then I’ll come with you.”

“To New York?” He couldn’t be serious!

“They need mechanics in Manhattan just like anywhere else, I’ll bet.”

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Finally, Rita dared to look directly into those honest brown eyes. “I’m not sure I get your point. What are you suggesting?”

“She’s right,” said Idabelle. “Quit beating around the bush, Owen.”

He ducked his head in embarrassment. “I forgot the most important part.” From his pocket, he plucked an old-fashioned ring. The square-cut diamond glimmered in the sunlight. “My uncle Charley bought this for the woman he loved, but they quarreled. He was too proud to admit he was wrong, so she went off and married someone else, and he spent his whole life alone. I don’t want to do that, Rita. I’m asking you to marry me and wear my ring. I promise to buy you a new one, whatever kind you like, as soon as I can save the money.”

The Texas sun warmed her as she gazed at the man waiting anxiously for her answer. “You know what?”

He shook his head and swallowed hard. “What?”

“I didn’t tell you the whole truth,” Rita said.

“How’s that?”

“You envied me because I knew what my dream was,” she said. “Well, I thought I did, but I was wrong. My dream isn’t the theatre. It’s this ranch with a cowboy who’s too sexy for his own good and a bunch of animals so mixed-up they fall in with your crazy schemes.”

A smile played uncertainly across his mouth. “I sure hope that’s your New York way of saying yes.”

“I knew there was a reason I hadn’t called Pete back yet about that acting job,” Rita said. “I guess it had something to do with hoping the man I love would figure out he loved me, too.” In case that wasn’t clear enough, she added, “That’s a yes.”

Owen threw back his head and whooped. Several passersby glanced in their direction. “I sure do love you, Miss Rita Coker!”

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“I’ll take that ring now.” As Owen slid it onto her finger, she admired the stone’s brilliant clarity. “I like it just the way it is. Old-fashioned things are the best.”

“I’m going inside and leave you two alone,” said Idabelle. “Congratulations, both of you.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Babcock,” said Owen.

As she watched her friend leave, Rita realised that everything she’d experienced in her twentysix years so far had been a prologue. Now the curtain was rising at last on the drama, or perhaps the comedy, that was to be her life.

With a sigh of contentment, she slipped into Owen’s arms, her heart swelling with music as Act One began.

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His Gambler Bride By Rebecca Winters We gave five authors from five different Harlequin and Silhouette series the same opening paragraph, and asked each of them to write the rest of the story. The result is five very distinctive individual stories that are compelling, engaging and, of course, romantic!

Chapter One (This is the opening paragraph the Harlequin.com editors gave to all five authors) "And the last bachelor up for bids is..." Alex tuned out the auctioneer’s voice and wondered for the millionth time how he’d gotten roped into this. A bachelor auction was definitely not his style — even on Valentine’s Day. But, he reminded himself, this was for a good cause. Tugging at the collar of his uniform, he shifted uneasily as the auctioneer continued his sales pitch. Should he smile? Pose? He just didn’t feel comfortable up on stage with a blinding spotlight shining on him. He hoped he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. The auctioneer was driving up the bids — but all Alex could hear was the roar of the crowd as women yelled out numbers and cheered each other on. Squinting into the lights, he tried to make out who was bidding on him, but to no avail. Then, before he knew it, the gavel sounded. He’d been sold! But to who...? With her fingers crossed behind her back, Charlotte Janene Willis, known to everyone as C.J., owner of the up–and–coming business Las Vegas Landscapes, waited by the auctioneer for black–haired Alex Curtis to approach the mike. Judging by the earsplitting din of voices and whistles coming from every woman packed into the ballroom of the Taj Mahal Hotel in Las Vegas, he was the favorite bachelor of the night. It came as no surprise to C.J. If you were female, you felt the pull of those dark, brooding good looks. The conservative navy suit and silk tie couldn’t hide his powerful six foot two physique. The rugged–looking, thirty–three–year–old golf course architect who headed Curtis–West Links Design, emitted an unconscious masculine sensuality that had been fatal to C.J. When he’d accepted her company’s bid on his latest project, one glance from those slate–blue eyes and she’d almost forgotten to breathe. That was two months ago. Since then they’d spent full weeks together walking around the property south of Las Vegas where one of the Strip’s hotel magnates planned to build the most fabulous golf course in the world. Expense was no object. He wanted the desert transformed into lakes, creeks, waterfalls, with hundreds of trees and shrubs in all varieties built into the landscape. The more time C.J. spent with Alex, the harder it was getting for her to maintain a professional facade around him. They worked in harmony as if they’d been associates for years. Already he’d made comments that he would like her company to supply the trees and shrubs for his next project in Palm Springs. Though thrilled at the prospect of working with him in the future, she wanted a lot more from him than that. 462

She wanted to fill his every need, day and night. She wanted to be the last woman in his life, with a ring on her finger to prove it. "Alex Curtis? Meet your new owner for the week, Ms. Charlotte Willis!" His eyes flared in stunned disbelief when he noticed C.J. in her usual business blazer and skirt standing next to the auctioneer. At least he didn’t look angry or disappointed. So far, so good. His secretary, Linda, was the person who’d happened to mention there was going to be a bachelor slave auction for charity at the Taj Mahal. Out of Alex’s hearing, C.J. had told his secretary he’d be the perfect bachelor to bring in a lot of money. That was all it took for Linda to sign him up, just as C.J. had secretly hoped she would. Now he was being led like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter. He wouldn’t know what hit him until it was far too late. That was the plan. "Charlotte must want you for her slave very badly to have paid ten thousand dollars for you," the host continued. "That’s the highest bid we’ve had all night! The research charity determined to help find a cure for Sudden Infant Death Syndrome will certainly be glad of such a big sum." The crowd of wound–up females responded with more cheers and clapping, even a few wolf whistles. With her heart galloping, C.J. walked in front of the host and rose on tiptoe to kiss Alex’s hot cheek. It was something she’d always wanted to do. The wonderful smell of the soap he’d used in the shower teased her nostrils. "Relax, Alex," she whispered against the slight rasp of his jaw. "I knew you were afraid some of your ex– girlfriends had heard about this and would bid for you, so I bailed you out. It’s almost over. Just keep smiling." "Thank heaven," he whispered back with fervency. "I don’t know what I’d do without you, C.J." She felt the tense rigidity leave his hard–muscled body. She happened to know he went to the local, exclusive gym before he went to work every morning. C.J. stepped away from him, determined that by the end of next week he’d be telling her he couldn’t live without her. The auctioneer said, "If you’ll exit the right side of the stage, there’s a limousine waiting to escort you to wherever Ms. Willis desires. Happy Valentine’s Night, you two!" More cheers and clapping accompanied them off the stage. C.J. walked ahead of Alex through several hallways and doors to the outside of the hotel, then climbed into the waiting stretch limo. He followed her in and with an audible sigh of relief, he shut the door. The chauffeur spoke through the intercom. "Where do you want to go?" 463

"Take me to my van, please. It’s a white one parked in the west lot. I’m in the furthest row away from the casino, north end." If the driver was surprised, he hid it well. "Very good." As the limo wound its way through the crowds of people, Alex raked a hand through his vibrant black hair. "I presume you used ten thousand dollars from the last draft I gave you for that shipment of trees. I’ll instruct the bank to issue you a check on Monday to make up the deficit." Her stomach muscles tautened. She’d taken the enormous risk of using her own hard–earned savings to buy him, but for the time being she’d let him think otherwise. Last week she’d heard him mutter this was all his secretary’s fault. He’d rather give ten thousand dollars to the charity outright than have to be a part of the slave auction. Glancing at his arresting profile through veiled eyes, she said, "If you hurry, you’ll still have time to make Angela Lowry’s valentine cocktail party. After you left my office this afternoon, she called trying to find you. To quote her, ’I’m expecting him no matter how late!’" He scowled. "I already told her I wasn’t free tonight. She assumes too much and should never have phoned your office. But since you’ve saved me from two close calls tonight, the least I can do is take you to dinner. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving." The last thing C.J. wanted was to be the recipient of a duty dinner where all he did was talk business. The fact that he seemed to want her opinion more and more these days before making a critical decision should have pleased her. It did please her, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. "May I take a rain check? I already have plans for tonight." He darted a moody glance at her. "You’re not still seeing Grant Seidel are you? He’s old enough to be your father." Well, well. If Alex didn’t care about her on some level besides a professional one, he wouldn’t have mentioned Grant. Her heart raced faster. "I thought he was only a couple of years older than you?" Her comment drew another grimace. But no reply and C.J continued with her goading. "He’s really sweet, Alex, and that’s a plus." In truth, Grant was her confidant who knew she was head over heels in love with Alex and was helping her with her slave auction plan. "Oh — There’s my van! Driver? Stop here, please. When I get out, take Mr. Curtis wherever he wishes to go." Now that she knew he wasn’t going to be with the predatory Ms. Lowry tonight, she was able to flash him her professional smile. "Whose office on Monday morning? Yours or mine?" "Mine!" he declared on such a fierce note, it must have been the reason he grasped her hand, preventing her from getting out of the limo. "Just a minute. I haven’t thanked you for saving me from a fate worse than death tonight."

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She felt the kiss coming before he cupped the back of her head and drew her close. As his compelling mouth closed over hers, a little moan escaped her throat. For weeks she’d yearned to know the taste and feel of him. The unexpected contact fueled her desire. She clung to him, need— "Ma’am? Shall I drive around for a while?" Embarrassed, C.J. tore her lips from Alex’s, wondering how the kiss had happened and afraid she might have revealed too much too soon. "I’m getting out," she said without looking at Alex. After shutting the door she watched the limo drive off. Next week you’re all mine, Alex Curtis. No questions asked. Depending on his reaction, her company might not be the company chosen to finish his project, but she refused to think about that because her life’s happiness depended on his falling in love with her.

Chapter Two Alex’s brows knit together when he’d started on his second cup of coffee and C.J. still hadn’t arrived at his office. It was already nine–thirty on a Monday morning. He couldn’t remember her ever being late before. She might only be twenty–six years old, but she understood the nursery business inside and out and knew instinctively how to work with his designs. Certainly she’d gone beyond the call of duty to rescue him at that damn auction. When the project was completed, he planned to pay her more than the estimate they’d agreed upon at the outset. However, the idea that she couldn’t make it to his office on time because she’d stretched the Valentine’s holiday to include the whole weekend with that divorced lecher, Grant Seidel, put Alex in the foulest of moods. The man might be a successful Realtor who Alex had worked with before, but he’d been pestering C.J. far too long for Alex’s liking. Unable to concentrate, he phoned the manager where he banked. While he waited for a live voice, his thoughts remained on C.J. She’d lost her parents in her late teens and ran the family nursery and landscaping business on her own. With the help of her ailing grandfather who’d recently passed away, she’d built it into a thriving concern that outrivaled her competitors. But she was still vulnerable. When she finally did show up, Alex intended to have a serious talk with her about Seidel, whose predilection for young innocents with baby blue eyes and a cap of golden curls like hers was well–known. "Ross?" he said when his bank manager answered. "It’s Alex Curtis." "Hey — I heard you were one of the bachelors auctioned off at the Taj Mahal over the weekend." Alex let out a groan of exasperation. It was one mistake he was never going to live down. What a fool he’d been to get involved when he could have sent a check instead. The idea of meeting a woman through a slave auction was the biggest turnoff he could think of. "Fortunately I was bought by the owner of Las Vegas Landscapes." "You lucky devil. She’s one good–looking blonde. Between us, what’s she really like?" he asked in a suggestive tone.

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The memory of C.J.’s mouth opening to the pressure of his still filled him with an excitement he couldn’t suppress. "You don’t get it, Ross. She did me a favor by rescuing me. When we left the hotel, we went our separate ways." "You’ve got to be kidding! Whose idea was that?" "Hers. I’m not the slave type. She understands these things." She understood him. "Speaking of favors, will you transfer ten thousand from my personal account to my business account so I can write her a check?" "Consider it done, but I still think you’re nuts to let her get away with it. If she’d set me up like that and then walked off, I would have followed her home and pounded on the door until she let me in." The thought had occurred to Alex more than once over the long weekend, but he wasn’t about to admit that to anyone. "Thanks, Ross. Talk to you later." No sooner had he hung up than he heard his secretary’s voice over the intercom. "Mr. Curtis? Ms. Willis is here to see you." Why didn’t she just walk in his office like she usually did? "Tell her to come in, Linda." "She can’t. She’s in a hurry and wants you to come out here!" He blinked. What was going on? Suddenly Alex experienced a strange foreboding as he recalled the smile on C.J.’s face after telling him Seidel was so sweet. A lot of couples got engaged on Valentine’s Day. Could it be she was wearing a diamond ring and they’d celebrated all weekend? Was that why she was so late? The thought of her kissing Seidel the way she’d kissed him in the limo devastated him, but he didn’t have time to analyze why. Muttering a curse, he levered himself from his swivel chair and stormed from his office to find out what was going on with her. He received his second shock of the morning when he discovered her standing next to Linda’s desk wearing a cinnamon–on–black–paisley coat dress that showed her curvy figure to the best advantage. He detected the enticing scent of her perfume. Her blond curls were styled in a beguiling feather cut. With gold earrings, she looked polished, elegant and, heaven help him, so damn desirable he was speechless.

… This was it. C.J. stood there while Alex stared at her as if she were an apparition. She thought he sounded winded. For sure he looked positively grumpy.

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Good. Already her late arrival had knocked him off balance. That was the way she intended to keep him until she’d gained his complete attention and, hopefully, his love. "Good morning, Alex. How was your weekend?" He moved closer. His eyes roved over her face and body, taking their time, squeezing the breath out of her lungs with their intensity. "I suppose it was all right," he murmured absently. She noticed his gaze go to her hands, then settle on her upturned features. "How was your date with Seidel?" There was an unpleasant twist to his lips. She would let him go on thinking whatever his fertile imagination conjured. "Let’s just say it was the best Valentine’s of my life." Judging by the lines marring his attractive features, he didn’t like her response one bit. He didn’t like Grant. Was he jealous? Oh, if only that were true… She flashed him a benign smile. "We both have a big day ahead of us so let’s not waste time discussing my weekend." His frown turned to a look of genuine concern. "C.J. — I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something important. This has to do with Seidel. Why don’t you come in my office for a minute." "Sorry," she said while she rummaged in her purse. "I’m afraid any private conversation you had in mind on that score is off–limits. In any event, it’s almost ten o’clock and I’m late for a meeting with Ralph about the trees around the lake on the fifth hole. After lunch we’ll be busy discussing the layout of the tamarack stands near the new clubhouse. I don’t expect to be back in my office until tomorrow. "Oh darn it —" she murmured before snapping her handbag shut. "I was in such a daze when I got out of bed this morning, I forgot to bring my cell phone with me. If Grant phones here while I’m out, tell him I’ll call him when I get home this evening." Without pausing for breath, she said, "Linda has typed a list of things for you to do today." She took the paper from his secretary’s fingers and tried to hand it to him. But he stood there like a column of petrified wood, so she gave it back to Linda and started for the door. No sooner had she disappeared outside the building than she heard footsteps behind her. He caught up to her before she reached the parking lot. His chest was heaving. In her new fashionable black three–inch wedges, her eyes could look directly at his sensuous mouth. She loved the view of Alex Curtis at this altitude. "Was there something on the list you didn’t understand?" His thunderous expression was quite frightening. She couldn’t see any blue impaling her from those slate eyes. The beast had been aroused. "What in the hell is going on?" She kept walking until she reached her van and climbed inside. After shutting the door, she opened the window and leaned her head out. "Poor Alex… It was a bad weekend, wasn’t it, starting with that awful slave auction. For such a brilliant architect, I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet."

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She turned on the ignition and drove off.

Chapter Three "Hi… How can I help you?" The salesgirl at the mall eyed Alex with an invitation that said he could get as personal as he wanted. She’d picked the wrong man today. His palm still held the list C.J. had asked his secretary to type for him. What had happened to the woman he thought understood him so well? The person he’d begun to think was the woman for him? He could have sworn C.J. was different from all the other females out there. "I need a pound of Godiva amaretto chocolate truffles." "Would you like a sample while you’re waiting? You can pick anything that looks good to you." "No, thanks." He’d trusted C.J., and she’d made a fool of him by forcing him to be her slave after all. Never mind that he’d regretted letting her leave the limo the other night. By damn, she was going to pay! Tonight he would show up at her apartment to give her the candy and long–stemmed red roses she’d demanded. She could forget dinner at the exclusive Basque Grill, where he was supposed to have made reservations for them. He had a little surprise for her. One she wouldn’t be counting on…

… C.J. peeked out the window in time to see Alex’s sleek black car pull up to the curb in front of the duplex where she lived. If she knew him as well as she thought she did, he’d show up in casual clothes, hand her the gifts and tell her their work association was terminated as of now. Sure enough, as he started toward her door with his arms loaded, she noticed he was wearing chinos and a sports shirt. Straightening her shoulders, she walked over to the foyer and waited for the buzzer to sound. Once again his face underwent a distinct transformation when she opened the door and he discovered her in a pair of jeans, cotton top and sandals rather than formal evening wear. "Come in, Alex." Like someone in a trance, he slowly entered the hall and shut the door, leaning against it as if he needed the support. For the second time today his hooded gaze swept over her in intimate appraisal, thrilling her to the very tips of the toenails she’d painted a dusky shade of pink earlier in the day.

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His dark brows formed a solid line. "Why aren’t you dressed to go out to dinner?" "I changed my mind. Women are known to do that." She flashed him a brilliant smile. "I decided I wanted to stay in and let you cook us spaghetti." C.J. untied the cord on the small gold box and took out a truffle. She closed her eyes as she bit into it. "You can’t beat these, you know?" Drawing close to him, she rose up on her toes and kissed his lips gently, leaving a trace of chocolate on them. "Thank you," she whispered. "Come on in the kitchen, so I can put the flowers in water." As she took the boxes from him, she noticed a little pulse throbbing madly along his freshly shaved jaw. She left him standing there while she walked through the L–shaped living room–cum–dining area to the tiny kitchen. Though he’d never been in her apartment before, he could hardly get lost. Still, it took him long enough to catch up with her. She was already arranging the glorious roses in the vase on the sink when he appeared in the doorway. No chocolate remained on his mouth. Had he wiped it away? Or… "The pot for the noodles is in that bottom right cupboard with the frying pan. Everything else is on the counter or in the fridge." He stood there with his arms folded across his broad chest. Lines had darkened his face. She knew that look. He’d gone into his forbidding mode. "I thought you should know I bought you with my own savings, not the last check you made out to my company for more trees," she said in a quiet aside. His head reared back as if an invisible hand had just struck him. "What did you say?" She lifted the vase. "If you don’t believe me, call the bank and ask for the balance in my company account. It hasn’t changed since I deposited your last check. Now — if you don’t mind moving, I’d like to put these exquisite flowers on the dining room table." His sharp intake of breath reverberated in the enclosed space before he took the vase from her hands and set it back down on the counter. In the next instant his hands gripped her upper arms. His touch sent a spiral of warmth through her electrified body. She could feel the throb of his pulse against her skin despite the fabric of her top. She thought he was going to kiss her. Their mouths were so close. The longing to know his possession created physical pain only he could assuage. "Why would you spend ten thousand dollars of your hard–earned money on me?" he ground out. His question shattered her hope that his desire for her was as great as hers for him. When she didn’t immediately answer him, he gave her a gentle shake, causing her lovely head to loll on the stem of her neck. "You were for sale, and I’m no different than any other woman when it comes to buying an attractive bachelor." "Be serious," he whispered in a shaken voice. 469

"I’m very serious. So serious in fact, I spent more dollars on you than any woman at the hotel was willing to spend for her slave." She’d been in love with him from the very beginning. In desperation she’d seized this seven–day opportunity to make him see her as a woman he could love forever. "Be warned, Alex —" her voice throbbed. "I intend to get my money’s worth."

Chapter Four C.J. finished every last bit of spaghetti on her plate. "That was delicious! Who taught you to use bay leaf in the sauce?" "I don’t remember." Since the heart–stopping moment a half hour ago when she’d thought Alex was going to finish what they’d started in the limo, it had been a one–sided conversation. While he’d fixed dinner, she’d done all the talking. In his dark restless mood, he reminded her of Heathcliff. Through Grant, she’d found out Alex’s fiancée had been killed in a car crash in college. Evidently he’d never gotten over the tragedy. It explained in some part, at least, why he was still a bachelor. C.J. wondered what kind of woman had held Alex’s heart this long. To get him to talk about the past would probably require powers she didn’t possess, but now was her opportunity to try to accomplish the impossible. After swallowing some ice water she said, "There’s a roll of cookie dough in the fridge. If you’ll slice it and put the sections on a cookie sheet, we can have dessert in ten minutes. I’ll turn on the ov — Oh! That’s my cell phone." That would be Grant. It was his idea to make Alex jealous. Anything to help love along. She started to get up from the table, but Alex moved like lightning and retrieved it from the kitchen. She’d thought he’d looked grim before… "It’s Seidel." She made no move to take it from him. "He can wait until I decide to call him back. I talked to him when I got home earlier and told him I was going to be tied up all week." At her remark, something flared in the depths of Alex’s eyes. "Not that kind of tied up, if that’s what your male imagination was thinking. You’re a deep one, Alex Curtis," she drawled, eyeing him with a mischievous smile on her face. "Here I thought you hated the idea of being sold off as a slave for some woman’s pleasure. Underneath, you men are all alike, aren’t you?" she persisted in taunting him. The skin around his lips went a bluish–white showing he was barely restraining his anger. "When you’ve done the dishes and turned off the lights, come in the living room. I’ll be waiting for you." 470

After picking up the box of truffles, she started out of the dining room, then swung around. "Before I forget, give me your cell phone." His searching gaze never left hers as he slowly pulled it from his pocket and handed it to her. "You’re such an obedient slave, I’m convinced you’ve done this kind of thing before. However I think it’s time we established a few ground rules. While you work for me, there’ll be no contact with other people. I always say ’what’s good for the goose is —’ Well, you know the rest." She blew him a kiss. "Don’t be too long."

… As Alex turned off the kitchen light, the sounds of Glenn Miller’s "Moonlight Serenade" drifted through the apartment, vying to be heard above the noise of the dishwasher. He hadn’t heard any big–band music in years. In fact he couldn’t remember the last time he’d fixed a meal for a woman, or been given a chocolate kiss that was sweeter than a vintage Beaujolais wine…. Alex had never lived through a day like this before. C.J. had made a charming home of her apartment, but she lived modestly in order to sink the money from the sale of her parents’ home into the business. It haunted him to realize she’d used her savings to buy him for one week out of a lifetime. There had to be a deeper motive, of course. It couldn’t be for companionship, because she never lacked male admirers. Every damn contractor and worker out on the course took Alex aside at some point and asked him what he thought his chances would be with her. So far Alex had managed to put them off by telling them either they were too old for her or they weren’t her type. But Seidel still hung in there…. That left Alex thinking she wanted something from Alex only he could give. Was he going to find out this was her way of angling to go into partnership with him? More of her grandfather’s wisdom that told her to watch out for herself first? Ten thousand dollars to show him that she was in dead earnest, that she would be the perfect business associate? That he could trust her to do anything for him? Even bail him out of that ridiculous slave auction? It all made sense when he considered how perfectly they worked together. He couldn’t develop a golf course without an expert in trees and shrubs like C.J. to help in the creation. If they did join forces, he supposed it was too much to ask that she stop seeing Seidel altogether. Maybe he provided the father figure missing in her li — "Alex? What’s taking so long?"

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At the sound of her voice, his pulse quickened. He inhaled sharply, then walked through the house to the living room. An old Frank Sinatra song was playing in the background. Only one lamp was burning near the stereo. It made a nimbus around her golden hair. She moved toward him. "I want to dance." Good heavens, she was beautiful! The last thing he remembered seeing before drawing her into his arms was the hot blue of her eyes. Then the other senses took over. The feel of her softly rounded body, the sweet smell of her perfumed skin, the warmth of her breath against his neck. All combined to make his limbs grow heavy with those unmistakable sensations of desire he hadn’t allowed himself to experience for years until the other night in the limo. "C.J. —" he whispered huskily. He was on fire for her. "Call me Charlotte." He swallowed with difficulty. "Charlotte…if it’s a partnership you’re after, I’m all for it." At first her hand stilled against his chest, then it crept up to the side of his face. She lifted her head. Her eyes blazed a scorching blue. "You really mean that?" she cried in a joyous voice. So it was a partnership she’d been after. Disappointment swept over him. Except that disappointment was the wrong word. In truth, her answer pained him to the core. He’d wanted to hear something else…. "I never say what I don’t mean. After working together every day for the last two months, you above all people should know that." "Then kiss me, Alex. Kiss me until neither of us can breathe." His heart kicked against his ribs. Had he only imagined the ache in her voice? "Are you asking me to do that because I’m still your slave?" A bewildered expression entered her eyes. "Didn’t you just ask me to marry you?"

Chapter Five What was the old expression — he who hesitates is lost? Except that Alex was the one hesitating here. It was C.J. who’d lost. From his pause, she realized he wasn’t ever going to be interested in marrying her. She had to face facts, she’d got carried away in the romance of it all — there was no longer any point in carrying on this charade. With her heart lying like a sick shadow on the floor, she grinned up at him. "Just kidding, Alex. You’ve really been a great sport through all this. The best!" She rose up on tiptoes once more and pecked his cheek. "With that kiss, I release you from bondage. You can go back to calling me C.J."

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The baffled look on his face helped her to believe she might just pull off this deception without having a nervous breakdown in front of him. "The moment your secretary mentioned the auction, I couldn’t resisting urging her to get you to sign up for it. I thought it would be a lot of fun to attend, but I didn’t expect to outbid everyone else. After all, I knew you’d be the most gorgeous bachelor up there. I figured some woman CEO with a lot of bucks would double my top offer." His black brows knit together ominously. "Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money for anyone to throw away just for the hell of it." Ouch — He sounded angry, but she wasn’t worried. She’d wounded his pride, not his heart, which had been buried when he’d lost his fiancée. "Agreed, but it was for a worthy cause. Besides, I have a little confession to make. Before grandpa died, he taught me how to win at craps. I got really good at it and won some money. But I never felt right about it. The charity auction seemed the perfect time to repent my sins." She lifted her softly rounded chin. "I can honestly tell you I’ve given up gambling forever." Her voice wobbled, adding credibility to her declaration which was only the truth. She’d taken her last gamble on him, knowing that if it didn’t turn out the way she wanted, she would suffer the emotional consequences forever. If her parents could talk to her right now, they’d tell her it served her right. "You look worn out, Alex. Go home and get a good sleep. Don’t forget your cell phone." She walked to the foyer and opened the door while she waited for him. "See you in the morning at your office," she said in a bright voice when he appeared in the small entry hall. "And don’t worry —" She winked at him. "I’ll be on time." His face looked like an avenging warrior’s before he disappeared outside without saying anything. She closed the door to a crack so she could watch until he got in his car and sped away as if the BMW were a missile.

… On the stroke of nine the next morning, C.J. entered his office. The outer door was unlocked, but his secretary was nowhere in sight. "Hello?" she called out. "Come all the way in, C.J." She jumped. Now that she was here, she was afraid. What was she going to do? After crying all night, her eyelids were so puffy they looked like little pillows. How embarrassing to let him see her like this! "I’ll be there in a minute." "Now!"

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"Are you going to tell me you’ve hired another contractor to finish the job?" she blurted. "Because I wouldn’t blame you if you did." "I’m waiting, C.J." She’d started to shake and couldn’t stop. "I shouldn’t have done what I did. I’ve been thinking about it all night. You were probably hoping the woman who bought you might help you to get over the pain of losing your fiancée. Instead you got me, the idiot," she lamented. "How much longer are we going to talk through the wall?" "I — I’m afraid to see you," she stammered. "C.J. Willis, the powerhouse I’m hoping to make a partner, is afraid?" "Please let’s not talk about that again, Alex. You know very well I never intended to go into business with you."

v "You mean you want to own the whole thing?" his voice grated. "It’ll all be yours if I should die before you." She swallowed hard. "D–do you wish she was still here with you?" C.J.’s voice trembled. "C.J., I can’t change the past. Annette was my first love, but she went on to a better place ten years ago. And now I plan to battle it out for as long as it takes with my new partner in crime." "Well, it won’t be me. As soon as this project is finished, you’ll never have to see me again." "I know. Seidel told me." Her body went hot, then cold. "When did you talk to Grant?" "Last night over cocktails." C.J.’s body weaved in response. She’d thought Grant was her friend, someone she could trust. But if Alex had plied him with a few drinks, who knew what secrets he might have confided? "I — I’m not feeling very well this morning, and —" "Then you need to lie down in my office," came his deep voice. It sounded much closer than before. She spun around to discover Alex standing next to her looking fresh and wonderful in a white knit shirt and khakis. His gaze fused with hers. "I’m glad to see you had an awful night. Proof positive that what Seidel told me was the truth. You are in love with me. Up you come, sweetheart. It’s time I showed you how much in love with you I am." His mouth closed fiercely over hers, then he carried her into his office and sat down on the tufted leather couch. Finally he was doing what she’d always wanted him to do, kiss them both breathless. 474

Much, much later he whispered against her swollen lips, "Did you win the entire ten thousand gambling?" By now they were lying on the couch entwined. "No, darling. Only five hundred dollars." He lifted his dark head so he could look at her. "Then the rest really represented your total life’s savings?" "Yes." Tears turned her eyes into blue pools. "When so many women started bidding for you, the ante went higher and higher. I was afraid I’d lose, so I bid the entire amount from my account to trump theirs. I loved you so much I was willing to risk everything to make you notice me." His eyes blazed with desire. "I noticed you all right, but I kept telling myself and every other man in sight you were too young, even if you did head your own company." She traced his sensual lower lip with her finger. "It used to worry me that I never found a man I wanted to live with forever. Grandpa promised me that day would come when the time was right and I was least expecting it." C.J. tightened her arms around his neck. "The minute you invited me in your office to discuss business, I knew I’d met the man I wanted to marry. I was so staggered by my feelings I could hardly think or talk. It’s a miracle you accepted my bid." He kissed her passionately. "My brilliant little gambler, you were the miracle. You brought the sun and the blue sky back into my world. I’m your slave for life, sweetheart." Then that makes two of us, her heart cried before she had to show him all over again what he meant to her.

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Nowhere to Run By Elle Kennedy Brooke Talbot has finally found a home in Serenade, North Carolina. The scenery is breathtaking, the people are wonderful and her neighbor, Evan McCarthy, is not only sweet, but gorgeous. It would be perfect…except her name is not Brooke Talbot. Brooke Tanner is on the run. In Serenade, she's found a new place to hide and a new name, but she's afraid it's only a matter of time before her abusive husband tracks her down…and kills her. And even though Evan offers her everything she craves—protection, security, comfort—can she trust him? Can she trust anybody?

Chapter One Brooke Tanner's head snapped back from the force of the blow. Blood spurted from the corner of her mouth when her husband's gold championship ring, studded with small rubies, snagged against her lip. The gaudy ring shone in the light bathing their spacious kitchen. Andrew's high school football team had won the state championship decades ago, yet he still wore the thing like a badge of glory. Forget about the damn ring! He's going to kill you! Fight back. Swiping the sleeve of her sweater over her mouth, she tried to stumble to her feet, but her husband was suddenly on top of her, his rock-hard thighs straddling her chest, pinning her to the pristine white tiles. She didn't even recognize the enraged face looming over her. His brown eyes were red, his classically handsome features twisted in anger. Andrew's fist came down toward her face. She blocked it with both hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. He growled, yanking on one of her wrists. A jolt of pain streaked up her arm. Disbelief smashed into her. She still couldn't shake off the shock—how was this happening? "Damn it, Brooke! Stop crying! Don't you get it? I love you." Love? No, this wasn't love. It couldn't be. Andrew was breathing hard, his broad chest heaving from each ragged pant. He had her trapped on the kitchen floor, but now his fists were uncurling and his hands dangled at his sides. Brooke tried to draw air into her lungs, but her husband was a big man—six-one, two hundred and twenty pounds. She couldn't wiggle out from his hold, let alone take a breath. When he noticed her gasping, he shifted so that the pressure of his muscular body was now weighing down on her belly. She sucked in oxygen, refusing to look at his face. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of silver. The knife. Andrew had knocked everything off the cedar work island after she'd quietly told him her plans to leave. The onions she'd been dicing now covered the floor like little pieces of confetti. The orange cutting board had slid underneath one of the tall-backed chairs around the kitchen table. But the knife… It was within her reach. All she had to do was stretch out her arm and—

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"Look at me." His big hands cupped her chin, forcing eye contact. Andrew's rage had dimmed, his brown eyes now shining with remorse and more of that love he claimed to feel for her. "I'm sorry, baby," her husband murmured, desperation clinging to his voice. "I lost control. You shouldn't have made me angry, okay? You shouldn't joke about things like leaving me." She opened her mouth, about to tell him she'd been dead serious when she'd calmly informed him of her intention to file for divorce. But she held her tongue. She knew now he'd kill her if she said she was leaving. "You know I'm not a wife beater," he continued, shaking his head in irritation. "I've never hit you before, and I'll never hit you again—as long as you continue to honor the vows we said to each other." That was true—he'd never hit her before tonight. And damn right he would never hit her again. For five years she'd endured Andrew's subtle taunts, his jealousy and control issues, all his passiveaggressive forms of emotional abuse. She'd made excuses for it at first, but she was done making excuses. As far as she was concerned, she'd run out of choices the moment he'd unleashed that first left hook into her jaw. "I'm going to get off you now," Andrew said softly. "And then we'll clean up this mess together, baby. I'll help you clean up your face, too, okay?" "Okay," she whispered. His gaze was intense as it searched her face. "You're not going to leave, right, Brooke? You're going to stay right here where you belong?" She managed a weak nod. A smile lit his face. The same beaming smile he'd donned when they'd stood at the altar exchanging vows. His thighs relaxed, loosening their hold on her lower body. Brooke forced herself to wait. She took another breath. Andrew slowly shifted as he started to rise. Now. Before he could react, her arm shot out, fingers connecting with the wood handle of the sharp kitchen knife. As he realized what she was doing, Andrew let out a roar. But he wasn't fast enough. His arm came up in a desperate attempt to shield himself just as Brooke stuck the blade into his chest.

Chapter Two Two Months Later Serenade, North Carolina

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"Here you go, folks. Two orders of fish and chips, side order of onion rings and two iced teas," Brooke announced as she set the hot plates in front of the middle-aged couple sitting in her booth. She placed their drinks on a pair of bright red coasters, then smiled and hurried back toward the pick-up counter of the diner. The smile faded the moment she was no longer facing the patrons. It was getting harder and harder to keep up the pleasant expression. Especially now that she knew she had to run again. But oh, how she wanted to stay. When her car had broken down on the outskirts of Serenade, North Carolina, she'd planned to ditch the vehicle, hop a bus and continue her journey south. But those plans had changed once she'd gotten a good look at her surroundings. Serenade was the most beautiful little town she'd ever seen. Nestled at the base of the mountains, it boasted lush forests, clear blue lakes and spectacular views. Not to mention a quaint Main Street, pictureperfect houses and the friendliest residents she'd ever encountered. It was the kind of place you wanted to call home. The kind of place where folks said hi to you on the street, where children raced by on their bicycles, where the sun was always shining. For the first couple of weeks, Brooke had kept a low profile, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, or utter more than a few sentences to anyone she met. But soon she'd gotten caught up in Serenade's spell, infected by the genuine goodness of the people who lived here. Now she had this waitressing job at Martha's diner, a small cabin she was renting on the McCarthy property. She even had a few friends. In Baltimore she'd had zero friends—Andrew had made sure of that. God, she wanted to stay. "What are you still doing here?" Martha had just waltzed out of the kitchen and spotted Brooke behind the counter. "Your shift ended an hour ago." "I know." Brooke shrugged. "Didn't feel like going home yet." Martha grinned. "Is McCarthy giving you trouble?" She shook her head. "Evan is a perfect gentleman." A perfect, gorgeous gentleman, she almost added. Martha was evidently a mind reader, because the grin widened, causing the wrinkles around her mouth to stretch. "Handsome, too," the older woman continued. "And quite smitten with you." To her embarrassment, Brooke felt herself blushing. Smitten? No, Evan McCarthy wasn't smitten. Definitely interested, though, which was why she was determined to keep her distance. Evan might be renting her a cabin—and letting her pay for it in cash, to boot—but she couldn't let that man's dimples and sexy gray eyes affect her. She was still a married woman, after all. She clenched her teeth at the memory of her husband. A part of her wished Andrew had died in the kitchen that night after she'd stabbed him. But she was no murderer, and she hadn't been trying to kill him, only incapacitate him so she could flee to safety. And she'd succeeded—with the fleeing part,

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anyway. But safe? Oh, no. The news she'd received this morning made it clear that she would never be safe, not if Andrew had anything to say about it. "Evan is handsome," Brooke said, relenting. "But I'm still not interested." Martha's brown eyes softened. "You can't grieve for your late husband forever, honey." Can't run from him forever, either…. Swallowing, Brooke untied the red apron around her waist and handed it to her boss. Martha might have saved her ass by giving her this job, but that didn't mean Brooke was about to confide in the woman. She planned on remaining the mysterious widow who'd drifted into town one summer morning. Not just for her own protection, but for that of those around her. Who knew what Andrew would do to the people who were unwittingly helping Brooke hide from him? "I think I'll go home after all," she said, edging away from the counter. "I've got some reading to catch up on." With a quick goodbye, she bounded out of the diner, feeling Martha's perplexed gaze burning into her back. Outside, Brooke inhaled the late afternoon air, then took off walking. Her car had been towed to a shop, but she'd told the owner to take it to a junkyard. She didn't have the money to get it fixed, and she couldn't risk selling it because her husband's name was on the ownership. Her license and credit cards were hidden in her cabin in case she needed them, but she knew Andrew could track her if she used her real identity. She was no longer Brooke Tanner—she went by Brooke Talbot now. When she was a few blocks from the heart of town, she drifted into a small park and sank onto a wroughtiron bench, then reached into her pocket for the paper she'd tucked there. Swallowing, she unfolded the sheet and read it again. It was an article from the online edition of the Baltimore Times that she'd printed out at Serenade's public library. She stared at the paper and saw her own face staring back at her. Along with Andrew's. Her pulse sped up as key words popped out at her. Mentally unstable… A danger to others… If anyone has seen my wife… Hotline… The headline was the worst of all. Police Captain Searches for Wife After Brutal Attack.

Chapter Three Evan McCarthy was having a beer on his porch when his new tenant strolled up the dusty path. His pulse kicked up a notch, the way it always did when Brooke Talbot was around. He didn't know what it was about the woman, but she never failed to elicit this strange wave of desire inside him. And she wasn't even his type, damn it. She was too skinny, her breasts too small. Her chin-length brown hair was too short—hardly anything there to run his fingers through. Her features were more interesting than beautiful, and sure, she had flawless creamy skin and great eyes, moss-green surrounded by sooty

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black eyelashes. But she was as skittish as a mouse. More secretive than a CIA agent. Pricklier than a thorn bush. Yet her mere proximity drove him wild. "Hey," he called as she came near. He held up his beer bottle. "Want to join me for a beer?" Brooke shook her head. No surprise there. She seemed to be making a conscious effort to avoid him. "Come on," he coaxed. "You just walked all the way here in this heat. Have a cold one." He had no idea why he was pushing her. Truth was, he was in no position to get involved with anyone. His life was a mess, had been for six months now, ever since his business partner took off with all the money in their account. Evan was still cursing himself for trusting that scumbag Scott Wiley. The two of them had formed their adventure tour operation out of college, and back then, Evan had needed Scott— and Scott's cash. But Evan had gotten a bad vibe about the guy from the get-go, and it was now painfully clear that he should have heeded his instincts. Instead, he'd ignored the warning bells, too eager to get the business off the ground, and the results hadn't been pretty—the IRS coming after him for back taxes that Scott had neglected to pay when he'd been handling the books, and now the FBI sniffing around, suspecting him of tax fraud. It'll be all right. You'll fix this. He clung to the reassuring thought, refusing to consider the alternative. He had enough to pay the mortgage on this property for at least six months, and more money would come in once he finished out the summer season. And there was the cash he got from renting out the cabin to Brooke. When he'd met her at the diner two months ago and heard she was looking for a place to live, he'd realized that having her as a tenant would solve both of their problems. But now that she was living there, he was experiencing a different sort of problem. A hot, uncomfortable one. He didn't miss the way Brooke's gaze darted toward the small A-frame cabin that stood a couple hundred yards away, then back at him. He watched as she bit her bottom lip, as those incredible green eyes filled with dismay. And then she walked toward the porch. Evan blinked. Okay, now he was surprised. He was so accustomed to his tenant shooting down every invitation that he had no idea what to do now that she'd finally accepted one. As she climbed the rickety wooden steps, Evan reached into the cooler at his feet and pulled out a beer bottle. He offered it to Brooke, who reached out, grasped the bottle and unscrewed the cap. She leaned against the wood railing ringing the wraparound porch and eyed him warily. "Thanks," she murmured. "No problem." He swallowed to ease his dry mouth. "How was work?" "Busy." She shrugged. "Martha said the tourist rush lasts until the fall." "Yeah, summer's pretty busy around here." 480

"What do you do in the winter, then? I can't imagine there's a big demand for adventure tours in the snow." "You'd be surprised," he answered. "I've got a dozen bookings already. I usually take groups up the mountain for winter expeditions. Snowmobiling, skiing, climbing. For me, business is booming yearround." And hopefully it stayed that way. Otherwise he was unbelievably screwed. "You should come with me one of these days," he found himself saying. "Do you like white-water rafting? There are some pretty decent rapids around here." When she just shrugged, he said, "Skiing then. Do you ski?" Her expression grew shuttered. "I'm not big on the outdoors." Evan smothered a sigh. "What are you big on, then?" She gave another shrug. "I'm serious, Brooke, what do you do for fun? You've been here for two months, and I still don't know a thing about you." "There's not much to know. I'm pretty boring actually." Before he could press her, she set her half-finished bottle on the railing and edged toward the porch steps. "I've gotta go. Thanks for the beer." Evan opened his mouth to protest but she was already gone, dashing off the porch and practically running toward her small cabin. The sigh he'd been holding slipped out. "Who are you, Brooke Talbot?" he muttered to himself. The muffled sound of the cabin door slamming met his ears. It should have been discouraging, but all it did was harden his resolve. Lord, what was the matter with him? From day one, his head had been shouting at him to let it go, to stay away from Brooke and focus on warding off bankruptcy. And yet his gut kept urging him to get to the bottom of it, find out what was troubling the woman. Those haunting green eyes of hers triggered some sort of weird emotional reaction inside him. Every time he looked at her, he felt the need to protect her. Protect her? Damn, he couldn't even protect himself these days. Still, he'd been fighting this ridiculous inner battle for days—stay away, get close. But he couldn't stop thinking about her. He was growing incredibly tired of obsessing over this mysterious woman who refused to provide him with a single detail about herself. Maybe the beer was messing with his head. Or maybe he just needed a distraction, a way to take his mind off the perilous position his business was currently in. Either way, he planned on getting some answers from Brooke. Tonight.

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Chapter Four Evan McCarthy was too gorgeous for his own good. Brooke's heart thumped wildly as she stepped into her cabin and shut the door behind her. She wished she weren't so attracted to that man. But how could she not be? With that messy sandy-blond hair, sexy gray eyes and lean, muscular body, Evan was a walking fantasy. Athletic, outdoorsy, easygoing. Everything about him teased her senses—his looks, his raspy baritone voice, his clean, earthy scent. She shouldn't have had that beer with him. Should have continued to keep her distance. But the need to get out of her own head, even for a few minutes, had been too strong. She was tired of being scared and paranoid, tired of looking over her shoulder and pretending to be someone else. With a sigh, she put Evan out of her mind and kicked off her sandals. The cabin she was renting was small, consisting of a cramped living room, a miniscule kitchen and a bedroom with a private bath. It wasn't much to look at, either—weathered hardwood floors, shabby furniture. But it was clean and cozy, and the property was surrounded by wilderness, providing a perfect place to lie low. But for how long? She chewed the inside of her cheek as she headed for the bathroom to draw a bath. How long could she keep running? She'd hoped that Andrew would simply give up and file for divorce after she left, but the article in the Baltimore paper told her that her husband would not rest until he got her back. Sinking into the tub, Brooke let the hot water soothe her aching muscles, but it did nothing to ease her weary mind. She couldn't hide forever. She knew that. "A lawyer," she mumbled to herself. So she could file for divorce like she had planned originally? As if Andrew would ever let that happen. He'd see her dead first. He'd already given proof of that. "A new identity," she mused. Right, because procuring one of those was so easy. And with what money? "Suicide?" she asked herself. A hysterical laugh bubbled in the back of her throat. No, that wouldn't happen, either. She valued her own life far too much to end it. But Andrew would end her life for her if she didn't figure out a plan. But what the hell could she do? Andrew Tanner was a respected police captain. He'd won medals for bravery. His staff kissed the ground he walked on. The people he protected worshipped him. Nobody would believe her if she tried to tell them that their hero was an emotionally abusive bastard. That he'd beat up his wife when she'd told him she wanted to leave him. Besides, Andrew would never let the truth come out. He was too proud, too arrogant. He wanted the perfect wife, the perfect house, the perfect life. And he'd told her numerous times what he would do to her if she left—kill her, or have her committed. Sighing, she shifted in the bathtub, just as a faint knock sounded from the front door. Wrinkling her brow, Brooke got out of the now lukewarm tub, dripping water all over the floor. She grabbed a terry-cloth robe, slipped into it, and headed out to the hall. 482

Wary, she walked to the window and peeked out from behind the curtains. Her wariness faded into relief when she saw Evan on the porch, wearing faded jeans and a white T-shirt that clung to the rippled muscles on his chest. The relief promptly turned to unease as she opened the door. "Wh-What are you doing here?" she stammered. "I ordered us a pizza." He slanted his head. "You like pizza, right? I've seen the delivery guy walk up the path a few times." "What…you… Why?" "Why did I order a pizza?" He cast her a charming smile. "Because we're having dinner together."

Chapter Five Evan was always up for a good challenge. That was probably why he made his living as a wilderness guide—the satisfaction of tackling a new rapid, climbing a new mountain. Brooke Talbot, however, might be the biggest test of all. She stood there in her robe, staring at him as if he'd grown horns. "We're having dinner?" she echoed. Like it always did in Brooke's presence, his brain snapped into lecture mode, telling him to scrap this foolish plan and get out of there, but he forced himself to stay put and see his plan through. "Yep." His eyes swept over her robe, resting on the droplets gathering at her collarbone. "Why don't you get dressed," he suggested. "I'll just make myself comfortable on the couch." Brooke gaped at him as he brushed past her and entered the cabin. He flopped down on the sofa and shot her an expectant look. "Go on," he prompted. She blinked. Then spun on her heel and headed for the bedroom. He took her absence as an opportunity to glance around the room, and he wasn't surprised to find that she hadn't done a thing to put her own personal touch on the cabin. She'd only had one duffel bag when she'd moved in, and in two months she evidently hadn't amassed any new belongings. When she stepped back into the main room a few minutes later, she wore a pair of black leggings, a loose red tank top and a wary expression. "This isn't a good idea," she announced. "I like you, Evan, but I'm in no place to get involved with anyone, even on a friend basis." "Because you're still grieving for your late husband?" "Yes." "I don't think your husband would begrudge you a friend, Brooke. You look like you need one. And God knows I do."

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Indecision battled across her face, mingled in with a flicker of curiosity. After a moment, she joined him on the couch, sitting all the way at the other end. "Why do you need a friend? You seem like you have no cares in the world." He hadn't planned on confiding in Brooke. Coming here was supposed to be about her, about figuring out why all his instincts started to hum whenever she was around, why the need to help her refused to leave him. And yet, when he opened his mouth, he found himself telling her everything, giving her a play-byplay of all the ways his life sucked at the moment—his bastard of a former partner, the IRS, the FBI, the threat of bankruptcy—everything. "I paid the taxes," he finished gruffly. "And the IRS is off my back now. My lawyer convinced them that I had no idea what Scott was up to." "Oh, Evan, I'm sorry," she murmured. "Me, too." He shrugged, though it felt good to confide in her. "Well, lesson learned. Always trust your instincts. I had a bad feeling about Scott when we met in college, but I ignored my gut." I'm not ignoring it now, he almost said, but held back the words. No matter how much his brain told him to keep his distance from this woman, the overwhelming urge to discover her secrets, to help her, was too powerful to ignore. But then the pizza guy knocked on the door, putting an end to the conversation. Evan paid for the pizza and brought it over to the coffee table, while Brooke grabbed some plates and napkins from the kitchen. Then they settled back on the couch, munching on their respective slices. "You've got sauce on your chin," he told her, grinning at the sight. She swiped at her jaw with a napkin and missed. "Here, let me." Leaning forward, he gently wiped her chin. Her sweet, flowery smell reached his nose, making him inhale deeply, and his gaze moved to her mouth, to those plump pink lips that always seemed to be frowning or nibbled on by her teeth. A current of electricity coursed through him. For the first time since they'd met, Brooke's shielded expression melted, revealing a glimmer of unmistakable heat. She wanted him, too. The realization sent his pulse into a gallop. He could kiss her. Just lean a few inches closer and kiss her. But he resisted the impulse. As much as he desired this woman, he'd come here for answers. So he pulled back, his gaze still locked with hers. "What are you hiding from, Brooke?" he asked. "What's got you so scared?"

Chapter Six Brooke tried to control the rampant thudding of her heart. For a second there, she'd thought Evan was actually going to kiss her. And her body, traitor that it was, had actually responded. Her thighs were still trembling, her palms damp and tingly. 484

But he hadn't kissed her, and the abrupt question he'd hurled at her caught her off guard. "I'm not scared," she lied. Evan looked unconvinced as he dropped his half-eaten pizza slice on his plate. "Whatever you say." "I'm not. And I'm not hiding," she insisted. "Then why won't you tell me a single detail about yourself? Where did you come from, Brooke? Where did you live before you came to Serenade?" "Norfolk. I lived there with my husband. After he passed away, I needed a change, so I got in the car and wound up here." "You just got in the car and drove away," he repeated, looking unconvinced. "That seems rather extreme." He wasn't buying any of it. She could see it on his face. But that was the story she'd told everyone else in town. She had to stick to it now. "It was extreme," she admitted, "but I just had to get out of there. Everywhere I went, everyone I saw, it reminded me of An— Andy." She wasn't lying about that, and Evan must have sensed her distress, because his gray eyes softened. "I think I believe you." "There's no reason for you not to," she shot back. "Okay. What else, then? Were you waitressing in Virginia, too?" She shook her head. "No. No, I was a chef. I worked at one of the finest restaurants in the city." Until Andrew had forced her to quit… A couple of years into their marriage, he'd decided that he didn't like her being away from home. She suspected he didn't like her spending time with the mostly-male kitchen staff. "Sounds cool." Evan grinned. "Maybe you can cook for me sometimes. I barely know how to turn on the stove." Cook for him? As nice as it sounded, Brooke realized she had to stop this before it got out of hand. Evan was gorgeous and attentive and utterly sweet, but she couldn't lead him on. And she couldn't fool herself into believing that they might have a future. "Look, you're a great guy, Evan," she said softly. "But I'm not ready to date. I'm not even in the frame of mind to maintain a friendship with anyone. I appreciate everything you've done for me." She gestured to the pizza box. "And I appreciate dinner. But…I think you should go now." "Brooke—" "I'm serious," she said, harsher than she'd intended. "You need to go."

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Regret filled his eyes. "I see." With stiff shoulders, Evan rose from the couch. Brooke stood up and followed him to the door, refusing to look at his muscular chest, his taut backside, his disappointed face. "I'm sorry if I came on too strong," he said roughly. "I didn't mean to overstep. It's just…you say you don't want a friend, but I think you need one. If you change your mind, I'm here for you." And then he was gone, his tall, athletic frame bounding across the yellowed grass toward the main house. Brooke forced herself not to watch him walk away. She closed the door, then moved back to the couch on heavy legs. Her heart pounded as she realized just how close she'd come to kissing Evan. Oh, God. She had to control this attraction. Getting involved with anyone was a bad idea. She was still married. She was lying about who she was. And she needed to get out of town, now, before someone stumbled across that newspaper article and informed her husband of her whereabouts. Because if Andrew found her, this troubling attraction to Evan McCarthy would be the least of her worries.

Chapter Seven Brooke showed up an hour early for her shift the next day, after pacing the cabin all morning and trying to figure out a plan. The best she'd come up with was hopping a bus and heading down to Florida, but she knew she'd only encounter the same problems once she got there. A new identity seemed like her best option, but that meant she needed to get her hands on some cash. A lot of cash. When she strode into the diner, a familiar female voice stopped her before she could head for the back room. She turned and found Teresa Donovan sitting in one of the red vinyl booths. Teresa grinned and waved, beckoning for Brooke to join her. After a moment of indecision, Brooke made her way to the booth. She had an hour to kill, and no matter what anyone else in town thought of Teresa, Brooke actually enjoyed the other woman's company. "Hey, hon," Teresa said as Brooke slid into the seat across from her. "Why so glum?" Brooke forced a smile. "I'm not glum. Just not in the mood to work today." Teresa beamed. "Then call in sick. Let's drive to Raleigh and get our nails done." She had to laugh. "I can't call in sick. Everyone just saw me come in. I'm sitting in my place of employment, healthy as a horse." "Party pooper." Teresa punctuated her remark with a pout. Another laugh slipped out. She knew most of the other townsfolk despised Teresa Donovan, but Brooke had yet to figure out why. Teresa might be a tad spoiled, and definitely arrogant, but her larger-than-life attitude was contagious. She oozed confidence and spontaneity. And she'd always treated Brooke with nothing but kindness and respect. "How's Evan?" Teresa asked as she reached for her coffee cup. She took a long swallow, then set down the mug. "As sexy as ever, I presume?" 486

Teresa's silver eyes twinkled, and Brooke wasn't sure whether to frown or smile. Teresa's reputation around town was no secret. Brooke had heard many rumors that Teresa slept around and had cheated on her ex-husband, multimillionaire and real estate developer Cole Donovan. Brooke hadn't felt comfortable asking Teresa about the rumors or digging for details about the woman's marriage, but she suspected there was more to it than everyone else believed. "Evan is doing fine." Brooke bit her lip. "He came over for dinner last night. I think he wanted it to be a date, but I set him straight." Teresa narrowed her eyes. "Now why would you do that?" "Because I'm not interested in him. I told you, I'm not over my husband. I'm not ready to see anyone else." The other woman seemed to ponder that, then broke out in a wide smile. "I can't say I'm not pleased to hear that. I could try and convince you to swoop Evan up, but I've had my sights set on him since the day he moved to town." A surprising arrow of jealousy pierced through Brooke's gut. She didn't know why, but the thought of Evan and Teresa together made her stomach clench. Focus, Brooke. You have bigger problems…. "One of these days he'll come around," Teresa was saying. "He insists he's busy with his business, and I understand how important success is to a man, so that's why I haven't pushed him." Brooke looked up absently. "What?" "You're not listening to me, are you?" Teresa's features creased with concern as she clasped her hands together on the checkered tablecloth. "I know something's wrong. I can see it on your face, Brooke." "Nothing's wrong," she lied. Teresa sighed. "You know, you can trust me. From the moment we met, I saw the shadows in your eyes. Something has you scared, Brooke." Scared. Evan had seen the same thing. Apparently she wasn't as skilled at masking her emotions as she'd thought. Teresa reached across the table and gripped Brooke's hand. "Trust me," she urged. "Let me help you." Brooke swallowed. When she didn't say a word, Teresa gently squeezed her hand. "Trust goes both ways, huh?" the ravenhaired beauty said with a sigh. "I want to help you, but you need to let me in. So how about this? I'll go first. I'll trust you with my secrets, if you'll trust me with yours."

Chapter Eight Brooke was about to protest, but the vulnerability flickering in Teresa's normally confident gaze threw her for a loop. She was unable to do anything but lean back in the booth and listen.

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"I know everyone in town thinks I'm some big slut," Teresa began, her voice cracking on that last word. "And I guess maybe I am. It's true—I do sleep around. I just… I get lonely, you know? Have you ever been surrounded by people, yet felt so unbearably lonely that you just wanted to lash out?" "Yes," Brooke whispered. Oh, she knew what that felt like. Every dinner party she'd gone to with Andrew, every law enforcement function and parade and medal ceremony, her husband had been at her side, yet she'd felt so completely alone she'd wanted to cry. "That's how I felt all my life," Teresa confessed. Her eyes darkened to a stormy gray. "My dad ran out on us when I was five, my mother was a drunk, my older sister was overcome with bitterness and still is. And then I met Cole, and I thought life would be different." She gave a cheerless smile. "I had a husband, a man who claimed to love me, a man who said I was the most important thing in his life. But he lied. Cole was always gone, off on some business trip. He didn't spend any time with me. We were newlyweds, and all he wanted to do was work." Well, he couldn't become the president of a successful real estate empire without hard work, Brooke almost pointed out. But she held back. "I was bored. And lonely." Teresa swallowed. "And I cheated on him. Call me heartless if you want, but I was weak. I just wanted someone to love me, you know? I didn't want to be alone." Teresa picked up her coffee cup. "So that's it, my sordid tale. You think I'm confident, that I have everything? That's a lie. I'm still the same insecure little girl who cried when her daddy left. I'm an adulteress, just like everyone in Serenade thinks. And I'm lonely. Still so damn lonely." Although she didn't agree with Teresa's decisions, Brooke couldn't help but feel for the woman. If anyone had told Brooke that she would stab her police captain husband and go on the run, she probably would have laughed in their face. But it had happened. That decision might have been a good one, or a very grave mistake, but she'd done it. And that meant she couldn't judge Teresa Donovan, not unless she judged herself. "It's your turn," Teresa said softly, still clutching Brooke's hand. "Tell me what's got you so scared." "I can't," Brooke whispered. "You can. Look, I know this might not mean much, since we only met a couple of months ago, but I'm your friend, Brooke. I'm here for you if you need me." She paused. "And I can help you. Cole and I might be divorced, but I've got half of his money. I've got his connections." Brooke's resolve began to waver. It was no secret that the woman had received a windfall from the divorce. Teresa did have money. A big pile of it. And a new identity for Brooke wouldn't even make a dent in it. But trust a stranger? A woman she'd only just met? "Let me help you," Teresa said quietly. Brooke clamped her teeth over her lower lip, torn. Then, as her hand shook relentlessly, she reached into her purse and removed the newspaper printout. Without a word, she handed it to Teresa. 488

Chapter Nine Brooke's chest felt a million times lighter as she emerged at the end of the path leading to Evan's property. It was dark out, but the moon was full, illuminating the grassy clearing. As she walked, she didn't even notice the ache in her feet. Her shift at the diner had been a busy one, but confiding in Teresa had been so liberating that she didn't even feel sore. I can help you. Those had been Teresa's parting words, and Brooke believed her. Teresa had been so sympathetic when Brooke told her about her abusive marriage. And Teresa had told her she knew someone who dealt in documents, ordering Brooke not to do anything until she got back to her. With a spring in her step, Brooke kept walking, her entire body overcome with gratitude. Teresa Donovan had the money and resources to get Brooke far away from Andrew, and that notion, that incredible notion, flooded her with joy and relief. As she neared the main house, she suddenly realized that Evan was out on the porch again. Her eyes sought his in the moonlight. With a tired smile, he lifted his beer bottle in an awkward toast, then broke the gaze. Guilt moved through her chest. She remembered how harsh she'd been with him last night, telling him they couldn't be friends, asking him to leave. But she'd been so panicked after seeing that newspaper article, terrified by the knowledge that Andrew would never stop looking for her. You should apologize. Before she could question her own actions, she headed for Evan's porch and climbed the steps. "Hey," she said, fidgeting. "Hey." His voice was husky. Deep and sexy. But there was a pained note in it. A flash of white caught her eye and she glanced down, spotting a crumpled piece of paper on the cedar floor. "What's that?" "A reminder that my life is still as messed up as ever." Noticing the way her forehead wrinkled, he let out a sigh. "The FBI was kind enough to inform me that I'm still a person of interest to them. They'll, and I quote, 'be keeping an eye on me and my business dealings.'" Sympathy constricted her chest. "I'm sorry, Evan." He took a long swallow of his beer. "Nothing to be sorry about. You didn't send the letter." "There is something for me to be sorry about," she burst out. "I feel awful about yesterday. I didn't mean to be so rude." "I understand." He shrugged. "I probably came on too strong." "No, you didn't. I was just having a bad day." She hesitated. "It was actually really sweet of you to buy me dinner." 489

After a second, his mouth curved. "I am a pretty sweet guy." When she smiled back, Evan raised his eyebrows. "Was that a smile? I think that's the first time I've ever seen you do that. I figured maybe your facial muscles didn't work that way." Now she laughed. His brows shot up higher. "A laugh?" he said in mock incredulity. "Now I know something's wrong." "Nope, everything is right," she answered. "Oh, really? What happened?" I'm going to be free. "I just…had a really good day." Evan stood up and strode to the cooler by the door. "In that case, we need to celebrate." He pulled out a bottle and held it out to her. Brooke stared at it, then lifted her gaze to his handsome face. God, this man was so hard to resist. Yesterday she'd acted like a total bitch to him, and rather than holding a grudge, he was shooting her that lopsided grin and handing her a beer, despite the fact that he was obviously upset about that letter from the FBI. And the way he was looking at her… It was as if he truly saw her. As if he viewed her as a woman rather than a prop. To her husband, that's all she'd ever been. She wasn't sure if it was the massive dose of relief pumping through her veins, or maybe the full moon made her lose her mind. But, rather than twist open the beer, she set the bottle on the railing and took a step closer to Evan. His throat worked as he swallowed. "Brooke?" She didn't answer. Simply moved closer, so that they were standing less than a foot apart. She moistened her lips and met his eyes. "This is probably the most foolish thing I've ever done, but…" Lifting both hands, she cupped his stubble-covered jaw and pulled his head down for a kiss.

Chapter Ten Evan's muscles turned to jelly as Brooke's soft, warm lips pressed against his. The kiss caught him by total surprise, but his primal male instincts knew exactly what to do. All coherent thought drained from his mind—the letter from the FBI forgotten, his confusion about Brooke and her secrets gone. His hands found their way down to her slender waist, tugging her against him. Her small breasts collided with his chest, sending a bolt of heat right through his T-shirt to sear his skin. He had no idea what had come over her, but he wasn't about to complain. Truth was, he needed this. Needed the welcome respite that her mouth gave him. 490

He deepened the kiss and she parted her lips for him, welcoming his tongue. As his pulse drummed in his ears, he explored her sweet mouth, while his hands caressed the small of her back before drifting lower to cup her firm behind. Brooke whimpered as their tongues danced. She wrapped her arms around his neck, rubbing her lower body against his, until he was harder than granite. "What's come over you?" he rasped against her lips. "I don't know," she murmured back. She kissed him again. "It's just been so long, so long since anyone has kissed me like this." Her shaky words made him pull away. "Your husband…he didn't…you two didn't kiss?" Her dark green eyes, glazed only seconds before, sharpened into focus. "No. I mean, yes. He did. We did." She was suddenly edging toward the railing. "But he was sick for a long time. More than a year. He didn't have the energy for anything by the end." She was lying to him again. Damn it, it was always one step forward, two steps back with this woman. Last night, her fear had been unmistakable and it was still there tonight. She was struggling with something. Running from something. He wished she would confide in him. "Let me take you on a date," Evan blurted out. Her head jerked up. "What?" "Let me take you out, Brooke. I know you said you weren't ready to get involved, but this kiss confirmed that there's something between us. Or that there could be." He stepped forward and grazed her cheek with his fingers. "Trust me. Let me in and I promise you won't regret it." She moved away from his touch, running a hand through her chin-length hair. "I don't know, Evan." "Yes, you do. You know you want to see what happens between us." "Maybe if circumstances were different…maybe if…" She trailed off, then cleared her throat. "I'm not who you think I am, Evan. A part of me is…broken." His heart squeezed in his chest, the forlorn note to her voice triggering that spark of protectiveness again. Meeting her eyes, he slowly shook his head. "You're not broken, Brooke. Maybe a little splintered, but the pieces are there, ready to be put back together." That seemed to startle her, prompting him to continue. "I see the strength in you, Brooke." "You do?" she whispered. He nodded. "I can't imagine what you must have felt, losing your husband, but it didn't break you. You're strong, and sooner or later, you're going to realize that." She seemed a bit dumbfounded, as if she couldn't believe what he was saying. "So what'll it hurt?" he said, his voice gruff. "One date won't kill either one of us. Say yes." 491

She hesitated. "What'll it be, Brooke—yes or no?" He thought she would say no. He could see her lips forming the word. But then her mouth opened and she said, "Yes."

Chapter Eleven "You are the biggest idiot on the planet," Brooke chided herself as she got dressed the following evening. A date! What was she thinking? Why on earth had she said yes to Evan McCarthy? Because you like him. Fine, so maybe she liked him, but that wasn't the reason she'd agreed to the date. Deep down, she knew exactly why she'd said yes. I see the strength in you, Brooke. His words still floored her. Andrew had knocked her down so many times she couldn't even remember what it felt like to be strong. But…there was a time when she had been strong, when she'd relied on that strength to survive the crappy hand she'd been dealt in life. She'd thought she'd lost it for good, that the woman she'd once been had disappeared during her years with Andrew. But Evan saw that woman. He didn't see a Stepford wife, a woman he could mold or toy with. He saw her. And God, the way he'd touched her… The tenderness of his kiss, the seductive swirl of his tongue. Every inch of his body had been hard, but his lips had been soft, his hands so careful when he'd held her. She wasn't used to that. Andrew had always been rough with her, right from the start. Andrew's lips had been cold and unyielding. Andrew's touch had made her feel scared, not safe. Maybe kissing Evan had been a mistake, but from that one kiss, she'd gained priceless knowledge. The realization that not every man in this world was one she ought to fear. Brooke clenched her fists and was surprised to find a cell phone in her hand. When had she taken it out of the closet? She was only half-dressed, the silky black shift she'd bought that afternoon resting on the bed. While she'd been lost in thought, she must have somehow grabbed the phone. As she stared at it, she suddenly realized what she had to do. Lifting her chin, she headed back to the closet and rummaged around in her duffel until she found the cell phone battery. She'd bought the disposable phone after leaving Maryland. For emergencies, she'd told herself. There was no GPS on it, but she'd removed the battery anyway, just in case. Now, she slid the battery back in place, took a breath, and dialed a number. Andrew answered on the second ring. Brooke exhaled. "Hi, Andrew."

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Silence. Then "Brooke? Where the hell are you?" "It doesn't matter where I am. All that matters is that I'm not coming back." Her hand shook as she held the phone. "I want you to stop looking for me." Another beat, followed by a harsh laugh. "I don't give a rat's ass what you want, you little bitch! Do you think you can just humiliate me, attack me, and run away?" "You attacked me first." Her throat burned. "And you've been attacking me for years, maybe not with your fists, but abuse just the same. I'm not coming back. I'll never come back. I'm just asking you to have the decency to let me go." He laughed again. "You're in no position to make demands. I've got every cop in Baltimore looking for you. And I'm tracing this call as we speak, so you've just made my job easier." "You're not tracing anything," she said coolly. "It's seven o'clock on a Friday. Which means you're at the gym. And I doubt you brought your handy tracing equipment along on your workout." Andrew didn't answer for a second and she knew she'd hit the mark. Of course he'd gone to the gym. No way would her control-freak husband alter his routine. He could preach to the media about the agonizing search for his mentally ill wife, but she knew him better than they did. Andrew sounded livid when he spoke again. "Get your ass home, Brooke. I'm tired of these silly games." "Just let me go." Desperation crept into her voice. "Let's end this peacefully. I don't want to be with you, and I don't think you ever wanted to be with me. So please, Andrew, let's end this." "End it? I don't think so, bitch. This won't end until I have my hands wrapped around your pretty little thro—" She hung up the phone.

Chapter Twelve "I think you've had enough," Evan said in a dry voice. Across the booth, Brooke waved a careless hand, tossed her head back and swallowed her fifth shot. Or maybe it was the sixth. Evan had lost count. He'd also lost control of this date, obviously. He'd known Brooke was upset the second she slid into his beat-up Jeep Cherokee two hours ago. Not even the sight of her cute, short dress or the red lipstick she'd carefully applied could hide her distress. She'd chatted during the car ride to Sully's Bar, but he'd seen through that, too. Something had rattled her, but for the life of him, he couldn't get her to confide in him. Now they were seated in a booth at the back of the dimly lit room, their dinner plates had been carried away by the waitress, and Brooke was proceeding to get blind-ass drunk. Definitely not the first date he'd had in mind. "My father never had enough," Brooke suddenly said.

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Evan looked into her eyes and glimpsed the bitterness there. "He drank?" "Oh, yeah." Her jaw tensed. "And then he hit us. My mom and me. And one day, he killed her." He had no idea what to say. Shock had formed a vise around his throat. And his heart squeezed so tight he thought it might burst. "That's how I met my husband," she continued in a faraway voice. "He was one of the cops who responded to my 911 call. He liked to remind me how he saved me from my domestic troubles." She snorted. "Domestic troubles—sounds so innocent, right? A drunken wife-beater killed his wife in front of their teenage daughter. Isn't that more than troubling?" Evan was on his feet before she could go on. As his heart ached, he helped Brooke up and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Come on, let's get you home, sweetheart." She looked ready to protest, but then her face collapsed, and Evan's heart promptly cracked in two. "That's a good idea," she whispered. He held her arm as they left the bar, leading her toward his car. After he got her settled in the passenger seat, he rounded the Jeep—only to be intercepted by Teresa Donovan, who'd just hopped out of a sleek Mercedes. Evan suppressed a groan. That woman was the last person he wanted to see at the moment. The maneater, he'd come to call her. Beautiful, yes. But nasty. "What's wrong with Brooke?" Teresa asked immediately, peering through the windshield of his Cherokee. "Brooke is…tired," Evan said evenly. "I'm going to drive her home." Teresa tossed her long black hair over one shoulder, gray eyes twinkling. "I have a better idea. Let's call her a cab and you and me can go in and have a drink."

Chapter Thirteen Evan hid his disgust when he noticed the seductive glimmer in Teresa's eyes. "Thanks, but I'm gonna have to pass. I'm taking Brooke home." Irritation etched into her beautiful features. "I can tell that she's drunk. Let a taxi take her back and she'll sleep it off." Evan headed for the driver's door. "Sorry, Teresa, but no." Bloodred fingernails dug into the sleeve of his button-down. "Come on, Evan," she said in a husky temptress voice. "How long are you going to resist? You know there's something between us, we both feel it." His restraint snapped like an elastic band. "Enough," he said angrily. "How many times do I have to tell you I'm not interested?" Her eyes flashed. "What, I'm not good enough for you?" she demanded. Her gaze moved back to the car, back to Brooke. "You prefer that whiny idiot with her flat chest and damsel-in-distress bullshit?" 494

Evan's shoulders went rigid. "Go back to your millionaire ex-husband, Teresa. I've got enough problems already." There was a deafening silence. And then she flounced off, her high heels clacking against the pavement. Evan released a calming breath as he watched her go. Damn. He shouldn't have spoken to her like that, but Teresa always managed to provoke him. He had no idea what a shrewd businessman like Cole Donovan had ever seen in that woman. And at the moment, he didn't care. He turned back to Brooke. Her alcohol-induced confession had ripped him apart. He'd seen the shadows in her face, but he'd never expected them to be that bad. That dark. Swallowing hard, he slid into the driver's seat, then reached over the arm divider and touched Brooke's silky-soft cheek. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn't sleeping. "Was that Teresa?" she murmured without opening her eyes. His jaw tensed. "Yeah." "She sounded upset." Brooke made a move to unbuckle her seatbelt. "I should go talk to—" "What you should do is stay away from that woman," he cut in, stilling her hand. "I know you think she's your friend, but she's not, Brooke. That woman toys with people, uses them as pawns in whatever manipulation game she's playing." Her eyes opened, confused, but though she looked like she might argue, she finally just sighed. And closed her eyes again. "Evan?" "Yeah?" "Do you think… Could you stay with me tonight? I'm scared to be alone." He stroked her cheek once more. "I'll stay," he said softly. And then he started the car. *** From the door of Sully's, Teresa watched Evan McCarthy's Jeep speed away from the parking lot. Fury coursed through her blood, making her hands shake and her pulse thud. How dare he talk to her like that? How dare he? She'd been married to Cole Donovan, one of the richest men in the country. She lived in a cliffside mansion that Cole had personally designed for her. She had more money than Evan would know what to do with. Her body vibrated with anger as she remembered the way Evan had looked at Brooke through the car window. His gaze had reflected such tenderness, making it glaringly obvious that he cared deeply about Brooke Talbot. Brooke, who was on the run from her husband. Just the memory of Brooke's sob story made Teresa want to roll her eyes. What kind of woman let a man walk all over her like that? She'd feigned sympathy during their heart-to-heart, all the while wanting to

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laugh. If Teresa had been in Brooke's shoes, Andrew Tanner, police captain or not, would have learned his place—and early on. She'd only struck up this friendship with Brooke out of curiosity. She always liked scoping out the new arrivals to Serenade, because really, you never knew when you might need 'em. Within five minutes, she'd pegged Brooke as dull and totally useless. Until she'd seen the way Evan had looked at the woman one day in the diner. After that, getting close to Brooke had been less about curiosity and more about the number one tenet in Teresa's personal philosophy—keep your enemies close. She'd wanted Evan McCarthy in her bed from the moment she'd laid eyes on him, and it grated that he kept brushing her off at every opportunity. His latest rebuff didn't annoy her as much as who he was rebuffing her for. Evan needed a real woman, not a weak fool who couldn't even keep her own husband on a leash. He needed someone like Teresa. Yet he'd chosen Brooke. Time to take Brooke out of the equation. A smile lifted the corner of her mouth. Yeah, it was definitely time to wipe her hands of that boring twit. Teresa reached into her purse and removed the article Brooke had given her, then found her phone. Smile widening, she slid open the phone's keyboard and punched in the number of Captain Andrew Tanner's silly hotline.

Chapter Fourteen By the time Brooke and Evan returned to her cabin, some of the alcohol had left her bloodstream— leaving a rush of humiliation in its wake. She watched as Evan unlocked the front door with the key she'd handed him, wishing she could just disappear. She couldn't believe she'd told him that stuff about her dad. About how Andrew had "rescued" her. She should have cancelled the date the moment Andrew had threatened her, damn it. But she'd needed to get out of the cabin. And truth be told, she'd been looking forward to going out with Evan, and she hadn't wanted to disappoint him. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, following him into the living room. "I didn't mean to spoil our date." He led her to the couch and gestured for her to sit. "You didn't spoil anything. I'm going to make us some coffee." As she settled on the cushions and brought a plaid blanket up around her, she listened to the sound of Evan puttering around in the small kitchen. He strode back into the room a few minutes later and handed her a steaming cup of coffee. "Brooke…" His voice sounded rough, rusty. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that." She blew at the hot liquid to cool it, then took a slow sip. "It was a long time ago," she finally said. "I survived." Evan sipped his own drink before placing the cup down on the wooden coffee table. "So your husband was a cop, huh? He sounds like a good guy, for helping you through everything." 496

She was about to agree, but the words got stuck in her throat like a piece of gum. She couldn't do it. Couldn't sing Andrew's praises anymore. Their phone conversation had left her numb and empty. No matter how far she ran, Andrew would keep looking for her, and one day…one day he'd find her. Getting a new identity and starting her life over was a pipe dream. She knew that now. And sometime around her third or fourth vodka shot, she'd realized exactly what she needed to do. "Brooke?" She turned her head to find Evan's gorgeous gray eyes searching her face. "He wasn't a cop, Evan. He is a cop." His forehead wrinkled. "What?" "My husband is alive." A shaky breath exited her mouth. "He's been alive this whole time." "You're…you're still married?" Disbelief dripped from his voice. For a second there she thought he would march right out the door, but then his features relaxed and he let out a breath of his own. "Okay." He sucked in some more air. "Okay, just start from the beginning. Tell me everything, Brooke." So she did. She told him about the way Andrew had swept in and helped her put her life together after her father went to jail. How she'd married him just out of college, despite the ten-year age difference. How she'd stood by him as Andrew continued to get promoted, held his hand when he'd been named captain of the department. And then she moved on to the details of their marriage. Andrew's possessiveness, his taunts about her childhood, his declaration that she owed him everything for taking her away from it all. His demands of perfection and insistence she quit her job just as she was starting to get established. Then she described that fateful night, the night she'd told Andrew she wanted a divorce, and Evan's lips twisted in a deep scowl. When she told him about the beating, his hands curled into fists. "So I ran," she finished. "I ran and I ended up here. I thought I would be safe, that once I was gone, he'd cool off and eventually consent to the divorce. But that's not going to happen." She inhaled slowly. "He'll see me dead before he lets that happen."

Chapter Fifteen Evan stared at Brooke's agonized face, then drew her into his arms. She shuddered against him, and he felt moisture staining his neck. He let her cry, stroking her silky hair, his chest aching at the feel of her thin, fragile body clinging to him. When she finally pulled back, a wry smile lifted her mouth. "Not what you were expecting for the first date, huh?" "Not at all," he confessed. But he wasn't angry. Only stunned. And a tad apprehensive. If what Brooke said was true, then the captain of the Baltimore police department could bear down on them at any second. Her husband. The word gave Evan pause, deepening his apprehension.

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"What are you planning to do?" he asked. "Go back." She sighed. "I realized tonight that he's never going to stop looking for me. The only thing I can do is face him. I'll file a restraining order if I need to—" She swallowed. "That is, if someone in the department believes their hero boss actually attacked me. And I'll get the divorce proceedings going." Evan rubbed his jaw. "You said he'll commit you before agreeing to a divorce." "He doesn't have to agree on it." Her voice was stubborn. "I'll just have to hire a really good lawyer, someone who can protect me." I'll protect you. He caught the words before they managed to slip out. Because really, how could he protect this woman? He was barely coping with his own problems. Andrew Tanner was an important man, and Brooke was his wife. Lord, he'd gone on a date with a married woman. That was a first. "I'd like to stay here for another couple of weeks, though," Brooke went on. "I'd feel awful if I didn't give Martha two weeks' notice." Evan faltered. He knew the correct response would be, of course you can stay here. But those words refused to come out, too. Brooke had admitted to stabbing her husband—what if there was a warrant out for her arrest? He could be harboring a fugitive at this very moment. A headache formed at his temples, making his head pound. If he let her stay, he could be implicated in whatever crime those Baltimore cops thought she'd committed. Whether she was being truthful or not, Evan couldn't afford to get involved. He'd just avoided a stiff fine and potential jail time after that crap with his former business partner. And that infuriating letter from the FBI only reaffirmed the kind of trouble he could be in if he didn't stay on the right side of the law. He needed to remain squeaky-clean if he ever hoped to get his business back on track and keep his house. Guilt clamped around his throat as the selfish thoughts swarmed his mind. Was it wrong, though, to be selfish? He'd only known Brooke Talbot—Tanner, he corrected himself—for two months. And everything she'd told him had been a lie. But what he did know was that her rare smiles made his pulse race, that she felt utterly right in his arms and that the day he'd met her, his first thought had been, she's special. Special enough to risk everything he'd worked so hard for? His very freedom? "I…don't think that's a good idea," Evan burst out. Surprise flickered in her gaze. "What's not a good idea?" "You staying here," he clarified. "I want to help you, Brooke, I truly do, but I told you about all the trouble I've had, with the IRS, the Feds. I can't get involved in this." Her mouth fell open, then closed. Her surprise faded, transforming into a cloud of hurt that brought another rush of guilt to his gut. But it was the gentle understanding that did him in. "You're right," she murmured. "I'm sorry, I didn't even think about what this might mean for you." 498

"Brooke, I want you to know that—" "No, don't explain. I'm not angry with you, Evan. I get it." With a sad look, she reached out and touched his arm. "If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't want me and my baggage around, either." A lump rose in his throat. "Brooke—" "It's okay," she insisted as she got to her feet. "Don't worry. I'll be out of here tomorrow morning."

Chapter Sixteen It took Brooke only twenty minutes to pack up her stuff. When she was done, she picked up her duffel bag and headed out into the living room, watching the morning sun stream in through the transparent curtains. Her heart squeezed in her chest as she glanced around the space she'd come to call home. She would miss it here. Not just the cabin, but Serenade. And Evan. She honestly didn't blame him for not wanting to be involved in any of this, but a part of her still wished he hadn't turned her away. Last night as he'd left the cabin with a sag in his broad shoulders, she'd almost dashed after him, pleaded with him to rescue her. But she knew it wasn't a fair request, and she also knew it was time to stop turning to others to save her. After her mother's death and father's imprisonment, she'd relied on Andrew far too much. She'd allowed him to become her rock, her savior. And in the end, he'd destroyed something inside of her. Her strength. The girl who'd dived in front of her mother's body and dared her father to beat her instead had vanished after she'd married Andrew. She'd replaced one abusive man with another, and it was time she broke the cycle. From now on, she fought her own battles. A smile tugged on her mouth as a feeling of pure liberation flooded her body. Screw it. Screw Andrew. She was going back to Baltimore to slay her own dragons. The sound of a car engine caught her attention, but she resisted the urge to walk over to the window. Evan was probably coming home. She'd seen his Cherokee speed off the property an hour ago. He hadn't come over to say goodbye. She didn't blame him for that, either. Why should he bid her farewell? She'd lied to him from the moment they'd met, led him on, gone on a date with him without telling him she was married. He ought to hate her. Brooke wanted to hate herself, too, but it was hard, especially when she didn't regret the time she'd spent with Evan. She'd never met anyone as incredible as him. He'd welcomed her into his home and his life so easily, even after his trust had already been betrayed by someone close to him. He'd believed in her. And he'd made her laugh—she couldn't remember the last time a real laugh had left her mouth. If circumstances were different, she knew without a doubt that Evan McCarthy would be a man she'd be proud to call her own. Brooke slung the duffel over her shoulder, took one last look around, then flung the front door open.

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And found her husband standing in the doorway. A scream flew out of her mouth at the same time her husband offered an ugly smirk. "Hey, honey. I'm home."

Chapter Seventeen As a jolt of adrenaline sizzled through her veins, Brooke tried to slam the door in Andrew's face. He immediately wedged one black boot in the doorway, then pushed at the door with his palms. Brooke went flying backwards, dropping her duffel bag on the floor as she tried to regain her balance. Andrew strode into the cabin and glanced around, wrinkling his nose. "This is where you're living? It's no better than that dump I rescued you from." "What are you doing here?" she blurted out. "How did you find me?" He smirked again. "A friend of yours called the hotline and told me where to find you." She gaped at him. A friend? But who— "A lovely woman by the name of Teresa Donovan," Andrew went on, practically beaming at her. "Not a fan of yours, I presume." Teresa? But Teresa had promised to— Brooke suddenly had a foggy memory of Teresa standing by Evan's car last night, fury in her eyes. She'd been too drunk to listen to what they'd been saying, but now that she thought about it, there had been definite tension between the two. Enough tension to prompt her supposed friend to betray her? Had everyone been right about Teresa? Was the woman as evil as this entire town claimed? Shoving aside the pointless thoughts, Brooke met her husband's eyes. "I don't want to fight, okay? Just go back to Baltimore and wait to hear from my lawyer." "Your lawyer?" He chuckled. "I don't think so, Brooke. We're going home together, as husband and wife. And trust me, you'll be amply punished for what you did to me." "What I did to you?" A wave of anger slammed into her. For the first time in years, the sight of his face didn't frighten her. And his sheer nerve made her want to stab him all over again. "Our marriage is over, Andrew. I was foolish enough to marry you in the first place, but I'm not the same girl you saved all those years ago. I refuse to put up with you for even another second." "You refuse? You refuse?" He laughed again, and took a step toward her. She took a step back. Her gaze darted around, searching for something she could grab on to, a weapon she could use against him. But suddenly he had her against the wall, and his large hands were going for her throat. Brooke gasped and tried to pry his hands off, but he only squeezed harder. "I've had enough of this crap, you little bitch. You're coming home with me. Now. And you're going to be the little obedient wife that you've always been—or do I need to teach you another lesson?"

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"No," she choked out. "Yes," he corrected, a malevolent glimmer in his brown eyes. "No." With a sudden blast of strength, she slid out of his iron grip and brought her knee up. Andrew squealed when she made contact with his groin. As he doubled over in pain, Brooke unleashed her elbow against the crown of his neck, then flew across the room and tore out the door.

Chapter Eighteen Evan's chest was heavy as lead as he drove along Main Street. The realization that Brooke was probably gone by now made his throat tighten, but knowing that he was the one who'd turned her away hurt even more. For some reason, he couldn't dispel the feeling that he'd made a huge mistake, despite the fact that his ever-practical brain was practically applauding him for the decision to walk away. Brooke might very well be a fugitive. She'd stabbed a man. Lied about everything. And hers was a messy situation he couldn't be dragged into, not now, not when he needed to stay out of trouble. Logically, it all made sense. Yet from the moment he'd opened his eyes this morning, his instincts had been screaming at him. Shrieking like damn sirens. Telling him that Brooke was in grave danger and that he had to help her. His foot shook on the gas pedal, making it difficult to drive. He was on his way to the Home Depot, trying to distract himself from this latest mess by picking up supplies to build that shed he never got around to. But that relentless humming in his body refused to subside. Go to her. Those three words repeated over and over again in his mind. They wouldn't stop, damn it. He was halfway to the store when he finally couldn't stand it anymore. He had to see if Brooke was all right. He had to. Maybe she hadn't left yet. Maybe he still had the chance to make things right. At the thought, he pressed down on the gas pedal. He did a quick U-turn, then sped out of town, breaking every rule in the DMV handbook as he hightailed it home. The frantic tugging at his gut only got worse when he reached the end of his driveway and spotted the unfamiliar vehicle parked in front of Brooke's cabin. It was the latest BMW on the market, sleek and black—with Maryland plates. Oh, crap. Evan threw open the driver's door and practically hurled himself out of the car, panic rising in his body as he hurried toward the cabin. When he found the front door ajar, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach. A black duffel bag sat on the floor, but there was no sign of Brooke. Or her husband. As Evan headed back to the porch, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the number for the sheriff's department. In a hurry, he explained the situation to the deputy who answered and frantically 501

demanded she send the sheriff. Then he hung up and took a breath, looking around the yard. If Brooke and Tanner had headed for the road, he would have seen them driving in. Which left the woods bordering the west side of the property. Brooke must have made a run for it. And Andrew Tanner had run after her. Ignoring the panic pummeling into him like fists, Evan sprinted toward the trees, his steps quick and sure. He knew this forest like the back of his hand. Every tree, every rock, every clump of dirt. Shoving branches out of the way, he ran deeper into the forest, his heart beating a million times a second. Lord, he had to find her. From everything Brooke had told him, Andrew Tanner sounded like a total psychopath. A vicious maniac hiding behind a badge. And a gun. Evan's pulse kicked up another notch. He came to a halt and searched the trees, but the woods were quiet. Too quiet. Sucking in a breath, he forced himself to calm down, to examine his surroundings. His gaze moved back and forth, studying, seeking… There. The leaves to his left looked disturbed. He stepped closer, glimpsed a partial footprint in the dirt and knew he was on the right track. He kept running. A scream broke through the silence. With a burst of energy, Evan emerged into a grassy clearing, then skidded to a stop. Ten feet away, Brooke was lying flat on her back, her face paler than snow. There was a man on top of her, a man with dark hair and wild eyes. And a pair of strong hands that were choking the life right out of Brooke.

Chapter Nineteen It all happened so fast. One second Brooke's vision was nothing but black spots and hazy stars, and then she was gasping for air, drawing much-needed oxygen into her burning lungs. Andrew was gone. Where was he? Why was she hearing shouting? She remembered running into the woods. She remembered Andrew chasing her, knocking her to the hard ground. And then a wave of agony streaking through her arm. The pain returned now, making her entire body throb with pain. He'd broken her left arm, and then he'd gone for her throat and her consciousness had blinked and began to recede. But then… As the oxygen kick-started her lungs, Brooke snapped into a state of alertness, sitting up in time to see two men tumble to the ground in a blur of fists and legs. Evan! She glimpsed his sandy-blond hair, heard his deep voice as her husband went on the attack. Brooke stumbled to her feet and dove toward the men. Andrew was on top now, landing a nasty punch to Evan's jaw. Brooke saw the blood pouring from Evan's nose and her heart thumped in fear. Ignoring the pain shooting up and down her useless arm, she bent to grab a jagged brown rock from the dirt, then staggered forward. Andrew was shouting, "This is none of your business, you stupid little assh—" 502

Her husband's words died as the rock crashed down on the back of his head. The blow sent him into unconsciousness and he fell onto Evan's chest, out like a light. There was a deafening silence, and then Brooke was on her knees. "Are you okay?" she burst out, helping Evan move out from under Andrew's body. "Oh, God. Did I kill him?" Wiping his bloody nose with his sleeve, Evan placed his other hand on Andrew's throat and checked for a pulse. "No. He's alive." With a groan, Evan got to his feet, pulling her up with him. "Are you okay?" he asked in an urgent tone. She cradled her arm to her chest. "He broke my arm." Her throat closed. "He tried to kill me. God, Evan, if you hadn't showed up when you did…" The next thing she knew, she was in his arms, and he was stroking her back with his big, warm hands. "It's all right," he said softly. "You're all right now." He pulled back slightly, remorse clouding his gray eyes. "I'm so sorry, Brooke. I should have never asked you to leave." Tears stung her eyes. "I'm sorry I put you in that position to begin with. I should have told you the truth from the start." "I knew the truth, Brooke. Well, I didn't know it, but I felt it." His breath came out in sharp pants. "From the day we met, my gut told me I needed to protect you." A lump rose in her throat. "And you did." His features creased with remorse. "I was almost too late." "You got here just in time," she said softly. He looked ready to argue, but a shout from behind put an end to the conversation. Brooke turned to see Sheriff Patrick Finnegan burst into the clearing, holding a gun in his hands. Two deputies in olive-green uniforms tailed him, and the duo immediately hurried toward Andrew Tanner's unconscious frame. "What happened?" Finnegan demanded, his vivid blue eyes fixed on her and Evan. In a calm voice, betrayed by only a few wobbles, Brooke told the sheriff everything. When she finished, he glanced at her husband's body, then at Evan. "You saw him strangling her?" Finnegan's voice was gruff. Evan nodded. "He would have killed Brooke if I hadn't stopped him." Finnegan nodded. "Anna," he called to the female deputy. "Try to wake up the good captain. And then cuff him." Relief flooded every inch of Brooke's body. "You're going to arrest him?" she breathed.

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The sheriff shot her a hard look. "Police captain or not, he'll be charged with attempted murder. Don't you worry, Mrs. Tanner, he's going away for a long time. That son of a bitch will never trouble you again."

Chapter Twenty Evan kept a few feet of distance between him and Brooke as they walked out of the emergency room. A white cast encased Brooke's left arm, and her face was as pale as the plaster. He wanted desperately to yank her into his arms again and never let her go, but the lingering guilt moving through his blood stopped him. He still couldn't erase the memory of Andrew Tanner's hands on Brooke's throat. He'd almost lost her. Not that he'd ever had her. Tanner was sitting in a jail cell at the Serenade Police Station, which meant Brooke was free to go home to Baltimore if she chose to. Both she and Evan would have to testify at that bastard's trial—and there would be a trial. Patrick Finnegan would make sure of that, and Evan had always respected and trusted the serious sheriff. When Finn set his mind on something, he damn well made it happen. But Evan had more pressing matters to think about. He opened the passenger door for Brooke then walked around and slid in beside her. "Thanks for taking me to the hospital," she said quietly. Then she laughed. "Actually, thanks for saving my life." He swallowed hard. "Brooke, I know I said it already, but I have to say it again. I'm sorry for the way I handled everything. I should have never—" "Hey." The fingers of her right hand were warm as she reached out to stroke his cheek. "I think we've apologized enough. We both messed up, but it's over now. Andrew can't hurt me anymore." When he gazed into her dark green eyes, he saw nothing but serenity reflected back at him. Along with a tiny glimmer of amusement. "What?" he said thickly. "What are you thinking about?" She ran her hand through her short brown hair and smiled. "I was thinking you still owe me a date." Evan raised his eyebrows. "That's rather presumptuous, don't you think?" The humor in her eyes dissolved. "Oh. You're right. That's probably a dumb idea. I'm not even divorced yet, and I caused you so much trouble already—" He cut her off with a kiss. The second his mouth brushed over hers, that same strange feeling he'd had the first day they'd met returned with full force. She's special. Funny, how his heart had known all along, just as his intuition had. And this time he'd listened to both. If he'd just kept driving to the hardware store, if he'd ignored that overwhelming need to get to Brooke, she wouldn't be here right now. The thought, terrifying as it was, brought a rush of satisfaction. He'd done good today. He'd followed his heart and his instincts and they had led him here. To Brooke. Pulling back, Brooke let out a sigh. "I mean it, Evan. I'm sorry for involving you in all this."

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Leaning back, he traced the curve of her jaw with one finger. "I thought we were done apologizing." He smiled faintly. "And I think it's the other way around. You owe me a date. I wasn't the one who got plastered, remember?" Her voice was dry. "I never could hold my liquor." She paused, then sought out his gaze. "Do you mean it? You still want me around, despite everything?" "I've wanted you around from the second I met you." His fingers moved to her mouth, teasing the seam of her lips. "I want to get to know you. I want to get to know the real Brooke, the one who used to be a chef and had the guts to stand up to the man who terrorized her." She swallowed. "You do?" "Stay in Serenade," he said gruffly. "Stay here, in the cabin, in the main house if you'd like. Just stay so we can see this through." Her green eyes darkened with pleasure. "I think that's the best idea I've heard in a long time." She halted again. "By the way…I lied to you before." He arched a brow. "Another lie? I'm intrigued." "When I said I wasn't big on the outdoors." She shot him a sheepish look. "I love the outdoors. And I'm an advanced skier. Put me on any black-diamond trail and I'll kick its ass." Evan stared at her for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. So she was a top-notch cook and a black-diamond expert. "Why am I not surprised?" Smiling, she leaned closer and brushed her lips over his cheek. "Stick with me, McCarthy, and I'll keep surprising you." He turned his head so that their lips were inches away. "I look forward to it."

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A Christmas Refuge By Rebecca Winters After a stressful and emotionally taxing year, Spanish hotel tycoon Des Pastrana comes to his favorite retreat in the Spanish Pyrenees to get away—from everything and everyone. So he is not happy when he's strong-armed into teaching an American tourist to ice climb. The Pyrenees are no place for amateurs. But Allison Bonner is not your average tourist. She surprises Des with her determination and strength. Despite himself, he finds that he wants to be closer to her, even as she pushes him away. This time, it will be Allison who teaches Des…about living, about Christmas and about love.

Chapter One Puerto d'Ara A cold winter sun glinted on the sign posted at the side of the treacherous snow-packed mountain road. Desidiero Pastrana, known to a few close friends as Des, glimpsed it just before the faded pink ball disappeared behind the majestic Pico d'Ara, which was 3,000 meters high. In the twinkling of an eye, light turned to dark. With Christmas only three days away, night fell fast over the Pyrenees. Just after leaving the northern city of Jaca, where he'd been on business, Des had gotten that queasy sensation again. He hadn't been feeling like himself for the past few days. It was probably something he'd eaten, or he'd come down with a cold. Either way, he was anxious to reach the year-round mountain resort village of Puerto d'Ara and call it a night. Of all the hotels owned by the Pastrana family in the province of Aragon, he preferred the Posada d'Ara, a former 17thcentury monastery that had since been converted into an inn. Only two kilometers from the border separating the Spanish and French Pyrenees, Des used it as a base to indulge his passion for climbing. He was planning to do some winter camping and serious ice climbing over the next ten days. Then after New Year's, he'd get back to work and sit down with Miguel Torrillas, the affable manager of the Posada d'Ara, to do the requisite end-of-year inventory. Des was the CEO of the Pastrana Corporation and known for his hands-on approach to running the company. He was also known to his family for avoiding spending the holidays with them. He'd purposely arranged this trip so that he could skip Christmas with his family. And, he thought, hopefully skip the reminders of last Christmas. A grimace crept over his dark Castilian features. At this time the year before, the woman he'd planned to marry had sued his corporation after he'd taken her climbing and she'd been mildly injured. His fiancée hadn't been a winter-sports person, but he'd wanted her to understand his passion for it. His skills could have compensated for her inexperience—but they couldn't compensate for her utter refusal to heed his instructions while they'd been climbing. 506

After a few minutes on the mountain she'd suddenly told him she'd changed her mind and wanted to go back to the hotel. He'd asked her to wait for him, but in a huff she'd started off without him and slipped. He'd gotten to her as quickly as he could, managed to extricate her ankle from where she'd wedged it and rushed her to the clinic. The doctor had said that it wasn't a major injury and she should just stay off her leg for a few days to avoid the pain until it was gone. She'd left the clinic without speaking to Des. A week later the corporate attorney for the Pastranas showed Des the petition from her attorney wanting restitution and compensation for his client's injury. Des had been incredulous. His fiancée was suing him? He'd asked her for an explanation, convinced it had to be a mistake. "It's nothing personal against you, amado," she'd said with a winsome smile. "The insurance will cover it." The calculating side of her nature shouldn't have surprised him, but it did, killing any feelings he'd had for her. He'd broken off the engagement, and no amount of winsome smiles, tears or begging could move him to take her back. His best friend, Raoul, a mountaineer from Chamonix, France, with whom he'd shared so much over the last decade, had told him to be thankful for what had happened. It had saved Des from making the biggest mistake of his life. Des agreed it'd been a miraculous escape, but it had shredded his trust and had changed the way he viewed women. They had been a source of pleasure for him, but no longer. Now that the Christmas season had rolled around once again, he wanted no part of females or festivities. Raoul was the only person who knew what was going on inside him. His French friend carried his own brand of pain after losing his wife some years ago and more recently his brother. Raoul had also wanted to avoid the holidays so he'd suggested they take a climbing trip to South America. Relieved to have a plan of escape, Des had been working all hours of the day and night, making his rounds of the family-owned hotels in preparation for the upcoming trip. But a few weeks ago Raoul, whose family owned and ran the legendary Broussard Alpine Guide Club in the French Alps, had called to tell him his father wasn't doing well. Jules's asthma was acting up and the family was worried about him. Raoul couldn't say how long it would take his father to get over this latest flare-up and in case it turned into something worse, he'd feared making definitive plans with Des only to have to cancel on him later. Though Des had been disappointed, he understood. In truth he wasn't fit company for anyone, let alone the man who was the closest thing he had to a brother. Before he'd left his headquarters in Zaragoza yesterday, he'd been uncustomarily short with his second-in-command when the man had suggested—in the most tactful way, of course—that Des should take a month off and really enjoy himself. And just today the manager of the hotel in Jaca had asked, very politely, if Des could hold off on their meeting until after he returned from his winter holiday. One more hairpin turn and Puerto d'Ara came into view, with its ski lifts and hotels. Approximately 1,800 people lived here year-round, making their living off tourists. He took the perimeter road to avoid the resort center's shops and bars. Just past the clinic with its large red cross on the roof was the small monastery facing the Pico d'Ara. It was a quirky masterpiece of stone and beams with different levels, nooks and crannies, perfect for its conversion to a family-friendly inn.

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He kept his own apartment on the ground floor, its only entrance an exterior one around the side. No doubt at one time it had served as a cell for a priest who'd wanted complete isolation. Since Des had been living the life of a monk this past year, the monastic atmosphere suited his foul mood very well. The parking lot outside the inn was full. Des wasn't surprised; business was always good here. He pulled to a stop in the staff parking and shut off the motor, relieved to have reached his destination. Still having no appetite and feeling a bit off, he decided to go straight to bed. Though his manager was expecting him, tomorrow would be soon enough to unload all his gear and let Miguel know he'd arrived. *** "All-ee," a young voice cried out before knocking on the door again. Allison Bonner loved the way the eight-year-old daughter of the Torrillas family pronounced her name. She finished putting her light brown hair in a ponytail and hurried across the hotel room to open the door. "Good morning, Maricela." "Good morning." They gave each other a big hug. "Mama says to come and eat before it's all gone." Breakfast in the cozy inn was served from seven to ten. Ally checked her watch. It was close to ten now. "I'm almost ready." "You look pretty." "Well, thank you." Ally's navy-blue cable-knit sweater and jeans were nothing to write home about. Maybe it was the mango-colored lipstick she'd put on after her shower to add some color. "So do you. I especially like that top." The girl was wearing a colorful pullover of geometric designs in blues and reds, over red pants. Maricela beamed. "Thanks." Inez, Maricela's mother, had urged her twins to speak English with Ally. It was good practice for them and easier for Ally, who knew very little Spanish except for a few words and phrases. "You're welcome," Ally said. The girl's mother had put Maricela's dark hair in braids, Ally saw, and she looked adorable in the new cowboy hat and boots Ally had brought her from Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Maricela and her twin brother, Nuncio, were smart, wonderful children with shiny deep brown eyes and beautiful features like their mother's. More than a year ago Miguel and Inez had brought their family to the Teton Range in Wyoming for a vacation. They'd stayed at her family's famous dude ranch outside Afton. The Bonners were a large family. Ally and her siblings helped her parents and grandparents run the ranch and also acted as guides for their guests. 508

From the first moment Ally had met the charming, attractive Torrillas family, the twins had helped fill part of the empty space in Ally's aching heart. At the time, she'd still been recovering from her fiancé's death in a tragic rafting accident on the Snake River and trying not to think about the wedding that had been planned for the next month. During the two weeks of the family's stay in September, Ally had spent most of her time showing the children around. They rode horses and fished. Hiked. Because the Torrillas family lived year-round in the Spanish Pyrenees and were no strangers to mountains, Ally, who was a trained mountaineer, took the family partway up the Grand Teton, which knifed almost 14,000 feet in the rarified air. Those experiences had cemented their relationship. When the family had had to return to Spain, they'd begged Ally to come for a vacation anytime she wanted and be their guest. She'd thanked them for the gracious offer and had actually planned to come this past summer, only certain unexpected detours in life had prevented her from traveling until now. Her family wasn't happy about Ally being gone over the holidays, but she'd planned it this way on purpose. Christmas was the last thing on her mind. Though her cancer was in remission, there was always the possibility it would come back. From now on she intended to live life to the fullest and defy the odds. After tugging on her own well-worn cowboy boots, which added a little more height to her five-foot-six frame, Ally left the room with Maricela at her side. They followed the stone passageway that led around to the timbered dining room with its vaulted ceilings. The children had told her when she arrived that it had once been a refectory for the Benedictine monks. The children knew all of the inn's fascinating history. A tall, brightly decorated Christmas tree stood near the enormous fireplace in the dining room. It threw out heat while a few guests dressed for skiing were still lingering at the long tables with their food before hitting the slopes. She spotted Nuncio in his cowboy hat sitting at the far end of one of the tables talking to his father and a male guest. Ally was glad the Western gear had been such a hit with the children. Maricela headed straight for her father, but Ally didn't want to intrude and instead went over to the cafeteria-style service bar where the guests could help themselves to a wonderful array of dishes. She fixed herself a plate of fruit and eggs and ham rollups. "Ally? Come over here and join us," Miguel called to her. "There's someone I want you to meet."

Chapter Two Ally turned in her friend Miguel's direction and walked toward him. Then she abruptly halted when she met a pair of eyes so fiery black and piercing, she felt scorched by them. They belonged to the man sitting across from Miguel—a sophisticated-looking Spaniard with his glossy black hair tied at the nape with a thong. She guessed he was in his mid-thirties, like Miguel. Beneath the man's sculpted black brows, his gaze made a swift assessment of Ally's body, traveling from her cowboy boots to the crown of her head. He said nothing, but she felt instinctively there was something 509

about her that displeased him. Why? She hadn't even met him. She fought to tamp down her flare of temper. "Allison Bonner, please meet Señor Desidiero Pastrana, my boss. He's also the CEO of the Pastrana luxury hotel chain that operates throughout Spain. I told him you'd arrived from the States a few days ago and will be our guest for a while." The impossibly handsome, olive-skinned Spaniard got to his feet. "Señorita Bonner," he said, shaking her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Señor Pastrana." With his tall, dark, Aragonian looks, she could easily imagine that he'd just stepped out of a painting done by one of the Spanish masters. In his black shirt and trousers, he took her breath. Yet behind his clipped tone, she still sensed his displeasure. Perhaps being in the hotel business had caused him to develop an aversion toward Americans. Whatever his problem, she hoped his work wouldn't keep him here long. Miguel patted the chair next to him. "Sit down and eat, Ally. I've told Desidiero you're an excellent climber and that you're keen to try ice climbing on the waterfalls while you're here. He has agreed to be your guide." She moaned, hoping no one heard her. Her host smiled. "Naturally I couldn't let you go with just any climber, no matter how good they think they are. Since Desidiero is the expert and is willing to take you, I'll leave you two to talk. Come on, children. I have work to do. Let's go find your mamacita." Now she understood the resentful vibes coming from the proud Spaniard seated across from her—he thought he'd been cornered into playing babysitter. "I know Miguel's intentions were the best, but I'm not his responsibility and I'll hire my own guide. I'm sorry he approached you, señor." He gave an elegant shrug of his broad shoulders. "He knew I came here to do some ice climbing. He cares about you, it's important to him that I go with you." "But as he said, I've never climbed on ice. I don't want to hold you back." He pursed his lips. "At least that's honest," he muttered. "Your inexperience won't be a problem if you can follow directions. Today is the only time I have. Are you prepared to leave now?" She'd planned to go skiing today, but this kind of opportunity was exactly what she'd wanted to do on this trip. She just hadn't expected do it with this throwback to the time of conquistadores who had no desire to be with her. "Yes," she said spiritedly. Why not today, now? She'd come to Spain to defy the odds and sensed he presented as much of a challenge as the mountains themselves. He was surprised by her answer. No doubt he'd counted on her saying no, that she couldn't get ready that soon. Now he'd have to follow through on this favor to Miguel. "In that case, I'll take you up for a few hours and give you your first lesson. Do you think you can last that long?" 510

"Absolutely. It's very kind of you to take me." But it was hard getting those words out when it was clear by his cold tone and stiff body how he really felt. His friendship with Miguel must have meant a lot to him. "You'd be wise to finish all your breakfast." So he thought she couldn't keep up with him? She'd be climbing circles around him before the day was out. "I promise not to fall behind." "Bien." He sounded as if he were already bored with their conversation. "I'll meet you in the foyer in half an hour." Ally checked her watch. "I'll be waiting. Thank you, señor," she said but he'd already started walking away. A strange quiver ran through her body as she watched him stride off, making her think of a dark prince before he disappeared. She ate her food quickly and then hurried back to her room to get ready, hardly able to believe this was really happening. After her mastectomy, she'd undergone a lot of physical therapy and eventually worked up a routine of squats, dead lifts, overhead presses, pull-ups, step-ups and dips. Before she left for Spain, her doctor told her she was in excellent cardiovascular condition and saw no reason why she couldn't do any kind of climbing she liked. Though this would be a new experience for her, she'd been a climber for years and was determined that the inscrutable Spaniard would eat crow when he realized his low opinion of her was unfounded. She was going to prove herself today or die trying. Better that than to remain home in Afton listening to those inner voices whispering what if you don't stay in remission? Ally wasn't in the foyer one minute before Señor Pastrana came walking through the double doors in his climbing gear. His striking looks caused every female guest coming and going from the posada to stare. He stopped when he saw she'd beaten him there. Without saying anything, his eyes scrutinized her, taking a mental inventory of what she was wearing, as any expert guide would do. He was the kind of man who had to shave every day, but he hadn't done it this morning. Was she mistaken, or did he seem paler than he had earlier, even with the shadow of his beard…or maybe because of it? Why she cared or paid that much attention was beyond her. It had to be the dimmer light here in the foyer, which retained all the elements of the former cloister. Sensing his displeasure again she asked, "Have I forgotten something?" His gaze grew shuttered. "Not that I can see," he muttered in a gravelly voice. "Shall we go?" He opened the door. She nodded and walked out into the sunshine, aware of his eyes on her body. For no reason she could readily identify, Ally trembled. That had never happened to her before, not even with her fiancé. The 511

blond, fun-loving Rex was so different from Desidiero Pastrana the two men might as well have been born on separate planets. An elegant, black, four-wheel-drive truck stood outside the Posada d'Ara with the motor running. Her guide opened the passenger door for Ally to get in. Their arms brushed as she climbed inside. The slight contact sent a dart of awareness through her, shocking her. For so long she'd been dead inside. There'd been a couple of men since Rex who'd tried to get close to her, but she couldn't give them what they wanted. Getting involved with someone inevitably led to physical intimacy, and she wasn't ready to suffer the rejection after he saw her scars. So it was confusing and scary that her senses would suddenly be stirred by this dark, brooding force of nature from the other side of the world…who wanted to be anywhere else except with her.

Chapter Three Des didn't speak as he drove several kilometers away from the ski area and began climbing the mountain road, making new tracks in the snow. He'd driven up here in a foul mood last night, but it was nothing compared to his state of mind right now. Not only hadn't he been able to stomach food this morning, but he was also now committed to coaching an inexperienced climber—just like his former fiancée. It had taken a lawsuit for him to see through to her mercenary soul, but he knew better than to trust so easily now. Señorita Bonner might have charmed Miguel's family, but Des had no illusions about her or any woman. Never again. As he drove, he noticed Allison taking in the scenery. A true nature lover would find nothing more breathtaking than the beauty of the snow-covered peaks towering above them. They'd left the village behind and were alone on the road. Des shifted gears and they arrived at the road's summit. He rounded a corner where everything opened up. "Oh!" she cried out. They'd come to the massive amphitheater of frozen waterfalls falling from great heights for which Puerto d'Ara was renowned. By the awe on her face he could see she was dazzled by the sight. The sun glinted off the ice as it cascaded over the boulders, giving the illusion of bride's lace. "I've never seen anything so spectacular in my life!" Her reaction sounded genuine enough, but he hardened his resolve to remain unmoved by her. "I'll grant you this is a unique place." She flashed him an enraptured smile. "Thank you for bringing me here. I can't wait to try climbing one of these ice cascades!" He studied her animated features with a dubious glance. "The treacherous surface of a waterfall is slick and textured. Have you considered the danger?" 512

"Of course I have. Let's see…I could fall in an icy crevasse, or get frostbite, or an avalanche could come out of nowhere. But it's the risk of the unknown that fuels my need to push the envelope. You of all people should understand what I'm talking about." Des made a sound in his throat but didn't respond. He got out of the car and opened up the back to retrieve their gear. "We'll climb a little on that cascade to the left of us where the sun won't be shining directly in our eyes. The lower portion isn't too steep." He handed her a helmet. "This is Inez's. Try it on for size." She settled it on her head. "It fits perfectly." "Bien." He handed her some crampons and she put them on. Within minutes they were outfitted and ready. "I'll put my helmet on once we start climbing." He was still feeling nauseous, and the thought of putting on the confining helmet made his stomach churn. "Let's drop the formality. I'll call you Ally." He picked up the axes and ropes and started toward the ice. "Follow me along this flat portion for practice. I'll stop when we reach the place where you'll need to start using your ice tool. If you feel nervous, let me know." "I promise." "Then let's go." As they made their way across the frozen waterfall, Des looked over his shoulder several times to make certain she was all right. She'd gotten the hang of it in minutes. "I'm impressed how well you're handling yourself on the ice." It was only the truth. She half laughed. "We'll see how long it lasts." They soon reached the area where the ice started to angle upward. Though it wasn't steep, it made the going more precarious and he helped her into her harness. He also attached the rope and belay in case she fell. Her moves on the ice were instinctive, indicating she knew what she was doing. By the time he'd shown her how to throw the ax and kick her foot so the front of the crampon dug into the ice, he was starting to admire how quickly she was catching on. He also had to admit she was in great shape. "Now grip your tool while you push yourself up with your legs. Do it a couple of times to get the feel." He gave her a few pointers as she tried the motion out. With each effort she made, he found himself impressed by her grit. "I think you're ready to scale this a ways." She flashed him a nervous smile. "I'm going to give it all I've got." He stared at her for a minute, respecting her courage and spirit of adventure that called to something inside him. He'd been unfair to her. "Forgive me for being abrupt with you earlier, Ally. I'm afraid I haven't been on my best behavior today." "Forget it. If our situations had been reversed and Miguel had roped me into helping you, I would probably have told him I had a headache and walked away."

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In spite of himself, he found Ally Bonner's rare honesty appealing. "Are you ready?" "Yes." She threw her ax and began to mount the ice in increments, making certain the point at the front of her crampon was embedded. With each try she gained another foot. So far so good—until he saw the ax fall out of her hand. She'd thrown it wrong. "Uh-oh!" She had to grab the notch she'd made because the leashed tool was just out of reach. "Hold on." He gauged the distance between them and figured she was about eight to twelve feet above him. "I'll get it for you so you can use it to come back down and take a rest. When you think you're ready again, we'll do a short climb together." "Okay." Her legs were set in the proper stance. She was doing everything right, but she was new to ice climbing and would need a short rest. It took a lot more energy than one would imagine, even for somebody in great shape. If she hadn't done a lot of climbing back in Wyoming, she could never have accomplished as much as she had. Des reached her in a few seconds and handed her the tool. "You're doing fine." "Thanks." After she took it, he swung back to his foothold. As he started to climb down, he was suddenly seized by nausea and a blast of dizziness. His vision blurred and he lost his grip. Then everything went black. *** "Des!" Ally cried out, watching in horror as his body suddenly slid down the ice and his head hit the hard surface—his bare head. He hadn't stopped to put on his helmet. She moaned in anguish. His body came to rest facedown at the bottom of the ice waterfall. It had all happened within seconds. "Des!" she cried out in panic. No answer. "Des?" He was out cold, possibly injured. She had to help him. She pulled out her ax and found the former hole she'd made with it. Slowly she eased herself down in increments until she reached his body. She removed her harness so she wouldn't be hampered and crouched beside him. She was trained in first aid, and did a quick assessment. His face had gone the color of ash but she found a pulse, though it was a slow one. He wasn't bleeding and he didn't seem to have a spinal injury, thank heaven. Something must have happened to him after he'd handed her the tool. Something that had caused him to lose consciousness.

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Oh, Des… I need to get you to a hospital, fast. Just the day before Miguel had told her there was no cell phone service in this area to call for assistance. So she'd either have to leave him here and go for help, hoping hypothermia didn't set in in the meantime, or drag him to the truck. She chose the latter. After removing his crampons, she turned him over, grabbed hold of his harness and began pulling him toward the car. They were still on the ice, and she had to dig her crampons in with every step, slowing her progress and draining her strength. Ally prayed every inch of the way over the flat cascade of ice. Several times she heard a moan from Des. Relieved for even that much response, she finally reached their vehicle. After removing her crampons and helmet, she went through several of his pockets and found the keys. Once she'd opened the rear door, she grabbed him in a fireman's lift the way she'd been trained in the Tetons and managed to get him inside. He had to weigh at least two hundred pounds of hard muscle, but she couldn't stop to rest. Frantic to reach help, she raced around and got behind the wheel of the truck. Thank heaven it was only a few kilometers to the village. All the while her mind was replaying the horrific moment in the raft with Rex when they'd hit the rapids. He hadn't been wearing a helmet, either. She'd told him to put it on after they'd put the boat in the water. But like Des, he'd said he would get it in a minute but had left the shore without it. They'd gone into the rapids at the wrong angle and the boat had flipped. Rex had been thrown from the boat and his head had hit a boulder. He never regained consciousness. This was like déjà vu. Des couldn't die, too! She wouldn't let him.

Chapter Four "Des? Can you hear me?" That voice crying softly to him… A woman's voice… An American, he realized, since every once in a while he could hear her speaking English to him. Who in the hell was she? Slowly his senses picked up other things. The warmth of two feminine hands closed around his, the subtle fragrance of wildflowers found in the highest meadows. "Please wake up and talk to me," the sweet voice called to him. With that urgent entreaty, he made the effort and opened his eyes to discover an enchanting face bent over him, wet with tears. She'd been crying. He didn't understand why. The tips of her light brown hair, streaked with gold highlights, brushed against his jaw. Those liquid-filled eyes of amber brown… He'd seen them before. But where? Right now they were full of anxiety and a plea for him to stay with her. "I'm Ally. Do you remember me?" He was trying to think, but the pain at the side of his forehead kept interfering with his concentration. "Ally who?" he whispered.

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"Ally Bonner. Miguel asked if you would take me ice climbing." Something clicked in his brain. "You're the Teton girl who wears the cowboy boots!" "Yes!" Her smile of relief radiated a universe of sunshine. It seeped into those dark places where he'd been living for such a long time. "Thank heavens you're going to be all right." He took a deep breath. "I remember reaching you and handing you the ax. Then I was overwhelmed by dizziness and couldn't hold on." She squeezed his hand before letting go. "So that's what happened! I watched you fall. I've never felt so helpless in my life." "I've never felt that sick in my life. I was supposed to be protecting you. Where am I?" "At the clinic here in Puerto d'Ara." "Why are you crying?" He heard her take a shuddering breath. "Because you're alive…. My…fiancé wasn't as lucky." Fiancé? "What happened to him?" "We were doing a float trip together down the Snake River with a group of tourists from the dude ranch I help my family run. Like you, he said he'd put his helmet on in a minute. When we hit the rapids at the wrong angle, it tipped and Rex was thrown. He hit his head on a boulder. We managed to rescue him from the water but he was unconscious…. He never came out of the coma," she said on a whisper. Des's stomach clenched, imagining the horror of it. He'd heard her anguish. "When I saw you lying there, I couldn't bear it." "I'm sorry for your loss, Ally." She drew herself up and wiped her eyes. "It's in the past now. What's important is that you're awake and will live to climb another day." "Thanks to you. How did I get here?" "I brought you." He frowned, but even that hurt. "How?" The corner of her mouth lifted. Though she wasn't conscious of it, he found her smile seductive. "The oldfashioned way." What? He stared hard at her. "You mean you dragged me off the ice by yourself?"

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She nodded, causing her wavy hair to dance along her shoulders. He remembered she'd been wearing it in a ponytail before. Either way, she was a knockout. "Those harnesses come in handy for a lot of reasons. The hardest part was getting you in the back of your truck." "But you managed it. And got me here." A swell of gratitude and admiration took over, shocking the hell out of him. Only then did he realize there was an IV in his other arm. "What time is it now?" "Five in the evening." "How long have I been asleep?" "On and off since yesterday afternoon." He'd lost a whole twenty-four hours? "But that's impossible!" "Your body needed the rest. Besides having a slight concussion, the doctor says you have the flu. It hit you hard, that's why you've been sleeping so long." Des was incredulous. He passed a hand over his jaw and felt his growth of beard with disgust. "I remember feeling nauseous for the last few days, but figured it was a bug and would pass. Instead of obeying the warning signs, I endangered your life." "No, you didn't," she insisted. "You did such an expert job of preparing me that I was able to respond. But next time, take your own advice and put your helmet on before you do anything else, okay?" Des was in awe of this woman. She'd endured heartbreak and grief. Des's experience with his fiancée couldn't compare. Now he could truly see it for what it was—a blow to his pride, nothing more. He felt the fool for having allowed it to affect him so much. He'd wasted the past year of his life. On a trifle. "What's put that fierce look on your face?" she asked. "I was also engaged once…this time last year, in fact. But I broke it off and am happy to say that by now she has probably found herself someone greedier than she is." At her surprised expression, he explained his words. "When I took her ice climbing for the first and only time, she bruised her ankle, then sued my company to make money off an injury that was so minimal she could walk on it within a day." "Oh, dear. Are you very rich?" she teased. "Extremely," he said in total honesty, unafraid to admit it to her. "Is she very beautiful, the way I imagine Bizet's Carmen? Long black hair? Fiery dark eyes, passionate to her very soul with a figure to die for?"

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"I'll admit her beauty was extraordinary." But her soul… "Then you're probably right, and she has the kind of marriage she's been waiting for all her life, where both grasping parties have their needs completely met." After that comment Des broke into full-bodied laughter, delighted by her intelligence and the fact that she didn't take herself seriously. "Señor Pastrana," the doctor said as he walked into the room. "I'm happy to hear you laugh like that. It is the best of signs. And I'm glad that you're now fully awake and talking to Señorita Bonner. She's been at your bedside since yesterday, waiting for you to open your eyes. Welcome back. How are you feeling?" "Good." It was the truth…since he'd awakened to an angel staring down at him. The doctor checked Des's vital signs while Ally kept watch. "Can you give me a few more details, por favor?" "My head hurts, but it's not that bad and I'm no longer feeling sick to my stomach." "Muy bien. We've been giving you antinausea medication in your IV. Keep this up and tomorrow you'll be able to go home—provided you take care of yourself." Ally's face lit up. "That's wonderful news." For several reasons, Des agreed. The doctor smiled at him. "You were fortunate your lovely climbing companion here got you off the ice quickly. Otherwise we would have had to treat you for hypothermia. But I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't warn you of the dangers of pushing yourself too hard. You may be the head of a successful business empire and famous throughout Spain, but you are still human." "I've had a lot of work to accomplish," he admitted. "Don't we all, but that's the reason why this particular flu hit you especially hard. Follow my advice and take it easy for a while." He smiled. "I'll see you in the morning." "Gracias, doctor." "De nada." As Des looked at Ally again he considered the doctor's words. Perhaps he should take some time off from work and find more…pleasurable ways to fill his life.

Chapter Five "Don't leave yet, Ally." Des was afraid she'd follow the doctor out of the room. She gripped the side rail of his bed. "You need to rest." "I've been unconscious for twenty-four hours, I feel like company. Do you mind?" 518

As Des said the words, he realized he meant them. But not just any company would do. Only hers. He realized that, too. His friend Raoul wouldn't believe how quickly his whole attitude was changing. Des would have to text him later. "I'll stay for a while longer." She pulled up a chair to the side of the hospital bed. "Oh, before I forget, Miguel went up to the amphitheatre and brought back all our things. There was a trail of debris from the cascade to the car." "When you went through my pockets, did you find my phone?" "Oh, yes—" She reached in her purse. "Here it is. I'll put it on your bedside table." "Gracias." "I'm afraid I didn't have another thing on my mind after you passed out except to drive you here. I've still got the keys to your truck, too." "That's good," he murmured. "Keep them until tomorrow. That way if you're willing, you can visit me and then drive me home." There was a slight hesitation that concerned him before she said, "Of course I will. You went out of your way to accommodate me. Until you fell, I was really enjoying the climb." A nurse came in to change his IV bag, then slipped out again. Ally smiled at him. "Can I bring you anything from your room at the posada?" "I could use my electric razor. It's in the bathroom with my other things." "Tell you what. Why don't I leave now and bring them back to you?" "In other words, I could do with a shave." "Did I say that?" His black brows quirked in amusement. "You didn't have to." "Where's the card key for your room?" "A monk's cell doesn't have something as modern as an electronic card to open the door—it has a metal key. It's with my car keys." "Oh—" She reached in her purse once more and brought out the keys. "Which one opens your room?" He took hold of her hand to show her. It trembled at the contact. Pleased by the response he said, "It's the middle one." She quickly eased her hand away. "What room number?"

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"Mine doesn't have one. It has an exterior entry around the west side of the posada. You can't miss it since it's the only one." "That sounds rather mysterious." A low chuckle came out of him. "Wait till you see it." She moved the chair against the wall. "I'll be back soon." "Hurry," he called out as she opened the door and left. *** Hurry? More than the word, the urgency in Des's tone caused Ally to tremble again. She couldn't believe he was the same forbidding stranger she'd met in the posada dining room, let alone the unconscious man she'd brought into the hospital so ill she'd feared for his life. The warm, compassionate Spaniard who'd just listened to her heartache and then told her about his own broken engagement showed a completely new side of him, and the change was doing odd things to her equilibrium. The increasingly strong attraction she felt toward him sent off warning bells in her brain. She'd come here for adventure, not to get involved in a romance. He was a gorgeous man. Against the pristine white of the clinic's sheets and pillow, his coloring and rugged features made him the most sensational-looking male she'd ever seen. Too sensational. Too perfect. Unlike her. If those black eyes were ever to see what cancer had done to her body… She couldn't face that. She'd needed to get away from him. Which was why she'd jumped up and offered to go get his things from the hotel. Anything to keep her distance. Not that he'd shown any sign of romantic interest. Though she knew he was grateful for her help, she was under no illusions that his attraction to her was as powerful as hers was for him. And even though he had to be feeling terrible right now, he was awake and probably itching to get out of the hospital. A dynamic man like him who ran a multibillion-dollar hotel business and went ice climbing to relax was probably a horrible patient and couldn't take advantage of the rest. When she drove back to the posada, she found Inez at the front desk and filled her in. "I know the children were hoping I could eat dinner with them, but Señor Pastrana needs a little waiting on. Tell them I'll be back tonight and I can read a story to them before they go to sleep. I bought them some Christmas books. Tonight we can read one of my favorites—How the Grinch Stole Christmas. They'll love it." "I'm sure I will, too!" Inez smiled. "But don't worry about anything else right now. Des's health is more important." "He's doing amazingly well. The doctor said he only had a light concussion." Inez crossed herself. "I'll tell Miguel. We've both been anxious. We visited him twice, but both times he was still asleep."

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"Thankfully he's awake now. I better go and get his things. See you later, Inez." After a shower in her room and a change of clothes into jeans and a kelly-green crewneck sweater, Ally dashed out the front doors of the inn and around the side. She felt strange walking into Des's private hotel room, but he had given her permission. Once she stepped over the threshold, she was delighted by the way the room felt and looked like a window into the past. But she didn't have time to examine everything; Des needed his things. Later, when she entered his room at the clinic, his black eyes darted from her to the suitcase. "I didn't know what you'd want so I just brought everything," she explained. For the second time in the past few hours he burst into laughter. The sound thrilled her. "Why don't you put the bag down and pull up a chair so we can talk." As she did his bidding, he rolled onto his side toward her, taking care with the IV in his arm. "What did you think of my room?" She glanced at him. "It felt as if I'd just stepped into a seventeenth-century priest's inner sanctum. To be honest, I loved it so much I wish I'd known about it so I could have reserved it before I arrived." "You can't reserve it. When the corporation bought the monastery, I had it all remodeled except that room. It's mine." "Well, lucky you." She paused. "I felt kind of naughty, letting myself in like that and then leaving with the suitcase." "If anyone had seen you, they would think I was a very fortunate man," he said, his gaze fixed on her mouth. A curling warmth traveled through her body. Followed immediately by a burst of panic. If she let the attraction between them go any further, he'd see her scars and be repulsed by them. He wouldn't want her then. "Thank you, but if they knew my secrets, they would think nothing of the sort." She'd said it to jar him, and it looked as if she'd succeeded because a puzzled expression entered his eyes. "Should I bite?" Ally shook her head. "It's not worth the trouble of an explanation." "I disagree," he responded. "You just intentionally threw up a wall to shut me out." To her astonishment he reached for her arm with his free hand, capturing it with surprising strength. "Why would you do that when I only want to get closer to you?"

Chapter Six Ally tried to ease away from the grip he had on her arm, but he refused to let her go yet. "Des…please listen. We may have just met, but you and I shared a life-and-death experience, which puts our relationship on a different level. I believe in being honest and assume you do, too. Wouldn't you have preferred to learn the truth about your fiancée at the beginning, instead of the eleventh hour?"

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He grimaced. "Ah, I see. So you've decided to kill whatever relationship might develop between us right now. But why? What truth are you so afraid of?" "I have my reasons. I'm sorry." She removed her arm and got up, putting the chair back against the wall, ready to leave. His brows furrowed. "No, you're not." "Please don't be angry with me." "That's the last emotion I'm feeling." "Then I'm glad." "You're not making sense. Help me understand." She breathed deeply. Get out of here, Ally. "I'd rather not talk about this, especially after your harrowing ordeal." "Come over here. Por favor." Even though her mind was screaming at her to run, she wasn't immune to his throbbing entreaty. She hesitantly walked over to the side rail. "Is there something else I can do for you? Open your suitcase and get things out, maybe?" "No. The nurse will do it." Once more he reached for the hand closest to him. Turning it over, he kissed the palm then looked up at her. "I forgot to thank you for saving my life." The touch of Des's lips against the skin of her hand sent a sizzle through Ally's body, setting her on fire. Earlier his thumb had made lazy circles over the pulse at her wrist, shooting an erotic warmth through her body, causing sensations she was afraid to acknowledge. "No woman of my acquaintance could or would have done what you did for me. If there's anything I can do for you, all you have to do is ask." She could ask that if he ever saw her mastectomy scars, he wouldn't reject her and turn away, but that was a pipe dream. Ally took a fortifying breath. "It's because of me that you had the accident. The only favor I ask is that you get well soon. That means no winter sports for a little while." He kissed her fingertips before letting her go. "If I'm going to deny myself, then I'm going to need someone to help me get through the withdrawal period." Ally broke down laughing. She couldn't help it. "I believe you'd go into withdrawal." He shot her devilish glance. "There are certain indoor sports I enjoy even more than climbing." That came as no surprise. Once upon a time she'd shared the same sentiment, but those days were over. He wouldn't want her when he saw the truth for himself. "I do, too, as a matter of fact. How good are you at Scrabble? I bought the children the junior version to help them with their English." 522

"They won't mind if we christen it first?" "Not if we all play," she said on a burst of inspiration. It was the only thing she could think of to keep him at bay. "You can be on their side. You'll need the handicap," she said, adding the dare to spice things up. In reality his English was so good, she probably wouldn't be able to beat him. "You're on," he said with a speculative gleam in those black eyes. Before either of them could say anything else, the nurse came in. Ally's eyes darted to Des. "I'll go now, but I'll be over in the morning to get you." "No good-night kiss?" Her body tautened. "You already got one kiss this evening. Let's not tempt fate. Next time you might find yourself kissing the Ugly Duckling." Des's face suddenly looked like a thundercloud. That was good. "Buenas noches, señor." *** "Rest when you're sleepy. Eat what appeals to you and you will be fine in a few days, Señor Pastrana." Des thanked the doctor as they left the clinic. Per the doctor's orders, Des let Ally carry his suitcase for him and drive him home. His adrenaline had surged when she'd entered his hospital room at eleven o'clock, dressed in jeans and a bright red pullover. The hair he longed to run his fingers through had been tied at the nape with a narrow red ribbon. Tiny red-and-green Christmas ornaments dangled from each end. It would be so easy to tug on one of them, allowing the silklike strands to swing loose…. Her comment about the Ugly Duckling had bothered him all night. He understood the metaphor from the old fairy tale well enough, but there was nothing ugly about Ally, inside or out. He knew that to the depth of his soul. She was a stunning woman who had little conception of her impact on a man. Her lack of awareness was part of what made her so desirable. Her beauty radiated outward to that creamy skin he longed to caress. But clearly she didn't think the same about herself. Before the day was out he intended to uncover the secret she'd alluded to, tossing it down like a gauntlet. The list of possible secrets was starting to drive him crazy. It was a challenge, and he'd never passed up a challenge. It wasn't in his nature. Yet for some reason Des had the premonition that this would be the most important one he would ever face. The feeling shook him. After she parked the truck outside his room at the inn, she hurried to the door and unlocked it for him. Now that the nausea had gone and his forehead wasn't as sore, he felt surprisingly good and would have enjoyed a short walk in the frigid air with her. But he decided that for once he would follow doctor's orders. Plus it would get him a lot further with Ally, who still felt some ridiculous residual guilt for having gone climbing with him. 523

He was the one who felt guilty. If the truth were known, he'd taken one look at her in the dining room and something shocking had happened to him. For so long he'd avoided women, not wanting any entanglements, but after Miguel had unintentionally laid the groundwork, Des realized he wanted to get to know the beautiful American woman who was so beloved by Maricela and Nuncio. You couldn't fool children. They saw through to the heart of a person. He paused at the door of his room. Things had changed since he'd last been in his monk's cell. A fire blazed in the hearth, and there was a two-foot-high Christmas tree decorated with lights and ornaments placed on the dresser to greet him. The scent of pine was one of those wonderful smells, intoxicating and comforting. "I hope you don't mind the additions," Ally said in a quiet voice as she brought in his suitcase."It's too dark in here without any windows and today is Christmas Eve." Touched by her generosity of spirit that showed in everything she did, he looked around. On the small wooden table—one of the original pieces he'd kept—she'd added some snacks and drinks and a few Spanish sports magazines. She'd thought of everything. She saw where his eyes had wandered. "Those are meant to help with the withdrawal." He couldn't hold off any longer and he reached for her, gripping her arms to bring her close. Her eyes were like warm brandy, but they were conflicted. He could see fear in them, but he also found the emotion he was looking for. Desire.

Chapter Seven Holding Ally in his arms, Des whispered into her ear, "Happy Christmas Eve day, Allison Bonner. I thought I never wanted to celebrate another one, but you've managed to cure me." With or without her permission, he covered her heartshaped mouth with his own and kissed her the way he'd dreamed of doing all night long. After a brief hesitation, she returned his kiss with a passionate response that thrilled him to his core. He began to draw her over to the bed, needing to hold her closer in his arms. But when she sensed his direction, she tore her lips from his and eased out of his embrace. In the firelight her cheeks were flushed. "What's wrong? Why did you pull away from me?" "The children have been watching for us. They'll be down any second with their present." The Scrabble game. He'd forgotten about it—and everything else. She'd brought him alive, and he loved this new feeling like he'd never loved anything in his life. But for some reason he sensed that she was still keeping him at a distance. "Where shall we play?" "On your king-size bed. That's where you should be. The priest who lived here should have been so lucky." The words were barely out of her delectable mouth before there was a knock on the door.

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"Allee? Desidiero? Is it all right to come in?" Des took the initiative and opened the door. "Make yourselves at home, nióos. We've been waiting for you." Nuncio carried the game under his arm. He scrutinized Des. "I thought you were sick, but you don't look it." "That's because Ally helped me make a magical recovery." "Papa said she saved your life." "Your papa is right," he said, staring at Ally. "Mama's going to bring you some soup and bread." Des smiled and tousled the boy's head. "I can't wait." "Ooh," Maricela crooned, walking over to the tree. "I love it." Ally busied herself offering the children some candy. "If the three of you have any hope to beat me at this game, you'll need some sugar for your brains." Nuncio frowned. "Brains? I do not understand. What is that?" "Cerebro," Des translated. "And after my fall, I don't think mine is working so well. You two will have to help me." The children laughed with excitement as Ally told everyone to get on the bed and explained the point of the game. "There's a prize for the winner." Des forced her to look at him. "If we lose, is there a consolation prize?" She chuckled. "I'll think of one." "How about if I lose, I get to decide what my prize is?" he answered back. "I know exactly what I want." Ally couldn't hold Des's gaze when she knew exactly what was on his mind. He wasn't going to let her get away with not explaining her remarks for much longer. She was putting it off because she was enjoying this time with him so much, and she wanted it to last. And right now she owed it to the children to get into this game. Des was a tough competitor and tutored the children with surprising patience. In the end, she won three matches and they won two. The kids would have continued trying to beat her for the rest of the day if it weren't for Inez, who brought food on a tray and told the children she needed them upstairs. Ally rewarded each of them with a big peppermint candy cane. Since they'd never seen anything quite like them, they were delighted. After they left, she and Des ate the delicious food Inez had prepared. He sat against the headboard with his long legs extended. He looked relaxed, but she could feel his tension growing—right along with her own sense of impending doom. 525

She knew their time together was short—in a few days he'd be off on his planned campout and she'd be back in Wyoming. But in the meantime, as she delayed telling him the truth, their relationship was progressing, making a liar out of her. Before he could pounce and claim his consolation prize, she put down her coffee cup and took the initiative, not able to stand it any longer. "You want to know my secret? The reason I've been keeping my distance? For the last year I've told no one, not even Miguel and Inez. But that was before I met you." He sat forward. "Go on." "I wanted to say something that morning we went climbing. But you were—are—such an attractive man, and I feared alienating you by seeming…forward. You know. A strange woman suddenly baring her soul to you. I'm sure there've been plenty of women who've come up with some pretty inventive ways to get close to you. I…I didn't want you to think I was one of them. If I'd blurted out what was on my mind, I was afraid you would think it seemed desperate. I hated the idea that you would consider me pathetic." His features hardened. "I know I acted resentful of you, and I've apologized for that, but did I seem that much of a monster to you when we were introduced?" "No!" she cried. "No, Des." She jumped off the bed, too agitated to sit still. "After you told me about your fiancée, I understood your disdain." She paced the floor for a minute. "What I'm trying to say is that this whole situation is about me and my hang-ups. I'm sorry you ever got involved. When I came to the Pyrenees, I didn't expect…" She faltered for a second. "I didn't expect to find what I did. To find you," she mumbled. He launched himself off the bed and came to stand in front of her with his hands on his hips. "You think I did?" With that question she realized she wasn't the only one feeling anxious about how quickly things had changed. "No." She shook her head. "Of course not." He softened his stance. "Just tell me, Ally." She struggled for breath then lifted her head to look at him. "After Rex died, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a full mastectomy." She smiled at him through the tears. "A woman gets used to her own body parts. But until I met you, I didn't know how much it affected me that they were gone." Though he stood stock-still, as soon as the words left her lips, she saw his eyes widen in shock and his compelling mouth press into a thin line. "I'm in remission for now and I've been working out to get in the best shape possible, both physically and mentally. But every time I go in for testing, I could find out it's come back. Then again it might never come back." Ally heard his sharp intake of breath. "You think that makes you the Ugly Duckling?" Des looked and sounded furious.

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"In the physical sense, yes. When you kissed me a little while ago, it made me realize h-how much I wanted to be like I was before." She looked down. "Desirable. Sexy." Ally was so embarrassed for having exposed herself to this degree, she started for the door with the tray. "You heard Inez. We've been invited to spend Christmas Eve with them. If you're feeling well enough, come up to their apartment whenever you're ready. If you decide you want to be alone, no one will bother you. I promise." She left.

Chapter Eight Des stared at the closed door after Ally had gone, devastated for her sake by what she'd told him. Two mortal blows in a row—first she'd had to deal with her fiancé's sudden death and then the diagnosis of breast cancer. Up on the frozen waterfall he'd discovered she was the most courageous person he'd ever known. She'd disregarded her own safety to get him to the clinic before hypothermia set in. Without injuring herself, no less! He knew Miguel would have sent out a search party for them if they'd been delayed, but by then Des could have been in real trouble. She had a warrior's spirit and he stood in awe of her. So how could someone who'd been so brave on that ice be so insecure about her own body? No matter what he had to do, he was going to get around her fears. No one knew how long they had to live. And since every minute of life was precious, he had no intention of staying down in his room and away from her. Wheeling around, he picked out what he wanted to wear, then headed for the shower. After he'd shaved and dressed, he left the room for the front entry to the posada. Pleased to have caught sight of Maricela in the hallway without needing to bother Miguel, he called to her. "Will you show me to Ally's room? I need to talk to her." "Sure. She's right down here." He followed her along two different hallways until they came to Ally's door. "Are you going to come to our apartment later?" the girl asked. He patted her cute face. "We wouldn't miss it. Come and knock on the door when you're ready for us." "I will." Her brown eyes danced before she ran off. Des turned and rapped on Ally's door. *** Ally didn't recognize the knock, but thought it could be one of the staff. She'd just come out of the bathroom after blowdrying her hair. She pulled on her pink toweling robe and padded across the room to open the door. "Des!" She almost fainted at the sight of him. It was the same man whose room she'd left just a short time ago, but all she could do was stare at the changes in him. Without her shoes on, he seemed even taller. He was wearing a fabulous midnight-blue 527

dress suit and tie, and he'd dispensed with the hair thong. His hair was swept away from the crown and sides of his head to lie against the back of his neck. His dark Spanish looks, the contrast of his olive skin against his dazzling white shirt, were so incredible she could only stand there, speechless. Her breath came faster as she detected the enticing scent of the soap he'd used in the shower. "I…I didn't expect you to come to my room," she stammered. "We're not expected at the Torrillas' apartment yet." He lounged against the doorjamb with his arms folded. "After what you told me earlier, I don't feel like wasting any time. May I come in while you finish getting ready?" "Of course," she answered jerkily. He entered the room. As she shut the door, he removed his suit jacket. "Do you care if I sit on your bed while I wait?" "No…go right ahead. I'll finish dressing in the bathroom." She grabbed the clothes she'd intended to wear and dashed into the other room. But her hands were shaking so hard, she had difficulty pulling and adjusting and fastening everything. When she eventually came out wearing her long two-piece velvet dress with the three-quarter sleeves, he got up from the bed, eyeing her with what she could only describe as desire. He murmured, "Exquisita. What do you call that color in English?" She swallowed hard. "Periwinkle." "It suits your coloring." He moved closer. The next thing she knew he had his arms around her and had lowered his head to kiss her long and thoroughly. Ally's body gave up a voluptuous shiver because his hunger matched hers. She couldn't hide her desire for him. But they had a party to go to and eventually she pushed her hands against his chest. He loosened his hold on her to feel the fabric on her sleeve."It's uncrushable, verdad?" She nodded. "Bien." His hand found hers and he pulled her toward the bed. "Then lie down with me for a little while. I just want to hold you." A pain jabbed her heart. "Des…I don't need comfort." "That's the last thought on my mind." His response surprised her. "Since this is the day for honesty," he continued, "do you want me to tell you what I want?"

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"I'm afraid." "I know. That's why I simply want you to know what it's like to lie in my arms. We both need this. To feel cherished and loved. Would that be such a penance?" "No," she answered softly. "Then come to me, muchacha." The banked fires in his eyes and the deep tone of his husky voice seduced her. She put a knee on top of the bed. That was all the encouragement he needed. He enfolded her into his hard-muscled frame, nestling his face in the profusion of her hair. A long drawn-out sigh escaped him. It was as if his body was letting go of all the angst and tension he'd been carrying. When she felt it leave him, her body also seemed to shed a heavy burden. She felt like she was floating on a light mist. "I want to stay like this until Maricela comes for us," he said against the side of her neck. The caress of his lips against her skin sent rivers of delight coursing through her body. She pushed away her fears and doubts. She decided to stop thinking and simply feel. *** Des watched her sleep. He raised himself up on one elbow to study the features of the incredible woman cradled in his arms. After the experience of the past few days, exhaustion had caught up with her. Unable to hold back, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to hers. Very slowly he began kissing her until she started to respond. She made several little moaning sounds before her eyelids fluttered open. "Des—" "I'm right here," he murmured against her lips. "As if I'd be anyplace else." In the next breath she began kissing him, causing his senses to leap. One kiss and then another and another until there was no beginning and no end. He rolled her on top of him, cupping her face so he could taste every centimeter of her. "You have no comprehension of how much I want you, amada." "But—" "Hush," he said to quiet her. "I don't want to hear that we haven't known each other long enough, or that you're not desirable, or that we come from two different worlds, or any of the dozen reasons percolating in your mind." "Allee?" Maricela's voice broke in as she knocked on the door. "It's time for the party." "I'll be right there," she called out. "I'll tell Mama. Hurry!"

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Des kissed her trembling mouth once more before letting her go. She practically weaved in front of him as she got to her feet. He helped her stand. "I've got a lot of repair work to do," she said, and laughed, looking down at her dress. He grinned. "There's no time," he said, loving to watch her blush. "We're about to enjoy Christmas Eve with Miguel's family. No matter what you do, you'll look thoroughly kissed." He strolled over to the chair and put on his suit jacket and then held the door open for her as they went to the Torillas' party. After a feast of lamb followed by almond pastry, everyone gathered in the living room around the Nativity scene. Miguel read from the Bible about the birth of the Savior. Then he flashed Ally a smile from across their living room where he was seated near the fire. "It's time for your special surprise, señora. Our children have been waiting and waiting for this." They nestled on either side of her on the couch. Inez and Des were seated in separate chairs placed in front of the adorable tree the children had decorated. His black eyes didn't move from her face. "All right." Still feeling breathless since waking in Des's arms, Ally pulled a big picture book out of her sack. "This is my gift to you. It's my very, very favorite Christmas story. In America, Santa Claus brings the children presents on Christmas Eve. Your parents told me that in Spain, the Three Wise Men will bring presents to your house in January." They nodded. "So let this be my present to you." Having learned the words by heart as a child, she stared at Des as she began. "''Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.'" At that moment she had a vision of being in a house with Des, surrounded by their own children. The vision grabbed hold and wouldn't let go. When she looked back at her decision to come to the Pyrenees, she realized she'd wanted to pit herself against the elements and get past her fear. But unless she could get past her biggest fear of Des rejecting her, what was life for? Where was her courage, her faith? She looked down at the book. After swallowing hard, she finished reading and ended with the famous line, '"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.'" The children were enchanted and begged her to read it again and again. Finally Des stood up and thanked everyone. "If you'll excuse us, Ally and I have plans for the rest of the evening." "But I thought you were still sick," Nuncio said. "Nuncio…" his mother scolded. Ally tried to stifle her laughter, but it was hopeless. "He has a point, Señor Pastrana." She smiled into his eyes. 530

"I may not be a hundred percent yet, but tonight is a special one, above all the other nights of my life, and I intend to enjoy it." She heard the throb in his deep voice and felt her legs turn to water. After hugs and kisses for the kids, she put on her coat and walked out of the posada with Des. Once the door closed behind them he stopped and pulled the lapels of her coat together so she faced him. "Where are we going, Des?" "To a place I know of where we can see the stars at their most brilliant. But before we do anything else, I want you to know I meant what I said in there just now. Tonight I feel like I've been reborn and a whole new beautiful future has opened up for me. Because I've fallen in love with you, Ally Bonner. It's the real thing. I know it in my heart and soul." She couldn't deny her own feelings, either. Not now. "Oh, Des—" She threw her arms around him. "I'm in love with you, too. I don't know how it could have happened this fast, but it did. With you, I feel as if anything and everything is possible." Des crushed her against him. "How lucky we are to have found each other in this refuge, of all places. Mi amor…" He kissed her and then took her hand as they left to watch the stars fade into Christmas Day…and beyond.

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The G.P.'s Christmas Miracle By Alison Roberts Lucy Petersen thinks it's a miracle when a gruff GP rescues her and her tiny orphaned nephew from a snowstorm, then brings them into the warmth of his house and family. Until she learns his name—James Cameron. Her nephew's father. But as Lucy spends time in James's home, she realizes that the grief-stricken Camerons are more in need of rescue than she ever was. Can she and little Jamie be the miracle that opens their hearts once again?

Chapter One Any red-blooded male would have taken a second look. Even one who had absolutely no room for a woman in his life. Not that Dr. James Cameron had had much choice about looking at her. He'd virtually walked straight into the woman as she came out through the front doors of the Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I really should be watching where I'm going." "No worries." She had an accent that wasn't local. She was tall and slim and…good grief, simply stunning with those unusually dark blue eyes and wearing figure-hugging jeans and a scarlet jumper. The long blond plait hanging down the middle of her back reminded him of…someone. Or maybe it was the child she was carrying on one hip that seemed vaguely familiar. A small boy with a mop of red-gold curly hair. But in this overwhelmingly busy day, James didn't have even a spare moment to give any further mental energy to the woman and her child. Especially not when he could see a receptionist waving at him with what looked like an urgent message. Oddly, the receptionist was looking apologetic by the time he reached the desk. "Dr. Cameron! But I didn't know you were coming in." "I had to see an elderly patient of mine who broke her hip. And her wrist." "Oh, no! Not another one to slip on this awful ice. I can't believe this weather. It's—" "Her daughter's on her way from Edinburgh," James interrupted before the receptionist could build up steam; he didn't have the time to waste on idle chitchat. "I said I'd meet her here in reception. Name of Gordon?" "I shouldn't have sent her away. Especially not in this awful weather." "You sent Mrs. Gordon's daughter away?" He knew he was glaring at the poor receptionist, but he was bone weary. It had been a long and trying day at a time of the year that was difficult for him, both

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professionally and personally. He could do without further complications, particularly if they'd been caused by a receptionist who was wearing a pair of earrings that were flashing small red-and-green lights. Frivolous, happy, Christmassy sort of earrings. "No…that woman with the little boy. She was looking for you. I told her you didn't work here." James glanced over his shoulder but, of course, the woman with the blond plait was long gone. Out past the Christmas tree adorning the foyer of the Royal Infirmary and into the gloom of a Scottish December that was breaking records for the amount of snow and ice. "What did she want?" he growled. "She didn't say. Only that it was very important that she found you. Her name was Lucy…something." The receptionist was trying hard to be helpful. "She had an accent. I think she was from Australia. Or maybe New Zealand. I can never tell the difference." A sense of foreboding came from nowhere and enveloped James Cameron. "What did you tell her?" "Only what she could have found out in the phone book. That you and your father run the medical center in Ballochburn." A twenty-minute drive away in good weather. At least double that on an afternoon like this. Who was the woman? What did she want from him? He might find a message waiting from his answer service when he got home, maybe. Not that he'd be there for a while yet. A middle-aged woman had just come into the foyer and was almost running toward the reception desk. "I'm Jean Gordon," she said, with a stifled sob. "Where's my mother?"

Chapter Two Lucy Petersen snapped the harness in place on the safety seat in her rental car. "Are you cold, sweetheart? Hungry?" Big brown eyes watched her but the small boy said nothing. Not that she expected him to. It might only have been twenty-four hours since she'd taken charge of her nephew as his only known relative, but she'd learned that he didn't talk. He didn't smile. He didn't even make a sound when he was crying. Just past his second birthday, Jamie was the most beautiful child Lucy had ever seen, but it was heartbreakingly obvious that something had gone very wrong in his short life. "He's never spoken a word," the nanny had informed her yesterday. "He's no trouble at all." 533

Lucy stroked the soft curls on Jamie's head and bent down to give him a kiss. Then she climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine and cranked up the heater. It had started to snow again. The flakes were small but falling thickly. What on earth was she doing here? Why had it seemed like the right thing to do, to try and locate the man who could well be Jamie's biological father before she whisked the little boy away to the other side of the world? It had all been too much for her, that was why. Her life had been derailed by a phone call in the middle of the night from a very angry William—the cardiac surgeon her sister had married just over three years ago. It was such a shocking phone call that she could only remember snatches of it, and they replayed themselves like a broken record in her mind as she drove away from the hospital, programming the GPS in the car to direct her to Ballochburn. "She was having an affair…! Of course I had a paternity test done on the boy. He's not mine. Off partying with her new boyfriend…on his yacht…serves her right she fell overboard and drowned. I'm not raising someone else's brat…. A week, that's all you've got to claim him, and then I'm calling in social services." "Go through the roundabout," the GPS said, interrupting her thoughts. "Take the second exit." The arrow was flashing to show a long road ahead. Sir Walter Scott Drive. It was easy to read the illuminated disk of the GPS because it was getting so dark outside. The swirl of tiny snowflakes made visibility dreadful but the surface of the road was still reasonably clear. It wasn't that much longer to Ballochburn and she'd come too far to give up now. She had to rely on her instincts. What else could she do? She'd asked the same sort of question to the angry surgeon that night. What should she do with the baby? "Find the man she dumped when she got her claws into me. When she was clearly already pregnant. Scottish lump by the name of James Cameron. Yeah, find him. Why should my life be the only one that your sister messed up?" But the two men weren't the important people in this drama, though, were they? Neither was she. It only took another glance in the rearview mirror to remind Lucy of who really mattered. Little Jamie. She took in the picture he made, with his tilted head and softly pouted lips. He was sound asleep, a redheaded cherub. The soft smile that curved her lips lasted only seconds, however. She'd taken her eyes off this narrow road for just long enough to get into trouble. The huge mounds of snow on either side of the tarmac were so deep they obscured stone walls and even hedgerows. They easily disguised a deep ditch. She began to veer off the road, the slide of the vehicle so slow it didn't wake Jamie, but so fast she didn't know how to avoid going into the ditch. The interior of the car went completely black as it sank beneath the snow. Lucy unclipped her safety belt and tried to open the driver's door. It was jammed fast. So was the other door. 534

By the time she climbed into the backseat, a frightening chill was seeping into the vehicle. The engine stuttered and died, but the GPS was still going. "Turn right at the end of the road. You have reached your destination."

Chapter Three He could so easily have missed it. If James Cameron hadn't glanced in his rearview mirror at that precise moment he would only have seen the blinding shine of the snow in his headlights. Not the eerie gleam in the total blackness in his wake. Oh…God… His big four-wheel-drive vehicle had no trouble coming to a halt without skidding on the icy surface. James, however, had quite a lot of trouble moving for several seconds. Still gripping the steering wheel with both hands, he lowered his forehead to rest on them. There was no mistaking that glow on the side of the road—the headlights of a buried car. Was he going to find a body in there? A person whose death would haunt Christmastime for someone else forever? As the death of his own mother had done for his father and himself? He was the last person this should be happening to, James thought grimly as he found the shovel in the back of his vehicle. No, maybe the last was his father, but James ran a very close second. Life wasn't just an unfair business, it had the ability to be unbearable at times. Grimness became an anger that fuelled his efforts. It took scant minutes to empty the side of the ditch and expose the car. He rubbed at a window with his gloved hand and peered inside. A pale face stared back. A woman's face. She was curled up in the rear seat with what looked like a mound of clothing in her arms. James wrenched the door open. "Are you hurt?" "N-no. J-just v-very c-c-cold." At least she was still shivering. Hypothermia had not reached dangerous levels yet. She was very pale, though and— "Good God…it's you." *** Lucy was too cold to burst into tears of relief that she and Jamie weren't about to freeze to death after all. She would have been eternally grateful to anyone who found them. That it was the extraordinarily goodlooking man who'd almost bumped into her as she left the hospital was a weird coincidence. He recognized her. Oddly, that gave her a frisson of pleasure. 535

Except…he seemed so angry. Dark brows were lowered over equally dark eyes. His deep voice began as a menacing growl and got steadily louder. "What the hell are you doing at this time of night on an isolated road in this kind of weather?" Lucy hugged the bundle in her arms that was Jamie a little tighter. How dare he shout in front of a child? Okay, she'd been stupid, but she'd never driven in snow before. She was a stranger in this country and she was in trouble. Wasn't this supposed to be the season of goodwill to all? And she needed this man's goodwill. Not that she didn't think he would rescue them, but surely he could be a bit nicer about it? Somehow, she had to let him know that the small boy in her arms deserved better than she'd managed to give him so far, and certainly a lot better than this man was delivering. But she was so cold and frightened even her thoughts were shivering, slipping past and refusing to be caught and turned into words. Moving her lips was impossible, let alone smiling. So how on earth could she defuse this man's anger? Somehow encapsulate Jamie's need and ask for help? "But…it's…it's…C-Christmas," was all she could manage to say. The large hands that were reaching for Lucy were gentle enough to be at complete odds with the vehemence in his voice. "I don't do Christmas," the man snapped. "Come on. It's time to get out of here."

Chapter Four The house looked as bleak as Lucy was feeling. It was a two-storied, square block of granite with the windows as black as the night surrounding them, and about as welcoming as the mass of ancient trees crowding in from all sides. For the first time since he had scooped her and Jamie from the backseat of the rental car, the brooding man beside Lucy spoke. "Used to be a manse," he muttered. "My great-grandfather was the local minister." "This is your home?" Where his family had lived for generations? For some reason this made Lucy very nervous. "Aye." He came around to the passenger door and wrenched it open. "You and the boy need somewhere warm until we can sort this mess out. My house is a lot closer than the police station in Ballochburn." Somewhere warm turned out to be a kitchen at the back of the house. An old stove was pumping out heat, and the smile of the astonished woman beside it was just as warm. She flapped her hand at the man who was explaining these unexpected, late-night visitors.

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"Och, never mind all that." She bustled toward Lucy with her arms outstretched. "You must be frozen, pet. Come close to the stove. And you've a wee boy? Ahh…isn't he bonny?" "This is Miriam," the man said with a sigh. "Our housekeeper." Our housekeeper? Did this gruff, Scottish, giant of a man have a wife who could put up with his Grinchlike personality? A man who didn't do Christmas? He hadn't even been polite enough to introduce himself yet. Lucy sank onto a wooden chair, cuddling Jamie on her lap. She eyed her rescuer, who was now at the other end of this big farmhouse kitchen, reaching for a telephone that was attached to the wall. As she studied him, it was impossible not to remember the strength of his hands as he had lifted her and Jamie from that frozen car. How she'd felt as he'd carried them to his own vehicle—astonishingly safe. Of course he'd have a wife somewhere. Probably a few children, as well. He'd gone back for the car seat and then taken Jamie from her arms and tucked him into it as though caring for a small child's safety was the most natural thing in the world for him. "You'll no' get any joy from that," Miriam was saying cheerfully to the big man. "Phone's been out for hours now. Snow on the lines, I expect." She turned back to Lucy. "I've some soup on the stove for you, but what about the wee laddie?" Jamie was getting heavy on her lap. His head sagged against her shoulder. She'd kept him warm with every item of clothing she could find and fed him from the supply of snack foods she'd been carrying. "He's fine, I think. Just sleepy." "Let's tuck him up on the couch. You'll no' be going anywhere for a wee while, I'm thinking." The man made a rumbling sound that clearly signaled he wasn't happy. "Get away wi' you," Miriam scolded. "We could do wi' a bit of company in this place, if you ask me. Go and get yourself some soup, lad, and stop your muttering." Surprisingly, he obeyed the instruction as Lucy and the housekeeper made a bed for Jamie on a soft, old couch beneath a window. She saw him filling mugs with soup as she went back to her chair. "Where's my father?" he asked Miriam. "In the library." The tone suggested it was unlikely he'd be anywhere else. The housekeeper's face creased into anxious lines as she went to pick up one of the mugs. "It's no' been a good day, James." James? Lucy's head swiveled sharply. It couldn't be the man she was searching for. Surely not. James was a common enough name in Scotland. But he was looking straight at her as if expecting something. Holding her gaze with what she could only interpret as…accusation?

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As if he already knew. Miriam was coming toward her with a steaming mug in her hands, but the older woman was looking over Lucy's shoulder, and her face was even more anxious than it had been moments ago. "He's no' there anymore," she whispered. "Where's the wee laddie gone?"

Chapter Five He shouldn't have brought them here. It was obvious where the small boy had gone as soon as the adults came out of the kitchen and into the central hallway. The door to the library was open. Miriam stepped closer to Lucy as if she wanted to protect the younger woman. "Stay here," James growled. "I'll fetch him." But, of course, they didn't stay. Both women followed him into the library. A fire was burning low in the grate, and his father was sitting in front of it in the winged leather chair. As he always did these days, for hours. But right then he wasn't staring down at his hands, as James had learned to expect. He was staring at the small boy, who was staring right back. Jamie had his thumb in his mouth and was standing absolutely still, like a small, tousled-haired statue. The older man's head turned slowly. "What are these people doing in my house?" He glared at Lucy. "Get out." James saw Lucy's eyes widen in horror. She raced to snatch her child from harm's way. He rushed to explain. "They were in trouble, Dad. Lucy's car went into a ditch just down the road." *** It took Lucy only a heartbeat to realize why the hairs had gone up on the back of her neck at James's words. "How do you know my name?" She certainly hadn't given it to him. Come to think of it, she'd been as impolite as her rescuer in not introducing herself. "They told me who you were. At the hospital." Now Lucy was really confused. "Who told you? Why? I…don't understand." "I don't understand, either." The older man in the chair sounded unutterably weary. "And I don't want to. Stop your blathering and go away. All of you." 538

"Now, Douglas…" Miriam marched over to the chair, reaching down to collect a tray that had a plate of uneaten food on it. "Nobody's going anywhere. This poor lass is frozen to the bone and the phone's out so we canna call anyone to come and fetch her car out of that ditch. You're no' going to turn a lassie and her wee bairn out on a night like this. Not if I have any say in the matter." Clearly, Miriam did have a say in this household. Both men were silent. She looked at the tray she was holding and clucked her tongue. "And what was so wrong wi' my soup then, if I might ask, Dr. Cameron?" Cameron? Oh…God. It was him. Lucy took another look at James. He was a big man. Tall and broad-shouldered. He'd be in his midthirties, she guessed, which was about right. His hair gleamed a deep auburn beneath the light of an antique-glass shade. His eyes had seemed black when he'd been so close to her during the rescue, but they were probably brown. The exact shade that Jamie's were. "Aye…what of it?" the elder Cameron demanded of her. Lucy blinked. Was he a mind reader? No… Her shocked repetition of the surname must have escaped her lips. "This is Dr. Douglas Cameron." Miriam came to her aid. "And that's his son, Dr. James Cameron." "You were looking for me," James added quietly. "At the Royal." She nodded. "I'm Lucy Petersen," she informed him. He recognized the name. Even in this poor lighting she could see that he actually went a shade paler. "And this is Jamie," she continued, without taking her eyes off James, despite the fact that her heart was hammering and she felt faintly ill. "I have reason to believe he is your son."

Chapter Six "Oh, my goodness…" Miriam's hand went to her throat and she pinned James with a wide-eyed stare. "Can this be true?" "Of course not," James snapped. "I've never met this woman before today. It's impossible that I fathered her son." "He's not my son," Lucy said steadily. "He's my nephew. You had a brief relationship with my younger sister, Liv. In London. Three years ago." "Oh…my…" Miriam moved swiftly. "Perhaps I should take wee Jamie back to the kitchen while you talk about this?" "That might be a good idea," Lucy agreed. 539

Miriam paused to send a significant glance in the direction of the winged chair, but Douglas Cameron was having none of it. "If the lad's supposedly my grandson, I've a right to hear what's said." He turned his gaze to his son. "What have you got to say about this, James? Did you know this Liv Petersen?" Of course he did. He'd been in love with her. Until she'd dumped him to move on to greener pastures. It was part of the most miserable period of his life, one that he was doing his best to move on from. He'd been more successful than he'd realized in shutting those mental doors, but they were being thrown open now. He could actually hear an echo of Liv's laughter. Her cruel words. "For heaven's sake, Jamie. You're such a country bumpkin, and you're a GP. You'll never be anything more than a GP…." He could see her clearly, too. Blond…slim…gorgeous. A lot like Lucy. No bloody wonder she'd reminded him of someone. And no wonder he'd had such a sense of foreboding. He just hadn't let himself go there. As he hadn't for three years now. It had been easy as soon as thinking of her had become the lesser of two evils. When his mother had died on Christmas Day. Had Liv been pregnant when she'd broken up with him? Had it been a private joke against that wealthy surgeon she'd married that she'd named her son after him? "I was in a relationship with her," he said aloud. "She ended it because she wanted to be with someone else. She told me that she was going to marry him. She didn't say anything about being pregnant." "I'm not sure she knew herself," Lucy said. "It all happened so fast. She and William were engaged within a week and married a month later. I never heard any hint that Jamie might not have been William's son." James ran stiff fingers through his hair. "So what the hell are you doing here, then?" "It wasn't a happy marriage," Lucy said quietly. "I knew that. I also knew that Liv had been seeing someone else. William found out about the affair and had a paternity test done. It revealed that Jamie wasn't his. By that time, Liv and William were living apart. Jamie was being cared for by nannies mostly. Last week, Liv was at a party on a boat and fell overboard. They…didn't find her in time." "Probably drunk," came the mutter from the chair. Lucy ignored the comment. "I live in New Zealand, so it was the middle of the night when William called to tell me. He was very angry. He said he'd put Jamie into care unless I came to fetch him within a week. He also suggested that I should contact the man who was likely to be Jamie's biological father." James was still looking very pale. "No…" he finally said, his voice hoarse. "I'm not his father. I can't be."

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Chapter Seven "Why not?" The question went unanswered as James swung away from Lucy Petersen to stare at…nothing. This couldn't be happening. As if things weren't difficult enough right now. His father was so deep in his depressed state that he had lost all interest in his work and his life. He had stopped seeing patients altogether months ago, and so instead of the father-and-son team searching for a third doctor the family practice desperately needed, James was trying to cover the workload singlehanded. Douglas refused to get help or start any treatment for his depression. He was, quite simply, opting out of life, and James was facing the appalling prospect of having to forcibly hospitalize his own father in the near future. And, as if that wasn't enough, it would be Christmas in a few days. The anniversary of when everything had fallen apart. The time when it was impossible to keep the memories at bay and not feel the full force of what had been ripped from their lives. "Well, are you going to answer the lass?" His father's voice was impatient. "What?" James turned back to face this nightmare. "Why can't you be Jamie's father?" Lucy's voice was very controlled. The calm before the storm? "Because…because it's impossible, that's why." The look he received could only have come from a woman. James could feel heat creeping up his neck. Good grief! He hadn't blushed since he was a gauche, flame-headed young teenager. "I'm on call 24/7," he snapped. "Running a three-person general practice on my own because my father— " James took a deep breath, struggling to contain the anger that he'd bottled up for far too long as it threatened to boil over. From the corner of his eye he could see the way his father was sinking back into his chair. Attacking him wasn't going to help anyone. "My father's not well, Ms. Petersen. Even if your nephew is my biological child there's simply no way I can be any kind of a father to him." *** For a wild moment, Lucy wanted this man to let down his seemingly impenetrable barriers and express a passionate point of view. She could see his anger. She could even understand it. What she wasn't going to do was tolerate it. "Why? Because it would complicate your routine? You're not the only person with a career, mate. You're not even the only one with a general practice to run, come to that. I've had to take a leave of absence, just when I was on the point of starting my dream job. I'm on the other side of the planet from where I work and live, but I'm doing it because Jamie is my family. My nephew. I'm only his aunt, James Cameron. You could very well be his father." "You're…you're a doctor?" 541

Her breath came out in an astonished huff. Did he have to look so surprised? But he'd known Liv, she reminded herself. Her younger sister, who had barely scraped through her nursing degree. Who had persevered with her career only as a means to an end. To marry a rich doctor and extract the most fun possible out of life. Why should she expect James to think she was any different? Even his father had caught the wavelength. "No point coming here if you're after money, lass. The practice isn't doing very well these days." James looked ready to explode but his tension seemed to be directed at his father. Lucy had no idea where the tension came from and she didn't care. She realized now that it had been a huge mistake to come here and the sooner she left, the better. "You know what?" she asked brightly. "I could be on a beach right now. In the sun. Looking forward to Christmas with white sand between my toes in the shade of a Pohutukawa tree in full flower." She walked away from Douglas Cameron. "I'm going home," she announced. She stormed past James Cameron. "And I'm taking Jamie with me."

Chapter Eight "You can't let her go. Not until you're sure you're not his father." James didn't need his father to tell him that. "I know." Part of him didn't actually want her to go, he realized as he followed Lucy back to the kitchen. How stupid was that? This was a single man's worst nightmare, wasn't it—to be suddenly presented with the possibility of being a father? And it couldn't be happening at a more horrible time. With his mother's death, his father's depression and the demands of his practice, James had almost more than he could cope with right now, both physically and emotionally. But he had to confess to a spark of…what was it—hope? His life had been on a downward spiral with little in the way of discernible joy in it for longer than he cared to remember. Maybe he needed something big to shake him up, wake him up to life's possibilities. Something certainly felt different, anyway. Having Lucy in the house. Having the child in the house. It was a crazy thought to have late on a stormy winter's night, but it was as if curtains had been opened and light was filtering in.

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He found Lucy crouched beside a now soundly sleeping Jamie. She looked up. "You could take us to Dumfries," she told him. "Any hotel will do. I can arrange to have the car situation sorted tomorrow." "Don't go," James said. "Not tonight." "No, please stay," Miriam chimed in. "I'm going to make up the spare room for you. It's a lovely big bed, if you don't mind sharing with wee Jamie." "I can't stay," Lucy said. She averted her gaze from James's. "Not now." He had to think fast to keep her here. "Has Jamie got a passport?" That caught her attention. "Not that I know of." "So you're going to have a lot of bureaucracy to get through before he can leave the country." "The New Zealand embassy will help me." "This close to the Christmas and New Year break?" James shook his head at the determined look on Lucy's face. "Okay, fine. Here's my mobile phone. It's probably a good time to make a call to New Zealand. See what you can find out." She was about to take the phone from his hand when it rang. He took it back and answered it, speaking to the caller briefly. "Sorry," he told Lucy. "I'll have to take the phone with me. I've got a house call to a sick baby to make." "You do house calls? At this time of night?" "To a three-month-old baby who probably has bronchiolitis? Of course." Lucy looked impressed. "Back home they'd have to call an ambulance. Or take the baby to the nearest hospital." "I might end up calling an ambulance myself, but she's my patient. I want to know exactly what's going on." "Good for you." A hint of a smile touched Lucy's lips and James found himself staring at them. Wanting to see them curve a little more. "Will you still be here when I get back?" That did it. The smile was resigned but there was a softening in Lucy's face as her gaze held his. "I'm not really in a position to call a taxi, am I? Unless the phone's working again?"

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"It's not." Miriam sounded pleased about that. She was still standing close to the old coal range, but she was watching both James and Lucy, curiously intent. "You'll have to stay, pet. Away wi' you, James. I'll look after them."

Chapter Nine Miriam was looking after them very well. Lucy ate the tastiest hot soup she'd ever been given, along with thick slices of homemade bread, toasted and buttered. Then she and Jamie were taken to a spacious upstairs bedroom that had an en suite bathroom. "Used t' be the senior Dr. Cameron's room," Miriam told her. "He's no' used it since his puir wife died." Jamie didn't wake as Lucy laid him gently on one side of the bed. She eyed the other side with a frown. "Maybe we shouldn't be using it." Miriam touched her arm. "If you ask me, pet, you and the wee lad are the answers to everyone's prayers in this house." Lucy found it hard to swallow suddenly. "What do you mean?" The older woman was silent for a moment and then she sighed. "I've known the Camerons all my life," she said. "It's as plain as the nose on my face that James is Jamie's daddy. I'll show you a photo of him when he was a wee lad and you can see for yourself." It was Lucy's turn to sigh. "Even so, he's made it very clear that he doesn't want to be a father." She couldn't help sounding disparaging. "He hasn't got the time." Miriam clicked her tongue. "He's no' got the choice, has he?" Lucy shrugged. "I can disappear. And take Jamie with me." Oddly, the idea was a bleak one. She couldn't stop thinking about James and the way he hadn't hesitated in going out into the night to care for a sick baby. Or the way he'd tucked Jamie into that car seat. The way it had felt to be carried by him. He would make a very good father. "You canna do that." Miriam sounded horrified. "Why not?" Was it a trick of the light that made the housekeeper's eyes shine like that? Or was it tears? "This used t' be such a happy house," Miriam told her softly. "Especially at Christmastime. You should see all the boxes of decorations up there in the attic. There's even a Santa suit that Douglas always wore for the children's party every year. Nothing's been the same since Shona died, and it's no' right." Miriam used the corner of her apron to dab at her eyes. "No house should be this unhappy. They're good men, 544

lass, both of them. They're just so…sad. But if…if you could give them a chance, it might just make all the difference. Please don't go away, lass. Not yet. We…need you." Lucy looked away from Miriam. Down to where Jamie's curls gleamed against the crisp white of the pillowcase. Here was a little boy who should be full of the joys of life and counting the sleeps until Father Christmas arrived. But she hadn't even seen him smile. Or heard him talk. Three generations of this family were unhappy. Miriam thought that keeping them together could be the key, and if it was, could it help Jamie, too? If she went away, she'd never know. And she'd never again see James, the big man who seemed to have a heart to match. A heart that needed healing? Miriam said they needed her. Who could resist such a plea? Not Lucy. Much later, as she lay under the warmth of the goose-down duvet with Jamie tucked at her side, snuffling like a puppy, Lucy heard the sound of the four-wheel-drive vehicle returning. James was home again. Finally, she could relax. And sleep.

Chapter Ten She was still in the house. When he was finally on his way home last night, he'd stopped to retrieve the suitcases from the boot of Lucy's rental car in the ditch. It had meant even less sleep for James, but they would be glad of fresh clothes, wouldn't they? He'd woken early this morning, which was strange given the few short hours since his head had hit the pillow. But what was even more strange was that he felt so instantly alert. To have a sense of anticipation that made him want to leap out of bed and start this new day. How long had it been since he'd awoken like this? The phone was ringing as he made his way through a still-dark house to where Miriam had a pot of fragrant coffee already on the stove. "Three calls to make," he said as he sighed a minute later. "I'll be late getting the clinic up and running again today." "Have you no' got time for any breakfast, then?" James shook his head. He couldn't wait. And that meant he wouldn't be here when Lucy got up. The unusual shine the new day had offered dimmed noticeably.

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"I see the landline's working again." It wasn't a happy observation. Miriam nodded, but then she beamed at him as he turned to leave. "Dinna fesh yourself, lad. I'll no' let her run away." *** It was late by the time James got home again. He found his dinner keeping warm on the stove, but the only person in the kitchen was Lucy. "Jamie's asleep," she told him. "And Miriam went to the library to keep your father company for a bit. She said she often does that even if he won't talk to her much." "She's a treasure." How on earth would they have coped for this long without her, in fact? "Have you seen Dad today?" "No." Lucy watched him sit down at the table and begin to eat ravenously. "Miriam found some old boots and coats and Jamie and I walked as far as the village." She smiled at him. "There was the prettiest Christmas tree in the square and lots of children were making this huge snowman. It was ages before I could persuade Jamie to stop staring and come home." She had the loveliest voice, James thought, with the promise of laughter bubbling just beneath the surface. Along with the good food and the warmth of this kitchen, it was chasing away any trials that his long day had presented. When he took his empty plate to the sink, Lucy followed him with a mug that needed rinsing. He had to ask. "Did you call the embassy?" She nodded. "You were right. They're not likely to be able to get anything sorted until after the New Year. Not unless it's an emergency." James glanced down and caught her gaze. "It's not, is it?" She didn't look away. "No. I…could go to a hotel, though. I doubt that your father wants us to stay here in the house." "Maybe not. But I do," James said softly. He did. He wanted them both to stay. So much so that it took him by surprise. Just like the way he couldn't stop watching Lucy. The way the light was reflecting in golden streaks in her hair. He was standing close enough to her to feel a warmth that had nothing to do with the nearby coal range. And he could smell a scent that stirred a long-forgotten memory. Or was that desire? It took a supreme effort not to allow his head to bend so that he could kiss Lucy on the lips. It also took several seconds to tune in to the words coming from those lips. "…only three days away," Lucy was saying. "Miriam tells me you've got heaps of decorations in the attic."

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"What?" Understanding what she was talking about was more effective than a cold shower could ever have been. "If we're going to stay here," Lucy said patiently, "I want Jamie to have a proper Christmas. With a tree and presents. And decorations." An image flashed into his head. He was beneath the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree. Giving a gift to a small boy. His son. The image of a happy, family occasion. James backed away. "No…" The word was agonized. "I'm sorry, but that can't possibly happen."

Chapter Eleven He looked as if she'd just delivered a physical blow. How could anyone be so horrified at the idea of a Christmas tree with gifts beneath it? Colored lights and decorations? A moment ago Lucy could have sworn that she had found a new connection with James. The warmth she'd seen in his eyes had prompted her to say that if she was going to stay here, she wanted to make it a real Christmas for Jamie. She had even thought that James looked like he wanted to kiss her. And, heaven help her, she had wanted him to. And now this strange reaction? "What's wrong, James? What am I missing here?" "We don't do Christmas in this house anymore. My mother," he said, his voice cracking, "was killed in a car crash on Christmas Day. Three years ago." "Oh, my God…" Lucy felt frozen to the spot. Appalled at how insensitive she had been. To lose a beloved family member on Christmas Day? It was unthinkable. "I was out at the clinic with Dad," James continued, holding her gaze. "Stitching up Johnny Begg's knee after he'd fallen off his new bike. One of the downsides of running an old-fashioned family practice is the amount of on-call you have to do, but we were lucky. Mum was the practice nurse so she understood. She was driving to another call when the accident happened. We came across it on the way home. My father tried to save her but…he couldn't." Her eyes were still locked with his. She sensed he needed to talk about it. To make her understand. "When we finally got home," he continued softly, "we found the lights still twinkling on the damn tree and all the presents still waiting to be opened and that…that was the first time I ever saw my father cry."

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Lucy bowed her head for a moment. No wonder they didn't want any reminders of Christmas in this house. How awful that the holidays, a time that should be filled with family and celebration, were instead a time of renewed grieving. "Neither of us wanted to have Christmas on that first anniversary," James said, "but I thought things would come right. And then…last year, I suggested we get the tree out, and Dad just went and shut himself in the library. It wasn't till hours later that we realized he'd disappeared. We finally found him, sitting in the snow on the side of the road where the accident had happened. He had to be hospitalized for hypothermia and…he said he hadn't wanted to be rescued. He'd wanted to die there." "Oh…" Without thinking, Lucy stepped forward and put her arms around James, her heart breaking for him and his family. "I'm so sorry, James." He let her hold him. She could feel his surprise as his body tensed but then he relaxed as he at last accepted the comfort a hug could bring. The relief. How long had it been since this man had been hugged? His arms tightened around her. Lucy had no idea how long they stood there, his heart beating beneath her cheek, his head bent to press against her hair. They didn't hear Miriam coming back into the kitchen until she said, "Oh…my!"

Chapter Twelve "Is something wrong, James? What's happened?" Miriam asked. "Nothing's wrong." James let go of Lucy instantly. His arms felt curiously empty as he turned away from Lucy to face the housekeeper. "I was just telling Lucy about Mum." "Ach…" The sound was one of understanding and sympathy. "And why we couldn't put a Christmas tree up for the little lad." "It's okay," Lucy said. "I do understand. I'll just take him back to the village so he can see the tree there again. He's probably too young to remember, anyway." Miriam appeared unconvinced. "It's no' right," she murmured. "No' for the bairn." Then her face brightened. "What about a wee tree? A secret one in your room?" James looked to Lucy to gauge her reaction to the idea and saw the tear streaks on her face. She had cried…for him? But he also recognized the spark of hope in her eyes, making them glow. The plea in them as she caught his gaze. He wanted to make her smile. Actually, he wanted to pull her into his arms again and feel her softness and warmth and…caring, but this was better than nothing.

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"I'll find a wee branch of a spruce," he told her. "Miriam will have an old bucket somewhere and she can bring down a box of decorations for you tomorrow." Lucy's smile was like the sun coming out. She stood on tiptoes and flung her arms around James. She kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you so much." And then she was gone, leaving James in the kitchen with Miriam. The older woman was also beaming. "What a pet," she said. "Isn't she, James?" "Aye." He was still watching the door through which Lucy had disappeared. "She is that." *** Lucy hadn't even seen Douglas Cameron since that first evening in the library. So it was a stroke of very bad luck that their paths crossed the next day just as she was coming down from the attic with the overflowing box of Christmas decorations in her arms. James had gone out on a call hours ago and she hadn't wanted Miriam climbing up and down the attic steps. She froze when she saw a scowling Douglas. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" "I'm…sorry…" Lucy stammered. "I didn't want to upset you, Dr. Cameron. It's just that…I wanted Jamie to…to have a Christmas tree. He's only little, and…" "No…no." Douglas suddenly looked pale. "Just in our room," Lucy added desperately. "You won't have to even see it. It's only a small branch that James cut for us…." But Douglas didn't seem to be listening. He was walking away from Lucy. Toward the room she was sharing with Jamie. By the time she caught up with him, he was standing in the doorway, looking at the tiny, lopsided branch anchored in a bucket of sand. Lucy held her breath as the silence grew. "That's no' a Christmas tree," Douglas finally muttered. "It's a twig. What was the lad thinking?" He spun around and marched down the stairs to where Jamie was in the kitchen with Miriam. For a long moment, Douglas paused at the threshold, watching the small boy who was sitting silently at the table with a glass of milk in front of him. Then Douglas turned again and soon after they heard the sound of the back door slamming. "Where's he going?" Lucy asked anxiously. "I'm so sorry, Miriam. I never thought for a moment that—" "He's in the shed," Miriam reported, staring out the window. "No…there he is. Heading for the forest. With an ax." ***

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James was late getting home again that night. As he walked up to the door, he pulled up short. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. There was a wreath of holly on the front door. He stepped into the hallway, where a flash of colored lights spilled through the library door. In the library, a huge tree was standing in a corner with boxes of decorations strewn around it, waiting to be attached to the branches. Lucy was sitting cross-legged in the midst of the decorations, unwrapping colored balls and silver bells. "Out of the way, lad," Douglas said from behind him. He stepped aside to let his father come into the room with yet another box, but the older man stopped in front of James and shoved the decoration into his hands. "She wanted the wee lad to have a proper Christmas," Douglas growled. "See to it, James. I'm going to bed." Bemused, James stared at Lucy. "Would it be all right if we waited until tomorrow?" she asked. "Miriam said you've got a day off for once and it would be really great if Jamie could get to help decorate the tree." Of course it was all right. Better than all right. Looking around him, he couldn't help but think that what he was witnessing here was no less than a miracle.

Chapter Thirteen Jamie was very busy. He might not be saying anything or smiling as he trotted back and forth across the library carpet, but he seemed content to fetch the ornaments that Douglas fished out of boxes and examined for faults from his position in the winged chair. Jamie presented them to Lucy, who either attached them to the lower branches of the tree or handed them to James, who was on the ladder. The fire crackled in the grate, and when Miriam came in with hot chocolate and cheese scones, fresh from the oven for morning tea, she was humming a Christmas carol. "Och, the tree looks grand," she pronounced. "Aye…" James peered down through the branches and smiled at Lucy. "It does." There was a warmth in that smile that gave Lucy the most delicious tingle. Oh, my, she thought, channeling Miriam. He's…gorgeous. Not a Grinch at all. Maybe joy, along with Christmas, had been banished from this house, and as both returned, she was getting a glimpse of what these people were really like.

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This was the first time in her life that Lucy was going to have a winter Christmas with snow instead of blazing sunshine, keeping close to a roaring fire instead of picnics on a beach. So why did she feel like she was at home? Miriam was still admiring the tree. "It needs something underneath it." "I know, it does." Lucy bit her lip. "I'll go into the village this afternoon and find something I can wrap up for Jamie." James watched Lucy eye the snow-covered landscape outside and then swing her gaze to where Jamie was now sitting by the warmth of the fire at the foot of the winged chair, playing with a length of tinsel. James's eyes followed hers and something caught in his chest as he looked upon the silent little boy. He needed protection, this lad. Some happy memories. That idyllic father-son image of handing Jamie a gift returned, stronger this time. He wanted to give Jamie something this Christmas. But what? He knew as much about what a toddler might like as he did about being a father. Lucy would know. "I'll come into town with you," he heard himself saying aloud. "I need to do a spot of shopping myself. Let's go now." Lucy looked startled but then she seemed to catch her breath and the tilt of her head was encouraging. "Come on, Jamie," she said. "You can go with us." Jamie looked at her. Then at James. He shook his head. Did the anxiety over their evolving relationship go both ways? Curiously, the notion was disturbing. James had always been confident that he'd be a good father…one day. But he hadn't been to Jamie. Maybe the little boy could sense there was no point getting attached. On either side. "Leave the lad be," Douglas muttered. "He's fine where he is." Strangely disappointed, James led Lucy outside. The gleam of a pale winter sun prompted them to walk rather than drive to the village, crunching through snow and blowing clouds of steam with every breath. When Lucy's boot slipped on an icy patch, James caught her before she fell, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he kept hold of her hand after that. They were both wearing gloves but it might as well have been skin against skin. Lucy could feel the warmth of his hand and its strength. They fell into step with each other as if they'd known each other forever. Taking a shortcut to the village, James led her into a patch of forest that entranced Lucy. "Oh…" She pointed at an overhead branch. "Is that…mistletoe?" "Aye." 551

"Real mistletoe." Lucy stopped and stared. "I've only ever seen the plastic variety." Her delighted smile faded as her gaze shifted to James. He was smiling down at her but soon his smile faded, too. For a long, long moment they simply stared at each other. And then James bent his head and kissed her.

Chapter Fourteen It was traditional, wasn't it? Lucy was so delighted at seeing real mistletoe that James had kissed her without really thinking about it. He had only meant it to be a token. A quick, friendly sort of kiss. But whatever his agenda had been, it went out the window the moment his lips touched hers. She was so soft…and delicious. And…desirable. The kiss went on far longer than it should have. When Lucy made a tiny sound that inflamed his desire to dangerous levels, James finally pulled away. In the silence that followed, they could hear the soft whoosh of a nearby branch letting go of its snow. He cleared his throat and tried to smile. "There," he said lightly. "That's how real mistletoe earned its reputation." Lucy's eyes were wide. And very blue. "Magic," she murmured. "We'd better go and hit the high street before we freeze." That made her smile. "Do they take credit cards in Ballochburn?" *** Lucy had her work cut out for her that evening to persuade Jamie to go to bed. The pyjama-clad boy sat stubbornly in the library, still clutching the length of tinsel—though it was more than a little bedraggled now after having recently been in the bath with him. "If you go to sleep now," Lucy told him, "I'll take you into the village tomorrow. There were puppies in the post office—a whole box of them!" That seemed to do the trick. Lucy gathered up the silent little boy and his tinsel snake and took them upstairs. She hid herself away in the drawing room opposite the library after that. She'd stashed the gifts she'd purchased in the village there after they'd returned, and now she brought them out to be wrapped in bright-colored paper and tied with pretty ribbons. The task was time-consuming and the unused room was somewhat drafty and decidedly cold, but Lucy only had to think back over her day to feel a glow that was warm enough to keep her happy. The picture-postcard scenery. 552

The friendliness of the villagers. That kiss… Oh…yes. That did it every time. The memory created a heat that spread from deep within her to curl her toes and make her fingers tingle. Only, she hadn't seen James since Miriam had turned up in the village to deliver some messages and had given Lucy a ride home with all her parcels. Was he avoiding her? Regretting having walked with her to the village? Regretting kissing her? The shiver that went through her was probably due only to the temperature in this room. That would explain the sudden urgency Lucy felt to return to the warmth of the library. It was only when she saw James sitting on the couch near the Christmas tree that she realized the real reason for that urgency. She wanted to be near this man. He looked up from the medical journal he was reading and smiled at her. God help her, but she wanted him to kiss her again. The smile should have been enough. It had to be enough, because James quickly turned his attention back to the journal he was holding. "Interesting article," he murmured. "Lamenting the disappearance of traditional general practice in favor of 'supermarket' community medicine." It was a subject dear to Lucy's heart. She nodded. "It's the same at home. A dozen doctors, a physio and a pharmacy, all in the same building. Patients holding a ticket and waiting their turn. Numbers instead of people." James was staring at her. "You don't like that?" Lucy shook her head. "I've found an old-fashioned practice to join. In the middle of a city they're as rare as hen's teeth. The one that hired me was only taking on another partner because the original doctor is finally retiring at the age of seventy." She smiled. "I don't think he's going to disappear, though. He loves his patients and they feel the same for him." A curious silence fell in the room. Lucy heard something that sounded suspiciously like a sniff from the direction of the winged chair. Oh, drat. She'd put her foot in it somehow, hadn't she? Thank goodness Miriam bustled in at that point, carrying a supper tray. The housekeeper beamed at Lucy. "I have an idea," she announced.

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Chapter Fifteen "Jamie should go t' the children's party!" Miriam said excitedly. Lucy wasn't quite as enthusiastic, in fact she was a little dismayed by the idea. Jamie was so withdrawn. Surely he needed the security of a few people he could trust around him, not to be put into the middle of a noisy crowd. "There'll be games," Miriam continued. "And lots of nice food. And a Father Christmas, of course." The sound from Douglas was definitely a sniff this time. Miriam clicked her tongue. "Wally'll do a better job of it this year," she said firmly. "Eileen's promised she'll no' let him near the drink." She handed a cup of tea to Lucy. "Eileen's the one you met in the post office— the one trying to find homes for the puppies." "Boys should have a dog," Douglas muttered. "You had one, James." "Aye." Lucy could sense the men were relieved that the subject had been steered away from the Christmas party. What was Miriam thinking, reminding Douglas of the role he used to have in the event? She was happy to go along with the change in topic. "What sort of dog did you have?" "Golden retriever," James said. "Name of Brie." "Brie?" "Aye. She was yellow. You know, like the cheese." Lucy laughed and the tension in the room dissolved. "There's a picture of her on the mantel," James added. He pointed. "See?" Lucy went closer to the fire to where a dozen or more framed snapshots crowded one side of the mantelpiece. Half hidden behind others, there was, indeed, a picture of a beautiful golden retriever, leaning against a young boy. Lucy found herself reaching for the picture with trembling hands. "Oh, my God…" she whispered. "This could be a picture of Jamie." Holding the photograph, she turned slowly to stare at James. He held her gaze only for a heartbeat, but it was long enough to know that he was thinking the same thing she was. That a DNA test would be superfluous. The genetic match was there in plain view. But what wasn't there was James's willingness to accept the role of father. He must have seen the resemblance between them from the first, yet he'd never spoken of the boy as his son, or of the possibility that Jamie should stay with him.

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The silence was even more awkward this time. Even Miriam seemed at a loss. She gathered up the supper tray and excused herself. Lucy followed her back to the kitchen. "Give it time," she urged Lucy. "It's no' that he won't do the right thing, lass. It's just…taking a bit o' getting used to." *** "You'll have to do the right thing," Douglas growled. "Which is?" "Raise the lad yourself, of course." "And how can I do that, Dad? He's still very young. He needs a mother." "He'll have one." "Who? Miriam?" James shook his head. "He'll have a better life with Lucy, not someone who's old enough to be his gran." "So marry the lass," Douglas snapped. "What's wrong with her?" James closed his eyes. How could he explain that Lucy wouldn't want to live in a place like Ballochburn any more than her sister had? She had her dream job to go back to. In the middle of a city. Half a world away. There was no point in any of them getting attached; hearts would only get broken. Only…maybe it was already too late. His father might be sounding terse and grumpy about everything but he was coming back to life, wasn't he? He wanted Jamie to stay. He wanted to be a grandfather. Was it wrong to feel a flash of hope? There was no denying that his father was right about one thing. There was nothing at all wrong with Lucy Petersen.

Chapter Sixteen It had been the right thing to do, to bring Jamie to the party. And to spend more time with James. Despite Lucy's fears about Jamie being intimidated by the other children, he'd quickly been drawn into a game of musical cushions with a bunch of toddlers from the village and was still with them. The party wasn't going smoothly, however. Miriam was comforting Eileen, who was mortified that her husband was too drunk to be Father Christmas and hand out the gifts. "It's no' a problem," Miriam assured Eileen. "I'll go home and fetch Dr. Cameron." James appeared shocked by her suggestion. "He'll never do it."

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"You might be surprised what he'll do," Miriam said sagely. "For the wee lad." Miriam headed off to fetch Douglas, and Eileen went to the electronic organ, launching into a round of Christmas carols. Everyone joined in quickly…except Jamie, of course, but he looked happy enough to be sitting in the circle of children. Lucy was singing. So was James, though she saw him casting nervous glances toward the door at frequent intervals. She edged closer to him, sharing his nerves. Would it be too much for Douglas to consider doing something that had made him happy in the past? Or would it be the final corner to turn? She held out her hand to James and he gripped it. They stood together as they sang "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." Was James also watching Jamie, as she was, and praying that he might open his mouth and try singing, even if talking was too big a step? No. When Lucy turned her head, she found James was watching her. Looking down at her with an expression that made her heart skip a beat. A wondering kind of expression. Hopeful? Did he have hopes for his father? For Jamie? For himself and…her? Oh, yes… He could hope. So could she. She could love this man. Maybe she already did. And, in case that wasn't enough to make her feel the joy of the season, the Father Christmas that arrived at the party just then was, quite obviously, Douglas Cameron. Miriam helped him with the huge sack of gifts and Lucy saw her wipe her eyes more than once as they watched the distribution. "I love this," she told James. "It's perfect." "The party?" "Everything. The whole village. It's like one big family." "Aye…" "Jamie looks right at home." Lucy bit her lip. "It's a shame we can't stay here." He was supposed to say "why not?" To say that it would be good if she and Jamie could stay. To issue an invitation of some kind that would let her know he was interested in exploring the attraction that was growing between them. Instead his face seemed to freeze. "You wouldn't want to," he said. "Why not?" They were supposed to be his words, not hers. Something was going wrong here. "Your sister didn't. Why should you?"

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All of a sudden James had a face like thunder. He wrenched his hand from hers and walked toward his father. Lucy stared after him, shocked. Douglas watched his son approach, clearly disturbed by the expression on his face. Douglas looked at Lucy and then back at James. He shook his head as though defeated, turned and walked out the back door of the hall. It was Miriam who looked dismayed then. She rushed after Douglas and it was only moments later that her shrill cry could be heard. "Help. Oh, God, help."

Chapter Seventeen Father Christmas lay like a huge red-and-white statue on the snow outside the village hall. James ripped away the beard and hat and tilted his father's head back to open his airway. Miriam knelt on the other side, one hand touching the senior Dr. Cameron's chest, the other pressed against her mouth. Her expression was one of pure anguish. Lucy waited only until James spoke in a voice she didn't recognize. "He's not breathing. There's no pulse." Lucy sprang into action. "Miriam, call an ambulance. Tell them it's a cardiac arrest and CPR is underway." Lucy unzipped the red jacket and positioned her hand well above the broad chest. She brought her fist down with a thump but didn't wait to see if the emergency action had kick-started Douglas's heart. She put one hand on top of the other in the center of his chest and began compressions. James seemed to be waiting for her to pause so that he could do the breathing part of the resuscitation, but Lucy wasn't going to pause. "Have you got a defib in your car?" "Aye." "Get it. Now." Lucy could hear the party still going on in the hall behind her. The door was still a little ajar but the children—hopefully Jamie included—were too busy playing with the gifts they'd received to notice what was happening to their Father Christmas now. James returned within seconds. Lucy applied the pads from the small "heart start" device and switched it on. "No shock required," came the electronic voice. Startled, Lucy pressed her fingers to Douglas's neck. Sure enough, she could feel the beat of a steady pulse and, moments later, she saw his chest rise as he took a breath again. 557

"Oh, thank God…!" But they weren't out of the woods yet. Douglas was still unconscious when the ambulance arrived, though the paramedics were hopeful. And impressed. "Must have been your precordial thump that did the trick," one of them told Lucy. "Good job, Doc." James and Miriam climbed into the ambulance with Douglas and it sped away to the hospital. Lucy managed to convince Jamie to leave the party, and she drove the big four-wheel drive vehicle back to the empty manse. Jamie went to bed without any fuss, holding his tinsel snake in one hand and clutching the red Matchbox car Father Christmas had given him in the other. Lucy kept the fire going in the library and sat in the winged chair, horribly afraid of what might be happening in the coronary care unit of the Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary. Minutes turned into hours. Lucy heard the clock strike twelve. Christmas Eve had become Christmas Day. "Please…" Lucy whispered aloud. "Please don't die, Douglas." No one deserved another such tragedy, but the thought of it happening to James was just unbearable. The flashing lights of the tree and the glow of the open fire were very bright in the otherwise dark room but Lucy had her eyes tightly shut. Thinking of James. Of the warm look he'd given her when they'd stood side by side singing Christmas carols. When it had occurred to her that she might be falling in love with him. She knew the truth now. She was in love with James Cameron. She also loved the tenderhearted Miriam, and even the grouchiness of Douglas Cameron because she knew it covered another gentle heart. One that Jamie was drawn to just as much as she was. And this old manse felt like…home. The pieces of a new dream had just been coming together for Lucy. And now? Were they about to be blown apart?

Chapter Eighteen The front door slammed and Lucy jumped in alarm. James walked into the library, looking tired and haggard. "I got a taxi home." He flicked on the overhead light. "I've just come to collect some things that Dad will need." "He's…alive?" The relief was too much. Tears gathered and spilled from Lucy's eyes.

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"Aye." James sank down on the edge of the couch. He rubbed his forehead with one hand, white with exhaustion. "He's had emergency angioplasty and a couple of stents put in." "He's awake? Talking?" "Not saying much. He's holding Miriam's hand and they're too busy making eyes at each other." James let his breath out in a snort of amazement. "Who would've thought?" Lucy would. The kind of devotion Miriam had shown to this family through the hardest of times could only come from a very real love. "He's going to be all right, though?" "Maybe." James still had his eyes closed. "We'll have to see, won't we? When you've gone." "What?" Lucy stared at James. "What has this got to do with me?" For a long, long moment he was silent. Abruptly he stood and started walking toward the door, then, just as suddenly, turned and stopped. "You…you brought his grandson here," James said heavily. "You gave him a reason to live again. He must have realized at the party—as I did—that there's no way you're going to stick around. You'll be taking the wee lad out of his life and—" "You're blaming me?" Lucy's jaw dropped. "I don't believe this." Her fists clenched. "Just who decided that I wasn't going to 'stick around'? When? How the hell did you know that when I didn't even know?" "Birds of a feather," James muttered, sounding remarkably like his father. "You're a city girl just like your sister was." "I'm nothing like my sister." "You said it yourself. You've got your dream job to get back to. In the middle of a big city." "It's not my dream job because it's in a city. It's my dream because it's the kind of—" James didn't let her finish. "Didn't she tell you at the time? That some stupid country bumpkin GP said he was in love with her, but she could do so much better? She could find someone who was going somewhere with his life?" Lucy simply stood there, openmouthed. It sounded exactly like something her shallow, misguided younger sister would have said. The really shocking thing was that James had been in love with Liv. Maybe he still was. Maybe that was why it was so hard for him to contemplate turning his life upside down for his son. Because it was too much of a reminder that he'd lost the woman he loved.

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Liv. Not her. The younger, prettier one. Perhaps that's all James had seen in her. Why he'd kissed her. Because she'd reminded him. Of Liv. Lucy couldn't say anything now. Her heart was breaking and the tears she was holding back choked her. All she could do was stand there and endure the look of…what, betrayal?…on the face of the man in front of her. And then James turned and walked from the library. She could hear him moving about upstairs as she sat in the winged chair again, her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them tightly. The tears wouldn't come until she heard the sound of the front door closing behind James. The real pain would start then. When she knew the dream was really over.

Chapter Nineteen What had possessed him to say that? James thought as he drove to the hospital. Lucy was nothing like her sister. Oh, there was a similarity in their looks, maybe, but Lucy was far more beautiful. More intelligent, too. And responsible. And…and giving. She wasn't always searching for something better in her life. She was prepared to give up what she already had for the sake of a child. His child. Had he really thought he'd been in love with her sister? The feelings he'd had for Liv weren't a tenth of the feelings that Lucy stirred in him. They went far deeper than desire. They were huge…terrifying. So terrifying that he hadn't wanted to face them and he'd grabbed hold of the idea that she'd never want to stay as a shield to protect himself. He'd been a fool. He knew better than anyone how quickly someone you loved could be taken from you, that you had to make the most out of the time you were given, that there wasn't a moment to waste on fear. As soon as he saw his most urgent patients and checked on his father once more, he'd go home and…apologize to Lucy, if nothing else. *** It felt wrong to be in the manse alone.

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The old house had a peculiar stillness about it, as though it was waiting for the people who really belonged there to come home. Except they hadn't. Lucy had waited all morning. She'd tried to make it feel like Christmas for Jamie but the party seemed to have been all the Christmas he'd needed. He eyed the parcel Lucy offered him, but taking it would have meant putting down one of his new treasures—the tinsel snake and the little red car. He stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head firmly. Lucy put the other small parcels she had wrapped under the tree. They were only little things but maybe they would be enough to thank Douglas and Miriam…and James. There was no point in taking them with her, anyway. It was time to go. The heavily falling snow made it feel far later than it was when she tucked Jamie back into the rental car seat. The weather was making Lucy nervous. The last thing she needed was to end up in another ditch. Maybe it was those nerves that made her turn the wrong way and she found herself in the village of Ballochburn instead of on the main road to Dumfries. The square was deserted and the old cobbles were rapidly being covered by snow. The shops were all closed, but there were lights on at the old stone inn. The sign gathering snow on its top advertised that the B&B had a vacancy. At least she and Jamie had got out of the manse, Lucy thought. If she waited until morning, maybe the snow would stop and the roads would be clear. It might also give her the chance to say goodbye and a proper thank-you, at least to Miriam. *** James and Miriam arrived back at the manse in the afternoon to find Lucy's car gone. The only traces of her in the house, in fact, were some small parcels under the tree. Panic filled James. "How could she do that? Just up and…go?" "Mebbe because you didn't want her t' stay," Miriam said. "But I did. I do," James said and realized how true it was. He wanted Lucy. He wanted his son. So much that the thought that he might have lost them both was a physical pain. An ache that could very well be with him for the rest of his life. "Did you tell her that?" "I…well…" Miriam gave him a meaningful look and went to answer the telephone. "Eileen? Och, aye…he'll be as right as rain." She blinked and listened for a moment. "The inn, you say? Well, I never…" 561

*** The tap on Lucy's door was quiet but insistent. Lucy cast an anxious glance at the bed but Jamie didn't stir. It was probably the landlady wanting to fuss over them again. Except it wasn't. "James." "Come home, Lucy," he said without preamble. "Please." "Why?" The word was a whisper. Lucy could see the answer in his face but she couldn't believe it. "Because…I want you to stay. You and Jamie." The lump in Lucy's throat made it hard to speak. "Because he's your son?" "Aye…" James also seemed to be having trouble finding his voice. "And because…" He was looking down at her. The way he had when she'd been standing beneath the mistletoe. "Because I love you."

Chapter Twenty The Cameron family finally celebrated Christmas several days late, on the day that Douglas Cameron was discharged from the hospital with a clean bill of health and instructions to get on with his life and enjoy it. He intended to do just that. Nearly dying had shown him how precious life was. The gift of new love had been there for him for a long time, he'd just been too blind to see it. He'd told James he would start working again in the New Year, too. He couldn't leave it entirely to James to get their new partner up to speed. He smiled. Lucy was going to be a huge asset to the family practice. And that scoundrel of a puppy who was rolling on the floor at his feet, shredding a piece of the cardboard box he'd been in beneath the Christmas tree, would be another asset. For the family. Ahh…family. Douglas eased back in his favorite chair and ruffled the red-gold curls of the small boy on his knee. "What is it you've got there, wee Jamie?" Jamie held up a small red car. He showed it to his grandfather. "Car," he said clearly. The background music of Christmas carols faded away as that single word filled the library.

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Lucy was standing by the window, watching the snow falling. James stood behind her, his arms holding her close against his body. They both turned from the pretty, snow-softened garden to look at each other and the glance they shared encompassed the complete understanding they had gained over the past few days. Days of talking about so many things. About how Lucy had tried to be a mother to Liv while nursing their mother through her long illness. How Liv had rebelled and become obsessed with finding only pleasure for herself. They discovered that their dreams of practicing medicine were the same. Old-fashioned. They wanted a family general practice that was a part of a community's heartbeat. The days might have been filled with talking but the nights had been pure magic as they discovered each other's bodies and how to express their love through touch. And, as they had drawn so close to each other, more magic had been happening around them. A new family was being born as Douglas was able to accept and return the love Miriam had for him. And Jamie… Jamie had spoken his first word. He was giving his grandfather his first smile. The moment was precious enough to have Miriam dabbing at her eyes. "Och…" She sighed. "It is a car, Jamie. And that's your grandpa. Can you say 'Grandpa'?" "Ga," Jamie said. He was clearly pleased with his newfound talent and the effect it was having on his audience. He slid off his grandfather's lap and smiled at Lucy. The same smile she could see on the face of the man in the winged chair. And on the face of the man she loved, who was standing by her side and would be for the rest of his life. He had promised this with all his heart last night when he'd proposed to Lucy and she had joyfully accepted. Jamie wasn't looking at her any longer, though. His gaze was fixed on James as he marched across the library, his arms outstretched to be picked up. "Da," he said. "Aye…" James scooped him up with one arm because the other arm was pulling Lucy even closer. "That I am." The lights on the Christmas tree were going all blurry for Lucy and she could hear the faint voices of a choir singing. "All is calm…all is bright…" Yes, she thought mistily, her heart overflowing with love and hope for the future. It is. 563

His Christmas Captive By Caitlin Crews Lucy Qaderi married her husband because she loved him. Not because he was cousin to the future ruler of Alakkul. Not because he was a wealthy man. But because Rafi Qaderi set her on fire like no one else. But he no longer believes any of that. So Lucy summons Rafi to his family's palace in Alakkul to tell him once and for all that she's leaving him…only to have a winter storm trap them together, testing Lucy's resolve and proving one thing is very much alive in their relationship—their passion for each other. That passion brought them together once. But after all the pain and guilt and accusations, is it enough to keep them together?

Chapter One "I'm leaving you." Lucy Qaderi forced the words out before she could convince herself not to say them. Even if she had not yet dared to turn around and say them to his face. She'd sensed the moment he'd stepped into this opulent bedroom suite they had once shared, high up in the mountains over the tiny Eurasian country of Alakkul. His country. She would know him anywhere, this brooding, ruthless man. Rafi Qaderi. The leader of his ancient family, responsible for maintaining the Qaderis' many international interests and vast wealth while his celebrated cousin prepared to take over the throne of Alakkul from the ailing King Azat. Rafi was a financial wizard, a shrewd businessman. Noble and proud. Her husband. "Thank you, Lucy." His tone was dark, sardonic, with that undercurrent of patience sorely tried. "I was able to gather as much from your packed luggage in the front hall." She should hate him. At times, she did. And yet that voice moved over her like a wave of heat, making her feel itchy, her chest tight. Lucy stared out the window. Fiercely. The great Alakkulian Valley was like something out of a fairy tale for a girl who'd grown up with nearly nothing in a small village near Manchester. The crystal-blue mountain lakes shimmered with ice, the bright fields were piled high with the latest December snowfall and far, far below was the rush and clatter of the ancient capital city, bristling with white-capped heights as it stretched out from the foot of the royal palace. The Qaderis, Lucy thought, preferred to look down on the country they'd helped guide and rule for so many centuries from the remove of this house that was very near a fortress, so high above it all. Just as Rafi looked down on her, and always had. She was a fool. "Am I to discern secret messages from the way you present your back to me?" His tone was like a lash, rich and bitter, and she stiffened against it. "Or is it your silence that I should pay attention to this time?" Hateful man. Hateful, beloved man. Lucy gathered her shaky courage as best she could, and turned to face him. And wished she hadn't. Seeing him was a blow. Hard, hot. Straight to her midsection. 564

Rafi lounged in the doorway, his mocking gray eyes trained on her, the expression on his implacable face grim. She was shocked anew by the power that emanated from him, like an electrical current. It made him seem much bigger—broader and taller than he already was—and he was dressed impeccably in a dark suit that clung to his lean, strong body. He was like some lethal angel, she thought wildly, all that inkblack hair and harsh black brows drawn low over his stormy eyes. She shivered in helpless reaction and her traitorous heart stuttered in her chest. She bit at her lower lip. "Where exactly will you go?" His voice seemed to caress her even as it taunted her, moving over her like silk. She shifted on her feet, and wished he did not have the power to do this to her—to make her fidget as if she were an errant child. "Do you care?" She threw the words back at him. But, sadly, she already knew the answer. "I am an extraordinarily busy man," he said, his voice harder. Darker. His gray eyes connected with hers. She caught her breath. "I do not have time to dance attendance on you simply because you are having another one of your little attention-seeking fits. My aide told me this was an emergency." "Your aide tells you whatever he thinks you want to hear," Lucy said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. She thought of all the calls she'd made to Rafi that had been blocked by his aide, Safir, of the man's snide and smug tone, of all her messages that she suspected had never been delivered at all. But Rafi would hear no word against Safir, and certainly not from her. "He is an excellent gatekeeper, and no doubt keeps you adequately protected from anything you might not like. You chose him well." "I appreciate the vote of confidence in my business decisions." His voice was sarcastic. Cool. It made her throat ache with tears she would not shed, words she dared not say. "But I still don't see anything that I would classify as an emergency." He moved into the room, and Lucy regretted suddenly that she was already standing with her back to the wall of windows. There was nowhere else to go. She swallowed and felt her pulse race, as if she were nothing more than prey. He stalked toward her, dangerous and male, and Lucy could do nothing but watch him and pretend she didn't wish for all the things she could never have. That she knew she shouldn't even want. Not with him. "That depends on your definition of an emergency," she said, as he drew close and loomed over her, making heat bloom in her cheeks—and in other, secret places. "It is Christmas, after all. And your wife is leaving you. Some men might consider that an emergency." "I don't see a head wound," he said, his voice that same sardonic lash, his eyes flicking over her, cold and cruel. "No trauma of any kind. You appear to be in perfect health, Lucy. As ever. And for this I raced home from Berlin." For a moment she couldn't speak. His fingers rose, almost brushing against the skin of her cheek, making her want to weep. It had been so long since he'd touched her. It had been so long. But she couldn't let herself think about that. About the sweet madness of his kiss, his touch. Of the incandescent heights she had never dared dream of before this man had taken her there. He dropped his hand. She told herself he had no doubt meant to check for a fever. "I'm surprised you remembered this place at all," she managed to say, calling on some deep well of determination and courage she hadn't known she possessed. That he had forced her to find. "You haven't been here in so long I had begun to think you'd forgotten about it entirely."

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"I see your flair for the melodramatic is with you still," he said evenly, his gaze hard on hers. "What do you really want, Lucy? What is the purpose of all this theater?" "I told you," she snapped at him. "I'm leaving you, Rafi. And unlike you, I am not doing it the cowardly way—by inference. I'm not making sure to be 'away on business' for the better part of three months. I'm not going to make you sit and wonder what it means when I disappear, or take exactly one phone call from you and then be unavailable ever after. I'm saying it to your face. Right now." His dark eyes moved over her, and his mouth twisted. "Did you just call me a coward, Lucy?" he asked, his voice deceptively light as his jaw knotted—warning signs she knew she should heed. "Did I hear that correctly? Shall I share with you my thoughts regarding pots versus kettles?" "I am your wife, Rafi," she ventured. "And yet you haven't set foot in this house in months. You refuse my calls. Your horrible aide speaks to me as if I'm part fractious child and part evil, scheming witch." "Is this your rendition of the neglected, sorely abused wife?" Rafi interrupted coldly, his brows raised. "The performance needs work. And an audience unaware of the truth." "I'm not like you!" Lucy cried, unable to control herself, to keep all of her misery at bay. Not when she could feel the heat of him—see the light at the back of those mysterious, impossible eyes. "I can't pretend!" Rafi let out something resembling a laugh, hollow and frozen. "On the contrary," he said, shaking his head slightly, his gaze trained on her face—making her feel so small, so alone. "All you do is pretend." "I'm not the liar you've convinced yourself I am, Rafi!" she hissed at him. "I never have been!" He was too close, then. His eyes like fire, his mouth a grim, condemning line. "I know every lie you've ever told, Lucy," he said. "And most of them to me. You should just count yourself lucky that I have a particular weakness for the lie of your body."

Chapter Two "I don't care what lies you think I've told you," Lucy said bravely. Rafi almost admired her. Almost. "And it doesn't matter anyway," she continued. "I'm still leaving you. I should have done it a long time ago." She looked so small. So fragile. Her arms were crossed over her chest as if she were holding herself together by sheer force of will. Her coffee-colored eyes were huge and dark beneath her pale blond curls, giving her the look of an innocent.

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That was her deepest deception, the one that he had believed so fiercely no matter what those closest to him—including all of his staff and Safir—had told him when he'd first fallen under her spell. No matter what proof they'd claimed to have of her manipulative ways. Until that phone call three months ago when she had revealed the truth in that hollow, shameless way, and he had been more devastated than he could remember ever being before. Sometimes he thought he still was. Rafi stepped away from his wife before he did something he would regret. Like taste her again. Hadn't that been what had caused all this trouble in the first place? He was a man who prided himself on his rigid code, his steely commitment to his duty. He lived for his name, his honor, his family and the responsibilities that were his by virtue of being the oldest male Qaderi of his generation. His cousin Adel might have been the current king's chosen successor, but Rafi was charged with making sure the future king's family maintained its wealth and power, the better to serve and support Adel when he ascended the throne. Rafi considered it an honor. More than that, he was a man hewn of the very mountains of Alakkul itself, like his ancestors before him. Many empires had tried—and failed—to take this little valley, to use it for their own ends. But Alakkulians did not bend. They did not break. Rafi felt the truth of that like the very blood that ran through his veins, marking him, defining him. And then one day he'd glanced up at a cocktail waitress in a club in Manchester, England, and lost his head. Lost himself. It was those damned eyes, soft and vulnerable, over a mouth that made him hard every time he looked at it. Even now. And what a pretty mess she'd made of him, hadn't she? "I know it's important to you to believe the worst of me," she said, her voice clipped, color flooding her porcelain cheeks. "After all, how better to excuse your own appalling behavior?" "My behavior?" Temper pounded through him, threaded with that desire for her that never left him, no matter how much distance he put between them. He bit out a laugh. "I'm sure that in your mind, your deceit and betrayal is as nothing." He held her gaze until her skin reddened. "Unfortunately for you, Lucy, I live in the real world." He realized they were too close when his hands found their way to her upper arms, holding her there. He let go as if electrocuted. But he could not dismiss the beguiling satin feel of her skin as easily. He let his eyes travel over her. It took a moment, but the difference in her appearance filtered through. She looked…perfectly appropriate. Her messy curls were tamed into a chignon, which only drew his attention to her mouth. The dress itself was exquisite, tailored to showcase her femininity without broadcasting her sensuality. He felt a pang in the vicinity of his chest, but thrust it aside. She had been all bold colors, garish and exotic, when he'd brought her here. Hadn't that been what had lured him in when he'd met her, in the midst of all that British rain? Her artless delight. Her simplicity. But, of course, that had all been a lie, too. Hadn't it? He shouldn't mourn its loss. He should be pleased that his uncultured wife had bettered herself in his absence and now more closely suited the image of 567

what his wife should be. So why did he want to thrust his fingers into her hair and shake it from its bonds, see it wild and free? "Are you in costume?" he asked, without knowing he meant to speak. He indicated her clothes with a jerk of his chin. "You almost appear to be what you are not. The dutiful wife appropriate to my station." She flinched as if he'd slapped her and he felt as if he had, vile and low. Hot, red heat washed over her face, and her full lower lip trembled, but she did not bow her head. She did not look away from him, though he saw the hurt in her brown eyes. Rafi hated himself. But that never seemed to be enough to tamp down the poison inside of him, the great swell of bitterness and rage at what she'd done to him. He feared it defined him. "You delight in being cruel," she said, her words too careful, as if they cost her. "But I am not going to stand here and be your punching bag. I wanted to tell you I was leaving you to your face, assuming I ever saw it again, and now I have." She pulled in a shaky breath, and her mouth twisted slightly. "Goodbye, Rafi." He let her walk away from him. He was barely aware of the room around them, so inured was he to the trappings of the Qaderi wealth and consequence. The ancient, sumptuous tapestries that cascaded down the walls were lost on him; they served only to frame Lucy in reds and golds as she moved over the deep carpet, past the magnificent four-poster bed that rose like an edifice in the middle of the room. He watched that mesmerizing sway of her hips, and could not help but admire the perfect hourglass lushness of her body, her voluptuous curves. She had mesmerized him back in Manchester, and she bewitched him now. She was a wild magic, this woman, and he had lost everything because of her. His self-respect. The politically advantageous marriage he'd been plotting for years. His standing in his particular Alakkulian circle of high-ranking ministers and power brokers, all of whom had expected better from Rafi Qaderi than a shotgun wedding to a woman like her. In some parts of Alakkul, it might as well still be the twelfth century—and to those of his countrymen, some of whom graced the halls of power for all that they were hidebound, a cocktail waitress might as well be a scarlet-painted whore. Even his own staff had been appalled that he could fall so low. She had ruined him. But the greater sin was that he had let her. "I appreciate the high drama of this performance, Lucy, I truly do." He did not bother to raise his voice. She stopped walking, though she did not turn around. "But it is wasted on me. I fly back to Germany in the morning." He shook his head. "Assuming your great emergency does not conveniently strike in the dark of night, of course." She did turn then. He had the strangest notion that she was someone else for a moment—the woman she was pretending to be, all elegance and affront, staring at him from across the lavish room as if he had gravely disappointed her. Again. It was no doubt the incongruity that made him feel something perilously close to shame. "I am not playing games, Rafi." Her voice was quiet, but he heard the faint tremor in it. Why should that affect him? And yet something moved through him, acid and heavy, that felt too much like regret.

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"My flight to Manchester leaves tomorrow," she said, still in that cool, detached tone. "I've hired a car to pick me up and take me to the airport in the city. Soon it will be as if I was never here at all." "It is far too late for that, much as we both might wish it otherwise," he said, and he almost did regret the coldness of his tone and the way she visibly steeled herself against it, as if she expected nothing more from him. "But I have no intention of letting you go, Lucy." "You have no choice—" she began, that hectic color working over her pale skin again, and he should not have taken such satisfaction in that. "There will be no separation, no divorce, no hint of scandal at all," he said softly, watching her brace herself against each word. "This is the marriage you wanted, Lucy. The one you worked so hard to achieve. I suggest you enjoy it. We are both stuck in it for the rest of our lives." She only stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable, and then she turned and left the room.

Chapter Three Lucy settled herself in the small sitting room off the master suite later that evening, fighting to get her riotous emotions under control. She only had to make it through this one night, she reminded herself, and in the morning she would get on that flight and put all of this—this painful, impossible chapter of her life— behind her. She couldn't wait. She curled up on her favorite settee, and let her thoughts run wild as she looked out at the thick, dark night that had fallen outside. Rafi was her husband, and there was no denying that he was a powerful man—but he was not the god she'd believed him to be once upon a time, not by a long shot. If she wanted to leave him, to divorce him—and she did, she told herself fiercely, of course she did—then she would do so. He could not control her. He could not— "What is this?" His voice was dry, amused. "A strategic retreat?" Lucy stiffened. She turned to look at Rafi as he moved into the room in that low, confident way of his. He had changed and showered; he smelled of the scented soap he preferred and his dark black hair gleamed. He'd traded his perfect suit for dark trousers and a simple long-sleeved shirt that showcased his impossibly breathtaking physique. He was, quite simply, the most beautiful man she had ever known. Lucy remembered, suddenly, the first time she'd seen him. She'd been covering a friend's shift at the Manchester nightclub where she worked, and she'd been dead on her feet. Oh, she'd smiled and flirted with the punters by rote, but she'd been counting down the minutes to closing time. She hadn't seen him come in; she'd only noted the new group of men at one of her tables. Corporate swells, from the look of them, she'd judged, and she'd plastered on her best smile. Rafi had been sprawled across the banquette, careless and nearly regal in his indolence. She'd noticed that confidence first. And then he'd glanced up at her, and everything had stopped. The noise of the crowd, the music, the boisterous sounds of his friends. All gone. There had only been that arrested look in his thundercloud gaze, and that faintly dazed expression on his harshly masculine, impossibly beautiful face as they'd locked eyes. And that sweet, addictive pulse, long and low and insistent, in her blood. Her throat. Between her legs. She'd asked for his drink order and lost herself, then and there.

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It was no different now, Lucy realized helplessly. She jerked her gaze away from his body, wishing her own did not ready itself for him so quickly, so thoughtlessly. As if nothing had happened between them at all. As if none of it mattered. "It's almost Christmas," she said instead of responding to him. She pulled the wrap she wore tighter around herself, and looked out the window instead of at him. "Only a few days to go now." "That generally happens around this time of year," he agreed, though she told herself his voice was not as cold as it had been before. "It is unavoidable, apparently." Lucy heard the derision in his voice, and thought, not for the first time, how little she knew this man who had changed the whole of her life. That should not have made her feel too big for her own skin, and yet it did. "I love Christmas," she said softly. She sensed more than saw him drop into the chair closest to her, and then he stretched out his long legs and she could scarcely avoid them. Even so, she kept her eyes trained on her own lap. "Growing up, there wasn't any money for gifts, so on Christmas morning Mum would tell us stories instead. About how we would be princesses when we were older, how we'd never be cold again and how we would eat whatever we liked in golden palaces, bathed in sun and laughter." She smiled. "That was my favorite part. Even when there were gifts, I preferred the stories. I used to lie by the fire and imagine they all came true." She didn't know why she'd told him that. Surely she should have learned better by now. He was not at all what she wanted him to be, and she could not understand why she insisted on testing that theory. It never ended well. "I suppose that your story did come true," he said after a moment, and there was an odd note in his voice. She looked up and found herself snared in his dark gaze. She caught her breath. He waved a hand at the room surrounding them, the paintings on the walls, the lavish furnishings. But then his cruel mouth crooked into that smirk she recognized too well, and whatever warmth she'd started to feel disappeared. "How enterprising of you." "Not at all," she said, squaring her shoulders against that dry, insinuating tone. Meeting his eyes as if he had no power to hurt her, when they both knew better. But what else did she have? What else could she do? "In the stories my mother told me, the handsome man who inevitably swept me away from my former life was kind." His dark gray eyes gleamed, but she still did not look away. Whole hours could have passed. Days. And still he gazed upon her as if he were reading into the most shadowed corners of her soul. Lucy was far too afraid of what he might find there. Restless and something else, something she was afraid to name, she got to her feet and moved away from him. Distance was good, she thought. Safer. She went and stood by the fire that crackled invitingly in the grate, and welcomed the heat of the flames against her skin. Better to be burned by fire than by Rafi. Burns from a flame healed. The kind of damage Rafi inflicted lasted forever. "I don't understand you," he said quietly, in that cold way of his that sliced into her and made her bones weak. "You play the part of the victim so beautifully, but we both know you are no such thing. And yet you never drop the act, not even when we're alone." It was too much. This never-ending assault. Why had she thought that summoning him here would be better than surviving somehow the long insult of his absence? What could she have been thinking? 570

She whirled to face him, a storm inside of her, building by the moment and tearing her apart. "What do you want from me, Rafi?" she begged him. She forgot about pride, about shame. She searched his face, her hands open in supplication. "How long do you plan to punish me? I hardly became pregnant on my own, did I?" He rose to his feet then, his eyes stark, his mouth a tight line. She thought he paled. "You dare to throw that lie at me?" he asked, his voice the barest thread of sound. "Now? After you have been exposed?" "Exposed?" She shook her head, reeling, her heart pounding. She felt sick. "Is that what you call it?" "The word I prefer is trapped," Rafi growled, advancing on her. He towered over her, his eyes black. Condemning. "Your claims of pregnancy, which I, a man of honor, could only address in one way. Followed by your claims of a conveniently timed miscarriage, barely a month after the wedding. And this after I had proclaimed your innocence, your innate goodness, to the whole of my country. How much of a fool do you take me for, Lucy?" She stared at him in horror. "Is that who you think I am?" she asked, stunned. Horrifed. "That is exactly who you are," he retorted. Which made him far less of a fool than she was, she realized, her stomach lurching. This, finally, explained the way he'd treated her for these long months. He despised her. Believed her to be the worst kind of woman. And she was the idiot who was still in love with him.

Chapter Four Lucy stared at him, looking stricken. As if he'd wounded her, deeply and unfairly. Rafi bit back a curse. How did she do that? How could she act as if the truth were a weapon wielded against her? She is good at what she does, his aide, Safir, had said to him months ago when Rafi had uncharacteristically let some of his anguish at her betrayal slip out. She has made it her life's work, he'd said. She really was good at it, Rafi thought. She had lied her way into what was, for her, a spectacular marriage. He was the one who had to suffer the consequences. "So that's why you disappeared," she said after a long moment. "You think I lied about the baby and the miscarriage." Her brown eyes were wide with distress, and one delicate hand hovered near her throat. This close, he could smell her unique, intoxicating scent. The faintest hint of jasmine, the suggestion of her warmth. He longed to haul her into his arms, to lose himself in her as he had before. "That's why this is the first time I've seen you in more than three months."

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"Despite all evidence to the contrary," he said quietly, deliberately, holding her gaze with his, "I did not want to suspect you of this. I wanted to believe you were exactly who you claimed to be. A woman as swept away by what happened between us as I was." It hurt him to admit that, but it was true. It was just as everyone had warned him, though he had been so determined not to believe it in the beginning. But what he had never admitted was that there was some part of him that had been relieved—because if she were that scheming, that grasping, it absolved him of responsibility, didn't it? Every man had a weakness, even him. And he would spend the rest of his life coming to terms with what his own weakness had wrought. "You wanted to believe it," she said softly, her eyes moving over his face as if she searched for something. Her lips trembled slightly as if she fought off some great emotion. "But you did not." "My investigator found out quickly enough that you weren't supposed to be working at the club that night," Rafi said. "The only question is, how did you know I would be there? Did you target me specifically, or were you simply casting a wide net? I must commend you, Lucy. I was completely taken in." He let out a hollow laugh, but he could not seem to help the way he drifted closer to her, as if compelled. She did not move away. "Your investigator," she said. She swallowed. "You mean your aide. Safir." "He is a loyal employee," Rafi said darkly. "Far better than I deserve. He dared to tell me the truth about you when I refused to see the evidence before me." "Let me guess," she said in a tone he could not quite read—one both bitter and very nearly amused, at odds with the turmoil in her coffee-colored eyes. "A cocktail waitress must be in want of a wealthy husband, and any one will do." Ignoring her words, he reached out and traced the line of her collarbone, a hard satisfaction moving through him when she shivered in response. She pulled her wrap tighter around herself as if she were cold, but he knew better. Whatever her plans, whatever her schemes, she could not have been prepared for this fire that raged between them—this wild, maddening rush. He had stayed away because he could not keep his hands off of her when he was near her. She was temptation incarnate. Tonight, with her blond curls piled on her head, she looked beautiful, and all he could think about was tasting the elegant line of her neck. He wanted to peel the layers of her clothing from her magnificent body and bury himself within her, again and again and again. When he touched her, he didn't care that he was Rafi Qaderi and she was nobody. He didn't care that she had altered the course of his life. He only wanted her. Here, now. And this close to her, he could not think of a single reason why that was a bad idea. "You have bewitched me," he muttered harshly in his own language, well aware she would not understand the words. And then, yielding to the very same urge that had brought them here in the first place, he took her mouth with his. ***

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Rafi's kiss was hot, slick. Perfect. She should push him away. She should denounce him and the horrible things he thought about her. She should tell him the truth. But Lucy could not bring herself to do any of those things. She was awash in sensation. The way he pulled her into his arms, pressing her against the enticing wall of his chest. The way he angled his head for a better fit, tasting her, teasing her, making her whole body hum with approval and need. She loved him. It was that simple. That disastrous. She loved him and he hated her, just as she would no doubt hate herself when this was over—when she was left to reflect on the fact that she was so weak, so easy, that she could listen to him say such ugly things about her and then let him kiss her as if he had every right. But it had been so long. And oh, how she ached for him. For this. All the long, lonely days and nights seemed to disappear like smoke. All the agony, the pain and the terrible truth of what had happened to her seemed less bright, less vicious, when he kissed her like this. As if he felt the same wild fire, the same mad connection. As if he were as helpless to control it as she was. As if he'd missed her, missed this, too. It was that last thought that finally penetrated the fog and forced Lucy to take a step back. One hand flew to her mouth and she could only stare at him while her body objected to the space she'd put between them. Her breasts felt too heavy, too full. Her heart shuddered against her ribs. And low in her belly, she ached. Burned. But he hadn't missed her, had he. He had believed whatever poisonous things Safir had told him. He would have been content to stay away on his endless business trips forever—would have done so, in fact, had she not claimed she needed him here, that it was an emergency. He'd had no intention of ending these months of punishment. He'd had no intention of coming back at all. "Do you think you can just kiss me and it will be as if none of this ever happened?" she asked. She wanted to sound tough, strong, but her voice was barely a whisper. "There is no pretending it didn't happen," he said darkly. His gaze was trained on her mouth and she could not help the surge of heat within her. "But why not celebrate the one thing we ever did well? Surely we should take our compensations where we can. We have so little else." "We have nothing," she said, surprised at her own voice. How clear it was. How little it shook. "You will leave tomorrow morning and who knows when you'll be back. In six months? A year?" She tossed her head. "You can't abandon me with so little regard for me and then expect me to fall into your bed at a moment's notice!" "Expect? No." His fingers brushed her cheek, traced the shape of her mouth. "But why deny this passion when we are both in the same room?" 573

"Because it is the biggest lie of all!" Lucy cried. She jerked her head from his clever fingers and moved away from him, toward the door. "And it doesn't matter, anyway. This time, I'm the one leaving, and I won't be back at all. You can count on it." "Lucy…" He said her name but she didn't know if it was to plead with her or to curse her. Not that it made a difference, she told herself fiercely. She needed only to survive the night. In the morning Rafi would be gone, she would be on a one-way flight back to reality and she would finally be able to breathe again. She just had to make it through the night.

Chapter Five When Lucy woke the next morning, tucked away in one of the lesser bedrooms—behind a locked door to be safe as much from herself as from him—the world outside her window was pure white. Snow fell inexorably from above, just as it must have been falling throughout the night because the usually breathtaking view was entirely obscured. She could not see six feet from her window, much less into the great valley below. There was a terrible sinking sensation in her belly and a quick check of her messages confirmed her fears. Her car could not make it through the snow and all the flights had been canceled. She wasn't going anywhere. And neither was Rafi. She dressed quickly and then made her way through the house. Even today, she was unable to walk through the grand halls without marveling at the Qaderis' power, their grace and consequence. It was evident in the richly appointed rooms, the banquet halls, even the smallest vase upon an incidental table—everything was clearly precious. Ancient. Part of the great sweep of Alakkul's history. Except for her. She was nothing but the cocktail waitress whom Rafi believed had trapped him into marriage. It was no wonder her stomach twisted when she walked into the breakfast room and found him sitting there, lounging back in one of the elegant chairs with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and his brooding gaze directed out the windows. The fire crackling away in the nearby fireplace was nothing next to the heat of his gray eyes when he turned them on her. Lucy froze. "You're still here," she said stupidly even though she'd known he would be. Was she distraught? Or relieved? He only gestured toward the window and the snow that continued to fall, silent and impassable. The roads in these mountains were treacherous at the best of times; it would be days before they'd be cleared, and then only once the snow stopped falling. But her mind reeled away from what that must mean. For both of them.

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It was almost funny, she thought from some kind of distance, her gaze trapped in his far darker one. She'd gone to so much trouble to get him here and now that he'd be stuck here for some time—now that they were both stuck here—she wanted no part of it. "It looks as if your wish has come true," he said with an edge in his voice, as if he blamed her for the snowfall on top of everything else. "I will be here for Christmas after all. You must be thrilled." Thrilled, Lucy thought as her heart fluttered wildly and her throat clenched tightly, was not at all how she would describe her feelings. She swallowed and told herself to pull it together. He lounged there at the end of the table, looking impossibly big and dangerous, but she assured herself it was just nerves and nothing else that swelled and contracted within her, sharp and rhythmic, making it hard to breathe. "Christmas is in three days," she said. She forced a bland smile. "Anything can happen." *** It was the longest day of his life. Rafi found himself in the old library later that afternoon, swirling his drink in a crystal tumbler as he scowled into the fireplace. He felt restless. Hunted. As if she were right there with him, crowding him. An itch he could not reach, that would not leave him be. She had avoided him for hours, yet he was as wild as if she'd had him naked in their bed, begging for her touch. He, who had never begged. He, who was more and more convinced that she possessed some supernatural power that enslaved him to her whenever he was near her. Even if she was only under the same roof. With a growl of impatience, he tossed back the remainder of his drink and slapped the tumbler down on the mantelpiece. He raked his fingers through his hair. This enforced seclusion was clearly making him insane. He was supposed to be back in Germany by now, talking contracts and profit margins. Not…trapped here. With her. He had hardly slept the night before. Being near Lucy made him edgy. As if he were suddenly made entirely of angles. He'd tossed in his magnificent four-poster bed, unable to sleep, images of Lucy haunting him. Taunting him and teasing him. He remembered that first delicious night. As he'd watched her work, he had been blindsided by the maelstrom of lust and need she had stirred within him. He had hardly known what he'd been doing, but he'd waited for her at the club until her shift was over and then taken her back to his hotel. She'd gone with him eagerly, seemingly as dazed by their connection as he was. The instant the doors of the hotel's lift had closed behind them, he'd had his hands on her rich curves and his mouth on hers. He'd urged her legs around his waist and pressed her to the wall within moments of entering his hotel suite. He remembered the fierce, incomparable joy of that first slick entry, right there against the wall. He remembered her soft cries, the look of wonder on her face. And that had only been the beginning. Now, as the snow fell outside, he tortured himself with images of that first long night and the holiday he'd coaxed her into taking with him afterward.

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I'll take you to Paris, he'd said, and he'd done so, but it had hardly mattered where they were. They might as well have stayed in Manchester for all they'd seen of the City of Lights. He had no memory of the weather or anything else. It might have been a heat wave or a blizzard. Rafi hadn't known and hadn't cared. But he remembered her body in perfect detail. Every freckle, every curve. He knew the texture of her nipples against his tongue and the sweet weight of her astride him, riding them both into oblivion. He'd thought he'd known her just as well. "Even the great Rafi turns out to be fallibly mortal," his cousin Adel had teased him in a family meeting not long after Rafi's quick wedding—and not long after the phone call that had ripped his heart to shreds. "I would never have believed it possible." "We are not all of us destined to wed the future Queen of Alakkul, should she ever be found," Rafi had replied, forcing a smile. He was known for his cool head, his unshakable resolve—and yet he had fallen for the oldest trick imaginable? A temptress and a liar? "A beautiful woman should be a prize, Rafi," Adel had replied, his gaze too calm, too knowing. "Not a curse." But Rafi did not believe it. Would not let himself believe it—and he was certain his cousin, who had given over his life to his duty and the glory of their country, was only being kind. It still filled him with a kind of rage, sharp and deep. But that, he knew, was not the true reason he despaired of himself. How could Lucy have betrayed him in every possible way—ruined him and shamed him, tricked him and used him—and he still wanted her this much? Even now, when betrayal and bitterness twisted inside of him and fused into something darker, something hotter, he wanted her. It was lucky his cousin was meant to be king and not him—because he would no doubt walk away from a throne for this woman, just as he had walked away from all he held dear, all he'd believed to be true about himself. He remembered with perfect clarity when he'd realized he was nothing like the man he'd always thought he was. It had been during another meeting in another hotel in another interchangeable city somewhere in Europe. His aide had been reading out his messages in his usual bland tone. The standard petitioners for the Qaderi fortune, the regular communications from people such as the family doctor and the senior housekeeper and the usual sheaf of messages from Lucy. "It is nothing out of the ordinary," Safir had said in summary of Lucy's calls, shrugging. "Of course not," Rafi had replied curtly, remembering with searing pain the last phone call he had taken from her, the one where she'd revealed her true nature. "My wife is nothing if not consistent." And even then, even as he'd pretended otherwise, he'd ached for her. Ached for all the things he'd believed she was, that he knew she could never and would never be. Rafi pulled in a breath and turned to look out at the falling snow. Still it came, trapping him. Stranding him. Making him a captive in his own home. Making a mockery of the lies he'd told himself about the distance between him and Lucy. 576

But maybe he had been seeing this from the wrong angle all along, he thought then, as his body hardened, readying itself. Perhaps he should not have distanced himself when he learned the extent of her betrayal. In the end, what did it matter? There would be no divorce. And one day, there would be heirs. So what was he fighting?

Chapter Six Rafi was prepared for more fireworks. In fact, he craved them. He didn't care what lies Lucy told tonight, he assured himself as he prowled through the old house, the seat of his family's power for centuries. He didn't care that she was the most inappropriate bride he could possibly have chosen and that she had used his honor against him. He didn't care about any of it. He only wanted her—badly—and if they had to fight in order to light that spark between them…he was happy to fight. He was almost smiling in anticipation when he swung into the master suite, expecting to find her once again tucked away in the small sitting room she preferred. But instead he stopped dead, his heart hammering against his chest in a manner he refused to examine too closely. She was curled up on the far side of the great bed, fully dressed, her hands beneath her cheek. From the doorway, he could see only the shape of her in the low lights that spilled from the dressing room. That perfect hourglass that called to the male in him, that delectable shape that had inspired artists and lovers throughout the ages. The beauty of a woman's curves—his woman's curves—nearly took his breath. He moved to the side of the bed and looked down at her, aware that he was scowling again, though he could not have said why. In sleep, she appeared younger than she ought to, and infinitely more fragile. He saw not a scheming tramp who'd set out to ensnare him, but an exhausted, beautiful woman. His gaze shifted to her mouth, that wicked, deliciously carnal mouth. His hand reached out of its own accord and he watched it as if it belonged to someone else, watched his fingers trace a pattern over the flushed, warm satin of her cheek. She murmured something in her sleep, incoherent and soft, and then settled against the bed. He should not have felt that clutching sensation in his chest, as if his heart were involved in this. He should not have felt the quiet of the room and the blanketing silence of the snow outside as some kind of sacrament. The lust that had spurred him into coming here melted into something else, something far more dangerous. But he could not seem to help himself. He crawled onto the bed beside her, yielding to a compulsion he did not dare study too closely. For a while he lay next to her, soaking in the peace of it. The quiet sense of belonging that he now admitted had always existed, no matter what betrayals were piled on top of it. And still she slept. Even when he moved closer and pulled her into his chest. Even as he held her, stroking her hair and freeing the wild golden curls from the tight bun she'd kept them in. Even when his lips gently brushed the crown of her head. And even as he drifted off himself, holding her as if the only thing that had ever been between them was this. *** Lucy was deliciously, impossibly warm. She woke slowly, savoring the heat, and it took her a long time to realize where it was coming from. She was sprawled across Rafi's chest like a cat in a sunbeam. 577

Gasping, she reared back—to find Rafi wide-awake and watching her. "Let go of me." But her voice was the barest thread of sound. His fascinating mouth quirked. "I am not holding you," he pointed out, entirely too rationally. Very nearly amused. "You are lying on me." "I only lay down for a moment," she began, but then he shifted beneath her. The slide of his body against hers made her shiver, as a heat of a different kind washed over her, humming into something molten and incandescent. Nor was he immune. She could feel the evidence of his desire, hard between them. She could see the flare of passion in his dark gray gaze. It would be so much easier if she didn't want him, too. If she didn't love him. "I cannot divorce you," he said then, his hands moving to tangle in her hair. "I cannot let you leave. Qaderis keep their vows. They do not bow to the whims of modernity and merrily divorce." Lucy couldn't seem to catch her breath. She couldn't seem to pull away. She felt caught in his eyes, suspended. Her breasts were too full, pressed against the hard wall of his chest. "What do you know about vows?" she asked. "You keep yours in name only from as far away as possible, don't you?" "I am not far away now," he said quietly, his gaze intense. Searing into her. "With my body, I thee worship." His lips crooked. "If you'll let me." She shuddered as one of his hands traveled down her back, spreading fire down the length of her spine, making her yearn to move against him. With him. It had always been like this. He need only touch her, and she was his. She had followed him out of the nightclub, into his hotel room and then all the way across the planet to this tiny little country. She should hate him for it, for this power he wielded over her treasonous body, but she didn't. She couldn't. She loved him. She stared down at his beautiful face, so male and arrogant and uniquely Rafi, and she could not even manage to berate herself for that weakness as she had over these last months. He had treated her terribly, there was no denying it. The parts of her he'd hurt still ached with it, and she thought sometimes they always would. But that didn't change the man she knew was there, beneath all that, beyond what had happened between them. She still believed in that man. The honorable person who had vowed to protect her—and he had done so. Just not from himself. "Lucy…" The way he said her name, with the faintest touch of his Alakkulian accent and that fire in his eyes, still undid her. Just as it always had. She had lost so much and been so alone. She loved him. Tonight he was her husband. He would no doubt leave again as if he had never been, and she would return to England and reality—so what harm was there in treating this like all those dreams she'd had in all the lonely months she'd languished here, by herself? 578

She didn't want to think anymore. She didn't want to wonder and worry and rip herself to pieces trying to understand what had happened to this marriage, what had stolen this very connection away from them. Here, now, she just wanted to feel. No matter how much she might live to regret it. She bent her head and kissed him. The fire between them blazed white hot. He pulled her closer, angling his mouth for a deeper fit, and then rolled her over, his hands moving to learn her curves anew. And Lucy could do nothing but delight in it. In him. At last.

Chapter Seven The snow fell all through the night, and into the next day. It cocooned them, Lucy thought sometime the next morning, gazing out at the drifts of white. It softened the reality of their fractured marriage, let them concentrate instead on what they had at that moment. This connection. This fire. The insatiable wildness of their passion that nothing seemed to dim. She shut off her mind and pushed away all the darkness of the past months, choosing to bask in Rafi as she had so long ago on that trip to Paris. Through the day, they fed each other in the great four-poster bed. They tasted each other again and again. And they talked. About the world, about the small, inconsequential things that made up their lives. He was funny, intriguing. And so impossibly sensual. If she had not already been in love with him, Lucy knew, this little interlude would have sent her head over heels. But there was so much left unsaid, so much pain and heartbreak, that even a stolen day or two surrounded by the snow could not keep it all at bay. Perhaps it was her knowledge that this bliss could not—would not—last that made the idyll that much sweeter. It was Christmas Eve, though Lucy had not dared mention it, aware of Rafi's dislike of all things Christmas. That evening, they sat before the great fireplace that dominated one wall in the master suite, both of them exhausted in the most delicious way. She leaned back against his bare chest as he toyed with her curls, twining them around his fingers. I will always remember this instant, this feeling, she thought. No matter what happens. "I wish we could be like this forever," she said on a happy sigh, caught up in the joy of the moment—in the sense of rightness that moved through her. She regretted the words immediately. He stiffened behind her, then set her away from him. She closed her eyes as all the pain and hurt she'd been ignoring came rushing back, full force. 579

"I do, too," he said in a low, bitter voice. "But I am not the one who made this impossible." Her hands curled into fists, and she turned to look at him. His gray eyes were so troubled, his mouth so grim. And he still glared at her as if he had every reason to hate her. And did. It was too much. Everything she'd been through, everything she'd struggled to survive—all of it rolled through her, incinerating her, scalding her. "No. You did this, Rafi." She threw the words at him, letting her anger show, letting him see what he'd done to her. "You destroyed this marriage, not me!" "I'm not going to play your games," Rafi said roughly, but he was shaken by what he saw in her eyes. The condemnation. The deep, abiding pain, as if he'd wounded her. But how was that possible? She was the one who'd betrayed him…hadn't she? He should never have touched her again. He should have crawled through the snow to stay away from her. "Listen to me," she said in a low, serious voice. Her eyes locked on his. "I am only going to say it once. I was pregnant. I never lied about that—why would I? Did you think it was my life's ambition to marry a man I hardly knew? To move to the other side of the world to a place where I'd be scrutinized, judged and found wanting every time? But I did it because I loved you and I thought it was the right thing to do for our child." "Our child," he repeated, hearing the fury in his own voice, feeling it surge through him. "How dare you pretend—" "I lost the baby," she hissed at him, her brown eyes filling with tears. She jabbed a finger in the direction of the vast bathroom. "In that room. On that floor. It was horrible, and do you know what was worse, Rafi? Being told that you believed I'd made the whole thing up." "You said it yourself!" he snapped, his temper blazing as his mind reeled. But he remembered it vividly. "I was in Sydney. I'd had back-to-back meetings for weeks on end in Singapore, New Zealand, Australia. But I called you the second I could get away. I asked after your pregnancy and you said, as clear as day, 'There is no baby.' You admitted it." "I was grieving!" she protested. "There was no baby because I'd lost it!" The tears were moving down her cheeks now and she did nothing to check them. She reached for the blanket they'd kicked aside in their last round of passion, and Rafi noticed that her delicate hands were shaking. "Lucy—" he began, but she made a slashing gesture through the air, cutting him off. "You made it plain from the start that I was marrying far above my station," she said, each word like a bullet, each one slamming into him. "You made no secret of the fact that I was beneath you—that sleeping with me was all right for an illicit week in Paris, but should never have gone beyond that. That I should be grateful that you were so honorable, so good, that you would condescend to do the right thing by a trashy little nobody like me." 580

"I never said that," he bit out, as a deep shame moved through him. "Not any of it." "You didn't need to say it." Lucy gathered the blanket around her and rose to her feet, looking down at him as if she were some kind of goddess. "Everything you did made your position perfectly, painfully obvious." She waved her hand at the room around them, encompassing the gleaming lights in the ancient sconces on the walls, the historic tapestries. "You hid me away in your family's country house where I could gaze out at the capital city from afar but never embarrass you by setting foot near your exalted social circles. But I didn't care, because I was in love with you and I was having your baby." There was something in her voice that was making the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. He was all too afraid that it was the ring of truth. "Lucy," he said again. "Please…" But she ignored him. "You left me here," she continued in that same way, as if it cost her, as if speaking to him like this required her to be brave. The thought made something in him ache. "And I saw it as a perfect opportunity to get to know your world. To transform myself into the kind of wife you wouldn't have to hide away or be ashamed of." He remembered, suddenly, what she'd been wearing when he'd arrived—how elegant he'd thought her. How much of a change it had been from the louder, trendier clothes she'd worn before. "But then I lost the baby," she said, her voice shaking. "And I had to live through that, Rafi. Alone. And still you left me here, as if I was something undeserving of even the barest compassion." Her face crumpled for a moment, as if she might break down into sobs, but she controlled herself. "Lucy," he began again, but she shook her head, warding him off. "I don't care if the Qaderis don't do divorce," she said then, with a quiet dignity that shook him almost more than her earlier show of emotion. "I'm leaving you. Not because I don't love you—because I do, for my sins. But it doesn't matter. You may be descended from a hundred centuries of greatness, Rafi, but I deserve better than this. I deserve better than you." Rafi sat in silence, unmoving, for a long time after Lucy had left the room, more regal than any queen. He stared into the fire but he did not see the flames. He only saw the past, his tangled history with Lucy and all the conclusions he'd jumped to far too easily. That she'd been using him. That he had been enchanted by a beautiful woman, as any man could be. That she had set out to avail herself of his name and fortune. That the passion between them was not—could not be—real. That what he felt could not be real. All along, the people around him had whispered poison in his ears—and he had listened. Safir. The country elders. He had wanted to believe them, he realized now. When she had told him there was no baby he had jumped on it, had clung to the evidence that she was as false as all in his circle wanted him to believe she was. Because then he wouldn't have had to admit that he was weak. That he was afraid of the power she held over him. Of what she made him feel. 581

What a despicable piece of work he was, he thought then, an acid taste in his mouth. He remembered all the snide and nasty things he'd let Safir say about her, all the times he'd never stood up for her. What kind of man allowed such things? And then, unbidden, something else occurred to him. The repeated calls from the family doctor, which Safir had waved away, saying it could wait until Rafi returned home, all the while never encouraging him to do so. But what if it had been something else? Would Safir have told Rafi about something that would show Lucy in a better light? He knew the answer. But he had to confirm the suspicion that bloomed to life inside of him. He had to know the full extent of his own betrayal of Lucy, who had never done anything save love him. Far more than he deserved. Rafi moved across the room and picked up the sleek phone on the desk. Gruffly, not even apologizing to his housekeeper, he asked to be connected to the doctor, regardless of the late hour. The kindly old man had attended his own birth and had kept any number of Qaderi family secrets in his time. And he had never lied about anything. It was a brief, appalling conversation. "I'm so glad you called," the old man said, as if he had not noticed the time. "I've been trying to speak with you for months about that night. I wanted to assure you that I made every attempt to convince your wife to go to the hospital but she refused. She was too concerned about your reputation." He sighed. "So I made her as comfortable as I could and made sure there were no complications. Please, I do not want you to think that her care was substandard, or that I did not do my level best to convince her to go to the hospital. She simply would not go. I thought perhaps you could convince her, but then I could not reach you…." "I don't blame you for anything," Rafi said through a mouth that felt made of broken glass. And it was no more than the truth. He blamed only himself. "Sometimes these things happen," the doctor said, the wisdom and calm of years in his voice. "She has been healthy since, and I'm sure you will have another child, in time. This is but a hiccup. I have every faith, both medically and personally." He had never hated himself more, Rafi thought as he hung up the phone in a daze. He could only stand there, alone with the shame of what he'd done to her. Lucy was not lying. She never had been. Had he known that all along, on some level? Had he wanted to believe that he'd never had a child at all so that he would not have to deal with the crushing sense of loss? Was he that small, that cowardly, that he would sacrifice Lucy to prevent himself from feeling his own pain? But he knew that he was. That he had. Rafi sank down on the side of the great bed, buried his head in his hands and gave in, finally, to the grief that he'd staved off for three long months.

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Chapter Eight This time when Lucy woke it was to find herself in Rafi's arms. For a moment, she forgot. She simply breathed in the scent of him, winter and pine, and exulted in the heat of his strong arms around her. But then she exhaled and it all came rushing back. "Don't do this!" she hissed at him, tilting her head away to look at him. His dark brows were drawn over his gray eyes, and his mouth was in a flat line. "Just let me go, Rafi." "If that is what you want," he said in a low, gravelly voice, "I will. But there's something I want to show you first." She couldn't bear to meet his eyes—to let him see the effect his words had on her. It was one thing to announce she was leaving, to demand a divorce, to want those things. It was something else again to have him accept it. She felt something yawn open inside of her, black and lonely. Perhaps that was why it took several long moments for her to recognize the change in her surroundings after he'd settled her on the overstuffed chaise in the book-lined library. She schooled her features as best she could and when she looked up… It was Christmas. Lucy could not help herself—she gasped. A small, plump pine tree bristled in the corner, festooned with objects Lucy recognized—the tiny china figures from the display in the blue salon, the small ornamental picture frames that were usually scattered on the tables in the formal sitting room. It was as if someone had gone through the house and picked up whatever was small enough to be fastened to the branches and decorated the tree that way. Lucy's hands crept over her mouth as she took it in. She turned to stare at the man who had moved to kneel before her, his gray eyes serious. "What did you do?" she breathed, enchanted despite herself. "It's Christmas, isn't it?" His voice was gruff. "You hate Christmas," she pointed out, feeling lightheaded. Off balance. "You think it's—" "Let me tell you a story," he interrupted gently, running his hands over her legs, gazing up at her. "Isn't that how this goes? Is this how your mother used to do it?" Lucy was overcome by the swell of an emotion she was afraid might tip her right over. She could only nod, mutely. She could not seem to tear her eyes away from his. "I was up most of the night," he said in a low voice, his eyes intent on hers, though his were dark, agonized. "It was obvious to me that you were telling the truth last night. Then I spoke with the family doctor, who reiterated everything that you had said, what I should have accepted all along. That you lost our baby, and I abandoned you in your pain. I can never possibly make that up to you. I will spend my life regretting it, Lucy. I promise you."

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She could not help the way her eyes glazed over with hot, unshed tears, nor the way her throat seemed to clutch tight. She was not sure she would ever breathe again. "But as heinous as that was," he continued, his own voice uneven, "I had to look at what was behind it. To the grief that I didn't have the courage to face. And…and to acknowledge what an insufferable snob I'd become. How quick I was to use the circumstances of your birth against you—as if they were any more random than mine. As if either one of us had anything to do with it." Lucy sucked in a breath then. "You are a Qaderi, Rafi," she said. "Yes," he said sharply. "I am the head of my family. My cousin will be king one day, and I have every intention of being the power behind his throne. So why should I care what Alakkulian society thinks of my choice of bride? When have I ever allowed outside opinions to dictate my own?" "Never," she said, her voice catching. But she hadn't thought she was worthy of him, either. Was that why his dismissal had hurt so much? Because she'd believed his low opinion of her was accurate? "I let others poison me against you," he continued, "like a man far lesser, far weaker than I would like to believe I am would do." His mouth tightened. "Safir will never work for me again. The others who dared speak against you will regret it. This I promise you." His warm hands found hers and held them, and he shifted closer, gazing at her in a way she was afraid to believe. Surely she was dreaming. Because she'd dreamed this—or something very like this—a million times before. But he did not disappear when she blinked. "I never saw you coming," he whispered. "I looked up from the middle of my gray, dutiful life and there you were, Lucy. I had no idea how to handle it. I can't possibly imagine the misery I put you through. I can never make up for it. If you want to leave me, you have every right and reason. I won't fight you." Lucy could read the sincerity on his hard face, hear it in his voice. His strong hands clasped hers, but gently. She knew that if she pulled away, he would let her go immediately. There was a part of her that wanted to do just that. A part of her that wanted nothing more than to hurt him. To make him pay. But that part was growing smaller by the second. Because she loved him. Even after all he'd done, she loved him far more than she wanted his pain. Far more, even, than her own deep wounds. She had long believed that made her the worst kind of fool. But maybe, she thought now, just maybe love was bigger than foolishness, too. "And what," she asked, her voice the barest whisper, "if I don't want to leave you, after all?" Powerful emotion moved across his face then, making his beautiful eyes gleam silver. His hands tightened around hers. "Then I will tell you that I love you," he rasped out. "That I always have, from the first moment I met you. And I will never be ashamed of that again." She said his name and tasted salt, only then realizing that she was crying.

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"I have never had any use for love," he said urgently, hoarsely. "Marriage is supposed to be for political alliance. For power and greed. Love is for fairy tales." "And for us," she whispered. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. "For us, Rafi." When she moved to his mouth, he met her. Their kisses were hesitant at first, then sweeter, hotter, longer. Lucy felt the fire build within her again, shot through this time with the wild joy that he loved her. Rafi loves me. She knew that life with this man would never be easy, but as long as he loved her, they could make it work. Would make it work. And then there was no more thought, only sensation. Much later, they lay stretched out in front of the fire in the shade of the makeshift Christmas tree he'd put together just for her. Rafi looked down into her face and shuddered slightly at how close he'd come to losing her. "I don't know how you will ever forgive me," he said fiercely. "I will never forgive myself." Lucy smiled, her brown eyes shining with the love he did not deserve, the happiness on her lovely face humbling. "You will have to work at it, I think," she said, her voice light. She tangled her fingers in his hair, and drew him down to her. "Every day. It will be hard and difficult work, Rafi, but then, you are a very determined man. I have faith that someday, you will make it up to me in full." She was teasing, he knew, but he took her words with all the force of a blood oath. He met her gaze. "I will," he vowed. "Believe me, Lucy. I will." She searched his eyes for a moment, her own wide and gleaming, and then nodded. She smiled again. "Then kiss me," she whispered. "It's Christmas."

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Melting the M.D. By Tanya Michaels All Meg Nichols needed to prove herself as an event planner was for this weekend's society wedding in the Texas Hill Country to go smoothly. Then things started to go wrong. The maid of honor's tan turned a very unnatural shade of orange. The best man had a skiing accident and broke his leg. And his replacement was none other than her ex-boyfriend. Doctor Scott Creighton had somehow gotten even better-looking in the years since Meg had broken things off with him. But her career, her reputation, her chance to be a better person—everything—was riding on this wedding. Meg refused to let Scott melt her resolve to remain professional…no matter how high he turned up the heat.

Chapter One "Thank heavens you're here!" Lucy swung open the door to Meg Nichols's room at the bed-and-breakfast. "You'll fix everything." Until now, Meg had only heard statements like that while standing next to her sister, Brooke, who was the reliable problem-solver in the otherwise unpredictable Nichols family. But ever since Meg had become the godmother to her newborn niece, she'd vowed to become more responsible, more focused. After too many impulsive decisions and failed jobs, Lucy's wedding this weekend in the picturesque Texas Hill Country would help establish Meg as a career woman and prove herself as a wedding planner. Meg gave the bride-to-be a reassuring smile. "Do you want to talk in here or downstairs? Mrs. Hoffman is brewing tea." "I can't go down there! You just checked in, so you don't know how seriously Mrs. H. takes her duty to feed her guests—or how amazing her brownies are. At the rate I'm stress-eating, I won't be able to zip up my gown on Saturday. I wish I was built more like you." The two women were complete opposites. Tall, curvy Lucy had blue eyes and elegantly bobbed dark hair. Meg was short and slender with brown eyes and long, blond waves. "But you're stunning!" Meg sat on the edge of the queen-size bed while Lucy paced. "And Grant loves you exactly as you are." The brunette momentarily brightened, then scowled again. "Maybe Grant and I should have eloped." "My parents eloped." Within seventy-two hours of meeting each other. "They've regretted not having the ceremony with family and friends many times." That was true, Everett and Didi Nichols often argued about their elopement, but then, the passionate couple were always arguing about something. Except for when they were just as passionately reconciling. After growing up in such a tumultuous household, Meg had never been able to picture herself getting married. She'd been in love once, but she'd bolted when he started talking about spending the rest of their lives together.

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Lucy sighed. "I do want the wedding, just not the stress. My mother is driving me insane! I'm so unhinged that I yelled at Kyra." "You're kidding." In all the times Meg had seen Lucy with her maid of honor, the two women had gotten along perfectly. "I was just so appalled at what she'd done! Kyra went to a spray tan place so she'd have more 'color' for the wedding pictures." Lucy shuddered. "She is now a very unnatural shade of orange.…" "That bad?" "Don't look directly at her if you value your eyesight. I don't know why she was worried about being a little pale. We just had the coldest January Texas has seen in years. We're all pale! But at least she's here, which is more than I can say for the best man. He called from Colorado yesterday to say he couldn't make it." "Weather problems?" After the snow and ice that had hit several states this week, the extensive flight cancellations had been in the news. Meg was glad most of Lucy's guests only had to drive from Houston. "No, he was skiing and broke his leg showing off for a woman. I swear, he hasn't matured since he and Grant lived in the fraternity house together. Luckily Grant's cousin agreed to fill in as his best man," Lucy said. "The cousin got here this morning but he hadn't planned on wearing a tux, so we need someone to take him for a fitting. Grant and I have that couples' spa appointment, and—" "You go relax. I'll get the guy to his fitting." Lucy flashed a grateful smile. "Maybe this best man switch will turn out to be a blessing. Grant's cousin is much less likely to lose the rings or do something outrageous at the bachelor party. But the man's so somber! Not the kind of guy I pictured standing with us on the happiest day of our lives." A knock interrupted Lucy. "That should be them now." She opened the door and greeted her fiancé with a kiss. Then she moved aside to introduce the other man. "Meg, this is—" "Scott?" Meg's pulse raced, her heartbeat so loud it drowned out Lucy's voice. Dr. Scott Creighton was as devastatingly attractive as he'd always been, but there was a somberness in his eyes and face now, just as Lucy had described. When they'd first met three and a half years ago, Scott had been a playful hospital intern. Though he'd been all serious intensity the night he'd told her point-blank that he planned to marry her. And she'd run the next morning.

Chapter Two "You two know each other?" Lucy asked. "Y-yes." Meg bit her lip to keep from saying more. This weekend was critical to her future, and she needed to regain control of herself before she blurted something grossly unprofessional. "Or, we did. A few years ago." Scott leaned against the doorjamb, his hazel eyes unreadable. "You haven't changed a bit." 587

He certainly had. His burnished gold hair, just a couple of shades darker than hers, was cut a lot closer than it had been while they'd dated. And before, he'd always had a glint in his eye, a smile nearly boyish in its charm. Now he exuded raw masculinity. "Meg has agreed to help with your tux." Lucy scooped up her purse. "She'll drive you to the fitting." For a fraction of a second, Scott's eyes widened, but his voice remained even. "I don't want to impose. I can take a cab." The women joined the men in the hallway as Grant reminded his cousin, "You're not in the city. Taxis aren't exactly lined up outside the B and B." Meg found her voice. "The rental place is on my way—I have to run into town to see the florist." The reminder of her duties as wedding coordinator steadied her. She sounded competent again when she told Lucy, "You and Grant enjoy the spa. And I'll come up with something to occupy your mother later to keep her away from you. As for your orange maid of honor, text her a reminder to exfoliate and I'll see if Mrs. Hoffman can whip up some kind of lemon-juice solution." The bride-to-be exhaled. "I can't imagine my wedding day without you, Meg." "Funny." Scott lowered his voice as the happy couple descended the stairs toward the coatrack. "There was a time when I would've said the same thing." *** Scott sat rigidly in the passenger seat, reminding himself that he was a doctor. He had mastered clinical detachment. No way in hell would he give in to the maelstrom of emotions churning inside him. Meg cleared her throat. "About what you said on the staircase—" "Forget it. That was just the surprise talking." When Grant had said they were meeting Lucy "and Meg," Scott hadn't thought anything of it. Meg was a common enough name…and could there be a less likely wedding coordinator than Meg Nichols? The way he remembered it, the mere mention of marriage had sent her fleeing to the nearest exit. Or maybe it was just the idea of marriage to him. They'd met at an upscale bakery around the corner from the hospital. Meg had worked there as a pastry chef. When she'd dumped Scott—in a letter, for crying out loud—she'd almost cured his lifelong sweet tooth. To this day, he couldn't breathe in the scent of chocolate without missing her. Which annoyed the hell out of him. "So, uh, when did you get into town?" Meg asked, filling the strained silence. "Drove my parents in last night. I let them borrow my car today to tour a historical museum on the other side of the county." Otherwise, he'd have his own mode of transportation right now and wouldn't be dependent on the only woman who'd ever broken his heart. You're over it, he reminded himself. Clinical detachment. That's the ticket. He was determined not to let himself pine for someone who'd walked away without a backward glance.

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Chapter Three Meg parked in front of the shopping center where the tuxedo rental place was located. After their tense car ride, she'd never been happier to reach a destination, including the time her parents had decided on a spur-of-the-moment fourteen-hour road trip to the Grand Canyon. But she smiled at him and said, "This is it. Let's get you all James Bonded." Scott unfastened his seat belt. "So you're in the business of cummerbunds and seating arrangements now? I ran into your old neighbor Richie Carlisle a few months ago. He seemed to think you were training to be a police officer." "Private investigator." Had Richie volunteered the update, or had Scott specifically asked about her? "I only took a couple of classes out of curiosity." Prior to that, there'd been a brief stint as a salsa instructor. She'd lost that job when she'd socked a groping client in the shoulder. Her lack of a career up to this point wasn't surprising. The Nichols sisters had been raised to "follow their bliss." Brooke, the younger sibling, was in her own way the family rebel. She'd always been cautiously conservative—perhaps too cautious. But who was Meg to criticize? She'd reached her mid-thirties with nothing to show for her life but a patchwork quilt of short-lived jobs and relationships. Her sister, on the other hand, was now happily married and the mother of a beautiful baby. Meg had never expected her sister to ask her to be her niece's godmother. "Please say you will, Meg. If anything were to happen to Jake and me… " Meg, potentially responsible for a baby? It had caused her to take a long, hard look at herself and make some changes. Scott opened the door to the mall's main entrance. As she passed him, she tried not to notice the heat from his body or the familiar smell of his soap. She took a steadying breath. "You said you ran into Richie. Does that mean you're still in Houston?" "More or less. I work in a pediatric practice in one of the communities outside the city." "Exactly as you planned," she said, glad for his success. "Not 'exactly.'" His voice was gruff. "I'd pictured my life a little differently." Did he mean her and the future he'd wanted them to have? Meg's chest tightened. They'd hit it off immediately, and their resulting affair had burned hot and quick. But their goals had ultimately been too different—or they would have been, if she'd had any clear goals. Well, she did now. At the top of that list was making this weekend magical for Lucy while at the same time proving herself to be a competent wedding planner to the Houston socialites in attendance. Which meant she couldn't allow herself to be distracted by Scott. Meg reminded herself that Lucy had chosen her for good reason. Lucy came from a very wealthy family and had feared that if she had the wedding at home, her mom would have turned it into a three-ring circus of VIPs. Lucy had wanted a more intimate affair in the Hill Country, where Grant had proposed during

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their vacation last year. They were getting married on the first Saturday of February so that they would be in Paris—and past their jet lag—by Valentine's Day. Très romantic. Meg turned the corner with a sigh. "Everything all right?" Scott asked. "I just think Lucy and Grant are very lucky. I—" She broke off when the phone in her pants pocket began buzzing. "Better grab this. It's from the church. Meg Nichols speaking." She frowned as the man on the other end launched into a string of apologies and garbled explanation. She was so startled by the news that it took her brain a moment to translate what she was hearing. "Wait! What do you mean they can't have the wedding at the church?"

Chapter Four Scott watched in alarm as Meg went sheet-white. He hadn't seen a woman look so close to fainting since his E.R. days when a young mother had brought in a five-year-old with a head wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. Holding Meg's elbow, he steered her toward a nearby bench. She'd disconnected the phone call, her expression stricken. "I'm going out on a limb here—that wasn't good news?" He tried for a joking tone, but it sounded flat. He remembered laughing all the time with Meg. She'd always been able to find the amusing and absurd in any situation, a welcome change from his occasionally grim shifts at the hospital. Now, he couldn't recall the last time he'd really laughed. When had joking around with other people started to feel forced and unnatural? With kids, he could still tap into just enough silliness to calm their fears, but that was more bedside manner than an indication of who he really was. "The church cancelled," Meg said woodenly. "I can't believe this! The weather finally warmed up a couple of degrees and now the pipes burst?" "Sometimes the worst damage comes when frozen pipes start to thaw," he told her. "Places around here, where freezes are rare, aren't as prepared as facilities up north." She blinked. "I don't mean to sound insensitive about the damage to the church and the cleanup they're facing, but Lucy's wedding is the day after tomorrow! What am I going to do? She's already a nervous wreck. How am I supposed to tell her this on top of everything else?" Scott sat next to her. In another lifetime, he would have put his arm around her, pulled her into a comforting embrace. The temptation was there, but…getting that close to Meg, letting her past the wall of cool reserve that protected him? It would be like those frozen pipes that had started to thaw and then crack: disaster. She'd hurt him once. Only a fool would risk becoming emotionally vulnerable to her again. "You're really taking this hard," he observed, at a loss for what to say. "It's my job!" "Your latest job."

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Color came back to her cheeks as she glared at him, brown eyes flashing. "What's that supposed to mean?" "You do have a history of bailing when things get difficult, Meg." The anger that washed through him caught him off guard. He hadn't planned to get personal. But maybe he needed this closure, since the way she'd left him—and subsequently dodged his calls—hadn't allowed him to properly say goodbye. She'd even quit the bakery, effectively disappearing from his life. "Are you sure you're going to stick around and help Lucy through this? Wouldn't it be easier just to wash your hands of the whole mess and leave her a note wishing her well?" "I would never do that!" His gaze clashed with hers, challenging. Meg ducked her head, blushing with guilt even as she insisted, "Lucy can count on me." "Then you were right earlier. She is lucky." He got to his feet. "A lot luckier than I was."

Chapter Five By the time Meg caught up to Scott's long-legged stride, he was inside the tux shop, explaining to a store employee why a change in the rental order was necessary. Meg took a seat in the waiting area and thumbed through a catalogue. But the glossy photos of grinning grooms and wedding guests only highlighted her problems. Like Lucy—and her lack of a church for the ceremony! Meg had been so startled by the pain and anger in Scott's gaze that she'd almost forgotten about her client. She'd rarely seen him angry. He'd remained tolerant of patients even when they disregarded his sound medical advice and further injured themselves. He'd even seemed understanding when he'd first told Meg he loved her and she couldn't quite bring herself to return the sentiment. "No pressure," he'd told her. "I just wanted you to know how I felt." Yet once she had been able to admit that she did love him, he'd immediately started talking about marriage. How was that "no pressure"? In retrospect, his pattern was clear. From coaxing her into staying the night after they'd made love, to seemingly casual comments that she would make a great mom someday, he'd always been subtly pushing her toward the future he wanted. Perpetually unstable Meg, a wife and mother? Not likely. She would have been a bitter disappointment to him. She glared down at the tuxedo brochure, where a newly married couple appeared inanely giddy with joy. "Stop looking so smug," she grumbled. "You don't know everything." Not everyone rode the honeymoon limo into the fairy-tale sunset. But if she had anything to say about it, Lucy and Grant sure as heck would! Meg dropped the annoying catalogue and pulled out her cell phone. She dialed Bertha Hoffman, their bed-and-breakfast owner who'd grown up in this area. Why not brainstorm possible solutions before telling the bride-to-be that there was a problem? 591

When Bertha heard about the flooding at the church, she clucked her tongue and fretted that her own B and B was too small, but she promised to make inquiries. Meg was about to say goodbye when she was interrupted. "Ahem." Glancing up, Meg swallowed hard at the sight of Scott in a tuxedo. "Uh… Mrs. H? We'll talk more tonight." She ended the call abruptly. "You didn't have to hang up," Scott said, shrugging his shoulders self-consciously. "I just wanted to get your opinion. Will this work?" Her mouth had gone completely dry. "You look… Yeah." He shifted his weight from side to side. "Seems like it fits okay, but I can't tell if I can move in it. Come here." "Excuse me?" "Please," he added. "Humor me." She stood, not sure what to expect. Scott took her hand in his and put his other arm around her waist. Her heartbeat doubled. "Wh-what are you doing?" "There will be dancing at the reception, right?" He shuffled his feet to music only he could hear. Her traitorous body melted against him, instinctively following his rhythm. "Who knows? At the rate we're going, the DJ's going to run off with the florist and there won't be music or flower arrangements!" For a moment, her stress caught up with her and she rested her head against Scott's shoulder. His body stiffened and she realized what she'd done. She had no right to nestle deeper into his embrace, but it had been so automatic. Muscle memory, she told herself. She tried to back away, unable to meet his eyes. "Sorry. I shouldn't have done that." He tipped her chin up with his finger. "I didn't mind." Their gazes collided, and Meg froze. The only thought that would form was, Is he going to kiss me? And if he did…would she let him?

Chapter Six "Sir?" One moment, Meg felt as if she and Scott were completely alone, isolated in their own private bubble from a nebulous future and the mistakes of the past. But it only took a word from the store clerk to pop that bubble. She stepped away from Scott so quickly she almost tripped.

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He watched her with remorse in his hazel eyes. Was he regretting the brief connection they'd shared…or regretting that it had been interrupted? He finally redirected his gaze to the employee. "This tux is perfect, thanks. I'll take it. I should go change." Change. Meg clung to the word like a lifeline. She was trying to change, and Lucy's wedding was her opportunity to prove it. The old Meg was the kind of person to act on emotions, like kissing an old boyfriend. The old Meg would have gone on to have an ill-advised weekend fling with said former boyfriend, heedless of the consequences. But the new Meg would stay on task. She would solve the dilemma of where to relocate the wedding, and she would be a consummate professional. Especially with Scott. *** As Scott changed back into his clothes, he realized that his hands were shaking. Meg Nichols had that effect—she could shake a man's entire world. Earlier, his anger had helped protect him from his own feelings. But when she'd leaned against him with so much trust, as if she needed him, it had been impossible to stay angry. And it was impossible to ignore the truth. He still had feelings for Meg. Although he'd dated some in the years since they'd broken up, he'd never met anyone who made him feel a fraction of what she did. The crazy thing was, he was convinced she'd loved him just as much. So why had she run away from what they'd shared? Her note had said they were incompatible, that she wasn't cut out for "life with a doctor." Had that been her way of saying he was too stuffy for someone with her free spirit? She'd said she wasn't good enough for him, but that was so ridiculous that he suspected it was a platitude meant to soften the blow. Like, it's not you, it's me. Obviously Meg had a lot on her mind this weekend, and Scott didn't want to do anything to sabotage his cousin's wedding. But if she gave any sign of regretting her decision, of missing him, shouldn't he seize the opportunity for a second chance? *** After the tuxedo shop, Meg stopped at the florist, where everything seemed on track for the bouquets, boutonnieres and other decorative arrangements. Thank heavens. Now Meg just had to find a venue for the wedding so those arrangements could be displayed. As she returned to the car where Scott was waiting, Meg told herself that in forty-eight hours, Lucy and Grant would be married and all the obstacles they'd had to overcome would become colorful anecdotes Meg could tell her next clients. And in forty-eight hours, Scott will be gone from your life. Again. She frowned, not sure how she felt about that. Scott studied her expression as she approached, and raised his eyebrow. "Problem with the flowers?" "No, the flowers will be lovely." The flowers, in fact, might be the only thing that had gone right today. "Oh. You looked upset."

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She pressed a hand to her right eyelid. When had she developed an eye twitch? "Of course I'm upset. I have to tell the bride she has no church for her wedding!" "So this is professional stress, not personal?" She cast him a sidelong glance. "You mean, am I upset by your presence?" "Can't be easy to do your job with an ex-boyfriend underfoot," he said sympathetically. The kindness in his tone was piercing. What had happened to his anger? That was a straightforward emotion, and one she knew she'd brought on herself. But how should she respond to this empathy? She struggled for neutral civility. "We're both reasonable adults. If we're over one another, we should survive this weekend just fine." "I suppose," he agreed. "If we're over each other."

Chapter Seven Breaking the news to the bride was every bit as awful as Meg had feared. Upon hearing that the church had cancelled due to broken pipes and flooding, Lucy burst into tears. Meg bit her bottom lip, feeling guilty that she'd just undone hundreds of dollars of spa-day relaxation. Meg had figured Lucy would need the extra moral support, so she'd asked Grant, Mrs. H and Kyra to join them in Lucy's upstairs suite. The maid of honor was still orange but claimed that the shade looked less radioactive than it had that morning. Meg was so desperate for good news that she chose to believe the young woman. "Mrs. Hoffman and I have already started making phone calls!" Meg rushed on as Grant hugged his fiancée. "She has two friends who've offered to help." Mrs. Hoffman nodded eagerly. "Wanda Keller said you could use her place, although I should warn you, her bed-and-breakfast has a 'haunted' theme. She's got lots of framed ghost stories hanging on the wall and one room decorated like a bat cave. There's—" "Let's tell Lucy about option number two," Meg interjected. "Clare Theo runs a lovely bed-and-breakfast, but it's empty right now because she's completing some renovations. She's supposed to have her grand reopening next week. But if we round up some ablebodied volunteers to help with the finishing touches, you could have an absolutely beautiful wedding there this weekend." "And the minister promised to come and perform the ceremony anywhere in the Hill Country," Meg added. "He feels awful about what happened." Lucy sniffled. "Wait until my mother hears about this under-construction B and B! She's done nothing but scold that we should have had a huge wedding in Houston, where more of her important friends could have attended."

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"Your wedding will be perfect," Meg vowed. "Her friends who did make the guest list will have nothing to complain about. They'll go home and brag about being part of your big day." At least, Meg sure hoped they would. She needed them to tell everyone in Houston what a fabulous event planner she was. Mrs. Hoffman stood. "I have a pot of chili on the stove—warm and fortifying! Let's eat some dinner, then you can go to Clare's and see what needs to be done." "Excellent plan," Meg said. At Lucy's shaky nod of agreement, Meg followed the B and B owner out of the room to thank her again for her help. They were headed down the staircase when Meg drew up short. She had thought there wasn't anyone she wanted to see less than Scott. But she'd forgotten about his parents. The Creightons were on their way up, and Scott's mother halted midstep when she spotted Meg. Mrs. Creighton had never liked Meg, and had insinuated more than once that if Meg really cared about Scott and wanted him to live up to his vast potential, she'd let him go. Judging from the hostility rolling off the woman like a tidal wave, Meg's dutifully breaking up with Scott had done nothing to endear her to Mrs. Creighton.

Chapter Eight Mr. Creighton broke the silence. "Meg, dear. We were surprised to learn you're the event planner for our nephew's wedding!" His smile was bemused but not unkind. His wife sniffed. "Quite surprised. I understand the bride's family could have afforded anyone." It was because the bride's family had tried to take over the whole event that Lucy had gone looking for someone relatively new, someone who'd never worked in her mother's social sphere. "Well, I'm grateful Lucy picked me. And I have work I should be doing, so, if you'll excuse me…" Mrs. Hoffman waited until the two of them were safely alone in the kitchen before asking, "Who were those two?" She lifted the lid on the chili pot and stirred the contents. The mouthwatering aroma of cumin and beef and jalapeños wafted through the kitchen. "No offense, but I don't think that woman is a fan of yours." "They're the best man's parents," Meg said. "I used to date him." "So their dislike is misplaced loyalty, taking his side after the breakup?" "Mr. Creighton is too sweet to dislike anyone. But his wife hated me even when Scott and I were together. I wasn't good enough." "Pshaw! You're lovely and hardworking. Her son should be so lucky." "Thanks, but I see her point. Scott's a doctor. I'm a…flake." "I realize I only met you today, but do you know how anxious Lucy was for you to arrive?" Mrs. Hoffman set her spoon down. "You're obviously her go-to person, the one she trusts to pull off the most important day of her life without a hitch. From what I've seen, you've been rising to the occasion."

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What about temporarily forgetting the bride existed and almost making out with the best man during his tuxedo fitting? "I appreciate that, Mrs. H. And I pray you're right about Lucy's big day coming off without a hitch." *** After dinner, Meg drove to Clare Theo's inn along with Kyra, who had exfoliated down to an unusual but no longer appalling apricot glow. Grant and Lucy were explaining the situation to their parents and would follow shortly. Meg parked her car, her voice hopeful as she surveyed the beautiful wraparound porch. "Looks great from the outside." The two women made their way up the stairs. With the B and B in the middle of redecorating, there were no window treatments to block the view of the three extremely attractive men working inside. Kyra sucked in a breath. "Pack my bags. I'm movin' to the Hill Country." Grinning, Meg knocked on the door. The man who answered had jet-black hair and noticeable muscles beneath his police department sweatshirt. "One of you the wedding coordinator?" He shook their hands. "I'm Ben Torres. My family owns the restaurant where Lucy and Grant are having their rehearsal dinner tomorrow." Meg introduced herself and Kyra. "We can't thank you enough for helping make this wedding possible." He shrugged. "People around here take care of each other. Sam, for instance." He jerked his thumb to a man in a cowboy hat who was hanging shelves in the corner. "First met him when he helped us contain a wildfire a couple of years ago. And that's Zane Winchester, a bona fide Texas Ranger." He pointed to a broad-shouldered man with hair almost as dark as Ben's. "Mrs. Theo's in the kitchen." Ben's commentary was interrupted by a knock. Anticipating that it was Grant and Lucy, Meg automatically reached for the door. On his way to do the same, Ben almost collided into her, and when the door swung open she was practically in the man's arms. "Scott!" Ben stepped away, apologizing, but all Meg could do was stare at Scott. It was embarrassing that her first instinct was to smooth down her hair and wish she'd applied lipstick after dinner. "I wasn't expecting you." "Why not? I thought this was an all-hands-on-deck situation." He glanced over her shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he skewered Ben with a look. "But maybe I misunderstood. Maybe you don't need me."

Chapter Nine "Of course I need you." Meg grabbed his arm, not wanting to be the reason they lost a volunteer. "I—I mean, the wedding needs you. Lucy and Grant. Here, talk to the guy in charge. Scott, Ben Torres." Ben stepped forward with a welcoming nod. "We've got some touch-up painting to do on the trim work, some shelving to secure, some wallpaper to finish, and some light and plumbing fixtures to change. What's your area of expertise?"

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"I patch up more six-year-olds than I do houses," Scott admitted. "Put me wherever I'll do the least damage if I make a mistake." Minutes later, Lucy and Grant arrived. Ben assigned jobs with military precision, and everyone got to work. Meg was caught off guard by the warm feeling of camaraderie and how much it meant to her to be surrounded by people with a common goal. As if, until now, she'd been lonely. But that couldn't be right. Meg was often described as the life of the party. She had a ton of friends. But maybe she wasn't as close to them as she'd believed. How could I be? She'd never let herself commit fully to anything. Well, she was committed to this wedding. If she could do this right, maybe her self-improvement would eventually spill over to her personal life, too. Mrs. Theo went from room to room, consulting with the volunteers on how everything should look. She also kept them supplied with glasses of water and freshly brewed coffee. Ben's sister, Chef Grace Torres, showed up at midnight with a tray of enchiladas and declared a snack break. "This doesn't count as stress-eating," Meg told Lucy. "You've burned a ton of calories in the last couple of hours. Besides, how could anyone resist food that smells so delicious?" As everyone gathered with plates in hand, Meg realized Scott was missing. When she mentioned that to Grant, the groom said Scott had been working upstairs. "Wonder if he even realizes there's food down here," Grant mused. "Would you mind letting him know? I'm going to try to coax Lucy out of here and back to the B and B, so she's not dead on her feet tomorrow." "No problem," Meg said. She was a professional who had her past under control. To prove she wasn't daunted by the thought of talking to Scott, she took the steps two at a time. Compared to the clatter of forks and the buzz of voices on the main floor, the upstairs was almost disconcertingly quiet. She heard muffled sounds at the back of the house and turned the corner into the last bedroom. Scott stood in the tiled entryway of the guest bathroom, shrugging out of his shirt. Meg's eyes dipped over the muscles of his back. He'd always enjoyed physical pursuits—basketball, biking…other recreational activities. Her body heated at the memories, and a squeak escaped her. It was supposed to have been a word, something articulate and possibly even witty, but her brain wasn't cooperating. He spun around, clearly surprised to see her there. "You're not wearing a shirt," she blurted. "I was helping Sam with the sink, and, uh…" Sheepishly, he held up the shirt, which she now realized was wet. "We had a minor problem, but Sam's already fixed it. He went to his truck because he thought he might have something dry I could borrow." She should say something, tell him about the food downstairs. But her only coherent thought was, How does he keep his abs that tight working in a pediatric practice?

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"Meg?" He stepped closer. "You okay?" Get a grip, woman. She'd seen him undressed—heck, she herself had undressed him—dozens of times. "This is silly." "What? My incompetence with pipes?" "No, me. I'm feeling…awkward. Which is ridiculous, considering. If you walked into a room and saw me without a shirt, it probably wouldn't even affect you. Right?" For a second, he didn't react. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. "Not affect me? Interesting hypothesis." A slow, sexy grin broke over his face as he stepped closer. "The next step in the scientific method would be to test your theory."

Chapter Ten Meg scuttled backward. "You're not seriously suggesting I remove my shirt?" "If I was, it would only be in the interest of science," he said solemnly. But his eyes glinted with such mischief that Meg had to laugh. This was the Scott she'd first met, the incorrigible flirt, the one who'd always charmed her into giving just a little more than she'd intended—from attending a medical benefit where she hadn't fit in, to agreeing to meet his parents. "I miss laughing with you," he told her. His expression turned unexpectedly wistful. "You had a way of making even the longest, most grueling day fun." "That's me," she said bitterly. "Life of the party." The kind of person no one could take seriously. "Hey, it was a compliment. Why do you look ticked off?" "It's nothing you'd understand, Dr. Creighton. Look, I just came up to tell you there's food downstairs. We need the volunteers to keep up their strength." She turned to go, but Scott moved faster than she did. "Wait." He cupped a hand over her shoulder. "I have something I want to get off my chest." She resisted making a lame joke about how his chest was already pretty bare. "I was furious when you left," he said. "Hurt, betrayed. You didn't even have the guts to tell me to my face, and I deserved better than that." He had a point, but whenever Meg had tried to explain to him that she was a train wreck, he'd chosen to take it as teasing, making light of the situation. Besides, it had taken all of her courage just to leave that note, to set him back on his carefully planned path. She'd been afraid that if she tried to say goodbye in person, he'd cajole her into staying. One of them had to be sensible about the future! Ironic that it had been her.

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"What I didn't realize until I saw you today," he continued, "is that I haven't felt like myself in a long time. It's like the sun got a lot dimmer in my world when you left, and somewhere deep down I've been blaming you for that. With you, life was interesting and exciting." She jerked away from him. "I'm not responsible for your happiness, Scott. And I'm not here to entertain you!" "I didn't mean it like that." Unplanned words tumbled out of her. "You used to talk about how different I was than the doctors and nurses you spent so many hours with, how you never knew what I would say or do next. Face it, I wasn't really wife material for you, I was a vacation from reality. Other people saw that very clearly." From the doorway of the bedroom, Sam Travis cleared his throat. "Don't mean to interrupt, folks, but I've got that shirt from my truck." Meg's cheeks heated as she wondered how much the handsome cowboy had overheard. "You're not interrupting. I was just headed back down. You guys should join us before all the enchiladas are gone." "Grace's enchiladas?" Sam's face brightened. He wadded up the shirt and tossed it in an arc over Meg's head. "See y'all downstairs." Before Meg could follow, Scott asked from behind her, "What people?" She shot him a quizzical look. "I don't understand the question." "You said 'other people' didn't think you were right for me. Which people?" "Besides your mother? Well, there was—" "Mom and Dad loved you," he argued, seeming genuinely confused. "Sure, she told me after the breakup that I was better off without you, but what else could she say? 'Son, she was the best thing to ever happen to you, sucks that she didn't stick around'?" Meg bit her lip. Should she enlighten him on the types of snide comments his mother used to make whenever he was out of the room? And did he actually believe Meg was one of the best things to happen in his life? "You…should put your shirt on. I'll go save you a plate." He shook his head, his tone bleak. "What you really mean is that you're bailing. Again."

Chapter Eleven Scott awoke Friday morning bleary-eyed and sore, nostalgic for younger years when he could cram for the MCAT until 3:00 a.m. and still be alert the next day. He hadn't returned to his room at the B and B until nearly two o'clock in the morning. After his tense exchange with Meg last night, he'd wanted to work off some aggression. Seeing Ben Torres joking with her and winking at her might also have added to Scott's testosterone-fueled second wind. Was Scott crazy to think that this weekend might give him and Meg a second chance? He didn't even know how to try. His usual M.O. had already led to disaster once.

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Meg had warned him that she couldn't be tied down, but Scott's experiences in life had led him to believe that if he applied himself enough, anything was possible. Guess what, genius? You were wrong. Perseverance may have helped him become valedictorian and earn his medical degree, but it had failed him with Meg. While they were dating, he'd tried so hard to show her that they belonged together. And she'd run the other way. Did she really not see how good they were together? After a hot shower that didn't quite succeed in making him feel human again, he staggered downstairs in search of caffeine. What he found was his mother. Angelica Creighton glanced up from a sofa where she was studying brochures with his father and aunt. "Goodness!" Angelica looked him up and down, her features puckered into an expression of vague maternal disapproval. He felt like a six-year-old who'd misbuttoned his shirt and had his pants on backward. "Are you just now waking up, dear?" "Late night," he muttered. "Mmm. Perhaps you ought to skip the bachelor party tonight and turn in right after the rehearsal dinner. We wouldn't want you peaked for the big day." Seeing his mother, his mind wasn't on tomorrow's ceremony. It was stuck on Meg's accusations. "Mother, could I speak with you alone?" He flashed an apologetic smile at his father and aunt. "It won't take long." Angelica followed him into the empty kitchen. Any leftovers from breakfast had long since been packed away, but a pot of coffee sat on the warmer. Bless you, Mrs. H. As he poured, his mother began chattering behind him. "I can only give you a minute. So far, this wedding has been one disaster after another, and Grant's mom is simply beside herself. I'm doing what I can to calm her, of course, but the truth is, Meg is in over her head. Why she took on a wedding of this caliber—" "Because it's her job," he snapped. "And none of the so-called 'disasters' have been her fault." "I didn't say they were." Angelica regarded him warily. "But you were quick to leap to her defense. Please don't tell me she's gotten under your skin again. It was bad enough the first time, but I expect better from you now that you're a few years older and—" "Bad enough the first time?" he echoed disbelievingly. "Honey, if you hadn't been so infatuated, you would have seen immediately that she was wrong for you. She was always unpredictable and unpolished. Did she even finish a degree?" As if a piece of paper determined the worth of a person? "Good Lord, she was right about you." Had he missed his mother's unkindness to Meg because he was just that oblivious, or because he hadn't wanted to see it? "You didn't like her." Angelica waved a dismissive hand. "I'm sure she has fine qualities. But no one with half a brain could spend time with that woman and think she's cut out to be a doctor's wife."

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"Actually, Mother, that's exactly what I thought." And, he realized, he still believed that. But could he get Meg to listen to him and not to other people's criticism…or her own self-doubts?

Chapter Twelve After his mother stalked out of the room in a huff, Scott stood alone with his coffee and his jumbled thoughts. Beneath his anger was an odd sense of relief. It eased the sting some to know Meg might have had outside motivation to end their relationship and hadn't just grown bored with him, as a part of him had always feared she would. He'd always known he wasn't the colorful, spontaneous one in the relationship. There had been times when he'd wondered if he would be too dull for her in the long run, but she'd brought out a side of him no one else ever had. He'd liked himself a little more when he was with her. But while he'd been feeling better about himself, his mom and possibly others had been making Meg feel unworthy. Scott had been absently aware that his colleague Harding Gray had been a condescending jerk to Meg—Harding had been a condescending jerk to everyone—but he'd somehow missed that his own mother was treating her shabbily. I should talk to Meg, apologize on Mother's behalf. It was a completely legitimate excuse to go and find her. And he discovered that the thought of being with Meg perked him up far more than the excellent coffee had. *** Meg was on her way down to the kitchen to mix up more lemon-juice solution for Kyra when she heard jaunty whistling from the landing below her. Scott? She scowled. Did he have to sound so damnably energetic and happy? After their hard work last night and their heated words, she'd woken this morning feeling as though she'd been flattened by a cattle stampede. "Meg!" He rounded the corner on the section of stairs below her, grinning broadly at the sight of her. "I was just coming to find you." She resisted the urge to look behind her to see if he was talking to someone else. Considering how they'd parted ways the night before, this was the last reaction she would have expected. "You were? Why?" He loped up the remaining steps that separated them. "Could we speak privately? I'd rather not have my parents or the bride and groom trip over us." "All right." She supposed the lemon-juice mixture could wait. Kyra had been neon orange for a couple of days; another ten minutes wouldn't hurt. "Where did you have in mind?" "Here." He grabbed her hand and tugged lightly, leading her up the steps she'd just come down and pulling a room key from the pocket of his jeans. She obligingly followed him inside. It wasn't until he shut the door that she questioned the wisdom of her choice. In the twenty-four hours since she'd arrived in Fredericksburg, she'd nearly kissed Scott in a public shopping mall and he'd playfully dared her to remove her shirt in a houseful of hardworking wouldbe chaperones. God only knew what kind of trouble she could get into alone with him in his bedroom. 601

Chapter Thirteen Meg casually strolled to the window, hoping she looked interested in the landscape and not like a coward who needed to keep ten feet between them at all times. Scott wasted no time getting to the point. "Thanks for giving me a minute—I know you have a wedding to put on. But I needed to say I'm sorry about my mother and the way she treated you when we were together. I should have been more attuned to what you were going through. I should have had your back." She blinked. "I can't believe you're apologizing. I'm the one who left, remember?" He really was too good to be true…a trait that was as intimidating now as it had been during their relationship. When you were prone to locking yourself out of the car or putting your foot in your mouth at hospital functions, it was daunting to be with someone who never made mistakes. "I'm the bad guy." "Maybe if I'd been more supportive—" "No, Scott." She crossed to him, unable to let him take the blame for her character flaws. "Don't secondguess yourself. I doubt anything you could have done would have changed the outcome." He stared at her intently, as if she were a mystery he needed to diagnose. "Can you help me understand why? We loved each other. We were happy!" "I…" She started to agree that she had loved him, but she froze. The words had never been easy for her to say. After a moment, he chuckled wryly. "I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you. It just struck me as funny, how nervous you look. You, the woman who's been skydiving! In so many ways, you're amazingly fearless. It's just me, Meg. I'm not scary." "No, you're wonderful." She felt like crying. "You always were. But sometimes you remind me of the ocean. My parents took us to the coast when I was a kid and one time I swam out too far. I'd never dealt with a strong current or waves like that before. I tried to breathe at the wrong time and a wave broke over me. I panicked and ended up swallowing even more water and going under. Thank God for vigilant lifeguards." Scott went very still. "Are you trying to say I was drowning you?" Being with him had been a little like fighting the surf. Every time she'd tried to adjust to the level of intensity in their relationship, he'd upped the stakes. She'd never been able to catch her breath. "Not exactly. You definitely swept me out past my comfort zone, though. I'd never been with anyone I cared so much about. And just like in the ocean that day, I panicked. I'm trying to make changes in my life now, but for the person I was then, it was intimidating as hell that you knew exactly what you wanted. You had this crystal clear vision of the future—with me in it—but I couldn't make myself see it." She hadn't even realized how close they were standing until he took her into his arms. "I freaked out," she confided, "and ended up hurting you. I'm so sorry for how I left." His voice was low. "And if you had the choice to make again…?"

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Chapter Fourteen His unfinished question hung in the air between them. "I don't know," Meg admitted. A rational, intelligent woman would remove herself from his arms, and put much-needed distance between them so she could think more clearly. But Meg nestled closer, loving the way he smelled and seeking comfort after an incredibly stressful couple of days. His arms tightened around her. "You always believed in us," she murmured. "That should have bolstered my confidence." Maybe it would have, if she'd been used to others believing in her. "But sometimes it was a little overwhelming. I wasn't sure I could be the person you thought I was." He chuckled again, but this time it was a ragged, self-deprecating sound. "After you left, I drove myself crazy wondering how I could have tried any harder to make it work. I guess the problem was that I was trying too hard. I scared you away." Hating the blame in his voice, she glanced up to reassure him. "We both made mistakes. But we shouldn't let the past continue to eat at us. What we shared has been over for a long time." "Has it?" His gaze arrested hers, as intense and irresistible as ever. "Because what I'm feeling is very current." He leaned in, and she knew with absolute certainty that he was about to kiss her, but she had too many conflicting reactions to decide what to do. On some level, they both recognized that when his lips met hers, she'd kiss him back. Even after all the time they'd been apart, the chemistry between them was potent. But Scott didn't take the kiss. He paused, a breath away from her, and the man who had always pursued and persuaded let her make the first move. Tenderness bloomed inside of her, adding courage to her rising desire. She rose up on her tiptoes and threaded her fingers through his hair. Their mouths collided in a frantic reunion. Impulse control was not a value that had ever been stressed in the Nichols household. As a result, Meg had stolen her first kiss young. She'd kissed a lot of guys in her life, but it had always been indescribably different with Scott. Maybe that was one of the reasons being with him had been a little unnerving. But what she felt now was sheer exhilaration. She'd lived a pretty chaste life for the past year, and now she realized she'd been subconsciously rejecting other men because they weren't him. They were wrong for her. Kissing Scott was so sweetly right that it made her eyes sting with emotion. She traced his lips with her tongue, eliciting a half groan of response from him. His fingers tightened on the nape of her neck, and he titled her head back to deepen the kiss. The sensations were so powerful they knocked her off balance. Literally. As she started to stumble, Scott angled them so they fell together—tumbling onto the bed behind them.

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Chapter Fifteen Was there anything more delicious than the weight of Scott's body against hers and the bright anticipation building between them? She wouldn't have thought it possible, but being in his arms was even better than she remembered. When he moved his mouth away from hers, she felt a sharp sense of loss, but then he began kissing the sensitive side of her neck instead. Liquid heat flowed through her veins. She even…heard bells? Was she imagining things? "Wait, Scott. I— Mmm, oh, that feels good. Do you…" She trailed off, temporarily losing her train of thought. But then the chiming she'd heard was replaced by the decisive clang that meant someone had just left a voice mail on her cell phone. One clear, articulate thought made its way through the kaleidoscope of sensations she was experiencing: someone had tried to call her just now and she had been too preoccupied to answer. Oh, Lord, I've done it again. Self-disgust overrode all the warm, pleasant desire she'd been experiencing. Belatedly recalling that she had a job to do, she shoved against the man kissing her. When he drew back, his expression puzzled, she bit out, "My phone rang." "Oh." Comprehension dawned. "So that's what it was. I thought I heard bells but figured it was my imagination run amok." "No, it was the ring tone. I figured it suited a wedding coordinator." She scrambled out from under him. "But I'm the worst wedding coordinator ever. I probably just missed a call from the bride!" "You can call her back right now," he said reasonably. "I shouldn't have missed the call in the first place! This was a huge mistake." His face darkened. "Meg. Do you really want to keep running from me?" "No, the person I want to leave behind is me. This was an irresponsible interlude, something the old Meg would have done! I told you, I'm making changes in my life, but I just fell off the wagon big-time. You made me forget Lucy and Grant and the orange bridesmaid and Lucy's overbearing mother and your mother—" "Thank God." His eyes crinkled with humor. "I'd hate to think that while I was focused solely on kissing you, you had a cast of thousands running through your mind. Especially if that cast involved my mother," he added with a grimace. "Scott!" She wanted to throw something. "This isn't funny. I need to be someone different." He cocked his head, regarding her tenderly. "Not too different, I hope. It's great that you're striving to become an even better version of yourself, but don't sell yourself short. The Meg Nichols I knew was a pretty fantastic woman." Fantastic? She'd been loads of fun, but flighty. Sassy and unapologetically spontaneous, but weak. Wouldn't a stronger woman have fought to make their relationship work?

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A stronger woman would definitely focus on this weekend's wedding—the reason she was here in the first place—and not let herself get sidetracked by a rush of hormones. She needed this wedding to be perfect. It would prove that she was finally getting her life on track! Straightening her wrinkled shirt with one hand, she grabbed the doorknob. "I gotta go. I'll see you at the rehearsal." She was halfway down the stairs before she realized he was still with her. "Let me come with you," he coaxed. "Maybe there are ways I can help. I—" "Scott!" Meg and Scott both looked down to see a really tall redhead waving up at them from the doorway of the B and B. The woman beamed. "I made it. And I only got lost once." "Crap." Scott breathed the word so softly that Meg almost missed it. Keeping her own voice to a murmur, Meg asked, "Who's that?" Judging from Scott's suddenly grim countenance, one would think the redhead was a Horsewoman of the Apocalypse. "My date for the wedding."

Chapter Sixteen While Scott greeted the leggy newcomer with a hug, Meg mumbled a goodbye and slipped away. She returned Lucy's call in her car, on the way to Clare Theo's bed-and-breakfast. Sam Travis was at the B and B again this afternoon, every bit as gorgeous as he'd been last night, but not very talkative as he finished some last-minute handyman jobs. Meg was grateful it was him working alongside her and not Ben Torres, who seemed chattier and more flirtatious by nature. Meg was too numb right now to keep up her side of a conversation. By the time people started to arrive for the wedding rehearsal, the bed-and-breakfast looked perfect. Although it was a touch smaller than the venue should have been—making for a very cozy ceremony— the place was undeniably beautiful. Not even Lucy's snobby mother could argue with that. And the bride's grand arrival from a sweeping staircase instead of the back of the church would be a lovely, dramatic entrance. "Meg?" She took a steadying breath before turning to give Scott a polite, imminently competent smile. "Ah, there you are. Let me show you where you'll be tomorrow." He didn't return her smile. "About earlier—" "Where's your friend?" She stared past his shoulder because meeting his eyes was too uncomfortable.

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"She and Mom are shopping. They'll meet us at the rehearsal dinner. Listen—" "Scott, I have a job to do." She kept her voice light even though she felt like stone on the inside. "Granted, it's not up there with curing sick children, but this is my career and Lucy deserves my all. Now, you see that little X taped on the floor? Stand there." There were dozens of small details that kept Meg busy throughout the rehearsal. She showed the bridal party where to stand and how fast to proceed down the aisle and when to light the candles. She coached the two teenage ushers on where to seat the bride's and groom's parents and grandparents. She approved the finished corsages and fluffed a chair bow that had gotten slightly crushed during transport. She consulted with a singer recovering from a sore throat on a slight adjustment to the musical performance. But through it all, the image of Scott embracing the beautiful redhead in the expensive cashmere coat was seared into her brain. Meanwhile, Scott respected her responsibilities and didn't try to talk to Meg again during the rehearsal. But as she drove to The Twisted Jalapeño, where the dinner was taking place, she suspected her reprieve was over. She didn't have enough duties during the meal to stave off the conversation he'd wanted to have earlier. What did he want to tell her? Would he explain that he was dating someone now, and that he'd only been temporarily caught up when he'd seen an old flame again? Why the heck hadn't it occurred to Meg sooner that he might be in a relationship? He was a good-looking doctor who liked kids. Women probably threw themselves into his path on a daily basis! There was a possibility he'd tell her the leggy redhead was just a friend. If that was true and he was single, would he try to convince Meg that they should give their relationship another shot? What would she say? She'd say no. Her hands clenched around the steering wheel as she recalled how she'd lost herself in his kiss. Losing control was a bad idea for someone who had worked so hard to find it in the first place. She pulled into a parking lot pockmarked with holes. The appearance of the modest restaurant in front of her might be worrisome if she hadn't tasted Chef Grace Torres's food last night. Maybe this place didn't look like a five-star eatery, but Meg was confident no one would complain after they tried a bite. Maybe I could bribe a waiter to keep bringing Scott appetizers. If he was busy eating, he wouldn't be able to corner Meg. But she knew avoiding him would be impossible. Like it or not, there was a reckoning coming.

Chapter Seventeen Cheeks rosy with bridal joy—and perhaps tequila—Lucy raised her glass to Meg in an impromptu toast. "You're the best!" The two women were in a corner of the restaurant, enjoying this relatively calm moment between weeks of preparation and The Big Day. "I couldn't have done it all without you." "Awww." Meg hugged the young woman, careful not to slosh either Lucy's pomegranate margarita or her own ice water. "That means a lot to me, sweetie. So, you're glad you didn't elope?" Lucy winked at her. "Ask me that again tomorrow." The bride suddenly dropped her voice. "Looks like Scott's headed your way. Someday you'll have to tell me exactly what happened between the two of you." 606

Meg shifted her weight. "Like I said, he and I knew each other a few years ago. Nothing to tell." "Nothing? Not even that you were the woman I planned to marry?" a deep voice asked. Meg whirled around. She hadn't realized he was that close. She shot a reproving glance at Lucy, who was now wide-eyed. "You two were engaged?" she asked. "No," Meg said flatly. She shook her head at Scott. "We can talk. But this is hardly the place." "Which is why I already grabbed these." He indicated the two jackets draped over his arm. "Lucy, can I borrow your event planner for a moment?" Lucy nodded. "As far as I'm concerned, you can borrow her for the rest of the night—as long as you return her by morning. Meg, you've worked so hard the last few days, above and beyond the call of duty! You deserve to have some fun." Meg couldn't help chuckling at the irony. "Yeah, that's me—a regular workaholic," she said to no one in particular. Outside, the crisp air made her huddle into her coat. Thousands of stars twinkled overhead. "You don't get nights like this in Houston," she said, her breath fogging in little puffs. "True. But I found other bright spots living in the city." Scott gave her a sidelong look. "Meg, I haven't been able to stop thinking about our kiss all night. I miss you. And, not to be presumptuous, but from the way you kissed me back, it seemed—" "So who's the redhead?" she asked, trying to sound casual and failing. No matter. Any conversational gambit was preferable to reliving their kiss. "Allison Wright. She's an oncologist I met at a charity event. My mother introduced me to her. She loves Allison," he grumbled. "Allie and I have been out several times, but it's not serious." "It's serious enough that you invited her to a family wedding." "I let myself get railroaded into that when she told Mom she'd never visited the Hill Country before. Believe me, my parents are more enthusiastic about Allie than I am." "They just want you to be happy." Meg couldn't find it in herself to loathe Mrs. Creighton—at least the woman took an interest in her child's life. Meg's own parents were usually too caught up in their own melodrama to scold or praise their daughters. "Allison is gorgeous and she's a doctor. The two of you probably have a ton in common." "We do. But she's not the woman I want."

Chapter Eighteen Meg held her breath, wondering if Scott would say more. 607

"It's you, Meg. You're the only woman I could picture spending the rest of my days with. Allie is so much like me that we'd stagnate inside a year. But you… You challenged me to try new things, to find ways to laugh at life." "I'm flattered that you appreciate my sense of humor, but you do know it's a survival mechanism? When you screw up as much as I do, you have to be able to laugh at yourself." "Mistakes make for life experience. I envy you. I was pretty sheltered—an only child who mentioned when he was young that he might want to be a doctor, then got herded toward that goal for the next two decades. With you, I was allowed to mess up. Remember the night I attempted to make dinner for you? I had more fun trying—and failing—to make that ridiculously complicated Italian thing—" "Timpano," she supplied, grinning despite herself. The dish had been a dismal failure, but the sex in the kitchen had been phenomenal. He snapped his fingers. "Right. Even though we ruined a pan and ended up eating cold pizza, that was better than any dinner I've had in a five-star restaurant." "Scott…" What did he expect from her now? They were in a parking lot. He had a date waiting inside! This wasn't the time or place for making huge life decisions. Yet part of her wanted to fall into his arms and tell him she still loved him. She blinked against the threat of tears. He brushed a finger over her lips. "Don't say anything now. I won't pressure you. Tomorrow is the wedding, and you're under a ton of stress. How about we talk tomorrow night, after everything's done?" When she nodded, he added, "Just promise me you'll think about it." She was afraid she wouldn't be able to think about anything else. *** In the buzz of goodbyes as the rehearsal dinner wrapped up, it took a few seconds for anyone to notice that the flower girl—Tiffani, Lucy's youngest cousin—was choking. Tiffani's mother shrieked and Scott was at the girl's side in a second. By the time Meg could get a look through the crowd, he'd already dislodged the piece of hard candy that had been caught in the child's throat. Both Tiffani and her mother were sobbing. Lucy's grandmother was also crying. From snatches of conversation Meg overheard, she deduced that the elderly woman had been the one to give Tiffani the offending candy. Meg wanted to see for herself that the little girl was all right—and kiss Scott soundly for his on-the-spot heroics—but instead she addressed the crowd. "Thanks to Dr. Creighton, she's fine, everyone! Let's give her some room. In the meantime, note to self: only plan weddings that have a doctor in the bridal party!" Her comment was met with a smattering of nervous laughter. When it was all over, she approached Scott with an admiring smile. "My hero." He ducked his head modestly. "Anyone properly trained could have done that." "Like Allison?" She scanned the room, realizing she hadn't seen the lady doctor in a while.

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Scott laughed. "I believe she went stargazing with one of Lucy's tall, dark and rich cousins. Told you we weren't in a relationship." "I should probably take some first-aid classes." Meg changed the subject before he could remind her how available he was. "CPR, the Heimlich maneuver… I have a niece now, and Brooke might be crazy enough to ask me to babysit. After all, she was crazy enough to name me the godmother." "Aunt Meg." He tilted his head, looking charmed by the idea. "Do you have a picture of your goddaughter?" She pulled out her phone and scrolled through pictures until she found one of her holding the baby. Most people would smile and tell her how cute her niece was. But Scott fell silent, his expression utterly serious. Meg knew he was imagining what it would have been like if they'd married. If she were holding their baby. Did she dare try to picture it, too?

Chapter Nineteen The social protocol at a wedding was for everyone to watch the happy couple, to ooh and ahh over the bride. But as the ceremony began, Meg kept finding Scott's gaze locked on her. She wasn't the only one who noticed—Angelica Creighton looked annoyed but resigned. At first, Meg had tried to redirect him by shooting him meaningful looks. After all, she'd never forgive him if he missed his cue to hand over the rings because he was too busy making googly eyes at her. As the afternoon wore on, however, she couldn't help flushing with pleasure over how much he cared about her. When they'd dated, she hadn't always believed she was his equal. There had been nights out with his colleagues where she'd felt unintelligent and frivolous next to people who held medical degrees. She'd worried about embarrassing him. Scott clearly wasn't ashamed of her, though—not then, and not now. His emotions were right there on his face for anyone to see. Lucy had followed his gaze to Meg earlier and had given him a perky thumbs-up. He loves me. The terrifying reality was that Meg loved him, too. Should she tell him that after the ceremony? The admission seemed so binding. With their history, there would be no period of casual dating or getting to know each other. Scott had always pushed for more. He'd promised not to push her, but was he even capable of that? If he hadn't been able to take it slowly before, what made her think he could rein himself in now, when he was older and even more ready for a home and family? If Meg went back to him now, it implied a future—that future he'd always talked about. Her heart fluttered. She tried to tell herself it was joyous excitement, not nerves. But as the minister spoke about the sacred lasting covenant of marriage and how it was not to be entered into lightly, her apprehension grew. Scott wanted forever. Perhaps she did, too, but she'd never even owned a pet. She'd killed every plant she'd ever tried to grow. Her longest relationship had been with him, and it hadn't ended well. How could she know that she could make this work? Lost in her own worried thoughts, she nearly missed the end of the ceremony. But then applause broke out as Grant kissed his new wife and the trumpet voluntary for the recessional filled the room. Lucy

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walked toward her, beaming, looking exactly as every bride should. She was beautiful and happy, confident in her decision to spend the rest of her life with the man at her side. Meg envied that confidence and wished she could find it for herself. On the one hand, she knew Scott was one hell of a good man. She would be lucky to have him beside her for the rest of her life. But in choosing her, would he be making an equally sound decision…or a mistake they would both regret?

Chapter Twenty While the bridal party stayed at the B and B for pictures, Meg went ahead to the club where the reception was being held to make sure everything was in order. The DJ and catering staff were all ready but, unfortunately, the groom's cake had been dropped. Meg was horrified when she found out, but only for a moment. At least it hadn't been the wedding cake! Besides, Grant and Lucy had looked so happy when she'd last seen them that she doubted the cake would put a dent in their joy. In the meantime, she grabbed the hapless individual responsible for the screwup and sent him on a mission to gather as many chocolate cupcakes as he could find in the local bakeries. They'd arrange them artfully on a platter with some of the flowers from the ceremony. Soon, champagne bottles were uncorked and newly arrived guests were chatting about how lovely the ceremony had been. Even Lucy's perpetually pinch-faced mother smiled as she accepted congratulations from her cronies and boasted that having the wedding here, away from the city, had made it a much more exclusive event. "Not just anyone was invited, you know." But everyone else faded away the moment Scott walked into the room, achingly handsome in his tux. His hazel eyes found hers immediately, and her pulse pounded in her ears. "You did a wonderful job," he congratulated her. "I always knew you had it in you." "You did?" He nodded. "Lucy hired the perfect person—someone flexible who knew how to roll with the punches and who wouldn't be so set on a plan that she couldn't adapt." Past mistakes—and having to fix them frequently—had made Meg a fairly resourceful person. She knew other social planners who were renowned for their ruthless efficiency in pulling off an event, but who lacked ingenuity. Although Meg had experienced some anxiety this weekend, she'd been able to soothe the bride and develop Plan Bs as needed. "Career success agrees with you," Scott added, taking both of her hands in his. "You're radiant. I couldn't take my eyes off of you at the church." She smiled. "I noticed. So did your mother. Who, by the way, was glaring daggers at me just a moment ago." "She'll get over it," he promised. "She wants grandchildren badly enough to forget she ever disliked you." Meg pulled back, exasperated. "Damn it, Scott! You're doing it already." "Doing what?"

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"You make me feel claustrophobic, trapped. Like I can't breathe." "I know what claustrophobic means," he growled. "We're not even dating! You realize that, don't you? So talking about the grandchildren I'm going to give your mother is premature. And do not say that I bring out the impetuous side of you because I don't need that on my conscience." The last thing she wanted was to make someone else less stable. He looked ready to argue, then stopped. "You're right." "Really?" Wasn't he going to try to persuade her to see things his way? "I promised I wouldn't push, and I won't," he said. "I can wait for you until you're as ready as I am." "And if that never happens?" Her voice quavered. "You should have more faith in us, more faith in yourself." He studied her, pride shining in his expression. "You've grown. I always loved you, Meg, you know that. And I didn't mind that you could be a little scattered at times. But now you're everything I admired and more. You've shown amazing people skills and organization this weekend. You've really hit your stride." His words warmed her. For the first time, she sensed that he truly understood what she was trying to achieve and why it was so important to her. "We can change together," he continued. "Help each other be the best possible versions of ourselves. I think I'll love the new Meg even more than I did the old Meg." She bit her lip. Was she the new Meg? Had she left behind the worst of her regrets? Only one way to find out. The old Meg would have run scared. She wouldn't have braved the commitment Scott offered. But the woman she'd become… "I love you," Meg said, loud enough for anyone to overhear. Then she kissed him, knowing that when the day came in the far-flung future for them to walk down the aisle, she'd look every bit as confident and certain—and happy—as Lucy had.

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Red Rock Cinderella By Judy Duarte Ella Stewart thought she'd found a kindred spirit in Clay Baldwin. He listened when she spoke, he was there when she needed him, he respected her—and he was down on his luck, just like she was. Which meant there was no way they had a future together. Clay thought he'd found his destiny in Ella. She was genuine, caring, down-to-earth—and she wasn't a gold digger. Which meant they definitely had a future together. Of course, he hadn't exactly told her that he wasn't at all poor or unemployed, that he was, in fact, a wealthy businessman. But to find true love, wasn't it worth it to tell one little white lie?

Chapter One After a week of roughing it in the wilds, Clay Baldwin drove back to Red Rock, looking as if he'd misplaced his razor days ago and had been bathing in a cold mountain spring. But then again, that's exactly what had happened. He probably should have gone home so he could shower and shave before going out in public, but tonight he was too tired and too hungry to care. For the past few days, he'd been surviving on the fish he could catch—as well as the canned food he'd taken with him—so he was more than ready for a hearty dinner. And what better place to find the Mexican food he'd been craving than at Red, one of the most popular restaurants in town. He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror of his car, seeing little trace of the corporate executive who usually peered back at him. Two months ago, he would never have considered going out in public resembling a down-on-his-luck drifter. But the scruffy, laidback look fit the new Clay Baldwin. The time he'd spent alone these past few days had changed his view on a lot of things. Or maybe the harsh realities of life had begun to alter his perspective long before he'd loaded up his brand-new camping gear into his new Mercedes. Clay made his way through the crowded parking lot and into the busy restaurant that had once been an old hacienda. He would have been completely unaware that it was the holiday season if it weren't for all the lush poinsettia plants, little twinkly lights and a huge Christmas tree with Southwestern ornaments adorning Red. The hostess, a woman in her mid-fifties, offered him a friendly smile. "I'm sorry, sir. It'll be a bit of a wait. Our manager is having his wedding rehearsal dinner here tonight, and we're shorthanded." Clay had known that Marcos Mendoza was marrying Wendy Fortune. He'd been invited to the wedding, but he'd instructed his executive secretary to tell them he couldn't attend the ceremony—a happy occasion for some, but one that would only drag him down. He'd asked his assistant to send an appropriate gift instead. "I don't plan to eat here," Clay told the hostess. "I'd just like to place an order to go." "No problem." The woman reached for a notepad. 612

After Clay ordered the hearty carne asada plate, the hostess left him to wait in one of several seats in the entry. He hoped he wouldn't see anyone he knew tonight since he looked more like a vagrant than a corporate executive. Besides, he wasn't in the mood to answer questions about how he was feeling and where he would go from here. In truth, he was still coming to grips with the loss of his best friend and business partner, Connor Reynolds. Two months ago, Connor had died of a massive coronary at the gym where they both worked out. Connor had only been in his late-thirties, so his death had been a total shock to Clay. It had also forced him to reevaluate his own life, since he and Connor had shared the same work ethic, rarely taking any time off. Ironically, it was that work ethic that had enabled Clay and Connor to build a successful corporation and to become multimillionaires. But even though Clay had amassed a fortune, he now realized it was worthless if he had no one to share it with, no one to leave it to someday. Connor, on the other hand, had left his estate to his gold-digging wife, who'd not only been cheating on Connor—causing him additional stress that had probably contributed to his heart attack—but who also thought she would step in and become Clay's new business partner. What a nightmare that would have been. She would have bankrupted the company once she got her hands on the company credit card. Clay knew that for a fact because just after she and Connor were married she'd nearly forced Connor into the poorhouse before he canceled all his cards and had threatened to divorce her if she didn't stop her spending. Fortunately, both Clay and Connor had enough foresight to include a buy-out clause when they'd first created their corporation. So before she could bankrupt his company, Clay had offered the poor widow a sizable amount for her shares, which she'd pounced on. Now Clay owned a hundred percent of the stock shares. When the main door to the restaurant opened, an older man in a sport jacket entered and approached the hostess. "I'm here for the Mendoza rehearsal dinner." "It's on the patio," the woman told him. The well-dressed man nodded, then took off to find his party. Clay sighed. It seemed that everyone he knew was getting married or having babies these days. And after Connor's death, Clay was forced to realize that his once-charmed life wasn't all it was cracked up to be. But now that he was back in Red Rock, he was determined to settle down and create a family—if he could just find a woman who was honest and true, someone who was interested in him for more than the things he could buy or the fancy places he could take her. When the door opened again, a petite redhead entered the restaurant, her cheeks flushed from the crisp, wintry air. She wore dark denim jeans that hugged her hips nicely and a white, long-sleeve T-shirt under a green Christmas vest. Her pretty hair was a remarkable shade of Irish red and windblown as if she'd been walking on the moors. Yet he was even more drawn to the color of her eyes, a vivid shade of emerald green, highlighted by lush, black lashes.

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She wasn't what you'd call beautiful, but she was certainly appealing. And she had a wholesome aura about her…. In fact, Clay was probably looking for someone a lot like her—at least, in appearance. As he studied her, a smile stretched across his face. The hostess returned, drawing Clay from his musing when she announced, "I've placed your order. If you don't mind, I'll ring up your bill now." Clay got to his feet and reached for his wallet. But as he felt his back hip pocket, which had pulled apart at the seams, he came up empty-handed. Had it fallen out? "I'm sorry," he told the hostess. "I…" He reached into his front pocket and pulled out three one-dollar bills which he'd crammed in there this afternoon when he'd received change from a coffee shop just off the interstate. "I must have left my wallet in the car." The hostess crossed her arms as if doubting his explanation. But before he could respond, the redhead stepped forward and placed her hand on his forearm, sending a spiral of heat hurtling through his bloodstream. When he turned and caught her gaze, she offered him a sympathetic smile. "I'll pay for your meal." Did she think he was down and out? He supposed he couldn't blame her for that. He probably looked like a transient. He started to object, to tell her that he was far from penniless, but then thought better of it. What if his wallet wasn't in the car? He'd be embarrassed if he refused her offer and still couldn't pay the bill. Besides, the old Clay had a habit of always picking up the tab. What would it hurt for him to accept and appreciate someone else's generosity once in a while? As he wrestled with himself, she added, "Christmas is the season for giving." Then she offered him a shy smile and a little shrug, as if that explained it all. And maybe for her it did. Not only did she appear to be wholesome, she apparently had a good heart as well. Clay couldn't remember the last time an attractive woman had made an offer like that without expecting anything in return from him. So he was reluctant to let her get away before he learned more about her. "Thank you," he said. "That's very kind of you. Would you mind if I told the kitchen to put a hold on my order?" The redhead cocked her pretty head to the side, clearly perplexed by his question. If she knew him better, she would realize that he hadn't become a very successful businessman by relying on chance and letting the chips fall where they may. He made things happen. "Christmas isn't a time to be alone, either," he said. "And if you're here by yourself, I'd like you to eat with me." 614

As she pondered his comment, his pulse rate soared. She placed her hands on her hips and looked him up and down. "Normally I'd say no." And under "normal" circumstances, he wouldn't want an attractive woman to think he only had three dollars to his name. But nothing seemed the least bit ordinary about this evening. And for one wild and crazy moment, the redhead held a bit of holiday magic in the palm of her hands.

Chapter Two Ella Stewart studied the stranger who'd asked her to join him for dinner—and on her dime. With her current financial outlook what it was, she shouldn't have stopped for take-out food in the first place, let alone offered to pay for someone else's meal. But as she'd reminded him, it was the Christmas season, and it seemed only right to help someone who was less fortunate than she was. "What do you say? Should I let the hostess know we'd like a table for two?" His eyes, a mesmerizing shade of blue, gazed at her as though her agreement might change his bad luck to good with a nod of her head. She nearly laughed at that, since her own ship had yet to come in. And if truth be told, it seemed to be sailing farther and farther out to sea. But what would it hurt? Since Aunt Aggie was having dinner with one of her nephews, the alternative was for Ella to eat alone in front of the television. So she said, "Sure. Why not?" The man said something to the hostess, who then left her post. When she returned a moment later, she smiled. "There's one last table in the courtyard. Apparently, the couple I'd seated there earlier decided it was too cold and went into the lounge to eat." "How cold is it?" Ella wondered if she was dressed warm enough to sit outdoors. "It's a little chilly," the hostess admitted, "but we have heaters." Ella glanced at the down-and-out stranger, who offered her a wide grin. His eyes glimmered in a way that made her want to look beyond his worn clothing and his scruffy beard to the man beneath. "Okay," she said. "That works for me." The hostess led them to the quaint courtyard, with a rustic old fountain, its water gurgling. The soft sounds of mariachi music coming from another room made the setting even more romantic than it might have been otherwise. They took a seat at a small pine-wood table for two, and moments later, a busboy brought them glasses of water, as well as two types of salsa and a woven basket containing chips. "My name's Clay," he said. "What's yours?" "Ella." She was glad he hadn't shared his last name. They were clearly on the same page about what their dining together meant. On a night when so many couples and families were out on the town or

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nestled together at home, they wouldn't have to be alone. Something told her she and this man might be kindred spirits in a way, always standing on the outside looking in. "So what brings you to Red?" she asked. "I was hungry, and there wasn't much in the fridge or the pantry." She wondered if he'd really left his wallet in the car—or if he even had a vehicle. But she let it go. It really didn't matter. They would share a meal, give each other some company, then go their separate ways. "So what do you do for a living?" she asked, making small talk. He hesitated, and she realized that if he was between jobs, the question had been a low blow. As a sense of awkwardness hovered over the table, he finally said, "I'm in sales. How about you?" She wished she could claim to be a doctor or schoolteacher or lawyer. But she'd never gone to college, something she now regretted. "Actually, my job is ending after the holidays, so I'm looking for work." He leaned forward, as if he knew of an open position. "What kind of experience do you have?" She smiled and gave a little shrug, deciding to own up to it. "I've done it all—dog walking, house sitting, waitressing, working at a day-care center. Right now, I'm taking care of my elderly great-aunt, but that's soon going to change." Again, he gazed into her eyes intently, as if everything she said mattered. As if she mattered. It was a welcome feeling for Ella, particularly after the past few months. She'd been begging Fred, the trustee of her aunt's trust, to reconsider his decision to sell the house and move Aunt Aggie into a retirement home, but she might as well have been pleading with a tree stump. None of her relatives would listen to her, and she'd begun to feel like a second-class citizen, at least in her own family. "Why?" Clay asked. "Is your aunt ill?" Ella paused, wondering how much to share with a stranger, then decided a man she'd never see again was probably safe. Besides, it was nice when someone asked her opinion without accusing her of having ulterior motives. So she told it like it was. "No one expected my aunt to live to be eighty-four, and the nest egg meant to last through her golden years has dwindled away. The house needs a new roof, as well as new wiring and plumbing. So her nephew has decided to sell it, rather than fix it up. And he's planning to put her in an assisted-living facility." "How does your aunt feel about that?" "She's not happy. And neither am I. She's really spunky, and I think that moving her out of the only home she's had for more than sixty years is a bad idea. But she's not my mother, and I have no say about any of it." 616

"I can't imagine anyone ignoring your opinion, especially since you're the one who lives with your aunt. If I were the nephew, I'd welcome your thoughts." His understanding, his vote of confidence, settled over her like a balm. How nice to have someone in her corner for a change. Ella reached for a chip, but as she pulled her hand back, the delicate antique bracelet Aggie had given her this morning snagged on the basket and caught. "Oh, no." She hated to pull it free. The chain was old and delicate. "Here," Clay said. "Let me." He placed one hand on her wrist, spiking her heart rate and sending a surge of heat zipping through her blood. Then he fingered the silver chain with the other. "This is an interesting piece of jewelry." As much as the gift had meant and as touched as she'd been when Aunt Aggie had given it to her, she couldn't seem to focus on anything but the stranger's gentle grip, of the heat of his touch, the tumble of her heart. "It's an heirloom," she finally said. "It's been in the family for years." Then she added, "Please be careful." But she was talking about more than the piece of jewelry. "Don't worry." And true to his word, moments later and after a little tug, he pulled it free. "Thank you." Ella rubbed her wrist, more to massage the spot that still buzzed from his touch, even after he'd let go. "It sure is sparkling in the candlelight," he added. She held it up to the candle burning on the table, noticed the shine. "My aunt had it cleaned at a local jewelry store the other day, then asked them to place it in a small velvet box, just to make it appear more valuable. But as far as I'm concerned, this bracelet is worth more to me than anything in that store." He took her hand, setting her heart on edge all over again. "It's beautiful. And so are you—inside and out." Then he caught her gaze and shot her a dazzling smile that took her breath away. In spite of his ragged appearance, there was something very appealing about him. In fact, if he shaved and put on a dress shirt and a pair of slacks, he'd make the perfect date. Not that she'd had many guys ask her out in the past few years. So who was this man? And what was he doing to her? Her mother had always said that it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it was a poor man. But Ella wasn't so sure about that. Not when she found herself yearning to lose herself in her dinner companion's eyes.

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But how involved should she get with a man whose future wasn't any brighter than hers? She'd better end the evening before she lost her head and got in too deep. She knew very well what the cost of that would be. She'd been devastated by a relationship that hadn't worked out in the past. But even more than that, she'd been let down by Fred, who'd made promises to her he hadn't kept. If a woman couldn't trust family, whom could she trust? So as Clay tossed Ella another heart-thumping smile, she plotted her escape.

Chapter Three Dinner with Ella had been an unexpected delight. And while Clay would have given anything to have an ice-cold Corona with his meal, he wouldn't take any further advantage of her offer to spring for dinner when she was losing her job and probably couldn't afford it. So, for that reason, he'd requested water to drink. He'd also ordered two tacos à la carte instead of the hearty—and more expensive—carne asada plate he'd decided on earlier. It was one thing to let Ella believe he was struggling to make ends meet, but there was no way he'd let her pay a hefty bill when a smaller one would do. Even then, he would make it up to her—somehow. He risked another glance across the table, noting the way the candlelight glistened along the glossy strands of her hair, the way her expressions danced across her face, telling him that there were no secrets behind her smile, no hidden agendas. From the first moment he'd laid eyes on her, she'd intrigued him. And her appeal had only grown stronger with each minute he'd spent in her company. "The food is good here, isn't it?" She looked up from her plate and smiled. "It's the best." Yet it was more than the food making him glad he'd stopped by Red tonight. It was Ella herself. She reached across the table and placed her hand over his, warming his blood and stirring up emotions he'd never realized he had, like faith and hope and maybe even love. Then she smiled at him, revealing a pair of dimples that turned him inside out. "Things are going to really look up for you in the New Year." They'd perked up already—right this minute, in fact, with her gazing at him as if she knew the future, as if she really did hold a bit of magic in her hands. He marveled at her optimism, at the sensual lilt of her voice. At the serendipitous way in which they'd met. "What makes you say that?" he asked. "Because your luck is going to change, Clay. I can't tell you how I know it, but I do."

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Oh, his luck had changed, all right. He couldn't quite explain it, either, yet he also knew it to be true. And he wasn't talking about his finances. He was talking about everything that truly mattered in life, those things he'd tried to prioritize while he'd been camping. The ones that had begun to really fall into place this evening. A lasting relationship with a woman that was built on love, on trust, on truth. Like the truth of your net worth? His conscience rose up, prodding him to come clean. He'd always been honest in his relationships, whether they were business or personal. But he couldn't do it. Not until he had more time with her, not until he knew for sure that her magic wasn't just smoke and mirrors. He sensed that Ella wouldn't be swayed by his wealth, that her interest in him was real—but Connor had thought that way, too, and his wife had played him like a fool. And Ella was interested in him, all right. He'd noticed her stealing glances at him all during dinner—and once, when he'd caught her flat-out, she'd flushed and looked down at her meal. The pheromones that had been swirling around him all evening had been buzzing around her, too. At that moment, the waiter brought their check—and with it the awareness that their evening together was ending. Clay noted a change in her expression, a mood change maybe. Was she, like him, sorry to see their evening end? Clay fought the compulsion to reach for the check, to lay his credit card down—which wasn't available since it was in his wallet, and hopefully, in his car. Yet he let Ella take the bill instead. "Thank you," he said. She tossed him a carefree smile. "You're welcome." A man who'd come from behind Clay moved past the table—probably on his way to the men's room. Clay hadn't needed to see J.R. Fortune's face to recognize the tall rancher with a lanky swagger and a head of blond hair. The two of them not only had a business deal in the works, they had become friends, too. When J.R. returned through the courtyard, he'd be facing Clay and would undoubtedly stop to say hello. But that would blow Clay's cover before he was ready. Deciding to find J.R. first and ask him to play along, Clay lifted his napkin, blotted his mouth, then said, "Would you excuse me, Ella? I'll be right back." "Of course." As Clay headed for the men's room, Ella's cell phone rang. He didn't think anything of it until he got back to the table several minutes later and found Ella gone. For a moment, he thought that she, too, had gone to the restroom. But then he saw she'd left twenty-five dollars in cash next to the bill and a note scribbled on a cocktail napkin. Clay, I'm sorry I had to leave. Thanks for the company. Wishing you the best, Ella. 619

That was it? She'd left without saying goodbye? Without leaving a phone number or telling him her last name? Every last bit of luck Clay had ever seemed to have drained right out of him, leaving him unbalanced and at a loss. She was gone? Clay scanned the courtyard and beyond, looking for the woman who'd promised to be more than a passing fancy, but he didn't see hide nor tail of her. When he turned back to the table, he spotted her bracelet lying next to her discarded napkin, glistening in the candlelight. He picked it up, noting that the delicate chain was broken—maybe from when it had caught on the basket earlier this evening. Would she notice it was missing before she got home? Would she come back for it? Yet one question was even more pressing of all: Would he ever see her again? Yes, he told himself. He had to find her. And not just to return the heirloom. He took the bill as well as the cash, and carried it to the hostess, who was also the cashier. "Did you notice the woman I was with?" "Yes. She went outside." "How long ago?" "Two or three minutes." Damn. Why had he taken precious time to ask J.R. about the upcoming wedding? Why had he even left the table at all? Just minutes ago, he'd found a new direction for his life. And now? Clay went to the door and peered into the parking lot, but he didn't see Ella getting into her car. In fact, there weren't even any vehicles pulling onto the street. She was really gone. But where? He took a moment to wrap his mind around his loss, then he rallied. Whenever he wanted something, he went after it—a trait that had worked well for him in business. And one he hoped would work for him now. He opened his hand and peered at the bracelet that lay in his palm. The heirloom she'd left behind wasn't much to go on—certainly not a glass slipper—but Clay Baldwin knew what he wanted. And his heart was set on finding his Cinderella if it was the last thing he did.

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Chapter Four While Ella had eaten dinner with Clay last night, she'd tried to conjure a reason to leave before he had a chance to ask her out or to assume that sharing a meal together had meant more than either of them had expected it to. She couldn't risk another disappointment, especially when Fred's lies and broken promises had just about crushed her. Then a phone call from Aunt Aggie had provided her with the perfect excuse. Aggie's nephew Fred, the oldest and most selfish of the two, had dropped her off at the house without waiting to see if she got inside safely. But when the older woman had reached the door and dug through her purse, she hadn't been able to find her key. Instead of calling Fred and asking him to come back, she'd called Ella. "There's no need for you to rush home to let me in, dear. I have a sweater. I'll just wait on the porch until you get here." "I'm just paying the bill now, Aunt Aggie. I'll be there in five minutes." After ending the call, Ella had left the money to cover the check and a tip on the table, as well as a note for Clay, explaining that she had to leave unexpectedly. Then she'd dashed out the door and climbed into her car before he could return from the men's room. There was something cowardly—and probably even tacky—about ducking out while he was away from the table, but if he'd gazed at her one more time as if she was the only woman in the world, she might have completely lost her head and started putting more stock in him as a… Well, as a romantic interest. And she had no business getting involved with anyone until she landed a new job and found another place to live. After all, she'd promised herself that she would become self-sufficient and never be reliant on anyone else ever again for her future security. And that was a vow she meant to keep. She'd only driven a couple of blocks from the restaurant when Aunt Aggie had called again, saying she'd found her key after all. But Ella had continued home. When she'd entered the old Victorian, she found her auntie sitting in the rocker and watching the evening news. "How was dinner?" Ella asked. "It was okay. Fred doesn't ever have much to say, but he took me to the Peking Palace, my favorite restaurant." "I like that place, too." "Then you'll be happy to know that I brought home the leftovers. If you're hungry, they're in the refrigerator." "Thanks, but I had a taco salad at Red this evening." Ella placed her purse on the bottom step of the stairway. 621

"I really wish you would have come to dinner with us," Aggie added. "You could have kept the conversation going." Ella would have rather had a root canal than sit across the table from the man who wanted to move his aunt into assisted living, especially since his reasons for doing so were selfish. The old Victorians on Bluebonnet Lane had increased exponentially in value over the past two years, so it was no mystery why he'd put Aggie's house up for sale. But the cost of assisted living would be more expensive than keeping Aggie at home, even with the expense of repairs, so Ella suspected something other than Fred's greedy side was behind his plans: he was tired of caring for his aunt. He denied it, of course, but he'd lied to Ella in the past, and she wouldn't put it past him now. Ella had asked him to reconsider his decision to sell, but he'd told her it wasn't any of her business. He was the trustee of Aggie's family trust, and he'd do as he saw fit. Sadly, the fact that the elderly woman had practically raised Ella's mother and been like a grandmother to Ella meant nothing in the legal scheme of things. "I really wasn't in the mood for Chinese food," Ella told Aggie. "And you don't get many chances to spend time alone with Fred." Aggie let out a little "humph" and gave a half shrug, which left Ella to wonder if Aggie might have preferred a dental appointment this evening, too. But she couldn't blame Aggie for that. Fred was asking her to leave the only home she'd known for nearly sixty years, even though she was still spry, fairly healthy and as sweet as ever. Ella loved looking out for Aggie and would have done so out of love and loyalty, even if Aggie's nephews hadn't paid her a small stipend. And while the room and board increased the value of her earnings, she could make a lot more money working elsewhere. But Ella never had put that much stock in money, although she wished that weren't the case now. If she had the funds, she'd purchase the house herself and let Aggie live here as long as she wanted. She turned to her aunt and smiled. "Would you like a cup of tea?" "No, thanks. I had more than enough with dinner." Aunt Aggie cocked her silver-haired head to the side. "You're not wearing the bracelet I gave you. Did you put it away?" Ella lifted her arm, noticed her bare wrist, gasped and uttered, "Oh, no!" Had it fallen off in the car? Or maybe at the restaurant? Her stomach lurched. What if she'd dropped it while dashing through the parking lot to her car? What if someone had run over it or found it and claimed it as their own? She hated to admit that she'd lost something so valuable, so special. But it was obvious that she had, and there was no way she'd deceive her aunt. "I had it an hour ago, Aggie. I'm going back to Red. I'm sure I'll find it."

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After searching the car first and coming up empty-handed, she drove to the restaurant and spoke to the acting manager, who told her no one had turned it in. "You should call back tomorrow," he said. "We have a janitorial service that comes in after we close. I'll tell them to keep an eye out for it." She nodded, then went out into the parking lot and searched the ground to no avail. With her heart heavy, she drove home. Fortunately, by the time she arrived, Aggie had already gone to bed, so the confession could wait. The next day, Ella waited until late morning to call Red and ask if her bracelet had been found, but it hadn't. And now, as she hung up the telephone, she tried to find the words to tell Aggie that it was lost forever. It would be so much easier to lie, to say Ella had put it in the safe deposit box at the bank, but lying went against her grain, no matter how difficult the truth might be. Before she could head for the kitchen, where Aggie was preparing lunch for the two of them, the doorbell rang, giving her a momentary reprieve. She crossed the room and swung open the door, then gasped. There, standing on the stoop, was the man she'd had dinner with last night—shaved, fresh from the shower and wearing a crooked grin that nearly dropped her to her knees. She wanted to ask what he was doing here and how he'd found her, but in the myriad emotions, the least of which was surprise, she was speechless.

Chapter Five Clay couldn't help but smile as he gazed at Ella, her eyes wide, her lips parted. "It took a little detective work," he said, "but I found you." She bit down on her bottom lip and furrowed her brow. Uh-oh. He didn't want her to worry that he might be a stalker, so he raised his hand and unfolded his fingers, revealing her bracelet. She glanced at the heirloom, then back at him, tears flooding her pretty green eyes. "Oh, thank goodness. You found it." Then she carefully took the bracelet from his outstretched palm. "One of the links is broken," he said, "which caused it to fall from your wrist during dinner. I noticed it on the table." She studied the damaged chain, then fingered the family heirloom as if it were a priceless relic. And to her it was, at least in sentiment. When she looked at him again, her expression morphed from one of surprise to wonder. "Thank you for taking the time to return it. But how did you find me?" 623

"You mentioned that your aunt had recently taken the bracelet to be cleaned, so I went to every jewelry store in town until I located a jeweler who recognized it." And once he had Agatha Stewart's name, it hadn't taken much effort to track down the woman and the great-niece who lived with her. "I don't know how to thank you," Ella said, swiping a tear from her cheek. Just seeing her again and having an opportunity to ask her out was thanks enough. "Dinner last night was a nice trade-off." She paused a beat, then glanced out into the street—looking for his vehicle, he figured. But she wouldn't find it. He'd parked his new Mercedes three blocks away, hoping to continue his "poor man" charade, at least for a while longer. Moments before Clay had arrived at Ella's house, he'd received a call from the attorney representing Connor's widow. Apparently, the gold digger was hoping for another cash settlement to keep her from suing for the stock she still felt entitled to. It just went to show that money brought out the worst in some people. "Did you walk all this way?" Ella asked him. "Walking is good exercise. Besides, it wasn't all that far." Again his conscience tweaked, but he shook it off. He wasn't ready to tell her the truth yet. His heart and hormones might think it was possible to fall in love at first sight, but he was a man of reason and knew better than that. Ella swung open the door and stepped aside. "Please, come in. Aggie and I are making sandwiches for lunch. Can I offer you one—either turkey or ham and cheese?" "Either sounds good to me." After he entered the house and closed the door, he followed Ella into a cozy kitchen with yellow walls and old-style white appliances. An elderly woman, who had to be Ella's aunt, stood at the counter with a loaf of bread, lunch meat and condiments. Ella made the introductions, calling Clay "a friend" and explaining to her aunt that Clay had found the bracelet and returned it to her. Aggie brightened, although she seemed to be more excited to see Clay than the missing heirloom. "You're just in time for lunch, young man. Have a seat at the table." Clay thanked her, then complied. "But you'll have to let me do the dishes or something in return." Clay might be playing the role of a poor man, but he wasn't going to continue to let Ella feed him. "Actually," Ella said, "there is something you can do for us. Do you have any plumbing skills?" The question took him aback. "Well, that depends. What seems to be the problem?" "Our garbage disposal isn't working, and the sink has been plugged up. One of Aggie's nephews was supposed to either come by or send someone to fix it, but… Well, it's been several days, and he hasn't gotten around to it yet." 624

That sounded simple enough. Clay's dad had been a handyman—one of the best in town—and he'd insisted that his sons learn a few tricks of the trade. "I'd be glad to take a look at it," he said. "And after you do that," Ella added, "we have a lot of other things that need doing around here. If you have the time, we'd be more than happy to pay you for your trouble." So she really was under the impression that he had no car and was out of work. He supposed the faded jeans he'd chosen to wear, along with the "lucky" shirt he'd kept since his freshmen days at college, had her further convinced. Again, his conscience urged him to set her straight, but the whole down-on-his-luck thing was working for him. Plus, it gave him the opportunity to spend more time with her. So after they'd eaten a pleasant lunch, Clay asked Ella if she had a wrench he could use to loosen the pipes, as well as a bucket to catch the dirty water. While she went to get the things he needed, he removed everything from the cupboard under the sink so he had access to the drain. Minutes later, he'd cleaned out the pipe that had been plugged and prepared to put the plumbing back together again. "I don't suppose I can get one of you ladies to empty this bucket for me," he said, still stretched out on his back under the sink and reaching for the wrench. "I'll do it," Aggie said. But instead of taking the bucket outside or to the laundry room, she emptied it into the kitchen sink, where the dirty, stinky water poured through the open pipes and splashed onto Clay's face and shoulders. "Oh, no," Ella cried out, when she realized what had happened. "I'll get a towel." "Goodness," Aggie said. "I'm so sorry, Clay. I just… Well, I guess I wasn't thinking clearly." Clay, his face and chest sopping wet, climbed out from under the sink, glad he hadn't blurted out an obscenity. "It's okay, Aggie. No harm, no foul." "Here," Ella said, handing him a towel to dry his face. "Why don't you let me show you to the bathroom where you can wash up." Clay would have told her that it didn't matter, but that dirty water had been nasty. So he followed her out of the kitchen, down the hall and to an open doorway. Once inside the small room, he turned on the faucet and waited for the water to warm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ella lean against the door frame and he turned to her, his gaze locking on hers. Something stirred between them. Sexual awareness, for sure. And a yearning to explore it. Rather than broach the subject, he turned back to the sink and rinsed his face, using the bar of soap on the counter. Ella came closer and handed him a fluffy blue towel. "I'm so sorry. She gets a little scattered sometimes." 625

"Don't worry about it." Clay chuckled. "Those things happen." "I know, but, if it's all the same, I'm sorry it had to happen to you." She offered him a pretty smile, then added, "If you'll give me your shirt, I'll rinse it out and throw it in the dryer." "All right. Thanks." Clay peeled off the wet material, but as he began to hand it over, Ella's lips parted and her gaze sketched over his bare chest. She swallowed, as though finding it difficult to speak, to move. And the awareness, the yearning, returned full force. They stood frozen for a moment, caught up in a swirl of sexual attraction and…well, who knew what else. But this time, it was impossible to ignore. It might be a risky or crazy move for him to make, but Clay couldn't help doing what seemed like the most natural thing in the world. He placed his hand along her jaw, brushed his thumb across her cheek, then lowered his mouth to hers.

Chapter Six As Clay's thumb stroked Ella's cheek, his gaze locked on hers, Ella's heart raced in anticipation. And when he lowered his mouth and kissed her, she dropped his wet shirt to the floor and placed her hand on his waist. As their lips met and his tongue sought hers, the kiss deepened until she thought she would melt into a puddle at his feet. For a moment, she not only forgot where they were, but who they were—still strangers to each other. Yet nothing seemed to matter other than this magical moment in time. And when the kiss finally ended, leaving her craving so much more, she didn't think she'd ever be able to breathe evenly again. "I'd wondered how kissing you would feel," he said. She'd wondered the same thing, especially when she'd caught sight of him without a shirt. And now they both knew exactly how it felt—star-spinning, earth-shaking. And…promising. Which made no sense. After all, she'd only just met him yesterday. And he'd been very light on details of his life. "You look a little uneasy," he said. To say the least. "I, uh…" She stepped back, then bent to retrieve the wet shirt she'd dropped. "I'd better rinse this and get it in the dryer." Yet instead of moving, she remained rooted to the spot, as the bathroom walls seemed to close in on her, on them.

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Her gaze, which had been locked on those stunning blue eyes of his, lowered to his bare chest, a sight that had triggered that amazing kiss in the first place. Yet she couldn't help taking a second look at the magnificent perfection of his broad shoulders, well-defined pecs and six-pack abs. Oh, for Pete's sake. She'd been ogling him. Had he noticed? She risked a glance at his face, where a crooked grin lit his eyes. Shaking off her embarrassment and ignoring the heat that had undoubtedly flushed her cheeks, she nodded toward the doorway. "I'd better get out of here, or your shirt will never dry." Then she turned and headed for the laundry room, more than ready to put a little distance between herself and the sexy stranger she still knew way too little about. When she got as far as the kitchen, Aggie had just finished mopping up the water from the floor. "Don't worry about that," Ella said. "Sit down and relax. I'll take care of the mess." Aggie pulled out a chair, but before taking a seat, she smiled and said, "Your young man is very nice." "He's not my 'young man.' We're just friends." Of course, friends didn't kiss the way they had just moments before. And as much as she'd like to forget what had happened, she had a feeling she'd be dreaming about it long after Clay went back to wherever he'd come from. After rinsing out the shirt and putting it in the dryer, Ella returned to the kitchen. "You know," Aggie said, "if Clay is a handyman, we could certainly use him around here." Ella supposed he might like the extra work, but was it a good idea to invite him into their lives? After all, what did she know about him? Not much. And even when you thought you knew someone, she reminded herself, they could still prove to be someone else entirely. At one time, she'd thought of Fred as a father, only to have him show how selfish he really was, leaving her nearly destitute and with no say in her life or Aggie's. "Do you think we should ask Clay if he would be interested in a side job?" Aggie asked. "I'm not sure." "Well, I hope he would be. Fred never seems to take any of my complaints seriously. He'd rather sell the house than make any more repairs. And it breaks my heart to let it go." Ella crossed the room, placed her hand on Aggie's shoulder and gave it a gentle and affectionate squeeze. "It breaks my heart, too." "It can't be helped, I suppose." Aggie let out a weary sigh. "But this house could be so beautiful again—if we had the money to renovate it."

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"I know, but the truth is, neither of us can afford to do much more than we already have. And so we should let the new owners worry about any repairs and renovations." Sensing the presence of someone else, Ella looked up to see Clay standing in the doorway—bare chest and all. Goodness, if she had something that might fit him, she'd offer it to him, just to save herself from fawning over him like a lovesick adolescent. "Did you hear what we were saying?" Aggie asked. *** Yes, Clay had pretty much heard it all, especially the part about how much Aggie loved the place and hated to move, but he didn't want to admit that he'd not only been deceiving Ella, but eavesdropping, too. So he said, "Just that you might be in need of a handyman." "That's what I meant," the elderly woman said. "Would you be interested in having a side job?" Clay shot a glance at Ella and tried to gauge how she felt about having him around more often, especially after that heated kiss they'd shared. She'd seemed pretty shaken by it, but then again, why wouldn't she be? When they'd come up for air, he'd been so amazed and aroused by it that he'd been afraid he'd lose his head and say something he might live to regret—like, "I could fall for you." That might be true; he was certainly feeling something for her. But he didn't want to make a mistake by opening up his heart too soon to the wrong person. Sure, there was something powerful brewing between them—and love might be just around the corner, but he wouldn't make any confessions about the depths of his emotions—not to mention any claims of wealth—until he knew without a doubt that she was the woman he hoped she was. "We do have a few odd jobs that need to be done," Ella said. "But we can't afford to pay very much." "If we did have the money," Aggie added, "we'd hire a contractor to renovate the house, like several of the other people on the street have done. But since we don't, my nephew would rather sell than to spend any money on improving the value." Clay had noticed the For Sale sign on the front lawn when he'd arrived. "What's your nephew have to do with it?" Clay asked. "He's the executor of my estate, and I made him the trustee a couple of years ago. Back then, he seemed to be a lot more understanding, more sensitive to my wishes." "Did you tell him that you'd rather stay here?" Clay asked. "Yes." Aggie's voice softened. "But he thinks it's best if I move to an old folks' home. He says I'll be happier there, but I know he'd just rather not bother with the house—or with me any longer." "I'd buy it myself," Ella said. "It breaks my heart to think of you leaving." 628

"I'm an old woman," Aggie said. "I can't blame Fred for not wanting to take care of me anymore." "Is your trust irrevocable?" Clay asked. "I'm not sure," Aggie said. "Why do you ask?" Because Clay had a top-notch attorney who'd drawn up his own trust, and it was possible Aggie could still make changes—if she wanted to. But maybe it was best if he didn't get involved, so he said, "I was just curious. Sometimes, those trusts can be changed. Maybe you should talk to your attorney." Aggie seemed to think on that for a while. "Either way," Ella said, as she turned to Clay, "would you be interested in helping us with a few fix-it projects?" She was giving him permission to come back? To see her on a regular basis? A grin tugged at one side of his lips, but he forced a serious expression. "Yes, I'd be glad to. But I can't show up until after eleven each day." He'd scheduled interviews at the office all this week, hoping to find someone who could take on the projects Connor had been working on when he'd died. "Why can't you come any earlier?" Ella asked. "Aren't you a morning person?" Actually, Clay was up each day at the crack of dawn, but he paused, thinking out his answer. He wanted to be as truthful as possible, so he'd have to remain vague. "I've got some…job interviews lined up." "Well, good luck," Ella said. "I hope you find the perfect position soon." Something told him he'd found perfection already. After all, everything he'd seen so far clearly showed that Ella had a kind, loving and loyal heart. And she wasn't overly concerned about money and what it might provide her. All he needed was a little more time with Ella, then he'd know for sure.

Chapter Seven Just as he said he would, Clay stopped by Ella's house the next morning around eleven, and he continued to show up at the same time for the next two weeks, ready to do whatever they needed him to do. He fixed leaky faucets, repaired broken electrical outlets, mended shutters and even mowed the yard and trimmed the big tree out front. He took a liking to the place and began to come up with ways to renovate the old Victorian. And today, after he helped Ella take down the holiday decorations, he suggested that they paint the exterior. "I'm afraid that would be way too costly," Ella said. "Who knows," Clay said. "Maybe you'll win the lottery."

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"Yeah, right." She cast him a pretty smile, and it took everything he had not to wrap his arms around her and kiss her senseless. To tell her that her worries were over. With each day he spent with her, he became further convinced that he'd fallen in love with her—and that she'd probably had his heart from that first night he'd met her at Red. After Connor died, Clay had wanted to change his life because it had felt empty, but now that he'd met Ella, he'd found a sense of purpose and more. In fact, he'd almost told her yesterday how much she'd come to mean to him, but he'd held off. He knew she felt something for him, too. And that those feelings were for the man he really was—and not for the lifestyle he could provide her. But yesterday, when he'd made an offer to purchase Aggie's house, he'd heard something that caused him to continue exercising a little caution. His real estate agent had mentioned that Fred Stewart, the man selling the property, had said his niece, who currently lived in the house, wasn't to be trusted. She wanted to remain living with Aggie for free, when the woman was getting senile and needed round-the-clock care. Clay had remembered the episode with the dirty sink water. But nothing he'd seen since indicated it wasn't safe for Aggie to live on her own. He'd also wanted to argue in Ella's defense, to say that he'd gotten to know her and that Fred Stewart was wrong. He was sure of it…but not quite sure enough to lay his heart on the line. So he hadn't admitted his identity to her yet—or revealed his attempt to buy her and Aggie all the time they wanted to stay in the old Victorian. Okay, so maybe there was another reason. He was also dragging his feet because he hadn't quite figured out how to tell her that he hadn't been completely honest with her. But he would. Soon. *** Ella stood at the kitchen window and looked out into the yard, where Clay had just finished cutting back a tree branch that had been weighing down on the fence. Now he was in the living room, putting lubricant on a squeaky window. She was amazed at his strength, at his work ethic. He gave all his effort, all his focus, to each job he took on. In fact, he seemed to have a personal stake in renovating the old house, something that touched her heart. In fact, there was a lot about the man to… Well, a lot to love. She realized she hadn't known him long, but he was everything she'd ever wanted in a man— kindhearted, dedicated, loyal and honest. Before meeting him, she'd been afraid to get too close to people, especially after Fred's betrayal. But Clay listened to her and valued her opinion. So how could she not trust him? 630

In fact, she'd begun to think that meeting Clay at the restaurant had been fate. They'd yet to kiss again, but that didn't mean she wasn't tempted to catch him alone. And so she'd asked him to stay for dinner tonight, hoping that she'd find the right time to say that she'd like to date him, even if he didn't have any job prospects at the moment. Okay, so there was still a lot she didn't know about him, but she hoped to put that behind her this evening, over dinner. She'd already asked him questions about his childhood, about his education, about his friends. Trouble was, his answers had all been pretty vague. But maybe he hadn't lived a very exciting life. As she prepared a chicken and rice dish, the telephone rang. When Aggie didn't answer, Ella rinsed her hands in the sink, dried them on a dishtowel, then grabbed the receiver from the mount on the wall. "Hello?" "Where's Aunt Aggie?" Ella wasn't sure what Fred had against her or why he'd become brutally short and to the point. Would it have hurt him to greet her? "I'm not sure. I thought she was talking to the handyman, but she didn't pick up the telephone, so I'm not sure." "A handyman? Tell her to stop wasting her money." Ella bit back the anger and frustration Fred never failed to incite lately. "It's difficult when so many things aren't working properly around here." "Yeah, well, that's not going to be a problem for you any longer. We got an offer on the house this morning. And it was almost full price, so I accepted it." Ella's heart sank as she realized the move was now imminent, that Aggie would have to live in a retirement home. And she would have to find a new place to live, a home that didn't have the same loving memories. "The details in the contract are a little unusual," Fred added. "But I didn't see any reason not to agree to them." Ella gripped the receiver as though she could squeeze the details out of Fred. "What do you mean? What did you agree to?" "The new owner can't move in until this summer, and he's adamant that the house not be left vacant. He'd like you and Aggie to remain living there for the next six months. I didn't think you'd mind." "Of course not." They'd been given a reprieve. The longer Aggie could stay in her home, the better.

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When Fred ended the call, Ella hung up the receiver. Then she strode to the living room, where Clay was working on a squeaky window. She watched him for a moment, the way the sunlight shined on him with a heavenly glow. He'd shown up in her life when she'd really needed a friend. Should she tell him that they didn't require his services anymore? Just the thought of not seeing him again turned her heart topsy-turvy. And that's when she realized she'd fallen head-over-heart in love with Clay Baldwin. The man might not have any money, but he had everything else that mattered. He was not only handsome, he was sweet, kind, funny—but most of all, he was honest. What more did she need in a man? "Clay," she said. He turned and shot her a boyish grin that sent her heart spinning. "Did you find something else that needed fixing?" Her future, maybe. But was it too soon to lay her heart on the line like that? Old habits were hard to kick, she supposed. So she offered him a smile, rather than an answer, then asked, "Have you seen Aggie?" "She's in the front yard, talking to a guy putting a Sold attachment on the For Sale sign." Already? "Thanks." Ella strode to the door then out to where Aggie stood talking to the Realtor. "This man says the house is sold," Aggie told her. "Yes, I know. Fred just called. But don't worry, Aggie. We won't have to move for another six months." "The buyer can't move in until then," the Realtor said. "So he's asking you to stay in the house so it won't remain vacant." "I suppose that's nice," Aggie said. "What do you know about the buyer?" Ella asked. "Just that he's a corporate executive who paid cash for the property." "No loan?" "The guy's rich." He must be, Ella thought.

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"He asked for me to keep his name out of it, but…I don't see any problem in mentioning it to you. You'll know it as soon as you get the papers. His name is Clay Baldwin. He's the CEO of a successful firm in Red Rock. And he's got the money to fix this place up, which is going to increase the value for other home owners." Clay? It couldn't be. The man who'd let her buy his dinner? The man who pretended to be jobless? The man who was inside the house right now, fixing things and checking out all the flaws? Had he planned to purchase the house all along? Had he only been using her to get inside, to gain Aggie's trust? Ella shot a glance at the living room window, where Clay worked. He smiled at her—until he read her pained expression.

Chapter Eight When Clay spotted the crushed look on Ella's face—the shock, the disappointment, the pain—his heart dropped to his gut. He wasn't sure what the darn Realtor had revealed to Ella just now, but it must have had something to do with him. And from what he could see, Ella hadn't taken it very well. Damn. He hadn't meant for her to stumble onto his identity before he got a chance to tell her himself. He set the rag and can of lubricant he'd been holding on the windowsill, then headed outside to try to ease Ella's mind with the truth he'd been holding back. But before he could reach her, she met him at the door, her hands folded across her chest and a fire in those pretty, green eyes. "What's going on?" she asked. "Why did you lie to me?" "I didn't exactly lie." The flame that blazed in her eyes threatened to burn him alive. "Oh, no? You let me think that you didn't have a job or a penny to your name." She had a point, but he'd never actually said he was unemployed and broke. "You came to that conclusion on your own." "But you could have corrected me." Yes, he could have. And he probably should have. He'd deceived her, and while his reason for doing so had seemed justified at the time, he realized she wouldn't see it that way. "I wanted a chance to get to know you better," he said. She stiffened. "Excuse me?" He wasn't so sure if he could explain without making it worse. 633

"You're angry," he said. "You bet I am. I'm also shocked. And crushed. You were probably plotting to get inside the house all along." "Now wait a minute." Clay placed his hands on Ella's shoulders, trying to connect with her again. "That's not true, honey. I never thought about buying the house until I saw how sad you and Aggie were about moving. So I made the offer this morning, asking that you remain here until summer. But even after that, I wouldn't have let you move until you wanted to." "That doesn't make sense. Why would a man like you—a successful businessman, of all things— purchase a piece of property he had no intention of using?" "I did it for you. Because I—" She tilted her head to the side. "Because you what?" Clay glanced at the people who stood near the For Sale sign, gaping at him and Ella. Then he reached for her hand. "Come with me, and I'll try to explain." He feared that she might put up a fight, but she walked with him through the house and out to the backyard. "Where are we going?" she asked. "For starters, I'd like to have some privacy." Once they were in the back of the old, three-story house, he led her to a wrought-iron chair that sat under the elm tree. When they were finally alone, he said, "I have a confession to make." "You should have made it a lot sooner." "You're right. I realize that now. But when I saw you at Red, I knew there was something different about you, something special. And I was determined to get to know you." "It was a mean trick." "Maybe so, but I never meant to hurt you. It's just… I've been with women in the past who said they loved me, when they were only interested in my money, my success. I've seen the damage those kind of people can cause." He thought of Connor's widow. "And I wanted to make sure you were different." "Oh, I'm different, all right. I don't have any money to my name. And if I did, I'd use it to go back to school and get a college degree." "I find that refreshing." "Do you?" The flame, which had seemed to cool down a bit once he'd gotten her alone, flared again. "Well, I don't. And where is your sense of fairness? Didn't you think that I would have liked to be able to get to know you? You didn't offer me the same courtesy that I've given you—honesty." She was right; he hadn't thought of it that way. 634

"In a way, you did see the real me," he added. Skepticism crossed her face. "How do you figure?" "In the past, I was so focused on business, that I lost the real me along the way. That's why I spent a week camping by myself. I'd just returned to Red Rock that night when I met you at Red. And it seemed as if you were…some kind of divine answer, I guess. A gift I'd been waiting for all my life." As she wrapped her mind around that, he added, "I liked coming by the house and doing chores for you and Aggie. And not just because you're beautiful and witty and charming. I actually enjoyed the fix-it projects, as well as mowing the yard, trimming the tree and pruning the hedges. In a way, while I was working on the house and in the yard, I was fixing all the broken and run-down things in my own life." He scanned her face, trying to read her expression, hoping she understood what he was trying to say. When she didn't comment, he said, "I'm sorry, Ella. And if you'll let me, I'll make it up to you." "How do you plan to do that?" By pulling out all the romantic stops, he supposed. And laying his heart on the line. Clay got down on one knee and reached for her hand. "I love you, Ella. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you." *** Ella blinked. Had she heard him correctly? He loved her? "I don't understand." "I can't explain it, either. I never believed in love at first sight, but I'd never met anyone like you before. I believe in it now. I fell for you, Ella. And I fell hard." "I don't know what to say." "Well, for starters, you could forgive me for deceiving you. I swear I'll never lie or hold anything back from you ever again. And then, maybe you'll agree to go out on the town with me, so I can show off the woman I love." All the anger, all the pain, faded away as she gazed into Clay's eyes and saw the love shining there. She might have been angry at him for withholding his identity, but in doing so, she'd been able to see the real Clay and to get to know him on a level she never would have allowed herself to enjoy before. And it had given her the opportunity to share more of herself with him than she would have under different circumstances. "I love you, too," she admitted. "Although, I must admit, the money and success frighten me a bit." "They frighten you?" "I'm not well-versed on things like fashion or socializing at fancy places with the rich and the famous." "That's fine with me. You don't have to go anywhere or do anything if you're not comfortable. I'd be happy to spend every night at home with you." 635

Ella laughed. "I didn't say I was a homebody. It's just that I might not fit into your world." "My world is anywhere you are, honey." Then he cupped her face, his eyes shining with love. "So what do you say? Will you marry me and make me the happiest man in the world?" Ella wrapped her arms around his neck and answered his question with a kiss that promised she'd love him forever. Fairy tales didn't get any better than this.

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Lucky In Love by Muriel Jensen Chapter One This wasn't quite the career in fine art she'd imagined, Rosie Sutton thought as she painted hearts with dollar signs in them all over the shop windows in Jester, Montana. But it paid the rent, allowed her to live in the town she'd fallen in love with on her last vacation with Steve, and placed her right in the middle of a warm and wonderful town at the very moment of its great good fortune. Twelve of Jester's merchants, who pitched in to play the lottery every week, had recently won forty million dollars. There were reporters everywhere, television trucks, visitors from near and far, and - thanks to Rosie - painted hearts everywhere you turned. There was also an undercurrent of excitement, a magical disbelief, a grin on the face of everyone walking into the savings and loan, whose window she now worked on while standing on a kitchen stool. Since this was Jester's only savings institution and the place where all the winning locals would be banking, the manager had suggested one giant heart with dollar signs flowing into it. Whatever the notion lacked in subtlety it gained in humor - and humor abounded in Jester. "Good job, Rosie!" Shelly Dupree praised as she pulled open the door of the savings and loan. She was average in height, wore jeans and a gray sweater pulled on over a blue sweatshirt for the quick trip from her restaurant. She owned The Brimming Cup across the street, where news and gossip countywide was exchanged over breakfast and lunch. She was a warm and practical woman with short dark hair and lively hazel eyes, one of the first people Rosie had met when she'd moved here three months ago. Rosie had already covered the Cup's windows with heartshaped steam coming out of a lineup of coffee cups. "Brisk morning, isn't it? How're your fingers holding up?" Rosie flexed the red-smeared fingertips protruding from her fingerless gloves. Her shortish, slender body was bundled into an old brown parka she'd bought at the thrift shop in neighbouring Pine Run when she realised she'd be working outdoors for several weeks in the middle of a Montana winter. Her long, dark blond hair was piled into a dark blue woolen watch cap that she'd pulled down over her ears. "Still working, but I can't feel them. Found a valentine for the dance yet?" Shelly waved away that possibility with a mittened hand. "That's a good three weeks away." She grinned. "If I don't have a significant other by then, my winnings will have arrived and I can pay some handsome bon vivant to escort me. Shall I make sure he has a friend?" A cloud settled on Rosie's sunny morning. The issue was complicated. Technically, she was married, but when a husband was gone by choice eight months out of the year, she felt that probably negated the contract. But Steve, the most respected foreign correspondent in the print media, had apparently not even returned to L.A. yet to realise that she was gone. She refused to acknowledge the pain that caused her. She hadn't expected him to track her down and reclaim

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her. Not when she was thinking clearly, anyway. Realising Shelly still waited for an answer, she smiled and replied lightly, "No, thank you. The only man I'm interested in is Art." Shelly laughed and disappeared inside the building. Rosie tried to revive her enthusiasm for painting hearts. ****** Several more customers came and went throughout the morning. Rosie was standing on tiptoe on a ladder, following a sudden inspiration to alternate hearts and dollar signs in a border across the top of the window, when a male voice asked right behind her, "How is it possible that a woman without a heart can paint so many of them so well?" The question was followed instantly by the touch of a possessive hand to her backside. It pulled her sideways off the ladder and into Stephen Chancellor Sutton's arms. Those dark brown eyes that could spot a global crisis thousands of miles away but never seemed to notice what was happening in his own home were just inches from hers. There was a vertical frown line between them she didn't remember being there. As her left arm automatically hooked itself around his neck for stability, she stared into the planes and angles of her husband's very handsome face and realised grimly that she didn't hate him after all. She wouldn't mind if a piano fell on him, but she didn't hate him. That was a horrible truth to face after two months of convincing herself that she could face her life alone. But he didn't have to know that. "Steve," she said with a smile she hoped looked unaffected by his sudden appearance, "what are you doing back in the States? I can't believe there are no more wars anywhere." He raised an eyebrow, sharpening that frown line. "There's about to be one here," he replied. When Steve had returned home to L.A. after months of traveling with the Special Forces through Afghanistan, Pakistan, then Yemen, yearning, burning, for an armful of his wife, he'd been disappointed to find that she was probably out shopping or off to the little Wilshire gallery that showed her work. Then he'd noticed that her favourite wicker chair was gone, that the hook where the Boston fern she babied usually hung now dangled emptily, and her entire half of the closet was empty. It felt as though a giant fist had come down and smacked him on top of the head. She'd left him! He'd been risking life and sanity to bring the world the important details of war and strife, and she'd left him? "How could you just walk away like that?" he demanded. "I drove," she corrected, kicking until he placed her on her feet. She made a production of wriggling herself back into order, tugging on the hem of her coat. "I'd pleaded with you not to go in the first place, then it was weeks before I heard anything from you, and that was a fax from your mother's office telling me she'd gotten a report from you out of Afghanistan and you hadn't been killed on the raid on that mountain as the entire news community had feared." He was confused by her anger. "And you weren't happy to hear that?" 638

She looked at him as though he were simple. "Yes, I was, but for the three weeks before that, when I thought you were with the unit that disappeared and were found dead deep inside a cave I was..." She finally growled, apparently unable to describe in words what she'd felt. He thought this was a good sign until she made a fist and smacked him in the chest with it. "You will never make me feel like that again! You go to the farthest corners of the world and take the biggest chances because you have to prove to the whole world and to your own family that you're the world's best print reporter because you are and not because your parents own the newspaper chain. You were infected with that need to prove something when I married you, but I, in my innocence, thought, Well, surely the day will come when he feels he has something to prove to me, so I can be happy until the day comes when I'm as important to him as reporting the news." She got right into his face and shouted at full volume. "But that didn't happen! And after four years, I got tired of waiting." Her voice cracked and she had to stop to clear her throat. He noticed in the time it took that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked a little soupy. She was still the beautiful woman who'd lived in his mind during all those awful months, but she looked a little piqued. He almost smiled at the realisation that it hadn't reduced her volume at all, but he was sure that wouldn't be wise. And he wasn't quite ready to be amused with her anyway. "You have your own stuff to prove," he accused. "Because your father wasn't interested enough in you to stick around, you intend to show the world that you don't need any man, even me. So you just pack your bags and go. Really adult behavior, Rosie." "You can just turn around and go home," Rosie said, hurt feelings visible in her eyes, "because there's nothing..." She was making her point with the tip of a heart-red index finger when a FedEx driver, trying to maneuver a cart through the door of the savings and loan, slipped on the snow and hit the side of the building instead. A large block of snow from atop the overhead sign dislodged and fell squarely on Steve and Rosie. He swore. She screamed. When the snow settled, she gasped while hopping up and down and trying to reach a hand down her back. He pulled off his glove, turned her around and reached his right hand into familiar territory. Her back was warm and silky and he caught a whiff of her fragrance from the moist interior of the sweater under her jacket. He faltered for a moment, dizzy with desire, then his thumb connected with the icy chunk of snow that had fallen inside her coat and moved quickly to sweep it up and out. She seemed frozen to the spot, the look in her eyes completely confusing to him. She looked as though she wanted him desperately and hated him unconditionally. Confusion was bad news to a reporter. He spotted the sign of The Brimming Cup across the street and caught her arm. "I'll buy you a cup of coffee," he said, starting to pull her toward the crosswalk. 639

She stopped stubbornly. "I want a divorce," she said firmly. ****** Steve took another look into Rosie's eyes and the ambivalence was still there. But he was suddenly tired of dealing with it. "No, you don't," he argued, pulling a little more forcefully toward the Cup. "Come on." "What can I get you?" Shelly asked cheerfully as they settled into their seats. Even though Rosie had let Steve bring her here to talk, she found it difficult to concentrate. For a woman who'd made the brave decision to leave a life that was less than she wanted for herself, who'd driven a thousand miles alone, started over alone, and had slept alone for all the months he'd been gone, she knew she should show more backbone than she was feeling right now. She should be filled with the resolve that had taken her this far. But Steve Sutton had always been powerful stuff. The same sharp wit, coupled with the charm that showed even in his news reports, had been difficult to resist when she'd been twenty-two, and nothing had changed in the interim. In fact, she was even at more of a disadvantage now that she knew what it was like to live with his lively sense of humor, his delight in and curiosity for absolutely everything, and his ability to make love as though it was the ultimate moment and there would never be another chance. Rosie felt as though she was going to implode. "Lemon chamomile tea, please," she said to Shelly. "And sourdough toast." Steve frowned at her over his menu. "What? What happened to the usual triple shot mocha grande and a raspberry croissant to keep your blood sugar up?" She sat up straighter and pulled herself together. He was gorgeous and sexy, but she was his last priority. She had to remember that. She smiled sweetly. "It's stabilised since I left you." "Left you?" Shelly asked in surprise, looking from one to the other. Then realising she was intruding into personal territory, she added quickly, "I'm sorry. I was...I mean, I didn't know you were...you had..." She waggled her pen from one to the other. Steve offered Shelly his hand. "Steve Sutton," he said with a smile, shaking her hand, then giving her back the menu. "I'm Rosie's husband. She may have been acting as though she was single since she's been here, but she's not." "Shelly Dupree," Shelly replied, clearly falling for his charm. "No, she hasn't acted single. She just never said she was married. And she did turn down my offer to get her a date for the Sweetheart Dance. Not that I really had one in mind. I mean, we were fantasising about hiring an escort, and I offered..." At Rosie's frown and Steve's raised eyebrow, Shelly stopped midsentence. "Never mind," she said quickly. "What'll you have, Steve?"

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He ordered coffee and a piece of coconut cream pie. As Shelly walked away, Rosie leaned across the table toward Steve and said firmly, "You should go, Steve. There's no point in staying. I'm not going back with you." Shelly was already back with a cup, which she placed before him. He leaned back as she poured. "Actually, I'm here on business," he said when Shelly left again. "I'm covering the lottery story." He didn't really think she was going to swallow that? "The print version of the great Walter Cronkite was sent to Jester, Montana, to cover a lottery win? I don't think so." "The print version of the great Walter Cronkite gets to call the shots sometimes," he admitted with no evidence of shame. "I just got home from Yemen, and when I couldn't find you and nobody seemed to know where you were, I happened to spot your face in the background of a TV news story about Jester's merchants winning the lottery, and told my father I was coming to cover it." "Isn't this going to put a big kink in your effort to prove your greatness? I mean, it's wonderful for Jester, but it's a pretty small story after all." He looked her in the eye. "You never know what's inside a story until you delve. The simplest detail can turn into something big. You have to be willing to explore." "I'll save you the effort." She sighed and settled into the corner of the booth, pulling off her coat and hat. She felt as though her temperature had gone up thirty degrees in the past fifteen minutes. It had to be the warm restaurant. "If your intention is to explore what's left of our relationship while filing a story on the lottery win, you'll come up empty. There's nothing left, Steve. We had a promising beginning, but you're more interested in proving you're the best than in proving that you care about us. And I'm tired of it. Spare us both a dramatic breakup and accept that it's over." Rosie had serious hat hair, but somehow the tumbled, disheveled effect of all that autumn gold freed from her cap turned him on rather than put him off. It brought to mind lazy Sunday mornings in bed, midnight lovemaking followed by forays for food, wrestling for the remote, then forgetting why they wanted it in the passion that always ignited when their bodies touched. He caught her hand as she played restlessly with her utensils. "What I feel for you will never be over. And you're lying through your teeth. Your eyes lit up when they first looked into mine across the street. You were glad to see me. Admit it." She tried to yank her hand away, but he held fast. "Of course I was glad to see you," she whispered harshly. "I haven't seen you in four months, and for three weeks of that time, I thought you were dead! I'm happy you're safe. But I no longer love you. You put yourself first every time there's a choice, and I'm not going to live that way anymore." Shelly arrived with their food. Steve freed Rosie's hand, because she looked as though she needed that tea. "I put the news first," he said reasonably, passing her the jam caddy for her toast.

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"Not myself. You're always first in my heart, Rosie, but I have to go where things are happening. You knew that when we got married. You said you'd use the time alone to do your art." "Art has to be fed!" she retorted. "An artist needs emotion and experience. You're never around to provide either, Steve. We're working at cross-purposes here. I'm never going to get anywhere as an artist if I'm continually fearing your death. And I'm sure you're tired of my complaining about it." "You're a brilliant artist," he disputed, "and I always thought our relationship was a masterpiece. I can't believe you'd just throw it away." She sighed dispiritedly. For an instant he saw a glimpse of the old Rosie, who loved and understood him and found his work exciting. Then she shook her head as though certain that whatever she'd remembered in that moment couldn't be recaptured. "You'd have to spend some time in Jester to see how love really works. People are there for each other, do for each other, support each other. They don't just claim to care then take off." He looked out the window at the hopping little town, remembering that he had been gone a lot, that much of his work was fueled by a desperate need to share what he knew. But now that he was forced to stop and think, he wondered if what he'd always thought of as a professional thirst for fact was in some part the prideful need to prove himself to his family and to the world in general. His eyes rested on Rosie's half-painted heart on the window of the savings and loan across the street, and thought with wry amusement that it could be considered a metaphor for their marriage. Half brilliantly executed, half simply…not there. He turned to Rosie, looking pale and cornered across the table, and knew he had to do something about that. And suddenly realised she'd unwittingly provided him with his next step. "You know," he said genially, taking a slow sip of his coffee, "you're probably right about that." She looked wary, suspicious, as she bit the point off a piece of toast. "About...the divorce?" He liked the note of disappointment in her voice when she asked the question. "No," he denied quickly. "About my staying for a while." He nodded to reinforce his willingness. "It does seem like a nice little town." Then he added with an innocent smile, "Where do we live?" Chapter Two Mercy! Rosie thought, staring at his smiling face. She was sure the innocence she saw there was false. Steve Sutton was too savvy to ever be innocent. What have I done? “I’ve left you,” she said firmly, striving for severity in voice and demeanor. It didn’t seem to be affecting him. “You cannot move in with me.”

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He nodded as though he understood completely, then said, “I understand that it’s not the ideal solution, but there’s not a room to rent in this town. I tried when I arrived this morning. Jester is so full of reporters, photographers, and cameramen that they’re sleeping in their cars.” He grinned. “I got here from the airport in a rented subcompact. I’d have to fold myself in three to lie down.” She felt a range of emotions - interest, fear, excitement, exasperation. He always seemed to know where she was vulnerable. He pushed while she was still unsure what to feel. “It was your suggestion,” he said with that same questionable innocence. “If you’re right and Jester is a lesson in love, how do you expect me to put what I observe into practice if we’re not together? Wasn’t that your complaint about me in the first place?” She struggled against his logic. “I was speaking in general about love,” she said, “not about you and me. It’s too late for us, Steve.” The innocence in his expression vanished and she saw determination take its place. This was the man, after all, who got an interview with Fidel Castro when the Cuban dictator wasn’t speaking to anyone. “This relationship has two of us involved,” he said quietly. “You can’t decide all by yourself that it’s over. You ran away from me, you’ll recall, and I followed you here. So, if you file for divorce, which one of us is going to look like the party who tried?” Then he added with a subtle suggestion of self-satisfaction, “Particularly if the judge is a news junkie and knows my work?” He had her there. She hated his ability to manipulate a story. As she thought about it, she felt a little fire building in the centre of her being. She fought against it, but it had started the moment he swooped her off the ladder and was rapidly building strength. She didn’t want him to stay with her. But she didn’t want him to go.

The tea was making her feel a little stronger, and she was suddenly, curiously nervy in a way she hadn’t been for months. She could deal with this without reconciling. If anything, spending time with him would probably convince him as well as her that it was over and he’d stop making it so difficult for her to move on. “You can stay with me while you research your story,” she bargained. “There’s only one bed, but you can use the sofa.” He nodded without looking triumphant or even particularly pleased. “Fair enough. I’ll bet you haven’t had anyone to rub your feet while I’ve been gone.” That was true. That was a perk of life with him that she’d missed. “No, I haven’t.” “I’ll repay your hospitality with a foot massage,” he promised, “and maybe even a cranberrywhite-chocolate cheesecake.”

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She smiled. “Cranberry-white-chocolate cheesecake,” she thought longingly. For a man with adventure on his mind, he had a wonderful way with desserts. Just the thought of his cheesecake made her willing to take this risk. But she had no doubts about it. She was making a terrible mistake.

****** Her home was a very small house located between the town hall and fire station. It was white with green shutters and a surprisingly big front porch considering the dimensions of the house. The paint was peeling, but there was a welcome sign on the front door decorated with a painted sunflower and cat. Steve couldn’t explain why it seemed inviting - unless it was that he knew she lived there. The kitchen, with yellow daisies on the wallpaper, was immediately on their left, and had a small, round table in the window. The appliances were probably from the sixties - yellow stove, olive green fridge. “No dishwasher?” he asked in surprise. She hated to do dishes. She smiled wryly. “No. I eat on paper plates a lot. This is the living room.” It was probably no more than ten by ten with mismatched furniture and the wicker chair she’d bought at a flea market two years ago and painted Chinese red. A big, gray cat with a notch in one ear was curled into a tight bundle atop an ugly black woodstove that stood right in the middle of everything. His wide head came up when they approached. It had to be a male; he looked mean and world-weary. But when Rosie stroked his head, he purred loudly and pushed into her hand. “This is Bill Matisse,” she said, leaning down to rub her cheek against the cat. His purr rose in volume. “Bill Matisse?” Steve asked, coming forward to stroke the cat. Steve bet he was a twentypounder. “He came with the house,” she explained. “The previous renter was moving into an apartment in Pine Run and couldn’t take him. He’d named him Bill. But I talk over my paintings with him, so I thought he should have a last name appropriate to his position as art consultant.” “He seems happy with the situation,” Steve noted. She turned to him with a significant smile. “We both are.” She led the way into a sort of parlour with beige walls and dark green curtains. Her paintings hung all over. Some he remembered from their condo; others must have been created here. Her style was a sort of Impressionist approach to landscapes, but painted in bright, primary colours. He recognised the rolling hills and angular bluffs of the area.

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He’d always been proud of her ability and felt a strange disconnection at the knowledge that she’d created work he didn’t even know about. And that she claimed to be happy with the situation. He looked into her eyes, trying to determine if that was really true. But all he could see there was that slightly bleary, red-nosed quality he’d noticed before. “Are you all right?” he asked as she led the way upstairs. “You don’t seem to have quite your old...sparkle.” She gave him a wry grin as she led him into the middle of a loftlike room that took up the entire second floor. “Is that you trying to win me back?” He laughed lightly, then sobered and caught her chin in his hand to study her face. “It’s me, concerned about you.” She caught his wrist to pull his hand away. He resisted and for an instant they were eye to eye, caught together in the voltage that always ran between them. She finally pulled away with a yank. “I’ve had a cold for weeks,” she said, pointing to a bathroom in the far corner of the room. “And working outside hasn’t helped me get over it in a hurry. But I’m fine. That’s the only bathroom.” A wrought iron bed stood against one wall with a two-drawer file cabinet on one side of it for a bedside table. Her easel stood in the middle of the room with all her familiarly messy drawers and tables around it. Everything near the easel was spattered with drips and daubs of bright colour, and a pottery jar stood tall with a bouquet of brushes. A window in the ceiling probably intended for thermal heat lent the room a Parisian-skylit- attic sort of quality. On the easel was a half-finished painting he thought he recognised as downtown Jester. The neon sign of The Brimming Cup tipped him off. He went forward to study it. “Something’s wrong with it,” she said, following him. She was in artist mode now, a state he never entirely understood. He was pragmatic, uncomplicated. “I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t seem to be able to move ahead.” The underpainting was done and she’d painted a bright blue sky and the snow-topped bluff against it. She’d once explained to him that she always worked forward when painting - started with what was most distant and came to the foreground. “How can you tell something’s wrong if you haven’t finished it?” he asked practically, moving around it to study it. “It looks fine to me.” She followed him as he moved, colliding with him when he stopped. He felt her breast against the back of his arm and he forced himself to remain still and withhold reaction while the air left his lungs. Now that he was here, he didn’t want to do anything to panic her. “I don’t know,” she said, apparently unaware of the tension. She was focused on the painting. “The process has to feel right, you know? I mean, painting’s more than inspiration. Sometimes it’s the tedious and mechanical re-creation of detail rather than the free expression of feeling you wish it was. But I always get lost in it.” She sighed and looped her arm in his unconsciously. It 645

was an old habit she’d probably fallen into because she’d always talked over her paintings with him, even when he had no clue what she was talking about. And he always loved listening to her. He had to fight himself not to take her in his arms. “Something’s holding me away this time, and I can’t figure out what it is. I love Jester. I thought it would just flow through my fingers.” She tipped her head sideways as she studied the canvas with a thoughtful frown. “Maybe I’ve put something in it that isn’t supposed to be there. Or left out something important.” He was considering the possibility of suggesting that what she’d left out was him, when she suddenly became aware that she’d taken his arm and even leaned into him as she contemplated her painting. She dropped it as though he were toxic and took several steps back. She glared at him as though it was all his fault. “I have to go,” she said finally. “I don’t cook, so you’ll have to get something at the Cup.” “I do cook,” he reminded her. “Dinner at 6:00.” “I work later than that,” she argued. “After dark?” She met his challenge with a reluctant softening of her glower and a sigh - as though she was very, very tired. “I’ll see you at 6:00.” And she hurried down the stairs and slammed the door on her way out. He approached the painting, saw that she’d sketched in herself in the underpainting, working on the window of The Brimming Cup. She’d captured a charming moment of small-town life. He was going to spend his time here believing that what she didn’t like about her painting was that she knew the woman painting the window was without the man she loved. ****** Rosie had never considered herself the kind of woman who could die of sexual deprivation. She’d never needed the amorous adventures most of her friends talked about in high school and college. She’d been convinced she was less of a sexual being than most of her peers - until she met Steve Sutton at Queen of the Angels High School on career day five years ago. He’d pep-talked her out of her terror of discussing her artist’s life in front of a gymnasium filled with teenagers, then he’d taken her to dinner afterward. She’d sat across a table filled with all her favourite Chinese dishes and fallen in love while he talked about his life as a foreign correspondent. He had such a love of the world and its people that she’d been enraptured by his stories. And she’d wanted him. All of him. It was a curiously all-pervading greed that seemed to be more than lust. She wanted to rip his clothes off, but she wanted him to keep talking while she did it. And now, over four years later, after a marriage’s ups and downs and an attempt to separate herself from him, he was sharing her house with her and all she could think about was what it used to be like to make love with him. He had a way of holding her that made her feel as though 646

a bubble enclosed them, separating them from the world. He touched her with a tenderness she so revered, yet with an unmistakable possession that both humbled her and made her walk taller. He looked into her eyes with adoration, and made her feel as though she alone occupied his world and they had an eternity to love each other in it. But not anymore. Now, he occupied the sofa downstairs while she stared at the ceiling upstairs and wondered how they’d come to this sorry pass. Still, she missed him with that same greed. It didn’t make sense. Nothing had changed. But her body didn’t seem to know that. It was embarrassing to admit that her nipples beaded when he was near, that her breath caught when he called her name, that she felt a warm liquidity at the heart of her femininity when he looked into her eyes. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice. He respected her unwillingness to eat breakfast, but met her for lunch at The Brimming Cup, brought her a cup of tea in the middle of the afternoon while she continued to work and had dinner ready when she came home. His repertoire was simple but delicious. He helped with laundry, with dishes, ran errands and fed the cat. And despite his earlier claims that their relationship wasn’t over, that it had been a masterpiece, there was nothing romantic about his approach to her. He was warm, friendly, helpful - and just a little distant. She didn’t know what to make of it. And she was grumpy to find herself disappointed. ****** Steve was convinced he was going insane. Rosie’s proximity after almost five months without her was fraying his libido and making mush of his brain. In a constant state of sexual arousal, he had to keep his emotional distance at least or he was going to take her right in front of the Heartbreaker Saloon, where she was now working. He decided he had to simply get control of himself, or risk losing her. And he hadn’t followed her to Jester to go home without her. In the interest of his story, and in the hope of scoring points with her, he immersed himself in Jester history and the busy society of newly rich merchants and their faithful if still-justsurviving friends. The winners were a motley lot including a barber, a hairdresser, a veterinarian, the owner of the saloon and Shelly Dupree, whom he got to see every day. He wanted to focus his story on her plans, since she’d inherited the restaurant from her parents and had been just getting along until the big win. But a few of the other reporters had the same idea and she was keeping all of them at bay, insisting that the other winners were more interesting. They might be, but she was pretty and she worked hard, and the average reader loved a pretty underdog. There was the added bonus that interviewing her kept him close enough to Rosie that all he had to do was look out the Cup’s window to see her. And many of the other winners wandered through the Cup’s doors at one time or another, so it was a great place for his base of operations. He noticed that a good-looking doctor seemed to find Shelly as interesting as Steve did. “They’re living together,” a blowsy blonde with a formidable bosom half-exposed in a green knit blouse

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told him when she helped herself to the other side of his booth. “They’re using the excuse that there’s no place else to stay in town. And somebody left her a baby.” He’d heard about that. Shelly had returned to the restaurant after a trip to the bank to deposit her winnings and found that someone had abandoned a baby. “Yeah. In a carrier on the counter,” the woman went on. “And the doc’s a pediatrician, so he’s been staying with her to help her out until they can find the mama.” She rolled her eyes. “Good story, huh?” “There is no place to stay in town,” he said with a polite smile, feeling obliged to defend Shelly from gossip. “I know. I’ve tried.” She blinked, new interest apparently replacing her fascination with Shelly and the doc. “You need a place to stay?” “No, I...” “I’ve got two spare bedrooms and down comforters in both of them!” She was leaning toward him. He pulled his coffee closer. “You’re a reporter. I’ve seen you in here a lot. I’m Paula Pratt, the mayor’s secretary.” “It’s nice to meet you, but I’ve...” “One of the rooms has a TV - with cable - and the other has a new CD player and a buckwheat pillow.” “Pardon me?” “A buckwheat pillow. You know, ergonomic shape and natural filler to help you sleep.” Life was filled with revelations. He’d traveled the world, listened to brilliant minds discuss important issues, and never heard that buckwheat helped you sleep. But he could identify a predator when he saw one. “I’m married,” he said. She blinked again. “To who?” “Rosie Sutton,” he replied. When she looked blank, he pointed out the window toward the direction where he’d last seen Rosie’s bundled up form kneeling on a foam pad in front of the Heartbreaker - but she wasn’t there. He turned away from the window to find her standing beside the booth, her nose and cheeks cherry red, her eyes turbulent. “Rosie,” he said, noting the icy glance she shot at his companion. “You know Paula Pratt?” She smiled stiffly. “Paula.”

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Paula seemed to lose all interest in him. She tried to get out of the booth, but Rosie put her hand on her shoulder and pushed her back again. “No need to get up. I just came to tell you...” she turned that turbulent expression on Steve “...that I’m putting a cup of tea on your tab. I left without money this morning.” Steve smiled. “You did dress in rather a hurry,” he said suggestively. Rosie frowned questioningly, but Paula took the remark as he’d intended and backed away. “Nice meeting you,” she said to Steve. “You, too,” he called after her retreating figure. He slid into the corner of the booth and patted the empty space to encourage Rosie to join him. “Thanks!” he said with relief. “You got here just in time.” Rosie sat and pulled her hat off, her hair falling to her shoulders in that ripple of light that stopped the breath in his throat. “She’s ragingly single,” Rosie explained, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. “The rumor is that she and the mayor have something going, but he has a long-suffering wife he’s probably unwilling to part with, so Paula’s looking out for number one.” Shelly brought a cup of tea and whole wheat toast to the table. She grinned wickedly at Steve. “You’re lucky you came out of that alive,” she said. “Grown men scatter and hide from her.” Steve patted Rosie’s hand. “Good thing I have a wife.” Rosie caught his fingers, then pinched them when Shelly walked away. “You don’t have a wife; you have a landlady.” “Ow. And does the landlady always hit up her tenant for food money?” “I left my purse on the bathroom counter,” she explained, “and you were in the shower when I had to leave.” “Next time,” he challenged, “come in and get it.” She sighed wearily and took a sip of her tea. “Steve,” she said, turning slightly toward him, “I’ve enjoyed your cooking and you’ve been fairly pleasant company this week, but you have to understand that I’m staying in Jester and I’m going to paint my heart out and one day I’m going to save enough money to buy my house and turn it into a studio/gallery. You’re no longer part of my plans.” She looked and sounded sufficiently serious that he felt a moment’s panic. But he’d been in enough tight spots in his time to recover quickly and take the offensive. “Well, that’s too bad,” he said coolly. “Because you remain part of my plans, and it isn’t just about what you want, is it, though it seems to be the way we’ve conducted this marriage.”

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“Wanting us to be together,” she said hotly, “isn’t exactly a selfish demand, is it?” “No, it isn’t,” he replied, “but the world is filled with men whose jobs require them to be away for long periods.” Her eyes brimmed with tears, making him feel like an ogre. “I thought you were dead!” she accused in a whisper. Then she snatched up one piece of toast and her cup and stormed off. From behind the counter, Shelly watched her walk away with her crockery and turned to frown at Steve. Okay. Not exactly a successful argument, but a look into those eyes brimming with tears convinced him that despite all her claims that it was over, she still loved him. There had to be a way to help her realise it. Chapter Three Rosie found it difficult to paint hearts when she really wanted to paint daggers. Her argument with Steve that morning had upset her out of all proportion to the few words exchanged. Just to amuse herself, she painted a dagger in the corner of the window where she worked. She stepped back to look at it in concern. It wasn't really a dagger - it was more of an...arrow. Even as she resisted the impulse, her brush painted a heart around it and added initials. R. and S. She dropped her bush in the jar of paint, folded her arms and paced back and forth in front of the Heartbreaker's window. Steve had been right when he'd said that many men had work that kept them away from their families, and she'd known what he did when she'd married him, but not knowing if he was dead or alive for three weeks was asking a lot of any woman. She had a right to be angry. She had a right to end it. Even though his nearness reminded her of everything that had been good about their relationship. Even though she felt as though she was about to explode with all the conflicting emotions inside her. Was it so wrong to want a husband who came home every night? Amanda Bradley, who ran Ex Libris, the bookstore that shared the building with the Heartbreaker Saloon, hurried out of the shop, holding tightly to a teal green wool shawl she'd wrapped around a long, oyster-coloured dress. She had long, light brown hair and bright brown eyes. "Here they are!" she said, holding something out to Rosie. "Hot off the press. At the end of the evening we're drawing for a weekend getaway, all expenses paid, and a couple of gourmet baskets, so don't lose them." Rosie accepted what appeared to be a pair of tickets. "What are these for?" she asked. "I don't remember buying tickets." "Your husband bought them," Amanda replied. "He said I could just give them to you. He told me he was going out to explore Shelly's list today so he could make his choices like everyone else in town."

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With a portion of her lottery winnings, Shelly Dupree wanted to give something back to the town that had supported her parents and now herself in the Brimming Cup. So she'd polled everyone in town about what they'd like to see restored or repaired and made a chart so that everyone could vote on what they'd like to see done first. As Rosie recalled, the church roof and the bleachers at the school were among them. The town hall was in disrepair, as was the statue of Catherine Peterson and her horse on the lawn of the town hall. Once a proud tribute to the young woman who'd tamed the horse that had given the town its name, it was now green with age and the neglect of meager city funds. Rosie had thought Shelly's plan magnanimous, and had admired the way the whole town got involved in the project. She was sure that for Steve, it was good story material - the heart factor he insisted every story needed, even hard news. "I like your husband," Amanda went on, huddling deeper into her shawl. "A lot of reporters don't really listen to you. They have an angle already in mind - or some agenda that doesn't necessarily relate to the truth. But you get the feeling he hears every word you're saying and understands how it relates. His stuff from Afghanistan was remarkable." Rosie turned to her in surprise. There probably weren't many people in Jester who read the L.A. Daily Observer. "Both sides of the issue," Amanda went on, "the abuses, the pain suffered, the hatreds, the losses and the longing for peace. On one level, it was hard to read because it was so evenly presented that it was hard to see a solution. Then he made it clear that under all the politics, it's still a person-to-person world, and we'll still reach for each other, no matter what." She shook her head. "That he can see that after all those years in the trenches is amazing. He must be very special. Oops, there's the phone. You look tired. You should take a break." Rosie stood rooted to the spot, surprised by Amanda's observations on Steve's talents, when all his excellent work had done was make Rosie feel put upon. She drew a breath and tried to think about his contributions to journalism as they related to the world, rather than to her. She felt her stance soften, her shoulders relax. Steve was good. She remembered with sudden sharpness how impressed she'd been with his writing when she'd first met him - how insightful it was, how clearly written, how he related what he saw and learned to the pulse of the world and connected it to each individual reading his byline. In a time when people learned everything from broadcast news or on the Internet, he'd made them readers again. How could she fight that? she wondered, picking up her brush with a desultory gesture. Whether or not he was trying to prove something to himself or anyone else, the process had made him a brilliant reporter. She had no right to ask him to do something else. She just couldn't live with the pressure and loneliness of the past four months - particularly the horror of those three weeks. Even if she did still love him. ****** 651

Steve could see Jester's appeal for Rosie. It was very small and very charming, with beautiful vistas everywhere you turned. Everything was covered with snow, which lent a certain purity to landscapes that might be parched or muddy at other times of the year but were postcard perfect now. Downtown was a sort of mismatch of old west storefronts and early century buildings. No glamorous lines, but lots of nostalgic charm. As he took a self-conducted tour to assess the points of interest in Jester that needed Shelly's help, he did his best to resist its appeal. The church roof had the most votes so far for the project to tackle first. It was small and white with a steeple, stained glass windows and a room in the basement that was used for community events. The dance, he knew, would be held there. He borrowed a ladder from the pastor to examine the roof. He had to sweep inches of snow from it to do so, then guessed by the condition of what was underneath that only the frozen snow was preventing it from leaking. The bleachers were pathetic as well, worm-eaten and broken in some places, and the statue of Catherine Peterson was a sorry sight, for sure. Though the woman's beautiful face magically translated into bronze retained its beauty despite the green and mildew. The horse was magnificent. He thought the statue was a sort of metaphor for the people of Jester - hearts of sturdy alloy defaced by time and hardship, but somehow still beautiful. He checked out the town hall, the site suggested for a public bathroom, the possibility of flower baskets hanging from the streetlights - all on the suggestion list. But he had to agree with the townspeople that the church was the neediest. It would be satisfying to see the statue tackled first, but the church served more people - harboured children and old people who should be protected from the rain. When he got back to the house later than usual, Rosie was already home fixing dinner. He went into the kitchen, sniffing the aromatic garlic and onion. She stirred spaghetti sauce and looked up at him with a half smile. "Last I heard from Shelly, you were gone to the school to check out the bleachers, so I thought I'd get dinner started. So, do the bleachers get your vote?" He washed his hands under the kitchen faucet and reached into the fridge for salad makings. "No, I'm with everyone else. The church is the worst. I climbed up for a look and it's a miracle the roof is still attached to the rest of the building." She raised both eyebrows in surprise. "You climbed up to the roof?" "Of course. A good story needs detail." He broke a head of romaine apart and began to wash it. She watched him and thought, Of course. A good story needs detail. Climb a ladder to get it, brave the weather, weapons-fire, whatever it takes. Aloud, she said, "Amanda gave me the tickets to the dance." "Good," he replied. "We need to get out. You don't do anything but paint, eat and sleep. And you don't eat very much or sleep very well."

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She was surprised that he'd noticed that. "I hear you tossing and turning, walking around. Your cold keeping you up?" He grinned suddenly. "Or are you lusting after my body, knowing it's just a stairway away." She made a scornful sound, but covered it quickly with a laugh when a swift, hot, unexpected blush rushed up through her cheeks. He didn't know how close to the truth he was. Or maybe he did. He glanced her way while slicing a tomato, and she was sure he'd noticed her reaction and drawn his own conclusion. "It's all right," he said with a knowing smile in her direction. "I lust after you, too. It's hard not to remember how good it used to be, even when you're sure it just can't be anymore." Well, thank goodness he was finally getting the message. But what had happened to his claim that loving her was still part of his plan? Not that she wanted him to pursue a reconciliation, but she'd just like to know. "I suppose I have to buy a suit for the dance," he said, chopping green onions. "I don't know. Ask Shelly. Angel-hair or shells?" "Angel-hair." "I thought you preferred shells." "I do. But you like angel-hair." She rested the spoon on the side of the pan and said with mild impatience, "Just tell me what you want." He turned away from the counter to face her, his expression suddenly serious. "I want you to have what you want. Even if it isn't the same thing I want." Well...good. She heard that answer and knew it applied on more than one level. And she understood that it was sweet even while it filled her with a weird new terror. Was he beginning to see that it just wasn't going to work? Was he finally accepting that sometimes love wasn't everything? Sometimes the practical, day-to-day adjustments were bigger than the emotion? A pointed lump took form in her throat as she tried to swallow, seeing the long, lonely road ahead of her. A whole lifetime of the past four months. Great. Just when she was close to seeing things his way, he was changing his mind. She reached to the pasta shelf, grabbed the box of shells, ripped it open and tossed them into the boiling water.

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Chapter Four Steve hadn't danced since his wedding, but with the pastor serving as disc jockey, the music was classic and mellow, and it wasn't hard to simply take Rosie into his arms, close his eyes and let the voice of Frank Sinatra move them around the church hall floor. "It Had to Be You," "You Were Meant for Me," "Embraceable You" followed one another, making moody velvet of the atmosphere. Shelly waltzed by with the doctor. Word had it they were engaged. She leaned out of the doc's arms to say, "We noticed you two sitting alone in the corner. We'd like you to join our table." Rosie, who'd been doubtful about spending an entire evening in Steve's company, tried to demur. "We're not planning to stay all evening, and I've got to..." Shelly ignored her protests and pointed to a table littered with punch glasses. A pretty woman sat at the table with Dr. Perkins, who ran the clinic. She was on a cell phone. "We're sitting over there. Vickie had to check on the kids. They have a passel, you know. We've got two vacant chairs, and you can't sit on the fringe by yourselves. Nobody's allowed privacy in Jester." He expected Rosie to take the opportunity to say that he wasn't staying, that he'd be going home soon and therefore was exempt from whatever was required of people in Jester, but she simply accepted defeat and thanked her. Steve twirled Rosie away. "Hard to fight her," he noted. To his surprise, she smiled. She'd seemed so preoccupied since he'd arrived, so determined that their relationship was over, yet he could still feel the spark in her that had ignited their attraction all those years ago. It was as though her confusion over what to do about them had kept her relatively quiet and sometimes grim. Once she'd agreed to come with him, though, she was more like the old Rosie than she'd been in a year or more. She seemed more lighthearted, and she hadn't flinched at all from having to spend most of the night in his arms. He was afraid to think too positively about this, but didn't seem able to stop himself. Maybe he was going to be able to win her over after all. During a brief intermission, the ladies' club poured coffee and served cookies, and Steve and Rosie moved their things to Shelly's table. Shelly introduced them to her fiancé, Connor O'Rourke, and the Perkinses. "Connor is Nathan's partner in the clinic," she explained. She turned her attention to Vickie. "Was everything okay at home?" Vickie nodded. "There's been an attempt to flush a doll down the toilet, but the baby-sitter stopped it." She rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee. "I swear that child's going to be a submariner or an oceanographer. He's fascinated with water. We just recovered from the plumbing bill to reconnect the elbow pipe under the sink after Nathan had to take it apart to retrieve his watch."

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Nathan grinned. "Have girls when you decide to have babies," he advised Steve and Rosie. "In our experience, they're not as fascinated with flushing. Or does it make me sexist and oppressive to suggest that?" Connor laughed. "Let's not even wonder about that. Sinatra's voice brings back a time when political correctness wasn't such an issue. Steve, I understand you're just back from the Middle East." Vickie regaled Shelly and Rosie with more stories about her children. Rosie listened with one ear, while watching the men in eager conversation. They seemed to be enjoying one another's company and, in the middle of what appeared to be a serious discussion, laughter erupted. Connor gave Steve's shoulder a fraternal slap and Rosie enjoyed the moment. She knew that one of Steve's complaints on the road was that friendships were hard to maintain. While it was true they all shared the difficulties and hardships together, when it came to getting the story, their jobs depended on reporting it first. While everyone understood that on principal, it was sometimes difficult to remember it when they were scooped. It sometimes made for hard feelings. "Nice-looking man, your husband," Vickie said, leaning across the table toward Rosie to get her attention. Rosie started guiltily. "Ah...yes, he is." "He seems to like Jester. I ran into him at the town hall. I'm on Shelly's committee to count votes and implement the townspeople's decision. Steve and I talked a little. He's a sweetie as well as easy to look at." Rosie was having difficulty remembering she'd been reluctant to come. In Los Angeles, she was so accustomed to attending events by herself, because Steve was away so much, that she dreaded being alone and, usually, bored at a fund-raiser or night at the theater where everyone was paired up. Everyone always asked about him, but understandably paid little attention to her, wrapped up in their own plans for the evening. It was wonderful to be here with Steve. And not simply because she didn't stand out as the woman alone, but because he was so attentive. She'd forgotten how soothing, how ego-boosting that could be. He was always touching her, holding her, getting something for her. He listened with rapt attention when she spoke, and shared his observations on the evening with an insightful sense of humor. This, she thought, was the way she wanted to live the rest of her life. The women who fought for every woman's right to pursue a career and live life on her own terms might be horrified, but for her that meant a studio at home, a houseful of children and a husband who came home for dinner at six o'clock. There was a cheer as the pastor returned and music began again. The men put aside their political discussion, and all three couples returned to the dance floor. "You're smiling," Steve observed with his own smile. "Feather in your undies?" 655

She had to laugh at that image. "No. I'm having a good time. Shelly and Connor and the Perkinses are fun to be with." She'd intended to let it go at that, but saw in his eyes the conclusion that she was enjoying their company more than his. He'd been in Jester almost two weeks now and she'd resisted betraying any hope that their relationship could be restored. But he seemed to be so sincere in his efforts that she was beginning to rethink her position. It wasn't his fault that she'd thought him dead for three weeks, and if she loved him - and despite all her best efforts to convince herself that she didn't, she did - she was going to have to accept that he was what he was and she had no right to try to change that. "And," she added with a gusty sigh, "I've enjoyed being with you." He stopped moving and stared at her. They stood, wrapped in each other's arms, as couples danced around them. "Did I hear you correctly?" he asked. She tightened her grip on him. "Yes. In fact...I'm...I'm really glad you came to Jester." She heard his intake of breath, felt his hand at her back turn to iron. "Can you...back that up with action?" Her body slid against his as she rose on tiptoe to kiss him. He returned her kiss, lips, tongue striving to connect. Then they remembered where they were. She looked up to see that everyone around them had stopped to watch though the music played on. He laughed lightly, muttered a swift "Excuse us," to Shelly and the others nearby, caught Rosie's hands and led her to the table to get her purse, then to the coat rack at the back of the church for her jacket. They ran the block home in two minutes. Upstairs in the loft, her hair caught on the hook at the back of her black lace top and they wasted a precious few minutes as he helped her disentangle it. Or maybe it wasn't wasted, she decided as she kissed his cheek as he tried to work with her fine hair and the delicate fabric. He groaned and she felt a certain satisfaction in torturing him as he'd tortured her since he'd arrived. When she was finally free, he helped her pull off the top, yank down the long skirt and slip, then stared with a sort of melting awe as she stood in black lace bikinis and bra. She expected him to reach for her, but when his eyes went from her round bosom erupting from the top of her bra to her eyes, there was a reverence in them she remembered from the old days. She melted, too. "I've dreamed of you like this for months," he said, holding a hand out to bring her to him. She took it and flew into his arms. "Oh, Steve," she breathed, absorbing the blissful rediscovery of his hands sweeping down her back, tracing her backside and lingering there, reaching inside her leg. Even as his touch threatened to paralyse her, to take her where she hadn't been in months, she pulled at his shirt, needing the touch of his body against hers.

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He stopped long enough to pull off his shirt and T-shirt while she unbuckled his belt. He almost lost all semblance of control when she lowered his zipper, but he struggled manfully to rid himself of the rest of his clothing as she threw the covers back. She fell backward, taking him with her, and they rolled into the middle, uncovered, unaware of the room's chill as heat filled them, fused them, exploded inside them. Her life made sense again. Her art fulfilled her, the friends she'd made in Jester sustained her, and the simple thrill of being part of the world was a blessing she recognised and was grateful for every moment. But Steve was her beating heart. He made her blood move, her breath flow. Her life, like her art, couldn't find its colour without him. They made love twice, and when they finally lay side by side, still wrapped in each other's arms, the only sad thought on her horizon was that she would have to leave Jester. But he was the backbone of his parents' operation, and it would be difficult for him to cover international news from the backwoods of Montana. "What would you think," he asked, pushing her back against her pillow and leaning over her, "if I stayed in Jester?" ****** "What?" Rosie asked in disbelief. She pushed on his bare chest to break her body's contact with his so that she could concentrate on his shocking suggestion. "You'd be willing to move to Jester?" Steve propped his elbow on the pillow beside her. "I would. It's a nice town. And with all the modern electronic amenities, I can still do my job. It's a little farther to the airport, but that's not a deal breaker." Sun seemed to ooze out of her pores. She laughed. "I can't believe it!" She turned toward him to hug him fiercely. "That was the only hitch! I want us back together so badly I was ready to go back to L.A., but dreading it." She leaned away from him, suddenly grave. "You're sure this will work for you? I mean, as much as I love it here, you can't give up everything. Please don't do this just to get me back because in the end you'll be resentful and I..." He put a fingertip to her lips to silence her. "It'll work. I'm not just doing it to get you back, because I really do like it here. And I won't be resentful." He, too, grew suddenly serious. "I hate it without you, Rosie." She climbed atop him, half crying, half laughing. "I hate it without you, too. Oh, Steve, if we could stay here I'd be so happy." "Then be happy," he said, pulling her down and entering her in one swift move that made her gasp then arch backward as pleasure raced toward her again. "Be happy," he whispered.

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It was a miracle. It was the dead of winter with Christmas long past, but it was a miracle! After the bitterness of the past few months, Steve still loved her and wanted her back. And after the terrible fear of those three weeks and her decision never to put herself in the position of having to experience that again, she was putting herself on the line once more. She loved him too much to live without him, whatever it cost her. And she could do it here, in Jester! Chapter Five Later that morning, Rosie painted large hearts with a book in each on the window of Ex Libris. Lettering wasn't her strong suit, but Amanda had given her a list of classics to fit as titles on the book covers. She'd expected it to be a tense and laborious project, but her soul was so full, her heart so light, that she stood back to examine her progress and decided that she was doing very well. Who knew, she asked herself with a smile, that love could improve one's ability to letter? Steve sat cross-legged in the middle of Rosie's bed and typed his story into his laptop. After all his research, his interviews and his personal investment in the town and its people, the words tripped off his fingers. Briefly, he profiled all the winners and talked about the long Jester ancestry enjoyed by almost everyone here. Because he'd finally talked Shelly into letting him focus his story on her, he wrote about how she'd grown up in the restaurant, found her own gift for cooking and hospitality even while she lost a part of her childhood to the demands of a going business. He talked about the efforts she'd made to turn her coffee shop into an upscale eating establishment and the disappointment she'd felt when her customers pleaded for a return to the basic menu her parents had made popular. Knowledge of her clientele and her sincere affection for them had convinced her to concede to their wishes. The Brimming Cup was, after all, the cradle of Jester events, the clearinghouse of news and gossip, the daytime social centre of the community. He'd gotten lost, he explained in his article, in the tempo and politics of the world. It was easy to forget, he wrote, that the world is made up of neighbourhoods like downtown Jester. When politicians are in charge, people starve and go to war. When people are in charge, they reach out to one another, help one another, love one another. He spell-checked, made one more pass through, then filed the story. He was surprised when he went downstairs to make himself a well-deserved cup of coffee, to find that snow was falling. It drifted down in silent grace and made him wish that Rosie was here so that they could make love while watching it. But she was working. He had gained a new appreciation for her abilities, however commercial the window painting was, when he saw shoppers stop to watch her and kibitz, shop owners walk out of their stores to spur her on and praise her for the beautifully made hearts that now filled downtown Jester. 658

Well, he thought philosophically as he shrugged into his jacket, he could get her a cup of tea from Shelly and maybe earn a kiss and a promise for later. This was the last place in the world he'd expected to end up, he thought as old snow crunched underfoot as he made his way to the Cup. The new stuff was big and fluffy and the sky dark with more of it though it was only midafternoon. He expected that by nightfall it would be a fullblown blizzard. He stopped in front of the Cup, stomped his feet on the mat to leave the snow outside and walked in. ****** Rosie's fingers trembled while she painted hearts, and it wasn't the sudden drop in temperature. After several hours of euphoria at her reconciliation with Steve, she was coming down to earth. There were urgent matters she had to take care of. Having her husband back in her life was something so wonderful, something she hadn't expected to happen at this point in time, that she felt like a furnace pipe rattling with the power of the ignited firebox. But the trembling was more than that. She hadn't been completely honest with him. At first, she hadn't thought it necessary because she knew he was angry with her and thought he'd followed her simply to berate her, and that, bored by the small town he'd simply threaten to countersue for divorce and be gone. But he'd liked it here. And he'd wanted her back with a determination that was a part of that rattling force inside her. Then she'd kept the secret to herself because she was falling in love all over again, and knowing love to be a fragile and tenuous thing, she waited for the right moment, the natural opening to the subject. But it hadn't come. And now she had to make the moment. When he suddenly appeared beside her as though she'd conjured him up herself, she stared at him in worried surprise. He raised an eyebrow and held up the paper cup with its heat-protective cuff. "You remember me?" he teased. "Purveyor of tea, or whatever else I can interest you in in the middle of Main Street at 2:30 in the afternoon." He lowered his voice and waggled his eyebrows as he added that last, and she found herself distracted by the velvet darkness of his eyes and the seductive quality of his voice, even though the theatrical tone was teasing. She forgot where she was and remembered only that last night, that voice hadn't been teasing, and guessed that if she did lean into his arms he might kiss her even though every merchant in every shop up and down the street was probably peering through her hearts right now to see what she and Steve were doing. Then Amanda's voice interrupted them with a teasing, "Oh, for heaven's sake, get a room!" Then she laughed and said cheerfully, "Will you look at this snow? Everyone in town is going to be

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worried about staying warm tonight, but I'll bet you two won't. Love's a miracle of thermal units gone wild." Steve laughed and Rosie was about to join them when Amanda raised the book she'd held at her side and swept it out, title uppermost, to offer it to Rosie. Time stopped. Rosie's air left her as though a giant hand had slapped her silly and collapsed her lungs. Oh, no! Oh, no! she thought in urgent desperation even as she saw Steve's eyes follow the arc of Amanda's hand as she offered Rosie the book she'd ordered three weeks ago. It was upside down for him, and she saw him tilt his head to read the title. How could her heart keep beating, she wondered absently, when she wasn't getting any air? "Your book's arrived," she said to Rosie, completely unaware that she was about to cut the ground out from under Rosie's feet. "I'm sorry it took so long. This sells so well that my distributor is always out of it, and of course, because we're out in the boonies, the big chains and the shops with a lot of volume get the good stuff first." "What to Expect," Steve read the title aloud, his laughing expression of a moment ago now changed to questioning confusion, "When You're Expecting." But he was a smart man. It took just a moment for it to sink in. Then his expression grew darker than the storm-filled sky overhead. Rosie had a horrible, intuitive feeling that all her claims since he'd arrived had been prophetic. It was over. She caught a glimpse of Amanda's horrified expression as she realised that Steve hadn't known, and gave her a pat on the arm that absolved her of all responsibility. Rosie closed her eyes and waited for the thunder. "You're pregnant?!" Steve demanded, snatching the book from Amanda's hand. "Rosie, I'm so sorry!" Amanda whispered. Steve turned to her and asked with strained civility, "Would you excuse us, please?" At Rosie's nod, she went back inside the shop. More than anything, Steve hated being stupid. Remembering Rosie's pallor, her soupy eyes, her unwillingness to eat much of anything, he couldn't imagine why he'd swallowed the story that she had a cold. She hadn't coughed or sneezed; there'd just been a pervading look of discomfort about her that he'd sometimes wondered if his presence here was partially responsible for. Hating to admit that to himself, he'd happily believed she was ill with something simple like a cold. But it wasn't a cold. Rosie, who'd left him for doing his job, scared him to death with her absence until he found her in Jester, had lied to him for months.

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"Well?" he prompted angrily. "Are you far enough along that the baby is mine?" ****** Asking Rosie if the baby was his had been low and cruel, Steve knew as he watched anger and hurt feelings war for supremacy in her eyes. But he was in no mood to be civil, much less polite. And he wasn't sure what he feared most - that she'd known for four months that she was pregnant and hadn't bothered to tell him because she'd intended to leave him, or that the pregnancy was more recent than that and the baby was another man's. He got his answer to that when she doubled her fist and punched him right in the gut. It might have rocked him had he not still been rooted to the spot with righteous indignation. "Of course it's yours, you idiot!" she screamed at him. She gestured widely with the hot tea in her left hand and it flew in a wide arc and fell to the snow, melting it in a half-moon pattern. Furiously, she threw the cup. "You take off like...like Captain Adventure and do your important work and never stop to think what it's like for me! You were gone a long time! I didn't even know I was pregnant when you left. Then, I'd hear from you through your mum and I didn't want to tell her before you knew. Then you were in one hot spot after another, and I was afraid the news would...would distract you." Her voice cracked and her lips trembled as she raged on. "Then I thought you were dead! I thought our life together was over!" He made himself calm down in the face of her formidable anger. "But you learned I wasn't dead. Why didn't you tell me then?" "Because I was still hearing from you through your mother!" she screamed at him. He realised absently that they were collecting a small crowd of onlookers. "And while I was happy you were alive, I was beginning to realise I couldn't live with you anymore. And I was mad enough to run away so I could decide privately what I wanted to do." "But I came to find you!" he reminded her, forgetting his efforts to quiet down. "I've been with you for two weeks! We made plans to get back together, but you still didn't tell me." "Because I wanted us to reconcile because you wanted me, not because you knew I was pregnant." "I have always loved you!" he roared at her. "Wherever the hell I am, I love you!" She folded her arms and studied him warily, large tears standing in her eyes. "I know that. I also know how devoted you are to what you do, and that loving me has never stopped you from doing it, no matter how hard it is on our marriage. I was torn between wanting to be with you because I love you and wanting a different life for our baby. I wanted to be able to tell you with great joy, and...I just wasn't sure how things were going to go." That made a sort of perverted sense, but there was a significant flaw in her argument. "But last night I told you I wanted to stay. And you still didn't tell me." 661

She nodded feebly. "Because we were in each other's arms, and I wasn't sure you'd still mean it in the light of day." That was when he lost it. He'd had a tenuous grip on his temper at best, but he'd wanted to hear her out. Now he didn't trust himself to remain within reach of her. "I wasn't sure you'd still mean it in the light of day," she'd said. That was like calling him a liar. Him, a reporter respected for his attention to detail in the interest of presenting the most honest story possible. What was left of their relationship, he wondered, if she didn't trust him enough, didn't believe enough in his declaration of love, to tell him she was carrying his baby? ****** Rosie watched him storm away through the thickening snow and opened her mouth to call him back, but the rising wind tore his name from her lips. She packed up her paints and went home, half expecting to find him stuffing his things into his suitcase. But he wasn't there. By seven o'clock that evening, she was convinced that he'd flown back to L.A. without his things. The house was deathly quiet and the snow drifting past the windows contributed to her sense of isolation. Bill Matisse sat curled up in the middle of her bed while she worked on the painting. At least she'd finally figured out what was wrong with it. Curious that pain was often more enlightening than joy. The telephone rang and Rosie put her brush down. She was shocked to hear Steve's mother's voice. "Rosie!" Ellie Sutton was a tall, elegant woman with a lively intelligence and a despotic approach in the newsroom. She'd always been warm and kind to Rosie, though they had very little in common. "Hi! Can I talk to Steve, please?" "Hi, Ellie," Rosie replied, forcing her voice to rise to a note of cheer. "He's...not here." He's probably on his way back to L.A., she thought, but didn't say it aloud. "Would you have him call me?" Ellie asked, and before Rosie could decide whether or not to be honest with her and tell her he probably wouldn't be coming back, Steve's mother said, "I can't tell you how happy his father and I are that you're getting back together. I know you're two very different people, but you've always been so good for him, and he adores you." Rosie could only presume that Ellie's last conversation with her son had taken place before today. But Ellie destroyed that notion by adding, "And congratulations on the baby! We're very excited at the prospect of being grandparents." As far as Rosie could tell, there was no suggestion in her voice that Steve had been unhappy when he'd reported that news. "When did you speak to him?" Rosie couldn't help asking.

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"This afternoon," Ellie replied. "And tell him that I've cashed in his profit-sharing and transferred it electronically to his bank account. But I forgot to ask if he wants some of the stock liquidated or just left alone." Rosie was sure when she mentioned stock, she wasn't talking cattle. Why was Steve liquidating stock and cashing in his profit-sharing? Then it occurred to her with chilling certainty. Of course. He'd always fantasised about buying a place in London and writing a novel. "I'll have him call you," she promised, having to clear her throat. "You sound awful, Rosie," Ellie said candidly. "If it's any comfort, you should be feeling much better any day now. I was the soda-cracker queen until my fifth month, then I was invincible. Give Steve a hug for me, will you?" "Yeah," she whispered and hung up the phone. And the reality of what she'd done to Steve and their marriage closed in on her. Thanks to her selfishness and cowardice, she was facing a future alone with her baby's father across an ocean. Feeling lightheaded, she remembered that she hadn't eaten lunch and while she wasn't particularly hungry, she knew she had to eat for the baby's sake. She went down to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and stared desultorily at the contents of the refrigerator. Since Steve had been cooking, there was more there than there had been before, but nothing appealed to her. She opened the refrigerator, found several leftover pieces of the promised cheesecake and dug in the utensil drawer for a fork. She was carrying it to the table when the kitchen door burst open and Steve walked in, arms filled with grocery bags. For a moment, she could only stare at him. He kicked the door closed with his foot and took the groceries to the counter, trailing ice and snow as he went. He took an envelope out of the pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. She backed away from him, fresh tears filling her eyes. In true protective fashion, he was going to stock her shelves with provisions and pay her child support before taking off for Europe. "I don't want it," she whispered, then remembered to add, "Thank you, though." Generally, he was a peaceful man, Steve thought, but this woman could drive him crazy. He tried to remember that she was pregnant and therefore hormonally challenged. And that she always looked so anguished when she talked about that three-week period when he'd been stuck in the mountains of Afghanistan and she'd thought he was dead. "How do you know you don't want it," he asked reasonably, "if you don't look inside to see what it is?" She looked at the envelope he held out as though it could bite her. Then she looked at him, her eyes miserable. "It's a check." She sounded so sure. "It's not a check," he assured her. 663

"Then, what is it?" He expelled a breath and prayed for patience. "What do you want most in all the world?" he asked. "You," she replied, surprising him. He knew she loved him despite all the junk that had gone on between them, but he hadn't expected her to admit it, and without even stopping to think about it. She burst into sobs. "I don't want groceries or child support. I just want you here for me and for the baby!" He went to wrap her in his arms and hold her close. "It's the deed to this house," he said, kissing the top of her head. "Shelly put me on to your landlord, who met me at his lawyer's, and it's done. It's ours. I figured while you're painting downstairs, I'm going to work on a novel up here. I'll have mornings and you can have afternoons, or the other way around, while the other's with the baby." Rosie swallowed, joy so strong it was a pain in the centre of her chest. "But...you were so angry with me." He nodded, his expression firm. "I still am." He admitted with a shrug of self-deprecation, "But I know you're also justified in being angry with me. I'm sorry I've been out there doing what I do, taking risks to try to stay on top when you're right - I do have a few things to prove to you. Primarily that I love you very much, that I'm really happy about the baby, and I want to be here for both of you." Rosie kissed him soundly and clung to him. She may not have been one of the purchasers of the winning lottery ticket, but she felt very much like one of the Main Street Millionaires. Steve swept her up in his arms and carried her upstairs. He was placing her in the middle of the bed when he noticed that she'd been working on the painting. He ignored her playful protest as he abandoned her for a closer look at the canvas on the easel. As he saw what she'd done, his hand went to his heart where a little fire was building. She'd figured it out. Added to the underpainting was…him! Standing on the corner, talking to Shelly. And on Rosie's back as she worked across the street was a baby in a backpack.

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Cowboy All Night by Tina Leonard Chapter One "And the last lucky male who will grace the floor tonight in the All-Night Scoot-Til-Your-BootsStick Charity Dance is none other than...Kyle Masters of the Double Masters Ranch!" His heart sinking, Kyle forced a smile for the sparse crowd clapping its approval. Across the room, his brother, Pete, grinned devilishly. Since Pete was in charge of drawing the men's names, and had insisted that both of them should attend the annual fund-raiser, Kyle should have known this would happen. While he was always ready to contribute to a good cause, it had never occurred to him that he'd be chosen to dance. But Pete was an ornery brother, always ready to incur his older brother's wrath. Pete would say "It's for charity, Kyle," and Kyle wouldn't be able to argue with him. He could, however, give Pete extra chores to do back at the ranch - and he'd be within his rights to do so since his own presence was now required at the charity dance. All night. "The oh-so-lucky lady who will be Kyle's partner is none other than..." The gray-haired older woman in charge of calling ladies' names looked at the paper as if she couldn't read it. She handed it to Pete, who glanced at Kyle, his grin even wider. Kyle's heart sank to unfathomable depths. Pete wouldn't. Pete knew how Kyle felt about "Molly Dewberry, Ike, Idaho's favourite daughter!" The small crowd in the ballroom applauded and hands pushed at Kyle's back, urging him to go claim his partner for the evening. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Pete smirking. Of all the single women in Ike, he had to be partnered with the one woman he was least likely to share a comfortable evening with. Dancing for charity was sufferance enough - why Molly? Molly Dewberry wasn't smiling, either. She stared at him as he approached her, a vision in a microscopic red velvet dress, a hot firecracker of a girl with a notoriously aloof manner with men. Her history he knew by heart - it was the one thing they had in common: Molly's grandmother had fallen in love with his grandfather, who was too in love with rodeo to settle down and marry her, even after they'd been caught in a compromising position. Her reputation ruined, Molly's brokenhearted grandmother married another man to save face in the town, never speaking another word to her rodeo-loving beau. As a result, Molly and Kyle had never spoken five words to each other in their lives. Equatorial poles could not be further apart, as the wounded pride of one woman spilled into descending generations. But the greatest curse of his life was thinking the notoriously cold Molly Dewberry, the sister of his childhood foe, Dob, was the sexiest woman alive.

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The next 12 hours promised to be the longest of his life. Holding her would be sheer red-hot hell. If he could simply keep from getting an erection, maybe he wouldn't die a fool's embarrassment in front of the assembly of charitable-minded people he'd known all his life. Chapter Two "I believe we are partnered for the evening," Kyle said, holding out his hand to Molly. The ballroom grew quiet, waiting with held breath to see if Idaho's version of the Hatfields and the McCoys could share dance space. Without a word - had he expected her to kick his shin with her red high heel? - she took his hand. She was too short for him, too petite and fine-boned, and after dancing 12 hours with her he'd probably be hump-shouldered and stooped, but if she was going to be a good sport about this evening, he could be, too. After all, it was a charity event - and he didn't have to wear those outrageous red shoes she had on. "Hello, Kyle," she said, gazing up at him with clear, blue eyes, tranquil as the sky on a perfect spring day. "Molly." Swallowing hard, he closed one hand around her tiny waist and took her other hand also tiny - in his. He felt like a bear holding a bee in his paw. Of course, she was small all over too short to be a model, which he'd heard had caused her disappointment. And she wasn't what any man would call stacked, unless it was a short stack. But then, he figured in her case less was more, because if she were any bigger on top, she'd tip over. "I thought this was supposed to be a boot-scooting dance-a-thon," she said wryly. He wondered about that himself, glancing over at Pete, who was now assisting the disc jockey with music selections, the first of which didn't make for much boot scooting. Five slow dances and no conversation later, he was ready to rethink his policy on not using his physical superiority against his younger brother. Then Molly shifted, almost leaning against him as if she needed his support, and the feel of warm, supple velvet beneath his fingertips took all the heat out of his temper. For a short, slight, and stubborn girl with a notoriously reserved manner with men, she was managing to put that dreaded itch in his lower region. Her brother, Dob, glowered at them, waiting for a chance to take offense. She laid her head against Kyle's shoulder, and he stiffened, realising his unwanted attraction was obvious to her.

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"Take it easy, cowboy," she said. "I just need a leaning post for a sec." Chapter Three Molly looked into his eyes - strangely blue eyes on an auburn-haired woman - and said, "Surviving?" He nodded. "I thought so." Smiling at him with a mischievous wink, she moved against him, dangerously close to that itch, which had somehow worked into a long, hard prickle that wanted foolishly to be scratched. He tried to shift away, furtive with awkward, hot male pride. "It's okay," he heard her say as she lowered her head to rest against his chest again. "I'd be disappointed if you weren't attracted to me." "I didn't say I was." "You didn't have to." She looked up and smiled, 30 years of confidence in her gaze. "I can feel it." He wasn't about to reply. "It's the one disadvantage of being a man. You give away your thoughts. Whereas you can't tell if I'm attracted to you or not." They were talking softly enough that no one in the growing crowd could hear them, so Kyle decided to see where this conversation would lead them. It was certainly more interesting than worrying about her brother staring at them all night. "Are you attracted to me?" he asked, more out of masculine pride than need to know. She shook her head. "No." He narrowed his gaze on her. "Are you telling the truth?" "Do you think I am?" "I don't know." She laughed, her smile teasing. "I will tell you one thing: We've made it through the first 15 minutes, and with any luck, I might be able to stand 12 hours with the one man I've never expected to dance with." Chapter Four

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Oh. That didn't sound like a woman who wanted him. Damn. For a moment, he'd had fairy-tale aspirations of finding out what was under that flirty red skirt. "I never wanted to dance with you, either." "Well, you're stuck with me now," she said. "I came here tonight to help out a good cause, and to have a good time while I'm at it. I've always wanted to dance all night, and this is the first chance I've had. I' m not going to let anything or anyone spoil it for me." It was almost as if she was daring him to back out. Then she gazed up at him. "Would you like to kiss me?" "Kiss you?" Kyle asked, tempted. "No," he replied. He was into saving pride at this moment. "Are you telling the truth?" she said, teasing and then smiled as if answering her own question. "So, Dob tells me you're going back on the circuit." "As a guest judge to fill in for a friend of mine who's having surgery. I'm looking forward to it." "How long will you be gone?" she asked. He shifted his weight so that he could maneuver her closer to him. "A couple of weeks. I leave after the charity dance." "Pete can look after the famous Double Masters Ranch?" "About as well as anybody. How's your ranch?" She shrugged. "I don't know. I stay away as much as possible now that Mum and Dad are gone. This past summer I took my sisters to visit our cousin, Mimi, in Union Junction, Texas. They've got a small ranch, too, but at least it's a manageable drive into Dallas." "Get into any trouble?" Her nose wrinkled. "Only when we went picnicking with Mimi and some of the brothers next door. There are 12 men on the ranch and they're all pretty rowdy." Chapter Five Kyle stiffened, not liking the idea that she might have been offended by a man. "Did they bother you?" Molly laughed at the idea. "It's never a bother when men get into a brawl for your attention." Molly laughed up at him. "Although my youngest sister does tend to get weak at the sight of blood." "A fistfight over women?" 668

She laughed. "Mimi says the Jefferson boys are generally well behaved but that the occasional argument does break out." "So, did you go out with any of the brothers?" "Oh, no. I don't date..." "Cowboys," he said, finishing her sentence. Her gaze caught on his. "Is that what you've heard?" "Yeah. I've heard you can be…picky." Her eyes moved from his, which caused her nose to tilt into the air. "My mother used to say it was just as easy to love a dentist." "Do you have bad teeth?" he asked, joshing around in a brotherly manner he thought she might be comfortable with, but she shook her head, in all seriousness. "No, but neither do I eat meat. Nor do I care to live in the country all my life. As soon as my sisters are more settled, I'm moving to New York." "To do what?" he asked, honestly curious as to why she'd want to leave Ike. "I want to go to law school," she said. He nearly laughed, but stopped himself. Her eyes told him she was serious. "Why?" "I finished college but tried modeling instead of going for a higher degree. I never really had a future as a model, but even if I was a foot taller, I wouldn't have wanted to do it for very long. I've always wanted to do something important, and now I'm ready. "I like to debate, I like to argue, and I'd like to help people who have no other voice out there," she said firmly. "And because there's only room for one lawyer in all of Ike, I'm going somewhere I can really make a difference." Tough as it was, he felt an inkling of admiration for Dob's little sister. Maybe the family tree wasn't totally blighted. The only person Dob ever helped was himself. Then again, this was a woman who didn't mind men fighting over her. Was that a character flaw? He wasn't certain. He'd probably consider women fighting over him a plus. "What will Dob do without you?" he asked. "Continue annoying you and everyone else in Ike." She shrugged. "It's your own fault, you know."

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Chapter Six "My fault? How so?" Kyle frowned at Molly, not wanting any blame where Dob was concerned. From the playground to the barroom, it had always been Dob picking fights with him. "You let him get to you," Molly said. "If there's a mosquito on your arm, you slap it off, don't you?" "Yeah." "Think of him as a mosquito. You're too big to be bothered by him. You're not boys anymore." "Could be you're right." He didn't want to talk about Dob. It was true that the family feud had made them enemies while they were kids, and the bad blood between them had only gotten personal when they became grown men. Kyle's fingertips walked the curve of Molly's waist and his mind was on how fragile she was. Unfortunately, Dob crossed his line of vision, in the midst of eager men. "What is he doing?" She looked up for a moment. "Taking bets, I think." "On what?" "Whether we make it from moonshadow till daylight," she said matter-of-factly. Kyle had never heard anything so outrageous. It was a charity ball, for heaven's sake! Everyone besides the dancers was busy eating, talking, or putting money into a large jar by the doorway. "You're letting him get to you now," she said, noticing the change in his expression. "How do you know?" "I can tell." Chapter Seven Molly shifted close to where he'd been itching before, but the sensation no longer alarmed him mainly because she was right. Dob's machinations had a peculiar effect on his ardour. "Let's play a game to pass the time, Kyle." "All right," he said hesitantly. He wasn't usually a man for playing games. "Close your eyes. We both will." She did, but he didn't, instead using the moment to drink in the sight of her beauty. With her eyes closed, she looked peaceful, as if she were asleep. It was a very tempting picture. 670

Her eyes snapped back open. "Did you do it?" "Do what?" "Imagine anything?" she demanded. Not wanting to appear unobliging, he nodded. "Uh-huh." "Good." She smiled. "Ladies first. I imagined that we were having a wonderful evening together." Oh. He'd imagined seeing her lying in bed. "Uh -" She frowned teasingly. "You didn't play, did you?" He decided to forego the whole game. "Maybe I'm not too good at imagination." A light, fine brow cocked at him. "Then you have to think up the next conversation. Time will pass more quickly if we're having fun." Clearing his throat, he said, "I imagined that Dob disappeared. For tonight only," he amended hastily. After all, he wouldn't like it if someone insulted his brother, not matter how ornery Pete was. Now her frown wasn't teasing. "Okay," he said, not wanting to appear too mean-spirited. "I imagined what you looked like asleep." "Why?" She would have to delve deeper into this matter, he realised with an inward sigh. "Because when you closed your eyes, I couldn't help myself. I just saw it. And that's the truth," he stressed, going back to their original cross-purpose. She smiled. "Do you want to play 'fact or fantasy' now?" Chapter Eight "No." Kyle looked down at Molly with something akin to extreme discomfort. "Why would I?" "So that we can spend the next 11 hours getting to know each other. Can you think of something better to do?"

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Besides bribing the DJ to play faster music, no. But then he'd be stuck jumping around in a formal suit, and though it was February, it was warm inside from the heating. Hers was a harmless, social, conversational game, he supposed. He could get through it. "All right," he said, surrendering his sanity. She smiled at him approvingly and moved closer against him. The sensation was like liquid drowning all his senses, and he wanted nothing more than to pick her up and slide her down the length of his body. Dob would kill him, she'd justifiably slap him, all of Ike in attendance would laugh, and he'd have to miss judging on the circuit if Dob hit him because he didn't dare retaliate. Dob was, after all, Molly's brother, and for some reason, Kyle didn't want to look bad in her eyes for beating her brother senseless. Best to put the sliding-down-the-body fantasy away quick. "Truth or dare?" she asked. "I thought you called it something else. Something with facts in it. I know lots of trivia about sports," he said hopefully. "Okay. If I was a ball, what kind would you want me to be?" His jaw sagged. His mind repeated her question. Yes, it was sports-related, but with a definite catch. Answer: A handball, because then I could hold you all I wanted. Bzzz! Buzzer disallows answer. Handball was a fast, rough sport. A basketball. No good. He'd be throwing her away all the time. Bzzz! Football. No, best to avoid that on every level. He'd never thought so hard about such a silly question, he was certain. There was just no way he could answer this with dignity. "A ball of cookie dough — preferably chocolate chip," he said finally. She shook her head. "I think you censored your imagination." She perplexed him. "How did you know?" "Because you took forever to answer, and your face was kind of stressed while you thought through your choices." She gave him a mock shame-on-you gaze. "So why a cookie-dough ball?" "Because chocolate chip is my favourite cookie." He was thinking a ball of cookie dough was soft and sweet, just like Molly. But he didn't dare tell her that.

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Her look was questioning, then somewhat sad as she put her face against his chest, hiding her eyes and her thoughts from him. "You didn't like my answer?" he asked. Chapter Nine Molly knew Kyle hadn't meant to be funny, but she had to laugh at his answer just the same. She hid her face so she wouldn't hurt his feelings. She was attracted to him and that was a bad sign. He was tall, chiseled, good-looking, and humourless. He was trying to go along with the moment, but it was like asking a mountain to suddenly leap sideways. Kyle simply wasn't going to be able to partner her in a lighthearted manner and just say what was on his mind. They'd never last through the night if he didn't unbend. And she really wanted to win the charity dance so the children's wing at the hospital would receive the night's proceeds. For those children alone, she was willing to dance into next week with her brother's arch-rival. Besides, the family feud had never made much sense to her. "I can make you laugh, cowboy," she said. "Take a little starch out of that spine of yours." He grimaced, which probably served as his smile since he was holding her. Definitely she'd felt his attraction to her, but he wasn't about to go further than a mechanical masculine sexual response. Still, she had to get him to climb out of his formal demeanor or he might back out on her after a couple of hours. "I don't have a very good sense of humour." "All right, tough case. What's the difference between snowmen and snowwomen?" "I don't know." She smiled at him. "Snowballs!" He didn't laugh, but he did perk up at her corny joke. He had to admire the way she was trying to lighten up an awkward situation. Her warmth was unexpected, given what he'd heard about her, and considering their family history. Chapter Ten

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"Can I change my answer from chocolate-chip-cookie-dough ball to snowball?" "Why a snowball?" Molly asked, pleased he was still trying to play along. "Because…I think it sounds better, that's all. It's the kind of answer I wish I would think of offthe-cuff." "I have trouble with spontaneous humour, too. I always think of something better to say later." Kyle nodded. "But if I'm a snowball, I might hit you in the face," she said. "I'll catch you first and melt you in my hands." This type of conversation was new to him; most people in Ike stuck to cattle and the weather. Her eyes widened in spite of herself. Creative progress points for him! And she'd love to be his snowball for a night - she was already feeling pretty melted in places she hadn't expected to. "So I'm a snowball. Hey, cowboy, do you know why you can't hear bunnies making love?" "No. Why?" "Because they have cotton balls!" She only knew two really corny jokes, and she wondered briefly what she would do if this one didn't make him laugh, if only out of embarrassment. But he laughed, a real chuckle, his smile almost…almost getting comfortable. Dob appeared at their elbow suddenly, and Kyle went stiff under her hand. "They called break time but I don't think you heard," Dob said, his words directed to Kyle. "Fifteen minutes." Kyle dropped his hand from her waist as if he'd been burned. "I'll see you in 15," he said courteously. Then he nodded to her brother. "Dob." Her brother barely nodded back. The two men stared each other down before Kyle looked at Molly once more, then walked away. "I don't like this," Dob complained. "He holds you too close. People are staring." "I like the way he holds me. He's been a perfect gentleman. Far more perfect than I'd like him to be, in fact." She enjoyed pushing Dob's buttons.

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"Just so long as it stays that way. I'm watching every move he makes." "I can take care of myself." "Not where the Masters men are concerned. If a woman could catch them, don't you think they'd be caught by now?" "You're not," she shot back. "And you're Kyle's age." "Yeah, but I appreciate solitude. Kyle Masters chases all women, just like the rest of them. And don't think I'll stand here and watch you be ogled in front of all of Ike, Idaho." "It's none of your business, Dob." "Would you care for a drink?" Kyle asked, coming back to stand beside them. He held out a drink to her, and Molly realised he'd known she wasn't going to get her break if her brother had anything to do with it. Dob didn't mean to be selfish, but he was totally overprotective, and this made him oblivious to a lot of things. "Thank you. I need to freshen up. Excuse me." She left the floor but Kyle caught up with her and took her elbow. "Hang on," he said. "I have something to say to you in private." Chapter Eleven Private sounded promising. Maybe Kyle didn't mind her overprotective brother. Perhaps he found her fun, intriguing company. Or was he going to back out on her? Claim tired feet? Early rise tomorrow to hit the rodeo circuit? Obviously he hadn't expected to hear his name called for dancing tonight since he'd planned to hit the road early. His chivalry in not begging off for that reason spurred some begrudging admiration. Dob, of course, wouldn't see it that way. Pooh on Dob, anyway. Molly allowed Kyle to lead her into a courtyard. "Is it too cold out here for you?" Kyle asked. Shaking her head, she said, "I'm too heated up at Dob to get cold." "Is he always that way?" "Short answer? Yes."

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Kyle took her drink and placed it on a stone fence on the clubhouse patio. "I have a confession to make." "Confessions will make the evening go faster," she teased. "I do think you're beautiful." She was touched. "Thank you, Kyle." "I thought you were beautiful even before we danced." "Is there a reason you're telling me all this now?" She was terribly afraid he was making this confession because he was going to leave her. Find her a substitute. Abandon her to her games and her silly conversation. Make her disappoint the children at the hospital. And, just as bad, get the town's people gossiping about history repeating itself. Chapter Twelve "Because I figure I'm no better than Dob. All I've done tonight is dance around what I should be saying." Kyle sighed. "Conversation is not my strong suit, and it caught me off-guard to find myself wondering what you had on under your dress. And I'd want you to be a chocolate-chipcookie-dough ball because I'd eat you all up from toe to top. And if you were a snowball that melted in my hands, I'd drink every drop." She felt herself blink with surprise. "Surprised?" "Did you really think all that?" she asked, skeptical. "Well, I don't really need to know what you're wearing under your dress, but I did wonder, yes. I mean, I'm not asking. But I did think about it. And some other less-gentlemanly things, obviously." He was really cute when the tips of his ears went pink. "That's kind of sweet," she murmured. He didn't reply. "Kyle, tonight we're just dancing. Nothing more than that. The dance will end at eight in the morning, and you'll hit the road. I'll make plans to move to New York after my sisters are back in school. Tonight's my night to be Cinderella. And you can be my prince," she finished softly. Standing over her in the cold moonlit night, she could barely see his face in the romantic light from the swaying Japanese lanterns and white mini-lights. But he was obviously watching her, 676

listening to every word she'd said, digesting it. Inside the ballroom she could hear people having a good time. The truth was, she wanted to keep him with her for the rest of the dance. And it wasn't just about winning anymore. Or kicking up her heels all night. If she was honest with herself, she wanted this night with him. "I've got a confession, too," she said. "I want you to kiss me. And if you kiss me for real, not like Dob's little sister, I'll tell you what I've got on under my dress." Chapter Thirteen "I thought you didn't like cowboys," Kyle said. "Maybe I like you," she replied. "I'm mighty tempted, but to be honest, I think you're just trying to make Dob mad." "Why would I do that?" He shrugged. "I don't know. He's got a hair-trigger temper, though, and I don't aim to stoke it. Not tonight." He had many admirable qualities, but the ability to forget who Molly was for the night wasn't one of them. She was nothing like he had expected, but it seemed the past still stood between them. Or at least Dob did. "I'm sorry," she said, disappointed. So much for Cinderella. "For what?" "For asking you to kiss me. And that you have to partner me. I know you're only being a gentleman." Inside the ballroom, the announcer called the couples back to the floor. Her pride hurt. She didn't look at Kyle. She couldn't change the past, and she couldn't be anyone except who she was. And she wasn't going to keep trying to pretend that this night could be fun for either of them. She had hoped he saw the "feud" as she did, but apparently it had meaning as far as he was concerned. He took her hand and silently they returned to the floor. Chapter Fourteen

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Molly didn't offer any conversation. Neither did Kyle. They slow-danced, holding each other awkwardly. When a fast dance played, they didn't change positions. This way, their eyes never met. But as much as they ignored each other, staying lost in their own thoughts, Molly felt the heat growing between them. A mutual attraction simmered; it teased and tormented with their every move. They'd shift to a different, less ill-at-ease position, only to find a different kind of tension building. Everywhere he rested his hand, her skin burned. She knew Kyle felt it, too, because he kept clearing his throat. Once or twice she thought he might say something, but he never did. And then, to her very great surprise, exactly 44 minutes into the hour — one minute before the break would be announced — Kyle moved his hands to cup her face. Her gaze jumped to his. He stroked her cheeks for a moment as he stared down into her eyes, and then he bent down to touch his lips to hers. The entire ballroom went silent. No one could miss a six-foot-four man bending down to kiss a woman who barely reached his chest. Besides, everyone had already been watching them out of the corners of their eyes, expecting an argument to break out at any moment. She didn't care who was watching. Winding her arms around his neck, she kissed Kyle back for all she was worth. He smelled sexy, he felt heavenly, and he knew what to do with his mouth. "Break!" the DJ called. Neither she nor Kyle took a break from the smooching. If anything, she felt him put more body into it. She moved closer between his legs, tilting her head back for him to more easily and deeply plunder her mouth. "Break!" the DJ repeated loudly, sounding desperate. "Damn it! Break!" Dob hollered into the microphone. "Can't you hear?" Kyle broke away to glance at Dob, who was posed like a bantam rooster at the DJ stand. Kyle also noted that the floor was empty. They had a small audience of astonished and amused people. "I hear, but I'm not listening," Kyle said. Chapter Fifteen "They have to take a break from the floor, don't they?" Dob asked the DJ. "The rules do state that everyone has to be off the floor for a 15 minute break each hour," the DJ confirmed, almost apologetically.

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Kyle turned back to her. "Hate to break when it was getting good, but we must play by the rules." For once, she was glad for the rules. Her face on fire from the whispering of spectators and her brother's stormy expression, Molly stepped from his arms. "I think it's just as well." Dob gained her side the instant she walked from the floor. Taking her by the arm, he pulled her outside. "Molly, what were you thinking?" "That it was the best kiss I'd ever had. Dob, cool off. It didn't hurt anything." He took a deep breath. "Molly, for years you've been the mother figure to our two younger sisters. I know you're ripe for striking out on your own, maybe even for falling in love. But what you don't know is what I haven't told you. And I'm telling you now, Kyle Masters is not the man for you." "I wasn't looking for the man for me." Truthfully, she'd wanted one night - this night - with him. She did a lot for other people; she'd come to the dance this night for herself alone. "If you want to throw away your good name, do it," Dob continued. "But remember that his grandfather played fast and loose with our grandmother, and she was never the same after he shamed her. Never." "I don't know that I've heard the story that way," Kyle said, coming to stand beside Molly. Though Dob was tall and rangy, Kyle had him beat by four inches he used to his advantage. "It seems to me that our grandfather wanted to get married, and your grandmother did not." "Same thing! What's the difference?" Dob looked at Molly triumphantly. "The Masters are not known to settle easily." "I don't want to settle him! I want one night for myself. I didn't know Kyle would be my partner; it was all about participating for the charity and having a good time. But I can make my own decisions, Dob. And if I want this one night for myself, I'll pick up my own pieces if I get broken." Molly was angry now. "So be it." Storming off, Dob left the ballroom altogether. Chapter Sixteen "Thank you for sticking up for me," Kyle said. "I didn't. I stuck up for myself." She looked up at Kyle, Dob's warning ringing in her ears. But I don't want to tie him down. Yet, I sure as heck don't want to fall for him, either. And whether I want to admit it or not, he's a mighty tantalising hunk.

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"What are you thinking about?" She shook her head. "I'm thinking that I'm tired. Would you believe it? Only two hours into it and I'm pretty sure I'm exhausted." "Didn't you say to just 'slap him off like a mosquito'?" Kyle asked softly. True. But Dob's bite stayed with her. At the beginning of this evening, she'd been comfortable with Kyle, almost innocently so, believing their story was a book with one chapter, a chapter that read "The End" once the dance was over. She hadn't expected attraction. Or a kiss that made her pulse race. And she certainly hadn't expected the book "to be continued." "Let me make you a totally unchivalrous, selfish proposition," Kyle said. ****** "Unchivalrous and selfish? That might actually be refreshing," Molly replied. Kyle quirked a brow at her. "My suggestion is that we forfeit the dance-a-thon." She stared at him, disappointed. "That pretty much hits unchivalrous and selfish in the same bold stroke." "Yeah, but here's the sweetener. I'm willing to match the money won tonight for your particular charity." "That's quite a sweetener. It could be a few thousand dollars, Kyle." He nodded. "Worth it, though, since it's a charity event. I'm not all dressed up in this tux because I thought I was getting out of here for free. I just never expected to be a full-fledged participant." "So we forfeit, you match the winning dollar amount, and both of us go home happy?" Surely it couldn't be that easy. That meant there would be two big winners tonight: whoever won the dance-a-thon, and her charity. Also, it was a guaranteed donation, when she might not have been the winner tonight, anyway. Not to mention her fantasy of dancing all night had turned out to be less fun than she'd imagined. "Both of us go home right now to pack," he said, "Because the catch to my offer is: since I've spent a few hours dancing with you, in front of too many interested busybodies, I'd like you to spend a few hours alone with you." "What?" Chapter Seventeen 680

He grinned at her, sexy confidence all over his face. "I guess I'm asking you on a date. Fair is fair, right? That kiss…that kiss blew me away. I'm even going to let you off the hook about telling me what's under your dress, but I want to spend more time with you, preferably away from your brother and this crowd." "So you can find out first-hand?" Shaking his head, he touched the side of her cheek with one finger, a stroke that sent her pulse fluttering. "So, what do you say to running away with me for one night?" "It hardly seems like a fair exchange. I get my charity donation, which means more to me than you can know...what's the catch? Exactly how alone are we talking?" He smiled at her, but his dark eyes simmered with heat. "The fair is in town. We could go get stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel together. It takes 45 minutes just to load the ride. Forty-five minutes is a bunch of guaranteed privacy." From the top of the Ferris wheel, one could see practically all of Ike, and the lights in the nearby city. But that wasn't close to the reason that she was tempted to accept his offer. She liked him. He knew it. Dob knew it. Her kiss had given her away. She was the one who'd said she didn't want to settle him. That was true. They were worlds apart...but what could going with him for one night hurt? "I don't know if being stuck at the top of a Ferris wheel with you is a good thing," she said sternly. He raised his hands in surrender. "You're safe. Honest." Then he laughed. Maybe at her. Drat him! He knows he's irresistible. What exactly could I do to keep myself from making the monumental mistake of wanting him? If the way he kisses is any indication of what would follow, I'd be one happy lady…. "I have just one qualifier to this scenario," Molly said. He grinned. "Why are you so worried about being alone with me?" "Because...because strange things have been known to happen between Masters and Dewberrys." "You might decide you like us." She stared at him, trying to decide what his words meant. Did he want her to like him, or was he just like his footloose, rodeo-loving grandfather? Would she be walking in her grandmother's shoes, right down the path to a broken heart? 681

Kyle gently touched her cheek. "C'mon," he said. "I'm known for being a gentleman." She cocked a brow at him doubtfully. Gentleman? Actually, she had to admit she'd never heard anything bad about Kyle, except from Dob. Over the years, she had even admired many things about him. But right now it was annoying the way he was smiling at her as if he knew a secret she didn't! As if he knows me better than I know myself. Well, she hadn't grown up with Dob trying that same smirking attitude on her and learned nothing. She knew how to wipe that I-know-you grin off a man's face. "Kyle Masters, I'm more than willing to go with you and be as much of a good sport as you've been about this charity dance, but should you and I end up sharing anything more than a kiss, you have to marry me. Pronto. I'm not going to be the second Dewberry to be shamed by a Masters in front of all of Ike, Idaho." Chapter Eighteen Kyle raised a brow at Molly. "Folks are already talking, Molly. Just us being on the dance floor together was enough to keep folks hanging around to watch. The donations tonight should be phenomenal." He paused for a moment, studying the apprehension in her face. "As I mentioned, it was an unchivalrous proposition. You have more to lose than me." Her eyelashes lowered for an instant. With Dob looking ready to start a fight any instant, and with everyone who'd ever known them looking on, Molly had no reason to leave with him. But he figured they'd be better off going where there were a lot fewer prying eyes - and selfishly, now that he'd been able to get close to Molly, he wasn't anxious to give up the magic. He had liked her for so long. He'd never approached her, thinking that she despised him. For good reason, sure. But that didn't mean he had to give up the one night he had to change her mind. "You're a lovely lady, Molly. I'd never do anything to hurt you," he said softly. "Stay or go, the choice is yours." Her eyes widened. She glanced toward her brother. "I'll go," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Come on." He took her hand, pulling her toward the DJ stand. "We're forfeiting," he told Pete. Since the microphone was on, the whole room heard. A gasp went up from the audience, and murmuring began. He could almost feel the relief from the other dancers. He could feel Molly's tension, too, as her hand clutched his.

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"We wish all the remaining couples the best of luck," he said into the microphone. Then he put his hand over the mike. "Can I see you?" he said to his smirking younger brother. "Sure." Pete got down from the DJ stand and followed them outside. Dob barreled out, angrily standing between Molly and Kyle as best he could despite their clasped hands. "Just a minute, Kyle. Where the hell do you think you're going?" "We're going to the fair. We might get there before it closes. Molly and I are going to ride the Ferris wheel." Dob's brows nearly jumped into his hair. "Oh, no. I see plainly what you're up to, and I won't allow it. You're not getting my sister alone on a ride where no one can see what's happening. And if you think I don't know that that's exactly how your grandfather wooed our grandmother, you've got another think coming." It was true. The Ferris wheel - largest in the country - was known for its size and the supposed promise one man made to his woman while at the top. The enclosed cage-like seats were perfect for romance, and when Molly's grandmother got off the ride, her face had been glowing, her skirt just enough awry for people to talk. Her reputation was ruined when her Masters man didn't return from the rodeo circuit to make it legal. The Wheel of Romance, it was called now. No one had ever really known if Kyle's grandfather made love to Molly's grandmother while on it, but the myth really alarmed Dob. Chapter Nineteen "Hold on, Dob," Pete said. "They're just going for an innocent carnival ride. Forty-five minutes. No different from a taking a ride into town. Settle down." "No! Molly, you are not going," Dob insisted. "I am," she replied. "Dob, I love you, even though you're bull-headed. But I am going with Kyle, because I don't believe in family feuds. And I'm not about to let any romantic fantasy spoil my evening. It's one night at the fair - and nothing more." "He's already kissed you!" Dob shouted, his tone desperate. "Don't you think more could happen...up there?" he demanded. "Tell you what." Pete shouldered his way between Dob and Kyle, pushing them apart so that Kyle and Molly were standing close again. "I'll go with them and chaperon them. All right?" Kyle didn't like that idea at all. They were both adults, not a couple of teenagers. "We don't -" "Yes, you do," Pete insisted. "I'll be the third wheel tonight, just to keep Dob from having a seizure. Molly's got a right to a chaperon, and it's either me or Dob, Kyle. Choose." 683

Kyle sighed. Truth was, he'd walk through a brick wall to have the chance to spend time with Molly. "Come on, Pete," he said reluctantly. "If you don't mind, Molly." She looked at her brother, who still didn't appear happy. "Good night, Dob," she said. "I'll see you later." The three of them walked off, heading toward Kyle's truck. "Now I want you to get lost as soon as we're out of Dob's eyesight," Kyle said. "Uh-uh," Pete said, with a wink at Molly. "No way. You need a bodyguard, Kyle, more than Molly needs a chaperone. Consider me hired. 'Course, you have to pay for my ride ticket." How was he going to change Molly's mind about him with Pete hanging around? Chapter Twenty Even though Kyle skipped right over her threat of having to marry her if anything more than a kiss was shared between them on the Ferris wheel, she'd still decided to go with him. Why? In one word: Dob. Somehow, it felt very good to let go of the past. After all, it had felt awkward over the years not talking to Kyle and Pete, not acknowledging them beyond a nod because of something that had nothing to do with any of them. And the kiss had done a lot to change her mind. She had never been kissed like that in her whole life. Maybe she shared more in common with her grandmother than a small stature. The three of them got in the truck silently, Molly sitting between the two men. Kyle switched on the engine. "You know, Molly, we don't have to do this," he said. "Maybe the Ferris wheel is a bad idea. All that fresh air, all that wonderful atmosphere — maybe we should go fishing instead. You ever midnight-fished? Or maybe we could drive into town and see a movie." She stared at him. "Having second thoughts? Or did you develop a latent fear of heights, brought on by my brother?" He rubbed at his jaw, not looking at her. "Maybe both." Pete sighed in disgust. "It's going to be horrible listening to you fail at romance, Kyle. There are some things that shouldn't be handed down from brother to brother, and bad technique is one." "You just stare out the window and pretend you're interested in the countryside," Kyle instructed. 684

Chapter Twenty-One Molly leaned her head on Kyle's shoulder and didn't say a word. What was she going to say? There was nothing easy about either of their situations. "Or I could just take you home," he said quietly. "We don't have to go out, Molly." She looked up at him. "I know you're not afraid of what people say about you, and I know you're not really afraid of my brother. You only acted like you cared about his opinion so he wouldn't feel like a peon. So what are you really worried about?" He cleared his throat. "You, I guess." "Why?" "I don't want to hurt you." Instantly, a spear seemed to fly right into her heart. Did he mean that he knew he would — eventually? "I said I wouldn't, and I won't." She thought she understood. "When you said that at the dance, you meant physically. Now you're having second thoughts because you mean emotionally. Am I right?" He glanced at her, their eyes meeting in the dimness of streetlights. "Yeah." "It's okay," she said. "Believe it or not, I can fend for myself." Kyle stopped the truck. "Pete, get out." "What?" "Go ride in the truck bed," Kyle told him. "I want to talk to Molly without your big ears hearing everything. What I've got to say is between one man and one woman." Chapter Twenty Two Kyle's gaze seemed to glow at her in the dark. Molly repressed a small shiver of excitement as Pete got out, closed the truck door — almost too eagerly, it seemed — and hopped in the back. He banged on the roof, and Kyle turned his attention back to the road. Molly held her breath, her posture stiffer, her head no longer resting on his shoulder. "So...you had something to say?"

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"I do." He seemed to choose his words carefully before staring down at her. Then he cupped her chin with one hand, guiding her head back down to his shoulder. "I sure do like the way you feel, Molly Dewberry. You just seem to fit me right." Her eyes went wide. She wanted to hear him say it again, just so she'd know she hadn't dreamed the words — or the emotion she'd heard behind them. But she didn't say anything, her feelings too carefully guarded as she tried to keep herself from falling head over heels. Ten minutes later, Kyle pulled up to the county fair. "There's the Ferris wheel. Lots of light, lot of people for safety. I think there's safety in numbers, don't you?" "I like to get lost in a crowd. Especially a crowd of strangers." She got out of the truck when Kyle came around to open her door. Pete jumped to the ground as well. "I hope he told you something really important," Pete said. "'Cause my ears are frozen from the wind." She smiled at him. "He didn't." Pete punched his older brother in the arm. "It was cruel to kick me out if you weren't going to go through with it." "Shut up, Pete," Kyle growled. Chapter Twenty-Three Once inside the gate, Kyle threaded through the crowd until they got to the Ferris wheel. The neon lights on the huge wheel lit up the darkness, and Molly thought she'd never seen anything so romantic in her life. "Hey, Penny," Pete said to the operator of the Ferris wheel. The petite brunette squealed and threw her arms around his neck. "Now this is the way it's done," he said to his brother, giving Penny a big hug that mashed her whole body up against his. "Since when did you learn to handle such a big ride, honey?" "Never you mind, Pete Masters. The ride is now officially closed. That's the last time I'm loading it tonight. And I'm free if you are," she hinted. "I might be," he said smoothly, "if you'll allow these two to have their own private ride after everyone leaves."

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Molly started to say that they didn't need a ride on the Ferris wheel when she felt Kyle's hand take hers in his. He really wanted to go on the ride with her, she realised. And she really wanted to go for a romantic nighttime ride with him.... "There'll be nobody at the whole fair except you and me. No one will even know we were here," he said. "Can't get any safer for your reputation than that, huh?" He was referring to the time her grandmother and his grandfather had gotten off the ride together, her skirt slightly askew. "I guess not," she said, knowing full well that her reputation might be safe, but not necessarily her heart. But without the whole ride needing to be loaded — a 45 minute process — they'd only be up there for five minutes, max. "It'll be fun." After the ride had emptied and the riders departed, the carney workers began clearing debris away. Penny motioned them toward the now empty ride. "Help yourself," she said. Feeling like she was embarking on a daring adventure, Molly entered the steel cage and sat down on the red vinyl seat. Kyle followed her. Penny and Pete stared in at them, smiling, as Penny locked the cage. "Have fun!" she told them. Up on the ride, Molly relaxed against Kyle, his arm along her shoulders, as their car rose higher and higher. Just as she could see the whole city from the top of the wheel, the ride came to a complete stop. "Uh-oh," said Molly. Chapter Twenty-Four They sat up and looked down, but in the darkness, they couldn't see much except some carney workers scurrying to clean up and get home. Lights were being shut off at various tents. The other rides were dark. "It's all right," Kyle said. "I'm sure that this is my brother's way of getting back at me for making him ride in the back of the truck." Oh. A prank. She should have known. "Or maybe," Kyle said, turning her toward him, "maybe this is my brother's idea of giving us some time alone together. In which case, I don't want to let his efforts go unrewarded." And then he kissed her, softly and sweetly, and Molly heard herself moan, and suddenly she knew why her grandmother's face had been glowing and her skirt had been awry. "And then, maybe some things are better left undone," Kyle said, his voice sounding a little shaky to Molly's ears after they finally pulled apart from the kiss. She could feel her heart hammering so hard she was certain he must either hear, or feel it. 687

"I shouldn't take advantage of this situation, now that I think about it," he continued. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted a woman, but he also respected her condition for coming with him tonight. She felt like she'd been hit with icy water. Had he not felt the earth move the way she had? Maybe it was only the Ferris wheel, swaying slightly, or the cage itself moving from their bodies coming together, then pulling apart. Still, she had wanted him to feel the way she had. This kiss felt just as earth-rocking as the one at the dance had — or was she imagining his heated response to her? But all she said was, "Pete's a good brother. And Penny seemed to like him." "Penny likes anyone who pays attention to her. Pete's always had a soft spot for her, but she's not the type to commit to a relationship," he said. Molly straightened. "I thought it was the Masters men who were unable to commit." Kyle shook his head. "Myth. Or what did you call it? Fact or fantasy? That one's truly fantasy. Come here. I don't want you to get cold." Chapter Twenty-Five Kyle bundled her up next to him. She put her feet up on the seat and leaned into his chest, loving the feel of his arms around her. "I wonder how long Pete intends to hold us hostage?" he grumbled. "I'm sorry you are having such a terrible time. There are two seats in here, you know," she said, struggling to sit up. "And I'm not that cold." "Hey, wait a minute. All I meant was that my brother isn't showing a lady a very nice time, and I fully intend to remind him of that later. I didn't mean I don't enjoy being up here with you." She looked at him. "Yell down at him to get us out of here." "No way." Kyle looked alarmed at her request. "Look around at the city lights, Molly." He held her closer, not allowing her to get into the other seat. "I've always liked you, Miss Dewberry," he said huskily, pressing kisses to her neck. "I just want to be sure you like me as much as I like you." "I'm up here with you, aren't I?" She loved what he was doing to her senses, as much as her frightened heart tried to deny it.

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"Yes, but I promised you a good time. It doesn't seem fair to romance you when you're not getting the ride I promised you," he said. She pulled away and gave him an arch look. "Are you saying if the ride were moving you'd have a better shot?" "That would be overconfident, wouldn't it?" "Yes." He laughed, and tugged her to him again so he could wrap her in his arms. "I'll tell you a secret if you don't tell Dob." "I'd love to hear a secret that my brother will never know." "Your grandmother dumped my grandfather, not the other way around." She jerked away from him, her mouth dropping open. "What?" Chapter Twenty-Six There was no better time to tell her, Kyle figured. His heart was in such a terrified place right now. Dob had filled her head with all these horror stories about him over the years — the Unsettled Masters Men theory — but that was the biggest fantasy of all. "My grandfather loved your grandmother," he told her. "Why do I not know this?" "Because Dob doesn't know it. Or maybe he does and he chooses to tell the story in a light that gives him a reason to gripe about us. Maybe he just sees himself in an underdog role. I've always thought he just likes to fight about everything, but that's just my opinion." Molly pulled away from him. "My brother only gets upset about your ranch. And it does have to do with your grandfather." She stared at him. "Is there a reason you're telling me this now? Other than the fact that...you'd probably like to...you know." "Make love to you? I won't even try to deny it. But I won't." He stared back at her stubbornly. "And why not?" she demanded, sounding suddenly like a woman scorned. "Because you think I'm telling you whatever I have to just to get you into bed. It tells me that we might never be able to put the past behind us. We have to trust each other. Or should I say, you have to trust me, Molly." ******

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Molly stared out at the brilliant lights of the city. The fair was now totally dark. If Pete and Penny were down there, they sure weren't giving any hint of it. "I think your brother forgot about us," she said miserably, from her place on the other seat. "I think he did, too. His life is now forfeit," Kyle said, sounding as if his teeth were grinding together. "Maybe you could explain to me one more time what I'm not understanding," Molly said. "I've heard the same story for a lifetime. It's going to take more than a few minutes for me to understand that it might have happened another way." Kyle sighed. "Your grandmother decided she didn't want to be married to a man who lived his life on the rodeo circuit. She chose to break the engagement. Everyone just assumed he'd left her after he got what he wanted at the top of this wheel. If the town gossips knew he wanted to make an honest woman of her, but she turned him down…well, my grandfather knew it was better that people thought he was a cad." "How do you know all this?" Molly desperately wanted to believe him. "Because I've got a stack of letters and postcards at home that my grandpa wrote to her, begging her to reconsider. Telling her that the only woman he'd ever love was her." Molly's heart began a frantic tattoo inside her. All the years that had gone by, and yet — Her grandmother hadn't been used by her rodeo beau. She could have married him to save her reputation, but she had chosen not to. "Why can't I tell Dob this?" she demanded. "Because he's having way too much fun believing in this feud," Kyle said. "If we took that away from him, what would he have? Now come here, sexy lady. I know you're cold in that dress, and this tux may not be the warmest, but friends should share their body heat." Molly crossed to his seat and slowly went into his lap. "Friends?" "And maybe more," he qualified, running his hand down her hair. "If you want, Molly Dewberry." Chapter Twenty-Seven "I think...I think I do want," she murmured, in a surrender that sounded heavenly to Kyle's ears. But maybe he should double-check. The clock was about to turn forward, and he needed to make certain Molly wanted to time travel on this old Ferris wheel. Because if she let him, he was going to give her a ride she'd never forget. Holding her in his lap, stroking her cheek with one hand and cradling her back with the other, he said, "Want what, sweetheart?" "More," she said softly, snuggling against him. "More, more, more." 690

So he kissed her, long enough, deep enough to make her moan. Her hands clutched his shoulders and he told himself to remember that feeling. He liked her holding him with that much need and womanly want. One day I'm going to feel her do that when we're both naked. Hands on my shoulders, begging me to get inside her. Tonight, he wasn't about to make her cold. "Let me turn you around, Molly." He slid her forward into his lap. Kissing her neck, he stroked the outside of the bodice of her red dress, with the skirt flaring ever so femininely over her knees. She put her hands on his so they could explore her body together. Right then and there, Kyle knew he was a goner. "You're so sexy, Molly," he said on a groan. "I don't care if Pete ever gets us out of this damn cage." "I don't, either." With a sigh of complete contentment he adored, she leaned back against him, her head on his shoulder. Together, they traced her breasts, down her curves, and down to the flared red skirt. Moving underneath it, he stroked the inside of her legs, enjoying the silky sensation of her skin against his callused palms, and the softness of her touch on top of his hands. "I've dreamed of this night," he said huskily. "You have not," she said with a giggle that sounded decidedly nervous and deliciously, wickedly convince-me-otherwise. "I did. I always admired you from afar," he said, tapering his finger right down the centre of her panties with just enough pressure to let her know the magic that was to come. She was wearing a thong, he suddenly realised as he continued his quest downward, and it was all he could do not to growl like a bull and take her in hungry, crazed lust. "I know what you've got on under your dress now," he told her, nipping at her shoulder. "You discovered my secret," Molly said breathless. "No. I'm about to know your secret," Kyle said, lifting Molly up just the slightest so that he could stroke her bare bottom. Thank heavens for wallets, and flat condoms that fit inside them, and easy-tear foil, and — "Let me do it," she said, turning to help him put it on, and he did, loving the fact that she stroked him way more than necessary for a typical fast slip-it-on. So he kissed her lips, holding her captive, before turning her fully around and moving the thong out of the way. She still had him in her firm little grip, guiding him. He ran a finger along her wetness, groaning inside himself, before she placed him at the edge of pleasure. "It's now or never," he said. "No going back once —"

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"Kyle," she said, "I'm not about to change my mind." And then she slid down him, taking him completely inside her, and Kyle saw stars that had nothing to do with the beautiful night sky. Chapter Twenty-Eight Molly never dreamed she could feel so heavenly. She never knew that making love could feel so wonderful. Maybe it was the fact that they'd always thought they were enemies; perhaps it was the edge of danger of making love to someone a little bit forbidden. If she was caught in the grip of a fantasy, she didn't want to get over it, Molly thought wildly, feeling Kyle thrust inside her. His hands held her hips tightly against him, his fingers spreading her and teasing her. She had colours in her mind not unlike neon fair lights, and a sound building in her throat that felt like it would equal a roller-coaster scream, and all she could do was hang on, hang on, hang on — When she screamed her pleasure, all Molly knew was how glad she was that the fairgrounds were empty and they were far away from residential addresses. "Oh, Kyle," she started to moan, when his tempo changed, and she realised that she was about to climax again. Desperate and lost in the feelings sweeping over her, she begged, "Don't stop, don't stop!" "I won't," he promised. "Let me take you there." And he did. Her knees went limp. He helped her relax against him and then held her tightly, his face pressed against her neck, as he found his own pleasure. She knew when he did, because he groaned, "Oh, Mol...ly," so sweetly that she told herself she was going to hear him say her name that way many more times in her life. They stayed that way, her safe in his lap, for what seemed like a long, pleasured time. But it wouldn't last, Molly knew. Sooner or later they had to face life on earth. "I know the perfect way to finish this." "I don't want to finish anything," he said stubbornly, holding her in his arms more tightly. "That's not what I meant, exactly. I've been thinking about what you told me about my grandmother." "Every word of it is true." "I know." He wouldn't lie to her. She'd always known the man he was didn't square with the man Dob said he was. And the lost, empty feeling she'd always had in her life seemed filled now. Somehow she felt whole, and not so aimless, with Kyle holding her. It was as if a circle had been completed, arc matching arc seamlessly. "You said my grandmother turned your grandfather down." "She did. She broke his heart. He was never the same after that." 692

"I'll never tell anyone that," Molly said. "Because clearly my grandmother still loved your grandfather, and didn't want him to give up his dreams and settle down to an ordinary life, just because people knew about their passion. I do want to read their letters, but...I think we've avoided the past all our lives. Now I think we should learn from it." "What exactly did you have in mind?" Very softly, yet with all her heart, Molly told him. Chapter Twenty-Nine "Now hold on a damn minute," Dob's rough voice growled into Pete's drowsy ear. "What the hell do you mean you don't know where my sister is?" Pete's eyes snapped open. He’d drifted to sleep with words of praise in his ears, only to be rudely awakened by the phone, and an angry voice on the line. "Dob?" "Who the hell else do you think would be calling you at 4:30 in the morning? I'm outside, and I see your truck, and I know my sister's in there with your brother, and if you don't get her out here fast, I'm coming in with my shotgun! Fair warning!" Beside him, Penny stirred. Jeez! How had they fallen asleep? Covering the mouthpiece with his fingers, he said, "Sweetheart, wake up." She moaned, and Dob erupted. "Damnation, I heard that loud and clear! You'd best not be in there with my sister! I'm taking the safety off my gun right now and coming in." "Get dressed, sweetheart. Things are about to get rough." Jumping out of the bed, Pete began pulling on his own clothes. He had to get back to the fairgrounds and let Kyle and Molly off the ride. But first of all, he had to lose Dob. "She's not here, Dob. Calm down. And I've got a lady friend in here, so if you don't mind scurrying off, she and I would like to go back to sleep. It is 4:30, you know." Dob hesitated. "That's not Molly in there with you? I distinctly heard a woman's voice, and I haven’t seen my sister since you drove off with her." "Nope. Molly's not my type. Dewberries in general are not my type," he said, just for good measure, knowing Dob was about as much on the edge as a man could be. The phone snapped off in his ear. "Good night to you, too," Pete said. "We better go get your brother down. He's going kill us both," Penny said. "And if he doesn’t, he’ll have me fired for sure."

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"Let's go," he said. "My brother might kill me, but it will have been worth it," he said, grinning at her. They hurried to the truck and returned to the fairgrounds. Racing to the Ferris wheel, Pete glanced up at the topmost cage. "It's very still up there. God, Kyle's going to jump on me like a wild bull —" "I can't get this lever to move," Penny said, between gritted teeth. A noisy bump and a grinding noise, and slowly the wheel began to turn, inch by torturous inch. "I oughta have known," Dob said behind them. Pete turned and just barely ducked the punch Dob threw. "I oughta have known you damn Masters would just really enjoy having history repeat itself, especially in front of an audience." "No, that was a bonus," Pete said, ducking the headlock Dob tried to surround him with. But Pete wasn't telling the truth, because the last thing he wanted to do was embarrass Molly. But the other fair workers gathered around, which guaranteed the night ride wouldn’t remain a secret. Penny stopped the ride and went to unlock the cage. Dob stopped swinging, and Pete held his breath, praying for a miracle. Chapter Thirty "I'm warning you," Penny said to Molly and Kyle. "Your brother's spitting mad, Molly." Molly stood, straightening her hair. She and Kyle had shared a night of intense passion, and nothing Dob could say would ever change her feelings about that. Only Kyle could change her feelings…and he hadn't had a chance to answer her — her totally selfish proposition, as he'd called the one he'd given her at the dance. They'd known what they would face when the Wheel of Romance ride was over and the cage was opened. Molly glanced back at Kyle but he was staring through the bars toward the admission area, so taking a deep breath, she stepped out onto the walk area. Before she could go down the steps, Kyle tugged her skirt firmly into place. "No sense in that part of history repeating itself," he said. "But you can have a smile on your face if you want." With Dob glowering over there? With not knowing what Kyle's answer was? And yet, in spite of all that, Molly did smile. "That was the most fun I've ever had, Kyle." He winked at her, and took her hand. Together, they walked down the steps. Pete held Dob back. "Sorry about that, bro," Pete said. "I'm not — though I should let Dob whup your hide, just for generic reasons," Kyle said. And then, right in front of everyone, Kyle kissed Molly full on the mouth.

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Fully insulted and at full tilt now, Dob got free of Pete. He barreled over to Kyle and Molly, but she put up a hand. "Stop," she said. "Take a deep breath, and hear what I have to say." For some reason, Dob stopped, though he stared at her. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't defend my sister's honour." "Because I love him," she said. "And that's my business." Instantly, Dob's face turned from angry to heartbroken. "Molly, honey, I warned you about him." "I know you did. I made my own decision, Dob. You don't have to protect me. No matter what happens, I had more fun all night with this cowboy than I've ever had." She felt Kyle standing at her back. "I can speak for myself," he said. "Dob, you don't know half as much as you think you do. But I would never hurt your sister." "You've ruined her," Dob complained. "And I'm thinking you enjoyed walking in your granddaddy's footsteps." Molly was about to protest angrily to being described as "ruined" — what year did Dob think it was? But Kyle stopped her. "If I can walk in my granddaddy's footsteps, I'll die happy, knowing I was all the man I should have been. No matter what happens between Molly and me, I think you and I should move forward. Bury the hatchet. What do you say to that?" Surprised, Molly watched as Kyle extended his hand to her brother. Chapter Thirty-One Dob scratched his head and shuffled his feet. "Please, Dob," Molly said. "It would mean a lot to me if you could put your bad feelings aside." A child getting an inoculation couldn't look more reluctant. He loved his sister, and had always tried to protect her from pain. To force her to choose between the two men she loved would be too much for her to bear. And he was afraid he would be the one to lose out. Silently, he stuck his hand in Kyle's for the world's fastest handshake. "There," he said sulkily. He wouldn't have done it for anyone but Molly. Kyle nodded, and put his arm around Molly's shoulders. "Molly and I have an announcement to make, and there's no better time than the present to do it," he said. "She's asked me to marry her, and I'm accepting here and now as fast as I can in order to get her to the altar before she changes her mind." Squealing, Molly threw her arms around Kyle's neck. "You made me wait! You could have told me up there!" 695

"Just remember," he said in her ear, "it's the only thing I made you wait for." She giggled, her heart full inside her. "I had to make sure you weren't just using me to try to break away from Dob," he told her. "You know, you might have lured me into that cage on purpose." "And seduced you against your will." "Exactly," he said, playing along. "You know, your grandmother was something of a wild woman, too." Laughing, she wrapped her foot around the back of his leg, lightly pushing him against her. "It's rumored you Masters can't be settled." "Except by a wild Dewberry." Dob was telling anyone who would listen how he'd brought about the end of Ike, Idaho's most famous family feud. He declared that he'd never had any hard feelings against Kyle or Pete, that he'd always said he'd be happy to see a sister of his married to one of the Masters boys. Dob predicted that the Masters-Dewberry alliance would mean the biggest and the best ranch in the state; in fact, he was willing to take bets on it. Pete was trying to convince Penny to hit the rodeo circuit with him so he could get out of Kyle's way — after all, even a ranch house is only big enough for one honeymooning couple. And the fabled Wheel of Romance somehow blinked on, neon and multicoloured and beautiful, almost as if by magic.

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Daisy and the Duke By Janice Maynard Sometimes Ian Furchess hated being the duke of Wolffhampton. Like when he had no idea how to pay for his ancestral castle, which costs more to run than some small countries. Or when his grandmother pressured him to marry—preferably someone rich and titled. Ian hadn't even wanted to be a duke. So when a beautiful American tourist landed on his doorstep, Ian was caught between his duty and his desire. He knew Daisy Wexler had her own agenda, one that could be the ruin of a duke. And yet, Ian had had his fill of duty. It was time to indulge his desires….

Chapter One Ian Furchess, eleventh Duke of Wolffhampton, was feeding pigs. The irony of the situation did not escape him, but in truth, it wasn't a bad way to spend an unseasonably warm February afternoon. The weather chaps were all atwitter with record highs and warm air masses and the like. Ian chose not to analyze his good fortune. It was enough just to feel the hot sun on the back of his neck and to think about something other than his problems. An importunate sow brushed up against his leg, smearing mud across the thigh of an ancient pair of pants. Ian chuckled, mostly at himself. Here he was, seventy-third in line for the throne of England, communing with livestock. He took a certain pride in it, actually. It was his own personal rebellion. Ian had never wanted to be Duke. But when his parents and older brother were killed in a sailing accident the year Ian turned twenty-one, his life had changed forever. He should have been with them on that boat. Instead, he'd been charging with testosterone-fueled determination across the polo field, leading his university team to a championship. A natural horseman, Ian's dream had been to take the fortune he'd inherited from his maternal grandfather and establish a world-class stud farm. Instead, he now bore the sole responsibility for an aging pile of rock, a stubborn and imperious grandmother, and the future of the entire Wolffhampton progeny. To use an American phrase that would never cross the lips of a proper duke, life sucked. "Hellooooo…" Ian's head snapped up. A trio of soon-to-be-bacon animals scattered. The woman in the distance drew nearer, her smile sunny. "Can you help me, sir? I'm trying to find the Duke of Wolffhampton. This is his house, right?" She shielded her blue eyes with one hand, brushing away tendrils of blond hair that danced around her face, and glanced up at the imposing lump of granite that Ian called home. Wolffhampton Castle was impressive rather than attractive, but it had served his family well for centuries. Ian sighed inwardly. "The duke is not available. May I help you?" He'd pegged the young lady right off. Ever since William and Kate married, the countryside had swarmed with single female tourists hoping to snag their own fairy-tale prince. He wondered if they expected to find royalty hiding behind potting sheds.

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Her face fell. She hitched her enormous tote higher on her shoulder. "I'm Daisy Wexler. I really need to speak with the duke. It's a matter of some importance." Her accent placed her from somewhere in the American South. Ian's stomach clenched. "Concerning what?" The woman was lovely, dressed much like Gatsby's Daisy, all in white—a flowing linen jumper and a simple cotton shirt beneath. But she had added splashes of color in a strawberry belt and a jaunty daffodil scarf that fluttered in the breeze. She wrinkled her nose, a small frown appearing between perfectly arched brows. "Perhaps an illegitimate child. But without speaking to the duke I can't be certain." Bloody hell. Ian's internal radar blared a warning. At the rate his bank account was dwindling, he certainly couldn't afford to battle an inheritance claim in the courts, even though he already knew what the outcome would be. He and his grandmother, the elderly duchess, were the only surviving members of the onceprolific Wolffhamptons. That was a fact. As delicious as the adorable Daisy was, Ian was not about to let himself become embroiled in a fabricated claim to the lineage. "The duke is a very busy man. Perhaps if you called for an appointment…" Daisy's small chin lifted, adding a hint of stubbornness to her heart-shaped face. "But I have called…repeatedly. No one answers." Precisely. Ian had disconnected the answering machine for a reason. "I'm sorry," he said, wishing he'd met this delectable creature in other circumstances. "You've wasted your time."

Chapter Two Daisy was tired, hungry and cranky. The flight from Charlottesville to Atlanta to Gatwick to Manchester had been interminable. And the subsequent bus ride even more so. The prospect of her first hop across the pond had excited her, but now that she was here, she barely had the energy to be civil. Perhaps she should have built a day into her schedule to recover from the jet lag. The subject of her current displeasure was well over six feet tall and had the hard, muscular frame of a man in his prime. He was wickedly handsome, with tousled chestnut hair and long-lashed hazel eyes. She couldn't, however, afford to be distracted, even if his blatant masculinity and clipped speech made her knees wobble. She almost never made snap decisions about people, but this boorish farm laborer set her teeth on edge. He was being either deliberately obtuse or obstructive—or both. Drawing on her last ounce of determination, she smiled at him with the cajoling humor that usually stood her in good stead. "Surely you could escort me to the castle…introduce me to His Grace?" The man narrowed his eyes, suspicion in his gaze. "Common laborers don't, as a rule, walk up to the front door and let themselves in." "Then perhaps we could access the house unobtrusively somewhere else. All I need to see, at least at first, is the library. And I won't say you helped me. As a matter of fact, I don't even know your name, do I? Plausible deniability will work in our favor." 698

"You Americans are so pushy." She felt her cheeks flush. The man spoke in educated accents. But he was dressed in threadbare tobacco-colored trousers and a weathered leather bomber jacket that looked as if it might have actually been worn during a world war. Perhaps his family hadn't had the means to send him to university. It was a shame, because he had a natural air of command that would have carried him far in business. It was possible he was an overseer for the duke, in charge of the property. But that still didn't explain why he was mucking about in a hog pen. She refused to let his comment dissuade her from her quest. "I like to think of it as being goal-oriented. Or are you a chauvinist who believes women belong in the bedroom and the kitchen, and nowhere near the boardroom?" "I'm sure you could handle all three." His voice was smooth as whiskey, and he smiled for the first time as he spoke, a quick, flashing grin that stole her breath. The men Daisy usually dated were intellectuals, professors and the like. She had never been attracted to the earthy, works-with-his-hands type. Until today. But she wasn't here for a holiday fling. Reaching into her purse, she extracted a twenty-pound note. "I'm running out of time. Are you above being bribed?"

Chapter Three Ian kept his face straight with difficulty. The urge to laugh was almost overpowering. "I wouldn't feel right," he said. "About taking your money." "My expenses are being covered. And you'd be doing me a huge favor." Daisy grasped his hand in both of hers and curled his fingers around the bill. At that moment, everything changed. Because Ms. Daisy Wexler had the softest, most delicate touch Ian had ever felt. Immediately, his mind conjured up wicked, unexpected scenarios of him and Daisy frolicking in bed…naked…with those slender fingers wrapped around his— Bloody hell… He cleared his throat, stepping back half a stride, all amusement vaporized by the blasting surge of lust that threatened to bring him to his knees. No longer touching her, he strove to regain his senses. Dukes did not frolic, particularly with strangers. Therein lay the path to ruin. This woman was dangerous. And yet Ian had never wanted to be a duke. He was a man, too, damn it. And this man didn't want to let Daisy go just yet. The money in his hand burned his skin. Without second-guessing his actions, he stuffed it in her tote, taking care not to make contact with her in any way. "If it means that much to you, I'll see what I can do." The brilliance of her smile almost blinded him. "Thank you," she cried, reaching out to hug him. For a brief moment her small breasts mashed against his chest. Flyaway, sunshiny hair teased his lips. The fragrance of rose petals assailed his nostrils. It was everything he could manage not to bend her over his arm and kiss her senseless.

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Instead, he did the right thing, a lamentable characteristic of Wolffhampton dukes through the ages. He straightened his spine and held her at arm's length. "We Brits are not as chummy at first meeting as you Yanks," he said laconically. "No need for an overabundance of gratitude. You'll likely not leave here with what you want. So don't expect too much." Releasing her reluctantly, he bent and picked up a pail of hog feed, using it as armor. Perhaps the ridiculous state of his love life was to blame for his aberrant behavior…. "But you'll help me?" The anxiety on her face made him squirm inwardly. He was not, by nature, a duplicitous man. But he'd waded into a deep pit of muddy intentions, and the climb out was a slippery slope—one that would surely mean the end of any encounters with Daisy Wexler. He nodded, wanting to do anything to coax that warm, wonderful smile out of hiding again. "I'll try. Tell me more about why you're here." Wide-spaced sapphire eyes regarded him with suspicion. He fancied that her chin tilted skyward a centimeter or two. "I don't think I should be gossiping about the duke's private affairs," she said stiffly. "I'm sure he would appreciate my discretion." I'm sure he would appreciate peeling the clothes from your body like the skin of a ripe peach and sucking your… Sweat broke out on Ian's forehead. Thank God his trousers were fashioned of thick corduroy, or else this sylph of a woman would be shocked to see that he was hard as a steel spike.

Chapter Four At that moment, Daisy couldn't care less about her mission. She was far more entranced with the way the stranger's eyes had shone hot with desire before he deliberately reined it in and pretended to ignore the sizzle in the air. Daisy was not particularly experienced, but she recognized hunger when she saw it. This tough, rugged man with muddy boots and elegant hands wanted her. The knowledge excited her. Daisy was not the kind of woman who drove men to do wild things. She was a good organizer, a decent cook and a damned fine researcher. But she was neither seductive nor sexy. That wasn't self-pity speaking. She merely knew her own limitations. But this man saw her differently… Suddenly she wished she had worn a more alluring outfit than a comfy cotton dress that traveled well. Nibbling her bottom lip for half a second, she blurted out a most un-Daisy-like invitation. "Would you have dinner with me tonight? After I meet with the duke?" This stranger really would think she was a pushy, forward American if she kept this up. "My treat," she said hastily, once again assessing the worn state of the man's attire. His throat and face flushed. A noticeable bulge tented the front of his pants. Dear Lord. Daisy blushed as well, feeling hot and shaky and wonderfully excited. Suddenly, she had a vision of the two of them hidden away in a hay-filled barn, Daisy riding astride this man's impressive, impossible-to-miss— "I'll have to take a rain check," he said gruffly. "Perhaps another time." The gentle rebuff curdled her stomach. She rarely put herself out there, and this was why. He had shot her down, albeit gently, but nevertheless a slap in the face. Gathering her tattered composure, she 700

ignored the way her eyes stung and her throat closed up. "Very well. I only wanted to show my gratitude for your assistance." She heard her prissy words and realized that she had unwittingly picked up some of his toney accent. Glancing at her watch to disguise the fact that she was near tears, she took a deep breath. "If it's not too much of a bother, would you please go in and ask if he will see me?" The man with the dark amber eyes and the face of a Roman conqueror did not smile as he took a step closer, and with one finger, reached out to wipe a damp stain from the corner of her lashes. "You're a lovely woman, Ms. Daisy Wexler. I'll do what I can." His hand lingered, cupping her cheek. "Where are you staying while you're here?" She nodded over her shoulder to the view of a placid Lake Windemere glistening in the distance. The water was a deep, mysterious cerulean beneath the noonday sun. Barely a whitecap or a ripple disturbed the broad expanse. "Ambleside. The youth hostel across the way." He nodded, his expression almost grim. "Come back in an hour. If the duke is available, I'll ask him to speak with you."

Chapter Five At that moment, Daisy couldn't care less about her mission. She was far more entranced with the way the stranger's eyes had shone hot with desire before he deliberately reined it in and pretended to ignore the sizzle in the air. Daisy was not particularly experienced, but she recognized hunger when she saw it. This tough, rugged man with muddy boots and elegant hands wanted her. The knowledge excited her. Daisy was not the kind of woman who drove men to do wild things. She was a good organizer, a decent cook and a damned fine researcher. But she was neither seductive nor sexy. That wasn't self-pity speaking. She merely knew her own limitations. But this man saw her differently… Suddenly she wished she had worn a more alluring outfit than a comfy cotton dress that traveled well. Nibbling her bottom lip for half a second, she blurted out a most un-Daisy-like invitation. "Would you have dinner with me tonight? After I meet with the duke?" This stranger really would think she was a pushy, forward American if she kept this up. "My treat," she said hastily, once again assessing the worn state of the man's attire. His throat and face flushed. A noticeable bulge tented the front of his pants. Dear Lord. Daisy blushed as well, feeling hot and shaky and wonderfully excited. Suddenly, she had a vision of the two of them hidden away in a hay-filled barn, Daisy riding astride this man's impressive, impossible-to-miss— "I'll have to take a rain check," he said gruffly. "Perhaps another time." The gentle rebuff curdled her stomach. She rarely put herself out there, and this was why. He had shot her down, albeit gently, but nevertheless a slap in the face. Gathering her tattered composure, she ignored the way her eyes stung and her throat closed up. "Very well. I only wanted to show my gratitude for your assistance."

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She heard her prissy words and realized that she had unwittingly picked up some of his toney accent. Glancing at her watch to disguise the fact that she was near tears, she took a deep breath. "If it's not too much of a bother, would you please go in and ask if he will see me?" The man with the dark amber eyes and the face of a Roman conqueror did not smile as he took a step closer, and with one finger, reached out to wipe a damp stain from the corner of her lashes. "You're a lovely woman, Ms. Daisy Wexler. I'll do what I can." His hand lingered, cupping her cheek. "Where are you staying while you're here?" She nodded over her shoulder to the view of a placid Lake Windemere glistening in the distance. The water was a deep, mysterious cerulean beneath the noonday sun. Barely a whitecap or a ripple disturbed the broad expanse. "Ambleside. The youth hostel across the way." He nodded, his expression almost grim. "Come back in an hour. If the duke is available, I'll ask him to speak with you."

Chapter Six Ian tracked Daisy's progress up the hill. He knew exactly where she stopped to rest. It was a measure of his intense preoccupation with his lovely uninvited guest that he felt not a single shred of guilt for observing her with a pair of expensive, high-powered binoculars. He watched as she stretched out on the ground and closed her eyes. The sight hit him hard in the chest, stealing his breath and making him yearn. He wanted to be there beside her, over her, in her. But the chances of that happening were as remote as finding a leprechaun's pot of gold. Magnified in the lenses, Daisy slept, her hand curled beneath her cheek in innocent relaxation. But the female he was spying upon without compunction was surely no babe in the woods. She had curves in all the right places, and her smooth, creamy skin and full pink lips lured a man into contemplating not only indiscretion, but out-and-out recklessness. Before his noble lineage had become a millstone around his neck, he would have been free to follow such an attraction wherever it led. Now, life wasn't so simple. He had told her to come back in an hour. But his patience to be with her again lasted only half that long. Walking around the other side of the hill and to its top was no strain at all. He'd clambered over these acres many times as a boy. Though he was not particularly silent in his approach, Daisy never moved. As he neared her, he saw that her lips were parted, and a wispy curl had fallen across her cheek. She had wound the silky strands of her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head, but the windy day had wreaked havoc with her attempt to appear businesslike. He knelt beside her and brushed the errant locks off her face, before trailing his fingers down the soft skin of her neck to her arm. "Daisy? Are you awake?" She stirred fretfully, her nose scrunched up in a frown. "I am now." She sat up, yawning. "What did he say?" "Who?" She lifted an incredulous eyebrow as if questioning his mental competence. "The duke, of course." 702

His machinations weighed heavily upon his soul, but he wanted, selfishly, to be himself for a bit longer. "He's away from the house right now. But he'll be home soon." "Shouldn't you be working?" Her question caught him off guard. "I've been up since six o'clock," he said truthfully. "And I'll put in a few more hours this afternoon." Not tending animals, of course, but instead, combing through piles of paper wondering if he would ever find a palatable answer to the impossible Gordian knot that was his duty-filled life. Daisy sighed, looking at him with artless supplication. "Do you think you can convince him to see me?" Ian sprawled out beside her on the grass, reclining on an elbow. Tugging at her wrist, he coaxed her onto her back so that he was half leaning over her. Daisy's clear blue eyes were filled with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. He traced a finger over her bottom lip, aware that he was treading a fine line between personal indulgence and a gentleman's honor. But he knew from experience that behaving according to his station was often no fun at all. He lowered his head slowly, giving her a chance to protest. "I'll do my best," he promised, his voice husky. "But in the meantime, I'm going to kiss you."

Chapter Seven Daisy's breathing slowed, her heart beating loudly in her ears as the English stranger bent to kiss her. She loved that he didn't ask permission. Modern men were too amenable. This arrogant, boldly masculine man seemed like a throwback to an earlier generation, and it only made her anticipate his kiss more. She rubbed her fingertips over his sculpted chin, feeling a slight trace of stubble. "I don't even know your name." "Is that an observation or a complaint?" His crooked grin reminded her of a pirate. He was so close she could smell the warm fragrance of his skin. "Are you going to tell me what it is?" Now his lips hovered over hers, his breath mingling with her almost-silent whimper of need. "I could, but…do you want reality, or fantasy? Your choice, Daisy." It would not have surprised her at all to feel the earth tremble beneath them. Her world was shifting on its axis, revealing facets of her personality that shocked and excited her. She was Daisy Wexler. A librarian from Virginia. She did not play tonsil hockey in broad daylight with smug, audacious strangers. But perhaps she didn't know herself at all. "Fantasy," she breathed. "Kiss me before I change my mind." His mouth was warm and firm, the press of his lips an immaculate blend of hunger and tenderness. "Daisy," he muttered. "Daisy." The way he groaned the syllables made her melt. Her arms encircled his neck, her hands unashamedly measuring the width of his shoulders, the tensile strength of sleek muscles beneath warm skin. He was everything she was not. Hard and virile. Supremely confident in his sexuality. "I like the way you smell," she whispered. "It's very English." 703

He chuckled, the sound reverberating against her breast. "You smell like sin, Ms. Daisy Wexler. I think you're a seductress disguised as an innocent American tourist. You've come across the pond to lure unsuspecting Englishmen to their doom." "Doom?" She gasped as his hand closed over her breast. "That's not a very nice thing to say." "But accurate." He buried his face in her neck as he stroked her through thin layers of cloth, his big body trembling violently. "What are you doing to me?" She felt the press of his erection against her thigh. It had never been her intent to offer more than a kiss. But their embrace had segued from delightful to desperate need at warp speed. Between her legs, the practical cotton undies she'd purchased six to a pack were damp. She wanted him. In ways she had never wanted anyone before. The ferocity of the craving stunned and terrified her. Was this the kind of sexual madness that made fools of women? That left them brokenhearted in its wake? To have this man in her arms, wild with passion—for her—was the ultimate temptation. This beautiful, well-spoken, engaging man needed her as much as she needed him. But one last functioning brain cell told her to get up, to walk away. To remember why she was here. "Stop," she said. "Let me up. I came here to see the duke."

Chapter Eight Bugger the duke. Ian froze, wondering if he had said that last bit out loud. Lifting his body away from Daisy's slowly, he tried to regulate his breathing and regain the control that was expected of him. When he could manage it, he got to his feet. There was nothing he could do about the state of his sex. It was too big to hide, and too painfully swollen to simply pretend nothing had happened. He could barely breathe. Daisy seemed shocked by what she saw. Which made him rather angry, truth be told. Did she seriously not realize how close they had come to carnal relations? A few seconds more, and she would have found her skirt pushed up to her waist and her knickers dragged down to her— Damnation. He turned his back and bent forward, putting his hands on his knees. After taking several labored gulps of air, he finally managed to regain a modicum of equilibrium. But still he couldn't face her. He inhaled sharply and spoke with his back still to her. "The duke should be home any moment," he said curtly. "I'll go now and determine whether or not he can meet with you this afternoon." From behind his shoulder, Daisy spoke, her voice subdued. "That's very kind of you. I'm sorry that I…" He whirled, cursing his own weakness. He should have sent her on her way immediately. "That you what?" She stood up as well, and with her arms wrapped around her waist, she was the picture of discomfort. "That I let you think I was willing to…um…fool around."

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"Is that what you Americans call it?" He scowled. "How many euphemisms can you invent for having sex?" Daisy frowned. "I was trying to be polite." "I don't feel particularly polite at the moment," he growled. Merely looking at her, all disheveled and alluring, was getting him revved up again. "I feel more like finishing what we started." When she opened her mouth to speak, he put a hand over her lips. "Don't worry," he said roughly. "I'm clear now on your priorities. You want to see the duke." Daisy grasped his wrist and pulled his hand away, her pretty eyes beseeching him to understand. "You're a lovely man," she whispered. "But I was sent here for a very important reason. I can't allow myself to get sidetracked." "They must be paying you a lot of money to purchase such devotion." She flushed, visibly wounded by his sarcasm. "Money isn't the issue." He stepped away, unaccountably depressed. "Money is always the issue," he said bluntly. "Is that how you judge people? By the money they have? I would think a man in your position might have a more democratic outlook on life." "A man in my position?" She shrugged awkwardly. "Someone who works with his hands." Damn, everything she said made him think of sex. He, the only remaining male scion of the house of Wolffhampton, had come perilously close to shagging a perfect stranger in broad daylight. Good Lord. Clearly, it was time to end this. "Goodbye, Ms. Daisy Wexler. I hope you find everything you're looking for."

Chapter Nine Though the day was still sunny and clear, a cloud settled over Daisy's emotions. Watching the handsome stranger descend the hill with long, loping strides made her want to weep for some unaccountable reason. She'd likely never see him again…unless she happened to run across him as she was leaving the duke's estate. Though, given his current mood, he'd probably hide out until she was gone. In theory, Daisy was not opposed to a holiday romance, particularly with a man who sounded like one of her favorite British actors but was far more blatantly virile and sexually intense. A vacation fling was not, in essence, a mistake. But Daisy was not on vacation; she was employed. And that employment was going to enable a project of her own, one that could change her life. Glancing down at her watch, she surmised that enough time had elapsed to warrant approaching the enormous, fortresslike house. She tromped down the incline, across the meadow, up the tree-lined path 705

and onto a stone apron that fanned out from the gigantic oak doors. The ornate iron knockers looked ancient. Palms damp, she reached out a hand, grasped one of the heavy circlets and rapped it three times. In her imagination, the sound reverberated inside the house. Shifting from one foot to the other, she waited. The interval was no more than a few seconds, but it might as well have been eons. At last, the door swung open, and an older man, clad in the traditional garb of a butler, greeted her with a slight inclination of his head. "Good day, mum." Daisy hesitated, abashed at his formality. "My name is Daisy Wexler. I'm here to speak to the duke." She thought about mentioning her go-between, but decided against it. As she fidgeted, the majordomo assessed her rumpled clothing and lack of transportation. "I will see if His Grace is ready for visitors," he said stiffly. "Perhaps you'll be so kind as to wait in the parlor." Daisy perched on a cushioned settee that looked as if it might have supported the fannies of knights and ladies down through the ages. Her heart rapped against her ribs and her knees felt like jelly even though she was seated. She'd flown across an ocean to request information from a duke, and until this very moment, she hadn't actually contemplated what form such a conversation might take. Perhaps she should have rehearsed. Under normal circumstances, she never had any trouble with shyness. But even for someone reared on the precepts of equality for all, the idea of actually meeting nobility was daunting. Her throat was completely dry by the time the starchy retainer returned to fetch her. The man looked down his nose. Or so it seemed to Daisy. "He will see you now."

Chapter Ten Daisy followed her escort along one hallway and then another. To call this place a house was a misnomer. Castle was the more correct term. It was surely next to impossible to adequately heat the enormous chambers with their vaulted ceilings and stone floors. Finally, the butler halted in front of a set of double doors. Grasping both knobs and pulling them open with ceremony, he stepped aside and spoke to someone beyond Daisy's line of sight. "Ms. Daisy Wexler to see you, Your Grace." Again, her knees trembled. Glancing at the servant beside her, she found neither sympathy nor assistance in his blank gaze. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she entered the room. For a moment, awe overtook her. The chamber in which she found herself was like something out of a movie. Enormous mullioned windows shone in the afternoon sun. Though the glass was immaculate, millions of dust motes danced in the beams of light, no doubt courtesy of the heavy gold-brocade and crimson-velvet draperies that flanked the wavy antique panes. A priceless Oriental rug, faded but lovely, lay on the floor beneath her feet, adding to the impression of old money and exquisite taste. As a librarian, she couldn't help but also be impressed by the walls of bookcases, laden with leather-bound volumes.

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But before she could do more than glance at them, something else, or rather someone, caught her eye. The man had his back to her, his gaze trained on the view beyond the curved bank of windows. Standing behind an impressive antique desk, the silent figure projected an air of absolute authority. Suppressing an insane desire to curtsey, Daisy moved into the room, hoping to see him more clearly. Framed as he was in the alcove, the sun blinded her. As she walked toward him, expecting him to speak at any moment, she took stock of her host. He wore a navy suit, obviously hand tailored to fit his broad-shouldered, lanky frame. Dark brown hair showed evidence of dampness, as if he had showered recently. The faint, pleasant scent of aftershave lingered in the air. Her toes curled in her canvas espadrilles. Curiosity and anticipation warred with nervousness in her stomach. "Thank you for meeting with me," she said quietly. "I'd like to ask you some questions, if I may." "Be seated." The words were low and terse, barely audible. Feeling like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, she glanced at the choice of seats on her left and right before deciding on a Louis XIV needlepoint chair. Unfortunately, it was more impressive than comfortable. She squirmed to settle herself, set her tote on the floor and took out a pad and pen. Laying them on the edge of the highly polished escritoire, she sat back and folded her hands in her lap. The silence lengthened and deepened. "Your Grace?" Perhaps her verbal prompt was considered a social faux pas, because those wide, impressive shoulders stiffened. "Patience is not really an American virtue, is it?" he said, the syllables curt and aristocratic. Something about that gravelly but cultured voice raked across Daisy's nerves like a kitten's claw on silk. She swallowed hard, unable to speak. Finally, the duke turned around to face her. Daisy's breathing stumbled. "You?" she cried. "You're the duke?"

Chapter Eleven The man stood with one hand in his pants pocket, the other resting on the back of a carved chair. His fingers were long and masculine. He was cool, collected and remote. Neither a smile nor any sign of recognition marked his expressionless face. No indication at all that just minutes before he had coaxed her into breathless intimacy on a hilltop. "I am," he said. "Ian Furchess. We don't stand much on ceremony these days, so you may call me Ian. Tell me, Ms. Wexler, what brings you to the Lake District?" Her mouth hung open. Did he seriously think she didn't recognize him? The cognac-colored eyes were the same. The thick, wavy chestnut hair. Was she losing her mind? Perhaps this sophisticated nobleman was related to the fellow she'd met outside. But no…it wasn't possible. She had kissed him passionately only moments ago. Hadn't she?

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"You were feeding pigs," she blurted out. "But you're a duke." At last the hint of a smile lifted the corners of his beautiful mouth. "In case you haven't noticed, Ms. Wexler, we are having an extraordinarily lovely dose of early spring. Even dukes have been known to play hooky on such occasions." With complete calm, he sat down at the desk and rested his hands on the arms of the chair. Forcing herself not to gape, Daisy backed up mentally. If this was how he chose to play their official encounter, she would go along with it. "Call me Daisy," she said firmly. As if he hadn't already. "I'm here on behalf of Victor and Vincent Wolff." Ian's eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure I follow." "Surely you've heard of Wolff Enterprises." "Indeed. They're a multinational corporation, well-respected even outside the States. But again, what does that have to do with me?" "My employers are in their early seventies and semiretired. One of the younger Wolffs is at the helm of the organization now, and with more spare time on their hands, the two older men have taken up studying the family tree. Recently, they came across a document that suggests a connection with your ancestors. Obviously Victor and Vincent aren't interested in money. They have plenty of their own. But they are extremely invested in finding out whether or not their family has roots here, in the seat of the Wolffhamptons." She took a deep breath and sat back, realizing that her palms were sweaty and her stomach churned from being so close to him. Ian appeared unruffled. Perhaps he dallied with wandering tourists frequently. He picked up an expensive pen and rapped it lightly against the leather blotter. It was the first time she had seen him exhibit even a hint of agitation. "Why you, Daisy? Why did they send you?" "Because I'm very good at what I do. I'm a research librarian at the University of Virginia. The Wolffs hired me to come here and examine some of your family records. If you give your permission, that is?"

Chapter Twelve Ian frowned inwardly. All he had to do was say a definitive "no" and send her on her way. But he couldn't. Not yet. He didn't want to. He could only think about lying beside her on a grassy hill and acting like a man and not a duke. For a few short moments with Daisy, his life had seemed full of possibilities. He sighed. "I assure you, Daisy, we take genealogy very seriously here in England. And I can also tell you with absolute certainty that my dear grandmother and I are the only remaining members of the Wolffhampton family. Period." He hated disappointing her, but her employers had sent her on a fool's errand. She leaned toward him, her heart-shaped face earnest. The passion and conviction in her voice seduced him as surely as her beautiful spirit. "But your family may have been misled," she said. "A bastard son, Octavius, who shamed your ancestors with his antics, didn't die at sea, as it was claimed. He survived being thrown overboard, showed up in America, took Wolff as his surname, started a family without bothering to get married, and made a fortune in railroads."

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Holy hell. "How do you know this?" "Victor and Vincent found a journal." "And you have this for me to examine?" "Well, no. It's far too valuable to travel with…but I photocopied some pertinent passages. All I need to do is see your family Bible and any other records you may have from that time so I can cross-reference the information in the journal. You can call the Wolffs if you want to verify my identity." He shook his head in bemusement. "I doubt you're here to steal the family silver. And I suppose there's no harm in letting you poke around. But why on earth are you staying in a hostel? Surely the Wolffs could have sprung for more upscale accommodations." Guilt etched her expressive face. "I'm trying to save money. When I'm done here, I hope to take a few days and visit Scotland. Do you know if it's true what they say? That the men go naked beneath their kilts?" His lip curled in exasperation. "What is it with you women and Scotsmen? An Englishman is worth two of those barbarians any day." Daisy grinned at him, the sparkle in her eyes making him want to kiss her again…urgently. "Nevertheless," she said primly. "I cancelled my original reservations and I've been spending as little cash as possible. I guess a man like you couldn't understand that." He lifted an eyebrow. "A man like me?" They had played this verse before. "You know. Rich." He decided to let that comment pass. "Why are you so determined to see this through? Most people would have cut and run the first time I told you to leave." Vulnerability shadowed her face, and he sensed that what she was about to say wasn't something she told just anyone. "I grew up in a children's home, knowing very little about my birth family, so genealogy has become a passion of mine. I have a few leads about my great-grandfather, a faint possibility that I hope to follow up in Scotland, but without being hired by the Wolffs, I could never have managed to get here. I owe it to them to uncover the answers they seek. And hopefully I can find some of my own." "I see." He admired her spunk and independence. Daisy Wexler was as determined to steer her fate as he was to steer his. And despite the strictures of his upbringing, he was a man accustomed to action. Suddenly, a shocking idea came to Ian, one that guaranteed him more time with the delectable Daisy and at the same moment offered a possible solution to a very awkward situation. "I have a proposition for you, Daisy. In exchange for my cooperation on the research front, you could do me a favor." She looked suspicious. And rightly so. "What kind of favor?" He stood up and rounded the desk, propping his hip on the priceless antique. Daisy shrank back in her seat, her eyes wide.

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Leaning forward, he took her hand and drew her upward to stand beside him. "Tell me, Ms. Daisy Wexler. Do you know how to dance?"

Chapter Thirteen Daisy found herself in danger of swooning like a Victorian miss. The Duke of Wolffhampton at close quarters was an impressive figure. She was fairly certain that the buttons on his worsted wool suit were made of sterling silver imprinted with a coat of arms…no doubt the crest of the mighty Wolffhampton dynasty. But as beautiful as the garment was, Daisy couldn't help thinking he would look better naked. She nibbled her bottom lip. "Dance?" He played with a strand of her hair, his crooked grin lazy and sexy. "A man. A woman. Romantic music. You know the drill. Saturday is Valentine's Day…and it also happens to be my grandmother's ninetieth birthday. We're having a little soiree here at the castle to celebrate. Nothing too fancy. A hundred people or so. I'd like you to accompany me as my date." Daisy might not have had a speck of aristocratic blood in her veins, but she knew a scam when she saw one. "It's a little hard to believe that a duke has to troll for female companionship a few days before an event." "I'm in a bit of a pickle. My sainted nana has invited a young woman who Grandmother hopes will agree to be my bride." Daisy's heart plummeted to her feet. "You can't find your own girlfriends? Seriously?" Ian drew her across the room to the one piece of furniture that actually looked cozy…a low, cushiony love seat. They sat hip to hip, his big, hard body warming hers. "In case you haven't noticed, this monstrosity of a house is a money drain. I am in the unenviable position of being the first Duke of Wolffhampton who may actually have to deed the property over to the National Trust and let strangers tramp through the house in order to pay the taxes. We've been limping along so far, but Grandmother fears that I am depleting my personal fortune and throwing good money after bad." "And are you?" He leaned back and stretched out his legs, his thighs rippling with muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his trousers. With his hands behind his head, he gave her a sideways glance. "Truthfully? Yes. Grandmother has decided that the only solution is for me to marry an heiress. Guilliana's bloodlines are impeccable, and her father is, as you Americans say, stinkin' rich." Daisy hated the woman already. "Does she want to marry you?" Of course she did. What woman with a brain and two eyes wouldn't? Ian Furchess was a catch. "I have no idea. But Grandmother has invited Guilliana to the party, and since I'm not yet ready to throw myself on the sacrificial altar, it occurs to me that you would be the perfect diversion." Not a very flattering offer, but then again, Cinderella was surely entitled to one evening with the prince, even if the shoe didn't fit. "And in exchange for my cooperation, you'll allow me full access to your family records?" 710

Ian stuck out his hand. "Deal?" She wrapped her fingers around his, noting the exact moment when the warmth and vitality of his touch sparked an insurrection in that secret spot deep in her core. "Deal."

Chapter Fourteen Five days later, Ian cooled his heels in the foyer, waiting impatiently for his beautiful Daisy to appear. The past week had been the happiest days of his life. He'd taught her how to ride a horse. Or tried to. Witnessing Daisy's utter lack of proficiency, he'd laughed and taken her up with him on his mighty stallion, riding across fields and hedgerows at full gallop. In the afternoons, he had spent hours with her in the library, combing over old documents. When at last they discovered the definitive piece of evidence proving a connection to the American Wolffs, he and Daisy had celebrated with an impromptu hug that quickly turned into a scorching, highly un-duke-like kiss. This time he could not stop the wild mating of lips from becoming much more intimate. Ian locked the library door, lifting Daisy and coaxing her legs around his waist. "My bedroom's too far," he groaned. "I need you. Now." She responded by circling his neck with her slender arms and nibbling the tendons that stood out in relief. "Hurry," she panted. He steadied her against the wall and fumbled to free his aching shaft. Daisy wore a soft skirt and nothing underneath but panties. With no patience left to remove them, he pushed aside the narrow cotton band, fit the head of his erection to her core and thrust upward. "Oh, Ian…" Still remembering in vivid detail the way her soft, warm body had welcomed his, Ian swallowed hard and began to mentally list the monarchs of England in backward order from Elizabeth. It wouldn't do for the duke to be caught with an embarrassing boner. His impatience to see her again was tempered with wry amusement at how his plan to make Daisy his decoy date had mushroomed. The women on his staff had jumped on the idea, more, he suspected, out of a delight in transforming the pretty American tourist than to curry Ian's favor. Now, the man of the house was on tenterhooks. His bow tie felt as if it was choking him, and his shoes were too tight. Where in the hell was Daisy? Grandmother was dining in her suite tonight. The ball would tax her stamina enough as it was, so she was resting until the last minute. Ian had picked at a tray of fruit and cheese in his bedroom while he dressed for the evening, his mind on matters more erotic than nutritious. The ball was to commence at eight o'clock. Finally, at a quarter past seven, a faint noise on the upper landing caught his attention. He looked in that direction and his heart stopped dead in his chest. A woman stood at the top of the curved staircase wearing a fairy-tale gown of deep, royal blue chiffon and satin. After a split second of shock, he recognized her. It was Daisy, his Daisy. Her white shoulders were bare above a bodice that glittered with tiny bugle beads and crystals. The dress nipped in at the waist and

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then billowed out in dozens of fluffy layers that barely brushed the floor. Her blond hair had been carefully upswept in a sophisticated do that gave her the graceful bearing of a young Grace Kelly. When he saw the uncertainty on her face, though, his heart kicked into gear. Bounding up the steps, he met her halfway. With Daisy still one step above him, they stared at each other, eye to eye. "You look beautiful," he said gruffly, wishing he had thought to offer her jewelry to wear. But then again, with that skin and those eyes, the family sapphires would have been cast in the shade. Daisy blushed, an adorable pink that tinted her cheeks alluringly. "Thank you," she said softly, smiling. "I feel like a little girl playing dress-up." His gaze drifted without volition to the mouthwatering curves of her cleavage. God in heaven, give me strength. "Definitely all grown up," he croaked. Heedless of any eyes that might be watching from shadowy corners, he leaned forward and covered her mouth with his. Small hands settled on his shoulders. He cupped her narrow waist in his palms. She tasted of sweet cream and strawberries. The head gardener loved to keep the succulent fruit available in the greenhouse year-round, if possible. At the moment, Ian was imagining sharing a bite if Daisy felt generous. Their lips clung, parted on exhaled breaths and came together again. "I don't want to mess up your lipstick," he said, his pulse racketing away like a steam engine. He touched the center of her lower lip with his forefinger. "It's supposed to last for eight hours," she deadpanned, humor dancing in her eyes. "Good…that gives us plenty of time to experiment."

Chapter Fifteen Daisy thought she must be dreaming. And it was such a lovely, fantastical, whimsical, imaginary delight, she really didn't want to wake up. She was dancing…waltzing to be exact. With Ian Furchess, Duke of Wolffhampton. He held her in his arms, his long legs trapped now and again in her voluminous skirts as they whirled across a polished marble floor. The enormous salon, decorated in pink-and-silver tulle with gamboling cherubs, was filled with men in formal eveningwear and women garbed in a rainbow of expensive gowns. But Daisy had eyes only for Ian. In a tuxedo and tails, he looked like a prince. He held her more closely than was strictly necessary for a waltz. And the warmth of his hand on her back reminded her that he was a flesh-and-blood man, not a fantasy. Everything about him was real. Solid. His lips brushed her cheek. "Are you having fun, Daisy?" She tilted her head, smiling wryly. "Except for the part where your grandmother stabbed me with her eyes, yes. I half expected her to tack a scarlet C to my chest for commoner. Or better yet, an A for American."

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He chuckled. "Don't take it too seriously. She and I play this game. I stay in the perpetual doghouse for not giving her great-grandchildren, but I insist on waiting to marry until I find someone I love as much as she loved my grandfather." "How long were they married?" "Sixty-three years. He died five years ago." "She must miss him very much." "Indeed. Theirs was a great love affair in a time when arranged marriages were still the norm among the aristocracy. But despite the fact that they barely knew each other when they wed, my grandfather wooed his young bride, and she fell in love with him." Daisy fell silent, content to float on air in Ian's embrace. Envious gazes all around them tracked their progress, but curiously, Guilliana's was not among them. The slim, gorgeous countess had been introduced to Daisy early in the evening and had greeted her with charm and a mischievous smile. Nothing in her demeanor indicated a prior claim on the duke's affections. If anything, Ian and Guilliana seemed more like siblings as they exchanged comfortable conversation. During the course of the ball, Ian led all sorts of women out onto the floor—his "courtesy dances," he called them. But Daisy was no wallflower. A line of handsome, amiable young men claimed her hand time and again. Fortunately, she was a quick learner and her partners steered her well. She did know the basics of dancing, but the formality of the occasion was a bit overwhelming. Ian returned to her side as often as was socially acceptable. Which was not nearly enough for Daisy's liking. The hours were slipping away, and now that they'd both fulfilled their ends of the bargain, this could well be Daisy's final night with Ian….

Chapter Sixteen At ten o'clock, Ian escorted his grandmother out onto the floor for her birthday dance. She was frail in his arms and smelled of liniment. He felt a rush of affection for her, despite her contrary ways. As they moved circumspectly in time to the music, he caught her gazing at Guilliana with calculating eyes. "Forget it, Nana," he said. The less formal address was one he usually used only when they were alone together. "I won't be bludgeoned into marriage, not even for you." She glared at him with snapping dark eyes, keeping her mouth curved in a smile to avoid gossip. "That countess would solve all our problems, and she's a beauty, too. Any man would be glad to have her in his bed." The tops of his ears warmed. No one, not even a duke, wanted to discuss sex with his grandmother. "I don't love Guilliana. I'm not even attracted to her. I know I'm disappointing you, but I'd rather deed this pile of stone over to the National Trust and hide out in a single wing while tourists tramp through the halls than tie myself for life to a woman who doesn't make me happy." "And this Daisy person? Does she make you happy?" Ian had fudged a bit on the details of his relationship with Daisy to his grandmother. He might possibly have insinuated that they had met before. A tiny white lie, but one he regretted already. 713

Instead of answering her question, he countered with another. "Do you believe in love at first sight?" He had her there. He'd been told on countless occasions of how his grandmother had met her suitor reluctantly, but upon seeing him for the first time had given her heart without hesitation. Her chin lifted. "You're an impertinent boy. Of course I do. But I married someone of equal wealth and station. Your little librarian is a nobody. Without two shillings to rub together. I can't believe the Wolffhamptons have come to this." Feeling the weight of his grandmother's disappointment—along with the disapproval of the many ancestors whose painted eyes stared at him from gilt-framed portraits hung along the walls—Ian bowed his head for a brief moment. Perhaps he was making a selfish mistake, choosing to be a man first, and a duke second. But for the first time since his parents and brother had died in the accident, he was doing what was right for him instead of what was expected of a duke. He'd made a phone call today, determined to master this impossible set of circumstances that had been set before him. Over his grandmother's shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Daisy across the room. She was laughing, surrounded by a bevy of single men on the prowl, lured in by her infectious Southern accent and her unself-conscious charm. "You asked me a question, Nana, and I didn't answer." He hugged her tightly as the dance came to an end and the room erupted in a chorus of "Happy Birthday." Stepping back to give her a formal bow, he eyed her solemnly. "Yes, Grandmother, she makes me happy."

Chapter Seventeen Seeing Ian move slowly across the floor with his elderly grandmother in his arms brought tears to Daisy's eyes. His gentle strength was evident, as was the esteem in which he was held by his peers. Everyone in the room regarded Ian Furchess as a decent, honorable man. Was it right of Daisy to coax him into a temporary indiscretion that he would surely regret? He joined her for the last dance of the evening, pulling her gently into his arms and holding her close for the romantic classical ballad. She rested her head on his shoulder. "You're a wonderful grandson," she said, feeling melancholy chill her heart. Ian's fingertips brushed the nape of her neck, sending prickles of awareness down her spine. "If that were true, I'd be cheek to cheek with a countess right now." "It's not too late," she whispered, her throat tight. "I could invent a headache…go up to my room." His arms tightened. "You're not going anywhere. I asked you to be my Valentine for the evening. You're stuck with me." "I don't know what that involves…the Valentine thing. Would you care to elaborate?" He pulled back and searched her face. The words she had tossed at him were light and teasing, but the tremor in her voice was audible.

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Ian brushed her temple with his lips, the fingers of his right hand squeezing her left ones tightly. "I'm not entirely sure. I've never chosen a Valentine before…at least not since I wore knee britches and had a crush on my nanny." Daisy smiled wistfully. "I feel honored." Pausing for a moment to weigh the risk of a personal question, she plunged in, feetfirst. "The real reason your grandmother is so eager for you to wed is that you're supposed to produce a nursery full of babies to carry on the family name…right? Fruit of your loins? Tiny toddler dukes?" As if her question had conjured up an inescapable vision, Ian stumbled, his arm tightening around her waist. His momentary awkwardness was as stunning as it was unexpected. What was he thinking? Before he could respond, the music trailed to an end, and the lights came up, signaling an end to the party. Ian cursed soft and low, his heart beating against her breast in time with hers. "I have to say goodbye to all the guests." "Of course." She agreed readily, though it was a physical pain to release him, knowing this magical evening was at an end. "If you don't mind lingering for a bit while I finish my hosting duties, I'd love it if you would meet me upstairs in the gallery later." He pointed to the balcony that stretched across the far end of the room. "I want to talk to you about something." So courteous. So English. Their hands clung a moment longer. "Go," she said. "I'll wait. I promise." Daisy didn't really mind the delay. She had a big decision to make, because it had become clear to her tonight that Ian had stolen into her heart. But should she admit she was falling in love? Or would he think, after so few days together, that she was playing an angle? Would he tell her he never wanted to see her again?

Chapter Eighteen Ian chafed at the interminable pleasantries he was forced to endure. A few at a time, his guests departed slowly, every one stopping to wish his grandmother one last happy birthday or to shake his hand and offer gratitude for the invitation. The regal grandfather clock in the foyer ticked away the minutes with a steady, monotonous tempo. It was almost midnight when Nana's nurse and companion escorted her up the stairs. At last, Ian was alone. He waited until his grandmother was out of sight and then strode rapidly back toward the ballroom. There, he accessed the second floor via a set of stairs hidden behind an ornamental screen. When he reached the gallery, out of breath and hot underneath his dress shirt, he stopped short, his stomach settling like lead somewhere down around his knees. Daisy was not there. He could see the full length of the narrow space, and it was empty…quiet…bare except for the curious stares of still more Wolffhampton relatives. Damnation. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, feeling all the joy and anticipation drain out of his heart.

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"I thought you had forgotten about me." At the sound of the quiet, now-familiar drawl, he whirled around. "Daisy!" He snatched her up and kissed her wildly, her feet dangling several inches above the floor. She felt substantial in his arms. Warm. Alive. And he wanted her so badly he was shaking. Daisy kissed him back. Grown-up, naughty kisses that reminded him of how much he had to lose if he made a misstep. Her arms twined around his neck in a stranglehold, and she lost one of her shoes. He heard it plop as it hit the floor. He shuddered as her tongue mated with his, soft and delicious. "Come to bed with me," he groaned. Whether it was an order or a plea, he wasn't sure. Slumberous blue eyes shone with the same eagerness he felt. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Ian." He scooped her into his arms, thanking his lucky stars that his suite was on this level. Though the way he was feeling at the moment, he could have carried her up ten flights of stairs and never noticed. The halls were silent and dimly lit. They encountered no one on the way. With one hand he opened the door to his bedroom and carried her over the threshold. A warm glow from the fireplace illuminated the darkness. Its meager glow was perfect for him to revel in exposing Daisy's curvy, white-skinned body as he unzipped the borrowed ball gown and let it fall to the floor. Her bare breasts gleamed like rich cream. The only undergarment she wore was a tiny pair of black satin panties. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Quit staring, Ian, and take off your clothes."

Chapter Nineteen Daisy stepped out of the pile of froth and shivered, though with logs burning in the massive fireplace the chamber was actually quite warm. Ian chuckled at her imperious command to take off his clothes but obeyed, ripping at his shirt and scattering studs willy-nilly as he disrobed. When he kicked off his socks and shoes and shoved his pants and boxers down his legs, she backed up a step. He was big and aroused and hungry. Though he employed dozens of servants to do his every bidding, he looked like a man who enjoyed physical challenges. The muscles and sinews that flexed beneath his skin were impressive. He turned down the covers on the enormous four-poster bed and crooked a finger. "Let me warm you up." She bit her lip. "Is that code for something?" "What do you think?" "I think you're far too accustomed to bossing people around and having them do exactly what you want. Yes, Your Grace. No, Your Grace."

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He picked her up again, his easy strength making her feel delightfully feminine as he held her to his hard, lightly hair-covered chest. Depositing her gently on the bed, he came down beside her, propping himself on an elbow, head on his hand. "And I think you bewitched me the morning we met." She grinned, loving the way a lock of his hair fell over his forehead, making him look youthful and more relaxed. "You were awfully cranky that day." He nodded, tracing a circle around one of her nipples until it puckered. "I deserved to be," he muttered. "It felt as if I'd been struck by lightning." Eyes closed, she squirmed at his caress, and her hands fisted in the snowy sheets as he mapped her body with a tactile exploration that left them both gasping for breath. If she touched him in return, it would be over too soon. The air shimmered with the intensity of their arousal. The unmistakable scent of need fragranced the sheets. "Look at me," he commanded, every inch the duke. "I want to remember this night." Her lashes fluttered open as his words and their meaning registered. "I'm not supposed to be in this bed," she whispered. "We both know that. And I can't stay here beyond tomorrow. Why are we doing this?" He moved on top of her, spreading her legs with sure movements and settling between her thighs. "Because you're my Valentine," he said. "The only one I've ever wanted." He guided his fully erect shaft with one hand, entering her with a shallow, gentle thrust that gave her time to adjust to his size. In that moment, her heart broke just a little. Something so perfect, so incredible couldn't last. Closing her mind to the unpleasantness to come, she wrapped her legs around his waist. "I won't break," she said. "Make love to me, Ian."

Chapter Twenty Twenty-first-century Dukes were well-educated, cerebral and trained in reasonable debate. But with his first thrust inside Daisy's warm, welcoming body, Ian lost his mind. If he had ever felt such pleasure in his life, he couldn't remember it. She was tight. And really limber. The head of his shaft nudged her womb. Then he realized with hazy shock part of what was different. He was making love to her without protection. As if she read his mind at the fractional hesitation, she ran a hand through his hair. "It's okay," she whispered. "I'm on the pill. And you have nothing to worry about beyond that." His heart wrenched. At last he had found the woman with whom he'd be happy to make babies, but he'd have to hand over his heritage to keep her. How many polo matches had he won in his life with a justbefore-the-buzzer shot to save the day? He'd tried such a ploy this morning, unbeknownst to Daisy. But the effort had obviously failed; they hadn't called him back. And yet, having Daisy like this, warm and willing in his bed, was the only victory that mattered. Moving faster, harder, deeper—filled with spreading joy and a tumultuous rush to completion—he acknowledged in one last coherent corner of his brain that the choice had been made on that very first day. 717

As his body went rigid and dropped in free fall, he felt her passage squeeze him with flutters of her own release…. *** "I'm going to marry you, Daisy Wexler, so you might as well get used to the idea." They had been naked together for several hours. And Ian had put every moment to good use. She sighed and snuggled closer to his side, her slender leg resting across his thigh. "Don't be ridiculous. You have to marry an heiress. I couldn't live with myself if you had to give up your home." "The National Trust won't make us move out," Ian said, combing her hair with his fingers. "We'll simply have to downsize a bit." She sat up, the sheet clutched to her breast as if he hadn't licked every inch of those beautiful— "Focus, Ian," she said with exasperation. "Are you actually serious?" He tucked his hands behind his neck, stretching with a bone-deep contentment that told him he was making the right decision, the only decision. "I am. I can live with less of a house, my love. But I can't live even one more minute without you." Tears leaked from her eyes but he kissed them away. Which led to another highly satisfactory round of convincing his wife-to-be that he was never going to get enough of her. Ever. When they collapsed at last, exhausted but happy, Ian saw that the message light on the ancient landline phone was blinking. Daisy had dozed off in his left arm, so with his free hand, he lifted the receiver, punched the button and listened. Laughter bubbled up in his chest, along with exhilaration. He shook her gently as he replaced the phone. "Daisy…wake up." She blinked, rubbing her arm. "What's wrong?" she said sleepily. And with good reason. The night was headed toward dawn and he'd kept her awake for hours, unable to sate his need for her. "I left a message for Victor and Vincent Wolff yesterday," he said. "And I told them that with a little corroboration, I was absolutely sure there was a family connection." "I could have called them." Daisy frowned, clearly disappointed that he had stolen her thunder. "But I guess they enjoyed hearing the news from you." He gathered her close and kissed the top of her nose. "I took a page from your book, my resourceful American sweetheart, and invited them to invest in the future of their newfound family. They've wired five million pounds to my account in London, contingent upon the finalization of your research and with an urgent plea not to sign over even an acre of the Wolffhampton birthright in the meantime." Daisy's eyebrows rose in shock. "So you won't lose the house after all?" "We won't lose the house, Daisy. And you'll have the rest of your life to poke around Britain and find your own relatives."

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Her bottom lip trembled in a radiant smile. "I love you, Ian." "I love you, Valentine." He slid a hand beneath the covers, thinking about chubby blue-eyed babies and all the wonderful years to come….

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One Crazy Kiss by Penny McCusker

Chapter One There were two kinds of men who saw the kissing booth at the Erskine Summer Fair that sunny August afternoon; those who laughed outright at the idea of kissing a woman who could outride, outrope and outwork just about any man in the state, and those who'd try for more than just a kiss. The first kind simply kept walking. So did the second kind. A man was as likely to end up on his backside in the dirt as to end up with his lips locked to Lisa Baker’s. At the very least he'd get a tongue-lashing if he tried, and her tongue could be every bit as bruising to the male ego as any physical harm she could inflict with her five and a half feet of slim-to-the-point-of-skinny body. That could have been the reason her tenure in the Kisses for Kids Charity Kissing Booth wasn't all that successful. A dismal failure was more like it, Lisa thought as she surveyed the meager stack of one-dollar bills in the cash box. Counting the five dollars in change she'd started with, she'd made exactly...two dollars - and that was only because she'd refused to give them back. "Hey, Lisa, Jack Mendoza's talking kind of funny." She looked up, her heart kicking once, hard, the way it always did when she set eyes on Ted Delancey. And if she didn’t stop staring and start breathing, he’d think she’d lost her mind. So she tried to focus on seeing him as her best friend, the boy she’d known since they were children, instead of the man she’d fallen in love with. "That's what Jack gets for sticking his tongue in places it doesn't belong," she said, managing, somehow, to sound casual. Ted tucked his own tongue in his cheek and both thumbs in his front pockets, sauntering over to rest his long, lean frame against one of the uprights of the booth. Lisa looked into eyes as blue as the wide Montana sky, and darn near fainted dead away. And wouldn't that just make everyone in Erskine hoot, she thought as she watched his lips move and fought to hear what he was saying instead of wondering how they'd feel on hers. "And Virg swears you broke his wrist - and it's his roping arm." And when she did figure out what he'd said, she snorted. "I just put him in a thumb lock. He's lucky I was standing behind this - " she said, indicating the waist-high front of the booth "- else he wouldn't be sitting on a horse for a few days." Ted's eyes narrowed. "Just where did that son-of-a-polecat try to put his hands?" 720

Lisa's gaze dropped to the front of her shirt. Ted's did, too, his tanned face reddening - anger, she thought, sighing because she knew it wasn’t the kind of anger a man felt over a woman. It was the kind of anger a brother felt over a kid sister who'd been manhandled. "What was that sigh for?" he demanded. "You aren't saying you wanted him to - " he made a couple of vague gestures in the general vicinity of her body " - touch you like that?" "No," she said and sighed again. It earned her another confused and suspicious look from Ted, but how could she tell him she'd like to be touched that way...by him? "Why, hello, Teddie." Ted straightened and touched the brim of his Stetson, giving the newcomer a slow once-over. "Edie." Lisa would have kicked him, if she hadn’t already put so much effort into acting like she didn’t care. And really, it wasn’t Ted’s fault. He was only a man, after all, and men got an itch when they looked at Edie. The only time she’d made a man itch, Lisa thought to herself, was when Billy Nichols had gotten poison ivy while they'd been frogging in the fourth grade. "Well, Lisa, I see the Children's Home will have to wait another year for that kitchen they've been wanting," Edie said, looking at Ted like a starving goat eyeing...anything. “But of course, Teddie, you’re going to contribute, right?” “That’d be like kissing my sister,” Ted said, sending Lisa a get-a-load-of-the-crazy-woman look. Lisa had no choice but to roll her eyes as if she wasn’t devastated. Ted bought it. “Since you’re not...producing,” Edie said to Lisa, “maybe you should let someone else take over.” “Y'know, Edie, you're right. And I think it's time not only for a change of personnel, but a jump into the twenty-first century." And before Edie could suggest she take over, Lisa hooked Ted's elbow, dragged him into the booth, and slipped out. It didn't solve her problem entirely; Edie would still get to kiss Ted, but that would be a lot easier to bear than watching him ante up a buck to kiss another woman. She got more than she bargained for. Activity at that part of the fair came to an abrupt halt - not to see a man, well, manning the kissing booth, so much as to see this man. Every single woman and half the married ones within a hundred-mile radius of Erskine, Montana, wanted to get her hooks into Ted Delancey.

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He wasn’t taking their bait. His father had spent and neglected the Rocking D into the ground and Ted didn’t think it was fair to get involved with someone when all he had to offer was a life verging on bankruptcy. He was severely underestimating the female sex in general and the Montana faction of it, specifically - not to mention his own charms. Women in Montana were born and raised on farms and ranches that had financial problems of their own. Few would have hesitated to jump into a financial hole and live on love alone with a man as yummy as Ted Delancey. And even those who wanted more solvency in a man would only be too happy to part with one measly dollar to take Ted’s lips out for a test drive. It was for a good cause, after all. The children’s charity would profit, too. This being Erskine, where gossip was as inevitable as the sunset and a whole lot more frequent, it took less than two minutes for a crowd of women - mostly single - to gather at the kissing booth and start jockeying for position. Nobody wanted to be first, that would just be pathetic, but nobody wanted to be too far back and take the chance his lips would swell up, giving him an excuse to duck his civic duty. And did Ted have the good grace to be embarrassed by the spectacle? No, he just stood there, thumbs tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, grinning from ear to ear. “Ladies,” he said, spreading his hands as if to say, there’s enough for everyone. A silence fell, broken only by giggles. There was a lot of blushing, too, and the occasional surreptitious drool check. Otherwise, nobody moved. “How about if I close my eyes?” Ted offered. He leaned his hands on the low wall in front of him and grinned. “It’s not really a good kiss unless I do, and seeing as how you’re paying for the privilege, it had better be good.” And down went his eyelids. This prompted more giggling, some whispering and a bit of nervous shuffling that took the crowd of women no closer to the kissing booth. “For pity’s sake,” Lisa muttered, “somebody has to go first.” “You’re right,” Edie said, and shoved Lisa forward, right into Ted. He caught her by reflex, and while she was frozen in shock, he laid his mouth on hers, and the world caught fire. ****** It was only a kiss, Ted thought - a harmless kiss between two strangers who happened to intersect at the Kisses for Kids Charity Kissing Booth at the Erskine Summer Fair. He shouldn't

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have allowed himself to get caught up in it, but it had been so long, and the generous warmth of that mouth trembling under his, the sweet, pure taste of her lips was too much to resist. His hands lifted, discovered skin so soft he only allowed himself to skim her jawline with his knuckles for fear his calloused fingertips would be too rough. There wasn’t a lot of soft in Ted’s life. It was only natural that it would appeal to him. And it was only natural that her scent, fresh and bright like a summer day on the range he loved, should feel like coming home. What caught him by surprise was the heat that shot through him - the kind of heat that made a man thirsty in ways no liquid could quench. And while a little voice inside him was telling him to take this slow and keep it light, it wasn’t a loud enough voice to shout down the urge to make the kiss go on and on and... Then she jerked away. Before he could gather his wits and open his eyes to see the woman that was causing such a reaction, another mouth was on his - and he knew that it was just a kiss. What had gone before had been so much more. Who had he been kissing? He opened his eyes, but the situation didn’t improve when he found out he was kissing Edie. Some men - okay, a lot of men - bought her poor-dumb-blond-who-needs-a-big-strong-man-tothink-for-me act. Ted wasn’t one of them. Ted quickly pulled away, much to her obvious chagrin. He skimmed the crowd, trying to get a glimpse of who the mystery woman was. Had she walked away? He vaulted over the low front of the kissing booth and surveyed the ragged half circle of audience. The front of the crowd was mostly comprised of women his age, give or take a few years, some of them still clutching dollar bills. At the back were...more mature women who were not there - fortunately - to participate in the fun. Just to watch it. A man in the kissing booth might have been intriguing enough to bring them running, but nothing could keep them there like the possibility of entertainment. The idea of making a spectacle of himself made Ted hesitate, but only for a minute. The memory of that kiss was too fresh, the lure of all that warmth and sweetness irresistible. He scanned the crowd again, but all the faces were familiar. The woman who’d kissed him must’ve been someone he’d never met before. Right? He couldn’t possibly have lived in the same town with a woman who could make him feel that way and not have known it. “You can’t leave the kissing booth empty,” Dory Shasta called out. Ted took out his wallet and put all his money - a pitifully small amount - in the till, then emptied out his pocket change just for good measure.

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“Now, the charity will be grateful,” Dory said, “but it still isn’t right to shirk your duty.” “It’s not his duty,” Edie piped up, then paused to find her next thought. “Lisa Baker is supposed to be in the booth right now, but she wasn’t making any money, and I suggested maybe someone else should take over.” “Meaning you,” Ted pointed out to Edie. “But Lisa dragged me in there, instead. It wasn’t exactly consensual.” “Didn’t see you complaining,” someone said. The rest of the crowd agreed, rapidly coming to the consensus that he should finish out Lisa’s shift... Lisa. He searched the crowd and there she was, her hand over her mouth, shaking with laughter. He frowned over that. Lisa wasn’t generally one to join in with the town’s habit of finding entertainment at some poor fool’s expense, and the few times he’d shown interest in a woman Lisa had been studiously uninterested. But Ted had to admit that Lisa knew him better than anyone. She knew his history, his reasons for being single. He preferred to be with a woman who didn’t try to lead him around by the crotch. He’d seen his old man fall for that too many times - once too many as a matter of fact. If his father and stepmother hadn’t driven way too fast down that two-lane country road in their fancy sports car, the Rocking D would likely have been history altogether. Auctioned away to satisfy the creditors. Instead, along with mourning them, Ted was paying off their debts - and would be for a good long while. Even if he hadn’t soured on the idea of marriage, he wouldn’t ask anyone to share that kind of burden. Or maybe he’d just never found a woman who could make him want her enough to forget all that. Until now. Of all the people standing there, Lisa would be the only one who understood that something incredible had just happened to him... Her eyes widened and she turned away, but not fast enough to keep Ted from catching her by the collar. “Who kissed me?” he demanded. “I did,” Edie purred from just behind him. Ted ignored her, shifting his grip from Lisa’s collar to her arm. “Who kissed me first?” he asked.

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“Figure it out for yourself.” She brushed him off, which was just as well, seeing how the memory of that kiss tingled through him suddenly, and he didn’t want Lisa to feel him trembling. She’d tease him to no end about it. “Tell me!” She crossed her arms and stared off into the distance, her chin stuck out just enough to take it from a sulk to a challenge. He smiled. Now this was the Lisa he knew and...he decided to end that particular euphemism right there because he did know Lisa - almost as well as he knew himself. And he knew how to get her to tell him what he wanted to know. “Your pride’s stung, right? You’re ticked off because I made more money than you?” Her mouth dropped open on the first question, then snapped shut on the second. “I don’t recall seeing anyone put a dollar in that box but you.” “Y’know, you’re right?” Ted looked over his shoulder. “The woman who kissed me didn’t pay up, and the sign clearly says ‘One Dollar.’ And since you were supposed to be in the booth, I guess it’s up to you to find her and set her straight.” “You want to know who kissed you?” Lisa dug in her pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar, took his hand and slapped the bill into it. Ted snatched his hand from between hers and tried to give that dollar back without letting her discover that the tremble was suddenly back, along with a strange weakness in his knees. “So tell me already.” Lisa pushed his hand back, refusing the dollar. “It was me. I kissed you.” Ted stared at her for a second, then threw his head back and laughed, a deep belly laugh, like he hadn’t laughed in years. “No, really,” he said, as soon as he could get actual words out. “Who was it?” Chapter Two Lisa Baker had only volunteered to work a shift in the Kisses for Kids Charity Kissing Booth at the Erskine Summer Fair in hopes of making Ted Delancey notice her. It had worked out better than she’d ever dreamed. And worse. She'd gotten her kiss, all right, and it had changed her life. But instead of giving her hope, that kiss had all but taken her hope away. And she had only herself to blame.

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She’d even gotten all gussied up in a brand-new pair of jeans and a pink blouse - okay, a pink plaid western shirt. The point was she’d made an effort to look like a girl, and what happened? She’d wound up feeling like a fool. Along he had come - Ted Delancey, the man she was in love with - and he’d just stood there asking her for a rundown of what cowboy had touched her where, with no intention of putting his own hands to good use. Or his lips, for that matter. She’d given him every motivation to kiss her. It was just a buck, for Pete’s sake. Even Ted, with all the financial trouble he’d inherited, could afford to part with a buck. And it was for charity which was pretty pathetic, when she stopped to think about it, using a bunch of orphans in order to coerce a man to kiss her. Especially pathetic when he wouldn’t take the bait. Then Edie Macon had happened by, brassy as always, shoving Lisa into Ted in order to embarrass them both. It had backfired on Edie - and on Lisa, for that matter. Oh, she’d gotten that kiss from Ted - a kiss so amazing all she’d been able to do was stand there shaking like a leaf when it was over, her fingers touching her burning lips. Even half an hour later, the aftermath of it was still humming through her veins like a low voltage current of electricity. But Ted didn’t believe it was her. He’d laughed when she’d told him. That hurt, more than she’d believed possible. And it made her mad enough to spit nails. She could’ve kissed a dozen strangers with her eyes closed, and she’d still have been able to pick Ted out of the crowd - just from the jolt she got when they touched. It should’ve been the same for him. How often had she noticed him avoiding her touch? Clearly he’d felt that jolt, too, or he wouldn’t be looking for the woman on the other side of that kiss so frantically. And what had she done? Run away. He’d given her the perfect opportunity to prove it was her. All she’d had to do was plant another one on him. But she’d been so afraid. What if he couldn’t reconcile what he was feeling when he knew who was making him feel it? If he’d rejected her again, in front of the entire town, no less...it was just too heartbreaking to think about. She’d taken off, not knowing where she was heading. “Hey, Lisa.” She turned out of reflex, realized she was passing the bakery when she saw Mr. Tilford waving to her from behind the big front window. “How long did you last in the kissing booth?” he called out. She didn’t exactly want to rehash that part of her morning, but manners and respect had her backtracking to the doorway. “Not long.”

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“How much money did you make?” “Not much,” she said, relaxing as she realized that Mr. Tilford hadn’t heard all the gory details yet. “You wouldn’t want to put it in nice, round terms, for me, would you?” She answered his smile with one of her own. “Let me guess - there’s a pool down at the Inn.” “You know it.” The Ersk Inn was Erskine’s Las Vegas. There weren’t any slots, blackjack tables or roulette wheels, and the only entertainment was the big-screen TV in the corner, usually tuned to sports or the crop report - but if you wanted to do some betting, this was the place to go. The only neon was the Budweiser sign by the bar, the bet limit was five dollars, and the hightech scoreboard was some white poster boards with magic marker grids tacked up on the big wall by the door...but you could bet on anything from who would have the prize bull at the state fair “Did you maim anybody while you were there?” - to whether or not Lisa Baker would maim anybody during her short-lived tenure in the Kisses for Kids Charity Kissing Booth. “You might want to ask Jack Mendoza or Virg Haskell that question,” Lisa replied. Mr. Tilford gave a hoot of laughter and slapped his thigh. “Don’t have to ask ’em,” he said, “them being the kind of yahoos they are, and you being the kind of gal you are.” And he laughed again. She smiled. What point was there in doing anything else? Once you got a reputation in Erskine, it stuck, and her reputation had passed tomboy and was rapidly approaching man-hater. She could’ve set the record straight, made it clear that she didn’t turn down dates with every man who asked because she had an aversion to the male race - but only if she was willing to explain that she had a yearning for one particular male, and that if she couldn’t have him, she didn’t want anyone else. And the reaction she’d get would be pity. No thanks. “Here’s your daddy now. He’s likely to have heard the talk, not being stuck behind this counter like me. Best you go on and set his mind at ease.” “Yes, sir,” she said, stepping away just as Rusty Baker caught up to her.

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He curled an arm around her shoulders. “I heard what happened,” he said as they headed off down the raised wooden boardwalk that fronted the buildings in the old part of town. Lisa looked up at him. “All of it,” he said. “C’mon, let’s go home.” Home. The Rocking D. Ted’s ranch. She’d lived there her whole life, just like Ted had. Her mother was buried in the little cemetery under the cottonwood on the hill, along with Ted’s parents. And even though her father was only the foreman, a hired hand, she’d had the run of the place. She’d tagged along after Ted as a little girl, and when they were older, they’d been as close as close could be. They’d been best friends for as long as Lisa could remember - until she’d realised that what she felt for Ted went way beyond being just a friend. Even if he couldn’t seem to see her as anything else. Her gaze lifted to Rusty’s again, and as usual, no words were necessary. Of all the people in the world, only her father knew how she felt about Ted. Even if he hadn’t seen the misery in her eyes, he’d know how she was feeling right now. “Ted’s an idiot,” Rusty said. “For two cents I’d - “ “What? Tell him off? Quit your job?” Lisa laid a hand on his arm and he swallowed what he’d been about to say, if not the anger that had prompted it. “What would that solve?” “Nothing,” Rusty ground out, “but there’s a pretty simple solution to all this.” Lisa closed her eyes, but she couldn’t shut out the words, even if she’d plugged her ears, because it was exactly what her heart had been urging her to do. “Tell him how you feel.” *

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After Lisa had taken off from the Kisses for Kids Charity Kissing Booth, none of the other women would even talk to Ted. He thought their reaction was kind of extreme. All he’d done was laugh... Okay, he had to admit that had been a little rude, not to mention insulting. But kissing Lisa? Not the most outlandish thought, seeing as she was cute, with all that strawberry blond hair and those deep blue eyes that sparkled when she laughed.

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He could see how a man would want to put his hands on her. She wasn’t Marilyn Monroe, but she wasn’t Olive Oyl, either. She was slim and strong and healthy, which was sexy in its own way, and when he was with her, well, she just made him - no, not him, Ted amended hastily, but other men - she made men take notice. If, he thought with a frown, she’d ever date a man. But that wasn’t the point. The point was he could understand how a man would want to be with Lisa - not just be with her, but be with her. But not him. He couldn’t have that kind of reaction to a woman he’d always considered part of his family. That was just absurd. Still, he shouldn’t have laughed at her, and he’d apologize later, he told himself. Lisa wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t say the same about his mystery woman. She was going to walk out of his life forever if he didn’t find her soon. In Erskine that shouldn’t be so hard. By now the goings-on at the kissing booth would be all over town. Somebody had to be able to steer him in the right direction. “Janey,” he called out, catching sight of Janey Walters standing in front of the five-and-dime. “You didn’t happen to be at the fair earlier, did you? Near the kissing booth?” “No,” Janey smiled. “I hear Lisa Baker was at the booth a little while ago, though.” She looked up at Ted and he could’ve sworn he saw something strange in her eyes. There was amusement - there almost always was with Janey - but there was also...hope? And when he didn’t get the message, there was disappointment. “You should ask Lisa. She’s right over there with her father.” Ted turned in the direction of Janey’s pointing finger and saw Lisa and Rusty on the opposite side of the street, rapidly disappearing in the crowd. “Thanks,” he threw over his shoulder, and took off after them. Considering the way he’d left things with Lisa, she wasn’t going to be any more motivated to answer his question now than she had been before. But seeing her had brought back that breathless, something-incredible’s-about-to-happen feeling, and that feeling was stronger than Lisa’s wrath. Besides, she never stayed mad long, and sure enough when he caught up to her, she didn’t look angry. She didn’t look at him at all, as a matter of fact. Rusty did, though, and he looked ticked off enough for the both of them. “Always thought you had more sense than your old man,” Rusty growled at him. Okay, maybe ticked off was an understatement. “If you have something to say to me, Rusty, say it plain.” “You’re my boss, and you can fire me - “

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“I’ve always considered you family, you know that.” “But we aren’t family.” No. And Ted spent a moment just taking that in. As much as it shocked him to hear Rusty say it outright like that, the fact that Lisa didn’t object stung even more. They’d grown up together, as close as any real brother and sister - when they were little. Looking back now, Ted could see there’d been a kind of pulling away, on both their parts, as they’d hit high school... “Look, son,” Rusty said, completely derailing Ted’s train of thought. ”I’ve spent my life at the Rocking D, same as your dad. I buried a wife there, and raised a daughter, and God willing I’ll be put in the ground there when it’s my time.” “Dad - ” “Hush,” Rusty said to his daughter, never taking his eyes off Ted. “Your father left you in a hell of a spot; nobody knows that better than me, but it isn't his debts holding you back. You're taking his weakness for fast women and expensive toys as a lesson, and there wouldn't be anything wrong with that if you weren't going to the other extreme. You're not your old man. You need to stop worrying about the way he lived his life and start living yours, or you're going to end up alone and miserable." “I’m trying to stop that from happening,” Ted said, “but no one is helping.” “I’ll make it real easy for you, son - “ “Rusty!” Lisa stepped out from behind her father. “I can talk for myself.” “If that was the case we wouldn’t be in this pickle, now would we?” Father and daughter exchanged a long look that spoke volumes in a language Ted didn’t understand. Then again, he hadn’t understood the last bit of their conversation any better. “Anybody want to clue me in?” he asked. "Where would I start?" Lisa waited a beat, and when he didn't say anything, she threw up her hands and said, "I’m out of here,” and off she went. Rusty shot Ted one last disgusted look before he trotted after her, almost knocking into Deputy Sheriff Clarence Beeber, who’d taken up a post on the raised boardwalk where he could see out over the crowd. “Lisa’s still mad at you over the kissing booth incident,” Clary observed when Ted came up beside him. Ted glanced in the direction she’d disappeared, but he knew it would be foolish to go after her. He’d just get his head bitten off again. “You heard about that, huh?” 730

“Word’s probably reached Plains City by now, and that’s an easy fifty miles from here.” Ted didn’t care if it reached the moon. “You didn’t happen to get a name, did you?” Clary pushed his hat back and scratched his head, and although his eyes never stopped scanning the crowd, Ted knew Clary was putting all his other resources into answering the question. If it took him a couple of minutes, it was only because he liked to be thorough. For Clary, law enforcement wasn’t just a career choice, it was a lifestyle. Ted had a feeling that everything Clary thought and did came footnoted with the appropriate statute or ordinance. But there wasn’t a man who cared about his constituency more - or kept up better with what was going on in his town. “Now that you mention it,” he said in his own time, “no.” “So what would you do if you wanted to find someone,” he asked, “and you didn’t know her name or what she looked like?” Clary shrugged like the answer was obvious. “You need to approach this thing like you’re solving a crime,” he said. “Write down all the pertinent bits of evidence and then apply them to each suspect until you find someone who fits the criteria.” Criteria? Ted didn’t have any criteria - at least none he could apply without getting slapped. Or shot. Which was what some husband or boyfriend or brother would do to him if he went around town, kissing every "suspect" he came across to see if she tasted as sweet and pure as spring melt from the mountains, if her skin felt like silk and if she smelled like a summer hay meadow... Bingo. Chapter Three The heart of Erskine was the town square, with its hedge border, bandstand gazebo and war monument. Today it was bounded on three sides with craft booths that looked as if they'd been through a war - or two. Every year during the Erskine Summer Fair they were brought out, propped up against one another and manned by intrepid crafters, a major draw for the crowds of women who came to town to while away a hot summer afternoon. Lisa had let the current of the crowd carry her there, but when everyone else turned right, she turned left. Always bucking the norm. That was her problem - or at least part of it. She just wasn’t like other women. She didn’t get the whole shopping-as-therapy thing. It didn’t do her aching heart one bit of good to wander around looking at stained-glass jewelry boxes and scented candles. Or baby blankets.

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All she wanted to do was get out of town and hit the peaceful, open range on horseback. But she’d be damned if she slunk off with her tail tucked between her legs and gave the Erskine gossips another reason to pity her. She hadn’t done anything wrong, after all. Stupid...now that was another story. She’d only volunteered to spend an hour in the Kisses for Kids Charity Kissing Booth in the hope it would prod Ted Delancey into seeing her as something besides the little pig-tailed girl who’d trailed after him with hero-worship in her eyes, or the grown woman who’d become nothing more than a convenience around the Rocking D. But if he couldn’t imagine kissing her, even after he had...if it was so foreign a concept to him that he might find her attractive in that way...what hope was there? “Hey, kiddo.” Lisa looked over and realised Sara Lewis had come up beside her. Sara was new to town - well, new by Erskine standards, which meant she hadn’t been born there. Lisa didn’t care what the rest of the town thought. She considered Sara a friend. “I heard what happened at the kissing booth,” Sara said, enveloping Lisa in a hug. “I’m not a violent person, but I have to tell you, I’d like to knock some sense into Ted.” Lisa stepped back, looking away. “Is it that obvious?” “Only to someone who’s living it.” “How do you? Live with it, I mean.” Sara shook her head, and for a second her eyes went unfocused, because, no doubt, she was seeing Max Devlin, another man God had made in the can’t-see-what’s-right-under-his-nose mold. “You ought to be able to answer that question as well as I can,” Sara said. “Yeah.” Lisa sighed. She had her own little house on the Rocking D, just like Sara did on Max’s ranch, but she saw Ted every single day, and every single day she had to face the pain of unrequited love. Just like Sara. “I can’t do anything because Max’s divorce is so new,” Sara said, “but why are you waiting? It’s not like you.” “That’s what Rusty said. He thinks I should tell Ted how I feel.” “And you don’t?” “There’s so much at stake.” Sara nodded and looked away. “It’s not something you want to jump into blind.” Unless, Lisa thought, jumping in blind was better than being safe where you were. 732

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There were sidewalk sales all over town, but the town square was where the real shopping took place. The craft booths were piled high with frou-frou items, quilts and pillows, crocheted things and knitted things, doilies and towels women bought to hang in bathrooms but wouldn’t let anyone use. And everything smelled. At least half the booths were selling wreaths and garlands and pots full of dried flowers. It didn’t take Ted long to figure out that while his theory was sound, it wasn’t practical. The likelihood that he could isolate one woman's scent in such an olfactory-rich environment was close to nonexistent. He started to turn away - and then he noticed the tingle. Just the merest hint of a seismic disturbance hit his midsection - and it wasn’t because of the chili he’d had for lunch. This tingle was more...visceral in nature. A group of women, oohing and aahing over a booth selling little figures made out of what looked like cookie dough, caught his eye. Ted stepped up close behind them, but he couldn’t smell anything besides dried flowers and weeds. The tingle didn’t do any sort of acrobatics, either, but he wanted to be sure, so he leaned in closer, which earned him some suspicious looks - and one interested one. He smiled sheepishly and backed off, stepping on the foot of someone behind him. He half turned, sputtering an apology and backpedaling again, only to collide with one of the young ladies he’d been sniffing only seconds before. She bounced off Ted and into the booth, nudging the whole contraption off-kilter. It gave a tired-sounding, woody sigh, slumped gracefully against its neighbour, and, after a tense second, seemed to settle. Ted let out the breath he’d been holding and bent to help the poor girl to her feet. This had two advantages. The minute his skin contacted hers without the slightest bit of a jolt, he knew she wasn’t his mystery woman. But at least he’d pulled her out of harm’s way because the second booth gave a long, splintering groan just then, and collapsed to the side, setting off a chain reaction. For the second time that day, Ted shut his eyes at a strategic moment. But he didn’t need his eyes to know that the rest of the booths on that side of the square went down like a domino race, the deafening rumble lasting at least a full minute. The catastrophe wasn’t so unusual for Erskine. The silence that followed was. Ted opened his eyes, peering through the cloud of dust. But the only face he really saw was Lisa’s. She stood about ten yards away, with her arms crossed and her mouth quirked up in that little smile he loved... His gaze lifted, his eyes met hers, and time came to a grinding halt. He’d been half prepared for a tingle. What he got was an earthquake. Or maybe the world had stopped revolving. Whatever it 733

was, when he looked into Lisa’s eyes, really looked, he felt as if he’d been jerked off his feet, spun around a few times and put back down. His midsection was doing all sorts of calisthenics and the upheaval spread upwards and downwards from there, sucking his breath away and putting him into such a state of need it verged on pain. And all the while his brain was screaming at him, as if the rest of it wasn’t enough to tell him that Lisa was the woman he’d kissed just a couple of hours ago, the woman he’d been searching for ever since. What he didn’t know, now that he’d found her, was what to do about it. Or if he should do anything at all. “Lisa!” Ted took a step forward, tripped over something that yelled, “ouch,” and just kept going because Lisa took one look at him and then deliberately disappeared through the crowd that had gathered. It kind of ticked Ted off - enough to have him chasing after her, whether or not he was ready to catch up to her. She’d started this whole mess. No way was he going to let her run off. All he’d wanted was to be a good sport - okay, there’d been more to it than that. But what man could resist the idea of having all those women interested in him? So when Lisa Baker, practically his best friend in the world, had hooked him into taking over for her in the Kisses for Kids Charity Kissing Booth, he’d played along. And boy, had he gotten payback for his little ego trip. The woman who’d turned his world inside out with one kiss was the one woman in the world he might not be able to have. “Lisa,” he yelled again, catching sight of her as she scooted around some slower moving pedestrians. All he seemed to be doing was alerting her - not to mention the rest of the town - to the fact that he was following her. Lisa quickened her pace, but in Erskine, news traveled a whole lost faster than she could walk. Before she made it to the next corner, she was completely hemmed in by an immoveable wall of people. “What do you want?” she demanded, turning to face him when she realised she had no other option. “You started this - ” “Started what?” She stepped closer, treating him to a mind-reeling whiff of her scent - and the full fury of her wrath. “I told you the truth. You’re the one who decided I was joking. You’re the one who sent yourself on a wild-goose chase.” 734

“She’s right,” some helpful citizen - a helpful female citizen - called out. “Sure,” Ted said, looking around at the crowd. “When I asked for your help, where were you?” “One hundred percent behind Lisa,” the same voice called out, to the delight of everyone. “You shouldn’t need their help,” Lisa said. “Or Rusty’s, or mine, for that matter. All you had to do was ask yourself why...” She seemed to remember, all of a sudden, that they were surrounded by half the county. “Oh, never mind,” she said, and turned to go. “Wait! Can’t we go someplace and talk about this?” She stopped, but she didn’t turn back. “Talk about what?” Ted searched for some words, any words that would keep her there without requiring any soulbaring in front of the crowd. In the end, all he had was silence. She looked at him then, and he almost wished she hadn’t. “Don’t you have something to deal with in the town square?” And she was gone, the sadness in her eyes too deep for even the most hard-hearted person to stand in her way. Chapter Four Even if Ted hadn’t felt responsible for the mess in the town square, there was no way he was going after Lisa again. Not until he knew exactly what he wanted to say to her. Problem was, the answer wasn’t coming to him - despite all the helpful suggestions from the townspeople. It would’ve looked kind of weird for him to be hanging around the square once it was clean, so he went someplace where a man hanging out by himself was common. The Ersk Inn. He swung through the Inn’s door, and for once his luck was running the right way because a stool opened up at the bar just in time for him to plop down on it. “You look like you could use a beer.” Ted looked over and there was Max Devlin, on the stool right next to him. “For starters,” he said, relaxing now that he knew it was a friend. Max raised his bottle and two fingers. Mike Shasta, the owner of the Inn, answered by scooping up the bills Max had laid on the bar and setting two bottles in their place. No words necessary, just the way Ted liked it. They sat there for a little while, doing the male version of bonding that involved a long-neck beer and silence. It was the most soothing time he’d spent all day, Ted thought. Too bad he felt compelled to ruin it. “You heard about what happened in the town square?” “The whole county has heard by now.” 735

Ted looked over his shoulder at the betting wall. “There’s not a pool yet, but there will be as soon as somebody figures out what it should be.” Max took a sip of his beer. "I’d hate to be in your shoes, with everybody in your business." And that wasn’t just lip service, Ted knew. Max had been the centre of attention just a few months ago when his wife threw him over for the bright lights of Hollywood, leaving him with an infant son to raise on his own. “Lucky for you the talk has died down.” Max apparently didn’t feel a need to respond, but Ted hadn’t worked off the urge to talk. “It was nice of Sara to move here from Boston to give you a hand with Joey,” he said. "That kind of friend is priceless." Ted knew from experience. When he'd found out about his father's debts, Lisa had rolled up her sleeves and pitched in, no questions asked, just like Sara. “Yeah,” Max said. “How long is she planning to stay?” “Forever, I hope.” “You going to make it permanent?” Max froze with the beer bottle halfway to his mouth, giving Ted the kind of look normally reserved for mass murderers and raving lunatics. “What if you started thinking of her as more than a friend? What would you do?” “Have my head examined. There’s no way I’m jumping back into that can of worms. I like things the way they are.” Max slugged down half his beer. “Okay, so I might, once in a while, feel a twinge of interest, but if I act on it and it doesn’t work out it would ruin everything. Joey is already attached to Sara. There’s no way I’m going to risk his happiness.” “Kind of a glass-half-empty viewpoint,” Ted pointed out. “Maybe it would work out between you two.” “Maybe isn’t enough of a guarantee for what I’m putting on the line,” Max said. And that wasn’t a bad way to think about it, either, Ted figured as they lapsed into silence. Was maybe enough of a guarantee for him to risk Lisa’s friendship, not to mention losing the best cook this side of the Mississippi River? She hadn’t even wanted to admit she’d kissed him at first. He’d had to drag the truth out of her. So “maybe” might even be stretching it, and when he thought about it like that, “status quo” seemed the best way to go. 736

The only problem was, things had already changed. At least on his side. He wasn’t sure he could go back to the way it used to be. Even if that meant losing Lisa for good. ****** Lisa reined up in the yard at the Rocking D, stepped out of the saddle and led her horse into the barn to be curried and fed. Of course, Misty wasn’t really hers. The mare belonged to the ranch. The barn belonged here, too. So did the house and the cattle and the chickens pecking in the side yard. Lisa didn’t belong. She might love this land like it was her own, but she was just a hired hand. She cooked and cleaned and did odd jobs because she wanted to contribute to the only place she’d ever called home. Ted insisted she take a paycheck because he said it wasn’t right to let her do all that for nothing. Which only proved that the Rocking D wasn’t truly her home - and Ted had no clue what she was all about. Heck, Ted had no clue what he was all about. Otherwise, he’d have figured out a long time ago that there was a reason he never touched her. He wouldn’t have raced all over town, looking for the woman who’d kissed him with his eyes closed and blown his mind. He’d have believed Lisa when she told him that she'd kissed him. He’d have seen how hard that admission had been, and he’d have...well, she didn’t know what he’d have done then, but he sure wouldn’t have laughed at her. She cleaned Misty’s stall and gave her fresh water and a scoop of oats. And then Lisa looked around for something else to do because if her thoughts wouldn’t settle, neither could she. The next time she stopped moving, the sun was just a fading memory over the Rockies, and she had long since made her way into the house. What caught her attention was the sound of a truck pulling into the ranch drive - not just any truck, either. Ted’s truck, with its distinctive engine knock. And here she was up to her elbows in piecrust. Ted didn’t come into the house, though. All that lip service about wanting to talk and where was he? She slapped a ball of piecrust on the counter. She didn’t want to talk, anyway, she told herself. They could do that later. She’d been thinking about that kiss all day. She wanted another one...only this time she wanted Ted to know who was on the other side of it. She wanted him to see And then she heard him come in the back door and the only action she could think of was running in the other direction. She would’ve, too, if she could’ve made her feet work. Ted stopped in the breezeway to hang his hat on the rack, which gave her just enough time to find the composure to stand her ground. “Looks like you scrubbed down the bunkhouse this afternoon,” he said.

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Okay, now her voice wasn’t working. She swallowed a couple of times, hoping it didn’t sound as loud from his side as it did from hers. “Aren’t there some chores that need doing?” “You fed the barn animals and the chickens already.” She set her jaw. “And I milked the cows before I came in. Milk’s in the cooler.” He paused, but Lisa felt no need to comment. “Spaghetti sauce and pies? It’s not likely any of the hands will be back tonight.” No, and she was the furthest thing from being hungry without actually throwing up. “I was planning to stock the refrigerator with a few things.” “Why? Aren’t you going to be here tomorrow?” Lisa went still for a moment, realizing that thought had been in the back of her mind. “If it’s about the kiss, I’m sorry,” Ted said. “I mean, the kiss was...good. But I shouldn’t have laughed...” She flashed him a look, and he got the hint. He left the humiliating subject alone, but he didn't shut up altogether. “Are you going to talk to me?” “What’s the point? It was an accident. Edie shoved me into you and you kissed me before I could tell you it was me. It doesn’t change anything.” “It changed everything.” “Because it was me.” “You're right,” he said on a sigh that sounded like regret. Her hands stilled, her heart all but stopped beating, and she realised this was the real reason she hadn’t wanted to talk. She forced herself to breathe in and out and to look at him as if she wasn’t dying inside. “It wasn’t such a problem when you thought it was someone else. You were willing to make a fool of yourself in front of the entire town when you thought it was someone else, but here we are, alone in this big house, only cows and horses and chickens for miles and you won’t get within ten feet of me.” “I’m within ten feet of you now.” “With a nice safe counter between us.” 738

“What do you want me to do?” Touch me, she wanted to scream at him. Swipe off all the pies I worked so hard on and have your way with me, right here on this counter! But he wouldn’t. It took only a glance at his greenaround-the-gills expression to tell her that. And along with the soul-deep pain was an equally deep sadness. All he’d wanted was to find the woman who’d kissed him, when it had been a stranger. Now that he knew it was her - because it was her - he had no idea what to do about it. But suddenly, she did. “I think it’s time for me to move on,” she said. Chapter Five Ted straightened, then planted his big hands on the counter and scowled at her. “Don’t worry about my work getting done. I cleaned this afternoon, and I can freeze enough food to tide you over for a week. I’m sure you’ll find someone, Edie maybe. I bet she’d love to come out here and cook for a bunch of men.” Ted pushed off the counter and began to pace. A couple of minutes went by in silence, punctuated with the sound of boot heels striking wood like the tolling of doom. “Where are you going to go?” Lisa managed a shrug. “There are a thousand ranches that could use a cook and housekeeper.” That brought him to a halt, but he remained, she noticed, safely on his side of the counter. “I doubt you’ll have a problem finding another job,” he said. “But then, this was never just a job for you.” She turned away, blinking furiously. She’d only started to do the cooking and cleaning to help him out...to make him see how she cared. It hadn’t worked, but she’d discovered she actually liked doing those things. Doing them somewhere else, though, didn’t hold the same kind of appeal. “You could take up barrel racing full time,” Ted said. “You’re good enough to make a living at it. But that’s not your kind of life, either. All those footloose rodeo cowboys, not a one of ’em wants to settle down, even under the best of circumstances - ” “Maybe I will take up barrel racing,” she said, slapping the ball of piecrust on the counter and dusting her hands on her apron. “Maybe I’ll head to Vegas and marry an Elvis impersonator. Or better yet, I’ll just go into town and see what’s happening at the dance.” “Lisa - ”

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She took her apron off and threw it in his face. “You don’t think any man wants me, just because you don’t?” She was halfway to the door when he caught her by the wrist and swung her around. He let go immediately, staring at his hand. Lisa waited, and when he only backed off she turned for the door. It was humiliating enough to know he didn’t consider her the “right circumstances” to settle down. She wasn’t going to stand there and let him see her cry. “What are you going to do?” he asked. His voice, so solemn and deep, made her ache. He cared about her, she knew that, just not the way she wanted him to. She stopped with her hand on the doorjamb, but she didn’t turn back. “You’re so anxious to be rid of me, consider me gone.” ****** Ted parked on the edge of town, not far from the Kisses for Kids Charity Kissing Booth that had started the whole mess. If he’d had the day to live over...he wasn’t sure he’d change a whole lot. If he hadn’t let Lisa drag him into the kissing booth, and if he hadn’t been cocky enough to close his eyes, and if Edie hadn’t shoved Lisa into his arms, then he never would have kissed her. And if he hadn’t kissed Lisa, he’d never have known what he’d been missing. True, he wouldn’t have laughed at her when she told him she was the one who’d given him that amazing, life-altering kiss. And he’d handled things badly at the ranch. Okay, badly was an understatement. He’d bungled them completely. But women were enough of a mystery to him as it was. Was he supposed to know how to deal with a woman who was like one of the guys most of the time? A woman who’d been his friend since they were kids? And that being the case, couldn’t she at least give him a little time to figure things out? She knew him about as well as he knew himself, knew he was dead set against asking any woman to take on the kind of dismal future he had in front of him. But when it was Lisa, who’d already worked and worried alongside him for years, it was different. No, he was different. He’d kissed her this morning, and impossibilities had suddenly seemed possible. He’d looked deep into her eyes this afternoon and his whole world had changed. He’d touched her at the ranch and known he was in love - absolute, soul-deep, noturning-back love, the kind of love that had him unable to imagine her not being by his side for the rest of their lives. How could he have not seen it sooner? And then the thing he’d feared all day had happened. She’d walked out of his life. It was going to take something big to get her back. He didn’t realise how big until he arrived at the town square and saw her. Ted didn’t know she’d changed her clothes, but there she was, standing to one side of the dance floor with Sara Lewis.

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Lisa was wearing a pair of blue jeans that looked as if they’d been painted on, and not all the way, seeing as they were slung so low he could see at least two inches of smooth, flat belly. The T-shirt she’d topped it off with would have been fine if it hadn’t been so short. And so tight. Before Ted could take a step forward, some itinerant cowboy had swung Lisa into a lively twostep and he was left to stand there watching her laugh up into another man’s face while his own temper climbed. Rusty Baker stepped into his line of sight, and when Ted tried to look around him, he shifted. “Maybe you ought to calm down, Ted.” It took Ted a few seconds to realise he’d fisted his hands. Relaxing them took more of an effort than he would have imagined. “Still protecting her, Rusty?” “Yep.” Rusty turned so he was standing beside Ted, both of them watching Lisa dance. “I won’t be giving the job up until a man comes along who can do it to my satisfaction.” He looked over at Ted. “I think you’re that man. More important, she does. Don’t let either of us down.” “Would punching out the guy she’s dancing with be letting you down?” “Not me, so much, but I doubt Lisa’s in the mood for another spectacle today.” “Okay.” Ted clenched his fists behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Never said you couldn’t dance.” “Yes, sir.” The next thing Ted knew, he was tapping on her dance partner’s shoulder, requesting to cut in. The guy gave him a knowing wink, bowed to Lisa, and walked off. Lisa resisted at first, but Ted pulled her into his arms, and when his hand dropped to the small of her back - her bare back - a flood of heat and need swept through him, burning away everything but a white-hot resolve. Lisa was his. He’d find a way to make her see that, but at the moment all he wanted was a kiss, another moment like the one this morning when complete and utter happiness had felt as simple as the touch of her lips. He closed his eyes and dropped his head toward hers... She pulled away. “Why do you keep doing that?” he asked. Because I’m already in enough danger, Lisa thought to herself. The feel of his fingers on her skin, of his body moving against hers was already taking her under.

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If she let him kiss her she’d be lost, and if he rejected her again... She looked up at him, let him see the yearning, the vulnerability, the hope and wariness in her eyes. “Why do you want to kiss me?” He curled a hand around her neck, rubbing her cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry I laughed at you, Lisa. It just sounded so...unbelievable, that someone I’ve considered a best friend could steal my heart with just one kiss. One crazy kiss.” “But, at the ranch, you said - “ “I was trying to get you to tell me how you felt. I didn’t want to take the risk of ruining our friendship unless...” He searched for the right words. “You kept running away from me, and I thought - ” “That I didn’t feel the same way about you." She looked away, then back. "I was afraid.” “Yeah, I finally figured that out. And even if I hadn’t, when I thought you were leaving for good...” he shook his head, leaving that dismal possibility unspoken. “I don’t want to lose your friendship, so if you don’t think we should jeopardise that, then I’ll respect your wishes. It won’t be easy - " his gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted back to her eyes "- because I’m in love with you.” His handsome face blurred, but she didn’t think she’d ever forget the sincerity and hope she saw shining from his eyes. “What?” he asked, his smile just a bit uncertain around the edges. “Nothing to say?” Lisa took a deep breath and willed away the tears. She knew what Ted wanted to hear, and she wanted to say it more than she wanted her next breath, but she had to be sure he was sure. “You swore you wouldn’t get involved with anyone until all your debts are paid off.” “It's not the money holding me back, Rusty was right about that much," Ted said. "I don't think I'm like my father. I'm looking for long term, and what held me back was that I've never met a woman I could see by my side when we're both old and gray." He smiled crookedly. "I just didn't realise she was already a part of my life. If I lost the ranch, I'd get over it. But if I lost you, Lisa...” “Oh.” She swiped at the tears that were finally spilling over. “Well? Do you think we can be friends and lovers?" “I’ve dreamt of this moment for what feels like forever. Give me a little time...” She broke off, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. 742

Ted rested his forehead on hers. “I know exactly how you feel,” he said and when she smiled up at him, he felt like the sun had come out for the first time in years. “So kiss her already,” somebody shouted out. They both looked around and realised they were alone on the dance floor, no music, with the townspeople hanging on their every word. Ted met her eyes again. “She has to answer my question first.” “Yes,” Lisa said in a voice that rang off the bandstand roof, and then for Ted’s ears alone she said, “I love you more than I ever imagined loving anyone, but I’m putting a lot on the line here. I’m risking my best friend and my heart, so don’t let me down.” Ted wrapped his arms around her tightly. “If I have my way,” he said, “you can bet the rest of your life on it.” And there, in front of everyone in town, they kissed. It was a kiss Erskine would be talking about for a long time to come.

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Cafe Romeo by Kristin Gabriel

Chapter One Isabel Faraday sat at a table in Café Romeo, skimming the weekend weather forecast in the evening paper. Mild and breezy. Slightly cloudy. No precipitation. "Damn," she muttered under her breath, tossing the newspaper aside. She'd been hoping for a nice blizzard, or at least an ice storm. Either one would curtail travel for a day or two. But no such luck. Instead, she was forced to participate in another natural disaster: the Faraday Family Reunion. Every year, Faradays from across the country gathered in March at the Crescent Inn just outside St. Louis to reconnect and reminisce. Unfortunately, they all had remarkable memories. Not one of them forgot the fantasy romance Isabel had dreamed up a decade ago. The memory made her cheeks burn. Her beautiful, athletic cousin Josie, simply asked if Isabel had a boyfriend. But sixteen year old Izzy, skinny, freckled, and extremely self-conscious, thought the girl was mocking her. So she blurted out a name, creating a romance with the star of the high school basketball team. Naturally, the truth came out, but not until Isabel had compounded the lie with phony love letters and a fake ring that turned her finger green. Mortified, she laughed it off, and her family had laughed with her. In fact, they found it so amusing, they retold the story in excruciating detail at every family gathering. Which led to her current predicament. She'd been dating Dr. Mark Dunn for the last four months, but due to schedule conflicts, no one in her family had met him. Then the teasing began. Had Izzy created another fantasy man? Her brother had even put up a notice on the Faraday family website, offering a reward for some proof of Dr. Dunn's existence. So, she intended to prove it to them, once and for all, this weekend! Dr. Mark Dunn would be her date for the family reunion. Then, on Monday, she would break up with him. It should've been done weeks ago, when the romance fizzled. Guilt gnawed at her. Usually she couldn't wait for the Faraday Reunion Weekend, despite her family's teasing. But this year she was dreading it. Isabel sighed as she looked around the coffeehouse. The red brick walls provided a nice contrast to the lead glass windows and polished wood floor. She'd never been here before, but she'd heard the rumours. The owner considered herself some kind of fortune-teller and even read her customers' coffee grounds to predict romance.

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Thank goodness she wasn't that desperate. A lanky waiter approached her table. "Are you ready to order?" "I'd just like a cup of coffee, please. I'm waiting for someone." "Would you like cream, sugar, or tranquilisers with that?" She blinked up at him. "Excuse me?" He took a step closer to her table. "Do you consider yourself a violent person?" She looked around her, wishing the place wasn't quite so empty. "No." "Do you carry any concealed weapons?" "Of course not." "Good." The waiter pulled out a chair and sat down. "Isabel, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you." Chapter Two Apprehension prickled Isabel’s skin. "How do you know my name?" "Your boyfriend described you over the phone. He told me to look for a redhead with blue eyes and killer legs." "Did he leave a message?" "Yes. He wanted me to tell you he's found someone else." "What?" She stared at the waiter, certain she hadn't heard him correctly. "It's over." The waiter sliced his hand through the air. "Finished. Finito. No more amore." This couldn't be happening. She'd been sick with guilt for using him, and now Mark was dumping her. By proxy. "Don't take it so hard," the waiter said. "There are lots of men out there. Have you ever considered a prison romance?" He pulled a small photograph out of his shirt pocket. "That's how I met my fiancée. She'll be up for parole in 2015." Isabel stared blankly at the stringy blonde in the orange jumpsuit. "Isn't she awesome? Fortunately, orange is one of her colours. She's an autumn." 745

"Who are you?" she asked, still trying to absorb this ridiculous conversation. "Just call me Ramon. I don't like to give my last name out to the customers. There are too many wackos out there." She reached for her purse. "I have to go." "Wait a minute. I haven't even told you the best part--Dr. Dunn gave you a kiss-off gift. He paid for Madame Sophia to read your coffee grounds." "I'm sorry, I don't have time for that." "It's already done. He brought in a cup of grounds three days ago and said they belonged to you." She remembered now. Mark had brought her a cup of coffee and a croissant at work. She'd been so touched and so guilt-ridden! That's also when he'd made their date at Café Romeo, suggesting a quick bite before heading to Crescent Inn. The nerve of that jerk! First he dumps her, then he tries to fix her up with a consolation prize. "Thanks, but I'm not interested in meeting my perfect match. Tell him he'll just have to find a way to live without me." "Tell him yourself. He just walked through the door." Chapter Three After a chocolate biscotti and a fascinating chat with Ramon D'Onofrio, the head waiter, he was convinced, more than ever before, that Café Romeo wasn't a typical coffeehouse. And that the owner, Madame Sophia Callahan, might be a madam for real. So he allowed the quirky Madame Sophia to read his coffee grounds the day he arrived, anxious to see what sort of romance she might brew up. It hadn't taken her long. He looked around the coffeehouse, finally spotting Ramon, his unwitting source, seated with a redhead. His pulse quickened a notch when the waiter waved him over. Play it cool, Madigan, he told himself, as he ambled over to the table. You need more than confirmation. You want solid proof. An in-depth exposé that will garner, "Newsflash Magazine," some profitable publicity. Madame Sophia called him early this morning, telling him she found his perfect match, and that he should be here promptly at six o'clock. She hadn't mentioned money. Yet. 746

No doubt, she wanted to whet his appetite by showing him the merchandise first. Only instead of giving him a come-hither smile, the redhead just stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. She looked oddly familiar to him, but he knew that was impossible. Who could forget a woman like her, with those lush blue eyes and that silky auburn hair? She wasn't classically beautiful or even generically pretty-but definitely unique. "It's about time you got here," Ramon said, rising out of the chair. "Isabel was just about to leave." Chapter Four Isabel: a lyrical name that played softly in his head. No doubt it was an alias. He assumed all the high-priced call girls used one. At least she'd chosen a classy name, not something fluffy like Bunny or Bambi. He watched the waiter walk away, then turned back to Isabel. "Hi, I'm Zach." A blush stained her creamy cheeks. "I know." "Good." He sat in the chair Ramon had just vacated, ready to get down to business. He didn't intend to let things go too far with intriguing Isabel, although, he had to admit, he found the prospect quite tempting. "So how exactly do we discover if you're my perfect match?" She gave him a wry smile. "You don't remember me, do you?" Zach blinked. They'd met before? He didn't have a clue, he didn't frequent call girls. "Sorry, I seem to be drawing a blank. Can you give me a hint?" "Kirkwood High School. We dissected a frog together in biology class." He shook his head, frantically searching his memory. Biology hadn't been one of his better subjects, and he missed the frog dissection after his ditzy lab partner accidentally sliced his finger open with a scalpel. It cost him eight stitches and possibly, Kirkwood High, the city basketball championship. Zach was their lead scorer, but he had to sit out the game that night. "You couldn't be...." He leaned forward for a closer look. The freckles had faded and she didn't have braces on her teeth anymore, or those awful red pigtails. But her eyes were still impossibly blue…"Izzy Frizzy?" Chapter Five

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He grinned, that same crooked grin she fell in love with during high school. "How long has it been? Nine years?" "Almost ten", she said, resisting the impulse to smooth her hair back. She wasn't Izzy Frizzy anymore, thanks to a good beautician and a generous dollop of styling mousse every morning. So, why did she suddenly feel like the gawky teenager she'd been in high school? Zach's grin widened. "I don't believe it. Izzy Faraday. And to think, I came here expecting to meet a high-priced call girl." She frowned. "Excuse me?" "I'm a reporter and I got a tip that Café Romeo was some kind of exclusive escort service run by Madame Sophia. Obviously, it was a joke." A joke. So, Mr. Hotshot basketball star didn't believe she was appealing enough to be a call girl; still thought of her as Izzy Frizzy. She knew it was ridiculous to be offended, but tears stung her eyes anyway. She quickly blinked them back as Ramon approached the table. "So," the waiter asked, "do we have a love connection?" Zach smiled and shook his head. "Izzy and I are old friends." Friends? Ha! Did friends snort milk at her through their straw in the school cafeteria? Did they dye a mop red, tape a nametag reading Izzy Frizzy to it and prop it next to her chair in chemistry class? Zach may not have been the culprit in that instance, but he laughed just as hard as the rest of the boys. It was his laughter that hurt her most, causing all her ridiculous romantic fantasies about him to fizzle. "Too bad," Ramon. "Especially since the doctor just dumped her." "Doctor?" Zach asked, arching a brow. Isabel ground her teeth. The last thing she wanted to do was tell Zach Madigan about her latest romantic disaster. Or, that she'd suffered a boyfriend jinx ever since inventing a fantasy romance with him. Despite several promising starts, the sparks in all her relationships hadn't ignited into love. But, to her horror, Ramon pulled up a chair. "Dr. Mark Dunn is her boyfriend, or rather, exboyfriend. He dumped her less than an hour ago. She found out about it right before you walked in." Chapter Six Zach looked at her. "Really?"

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Isabel forced a smile. "Tonight's just been one surprise after another." "Tell me about it," Ramon said, stretching his legs out in front of him. "I just found out I can't visit my fiancé next week because she's in solitary confinement for stabbing an inmate with a fork." Isabel stood up, her head pounding. "Gee, I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm due at the Crescent Inn in an hour. I have to go home, change my clothes, and iron my hair. Sorry you wasted your coffee grounds." "Are you upset about something?" Zach asked, half rising out of his chair. "Not at all. If you miss me too much, maybe Ramon can find a mop to keep you company." She spun on her heel and headed for the door, her face burning. Zach Madigan's sudden reappearance in her life caught her completely off-guard. Although, her reaction to him was the same as it had been ten years ago. Six feet, three inches of solid male with short, dark hair and mossy green eyes still made her heart skitter in her chest. His sexy smile still made her blush. Wasn't a decade long enough to overcome a silly schoolgirl infatuation? Apparently not. Even worse, Isabel knew she'd always subconsciously compared other men in her life to Zach. And not one ever measured up. By the time she reached her apartment, Isabel had cooled down considerably. So what if Zach still thought of her as Izzy Frizzy? So what if Mark's disappearing act would be difficult to explain to her family? She knew that despite all their teasing, they truly loved her. And she loved them. In fact, part of her was relieved that she wouldn't have to pretend to be in love with Mark all weekend. She could just relax and enjoy herself. After checking she packed everything in her suitcase and leaving plenty of birdseed for her parakeet, Isabel headed for the Crescent Inn. She couldn't wait to see her family again. To Isabel, her aunts and uncles and cousins were more than family. They were friends. Smiling at the thought of spending an entire weekend with them, Isabel walked through the front entrance of the hotel. And straight into Zach's arms. Chapter Seven "What are you doing here?" she sputtered, glancing frantically around the empty lobby. 749

Zach realised she wasn't happy to see him. In fact, she seemed horrified. Maybe she'd come here for a romantic rendezvous. But how was that possible if her boyfriend just dumped her? Unless she'd been cheating on him. Instantly, he rejected the possibility. Although he hadn't seen her in over a decade, he knew, in his bones, Izzy Faraday had too much integrity for those kinds of games. "I've been waiting for you." He took a step closer to her. "I had to see you, Izzy." "Isabel," she amended, with a furtive glance over her shoulder. "And you can't stay." "I'm not leaving until you let me apologise." She turned to him, her eyes wide. "Apologise? For what?" Where to begin? Seeing Izzy again brought back a flood of old memories—even if she didn't resemble the gangly girl he remembered. There was certainly nothing gangly about her now. Long, slender legs. A body that made a man look twice. Azure blue eyes that burned into his soul. She hadn't exactly been pretty in high school, but she'd certainly matured into an enticing woman. He liked her small, tipped up nose. The delicate arch of her auburn brows. The heartshaped bow of her mouth, even if it was frowning at him now. He took a step closer to her. "After the way you stormed out of Café Romeo, do you really need to ask?" "Forget it." She set her suitcase down. "I realise now how stupid it was for me to be upset because you didn't think I was attractive enough to be a call girl. I'm a physical therapist and proud of it. I have no desire to change professions." He frowned. "I never said you weren't attractive enough to be a call girl." "Okay. Fine. Whatever." She grabbed his elbow and pulled him toward the door. "Apology accepted. Thanks for stopping by, Zach. Drive carefully." He stood his ground and waited for her to stop tugging. She looked up at him. "You can go now." Her urgency to rid of him aroused his reporter instincts, but he had more important matters to settle first. "Izzy, about the mop." She rolled her eyes. "I don't care about the stupid mop! Just forget everything I said at Café Romeo. My boyfriend dumped me. I felt a little frazzled. And you were the last person I expected to see. But I'm fine now. Really. So, you can go back to Indianapolis with a clear conscience." 750

He blinked. "How do you know where I live?" She stiffened. "Uh...I must have read it somewhere." "Where?" "Uhhh..." Her eyes lit up. "the reunion brochure! Our ten-year class reunion is this summer. They listed your name in the Where Are They Now section?" He arched a brow. "So why couldn't I find your name in there?" Before she could reply, the front door of the inn opened and an older woman breezed in. "Hello, Isabel." Izzy closed her eyes with a low moan. "Mother." Isabel's mother removed her silk headscarf and fluffed her ash blonde hair. "Isn't it a beautiful weekend for a family reunion? Your father is parking the car miles from the entrance. You know how he worries about scratches and dings on his precious Lexus." Then she smiled at him. "I'm Claire Faraday. And you must be the mysterious Dr. Dunn." He took one look at Izzy and knew he wasn't ready to walk away. "Yes, I am." Chapter Eight "Funny," her mother said, "you don't look old enough to be a doctor." He grinned. "That's what all my patients say." She stared at him in disbelief. Not only was he pretending to be Mark, he was making jokes about it! Mocking her in high school obviously hadn't been enough for him. Now he planned to make a fool of her in front of her family as well. Claire reached out to hug him. "Well, I think my daughter has excellent taste. Welcome to the family." "Mum," Isabel admonished under her breath, as Claire turned to hug her. "That's a little premature." Claire laughed. "A mother can dream, can't she?" This was more like a nightmare. How could Isabel possibly tell her mother that he was pretending to be Mark--that he was actually Zach Madigan? The same Zach from her fantasy romance years ago?

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Before she could decide what to do, her father walked through the door, followed by an aunt and an uncle, and her cousin Josie; the one who had unwittingly started this mess in the first place. "This is Isabel's boyfriend," Claire announced, as they all congregated in the lobby. "Dr. Dunn." "Just call me Mark," Zach said, giving them all a jaunty wave. Josie leaned over and whispered in Isabel's ear. "Way to go! He's definitely a keeper. No wonder you've been hiding him." She gave her cousin a shaky smile, certain the blonde, beautiful Josie had never been in this position. Isabel's stomach churned as more Faradays arrived. She barely acknowledged greetings from her family, too worried that Zach would blow his cover. The lobby was rapidly filling and Dr. Dunn was the centre of attention. If she could ever get him alone, she would kill him. Her father navigated through the suitcases and overnight bags piled in the lobby. Fred Faraday was burly and balding, a former Marine Corps sergeant who hated disorder of any kind. At least he hadn't started barking orders yet. Fred gave Isabel a big bear hug, lifting her almost a foot off the floor, then setting her back down. He turned to Zach. "So this is the doctor we've all heard so much about." Zach held out his hand, but Fred turned away from him and shouted over the milling crowd of Faradays. "Ten Hut! Everyone check in, then meet in the solarium." Chapter Nine As the group moved en masse to the front desk, Isabel yanked Zach aside for a private conversation. "What exactly do you think you're doing?" "Just trying to help out." "Help out," she squeaked, "by pretending to be my boyfriend?" "Actually, Ramon suggested it," he admitted. "I never intended to follow through. I truly came here just to apologise. But...." "But what?", she asked, a little too loudly. Several members of her family turned to look at them. Her father scowled at Zach. He shrugged. "But I gave into a crazy impulse. I didn't realise you were coming here for a family reunion. Just the thought of spending forty-eight hours straight with my family is enough to give me nightmares." She arched a quizzical brow. "You don't like your family?"

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"Of course, I like them," he replied, "I just like them even better from a distance." "Well, I happen to like spending time with my family," she retorted. "But I don't like lying to them. You've put me in an impossible situation." "Do you want me to tell them who I really am?" "That's the last thing I want," she muttered. If they heard the name Zach Madigan, the whole humiliating story of her fantasy romance with him would surface again. Even worse, Zach would hear it. He'd either laugh at her or feel sorry for her, and she couldn't bear either. Of course, saying nothing meant he'd continue his masquerade as Mark. But how long before he slipped up and everyone discovered he was a phony? He took a step closer to her, lowering his voice to a husky whisper. "Look, what does it really matter? After this weekend, you can tell everyone that Mark dumped you. Which is true. Or that you dumped him, which sounds even better." She shook her head. "This is crazy." Zach glanced over his shoulder. "Your entire family is staring at us. They probably think we're having a fight." Suddenly, an idea occurred to her and she brightened. "How about if I break up with you right here, right now? Then you can leave and the problem will be solved." He smiled. "I have a better idea." "What?" He pulled her into his arms. "Let's kiss and make up." Chapter Ten Isabel's hands clutched his shoulders, her fingernails biting into his shirt. Finally, she relaxed against him, her body sinking into his, her arms sliding slowly around his neck. He deepened the kiss, oblivious to the gaping Faradays or the reason why he came here in the first place. He forgot everything except what was happening now. He was kissing Izzy Faraday. At last, he lifted his head and stared intently into her eyes. "We should argue more often." She stepped abruptly out of his arms. "Very funny." Then she turned on her heel and headed for the front desk.

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Zach watched her, trying to regain his equilibrium. Passing himself off as Dr. Mark Dunn, had been a momentary impulse. So had that kiss. He rubbed one hand over his jaw, wondering what had come over him. A few moments later, Izzy walked back to him. "I'm in room 203. Second floor." She refused to meet his eyes. "Meet me there in ten minutes." His pulse picked up at her words.Had that kiss convinced her to let him stay awhile? He bit back a smile as she disappeared down the hallway. He'd come to St. Louis to get a story. Suddenly, spending the weekend with Izzy Faraday seemed like a much more appealing alternative. Certainly more appealing than spending a weekend with his parents. His father had long ago established himself as the family dictator and his mother hated dissension of any kind. The combination was enough to move Zach to another state, just to avoid the arguments with his father that hurt his mother. As their only child, he still endured holidays with them, and made the weekly obligatory phone call. But lately, his father had been pressuring him to settle down and give them some grandchildren. Zach clenched his jaw as he remembered their last conversation. He was twentyeight years old and his father was still trying to run his life. Not that Zach was doing such a great job of it. For the past year, he spent his Saturday nights with a computer instead of a woman, attempting to get his fledgling, online news magazine off the ground. Newsflash was a culmination of his life-long dreams, combining a love for journalism with inherent entrepreneurial skills. Now that the website was launched and was doing better than expected, Zach was growing restless. Maybe the time had come to start paying more attention to his personal life. And making amends to Izzy for a past wrong was definitely a step in the right direction. Chapter Eleven After retrieving his suitcase from the trunk of his car, he got a room of his own, and headed up the inn stairs. He just inserted the plastic key card into the slot when he felt a tap on his shoulder. "Dr. Dunn, I presume?" "Yes?" He turned to see a plump, middle-aged woman wearing a beige, polka-dot dress. Her russet brown hair was threaded with silver. Her brown eyes sparkled behind bifocals. "I'm Marva Faraday, Isabel's great-aunt. I can't tell you how thrilled I am to meet you." He smiled and held out his hand. "It's nice to meet you, too."

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Instead of shaking his hand, she pulled up the hem of her dress, revealing two dimpled knees and two doughy thighs to match. "What do you think?" "I....uh," Zach swallowed and looked frantically around the empty hallway. She ran her plump fingers over the network of bulging purple veins. "Support stockings are helpful, of course. So is staying off my feet. But these varicose veins have become more and more unsightly. My poor husband can hardly remember when I had Betty Grable legs. Which I assure you, I did." "Well, yes, I'm sure...," Zach stammered, staring reluctantly at the marbled flesh in front of him. Posing as a doctor for the weekend had seemed like a harmless lark. He certainly didn't expect anyone to ask his medical opinion. Or, for that matter, undress in front of him. "Of course, if I had the veins stripped," Marva continued, "it would be for more than cosmetic reasons. They are rather painful. See this here. " She pointed to a large, bulging one on her left thigh, as if she fully expected Zach to probe it with his fingers. "Legs aren't really my specialty." He cleared his throat, ready to say anything that would make her leave. "But I recommend complete bed-rest…Immediately." Instead of following his orders, Marva moved a step closer to him. "Laying in bed makes it worse. My legs throb just horribly at night, especially if I'm on the go. Oh, that reminds me of another problem. I have a small problem with...," she leaned toward Zach, her voice dropping an octave, "constipation." "Izzy!" He backed up against the wall and shouted at the top of his lungs. "I need you!" Chapter Twelve Aunt Marva prattled on, completely oblivious to Zach's obvious discomfort. "It's so strange, Dr. Dunn, because no over-the-counter medications help at all. But I find that when I drink tomato juice with just a hint of tequila, it works like a charm. You should recommend that to your patients." A small smile appeared on Isabel's lips as she listened to her aunt. Despite the fact that Zach wasn't really a doctor, he provided Marva, who hard started on her litany of complaints, with what she loved most--a captive audience. Isabel leaned against the doorframe, content to let Zach suffer awhile. It served him right, barging into her life like that and dredging up old, forgotten memories. Zach finally looked up and saw her. His eyes shone with relief as he mouthed the word, "Help."

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She hesitated, tempted to let him dangle in his doctor persona just a little while longer. But there was Aunt Marva to consider. And Zach, who kept glancing at the window, like he was actually considering jumping. Time to put the poor man out of his misery. Isabel walked up to them. "Aunt Marva, he really can't do a thorough examination out here in the hallway." Marva blushed and dropped the hem of her dress. "You're right, of course. How silly of me." Then she looked up at Zach. "Shall we go to my room?" "I have a better idea," Isabel chimed, giving Zach a warm smile. "Why don't you wait until after dinner? Then he can conduct a complete physical examination of you in private." He paled and reached for the windowsill. "That sounds perfect," Marva said, beaming at him. "I can't wait to show you my appendix scar. It's over six inches long and never healed properly." Chapter Thirteen After Marva disappeared into her room, Zach turned to Isabel. "Thanks a lot." "It's your own fault," she retorted. "Now you've got one hour to disappear. Otherwise, Aunt Marva takes it all off." He narrowed his green eyes. "Why are you so anxious to get rid of me?" "Why are you so anxious to stay?" Her heart skipped a beat as he walked toward her. Then her gaze fell on his mouth and she couldn't help but remember the lobby kiss; a kiss that, even now, made her knees feel like jelly. Why had he done it? She would have killed for a kiss like that ten years ago. Now she just wanted to kill him for resurrecting all old feelings that she'd already buried. He folded his arms across his chest and the stubborn set to his jaw, the one she still remembered after ten years, revealed itself. "Like I told you before, we need to talk." "Zach, we haven't seen each other in almost a decade. What could we possibly have to talk about?" "Something that's been bothering me ever since high school." He glanced at his watch. "How much time do we have until dinner?"

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She glanced at her watch. "Five minutes. But you're not staying for dinner." Her gaze fell to his suitcase on the floor. "What's that?" "What does it look like?" "You're staying here?" He held up the plastic key card. "I just checked in downstairs. I was staying at a motel downtown, but this place is much nicer." He smiled. "Besides, I get the special Faraday Family Reunion rate." His smile did funny things to her stomach, and she took a deep breath to regain her equilibrium. "You absolutely cannot stay here." "I can't leave now," he said in a low voice. "Everyone thinks I'm your boyfriend." "Not a problem," she countered, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him into her room. "I have plan." Chapter Fourteen Josie smiled at her. "Where's your handsome doctor?" Isabel sat down next to her brother. "Unfortunately, he got called away on a medical emergency." "Oh, no," her mother said, from the next table. "Will he be able to make it back in time for dessert?" Isabel shook her head, endeavouring to look disappointed. "No. In fact, I'm sure he'll be tied up all weekend." "That must be some emergency," Alan said between bites. Aunt Marva sighed. "That's such a shame. He's such a nice young man. And I didn't get a chance to show him my bunions." "This salad looks delicious," Isabel said, eager to change the subject. She picked up her fork and speared a chunk of hard-boiled egg. Josie leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. "So, is your boyfriend a good kisser?" "The best," Isabel replied honestly. When she realised she'd never kiss Zach Madigan again, she experienced an odd twinge of disappointment. Maybe she'd never even see him again.

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"Even better than the phantom boyfriend of yours?" Uncle Bob teased, making everyone in the room to chuckle. "What was his name again?" "Zach something," Claire said. "Madigan," Alan supplied. Isabel's cheeks burned. Aunt Marva chuckled. "Remember when Izzy told us that she and Zach tried to beat the record for the world's longest kiss? " Alan pushed his empty salad plate away. "How about the time she called the radio station and had the D.J. dedicate a song to her from the guy? And the song she chose was so perfect — Imaginary Lover, by the Atlanta Rhythm Section." "All right, so I was an idiot," Isabel muttered, wondering if her family would ever forget that ridiculous fantasy romance with Zach Madigan. It was the same every year. At least he wasn't here to witness it. "Well, you were smart enough to snap up Dr. Dunn," Claire said, coming to her daughter's defense. Alan winked at Isabel. "We're just teasing you, sis." Josie nodded. "Besides, I think your boyfriend is ten times better than that Zach Madigan. He always sounded like a snob to me." "Me, too," Claire affirmed. "I think the man I met tonight is your perfect match." Madame Sophia had said the same thing. For a brief moment, Isabel wondered if it could be possible. Could Zach Madigan be her perfect match? Then she realised she was fantasizing again. Wouldn't she ever learn? Alan tossed his linen napkin onto the table. "Hey, I thought you told us he had blue eyes." Isabel froze, her fork poised over her plate. "Who?" "Your doctor boyfriend. You told us he had blue eyes. But I talked to him out in the parking lot and his eyes were definitely green." "Since when do you notice a man's eyes, Alan?" Josie teased. Alan lifted his chin. "When I'm checking him out to see if he's good enough for my little sister." "Coloured contact lenses," Isabel blurted, hoping her brother wouldn't become suspicious. As a trial attorney, Alan was an expert at ferreting out the truth. "Mark just bought them a few weeks ago." 758

"Cool," Josie replied. "But what about his hair?" Her stomach curled into a knot. "What about it?" "You told me Dr. Dunn was a blond." "He dyed it," she improvised. "Right after he bought the coloured contact lenses. He wanted to try a new look." A frown creased her mother's forehead. "And I thought you said he was shorter than your father. But Dr. Dunn stood at least a couple inches over Fred's head." Her father growled into his salad, but didn't contradict his wife. "Lifts," Isabel improvised. "In his shoes. But he's very sensitive about it, so I promised not to tell anyone. Even though I think...." "Shut up, Isabel," Josie crooned under her breath. She blinked. "What?" Josie pointed her fork toward the door. "Your boyfriend's back." Chapter Fifteen But Izzy recovered before he had to take more drastic action. She reached for her water glass, glaring at him as she took a long drink. Then she carefully set it back on the table before looking up at him. "What are you doing here?" "Surprise," he said, taking the chair between her and her cousin Josie. "I found somebody to stand in for me at the hospital. So I’m all yours for the entire weekend." "Isn’t that sweet?" Claire murmured to the people at her table. "It must be true love," Josie said, resting her chin in her palm as she gazed up at Zach. "Your eyes look good in green." He glanced at Izzy, then back at her cousin. "Uh...thanks." Alan leaned back in his chair. "So tell us, Dr. Dunn. Exactly how did you and my sister meet?" Zach smiled at Izzy, wondering if she remembered it as well as he did. "She plowed into me with her bicycle." "Accidentally," Isabel amended. "I had something in my eye at the time."

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It had been the first semester of high school, when they were both freshmen. He could still remember how flustered she’d been, jumping off her bicycle to help him to his feet, her wild red hair coming undone from her barrette, and her cheeks flushed. They’d been just outside the high school gym, where he’d been heading for basketball practice. Izzy had knelt down and frantically examined his legs and arms, checking for broken bones. And reassuring him the entire time that she was qualified, because she volunteered as a candy striper at the local hospital three times a week. Zach had just stared up at her, fascinated by her eyes. He’d never seen that shade of blue before. Then some of the upper classmen on the team had come along and the redhead had jumped back on her bicycle and ridden away before he’d even had a chance to ask her name. "I did apologise," she said, looking at him as if she could picture it clearly too. "And there wasn’t any serious damage." "Just a goose egg on my forehead," he said with a smile. "It looked great in my yearbook picture." "Yearbook?" Alan echoed, and Zach knew he’d made a horrible mistake. Isabel’s beautiful blue eyes flared with panic. "Medical school yearbook," he said smoothly. "One of my fellow interns even wrote Doctor, heal thyself under the picture." Everyone in the room chuckled as a waitress rolled a serving cart into the private dining room and began serving the main course. Soon the conversation turned to more important topics, like the tenderness of the prime rib, the size of the baked potatoes, and whether to have cheesecake, apple pie, or brownie sundaes for dessert. Zach’s gaze kept straying to Izzy. She looked different from how she’d been in high school. Was she different on the inside, too? Even after all these years, he could still remember her face after finding that dyed mop with her name on it in chemistry class. The pain in her eyes had shriveled something in his soul that day. But despite her embarrassment, Izzy hadn’t cried or run out of the room. Instead, she’d laughed it off and pretended the mop was her lab partner for the entire hour. He’d known at that moment that Izzy Faraday had more courage and class than the popular high school athletes who had played that stupid trick on her. He just wished he’d had enough courage to stand up for her then. To protect her from a bunch of immature jocks who got their kicks by picking on those they perceived as weaker than themselves. "Zach?" 760

He blinked, then looked around the room. Josie and Alan were standing over by the dessert cart, wracked with indecision. He looked back at Izzy, now the only one seated at his table. "What?" "Why did you come back?" she whispered, obviously exasperated with him. He leaned toward her. "Because I’m not going anywhere until you hear what I have to say." Chapter Sixteen He turned to her, a curious wrinkle in his brow. "Why are you so anxious to get rid of me?" "Because my family could find out at any moment that you’re not really my boyfriend." She took a deep breath, trying to rein in her temper. "You almost blew it with that yearbook comment. Besides, I doubt you really want to stay. Look what happened with Aunt Marva. And you haven’t even met Uncle Howard and his hemorrhoids yet." Zach held up both hands. "Okay, but I still think you’re overreacting." "And I think you’re stalking me! You never even knew I existed in high school and now you won’t leave me alone." He shook his head. "I was an idiot in high school." "So was I," she replied, remembering her futile crush on him. As if she’d ever had a chance with someone like Zach Madigan, the high school golden boy. He was still out of her league. The last man on earth to qualify as her perfect match. The years had added character to his already handsome face and his body.... Isabel swallowed. Perhaps it was better not to think too much about that body. Especially in the intimacy of a hotel room. "Izzy?" She blinked, then realised she’d been staring at him. A hot flush burned her cheeks. "My name is Isabel." He smiled. "Sorry, I can’t seem to think of you as anything except Izzy." "Don’t you mean Izzy Frizzy?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. His smile faded. "That was a long time ago." "You’re right," she agreed, forcing a cheerful note into her voice. Funny how 10 years could go by and the pain still remain. Especially over a silly nickname.

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But Zach could obviously see past her facade. "You have a right to be angry. I was a jerk in high school. A self-absorbed, conceited jerk who stood by while my so-called friends made life miserable for you." She arched a brow. "Don’t you think you’re being just a little hard on yourself? You never did anything to purposely hurt me." He gazed into her eyes. "But I hurt you anyway, didn’t I, Izzy?" Her breath caught in her throat. Had she really been that transparent? "It was a long time ago, Zach. It doesn’t matter anymore." "It matters to me." He stood up and walked over to her. "I’m sorry I ever called you Izzy Frizzy. And I’m sorry about the mop. It wasn’t my idea, but I didn’t do anything to stop them." "Thank you," she murmured, then gave him a wry smile. "It was payback, I guess, for causing you to miss your basketball game." Her gaze fell to his hand. "Did it leave a scar?" He held up his index finger. "Just a tiny one." Isabel traced the raised ridge on his finger. "Leave it to me to try to dissect Kirkwood High’s star basketball player." His fingers closed around her hand and held on tight. "It wasn’t your fault, Izzy." She laughed. "I was there, Zach. I know I cut your finger with that scalpel. I’m just glad I didn’t cut it off." He took a step closer to her, still holding her hand. "You did me a favour." She frowned up at him. "I don’t understand." "I hated basketball. My father had been a college star and wanted me to follow in his footsteps. He enrolled me in my first basketball league when I was five years old. I played virtually nonstop over the next 12 years. He had dreams of me playing at a top college. Maybe even the pros. But those weren’t my dreams." She wanted to ask him about his dreams. Instead, she said, "Did you ever consider just saying ‘no’?" He sighed. "That’s not a word my father understands. So I let you take the blame. Sitting out that game cost me any chance of a decent basketball scholarship. I could have played. My coach knew it. The college scouts at the game knew it. Any athlete knows that a little injury doesn’t stop someone who is truly committed to the sport." "I never knew you felt that way," she said wistfully. 762

"Nobody did. I was too worried about my image." He shook his head in disgust. "What I really wanted to do was work on the school newspaper. But the only ones who did that were the..." "Nerds," she said, finishing his sentence for him. "Guilty as charged. I was the photographer for the school paper." "Like I said, I was an idiot back then." "And now?" She swallowed hard, wondering why he insisted on holding her hand. She could smell the spicy scent of his aftershave and wished he wasn’t standing so close to her. "Now I plan to make it up to you." Chapter Seventeen "I insist." He closed the distance between them. Ever since he’d seen Izzy at Café Romeo, a flood of old memories had come rushing back. There had been too many times in high school when Zach had stood silently by while his friends had harassed Izzy or one of her friends. He couldn’t go back in time, but if he could find a way to make it up to her now, then he’d damn well give it a shot. "Your brother told me all about your fake boyfriend." She paled. "What exactly did he say?" "That you’d invented some make-believe boyfriend a few years ago, so now everyone in your family believes Dr. Mark Dunn might just be another figment of your imagination." Her face turned three shades of red. "I’m going to kill him." "Alan or Dr. Dunn?" "Both." Then she took a deep breath. "Now you know why I don’t want you pretending to be my boyfriend. If my family finds out..." He shrugged. "I think it’s too late. You’re stuck with me." A knock at the door forestalled her reply. Isabel walked over to open it, then stepped back in surprise. "Dad." "Hi, honey." Fred Faraday walked into the room. Then his gaze fell on Zach. "I hope I’m not interrupting." Izzy glanced at Zach. "Well, not really...."

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"Good." Fred turned back to his daughter. "Would you mind if Mark and I had a little private chat?" She rolled her eyes. "Oh Dad, not again." "You know the drill," he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "Any man who wants to date my daughter has to pass inspection first." "But, Dad," she protested, as Fred gently propelled her toward the door. "We’ll be done soon, sweetheart." Before Izzy could protest some more, her father swung the door shut. Then he turned to Zach and raised a thick, dark brow. "So tell me, Dunn. What exactly are your intentions toward my daughter?" Zach bit back a smile at the protective father routine. Of course, if he had a daughter as appealing as Izzy, he might be protective, too. A vision of a little girl with a shock of red hair and playful green eyes suddenly popped into his brain. Izzy’s hair. His eyes. Where had that come from? Just the thought of making a child with Izzy did strange things to his stomach. He stumbled back and sat down on the bed. "Is that a difficult question?" Fred asked, folding his arms across his burly chest. Zach cleared his throat, trying to refocus on the conversation. "Uh...no, sir. Not at all. What did you say?" Fred scowled. "You don’t seem very bright for a doctor. I simply asked you about your intentions toward my daughter. Are you sharing this hotel room with her?" "No," Zach assured him, then pointed to the connecting door. "I’m next door." Fred’s scowled deepened. "Very convenient. I know I may sound a little old-fashioned, but I know how men think." He narrowed his eyes. "In fact, I bet I know what you’re thinking right now." Zach stood up. "Tell me." "You’re thinking my sweet Isabel is an attractive, intelligent young woman." "No argument so far." "And that you’re one hell of a lucky man to have found her."

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"Any man would be lucky to find Izzy," Zach said, realising a split-second later that he actually meant it. Not that he was looking for a woman in his life. He enjoyed his freedom too much to give it up. Even for a woman like Izzy. Still, there was something about her... "But what you should be thinking," Fred continued, disrupting Zach’s train of thought, "is how you can leave her without breaking her heart." Zach blinked in surprise. "What?" Fred narrowed his eyes. "I did my research and I know all about you, Dr. Dunn. You may look like a winner on the outside, thanks to all those cosmetic changes Isabel told us about, but you’re still a loser on the inside." "Wait a minute, Mr. Faraday — " "I don’t let any man play games with my little girl." Fred stabbed a finger at Zach’s chest. "I already sent you a warning once, which you obviously chose to ignore. So I’ll tell you one more time. Stay away from my daughter, Dunn. Or you’ll be very, very sorry." Chapter Eighteen She and Zach sat in the small dining room of the hotel, enjoying a quiet breakfast together. The next family event wasn’t scheduled until noon, so they had the entire morning to do whatever they wanted. She still couldn’t quite believe Zach Madigan was spending the weekend with her.Voluntarily. He’s doing it out of guilt, Isabel reminded herself as she reached for her orange juice. She would be crazy to think that it really meant anything. Zach wanted to atone for a past wrong. Which seemed a little ridiculous after all these years, but obviously not to him. He’d do his penance, then forget all about her. "Your father definitely doesn’t like me," he said, shaking his head. "Or rather, Dr. Mark Dunn." "You never did tell me what you two talked about." He shrugged, not quite meeting her eyes. "Oh, this and that. Nothing too important." He pushed away his empty breakfast plate. "So, what’s on the agenda for today?" "All sorts of exciting things," she said with a wry smile. "At lunch, we get to hear a speech by Uncle Howard about the fascinating history of the Faraday family. Just a warning, he’s an amateur genealogist and will start back in the year 1548. Then, after that, we have our annual Faraday Scrabble tournament. The winner receives their very own Scrabble tile lapel pin with the letter F on it for Faraday. Watch out for my brother, though, he cheats." "Thanks for the warning. Anything else?"

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"Well, I think Aunt Marva’s still waiting for her medical exam." He shook his head. "I barely escaped her last night. I’ll really have to be on my guard today. Whatever you do, don’t let me out of your sight." Isabel didn’t tell him how much the prospect appealed to her. She could look at Zach all day. The little changes in him fascinated her. As a teenager, he’d been movie-star handsome with the attitude to match. But time had given a strength and character to his face that hadn’t been there before. Added a gentleness and humility to his green eyes. Given him the ability to laugh at himself. Falling in love with Zach Madigan had been a silly schoolgirl fantasy. As an adult, Isabel knew she could easily cross into the danger zone if she didn’t watch her step. "So why did you become a physical therapist?" he asked. "I like to help people. And I’m bossy. The perfect combination for the job." "Sounds like you enjoy it." She smiled. "I love it. Every day presents a new challenge." He nodded. "That’s why I left my job at the newspaper. I wanted to do something new and innovative." "Such as?" "I own and produce a daily internet news magazine. It was a little rocky financially at first, but the subscriptions have been doubling every month. Now it’s stable enough to employ three fulltime editors and pay for some quality freelance reporting." "Impressive." She leaned back in her chair. "So you came to Café Romeo for a story?" "More like a wild goose chase. But that happens sometimes when you get a lead for a story." Then he looked into her eyes. "And other times you find something even better." "Such as?" she asked, his words warming her from the inside out. But maybe she was reading too much into them. Izzy told herself to be careful not to project her own feelings onto Zach. Feelings, that to her chagrin, hadn’t faded even after ten years. He smiled. "What do you think?" She laughed. "You do make a good reporter. Do you ever answer questions, or just ask them?" He laughed with her. "Sorry. It’s hard to break old habits. Now I’ll let you ask one question and I promise to answer it." 766

One question. Too many tempting possibilities popped into her mind. Did he find her attractive? Did he like that kiss they’d shared as much as she had? Could he feel the sizzle between them, or was it only her imagination? But of course, she couldn’t ask him any of those questions. So she settled for one that would tell her the most about the man seated across the table from her. "Okay, one question." She folded her hands together on the table. "What do you want from life, Zach Madigan?" He grinned. "You mean other than fame, fortune, and a Ferrari?" "I’m serious," she replied. "And you promised to give me an answer." He nodded. "All right. It’s very simple, really. I want people to respect me not for what I do or how much money I make, but for the way I treat them." He gazed into her eyes. "I want something I sorely lacked in high school. The courage to stand up and do what is right." Isabel just stared at him, stunned by the intensity in his tone. She’d expected him to make another joke. But Zach had spoken from his heart. "Now, it’s your turn." He leaned his elbows on the table. "What do you want, Izzy?" She stood up. "Come with me, Zach, and I’ll show you." Chapter Nineteen Zach lay flat on his back, trying not to move. "It’s not your fault." "I’m the one who wanted to go jogging." "But I’m the one who tripped over that rock. I wasn’t watching where I was going." Because he’d been watching Izzy. She wore a clinging blue leotard and matching skin-tight biking shorts that emphasised her seductive curves. His heart had been pounding double-time even before they’d started jogging. He’d been following behind her on the narrow trail, mesmerised by the way her body moved. Then he’d tripped over that rock in the path and hit the ground hard. Razor-sharp pain had shot through his back and his pained grunt had made Izzy turn around and hurry to his side. She tenderly brushed dirt off his forehead. "How do you feel now?" He smiled up at her. "Better than I did when you hit me with your bike. But I still think I need to see a candy striper." "You’ll have to settle for a physical therapist." She knelt down beside him. "From the symptoms you described, I’d say you’re having a back spasm. Painful, but thankfully not serious."

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"So you won’t need to shoot me?" "Let’s try massage first." She placed one hand gently on his shoulder. "Can you roll onto your side?" "Sure," he said, gritting his teeth at the effort. He closed his eyes as Izzy pushed up his T-shirt, then smoothed her fingers over his bare back. "Here it is," she said, lightly pressing her hand into his lower back. "No wonder you can’t move. It’s really tight." Zach knew he shouldn’t have tried so hard to keep up with her. Not when he hadn’t been jogging for almost a year. Getting his business off the ground had kept him out of the gym and out of shape. "So what did you want to show me?" he asked, in an effort to take his mind off the pain. "My dream house. You can see it from the top of the bluff a little farther up the trail." She rubbed the sore spot on his back with steadily increasing pressure. He closed his eyes at the bittersweet sensation of pleasure and pain. "That’s all you want out of life? A house?" "I want a place I can call my own. A beautiful home in the country to raise my children." She kneaded his back with her fingers. "Try to relax, Zach." Easier said than done. He hadn’t been this close to a woman in a very long time. And Izzy’s touch was doing more to him than healing his back. "That feels wonderful." "Good. I can feel the muscle loosening up." Far too soon she pulled his T-shirt back down and sat back on her heels. "Try bending your left leg at the knee." He clenched his jaw, but to his surprise he found he could bend his leg without any pain. "Now your right leg," she ordered. "You are bossy," he said, relieved to find it a painless procedure as well. "And a damn good physical therapist." He propped himself up on his elbows. "I think I’m cured." She smiled as she helped him to his feet. "Maybe. But you should probably spend the rest of the afternoon in bed." He arched a brow. "Is that a proposition?"

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A rosy flush suffused her cheeks. "I don’t think you’re in any condition for that kind of activity." "Actually, I feel great." It was true. Other than the back spasm, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun with a woman. Although, he shouldn’t have made that proposition comment. He sensed Izzy wasn’t a one-night-stand kind of girl. Which suited him just fine — even the thought of her with other men made his gut tighten. "Zach?" Concern clouded her beautiful blue eyes. "Are you sure you’re all right?" He definitely wasn’t all right. Something strange was happening here. Jealousy was not his style. "Maybe we should head back to the hotel." "Good idea." She circled his arm around his waist for support. "We’ll go as slowly as you like." He sucked in a deep breath at the sensation of Izzy pressed up against him, all soft and warm. His back hardly bothered him at all now, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to tell her. He was enjoying her closeness too much. Way too much. Time for a reality check. Izzy had been in love with another man who had just dumped her yesterday. She was hurt and vulnerable, even if she was putting up a good front. "Do you miss him?" "Who?" she asked, walking steadily along side him. "Dr. Dunn. After all, you were planning to spend this weekend with him, not me." She caught his gaze, then looked away, her cheeks still flushed from their run. Or was there another reason? "Zach," she began, "I have a confession to make." Chapter Twenty She swallowed hard, half wishing she’d never brought it up. "About Mark." A muscle flexed in Zach’s jaw. "What about him?" "Well, the truth is, I’m not really all that upset he broke up with me. I mean, sure, it stung a little. Rejection always does. But I was planning to break up with him anyway." A frown creased Zach’s brow. "Why?" Because he couldn’t live up to Zach Madigan in her mind. No man she’d dated ever had. But Izzy could hardly admit that out loud. Not if she wanted to keep her dignity intact. "One of the reasons is that Mark had absolutely no interest in marriage. Or children."

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"And those things are important to you?" She blinked up at him. "Of course. Family is the top priority in my life. I mean, I love my job, but it doesn’t exactly keep me warm at night. I want love. A lifelong commitment." She gave him a wry smile. "Doesn’t that sound like enough to scare most men off?" "Only the ones who don’t deserve you," he said softly. Isabel’s breath caught in her throat. Damn. She didn’t want to fall for Zach Madigan. Not again. Not when he’d breeze through her life for one brief weekend and probably haunt her for the next 10 years. He winced and placed his hand against his lower back. "Maybe I should lay down for just a few minutes." "Good idea," she said, needing some distance from him. She couldn’t think straight when Zach was so near. "You go ahead. I’ll have the front desk send an ice pack up to your room." An hour later, she knocked softly on the connecting door between their rooms, half-hoping he was asleep. "Come in." She opened the door and saw him stretched out on the bed, wearing nothing but his gray jersey jogging shorts. Her throat went very dry. "I brought you another ice pack." "Thanks." He pulled the melted plastic pack out from under him. She walked over to the bed. "Turn over and let me take a look at your back." He smiled at her command, but obeyed without protest. His back was long and straight, his shoulders broad and muscular. She gently smoothed her fingers over the sore spot on his lower back. It was cold from the ice pack. "The muscle still feels a little tight." "I’m fine," he said, turning his head into the pillow. Isabel massaged the spot anyway, drawing a low groan from him. "Sorry, if that hurts." "It doesn’t," he said, his voice muffled by the pillow. Isabel sat on the edge of the bed as her hands widened the circular pattern over his back. She could feel the hard knot of muscles under his skin. "You’re tight all over."

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Zach abruptly turned and sat up, so close to her now that she could see the little golden flecks in his green eyes. "This time it is your fault," he said huskily. She opened her mouth, then closed it again as Zach inched closer. Her eyes drifted shut as his lips brushed against her mouth. A hard rap on the hotel room door made them both start and jump away from each other. Zach swore softly under his breath, then climbed out of bed, apparently not in the least bothered by his sore back. He was breathing heavily, though, and Isabel had trouble catching her breath as well. She looked down at her hands, surprised to find them clenching the bedspread. "Hello, Mr. Faraday." Isabel looked up at the open door and saw her father standing there. She bolted off the bed. "Hi, Dad." Fred looked from her to Zach, his nostrils flaring. "I just wanted to tell you the Scrabble Tournament is starting in five minutes." Then his gaze flicked over Zach’s barely clad body. "Shirt and shoes are required."’ "No problem," Zach said, closing the door. But Fred stuck his foot out to stop it halfway. "Five minutes," her father said. "Not a second longer." Then he turned around and walked away. Zach smiled as he closed the door. "I think your father is warming up to me, Izzy." "Isabel," she reminded him, then moved to the connecting door between their rooms. "Are you in the mood for Scrabble?" He looked at her for a long moment. "No. But I think it might be a good idea anyway." She nodded, then escaped into her room, shutting the door behind her. All the reasons Zach Madigan was all wrong for her reverberated in her brain. If only her heart would listen. Chapter Twenty-One Still, as the evening wound down, she sat with Zach and the rest of the Faraday family in the hotel’s solarium, half wishing their romance could be real. Zach leaned closer to her on the loveseat and whispered in her ear. "Tired?" "Not a bit," she said in a low voice. "How about you?"

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"I’m having fun." He sounded surprised. "I’ve never been to a family reunion before. I’m an only child, and so were both my parents. I can count the entire Madigan family on one hand." "We Faradays are a prolific bunch," she said, enjoying the cozy intimacy between them. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. His arm lay around her shoulders as if it belonged there. "In fact, three of my cousins couldn’t make it this weekend because they’re pregnant and too close to their due dates to travel." "How many babies in your future?" "Oh, maybe 10 or 11." He blanched. "Are you serious?" She laughed at his bewildered expression. "All right, I’ll settle for an even half dozen. I like kids." "Me, too. I worked as a camp counselor during the summers in high school." "I didn’t know that." He grinned. "I can prove it, too. I still remember all the campfire songs." She held up both hands. "Forget it. I do know you can’t carry a tune. I was in Glee Club with you, remember?" The granfather clock began to chime 10 o’clock and Isabel looked up to see a hotel clerk enter the solarium carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. "These just arrived for Miss Faraday." "Ooh!" Her cousin Josie jumped to her feet. "I’ll bet they’re from my boyfriend. We had a little spat at the Denver airport yesterday, right before my flight here." She plucked the envelope from the bouquet and tore it open. Then she wrinkled her pert nose. "Wrong Miss Faraday," she said, pointing the clerk toward Isabel. Isabel glanced at Zach, wondering when he’d possibly found time to order flowers. "What does the card say?" her mother asked. "Here." Isabel smiled, reaching for the card. "I’ll take it." But Josie held it back, her eyes widening as she skimmed the note. "It’s from Dr. Dunn and it’s says, I love you, my darling Isabel."

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Isabel’s smile froze on her face. Could they be from the real Mark? The man who had just dumped her yesterday for another woman? No, that didn’t make any sense. They had to be from Zach. Even though sending a dozen roses might be overplaying his part a little. Everyone in the room oohed and ahhed over the flowers. Except her father. He slumped in an armchair and frowned at Zach. "That’s not all," Josie announced, still holding the card out in front of her. Then she handed it to Zach. "I think you’d better read the rest. But loud enough so everyone can hear. Especially Isabel." Zach looked at the card, then at Isabel, then back at the card. At last he cleared his throat and said, "Will you marry me?" Chapter Twenty-Two Claire Faraday clasped her hand to her chest, her eyes shimmering with joyful tears. "Oh, how romantic." Fred Faraday just glared at him. Izzy’s Aunt Marva clapped her hands together. "A doctor in the family! Won’t that be wonderful?" "Well, what do you say, Isabel?" Josie asked. "Do I get to be a bridesmaid?" Isabel stood in the centre of the room, caressing the velvety petals of the roses with her fingers. Then she looked at Zach. "I’m not sure what to say." He walked over to her, deciding he’d better play along. Especially since they had such a rapt audience. "Are you happy?" She nodded. "Very. Although...this is certainly unexpected." He looked into her blue eyes, aware that every Faraday eye was on him. He swallowed hard, wishing he knew what the hell to do. "You mean a lot to me, Izzy." "Izzy?" Alan echoed. "She hasn’t let anyone call her that since high school." Zach saw a blush suffuse her cheeks. For some reason, Izzy was adamant that her family not find out the truth about him. He was suddenly tired of playing games. Tired of just pretending to care about her. Maybe it was time to show her exactly how he felt.

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He took a step closer to her, then pulled her into his arms. Her mouth opened with a slight gasp. Then he kissed her, just like he’d been tempted to do all day. She was so warm and soft in his arms. So right. Her mouth tasted like apples and cinnamon and something uniquely Izzy. A delicious combination. Izzy wound her arms around his neck with a low moan that only he could hear. She was just the right height, fitting perfectly against him in all the right places. He closed his eyes, knowing somewhere in the very back of his brain that a kiss couldn’t last forever. But he couldn’t seem to stop. At last, he reluctantly lifted his head and stared into her lush blue eyes. She stared right back at him, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed and her pink lips so incredibly tempting. The flowers were crushed between them, the sweet, heady scent making him dizzy. Or maybe it was the way Izzy was looking at him. As if he held her whole world in his hands. "Well?" he asked huskily, still holding her in his arms. At this close range he could see the tiny sprinkle of light freckles across the bridge of her nose. He wanted to count them. To know everything about her. "Well, what?" she whispered. Good question. He didn’t have a script. Didn’t know what she wanted him to say. So he just looked into her eyes and said the first thing that popped into his mind. "Will you be mine?" Izzy just stared up at him, not saying a word. He could hear the ticks of the grandfather clock, abnormally loud in the now silent room. Suddenly, her answer mattered more to him than anything ever had before. Claire rose to her feet, then motioned for everyone else in the room to do the same. "Let’s give these two some privacy. After all," she said, her face softening as she gazed at her daughter, "this is a very special moment in their lives." A few giggles and winks accompanied the Faradays out of the room, as well as a fierce scowl from Fred. At long last, Zach was all alone with Isabel in the solarium. It took all his willpower not to kiss her again. The line between fantasy and reality had started to blur. "Is this still a game, Zach?" Confusion shone in her eyes, along with some other indefinable emotion. He took a deep breath. "Do you want it to be?" Chapter Twenty-Three Why would a man go to so much trouble to make up for a silly high school prank that had happened a decade ago? Why would he kiss her, not once, but twice? And that didn’t even count

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what had almost happened in his hotel room this afternoon before her father had interrupted them. Her head spun. She didn’t understand what he expected from her. He’d already taken her heart. What more did he want? "I’m not leaving until you give me an answer," he said after several long, silent moments. She wasn’t confessing anything until she cleared up some of her own questions. "Did you send the flowers?" He shook his head. "No. I thought maybe you did." "Me?" She stepped out of his arms, feeling as if she’d just been drenched with a bucket of cold water. After the way he’d just acted, she’d been convinced he’d sent the flowers. Which just proved how gullible she could be. "Why would I send flowers to myself? Much less a proposal of marriage." He shrugged. "Well, then who sent them?" Only one possibility came to mind. "It must have been Mark." He scowled. "Why the hell is he sending you flowers and asking you to marry him? I thought he dumped you." "Me, too." She couldn’t help but smile at the ludicrous turn of events in the last 48 hours. She’d been dumped by Mark, fallen in love with Zach, and received a proposal of marriage. What could possibly happen next? "You’re happy about it?" he exclaimed, misinterpreting her reaction. She shrugged, inhaling the bouquet. "I love flowers." "Wait a minute, Izzy," he growled. "Don’t tell me you’re seriously considering taking him back?" If she didn’t know better, she’d almost think he was jealous. "I’ll have to think about it." "What is there to think about?" he demanded. "The guy dumped you. Your father thinks he’s a loser and so do I." "You don’t even know him!" "I know that he’s not good enough for you."

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"This is silly," she said, then lowered her voice since her family was probably listening at the door. "It’s not like you and I are really dating." He rubbed one hand over his chin. "Well, maybe we should be." She caught the flowers that slipped out of her hands. "What did you say?" "I’d be willing to do just about anything to keep you away from a man like Dunn." "Gee, thanks," she clipped, unreasonably hurt by his words. She’d known all along that he’d been just playing the part of her boyfriend. "But you’re obviously horrified by the idea." She shoved the bouquet at him. "You can have your flowers back." He took the bouquet and tossed them aside. "I never sent them. And I never said I was horrified by the idea of dating you." She looked up at him, completely confused by his behavior. Or perhaps it was her own longing that made her want to kiss him and kick him at the same time. Despite all her best intentions, she’d fallen for Zach Madigan all over again. Time to put a stop to all this nonsense before he broke her heart. "Look, Zach," she began, "I appreciate everything you’ve tried to do for me. Really. But this has gone on much too long. I’m going to tell my family the truth. Then you can go back to St. Louis or Indianapolis, or wherever you want." "You’re dumping me?" "Yes. And you don’t have to thank me. I’m sure you’re more than ready to become Zach Madigan again." He gave her a brisk nod. "You’re right about that." Then he took a step closer to her, and Isabel’s breath caught in her throat at his expression. A noise at the door made them both turn. A strange, middle-aged man in a rumpled gray suit stood in the doorway, the Faradays all hovering behind him. "Are you Dr. Mark Dunn?" the man asked, stepping into the room. "Well...yes." Zach glanced at Izzy. Isabel moved beside him, ready to unveil the truth. She took a deep breath, already cringing inside at the thought of her family’s reaction. But she didn’t even get a chance to open her mouth. 776

The man flipped out a badge. "Dr. Dunn, you’re under arrest." Chapter Twenty-Four "For practicing medicine without a license," the man said, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "I’m Detective Miller, from the St. Louis police department. We’ve been looking for the good doctor for quite a while." Zach held up his hands. "Wait a minute. There’s been a big mistake." Detective Miller slapped one the cuffs on one of Zach’s outstretched wrists, then pulled his other arm behind his back and locked on the other cuff. "That’s what they all say." Isabel looked at her family, who stood stunned in entry of the solarium. Then she turned back to the police officer, her stomach twisting with dread. "You don’t understand. He’s not really Mark Dunn. His name is Zach Madigan." The cop took a small, laminated card out of his pocket and began reading Zach his Miranda rights. "You have the right to remain silent...." Her father came up behind Isabel and laid his hands on her shoulders. "Honey, don’t try to con the police. I found out all about your boyfriend a few weeks ago. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but it’s true. He doesn’t have a valid license to practice medicine in the States." She whirled around. "You turned him in?" "That’s right," Fred admitted, a mottled flush on his cheeks. "But only because I’m trying to look out for you. I’m not about to let a fugitive marry my only daughter." "But Dad," she cried, " this isn’t Mark Dunn! It’s Zach Madigan." Fred just sighed and looked at his wife. "Do something." Claire came up and circled her arm around Isabel’s shoulders. "This has obviously come as a shock to you. It has to me, too." She paused a moment, to glare at her husband. "But claiming Mark is your old fake boyfriend isn’t going to help." "Old fake boyfriend?" Zach echoed, looking perplexed. "You know," Alan said, "the one I told you about in the parking lot. My sister pretended she was having a passionate romance with Zach Madigan when she was in high school. Frankly, I’m glad it was all in her imagination. From everything I’d heard about the guy, he sounded like a real jerk." "Alan," Isabel admonished, her cheeks burning, "that jerk you’re talking about is standing right in front of you. This is Zach!" 777

"Actually, I agree with you, Alan," Zach said, a smile tipping up a corner of his mouth. "Zach Madigan was a bit of a jerk." Then he looked at Isabel and his smile faded. "You liked me in high school?" She stomped her foot, unable to believe they were having this conversation while he was standing there in handcuffs. "Of course I liked you. I was crazy about you. Along with half the girls in our class. Were you really that clueless?" He shook his head, obviously perplexed. "I had no idea. You hardly ever talked to me." Now that the secret was out, Isabel didn’t want to hide any more secrets. Especially since playing with the truth had led to this entire mess. "Zach, I was a teenager. I didn’t need to talk to you to believe I was madly in love with you. But you hardly even knew I existed." He frowned. "That’s not true." Fred stepped between them. "Cut the act, Dunn. It’s not going to work. No one here believes you’re this Madigan creep." Isabel groaned in frustration. "This is ridiculous. There has to be some way to prove it to all of you." Alan shook his head. "Sorry, Isabel, but the evidence seems pretty clear. You’ve been dating this Dunn for weeks. And what about that emergency medical call he got Friday night?" "I made it up," she admitted. "I made it all up." "I’m the one to blame," Zach said, coming to her defense. "It was my idea." "You’ve got that right," Fred said, then nodded to the policeman. "Get him out of here." "No, wait!" Isabel exclaimed. "Show them your driver’s license, Zach." "It doesn’t matter if his driver’s license says he’s the president ," the cop said, grasping Zach’s elbow. "Guys like Dunn have a million aliases, with licenses and passports to match. I’m taking him in." Marva paled, finally grasping the situation. "You mean I let him look at my legs and he’s not really a doctor?" "You can file a complaint down at the station, ma’am," the cop told her as he began leading Zach toward the door. "Let’s go." "Zach!" Isabel cried, watching him hauled off like a common criminal. She had to do something — anything — to keep this from happening.

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Chapter Twenty-Five Don’t worry? How was that possible? The man she loved was going to jail. The man she loved. All her defenses and denials faded away as realisation washed over her. She loved him. She’d never stopped loving him. The boy of her dreams had become a man she admired. A man she’d never be able to forget. She had to tell him before it was too late. "Wait," she shouted, running after them. But her brother stopped her at the door, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders. "Let him go, sis. You can do much better than a phony doctor. And I think it’s pretty obvious now why he changed his eye colour and hair colour and put lifts in his shoes. He’s been hiding out from the authorities." Isabel twisted out of his grasp. "You’re wrong." Then she sank down in a chair and buried her face in her hands. "I can’t believe this is happening." Her mother reached out and patted her gently on the shoulder. "Look at it this way, sweetie. At least you found out before you married him." "No kidding," Alan said. "Practicing medicine without a license is a third-degree felony punishable up to five years in prison for each count. Forget about him, Isabel." She looked up at her family. "For the last time, that man the cop just arrested wasn’t Dr. Mark Dunn. He was Zach, who was pretending to be Mark, because the real Mark dumped me yesterday right before the reunion. Then Zach met me at Café Romeo, because he thought I was a hooker...." Her voice trailed off as she saw everyone of the Faradays look at her with varying degrees of pity and disbelief. Her heart sank. "You don’t believe me." Her mother sat down on the arm of the chair. "You have to admit it sounds a little far-fetched. I know this has been a shock for you, Isabel, but I thought you’d outgrown that Zach Madigan fantasy." "No, Mum, the fantasy is alive and well. I love Zach. I’ve always loved him. There’s something special between us. A connection I can’t explain." She tipped up her chin. "After tonight, Zach may never want to see me again, but that won’t change the way I feel." Claire’s brow wrinkled with worry as she placed her palm on Isabel’s forehead. "You feel a little warm." "Maybe we should call a doctor," Marva suggested. "It’s too bad Dr. Dunn had to leave."

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Isabel didn’t want to cry, so she laughed instead. "I love you," she said, leaning over to kiss her aunt’s wrinkled cheek. "I love all of you. And I promise someday we’re going all laugh about this. At least, I hope so." "She’s hysterical," Uncle Bob said, heading toward the door. "I have some brandy in my room." "I have some juniper bath beads," Josie offered. "Aromatherapy can work wonders." "Thanks," Isabel replied. "But all I need is a good lawyer." She turned to her brother. "Alan, will you please represent him?" He shook his head. "I’m sorry, Isabel, but I’ve got what you might call a conflict of interest. I’d rather punch that phony quack in the mouth for doing this to you." She opened her mouth, then closed it again, realizing it was futile to argue with them. And it was her own fault for playing out this charade. For worrying more about her pride than the truth. Zach had spoken of honour and integrity. Maybe it was about time for her to show a little of both. And since she was the one responsible for this mess, it was up to her to fix it. "I repeat," Isabel said, rising to her feet. "He’s not a phony quack. He’s Zach Madigan. And I intend to prove it." She brushed past her family and marched toward the door. Zach shouldn’t have to suffer because of her screwed up love life. No matter what she had to do to make it right. "Isabel, where are you going?" her father shouted. "To find the real Dr. Dunn." Chapter Twenty-Six Not one to let an opportunity go to waste, he was mentally composing an article about his experience in his mind. Only his thoughts kept drifting to Izzy. What would have happened between them if that cop hadn’t intruded? He mentally shook himself. His current predicament should prove that Madame Sophia’s coffee grounds reading was all wet. Isabel Faraday was obviously not his perfect match. Now that he thought about it, every time she appeared in his life, some disaster happened. The bike accident. The scalpel incident. The back spasm. His arrest. Maybe he should take the hint and get out of her life for good. Besides, what was his alternative? Izzy had made her priorities clear. She wanted marriage and a family, while love and commitment were two words that had always made him run in the other direction. Especially since it would play right into his father’s hands. He could almost hear him now.

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"It’s time to settle down, son. Time to take responsibility for your life. What you need is a good woman, a home of your own and children to carry on the Madigan legacy. Who knows, maybe one of them will even make it to the NBA." Zach closed his eyes and sighed. All he’d ever wanted to do was live his own life. To make his own decisions. He’s spent over half his life trying to fulfill his father’s dreams. Now it was his turn. A metal door banged against the cinder block wall and Zach heard the now familiar steps of the guard. "You’ve got a visitor, Dunn." "The name is Madigan." "Whatever," the guard replied, then turned and motioned to someone behind him. "Izzy?" Zach said hopefully, moving toward the locked cell door. "Nope, it’s me. How ya doin’ Dr. Dunn?" "Ramon." Zach tried to ignore the stab of disappointment deep inside of him. "What are you doing here? And why the hell are you calling me Dr. Dunn?" The guard’s footsteps echoed in the hallway as he walked away. "I thought that was the plan," Ramon said. "You were going to pretend to be Isabel’s boyfriend." "First of all, that was your stupid plan, which I never should have listened to. And second, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me Dr. Dunn in front of the cops. In fact, why don’t you tell them my real name, then they’ll let me out of here." "No need. I’m here to bail you out." Zach blinked in surprise. "You are?" He nodded. "I’ve already contacted a bail bondsman. He gives the D’Onofrios a special rate since we’re such steady customers." "How did you even know I was in here?" "Isabel told me," Ramon replied. "She called me last night and asked me to come down here first thing this morning." Zach frowned. "Why didn’t she come down her herself?" Ramon hesitated. "I don’t know quite how to tell you this..." 781

Prickles of alarm skittered up his spine. "Just say it." "Madame Sophia must have been wrong. I don’t think Isabel is your perfect match." "Why the hell not?" he asked, irritated by Ramon’s opinion even though he’d just recently thought the same thing himself. "Because she’s back with that doctor." The words made his gut twist into a knot. "No." "Yes." Ramon leaned against the bars. "Women are fickle, Zach. But there are alternatives to the harsh dating world." He pulled a photo out of his shirt pocket. "Have you ever considered a prison romance?" Zach barely heard him. While Ramon droned on about some blonde named Nanette, Zach tried to accept the fact that Izzy had gone to Dunn. Did she plan to warn him about his imminent arrest? Protect him? Run away with him? Each possibility seemed unfathomable. Still, the jerk had proposed to her. "How do you know she’s with Dunn?" he asked at last, his hands curled tightly around the bars. Ramon slipped the photo back into his pocket. "Because Isabel told me she was flying to Mexico this morning to meet him." "Get me out of here," Zach clipped. Chapter Twenty-Seven "So what the hell was he doing here?" Madame Sophia approached him, her purple caftan swirling around her gold lamé sandals. She wore gold bangle bracelets on her arms that jingled as she walked. "I’m so glad you could make it, Mr. Madigan." "How could I resist coming after you left that mysterious message on my answering machine?" He arched a skeptical brow. "I believe you called it the story of the millennium." She smiled. "My three nephews tell me I tend to exaggerate sometimes. But all that really matters is that you’re here now. Ready to meet your perfect match." "Oh, no," he said, half rising out of his chair. "I’m not letting you fix me up with another woman. No offense, but your matchmaking attempts are a little too dangerous for me." "Dangerous to your health? Or your heart?"

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"Dangerous to my freedom," he said, avoiding a direct answer. Besides, he’d been truthful. He’d briefly lost his freedom in jail. But he might have lost it forever if he’d spent any more time around Izzy. He just wished he could stop thinking about her. Madame Sophia sighed. "You sound as stubborn as my nephews. The youngest one just turned 26 and they’re all still single. Can you believe they won’t let me read their coffee grounds?" "Smart men," he muttered under his breath. "Not smart enough," she replied with a sly wink. Then she handed him a small red menu. "I thought you might like to take a look at some of Café Romeo’s specialties." He opened the menu, surprised by the unusual items listed inside, as well as the hefty prices. Then he looked up at Madame Sophia. "Is this a joke?" "I prefer to call it fate." Then she nodded toward the door. "Your perfect match has arrived." Zach looked up, then stopped breathing for a moment. Izzy. "Let me know if you want to place an order," Madame Sophia said, then walked away, humming an exotic tune under her breath. But Zach barely heard her. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Izzy. She looked even better than he remembered. Tanned. An unpleasant reminder of where she’d been these last two weeks. Izzy finally spotted him and waved. Then she walked over to his table. "Hi, Zach." "What are you doing here?" For the last week he’d been tortured by images of her in a string bikini while she sipped margaritas with Dunn on some Mexican beach. Instead, she was right here in St. Louis, wearing a lacy white blouse, a blue denim skirt, and a gorgeous smile. Her smile faltered. "Didn’t Madame Sophia tell you I was coming?" "No." He stood up and pulled out a chair for her. Then sat back down in his own, his heart racing as if he’d just run 50 sprints across a gym floor. "She didn’t happen to mention it." "Oh." Izzy frowned. "Well, I hope you’re not upset that I dragged you here all the way from Indianapolis." "Why am I here, Izzy?" "Isabel," she said automatically. "Sorry," he said, his jaw tight. "Isabel." 783

She smiled at him. "That’s the first time you’ve actually listened to me." "I just wish you would have listened to me." He leaned across the table, unable to contain himself any longer. "How could you possibly go back to a man like Mark Dunn? First, he dumps you, then he whisks you off to Mexico. For all you know, you could be charged with concealing a fugitive." He leaned back in his chair, his tirade over. Now he just felt drained. "You deserve someone better." "Really? Like who?" "Me." Chapter Twenty-Eight "Well, if not me, then someone like me," he said, not looking too happy at the prospect. "Someone who cares about you. Someone who knows everything about you." She narrowed her eyes. "You don’t know everything about me, Zach. In fact, you hardly know me at all." "I know all the important things. I know you’re honest and intelligent and caring. That you’re loyal to your family and love your work. But I’d like to know even more. Maybe we could become...friends." He hesitated. "That is, if your boyfriend doesn’t mind." "I don’t have a boyfriend." A muscle ticked in his jaw. "You mean you already married him?" "Who?" "Who else?" he clipped, his nostrils flaring. "Mark Dunn." "You think I’d actually marry Mark after everything I found out about him?" "Isn’t that why you went to Mexico?" She resisted the urge to punch him. After the time they’d spent together, how could he possibly think she’d want Mark? She’d been right before. Zach was completely clueless. He was also completely gorgeous, but she was trying very hard to stay focused. "No," she said, reining in her temper. "I went to Mexico to try and make up for all the trouble I’d caused you. It took me over a week to find Mark, but I finally tracked him down in a little village outside of Acapulco." Zach arched a sardonic brow. "Is that where you got your tan?"

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It hit her then. Zach was actually jealous. The realisation lightened her spirits considerably. "As a matter of fact, it is. I spent some time on the beach." He folded his arms across his chest. "Spare me the details." "There’s not that much to tell. I met with Mark and he explained that he only dumped me because the cops were breathing down his neck. Once he made it to Mexico, he sent those flowers and that stupid marriage proposal." Zach sat up in his chair. "Stupid?" "Can you think of a better word for it?" She tossed her hands up in the air. "As if I’d marry a fugitive from justice! I only went down there so I could talk him into giving you his exclusive story for your news magazine. I thought it was the least he could do since you had to spend a night in jail for him." "You went all the way to Mexico for me?" "Yes." She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. "He agreed to give you his story, by the way. Here it is." Zach glanced at the title. "Mark Dunn, Doctor at Large." "He’s giving up medicine to write fiction, since he already has so much experience in that area. I’m sure you can turn these notes into a real story. I tried to convince him to come back and face the charges against him, but he refused. Probably because he’s guilty. It seems he went to medical school somewhere in the Caribbean and just never bothered to apply for a license in Missouri." Zach leaned forward and reached for her hand. "I’m so glad you’re rid of him." "Me, too," she replied softly, warmed by the affectionate glow in his green eyes. Ramon walked up to their table. "You two don’t want to order anything, do you? It’s almost time for my break." "Yes," Zach said with a smile, "as a matter of fact, I do." Ramon sighed as he pulled an order pad out of his pocket. "The house blend is on special today. I accidentally spilled a little dishsoap in the coffee pot, but I’m sure you’ll hardly notice it." "I don’t want the house special," he said, opening a small red menu and studying it with an intensity that surprised her. How difficult was it to order a latte? "I’ll take a number seven," Zach said at last, flipping the menu closed and handing it to Ramon.

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"Are you sure?" Ramon asked. "The number three is cheaper." Zach nodded, then looked at Isabel. "I know what I want." She smiled at his take-charge attitude. "And you call me bossy. I just hope it’s something I’ll like." "Me, too," he said, reaching for her hand once more. Chapter Twenty-Nine "Wait just a minute, Ramon," Zach said, holding up one hand. "I have to make sure the lady likes what I ordered." "If it’s chocolate cheesecake, I’ll love it," Isabel teased, reaching for a fork. Then Zach lifted the lid. Isabel’s heart skipped a beat as she stared at the tray. Displayed in the centre, on a cushion of crushed blue velvet, was an exquisite one carat diamond ring surrounded by a circle of small, sparkling sapphires. "Well?" Hope and uncertainty mingled on Zach’s handsome face. "Do you like it?" She nodded, afraid to speak. Afraid she’d wake up and find this was all just a fantastic dream. "It seems Café Romeo sells engagement rings along with éclairs and espresso." Zach picked up the ring, then walked over to her chair. She held her breath as he knelt down on one knee in front of her and reached for her hand. "These last two weeks without you have been the longest, most miserable ones of my life." He took a deep breath and gazed into her eyes. "Just in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m crazy in love with you, Izzy Faraday." She swallowed hard, then gave him a tremulous smile. "You know how I feel about that name." "How do you feel about the name Izzy Madigan?" Her breath caught in her throat. "I think I could get used to it." Tears filled her eyes as he slipped the ring onto her finger. It was a perfect fit. He pulled her to her feet, then wrapped his arms around her waist. "I convinced myself I never wanted to marry or have a family, because that was my father’s dream. Then I almost lost you 786

and realised that I’d been a fool. I was still letting him dictate my life instead of following my own heart." "I’m glad you finally came to your senses," she said breathlessly. "Not as glad as I am." He gazed lovingly into her eyes. "You’re all mine, Izzy. And I intend to keep it that way." "I love you, Zach," she whispered, her throat tight. "I think I’ve loved you since the first day we met." "You literally turned my life upside down that day." He leaned his forehead against hers. "And I haven’t been the same since. In fact, I can’t believe I haven’t kissed you yet." Then he made up for lost time by giving her a slow, sweet kiss that conveyed the depth of his feelings. His lips moulded to hers and he groaned low in his throat as he pulled her even closer. Izzy wrapped her arms around his neck, savouring the warmth and strength of the man who had just asked her to be his wife. The man she’d spend the rest of her life with. The kiss deepened until it smouldered hot and heavy between them. Izzy arched into him, returning his love and passion in full measure. When Zach finally lifted his head, he looked as dazed as she felt. "You’re amazing." "Just wait until I get you alone," she promised, her voice as shaky as her knees. Another kiss like that and they’d set off the smoke alarms in Café Romeo. "The sooner, the better," he said, giving her the same crooked grin that had held a special place in her heart for the last 10 years. "Because, my darling Isabel, I intend to spend the rest of my life making all your fantasies come true."

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Bold as Brass By Christine Bell In 2002, we gave authors from different Harlequin series the same opening paragraph, and asked each of them to write the rest of the story. The resulting innovative and compelling stories found a special place in our readers' hearts. So now we've put together a special Valentine's anthology of four of the original reads, plus two brand-new endings to Charlotte's story! Bold as Brass is one of those new stories, and takes the reader into a genre never before featured in the Online Reads—steampunk! Charlotte Phillips had thought her fiancé, Duke John Rotham, had died in a fire—until she stumbles upon him at a party. Kissing another woman. Charlotte quickly realizes that she's fallen into John's trap, a twisted plot that threatens Charlotte, her lab partner, Alistair…and their revolutionary invention.

Chapter One Charlotte winced as an inebriated party-goer stepped on her foot, but she kept moving determinedly toward the doors that led to the balcony. The Duncans would be delighted with their party; it was clearly the event of the season, and their daughter had been successfully launched into society. Unfortunately, the noise, the heat and the crowd combined with Charlotte's pounding headache to make her want to escape for a breath of fresh air. Reaching the balcony doors, she opened them to find two people engaged in a passionate kiss. "I'm sorry." The words escaped her mouth before she realized it would have been better to make an exit without being noticed. The couple jumped apart. Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at her fiancé. "John! I thought you were dead!" The stormy blue eyes gazing back at her flashed with surprise for just an instant before growing so cold, she flinched. "How did you recognize me, Charlotte?" She pushed through the shock and confusion clouding her thoughts, trying to make sense of this astonishing turn of events. "False mustache or no, I would know my own betrothed, John. I'm not a fool. But I don't understand why you would let me believe you perished in the fire…" She trailed off as the truth hit her like a slap. "You never wanted me. This was about the purviewers from the very start." It wasn't a question. She was as sure of it as she was of Faraday's law of induction. Maybe she'd always known, somewhere deep in her bones, that John's interest in her had been false, but pride had kept her from admitting how thoroughly she'd been duped. Though she understood why he'd gone to such lengths to procure the purviewers. The brass goggles were certainly a temptation for the greedy. They allowed the wearer to see exactly five minutes into the future. She and her partner, Alistair, had created them almost by accident during an attempt at unlocking the mysteries of time travel.

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They'd been set to unveil them before the Alchemists Tribunal when a terrible fire had broken out in their laboratory. The blaze had consumed her home, her work—and her fiancé. The purviewers were replaceable, but John's death had left her paralyzed with guilt for the past six months. The Duncans' Ball was the first social event she'd attended since the "tragedy." Only now, with the proof of his duplicity literally staring her in the face, did she realize the truth—John had staged the fire so he could get his hands on the purviewers. Her hands trembled with repressed fury as she thought of what he'd put her through. John gave her a chilly smile and inclined his head. "I wondered if I'd have to spell it out for you. I should have known better." He regarded her for a long moment before turning his attention to the pretty blonde on his arm. "Emily, why don't you go and rejoin the party. I'll see you later this evening." The young woman nodded, scowling at Charlotte as she passed. Charlotte moved to follow her, but John stepped smoothly in front of the French doors and closed them with a snap, trapping her with him on the balcony. He was near enough for her to smell the liquor on his breath, and she drew back instinctively. She squashed the sudden blast of fear that rose within her and instead focused on her ire. "You're drunk. I won't speak with you under these conditions. Besides, you got what you wanted—the purviewers. I cannot imagine why you would return to London or what you would want with me now. Let me pass, John. This instant." As his handsome face screwed up in fury, she braced herself. "Always wanting to be in control, bossy wench. Not this time." The stranger who would have been her husband by now pulled a gun from his waist and aimed it directly at her heart. His mouth twisted into a sneer. "Your contraptions have stopped working. Now you're going to fix them." "Why would I help you?" "Because I have your precious Alistair. He's chained to a chair in Emily's house as we speak. I've set up a lab for you there so the two of you can repair the purviewers. I'll even be generous and give you fortyeight hours to complete the task." The riot of emotions scrambling Charlotte's brain instantly gave way to calm determination at his words. He had Alistair and beyond that, nothing else mattered. There was no alternative. She would go with John and figure out a way to save both the only man she'd ever loved and her invention, or she would die trying. The whys or hows didn't matter. "I'll need more time than that. I don't have my notes, they were burned—" "In the fire? No, darling. I have them." She barely restrained a snarl. "And if we still cannot manage it?" He shrugged nonchalantly. "Then I will kill you both." Well that was certainly clear enough. "Then we'd better move along," she said, bustling over to the doors and eyeing him expectantly.

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Confusion furrowed his brow. "That's all you would say to me? Aren't you ashamed I deceived you—the brilliant Charlotte Phillips—so easily?" It was a real kick in the bloomers, to be certain, but she'd never admit it to him. John's signet ring and some charred bits of bone had been the only indications that he'd been in the lab during the fire. She hadn't even considered why the brass goggles had succumbed to the flames so completely when his gold ring had remained fully intact. The inspector had ruled that she must have left a burner on, accidentally causing the inferno and John's death. She'd been so overcome with guilt that she hadn't thought it through. Or noted the fact that in fifteen years of experimenting, she'd never once left a burner on. Now the ruse seemed as plain as day. She poked around for some heartache over her fiancé's betrayal, but all she found was anger. In any case, it wasn't as if she'd ever loved him or expected his love in return. She wanted a family, more than anything, and that meant marriage. He had the title, she had the money, and they got on well. Alistair hadn't wanted her, so what did it matter who she married? John slipped the weapon into his pocket and tried to move her toward the door, jostling her with the clothcovered revolver. She made a silent vow to work on her instincts. She looked down her nose at him. "I would appreciate if you would not do that again." "You and that haughty stare. As if you're so much smarter than the rest of us," he spat. "Not the rest, John. Just you." He was quick as a viper, rapping the butt of the pistol smartly against the side of her already pounding head. Pain exploded at her temple and she gasped. "I've always wanted to do that, silence that sharp tongue for a change. I should have married you and killed you off after the wedding. That was my mistake. Emily didn't like the idea of blood on my hands. Last time I listen to a woman, mark me." Angering the lunatic with a pistol was not one of her better ideas and she vowed to bite her tongue moving forward. So long as they kept their heads, surely she and Alistair could outwit John Rotham before the two days were up. They had no choice.

Chapter Two A door slammed shut overhead and footsteps sounded on the stairs. Alistair sat up on the stool as best he could and pasted a bored expression on his face. No sense in giving Rotham the satisfaction of knowing just how painful the manacles around his wrists had become. The bastard was pleased enough with himself for capturing Alistair in the first place. If he hadn't been so distracted, it would never have happened. He had suspected Charlotte's fiancé was alive for a few weeks now. Some of the gossipy chaps at The Wakefield Gentlemen's Club had begun whispering about Rotham's disgruntled creditors. While John and Charlotte weren't yet man and wife, news of their betrothal had rocked London, and the money grubbers hoped to capitalize on her guilt and extreme wealth by asking her to honor Rotham's debts. Strange when a man, deep in arrears, dies in a tragic accident at the same time that a priceless invention is also lost. Once Alistair had realized the purviewers were destroyed and there was so little found of Rotham's remains, his suspicions had grown.

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He'd already begun looking into the "accident" and had just hired an investigator to handle the legwork when Rotham had accosted him from behind and coshed him on the head. The door to the makeshift laboratory swung open, and his heart stuttered as Charlotte stepped in, resplendent in a stunning red gown. Her sharp gray gaze flickered around the room until it landed on him. "Alistair." She breathed only the one word, but the look on her face said so much more. Her relief was almost palpable and he worked up a smile for her. It wasn't difficult. Bloody hell, she was alive, and that was all that mattered. He'd clung to the belief that Rotham hadn't harmed her, but it hadn't made the hours pass any quicker. He'd needed to see her in the flesh, and now that he had, everything was right with the world. Aside from the pesky manacles and the gun pointed at them…. "If the two of you are finished making eyes at one another, you might want to pay mind to the man with the gun," Rotham groused. He sounded like a petulant three-year-old, but Alistair reminded himself that such a person would be even more dangerous than a proper man wielding a weapon. He tore his gaze from Charlotte and reluctantly focused on their captor. "Very good. Now, Charlotte, you will have free reign of the laboratory tonight and every night. At dawn, I will chain you and release Sinclair to do his part. That should keep you both in line, because if one of you attempts to escape while you are unrestrained, the other will be left behind to face my wrath alone. At the end of two days, I expect the purviewers to function as they're meant to. Then, you will be free to go. It's quite simple, really," he said with a casual shrug and a flash of perfectly straight white teeth. Alistair vowed to knock them out the moment he had the chance. "It would assist in our task if we knew how they were damaged," Charlotte said. "They worked perfectly for a few weeks. I'd made my way through all the gaming hells in France. Cards, games of chance, horse races, I wagered on them all, and won. Small stakes, you understand, to keep from being noticed. I was on my way to creating a whole new life there. Almost had enough to send for Emily to join me. Then one evening I was peeking through the purviewers right before a bout of boxing, and someone walked by. In my rush to take off the goggles before they were seen, I dropped them on the cobbles." He curled his lip in disgust as he tossed the brass on the worktable. "They haven't worked since. I've lost every sou I won and then some. Tried to read your stupid notebook to fix them. A load of gibberish, that." "The goggles aren't meant for rigorous use. Besides, if we fix them, what's to stop you from resorting to this should they break again? I refuse to live my life in fear, John. What guarantee do we have that this will be at an end in forty-eight hours?" Charlotte crossed her arms over her breasts—plumping them up against the scooped neckline of her dress—and eyed their nemesis pointedly. "You're not in a position to demand guarantees. But, I will only require the purviewers for one more use. I've worked out a plan that will make me rich as Croesus. You have my word, fix them this once and I shan't trouble you again." He started toward the door. "I will be back early to release Sinclair and secure you for the day. Use your time wisely. Two days," he sang as he exited. Charlotte called after him, "Just so you are aware, milord, the wedding is off!"

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Alistair shook his head in amazement as the door slammed behind Rotham. Even in the face of a crisis, Charlotte Phillips's dry wit did not fail her. He loved that, and everything else, about her. Alistair gave her a proper grin, then looked closer at her pale face. She was not quite as unaffected as she seemed. "Are you all right?" She nodded and attempted a weak smile. "Yes. A little shaken, is all. It's not every day one's intended comes back from the dead, kidnaps your colleague and threatens to murder you, but I'm managing. You?" Colleague. That stung, but he probably deserved it. He'd had the chance to be so much more to Charlotte but he'd turned her away. Now it was too late. "Alistair?" She pinned him with her too-perceptive gaze as she picked her way across the cluttered room, muttering a curse as she stumbled. "I asked how you were faring." "Same as you, taken aback, I suppose," he said with a shrug. "To tell the truth, I feel rather a ninny for trusting him in the first place." Her cheeks flushed and she looked away. John Rotham had been a bit of an unknown from the start, and while Charlotte had trusted him, Alistair had not. The second son to Charles, the late Duke of Rotham, John had spent most of his time in France up until his brother's death the year before. He'd returned to London to claim his title, but there had been rumblings of his poor judgment with money early on. His sudden and relentless interest in Charlotte had been a surprise—and very suspicious to Alistair—but she had taken his courtship as sincere. John had suited her purposes; more than anything, Charlotte wanted a child, and at eight and twenty, time was growing short. She'd lived in America for almost a decade, leading many of the bachelors in London to question her morals. Her willful nature and sharp wit had scared off the rest despite her wealth. Weak-minded pratts, all of them. He would have done almost anything to have Charlotte as his wife, but marrying him could have cost her her most precious of dreams. And that, he would not do. He bit back a sigh and tried to reassure her. "He was a fine actor. It wasn't your fault." She met his gaze full-on then and gave a weary shake of her head. "You are a true gentleman for saying so, Alistair, but it was my fault entirely. Better that I accept it and learn from my mistakes than repeat them." He pretended to consider that, and gave a solemn nod. "Well then, if you insist, it was rather silly of you. What in the blazes were you thinking?" She laughed, and the sound warmed him. She had the most inappropriate laugh. A bawdy, throaty chuckle that vibrated in her throat long before it spilled from her lips. It called forth visions of silky skin and dueling tongues, of curvy hips and creamy thighs. Today, though, the sound was soothing, a balm to his soul. When he'd awakened, chained in the lab, he'd been terrified. Until she'd walked through the door, he hadn't been certain if she was alive or dead. The thought of John killing her skewered his guts like a lance, but Alistair willed the nightmare away. She was here now, and very much alive. Now they just had to keep it that way.

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Chapter Three Charlotte pressed her hands to her sides, quelling the urge to straighten Alistair's tousled black hair. She was just so damned glad he was all right. His warm hazel eyes looked tired and his clothes were a wrinkled mess, but other than that he appeared none the worse for wear. She swallowed a sigh of relief. "Any ideas on how we might get out of this alive?" she asked. Alistair's frank gaze collided with hers and he shook his head grimly. "I've been working on it but nothing foolproof yet. You?" Neither bothered pretending that Rotham was going to just let them go. They knew far too much, maybe even enough to see him hanged. No, he planned to string them along with the promise of freedom, but the moment they handed him the repaired purviewers, they were as good as dead. "I'm still trying to digest this whole thing, myself. Have you tested the chains?" He grimaced. "Probably more than I should have." She moved behind him and bent to look at his bound wrists that were wrapped around a wooden post. "Oh, Alistair. You're a bloody mess." She took his hands gently in hers and examined them closer. "I'll see what we have here to treat them and then wrap them in cloth. Don't move." He let out a crack of laughter. "Where would I go?" Removing her evening gloves, she scanned the lab. After some poking around she found some carbolic acid and a hand towel in the mix, which she tore in half. Locating a pitcher of water, she doused a piece of the cloth. She dampened the other piece with the chemical. "This should do. Once we get you cleaned up, I'll work on the lock. Maybe devise a corroding agent? There are some tools we might use as a pick, as well." "Fine idea." He let out a hiss as she applied the damp cloth to his torn skin. "Sorry about that. What about the head wound?" "No blood, just a lump, I think." She wiped away as much blood as she could from his wrists and made quick work of cushioning the manacles with a bit of the antiseptic cloth and stepped away, admiring her efforts. "There. I'm going to take stock of what we have in the lab. I suggest we spend half our time working on an escape, and the other half on the goggles. John will be checking on our progress, and I don't want to give him an excuse to shoot us both dead any sooner than he plans to. Besides, if by the time we fix them we still can't figure a way to get out, at least we'll have them as a bargaining chip of sorts." "Agreed." She turned to get to work, and the hem of her gown caught on a pile of debris. "Bother. This dress is going to be a hazard in such a tight space, and there is hardly enough room for my bustle. Besides, being 793

trussed up for a few hours at a ball is one thing, being trussed up for two days is another kettle of fish. I hope you don't mind?" She deftly began unhooking the numerous clasps on the back of her dress but froze when she caught the expression on Alistair's face. His jaw tightened, his warm hazel eyes going hot and bright, to a poison green. His gaze trailed a molasses path from her face down the length of her neck and lingered on her breasts before he looked away. Charlotte's stomach dropped, need pooling low in her belly. But surely she must have been mistaken. Had Alistair ever desired her? He knew all he had to do was ask and she'd be his. She'd made it very clear more than a year before how she felt about him. And he had rejected her. Her cheeks burned at the memory. "Are you certain that is a sound idea? What if Rotham takes your state of undress as an invitation?" His voice sounded as if he'd swallowed something sharp. Charlotte considered his reaction. What had started out as a mere practicality had suddenly become ripe with possibilities. There had been many times over the past several years of their friendship when Alistair had stared at her in a way that warmed her insides, or when he'd stiffened when she'd brushed by. But after she'd offered herself to him so plainly and he'd insisted that they could never be more than friends and colleagues, she'd put it off to imagination…wishful thinking. But if they truly had only two days to live, she wouldn't let the time pass without making certain he wasn't lying to her—or himself—when he'd said he only cared for her as a friend. "There are many layers beneath this dress. Surely Rotham will not be driven to madness by the sight of me in a petticoat, Alistair." She kept her tone light, but her fingers trembled as she began to work on the tiny hooks again. "You don't have a maid," he continued, his words coming more quickly now. "And I don't have a hand to help. Perhaps when Rotham returns you can ask for more suitable attire. For now, just leave—" She'd gotten only a third of the way through the hooks, but it was enough to cause the front of her dress to fall forward, revealing her petticoat with its fitted bodice and even lower neckline. Alistair sucked in a breath and his protests abruptly ceased. She dared a glance in his direction, but his eyes were locked on her breasts and the bright white thatch of cloth barely restraining them. She'd planned to don her shawl again once she'd gotten out of the dress, for modesty's sake, but that intention evaporated under the heat of his gaze. His pupils were so dilated that his gold-flecked eyes appeared almost entirely black. The pulse in his neck throbbed and his nostrils flared. He looked positively wicked. She'd dreamed of the day he would view her like this. Her fingers grew more sure as she stretched to reach the middle hooks. His breathing grew harsh. Her heart pounded as the truth settled deep in her soul. Alistair wanted her. In spite of his earlier words, he wanted her badly, and she wasn't going to leave this room until he admitted it, Rotham be damned.

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Chapter Four With only half a day remaining, Alistair realized he wasn't going to survive this. He knew it with grim certainty. If Rotham didn't kill him, then Charlotte would. Frankly, he was surprised he hadn't succumbed already. As he stared down at the delicate convex lens before him, all he could see was creamy white skin, full raspberry lips and a tumble of dark curls that had long ago escaped their confines. Surely if he was to finish these damned goggles he'd need an ounce of blood in his brain. Instead, it had all traveled south, and he'd been as useless as an addled boy since. "How are they looking?" Charlotte called to him from the corner. Rotham had returned that morning to bring them food, take them to the privy and then force them to trade places. Charlotte had been manacled ever since. Reluctantly, he faced her. Her arms were behind her back, thrusting her glorious breasts forward, and he swallowed hard to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Not yet. Close, though. I think if I shave a little more off the front, we'll be there. Then you can finish calibrating the lever." She nodded thoughtfully. "Good, that's very good. We should have just enough time." He turned back to his work and she called to him again. "Alistair? Would you bring me a drink of water?" He swallowed a groan. Just when he started to get a grip on his emotions she needed him for something. And all of those things seemed to require his closeness. Adjusting the position of her wrists, moving her hair from her face, straightening her skirts. The day before when she was free, she'd even removed her corset. Now every time he looked at her, he had to will himself not to let his eyes drift to her torso, where her dusky nipples peaked against her petticoat. It was almost as if she was trying to torture him…almost as if— His thoughts came to a screeching halt as the pieces finally fell into place. That little minx. She was trying to seduce him. He'd wanted her for so long that the constant, grinding need had become standard. It had taken him all day to recognize that maybe it wasn't just his natural reaction to her. She was actually instigating it. His heart thumped against his ribs as he tried to piece it all together. Surely, he'd lost his chance when she'd asked for his hand last year and he had denied her? He'd been relegated to the role of "colleague" for God's sake. But it seemed that, despite having found a quick understudy for her affections, she hadn't completely given up on him. If nearly losing Charlotte twice—both times to Rotham, in one manner or another—had taught him anything, it was that he didn't want to face another day without her. Now to see if his suspicions were correct. He bit back a grin and picked up the jug of water. "Coming right up." He strolled over to the stool and poured some water into the cup on the floor beside her. She smiled her thanks and tipped her head to drink as he put the cup to her lips. "Sorry," he mumbled as he angled the 795

cup, causing water to course down her chin in a river, soaking the front of her petticoat. "Well, look at you now. I've gotten you all wet. Let me…" He stripped off his shirt in a few quick motions. Her eyes went wide and her mouth trembled as she stared at his chest. It took all he had to pretend he didn't notice her gaze as he bent and began to wipe the water away with his shirt. First her chin, then down the long line of her white neck, then lower. She gasped as his fingertips brushed the swell of her bare bosom. He locked eyes with her and all thoughts of teasing her vanished. He let the shirt fall to the floor and leaned close enough to feel the wash of her breath against his lips. Footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs and he jerked back. Alistair let out a string of curses as he slid on his shirt and began to fasten the buttons. "He's early. Must be getting anxious." Just as he finished righting his clothes and returned to the worktable, Rotham walked in carrying a tray with food and his ever-present derringer. "How goes it?" "Almost complete," Charlotte said, her voice still husky. It sent a bolt of lust straight to Alistair's groin and he shifted uncomfortably. Rotham didn't seem to notice. He merely grunted in satisfaction. "Good. Eat something. I'll be back in six hours, then. I believe I may have been recognized this morning and I need to leave as soon as possible." He set the tray of food down with a clatter. "The purviewers had better be ready upon my return. I will accept no excuses." He kept the pistol trained on Charlotte as he unchained her. Despite his fury, Alistair docilely took her place. He briefly considered making a move now, if only to get Rotham to take the gun out of her face, but took a steadying breath. They had a plan and six hours to implement it. Soon, they would be free and this would all be a memory. Rotham took his leave and closed the door behind him. The silence was thick as Charlotte pinned him with her gaze. "Are you hungry?" she asked. His eyes drifted unconsciously to the still-damp cloth covering her breasts and he nodded. "Famished." She carried the tray over, hips swaying as she moved. She knelt before him and he squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. How many times had he imagined her thusly? Did the witch even know what she was about? As he met her heavy-lidded gaze once again, he realized that she did. She plucked a morsel of chicken from the plate and held it out to him. He snatched it with his teeth, but her fingers lingered, brushing his mouth in a soft caress. He swallowed, his eyes never leaving hers. "Do you still want me then, love? Is that what this is?"

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Chapter Five She tried desperately to focus on his words, but his firm, luscious mouth was so very close. "Y-yes," she whispered. He gave her a pained smile. "I thought you'd given up on me. Your broken heart mended so quickly. You moved on to Rotham a month later." There was no accusation, no censure in his tone, just genuine confusion. She shrugged and tried to explain that which made no sense to her now. "Then I'm a better actress than I gave myself credit for. I never stopped loving you. And with Rotham, at first I figured, why not? I'd already found my one true love and he wouldn't have me. Why waste time searching for something I knew I'd never find again? Rotham seemed as nice a fellow as the next. I'd have a chance for the child I'd always wanted, and you would still be in my life, in a fashion. There were worse things I could imagine than that." She shook her head slowly. "But I couldn't go through with it. Right before the fire, I was going to break it off with him. That's why I harbored so much guilt after the fire. The investigator ruled that the accident was my fault, but also, I was going to tell him we couldn't marry." She looked away, embarrassed by the tears glossing her eyes. "Ah, damn it, Charlotte. I didn't refuse you because I didn't love you." Alistair's voice was a whisper and she had to strain to hear him. "I refused you because I couldn't bear the thought of denying you your dreams." He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "I've told you, I was married before, almost a decade ago when I lived in France. Annabelle died from a fever in our fourth year of marriage." She hadn't even processed his admission of love when her heart tripped at the pain in his voice. Somehow she knew what was coming, even before he spoke the words. "What I never told you was that we wanted a family as badly as you do now. For three years before her death, we tried to conceive. I don't know if she was barren or if I was to blame, but by the time she fell ill, we barely spoke anymore. I was so weighed down by guilt, and she was so bitter and angry. Like a brittle shell of a woman, one blow away from cracking. I couldn't bear the thought of doing that to you. Of waking up one morning to find you broken that way because of me." Charlotte's eyes burned with unshed tears as she tried to speak through the lump wedged in her throat. "Alistair, I—" He held up a hand and pressed on. "But when I thought you had been taken from me…that there was a chance that Rotham had hurt you, I nearly lost my mind. It was only the hope that you were alive that kept me from madness. What I know now is that what we have together can overcome anything. If we cannot have children of our own, then London has more than its share of children in need of love. We'll find them together. I want to be with you for as long as you'll have me." Her blood sang with joy. "I will have you forever, my love. That's all I would ever want and more." He met her gaze with a fierce one of his own. "I still envision a little girl with your smile, and your sharp mind. A boy with your adventurous spirit and your bravery. If it doesn't happen, so be it, but I want to try." His face held a calm resolve and her already full heart felt like a balloon about to burst.

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"The trying will be the best part! Yes, yes to all of that." She bent low and pressed a kiss to his mouth. He strained forward, but she pulled away. "You are going to injure your wrists again. If we want to get out of here, we've got to get moving. Trust me when I say this is the last time I shall ever refuse you, my love." He sucked in a breath and nodded. "You're right. Get the copper nitrate and mix the compound." *** Five hours later, she returned to Alistair's side. She'd done it, with barely a moment to spare. The goggles were complete. "One more kiss. Just in case something goes wrong." She leaned down and kissed him for all she was worth. As she pulled away, footsteps sounded in the hall. She stepped back and strode to the closest worktable, scooping up the goggles. There was no time for a test, but any fears she'd had about the upcoming showdown had subsided. Now that she had happiness just an inch from her hand, nothing was going to stop her from grabbing it. Especially not John Rotham. If their plan didn't work, they'd find another way. "Ready?" she asked Alistair. "More than." He leveled her a lethal smile and the door cracked open. Rotham strode in, gun first, as usual. His shifty eyes flickered around the room until he spotted them both. "Well?" he asked, eyeing the purviewers in her hand. "They're finished." "Excellent! I'll need to test them, of course." "Of course." She nodded and handed him the goggles. She sucked in a breath as he lifted them to his face then paused. His icy eyes narrowed and he tipped his head. "Why don't you try them first, while I watch? Wouldn't do to flip the lever and have needles shot into my eyes or some such, would it?" She willed her lips into the shape of a smile and held out a hand. "Certainly not." She slid the purviewers on and adjusted the lenses before depressing the lever. There was a soft whirring, and suddenly, her perception wavered. She could still see Rotham in the background, but the foreground had become a ghostlike image of the same space, five minutes into the future. Her heart pounded at the image before her eyes but she schooled her features and gave him a wan smile. "See? No needle shooting." Chilly fingers brushed her cheek as he yanked them unceremoniously off her head. "All right then, my turn." He kept the gun trained on her as he pressed them to his face, forgoing the leather strap. With a flick of his thumb, he activated them. The whirring began and he murmured his approval. Suddenly, the color drained from his face.

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"No!" he cried and wheeled around, letting the goggles crash to the floor. Alistair had slunk up behind him and was almost upon him. Rotham let out a shout as he raised the pistol to shoot. Charlotte kicked the back of his knee with a booted foot and he stumbled. The gun discharged, but the shot went wild. Just as he righted himself, Alistair dropped the stool he'd been holding and let loose a right hook that landed on Rotham's chin with a resounding crack. The bastard dropped like a stone, out cold. Just the way he saw himself in the purviewers, she thought with perverse satisfaction. Charlotte bent and pulled the gun from his slack fingers and pointed it at him as Alistair positioned him on his stomach. A manacle still encircled each of Alistair's wrists but only a bit of corroded chain hung from each, jangling as he moved. "It was a sound idea. The nitric acid did a magnificent job on those chains," she observed with satisfaction. Alistair nodded and pulled the twine from his pocket and made quick work of tying Rotham up before turning to her with a grin. "We did it." "I was so afraid the floorboards would creak, or you'd sneeze or something," she said, a giggle bubbling in her throat. The emotional stew of the past couple of days finally boiled over and she began to laugh hysterically. Alistair chuckled and pulled her close. "There there now, don't fall apart now, love. We've got a lot of making up to do and I'll have you in your right mind when we start." She choked back another laugh and took a calming breath. "Let's leave this place, Alistair. We'll send a runner for the constable and be sure Rotham's locked away for a very long time." "And then?" She pressed a soft kiss to his jaw and whispered, "And then we skulk around carrying on a torrid affair until we can marry." He captured her chin in his hand and met her gaze with shining eyes. "You asked me once, bold as brass. Ever the fool, I turned you down. I shall ask you, now. Charlotte Phillips, love of my life, will you marry me?" She tucked her head into the curve of his neck. "I will," she sighed. "I will."

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Donnelly's Promise By Cheryl St.John Vaughn Donnelly's work as a builder has taken him to many different villages over the years, and he's never regretted having to say goodbye to anyone in them. Until he promises to help Darcy Keegan rescue an orphaned boy from prison and he realizes that with her, he's found the one person he never wants to leave. But Darcy is not planning on staying in Castleville, either. She wants to start a new life far away from the small town—and far away from her father, who makes her feel more like a servant than a person. Only, the more time she spends with Vaughn, the more she dreams of something else entirely…a family, a home, a husband—Vaughn. But Vaughn's nomadic lifestyle isn't going to change. How can he stop Darcy from leaving when he's got nothing to offer her?

Chapter One Castleville, Ireland, 1850 Atop his scaffolding, Vaughn Donnelly set a brick in place and stood to arch his sore back. He removed his cap and swiped a hand across his perspiring forehead. This spring day he was thankful for the generous warmth of the sun and the scent of heather from the nearby hillside—and even more thankful for the trade his father had taught him. While he had work, most of the prisoners in the yard below were serving time for stealing food. From his vantage point, he observed the prisoners below, the men and women divided by a rock wall. The numbers were fairly equal, and all were dressed in coarse blue-and-white-striped prison uniforms. Adults weren't the only residents. Children had been sentenced to hard labor for their supposed crimes, as well. His work provided too many sickening glimpses into their senseless punishment and abuse. He'd once seen a child die at the hands of a heartless guard, and the sad regret that he'd been unable to prevent it remained with him to this day. Conditions were marginally better in Castleville, and he suspected he knew the person responsible for giving Castle Carraig a heart. Vaughn knelt and buttered a brick with mortar, keeping a watchful eye on the door that led from the kitchens. A young woman appeared, as he'd known she would, not dressed in prison garb, but in a pale blue dress and a white apron. Under her white cap, a long, strawberry-blond braid hung down her back. He smiled to himself. Darcy Keegan. She'd been two years behind him in school, and they'd attended the same church. Her father was the chief warden of Castle Carraig Penitentiary. Just as she carried a lunch basket toward the tables set end-to-end near the building, he spotted a young boy leading a donkey from the far end of the yard toward the female weavers. Heavily burdened with bundles of brown coir used to make rope and mats, the obstinate animal balked and sat on its hind legs. Obviously frustrated, the lad grabbed the donkey's lead and tugged for all he was worth. The donkey shook its head and sent the boy tumbling sideways. He landed in a heap right where Darcy had been about to step. She fell over him, her petticoats flashing white eyelet in the noonday sun. Sandwiches spilled from the basket onto the dirt.

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Vaughn stifled a chuckle at the sight of Darcy hurriedly adjusting her skirts and picking herself up. Obviously, the only injury was to her dignity. At that point one of the guards insinuated himself into the situation, and Vaughn went on alert. "Ye're a clumsy eejit!" the tall man shouted at the lad, then grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up. "Made a right hames of it, ye 'ave. Thick as a ditch, ye are. Just look how much food ye've wasted with yer shenanigans." He cuffed the lad, and instinctively the boy covered his head, his elbows pointing at the sky. Vaughn dropped his tools and shot toward the ladder side of the scaffold. Experience had taught him just how harsh the boy's treatment could get, and he would not stand by if he could spare the lad a beating— or worse. Darcy reached for the guard's arm just as the man drew back for another swing. The forward momentum threw her off balance and she stumbled. Vaughn was only halfway down the scaffold, but he jumped the rest of the way and hit the ground running. *** Darcy Keegan wasn't keen on landing in the dirt for the second time this day. She caught her balance and turned back to have a go at the guard who'd lit into the small laddie. Mack Boyle was half again her size, but the boy was pathetically skinny and obviously terrified, and she wasn't going to stand by and see him abused. Before she could say anything, footsteps pounded behind her. "Seems there's a bit of a misunderstandin'," came a familiar voice. Vaughn Donnelly cast a foreboding shadow over the red-faced guard. A warm sense of relief flooded Darcy. Vaughn and his father were building yet another wing onto the prison, and his broad-shouldered frame and natural smile had been a regular sight at Castle Carraig for the past several weeks. Boyle swiveled his attention. "Ain't none of your doin', Donnelly.The lad deserves a lesson, 'e does." "Saw the whole thing happen, I did," Vaughn told him."'Twas an accident, pure and simple. The lad meant Miss Keegan no harm. If anyone deserves a tongue lashin', it's this cantankerous beast here." "An irritable brute, 'at one is," Boyle agreed, backing down now that he'd been confronted. Darcy picked up her lunch basket. "I can feed the dirty sandwiches to the pigs, and the rest are still fine." "I be real sorry 'bout those sandwiches," the lad spoke up."'Tis a shame to waste, that's what me mother always said, God rest her. I don't mind eatin' a couple with a little dust on 'em." "You'll not be eatin' dirty food," she told him. "I'll make more. What's your name, laddie?" "Rory Gilchrist, miss." Boyle cut in. "That be enough lollygaggin', Gilchrist." Boyle gestured to the coir the donkey had dumped on the ground. "Get to pickin' this up if you hope t' eat dinner." "Yessir." 801

Darcy studied the child. Bits of fiber stuck to the lad's striped clothing, and he looked scrawny enough to blow over in a hearty gale, but he bent to his task. Darcy glanced at Vaughn, gauging his reaction. Vaughn set to work, too, scooping an armful of the fibrous material that had burst from the bale. "A cart might serve ye better than the beast, lad. Show me where to stack this." Assured that Vaughn would take care of the boy, Darcy returned to her job. She carried the basket inside and made more sandwiches. After placing the food on the long tables, she carried out a bushel basket of apples and fresh water. She rang the bell outside the kitchen door, and women stopped their tasks to gather for the meal. These were not dangerous criminals. Most of them had been imprisoned for stealing or sent here from the workhouses for the mere crime of being poor. Or many were like Rory, in prison because he was unfortunate enough to have no one who cared about him…except a kind-hearted mason. As the women sat to eat, Darcy picked up two wrapped sandwiches and glanced toward the scaffolding, to which Vaughn had returned. Her stomach quivered with nervousness, but she headed toward him.

Chapter Two "I've brought a sandwich for you, Mr. Donnelly." With surprising agility, Vaughn climbed down and jumped the last several feet to stand before her. He removed his slouch cap and stuffed it into his back pocket. "'Tis a generous kindness you've provided. Thank you." She handed him his lunch. On the other side of the wall, the bell rang for the men's dinner. He unwrapped the bread and paused. His dark hair had a decidedly reddish cast in the sunlight. "Thank You, Lord, for providing nourishment. Bless the hands that prepared this food. I am Your grateful servant." He glanced at her. "I'm happy to share." "Thank you, but I have a meal waiting for me. I just wanted to thank you for intervening on Rory's behalf." "The real crime is holdin' children in these places. What could the boy 'ave done to deserve such a harsh punishment?" "I heard he ran from the Bristol workhouse." She glanced at the rock walls. "I can understand why he ran. Who wouldn't want to leave this depressing place and not look back?" "Many of our countrymen go to the workhouse simply for meals and a bed," he said. "For them this prison is far better than starvin' to death." "Aye," she replied. "I am thankful for a home and food." She studied him a moment. "This is the first you've been back to Castleville in several years." "I was thankful for the opportunity. This job lets Da enjoy the comfort of our own cottage. The travel and harsh conditions are gettin' more difficult for him. We go where there's work, and sadly the only work is adding wings to overcrowded prisons."

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"'Tis not the country of our youth." She hadn't meant to sound wistful. Vaughn's expression remained stoic, but he swallowed hard and looked at the sandwich he held. "Seems there's somethin' we should do." "About the plight of our country?" He fixed his blue gaze on her. "Not the entire country, lass. Not much we can do about that. But we may't make a difference for one person at a time." He meant a small defenseless person like Rory Gilchrist. She gave Vaughn a somber nod. The scrawny lad had touched her heart, too. It was frightening to feel all alone in this world. She had to do something for him. "I can't say what good it will do, but I'll speak with my father." *** "You needn't concern yourself with prisoners, Darcy. Your attentions should be focused on your job." "I never shirk my tasks, Father. Please, I simply want to know more about the Gilchrist lad." Ambros Keegan searched a drawer in his tall wooden file cabinet and pulled out a few papers. "Ran the whole way from the Bristol workhouse naked, he did. He was arrested stealing trousers and a shirt from a wash house in the village." Darcy tilted her head in thought. "Seems he's a clever lad. Prisoners are charged with stealing the clothes they're wearing if they leave." Her father ignored her remark. She pushed on. "He left the clothing behind so as not to break the law. That's commendable." "Leave it to you to reach that conclusion." "But why was he at the workhouse in the first place?" "That's not our concern." "You treat them all as though they're hardened criminals. He only needed clothing. There must be something we can do about this one boy." Ambros returned the folder and closed the drawer with a loud click before going back to his desk. "It's not your place to question the laws, Darcy. Rulings are in place for a purpose. We have decent jobs here. We have a home. If you must look the other way, then do so. This is our livelihood." His expression told her there would be no further discussion on the subject. Stiffly, she turned and marched from the room, wishing it was this village she was fleeing and not merely her father's office.

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The only difference between herself and the prisoners was that she went somewhere else to sleep at night. But even at home she cooked and cleaned and did her father's bidding. But not for much longer. She'd been saving for two years. She almost had enough funds stashed away to leave Castleville and start a new life in a place where hard work earned appreciation—if there was such a place. She lived for that day. Thinking of Vaughn's compassion for Rory in contrast to her father's, she pulled the office door closed and went in search of the boy. She found him pouring water into a trough. "Hello, Rory." He pulled off his blue-and-white cap and straightened. "Do you think we could speak for a moment?" "Long as I keep workin'. Mr. Boyle don't take kindly to jabberin' on the job." He jammed his hat on and untethered the donkey. Darcy followed him as he tied the animal in another spot. "Do you mind telling me how you came to be at the workhouse?" He shrugged a bony shoulder. "Me da died and the landlord put us out from our cottage. Mother couldn't find work, so we went to the workhouse for food and beds." He watched the donkey drink. "Then Mother took sick…and she died, she did. They buried her in a grave with no stone a'tall. I marked it meself when no one was lookin'. A neat piece of cunning, it was." Her heart went out to him. "I'm sorry about your mother, Rory. I…I lost my mother, too." He nodded thoughtfully. "I heard landlords was hirin' footmen, so I stole clothes. I got caught, though, so here I be." Darcy glanced up and found Vaughn atop the scaffolding in the sun. Their brief encounter had prompted her to act on Rory's situation, but to no avail. Oddly, she felt as though her failure so far was letting down both the boy and the kind-hearted man. She wouldn't rest until she'd done all she could.

Chapter Three Darcy waited until her father fell soundly asleep, then set down her mending and crept from the cottage, pulling a shawl around her shoulders. She prayed as she made her way along the dark path beside low stone walls and across a moss-covered footbridge. She hadn't been able to rest easy since she'd met the Gilchrist boy at Castle Carraig. "You've placed this lad on my heart, Lord, so show me what I must do." An inviting light shone from the cottage where the Donnellys had lived for many years, and smoke curled from the chimney. Her heart beat rapidly, but she approached the door and knocked. It opened almost immediately. "Miss Keegan?" Wearing a deep blue sweater, Vaughn collected his manners and took a step back. "Welcome." 804

"I don't wish to disturb your father." "He's sleepin'. I'll join you outside." He stepped out. "The bonny Darcy Keegan arriving on my doorstep…'tis a thought that never entered my head." Heat rose in her cheeks. They stood near a low fence bordering a pasture. The sound of a lamb bleating reached her. "I spoke to my father about Rory. He won't hear of leniency." She added what she'd learned from Rory about his circumstances. "I plan to seek out the Lord Lieutenant and ask what more can be done. I have little opportunity to leave my work during the day, but my father will be traveling to County Galway on Monday. He'll stay two days." "So you'll go then?" "Aye." He reached for her hand, surprising her. "You're a kind lass, Darcy Keegan. I've always known it. How has it happened no man has asked you to marry him?" Darcy's cheeks warmed again. "My father has discouraged offers." She wanted to tell Vaughn she believed Ambros sent away all suitors because he didn't want to lose his cook and housekeeper, but she held her tongue. She didn't want pity. "Perhaps…you'll join us for supper while he's gone." Surprised and gladdened by his offer, she nodded. "Aye. I'll come." He released her hand and she missed its warmth. "How long has it been since you stood on the cliffs at night?" "Not since I was a girl." "Well, then, we should change that." He led her through tall grass and fragrant heather up the steep hillside to a spot where the sound of the ocean crashed below. "Careful now. Watch your step." She tasted salt air and lifted her face to the breeze. "I had big dreams when I stood here as a lass." "What did you dream of, Darcy?" "Not the life I have, to be sure." Embarrassed now at her admission, she turned aside. "I have to go before my father misses me." He extended a palm. "Take my hand, lass. Tell me." The invitation was one she couldn't resist. Being with Vaughn was like finding a place to belong. He spoke to her and listened to her replies as though she was someone special—someone important. His attention gave her a heady new feeling. Even if their friendship caused trouble, time with him was worth it.

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Chapter Four Friendly neighbors greeted one another in the tiny stone church, but Darcy's father ignored them and doggedly led her forward. Darcy nodded to Mrs. Mulcreath, who lived nearby and sold her cream and butter, then followed Ambros to a bench. Finding a spot behind them, two of the three Murphy sisters greeted her. "Pleased to see you this mornin'," Maeve, the youngest, said. "You look lovely in your green brat," Jack Murphy's middle daughter told her, referring to her shawl. Bridget herself wore a woolen brat that had been mended many times over. "How is your da?" Darcy inquired. "Not well at all," Maeve replied. "Nora is with him this morning." So many of their neighbors had already died of influenza and cholera, just hearing of the sicknesses was frightening. "I'll be praying for him, I will," Darcy assured them. The sisters held hands and gave her tearful thanks. Darcy turned forward as Reverend Larkin opened his hymn book and led the first verse of a familiar song. She sang along, but her attention veered to the source of an unfamiliar baritone on the other side of the room. Vaughn wore a gray sweater, and his dark hair had a reddish cast in the morning light. He stood a head above his father and the other nearby men. The welcome sight arrested her thoughts. Memories of the two of them standing at the cliff the other night, looking out across the dark ocean, consumed her thoughts. She couldn't have told anyone what they'd actually talked about, but she vividly remembered the way he made her feel. Important. Interesting. Hopeful. In a way she never had before. The song ended and she took her seat with the rest of the congregation. Vaughn turned and met her gaze. He gave a barely perceptible nod, and the corner of his mouth inched up. Her father cleared his throat. Startled, she found him glancing between her and Vaughn. He cast her a disapproving frown and indicated with his eyes that she should look forward. Darcy burned to get up and leave. The brief church service was the only time she had away from her work, and even here she was under her father's disapproving gaze. She'd lain awake nights, summoning the courage to pack her belongings and hire a ride away from Castleville, far from the prison and her father. But so far she hadn't been able to do it. Lord, if this is Your will for my life, please help me to be submissive and not want more. But if it's not—if there's more for me—show me how and when to make a change. You know the desires of my heart, Lord. I want to be Your faithful servant, not that of any man. Reverend Larkin ended the service with a prayer, and she realized guiltily she hadn't listened to a word of his sermon. Around them people stood and filed into the aisle.

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"Good mornin', Mr. Keegan, Miss Keegan." Vaughn waited, his hand extended. Concern for her father's reaction increased Darcy's pulse. He'd reproached her for just looking at Vaughn. What would he do if Vaughn mentioned their intimate nighttime conversation on the cliffs?

Chapter Five Darcy's father stiffened, but he shook Vaughn's hand and that of Shad Donnelly, Vaughn's father, when he came to stand behind his son. "'Tis a magnificent mornin', is it not?" Vaughn asked. "We left a fine lamb stew a'bubblin' on our hearth. Would you and your bonny lass care t' join us now?" Surprised by the invitation, Darcy imagined one of them would notice her heart pounding beneath her dress or hear the blood pumping in her ears. Ambros appeared confused. Her father's gruff demeanor and position at the prison didn't garner many invitations. He avoided looking at her when he said, "We have plans." She wanted to shout that nothing sounded better than an afternoon away from the drudgery and boredom. "That old hen can wait another day," she said instead, knowing she would later pay for her boldness with her father's disapproval. "Lamb stew sounds delicious. If you have a supply of flour, I can make biscuits." Her father's brows lowered. He speared her with a glare of displeasure, but he could hardly refuse now. She wanted to laugh. Ambros turned back to Vaughn. "Thank you, Mr. Donnelly. We'd be pleased to share your stew." The walk to the Donnelly cottage was a short one. Darcy felt so light she almost skipped. Vaughn ushered them into his comfortable home. The fire in the stone fireplace had cooled, but Vaughn added fuel. He showed Darcy the ingredients, and she made a batch of biscuits and hung the heavy skillet over the heat. For two bachelors who had been away from the village for quite some time, their small home was surprisingly inviting. Darcy listened as Vaughn's father spoke of his relief at being back in Castleville. "I'm pleased to sit in front of me own fire," he said. "And happy to stay home all day if me bones are achin'." "Ye 'aven't missed a day's work yet." Vaughn's brogue thickened whenever he spoke to Shad. "But I can if I 'ave a mind to." The white-haired man glanced at their guests. "Vaughn is set on takin' over for me, so I can rest on me laurels. He thinks I'm getting feeble in me old age." "You're puttin' words in my mouth and I have plenty of my own," Vaughn told him. "What I said was ye'd be more comfortable in your own bed at night, and would surely enjoy takin' care of a garden." Shad snorted. "Meanin' I'm gettin' feeble." Her father remained silent through the exchange, and she sensed he was uncomfortable with the other men's discussion. She and Ambros never had visitors and were rarely invited out. They never shared friendly conversations like this one. 807

"How long 'ave you been a widower now, Mr. Keegan?" Shad asked. Darcy tensed, waiting for his reply. They never spoke of her mother. "Almost ten years," Ambros replied. Shad nodded. He took a pipe from a wooden case and poked tobacco into the bowl. "My Catherine's been gone nearly as long. 'Tis a difficult life for a woman." "Darcy's mother never had a strong constitution," Ambros declared. "Not like Darcy here." Strong constitution? She might as well be a mule. "'Whoso findeth a good wife findeth a good thing,'" the old man quoted from the book of Proverbs. Darcy excused herself from the conversation and went to set the table. Vaughn got up, as well, and used the long iron hook to remove the pan of golden biscuits from the fire. "Appears your lass is a fine cook," Shad said. "She will make a good wife for the lucky man who marries her." Darcy tucked away Shad's small gift of appreciation. Her father never acknowledged her cooking unless his meal was a few minutes late. What would it be like to have someone praise her efforts—or at the very least thank her for them? It must have been the same for her mother. At the mention of Darcy as a wife, Ambros's gaze traveled from Vaughn to his father and back, as if doubting their intentions. "If it's ready, let's eat. Darcy must serve the prisoners their noon meal." The ocean would dry up before her father gave any man his blessing to marry her.

Chapter Six By the time the noon bell rang on Monday, Vaughn hadn't yet seen Darcy. He observed the women and children weaving rugs, spotted one who was heavy with child and wondered what crime held her there. It wasn't until much later that Darcy walked toward the new construction, carrying a pail and ladle. Vaughn admired the curve of her cheek and the golden highlights glinting from her hair. Sometimes just the sight of her took his breath away. He waved a greeting and climbed down to meet her. "I waited two hours to speak with the Lord Lieutenant," she said. "The law is final. Only a parent may pay a fine and take Rory from Castle Carraig." "And he has no parent alive." For the lad's sake, as well as Darcy's, he'd hoped for a better outcome. She studied the nearly erected wall behind him for several minutes. "You were gone from Castleville a long time." The change of subject puzzled him. "Aye. My trade is in demand." "Perhaps ten years, would you say?" 808

"About that." "You may't have married and had a child in that time." He gave her a quizzical look. "Say, a boy about the age of nine or ten." "But I didn't." "The Lord Lieutenant doesn't know that." Her meaning registered with a start of confusion. She was proposing he say the Gilchrist boy was his own sire. He considered her proposition for a full minute. "Are you suggestin', Miss Keegan, that I lie to the Lord Lieutenant?" She sighed. "That would be wrong, wouldn't it? I mean, even to save the boy from a life of misery, you couldn't do such a thing." "We have different names, Rory and I. The lad looks nothin' like me." She studied her hands, red and chapped. "Shame, it is." "Darcy, the village would know better." "Of course you're right. One lie only leads to another. I guess I was feelin' desperate." She took a deep breath and said almost as though to herself, "Seems we'll both be stayin' at Castle Carraig. I can't go until I'm sure he'll be all right." "Are you planning to leave Castleville?" "Wha— No." She gathered her skirts. "I have work to do." She turned and walked back toward the kitchens with a decided lack of enthusiasm in her step. A short time later he spotted her talking to the Gilchrist lad in the yard. It seemed Darcy understood the boy's hopelessness. Her desperation made him feel helpless, and he didn't like the feeling. Vaughn understood her desire to help Rory. He remembered the child he'd seen beaten to death at another prison. He'd been unable to help then, but if he could make a difference for just this one person, he'd feel he'd accomplished something good. He could rest assured he'd made things right. Everything inside him burned to come up with a solution. Vaughn was going to help Rory if he had to move heaven and earth to do it.

Chapter Seven Vaughn approached the kitchen and rapped on the wood. The door opened. "I'm here to fix the oven," he said to the portly woman guarding the entry. "What's wrong with the oven?" 809

"I got a report about loose bricks," he replied. He peered beyond the woman's shoulder to where Darcy stood at a long wooden table peeling potatoes. She glanced up. The cook frowned. "I didn't report a problem." "This the oven?" he asked, stepping around her. "'Twas me, Mrs. Cullugh. I sent for the mason." Correctly interpreting his ruse to get into the kitchen, Darcy wiped her hands and ushered Vaughn toward the enormous brick wall. "Right here, it is." "'Tis plain enough where the oven is," the other woman muttered, and lumbered to another table where mounds of dough waited. She pounded one energetically. Steam from whatever boiled in a huge pot over the fire made the kitchen uncomfortably warm. Darcy's cheeks were bright pink and tendrils of escaped hair stuck to her neck. Vaughn made a pretense of checking the bricks and mortar. "I made my own visit to the Lord Lieutenant this morning. I thought of a solution you didn't." Her eyes widened. "What's that?" "I've nearly taken over the business from my father, but as of yet I have no sons." Darcy wrinkled her brow in interest and confusion. Two lasses entered the kitchen and gave him curious looks. The older cook instructed them to mind their chores. Vaughn kept his voice low. "A boy may be removed from a workhouse if he is apprenticed to a tradesman." "But Rory is no longer at the workhouse." "I can pay his fine for the theft and have the debt cancelled. He then becomes my responsibility." "So…you're taking him on as your apprentice?" He nodded. "I've made all the arrangements. The papers will be signed tomorrow, and then I can remove him from Castle Carraig." Darcy's blue eyes filled with tears. Impulsively, she touched the sleeve of his sweater, but immediately drew back her hand and glanced toward the other women. "God answered my prayers," she whispered. "Bless you, Vaughn. I can't thank you enough." He felt better about delivering this news than he had about anything in a long time. He had helped save a child from a hard and probably short life. Taking Rory as his apprentice was also a step toward completely taking over the business so his father could remain in Castleville where he was more comfortable. Freeing Rory had meant a lot to Darcy, and he would have done anything to make it happen for her sake. "Your father is still in County Galway, is he not?" 810

She nodded. "Then tonight you must come to supper. We'll celebrate this piece of good news."

Chapter Eight Darcy had never been invited to supper without her father. She went through her trunk and bureau twice, searching for an appropriate dress. In the end, she chose one of the only two dresses she owned that didn't have reinforced cuffs and necklines. She didn't spend what little she squirreled away on clothing. She saved every shilling for the day when she'd need it to travel. She thought about leaving Castleville often. Sometimes Darcy wondered if her father would look for her after she'd gone, or if he'd simply occupy himself with work and hire a housekeeper. She wasn't indispensable. She wouldn't be surprised if he sought a wife to take over her duties. An oval-framed daguerreotype stood atop her bureau, and she paused to pick it up and study her mother's sweet face. Darcy traced her finger over the glass. Poignant memories of her mother's soft voice and gentle touch comforted her. Life had been different when she'd been alive. Her father had been different back then, too. Or so it seemed now. Perhaps without her he'd be forced to hire a housekeeper—or find a new wife. She thought of Vaughn then—would he find someone else? Would he take a wife and be happy? Her plans had been settled before Rory and Vaughn had entered her life. But now departing consumed her daily thoughts. Leaving wouldn't be as simple or as easy as she'd once imagined. Gathering her brat around her shoulders, she exited the cottage and made her way to Vaughn's in the growing darkness. Vaughn met her along the path, and her heart warmed at the sight of him, tall and bare-headed, wearing a familiar smile. "Good evenin' to you, Darcy." He walked her along the path to the cottage and ushered her inside. "I went to the wharf for fresh mussels today. I got kale, too, and made a pot of colcannon." "I had no idea you were a good cook." "I'm not sayin' I'm good at it, but we make do." Shad greeted Darcy and ushered her to a chair. "I could help," she offered. "You're our guest. And it's ready." Vaughn ladled buttery mussels, creamy kale and potatoes into each bowl, then reached for her hand. "Lord, we give Ye thanks for this food. Thank Ye, Lord, we 'ave strong backs and hands able to work. We pray for our neighbors who aren't so fortunate and those who are ailin', especially our friend Jack Murphy, Lord. Give his daughters strength and bless them in Jesus's name." Darcy's fingers tingled where Vaughn had touched them during the brief prayer. "Jack's not been able to work 'is land," Shad said as they ate. "We may't take them fish and milk tomorrow." "I'll go see what needs t' be done around the place," Vaughn agreed. 811

Darcy had never heard her father pray for the welfare of others, and she'd certainly never known him to share anything with the villagers. The Donnellys' generosity touched her. "I'll take them bread," she offered. There was a knock at the door, and Vaughn got up. From the other side of the door, a feminine voice called, "I made you a pie." A pretty dark-haired lass Darcy recognized as a girl from the village offered Vaughn a cloth-covered plate and glanced into the room. Spotting Darcy, her surprise was evident. "Evenin' to ye, Darcy."

Chapter Nine Temorah McGinley was two years younger than Darcy, and the daughter of a tinker. She lived in a house full of boisterous brothers, one who worked in the banker's stable. Vaughn took the pie she offered and stepped back in invitation. "Didn't know ye had a guest," Temorah said with an apologetic nod toward the table. "I'll be on my way and not disturb ye'r meal." "May't as well sit down for tea while you're here," Vaughn invited. She hemmed and hawed, but finally took a seat. Her cheeks were pink when she met Darcy's eyes. "How be your da?" "He's just fine," Darcy replied. "And your family?" "Me mother has a bit of a sniffle, she does, but the lot is hale. How are you and yours, Mr. Donnelly?" "I suppose news will spread soon enough." Vaughn poured tea and set a cup before the girl. "I'll be takin' an apprentice tomorrow, and he'll be comin' to live with Da and me." "Good for you." Temorah sweetened her tea and stirred. "Me da has a shop full of apprentices, 'e does. 'Tis good for the laddies to learn a trade and stay out of mischief." Vaughn dished out apple-blackberry pie, which Darcy discovered was mouth-wateringly seasoned with cloves and nutmeg. "You have a knack for pastry," she said to the girl with an odd twinge in her belly. Did the other young woman drop by often? Did she and Vaughn have some sort of…relationship? Darcy hadn't read anything into his invitation to eat with them, but now she felt awkward and a little foolish. She listened as the others shared village news. Temorah finished her tea. "I'll be on my way. Sorry about the interruption to your evenin', I am." "We'll walk you home," Vaughn said immediately. "Darcy and I. Won't we?" "Certainly." It was a strained walk to the McGinleys' stone cottage. From within, lights blazed and voices rose and fell. Darcy wondered what it would be like to go home to a house filled with activity and conversation. 812

"Good evenin'." With a last lingering look at Vaughn, Temorah dashed inside. "She makes a delicious pie," Darcy said as they walked away. "Aye." "She's a pretty lass." "I spoke to her in the village the other day," he said. "That was the first time I'd seen her in years until tonight." "You must have made quite an impression." "I didn't invite her to the cottage, Darcy." "It's of no mind to me who brings pies to your door." He laughed, and the full-throated sound surprised her. "Whatever is so funny, Mr. Donnelly?" "I think you're jealous." "I've no cause to be jealous. And no right to be. I'm going to be leaving Castleville."

Chapter Ten Vaughn studied Darcy's profile in the moonlight. "Leaving? Is your father takin' a job elsewhere?" "No…I've made plans to travel." "Oh. How soon would you be off on your trip? I…I'll be needing a bit of help with Rory. The boy will be requiring clothes and shoes, though at least I can give him a place to lay his head. He can sleep in Scully's old bed," he said, referring to his married brother. "But I know nothing of outfitting children. Won't you help get him settled?" She'd like to see him settled and happy. "Aye, I'll help." "And then you'll take your trip?" "Then I'll go." The thought of Darcy heading out on her own troubled him, and he wished he had something to offer her. Over the years it had been easy not to form attachments. The demands of his work had prevented him from making a home and keeping a wife, but until now the lack hadn't bothered him much. Things were different now. His growing feelings for Darcy nudged him to make a promise or a commitment, but all he had to offer was the harsh existence his mother had lived. This news of Darcy's desire to travel made it all the more clear she wouldn't want the lonely life he could provide. *** 813

The next day at the prison, Darcy learned of her father's return along with the other kitchen help as the information was relayed among the staff. She was more eager for news from Vaughn. While serving shepherd's pie to the women at noon, she couldn't spot anyone working on the new wing, but Rory still sat at the end of a table with another lad. Momentarily, a tall guard approached and ordered the boy to join him. Rory looked toward Darcy with fear in his eyes. She hurried over. "All will be well, Rory, I promise. Go with the guard, and you'll see soon enough. Don't be afraid." At her reassurance he set down his spoon. After a backward glance and a nod, he was led away. Elation over Rory's opportunity for a better life made her heart beat hard and fast. It was the longest afternoon she'd ever known. Finally, a couple of hours later, she risked removing her apron and making an excuse to Mrs. Cullugh, then dashed out of doors. The wall of the new wing that faced the work yard was completed—a solid brick barricade that prevented knowledge of happenings on the other side. She left the prison through the servants' door, where the guard made a notation in his ledger. On the east side of the grounds she found several men working on the addition. "I'm looking for Mr. Donnelly." "Which Mr. Donnelly did you be lookin' for?" "Vaughn." At the man's direction, she found Vaughn and his brother, Scully, unloading brick from a wagon. Both were red-faced, hair damp from exertion. At her approach, Scully glanced up in surprise. "'Tis a pleasure t' see you, Miss Keegan. What may't we be doin' for ye?" "I've come to see Vaughn, actually." Scully found his hat and knocked it against his leg, then backed away. "I'll be gettin' a drink of water." "What happened?" she asked Vaughn. "Where is Rory?" He gave her a broad smile. "In the shade of that tree. I'll not be workin' 'im too hard until he has some meat on 'is bones." Darcy hurried to where Rory sat, still dressed in his blue-and-white uniform, his back against the tree trunk, leisurely petting a panting collie's fur. "Here you are." He jumped up, beaming. "Did you hear, Miss Keegan? I been released!"

Chapter Eleven "I heard, Rory," Darcy replied with a smile. "What did you make of the news?" "Mr. Donnelly says I'll be working for 'im now. An' livin' at his cottage. This 'ere's the other Mr. Donnelly's dog. Mr. Scully said I can keep an eye on 'im and bring 'im water. Ain't he a fine-looking dog?"

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Darcy petted the friendly collie and scratched behind its ear. "Don't know that I've ever seen a finer dog. What's his name?" "Fergus." Rory studied her. "Mr. Donnelly said you helped get me this job so I don't hafta stay at the penitentiary no more." "I'm afraid all my efforts were for naught until he took you as his apprentice." "She did just as much as I, lad," Vaughn said, coming up behind her. "And she'll be seein' that you're settled, with the clothin' you need, as well." Darcy had been thinking about her promise to help Vaughn and her desire to make sure Rory was happy. How would she find the time to take the child shopping without her father knowing? The idea of doing as she pleased this once had been firmly planted. She would help Rory without her father's approval. What could he do to her? "I'll leave work early today," she told them both. "We'll visit the shops and see what we can find to fit ye." "Will your father have somethin' to say about that?" Vaughn asked. He'd grown suspicious of the man's overbearing nature. "I've no doubt he will. But I'm a grown woman, I am. I've not had an afternoon's leave in years." Two hours before her regular quitting time, she hung her apron and left the kitchen. Locating Rory hauling a bucket of water, she instructed him to wash his face and hands. Vaughn handed her a weighty leather pouch that clinked when she took it. She tested it and looked up at him. "I have coins of my own to spend." "Today use mine," he insisted. She nodded, and she and the lad set off for the village. Rory drew stares in his prison garb, so she was quick to outfit him. She took him to the barber for a haircut and purchased him an ivory comb. "Me mother had one with shells carved on the ends, she did," Rory said, fingering the comb. "But someone at the workhouse stole it." "What was your mother's name?" "Anna. She had hair as black as midnight." "She must've been beautiful." "Aye." They paused for a lumbering cart pulled by a donkey to pass. "Mr. Donnelly thinks you're as pretty as a spring mornin'."

Chapter Twelve Darcy stopped in her tracks. "Vaughn said that?" "Aye. He said you looked as delicate as a field pansy, but were hardy as bilberry."

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Darcy's neck warmed all the way up to her cheeks and she touched her face in discomfiture. Was "hardy" the same as saying she had a "strong constitution," as her father had described her? "Why ever was Vaughn talking so foolishly?" "I started it, sayin' you was kind." "Well, enough foolery. Let's finish our errand, then I'll take you home with me while I prepare a meal to leave for my father." After that chore was done, she gathered a blanket, towel and soap, and they headed for the Donnellys'. She made up the narrow bed before the sound of an approaching team and wagon reached them. Rory ran out to help Vaughn take care of the animals, and she quickly prepared a cottage pie and boiled potatoes. The whole while Rory's words wrapped around her heart: Mr. Donnelly thinks you're as pretty as a spring mornin'. The door opened and her heart leaped unexpectedly. "A pleasure, it is, to come home to a fine meal on the table," Vaughn told her. "Are you stayin' t' eat?" His acknowledgment of her efforts warmed her through and through. She glanced at Shad, who gave her a nod. "I suppose I will." "You changed your dress." Vaughn's eyes sparkled with approval. "This one matches the color of your eyes." Heart fluttering, she glanced down at the matching apron that fit over her dress like a loose vest, with two rows of buttons up the front. "There are a few aprons similar to yours in the bottom of Da's trunk. They belonged to my mother. I remember her wearin' them as she went about her kitchen tasks." "I have all of my mother's handkerchiefs and a box of her hair combs," she said with an understanding nod. "I haven't used the handkerchiefs. For a long time they smelled like the sachet in her drawer. I wear the combs occasionally, and it's comforting to know she used the very same ones in her hair." Vaughn's soft expression told her he cherished similar memories. Their shared sense of loss wove yet another silken bond between them. "Where's her restin' place?" Rory asked. The question reminded Darcy that Rory's loss was more recent. Darcy served the cottage pie and answered, "The churchyard cemetery." "Your mother, too?" the lad asked Vaughn. At the responding nod, Rory said, "Me mother's buried out back of the workhouse." Darcy and Vaughn exchanged an understanding look of compassion. "This tastes mighty fine." Vaughn's father shifted the subject. "How did we fall into such good fortune?" 816

"I was already here to get Rory settled," Darcy replied. Darcy's presence was a pleasure anytime, but tonight Vaughn was struck with how a woman changed everything. Was this how it would be to have a wife? To have Darcy as a wife? His work had taken him to so many places, yet he hadn't met anyone special. No one had held his interest—until now. Lately he'd been spending a lot of time thinking about Darcy. Da had noticed and done his share of good-natured teasing. Vaughn didn't mind. What bothered him more was not knowing what he was going to do about his feelings for a woman who was leaving as soon as Rory was settled. Vaughn gladly shared the dishwashing task with Darcy, then watched her pack her basket. "I'll walk with ye." "I'll come, too!" Rory called. "I'm leavin' you in the washtub," she said, and together Darcy and Vaughn laughed at his disgruntled expression. Vaughn absorbed Darcy's laugh as he would a ray of sunshine. Her smile was worth any cost, the way it lit her lovely features. He couldn't shake this peculiar feeling of tenderness and awe he felt toward her…and he didn't want to.

Chapter Thirteen Vaughn hauled water for Rory's bath and heated it. Darcy preserved Rory's modesty by waiting until he was submerged to wash his hair and scrub his face and ears. "Scrub like that all over," she said, handing him the soap and soft brush. "I'll scrub off me hide," he complained. "Your hide's a lot tougher than a wee brush can strip," she told him and bent to kiss his cheek. Shad thanked her for the meal and Vaughn led her out the door. He carried her basket as they strolled along the outskirts of the village. "You did a fine thing," she said. "Takin' the boy in and making a home for him." "You've done as much as I." "But I hadn't the means to give him a home. There's a crown in heaven with your name on it." "His home will be wherever the work takes us," he told her. "At least now he'll be seeing the outsides of the prisons and not the insides." "'Tis a kind thing you've done." She observed his handsome profile in the moonlight. "You're not the same rowdy boy I remember. You and Scully used to fistfight at the slightest provocation, and I recall once you got chased out of Reverend Flanagan's garden." "Scully and I still go 'round now and then. 'Tis what brothers do."

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"Seems you were sweet on one of the tinkers' daughters before you and your father left." "She married a farmer and raises sheep, don't you know. Has five bairns Da bemoans could've been his grandchildren." "You didn't want to marry her?" "She's a bossy one, she is. Her husband must like to take orders." "You didn't?" "I was young, more interested in makin' my way in the world than pleasin' a woman." He'd missed a few opportunities because of his focus on his job, but he trusted God's leading for his future. "And now?" she asked. He took her hand and gently stopped her progress. They stood facing each other under the darkened sky. "There is one woman I've been hopin' t' please." The moment stretched between them, sweet and silent, stars winking overhead and a lilting breeze fluttering the tails of her shawl against his arm. "I've been thinkin' about kissin' you, Darcy. Can't get the thought out of me head." "Get on with it, then," she said in her bossiest voice, making him laugh. He set the basket on the ground and touched the backs of his fingers to her impossibly soft cheek. "Your skin's as soft as I dreamed, t' be sure." Darcy rose on tiptoes. "Do make this kiss worth the tongue-lashing I'll get when I reach home."

Chapter Fourteen Vaughn touched his lips to Darcy's in a tentative kiss that quickly changed to eager and accepting. He kissed her just the way he'd imagined, and she didn't pull away. He wanted to hold her and feel her heart against his, but he wouldn't risk frightening her or spoiling this moment. Cupping her jaw, he touched her shoulder. Between them, she raised her hand until she found his cheek with cool fingertips. A heart-stopping moment later, she pressed her cheek to his and then lowered her heels to the ground, leaving him aching. "Was it worth a tongue lashin'?" he managed to ask. Her smile assured him before she spoke the word he anticipated. "Aye." "I mean no disrespect, but your father… He's a harsh taskmaster."

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"I know it well. I was so young I can't remember, but I often wonder if my mother felt the same stern disapproval. The way you and your da are with one another, well, it's like nothing I've ever known. He appreciates and speaks highly of you." "He's a kind man. He was a strict teacher and a diligent businessman, but he always carved out time for play. Losing my mother broke his heart, it did. He loved her with all of his being." "My father has never once told me he loved me," Darcy said softly. "I believe he does, but he has no regard for me. A small gesture of appreciation every now and then would have gone a long way." "Would have?" "It's too late now. I plan to leave Castleville. I want a different life from this." Vaughn held both of her hands in his large, firm grasp. He had calluses at the base of his fingers, and the rough difference intrigued her. "Well, I think you're smart…and pretty, besides being a good cook. And I hope you find what you're looking for." Picking up the basket, he took her hand once again and they continued on. Vaughn didn't like the weighty sense of loss he experienced as she entered her cottage. He didn't like the thought of her setting off on her own. But even if he didn't travel for his work, there was nothing he could do that would make a difference. Darcy didn't want to stay in Castleville. *** "Ye were with Mr. Donnelly, weren't ye?" Ambros asked. He was sitting on a chair by the fire. "I was." "He's not a fitting suitor, and I won't have you making a fool of yourself with the likes of 'im." "He's not a suitor. He's a friend." "No doubt he took that ragtag Gilchrist boy home. You'll not be convincing me that you didn't have a hand in that. Next time I'll go straight to their home and bring you out meself." "I don't seek your displeasure, Father, but I am old enough to choose my friends and visit whomever I please." He slammed his hand on the table beside his chair, rattling it so hard a cup fell to the floor. "No daughter of mine will be making a fool of me by carrying on with that man. Stay away from 'im." "Have you forgotten I'm not a child?" she asked. "Other women my age are married with families of their own." "You're fortunate you don't have to sweep some farmer's dirt floor and birth a sickly baby every year. You have a comfortable home and are well provided for." "If I wanted to marry a farmer, Father, I would do so, no matter what you said or did." She put away the basket and took herself to her curtained-off area near the kitchen. The door to her father's room closed. 819

Trembling, she stepped to the cracked cream pitcher that hung on a nail beside her bureau and silently slid the coins onto her bed. Many of their neighbors had sought passage on ships to America, and to be sure she'd thought of it more than once. Tonight only proved that nothing was going to change unless she left. She would learn how much a ticket cost. Even if leaving Vaughn broke her heart.

Chapter Fifteen In the week that followed, Darcy found a few opportunities to slip to the worksite and check on Rory and Vaughn. She stole a few minutes here and there to bake them a loaf of bread or simmer a pot of vegetables and share them. Her father's disapproval was evident in his dark glares and the set of his mouth when he looked at her. She had always felt his stinging disapproval, so this was merely another level. She dealt with it by remembering she'd soon be gone. The tickets to America were costly, she learned, so she wouldn't be able to afford much in the way of supplies to last the voyage. Whenever she thought of a land where everything was unfamiliar, her determination wavered. Soon enough news of Jack Murphy's death reached her, and she tied a few of her precious coins into a handkerchief to give to his daughters at the funeral. She and Rory climbed the hill behind the stone church before the service began. Vaughn and Scully were already there, only their heads visible as they hollowed a spot in the ground for the resting place of their neighbor. Finished, they helped each other out of the hole. Vaughn brushed dirt from his clothing before the sisters and the congregation joined them. Nora, Bridget and Maeve clasped hands in a stair-step row. Nora was tall and Maeve tiny, Bridget between. Reverend Larken started with a prayer. "When we lose someone we love, it seems that time stands still. What moves through us is a silence, a quiet sadness, a longing for one more day, one more word, one more touch." Rory reached for her hand, and Darcy gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. This child understood loss. From where he stood on Rory's other side, Vaughn met her gaze. The reverend's words were exactly how she felt whenever she thought about leaving. It had been easy to plan before, but now there were invisible ties binding her. As harsh as the rest of her life was, her stolen moments with Vaughn made it all bearable. How would she survive without him? Nora moved forward stiffly and tossed a handful of dirt on the casket. Bridget and Maeve followed in turn. Maeve's tear-filled eyes followed Vaughn and his brother as they once again rolled back their sleeves and took up their shovels. Mrs. Donovan offered the sisters her condolences and drew them away from the grave. Darcy joined her neighbors in offering them her sympathy and pressed the handkerchief holding her few coins into Nora's hand.

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Darcy took Rory to the crest of the hill, where they looked over the roaring ocean below until Vaughn and Scully finished their grim task. Shad joined them and they headed back to the village.

Chapter Sixteen "'Twas a nice stone you left at Mr. Murphy's grave," Rory remarked as he, Darcy and the Donnellys walked back to Castleville. "People cared about 'im, did they?" "They did, lad," Vaughn replied. "Jack Murphy was a good man. He had a lot of friends." "Is he in heaven?" Rory asked. "Aye. I've no doubt he's singin' with the angels right now." "And me mother, too?" "Was your mother a God-fearin' woman, lad?" Rory nodded his head emphatically. "Said our prayers every night, we did." "You can be sure, then, that your dear mother is in heaven." Darcy appreciated Vaughn's attention to the boy's concerns and his generosity toward others. While her father hadn't attended Jack Murphy's funeral, Vaughn and his brother had dug the grave for the grieving sisters. Vaughn took her hand as they walked down the hillside. Darcy looked up at him in surprise. "I'll be makin' a lobscouse this evenin'," he told her. "Is there a chance you might join us?" She glanced about and withdrew her hand. "My father threatened to drag me home should I go to your cottage again." "Then perhaps I could meet you somewhere else, somewhere we'd have a chance to speak." She thought it over. "I shall be at your cottage for supper, after all. We can talk afterward."

Chapter Seventeen Vaughn served the mutton stew with beetroot and cabbage. "Do ye 'ave a garden?" Shad asked Darcy. "A small one, aye, but I purchase most of my vegetables from the penitentiary's garden. The land there is well-fertilized with seaweed each spring and fall, and produces a fine crop." "I harvested and sold seaweed to the farmers as a lad," Vaughn told her. "No bigger'n the laddie here I was." "How did you haul it?" Rory asked. "With a cart and donkey." 821

"Can I do that, too?" "Ye be helpin' us," Vaughn told him. "We have months of work left on the prison. After that we'll see where the work takes us." Rory nodded, his easy acceptance plainly showing he had no particular attachment to Castleville. What about her? Would he miss her? She couldn't let herself think of it. After they'd eaten and shared the chore of washing and putting away the dishes, Vaughn excused them and ushered Darcy out into the cool evening air. She tugged her brat around her shoulders. He led her to the cliff, where they stood looking out at the thundering waves crashing below. Finally, Vaughn spoke. "I have feelin's for ye, Darcy. But I don't want to be unfair to ye." Her heart leaped. She found her voice. "Unfair how?"

Chapter Eighteen "These last years, Da and I have rarely been in Castleville. We go wherever the jobs take us. Sometimes we pitch a tent and live out of it and our wagon for months at a time. It will be the same for Rory, but he's just a lad and he'll enjoy the adventure." Vaughn had been gone a long time, to be sure. But what did that have to do with her? "My mother spent most of her days waitin' for us to return. It's no life for a woman. If I believed I was to be stayin' 'ere for any length of time—and if you didn't want to leave Castleville—I'd ask ye t' marry me. Right now. Tonight." Vaughn's words echoed in her head—and her aching heart. "And I'd make a home for ye and the boy." He would ask her to marry him. She'd never expected to hear that. He would ask…except that he wasn't in Castleville to stay. She'd known his work took him to other parts of the country, so that was no surprise. The surprise was that he wanted to marry her. He'd kissed her, yes. She had feelings for him…but she'd never let herself think of anything serious between them. Certainly not marriage. What had this thing between them been, then, if not something real? "It's not fair t' you—or to Rory—to make it appear that we've intentions toward each other. There's nothin' I like more than spendin' time with ye, Darcy, but it's not right anyone should be hurt when we go. Or when you go." A lonely ache widened in Darcy's chest. She'd had no expectations, so what had she lost? She'd had nothing before Vaughn Donnelly came home to Castleville this time, but she'd have good memories when he left. "I don't want Rory to become attached and be disappointed. The last thing I want is for him to feel abandoned again." "I don't want you to be disappointed, either, Darcy."

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"I had no hopes, Vaughn. You haven't misled me in any way." "But I kissed ye. That means something. And I want to kiss ye again." Her warm affection for him hadn't diminished. She managed a smile. "Ye don't have to marry a lass to kiss her, now, do ye?" Vaughn pulled Darcy close. He'd wanted to hold her, but hadn't allowed himself. He wasn't a man to toy with a woman's affections. He'd never thought himself selfish until now—until his feelings for this woman kept overriding his common sense. He was mad for Darcy Keegan, but he had nothing to offer her. With waves pounding below and the tang of salt air on their lips, he kissed her. It was a sweet-sad kiss, sweet because of how much he cared for her and sad because this was all that could ever exist between them. He released her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, turning her so they gazed out over the ocean.

Chapter Nineteen "Rumor has it the Murphy sisters have decided to set sail for America," Vaughn said, not wanting to leave her, and yet not knowing what else to say. "I'm not entirely surprised they're going. Their father's death left them without a home or an income. Escape probably seems the best fate, even if the future is uncertain." Perhaps I can escape with them! Darcy stumbled over the idea. She wouldn't be entirely alone if she joined the Murphy sisters. They'd known each other their whole lives and she was confident they'd welcome her into their company. Perhaps this was her answer from God. "Many of our fellow countrymen have gone," he said. "The laws have changed ship conditions to prevent overcrowding, and there are now physicians aboard each vessel. I pray our friends know a safe journey." "Aye," she whispered. They watched the play of moonlight on the ocean for a time and eventually he saw her home. That night Darcy lay awake until the wee hours of the morning. If she intended to go through with this, she needed to speak with the sisters immediately. Confusing thoughts swam in her head. She had no enthusiasm for a life in a new country.Would she be better off simply finding employment in County Galway, as had been her first plan? And what about her father? Would he try to stop her? Perhaps she should stay, just until Vaughn and Rory finished their work on the prison…. If she wasn't confident in her plan to go with the Murphy sisters to America, perhaps she wasn't hearing from God. Slipping from her bed to kneel, Darcy clasped her hands and bowed her head. While she prayed, a verse from the book of James came to her: If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him. Well, she certainly lacked wisdom; she had no idea what to do from here. "Father God," she whispered. "Liberally grant me wisdom to make the right decision—and give me confidence about my choice." 823

She thanked the Lord with her next breath and, feeling more at peace, got back into bed. Within moments she fell into restful sleep. For the next few days, Darcy simply waited. She visited the Murphy sisters and listened to their plans, but didn't mention joining them. If God wanted her to go, there would be time. Meanwhile she thought about everything Vaughn had said, and her deep sense of regret and sadness was replaced by hope and optimism. Long ago she'd felt a girlish attraction to Vaughn. Seeing him all these years later had intensified the allure. But it was no longer a girlish infatuation. She'd fallen in love with him.

Chapter Twenty Darcy recalled Vaughn's words: "If I believed I was to be stayin' 'ere for any length of time, I'd ask ye t' marry me. Right now. Tonight." He'd hesitated because he was leaving Castleville. He hadn't said he didn't have feelings for her; in fact he'd said the opposite. He was willing to take Rory with him…why not her? Perhaps he didn't think she'd want to go with him. She'd told him of her plans to travel. Maybe he thought she'd find a husband better suited to her. Her mind still consumed by thoughts of Vaughn, Darcy scrubbed potatoes and heaped them into a bin beside the brick oven before turning to her chore list. Eggs to boil next. She set an enormous kettle on the worktable. Vaughn didn't want to marry her and then have to leave her while he worked in other parts of the country. Darcy agreed it wasn't an ideal situation. But a partial life with him would be better than what she had now. She'd even be willing to travel with him and live in a tent. What was a home without love? Without appreciation for each other? People who loved each other should be willing to do anything to share their lives, shouldn't they? Vaughn didn't want to disappoint her, but this devastating loss was disappointing her. "Is something wrong, Miss Keegan?" Mrs. Cullugh asked, and Darcy realized she'd been standing beside the worktable without moving for several minutes. "Actually, something is wrong," she replied. "Very wrong." She removed her apron and hung it beside the door. "But I'm going to fix it." "Your chores aren't finished!" the woman called after her. Darcy ignored her and paused at the prisoner's washbasin to splash her face with cool water. She left through the servants' door and made her way to the construction area. She found Vaughn erecting an oven almost as big as the one in the building where she worked. At her approach he set down a brick and removed a pair of gloves. "Darcy!" "I…I need to speak with you."

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"Of course." She glanced about. "Somewhere where we'll be alone." "Give me a few minutes to wash and I'll meet you in the grove." He tipped his head. "Over there." She waited beneath the blossoming apple trees, enjoying the scent of earth and growing things. It took only a few minutes for him to join her, his hair wet and his face freshly scrubbed. "Is something wrong?" "Something's very wrong." He took both of her hands. "Do you want to sit down?" She shook her head. "God has been opening my eyes to a few truths. And one of them is the fact that I'm in love with you." Vaughn's expression changed swiftly from concern to surprise and back to concern. "Darcy, I—" "Don't say anything yet," she asked. "I love you, Vaughn. You're a kind man, tenderhearted and generous. And you love the Lord, follow His Word, and live your life to honor Him. "I didn't admit my feelings to myself at first. I told myself we were just friends. I assured myself I only wanted relief from my situation, and being with you took me away from my life, if only for a few moments." "Oh, Darcy, I'd gladly take you away from your situation forever if that be what you need. I will." "I'm not coming to you for rescue. I'm not. I have options. I've saved enough money to accompany the Murphy sisters to America. I was nearly set to buy a ticket. I still can." He stared at her, the sun-kissed color draining from his face. "You would do that? You would take one of those ships?" "Yes." "I had no idea." His shock was genuine. "I didn't truly share how desperate I am to change my life. I didn't want to burden you or make you feel like you had to do something." "I would have." "That's why I didn't tell you." "I knew you worked hard and wanted to leave the prison behind, but I didn't realize you wanted to go that far." "I may't as well be one of the weavers," she told him. "I rise before daylight. I work in that kitchen all day long. I go home late and cook for my father and do his laundry. I'm not one to shirk hard work, mind you, but even the prisoners have the Sabbath to rest. I serve their meals even then, with nary a word of thanks." 825

"I'm sorry I didn't see, Darcy." She shook her head. "It would be a sin to complain when there's such hardship all around. I don't want sympathy. I'm only telling you now so that you know I was prepared to leave…but now I want to stay— with you. I want to marry you and I'll be glad to live in any arrangement that lets us be together even part of the time. I could live in your cottage while you're gone and keep it up. I could care for your father. No doubt I would lose my position at the penitentiary, but I would find other work. I could grow a garden, cook for a landlord, anything. Or I'd travel with you and live in a tent. I don't care. As long as we're together." She paused to gauge his expression. "If you want me, that is." "Darcy—" "If what you said before was an excuse to spare my feelings, say so now and spare me the humiliation." "Of course it wasn't an excuse." He squeezed her fingers. "I love you, Darcy. But I don't want to enter into a marriage only to disappoint you. I was sincere about that." "What if the alternative is crushing disappointment? What if I can't bear the thought of living without your love?" He smiled that smile she knew so well by now. The smile that touched her heart. "I could never leave you behind," he said softly. "I'd want you with me, even if we share a tent. I couldn't bear being apart from you." "I'm glad you said that. It's what I want, too." "I want us to be together," he assured her."It will be the most wonderful day of my life to stand before the reverend and pledge my love." He dropped to one knee. Darcy's heart filled to overflowing. The sunlight through the apple trees dappled his head and shoulders with a fascinating play of light and shadow. The love in his eyes took her breath away and brought unexpected tears. With Vaughn and Rory—Shad, even—she felt valued. She knew a purpose. With them she would never lack for love. She would have a family. Vaughn had told her once that he hoped she found what she was looking for. And she had. With him. "We'll make it work," he promised her. "I shall love you all me live-long days, Darcy Keegan. Will you marry me?" She smiled through the blur of tears. "Aye, Mr. Donnelly. It shall be my pleasure to marry you." *** It was a brisk morning two short weeks later when the Donnelly family stood on the cliff above the churchyard, among the headstones and white wooden crosses. Shad held his hat to his chest and Scully played a hymn on his battered fiddle. Scully's wife and two children stood respectfully nearby. "Thank ye for bringin' me mother to lay in peace above the ocean," Rory said. Tears glistened in his eyes. "She would've liked it here." 826

Vaughn knelt and hugged him soundly. "She deserved a place with family, don't ye think?" Darcy dug a clump of goats-beard and planted the yellow blooms at the foot of the stone marker. Her gaze moved to Vaughn's mother's grave and then only a row away to her own mother's. Walking to the cliff's vantage point, she spotted a ship sailing toward the horizon. Vaughn stepped beside her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Do ye suppose the Murphy sisters are on that ship?" "Quite likely. Their ship left today." "Are ye happy with your decision to stay, Mrs. Donnelly?" She turned into his waiting embrace and eagerly raised her face for a kiss. "Aye, Mr. Donnelly. I'm the happiest wife in all of Éire." "And the prettiest," he added. "They're kissin' again," Rory said, and the lilting sound of laughter floated above the grassy hillside.

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Hideaway Hero By Kathleen O'Brien It's nearly Valentine's Day, and Greta Kinyon should be looking forward to a romantic vacation with her boyfriend at her favorite bed-and-breakfast, the Hideaway. Instead she finds herself unceremoniously dumped. Luckily, she can always rely on the inn's owner, Gabriel Lennox, to offer his rather broad shoulders for her to cry on. But not this year. Gabriel has been waiting for the perfect opportunity to take his easy friendship with Greta to the next level. But now that that perfect moment is here, he can't act on it. A reporter is staying at the inn…just waiting to catch him getting a little too friendly with his female guests. If he gives in to his attraction to Greta, he risks losing the Hideaway. But if he pushes her away this time, he could lose Greta for good….

Chapter One Greta Kinyon stood at the window of her Hideaway Hill suite, gazing at the sunset that shimmered on Bodega Bay and wondering why she couldn't relax. This B and B was her favorite retreat. Ordinarily, the minute she set foot in the lobby, she felt a lovely wash of peace and her worries fell away. Today, though, the magic hadn't kicked in. She was restless. Nervous. Wrong from head to toe. And she had no idea why. She'd just closed one of the biggest real estate deals of her career. She'd been able to give a nice bonus to her assistant, who was going through a tough divorce. Greta's father, her main investor and mentor, would be thrilled about the sale, though the bonus would exasperate him. He had many wonderful qualities, but giving without expectation of return wasn't among them. Still, the sale had been a coup. And now she was starting a week's vacation at one of the prettiest spots on the California coast and planning to spend it with Franklin Marks, the man she'd been seeing for the past year. Recipe for bliss, right? And yet… Greta stepped out of her heels, then peeled off her jacket. Plopping on the bed, she tossed a pillow across her stomach, as if applying pressure there might settle the butterflies she seemed to have swallowed. Just for a minute, she shut her eyes. Suddenly someone rapped at the suite's door. As she jolted awake, the stomach butterflies reacted to the knock, fluttering frantically. And then she knew. Franklin. As strange as it sounded, she was dreading seeing Franklin. "Come in," she called, noting that the last of the sunset was merely a gold shadow on the carpet. How long had she slept? She heard the door open in the front room, followed by the rumble of a room-service cart. She whisked her feet down and tried to smooth the bed-head out of her hair. Franklin must have ordered something. "Thanks…please just put it—" 828

But as she entered the other room, she got a look at the man pushing the cart. "Gabe!" Her heart lifted. Though this was her fifth vacation at the Hideaway, the gorgeous owner, Gabriel Lennox, never seemed to change. He always wore some version of a soft Henley shirt that molded to his sexy chest, and faded jeans, which did the same for his lean legs. His chestnut hair still didn't have a single strand of gray, even though he was thirty-six—six years older than Greta—and she'd found one on her pillow just last week. He always looked casual and earthy, as if he'd just come from building a tree house, yet he never seemed out of place, even among his most elegant guests. "Hey, Chicken Little." He opened his arms. "Welcome back." She groaned at the old nickname, though secretly she loved hearing it. Her first year at the Hideaway, she'd booked this suite for the express purpose of losing her virginity on her twenty-sixth birthday. She'd ended up chickening out, and instead spent all night on the back porch with Gabe, crying into her wine until he began making jokes so absurd she had to laugh. She returned his hug warmly. As usual, she stole a glance at his left hand. Still single. Amazing. Female guests at the Hideaway outnumbered the men five to one, undoubtedly because word had spread that the owner was a hottie. Some of the guests weren't subtle about what they wanted, either, and Greta wondered how often he accepted. Last year, she had spotted a well-known actress emerging from his suite in the predawn hours, looking dazed and delighted. It was the only time she'd seen anyone near his room…but, then, Greta only came to the Hideaway once a year. Still. Apparently even the actress hadn't received a permanent offer. Maybe Gabe just wasn't the marrying kind. His arm still around Greta's shoulder, Gabe surveyed the empty room. "So where's Mr. Lucky?" Over the past four years, she'd come to the Hideaway with three different men. Gabe referred to them all as Mr. Lucky. "Franklin," she corrected. "Franklin Marks. I guess he's late." "Guess so. He ordered this, though, so he must have expected to be here to drink it." She looked at the champagne, glittering with condensation in its icy silver cradle. A bowl of strawberries and cream sat beside it, and a single red rose beside that. She imagined Franklin standing before her as midnight chimed and Valentine's Day officially began. He'd pour their glasses and propose a toast. Propose… Suddenly she knew the cause of her anxiety. Deep down, she was afraid Franklin might choose this vacation to propose.

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"Maybe he'll have to cancel." Optimism sparked in her chest. "Maybe something went wrong at work." Gabe's brows arched, touching the hair that tumbled onto his forehead. "Wow. I've never heard anyone sound so happy about getting stood up. You're actually hoping he won't show." "Of course not." She dropped onto the armchair next to the sofa, lifting her feet onto the ottoman. "Okay, maybe a little. He's getting too persistent. About…commitment." Gabe smiled. He plucked a strawberry from the plate, then sat on the ottoman, nudging her ankles to make room. "I can't tell you how much I enjoy the soap opera that is your love life." "It's not a soap opera," she protested limply. "Sure it is. Although there's never quite enough dirty stuff to make it really juicy." He consumed the strawberry in one bite—an oddly sexy action—and tossed the stem expertly back onto the pink tablecloth. "Out with it. What's wrong?" *** With anyone else—especially her father—she would have denied it. But with Gabe, honesty was easy. A relief, even. He knew all her secrets. Sometimes she wondered how much she'd spilled that first year, over the wine. "It's just that I'm not ready for…the next step. But Franklin thinks I should be. And I'm afraid I've goofed by scheduling this vacation right before Valentine's Day. It's such a perfect setup for a proposal." She lifted her hand. "I might as well have tattooed a bull's-eye on my ring finger." Gabe laughed. "Every time you bring a man here, Chick, the poor guy leaves with his dreams dashed." "Not every time." "No?" He ticked off on his fingers. "The first year was that Roger guy. The one who slept alone for two nights, then gave up and went home. Year two…was his name Ty?" "Ty and I did just fine," she reminded him. "Yeah, but by the next year things had definitely cooled. If I remember correctly, you spent a lot of your nights helping me muck out stalls." "That wasn't my fault," she said, poking his thigh with her toes. She couldn't help noticing that his muscles were rock solid. He worked hard, day and night, to keep the Hideaway running at its best…but never complained. He loved this business. He loved building and growing and cooking—unlike Greta, who created nothing. She merely brokered deals between other people. People who didn't have her problems with commitment. People who were willing to say Yes. I want to put roots down here. "Ty issued an ultimatum." She frowned. "Marriage or nothing. He should have realized that would be a mistake." Gabe nodded slowly. "He was in love. People in love don't always think clearly." 830

"Which is why the next year I brought Red Malone. Back then, Red wasn't interested in getting serious with any woman, so I knew it wouldn't be complicated. It was great. No strings, no false hopes." Actually, she'd decided against having sex with Red that year, too, but Gabe didn't know that. Red had accepted her decision so gracefully she hadn't needed to flee the suite. Red had cheerfully made up the sofa bed and turned the week into a platonic festival of food and fun. "Okay, Red went well," Gabe admitted, "but now this Franklin guy. Apparently he, too, is wanting more than you can give." Something about Gabe's thoughtful expression made Greta feel twitchy. He was usually so nonjudgmental. Was he looking at the pattern, these five years of failure, and finding her flawed? Did he really think she was a callous heartbreaker? Surely he realized that she wanted to find a life partner. Sometimes her fear of ending up alone woke her in the night and scared her breathless. She was thirty. She'd had two lovers in her entire life. All her relationships had fizzled out. Still, Gabe couldn't believe she should marry the wrong man just because she feared she'd end up alone. That would be as depressing as marrying for the reasons her father recommended—financial security or professional advantage. "What are you thinking?" She didn't know why Gabe's opinion mattered so much to her, but it did. "Is there something wrong with me? Should I say yes if—" Before she could finish, another knock came at the door. She stared at the spot, paralyzed. Gabe shot her one unreadable glance, then stood and opened it. But it wasn't Franklin this time, either. It was Warren, the bellboy. He held an arrangement of yellow roses. "Flowers for Ms. Kinyon." Finally Greta found the use of her limbs again and joined Warren and Gabe at the door. She took the flowers, put them on the coffee table and tugged the card off its plastic stick. The card stuck briefly in its envelope, and she had to yank it free. But finally she could see what was typed on the note. She heard Gabe shut the door, then felt him at her shoulder. She registered his cool, manly scent—of growing things and open air. "What? Don't tell me Mr. Lucky really decided to propose." "No." She reread the card. I'm sorry, Greta… "Well, what, then?"

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She turned and held out the card. "He's tired of waiting. He found somebody else."

Chapter Two This Valentine's Day was starting out colder than usual—well below forty degrees at midnight, darn near flirting with freezing. When Gabe went out to replace a beam of rotten wood at the top of the grape arbor, the full moon had risen, a cold, white wafer in the starry black sky. From his perch, he could see its reflection lying on the bay like a crust of ice. He turned away from the sight and shifted the hammer in his gloved hand, ignoring the familiar twinge in his bad shoulder. He forced his focus back on his work. Tomorrow was an important day, the day that could save his business from bankruptcy, and he was already behind schedule. If he allowed his gaze to keep drifting to the bay, the repair to the beam would take twice as long as it should. For ten years, ever since his driven, upwardly mobile life had exploded and left him at rock bottom, he'd worked hard to develop an immunity to stress. Even when he bought the Hideaway, he hadn't allowed himself to invest too deeply in it—emotionally, at least. Succeed or fail, he told himself, it didn't matter. Instead of always climbing, with his eye on the next dollar or the next score, he tried to appreciate the simple things. Like a crisp pear, or a smart dog. Or an icy Valentine's moon. But somewhere along the way, he'd started to care about the Hideaway. Really care. The hotel and its staff had become his heart, and now that he was in danger of losing it, he felt all the old passion and ambition boiling to the surface. Tomorrow a woman from Bay Beauty magazine was coming to do a feature spread on his low-profile bed-and-breakfast, and to ensure the Hideaway stayed in business he needed to impress her. And he had to prevent her from pursuing the angle she'd hinted she might want to use—the sexy innkeeper and his bevy of female guests. Not just because it would make him, and his inn, look sleazy and ridiculous. The real problem was that it was a dangerously short trip from "hunky hotelier" to the ugliness buried in Gabe's past. Which meant he'd have to keep a strictly professional distance from all his guests this week. Including Greta. He gripped the hammer tightly and shook his head. Could the timing be any worse? This was the first year Greta would be staying alone. And he couldn't do a damn thing about it. "Hey, gorgeous. Are you going to stay up there all night?" He peered over the edge of the arbor. The voice had come from the pool, back toward the main building, and it was decidedly female. He kept the pool light on until three, since many of his guests liked moonlit dips in its heated waters, so as he peered in the direction of the pool, the glowing turquoise rectangle blinded him for a minute. But after a few seconds, he made out the body stretched across a cushioned lounger. A curvy body—but oddly…well, hairy.

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She looked like a long, undulating…ferret. He squinted, then groaned. Not ferret. Mink. Above the ankle-length mink coat, the platinum-blond tresses helped him put a name to the body. Katie Marchada. Bay-view suite, second floor west. Where her twelve-year-old son and her husband were undoubtedly sound asleep right now. Damn it. The truth was, the Bay Beauty reporter had a point. He did have a lot of female guests—a lot of lonely women who enjoyed getting a few days of TLC from a handy, attractive guy like Gabe. Some of them wanted a lot more than that, though, and it wasn't always easy to convince them that simple TLC would actually make them happier in the long run. And something told him it would be extra difficult to convince Katie Marchada of that. He'd had a rotten sense about this woman from the minute she checked in. It hadn't taken a rocket scientist to interpret the way she twirled the shiny end of one platinum curl while she scanned Gabe from head to toe. "So are you coming down?" She shifted, the glossy fur catching the moonlight. "Because a girl could freeze out here, you know." Maybe not mink, after all. More like cougar. He thanked his lucky stars the reporter wasn't on-site yet. What a great photo this would make for the Bay Beauty magazine spread! The cornered hunter run up a tree by the hungry predator. He stuck the hammer into his belt like a gun and stepped onto the ladder with a sigh. His to-do list was already long enough without adding pest control to his chores. No choice, though. Somehow, without wounding her self-esteem, he had to maneuver her back into her room before her husband woke up. And before he found out what, if anything, she had on under that coat. As his foot hit the ground, the perfect idea came to him. "I'm sorry you can't sleep," he said as he picked up his tool bag and headed her way across the pool deck. "But I'm actually glad to see you." "Ditto," she said, her eyes half closed and a smile like the Cheshire cat playing on her full lips. "I don't know if you heard about the magazine reporter coming tomorrow." He didn't wait for an answer. "But just my luck—the garbage disposal chose tonight to go kaput. I could really use someone to help me clear out the gunk." Her eyes widened suddenly. Somehow, he managed not to laugh. "Well, I'd love to, of course I would." She licked her lips nervously. "But if I were gone that long, my husband might—" As she fumbled her way through her excuses, Gabe could hardly bring himself to pay attention. All he could think was… Greta would have said yes. 833

*** "What's wrong with me?" The face in the mirror repeated Greta's question back to her, like some annoying elementary school monkey-see-monkey-do game. As she lifted her hair and piled it on her head, the woman in the mirror did the same with her own dark red hair—which, in all honesty, seriously needed brushing. Greta stuck out her tongue, and the mirror woman did the same. "This is not a joke. He dumped me in a card. And he didn't even write the card himself. He dictated it to the florist. What's wrong with me?" The woman in the mirror just blinked stupidly. About half an hour ago, Greta had realized that opening the bottle of champagne and drinking two-thirds of it had been a mistake. Especially with only strawberries and cream in her stomach to absorb the alcohol. But hey. No use crying over spilled milk. Spilled champagne. Whatever. She sat on the big canopied bed, cross-legged, wearing nothing but her underclothes, a slip and the beautiful green scarf she'd bought herself after last week's triumphant closing. Frivolous, her father would have said about the purchase, if she'd mentioned it to him. Plow the money back into the business, and you'll have time for self-indulgence later. "Well, I needed it now," she told him, or at least an imaginary version of him. "Later I'll be a dried-up, lonely spinster, and no one will care that I absolutely rock this scarf." The woman in the mirror rolled her eyes and chose that moment to speak. "Well, no one cares now, either. I don't see anyone else in this bed. Do you?" To her horror, her eyes started to glisten. She put her hands up to her face, hard, as if they could form a dam to hold the tears in. She wasn't going to cry over Franklin Marks. She wasn't going to cry over anything or anyone. And not because, for as long as she could remember, her father had always called weeping a form of cowardice. Your mother died bringing you into this world, he'd say coldly. And you're going to repay her with whining? She wasn't going to cry because… Because it was ridiculous. She hadn't even loved Franklin. And because suddenly she felt a lot more like getting sick than crying. She flattened her hands against her stomach, groaning. She needed food. She hadn't eaten all day…except for the strawberries.

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Shakily, she got to her feet. She put on her nice wool coat, new this winter—take that, Dad—and the heels she'd tossed off earlier. She remembered that her hair could use brushing but she'd forgotten where she'd put her purse, and finding food was more urgent. The hotel was silent as she wobbled her way to the kitchen. Of course it was, at two in the morning. Gabe wouldn't mind, though, if she grabbed a hunk of bread. Carbs. Nice, spongy carbs would soak up the champagne. Her high heels were tricky on the stairs, and she had to catch herself twice to avoid somersaulting down to the landing. Every time she found her footing, she gave a thumbs-up to her invisible audience below, and soldiered on. Finally she found the kitchen. It was completely dark, except for the moonlight reflected in the flat metallic surface of the fancy refrigerator. She could see herself in it, almost as well as she could in the mirror upstairs. Her unbuttoned coat had flopped open, and her bra and slip gleamed white through the gap, with the green scarf dangling near her rib cage. She looked darn good. The reflection was too fuzzy to show the messed-up hair, and a little warp in the refrigerator's surface had the happy effect of making her usually ordinary legs seem long and sexy. "What's wrong with me?" She lifted her chin and burped softly, which made her giggle. She put her hands on her hips, accenting her waist like a runway model. "Well, Franklin Marks, I'd have to say absolutely nothing." "And I," Gabe's voice said from out of the darkness, "would have to wholeheartedly agree."

Chapter Three Gabe had to laugh at the look on Greta's face. Her mouth fell open at his words, and the blood drained out until she was as white as her bra. "I—I—" She yanked her coat closed and fumbled frantically with the buttons. "I didn't know anyone was down here." "No problem." He smiled. "I'm actually getting used to running into women wearing nothing but a coat and lacy underthings." She frowned. "You are?" "Yep." He flipped on the kitchen's overhead light and took a bowl of eggs out of the refrigerator. He had to make the casseroles for breakfast, anyway, and if he read that sickly expression correctly, Greta could use some food. She'd obviously spent the evening with her new Mr. Lucky, Perrier-Jouët. She frowned, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, a habit she said she'd struggled to break in her teens because her father had told her it made her look coarse. Gabe thought it made her look sexy as hell. Not that he had any business noticing that. Still, the reporter wasn't coming until the morning. Surely he could spend a little time with an old friend.

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Friend. That was all Greta thought of him as. The good buddy, the guy whose shoulder she cried on when her love life hit a pothole. He'd been very, very careful not to let her know how he really felt about her. "Actually, it's kind of funny," he observed as he put on coffee, then started whisking eggs for an omelet. He hadn't eaten since lunch himself, so they could share. "You'd be surprised how different two women wearing the same outfit can be." She frowned harder, obviously bewildered. She pressed her hand against her stomach and winced. "I feel sick." He reached into one of the glass canisters and extracted a grissini breadstick. "Eat this. The omelet will be ready in three minutes." She nodded and took a bar stool, then planted her elbows on the counter and started nibbling on the breadstick like a bunny. He could tell the instant the breadstick began to ease her wooziness, because her frown deepened and a flush rose on her cheeks. She was sobering up enough to be embarrassed. "You probably won't believe this," she said, staring down at her breadstick miserably. "But I don't drink." He smiled as he circled the butter in the pan. "No kidding." "Really." She looked up, her eyes all dewy and earnest. "At home, I have a bottle of merlot I bought for last year's Christmas party, and it's still there. All of it. I honestly never drink." "Maybe you should," he observed as he poured the egg mixture onto the butter. "You know. Get some practice." She stared at him a second, and then, slowly, began to smile. The curve of her strawberry-stained lips was so sweet and sexy he had to shift to hide a swelling heat that suddenly pressed against his jeans. "I like you, Gabriel Lennox," she said, tapping his arm with the stub of the breadstick. "Did you know that? I really, really like you." It was just the champagne talking, but he enjoyed watching her form the words carefully, being extra meticulous with the Rs. "If you like me now, you'll love me when you taste this," he said. He slid the omelet onto a plate, the cheese bubbling around the crisp brown edges, just the way she always ordered it. He put the plate on the countertop and handed her a cup of coffee and a fork. "Have some. It'll be good for what ails you." For a while, they ate in silence, each coming at the eggs from their own end, carving toward the middle. She shut her eyes reverently as she ate, and the only sound was an occasional murmur of delight as she chewed. Finally, they were down to the last inch, and though he could tell she wanted more, she was too polite to take the only piece left. He knuckled the plate toward her. "Go ahead," he said. "It's yours."

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She didn't argue. She popped it into her mouth and chewed. When she swallowed, she took a deep breath, then exhaled as if she were releasing tension from every muscle of her body. "You've saved my life," she said. Her voice sounded nearly normal. "I owe you, Gabe. Really. Anything. I can't cook like this, but…there must be something I can do to thank you." He reached out with his napkin and blotted a glistening spot of butter at the corner of her mouth. Their eyes met. "Just be happy," he said in a low voice. "I want you to be happy." "I am." She looked thoughtful a moment, before she began to smile again, hesitantly at first, then broadly, without inhibition. "I really am." "Good." Forcing himself to break eye contact, he turned his attention to the real work of the moment—the breakfast casseroles. She watched a few minutes, sipping at the coffee. "When Meg checked me in, she said you were absorbed with a big project. What's up?" He was surprised she hadn't heard—the whole hotel was abuzz with expectation about the reporter. Of course, she'd been closeted in her room all night. "Bay Beauty magazine is considering doing a photo spread on the Hideaway. A reporter is coming tomorrow to check us out, so I've been trying to spruce things up. I thought I ran a pretty tight ship, but when you look closely—" "The hotel is perfect," she broke in, her face cloudy with offended loyalty. "If that reporter doesn't see how fantastic everything is—" She waved her hand. "Well, then he's a fool, and to heck with him." "Her. And unfortunately, I can't afford to brush her off. With the economy going downhill, I need the publicity if I'm going to stay in business." Greta didn't speak for a minute, but her eyes widened. As a real estate agent, she obviously knew all about the economy, but she clearly loved the Hideaway so much she hadn't considered the possibility that its doors would ever close. She chewed her bottom lip hard. "It's that bad?" "I'm afraid it is. I expanded too much a couple of years ago when things were going strong. And now that bookings have dropped, I have more rooms and more employees than I strictly need." Somehow, the Hideaway had become a safe haven for a dozen or more wonderful oddballs. Like Warren, the bell "boy," a seventy-year-old poet who wore his hair down to his knees and did odd jobs in exchange for a room with a view. Or Meg at the front desk, who knitted incessantly, and tried to cover every table with her handiwork. "I haven't let anyone go, though I probably should have."

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Greta nodded, but she didn't suggest he start layoffs. He knew she understood. Like him, she'd always treated the employees as friends, not servants. "What can I do?" He put the first casserole into the oven. "Nothing. Really. Just relax and have a good time." "There must be some way I can help. I'm not lazy, and I'm not stupid. Let me support you for once." He shook his head. "Everything's covered. Well, except for brunch tomorrow. Cordelia called in sick, so I'm short one waitress. Want to sling hash?" "Yes." Her eyes brightened. "Of course. I can do that." He laughed. "I'm kidding." "Well, I'm not. You think I can't wait tables? I was a server in high school." He came around the counter and put his hands on her shoulders. "I think you could do whatever you set your mind to. But you're a guest here. I'm not going to put you to work." The space between her brows creased. "But, Gabe, with the reporter coming—" "Seriously. If you want to help me, just enjoy yourself. If anything will impress the magazine people, it's a hotel full of happy guests." She smiled. "No problem," she said, her shoulders relaxing under his palms. "I'm always happy when I'm here, with you." And then, without warning, she lifted up on her toes, and kissed him. He stood still, paralyzed by surprise. Her lips were warm, and sweet from the butter. She tasted of strawberries. He'd imagined kissing her a hundred times over the years. He'd imagined what came after, too. His body responded, even as his mind was saying, Damn it, why now? Why this year, when he couldn't risk making a move? "Hello?" A cool, cultured female voice sounded from the kitchen doorway. "I'm sorry to arrive so late. No one was in front, but I heard voices back here, so…" Greta pulled away, her cheeks flushing. The woman smiled, her eyes tilted and amused. "You must be—" Looking at Gabe, she licked her lips subtly. "Yes, you absolutely must be the irresistible Gabriel Lennox." "Yes, I'm Gabe." He held his composure. "And you are?" She extended a graceful, pale hand. "Miranda Blake. Bay Beauty magazine."

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Chapter Four Gabe was right, Greta thought. She should practice drinking more often. She was absolutely rotten at it. When she got up just before dawn the next morning, a hundred tiny woodpeckers were banging away at her skull as if it were their favorite tree. She tried to evict them with a scalding shower, a black cup of coffee and a couple of industrial-strength aspirin. The woodpeckers were still there after all that, but at least now she could hear over their din. She knew better than to think Gabe had changed his mind about letting her fill in for his sick waitress, so she went straight to the kitchen and sought help from Leslie Landers, the most senior of the Hideaway's waitstaff. Leslie didn't blink when she heard Greta wanted to pitch in. She just said, "Thank God," noted approvingly that Greta had worn the obligatory black pants and white shirt, and began giving directions. Thankfully, the job didn't sound too difficult. The brunch was buffet-style, so once they got everything set out it would be mostly a matter of taking drink orders and solving problems as they cropped up. The Hideaway's brunch was popular around Bodega Bay, so Leslie warned her to expect chaos—and very sore feet at the end of her "shift." Her final warning: keep an eye out for the writer from Bay Beauty magazine, that uppity cat who had arrived in the middle of the night. Only good thing about her late arrival was that she would probably sleep late and skip breakfast. "I hear she's gorgeous," Leslie said in her gravelly voice. "She's probably just here to flirt with the boss. Half the women in the hotel are. And that estimate is lowballing it." Greta cringed slightly inside, remembering that last night she'd added herself to the list—in front of the reporter. For distraction, she picked up a huge platter of fruit. Shocked at the weight, she balanced it on her shoulder and wobbled her way to the sunny, all-glass dining room, where she set it down carefully on a bed of ice, thanking heaven she hadn't dropped it. At six, two other waiters joined them, twenty-year-old Brandon who apparently was trying to channel Marlon Brando, and Meg's husband, John, who inevitably wore one of Meg's knitted sweater-vests. Because today was Valentine's Day, his vest had huge, looping pink hearts everywhere, but he wore it proudly, as he always did. He considered his wife a great artist, and his loyalty made Greta want to give him a big hug. By the time Gabe made it into the dining room at eight, all the tables were full. Greta was pouring orange juice for a family from Mendocino, but she felt his gaze on her from across the tables, and her cheeks grew warm. She'd been too busy to think much about last night's kiss, but her lips tingled now, as if he might be staring at them. When she finished topping off the glasses, she made her way back toward the buffet, where he stood, still watching her. 839

He wore a suit. She couldn't remember ever seeing him so dressed up. He looked wonderful, all crisp and leanly tailored. But the unaccustomed formality made him seem a little like a stranger. Or maybe the sudden awkwardness was caused by the memory of their kiss. And the fear that that kiss, as innocent as it had been, was going to change everything. She half wished she hadn't given in to the impulse. She didn't want to lose his friendship. On the other hand, it had been an extraordinary kiss. "Hi," she said. She hoped he wouldn't be annoyed that she had disregarded his wishes about not pitching in. He hadn't actually said he wouldn't allow her to wait tables. He'd just said he wasn't going to put her to work. Well, he hadn't. She'd put herself to work. "Hi," he responded wryly. "Are you mad?" She smiled. "I'm actually doing pretty well. I haven't spilled coffee on anyone. Yet." "Mad?" He raised his eyebrows. "No. But I have to admit I'm surprised." "Because I was able to wake up so early after last night?" One side of his mouth lifted. "Because you even remember last night." "Of course I do. I wasn't that drunk." But she felt herself blushing. Remembering last night meant remembering the kiss. "Boss, you need to come look at the fridge." Leslie was at his shoulder suddenly, her brow knit tight in worry. "The thermometer might be wrong, but it's not registering cold enough." He took a deep breath. "Wouldn't you know it?" He tossed Greta a glance. "We'll talk more later, okay?" "Sure." She watched him go, then swept an appraising gaze over the dining room, searching for customers that required tending. "Uh-oh," she said under her breath. Over at table four, Miranda Blake had suddenly arrived. She'd seated herself, and was already taking notes in a small pad as another woman—the one who had been sitting at table five until Miranda walked in—talked animatedly to her. A wriggle of anxiety twisted in Greta's stomach. She didn't really know what Gabe thought about the table-five woman, but Greta had pegged her as a wannabe for the show Housewives Behaving Badly from the first. Beautiful, if a bit overgroomed. But a horrible snob. She'd conspicuously inspected the silverware before using it, and had held her water glass up to the light, looking for spots or bits of food debris from inadequate washing. As if the Hideaway were a diner. And now she and Miranda Blake were laughing in that snide, closed-lip way, and Miranda was scribbling furiously in her notebook. Greta's glow faded, replaced by a protective tension. She hurried over, wondering if she could do any damage control. 840

John arrived at the table just about the same time Greta did, and one glance at his homemade sweater made the housewife's face squeeze up as if she'd sucked a lemon. "I'm sorry," the woman said, still puckered. "But…is there not a dress code for the waitstaff?" Greta gripped the handle of the pitcher so hard she feared the glass might break. But sweet John didn't seem to notice. He merely saw an opening to discuss his wife's talent. "Yes," he explained eagerly. "But Mr. Gabe makes an exception for my vests. My wife makes them, one for every holiday. Isn't it beautiful? She can do anything you want. If you asked her for a picture of your pet poodle, she could sew it in there and it would look exactly like your dog. Not expensive, either. And these days, everyone's trying to save money, right?" The woman's pursed lips tightened almost to invisibility. "No," she said with disdain. "Not everyone, I'm afraid." The icy tone pierced even John's happy bubble. His face fell, then reddened. Greta felt her blood begin to boil. "Sure they are," she said brightly, smiling at the woman. "I can tell you agree that saving money is the smart thing to do. I mean—look at your purse. That's one of the best knockoffs I've ever seen. No one would guess it's not really a Louis Vuitton." It had been a shot in the dark. But it had also been a direct hit. Miranda Blake chuckled appreciatively, but the other woman's eyes narrowed, and the tips of her elegant cheekbones turned as cherry-red as her handbag. "Indeed," she said tartly. "You don't seem to be wearing a name tag. What is your name?" "Greta. Greta Kinyon." "Well, Greta, would you mind finding Gabriel Lennox for me?" So she was the tattling kind. She probably thought she could get Greta fired. If she only knew! Still, Greta regretted letting her temper get away from her. She hadn't wanted to cause Gabe any trouble. She'd wanted to help. But picking on someone as defenseless as John… "Certainly," she said meekly, hoping she could placate the woman a bit. "I'll bring Mr. Lennox right over." "No, wait—" Miranda put the tip of her pen to her lips and gave Greta a sharply curious once-over. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" Darn it. Greta had been an idiot to call attention to herself. As a rule, waitresses were invisible to people like Miranda. But now she'd been spotted, and she'd have to explain that she was a guest. "I—I'm not sure…" Miranda's smile spread out from the edges, slowly. "But of course I do! Aren't you the woman I saw in the kitchen last night…kissing Gabriel Lennox? He said you were a guest." She used her slim, designer-clad 841

foot to nudge out the chair at right angles to her own. "Sit down, Greta, honey. I've been dying to talk to you."

Chapter Five Sore feet was an understatement. After several hours waiting tables for Gabe, Greta sat on the edge of her suite's circular tub, with the Jacuzzi jets on high, and let the pulsing water pummel her aching arches. What a morning! She'd never had so much respect for waiters in her life. Saints, every one of them. Luckily, she'd been too busy to sit for an interview with the reporter, and had escaped without discussing her kiss with Gabe in the kitchen. For now, anyhow. She would have to check with Gabe to see how he wanted to handle it. Her phone rang long before she was ready to stop soaking, so she just answered it right there, with her pants rolled up around her knees, and her legs calf-deep in the tub. "Hi, Dad," she said after a quick look at the caller ID. "Where are you, Greta?" She shut her eyes, wishing her father had some other mode than flat-out. "I'm in Bodega Bay. I told you. I'm here for a week. Remember?" "Well, you need to come back. Today. The Swillingtons are going to put their house on the market." She searched her mind. Maybe it was interference from her aching bones, but she came up blank. "Remind me again who the Swillingtons are?" The momentary silence told her eloquently how disappointed he was in her ignorance. "They own the neoclassical on the way to Carmel? We spent Christmas there when you were about fifteen?" "Oh." She remembered them now. It was hands-down the most amazing house she'd ever set foot inside. "But I specialize in Sonoma. Maybe a little bit on either side. Carmel's way out of my orbit." Not to mention her league. But her father didn't allow her to say self-denigrating things…even if they were true. "Nonsense. A Realtor can represent any property anywhere. And you'll have the inside track on this one, because of the family connection. But you have to get over there today. By tomorrow, the other Realtors will be circling like vultures." "No. I really can't leave right now. I need this vacation, Dad." "More than you need a million-dollar commission and the biggest boost your career has ever had?" His voice was cold. She stared down into the tub, where her feet floated, pink and wrinkled. They looked like the feet of a child. Just the way her father always made her feel.

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"Maybe," she said softly. "Why? I ran into Franklin and he told me he'd broken things off. I'm sorry about that. But all the more reason for you to focus on your career." If she was going to end up an old maid, he meant. She'd have to be successful at being a businesswoman to overcome the shame of failing at being a trophy wife. What crap! The mutinous thought caught her by surprise. But then, in about three seconds, she got used to the feeling, and she decided she liked it. Because it was crap. It was complete and utter, old-fashioned, chauvinistic baloney! For the first time she could ever remember, her father sounded foolish to her. Out of touch, not only with modern culture but with Greta's reality. She'd been happier today than she'd been in…years. Far, far happier than she'd be if she raced home and fought with the other vultures for the million-dollar commission. "Dad, I'm sorry, but I…" She considered explaining that she had to stay because Gabe needed her again tomorrow to fill in for a sick waitress. She smiled, imagining how that would go over, and decided against it. She didn't really want to give her father a heart attack. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I appreciate that you're trying to help me out, but I don't want to try to snag the Swillington listing. Gabe could use a hand right now, and I've told him I'll pitch in." "Gabe?" "Gabe Lennox. He owns the Hideaway. He currently has a big project and—" To her surprise, her father began to laugh. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "Gabriel Lennox? Don't tell me you've gotten involved with that slick hound dog who calls himself a hotelier." Greta almost lost her grip on the phone. What on earth? How did her father know Gabe? Could he be thinking of someone else? "Gabe is a very nice man, actually. He needs help with this project, and—" "Don't be an idiot, Greta. You're not helping Gabriel Lennox with a project. You are his project." *** By the time they reached the end of the official tour of the interior, Gabe was hoping the Hideaway had impressed Miranda enough to persuade her to give up the whole sleazy Heartbreak Hotel angle. When she walked in on him with Greta last night, he'd assumed he was doomed. And then Leslie alerted him that Miranda had been pumping all the female guests all morning, looking for scuttlebutt. She'd spent breakfast chatting up Katie Marchada, who probably wasn't Gabe's biggest fan after he'd shuttled her back to her room last night without so much as a snuggle on the pool deck. 843

But he didn't have the luxury of tossing either woman out on her upturned nose. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Greta he might go out of business. Unless the economy turned around or he got a jolt of new business, it wasn't "might." It was "definitely would." He had been trying to convince himself that he didn't mind. The Hideaway had been his dream, sure. But he could find another dream. He'd done that before. The hard way. For the two dozen people who worked for him, though… For people tied to Bodega Bay with mortgages, parents and children, finding another job wouldn't be so easy. But who was he kidding? It wouldn't be easy for him, either. He loved this hotel. He loved every inch of it, most of which he'd built and restored and maintained with his own two hands. He wasn't the same man he was, back when he'd made such a mess of his life. He had changed. He had left that selfish bastard behind. If only Miranda Blake wouldn't dredge it all back up…. If only she could judge the Hideaway purely as a hotel—not as a juicy scandal that might sell a few extra copies of the magazine. So he toured her, and he flattered her, and he introduced her and her photographer, Charles, to everyone on the property as if they were visiting royalty. By the time they were finished going around the inside and had settled at a table by the pool overlooking the bay, Miranda seemed to finally be taking it all seriously. She dispatched Charles to get some preliminary shots. Then she crossed her legs, leaned back and held her face up to the sun, which was beginning to warm the day that had begun with such a chill. Leslie brought out a tray of hot tea options, which seemed to please Miranda. Gabe let himself relax a little. "I think we can make this work," Miranda said as she dunked a bag of mint-flavored green tea into her cup. "This view is perfect, and the lobby will show well. The bay-facing suites will be a little trickier, as the space is a bit broken up, but Charles is a genius. He can hide anything." Gabe smiled noncommittally, though he wondered what needed hiding. He'd hired the best decorator in San Francisco to dress those suites. It wasn't as if he'd done it himself with leftovers from his grandmother's attic. "But of course, the best angle is still your allure for women." His chest tightened. "What?" Miranda watched as two young bikini-clad college women peeled off their Hideaway robes and slowly lowered themselves into the heated pool, laughing and squealing with delight. For a minute, Gabe wished they were eighty. And male. "The women," Miranda said again. She smiled at Gabe, but her gaze was sharp. "Why does that bother you so much? It's not as if you can deny it. Meg ran the numbers for me. Over the past five years, your clientele has been seventy-eight percent female." He shrugged. "Is that significantly higher than most B and Bs?" 844

"I suspect so." Miranda tapped her fingernail against the edge of her cup. "I've got a fact-checker looking into that right now." Irritation coiled hot in his chest. "So even before you've got the facts, you've already decided how you're going to play the article? I didn't realize that's how Bay Beauty operated." If he thought he was going to shame her, he was wrong. She laughed. "Look, Gabe. You want this story because it'll help your bottom line. Well, that's our reason for writing it, too. We need sales to stay in business, just as you do. It's not as if we're making anything up. We're just highlighting the element that has the most human interest. And that's you." He frowned, which made her tilt her head coquettishly. "Sorry. It's not my fault you're a magnet for lovelorn ladies. Take Greta, for instance. What's the deal with—" "Leave Greta out of it." Miranda's eyebrows shot up. Smooth, Lennox. Now he'd painted a target on Greta's back, too. "I mean, leave all the guests out of it. I don't believe they're here just because of me, but even if they are, I'm not interested." "Really? Didn't look that way last night." "Last night was… Greta and I are friends. She was thanking me for helping her out." Miranda nodded so slowly it was almost as skeptical as a laugh. "If you say so. But what about the actress? Last year? Was she just a friend, too? Because if that's how you define 'friend'…" God, how much did she know? What kind of digging had she and her fact-checkers been doing? And how long before they found out about… Liza. "Come on, Gabriel," Miranda said, putting her hand on his arm. "It's just a cute gimmick. Why are you so opposed to it? It's not as if you have anything to hide." Her brows went up once more. "Do you?"

Chapter Six Gabe always felt most at peace in the stables. In the shadows of the overhanging trees, he spoke quietly to Hotshot, a rusty brown Irish Hunter that was his personal mount. The horse responded by neighing tranquilly, and nudging him with its glossy nose. He made an effort to momentarily block awareness of Miranda, who was prowling in the corners of the building, taking notes and occasionally texting her photographer. When she finally moved around to the outside of the barn, he took a deep breath, and tried to relax. But what a joke. What a rotten, dirty joke. He wasn't going to be able to talk her out of her "hook."

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"Gabe?" He glanced over his shoulder. A woman's form, outlined in sunlight, stood in the open door. She hesitated only a second, and then she moved into the stable, walking right up to where he stood. It was Greta. "I've been looking for you," she said softly. Then she reached out and put her hand around the back of his neck, where the curling edges of his soft hair tickled her fingers. And she kissed him. For one half-fraction of a second, Gabe didn't even have a brain. He didn't think, didn't ask questions, didn't remember why this was wrong. He wrapped his arms around Greta and pulled her in. A sudden fiery hunger shot through him, and he met her lips with a driving passion that clearly surprised her. With a low murmur, her lips fell open, and her entire body melted against him. He ran his hands up the delicate, well-defined muscles on either side of her spine, then let his hands fall to the sexy hollow at the small of her back. He pressed softly, and she tilted forward, meeting him hip to hip, heat to heat. Hotshot whinnied behind him. And suddenly reality rushed in. He pulled away roughly, pushing Greta from him with the heels of his palms. Greta stepped back an inch or two, clearly confused. She put her fingers up to her hair and smoothed it nervously, though it wasn't mussed. She seemed unsteady, her eyes unfocused and her swollen lips still parted. "You need to go," he said, his voice strangely grating as he fought to tamp down his beating heart. He wanted her out of here before Miranda returned. He couldn't let Greta become a part of this circus. In fact, he thought maybe he should ask her to leave. He could tell her he'd accidentally double-booked her room…. "I—I'm sorry." She tugged the hem of her white shirt, the same one she'd worn to wait tables this morning. "That was…that was silly. An overreaction. I just wanted to thank you. You gave me the inspiration I needed to do something I've wanted to do for a long time." He realized this was an important moment for Greta, something they should celebrate—but not with a reporter. He listened for a second, but didn't hear Miranda walking around. He wondered if she'd gone far enough that she was out of earshot. Or was she standing on the other side of the wall, listening? "What did you do?" Greta laughed shakily. "I told my father to go to hell." In spite of himself, Gabe wished he'd been there to hear that. He'd never met August Kinyon, but she'd said enough over the years to make it clear the man didn't get put in his place anywhere near often enough. "I may not actually have used those words." Her voice had steadied a little. "But he got the message. It's the most liberating thing I've ever done."

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"And how exactly did I help?" She shrugged. "I don't know if I can explain it. You're just so…grounded. When I'm with you I…" The sentence dwindled off. "Anyhow, when he called today wanting me to come home so that I could snag some huge real estate listing, I saw how pathetic it is to live only for money. For the first time, I saw that he was the one whose priorities were wrong. Not me." Gabe looked at her, standing there in a shaft of chilly sunlight that filtered through the wooden slats of the stable walls. She was like an angel of righteousness, glowing with her victory. But he wondered whether, in the aftermath when she'd have to live with her father's cold disapproval, she could sustain this conviction. Whether she should even try. After all, look how far Gabe's "grounded" priorities had gotten him. He'd tried to build and run his hotel without greed, putting his employees and his guests first. He'd set aside ambition and power. He'd tried to make a better man of himself, to bury his past and create a future he could be proud of. And now where was he? Damn near bankrupt and at the mercy of a predatory magazine writer who thought it would be fun to feature him as a modern-day hippie guru offering free love at his Hideaway brothel. "I wouldn't be so quick to judge him," he said bitterly. "Your father just may have it right." *** Greta had thought she would feel the pain of her aching feet for weeks—but right now she was too numb to feel anything. Gabe's odd tone had disturbed her. His clear rejection had hurt. And when Miranda Blake appeared in the doorway of the stable, notebook in hand and obviously nearby the entire time, Greta had just wheeled around and left. She didn't want to go back to her empty suite. Instead she headed out to walk along the brown sandy beach of Bodega Bay. The wind had picked up, so she tugged her hair into a ponytail and tied her green scarf around her neck. She almost had the beach to herself except for a few others, all couples celebrating Valentine's Day by admiring the beauty of the winter bay. And it was beautiful, in a poignant winter way. Sunset was still a couple of hours away, but the foam was already tinted gold where the water surged against the black rocks. Seabirds swooped and circled overhead, dark wings swinging against the cloudless blue sky. She had a million emails and calls to return—when you owned your own business, work never stopped completely, even when you were on vacation. She'd be willing to bet Gabe hadn't had a true vacation since he bought the Hideaway. But she needed to be alone. She needed to think. And to sort out what Gabe's strange, harsh attitude had really meant.

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She'd never seen him so cold and severe. Coming right after the heat of their kiss made his banked anger even more confusing. When their lips had met, the fire had caught instantly, and if the time and place had been more appropriate, she had no doubt they would have ended up in bed. But, for her at least, it was more than a sudden spike of lust. When he'd put his arms around her, something inside her had softened. Some wall had fallen. For those few wonderful moments, she'd put not only her body in his hands, but her heart. And it had felt safe there. It had felt like… She pulled her scarf up over her nose, warding off the brisk February wind—and the word she'd almost said. That would be crazy. She couldn't kid herself that this was… Love. It couldn't be. Gabe obviously didn't feel anything more than a mild sexual attraction to her…mild enough, it seemed, that he didn't have the impulse to act on it. She'd kissed him twice now, and twice he'd pushed her away. Besides, just yesterday, she'd been sitting in her suite, expecting another man to come through the door and be her lover. And as her father had intimated, she didn't really know Gabe all that well. So what she felt for Gabe couldn't be real. She was just confused right now, suspended between the old rules—her father's rules, Franklin's rules— and the new life she was just beginning to realize was possible. But then why was she so heartsore? Why did her every thought focus on Gabe? She turned, heading back toward the Hideaway, spreading out along the bluff above her, white and welcoming. She climbed the steps toward the garden, the grape arbor and the pool. But halfway up, she found her passage blocked by a tall man in a heavy black coat. "Greta!" The man held out his hands. "I was coming down to look for you. I'm so sorry, honey. Can you forgive me? I was such a fool." She backed up, so shocked that she might have tumbled all the way to the beach if she hadn't clutched wildly and found the handrail. She stared at the man, unable to believe her eyes. "Oh, my God," she breathed. "Franklin."

Chapter Seven "And so Miss Greta looked Ms. Marchada right in the eye and said, 'Oh, yeah? Well, your fancy purse is a big fat fake, so maybe you should stop being such a snob.'" John grinned as he reached the climactic moment of his story, and the others gathered around him at the front desk broke into cheers.

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"Yep," John said, nodding with satisfaction. "And you should have seen Ms. Marchada's face. Took her down a peg, I'll tell you." Gabe, who was sorting through the reservations to try to find out how the double-booking of room twelve had happened, smiled for the first time in hours. The story was so typical of Greta. The first day he'd met her, as she was checking in, she'd been arguing on her cell phone with her father…something about lowering her commission to help out a distressed homeowner. From then on, at every visit he saw more proof that she instinctively championed the underdog. So despite what she believed, her defiance on the phone with her dad today wasn't her first, and it wasn't a result of anything Gabe had done. Greta's father might think he was dealing with a weaker opponent, but he'd better watch out. Greta was coming into her own, finally. And when she made up her mind about something, she was a force to be reckoned with. "Miss Greta is a fine young woman," Meg said, stroking her husband's heart-patterned vest as if she were comforting a kitten. "Always has been. That's why I'm glad her good-looking man friend showed up after all." Gabe lifted his head. "What?" Meg returned to her knitting placidly. "You remember. Her boyfriend. This year's boyfriend, anyhow. You knew the jerk stood her up, didn't you? I was afraid she was going to have to spend Valentine's Day alone. But he ended up coming to be with her." Gabe's fingers tightened on the pen he held. "When?" "About an hour ago. I told him she was walking on the beach, so he went out and found her. They're up in the room now. Probably making up…if you get what I mean." She winked. "I hope she makes him grovel a little, though, before she forgives him. Nasty trick, standing her up on Valentine's Day." Somehow Gabe managed not to jump to his feet and race up the stairs like a cartoon character. He put everything back in the cubbyholes neatly, saved and closed his Excel document. This was for the best. She'd kissed him. That was all. He hadn't staked a claim. He hadn't even declared his intention to try. In fact, he'd rejected her, and for good reason. He had no intention of pulling Greta Kinyon into the quagmire that his life was about to become. If she wanted Franklin back, nothing that had happened in the past twenty-four hours should stop her. It was her decision to make. But damn it. He glanced toward the staircase, and his mind ran through a list of possible excuses to knock on their door, in spite of his determination to stay out of it. Warren, who had confined his hair in a neat ponytail in honor of the visit from Bay Beauty magazine, frowned at Gabe. His bushy silver eyebrows almost completely obscured his eyes. 849

"Maybe you should go check and see if they need anything," Warren suggested. Gabe smiled, hoping it came off as casual. "They'll call if they do." He looked at the switchboard, as if they might be ringing through right now. "I'm sure they're fine." "Yeah, but let's face it," Warren said pointedly. "How fine do you want them to be?" Everyone was staring at Gabe, some with confused expressions. And then, like the annoying jack-in-the-box Gabe had started to imagine her as, Miranda appeared. Behind her were Katie Marchada, the two college co-eds from the pool this afternoon and two other female guests between the ages of twenty-five and forty. "And there's our handsome host," she called merrily. "Okay, everyone! Photo time!" *** Anticipation fizzed in Greta's chest like the bubbles in fine champagne. If she'd learned anything today, it was what she wanted out of life—and what she didn't want. So she wasn't going to just pretend nothing had happened between her and Gabe, and she wasn't going to let him pretend that, either. She had to see him. Right now. She'd thought the elevator would be faster, but when she punched the button and nothing happened, she made an abrupt right turn and bounded down the stairs instead. Working things out with Franklin had taken forever, but it was just barely six o'clock, and with any luck Gabe would be in the lobby. As a true B and B, the Hideaway didn't offer formal meals except in the morning. But every night from six to seven the Hideaway hosted a social hour in the lobby, a chance for the guests to get to know each other over wine and casual hors d'oeuvres. Gabe was usually there. She hoped he would be again tonight—in spite of the fact that Miranda Blake was still on-site. And he was. He stood with one of the many female guests, of course. Some women had their own agenda for social hour—to finagle some flirtation time with Gabe. She spotted him even though she was only halfway down the last flight of stairs. She paused, her hand still on the railing, her effervescence abruptly sputtering out, extinguished by a sudden confusion. The woman he was with was small and mousy. Greta had seen her this morning at breakfast, eating alone, reading a novel and then scuttling back up to her room as soon as she could. Greta had tried to chat with the woman a bit, in the hopes of making her feel more comfortable, but had no luck. Now, though, the woman positively sparkled. The smile she beamed toward Gabe lit up her face. Her posture was better. She looked prettier, happier…even somehow taller. She turned her face toward Miranda Blake's cameraman, looking as lovely as any model. "Say cheese," Charles called out merrily. 850

And everyone laughed. That was what Gabe did. He created happiness. He radiated contentment, confidence and joy, and the people around him caught it. Everywhere he went, everyone he talked to. He made people feel special. All people. Not just her. She had always known that about him. She'd witnessed it a million times. And yet, she'd allowed herself to imagine that what had happened between them last night—and again this afternoon—was more than just Gabe being Gabe. She was a fool. Miranda Blake's laugh rang out. She held out her arms, a gracious shepherd moving all her sheep together for a big family photo shoot. Greta turned around, and went back up the stairs.

Chapter Eight Print this Page Packing didn't take long. Greta was sliding her laptop into the computer bag when she heard a knock. She sighed, hoping it wasn't Franklin, back for another round. When she opened the door, though, it was Gabe on the other side. "Hi," she said neutrally. "I was going to give you a call as soon as you were through with the photos and the wine social." "May I come in?" She stepped aside. "I saw you on the staircase." Gabe's green eyes were steady on hers. "Why didn't you come down?" "Oh. I…I remembered something I hadn't…an email I needed to answer." "They said Franklin was here. But that he left about half an hour ago. Is that true?" "Yes." Gabe's shoulders were tight. His whole body seemed tense. He reached out and straightened a lampshade that was already perfectly aligned. "Have you two worked things out?" "Yes," she said again. His glance shot to her face. But then his face changed. He'd glimpsed the suitcase. He took a step closer. "You're leaving?" 851

"I think I should," she said. "I—" "Are you going off with Franklin?" She shook her head. "No. No. When I say we worked things out, I mean we cleared the air and parted as friends. The story about another woman was a lie. He was angry and hurt. He wanted to hurt me back." Gabe frowned. "He admitted that?" "Yes. He asked me to forgive him, and I did. He wanted more, but I told him I just couldn't." "You're still not ready, you mean. Ready to commit." "Yes. No." She zipped up her computer, wishing she was clearer about it all in her mind, in her heart. "I don't know. I feel as if something has changed, something important. But I'm still confused—I've been imagining all kinds of things. I need some time to sort everything out." "Greta." Gabe took another step toward her. "About this afternoon—" "It's okay," she said. "I know we're just friends, and I value that. I wouldn't want to do anything to spoil it. Ever." She knew she sounded overly emotional, but she couldn't help it. The foundations of her life were collapsing—her relationship with her father was shifting, she'd ended things with Franklin, and her attitude toward her whole career was changing. She was pretty sure she still wanted to work in real estate, but it would be on very different terms. "I understand that, I think," he said. "But—when you said you've been imagining things…what things do you mean?" She flushed. "I ask because—" He watched her closely. "Because if you think you were imagining my reaction to that kiss, you weren't." Her flush deepened. "Then maybe imagining isn't the right word. Maybe I've been…exaggerating." "Exaggerating my reaction to our kiss?" He smiled. "I'm not sure that's possible." "I know…or mine. But that's just sex. I was actually imagining that perhaps we…" She tunneled her hands into her hair. "Forget it. I'm an emotional mess right now. Just twenty-four hours ago I was in a relationship with someone else. You're so steady, so calm, so eternally in control. Maybe I'm just trying to cling to that, so that I don't drown in my own confusion." He was quiet for a long moment. And then he reached out and took her hand. His touch was so gentle that she was instantly soothed. Yes, she thought helplessly. This man could have been the sanctuary she needed. He was the only man who had ever made her feel like this. But for him, she was clearly just another lovesick female guest throwing herself at him. "Let's sit for a minute." 852

She followed him to the armchair. He let her have the seat, and he once again took the ottoman. He didn't let go of her hand. "I want to tell you something," he said. "Something about this 'calm man' you think I am." She waited. Fool that she was, she could hardly concentrate on anything except the strong, lean, callused fingers against her skin. "When I was twenty-six," he said, his voice pensive, as if he had to look a long way back to see what he wanted to say. "I was probably the most hotheaded guy you could ever meet. I was impatient, arrogant, stubborn. I was going to own the most fabulous hotels in the country. I was going to be a huge success, and I was going to reap all the rewards of winning. Money, luxury. Women." She smiled, trying to picture him in those words. It was difficult, but not impossible. The barely banked passion she'd felt in his arms today and the dogged determination with which he'd built this B and B… And, now that she really considered it, a dozen other clues, too, hinted at a powerful personality behind the laid-back smile and woodsy style. "What changed you?" "Disaster. By being such a pushy bastard, I brought tragedy to someone who didn't deserve it." She tightened her fingers on his. "What happened?" "I was managing a hotel in Vegas. Not one of the superstar properties, but big enough to go to my head, especially since I was one of the youngest general managers in the city. It impressed the women. I got pretty good at romancing the female guests. One after another. I couldn't tell them apart, sometimes." She remembered what her father had said about him. He must have heard something. But how? A hound dog in Vegas hardly made headlines in San Francisco. "I was playing with fire, of course, but I was too cocky to care. Then…then there was Liza. It didn't matter to me that she was at the hotel with another man. She was blonde, and beautiful, and strangely innocent, and sweet. I wanted her, and I intended to have her. So I did. Right there, in the room he'd paid for." Greta frowned. It sounded as if he was talking about some other man. Not the Gabe she knew. Or did she really know Gabriel Lennox at all? "Liza was nervous the whole time, but I ignored it. I thought only about what I wanted in those days." He ran his hands through his hair. "God, what a nasty little bastard I was." She could hear the old sorrow still haunting his voice today. "And then…?" "Her boyfriend came back while I was there. He shot us both. Just a shoulder wound for me. But she…" He shook his head. "He killed her." "Oh, my God."

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"Right." He squared his shoulders. "In a way, I died that night, too. Or at least I hope I did. I hope that selfish son of a bitch is gone forever." He looked up finally, his green eyes bright with pain. "She knew about the violence in him. She tried to tell me, but I just wouldn't listen." "You didn't do it," Greta said vehemently. "You didn't pull the trigger." He suddenly looked very tired, and she wondered how many sleepless nights he'd spent trying to get the hotel ready for its photo shoot. How many nightmares he'd had about a dead girl in a long-forgotten hotel room. "That doesn't matter right now, Greta. What I'm trying to tell you is that I haven't always been a good man. But I've tried to change. I never exploit my guests." She tried to smile. "Not even when they throw themselves at you." He glanced once at her lips, then turned his gaze away. "I have accepted the attention, once or twice. But only when I'm sure it won't hurt anyone. Mostly I try to live a life I can be proud of. It's not, however, a very lucrative life. So when Miranda Blake came, offering promotion and hope—" She waited. "But I couldn't do it." "Do what?" "Let her turn the Hideaway and its guests into a joke. I sent her away tonight." Greta inhaled, taken aback. "Why?" "She kept pushing the angle that all my guests have come here to sleep with me, and I won't promote my hotel that way. Not even if it's the only way to save it." "I'll bet she didn't like that." He nodded. "She had already sensed that I had something to hide. She'll probably dig up my past. It's not that hard to find. It was quite a scandal, and they eventually had to close the hotel. A few real estate agents tried to sell the place, but no one wanted to buy it. She'll make the whole thing public all over again. It'll be ugly, and it'll probably force the Hideaway to close even sooner." He met her gaze squarely. "I thought you should know." "Why?" She chewed her lower lip, feeling a sudden terrifying instability, as if the earth had shifted under them. "Why are you telling me all this?" "Because I love you, Greta. I've tried to wait—until you were ready, until you'd worked out all your boyfriend issues, your father issues, your career issues. I've tried to stop myself from acting on my feelings until the time was right. But I realized that I was just afraid. Afraid that I wasn't good enough for you. Afraid that, if you ever found out the truth about me, you would despise me as much as I despised myself."

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Her chest felt tight, and she had no idea what to say. She'd never been so confused in her life. Her heart ached for him, and yet he suddenly seemed like a stranger. Everything he'd ever done looked different. Every sentence he'd ever spoken sounded changed. Who was Gabriel Lennox, really? She needed time. She had already been confused. And after hearing this… It would be crazy to make any big decisions right now. Besides, her dad… "I've already called my father," she said, knowing it wasn't a direct answer, but finding it the best she could do. "I promised I would meet him. I'm sorry, Gabe. I have to go." *** At eight, an hour after Greta left, Meg asked Gabe to take the front desk so she and John could go out for a Valentine's dinner. He agreed, of course. Someone should have a romantic ending to this god-awful day. Tomorrow, he'd turn his mind to damage control with Miranda—and climbing out of this financial pit. There had to be a way…somewhere he could cut back, some other kind of promotion he could manage. Tonight, he was dog-tired. It had been an exhausting day, emotionally and physically. And it had ended with Greta walking out of his hotel. Maybe forever. And he didn't know how he was going to live with that. Sixty minutes ago, her taillights had disappeared into the darkness. Ever since, he'd been trying to stop himself from putting his foot through the wall, or taking a baseball bat and using the wine goblets for batting practice. So much for his famous Zen serenity. Ten years of self-restraint had walked right out the door alongside the woman he loved. "Excuse me, sir. I wondered if you might have any availability for tonight?" He looked up, disbelieving. It couldn't be. But it was. Greta stood on the other side of the front desk. Black coat, green scarf, dark red hair and smiling eyes. "Sir? Did you hear me? I asked if you had a room." He cocked his head, wondering if he was a fool to allow himself to hope. Could she really have made up her mind already? "We're almost full. But, coincidentally, a room became available today quite suddenly. Third-floor suite, bay view."

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She bit her lower lip and murmured a disappointed sound. "No, that doesn't sound quite right. You see…I was actually thinking more along the lines of…" Her pause was playful, and his heart thrummed heavily, like wings trying to take flight. "Along the lines of what?" "Along the lines of…your room." The anguish of the last hour disappeared in a sudden moronic joy. She had come back. She knew everything about his past, the absolute worst of him, and she had come back. It was all he could do not to laugh out loud. "Well, let's see." He pretended to consult the ledger. "Would you be needing the accommodations just for tonight?" She leaned over the counter, and brought her lips very close to his. "Oh, no," she said in a whisper that moved like wildfire into his veins. "You see, I may be crazy, but I'm pretty sure I've fallen in love with you, Gabriel Lennox. So I think I'll be needing it for much, much longer than that." He heard the word, of course. Love. Still, he hesitated. "Have you already seen your father?" "Nope. I called him, though, and told him I'd be here if he wanted to talk. So get ready to meet him, at his worst." She pointed to her ear, tucking her hair behind it to make it more visible. "See that red, scalded spot? That's from him. He was still yelling when I hung up." "Why?" He couldn't stop himself from softly tracing the dainty folds of her ear, which was not red, but a pearly pink. "I thought you needed time to think." "I thought. For maybe twenty minutes before I realized what an idiot I had been to ignore my instincts. To run away from this…from you." "I understood why you left," he said. "It must have been a shock to hear that I'm not the person—" She put her fingers against his lips to stop the words from emerging. "Yes, you are. You are exactly the person I thought you were." She narrowed her eyes, and her voice trembled with intensity. "I know you, Gabe. I know what kind of man you are, no matter how many tragic stories you tell me. I'm through with following what other people say, and from now on I'm listening to my heart. So I just turned the car around and came back. " "But it could get nasty, Greta. For me, for the Hideaway, and for you, if you're by my side. If Miranda decides to run with that story…" "I don't give a darn about Miranda. I'm sorry about Liza, but you aren't that man anymore. Everyone knows that."

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Her conviction was unconditional. Looking into her beautiful, resolute face, he felt something deep in his chest unlock. Relief flooded through. And yet, he couldn't let her forget how difficult life with him might be. "I'm as close to bankruptcy as ever. What if I lose the Hideaway?" She smiled, reaching out to touch the pulse that beat at the edge of his jaw. "You won't. I'll help you with some new marketing plans. But if you do, we'll start over, somewhere else." He caught her gaze and held it, his heart pounding. He couldn't think of another warning to offer her. And so he leaned over and kissed her, hard, not giving a damn who saw. She met him, heat for heat. And when they finally pulled apart for air, she looked deeply into his eyes. "Is that a yes? You have an opening in your…your life?" He picked up his pen again and studied the ledger once more. "I think I might be able to fit you in. I'll put you down for…let me see. How does forever sound?" "It sounds fantastic," she said, taking his face in her hands. "As long as it starts right now."

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Whatever Happened To Babycakes? By Darlene Gardner

Chapter One A single glimpse into the terribly handsome face of the man tapping on her kitchen window was enough for Jillian Foster to conclude that her secret was out. She'd been around enough reporters in her life to know one when she saw one. This one had that rumpled look, that nosy stance, that I'm-not-going-away-until-you-talk-to-me air. The kitchen light was blazing, casting an unfortunate spotlight on her, but Jillian wasn't about to make this easy for him. She averted her eyes, pretended she hadn't noticed him noticing her, went to the phone and dialed 9-1-1. "There's a man lurking outside my window," she told the operator and gave her address. "I think he's a Peeping Tom." She hung up to more window taps, which were making it increasingly hard for her to pretend she didn't hear. To cover up the noise, she broke into a song but stopped after a couple of bars. Her voice might sound different than it had 12 years ago but she was still cursed with tell-tale perfect pitch and outstanding range. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the man was making hand gestures. Wide, sweeping ones. She turned her back, went into her living room, whistled for Xena, and opened the front door. "Go get him, girl," she told the dog and shut the door fast. She rested the back of her head against a wall. She'd always known that one of these days a stranger would come skulking around, looking for her. Her parents had taken pains to make sure it didn't happen, spiriting her away to a small French town when she was a child and letting five years pass until puberty had changed her so much she was barely recognisable. Still, Jillian hadn't taken any chances. She'd cut and permed her trademark long blond hair, changed her name and hadn't gone near anyone or anything associated with the entertainment industry. Nobody should have guessed that a physical-education teacher living in a small college town nestled in the hills of eastern Pennsylvania had once been dubbed by the press as the most famous child star since Shirley Temple. Except that the horrid, handsome man outside her house had figured it out. She ignored Xena's furious barks, the doorbell, and the man's shouts of, "I know you're in there." Eventually he stopped trying to get her to answer the door. She waited for the cops. 858

Maybe it wasn't fair to sic her dog on him and have him arrested, but she wasn't ready to be thrust back into the spotlight she'd run from a dozen years before. She wasn't ready for the nation to get the answer to the question they'd never stopped asking: What ever happened to Marylou 'Babycakes' Malone? Chapter Two Was Aunt Midge's gorgeous next-door neighbour hard of hearing? Is that why she hadn't heard him tapping on her window and ringing her doorbell? The possibility ran through Bailey Donahue's mind as he walked from the front porch to the back of the woman's house, his progress slowed by the yapping toy poodle at his heels. If he hadn't been wearing pants, his shins would have claw marks from the little dog trying to crawl up his legs. Did the dog belong to the deaf woman? He resumed his position at her kitchen window, which he'd only assumed in the first place because she didn't have a back door and he'd thought she saw him. He moved his arms like a runway worker signaling a plane to land. Standing at the window made him feel like a voyeur, but he was determined to be seen if not heard. The poodle was still yelping so he bent down and picked it up, getting a tongue bath for his troubles. "Put your arms in the air where I can see them and turn around very slowly." The voice was deep, menacing, and most probably belonged to a cop. Damn. He didn't think the cop would take kindly to him bending over to put the poodle down so he held it in one hand and raised both of his arms overhead. When he turned around, the glow of the moon allowed him to see that a large uniformed man with a shaved scalp was holding a gun on him. Yep, most definitely a cop. "What's that in your hand?" the cop growled. The poodle yapped. "It's my Xena. He's trying to steal my Xena!" The deaf woman, who had surprisingly good diction, suddenly appeared behind the cop. It was too dark to see her well, but he already knew from gazing through the window that she was a beauty. Too bad she was delusional. Chapter Three "I'm not a thief. I picked up the dog because it wouldn't stop jumping on me," Bailey explained.

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"Bad Xena." The woman, who'd obviously heard what he said, shook her finger at the airborne dog. So she wasn't deaf, after all. "How can you be a warrior princess if you get your head turned by a handsome face?" "Hey, I resent that," Bailey protested, then thought about what she'd said. "I think." "Put the dog down slowly," the cop said. To the woman, he said, "Stay behind me, where you're safe from the Peeping Tom." "I'm not a Peeping Tom," Bailey said as he set down the dog, who jumped on his pant leg again. "I'm here visiting my aunt Midge. She said her neighbour had a key." "I don't know anybody named Midge," the woman said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You better book 'im." Bailey tried to give his aunt's full name, but the cop interrupted him before he could spit it out. "You better not say anything else 'til I read you your rights," the cop said. "You're going to jail." ****** "Hello, Jillian," said the familiar voice on the other end of the telephone line. "This is Margaret Donahue. I was calling to let you know that I told my nephew Bailey you had the spare key to my house. I need to stay at this conference a few more days, but he's to make himself at home." Jillian nearly choked on the breakfast bagel she was munching. Before he was taken away in handcuffs the night before, the man who'd been peering into her window had said something about his aunt. "Does anybody call you Midge?" Jillian asked fearfully. "Only family," Margaret said. "Anyway, be nice to my nephew. He works too hard. I can hardly believe I finally talked him into coming to visit for some much-needed R and R." Jillian stood by the phone in a daze for a full minute after she'd hung up. The hunk at the window last night hadn't been a reporter bent on exposing her as Babycakes Malone. He hadn't been a Peeping Tom, either. He'd been her next-door neighbour's visiting nephew. Chapter Four Forty-five minutes later, she was intensely aware of Bailey Donahue as he sat beside her during the drive through the Hemlock State College campus on the way back to his aunt's house. "I'd thank you for springing me from jail if you hadn't gotten me thrown into it," he said wryly.

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"I'm sorry. I thought you were a…" she'd been going to say she'd thought him a reporter about to tell the world that the dimpled cherub who'd played Babycakes on television was now a physicaleducation teacher living in Hemlock, Pennsylvania "…Peeping Tom," she finished. "Peeping Toms don't tap on windows and ring doorbells." "You never can tell," she said. "Nobody goes with the flow anymore. Everybody has his own m.o. Why not a Peeping Tom?" She'd thought he looked rumpled last night, but he was more so now. His eyes were bloodshot, he'd obviously slept in his clothes, and the jail must not have provided a razor. So why did he look so sexy? "It was partly my fault for getting here a day earlier than I told Aunt Midge." He slanted her a half grin. "And I don't blame you. Really. If I were a Peeping Tom, I couldn't pick a more beautiful woman to peep at." The compliment warmed her. It felt wonderful to be flirted with by somebody as handsome and charming as Bailey. "Your aunt says you're a workaholic. Where exactly is it that you work?" "It's called Insightful. You may have heard of it. It's a national magazine based in Philadelphia." "You're not a reporter, are you?" Jillian asked, trying to keep the dread out of her voice. Not everyone who worked at a magazine reported the news. Magazines had advertising departments, promotion managers, sales staffs.… "Sure am," Bailey said. "You make the news, I report it." Chapter Five Jillian experienced a jolt of panic so intense she nearly drove the car into a ditch. She jerked the wheel to right the car and made herself give him a bright smile. "How lovely," she said. Meanwhile, her mind whirled. Surely his statement had been innocent. When he said you make the news, he didn't actually mean she was the newsmaker. After she'd introduced herself at the police station as Jillian Foster, he hadn't pointed out her better-known name was Babycakes Malone. So Bailey was a reporter. That didn't mean he was in Hemlock to work on a story. "Your aunt said you were here for rest and relaxation," she said.

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He cleared his throat. "How old are you?" "Twenty-three," she answered. Her mind leaped, making her pulse jump. "Why? Are you thinking you might want to relax with me?" He laughed, a deep, pleasant sound that warmed her insides. "I might take you up on that. Except first I should confess I'm not exactly here to relax." Relax, she told herself. It's still a long shot that he's here looking for you. "Oh, no? Why are you here then?" "Can you keep a secret?" She nodded. She'd kept one for 12 years, hadn't she? "I wouldn't tell you this if you were three years younger, but I'm looking for somebody." Jillian gulped. If she were three years younger, she'd be 20, which is the age most everybody believed Babycakes would be now. Hardly anybody knew her stage manager had sliced three years off her age because she was so petite she looked younger than her years. Chapter Six "Who are you looking for?" she asked as she pulled the car up in front of his aunt's house. Good thing they'd arrived. Trembling hands made it hard to drive. "Babycakes Malone," he said, and Jillian's world collapsed. "You probably remember her. The child star who left show business at the height of her fame. Nobody knows where she went or what happened to her." Jillian gulped. "And you do?" "Not yet. But I aim to find out. One of my aunt's friends told her she'd seen Babycakes in town. Aunt Midge doesn't know it but I'm chasing the story." Oh, Lord. Left to his own devices, he was bound to discover that Jillian was Babycakes. Unless…she could steer him wrong. "Hemlock's a small town and you're a stranger, but I'm a local," she said slowly. "Tell you what. I'll help you find Babycakes." ******

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Somebody was ringing Aunt Midge's doorbell at the unthinkable hour of three in the afternoon. Unthinkable because it had been noon before Bailey, who'd spent a sleepless night on a cold, hard cot at the county jail, had finally dozed. He covered his head with a pillow, trying to recapture the glorious dream in which Babycakes Malone skipped up to his side and said in her gee-whiz voice, "Heard you were looking for me, Mister. Wouldn't want you to lose your job if you didn't find me." The ringing went on and on, jarring him back to reality. Babycakes wasn't going to appear on his doorstep begging to be found. And if she did, she'd look like a woman instead of the goldenhaired child star of yesteryear. "I'm coming," he growled as he got out of the too-soft bed in his absent aunt's guestroom. He was in a foul mood by the time he flung open the door. "I'm ready to start," said the petite blonde from next door who'd falsely accused him of being a Peeping Tom. She pranced by him into the house, looking adorably sexy in gym shorts and a T-shirt. His fuzzy brain remembered that her name was Jillian Foster, that she was a physical-education teacher and that he found something so compelling about her big-eyed, heart-shaped face that he couldn't take his eyes off her. There was something else he should remember, too, but his sleep-addled mind could only work so fast. Chapter Seven "I didn't wake you, did I?" Jillian peered at him, her bottom lip caught between her perfect, white teeth. Her short hair was a mass of dark-blond curls. "Oh, no," he denied and clipped his big, bare toe with the door when he tried to close it. He jumped back, stifling a curse as he finally woke up. "Well, maybe." "Oops. I rushed over here as soon as school ended thinking you'd want to start right away," she said, and he remembered the elusive piece of information about Jillian Foster. He'd unwisely accepted her offer to help in the search for Babycakes. "I do want to start," he said but what he really wanted to do was pull her into his arms and kiss her pretty mouth, which was exactly why he shouldn't have said she could help. To keep his job, he needed to track down Babycakes. Simple as that. Insightful Magazine was changing its focus from hard news, his specialty, to feature stories. And there was major doubt that he could write the lighter stuff. 863

He didn't need a distraction and prepared to tell her so. Then she smiled at him. Hey, he reasoned, Jillian was a local. Maybe she could help. "What are you going to do first?" she asked. "Call the woman who told my aunt Babycakes was in town." She chewed her bottom lip, and he waited for her to spout words of wisdom. "I don't think that's a good idea." "How could calling the professor who told my aunt she thinks Babycakes is in town be a bad idea?" Bailey's strong brow furrowed. "She's my only lead." Jillian tapped her chin, desperately trying to think of an answer that would keep him from discovering she was the former child star he was looking for. "Your aunt thinks you came to Hemlock for rest and relaxation. She'll be upset if she finds out you're chasing a story for your magazine." "She's in Texas at a conference on molecular biology. How's she going to find out?" I'll shout it from the rooftops if I have to, Jillian thought. Aloud, she said, "Her friend might tell her. Then you'd be in deep trouble." Chapter Eight Her argument wouldn't make a whole lot of sense to anyone over the age of 10, which he'd figure out in a moment. Maybe she should try another approach. He claimed he found her beautiful. Maybe she should flirt with him. She batted her eyelashes. He stared. Good. Very good. "Your eyes weren't brown this morning, were they? I could have sworn they were light-coloured. Either blue or green." Bad. Very bad. He'd been so sleepy that morning she hadn't thought he noticed she had Babycakes's green eyes. She should have figured that reporters fastened on details before she freaked and got out her coloured contacts. "Nope. I'm a brown-eyed girl. Born that way. Stayed that way. Will always be that way."

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He was looking at her curiously so she shut up. "Coffee. I need coffee," he said. "I must still be half-asleep." Within minutes, they were sitting in his aunt's kitchen, coffee cups cradled in their hands while Jillian silently railed at herself for being attracted to a member of the press. The press had made her childhood so miserable she'd hidden in France for five years. But railing didn't help. Bailey still made her mouth water more than coffee ever could. His lightbrown hair was mussed, his lips looked soft from sleep and his eyes, which were a legitimate brown, made her think of the bedroom. "So tell me what my first move should be?" he asked. "That depends on what you know about Babycakes." "I know what everybody else knows. She played a child genius in the TV show that gave her the name. The nation fell in love with her. Then she dropped out of sight. She was eight years old." Eleven, actually, but he didn't need to know that. "She's most likely a college coed. I think you should roam the campus until you find her." "I know what she looked like at eight. I don't have a clue what she'd look like at 20," Bailey said. "No offense, Jillian, but I think you may be journalistically challenged. I'm calling that friend of my aunt's." Chapter Nine "Let me see if I've got this straight," the source told Bailey, who held the phone out from his ear. Her voice squeaked more than Tweety Bird's. "You're visiting your aunt, who thinks you're in Hemlock to get away from it all, and instead you're working on a story for your magazine?" Jillian had been right. Victoria Van Dyke would probably call Aunt Midge and tattle on him as soon as they got off the phone. "My aunt's still in Texas, Mrs. Van Dyke," he said politely. "I need to keep busy until she comes back, and what better way than to solve the Babycakes mystery." The woman made a noise that sounded like a tweet but was probably a sigh. "Didn't Babycakes used to be the cutest thing? The way she sang and danced and tossed her long blond hair?" "Ah, yes," Bailey said. "Now about her whereabouts…" "Don't tell me you think I know where she is." Patience, Bailey told himself. It was the harbinger of all good things. "My aunt said you mentioned Babycakes was in town." 865

"I said I heard Babycakes was in town. From Rose Fitzgibbons. But I'm sure she didn't actually see the girl. Rose never met a piece of gossip she didn't repeat. And who knows who she heard it from. She eavesdrops, you know." Bailey sighed. "Well, thanks for your help anyhow, Mrs. Van Dyke. Listen, if you happen to hear anything else about Babycakes, will you give me a call here at my aunt's house? Thanks." Bailey hung up and turned to Jillian. "Well, no help there." Jillian gazed up at him with her deep brown eyes, her soft lips slightly parted. Suddenly Bailey found himself thinking more about kissing Jillian than writing a story that would keep the editors at Insightful Magazine from firing him. He stepped closer to her, and then he was no longer only thinking about kissing her. He cupped her head, tangled his fingers in her short, blond hair and captured her mouth. Her lips clung to his, soft and sweet and pliant. "Who is that you're kissing, dear?" Chapter Ten They sprang apart to see an elderly woman looking curiously at them from the sidewalk. Darn, Bailey hadn't closed the door completely, and it had swung open. "This is Bailey Donahue, Margaret's nephew," Jillian said, her cheeks adorably flushed. She introduced the old-timer as another of his aunt's neighbours. "Watch him," the lady warned. "He looks like a fast worker to me." Bailey was about to refute that when the telephone rang. Thinking it might be the return call he was expecting, he motioned Jillian inside the house. Five minutes later, he hung up the phone. "That was another source," he said. "She heard about the Babycakes sighting from Trudy Best." "The hairdresser at Best Cuts? She cuts my hair." "That's good," Bailey said as his mind whirled. In a moment, he had a plan. "Jillian, would you consider going to the beauty shop undercover to help me find Babycakes Malone?" ****** "You're asking me to go undercover with my own hairdresser?" Jillian wasn't sure whether to feel panicked or confused. "What am I supposed to do? Pretend to get my hair cut?" "Undercover might have been too strong a word." Bailey stroked his chin. "You'd have to actually get your hair cut. Hairdressers don't gossip unless somebody's in the chair."

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"Why can't Trudy gossip to you instead of me?" "She's more likely to tell a regular than a stranger who told her Babycakes is in town. Hairdressers are like good reporters. They spread the news, but don't reveal their sources." Jillian nearly protested that "good reporter" was a contradiction in terms but she couldn't afford to raise Bailey's suspicions. "Will you do it?" he asked, tipping his head cajolingly. She might have been able to refuse if she couldn't still feel the imprint of his mouth on hers. But how could she say no? She was a sucker for a man who could curl her toes. Chapter Eleven A little while later, Jillian watched through a giant mirror as Trudy, whose dark hair was so long she'd probably never had it cut, fingered Jillian's wet hair. Bailey was in the chair next to hers, having managed to get a coinciding appointment with the silent-as-a-mime hairdresser in the adjacent station. "I'm so glad you had a cancellation," Jillian told Trudy. "I couldn't wait another day to get my hair cut." Deep lines furrowed Trudy's forehead. "Weren't you just here two weeks ago?" Jillian flicked a nervous glance at Bailey, who didn't need a haircut, either. "Wing it," he lipsynched. "You know what they say about us women," Jillian said airily. "We can never be too rich, too young, or too well shorn." "Hey, I like your version," Trudy said and proceeded to snip. "Have you ever thought about letting this perm grow all the way out and going au natural?" Jillian closed her eyes. Babycakes had straight hair. She didn't want Bailey to know that she did, too. "Curly is natural for me. You know I only perm my hair to get it curlier." Trudy opened her mouth, probably to call her a liar, so Jillian feigned a coughing spell. "Must've gotten some hairs caught in my throat," she said when she was fairly certain Trudy had forgotten what they'd been talking about. "Ask her." Bailey's reflection gave Jillian the silent command, which she wanted to ignore but couldn't.

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"Wonder what ever happened to Babycakes Malone?" she blurted out. So much for undercover subtlety. "Funny you should mention her," Trudy said and dread filled the pit of Jillian's stomach. "One of the professors over at Hemlock told me he'd seen her in town." Bailey caught Jillian's eye in the mirror and mouthed, "Who?" "Did you ask who told me?" Trudy looked up. "Hamilton Farragut." A sheer act of will kept Jillian from gasping aloud. The name was one she knew well from childhood. Too well. Chapter Twelve Jillian trailed Bailey into the office in his aunt's house a half hour later, wondering how she was going to stop him from talking to Hamilton Farragut. If anybody could recognise Babycakes Malone, even if she was all grown up and disguised as small-town physical-education teacher Jillian Foster, it would be Ham Farragut. Why did Trudy have to damage the reputation of circumspect hairdressers everywhere by blabbing his name like that? She'd opened up like a spigot turned to full blast. "I know my aunt has a staff directory somewhere," Bailey riffled through the papers on the desk with a single-minded determination that thrilled as well as dismayed Jillian. It figured that intensity was one of the traits that attracted her. "Can you believe this stroke of luck," he continued as he riffled. "Who would have thought Hunter Green worked at Hemlock State College?" "Hunter Green," Jillian repeated, keeping enough of her wits about her to play dumb. "Who's he?" Bailey lifted his head and grinned at her. Even though both of them had their hair cut so short they'd be wise to steer clear of marine recruiting stations, he looked so appealing that her breath snagged. It'd serve her right if she suffocated. Here he was on the verge of discovering she was Babycakes and she thought he was cute. "Who's Hunter Green?" he repeated. "Just the guy who played the dad on the TV show where Babycakes was a child genius. I think he was the flaky one."

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"The mum was the flaky one. The dad was the egomaniac who carried a hand mirror in his shirt pocket," Jillian said. The role hadn't been much of a stretch. That's why the show's cast had shortened his name from Hamilton to Ham. Bailey laughed and went back to his search while Jillian's desperation grew. She'd gone to college at Hemlock State and had lived in the surrounding town for two years. Why hadn't she known Ham Farragut was a professor here? "Here it is," Bailey said, pulling a thin black book from the papers on his aunt's desk. Jillian thought about making a grab for the directory, but he was already leafing through it. "Farragut's not listed. He must be new to the staff." He picked up the telephone and started to punch in numbers. Chapter Thirteen "What are you doing?" Jillian crossed the office and put her hand on his arm. She was unprepared for the jolt of awareness that zinged through her. "Calling directory assistance," he said, but he was no longer dialing. The intensity she'd found so compelling a few moments ago was focused entirely on her. She barely stopped herself from winding her arms around his neck and telling him with her kiss that she wanted to make love to him. But that was crazy. He was the reporter trying to expose her secret, which would probably come out if he talked to Ham Farragut. Then again, maybe making love to him wouldn't be so crazy if it stopped him from talking to Ham. "I know of something we can do that's more exciting than calling directory assistance," she said huskily. ****** Thoughts of questioning Hamilton Farragut about the whereabouts of Babycakes Malone disappeared like keyboard strokes that meet the delete key. Had Jillian just invited him to make love to her? Bailey's body hardened at the thought. He was a reporter who knew better than to let a woman distract him from getting a story, but at the moment he didn't care what he knew. He wanted Jillian, had wanted her from the moment he'd first seen her through her kitchen window, swaying to the beat of some imaginary song. His quest to find the former child star who could save his job would have to wait.

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"When you said you knew of something exciting we could do," he whispered, "did you mean what I think you meant?" She licked her lips, blinked her eyelashes, and nodded. Heat flooded him. He was right. She was propositioning him. He put down the phone, pushed his fingers through her short hair, lowered his head, and… "Xena must be hungry by now." Her breath teased his lips. "Feeding her's exciting on account of how she tries to crawl up your leg when you're filling her bowl." His mouth froze six inches from hers. "You were talking about your poodle?" "Yes," she said but her eyes flickered away from his. "Want to help?" Chapter Fourteen He wanted to do something a heck of a lot more intimate than feeding a rambunctious toy poodle, but it was a woman's prerogative to change her mind. He followed Jillian to her house next door in the hopes that she might change it back again. "She likes you," Jillian said when Xena bypassed jumping for the bowl of food she was preparing to jumping on Bailey's leg. "I've never seen her hop like that." "How about you?" he asked, sidling close to her. He thought he heard her breath hitch. "Do you like me?" "Sure," she said and set down the dog's bowl. Xena didn't notice the bowl of food until Jillian peeled her from Bailey's pant leg and set her in front of it. "Then why did you change your mind about seducing me?" He couldn't see her face because he was standing behind her, but he saw her shoulders tense. A terrible thought hit him. "Please tell me you don't have a boyfriend." She turned, raising her eyes to his. "No boyfriend," she said, then hesitated. "Do you have a girlfriend?" "My job keeps me so busy I don't have time for a girlfriend." He stopped. "Scratch that. I haven't wanted to make time for a girlfriend." He lowered his voice. "Until now." He took a step toward her, put his hands on her shoulders, felt her tremble. "You didn't answer me. Why did you change your mind about seducing me?" "I didn't change my mind," she whispered. "I lost my nerve." "I've got plenty of nerve for both of us," Bailey said and scooped her into his arms.

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Jillian lost track of the reason she'd lured Bailey to her bed as soon as he started to undress her. Heck, maybe she'd lost her mind the moment he touched her. "I love the way you look," he said when he was staring down at breasts she'd always thought were too small and hips that had never seemed to have enough flare. "I bet I'd love the way you look, too," she hinted. He had his clothes off in a flash, revealing a hard, muscled body that made her breath catch. "I was right," she said as he joined her on the bed. He laughed. Chapter Fifteen "I love the way you feel," he said as his hands caressed first her hips and then her breasts. Her toes curled. Again. She reached for him. "Ditto," she said before their mouths met in a series of drugging kisses that robbed her of everything but desire. Somehow, amid the mad passion, they got him sheathed. Then those large, sure hands were on her hips, pulling her to him as their bodies fused. Jillian's last coherent thought as he moved inside her was that she'd made it a matter of principle to thoroughly know a man before she made love to him. This wasn't an exception. Her heart knew Bailey. A long time later, Bailey and Jillian lay spent and tangled in each other's arms, the only sounds the ticking of her bedside clock and Xena's muffled barks. "Considering how Xena feels about you," Jillian said lazily, "I'm surprised she's not in bed with us." Bailey propped himself up on one elbow and grinned down at her. "I kicked the door closed on the way in. I thought having your poodle watch might inhibit you." She smiled back at him, thinking that luring him into her bed had been a very good idea indeed. She frowned as she recalled her original reason for luring him. She'd wanted to keep him from talking to Ham Farragut and finding out she was Babycakes. One of his large hands slowly, sensually stroked her hip. She sighed. Why had a lovely man like Bailey become a reporter? "Just about everybody in my family's a reporter," he said, a bemused expression on his handsome face, and she realised she'd asked the question aloud. Now that the subject was on the table - er, bed - maybe she could make him see reason. "But don't you worry about invading privacy? Take Babycakes, for example. If she doesn't want to be found, isn't that her right?" 871

"The public has a right to know," he replied automatically, his hand moving from her hips to her breast. "The journalists in my family have a saying. Just Don't Do It…or We'll Print It." She was about to argue but then he lowered himself so that his body was aligning hers and heat pooled deep inside her. She'd worry about him being a member of the press later, she promised herself, as she enthusiastically returned his kiss. But later turned into so much later that it was morning before Jillian thought about anything at all except making love to Bailey. She woke up at 10 to a note propped against the lamp on her end table. Didn't want to wake you. Went to talk to Farragut alone. Chapter Sixteen Jillian's heart plummeted to the soles of her feet when she rounded the corner to Ham Farragut's house and saw Bailey's car parked in front of it. That morning's mad scramble to find out where her former TV dad lived and intercept Bailey before he got to him had been for nothing. Even now, Ham could be telling Bailey that Jillian was Babycakes Malone. Jillian pulled her car away from the curb, wondering how fast she could pack her bags and get out of town. Away from the glare of publicity she'd never wanted. And away from Bailey, who she feared she'd always want.

A block away, she slammed on the brakes and determinedly wiped away her tears. Ham had seen her but he didn't necessarily know what name she was using. And if he didn't know her name, she wouldn't have to leave. Minutes later, she cast a furtive look around to make sure nobody was watching, got on the balls of her feet, and crept up to Ham's house like a cat burglar on the prowl. She kept low when she got to the house, making like a jack-in-the-box as she peered into windows for a glimpse of the two men. She heard their voices coming from the back of the house and hid behind the thick hedges bracketing the open-air porch. "Of course I'd love to talk to you about Babycakes," said a man with a sonorous voice she immediately recognised as belonging to Ham. "The show was so popular I'm sure people will want to read about what the star is doing now. Where's your camera? Your readers will want to see photos of me, too."

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Jillian rolled her eyes as she pictured Ham smoothing his already perfectly coiffed hair back from his classic-featured face. "I'm not here to talk about Babycakes the show, Professor Farragut." It was Bailey's voice, the same one that had whispered seductive words in her ear the night before when they'd made love. A heavy liquid sensation rolled through her. "Call me Hunter, as in Hunter Green," Ham said. "Sure…Hunter," Bailey said. "As I was saying, I'd like to talk about Babycakes the actress." Chapter Seventeen “Just between you and me, the kid was jealous of me,” Ham said in a stage whisper. “But I couldn’t help it if I was a scene stealer. The female viewers loved me. It’s probably the eyes. They’re hunter green, you know.” “They’re very nice,” Bailey said. “But about Babycakes -” “I’m sure she lied about her age but the producers must have forced her to so they could get me on the show. I hardly looked old enough to be her father as it was.” “Professor Far… I mean Hunter. I hear you think Babycakes is in town. Can you tell me why?” “Why?” He sounded surprised. “Because I saw her. Just a glimpse across campus. But enough to know it was her.” So Ham didn’t know what name she was using. Relief poured through Jillian as she backed away from the row of hedges and circled around the front of the house, only to find a large, bald cop shaking his head as he walked up to her. “I’d have thought you’d know better than this,” he said. “I’m going to have to take you in for being a Peeping Tom…uh, make that a Peeping Tina.” ****** Bailey had barely said goodbye to Hamilton Farragut before he starting envisioning Jillian the way he’d left her that morning, all sleepy and warm and sexy. But he wouldn’t have conjured up a daydream with her wearing baggy sweat pants and an oversize red T-shirt, shouting, “I am not a Peeping Tina,” at a big, bald cop. So that could only mean the scene he saw in front of Hamilton Farragut’s house was reality instead of fantasy.

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“Would a Peeping Tina wear red?” Jillian asked the same cop who’d arrested him. “Would a Peeping Tina peep in broad daylight at a couple of clothed men on a back porch?” “Criminals aren’t known for their brains. That’s why they get caught,” the cop said and put his hand on her head so she wouldn’t bump it on the way into the squad car. Chapter Eighteen Bailey took off for the pair of them at a dead run, yelling, “Hey, what’s going on?” Jillian looked glad to see him, but the cop’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t remove his hand from Jillian’s head. “Aren’t you the Peeping Tom from the other night?” “I was vindicated,” Bailey said. “Doesn’t mean you’re innocent. For all I know, you taught your voyeur tricks to this young lady here. A neighbour saw her creeping around looking into windows and called it in.” Impossible, Bailey thought. Jillian wouldn’t peer into windows. She must’ve figured out where Farragut lived and come to join him. Simple as that. The neighbour had to be mistaken. “She came here to meet me,” he said. “What?” Jillian and the cop asked in unison. The cop gave Jillian a suspicious look. “I meant to say, ‘What else would I be doing here?’” she said, then turned pleading eyes to Bailey. “Right, Bailey?” “Right,” he said, wondering why she was acting so skittish. The truth, after all, was the best defense. “I came to talk to Professor Farragut for a magazine story I hope to write about Babycakes Malone and -” “Babycakes,” the cop interrupted. “You mean that cute little kid who used to be on TV? Didn’t somebody kidnap her?” “Certainly not,” Jillian said sharply. Bailey was wondering at the heat in her voice when she added more calmly, “Don’t you remember? Her family issued a statement saying she was leaving show business.” “But what happened to her?” the cop asked. “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Bailey said and nodded toward Jillian. “With the lady’s help.” “Considering it’s for a good cause,” the cop said grudgingly, “I guess I can make an exception and let her go.” 874

“Then could you take your hand off my head?” Jillian asked through gritted teeth. Chapter Nineteen Bailey was still chuckling over the incident a few hours later as Jillian preceded him into a restaurant renowned for its pizza. “That wasn’t the funniest part,” Jillian said, laughing up at him. “The funniest part was when he said he better not see another peep out of either of us.” She faced forward at the same time he spotted the man with hunter-green eyes waiting at their table. “Did I mention that Hamilton Farragut was meeting us for lunch?” Bailey asked. The lump that caught in Jillian’s throat was the size of one of those cameras the paparazzi used to wield when they popped out of the shadows and snapped her photo. Her reprieve from the fame she’d never wanted was over. Ham Farragut, a.k.a. Hunter Green, was about to tell Bailey that she, Jillian Foster, also had another name: Babycakes Malone. Jillian should have known that nothing good could come out of her association with a reporter. So what if Bailey was irresistible? She should have resisted him. Because she hadn’t, she’d have to pay - with her hard-won privacy. She considered making a run for it, or at least ducking behind a potted plant, but Bailey’s hand was at her back, guiding her inevitably forward toward her fate. “Jillian, this is Prof…I mean Hunter Green,” Bailey said when they reached the table. “Hunter, this is Jillian Foster.” Jillian held her breath and waited for Ham to rat her out. Instead he looked at her as though he’d never seen her before in his life, inclined his head slightly and focused on Bailey. “Were you serious when you said you’d include me in the magazine article if I led you to Babycakes?” he asked. Jillian, her knees weak with relief, sank into a chair. “Maybe mention the injustice of a star like me ending up as a drama professor in a small town like this?” “Sure,” Bailey said with a shrug. “Why not?” Chapter Twenty 875

“That’s why I called and asked you to meet for lunch,” Ham said. “After our talk, I got to thinking about where on campus I’d seen Babycakes. It was in front of the Sugar Maple Dormitory so I went over there with one of her old publicity photos and passed it around.” He took out a glossy eight-by-ten of Babycakes and himself. Ham’s professionally whitened teeth had an unearthly glow and his right side, which he insisted was more handsome than the left, was facing the camera. Babycakes’s long blond hair was in braids and she looked very young. “Oh, come on, Ham. Do you really think anyone would recognise Babycakes from a 12-year-old photo?” Jillian asked. After all, he hadn’t. “What did you say?” Ham stared, seeming to see her for the first time. “Nobody’s called me Ham since that show ended.” Oops, Jillian thought. “Uh, I must’ve read the nickname in a fan magazine,” she hedged. “I did have a lot of fans, didn’t I?” He grinned at the memory. “Anyway, as I was saying, I showed the picture around. And a couple of girls recognised Babycakes right off.” Jillian didn’t dare speak in case Ham had the girls stashed at a back table ready to point her out. “Did they tell you where to find her?” Bailey asked. “Yes, they did. They even gave me the name she’s using.” He paused, undoubtedly for dramatic effect. “Babycakes is a student at Hemlock State using the assumed name of Candy Sweetwater.” Chapter Twenty-One Bailey waited until they reached the restaurant parking lot before he swung Jillian into his arms and kissed her on the mouth with more heat than the midday sun could generate. “Was that because you have a lead on Babycakes?” Jillian asked when they drew apart. Her voice was breathy but her eyes were wary. “That was because I couldn’t help myself.” He’d told himself he wasn’t going to let her distract him from his job. But the memory of their night together kept doing it. “I should warn you that, after we check out this lead, I probably won’t be able to help myself again.” He thought she was going to set him straight, maybe tell him last night hadn’t meant as much to her as it obviously had to him, but she smiled and grabbed his hand. “In that case,” she said, leading him to the car, “don’t we have a lead to check out?”

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Fifteen minutes later, a big-boned blond who stood at least six feet tall answered the door at Candy Sweetwater’s dormitory suite. Her eyes were green but that was as far as her resemblance to Babycakes went. “Yeah?” Her voice was low, gruff, and a little scary. “We’re looking for Miss Sweetwater,” Bailey said. “You’ve found her.” He tried not to show his surprise. Babycakes hadn’t seemed as though she had the genes to grow into an amazon. “You’re Candy Sweetwater?” “Heck, no. I’m Bertha Sweetwater. Candy’s my big sister. She’s inside. Who are you?” “This is Jillian Foster,” Bailey said, “and I’m Bailey Donahue from Insightful Magazine. We want to ask Candy about Babycakes Malone.” “Then you’ve come to the right place,” Bertha said, swinging the door open wide to grant them entrance. Chapter Twenty-Two They walked into a surreal scene. The walls were plastered with posters of Babycakes. Posing with her TV family. Wearing sequins and belting out a Broadway tune. Tap-dancing in a film version of Annie in which Annie was a long-haired blond. “Candy has a thing for Babycakes,” Bertha said, then bellowed her sister’s name. A pretty green-eyed girl with waist-length blond hair and a camera-ready smile walked into the room. “Did somebody say Babycakes? She’s my favourite subject.” Bailey could only gape. She looked exactly like the girl in Hamilton Farragut’s poster, only larger. “Wow,” Bailey said and introduced himself as a magazine reporter who wanted to tell the nation why Babycakes had disappeared and what she was doing now. “You are Babycakes, right?” “Yes,” the girl said, smiling prettily, “I most certainly am Babycakes.” ****** Jillian sat next to Bailey on the pink-and-blue-plaid sofa in Candy Sweetwater’s dormitory suite, listening to the impostor regale them with tales of a childhood she’d never lived.

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“Golly gee, I loved being America’s pint-size sweetheart,” Candy said, using not only Babycakes’s trademark expression but the label the New York Times had pinned on the child star. “I had everything my little heart desired.” Yeah, right, Jillian thought. How about privacy? How about innocence? “My favourite part of being famous was the TV show,” Candy continued. “I loooooved playing a child genius. It was the coolest thing when I’d tell my TV mum and TV dad how to solve their problems and they’d turn to the camera and say, ‘Babycakes knows best.’” Yeah, Jillian thought sarcastically, spending 10 hours a day, six days a week on the set of a TV show when your friends were at home playing with Barbie dolls had been a blast. Chapter Twenty-Three “If you loved it so much, why did you disappear?” Bailey leaned slightly forward, all his attention focused on Candy. He was doing the intensity thing again. He hadn’t asked the question of Jillian, but she was tempted to answer it anyway. Candy’s cheery expression wavered. “The adults made me do it,” she finally said. “Why?” Bailey persisted. “I was so young that it’s a little fuzzy.” Candy looked at her sister Bertha, who up to this point had been leaning silently against a nearby wall. “Do you remember why, Bertha?” “Mum and Dad were jealous of her,” Bertha chimed in, clearly enjoying herself. “The rotten part was that I’d just been discovered, too. When they took Candy away from it all, they took me with her.” She looked pointedly at Bailey. “Shouldn’t you have a tape recorder or a notebook so you can get all this?” And write a story consisting of a pack of wild lies? If the truth came out, Bailey would be ridiculed. His career would be over. Bailey started to speak, but Jillian interrupted. “I have a request for Candy. We all know Babycakes was discovered because she could sing. Why don’t you sing a couple lines of the TV theme song. What was the name of it? Ah, yes. ‘My Brain Is Bigger than Your Brain.’” The girl’s face whitened. She sniffled, dabbed at her nose, and faked a cough. “I wouldn’t sound so good right now. I have a terrible cold.” “Then dance. Babycakes could really boogie.” 878

Candy made up a story about injuring her ankle getting out of bed so Jillian kept the questions coming. Who was your costar in Babycakes in Paris? Who was the director of Babycakes Be Mine? Five minutes later, the girl threw up her hands, “Okay! I admit it! I’m not Babycakes! Just stop asking me so many questions!” Chapter Twenty-Four She was being paranoid, Jillian told herself later that night as she sat down next to Bailey on her moonlit porch swing. Exposing Candy Sweetwater as an impostor hadn’t necessarily been a bad move. It didn’t mean that Bailey would discover Jillian was Babycakes. His leads had dried up, making it unlikely that he’d resume the search at all. “So I guess this means you’re giving up the hunt for Babycakes,” she said. His left arm was slung over the back of the swing, his fingers playing with her hair and creating delicious sensations up and down her body. Whoever claimed hair was dead must never have had Bailey’s fingers tangled in theirs. “Not necessarily,” he said, then frowned down at Xena, who was sitting between them with her tiny head resting on his thigh as she gazed up at him with adoring eyes. “Do you think your dog’s coming between us on purpose?” Jillian ignored both his comment and the besotted toy poodle. “What do you mean ‘not necessarily’?” “Professor Farragut called me on my cell phone a little while ago. He says he remembered that Babycakes’s mother is from Oak Glen, a little town about an hour’s drive west of here. I was thinking of visiting there tomorrow.” “No!” “No?” Grooves appeared in Bailey’s forehead. “Why not?” Because if Bailey stumbled across the wrong people, they’d tell him Babycakes’s mother’s maiden name was Foster and that she was living in Harrisburg with Babycakes’s father. They might even provide an address that would eventually lead Bailey back to Jillian. Chapter Twenty-Five

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“Because I don’t understand why you can’t leave Babycakes alone,” she said, trying to sound calm. He took the hand he’d been running through her hair and rubbed his forehead with it. “We’ve already talked about this. Because the public has a right to know.” “The public has a right to know about a hypocritical president. Or a dangerous criminal. Or a dishonest company. Why do they have a right to know about a TV star who doesn’t want to be found?” He tipped his head. “Where is this coming from? I thought you wanted me to find Babycakes. Isn’t that why you’re helping me?” “It’s been bothering me, that’s all.” She sighed. “I don’t understand how you can write stories about people who don’t want to be written about.” “Because if I don’t write the story, I’ll lose my job,” he said bluntly. “All I’ve ever written is hard news. If I don’t prove to the new management that I can write something featurey, they’ll fire me.” Jillian closed her eyes and rubbed them while she thought about this latest development. No wonder he was so gung-ho about finding Babycakes. She opened her eyes, blinked a few times and dabbed at her right eye. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asked Bailey, who was wearing a strange expression. She felt something on her finger and looked down to see a tinted brown contact lens. Which meant Bailey was looking into one of her Babycakes-green eyes. Chapter Twenty-Six As Bailey gazed into Jillian’s mismatched eyes, everything about the past few days fell into place. Bailey’s initial impression that Jillian’s eyes were green. Her eagerness to “help” him. The hairdresser’s comment about her naturally straight hair. The way she’d called Farragut Ham and the professor’s offhand remark that Babycakes was older than her stage manager had claimed. Which meant the former child star could very well be 23, Jillian’s age. “You’re Babycakes Malone,” he said.

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He expected her to lie the way she’d lied about everything else, but she gave a sigh of resignation and popped out the other brown contact. Then she leveled him with her famous green-eyed stare. “I was Babycakes. Now I’m Jillian Foster, small-town physical-education teacher.” Bailey shook his head, trying to make the impossible compute. His instincts had never failed him before, but he’d been duped. How had that happened? It happened because you’ve never before felt about a woman the way you feel about Jillian. He shoved the thought aside. Now wasn’t the time for self-examination. Not when he had a story to report. “I don’t understand,” he said, trying to think of her as Babycakes and not the woman who’d made him forget basic reporting techniques. He asked the question her fans had been puzzling over for 12 years. “Why did you leave your career behind like that?” Jillian pushed off the porch with one foot, setting the swing in motion. Xena yelped and leaped onto Bailey’s lap, where she curled up before giving him a loving look. Jillian didn’t look at him at all. Chapter Twenty-Seven “Because I hated it,” Jillian said. “I couldn’t go to the bathroom without the press reporting it.” “You’re exaggerating,” Bailey said. She turned to him, and he searched her beautiful moonlit face for a resemblance to the child star. He saw it in the delicacy of her features, the heart shape of her face. “Once I was really tired and a movie director kept making me do a scene over and over. So I stuck out my tongue. The photo appeared in newspapers everywhere with the caption Brattycakes.” “Most stars consider that the price of fame,” Bailey said. “I didn’t want to be famous,” she said. “I wanted a childhood. Instead I wound up as a kid who could relate to Shirley Temple Black’s story that she stopped believing in Santa Claus at six when Santa asked for her autograph.” “So that’s why you disappeared?”

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“That’s the gist of it. Mum and Dad saw how miserable I was and knew they had to do something. They thought the press would keep hounding me if we stayed in the States so we moved to France. We didn’t come back until I’d grown up.” Bailey shut off the part of his brain that empathised with her and focused on what was important: the story. He got up, earning him a whimper of protest from Xena. “Wait here while I go next door and get my tape recorder.” She shook her lovely head. “Oh, no. I’m not talking to you on the record.” “Too late.” Bailey ignored the pain that radiated through him at the anguished look on her face. “You already did.” Chapter Twenty-Eight “You can’t be serious,” Jillian said, her throat so clogged with panic it was difficult to get the words out. “You can’t write what I said in an article.” “Why not? It’s the truth, isn’t it?” “Yes, but I only told you all that so you’d understand why I don’t want publicity. I told you so you’d decide not to write a story. I don’t want to be Babycakes again.” “Writing stories is what I do,” Bailey said. “I’m a reporter.” She’d known his profession all along, but her heart had told her he was so much more than a member of the hated press. She’d thought he was a man she could trust. A man she could respect. A man she could love. “But writing about me would be…” she searched for a word “…unethical.” “Writing about a public figure isn’t unethical,” he said, and she saw a flash of something in his eyes that looked like pain. “But I’ll tell you what was unethical. Making love to me to throw me off the track of the story.” “That’s not why I made love to you,” Jillian protested. He looked dubious. “So you weren’t trying to sidetrack me?” “Initially, yes, but -”

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He didn’t let her finish. “You’re the one who was dishonest. You knew I was a reporter from the very beginning. You were the one who was living a lie, and you were willing to go to bed with me to protect it.” “That’s really what you think?” He nodded once and she felt as though he’d struck a blow to her heart. “And you’re going to go ahead and expose me as Babycakes?” she asked. “It’s called reporting the news,” Bailey said. Chapter Twenty-Nine She stared at him, hardly believing the mess she’d gotten herself into. She should have figured out that every moment she spent with him increased the chance he’d discover she was Babycakes. She should have summoned the will to stay away from him. “I think you’d better leave now,” she said at the same time Xena leaped from the porch swing and tried to crawl up his leg. She picked up the poodle, ignoring both the dog’s protests and the tears filling her eyes. “He’s not worth it,” she whispered to the dog, but a part of her didn’t believe it. His eyes met hers for a brief, intense moment, then he turned and walked away. She didn’t see him again until early the next morning when she watched from her window as he took his packed bags to his car and drove away. Again, the tears fell. Xena, who was perched on the window sill, gave a sad yap. “You’re not helping matters,” she told the dog. “Mooning at him every time you see him as if he were Lassie or something.” She went to her bedroom and threw clothes in suitcases. If she was going to be gone from Hemlock before his story hit the newsstands, she had to start packing. Xena came into the room, her tiny body dragging, her eyes miserable. “Don’t look at me like that,” she told the dog. “You heard what he said about believing I had an ulterior motive for sleeping with him.” She shook her head. “Is he really so blind he can’t see that I love him?” She froze.

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She’d made love to Bailey because she loved him. And then sent him away because she was too selfish to understand he’d lose his job if he didn’t write about her. “Oh, my gosh, Xena. Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?” Chapter Thirty Bailey slouched in the chair in front of his computer, which was in the brightest, most airy room of his house. Usually, the setting with its view of tall trees and blue sky inspired him. Not today. He’d interviewed a slew of people who’d once known Babycakes Malone, talked to her former business manager and tracked down her parents. But in two hours of sitting at his computer, all he’d managed to write was a title. He heard a scratch at the window, but didn’t bother to turn. It was probably that pesky squirrel trying to figure out how to get to the bird feeder mounted on his window. Bailey had taken to chasing it away by emitting a mighty roar as he rushed the window, but he didn’t have the energy for roaring today. He needed to figure out why he had writer’s block. But he already knew, had known since he’d kissed Jillian for the first time. “It’s because,” he said aloud, “I’ve finally found something more important than reporting the news.” Suddenly energised, he sat forward, typed three words onto the screen and read them over. They were the right words just as Jillian was the right woman for him. What if she was telling the truth? What if she’d had another reason for making love to him? He got up, about to head for his car and Hemlock to find out, when he heard the noise at his window again, louder this time. He turned and saw the outline of a Peeping Tom. He looked closer and his heart swelled. Make that a Peeping Tina. The woman at his window was Jillian Foster, a.k.a. Babycakes Malone. Chapter Thirty-One “Hi,” Jillian said, waving with false gaiety. She tried to read Bailey’s expression as he moved across the room and yanked open the window but couldn’t. “Your aunt came home and gave me your address. I rang your doorbell but you didn’t answer.” 884

“The doorbell’s out of order.” He leaned forward so his upper body hung outside the screenless window. “Jillian, I wanted to -” She reached up and put two fingers against his mouth. “Don’t say anything. Just listen. I should have told you to go ahead and write the story. That’s why I’m here. To say I’ll cooperate in any way I can.” He captured her hand with his and drew it away from his mouth. “But you hate publicity. You’d do anything to keep people from finding out you used to be Babycakes.” She wondered why it had taken her so long to realise this. “Anything but cause the man I love to lose his job.” “You love me?” he asked. She nodded. “That’s why I made love to you. Not because I wanted to keep you from finding out who I was.” His face split into a grin. “I hope love is patient, then, because that’s what I need you to be when I’m out of work and looking for a job.” “You’re quitting your job at Insightful?” Jillian’s heart swelled. “I’m not cut out to write feature stories,” Bailey said. “Besides, the editors won’t like it when I tell them love is more important than the news.” Then he was leaning even farther out the window and she was standing on tiptoe, reaching for him. Their lips met, and the world turned upside down - but it was just Bailey, tumbling out the window. “I fell for you a long time ago, Babycakes,” he told her when he got his breath back and then she was on the grass with him, laughing and kissing him. A long time later, Jillian finally read the three words Bailey had typed on his computer screen after the title, “What Ever Happened to Babycakes?” I’ll never tell.

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Degrees of Romance: Night of the Living Wed By Michele Hauf In 2002, we gave authors from different Harlequin series the same opening paragraph and asked each of them to write the rest of the story. The resulting innovative and compelling stories found a special place in our readers' hearts. So now we've put together a special anthology of four of the original reads, plus two brand-new endings to Charlotte's story! Night of the Living Wed is the second of those new stories, taking Charlotte and John into an entirely different situation that endangers their lives, their love…and their brains. Charlotte and John's evening turns deadly when some uninvited guests show up at their friend's party—a horde of hungry zombies. The couple is in a fight for their lives when a new, heroic side of John emerges, and he vows to protect Charlotte no matter the cost….

Chapter One Charlotte winced as an inebriated party-goer stepped on her foot, but she kept moving determinedly toward the doors that led to the balcony. The Duncans would be delighted with their party; it was clearly the event of the season, and their daughter had been successfully launched into society. Unfortunately, the noise, the heat and the crowd combined with Charlotte's pounding headache to make her want to escape for a breath of fresh air. Reaching the balcony doors, she opened them to find two people engaged in a passionate kiss. "I'm sorry." The words escaped her mouth before she realized it would have been better to make an exit without being noticed. The couple jumped apart. Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at her fiancé. "John! I thought you were dead!" John dropped the woman in his arms and rushed to Charlotte. "You're okay?" "Of course I am." "Then why did you think I was dead?" "I was being sarcastic! I haven't seen you all night. You didn't even join me for the toast. After our fight in the car, I assumed you wanted some space. I don't know why you can't agree to allow a priest to marry us." "Charlotte, I'm a scientist, I don't believe in—ah, forget the argument. Don't you realize what's going on?" "Besides me finding you in some woman's arms? Really, John?" "Forget her, too," John said, indicating the woman draped over the balcony railing like a doll dropped on her stomach. "They're here," he said ominously. He glanced over the balcony and Charlotte followed his gaze. On the rose-laden grounds below, a scatter of party-goers screamed and fled from the motley gang of lumbering zombies pursuing them.

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"No," Charlotte gasped. "The zombies—the ones you've been studying—are here?" "Not the ones I've studied, in particular. Probably from some other nest." News stations had been reporting contained patches of zombies springing up across the state ever since terrorists had unleashed a strange virus during a local fair's pie-eating contest. John's research lab had been granted access to a couple of the captured monsters, and he said he'd been making great strides in finding a way to manage the "condition," as he called it. "It's going to be okay, Charlotte." "'Okay'? Oh, I hate your research!" "Disease control is necessary research, Charlotte. My work saves lives." "I know, but— How can you talk about 'controlling' them? They're zombies! They eat people's brains!" He kissed her forehead then nuzzled against her hair, a sensual touch that always sent shivers up her spine. "I won't let anyone touch your beautiful brains." Charlotte clung to John's tall, muscled body. Despite the fact his research had taken a strange turn of late, she loved this man. She wanted to marry him. Even if they had argued all the way to the party about it. They'd both agreed on a small ceremony, but Charlotte insisted they should have a Catholic priest officiate the marriage, while John—being a scientist—preferred no religion be involved. But right now the argument didn't matter, as the screams from below were making her heart pound like bongos. "Don't look." John's deep brown eyes found hers. "I will protect you." Charlotte locked her gaze with John's. Never had she seen her geek of a fiancé act so manly. Normally he had his eyes glued to a computer report or on a petri dish. This powerful, determined side of him stirred a wanting in her she'd never experienced. For the first time, she regretted their agreement to wait until after they were married to have sex. "Promise?" "I'd die for you, Charlotte." "Don't say that! Oh, John, don't let them get us. Not before we're married. Not before we've…" He smirked. "You think I'm going to let a zombie chew on me before I've had a chance to make love to the most beautiful girl in the world?" Basking in his adoration, Charlotte blushed. "Aww—" Just then she saw John swing a wrought-iron patio chair straight toward her. She screamed and ducked. Behind her, a zombie's head went flying off its neck as the wrought iron easily cut through its decaying flesh and bone. John helped her to stand and wiped a chunk of zombie from the shoulder of her pink satin evening gown. "Close one. This must be an older nest of zombies—the older ones are not as durable. That could prove to be in our favor." 887

"Durable?" Growing queasy, she wilted into his arms. "I can't do this." "You don't have to, sweetie. Stay by me. I'll get you to safety." "Wait, first we've got to find Tina. I don't want my best friend to get eaten by zombies!" "Right. But we gotta move, and fast." He lifted her and carried her over the zombie's still-twitching body, then set her down. She brushed bits of something she didn't want to examine too closely from her floor-length gown, and then they both dashed through the eighteenth-century mansion where Tina's family had hosted her party. Social event of the season? More like six o'clock news disaster. John swiped a silver candelabra from a marble-topped table as they rushed by. "Arm yourself," he said. "They are intelligent. After their initial feed they only have to consume small portions of flesh to survive, and there is very little mental depletion." Charlotte accepted the candelabra with a wince. Yet she couldn't help but swoon a little over his takecommand attitude. Sucking in a fortifying breath, she steeled herself to stay strong and not turn into a weeping Wilma that John would have to abandon to the zombies because she was too frantic to deal. They were in this together. And they would have their wedding day. Then she remembered the seemingly compromising position in which she had found her fiancé just minutes before, and Charlotte couldn't help but ask, "John, who was that woman on the balcony?" "What woman?" John kicked open a pair of swinging doors that led into a gallery, only to be greeted by delirious moans and groping arms. A fresh stew of zombies in fancy evening dress—guests of the ball— lurched toward them. "Wrong door." John grabbed her hand and they raced away from the approaching horde, taking a sharp turn into the kitchen. John grabbed a steel-legged bar stool and shoved it through the door handles, forming a sturdy barricade. "That should keep them back. For now." Charlotte wondered if her ribs could withstand the torture of her thudding heart as she looked around her. The deserted kitchen was beautiful in the moonlight, the stainless-steel appliances shimmering silver. Their lives had been blessed up until now. Would it all end tonight? A strange hissing noise alerted her. Candelabra in hand and prepared to swing, Charlotte crept around the butcher-block counter. Hunched on the other side and clasping a rosary sat the priest whom Tina had introduced to her earlier. "Father!" "Back!" The priest wielded his rosary cross as if it were a weapon. "I'm not a zombie," she said, kneeling before him. "Are you okay?" John swung around the other side of the counter to join them, which startled the skittish priest once again. He swung the rosary like a lariat and clocked John on the eyelid.

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"Ouch. Is that what I get for missing confession for the past five years?" John rubbed his bleeding brow. "He's not a zombie, either?" the trembling priest asked Charlotte. She shook her head. "So sorry, son." The priest sighed. "Demons I can exorcise. Spirits I can cast out. But zombies? What do I do with zombies?" "Best option?" John shrugged. "Run." "I can't run. My ticker can't take it. It's the end of the world. You two are young, the lucky ones." "We are." John clasped Charlotte's hand. His eyes—the right one now a little clouded with blood thanks to the skittish priest—reflected all the love she held for him. "And since it's the end of the world, I have a favor to ask of you, Father." "I can perform final rites, if that will give you peace." "Final—no!" Charlotte protested. "We'll survive this. We have to. We're to be married soon." The priest wobbled his head as if to say good luck with that. "Right now," John said, nodding encouragingly to Charlotte. "Will you marry us, Father?" "Really?" she asked on a gasp. "You'd be okay with a priest officiating our vows?" "I know how important it is to you. If we're going to die tonight, I want to die in my wife's arms."

Chapter Two "Oh, John, that's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me. I want to be married tonight, too." "You two are crazier than the zombies," the priest muttered. A loud bang shook the kitchen door. "It's them," Charlotte cried. She gripped the priest's arms and helped him to stand. "Please, do it now!" John made a frantic search of the dark kitchen, dashing to the counter where florists had been preparing the flower arrangements earlier. He gathered bits of damaged calla lilies and shredded leaves into his frantic fingers, then shoved the makeshift bouquet at Charlotte. "Can you forgive me for being so stubborn about the priest?" She wanted to grab him and kiss him, but the doors to the kitchen were starting to splinter and bulge inward. "Forgiven. Hurry," she ordered, giving the priest a rough shove. "Dearly beloved—"

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"Skip the prologue and get to the necessary stuff." John tugged Charlotte over to the patio doors and opened them. A small breeze brought in the scent of the fragrant gardens, and the dazzling moonlight fell upon their joined hands. No sign of the living dead stalking the rosebushes. Yet. "Father, hurry up!" "Do you take this man to be your wedded husband?" "I do!" Charlotte sucked in the corner of her lip, eyeing the kitchen doors. The groans on the other side were increasing. "And do you take this woman—" "Yes, yes, I do. Always and forever, no matter what the world forces upon us." John squeezed her hands, sending bits of calla lilies across her gown. "I love you, Charlotte Masterson." Her new surname suited her perfectly. John's calmness centered her, bringing her into the moment. She would remember this moment always, the moonlight, the adoration on John's face— The kitchen doors smashed inward. Wood shards scattered. A horde of zombies stalked clumsily inside. The priest shouted, "I now pronounce you man and wife, may no man put asunder—" John swept Charlotte into his embrace. He kissed her deeply, lovingly, perfectly. And there, amidst the full moon's spotlight, they became man and wife—till death did part them. The priest's dying yell didn't disturb their kiss. Charlotte clung to her husband's hard muscles. She could cling to him forever. She felt his desire harden against her thigh. "I want you so badly," he said, his dark eyes arrowed onto hers. An intensely dark beauty unlike any she'd seen captured his features, and Charlotte wanted to touch him, hold him, please him. "Your skin. Your taste. Your…flesh. I need you. Now." She understood. She wanted to strip him bare and love him passionately for the first time. She prayed it wouldn't be the only time. "They've killed the priest," she said. "They'll go to hell for that." She didn't even notice his gallows humor as she fell into his mesmerizing gaze. The sounds of hungry monsters segued to the background, her pounding heartbeat surging to the fore. "Let's find a place to be alone," he said. "I crave you, Charlotte." "Your skin, it's so hot, John. You're like…a beast." "A beast who needs you, only you."

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John tugged her out into the garden as the swing of a zombie's arm clocked Charlotte on the shoulder. Her party dress tore, leaving behind a slimy trail on her skin. John dodged the zombie that stalked toward them. The creatures were much more stealthy than Charlotte had expected of the living dead. They lumbered, but quickly, and their arm and leg movements were fast. Their faces were whitish blue and their lips black; some had blood smeared on their faces and hands. Intelligence glimmered in their eyes. These were not mindless things, just as John had warned her. "How could they have gotten here? I thought the outbreak was contained," she said. "Doesn't your research—" "There are nests everywhere, and our research is just that, Charlotte. We've only begun to study the ones we have. They can speak, but they won't speak to us, slowing the progress of our research." John swung Charlotte into his arms and leaped over a woman in white chiffon, crawling along the ground as she tried to get to her detached arm. It seemed to have a mind of its own as the fingers dragged it toward the lily-pad-dotted koi pond. As soon as they were in a protected spot, John set her down, planting his hands on the wall behind her and pressing his body against hers. Aggressive and determined, he bit kisses down her neck and to her breasts. "You're so lusty, John." "I need you. Mmm, your skin is so salty." Charlotte ripped open his black shirt and ran her hands up his chest. He was hot and sweaty from running, and his muscles pulsed under her touch. "But you still haven't answered my question." "What question is that?" he asked, scanning down the hallway in both directions. "The woman I found you with! It looked like you were—" "No time, Charlotte. We need a safer place. It's too open here." With a sigh, she nodded and shoved him down the hallway. But had she made the biggest mistake of her life by marrying a man who may have been making out with another woman? No, she knew John, she trusted him. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt until the coast was clear and they could have a rational discussion. If the coast would ever be clear… "Tell me the truth, John. Can you really get us out of this mess?" she called, following him through the dark hallways. "When all around us the world is coming to an end?" "The whole world isn't ending, Charlotte. Just a small chunk of it." "Yeah, but in case you hadn't noticed, we're on that chunk." As they paused outside a door and John listened intently, Charlotte's nerves prickled the hairs all over her body. "John?" He nuzzled her into a firm hug and kissed her. "I'm scared, too," he whispered. His voice gentled her fears expertly. "We'll be scared together." 891

They crept inside the room, listening for any noise and scanning the darkness. Charlotte turned and flipped the light switch. "What did you do that for?" "I hate those stupid horror movies where they never flip on the light," she explained. "But what if the zombies see the light under the door? Remember, Charlotte, they are rational, thinking creatures. It is only when they consume massive amounts of carrion that their intelligence seems to wane." "Right. So in other words, don't underestimate the zombies. I just wanted to look around better." She searched the room, realizing it was Tina's. "No signs of the undead." Hearing a shuffling sound on the other side of the door, Charlotte slapped the switch off. John tugged her toward a closet door highlighted by a beam of moonlight. "In there," he said. "Hurry!"

Chapter Three The closet was huge, stocked with every brand of shoe in the universe. Classic Tina. Charlotte kissed John's bruised eyelid softly, the blood dried now, and then whispered, "So they're as smart as us?" "Yes, but they are ruled by their hunger. Consuming flesh makes them stupid, and…" "Less durable?" "The older ones, for sure." She let out a tiny, fearful moan. "I've got you," John said as he tugged down the torn sleeve of her gown and pulled her closer. "Mmm, you smell good. Your skin, your neck." He kissed her there, laving his tongue along it in a delirious wave of sensation that set her nipples to tight buds. "Your brains." "Please, not now with the humor," she muttered. "Right." He paused, turning serious. "Mrs. Masterson…I need you. Can you understand that?" "Yes, I can. As inappropriate as the timing should be, it seems right." "Mmm…I've wanted you for months, but the desire I feel tonight? It's a craving. Let me make love to you, wife." Bending over her petite frame, he kissed the top of her breast and dashed his tongue over her nipple. She arched her back, silently begging him for more. He tore aside her dress and kissed the other breast. The urgency of the moment heightened every touch and sensation. Adrenaline raced through her veins, making her drunk with desire and want.

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Beneath Charlotte's roaming hands, John's muscles flexed and hardened, and she responded in kind. She gripped his erection through his dress pants, and he hissed at her breast then nipped her none too softly. "Do you know how many times you've accidentally brushed over my cock when we've been making out and I've wanted to tear away your clothes and have my way with you?" "I'm yours now, love. Let's make up for all those times—" He kissed her to silence. Many a night she'd lain in bed imagining her lover's hands on her. It was real now. And nothing was more real than the two of them, skin against skin, urgently seeking satisfaction when around them the world was being consumed. "End-of-the-world sex?" she asked as he lifted her against the door and she wrapped her legs around his hips. "Wish it didn't have to be this way." Gliding his burning hands between her thighs, his fingers found her folds and he danced them into her wetness, igniting an erotic flash of fire that surged through her core and responded to his deft manipulation. "You're so hot, Charlotte." "Not as hot as you." His skin did seem unusually warm. "I hope you're not coming down with something." "Not exactly," he muttered. Somewhere, not far off, the clang of steel against wood furniture alerted them both. Breath panting, Charlotte gripped John's head and kissed him, sharing her desperation. "I want to feel you inside me," she whispered urgently. "Your big, hard strength. Please, John. Take me." They heard the bedroom doors crash inward, and John shoved down his pants. His erection sprang out, heavy against her folds. Charlotte wriggled, directing his entrance. And while the groans of the living dead echoed in the next room, she cried out at the intense pleasure of her husband's possession of her body. Finding a frantic rhythm, they became one. John's gasps stirred next to Charlotte's ear. He clung to her, his fingers digging into her skin, his body like molten steel, their joining a culmination of strained patience and desperation. Everything slipped away. The threat of death, the terror of the living dead, the agony of watching others they had known fall. Lost in one another, they surrendered to the brilliance of desire and trust. Together they could defeat any horror. "I love you, Charlotte," John cried out, and his body shuddered against hers. Her core tight and twisty with imminent orgasm, Charlotte sighed and released. Something banged on the closet door. She screamed—not out of fear, but instead with utter bliss as orgasm captured them both.

Chapter Four Blissfully sated, Charlotte wanted to hold this man forever. Her husband. Her giddy smile was undefeatable. "That was amazing. I wish we could do it again."

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Clinging to John's panting body, Charlotte winced as the door behind her moved a bit with every growling pound from the other side. "Bad timing, sweetie. Sorry about this. Oh, man, you taste so good." He laved his tongue along her cheek, and Charlotte's skin prickled with delicious heat. Another vicious thumping vibrated the door against her bare skin. They'd had their moment. "What do we do now?" she whispered. "Did your research determine how to escape a pack of zombies?" He nuzzled his nose into her neck and kissed her, then gave a quick little bite. She smiled. Still his humor remained, even with the flesh-eating zombies beating on the other side of the door. But he was serious when he raised his head and looked into her eyes. "We fight," he said. Her man had become…well, a man tonight. Or maybe she was finally seeing the real John Masterson, a man who rose to the challenge no matter the danger. Stuffy research coordinator? More like adventurous hero. Her hero. Setting her down, he tugged up her dress and pulled up his pants. His shirt was somewhere on the floor. He wandered into the depths of the closet. "If we can get through this," he called, "I'm going to make love to you all day, every day, in every place but the closet. Here." He slapped a few high-heeled shoes into her hands. "John, I know you think it's sexy when I wear heels, but is now really the time?" "Weapons," he said. "It's all I could find." "Clever." She fit the toes of the shoes into her hands, heels pointed out and ready to stab. A thick shard of wood splintered and sailed over their heads. "You ready for this?" he asked as they turned to face the growling horde. "With you at my side, I can handle anything." They smiled at one another. And then the hordes tumbled through, decaying appendages clawing and gaping jaws moaning. John caught the first one in the eye with a heel and shoved the creature off. Charlotte lobbed a Jimmy Choo at a growling matron in purple taffeta, managing to take off her ear smartly. Shoes were tossed, thrown and lobbed into zombie skulls, faces and guts. They went down easily, which Charlotte was thankful for as she twisted to grab more ammunition from the shoe rack beside her. "This isn't exactly my idea of wedded bliss!" she shouted as hands groped at her skirt. 894

"I'll make it up to you. I will get you to safety if it's the last thing I do." She hated hearing him put it that way. It would not be his last thing. They'd live to see tomorrow. "Follow me," John directed, and she fit herself against his side, beating at the clawing hands and teeth with a metal-spiked black leather number she remembered helping Tina pick out at Macy's. "Stay close." "I am close! Oh, dear, I really hate to destroy this one. It's Manolo!" Charlotte felt something tug at her ankle. She shook her foot and brought the shoe down, beating the zombie who was attempting to chew on her. She screamed and John swung about, taking out her attacker with a thigh-high boot. "Come on, they've thinned out, we can make a dash for it!" She grabbed his hand as he tugged her through a slew of lurching zombies. Limping from the attack, Charlotte managed to keep up, and they soon landed in the hallway. Alone, they huffed and clutched at one another. "Down the hall," John said. "I think there's another bedroom." She suspected that was the master bedroom, which Tina had said was where her parents spent most of their time because it was private and cut off from the noise of servants and kids. But if Charlotte and John went in there, they would be trapped, with no means of escape. It could become their grave. "John, I'm not sure." He stopped at the bedroom door. His broad shoulders heaved. His determined gaze reached out and grabbed her firmly, reassuringly. "Trust me?" Charlotte nodded, giving him permission and promising him her trust. He gripped her head and kissed her long and deep. Hungrily. She knew he loved her, and would stand before her when their final moments arrived. Opening the door, they slipped inside the bedroom, done in soft violets and pink damask. The low glow of a night lamp illuminated their tattered attire and bloodied arms and faces. They looked as if they'd been battling zombies. Charlotte started to laugh. John joined her, and they both fell into each other's embrace as their laughter segued into tears.

Chapter Five "I knew you were the only girl for me," John said as he stroked the hair and tears from her face, "the moment you sat on my lap in the coffee shop." "That chair was empty when I was going for the sit." "I do have the moves, don't I?" 895

She managed a small laugh, then nuzzled her head aside his neck. He was feverishly hot now, and she worried he might grow too weak to fend off another attack. She thought she heard him sniffing at the crown of her head, but he was probably sniffling back tears. They had been through so much today! "I'm glad we were able to say our vows," she offered. "I'm glad we were finally able to make love." "Men," she said. "Is that all you think about? Sex?" He stepped back and, taking her hand, he spun her around in a dance move. One of their favorite pastimes was watching the dancing competitions on television together. "Mostly. And football, and pizza, and…" He twirled her and she collided with his chest. He kissed her forehead, muttering, "And brains." "Stop it." Charlotte pushed away from him, having lost her patience for his humor. "I don't want to hear you make another zombie joke." "Sorry, I—I'm under a little stress here, Charlotte. You know humor helps me deal." She sighed, acknowledging the truth of that statement. It was one of the things she loved about him. "Let's problem-solve. Are there fire escapes outside the windows? There must be a balcony." He shrugged and wandered over to the patio's French doors. It was odd that he was being so nonchalant when zombies were likely sniffing them out at this very moment. It was the stress. Or maybe he'd become very comfortable with the undead. After all, he had to be. He studied them. But he'd never brought his work home—until now. Charlotte winced at the pain stinging her ankle. She didn't want to look at it. She would not. Lifting her chin, she decided to go the stoic-heroine route. Nothing would come of mourning what could have been. She'd face the future with the cards she'd been dealt. John stopped in the patio doorway. "No fire ladders, but there are bushes with big fluffy flowers below. We can jump for it." "They're hydrangeas. Those'll provide a softer landing than the thorny rosebushes." She tilted her head, noticing how the moonlight shimmered over his livid face. But that niggling worry still hadn't left her. When she'd found him out on the balcony… "John, who was that woman I saw you kissing earlier?" "Kissing? You think I was kissing her?" He chuckled and made an exaggerated effort to grimace and wince it all away. "I wasn't kissing her, Charlotte." "Sure looked like it to me."

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When John had seen the zombies and thought the world was going to end—and apparently couldn't find her, his fiancée—had he grabbed the first woman to hand? Because she'd denied him sex for six months? "I need to know, John. No matter what the answer is, I won't judge you or blame you for a thing. Promise. What were you doing with that woman?" He approached, his slow, easy gait that had once enraptured her now irritating her. "Charlotte, don't do this." Squaring her shoulders and hiding another wince from the pain at her ankle, Charlotte insisted, "Tell me now, or I'll shove you outside for the zombies." His I'm sorry face switched to utter shock. She continued, "Did you think you could fit in a quickie before the zombies attacked?" "Charlotte, I would never— Seriously? You believe I'd be unfaithful to you? I love you." "But you two were in an embrace." With a nod, he bowed his head, letting the silence hang. Finally he exhaled heavily, and then confessed, "I was gnawing on her." Charlotte's jaw dropped open. John's words pounded in her ears. Her gut swirled. She shook her head frantically. Her new husband walked closer. Suddenly she noticed how bloodshot his eyes had become. And his skin…it was livid and turning blue. And he was so hot to the touch. She'd thought he was coming down with a fever, but in reality he'd been… "No, you can't be. You've been…?" Even while they were being chased by zombies, the man hadn't been able to put aside his hunger for her skin, to touch her, and—taste her. "All this time?" Charlotte's heart stopped beating. "I was bitten out in the garden when I was looking for you, wanting to apologize for our fight. I'm sorry, Charlotte. I love you so much. I thought once I got you to safety it would be best for me to leave you. But now that we've made love, I can't imagine ever being apart from you. We belong together. Until death." She put up her hand to stop his approach. "Don't touch me." "But your brains…" He winced and she could see he struggled to keep from touching her by clasping his hands to his chest. "They smell so good." Reality gripped Charlotte by the throat. Who was she trying to fool? The future would never be as she'd dreamed. The brick mansion, fancy sports car and two-point-five children? No longer. She had married a man who studied zombies—and had become one himself—for heaven's sake. Nothing would ever again be normal. "John, you have to make me a promise. You'll never go after my brains." 897

His sorrowful eyes glistened. "You promise me that, and I'll make the same promise." "The same… Charlotte?" Dropping her shoulders, she inhaled then lifted her tattered skirt to reveal the festering bite wound on her ankle. "They got me in the closet. I can feel the heat overtaking my body already. Is this how you feel? So hot, and so…wanting." "Wanting. Yes. Like I need skin and flesh and brains." "Anything meaty and warm." "That's exactly the craving. Charlotte, I'm so sorry." He pulled her into a hug, and she allowed it, because he was all she had, her only salvation—and her death. "I promise, I won't go after your brains. Not even a nibble. Consider it an addendum to our marriage vows." "Agreed. But I'm so hungry. Oh, John." Suddenly the bedroom door slammed inward. The frantic, tiny form of a white-satin-clad debutante staggered in, huffing, her body trembling, her eyes wide and manic. "Tina!" "Oh, thank God, Charlotte." Tina rushed to them, and the threesome embraced. "They're everywhere. This is a disaster. They've torn up all the bouquets and changed my grandmother into a freaking zombie. And now I'll never get my picture in the society page. It'll end up in the obits section. I don't want this to be my funeral dress. And my hair! One of those creatures tore out a chunk when he tried to bite me. Oh, Charlotte!" "I'm so glad you've found us," Charlotte said. "Everything is going to be fine now." "You think so?" Tina sniffed and squeezed the twosome closer into the hug. John nuzzled his nose across the top of Tina's red hair, messily tangled within her bloodied tiara. "You smell good, Tina." "She does smell good," Charlotte agreed. He met her eyes over Tina's head and winked. The man was hers until the end of the world. Till death…and ever after.

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One Perfect Night By Teresa Southwick Never mix business with pleasure. A rule of thumb that Julie Carnes now wishes she had taken to heart. She had one perfect night with her boss, Ben Carson, and for one night he made her believe she could be cherished, cared for, loved. And then he called her…to break things off. Now, after weeks of Julie having to endure seeing him every day in the hospital, Ben wants another chance. A chance to explain. A chance to start over. A chance to turn one perfect night into one perfect lifetime. But to Julie, that sounds an awful lot like giving him the opportunity to break her heart all over again. And that's the one chance she's not sure she can take.

Chapter One Business meetings with the boss had been so much easier before she'd seen him naked. Julie Carnes sat quietly at the conference table while Ben Carson, the regional vice president of Mercy Medical Center in Las Vegas, was wrapping up his remarks. Ben was hands-down the best-looking man she'd ever seen, including Ryan Reynolds, the actor he resembled so much. Six feet two inches of handsome man with light brown hair and sincere, dark brown eyes. He was also smart and fair. There was no one working in this hospital who wouldn't go to hell and back if he asked, and she was no exception. She'd already been there because of him, in fact. He hadn't suggested she go to hell, exactly, but what he'd said after their relationship had gotten complicated was just as effective. They had been over before they'd even really started. "I want to thank all of you," he said. "Everyone is doing more with less, and your hard work doesn't go unnoticed." He looked around the table at the men and women who managed and directed different departments in the hospital. Julie was in charge of the Intensive Care Unit, and her responsibilities included budget and staffing, as well as monitoring the quality and continuity of care for each patient. The job was demanding, but recently, having to be around Ben made it even harder. Every time she saw him, it reminded her of how stupid she'd been to let him in—she'd really cared for him and he hadn't cared for her, at least not enough to trust her. Since he first started working at the hospital six months before, she'd been instantly attracted to Ben. They talked after meetings, had spontaneous lunches in the cafeteria, joked and laughed together. She liked making him laugh, sensing he didn't do it easily. After so many months idling in that pattern, she thought he would never ask her out, but he finally did. The perfect date was just dinner—nothing grander than a nice little Italian place in Henderson, not far from the hospital. They had both worn jeans, but his battered brown leather jacket made him look like a rugged, swashbuckling hero. He brought her a single white rose, her favorite flower. He opened the car door, the restaurant door, held her chair, made her feel special. It wasn't a put on, just natural—a part of who he was. On a first date she usually dreaded the awkward good-night kiss, the what-does-he-expect-now part. But it was different when Ben took her home that night. "I had a great time," he said.

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"Me, too." His eyes held hers and her heart pounded like crazy when he cupped her cheek in his big palm, then leaned down to kiss her. Before that touch she'd planned to follow the minimum three-dates-before-sex rule. But when his mouth met hers—sweet, soft and sexy—desire that had simmered for six months exploded into a tide of passion that pulled her in and swept her away. It could have been seconds or hours that they stood there kissing. She'd never know. Finally he came up for air and said, "I have to go before I can't leave at all." "Then…don't go." "I want everything to be perfect. It's our first date." "Doesn't feel that way. We've known each other for six months, but it seems like forever." "Julie, I don't want to ruin the best thing to happen to me in a long time. Are you sure about this?" "Very." She was fully aware of what would happen if he came inside, and she wanted it more than her next breath. When they made love, it was as if their bodies and souls had been together in another lifetime. He seemed to know just where to touch her, just how to hold her. He refused to spend the night because he didn't want the neighbors to talk. Not yet. But he promised to phone the next day. But he didn't. And when he finally called, she wished he hadn't. Now she wished that this meeting was over already. Suddenly, the words Mardi Gras ball penetrated the buzzing in her head. It'd been a dream of hers to attend the exclusive fundraising event ever since she started at the hospital. The dresses, the shoes, the glamorous location… Not that she'd get the chance this year—only bigwigs and rich benefactors got tickets. But Ben must have been wrapping up, because everyone stood. That was her cue to slip out quietly. Being the last one in the room meant she'd have to talk to Ben, something she'd managed to avoid since he'd broken things off so abruptly. Always good to shoot for a perfect record. She made it out the door and turned right, heading toward the hospital lobby and the elevators beyond it, but she heard footsteps behind her, quickly closing the distance. "Julie?" Ben's voice made her heart pound. This moment was why personal relationships were better outside the workplace. She wanted so badly to pretend she hadn't heard him and keep going, to be able to enclose herself in the sanctuary of the elevator while it took her to the second floor, where running the unit and taking care of the patients would ensure she was too busy to think about what had gone wrong between them. The problem was, they still had to work together—and he was her boss. If he had something to say she pretty much had to listen. She stopped and turned. "Was there something else?"

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"Yes." He looked around at the people in the hallway talking in groups, their voices echoing off the tile floor. "Come with me." She wanted to say no. Not again. Once was enough. But that was personal. This was business. "Okay." He gently took her elbow, as if he thought she might try to escape, and led her back the way they'd come. A door to the administrative offices was on the right and he opened it, letting her precede him, then stopped her just inside. The hall was narrow, and cushy hunter-green carpet covered the floor. No echoing here. Their voices wouldn't carry, so no one would overhear what he had to say. That got her warning signals flashing in a big way. "Is this about work?" Intensity made his dark eyes almost black. "No. It's about us." "There is no us." "And that's my fault. I realize that I handled things badly…but I just got some good news." "If it's not related to work, I don't need to know. And I have to get back to the unit." "Can I call you later?" To her nerves, those words were like a high-pitched squeal from a public address system. She'd been raised by a single mom desperate to find "the one." Her mother had wasted her life waiting by the phone for calls that never came. Julie wanted nothing to do with a call-waiting relationship. "There's no point, Ben. There isn't a thing you can say that I want to hear." "What if I say give me another chance?"

Chapter Two "If you asked for a second chance, I'd have to say no." Ben Carson wasn't used to hearing no from anyone. He was the regional vice president of Mercy Medical Center and his word on most things was final. Personally, though…not so much. Otherwise he wouldn't have found his ex-girlfriend, Penny, in bed with another guy. He'd sworn off women after that. Until he met Julie. When he was with her, he felt like he was basking in the light of a summer day. But the timing of their first date couldn't have been worse. He'd had to break things off the next day to protect her from a bad situation. Julie was sunshine and happiness—he couldn't let her be hurt or upset by anything. Not because of him. Now that situation had been resolved and he had a green light to move forward with her. He was a man of action. This limbo with Julie had driven him nuts because he'd never stopped wanting to be with this woman. But by trying to protect her he might just have blown his one shot. He looked down at the petite, blueeyed blonde with the husky, contagious laugh. She wasn't laughing now. "Why would you have to tell me no?" 901

"There's no reason for you and I to go down that road again. We tried… Things didn't work out." They hadn't tried, not really. When he'd first started working at the hospital, he'd fought his attraction to her. But they kept running into each other and talking after meetings longer than necessary. Then he'd found excuses to go to the ICU just to see her. Conversations turned from flirty to intimate. He'd weighed the personal risks, and they were heavy, but finally he couldn't fight the attraction anymore. He'd asked her out and it was the best night of his life—one perfect night. Just dinner. They'd talked for hours and he'd left a generous tip for tying up the table so long. Then he took her home. He hadn't planned to sleep with her, but when he kissed her good-night he'd gone up in flames, in the best possible way. He was sure she'd felt the same. He just had to get her to remember…. "I think things worked out pretty well that night." Her cheeks flushed a charming pink, telling him he'd been right, she'd gone up in flames, too. One of the things he liked best about her was the way she didn't hide her feelings or play games. Completely different from the last woman he'd been involved with, the one who might have cost him Julie. "You're right. That night was…memorable. But then the next day you said we couldn't see each other for a while." There was hurt in her eyes when she looked up at him now. "You fed me some line about your ex-girlfriend being pregnant. Wouldn't it have been simpler to say there was no chemistry between us?" "That would have been a lie." There was chemistry all right. A wanting that had only grown more intense after their night together. But the worst part was missing her so much it hurt. "Oh, please," she scoffed. "It was easy for you to walk away." "You're wrong. Waiting to find out if I was that baby's father, being apart from you, was one of the hardest things I've ever done." "That's not how it felt. You simply didn't trust me to deal with the hard stuff. Without trust, there's not much to go on." She took a step back. "I have to go, my ICU nurses need to take their lunch break." "Wait—" He dragged his hand through his hair because of how badly he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she believed him. "Give me a minute. Let me explain why—" "No. I really have to get back to the unit." "I'm going to call you later." She shrugged and turned to leave. "That doesn't mean I'll pick up." Before he could stop her again, she was gone. She was right about a phone call, she could ignore it. The only way to make her hear him out was to show up in person. And that was exactly what he'd do. 902

Chapter Three Julie heard a knock on her door and tensed. Somehow she was sure it was Ben. After peeking out the peephole, her guess was confirmed. She'd been thinking about him all day, her emotions swinging between flattery and anger that he was trying to get closer to her again. Well not physically closer, at least not yet. But if she opened the door… There was another knock. She knew he wasn't going away so it would be best to get this over with. If only she wasn't wearing baggy sweatpants, an oversize sweatshirt and scruffy old slippers. Not that it mattered. Even though he clearly hadn't been discouraged when she'd turned him down earlier, it would be a big mistake to allow his determined pursuit to make her glow inside. She finally answered and stood in the doorway. "Ben." "Please don't shut the door in my face." Obviously he'd noticed the lack of warmth in her greeting. "I wouldn't do that. It would have been easier not to answer at all." "I'm glad you did." He looked at her expectantly for several moments, then asked, "May I come in?" "Not a good idea." "I disagree." The last time he'd had something to tell her, he'd broken her heart. But it didn't appear he was going to leave without saying his piece. Hopefully she wouldn't regret listening. "Okay. Just for a few minutes." "Thanks." She remembered their perfect evening from what felt like a lifetime ago. Then, as now, this big and masculine man had made her small, girly house seem even more girly, but it hadn't diminished his masculinity. He was in the same dark suit she'd seen earlier at work, but the top button of his white dress shirt was undone and his red tie was loosened. There were lines of stress and fatigue on his face and he'd passed a five o'clock shadow several hours ago. There was something so manly and endearing about him, and the look tugged at her heart. Already she was beginning to regret letting him in. "So—" He slid his hands into his pockets. "Are you going to close the door?" "You don't want the neighbors to hear what you have to say?" "Only if it would help." "That depends on what your goal is," she said. "Like I said today at the hospital, I want another chance with you."

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Julie had never had the same instant connection to a guy as she had with Ben, but he had hurt her. Giving him an opportunity to do it again wasn't especially smart. But oh, how she missed him. How could it hurt for him to say whatever it was before she asked him to leave? It was unlikely he could tell her anything that would make a difference. "Tell me why I should—in twenty-five words or less." He nodded and took a deep breath. "The baby isn't mine." Those were the only four words in the dictionary that could have made Julie shut the door and listen to what he had to say.

Chapter Four The day after he'd had the most perfect date with Julie, Ben's ex-girlfriend had told him she was pregnant. And that the baby could be his. He couldn't ask Julie to deal with his baggage from another relationship, not when theirs was so new. It had ripped his heart out to put things on hold, but he had to be fair to her. He hadn't told Julie more than the basics then. It was time to give her the whole story. "I knew things weren't working with my ex and it needed to end. Then I found her with another guy, and I broke it off with her for good." "Until she told you she was pregnant and you might be the father of her baby." "Yeah, but it was unlikely I was the father." He willed her to believe him. "I see." "No, you don't. She was eight months pregnant when she dropped the bombshell." He heard the bitter ring in his voice, and knew he was angry because Julie had been collateral damage of the hell his ex had put him through. "Took her time, didn't she?" Ben figured Penny had never intended to tell him at all. Her plan was to live happily ever after with the guy who'd replaced him. But the jerk hadn't lived up to her expectations and she'd gone to Plan B, the old boyfriend. "For her health and the baby's, DNA tests to prove paternity had to wait until he was born." "She had a boy?" He nodded. "And I'm not his father. Julie, I called a time-out with you so I could clear everything up before we went forward. I refused to let my ex's games taint the beginning of what you and I have." "Had," she corrected. "Past tense?"

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"I've moved on, Ben." "That's not what I see." He loved that Julie didn't hide her feelings. As he studied the expression in her big blue eyes, he could tell that the hurt still lingered. If she'd really moved on he'd be reading indifference. The fact that he didn't gave him hope. "I'm not sure what you think you see," she said, "but it doesn't change anything. You didn't have enough faith in me. You didn't trust that I could handle it." Again she was using past tense, and that wasn't going to fly with him. No one said getting a second chance with her would be easy, but Ben wasn't about to give up. He was fighting for his future. Their future.

Chapter Five Julie was torn between a warm, fuzzy feeling that he'd protected her from a messy part of his past and irritation that he hadn't believed she would be up to the challenge. "Why did you feel you couldn't lean on me?" she asked. "It was too much to ask." His eyes blazed with intensity and something else, something primitive and honest. "I was an afterthought to my parents—they were never there for me. It's a lousy way to grow up, and I vowed if I ever had a child, I'd give one hundred percent of myself to him. And that meant I didn't have much to give to you." "So, you decided for me what I couldn't handle?" "I didn't want to hurt you." "And yet you did." There was honest regret in his eyes. "It seemed like the best decision at the time. Now I realize I was a jerk. But I'm asking for a chance to prove I'm not a total jerk. That I can make things right." If there was someone on the planet who claimed they'd never been stupid about a relationship, she'd bet they were lying. Maybe she was being stupid, but she believed Ben was being truthful. He looked so completely miserable and sincere that her resolve to keep him at arm's length weakened. "I appreciate what you're doing, Ben, but—" "Don't say it." He held up his hand to stop her. "I hate the word but. I'll cop to an error in judgment, but my only intention was to protect you, Jules. I didn't want the feelings on either side to go too far before I knew one way or the other if I was going to be a father." "Very noble." "I wasn't going for noble, just trying to do right by you and a child that might have been mine."

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"Would you have married her if it turned out you were the baby's father?" The words popped out before she thought them through, but somehow it was important for her to know. "I'd have taken responsibility and been there for him, but I don't love my ex and marriage would have been a mistake. The same kind my parents made." He stared at her long and hard. "Besides, I'd have been thinking about another woman." "I see." "That makes one of us. I was so sure I had everything figured out, and I was wrong. What I didn't count on was missing your support through the whole mess." The thought of him being all alone in a crisis bothered her more that she wanted. "Was anyone there for you? Your parents?" "No. They never have been, and there was no reason to think that would change now." He met her gaze while dark memories swirled in his own. "And now I'm asking for the opportunity to make things up to you." "That's not necessary." She put her hand on the door and started to open it. "We should probably say good-night now." "Not yet. There's something I'm going to ask you." "Yes, I've forgiven you." "No, you haven't, but that's not it. Before I ask, though, you should be aware that I'm not leaving until you agree."

Chapter Six Julie hadn't known about his childhood, that his parents got married because they'd had to, then ignored him. That's something he probably would have revealed if they'd had a chance to spend more time together. Now he was asking for that chance. The way her legs were shaking, it was tempting to sit, but that would look like an invitation for him to stay. Now that she'd heard him out she wasn't sure what to do. The longer he was here, the more she wanted to say yes to anything and everything he asked. But that would risk being hurt again. And yet, what if her instincts from that one perfect night had been right? She reminded herself of the last time he was here. She'd said yes to him without words. A kiss was all it had taken, and he'd swept her away, literally. He'd lifted her in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. Granted, it wasn't far, not up the staircase like in Gone With the Wind, but she'd fallen for him, for the romance. Then she'd crashed back to reality with a thud when he pushed the eject button on their relationship. She lifted her chin a notch. "Thanks, but I don't think there's anything you could ask that I'd say yes to." A smile curved up the corners of his mouth. "That's because you haven't heard the question yet." He cleared his throat the way he always did before beginning his remarks at hospital meetings. "Every year Mercy Medical Center holds a fundraising event to benefit medical services for children." 906

She knew before he said it. "The Mardi Gras ball." It was a major social event in Las Vegas. Anyone who was anyone—including the governor, state politicians and hospital bigwigs—attended. The cost was somewhere in the neighborhood of a bazillion dollars a plate. "Yes," he confirmed. "You told me that last year you won a ticket to the ball through an employee raffle." It had been her Cinderella moment. She'd bought a fabulous dress and shoes, and had marked off the days on her calendar. Then she got the flu. And not the kind she could've taken decongestants and cough meds for. Fate was cruel that way. Her flu had been the stomach kind, and there was no way she was going to have her fairy-tale night. "I wasn't able to attend," she said. "So you mentioned." The grin he slid in her direction said he knew how disappointed she'd been at not being able to wear the dress and see all the other dresses, shoes and jewelry, and what it would mean to her to get another chance to go. "As the hospital's VP, I've been given two tickets to attend. The thing is, it's formal. Ball gowns." "For the men," she teased. "Great idea. People would pay a lot to see the senate majority leader in sequins and silk." She laughed then forced a neutral tone. "I've heard it's quite the shindig." He met her gaze and his own was serious. "I'd be honored if you'd let me escort you. It could be your second chance at a happy ending. Our second chance." This was like being on a diet and working above a donut shop where just breathing added density to your thighs. It was too much of a temptation to resist. Apparently she had far too much of her mother's DNA to tell him no. But this didn't count as waiting around for a man. This was about a second chance for the dress and shoes. To feel like a princess. It was a girl thing. "I happen to have something to wear. I'd love to go to the ball." Though she didn't add the words with you. "Thanks, Jules, for giving me a chance to show you we can have a perfect date and I won't disappear."

Chapter Seven Ben arrived at Julie's house early to pick her up for the Mardi Gras ball. He wasn't going to give her any reason to be mad at him, and punctuality was something he could control. Her agreement to be his date tonight could just be proof that she'd do anything to go to the event, but he'd take what he could get. It might be his only shot, and it was more than he'd had any right to hope for. But that wasn't the only reason he was parked by her curb twenty minutes before their agreed-upon time. He just couldn't wait to see her. Brief glimpses of her in the hospital cafeteria or the hall just weren't enough anymore. She was like a ray of sunshine after a week of rain. She brightened his world.

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Glancing at the watch on his wrist, he realized only a minute had passed since he'd stopped his Mercedes at the curb. He decided to try his luck with Julie. If she wasn't quite ready, he would wait patiently in her living room. His goal wasn't to hurry her along, just to be there with her. He picked up the single flower from the seat beside him. A corsage had seemed appropriate for the formal occasion. But that had begged the question, wrist or pin on? What if she had a strapless dress and thought he was making a move? He hadn't made himself this crazy even when he'd been a geeky teenager going to his first dance. Finally he'd decided on a single white rose, her favorite, and as pure and beautiful as she was. The choice felt right, and he hadn't achieved his level of career success by going against his gut. If she drew parallels between this and their first date, that was okay, too. The front of her small Henderson home was landscaped in typical desert style—multicolored, various-size rocks interspersed with drought-resistant plants. It was functional, artistic, practical. Ben walked up the sidewalk and to the front door before straightening his white cuffs and black silk bow tie, and brushing a hand over his hair. If she didn't like what she saw, he'd have to rely on personality and wit. Somewhere he'd heard that on a top-ten list of things that attracted a woman to a man, number one was sense of humor. "I can be funny, damn it," he muttered just before knocking on the door. After several moments, the inside deadbolt scraped and Julie stood in the entryway wearing a long blue satin robe belted at the waist. "Hi. You're early." "I can leave," he offered. "Drive around the block several hundred times." She laughed. "Don't be silly. That's a waste of gas and will just pollute the environment, starting with my neighborhood." The porch light and lamps in the room behind her showed that her make-up was done. At work she wore mascara and lip gloss, but tonight he could see a difference. She looked like a movie star. Her blond hair was loosely pulled back from her face, almost as if someone had dragged their fingers through it then secured the mass just behind her right ear. Golden wisps teased her cheeks in the sexiest way he could imagine. "I'm almost ready. Just have to slip into my dress." "I'll wait right here. No rush," he assured her. "I'm glad, because this could take some time. The dress appears deceptively simple, but I swear it was designed by an engineer. And I don't have a stylist or team of professionals to get me into it." "I'm a professional, and I also took an engineering class in college. If you need help, just say the word." Please.

Chapter Eight Julie took a minute to admire Ben. Her heart was beating too fast—a recurring symptom when she was close to this man. But tonight was different. 908

He was different. She'd never seen him in a tuxedo before. She told herself it was just another suit, but that was like saying the Grand Canyon was just another rock formation. "You look nice." "That's the best you can do?" One dark eyebrow rose. "Nice?" "What should I say?" He shrugged. "I was hoping for something along the lines of…hot." Definitely he was that. It scared her how much she wanted to get him out of that tux. But she'd only agreed to be his date because she'd wanted to go to the Mardi Gras ball. His promise about not disappearing afterward hadn't changed her mind about anything. Keep cool, she warned herself. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." "So, beholder, what do you think?" "Besides the fact that you're fishing for compliments?" she teased. "I expected you to say, 'the name's Bond—James Bond.'" "I'll take that as a good thing." His grin made her knees go weak, another recurring symptom of close proximity to him. She'd been attracted to Ben the first time she'd seen him talking to one of the surgeons in the ICU waiting room at Mercy Medical Center. Her reaction to him had always been strong, but it was more intense now. Either because she knew now that being with him was so much better than being without him, or his instinct to protect her had melted her heart more than she'd realized. "Maybe you don't need to hassle with the dress," he teased her, knowing she was dying to wear it. "The satin robe is a very fetching look." "'Fetching'? Really? Who even says that in a regular conversation? Next you'll be calling me 'wench.'" "I can truthfully say that never crossed my mind." "What a relief. But I do have to put my dress on. I'm ready except for that." Turning, she lifted the skirt of her robe. Tripping on it as she left the room would be beyond embarrassing, and she was going for sophisticated and confident. "Let me know if you need a hand…or two." His words were wrapped in seduction and made tingles dance down her spine, but there was no time for a distraction. Even if she wanted to go there. In her bedroom she pulled the protective bag containing her gown from the closet and unzipped it. She unbelted her robe, then stepped into the silver beaded strapless dress. The bodice was so tight no bra was necessary, but she'd had assistance from a saleswoman with the zipper when she bought it. 909

She tried tugging up the zipper, but the front fell forward, making it impossible to pull the sides closed in the back. Turning it backwards, she yanked the closure up as far as she could then slid it around, but she still couldn't seal the deal. Her arms weren't flexible enough and her fingers didn't have the strength. This was a fine mess. And the solution to her dilemma was waiting in the other room. If she'd been alone, she wasn't sure she'd have managed. But tonight she wasn't alone. "Ben?" Moments later he stood in the doorway to her bedroom. Her back was to him as she held the top of the dress to her bare breasts. "I think I need your hand, after all."

Chapter Nine Julie faced the cherrywood beveled mirror above the matching dresser as Ben came to stand behind her. The heat in his eyes blistered every nerve ending and set her body on fire. His warm fingers skimmed her bare skin as he pulled up the zipper, stealing the breath from her lungs. Slowly, he secured the hook and eye. He looked up and their gazes locked in the mirror's reflection for several long moments. He lowered his head slightly, moving his mouth toward her neck. But then he backed away. "Mission accomplished." His voice seemed deeper, a little hoarse. Or was that wishful thinking? "I'll wait for you in the other room." When he left she finally took a breath. That had been really…something…but right now she didn't have time to figure out exactly what. She put on her faux-diamond chandelier earrings, grabbed her silver clutch purse and slid her feet into the matching strappy high-heeled sandals. After grabbing the silver-threaded shawl from the bed, she walked out where Ben's broad back was to her. "I'm all set." He turned and took in the sight of her, letting his gaze caress her from head to toe. "I'm sorry. I think I just swallowed my tongue." She grinned. "Now you're talking. Much better than 'fetching.'" "I liked the robe, but—" He shook his head, at a loss for words. "You look amazing." "Thank you." Now the mission was accomplished. "Can I get a do-over?" "For what?"

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"I was wrong. You don't look nice. You look pretty darn amazing, too." The corners of his mouth curved up as he held out a single white rosebud. "Your corsage." "It's beautiful." All the thorns had been removed from the long stem. It was the same kind of flower he'd brought last time, her favorite, and that was… "Perfect." "Shall we go?" He held out his arm and she put her hand in the crook of his elbow. "I feel like Cinderella going to the ball." "Then that would make me Prince Charming. Your pumpkin is waiting at the curb. Just hang on to your shoes until midnight because I don't think my Mercedes would look quite as impressive in orange." "I'll do my best. Sitting on slimy pulp and seeds would not be good for this dress." "Then may the only spell tonight be the one you put on me." He wasn't the only one under a spell. Tonight, everything felt like magic. She couldn't wait to see what else the night would bring.

Chapter Ten Julie looked around the ballroom while she and Ben lingered over after-dinner coffee. His responsibilities for the evening were fulfilled and they were relaxing. Most of the more than five hundred people in this room had more money than they knew what to do with, which was why they'd scored an invitation. And she was with the guy who'd charmed them into making very generous donations. Although the setting had probably helped, too. Sconces on the walls and overhead chandeliers shimmered like diamonds and cast a surreal glow over the room. Floral arrangements of star lilies, baby's breath and red roses smelled heavenly and looked stunning on the center of each table. She toyed with the stem of her white rose, resting on her silver purse. "This is a very impressive venue for a date." "I'm glad you think so, but I preferred our last date." "Why is that?" A shiver trembled through her when his thigh brushed against hers. They were sitting very close and the spicy scent of his skin mingled with the sweet fragrance of the flowers. The combination was intoxicating. "The only thing that would make this place better is if it were in Paris. Or Rome. Possibly Greece overlooking the Mediterranean." "The restaurant I took you to may not have been in Rome, but it did have Italian food. And I liked that it was smaller. More intimate." His gaze met hers and held for several moments. "And not every man in the place was checking out my date." "Oh, please." She scanned the room again. Their table for eight was empty now except for the two of them. Some people had gone home. Others were on the dance floor enjoying the four-piece band playing a waltz. Still others stood in small groups chatting. "No one's looking at me."

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"I am." He rested his arm across the back of her chair, his fingers close enough to touch her shoulder. "I can't take my eyes off you. And neither can most of the guys in this room." "So not true. I'm nobody." "Not to me." "Who would even notice me? I didn't make a speech or introduce anyone who did. Thank goodness." "Public speaking isn't your thing?" "I'd rather walk barefoot on burning coals." She shuddered. "But your remarks were great. Funny. Charming. And poignant. Especially with the big screen behind the podium showing slides of the sick kids. The before and after pictures were a great way of showing the difference Mercy Medical Center made in getting the kids well." "There's always a need," he said. "And programs to keep kids healthy are as important as medical intervention when they get sick. Vaccinations. Medical and dental check-ups. Even shoes and coats if they can't afford them." There was a passionate sincerity in his voice that jumped out at her. "It sounds as if you really like children. That this isn't just doing your job." "I do. Very much." "I'm guessing you'd like some of your own." "You'd guess right." "Are you sorry the baby wasn't yours?"

Chapter Eleven Julie hadn't meant to ask, or to bring up the baby at all, but the words were out before she'd thought them through. "Forget I said that. It's none of my business." "You're wrong." Ben's hand dropped to her bare shoulder, warm and reassuring. "You can ask me anything. Anytime." "Okay." She considered what she wanted to say and how she wanted to say it. "I know you're not just responsible for the Mercy Medical hospitals here in Las Vegas, but the whole southwestern region. That also includes ancillary services like Respiratory Therapy, Cardiology, Lab and a whole lot of other things for a whole lot of people." The weight of all that wasn't easy to carry, let alone do it with his easygoing and fair management style. "But tonight everyone in this room could see the genuine emotion behind your words, and that's all about the kids. So it made me wonder." "I'd be surprised if you didn't. And the answer is no. I'm not sorry the baby wasn't mine." "Okay." She was way too happy he felt that way. 912

He half turned toward her and their knees bumped. "I had a crappy childhood. My mother got pregnant and that's the only reason my father married her. It had nothing to do with love. I was nothing more than an inconvenience and there were a lot of fights because both of them tried to push me off on the other. Neither wanted me." "That's sad. Their loss." Her heart went out to him. She'd had her own challenges growing up, but at least she never doubted that she was loved. "They're the exact opposite of what I want, what I've been searching for all my life." There was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Sounds corny, I guess." "Not to me." It sounded perfect, especially since she'd been raised by a single mother always waiting for a man. "I want children very much," he continued. "I can't imagine my life without kids in it. If that baby was mine, I'd have tried to be the best father possible, but not being married to my child's mother isn't how I'd want it to go." "How do you want it to go?" "I'd find an interesting woman who gets my sense of humor." "Does she have to be pretty?" His gaze lingered on her face as if he liked what he saw. "Chemistry is also important. A solid-foundation, to-the-core relationship is the best to build on. I want to bring children into a family with a father and mother, an environment that will last." "Wow." "Am I starting to scare you?" "Of course not." That was a lie, but not for the reason he thought. Ben Carson had just described everything she wanted. He seemed to be a good man, a solid one that a woman could count on. She could fall for him easily—in fact, she might already be a little in love. Which was foolish. At her house, they'd teased about being Cinderella and Prince Charming—a fairy tale. But their only other date had seemed perfect, too, and she'd found out quickly that that wasn't the case. The last thing she wanted was to go back to that painful place again. All she had to do to remain unscathed this time was get through the part of the evening where he took her back to her place. Only, if he kissed her again, she wasn't sure she could resist going down the same path where she'd already lost him once.

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Chapter Twelve At twelve midnight Ben stopped the car at the curb in front of Julie's house. The evening had gone perfectly. Donations had been better this year, the program had moved along like a finely tuned machine, and his speech had been well received. People had laughed in the right places and applauded when they were supposed to. The auction had been a huge success and getting a big-name Hollywood star to handle the bidding had been a real game-changer. The guy could squeeze money out of a rock and make it beg to give more. When the numbers were tallied, he felt sure the bottom line would be better than it had been in several years. But the highlight of the evening by a very wide margin had been dancing with his date. It had been bliss to hold Julie in his arms. Along with not having her support through his personal hell of waiting for the DNA test, Ben had hated not being near her. He'd been determined to be a father first if it had turned out that way, but he'd never stopped missing Julie. If there was any silver lining to the whole mess, it was that he knew for sure what he wanted now. "Your pumpkin is right on time, Cinderella." She gave him a tight smile. "Okay, then. Good night." The engine was barely turned off before her door was open and she was struggling to get out of the lowslung car with her purse, rose, shawl and the long hem of her dress. All of this while wearing those sexy high heels. "Hold on," he said, "I'm coming around." "That's all right. I've got it. You must be tired. God knows I am. It's late…" He frowned. "I didn't think you were working tomorrow. Actually, today." "I'm not. But it's been a busy, stressful week." Ben wasn't sure what her problem was, but knew there was one. He got out of the car and hurried around it, then held out his hand. Without accepting his help, she gathered everything in one hand and lifted the hem of her dress with the other. "I've got this." The car hadn't transformed into a pumpkin, but Cinderella had certainly changed. Gone was the glowing woman who'd made him feel lucky and proud that she'd agreed to be his date tonight. In her place was a nervous nurse who seemed anxious to get away without being touched. Forget that. Ben took her elbow and steadied her on the sidewalk whether she wanted his help or not. She didn't meet his gaze when she said, "Thanks for tonight, Ben. I'm glad I finally got to go to the ball." If she had sneakers on instead of heels, he fully expected she'd hike up her dress and set a new Olympic record sprinting to the front door. But a gentleman saw a lady home and that meant escorting her into the house. He wasn't sure what was bugging her, but leaving wasn't an option until he found out and eased her worries. Maybe he had scared her with talk of children and family.

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On the porch, in the glow from her front door light, he asked, "What's wrong, Jules?"

Chapter Thirteen Julie watched Ben loosen his tie—not a clip-on, but an actual silk one that he'd tied. It was pretty impressive, but he was an impressive guy, which made this so darn hard. The sheer masculinity of the gesture made her want to throw herself against him. She ached for him to kiss her and erase the pain of being without him, but that was also what she feared the most. He'd obviously noticed her nerves and was waiting for an answer. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said nothing's wrong, would you?" She looked up hopefully, but he shook his head. "Be honest. If I scared you off tonight with my talk about family, you can tell me." "It's not that." She criss-crossed her shawl over her chest and held her purse against it like a shield. "But it did get me thinking. I didn't have the best childhood, either." "Tell me about it." Obviously she wasn't a good enough actress to fool him so the truth was her only choice. "I never knew my father and was raised by a single mom. She did the best she could and I know it wasn't easy for her. She was lonely." "She had you." Julie heard the bitterness in her laugh. "I wasn't enough. She was always looking for Mr. Right and ended up settling for Mr. Right Now. Then he would drop her off and tell her he'd call. Mostly the men she dated never did and she wasted a lot of her life waiting by the phone for a call that never came. I won't be like her." "She sounds like a strong, independent woman to me." "That's not what I saw." "Maybe an objective outsider can put a different perspective on it." He cupped her cheek in his palm. "She had to be strong to raise such an independent, fearless woman as you." "I'm not fearless," she said, lifting her shoulder a little to savor the feel of his hand on her face. "And that's what's wrong. I'm afraid you'll kiss me and we'll end up inside, in my bedroom, just like the last time." "Would that be so bad?" His voice was gentle with understanding, a stark contrast to the tension tightening his jaw. "No." She met his gaze. "Yes. I'm afraid if we go down that road we'll end up in the same place, where you call a time-out and I try not to hope and wait by the phone." She expected him to laugh, but there was no trace of amusement in his eyes. "Then let's write an alternate beginning." There was a passionate intensity in his expression that was new and different. He lowered his mouth to hers in a soft, sweet, chaste kiss, then almost instantly he broke it 915

off. As if contact that went on too long could shred his willpower. "Good night, Jules. I will call you. Count on it." She watched him walk down the path to his car and wondered how to stop herself from waiting by the phone.

Chapter Fourteen "Gotta go, Jules." Ben's phone voice had been deep and sexy, but now turned brisk and businesslike. "My assistant says there's someone here to see me. Call you later?" "Okay. Talk to you then." Julie set down the office phone and smiled. Her ICU work space was a converted storage area with a Formica counter on one side that served as her desk. Two computer monitors sat next to each other and there were shelves above with protocol and procedure manuals. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Katie Barrett, her best friend since nursing school, standing in the doorway. The pretty green-eyed brunette was wearing scrubs as usual—these ones were green pants and a floral top. She looked thoughtful. "Hi." This woman knew her better than anyone and had listened patiently about everything that had happened with Ben, especially the bad and the ugly. But Julie was afraid talking about the good stuff would somehow jinx it. "Hey, what's up?" "You tell me," Katie said. "Not much." "Who was on the phone?" "Why?" Julie watched her friend's expression soften. "Because you look happy." "I'm always happy." "Not giddy, I'm-grinning-so-hard-my-face-hurts happy. This is different." It was different, Julie thought. Different from anything she'd ever felt before. In the four weeks since the Mardi Gras ball she'd seen or talked to Ben every day. Movies, dinner, at his place or hers. Fantastic sex at his place or hers. It was too perfect; she didn't trust perfect. "Have I really changed that much?" Katie sat in the other desk chair. "You've changed in a good way, and no one deserves happiness more than you." "You do," Julie said. "But I have to admit, if everyone on the planet was as happy as me there really would be world peace." 916

"I was that happy once upon a time." Katie smiled a little sadly. "And if every girl could find herself a Ben Carson, relationships would be easy." "Do you still miss Steve?" "Yes." He'd been her high school sweetheart and the love of her life until he died. "But that's in the past and we're not talking about me." "Because you never will." "Nothing more to say." Katie forced a smile. "We're talking about you. Has Ben redeemed himself yet for the way he handled that who's-your-baby-daddy problem?" "Redeem is the wrong word, Kate." She tapped her pen on the counter beside a stack of paperwork. "That implies he did something wrong, but he made a judgment call that was about protecting me from something potentially messy. Now, he calls or texts every day, multiple times. He does what he says he's going to, but…" "You're afraid." "Yeah." Doubt was a constant cloud on the horizon of her new joy. "To find happiness you have to keep your heart open so love can find its way in." Her friend's eyes darkened with emotion. "Or maybe it already has?" That was probably true, but she wasn't ready to admit it. "I'm not in love." "Your face is saying just the opposite." Katie stood. "And it wouldn't be a bad thing to let him know how you feel. He's showing you in every way but with words. Take it from me. Time is precious. Don't waste it. Trust me, the words are important. Now I gotta go." Julie stared at the empty doorway and thought about how right her friend was. It was time to tell Ben what was on her mind and in her heart. How fortunate that he worked just downstairs. With a little luck, he was finished with whoever had arrived to see him and interrupted their phone call.

Chapter Fifteen Julie walked into the hallway and saw Katie talking with Dr. Scott Christopher. The brilliant neurologist had set up a stroke clinic here at Mercy Medical Center and was working on one for the other hospital campus, Mercy West. He must have grabbed her friend after she'd left Julie's office. From the expression on Katie's face, the conversation wasn't going well. She moved toward them and heard enough of what he said to know what the problem was. When she stopped beside them, Katie slid her an I-owe-you-big look. Julie smiled. "Hi, Dr. Christopher. You're not happy with the quality of the EEGs on your patients?" "I left strict instructions that no one but Barb was authorized to do the tests."

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"If you'd care to have a seat in my office, I'd be happy to discuss this with you." She gave him her sweetest smile. "No." He was tall, handsome and square-jawed, with an arrogant twist to his mouth. His icy blue stare could freeze water on a Las Vegas sidewalk in the middle of July. They had to move aside as a patient with an IV and portable respirator was wheeled by, bed and all. "Okay, then we can talk here. See you later," she said to her friend, who nodded and walked away. "The EEGs are handled by a different department here in the hospital, and the nurses in ICU don't have anything to say about it." "But they know that Barbara Rayburn is the only tech I want working on my patients." "I'm sure your request is honored as long as she's available, not on overtime, or there's no union issue involved." "That's not my problem. I need the clearest test possible for diagnostic purposes, to evaluate a patient's cognitive ability and physical function. Life-and-death." He settled his stethoscope around his neck. "I bring over ten million dollars a year into this facility. In my opinion, requesting a technician isn't too much to ask." In his less than charming way, he had a point. "I'm on my way to see Ben Carson." Just saying his name made her glow and confirmed that she was in love. Even crabby Dr. Christopher couldn't puncture her bliss balloon. "He has the authority to get you whatever you want. Why don't I bring this up with him?" "That would save me a trip. Thanks." He smiled for the first time and changed from handsome to flat-out gorgeous. "I appreciate it." "Happy to help." Julie turned toward the double doors to the ICU waiting area, then went around the corner to the elevator and pushed the down button. A little over four weeks ago she'd put a lot of energy into avoiding Ben and now she couldn't wait to see him, tell him how she felt. No more wasting time. Unfortunately it took forever to get to the first floor and move through the lobby. A few minutes later she walked into the administrative wing and stopped at the desk, smiling at Ben's fiftyish brunette assistant. "I'm here to see Ben. Does he have a minute?" "He's with someone—" She glanced over at his closed door, which opened at that moment. "You're in luck. He's free now." Julie wasn't sure about either when he came out of his office with an infant carrier in his hand and a beautiful blonde who must be the new mother beside him.

Chapter Sixteen Ben could have been the hapless hero in a romantic farce and the only dialogue that came to mind was It's not what you think.

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Fortunately, he didn't say that out loud, because Julie would tell him he had no idea what she was thinking, even though it was written all over her. One look at her expressive face and he could see she was shocked and hurt. "Hi, Jules." He glanced at the woman beside him and lifted the infant carrier. "Julie Carnes, this is Penny Manning and her son, Caleb." "Hi." Penny nodded. "It's nice to meet you." "You're obviously busy," Julie said to Ben. "This is a bad time." He couldn't argue with her in front of the desk where his assistant could hear every word. "Penny was just leaving, Jules. What's up?" "An issue with Dr. Christopher. It can wait." Wariness and doubt were twin shadows in her eyes. She glanced down at the infant boy, sound asleep and blissfully unaware of the awkward scene unfolding around him. "He's a beautiful baby." "I think so." Penny's smile was proud but ragged around the edges. She looked tired. "But there's no way to prepare for the responsibility of a precious little life like this." "I can imagine." Her expression said she was imagining all kinds of things and none of them good. Penny eyed Julie's scrubs and white lab coat. "You're a nurse?" "Actually, I'm the nurse manager for the hospital's intensive care unit." "She takes care of budget, staffing and patient progress until they leave the unit," Ben explained. "And I thought I had a lot of responsibility with Caleb. That really is life-and-death." "What do you do, Penny?" Julie dropped her gaze to the baby again. "I work at The Pub in the Monte Carlo Hotel. But I'm on maternity leave right now." "You must meet interesting people there." "The public is always an adventure." Penny's expression said she didn't miss the awkwardness of the situation. "But I've taken enough of Ben's time. You two have things to discuss." "Like I said…" Julie's body language screamed that she wanted to escape. "My issue can wait." "Not on my account." Penny's fingers brushed Ben's when she reached for the carrier handle. "I have to go. The baby's going to wake up hungry soon." "I've got him for you." Ben looked at Julie, wishing he could explain, but knowing they had to be alone for that. "Wait here. Please?"

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"I have to get back to work." And for the first time, Ben couldn't read Julie's feelings. "Wait, this will just take a minute. I'm going to carry him to her car." "It's okay." Julie headed for the exit. "Catch you later." "I'll call you," he said, just as the door closed. Now that he'd heard about her past, Ben knew that those words were the ones least likely to reassure her.

Chapter Seventeen Julie wanted to hate Penny Manning. She'd cheated on Ben then put him through hell waiting for DNA tests to see if he'd fathered her baby. But after meeting the woman and her little guy, she couldn't manage it. She both dreaded and needed to know why his ex and the mother of some other man's child had been in Ben's office today. What could Penny possibly have to say to him besides "I'm sorry"? She felt for the cell phone in her pocket and wondered when she'd become that woman who waited by the phone for a man's call. Not just any man. Ben. Just thinking his name sent need pulsing through her. She'd been home from work for a half hour and yearning to hear from him. Her heart had indeed opened up and love had found its way in, but that didn't seem like such a good thing right now. A bell rang, but it wasn't her phone. She hurried to answer the door. He was standing on her porch, tie loosened, his hair looking like he'd dragged his fingers through it more than once. "Ben—" His mouth cut off anything else she was going to say and he pulled her into his arms. She clung to him like a safe harbor in a storm as he kissed the living daylights out of her. Liquid heat poured through her and she ached for his touch on her bare skin. But he pulled away. "We need to talk, but I just had to do that first." It was pathetic how easily he'd made her forget the scene in his office and all her questions. Just one kiss and she was hopeless. "Come in." She closed the door and faced him. "Penny wants me to be a father to Caleb." No small talk. Directly to the point. "You mean marry her?" He shook his head. "Just a positive male influence for her little boy." "But he has a father."

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"The guy ran out on her. She said that from the time she found out about the pregnancy she knew I'd make a better dad, and it crossed her mind to let me believe I was." "But she couldn't do that." Again she wished she could hate the woman but couldn't manage it. "Do you have feelings for her?" "Yeah." His mouth twisted. "Anger. Annoyance. Resentment." But she remembered the expression on his face when he'd looked at the baby boy, the gentle way he'd held the carrier. And she suddenly got it. "You're considering it, aren't you?" "Yes." "She cheated on you." "Caleb didn't." "And you love children." She was crazy about him for that. Darn it. "But it's not something I'll do if it costs me you. Would it?"

Chapter Eighteen "He's thinking about it? Being a father to her baby?" Katie stared at Julie as she held up the four-inch spiked heel she was getting ready to try on. It was Saturday and Julie had jumped at the chance to go shopping when her friend had called. While they were sitting in the shoe department of Fashion Show Mall's Nordstrom, she'd blurted out what had happened with her and Ben the night before. "He won't do anything that will upset me," Julie added. "How could it not upset you? He'd be spending time with another woman and her child. Becoming a family unit with them. Taking time away from you. Dropping everything when she calls with a kid crisis." "Wow." She picked up a shoebox from the stack her salesman had brought. "I never knew you were such an optimist." "Tell me you didn't think about all of that." Julie nodded. "But hearing everything out loud and in a hostile tone sounds even worse than it did in my head." "Good, because it is worse." Katie sighed and put the black patent-leather shoe back in the box and folded the tissue paper over it. "You couldn't wait until lunch to dump this on me? Man traumas take all the joy out of shoe shopping." "I thought retail therapy helped put man problems in perspective."

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"And I thought I trained you better, little grasshopper." Her friend gave her that Katie look. "Take-that-youjerk talk happens over wine and chocolate." "I'll stitch that on a sampler and hang it in my kitchen." "Your bedroom would be a better place," her friend warned. "The thing is…" Julie rested her hands on the shoe box in her lap. She understood now that Ben had put a hold on their relationship because of all the reasons Katie had just ticked off. He really had been trying to protect her. "Ben isn't a jerk. The fact that he's even considering this makes him one of the good guys, it's one of the reasons I love him." "And because he's a catch, this is a classic ploy to steal him from you." Her friend's scowl turned into a proud smile. "Good for you, by the way, owning your feelings for him." "Thanks. And I think you're wrong about Penny." Katie arched an eyebrow. "You met her?" "Right after you lectured me in my office yesterday. I went downstairs to tell Ben that I love him and not waste any more time." "Good to know my words didn't fall on deaf ears. And?" "She was there with the baby. Ben introduced us. She's nice." Julie met her friend's skeptical expression. "I don't know what made her do what she did and lose Ben, but she loves her baby. If she were a witch, this would all be so much easier." "You're too trusting." "Maybe. But my childhood gives me perspective. I was raised by a single mom. No one knows better than me that another pair of hands would help. Maybe if I'd had a strong father figure in my life, I wouldn't have wasted so much time picking the wrong guys and resisting love." Katie sighed in defeat. "Does Ben know any of this?" "No. Because until now I didn't have my best friend to help me work it through." Julie smiled, suddenly looking forward to later. "Ben and I are going to talk more tonight."

Chapter Nineteen Ben had asked Julie to give him a chance to show her that they could have a perfect date without him disappearing, and he hadn't let her down. Until now. She'd gotten home from shopping in the late afternoon and all the things her friend had said about him considering the daddy request replayed in her head. She tried housecleaning and laundry for a distraction. It kept her hands busy, but part of her was tensed and waiting to hear from him. There was no good way to say that she didn't want him to be a father to that baby boy. But if he decided it was what he wanted, should she disappear and not get in the way? She already knew how much it hurt not to have him in her life. She wanted to be there for him in anything he chose to do, but could their 922

relationship survive him being a parent to another woman's child? For hours those thoughts raced through her mind. Now it was past eight o'clock with no word from him. Something was wrong. When the phone finally rang, she picked it up without checking caller ID, expecting to hear the familiar deep voice that never failed to make her heart beat wildly. But there was a woman on the other end of the line. "Hi, Mom." "Hey, kiddo. How's it going? Am I interrupting? Is Ben there?" "No." There was a long pause before her mother asked, "What's wrong?" Julie had long ago stopped asking how the other woman always knew when something was bothering her. The truth was she needed to talk about this. After explaining everything that had happened, she said, "I haven't heard from him since yesterday. He said he'd call me, but I've been waiting and there's been nothing, Mom." "It hasn't been that long, sweetie." "It is for Ben." Whether she'd wanted it or not, her heart had made a commitment. With every fiber of her being she wanted to be with him, have his arms around her. Hear his voice. "Look, honey, I know I didn't set the best example for you in handling relationships. I always picked the wrong guy, then waited around for a call that never came." "Mom, it's okay—" "Let me finish. This has to be said. You're a much stronger woman than I am. You don't suffer jerks, and Ben Carson isn't one." "You're right about that. He's never not called when he said he would." "There's a good explanation. You just have to trust him." It was reassuring to hear the words, especially from her mom, but she already trusted Ben. That only made the bad feeling worse. She heard a beep on the line. "Hold on, Mom. I've got another call. Probably Ben." But when she pushed the button it was Katie. "Jules, I'm on call. One of the night nurses is sick and I'm here at the hospital." "I'm sorry you had to go in—" "That's not why I called. Ben's here. In ICU. He was in an accident."

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Chapter Twenty Julie rushed into Ben's ICU room and saw him sitting up in bed. He was awake and talking to Katie, who was asking him the year and the name of the president. Along with the white bandage on his forehead and bruises on his face, the questions were a clue that he'd been admitted for concussion and observation. She moved to the bed and took his hand. "Are you okay?" "Next time I jog on the street I'll wear body armor. Idiot didn't see my glow-in-the-dark clothing. He's pretty shaken up." "I don't care about him. I care about you." Katie finished taking his blood pressure and said, "He's doing great. I'll leave you two alone." "I'm glad you care about me." He smiled. "A brush with death tends to put life in perspective, and I need to say some things to you." "Okay." She sat on the bed, her hip brushing his leg, trying to be patient even though he wasn't the only one with stuff to get out. "First, you should know I'm not going to be involved with Penny's baby. I'd planned to say yes, but she finally talked to her folks. They want her to move back to Blackwater Lake, Montana." "I can't say I'm not relieved." Julie met his gaze. "But you should know I would have supported your decision. Just like I would have supported you when she first told you about the pregnancy." "I should have trusted you to be there through the hard stuff. That's a mistake I'll never make again." He let out a long breath. "I haven't been a saint. There have been other women, but I've only ever been in love once. With you." "Oh, Ben—" Emotion put a catch in her voice. "Like I said, I've made a lot of mistakes, but you're not one of them. If you don't agree to marry me, when they give me back my cell phone, my alternate plan is to text and call until I wear you down." "Is that the concussion talking?" He shook his head and winced. "It's my heart. I love you, Julie." "I love you, too. In fact, I was going to tell you that yesterday when I met Penny and the baby." "I wish you had told me." "Me, too." She had regrets, but what she'd gone through today wasn't one of them. Her trust in him hadn't wavered. Squeezing his hand she said, "Maybe we should talk about this when you're feeling better—" "If I wasn't in this bed and wearing a stupid hospital gown, I'd get down on one knee. In fact, no more wasted time—" He started to throw the covers aside. 924

She gently pressed her fingers to his chest to keep him right where he was. "Don't hurt yourself. I'd like you to be in one large attractive piece when we get married. Which, by the way, is what I want more than anything." "I'm holding you to that." He gave her a lopsided grin that was more endearing because of his battered face. "When I get out of here, I'll give you a proposal that will be worth waiting for." "And I'm going to hold you to that." She settled beside him on the bed and rested her head on his shoulder. He took her hand in his and said, "There are a lot of people here in the hospital who have been trying to set me up with someone for a while." "Won't your cupids be surprised when they find out we're engaged." "It might be fun to keep it a secret and have a little fun with the matchmakers." "You're bad." She laughed at the wicked tone in his voice. "Yet, I trust you implicitly. I'm perfectly happy with whatever you want." And she was perfectly happy that he wanted her. Forever.

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Titanic: a Date with Destiny By Marguerite Kaye Jennifer Spencer is travelling across the ocean on the Titanic to start a new life in America. Alone—or so she thinks, until she discovers her irresponsible twin sister, Maud, has sneaked on board. Becoming a stowaway may have been reckless, but Jennifer is glad Maud took the risk. After all, someone has to remind Jennifer to keep her distance from handsome and wealthy businessman Max Blakely. As Maud warns her, a man like him is not looking for anything permanent with a stewardess like Jennifer. But when Jennifer is with Max, her usual practicality evaporates. And with each passing day, her dream of independence and running her own business is being replaced by another fantasy—a future with Max. She thinks she knows all the risks, but there is a danger that no one sees coming….

Chapter One RMS Titanic, Southampton dock, Wednesday, 10 April, 1912 As the tugs began the delicate manoeuvre of easing the stately liner out of her berth, the dockside erupted in a cacophony of sound, the music of the brass band drowned by the cries of the crowd calling 'Good luck, Titanic.' Passengers and many of the crew were lining the boat deck. Others leant out over the covered promenade decks, and still more crowded the poop and aft decks, waving and throwing streamers. Jennifer Spencer edged her way through the first class passengers on A Deck, entering each of the cabins in turn. As one of only eighteen stewardesses on board, she had volunteered to make these final checks, grateful to have something to occupy her time. She was probably the only person on board who didn't have a friendly face waving her off from the dockside, she reflected sadly. More than two weeks had passed since she had written to her sister, and there had been not a single word from Maud. Quelle surprise! Swallowing hard on the lump that rose in her throat as she wondered when she would see her infuriating, flighty, thoughtless, irresponsible sister again, Jennifer gave a cursory knock on the door of Stateroom A20 and entered without waiting for a reply. Casting a critical eye over the opulent sitting room, she was moving the bowl of flowers a fraction more towards the centre of the table when the door leading to the bedroom opened, revealing the cabin's occupant. He was tall and quite extraordinarily handsome. Mid-thirties, she guessed, with cropped, glossy black hair, melting brown eyes and one of those mouths that look as if they're always on the verge of a smile. He had obviously been in the process of changing, for his shirt was open and his collar missing, giving her a glimpse of tanned torso. Which she should not be staring at, even if he did have an edge of glamour that made him seem as if he'd just stepped out of a moving picture. Mortified, Jennifer stammered, 'P-pardon me, I assumed you'd be up on deck.' The passenger raised a brow and gave her a half-smile. She was not surprised to notice that his teeth were even and perfectly white, but she was annoyed to discover that his smile did strange things to her breathing. 'What on earth are you doing here?' he asked. He was standing beside her now. He really was very tall. 'Why didn't you tell me you'd be on board?'

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American, she noted abstractedly. Nice voice. Soft but deep. Jennifer shook her head, confused by his words. 'I think you've mistaken me…' He smelled of expensive soap. Before she could back away, he caught her wrist. 'What are you doing?' she spluttered, her voice sounding more breathy than panicky. 'Don't be coy with me. When you promised me another kiss if our paths ever crossed again I didn't think for a moment that they would. But here you are. So kiss me,' he said, locking his lips on hers. She was too stunned to move. For a few timeless seconds Jennifer relished the taste of his lips, the shocking proximity of him. She had forgotten how delightful a kiss could be. She had forgotten what it was like, that connection, the thrilling jolt of desire, mirrored in the sharp intake of his breath. She had forgotten how easy it was to get carried away.…

Chapter Two Shaken, Max Blakely broke away from the bewitching girl abruptly. What he had meant to be the lightest of brush-off kisses had transformed into something else entirely. Far from turning the tables on her, he had been well and truly turned on by that kiss. He stared down at the woman in his arms, frowning in puzzlement. 'What the hell is going on?' She glared up at him. 'Let me go!' She had a very English face. Creamy skin, dark brown hair. Dark eyes, too—wide-spaced, with an extremely forthright gaze. Not a trace of coquetry today. And unlike last night, the colour of her lips and cheeks owed nothing to lipstick or rouge. He'd thought her merely pretty then. In daylight, stripped of artifice, there was experience in her eyes, in the tiny lines at the corners of her mouth. She looked like a woman who took life far too seriously. She looked interesting. Max released her, taking care to keep himself between her and the door, his mind working furiously. 'Last night in the pub, why didn't you mention you'd be on board?' 'In the pub?' She was a good actress, but though Max wore the trappings of his success lightly, he was no fool. Too many caps had been set at him, too many traps laid, for him to be anything but suspicious. He ran his fingers through his hair. 'Don't play dumb. I told you I was sailing to New York on the Titanic. We had a laugh last night, a few drinks, but it was never going to be anything more. You knew that, so why did you follow me?' 'Follow you?' She really did look as confused as he felt, but her presence was too much of a coincidence to be believable. Besides, if it was just a coincidence, why hadn't she said anything about being a passenger herself? And what the hell was she doing here in his stateroom? Max swore under his breath. 'After I left, someone filled you in on the fact that you'd been keeping company with a tycoon, that's it, isn't it?' She said nothing, but he nodded to himself. It was obvious now. 'You thought maybe if you tracked me down, maybe if you gave me a bit more than you gave me last night, then perhaps I'd give you something by way of compensation. Well, you got it all wrong.' 'You—you think I'm some sort of gold digger?' 927

She had gone quite pale. If he didn't know better… But he did. Max ignored the tiny flicker of unease. 'Look, I'm not going to make any trouble so long as you don't.' 'No, you look, Mr Whatever-your-name-is. It seems to have escaped your notice, but this is a uniform. I am a stewardess. I signed up to be a stewardess some weeks ago. Until you walked through that door I had never laid eyes on you! What's more, I'll be happy if I die never seeing you again. Now please get out of my way, I have work to do.' *** Jennifer fled out onto the deck before he could stop her. The crowd helped conceal her as she darted past and headed for the service stairs, ignoring his cry to wait. Throwing open the door of her own cabin, her eyes smarting with tears, her one thought was to find a place where she could be alone. 'Hello, Jenny. Surprise!' Sitting on the bed, a rueful smile on her pretty face, was her twin sister. Slowly, like the grinding wheels and cogs of a windmill as the breeze caught its sails, Jennifer realised what had happened. 'Oh, Maud, what have you done this time?'

Chapter Three Having ascertained, by the simple means of exchanging hard cash for information, that his runaway stewardess was off duty and not in her cabin, Max combed the ship methodically. He found her on the poop deck, gazing out over the grey, choppy waters and the white wake left by the huge liner as it steamed towards Cherbourg. She was out of what he realised now had indeed been a uniform, wearing a suit the colour of an eggplant. Sans hat, her hair was escaping in long dark tendrils from the heavy bun at her nape, whipping around her face and clinging to her skin. She looked sad, world-weary even. Last night he'd thought her rather empty-headed, but today she seemed overloaded, as if her troubles were too myriad to cope with. The contrast struck him anew. It was crazy, but he felt as if he were staring at a different woman. 'Don't even think about running away,' he said to her. 'You!' Jennifer tried to back away, only to find herself caught by the rail, trapped by the bulk of him in front of her. Though he wasn't really bulky, just well-built. At least she understood his anger now. 'I want an explanation.' Jennifer nodded reluctantly. He deserved that, and seeing him again, she found she wanted to clear up the confusion. 'The woman in the pub. It was Maud. My twin.' 'Your twin.' He sounded sceptical. No, downright disbelieving. Jennifer met his gaze, the anger that should have been directed at Maud bolstering her courage. Attractive he may well be but, she reminded herself, he had made some horrible and unjustified accusations. 'My twin,' she repeated curtly. 'Maud sneaked on board, pretending to be me. It would seem she is intent on joining me in America, despite the fact that I did not invite her. Not that that ever bothers Maud. Another one of her love affairs is over, you see. Another man 928

has disappointed her and destroyed all her dreams. And just because her big sister is emigrating she thinks she can escape picking up the pieces of her own life. Again.' She sighed. 'I am not Maud, Mr Blakely. My name is Jennifer. And before you ask, I know your name because my sister told me, not because I consulted my almanac of eligible bachelors.' His instincts hadn't been wrong after all, which was quite a relief. It was strange, Max thought, studying her intently, how two people could share the same features, yet look so utterly different. 'Jennifer…' he said. 'So you're the responsible twin, are you? The one who "picks up the pieces"?' Was it understanding in his eyes? Yes, and warmth, too. But she would not be drawn in by him. Jennifer shrugged. 'Luckily for you, Maud has not fallen victim to your charms, Mr Blakely. You're not her type, apparently.' He grinned. 'Nor is she mine.' 'So why the kiss?' Max ran his fingers through his hair, obviously a habit. Damp with spray, it stood up in endearing spikes. 'I realise it was dumb of me,' he said. 'I was so taken aback, I thought you—Maud was playing games and I decided to call her bluff. But then you kissed me, and I didn't know what to think. That was quite a kiss.' He touched her cheek, and she remembered the kiss, just as he was obviously also remembering it. It really had been quite a kiss. His thumb ran along the sensitive line of her jaw, and he leaned in….

Chapter Four Jennifer jerked herself free from Max's caress. 'I'm glad we've cleared up our misunderstanding. I expect you want to go back to first class.' 'I like the company here,' he replied. 'Tell me, what made you sign up for service on the Titanic?' 'I'm working my passage to America. I need to make a fresh start away from…from everything. I'm planning to set up my own business.' She waited for Max Blakely—who, according to Maud, was one of America's most successful businessmen—to sneer. He didn't. 'What kind of business?' he asked. 'Mail order. Luxuries imported from England. Soaps, perfumes, lace, tea sets, linens. The kinds of things people will buy so they can say I believe that Lady Lansbury uses the same one,' Jennifer said in a fair imitation of her most recent employer. 'And how do you know what Lady Lansbury uses?' 'I've spent the last five years in service. Believe me, I know everything about aristocratic households.' 'Tell me more. Seriously, please.'

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She hesitated, but he drew her out with questions, his interest piqued by both her idea and the mind that had formed it. Her eyes lit up with enthusiasm as she talked, and he recognised that sparkle, that steely determination. 'That's a good business proposition,' he said, after she'd explained her idea fully, 'but it will need funds. Do you have them?' 'I'm planning to start small. My husband left me some money, and since he died I've been putting a little aside from my wages.' Here was the reason for the sadness in those big eyes, Max realised. He didn't like that she'd been married, though why that should be the case he had no idea—he couldn't possibly envy a dead man. 'How long has it been since you lost him?' 'Five years. But he had been an invalid for five before that. He was wounded in Africa, fighting the Boers.' 'You're what—twenty-eight or twenty-nine? You must have married very young.' 'I'm thirty, actually. I was eighteen when we married. We were young, but Peter knew he would most likely be posted abroad and we were in love. You understand.' 'Not really.' Max had never even stopped to smell the roses, never mind considered settling down. 'You can't have had much of a life, caring for an invalid.' 'It certainly wasn't much of a life for Peter.' 'But if he left you well provided for, why wait five years to do something with it?' 'I lost my husband, Mr Blakely. We may not have had the kind of marriage we'd hoped for, but we were together for seven years. When he died, though, I didn't know who I was or what I wanted.' 'But you do now?' 'I know I'm finally ready to find out.' 'You're an extraordinary woman, Jennifer Spencer. And a woman, if I may say so, after my own heart. What you're doing, it's bold on the verge of madness, you do realise that?' 'Of course I do, and frankly I'm terrified.' 'But determined all the same.' That he understood. Max gazed out over the grey sea. She deserved help, a woman like Jennifer, and he owed her, after those things he'd said. This journey across the Atlantic, he had been thinking of it as dead time. But in the company of this extraordinary woman—someone who really did deserve a break—the days would fly by. That settled it.

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Chapter Five 'Listen, I've a proposition for you. A business proposition,' Max said to Jennifer. 'I think you've got a brilliant idea for a business, but you need help to make it fly. I wouldn't interfere with you running it, but I could get you some contacts, point you in the right directions.' 'And why would you do that?' 'Because I admire your pluck, and because I owe you a debt for maligning you. And because, to be frank, I'd much rather spend the voyage talking business to you than indulging in polite chit-chat with my fellow first-class passengers.' Jennifer glowed with pleasure. 'Thank you, it means a lot to be taken seriously. Everyone else I know laughed at me. But you really don't owe me, and besides, I have my duties to carry out.' 'It seems to me that your sister could very easily do your work for you, since she pretended to be you to get aboard in the first place. In fact, reading between the lines of what you've said, she probably owes you that twenty times over. Let her cover for you. For once you can have some fun, enjoy a little luxury— and prevent me from getting bored. Provided no one ever sees the two of you together, who's to know?' He could tell that she was tempted. It would be fun, watching her let her hair down a little. Not that that had anything to do with his offer. He just wanted to help. 'Please,' he said, unashamedly pushing home his advantage, 'it will make me feel better.' 'I certainly wouldn't want you spending the whole voyage feeling guilty.' 'Or bored.' 'And I suppose I owe it to myself, to give my business the best chance of success,' Jennifer agreed. 'It couldn't do any harm to meet you tomorrow.' 'Why wait? Meet me later tonight— Oh, dammit, I agreed to attend some dinner with the Astors. Tomorrow, then. We're going to be docked at Queenstown for a while, plenty of opportunity for us to explore the ship while they're loading. And that will give me a chance to put some ideas together—and you can put that sister of yours straight in the meantime.' Jennifer laughed and held her hand out to him. 'Very well. You have a deal.' He took her hand and surprised her by lifting it to his lips, pushing back her sleeve to kiss the pulse at her wrist. She tasted of soap and sea salt. The brush of his lips on her skin sent the blood coursing through him. It was a heady combination, the stimulation of brain and body. It was going to be very difficult to resist.

Chapter Six RMS Titanic, Departing Cherbourg, Wednesday evening, 10 April, 1912 'You're joking, aren't you?' Maud's bottom lip quivered. 'Come on, Jenny, can you see me in a ghastly uniform making up beds and picking up clothes? I mean, it's not as if I've had the experience, whereas you…'

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'Do you realise that we'll both be deported if you're found here?' Jennifer asked exasperatedly. The problem was, sprawled on the bed, dressed in a frothy white work peignoir trimmed with Valenciennes lace, Maud hardly looked like a maid. But Max was right, it was high time that Maud suffered a little of the consequences of her own actions. 'If you won't go along with this I'll have you put off at Queenstown'. 'Jenny! I came all this way so you wouldn't have to go off to the other end of the world on your own.' There were tears glittering on the ends of Maud's mascaraed lashes. Jennifer hardened her heart. 'You came after me because you were dumped and you wanted me to pick up the pieces, as usual. And I will, but on my terms. That's how it's going to be from now on.' Maud sat up on the bed, staring in astonishment. 'What's got into you?' 'I've decided to make a fresh start, be my own person, that's all.' 'Well, it's about time, I must say. Good for you.' Maud laughed at Jennifer's shocked face. 'You think I didn't notice how miserable you've been? You're my twin, Jenny, we can't escape each other no matter how much you might want to.' 'I don't want to escape you. It's only…' 'I understand, truly. You want to be just…you. Not my big sister, not Peter's sacrificing wife. Not someone else's servant.' 'You do understand.' 'How could I not?' Maud asked. 'Do you know how hard I have to work to get out from under your shadow? I need to look at this sometimes—' she tugged at the little silver name pendant that she wore around her neck '—just to be sure I exist.' Their father, afraid he would mix his baby daughters up, had given them each an oval-shaped pendant with their names inscribed and bordered by forget-me-nots as a Christening gift. 'Yes,' Jennifer replied with a smile, touching her own matching pendant through her blouse, 'I know exactly how hard you have to work.' 'Well, then,' Maud said, breaking the thoughtful silence, 'what are you going to do about Max Blakely? You like him, don't you?' She gave her twin one of her looks. 'It's not a crime, for God's sake. You're flesh and blood, you're allowed to have feelings, and you can't have had much chance to express them with Peter.' 'Maud!' 'He's dead. He was half dead for five years before that. You were a nurse to him, not a wife,' Maud said impatiently. 'Besides, who wouldn't like Max Blakely—apart from me, that is? He's handsome, he's rich, and he obviously likes you, so why not?' 'You mean you'll agree to cover for me?' Maud's shrug was an exact replica of her sister's. 'I did rather force myself on you. Though it's just as well I did, mind you, because at least I have the right clothes for you to wear if you're to mingle in first class.

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Just don't expect me to enjoy playing the servant. And don't get any ideas about Max Blakely beyond the duration of this voyage, because he's not the staying kind.' 'Which is absolutely fine. I'm looking for a new life, not a new husband,' Jennifer said firmly.

Chapter Seven RMS Titanic, Queenstown, Thursday, 11 April, 1912 Jennifer met Max in the Palm Court. The café was decorated to look like a large conservatory, with a chequered floor, white cane furniture and trellises on the walls. Maud had huffed and moaned a good deal as she had donned Jennifer's uniform this morning, but she had been as good as her word, giving Jennifer free access to the astonishing array of clothes she had bribed one of the ship's baggage handlers to have brought aboard. The day dress Jennifer had selected was dark red polished cotton edged with silk, the square neckline trimmed with red crochet and cream lace. She didn't dare ask Maud how she'd come by such an exquisite garment. As Max stood up to greet her, she weaved her way confidently around the tables as if she had a perfect right to be there. Seeing him again gave her heart a little flutter. His suit was blue-grey. The doublebreasted jacket fitted tight across the breadth of his shoulders, making her acutely aware of the man underneath. They drank coffee from tiny china cups. Their conversation continued as if it had not been interrupted yesterday, beginning with Max's ideas for her business. But with her gentle probing they moved quickly beyond her idea to his own work. After they'd finished their coffee, they continued to talk as they strolled along the promenade deck, too engrossed in their conversation to even notice the other first-class passengers taking the air in their fluttering silks and cocooning furs. Jennifer and Max walked close together, hands and arms brushing. The tassels of the little cape she wore over her dress clung to the wool of his coat. He put his arm around her shoulders to steer her away from a small child with a hoop, and then kept it there. She pretended not to notice, but she was intensely aware of him. Of the brush of his thigh. His hand on her shoulder. The scent of his soap and his skin. 'So you make railway locomotives and automobiles,' she said. 'Have you considered building a liner like this?' Max laughed. 'No way. This ship is all show and not much purpose. Besides, in a few years I believe it will be possible to fly across the Atlantic. Aeroplanes, that's where my money's going next.' They were standing at the top of the grander of the two sweeping staircases reserved for first class. Like all of Titanic's fittings, it was a curious mixture of styles, combining panelling, carved woodwork, iron banister grillwork and ormolu garlands with bronze cherubs that held up lamps at each of the landings all the way down to D Deck. 'Look at this,' Max said with a sweeping gesture at the banister. 'When I was a kid, I'd have loved to slide down something like that.' Jennifer giggled. 'I think maybe you're a little too old for that now.' 'You're probably right, but there's something about this ship, isn't there? It's so damned dignified, doesn't it make you want to kick over the traces?'

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She barely had time to register his wicked smile before he grabbed her hand and pulled her headlong down the curve of the staircase, grinning at the dowagers standing like a clutch of glossy ravens in their sables on the landing. Sunlight caught in the prism of the coloured glass dome above them and danced on the wooden steps. Jennifer's cape and her skirts rushed out behind her as they ran.

Chapter Eight They arrived at the foot of the main staircase laughing, breathless, holding on to each other. The horseshoe-shaped reception area for the dining room was in front of them. Behind them, the staircase continued, a plain and practical version of its first-class self, down into the second- and third-class decks. Max's hands slid up Jennifer's arms under her cape, giving her goose bumps. His eyes had darkened to the colour of burnt toffee. His fingers tightened on her shoulders as she closed the last inch of space between them. She knew he was going to kiss her. She wanted nothing more, to satisfy the craving that had been growing since he'd first kissed her. And then he did. But no sooner had his lips met hers, no sooner had he pulled her close enough for her body to revel in the hardness of his, for her blood to tingle in anticipation, than he freed her, cursing, as a waiter carrying a large salver of drinks came through the glass-panelled doors. 'Let's get out of here before the lunch crowd arrives.' She half expected him to take her to his cabin, but he continued up to the boat deck instead. She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Her body was throbbing. 'It's been so long since I've kissed anyone, I feel a bit like a piano that's out of tune.' Realising she'd spoken her thoughts out loud, Jennifer put her hand over her mouth. 'I don't know what possessed me to say that.' Max laughed, putting his arm around her and guiding her into a sheltered spot behind one of the life boats. 'You've had a tough time these last few years, haven't you? I wouldn't call you an out-of-tune piano, though. More like Cinderella.' 'Then Maud must be my fairy godmother, for this is her dress.' 'Has she, by any chance, something suitable for evening wear, your fairy godmother?' 'I suspect Maud has something suitable for any sort of wear,' Jennifer said dryly. 'Why?' Max ran his finger down her cheek. 'You shall go to the ball, Cinderella. Or at least a dinner dance. Would you like that?' 'Of course I would, but you don't need to feel obliged to…' 'You think I pity you? You couldn't be more wrong. When I saw you today in the café you looked as if you had changed—and I don't mean your clothes, I mean the way you wear them, as if you wear haute couture every day. When I saw you… Listen, I need to be honest with you, Jennifer. I don't trade business advice for favours, I promise you, but it would be a lie for me to say that I'm not attracted to you. I was kidding myself when I said this was just about wanting to help you. I do want to help you, but I wanted an excuse to be with you, too.' Max grimaced. 'What I'm trying to say is that I don't want there to be any more misunderstandings between us. If you don't want me to kiss you, then say so.'

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Hadn't she made it obvious? Couldn't he see what he was doing to her? Jennifer bit her lip, remembering Maud's warning that Max was only temporary. The old Jennifer would run in the opposite direction of that kind of relationship, but she had left the old Jennifer behind when they'd set sail. What they had could be nothing more than a shipboard romance, but wasn't that all the more reason to indulge in it? She nodded. 'I would like it very much if you kissed me. Is that clear enough for you?' 'It certainly is.'

Chapter Nine His mouth crushed hers. She could feel the buttons of his coat pressing into her, she could smell the damp salty air mingling with the wool of his suit. It was a kiss that started right in the middle of something, plunging them both deep into a swirling dark morass of desire. Her hands clutched at the stiff collar of his shirt, her fingers curling into the close-cut hair at his nape. His tongue licked into her mouth and his fingers tangled in the heavy bun of her hair, angling her so that he could kiss her more deeply. She moaned, hearing an echo of the guttural sound from him. It was this that set her on fire, realising that she had set him on fire. She slipped one hand under his jacket, stroking the tense muscles of his back. One of his hands cupped her bottom. She could feel the hard length of his erection against her. It was she who had excited him to this, and the knowledge excited her in return. She had forgotten this. No, she wasn't sure she had ever known the thrill of power that rousing Max gave her. The early days with Peter had taught her the passion of youth, quick and bright like a shooting star. Later, their marital loving had been tender, but infrequent. Since she had been widowed, she had learned how to compensate for the loneliness on her own. But this was something darker, much more adult, more complex. Max's kisses, his response to her kisses, promised a satisfaction that would be core-deep and earth-shattering. His hand slid up her spine and around to cover her breast. He was breathing hard and fast. She was strung up, tense as the anchor chain. One more kiss, one more touch… The blast from the funnel directly beside them, signalling departure for New York, made them spring apart. 'Bloody hell!' Max shook his head, straightening his tie, pulling down his waistcoat. 'I'm thirty-five years old, not fifteen. What are you doing to me?' Jennifer let out a most un-thirty-year-old-like giggle. 'Maybe it's the sea air.' The ship's funnel gave another blast and the Titanic began to pull away from Queenstown as a loud cheer went up. 'Come on,' Max said, 'let's go somewhere more public before I lose what little control I have.' Below on the poop deck, the newly boarded Irish passengers were lining the rails, waving frantically, though the Titanic was almost two miles out from the shore. The wail of the bagpipes drifted on the breeze, and the cheering stopped as the lament caught at the hearts of the listeners. Country men in tweeds and caps, women in bonnets and shawls clutching their children to their skirts, turned towards the piper and listened.

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'"Erin's Lament,"' Max said as the melancholy tune came to an end. Jennifer looked up at him in surprise. 'How do you know that?' He shook his head, his expression bleak. 'I have to… I have some work to do. Will you excuse me?' 'What's wrong?' The piper launched into another heart-wrenching melody, and Max shivered. 'Have dinner with me later. Not in that great barn of a restaurant. There's another one, the Café Parisien, it's called. Don't worry, it's strictly extra so they don't really give a damn who eats there as long as you can pay,' he said sardonically. 'I'll make us a reservation.' 'Max, what…' But he had already turned away from her.

Chapter Ten Alone, Jennifer drifted down to the aft deck. There seemed to be an incredible variety of nations represented in steerage. In addition to the Irish brogue, she recognised French and German being spoken, as well as the soft lilt of Gaelic, but there were many others she could not place. Back in her cabin, she listened with half an ear to Maud's gleeful tale of having caught the eye of one of the richest women on board. 'Her maid missed the boat, so she has no one to dress her hair or help her with her gowns, and if there is one thing I know, it's clothes,' Maud was saying. 'She said I did her hair even better than Julie—that's the maid, who's French—and she said that she'd speak to the head stewardess and make sure that I wasn't assigned to anyone else, so it's not going to be such a bad voyage after all. Jenny, are you listening to anything I'm saying? How was Max Blakely?' 'Oh, we talked a lot about…about business. And things.' Maud's eyes narrowed. 'Business, hmm? You remember what I said, Jenny?' 'For goodness' sake, Maud, are we swapping roles now? You don't need to worry about me.' 'No, you never would let me, would you?' 'What on earth do you mean by that?' 'After Peter died, you wouldn't let me in. I knew you were suffering when he was ill, too, but you wouldn't even admit that much. I'm your twin, but you never told me you were hurting.' 'But you never— You were always— Maud, you know you weren't exactly dependable.' 'I could listen, couldn't I? And maybe I'm not dependable, but you won't find anyone else in the world who knows you as I do. Or who loves you as much, Jenny. We never say it, but you do know that, don't you?' 'Oh, Maud, of course I do.' Throwing her arms around her sister, Jennifer hugged her tight. The truth was, she had doubted her sister, and she realised now, as the guilty tears burned their way down her cheeks, 936

just how monstrous such doubts were. It was just so difficult sometimes, being one half of a whole. Impossible to be herself when they were together, impossible to be wholly herself when they were apart. 'I love you, too, Maudie,' she whispered. 'I love you, too.' 'I know that.' Maud blotted her eyes frantically. It was one thing to wear her heart on her sleeve for a man, but what she felt for Jennifer was far too deep to allow it to show. She got to her feet, concentrating on her reflection in the mirror, powdering her nose. 'Anyway, I'm being dependable now, aren't I? More than dependable, in fact. I bet you wouldn't have been able to do Lady G's hair as well as I did!' Jennifer's smile was still troubled. 'I'm sorry, Maud. I didn't mean to shut you out when Peter died.' Maud blotted her lipstick. 'It's what you did, all the same. Though I admit, I didn't exactly give you reason to think you could rely on me. Maybe things will be different in New York.' 'So you're planning to stay?' 'Who knows. Right now, what matters is finding you something to wear in that café. I heard it's like the Ritz. Luckily, I have just the dress.'

Chapter Eleven RMS Titanic, En route to New York, Friday, 12 April, 1912 The evening dress was devoré blue velvet formed over an underdress of gold satin and trimmed with metallic gold lace. The style suited Jennifer's slim form, and the colours brought out the chestnut and russet tones in her hair. She and Max had one of the best tables in the Café Parisien, in front of a large picture window that looked out to sea. All around them the first-class passengers laughed and talked at a frantic pitch, like a flock of gaudy birds. Max whistled when he saw her. 'Not so much Cinderella,' he said. 'More like a butterfly emerging from her chrysalis.' Flattered, Jennifer took her place opposite him with renewed confidence. The food was like nothing she had ever eaten, there were even strawberries, though it was only April. It would have been perfect, except that across from her, easily the most attractive man in the room in his plain dinner suit, Max was remote, distracted. 'What's troubling you?' Jennifer asked. He didn't answer. She wondered if he regretted kissing her; maybe he was trying to decide how to give her the brush-off. It could be done very simply. Without him as an escort, she would not dare venture into first class. He could easily keep himself separate from her for the rest of the voyage if that was what he wanted. 'Tell me about yourself,' he said, just as the silence was beginning to be painful, just as Jennifer was beginning to think she should just leave. 'Your family. Your parents. Growing up. What was it like?' 'Ordinary. My father was a grocer. My mother helped him in the shop.' 'Were they happy?'

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He looked as if the answer mattered. As if the question was about much more than the state of her parents' marriage. 'They worked hard, but they enjoyed being together. Yes, they were happy.' 'And you and your sister, were you happy?' 'Yes.' 'You were lucky. To have your parents, I mean. To be a family.' 'Yes, we were. I am lucky.' 'Are you finished eating? Let's go for a stroll on the deck.' He took her by the arm, but instead of going out onto the promenade, he led her down the main staircase to C Deck and aft, past the signs marking out the library for second-class passengers, and through a gate into third class. The noise from the General Room was overwhelming. Jennifer pulled on Max's sleeve. 'We can't go in there dressed like this.' But he ushered her forward, through the doors and into the large functional room furnished with benches and chairs, none of them upholstered. The stark space was finished in plain white, the only relief provided by the White Star posters which were hung on the walls. It was crowded. Women knitted, crocheted and sewed. Children slept in rush baskets or played raucous games in corners. Men sat at the small tables playing cards. As they slipped through the doors, a fiddle struck up and a young woman broke into a song in Gaelic. Her voice had a haunting quality to it that caught at the heart. As the tune took hold, the room quieted. Women dabbed at their eyes. The rough-hewn faces of men took on a faraway look, sadness tinged with longing. Realising it was the same expression she'd seen on Max's face the day before, Jennifer turned towards him, surprised to find him smiling softly. '"A Stór mo Chroí,"' he whispered. 'It means darling, or love of my heart. It's about a girl whose sweetheart has gone off to discover a new life across the sea.' 'How do you know that?' He put his fingers over her mouth. 'I'll tell you in a moment.'

Chapter Twelve They waited until the girl had finished singing, by which time the General Room was awash with tears. Jennifer's own lashes were wet. Though she'd understood not a word of the song, the melancholy of the tune combined with the purity and sweetness of the girl's voice spoke volumes about love and loss. Almost every one of these people was crossing the Atlantic for the same reason as she, to find a new life, but at what cost? Unlike her, they had left their families behind, were making the journey not necessarily because they wanted to but because they had to. As the room erupted into applause she and Max left unnoticed, and headed up to the boat deck. It was quiet there. They sat on a bench together, the ocean spread out before them, black and gently rolling. Above, the sky was silver-grey. In the immense and bleak beauty of nature, even such an enormous liner as the Titanic seemed insignificant. Aboard a ship of more than two thousand people it was still possible, up here, to believe themselves alone in the world. 938

Max took off his evening coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her close. 'My parents left Ireland for New York on an assisted passage not long after they were married,' he said. 'Not on a ship as grand as this, but they had the same hopes and dreams as all those people down there. A new life. A life where they had enough to eat, where their children could have all the chances they never had. A life where they could be happy.' He swore viciously. 'It's not much to ask, but it was too much all the same.' His thigh was pressing against hers. That elusive and familiar scent of him, of soap and expensive wool and Max, was having its usual effect, but his sad words subdued her desire for the moment. This was what he'd been wrestling with since hearing that piper play the lament yesterday. Jennifer caught his hand between hers and pressed a kiss on his knuckles, silently encouraging him. 'But there was no new life,' he continued, his voice anguished. 'Back then, in the years after the famine, the Irish were treated like dirt and paid a pittance. He was a good man, my father, and a clever man, though he had no education. He was clever enough to know it wasn't going to happen, his American dream. That's what knocked the guts out of him, the knowledge that he'd failed. And that's what made us all miserable. Not his failing, but his being unable to cope with it.' Max dropped his head into his hands. 'I hated him for what he was doing to us, but I loved him, too. Those were his songs,' he said, his voice hoarse with unshed tears. They sat in a silence that was strained and tragic. The ocean shushed by, the Titanic's engines thrummed. The gentle strain of the ship's band reached them through the glass dome that topped the central staircase. Jennifer would give much to spare him the pain of telling her the rest, but she knew, too, that it had to be said. 'Max, what happened?' He swallowed compulsively and began to speak.

Chapter Thirteen 'My father took his own life. I was just a kid, but he made me swear that I'd take care of the rest of my family.' Max's voice cracked. He drew a harsh breath, his fingers clasped tight around Jennifer's now, so that it was painful. 'My three sisters and my mother, he left them in my care. He made me promise.' Though she was appalled, Jennifer was also utterly awed by this. 'And you did. My God, Max, you've done as he asked, and a thousand times more.' He smiled mirthlessly. 'I have, but it's taken twenty-five years of my life to make my father's dream a reality. That song, "Erin's Lament," they played it at his wake. I haven't heard it since. My mother swore that he could charm the birds off the trees when they were courting. It's not a side of him I ever saw. Or that my sisters saw. Bitter, that's how I remember him. It made him cruel.' 'And the piper yesterday, he brought it all back?' 'I haven't let myself think about those days in years. I haven't let myself stop long enough to think. Maybe I was wrong about the Titanic. Being at sea like this, it gives you plenty of time for reflection,' Max said with a sad little smile. 'As if the world has stopped for a while, you know?' Jennifer touched his cheek. 'Do you regret it? All the hard work, the making good? Is that what you mean?' 'No, it's not that. And it's not just the ship that's made me reconsider my life, it's you. We're very alike, you and I.' 939

'I can't imagine how you came to that conclusion,' Jennifer said, startled. 'Unless you wish to compliment me by implying I have a flair for business. A quite untested flair, I may add.' 'Oh, you'll be good, I'm confident of that.' Max twined his fingers in hers. 'No, I mean that neither of us really knows who we are. I envied you when you told me that you were making a fresh start. I thought you were so brave, shucking off your past like a dead skin, leaving the person other people have made you into behind. When you said that, it made me realise that's what I wanted to do. I've worked damned hard to become someone my father would have been proud of, the person he would have wanted me to be— the person he wanted to be. But that person is not me, and I don't know how to be anyone else. I'm bored, Jennifer, and I'm… I'm not unhappy, but hell, I'm not happy, either. What's more, I have absolutely no idea what would make me happy.' 'Then that's two of us,' she replied. 'You see, I told you, we are alike.' Max turned towards her. 'There is one thing I'm certain of, though,' he said, tilting her chin up, his eyes dark with longing. 'I want you.' He kissed her then, passionately, pouring all the pent-up emotion of the night into his kiss. Jennifer wrapped her arms around his neck. She ran her fingers over his chest and under his coat, her palms flat, feeling the ripple of his muscles beneath her hands as she tested the breadth of his shoulders, the cord of his spine, then back round to the dip of his stomach, feeling him knot and tense, feeling herself knot and tense, as her fingers explored lower. His kisses were now more purposeful than before, his tongue licking into her mouth, his hands roaming as hers did, over her back, down her sides and round until he cupped her breasts. There could be no going back from such kisses. There could only be one destination. 'Jennifer?' His voice was harsh. His breathing hard, as if he had been running. There was only one answer. 'Yes,' Jennifer said, taking the lead, pulling him towards the staircase, leaving him with no doubt of her feelings. 'Oh, yes. Please, Max, yes.'

Chapter Fourteen Jennifer had never been undressed by a man before. In the dim light of his cabin, Max unwrapped her carefully from the elegant evening gown, his fingers deftly undoing the row of buttons down the back of the dress, slipping it from her shoulders to pool in a shimmering puddle of silk and lace at her feet. She would have been embarrassed at her near-nakedness had she not seen the sharp rise and fall of his chest as he looked at her, the way his delectable mouth curled up in pleasure. An answering knot uncurled in her belly, a corresponding heat to the flush that slashed his cheekbones. Max's waistcoat was shucked off with his suspenders, his black tie undone and cast onto the floor, the studs from his collar carelessly scattered, his shirt tugged free from his trousers. And all the time, they were kissing, kissing, kissing. She wore no corsets, only the briefest of lawn camisoles trimmed with cotton lace. The sheerest of fabric between his hand and her breasts, but it was still too much. Her nipples peaked painfully. Max kissed her and cupped her and she rubbed herself delightfully against him, relishing the hardness of his erection against her belly. More kisses, on her neck and her throat. On his neck and throat. He pulled the flimsy straps of her camisole down to expose her breasts. He put his mouth on them, one then the other, sucking and licking, tugging on the invisible cords that seemed to connect her nipples to her belly to her sex, where she was 940

tight for him, throbbing for him. It had never been like this. She had never been like this. Never. She felt as if she were emerging from a cocoon, just as he'd said. He pulled her onto the bed, discarding the rest of his clothing. She looked at him with unabashed desire, all the hard planes of him, the neat curve of his buttocks, the long length of his thighs, and his shaft, thick and silken and hard. Her knickers matched her camisole, white lawn trimmed with a deep frill of cotton lace. He untied the drawstring, nudging her onto her back, and edged them from her. Her evening slippers were long gone. She wore only her stockings. Kneeling between her legs on the cabin floor, Max ran his hands down her flanks. 'Jennifer, do you want me to kiss you?' His wicked smile was infectious. She felt wanton, powerfully aroused by how powerfully aroused he was. 'I rather thought I'd already proved that,' she said, running her foot up his back to rest on his shoulder. 'Say it,' he said, grazing her nipple with his thumbs. 'Say you want me to kiss you.' 'Max, I want you to kiss me.' 'Then that is exactly what I shall do,' he said, sliding his hands under her bottom to pull her towards him before gently pressing his lips to the damp folds of her sex.

Chapter Fifteen RMS Titanic, Saturday, 13 April, 1912 When she and Peter had first been married, their love-making had been inexperienced, a fast race towards completion that left them breathless and happy. Later, it had been Jennifer who made love to Peter, carefully and tenderly helping him to his climax, more often than not pretending her own to spare his feelings. With Max it was different in every way, Jennifer thought, lying late the next morning in her own cabin, reliving every second of the journey they had taken the night before. She had never been kissed in such an intimate way before. His mouth had brought her so close to climax that she thought she would shatter, and then he'd held her there, teasing, circling, licking, until she'd wanted to scream from the tantalising suspense of it. When she came, she'd felt as if she were being wrung out from the inside. And then he'd begun it all again, pulling her onto his lap, wrapping her legs around his waist, easing his tongue into her mouth and his shaft inside her at the same time with tiny, rousing, pulsing movements. She'd clung to him with her lips, her hands, her legs. They'd rocked gently, like a ship on a calm sea, until the lapping became rough waves, until his face had grown tight and she'd felt him swelling inside her, felt her own second surge of a climax clinging to him. Then he'd ridden her hard, his hands around her waist, lifting her, thrusting up as she sank down on him. He'd cried out—a fierce, hoarse shout as he came. Later, they'd made love again. It had been different, their climaxes sharper, edgier, their bodies hungrier for each other. He had sheathed himself each time to protect her.

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Then they had lain there in the cabin, sprawled naked and entwined across the ruined bed, as the grey light of dawn crept through the porthole. Was he as shattered by it all as she? She felt unmade and remade. She felt new, uncovered, raw, exposed—and in the same moment, known. She wasn't sure if she liked the sensation, even several hours later as she sat alone in her own cabin. 'No need to ask where you've been all night,' Maud said, breezing into the cabin and eying Jennifer critically. 'No need to ask how it was, either. You've got that look, like you've been lit up from the inside.' Jennifer blushed, pushing back her tangled hair from her face. 'Rubbish.… Have I?' Maud sat down on the narrow bunk beside her. 'Jenny…' 'Don't worry. I get that it's the stars, the sea, all that stuff. I realise it doesn't mean anything.' 'Do you?' 'Maud, you know how much I appreciate this—your doing my job for me, lending me all these clothes. Maudie, you don't think I'm being selfish, though, do you?' Yawning, her sister began to take off her dress. 'Jenny, I'm glad you're being so selfish because honestly, I don't think I've ever felt so virtuous in my life,' she said with a grin. 'Now shift over, some of us have been working since dawn. I'm exhausted.' 'So am I,' Jennifer said with a sated sigh.

Chapter Sixteen RMS Titanic, Sunday night, 14 April, 1912 Jennifer smoothed the fall of rose gossamer chiffon down over her arms. The evening gown that Maud had selected for her tonight was deceptively simple, an empire-waisted underdress of ivory peau-decygne satin, with two long bands of gold net stitched down the skirt. It was French, and must have cost a fortune. Though it had, she thought, looking at her glowing reflection, borne its ill treatment well—left crumpled on the floor while she and Max made love earlier. He had rolled her onto her stomach tonight, kissing his way down her spine, over the curve of her bottom, down her legs. She hadn't realised that the backs of her knees were so sensitive. Or the hollow at her ankle bone. He had entered her from behind. She could feel every inch of him as he'd slid inside her. She'd tingled with a new kind of friction as he thrust deeper and harder. He had reached between her legs, rubbing, stroking her two ways, fingers and shaft. Her climax had been violent. Now she was glowing. They had taken fruit and wine into the cabin earlier, but neither of them seemed to have any appetite for food, only for each other. Now, as he led her out onto the deck, she saw that it was dark outside, save for the glimmer of lights from the cabins. No moon, though the stars dotted the sky in pinpoints, impossibly high above them. It was late. They were the only people on the deck. 'Too late for music,' she said.

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'We can make our own.' Max pulled her into his arms and began to dance with her. They turned in slow circles that were more about touching than dancing, their fingers laced together, too caught up in the afterglow of sex to notice the bite in the air, which was cold enough to make clouds of their breaths. 'Three more days and we'll be in New York,' Jennifer said softly. As if she needed reminding. Though actually, she did. Here on the Titanic, they were caught in a timeless bubble. Occasionally she wished that they would never arrive. She was in danger of forgetting all her reasons for crossing the ocean when she was in Max's arms, breathing in Max's scent, every bit of her aware of every bit of him. Who was she? Right now, she felt as if she knew exactly. She was his. And she was happy. Max's hand skimmed down her back, coming to rest on the slope of her bottom, nestling her closer. 'Jennifer, you know I'd never crowd you,' he said. 'What do you mean?' 'I'd give you plenty of space to be you. I mean…' He broke off, pulled her over to the edge of the covered deck on the port side of the ship so they could look out at the black of the sea, keeping his arm around her shoulders to pull her close to him. 'I don't know what I mean, except I don't want this to end.' 'We have three more days.' 'Not enough,' he said firmly. 'Not nearly enough. This thing between us… It's as if I've been hit by a sledgehammer. I've never felt like this before. It's as if you know me completely. When I'm with you, there's no need for me to be anyone other than me. I've never had that before. It just feels so right. You make me happy, Jennifer. We could be happy together, I know we could. Is it the same for you? For God's sake, please say it's the same for you.'

Chapter Seventeen Jennifer bit her lip. Of course she felt the same, but she wasn't ready to admit it. She was afraid of what it meant, of what it would do to her if he cooled towards her, as Maud predicted he inevitably would. 'Max, I don't think…' 'Is it your husband? You're still not over him?' 'No! I mean, Peter is— He was— It was different. I just…' 'It's too soon,' he said flatly. 'It's only been a matter of days.' 'I know, I know. It sounds crazy. Maybe I'm crazy, but time— I feel I've missed out on so much. As though if I don't grab this, whatever it is, I'll never have anything like it again. Do you understand at all, Jennifer?' The rawness of his emotions, his honesty, his courage in revealing how he felt, they made her feel small in comparison. What he said gave her such a glorious vision of a future so much brighter than any she had imagined. Jennifer had opened her mouth to speak when the ship gave a huge shudder, as if she had suddenly run over a layer of rubble, throwing them hard against the railings. 'My God, Max, what was that?'

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'I don't know.' He had barely spoken when the Titanic began to swing hard to starboard. A noise like the falling of rocks behind them made them rush towards the poop deck just in time to see it. An iceberg, a black cliff of ice, loomed terrifyingly high over the deck of the ship. 'My God, we hit it!' Jennifer stared down at the ice that lay scattered like glittering boulders on the deck at their feet. Max swore. 'We'll be— I mean we won't— They said she's unsinkable, the Titanic.' Jennifer was shaking. There was fear in her voice, a clamouring edge seeking reassurance. She looked up at Max, who was frowning over at the wall of ice already behind them. Surely if they were still moving they must be safe. Except the ship seemed to be slowing. 'We're stopping.' 'Standard procedure,' Max said. 'They'll shut down the engines. Inspect the damage. Even if one or two of the bulkheads are breached, we should still be able to… They'll have pumps.' His knuckles on the railings gleamed white. He kissed her forehead. 'Look, you stay up here, I'll go see if I can find out what happened.' 'But Maud…' 'I'll find Maud. Stay here, Jennifer, and don't move. I'll be back as soon as I can.' As he turned to go, panic welled up in her. She was being ridiculous. The ship was unsinkable. But what if something happened. What if the worst happened and he never knew what she felt for him? 'Max!' She ran to him. 'Max, it's the same for me. I feel as if you know me. As if I can be me when I'm with you, just me. I'm not sure what it means, either, only I don't want— Three days of happiness, it's not enough. It's not nearly enough.' His smile made her heart turn over. His kiss made her knees tremble. 'Wait here. I'll find Maud, I'll bring her to you,' he said. And then, in an instant, he was gone.

Chapter Eighteen RMS Titanic, Early hours of Monday morning, 15 April, 1912 'Women and children first,' the captain ordered. Maud's eyes were wide with excitement. 'They're actually saying we should board the lifeboats, Jenny, though no one actually believes— I mean, it's just a precaution, isn't it?' Jennifer threw herself into Maud's arms. She had been pacing the promenade deck from one end to the other for more than an hour, her stomach churning. 'What took you so long,' she'd said to Max when he'd arrived with Maud in tow, 'I thought— I don't know what I thought.'

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'It's chaos below decks,' Max replied, prying her free from Maud and giving Jennifer a quick kiss before pulling her life jacket over her evening gown. 'There's a screaming mass at the purser's office trying to get their valuables back. Half the passengers are refusing to move, the other half are charging up and down the decks to absolutely no purpose that I can see. There are people in steerage who don't even know how to get to the boat deck, and there are men sitting in the smoking room calm as you like, playing cards.' 'And I wasn't in my cabin, so Max had to come and find me because he said he'd promised you he would,' Maud said. 'And then we had to go back through the crush to get the life jackets, and the gates to third class were locked and Max broke them open and then—' 'You're here now. That's all that matters. They've already started lowering the boats,' Jennifer said. 'Come on, then, let's get up there.' Keeping a firm hold on both twins, Max shoved and pushed his way through the crowds determinedly. Above them in the sky a flare shot up, bursting over the ship like a shooting star. Up on the boat deck, the stunned disbelief of the crowd gave way to panic as the boats were lowered from their davits without seeming to make any dent in the mass of people waiting to board. Grief rent the air, the crying and wailing of families being forcibly parted. They were all an incongruous sight, in nightgowns, evening suits, gowns and furs, some of the older women with ornate confections of hats on their heads, some glittering with the entire contents of their jewellery boxes. Another crowded boat was cranked over the side. The ship was clearly listing. 'There aren't nearly enough places,' Jennifer said, clutching Max's hand, icy with fear. They were on the port side. An officer was struggling to keep the crowd from surging into the next boat. Not just women and children now but men, too. Somewhere nearby a dog barked. 'Look, all the stewardesses are over there.' Maud pointed at a partially full boat. 'But if they see us together…' 'Jennifer, it hardly matters now.' Max's face was pale, his lips narrowed, his brows drawn together in a deep frown. The Titanic was now pitched at a distinct angle, the front of the ship much lower in the water. A young woman was clinging to her husband, crying hysterically. Honeymooners. Jennifer remembered remarking on them only yesterday. 'Max, are we really going to sink?' His face was a stony mask. 'We have to get you to a boat.'

Chapter Nineteen Jennifer struggled to contain her fear, conscious of her twin, now white-faced and terrified, clinging to Max like a limpet. 'I'm not going without you,' she said to him. 'Jennifer, listen to me. I've waited all my life to find you. I'm not going to lose you now. We'll get through this. If we're separated, I'll find you again, I promise. Now come on, let's get you on a damn boat!' 945

But it was like working their way through treacle. The flow of passengers surging up from second and third class crowded the small space, making it impossible to make headway. The boat with the other stewardesses went over the side. Another joined it. They were lowering them more quickly now. Another went, leaving all the davits on this side hanging empty. With a superhuman effort Max dragged them to the other side of the deck where the crew were launching the last of the collapsibles. The entire front of the Titanic was disappearing into the water. Flare after flare shot up into the moonless sky. Jennifer had to struggle to stand straight, the deck was at such an angle. Wooden chairs, empty life jackets, all sorts of loose fittings began to slide across the wooden floors, knocking people off their feet. An officer fired a gun high into the air, but instead of instilling order, it merely caused the panic to increase. People stampeded from one side of the ship to the other in search of a boat. A desperate few plunged screaming into the sea terrifyingly far below. Jennifer's arm was almost out of her socket as Max hauled her to the front of the queue with Maud just behind her. They were the only women. Maud was silent, her face tight with fear. Jennifer was sobbing. 'Max, I can't, please don't make me go without you.' 'I'll make my own way, I promise. I'll find you. Fate brought us here. It's our destiny to be together, right? Please, just go. For me, Jennifer. Go.' He pushed them both through the heaving, sweating bodies to the collapsible just as a violent shudder sent the Titanic deeper into the water and sent Max sprawling across the deck. As the crowd closed over him, he cried out, 'Remember my promise!' There was a cracking, creaking noise and the funnel began to topple. 'Just the one. There's only room for one more,' the officer cried. 'You go, Maudie. Please, you go.' Her sister hesitated. She nodded, made as if to step forward, then she pushed Jennifer violently, sending her top-over-tail into the boat. The ropes were released. 'Keep safe, Jenny, keep safe for us both,' Maud screamed, and then, before Jennifer could say a word to her sister, the inflatable boat was jacked free from its ropes; it slid over the side of the Titanic into the churning, icy-black water below.

Chapter Twenty RMS Carpathia, Early morning, Monday, 15 April, 1912 Jennifer stood on the deck of the rescue ship, staring at Titanic's few remaining passengers hoisting themselves up the ladders and ropes, but she was completely numb. She had watched from the lifeboat in disbelief as the ocean liner's lights dimmed and went out. Then a crack like thunder rent the air, and the front of the Titanic disappeared beneath the waves. For a few miraculous moments the stern settled almost flat in the water, then it, too, sank without a trace. She had stared at the spot where the ship had been, unable to comprehend what had happened. There had been an eerie silence before the cries began. Without lights or a compass, they'd floated and rowed

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aimlessly, floated and rowed, until the Carpathia arrived. She had begged the sailors to go back, to search for survivors, but the collapsible boat was already overloaded. Now she was alone, and she would rather be dead. There was no Maud waiting for her on the rescue ship, and no Max. Her other self and the man she loved were both gone. Max had promised, but he was no more invincible than the Titanic. And Maud. Jennifer's fingers sought her pendant. Maud had sacrificed her place for her. Maud. Oh, Maud. A great chasm opened up at her feet as Jennifer tried to contemplate a future without her sister in it. It couldn't be done. Beyond tears, oblivious of the concerned crew of the Carpathia trying to force her below decks to get warm, she clung to the railings, looking out at the blackness of the sea. She thought she was imagining it at first. Thought that her grief had conjured his ghost when his hand on her shoulder made her turn. But ghosts were not solid or sodden. A ghost did not smile like that, with a special curl of his mouth. A ghost wouldn't have that look in his eyes. As if he had seen too much. As if she was the only thing in the world that mattered. 'Max?' 'Destiny. I told you I'd find a way.' His voice was hoarse from shouting. He looked exhausted. But he was real. He was real. Jennifer threw herself into his arms. 'Max! Oh, Max, Max, Max. I'm never, ever going to let you out of my sight again.' 'I don't intend to let you.' His lips were cold, but it was the warmest kiss she'd ever had. 'Maud?' he asked gently, looking around as soon as he had caught his breath. Jennifer shook her head, the tears which had refused to fall earlier coming in a hard, bitter flood. Max kissed her cheek. 'There's always hope. You'd feel it, wouldn't you? You're twins. You'd know if you'd lost her, wouldn't you?' 'I hadn't thought of that.' Jennifer touched her pendant and closed her eyes, trying to read her heart. 'I would,' she whispered. 'You're right. I would know.' Max pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe. 'Whatever happens, we've got each other. We can make a new life. Our life. We can make each other happy, Jennifer, I know we can.' Looking up at him, seeing the fierce light of determination burning in his eyes, she could believe it. She did believe it. 'Our life,' she repeated, smiling tremulously. 'Ours,' Max said. It was a promise. They sealed it with a kiss.

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Flirting with Fire By Wendy Etherington Nathan Pearce's desire for Gia Sorabella has been on a slow burn ever since he first walked into her restaurant several months before. Since then, they've become friends—and not the kind with benefits. But if he had just the right situation, he could prove to her that they belong together—in bed and out of it. He just never imagined that situation would be when one of her customers is murdered. Gia has devoted her life to making her Manhattan restaurant a success, and murder is never good for business. Turns out it's not so good for her sanity, either. Luckily Nathan is there, as he's always been…only this time he's offering her a whole lot more than his shoulder. But Gia can't afford to give her focus to anything except her restaurant. Surrendering to Nathan—no matter how delicious he looks— would be flirting with fire.

Chapter One "He's dead." Her stomach in knots, Gia Sorabella stared in disbelief at the stoney-faced paramedic. "You're sure?" "Pretty sure." Considering the siren-blaring, light-flashing truck he'd arrived in, plus the crew and equipment he'd brought in, she was fully aware her question was stupid. But she fed people for a living. Deceased diners weren't her forte. "How?" she asked. The paramedic shrugged. "Can't say." "A heart attack." "Could be. I called it in." "Called it in to who?" "The NYPD." Gia's pulse spiked. "For a heart attack?" The paramedic shrugged again as he turned away. Pressing her fingertips to her pounding temples, Gia's thoughts raced over what to do next. Her 8th Avenue restaurant was full of customers who'd been first startled by the choking gasps from a fellow diner, then understandably alarmed by the medics' abrupt entrance. Adding the cops wasn't going to boost her weekend reservations.

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At least her staff had handled the whole thing with their usual professionalism. They'd calmly assured the customers that the guy had had a bad reaction to a pine nut, even as her bus boys moved an accordionstyle panel to block the corner booth where the diner had keeled over into his pesto capellini. All this for a man who is—or was—a complete ass. Not that she'd wanted Elliot Craig, influential restaurant critic and legend-in-his-own-mind, dead. His reviews of Sorabella's were okay, if not exactly glowing. She supposed she should feel fortunate, since the man ravaged almost everybody. As a man had just died in her restaurant, however, it wasn't her blessings on her mind. "Don't let anybody leave," the medic ordered over his shoulder. Franco, her maître d' and assistant manager, squeezed her hand as he said, "Free wine?" Not trusting her voice to be steady, she nodded. "Surely it's a heart attack," Franco whispered before he headed toward the cellar door. Surely. Elliot hadn't exactly been the picture of health. He was short, wide and aggressive, and Gia doubted he spent his days at the Manhattan Fitness Club, even though his nights were filled with indulgences in rich food. "Gia? Is everything all right?" Glancing in the direction of the calm, strong and familiar voice, Gia had the crazy urge to throw herself into Nathan Pearce's capable embrace. "Yes, thank you." She worked up a smile for her good friend and one of her best customers. "Finish your dinner. Franco's bringing around some wine." Behind his glasses, Nathan's dove-gray eyes turned skeptical. "The man in the booth across from me collapsed." Damn his attention to detail. She supposed, being an architect, precision was a necessary trait for his job. Just now, though, with a restaurant full of customers, that quality was going to be a problem. "He's being taken care of." "Good to know." Nathan slid his arm around her. "I don't need wine. But you look like you could use a drink." Before she could gather her wits to protest, he'd led her to his booth. He smelled great, a warm, woodyleather scent reminiscent of her grandfather, yet with a spice that was sensually enticing. Her head buzzing, she acknowledged the familiar sensation of heat that washed over her whenever they touched. Which was exactly why she avoided further intimacy with her friend. She'd never get to the top of the restaurant scene with him distracting her. "Sit," he said gently but firmly. "I'll be right back." Gia did as he directed, figuring she had to be in shock to take his demand without question. She was supposed to be the one in charge.

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Gathering her wits, she absorbed her surroundings, so familiar, so treasured. As typical in Manhattan, space was at a premium. Beyond the front door and hostess stand were a few booths. The bar was in the back, where the restaurant hooked to the left, leading to a dining room of twelve tables. The modern decor contrasted with her traditional Italian menu. While the walls were dark, mirrors reflected ceiling and floor lights. The tables were antique mahogany, and the candles resting in the center were surrounded by amber glass, casting a soft, golden glow on the diners. Named for her family, opened on a loan from her grandfather and featuring her Tuscan grandmother's recipes, Sorabella's was her baby—her life, really. She had an obligation to be a success, to carry on the dreams of her immigrant heritage. The image of Elliot's florid face, his limp body splayed on the table, flashed before her. She closed her eyes, only to have the vision intensify. Fresh pesto sauce splattered across the white tablecloth. An overturned wineglass, deep red liquid dribbling across his fleshy hand. The next thing she knew, Nathan was sliding into the booth next to her and pressing a heavy crystal glass into her hand. "Drink it." In a daze, she did. After a sip, she coughed. "What the hell?" she asked, her throat burning. "Whiskey. Feel better?" She whipped her head toward him. "No, I—" Her gaze collided with those lovely gray eyes of his, turning her instantly into a marshmallow. "Thanks." "My pleasure." Over the past few months they'd shifted from restauranteur and customer to good friends, confidantes in the hectic world of dating in the city. With his golden blond hair, tailored suits and impeccable manners, he was attractive and nice, but not her usual type. Not that her tendency to try to rehabilitate bad boys was working out, either. At first, she'd tried to treat Nathan with strict professionalism, even though he'd eaten in her restaurant at least three times a week since he'd moved to the city four months ago. But eventually she'd found herself in deep conversations with him late at night, after restaurant traffic dwindled. He was smart and insightful, caring and generous. Far from the boyfriend mistakes of her past. But she'd been turning to him for advice and hanging out with him when she should have been doing inventory or planning marketing strategies and menus. She had to make a success of Sorabella's—both for her bank account and her family's pride. Nathan Pearce was a temptation she couldn't afford. She cleared her throat, which still sizzled from the whiskey. "Mr. Craig appears to have suffered an allergic reaction." "But the paramedics aren't working on him," Nathan pointed out. "He's dead, isn't he?" "No, of course—" Gia stopped mid-lie. Nathan deserved better. "Yes." "I suspected so," he said, his shoulders sagging. "I rushed over to help, but when I got there, Jason and Dale were already giving the guy CPR."

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Despite the gravity of the situation, she wanted to laugh at the idea that Nathan knew not only the waiter's name, but the busboy's as well. Elliot Craig had never taken the time to notice anybody. Ridiculously, she wondered if the critic had liked the pesto. Maybe he'd at least died happy. "My brother's a firefighter in Cincinnati," Nathan added. "I used to volunteer. I've witnessed a bad scene or two." "Right. You're from Ohio." And she definitely wasn't. A lifetime New Yorker. Brooklyn, until last year when an Italian movie icon had declared her marinara sauce the best in the city, allowing her to barely afford a move to the high-rise island of Manhattan. "I appreciate your help, as always." Impulsively, she laid her hand over his. "The police are going to question you." His thumb slid across her knuckles, and the promise of something much more carnal than a consoling friend would offer moved through his eyes. "I don't mind." She pulled her hand back. "I doubt you'll say that an hour from now." As she scooted out of the booth and stood, he followed her. "Bet I will." Gia indulged in his smile briefly, then her hostess appeared beside her. "The police are here."

Chapter Two Despite Gia's assurance she was fine, Nathan held her hand as her office was turned into a makeshift interrogation room for the NYPD. He couldn't hold her the way he wanted to, so he was settling—again— for being the steady friend. "It appears somebody attempted CPR," homicide detective Carl Anderson prompted. "Was it you?" Gia shook her head. "Jason and Dale. One of the waiters and the busboy. I made everybody take a class just after the holidays." The detective flipped through a small notebook. "So you didn't touch the body?" Gia's olive-toned skin went pale. "No." "But you knew Elliot Craig." "Yes." The restaurant was now empty except for Nathan, Gia and the detective. The cops had arrived, supervised the removal of the victim, questioned everybody—employees and diners alike—then unceremoniously sent everyone out and locked the doors. Knowing Gia's commitment to her restaurant, Nathan figured she was struggling to decide if a dead body or an interruption of dinner service was more traumatic. "He comes in every few weeks," Gia continued. 951

"For a review?" "He'll write up the meal on occasion, but not always. Technically, that's skirting an ethical line. He eats for free when he's reviewing." "But he ate free here all the time?" Gia's lips turned up in a small smile. "No reason to piss him off." "Pretty good gig," the detective commented, to which Nathan agreed. Plenty of men would pay, and pay big, to see Gia's stunning face and eat her delicious food on a regular basis—in fact he was the president of that fan club. But since Craig had acted like a pompous jerk from the moment he walked in, Nathan doubted the critic was as lovestruck as Nathan himself. He probably just enjoyed being fawned over. "Was Craig easily pissed off?" the detective pressed. "A lot of people found him annoying." "Including you?" Gia's eyes flashed with resentment, but Nathan doubted anybody who didn't know her well—or who didn't study her movements as closely as he did—would be aware of it. "He was aggressive and demanding, but a lot of food people are. He seemed to like eating here." Raising his eyebrows, the detective propped his hip against the desk. "I've read the reviews. He wasn't all that complimentary." "Elliot never complimented anybody if he could help it." Gia's half smile appeared again, sending sparks of need through Nathan's body. "But then I'm no Joel Robuchon." The detective cocked his head. "Who?" "A French chef of some renown," Nathan told him, tired on Gia's behalf of the seemingly pointless questions. "Could these questions wait until tomorrow? Ms. Sorabella has been through quite a lot tonight." "You're the boyfriend?" Anderson asked, giving Nathan his full attention for the first time. "No," Gia blurted before Nathan could speak. Was he really that far from boyfriend material? Unsurprised by the pain that jabbed his heart, Nathan reminded himself that he hadn't exactly put himself out there with Gia. For a while, he'd simply been happy to breathe the same air she did. Lately he'd begun to want more—a lot more—but he could hardly push for it under tonight's circumstances. "I'm a friend," he told the detective. "How close?" Ignoring Anderson's question, Gia laid her hand on Nathan's knee and leaned toward him, whispering, "Sorry. I didn't mean…" 952

Her touch was akin to downing several tumblers of whiskey in a single gulp, and her closeness allowed him to indulge in the captivating, subtle scent that clung to her skin. "It's okay. I'm glad to be a friend." "You always seem to be around when something crazy happens." "Like two weeks ago when Franco came down with the stomach flu and I learned how to be a maître d' in ten minutes?" Her grin blossomed full-out, the one that inevitably sent his fantasies spinning out of control. "Exactly like that." "You've been there for me, too, though. Remember all those confessions of my romantic woes?" He'd only known Gia a few weeks when he'd told her about his girlfriend, the one he'd followed to New York only to have her run off with a hot-shot navy pilot on leave two weeks later. They were now happily tucked away in Southern California. In turn, Nathan was left lusting after a stunning Italian restaurant owner he had as much chance with as he had of landing a fighter jet on an aircraft carrier. "I remember," she said, "but your crappy past doesn't remotely compare to mine. At least you had one great relationship." "One I couldn't hold on to." "Yeah, well, I'm zero for twenty—and that only covers my dates during the past year." "They were all idiots." "So was she." Warmth infused him, both at her words and the understanding in her eyes. Moments like these gave him hope…though the timing couldn't be worse. Gia squeezed his hand. "Thanks for sticking." "Franco and the rest of the guys wanted to stay, too. I convinced them I'd take care of you." "And why would you volunteer for that? I don't expect you to save me all the time, you know." "But I like to." Meeting his gaze, her eyes focused with determination. "Why?" He scrambled for the right answer. If their relationship—such as it was—could be plotted with angles and measurements, he'd be on much firmer ground. Her importance in his life had grown exponentially with every word of welcome, smile and conversation. The shared confessions were absolute proof his feelings were much more than a crush and they weren't going away. Maybe if he drew a diagram of— "Yo!" The detective slammed his hand onto the desk. "Could you wind up your personal drama so I can get on with my investigation?"

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"Sorry," Nathan said, dragging his attention from Gia. "Yeah, yeah, got the hots for each other." Anderson waved his hand. "Doesn't take a detective to figure that out. But back to the dead guy…" Gia scowled—whether at the memory of a deceased customer or the idea of them having the hots for each other, Nathan wasn't sure. "I don't know what else I can tell you. Elliot started to eat his dinner, he gasped then collapsed. He probably had a heart attack. I'm sorry he died, but I don't see how we can do anything about it now." Rising, Gia faced the detective. "Have you eaten? I'm sure we have plenty of leftovers in the kitchen. I'd be glad to throw something together for you." With a cold assurance that set Nathan's nerves on edge, Anderson shook his head. "I can't eat anything here." Gia rolled her eyes. "As bribes go, it might be a good idea, but—" "Neither can anybody else," Anderson finished. "Until further notice, you're closed." "Closed?" Gia echoed, obviously confused. "Yeah. I believe Elliot Craig was poisoned."

Chapter Three "Thanks," Gia said to Nathan woodenly as she shuffled across her apartment's threshold. "I'll pay you for the cab fare." Nathan's hand, warm and capable, pressed against her lower back, guiding her to the sofa. "I'll settle for seeing color return to your face." "The cops shut down my restaurant. I'll probably wake up looking like an albino." "How about some tea?" "How about you stab me with a long, sharp knife?" When he blanched, she leaned forward, pressing the heels of her hands to her forehead. "Sorry. Too much. Way too much oregano in the sauce tonight." "Not the sauce I had. It was perfect." "If you don't mind the arsenic." "Craig had the pesto, remember. No oregano or arsenic required. Besides, arsenic doesn't kill instantly, so something else must have done the deed. I'll do some research." "Your logical mind is a marvel," she muttered, glancing at him. Just having him there was a comfort to her as her world fell apart around her. "My pain bothers you. Elliot Craig enjoyed making other people squirm."

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"I doubt he suffered." He offered her a small smile. "He had the pesto." "But he's still dead. How?" She recalled the black bag the crime scene guys had zipped around him and suppressed a shudder. "My kitchen is clean." "I don't think salmonella got him, either." "There's no way anybody in my kitchen murdered him." "I can't imagine they did," Nathan said, ever honest and practical, "but you're going to have to answer a lot of difficult questions to prove that point." She expelled a sigh and wished all the worry, panic and tension could be so easily eliminated. "I didn't kill him." "I know you didn't." Nathan held her hand between his. "But somebody did." A sizzle vibrated up her arm at the contact. Oh, boy, not this again. Diversion from inventory was one thing; diversion from a murder investigation that threatened her restaurant was an entirely different bowl of soup. She surged to her feet. "I'm gonna take a shower. Thanks, again, for your help." Nathan leaned back on the sofa. "You're welcome." His settled position couldn't be mistaken. "I can handle this on my own." "I'm sure you can, but you aren't going to. I know you're freaked out about your restaurant, but the sooner Craig's killer is caught, the sooner you can get it back." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Worried about where you're going to eat tomorrow?" "I'm worried about you." She understood unwavering devotion. Her family had taught it from the cradle. Her staff continued the tradition. She practiced the craft every day. But she couldn't let Nathan drown himself in this mess. Couldn't let herself come to rely on him. He'd already been there for her so many times. Too many times. "I'm tough enough. When you're ready to go, lock the door on your way out," she commanded as she started down the hall to the bathroom. Beneath the hottest shower spray she could stand, fear still shot through her body. Her restaurant was the realization of a lifelong dream. She toiled over her recipes and sought the best ingredients to please her customers, to feed and comfort them. She'd cleaned, saved, borrowed from her family and sacrificed everything to get to this place. Now people she didn't know, wearing gloves to protect themselves from some mysterious toxin, were putting her stewed tomatoes, organic basil, even the olive oil she imported from Italy into bags to be transported to a sterile lab. A white-coated technician would perform tests to determine her fate. Cops and judges would decide whether she'd ever be able to unlock her doors again.

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And a man was dead. After bundling herself into her favorite cushy blue robe, she twisted her wet hair on top of her head. Glad the mirror was too steamed to get a reflection, as she had no desire to see the dread in her own eyes, she shuffled out of the bathroom. Instantly, she knew she wasn't alone. For one thing, the TV was on. And someone was moving around in the kitchen. Turning the corner toward the living room/kitchen, she saw Nathan standing by the microwave. "What the hell?" "Tea?" he offered, smiling over his shoulder. "I found some chamomile in the pantry. You should get a good night's rest." "You pawed through my pantry?" He pulled a steaming mug from the microwave. "I didn't look through your tins to see if you had a stash of canned tomato sauce or anything, I made tea." "I thought I asked you to leave." "You asked me to lock the door on my way out when I was ready to go. I'll do that—when I'm ready to go." He set the mug on the edge of the counter. "Have some." "Nathan, please…" "You want sugar? I saw some honey, so—" As he was heading back to the pantry, she snagged his hand. "I can take care of myself," she said firmly. "I know. But you don't have to. There's no weakness in relying on a friend." So why did letting him further into her life feel like so much more? Why did his presence in her apartment seem to leap over a dozen steps in their relationship? Why was she so happy to not be alone? "I can help with the investigation," he said, pressing the steaming mug of tea between her hands. "The cops will manage on their own." "But how long will that take? The longer their investigation goes on, the longer your restaurant is shut down. It's not fair." "It's not fair?" she repeated, setting the mug aside. Where the hell had this guy come from? He laid his hands gently on her shoulders. His eyes were earnest and fierce. "You should have somebody on your side." Apparently he'd come straight out of a fairy tale. 956

She wanted to kiss him almost as much as she wanted to run in the other direction. "And you figure you're that somebody?" He slid his hands down her arms, grasping her hands. "I'd like to be." She was afraid if she gave in to the urge to rely on him, she'd be leading him on, using him as a crutch. "I think I need a lawyer more than an architect. No offense." "Why would that offend me?" Gia smiled at his tone. "Sarcasm, huh? That's unexpected." "I'm overly sensitive when it comes to you." "Why?" "Because I like you." He stroked her cheek with his fingertip. "Very much." She looked into those earnest eyes, and the urge to run grew stronger. The weeks of shared confidences, unspoken attraction and dreamy gazes culminated into a single awareness. "I know." "And you're not interested?" "You're not the kind of guy I usually go for," she said lamely. "Why not?" "You're too nice." Irritation rippled across his handsome face. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." He picked up the mug of tea and handed it to her. "Drink your tea. I think you're in shock." She drank the tea. Like him, it was warm and comforting. He crossed to her stingy window between the kitchen and den. Since he couldn't be interested in the view of the alley below, she figured he must be deep in thought. "So I'm boring and too nice?" he said after a moment. "I never said—" She stopped. The flighty ex-girlfriend. "You're not boring," she said firmly. "And you being nice is a good thing. I just can't afford to lose focus. Especially now. I'm too consumed with the restaurant to make a decent go of a relationship." "Maybe it's the guys you pick." He had a point there. And since the restaurant was closed for who knew how long, she was going to have a lot of time on her hands. So he was her default time-killer? How romantic. Maybe she really was in shock.

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"That guy who came in for dinner last week and spent the whole night coming on to you was married," he added. She frowned. "When? What guy?" "The dark, brooding one who sat across from me last Wednesday." Gia had a vague memory of an Italian guy with a Jersey accent. If she had a nickel for every one of those who flirted with her she could replace every kitchen appliance she owned five times over. "How exactly did we get from murder to dating?" she asked. "I was leading up to telling you I don't think you should be alone tonight." She raised her eyebrows. "Sarcasm and a proposition all in one night? I guess there are hidden layers of bad boy underneath that amiable exterior." He straightened his glasses in a self-conscious gesture she'd seen him do dozens of times. "I wasn't suggesting we sleep together. Given the traumatic night you've been through, I thought you might rest easier if someone else was here." He grinned. "I'll save the invitation to have dinner with me for another day." A confident, yet somehow seductive, friend? That was a new one. "The sofa pulls out to a bed. Have a nice night."

Chapter Four Nathan woke to find himself staring at a blurry water stain on an unfamiliar ceiling. His back protested as he sat up to retrieve his glasses from the table beside him. Maybe he should have suggested Gia stay at his place. At least it was a two bedroom with two actual mattresses. He felt as though he'd slept on bare springs. Her apartment was significantly smaller than his, but he imagined she put every spare cent into the restaurant. The furnishings were mismatched. The kitchen was cluttered with various pots hanging from a ceiling rack. The layout was mundane. But then it wasn't angles and aesthetic lighting he was interested in. After sliding on his pants over the boxers he'd slept in, he headed to the kitchen, hoping Gia kept some of the restaurant's rich Italian coffee at home. He found a bag in the small cabinet above the coffee maker and measured out enough for a full pot. After taking the first, glorious sip, he called his office to let them know he'd be in late. With no meetings scheduled, he'd planned to spend most of the day sketching ideas for a Lower East Side museum renovation the company he worked for was bidding on. Drawing skills weren't required in this day of computer blueprints, but he couldn't imagine any software replacing the feel of a pencil balanced in his hand. He glanced down the empty hallway and longed to see Gia shuffle toward him, her long, silky black hair tumbling over her shoulders, her lips turned up in that half smile he craved she would aim his way.

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At the same time, he was glad she was sleeping. She was going to need her energy to get through the challenges ahead. He hoped she was comfortable and warm in her bed…. Bad idea. The vision of her curvy body tucked beneath the covers, a bare shoulder peeking out, made him dizzy. With a half-naked Gia off limits for contemplation, his thoughts inevitably turned to murder. The horrible events of the night before still seemed like a movie. He'd always heard the restaurant business was cutthroat, but he had no idea people meant that literally. Or was it possible the restaurant had nothing to do with Craig's death, other than serving as the crime scene? Maybe he'd argued with a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Really anybody. It wasn't hard to imagine dozens of people finding him difficult to deal with. And yet, the detective believed that the poison had somehow been administered in the restaurant. Craig had dined alone, so no suspect there. It seemed beyond ludicrous to imagine one of Gia's staff tipping a vial of cyanide into the man's cabernet. A customer perhaps? Again, far-fetched. How— A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Though he certainly had no business answering Gia's door, he didn't want some delivery guy waking her up, either. He looked through the peephole to find Detective Anderson standing in the hall. "This can't be good," he muttered as he unlatched the door. Anderson's gaze swept him from head to toe. "Not a boyfriend, huh?" Nathan stepped back, extending his hand toward the sofa bed as the cop strolled inside. "No. Gia's still asleep. Maybe you could talk to her later?" "Sorry, pal. I barely caught two hours of shut-eye—and that was in my office chair. The M.E. and the boys at the lab pulled an all-nighter. I'm not in a pleasant mood. Is that coffee I smell?" Nathan didn't see how he could argue, though he'd really been hoping to share breakfast with Gia before she had to be reminded of the investigation. "Have a seat," he said to Anderson. "I'll get you a cup." He'd also like to clarify with Gia his blurted confession that he wanted something more than friendship with her. Though he'd convinced himself he shouldn't push, she hadn't said she wasn't attracted to him. And her excuses—the restaurant, him not being her type—didn't seem entirely credible. Maybe she wanted more and was afraid, like him, to ruin their friendship. Now that he'd put it out there, maybe this was his one chance to see if the sparks between them could be coaxed into a flame. "Detective?" At the sound of Gia's voice, Nathan turned with the coffeepot in his hand. "Sorry. I was hoping you'd sleep—" 959

"Nathan?" Her incredulous tone caught Nathan off-guard. Maybe the shock of last night had affected her memory. Did she even remember he'd brought her home? "I—" She shook her head but her gaze remained riveted to him. Just not to his face. He glanced down, realizing he'd never put on his shirt. Way to go, Mr. Too Nice. Now she'll think you're some kind of pervert. "Are ya growing those coffee beans over there, buddy?" The detective's abrupt question shook Nathan from his regrets. He'd find a way to explain his morningafter appearance to Gia later. "Just pouring another cup for Gia." In the few seconds it took to do that, he prayed he could answer Anderson's questions without sweating. The memory of Gia's rumpled robe, bare legs and sleep-tossed hair was so embedded in his mind, he wasn't sure he'd ever recover fully. After delivering the two mugs, he grabbed his shirt from the back of the sofa and put it on, then tucked the bed into the couch and moved the coffee table into place. He was sure his face was flaming with embarrassment, but he managed the task efficiently and even got a brief thanks from Gia. While the detective sat in a chair and sipped from his mug, Nathan and Gia perched side-by-side on the sofa—awkwardly, but at least she hadn't thrown him out. Yet. "Great coffee," the detective commented. "That kitchen smelled pretty good last night, too. If we get this cleared up quickly, I'll bring my wife for dinner some night." "If we don't get this cleared up quickly, there won't be a restaurant to go to," Gia said heatedly. "How am I supposed to explain to my customers that I'm shut down because somebody was poisoned?" Anderson pulled a notebook from the pocket of his wrinkled brown coat. "Yeah, well, I probably wouldn't tell people that." "There's crime scene tape across the front door!" Nathan grabbed Gia's hand. "We'll think of a way to do damage control." "'We'?" Gia echoed incredulously, glaring at Nathan. "Cool it." Anderson set his mug on the coffee table. "You two can spat later. I've got a murder here." Gia pulled her hand away from Nathan. "Fine." "I've seen a lot of homicides," the detective began. "And this one felt like one right from the get-go. The sudden collapse, the inability to speak and Craig's flushed skin point to a serious toxin. Cyanide was my first thought." Gia choked on her coffee. "Are you serious?"

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Anderson raised his finger as he made his point. "I said my first thought. But I doubt now that it was cyanide. No bitter-almond smell, for one thing—though the scent is not always detectable, and the food could have disguised it. I knew we'd have to test everything he ate to be sure. "Then the lead crime scene guy reminded me of a case we'd just worked where the wife knocked off her husband for the insurance money. This body was identical, right down to collapsing in the bowl of pasta." "I read about that in the papers," Nathan said. "Some kind of heart medication overdose." "Crushed up blood-pressure pills in his soda. Thing is, Craig took a different medication. Something for an irregular heartbeat. The doc was skeptical about cyanide, too, and did the test. No go. She says he did have a sudden heart attack, but she thinks it was brought on by a toxin that reacted with his meds and gave the appearance of cyanide poisoning." Incredulity crossed Gia's face. "That seems like, if you'll pardon the pun, overkill." "Yeah," the detective agreed. "It's drivin' the M.E. batty, tryin' to figure out what the toxin is. She'll find it, though. She always does." Gia angled her head. "And you're here because you think I'm growing belladonna in my kitchen window?" "What's belladonna?" Nathan asked. "Toxic plant," Anderson answered. "Nickname is deadly nightshade, which is pretty self-explanatory." He dragged his hand through his already mussed hair. "Been up half the night doin' research." "I appreciate your dedication," Gia said. "But you won't find belladonna in my restaurant, either." "It's not that, regardless. The lab already checked." Anderson leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Doc says the vic drank scotch before he died, but we didn't find any at his table from your place. Did he have a drink at the bar before dinner?" Gia frowned. "No. He doesn't like to sit near other people." "Your waiter—" Anderson checked his notebook "—Jason Wrightsman, had a ticket with everything Craig ordered. No scotch. Would he slide some under the table to Craig?" "No," Gia said firmly. "Every item ordered goes into the computer system then gets printed on a ticket. It's the only way we keep track of inventory and net receipts." "Why would Jason give away a drink?" Nathan asked, confused. "Craig was already getting a free meal." Anderson nodded. "That was my thought, too. Unless he's the killer, of course. I gotta check these things out." Looking satisfied, he rose. "Thing is, Ms. Sorabella, if the doc figures the poison was in the scotch, and I can't find a motive for the waiter, then you and your restaurant could be in the clear sooner than I expected." Gia seemed poised to kiss the detective. "I really do appreciate all you're doing. You and your wife can have that dinner on the house."

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Anderson shook his head. "The captain probably wouldn't go for that, plus, I pulled a body out of the East River last week. Still workin' on that one, though this is the better gig, believe me." When Anderson headed to the door, Gia followed him, as did Nathan. "I'll be in touch," the cop said, shaking their hands. An idea occurred to Nathan as the detective turned to leave. Maybe the food service business was deadly, after all. Though Gia and her staff wouldn't hurt anyone, Craig wrote scathing reviews about plenty of other restaurants. "Maybe he had a drink at another bar." "Maybe," Anderson said. "Craig had a time-stamped receipt in his pocket. He got out of a cab three hours before his death." "He was only in my restaurant an hour at most," Gia reminded him. Eyes gleaming, the detective inclined his head. "I know."

Chapter Five "Thanks for breakfast." Avoiding looking directly at Nathan, Gia carried the empty plates into the kitchen. "Thanks for hanging around last night. I slept much better than I thought I would." "I'll do the dishes," he said, taking them from her hands. "Okay." As she moved around him, they bumped shoulders. Jumping back, she let her gaze fall to his chest. Though now covered, the image of his sculpted abs, muscular shoulders and smooth, bare skin was easily recalled. Did the man do bench presses in between line measurements? Her whole body went hot with need as she added that vision to the one of him standing half naked in her kitchen less than an hour before. "I, uh… I'll go…do something else." With his free hand, he grasped hers. "Hey, what's wrong?" "Nothing. I—" She made the mistake of looking him full in the face. The concern in his eyes made her heart pound harder. "I should get dressed and go down to the restaurant." "There's a police lock on the restaurant's door," he reminded her. "How could I forget?" "You're flushed. Are you sure you're feeling all right?" He laid his palm against her forehead. "Maybe you're coming down with something." Since he'd used her shower, he smelled faintly of her shampoo. Hell, now she was imagining the rest of him naked. She licked her lips. "I'm on the verge of a panic attack." "I find that hard to believe. Have you ever had a panic attack?" "No." 962

"So how do you know you're about to have one?" "Call it a hunch. I think I'll work out instead." She dashed to her bedroom to change clothes and figure out a plan to keep Nathan at a distance. Leaning back against her closed door, she reverted to Pilates breathing until she had her desire under control. Having the hots for her customer/friend had come at the worst time. All it had taken was one glimpse of his bare chest and she'd completely forgotten about the crisis at the restaurant. She had to move Nathan back into the casual-friend column where he belonged. Maybe if they focused on the murder, it'd douse the sparks between them…. But first she'd go on a long, hard run. Once in her sweats, she returned to the other room to find Nathan drying the omelet pan. "There's a gym on the first floor of my office building," he said. "I'll loan you my key card, and you could work out there, if you want." "No, thanks. I have a treadmill folded under my bed." "I guess I should get to the office." He put away the pan then walked toward her. "How about dinner tonight?" "Okay." "Okay? Really?" "Sure." His invitation was perfect. She could put her plan into action by asking him to help her with the murder investigation…and at the same time get her mind off his amazing body. "I have the night off work, remember?" He continued to look wary. "Last night you acted as if we weren't compatible." She smiled brightly. "Only one way to find out." Nathan crossed his arms over his chest. " What are you up to?" "You said you liked me. Do you or not?" "I do. I also know you. So what are you up to?" Damn the man's brains. Hot body and a great mind. What had she done to deserve that? "I talked to a friend of mine last night. Her name's Shelby, and she owns a catering company in Midtown. I used to work for her on Sundays to earn extra money when the restaurant first opened. I told her about everything that happened with the poisoning, and she reminded me that if the case got solved faster, I could reopen the restaurant sooner. She convinced me to conduct my own investigation." "How does my dinner invitation fit into your plans to become Sam Spade?" "Shelby and her friends prefer to think of themselves as carrying on the tradition of Robin Hood." "Okay…how does my dinner invitation fit into your plans to become a vigilante?"

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Since sarcasm was a relatively new trait she'd discovered he had, she decided she'd better come clean or risk losing her partner-in-crime-solving. "We can check out the bars and restaurants in the neighborhood to see if anyone remembers serving Elliot Craig a poison-spiked glass of scotch." "So you're using me to get your restaurant reopened?" She searched his gaze. Was that anger or hurt she saw simmering behind his glasses? "You said you wanted to help." "So I did. Do I get a good-night kiss out of it?" "You're negotiating for date benefits?" she asked in disbelief. "You need my help. I need a kiss." Hot body, great brain…ruthless. She didn't see how that all fit together—unless he was a master villain in a spy movie—but his logic was undeniable. Besides, they'd ignored then resisted their chemistry for a while. No way it lived up to the hype. They'd both see this itch for each other wasn't going to work then they could go back to being friends. "Deal." "Excellent. Should we shake hands or kiss to seal our pact?" She planted her hands on her hips. "Date and investigate first. Kiss later." "Fine. Where do you propose we start? There can't be more than five or ten bars and restaurants in the city." For some odd reason, she was beginning to enjoy the sarcasm. "Cute. We start in the area around my restaurant." "Why there? He got out of the cab more than two hours before he arrived at Sorabella's. He could've been dropped off anywhere." "Right, but he only had one cab receipt, and Elliot wouldn't walk more than a block in any direction." Nathan seemed impressed. "That's smart." "I thought so. Plus, plenty of my neighbors have been savaged by his reviews over the past couple of years." "It's a pretty good plan." "Thank you. After I work out, I'm going to spend the day researching his—" She scowled. "Hang on. Pretty good?" "Very good," he amended quickly. "Especially since success of the plan might determine how long of a kiss I get at the end of the night."

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Chapter Six At least now she had to realize how compatible they were. In between interrogating bartenders and fellow restauranteurs, he'd let her see the desire he'd been holding back. In turn, though she'd been distant at first, eventually she'd responded to him with flirty smiles and casual touches. And every time she brushed against him, he fell a little deeper under her spell. Then again, maybe he was simply drunk. They'd trolled six bars in the neighborhood already. He'd switched to tonic water after the bartender at an Irish pub insisted on pouring him a glass of vintage whiskey—clearly an effort to get Nathan to pass out so the guy could flirt with Gia. Still, it seemed that scheme had a greater chance of success than he and Gia's plan of investigating a murder on their own. The homicide was, naturally, the talk of the neighborhood. Since Gia was ground zero, she'd explained a hundred times that she had no idea who had killed Elliot Craig or why. They'd also learned nobody liked the freeloading critic—which wasn't exactly a revelation. As for clues, however, they had zip. Nobody remembered seeing Craig the night before, either in a bar, or restaurant or on the street, though they all seemed to have a theory on who'd knocked him off. In exchange for listening to mostly ridiculous speculation such as Craig being a government spy, Nathan had watched every member of his gender, plus a few that probably swung the other way, throw themselves at his gorgeous date. After several hours, they finally settled on a place to eat and regroup. Bocca's Trattoria was a block and a half from Gia's place and served excellent pasta. Nathan needed a double-sized portion to soak up the alcohol he'd consumed. He wanted to be completely sober for his well-earned goodnight kiss. "How are the meatballs?" asked the restaurant's owner, Dario, breaking into Nathan's fantasy of finally getting his lips on Gia's. "They're delicious," Nathan assured him. And filling. He'd finally stopped seeing double. Dario smiled proudly. "My Mama's recipe." Gia leaned toward him. "There's a hint of nutmeg, I think." "Family secret," Dario said, wagging his finger at her. "You should know about such things, bella." "I can't imagine why Elliot Craig didn't like them," Gia added, seeming confused. While Dario's face turned stony, Nathan continued to enjoy his meal, silently agreeing with Gia's subversive questioning. Though she could get him to answer any question she wanted, anytime, anyplace. 965

"He was an idiot," Dario said, his face reddening with fury. "There's another mark in the I-Loathe-Elliot-Craig column," Nathan commented as Dario stormed away. Gia sighed. "Attila the Hun had fewer enemies." Nathan hated seeing her discouraged. Maybe she'd let him comfort her. Maybe her vulnerability would play in his favor. Or…maybe not. He sipped his water and sincerely hoped Gia couldn't read his thoughts. What was happening to him? He didn't use people he cared about for his own needs. He was a nice guy, and if Gia wasn't interested in one, he wasn't the man for her. Getting tight hold on his libido, he cleared his throat. "That guy from the coffee shop admitted he sometimes serves whiskey to his regulars without a license." "And if he confessed so easily to us, it doesn't seem likely he'd be the kind of guy to plot a diabolical murder." "If the poison reacted to Craig's heart meds, maybe the so-called killer only intended to make him sick. These people couldn't stand him, I doubt any of them knew or cared about his health situation. Maybe it wasn't meticulously planned at all." Leaning on the table, Gia propped her chin on her hand and studied him. "How smart are you?" "Not at all when it comes to police investigations," he assured her, not sure what her praise meant. "Though I know a lot about weight-bearing structural loads for high-rise office buildings." "Which is much more important than knowing how to make pasta." He absorbed the way the candlelight danced across her perfect, olive-toned skin. He indulged in her glowing eyes, the way she focused entirely on him. "But it isn't. Not at all." She reached across the table and trailed her finger over his hand. "Thanks for going on this wild goose chase with me. I don't know why I thought I could solve a murder the police haven't." "Because you're worried about your business." "I'm desperate, in other words." He shook his head. He didn't want to remotely consider the possibility that he was part of a hopeless solution. "How's the staff handling the shut-down?" "They're thrilled to have a night off. Though I imagine tomorrow the lack of tips will sink in and they'll start to worry." "You certainly can't ask more from the cops. Anderson's on top of the case. I'm sure the restaurant will be open in a couple of days."

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"I hope so," she said, "I'm exhausted thinking about it." Her gaze moved to his, and she seemed to consciously set aside the tragedy from the night before. "No offense to Dario, but I make the best cannelloni in the neighborhood. Will you come back to my place for dessert?" He tensed in reaction to the promise in her eyes. She'd held back this part of herself from him. Why was she offering it now? He had to ask. "To thank me for my help, or because you're really interested in me?" "Both." Nice guy, yes. Stupid, no. His heart hammering, he clutched her hand. "Let's go." They argued briefly over who'd pay the bill, which ended with him tossing a wad of cash on the table, then urging her out the door. In the cab, he wrapped his arm around her, but resisted anything more. Based on her labored breathing and her hand rhythmically sliding up and down his thigh, he guessed his good-night kiss could lead any number of places, and he didn't want to blow his chances. The moment he closed her apartment door, she grabbed him. Her mouth fused with his, her kiss full of every passion he'd dreamed they might share. "I was so wrong about our chemistry," she mumbled against his lips. "What—" He didn't have the opportunity to ask any more because she ripped open his shirt. Buttons flew as she bared his chest. Her hands cupped his jaw. Her kiss devoured. They made their way to her bedroom without separating, peeling off layers of clothes as they went. Her soft skin was a marvel of beauty, so golden and perfect, tasting of fruit and spice. His head buzzed as desire overtook him. His heart raced when he finally made her completely his own. When everything he'd longed for was finally his.

Chapter Seven As the sun peeked through her bedroom blinds and Nathan's warm arms embraced her from behind, Gia turned, encountering his gorgeously muscled chest. "I don't sleep with guys on the first date." His eyes slitted open. "Can we have a moment before you tell me how wrong I am for you?" "What kind of mo—" His mouth covered hers and fire shot through her body. Before she knew what had happened, she was on her back, panting and craving climax. He gave her what she needed and more. Clinging to him, she absorbed the pleasure, sensations only he could give her. Her friend, her confidante, her lover.

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As she floated back to the real world, she found herself confused. She didn't get what was happening between her and Nathan. She'd thought they would have zero chemistry, and she was usually right about chemistry. You're never right about chemistry, her conscience reminded her. Oh, yeah. "You were saying…" Nathan prompted, gently stroking her back. "I was?" "You don't sleep with guys on the first date." "Right. I don't." "Do you realize you've told me a lot of things you don't normally do with guys you date. Yet you do them with me." "My restaurant isn't normally a murder scene." "Oh, so now you're blaming the fact that we're in bed together on the investigation?" "No." She wasn't, was she? "I just wanted to make it clear—" What, exactly? That she'd crossed a line with Nathan she could never retreat from? That if she indulged in a relationship with him, he'd shift her focus away from the restaurant's success—something she couldn't allow, for herself or her family. Or that she was scared of all the changes happening so quickly? He threaded his fingers through her hair. "Maybe I'm special." Yesterday he'd made her feel precious, important, dismantling the wall she'd built around her feelings for him. But this morning, as she realized the consequences of being vulnerable to him, she knew she had to rebuild that wall—and fast. "I need to get dressed. You should go." Grabbing her robe from the chair by the bed, she pushed her arms through the sleeves. When she heard no movement behind her, she faced him again. "This isn't going to work." "Why?" he asked calmly. "We're not compatible." Looking thoroughly satisfied, he had the nerve to link his hands behind his head. Since he was currently naked and resting in her rumpled bed, her argument was flimsy at best. "You think so?" "I have to give all my attention to my restaurant, and you're too distracting."

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"I have to design a museum," he said with unwavering logic, "and you're a welcome respite." But the pressure of living up to her family's expectations, her staff and the dark cloud hanging over everything she'd built couldn't be set aside. "Please go." She darted into the bathroom before she could change her mind. She turned on the shower as hot as she could stand and hoped the steam would clear her thoughts. The déjà vu of her doing the same thing the night of the murder wasn't lost on her. The cops had invaded her kitchen. Her restaurant was closed indefinitely. Her personal life was in turmoil. She deserved a break. Or to indulge in a good meal. Food was comfort, after all. Didn't that philosophy pay her rent? Instead of tossing him out, maybe she should have invited Nathan to lunch. Clearly, they couldn't have a conversation within shouting distance of a bed. And how had that happened? Sex with quiet, bookish Nathan had been hot, hot, hot. On top of that mind-blower, he was intelligent, considerate, caring. The sparks between them were undeniable. Bad boys were completely overrated. She wrapped herself in her robe, tying the knot tight to communicate to her libido that she was unavailable. The fact that she didn't think through her decisions, that she often acted on impulse, was precisely what sent her relationships spiraling downward. When she entered the bedroom, her lunch invitation died in her throat. Nathan was gone. A note lay on his pillow. Went to the office. I not only like you, I think you're amazing. She smiled despite her uncertainty. They both needed space. Friends or lovers? It was a serious decision—one they were crazy for making in the middle of this tragic investigation. Much as she longed for her restaurant's kitchen, preparing food there, even for herself, probably wasn't wise with a poisoner on the loose. She shook away the image of an unknown hand tipping a vial into one of her simmering pots. She'd been watching too many late-night murder mysteries. So she headed to Dario's trattoria. As soon as she dug into Dario's luscious gratin with fontina cheese, she knew the sun was destined to shine again. The police were going to catch Elliot's killer. Detective Anderson wore his single-mindedness as proudly as his badge. If she were the killer, she'd take one look into those fierce brown eyes and confess, putting herself out of her misery. She also didn't envy the challenges of his job. Even after all the resentment and outright hatred toward Elliot she'd witnessed the night before—the complimentary champagne being passed around in the Thai

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place two doors down from her came to mind—she still found it hard to picture one of her neighbors as a cold-blooded poisoner. Dario himself approached her table to make sure she was enjoying her meal. "It's wonderful," she said, though a glance at her fellow restaurateur made her want to serve him a comforting dish instead of indulging herself. Dario was pale, his eyes bloodshot, his shoulders slumped as if he could barely stand. "Rough night?" "Sì, bella." Gia extended her hand toward the chair opposite her. "Over the last couple of days I've become an expert in rough times." Without meeting her gaze, Dario sat, leaning his arms on the table. "The man was a menace when he was alive. Now he's cursing us from the grave." And she thought she could be dramatic. "As long as they don't bury his laptop with him," she quipped. Dario didn't pick up on her lightness. "The police say he was taking heart pills. I didn't know he had health problems." "I doubt many people did. It's not like he had friends." "I never would have hurt you," Dario said, his voice trembling. The tangent made Gia frown. "I know. Why would—" Well, I'll be damned. Nathan had been right. Elliot's death had been an accident.

Chapter Eight "Why, Dario?" Gia asked gently, not sure whether she should be calling the cops or a priest. "He didn't show respect for Mama." Oh, boy. The relationship between Italian men and their mothers was a touchy subject. Even more so than murder. "He crucified my restaurant and my family's recipes all the time in his reviews," Dario continued. A priest, Gia thought. Definitely a priest. Dario curled his hands into fists. "Then he would come in and expect free meals. My meatball recipe has been in my family for five generations. It was the first thing Mama taught me to cook, and he called them tasteless. And lumpy. It was the last straw."

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"I know he was horrible, but—" She cut herself off. Telling a killer that his actions had been extreme probably wasn't a good idea. Yet they were in a crowded restaurant. And this was Dario. Her neighbor and friend. "I'm sorry. But I don't understand how you go from bad reviews to…what you did." Dario bowed his head. "I only meant to make him sick." "With what?" "I was in Arizona last year for a pasta festival and a friend of mine told me about a dish he'd developed using cactus flowers. Unfortunately, when testing them he accidentally used a poisonous variety. The results gave him the wrong kind of gastronomic reaction. He was miserable for twelve hours, but he recovered. After reading one of Elliot's reviews online, my friend sent me a toxic cactus to remind me of our prickly business." "So you ground up the flower and served it in his scotch?" Dario sighed. "It was floating in the glass. I didn't actually tell him it was edible. He simply assumed it was a harmless variety of cactus flower." He offered her an ironic smile. "I knew he wasn't as smart as he always claimed." "If you couldn't stand each other, why was he here having a drink in the first place?" "He came to gloat about a restaurant that had shut down because of his bad reviews. It was early, and I happened to be covering the bar. He demanded that I not allow anyone to sit next to him or else he'd attack my linguine and clams in his next column. Something snapped inside me, and I told him I had a special drink created in his honor. I watched him drink and brag and felt happier than I had in months." Gia suppressed a shudder at Dario's ruthless act, one she'd never have imagined him capable of. And yet… "Elliot Craig really was a horrible man." "Sì, but am I any better? I'm on the verge of bankruptcy. I let him consume my thoughts. I blamed him for all my problems, then I deluded myself into thinking I was doing everybody a favor, that I was giving him a taste of the pain he gave others." "Gia," a familiar voice called. Turning, Gia saw Nathan—and just behind him Detective Anderson—moving toward her. Though startled by their convenient timing, she was both glad to see them and sad for Dario. She had the feeling I didn't mean to kill him wasn't going to keep him out of jail. Then again, since Elliot was akin to the Sheriff of Nottingham in her Robin Hood drama, maybe the court would show some mercy to Dario. Nathan leaned down and kissed her cheek. "I have great news." He paused. "Actually the detective does. I'll let him tell you." Anderson's hair looked even more unkempt than the day before, and he and Dario could go neck-andneck in a bloodshot-eye competition. "The poison was definitely in the scotch. You've been cleared to open your restaurant." "Wonderful." Gia worked up a smile. "Thank you for your quick work, Detective." 971

"That's why they pay me the big bucks." Anderson chuckled at his own joke, then scratched his head. "I gotta tell ya, though. We're stumped on the poison. It's drivin' the doc batty. She said something about an undigested piece of flower, which she originally thought was part of his dinner, even though the toxin was definitely in the scotch. Plus—" he shrugged "—no flowers in pesto." Gia exchanged a long look with Dario, who nodded. "Have her check varieties of cactus." While Anderson and Nathan looked confused, Dario rose. "I think I have what you need in my office, Detective." Her heart breaking for him, Gia stood as well. She kissed Dario on the cheek before he walked away to his fate. And, thinking of fate and the odd way destiny had of turning a well-planned life upside down, she faced Nathan. "I thought you were going to the office." Nathan's gaze remained riveted to Dario's back. "Did I miss a step?" "Several, in fact." "Is Dario one of the guys you went out with who didn't work out, or is he one of the ones you didn't sleep with on the first date?" "Neither. He's a colleague. Oh, and he killed Elliot Craig." Nathan's attention snapped to her. "He what?" She linked their hands. "Let's go to my place and I'll tell you all about it." At Sorabella's, she made cappuccino and they sat at the bar. Around her, dirty glasses and dishes littered the tables. The crime scene techs had taken their evidence and left the rest. It was going to take a great deal of work to get everything running to her standards by dinner service. For once, though, the restaurant was the last thing on her mind, and she didn't feel a bit guilty. Dario's plight loomed large, even more so as she recounted his sad and dramatic confession. But working out her feelings for Nathan was even more vital. She could no longer pretend he was simply a distraction from her aims of success. The past couple of days had proven that he recognized how important her business was to her. His work was essential to him, too. If she told him she had inventory to do, he'd not only understand, he'd help. The reason she hadn't been able to concentrate on mundane tasks when he was around was because she'd been too preoccupied with resisting him and the realization that an amazing guy was within her grasp. She'd tried and failed in relationships so many times, she'd become afraid of risk. But in the past few days, she'd faced a police-ordered shutdown of her restaurant, a murder investigation and a despondent, accidental killer. How hard could dating a nice guy—one who challenged, supported and enticed her—possibly be? 972

"I'm sorry I asked you to leave this morning," she began. "I figured you needed space." He straightened his glasses, a sure sign he was nervous. "I went to work, but I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking about you, and us, then the investigation. I wondered if we should tell the detective about our journey through the neighborhood last night. The station house told me he was here, so I came down and found him, cutting away the crime scene tape. I figured you'd have sought out comfort food, so we went to Dario's." Gia laid her hand on his thigh. "You know me well." He searched her gaze. "Do I?" "Yes. Nathan, I think there could be something special between us. I'd like to see what." His eyes sparked with surprise and pleasure. "Me, too." She pressed her lips to his. The familiarity of his scent and touch were as much like coming home as walking through the doors of Sorabella's. "Thanks for hanging in there with me through this craziness." "I'm sorry about Dario." He smoothed her hair off her face. "But I'm glad I can have my old booth back." "Considering the state of this place, you may have to clean it first." He wrapped his arms around her waist and slid his mouth across her cheek. "Will you provide dessert?" "Oh, yeah." "Then I'm in." "Are you sure?" "Actually, I was in way before dessert." "When, exactly?" "'Hi, I'm Gia' pretty much had me hooked." She smiled, sure the future was destined to be full of both challenges and triumphs. Though she hadn't been very successful before at balancing her passions in life, she knew with Nathan it would be different. "And I intend to keep you hooked." "And why is that?" "'Cause I not only like you, I think you're amazing."

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No End in Sight By Dana Mentink Valerie Rogers was in total control of her life and her emotions. Right up until the moment a man put a knife to her throat. Luckily, her ex-boyfriend, firefighter Jackson Montes, chose that moment to reenter her life—and to save it. Valerie had ended their relationship because she'd been too vulnerable to Jackson…. Now he was the only one she could trust to help her. Her attacker had wanted something, but Valerie had no idea what. All she knew was that it had to do with her only living relative, her cousin Tyrone, whom she hadn't heard from in a week. Together she and Jackson had to discover Tyrone's secret, before her attacker became her assassin.

Chapter One Sorrow could not find her in the forest. In spite of the heavy weight permanently nestled in Valerie's heart, she fancied the sun-dappled pines that bristled the mountain ridge somehow had the power to protect her, to wick away her grief with their delicate needles as she drove past. Temporarily, at least. Spotting something at the side of the road, Valerie eased the truck along the dusty road past one more stretch of dense shrubbery and pulled to a stop, shading her eyes against the southern California sun. A red-haired man with pale eyes gave her a rueful smile. The tear in the knee of his khakis indicated he'd taken a fall. He wore an orange shirt, telling her he was part of the crew working on rebuilding park cabins that had been flooded in last winter's deluge. "Help you?" she asked. Though she was an arborist, not a park ranger, she'd lent a hand to many stranded hikers and workers during her tenure at Angel's Loft National Park. "Thanks," he said, English accent strong, smile wide. "Went for a walk during our lunch break and took a bit of a tumble." He climbed in. No limp from the injury, she noticed. "First time working in the park?" He nodded as she pulled the truck back onto the road. She eyed the tear in his khakis, which looked neater than she'd first thought, more of a cut really. A second look convinced her he was in his thirties, older than she'd first imagined. Older than most of the guys on the work crews. "I'm Valerie." The pointy-toothed grin that split his face revealed something different than the friendly redheaded hiker she'd seen a moment before. Something malicious. She swallowed. It was her imagination. Again. "Where can I drop you?" The grin didn't waver. "The cabin on Sharp's Peak. You know it." There was only one cabin on Sharp's Peak—hers. Terror rippled through her. "I won't." "Sure you will," he said.

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The thought echoed crazily in her mind: Sorrow can't find me in the forest… She kept repeating the mantra, even as he opened the pack on his lap and took out the pruning knife. Her pruning knife. The one she'd left on her kitchen table that morning. *** Jackson would have enjoyed the ride to Sharp's Peak a lot more in his 1958 Bel Air than the SUV he was driving, but the Bel Air's pristine chassis wasn't cut out for mountain roads. Picturing that car made his heart thump harder. Or was it the memory of Valerie sitting next to him in it, white-blond hair dancing on the breeze, that wondrous smile lighting her freckled face? Let it go, Jackson. The day you got released from the hospital, she couldn't run away fast enough. The small box of her possessions on the seat next to him seemed a ridiculously pitiful representation of the months they had been together, months that apparently counted for nothing with Valerie. He shifted, recalling how many times he'd cut things off with women in the past. Something about a firefighter's uniform seemed to encourage female attention, but he'd never met a woman who impacted him like Valerie. She knew him inside and out, the real Jackson, and she'd loved him. Or so he'd believed. He pulled up her long drive, surprised to find her sitting in her truck, engine idling. Just get it over with. Nerves taut as wire, he grabbed the box and marched resolutely to the open driver's window.

Chapter Two "Can I help you?" Valerie said. His mouth fell open from the combined shock of Valerie's indifferent tone and the fact that there was a guy in the passenger seat with his arm around her. The man waved. "Hello, mate." Jackson felt his jaw tighten. This redheaded clown was his replacement? He tried unsuccessfully to wipe the scowl from his face. In mute surprise, he handed her the box. She didn't look at the contents. "Thank you. I'll tell my father his tools have arrived." Jackson took a step back, a cold sensation washing over him. Valerie's father was dead. Long dead.

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Jackson returned to his car, pretending to pat his pockets for keys as he watched them out of the corner of his eye. The man got out of the truck first, going around to open Valerie's door for her. He kept his hand hidden at his side. Knife or gun, Jackson guessed. He hoped it was the former. "Tell your dad I said hello," Jackson called as he got in his SUV and turned on the engine. Valerie was faced away from him now, and the guy had her around the waist. With gritted teeth, Jackson backed out a few yards before he shifted the car into Drive. Breathing a prayer that he would not wind up killing them all, he hit the gas. Hard. The SUV lurched forward, wheels pinging gravel all over the road. He bore down on Valerie and her companion. Two heads snapped around to look at him. He could tell by Valerie's face that she was terrified, but that she had been expecting some kind of action on his part. The red-haired guy's eyes widened in surprise. For a terrifying moment, Jackson thought he would pull Valerie closer, but instead he stepped away, a knife in one hand, the other reaching for something under his shirt. Jackson pressed the gas to the floor and the vehicle hurtled forward. He aimed right for the red-haired guy, who came up with a gun in his hand. Five feet, four, three— The stranger suddenly peeled away and headed for the trees. Jackson slammed the car to a halt and leaped out, running for Valerie.

Chapter Three Valerie was on her feet. Jackson yanked her toward the cabin. They barreled inside and he shoved the bolt home, closing all the drapes while Valerie locked the back door. She was on her cell phone with the police by the time he finished. "They're on the way." She clicked off and went to the birdcage where the little green parakeet he'd given her sat tranquilly on his perch. She murmured something soothing to the creature. Calming the bird? Or herself? He stood on the braided rug in the perfectly ordered cabin, heart still pounding from the adrenaline. She was deadly pale, almost as pale as her white-blond hair. She looked at him, her blue eyes still filled with fear, stark azure against the pallor of her face. No eyes should be that blue, he'd thought many times. At first he'd even wondered if she achieved the tint with the contact lenses she wore, but he'd later discovered it was God given, that exquisite sea-washed gaze that regarded him now. "You should be more selective about your driving companions." She took a breath. "He was in the forest along Twisted Pines Road. I thought he was with the construction crew. He pretended to be hurt." "How did he convince you to bring him back here?" She sank into the chair on legs that suddenly seemed to fail her. He instantly regretted his tone and moved closer. She took another deep breath, trembling hands pressed on her knees. "He knew where I lived. The knife…" She swallowed. "It's mine. He's been in my house."

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"So if he intended—" he had to force the words out "—to rape or kill you, why not wait for you here? Why come and find you?" She bit her lip. "I don't know." Jackson's eyes traveled around the cabin. Nothing disturbed, nothing stolen other than the knife. "Maybe he was looking for something." "What could I have that anyone would want?" The irony wasn't wasted on him. You were all I wanted, Valerie. He looked at her and in that moment he was lost in the pain she had caused him, the confusion and the anger. Then he heard the sound of heavy footsteps moving fast outside.

Chapter Four Jackson peeked out the window and Valerie was relieved when he told her the footsteps they'd heard belonged to the police. "Saw the guy but couldn't catch him," Sergeant Blair said as he took her statement while another officer checked for prints and thoroughly photographed her vehicle and the house. Valerie couldn't wait for them to leave…though the person who was truly setting her already frayed nerves jangling was Jackson. He was as strong and sure of himself as he'd ever been before his accident, his tall form putting him a good six inches above her five-five. His unruly hair was still cut short, but grown out enough to show its tendency to curl. Gray eyes, bold and confident. The perfect person to have in a crisis. But she did not want him here. Didn't want him to remind her of what they'd had, or what she'd destroyed. Yet she could not take her eyes off him. When the police finally left, the quiet stretched between the two of them until she wanted to scream. "Are you back on the line?" she finally blurted out. Last she knew he was on light duty, assigned to a desk in the fire station until he was cleared by the doctors and his physical therapist. He turned sober eyes on her. "Not yet, but I will be soon." She nodded, recalling the days, weeks, he'd lain in a hospital bed, face twisted in pain. The feel of his fingers clasping hers, the prayers she'd whispered over and over until he'd turned the corner. Her joy was still firmly twined with her agony. When she'd learned he would fully recover, she'd come to the decision that she would not, could not, be with him anymore. Not after what had happened to her father. But even though she'd hurt him, he'd still saved her life. "Thank you," she said, voice a little too loud in the tiny living room. "For what you did."

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He shrugged. "Who's after you?" "I don't know." He pulled out his phone. "I'll call my uncle Tuney. He's a detective. Maybe he can help." He'd already become too involved. "I'll handle it myself, Jackson." The muscles worked along his jaw. "A guy with a knife almost kills you and you think you can handle it yourself? I guess that shouldn't be a surprise." She hated the bitterness in his tone, but it ignited a flicker of anger inside her. I've been by myself since I was nine. I won't depend on anyone, Jackson. Especially you. "The police will help me." She went to the cage and whispered softly to Kiwi. He fluffed his feathers and put his beak to the bars for a kiss. "No slam on the cops, but this is a small town with only a few overworked officers." "I can handle it." "No way," Jackson said, eyes blazing. "Why can't you admit that you need me?" She faced him, cheeks hot. "I'm not your responsibility, Jackson. I don't belong to you." The glimmer of grief in his eyes made her breath catch. "I know," he said, voice suddenly soft. "I learned that the hard way." Her cell rang again. She answered quickly, desperate to escape the emotion shimmering on Jackson's face. "He's coming," someone whispered into the phone. She tensed and Jackson edged close as she pushed the button for speaker phone. "Who is this?" "Tyrone." Valerie struggled to focus on the tortured voice of her only relative, Tyrone, her father's cousin. Jackson's muscled shoulder was pressed next to hers, his warmth causing her temperature to rise. "Tyrone? Where are you?" Tyrone had found her six months before, but it had taken him weeks of dogged determination to convince her to trust him enough to let him into her life. Somewhat into his fiftieth year, Tyrone was gruff and cynical, brilliant and, she suspected, lazy. But to a woman raised in the foster care system, Tyrone had the one quality she could not resist—he was the only relation she had in the whole world, the one person who could add to her sketchy memories of her father, a firefighter, who'd died in the line of duty when she was nine.

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After Tyrone had broken her down, she'd come to enjoy spending time with him, and now they met every week to photograph birds, his favorite pastime. At least, they had…until he'd fallen off the radar two weeks ago. "You have what he wants," Tyrone whispered. "What?" There was a sharp intake of breath. "Can't talk now. Lock yourself in. I'll—" "Tyrone?" Valerie cried into the phone. There was no answer. After a long pause, the phone disconnected.

Chapter Five "He rents a house in Sherman," Valerie said, as they drove down the mountain and toward the small town nestled on the outskirts of the national forest. Jackson was still surprised she'd agreed to go with him instead of charging full speed ahead on her own. "We should call the police." "We will, as soon as I make sure he's all right. Hurry, Jackson." She stared out the window, hands balled in her lap. He let his thoughts churn wildly. The love and loyalty Tyrone inspired in her was inexplicable. He seemed to be ever in search of a free meal and a couch to nap on. Jackson had never trusted the guy and Valerie knew it. But Valerie excused all his foibles. Because he was family. She didn't speak of her three foster homes very often. He knew that her father, a San Francisco firefighter, had died in a flashover, leaving no close family to care for Valerie. Since the age of nine she'd been a ward of the state, her life overseen by social workers. There was no abuse, no neglect in any of the placements, but neither had there been a family where she felt she belonged. And she wanted that desperately. He'd never glimpsed that overwhelming vulnerability in the accomplished woman who could climb up a forty-foot pine and manage a crew of tree trimmers with ease. But it was there, hidden deep down like the precious heartwood of a tree. Maybe someday the scars would seal over with enough healthy layers that she could look forward to a proper future. Something faintly like hope stirred inside him as he regarded the delicate lines of her profile. The words she'd spoken at the hospital months before came back. I don't love you, Jackson. He wished he could have said the same, but it would have been a lie then.

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And now.

Chapter Six They turned onto the quiet street where Tyrone's rented house sat forlornly under a sprawling oak. Valerie pointed. "It's that one." "You've been here?" She shook her head. "Only once. He said he was a slob and it would be better to meet at my place." He let that comment go unanswered as he pulled up to the curb outside a small green-trimmed house ringed with shrubbery. The front windows were dark, the curtains drawn. The mailbox was open, revealing an empty interior. Jackson got out and met Valerie at the passenger side. "This isn't a good idea." "I'm just going to check." She tried to cut around him but he took hold of her wrists. He couldn't resist drawing her close, close enough to feel the softness of her, the warmth of her body. "Let me go up there, Valerie. You stay here, in the car," he said. She inclined her face a fraction toward him, enough to make his heart hammer in his chest, and then she pulled away. "He's my family. I'm going." With a heavy sigh he followed her up the walk. She was about to knock when he pointed to the marks next to the door handle, tiny scrapes that exposed the wood underneath the paint. "It's been forced." Before he could stop her, she pushed open the door and ran inside. "Tyrone," she yelled. "Where are you?" The house was dead silent except for the dripping of a faucet. The faint smell of garbage wafted out from under the kitchen sink. The front room was wall-to-wall clutter with electronic parts everywhere, extra keyboards balanced in a pile, a microscope under an opaque dust cover and books strewn on the floor. Had the place been tossed or did Tyrone always keep it in such a condition? The thought horrified Jackson, who'd learned early on in the fire service that there was a proper place for everything, especially tools that might wind up saving your life. He tried to get ahead of her as she darted down the darkened hallway. The most he could do was catch up as she poked her head into the bedroom and tiny bathroom—nothing. They finally emerged in the backyard, a sorry place with a cracked cement patio and an overturned rusted lawn chair, but no Tyrone. She cast anguished eyes on him. "Do you think there's a logical explanation? Maybe he dropped the phone when he was talking to me?" 980

He wanted more than anything to lie and tell her things would be just fine, but looking into those blue eyes, damp with the beginning of tears, he couldn't. Instead he folded her into his arms and let her press her face into his chest, emptying her worry into him.

Chapter Seven Valerie finally pulled away from Jackson's sodden shirt. Don't sit here blubbering like a kid. Figure out what happened to Tyrone! Before it's too late. She shook off the comforting feel of Jackson's arms and headed back into the house while he phoned the police. The front room seemed to be where Tyrone kept most of his hoard. Carefully she poked at piles of papers and used a plastic bag over her hand to sort through the stack of bills overflowing on a battered coffee table. "Past due, most of them," she said as Jackson ended his call. He nodded. "Tyrone was living one step ahead of the creditors. What kind of work did he do?" "He repaired machines for a company in the city, but he was laid off six months ago." "Laid off?" She heard the doubt in his voice. "That's what he said. I had no reason not to believe him." "I'd say you have a lot of reasons, considering he apparently gave you something that might get you killed." She bit back an angry retort. Jackson had three sisters who doted on him, a half-dozen nieces and nephews and two devoted parents at the head of the clan. How could he understand what her one relative meant to her? Jackson looked through a pile of photos one by one. "All birds. Some of them he's enlarged, others shrunk down until they're almost invisible." She couldn't resist a smile. "He is an ornithologist at heart. He could easily spend hours crouched behind some mossy log waiting for a woodpecker to arrive. He said if he was paid by the hour for bird-watching, he'd be a wealthy man." "I don't see anything unusual in any of them, though." A tattered white paper caught her eye. It was a printout from the web. Jackson came close to look over her shoulder. His warm breath tickled the back of her neck. "It's an article about a man named Claude Stoneman. He was arrested for drug trafficking in Florida, but released."

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"It says the police cut him loose." Fear flickered through her. "Why would Tyrone have saved this?" "Good question." He surveyed the piles of debris. "The police will want to go through everything." A noise from the front of the house drew her attention. Expecting to see a squad car, she pulled aside a corner of the musty curtains and her heart thudded to a stop. A man sat on an idling motorcycle, head shrouded by a visored helmet. The mask didn't matter. The arrogant set to the shoulders clued her in to his identity even before he raised the visor. The redheaded man took a bottle from a storage compartment on his bike. She could not make out what he held in the other hand until a small flame flickered to life. He lit the rag hanging from the lip of the bottle and gave it an exploratory heft. Valerie was moving even before the bottle left the man's hand. "Get out, Jackson," she screamed as the missile crashed through the window.

Chapter Eight Jackson heard the glass bottle break behind him, a sudden whoosh, and then he smelled the acrid odor of gasoline. As they ran, black smoke roiled down the hallway after them. They plunged out of the house and into the sunshine of the backyard, coughing and choking. "We should get to the front," he said. She clutched his hand. "It was him, the red-haired guy," she said. "He's out there." "If he's smart, he's long gone." Jackson approached the front yard cautiously. The motorcycle was nowhere to be seen. A neighbor stood, mouth agape as he called in the fire. Jackson made sure no one went near the place as a cloud of black billowed into the sky. Flames were visible through the burning curtains as the engine arrived and hooked up to the nearby hydrant. Jackson greeted battalion chief Griggs, who gave him a clap on the shoulder. "Just can't stay away from the action, huh? Heard you were still on light duty." Jackson gritted his teeth. "I'll be back next month, if my shoulder cooperates." The chief grinned. "Just enjoy the time off." He turned his attention to his crew as they connected the hose line and began to beat back the flames. Jackson's body went rigid, so great was his desire to be there with them. The smell of smoke and sound of the nozzles being activated intensified the feeling until Valerie finally pulled at his sleeve and he walked with her to the waiting Sergeant Blair. "Is it difficult?" she asked as they went. "To see them fighting the fire without you?"

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"I'll get my life back soon." But inside, he wasn't convinced. He wanted his life to include a blue-eyed firecracker of a woman who lit up his soul and made him dizzy. A memory flashed across his heart, an image of himself crawling through a mucky sewer pipe to rescue a baby duck that had fallen through the grate. He'd figured the duck would waddle its way out unassisted at some point, but Valerie was stricken with worry, so he'd gone down into the muck, heedless of the dress slacks and polo shirt he'd been wearing. He would do anything to keep the smile on her face. He had no doubt he'd get on the line again, but nothing would ever be the same without Valerie. He felt her eyes on him, as she said, "I'm glad. I know how much firefighting means to you." "Do you? I would have thought you'd have stuck around, then, to see me make it back." Her breath caught. "It was kinder for me to leave." He put a hand out and touched her cheek. "No, honey. What you did to me was not kind." The satin of her cheek made his fingers tingle. "Not kind at all." She shivered and turned away from him, hurrying to the sergeant, who stood writing on a clipboard. "Your cousin has upset someone," Blair said after Valerie relayed the course of events. "Any idea whom?" "Claude Stoneman," Jackson said promptly. "My money's on him." Blair's eyebrows knitted together in a grey wall. "Stoneman? The Florida cops had to let him go because one witness disappeared and the other…" Jackson's pulse hitched up a notch. "The other?" "The other was found dead." Blair stared at Valerie. "Throat cut."

Chapter Nine Valerie felt cold—a chill that did not stem from the approaching evening temperatures—as Jackson drove her back to her cabin. He argued all the way that she shouldn't stay there. Alone. Part of her agreed with him. But a larger part screamed that she needed to handle this herself, as she'd always done. "My folks have a guest room. They'd love for you to stay." She doubted his parents would welcome her anywhere near their family, after she'd hurt Jackson so badly. Offering up their guest room? They would do it, for him, but she would not put them in that position. Or herself. "I'll be okay."

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"Not according to my uncle. I called him while you finished up with Sergeant Blair. He did a little digging. There's a guy named Rogelio Duncan who's known to work for Stoneman. A redhead, English accent. Sound familiar?" She bit her lip. "He's bad news, Valerie. My uncle says he's ruthless and willing to do anything for his boss." The trees along the long drive up to Sharp's Peak threw odd shadows on the windshield. She knew better than to insist that the police would handle things. They would try, she was sure, but hers was one of many cases needing their attention. Besides, Tyrone had been into something that he shouldn't have been. She'd seen the glint of suspicion in Blair's eyes—maybe the apple didn't fall far from Tyrone's crooked tree. The irony was rich. All the years she'd spent yearning for family, real family, and now her only living relative just might wind up getting her killed. She swallowed the panic. "I've just got to find what he sent me. I'll give it to the police." Tyrone's panicky voice replayed in her memory. He's coming. You have what he wants. She now had a name. Rogelio Duncan was coming. A surge of determination rose against the fear. Come on then. I'm going to be ready for you next time. Jackson was looking at her, confusion and concern on his face. She forced a brave tone. "I'll search inch by inch until I figure out what Tyrone hid at my place." "Maybe he was lying, or he intended to give you something but never got around to it." Valerie shook her head. "If it's there, I'll find it. If not, Rogelio can tell his boss to look somewhere else." Jackson didn't reply as he guided the SUV up Sharp's Peak and into the driveway. He didn't have to. She saw it in his face. Rogelio would never take her word for it. Don't care about me, Jackson, she thought. I can't bear it. She noticed the bulk had returned to his muscled shoulders as he got out of the car, long legs lean and vigorous, perfect profile with strong chin, wide cheekbones. She had a sudden longing to throw her arms around him and feel the taut strength in his chest, the sensation of his lips tracing the curve of her cheek. The longing changed to a memory, the sight of him broken and bleeding on that hospital bed, his mother standing there weeping, fingering her rosary. And the fear within Valerie kept pace with the anguished knowledge that if he died, the best part of her would, too. Soon he would be back on the line, and the thought struck her through with cold terror, along with recollections of the solemn uniformed men at her father's funeral.

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God, don't ever let me feel like that again, she'd prayed many times. She lived her own independent life, strong and in control. At least she had, until Rogelio Duncan showed up with her pruning knife. "I'm going to get my life back," she murmured more to herself than Jackson. She swallowed hard and hurried to catch up. Unlocking the door, she pushed it open, unable to contain the scream as she looked over his shoulder into chaos.

Chapter Ten Jackson entered the mess first, crunching over broken glass—from a ceramic plate, he guessed. Valerie's wooden bookshelves had been emptied, volumes tossed onto the floor with some of their pages torn. The kitchen was just as bad, every pot and pan in a heap, utensils flung everywhere, along with the contents of her fridge. Rogelio had been thorough. The containers of salad were dumped, the freezer compartment was open, ice melting, water dripping onto the linoleum. Every letter and bill in the small tray had been torn open and searched. Valerie had eyes for none of it. She ran immediately to the open birdcage hanging askew on its metal stand. The newspaper lining was on the floor. The look of horror on Valerie's face as she approached the cage tore at his heart as she searched the ransacked cage for her little bird. "He's gone." She dropped to her knees, looking under the mess of overturned chairs and cushions. "Kiwi," she called, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Kiwi, where are you?" Jackson felt the hard part of his heart crack open at the sight of Valerie on her knees, tears pouring down her face, fingers clawing through the mess. "He's gone, he's gone," she rasped. Jackson joined her on the floor, crawling gingerly through the mounds in case the fragile creature was hiding there. He didn't know if it was wrong to pray for a tiny animal when there were immensely larger stakes at play, but he did anyway. Lord, please, was all he managed, his own gut churning at the thought that at any minute they might find her cherished pet broken and bleeding, feathers crushed by a booted foot. Rogelio would not hesitate to kill anything, Jackson knew, especially if it was a life that mattered to the woman he was trying to terrorize. Valerie was sobbing now. Jackson searched faster, tiptoeing down the hallway, past the emptied linen closet and into the bathroom. The medicine cabinet had been dumped on the floor, bottles of pain reliever poured out, towels tossed and boxes of her disposable contact lenses torn open and scattered, shower curtain ripped down, a box of tissue strewn everywhere. Rogelio had been fast and just as thorough here, too. He'd probably headed straight for Valerie's house after he found them both at Tyrone's place. Jackson was about to leave the bathroom when a soft peep made him freeze. Up on the curtain rod, trembling in the corner, was a little green parakeet, feathers puffed in fright. "Hey there, boy. I know someone who is going to be happy to see you." He reached up a finger and Kiwi hopped on, immediately scooting up his arm and tucking himself next to Jackson's cheek.

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They returned to Valerie. She bolted upright, hair mussed, face blotchy from crying. When she saw Kiwi on Jackson's shoulder she broke out into a smile that made him weak in the knees. She took the little bird, kissing and crooning, wetting his feathers with her tears. As soon as he was snuggled in her hair, Valerie wound her arms around Jackson and pressed her face to his. "Thank you," she whispered. "He's all I have. I love him." It doesn't have to be that way, he thought, feeling the wild beating of her heart against his chest. If only he could make her see, make her feel… He found himself bending toward her, his lips tracing her forehead and moving toward her mouth. He brushed her lips with his, longing swirling strong inside. The touch lasted for only a moment before she pulled away. "I'm…I'm sorry. Thank you," she mumbled, sitting down on the overturned coffee table and speaking softly to her bird. I'm sorry, too, he thought, because that almost-kiss told him the bare-bones truth. Valerie might be done with him, but he would never be over her. Never.

Chapter Eleven Valerie wanted to clean up the mess, needed to gain control over some small area of her life. Particularly since her heart was still beating in irregular jolts after the soft strength of Jackson's kiss. He still had some feelings for her, that much was clear. It both thrilled and terrified her. I can't love you. I can't. Again, she picked at the mess on the floor and, again, Jackson stopped her. "The police need to see it." Her reserve snapped. "They won't find prints, Rogelio is too careful. We both know that." Jackson didn't answer. "Whatever he was looking for, it doesn't seem like he found it." She wanted to scream. What had happened to her life in the past twenty-four hours? She'd called in to work, taken a few vacation days, unable to face driving into that quiet forest again. Memories of Rogelio's cruel smile replayed over and over in her mind. "You can't stay here. Do you believe me now?" Jackson said. She looked around the ruined house, at Kiwi's cage now put into some semblance of order. The little bird bobbed his head as if he agreed with Jackson. It was folly to stay where she would be such an easy target. "Okay. I'll find a hotel room in town." Despite Jackson's protests, she packed up some supplies for Kiwi and the bare essentials for herself. Yet another round of talking to the police followed before she headed to her pickup. "Don't drive that," Jackson said. "It's too easy to spot. I'll take you in my car so you won't have your pickup parked like billboard advertising to announce where you're staying." 986

And I won't have transportation, either—except through you. Was Jackson trying to think of ways to stay involved in her currently disastrous life? She was too tired to care, and he did have a point. Numbly, she got into his car with Kiwi fluttering in his cage on her lap. Jackson flipped on the radio. The stream of noise eased the awkward silence between them. Was he remembering the kiss, she wondered? Regretting that he had shown up on her driveway at the same time that a madman had arrived to kill her? Jackson stiffened, listening to the radio report. "Police are conducting an investigation into a body found in a remote part of Angel's Loft. Initial reports indicate foul play. No identification has been made, but witnesses report the body is a male Caucasian." Valerie could not hear over the beating of her own heart. Tyrone. "Two weeks." Jackson repeated the phrase three times before she heard him. "What?" "Valerie, they said the body has been there for at least two weeks. It couldn't be Tyrone." She felt the impact trickle through her. Jackson's eyes shifted back to the road in thought. "When did Tyrone visit you last?" "Two weeks ago last Wednesday." "Were you together the whole day?" She shook her head, feeling the tension return. "No. I had to do some errands in town. He said he was going to do some photography and we'd meet up for dinner, but when I got back, he wasn't there, only a note telling me that his plans had changed and not to worry if I didn't hear from him for a while." Her eyes locked on Jackson's. "Do you think he got a picture of this man being murdered?" "I do. And I think Rogelio's job is to make that photo disappear…" "Along with whomever has it." She closed her eyes, wrapped in a nightmare.

Chapter Twelve Jackson considered as he drove. Whatever Rogelio was looking for, and it was most likely photographs, he hadn't found it yet. He probably hadn't found Tyrone, either, or he'd have tortured the man for the location of the photos. Either way, Rogelio's best lead would be Valerie. Jackson snuck another sideways glance at her. She clutched the birdcage tightly in her arms. He could not reconcile the two sides of her—the hard woman who had walked out on him without a backward

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glance and this fragile beauty who loved her tiny pet so desperately…the pet he had given her just days before his accident. And just days later, she'd told him flat out that she did not love him. Why would his heart not believe it? Her phone rang and she jumped. Fumbling in her bag, she answered. "Who is this?" she said, after a moment. Jackson gestured for her to put the phone on speaker and pulled the car to the shoulder. She complied and a man's gravelly voice filled the line. "You have something that belongs to me." Valerie's eyes widened. "Are you Claude Stoneman?" There was a pause. "I want the pictures." "I don't have your pictures. I didn't get anything from Tyrone." "You're lying." "If I had them, your man Rogelio would have found them, wouldn't he? He trashed my house, but then again, you already know that." Jackson was thrilled by the challenge he heard in her voice. She was scared, yes, but Rogelio had not been able to break her spirit. "We've been gentle up until now," Stoneman said matter-of-factly. "But I'm ready to move elsewhere and this matter needs to be resolved. Maybe we have to do more to convince you." Valerie's lips trembled but she kept her head high. "You can't terrorize me. I won't let you." Stoneman laughed, a raspy gargling noise, and disconnected. Jackson took the phone from her cold fingers and wrote down the caller's number. "It probably won't help, but we'll get it to the police." He took her hand in his and squeezed. "We know it's Stoneman. I'll talk to my uncle again. See if he can give us anything we can use against this guy. We'll win, Val." Her blue eyes fixed on his then. "I've worked too hard for my independence. I won't let anyone take control of my life." "I know." He stroked her palm. "We'll fight him together." "I can't ask you to do that. Not after…everything that's happened." "You didn't ask. I offered."

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Her hand went rigid in his. "I don't want you to get the wrong message, Jackson. Nothing has changed…about us, I mean. I'm not the woman for you. I never will be." He forced a nod. "I understand," he said, hoping God would forgive him for the lie. It seemed particularly cruel that he should lose this woman, the only one who knew him to the core. With Valerie he didn't have to be the macho firefighter. He was free to comb through art galleries with her, to make Play-Doh sculptures with his nieces, to fuss over the garden that he loved. With her, he could be the real Jackson, and she loved him thoroughly. Or she had, anyway, until he almost died in the same grisly fashion as her father. He was going to say something else, something easy and innocuous, keeping his flood of feelings below the surface, when his eyes were drawn to the rearview mirror. They'd reached the bottom of Sharp's Peak, ready to turn onto the main road. But a motorcycle appeared, bearing down on them, a flash of red hair visible beneath the driver's helmet.

Chapter Thirteen Valerie saw Jackson tense before he pressed on the gas pedal and the SUV surged forward. The motorcycle accelerated to keep pace. "We can't shake him," she cried. Jackson pushed the car far past the legal limit. "Oh, yes, we can." Come on, buddy. Think you can drive these roads better than me? Jackson had spent his youth combing the forest and surrounding area, both on bike and later in a series of cars he'd painstakingly restored. He was completely at home driving anything. His buddies said he could maneuver a fire engine better than anybody. You should see what I can do in this SUV, he thought, willing Rogelio to close the gap. "Go faster," Valerie said. "Why are you letting him catch up?" "Because it's lesson time for Rogelio." Jackson kept the car just far enough ahead of the motorcycle that he was sure the guy was celebrating. Whether Rogelio's plan was just to harass Valerie or draw close enough to take a shot at them, Jackson had no intention of watching it play out. Another mile. That was all he needed. Valerie exhaled in frantic puffs, tracking the motorcycle in the side-view mirror. "Almost there." Jackson gritted his teeth as the motorcycle gained ground. He pushed ahead and so did the bike, the road dappled now on either side by a thick screen of trees. Rogelio was easing up to the passenger side. "He's reaching into his jacket," Valerie breathed.

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Five yards, three, two. He could see the gleam of Rogelio's sunglasses. One yard. Showtime. Jackson yanked the wheel hard, sending the SUV speeding down a path that was more of a bike trail than anything designed for cars. He'd ridden it many times. Rogelio was good, he had to admit, staying seated as the motorcycle jounced along behind them. He'd put his weapon away, Jackson was happy to see, needing both hands to keep his grip on the handlebars. The SUV continued on the downward slope, flashing by shrubbery so green it dazzled the eye. Rogelio was not dazzled, however, keeping perfect control as he stayed in their wake. "Hold on," he hollered as they got to the bottom, pressing the gas. The SUV roared across the stream that appeared suddenly at the bottom of the slope. The water moved swiftly, and it was a good couple of feet deep at the point the vehicle plowed through, churning water and mud into a maelstrom. As he'd hoped, the deluge swamped the motorcycle's carburetor, drowning the engine and leaving Rogelio in the middle of the mucky water. Jackson continued on, but not before he snapped off a salute to their pursuer. Valerie looked at him in awe as he guided the car along the trail and back to the main road, Kiwi chirping his alarm. "How did you know that was going to happen?" He laughed. "I've wiped out enough times there myself on my mountain bike. It was Rogelio's turn." She shook her head, a smile smoothing the tension from her face. "Jackson, you are one of a kind." "So I've been told," he said.

Chapter Fourteen Valerie paced the tiny hotel room, lap after lap, puzzling over the mess she'd fallen into. The police had called right after she checked in, informing them both that they'd made two major discoveries. First off, they'd identified the dead man found in Angel's Loft forest to be a hiker, reported missing by his out-ofstate relatives. Furthermore, not far from the body they'd discovered the remains of a small-scale marijuana crop growing on the remote fringes of the park. It didn't surprise Valerie or Jackson. National parklands offered dense forest vegetation, an extensive system of roads and trails, fertile soil and easily divertible water—the perfect place to grow illegal drugs. The poor hiker had likely stumbled onto Stoneman's operation and been murdered. And unlucky Tyrone had been there to get it on film. "Why didn't you take it to the police, Tyrone?" She desperately hoped the decision hadn't cost him his life. She pictured his crooked grin and the pleasure that shone on his face every time he showed up on her doorstep. "Hello, cousin," he always said.

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Cousin. Family. So precious, that word. Trying to sleep only netted her a few hours of tossing and turning. Before sunup she awoke bleary-eyed. She fed Kiwi from the small bag of pellets she'd thought to bring, letting him snuggle under her chin for a while and letting herself be comforted by his warm downy body. Then she returned him to his cage, splashed cold water on her face and realized she'd forgotten her hairbrush. Finger-combing her mop into place, she slipped in her contacts, careful not to take too close a look at her sleep-deprived self, and started in on an internet search. If she couldn't find Tyrone's current location, she'd follow the trail backward. She knew he had worked in the area, repairing machines at a medical lab before he'd been "laid off," as he'd put it. She searched the internet for a lab that was within driving distance of the house he rented. There was only one—Healthwise. The name sounded familiar but she wasn't sure if she'd heard it from Tyrone or someplace else. She headed for her bag in search of keys to drive there when she remembered she had no vehicle. She could call Jackson and he would pick her up immediately. But it was wrong. Wrong to let herself depend on him. Wrong to ask for so much from a man she could not let herself love. Especially wrong to feel her heart skip a beat when his eyes found hers. To keep your heart safe, you had to keep it to yourself. Had to make it untouchable, hard. But surely hers was not beyond redemption. She prayed, she was good to others, she believed God had sent His son to die for her sins. Her choice would not wall her off from God, too, just from the man who scared her more than her stalker. Get it together, Valerie. Jackson's gone. She'd told him last night that she would take things in hand, hire an investigator if need be to find Tyrone, and stay away from her cabin until things were resolved. At least that problem was taken care of. She decided to go get some coffee from the shop across the street. Yanking open the door, she found Jackson, hand raised to knock, holding a tray with two coffees, a white bag clenched between his teeth.

Chapter Fifteen He saw from the determined set to her face that he'd been right. In spite of his warnings, she was going to search for Tyrone herself. She was stubborn, illogical… And breathtakingly beautiful, he thought as her eyes flashed blue fire at him.

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"I told you to stay out of this," she said, arms folded. "And you figured I'd do what you ordered? Thought you knew me better than that." She slumped against the door frame and allowed him to walk by. "You shouldn't be here." "Let's save some time and skip all that. I'm sticking around until you find Tyrone. Period. So deal." He handed her a coffee and a bagel from the bag. She looked him over. "Your hair is standing up in the back and you haven't shaved." Her eyes narrowed. "Did you sleep in your SUV?" "Yep. More comfortable than some of the places I've crashed, believe me. Safest thing to do, with Rogelio running around. He was nasty before, but after yesterday, he's probably downright murderous." Jackson sprawled in the chair, sipping his coffee. "Healthwise. That's where you're headed, right?" She started. "How did you know about Healthwise?" "I learned a thing or two from my uncle about how to find someone. They open at nine. Eat your bagel so we can go. I got poppy seed in case you wanted to share with Kiwi." She shot him an exasperated look, nibbling her bagel and putting a bit into Kiwi's cage. "Do you think…?" "I think Kiwi will be fine here. I paid a visit to the old lady across the street. Her name is Margie and she sits out on her stoop all day knitting. Her afghan for the county fair is going to be a winner. I helped her roll up some yarn. She'll watch the place." She giggled. "Reminds me of the time you tried to help your mother with the quilting and ruined all that fabric." He laughed. "Good thing my buddies never heard about that." "You were just trying to help, as always. They love you for that, just like I do." Valerie realized what she'd said and frantically searched for the words to take it back, but he cleared his throat and went on before she could speak. "Margie'll keep her eyes peeled, and if anyone goes into your room besides the cleaning lady, she's calling 911." Valerie shook her head. "You arranged that whole plan this morning?" "Margie and I are early risers. Let's go." In moments they were on the road to Healthwise. Spring sunshine poured down, illuminating the vibrant green shrubs and reflecting off the crystal flecks in the granite cliffs flanking the road. Jackson's heart was oddly light. He knew it was temporary. The matter of Tyrone would be solved eventually. Valerie would disappear again. But for now, with her sitting next to him, he felt inexplicably complete.

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All too soon, they arrived at the lab. Healthwise was a series of health-related businesses, all sharing a mission-style stucco building on a nicely landscaped parcel. Tyrone had mentioned his former supervisor, Anna Douglas, on a number of occasions, and when they'd phoned, she'd agreed to speak with them. They found her sitting at her desk, her eyes hidden behind thick glasses, short silver hair tucked behind her ears. She listened politely. "I hope you find Tyrone." "He serviced the machinery here?" She nodded. "Most of it. He'd been hired to primarily work on the photocopiers and the mail room equipment." She sighed. "He was a marvel at machinery. He seemed to understand the mechanics of every piece of equipment, and people called him in to take a look at things all the time. He made friends throughout the building." "Why was he fired?" Valerie asked. She gave them an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. That's not something I can discuss." Valerie leaned forward and clasped the edge of the desk. "Please. He's my family and he's in trouble." "I really do wish I could help you." She rose. "I have a meeting. I'll have to excuse myself." She left. Valerie remained clutching the edge of the desk. "Another dead end." "We'll figure something out," Jackson said, with more optimism than he felt. They exited Douglas's office—just in time to see a woman quickly scooting around the corner. A woman who had been listening to every word.

Chapter Sixteen Valerie sprinted after the woman as she scurried into the first hallway door, closing it quickly behind her. Without knocking, Valerie followed her in. A short woman with frizzy blond hair whirled to face them, her glasses slipping down her nose. Valerie guessed her to be in her fifties, her white coat struggling to encompass her plump frame. "This is a lab," she squeaked. "You're not supposed to be in here. You're not clean." She jabbed a finger toward her own shoes, encased in white slip-on covers. Jackson beamed a friendly smile, which had little effect on the woman, Valerie noticed. She read the tiny name tag pinned to the white coat. "Shirley? We know you were listening to our conversation with Ms. Douglas. Why?" Shirley tidied an already neat stack of papers. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Yes, you do. I'm Tyrone's cousin and he's in a lot of trouble."

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Her chin trembled. "Do you know where he is?" Valerie felt a surge of disappointment. "No." Shirley shook her head, setting her chin wobbling. "We were dating. At least I thought we were, but then he just stopped calling and visiting." Her eyes grew damp. "I did him a favor a couple weeks ago and then, bam, he disappeared. Maybe he was just using me." "I'm sure it's not like that. Tyrone got involved in something and he's made some people angry. I know he would have contacted you if he could." Her face brightened. "I told him whatever it was he was doing was probably a bad idea. He just laughed and said when it paid off he'd take me to a Broadway show, any one that I wanted." "What did Tyrone ask you to do for him?" Jackson asked. Another white-coated employee strolled in, nodded to Shirley and disappeared into the back. Shirley leaned forward, drawing them toward the door. "Nothing. Nothing important." "We need to know, Shirley. Please." Shirley was whispering now. "I would lose my job." "We won't tell anyone. If we have to go to the police, we'll leave your name out of it if we can," Jackson offered. At the word police, Shirley stiffened. "I don't want any trouble." Valerie locked eyes with Shirley. "You've got to tell us. If we don't find out what Tyrone was up to, they're going to kill him." Shirley bit her lip. Footsteps down the hallway indicated another approaching employee. She leaned forward. "Meet me in the parking garage in fifteen minutes," she said before turning on her heel and disappearing into the lab.

Chapter Seventeen Valerie felt trapped by the cement walls that housed the parking garage. The dark interior and oil-stained floors pressed in on her. The parking spaces were nearly full, crowded with vehicles of every make and model. She checked her watch again. It was going on twenty minutes now and so far the elevator doors remained stubbornly shut. Her nerves were taut as wires. Time was ticking away for Tyrone. "Where is she? Do you think she changed her mind? Maybe we should go back in or call the police." "She'll come," Jackson said. As if on cue, the elevator dinged and Shirley stepped out, hugging her lab coat tightly around her. She spotted them and hurried over, darting nervous glances around the garage. "I shouldn't be here." "You did the right thing, Shirley. We can't help Tyrone without you," Jackson said. 994

She twirled a strand of her hair. "I can't stay long." Valerie knew in her gut that they were close to solving the mystery. Shirley had the answer, and Valerie meant to get it out of her. She edged closer. "Thing is," Shirley said, "No one in the office knows about my relationship with Tyrone, and I don't want them to. He got into trouble and…well, guilt by association, you know." "What did he do?" Valerie pressed. She sighed. "Not much, really. He peeked at some personal info that he shouldn't have. Billing information." She cocked her head at Valerie. "That's how he found you. Saw your name on a bill from your eye doctor and looked you up. Your middle name, Jorah. It's unusual." "Yes," Valerie breathed. "It was my mother's maiden name." "Anyway, his supervisor caught him in the files. He'd broken the rules, but I don't think it caused any harm. He was excited to find a living, breathing family member. He told me how much you resembled your father." Valerie's throat thickened. "I was happy to meet him, too." Jackson put a hand on the small of Valerie's back and pressed it there, the warmth comforting her. "What was the favor, Shirley? What did you do for Tyrone a few weeks ago?" Shirley shrugged. "It was no big deal. He took some photos and he needed a way to send them so they wouldn't be detected. He wouldn't say why. It was all so very James Bond." Valerie's eyes widened. "He sent them to me?" "He sure did." "How…?" Jackson started, but he stopped suddenly. Valerie tried to see what had alarmed him, but Jackson was trying to push her and Shirley behind him. Rogelio stepped out from behind a parked car. "Spotted me too soon," he said. He moved a gun from behind his back and leveled it at Shirley. "Now it's time to tell us all about those photos."

Chapter Eighteen Jackson mentally kicked himself. He'd been so focused on Shirley and her revelation, he hadn't paid enough attention to their surroundings. It had been easy for Rogelio to climb the stairs and hide behind a car, waiting for the opportune moment. Shirley's mouth opened and stayed that way. Rogelio's smile never wavered. "We're going to walk downstairs to my car and go to a more private spot." He shot a look at Jackson. "Convenient that my bike is in the shop now, thanks to you. Hero boy, you get in the front with Valerie. I'll ride in the back and shoot anyone who makes a fuss. All right, then?"

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He forced them to the stairwell. Jackson walked to the stairs, fear tightening his gut. He had to get them out of this mess. The elevator doors dinged and a group of six chatting coworkers emerged. "Hey, guys," Jackson called out. "Are we late?" He banked on the fact that Rogelio would not murder them in front of a crowd of witnesses. He guessed right. Rogelio stepped back a pace and plastered on a charming smile. Jackson didn't waste time. He grabbed Valerie and Shirley's arms and pushed them into the milling crowd. Rogelio's expression was calm as they walked away but his eyes told a different story. He was not done with them, not by a long shot. At least the plan had bought them time. As they joined in with a group headed to the shuttle pick-up area, Shirley broke away from his grasp and darted toward the emergency exit. "No," he called loudly as he dared. "Don't run. He'll find you." Her look was pure terror. "I'm getting out of here." Valerie tried to run after Shirley, who had charged out the exit door, but Jackson stopped her. "We've got to find out what she knows," Valerie whispered. "We can't risk it. He's still here somewhere." They filed onto the shuttle, took it to the bus station and got a cab to Valerie's hotel. He didn't want to risk going back for his car right then, besides, the defeat written on Valerie's face made his heart ache as he walked her to the door. "I've got to go borrow a car." He took her hand and pressed her wrist to his lips, feeling the pulse there slow and steady. "We'll get through this." He'd learned a long time ago that God would provide the strength needed to forge through anything, if you only had the courage to face it. She gazed up at him. "I don't deserve your help." "It isn't about deserving," he said. It's about loving. Maybe she could read the thought in his mind because her cheeks pinked and she pulled away. The door closed and he leaned his head against it for a moment. Valerie, why won't you let me into your heart? What we could have is worth the risk. He pulled out his phone to call his buddy when her door was yanked open. Valerie's face was milk-white; the phone trembled in her hand. "I got a message. They've got Tyrone and they'll kill him if I don't bring the photos tonight."

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Chapter Nineteen Valerie's hands were clammy as she walked the short half-mile to the empty storefront, nestled in a grove of fir trees. Her muscles ached from another fruitless search of her cabin, followed by hours combing her computer with no sign of any incriminating photos or emails from Tyrone. The store's windows were dark. She prayed fervently as she went, prayers for Tyrone, for her own safety and, most of all, that Jackson would not die executing the plan for her rescue. Rogelio's message had been clear—she was to come alone. He would kill Jackson the moment he saw him, and Tyrone, too, if any police were spotted. Her knees shook as she pushed open the unlocked door, easing into the black interior. Her hands clutched a thick envelope that she hoped they wouldn't discover was just a packet of newspaper. It was a ludicrous plan. They would figure out the ruse as soon as they opened the envelope. But hopefully those moments would be enough for Jackson to do his part. She hadn't realized until then how very powerful love was. Here she was, walking into a murderer's hands to save a man she barely knew, relying totally on another man who would sacrifice his life for hers. A realization sizzled through her. Love was indeed more powerful than fear, stronger than anger and hurt. Unquenchable, even by death. Something opened inside her just then. The cold, dark place where she'd locked her heart away from Jackson unfolded. The fear that had kept it shut tight melted away. How very odd that it had taken this terrifying experience, the anguish that she felt right then, to make her realize it. "Set the packet down," said a voice she recognized as Stoneman's. "I want to see Tyrone." A flashlight flicked on and her cousin's terrified face stared back at her. Stoneman stood next to him, a thick arm leaning on Tyrone's shoulder. "I'm so sorry," Tyrone said, tears on his face. "It's okay. It's going to be okay," she managed. "Actually, it's not," Stoneman said, his face painted in garish shadow by the flashlight. "I'm done with this game. If the pictures aren't in that packet, I'm going to shoot you. Then I'm going to get Tyrone here to tell me where they are and if he won't I'll shoot him, too. I'm leaving town and I have no more time for this." Her heart hammered so hard she could barely hear her own response. "The cops…" "Are nowhere around. I've made sure of that." He cocked the gun. "Don't hurt her," Tyrone said. "I'll tell you where the pictures are." "Yes, you will," Stoneman said. 997

Suddenly there was a crash and smoke began to fill the house. Valerie surged forward and pulled Tyrone to the floor as Stoneman fired wildly. They crawled to the nearest hallway, smoke pouring in as Jackson lobbed in another canister, the kind used for firefighter training. They scurried blindly now, smoke clouding their vision. "Here," she said, pulling him into a side room. There had to be a window, some way out. She groped in the darkness, listening to Stoneman's shouts of rage, until a pair of strong hands grabbed her.

Chapter Twenty She screamed at the apparition that materialized in front of her. It was Jackson, wearing a breathing apparatus and thermal imaging goggles. He took their hands and led them down the back hallway and out the door. She saw a police car now and silhouetted against the smoke was Claude Stoneman with his hands in the air. She felt the breath whoosh out of her. They'd survived. It was over. She hugged Jackson as tight as she could, after he stripped off his gear. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry about all of this." He was about to reply when an arm wrapped around her neck. Rogelio pressed the knife to her throat. "Aw, happy ending and all that." Jackson froze, hands up as if he could somehow ward off the knife. "Let her go." "Oh, I will, you can be sure, after I kill her and burn down her cabin." He pressed the knife closer and it bit into her skin. Valerie's fear turned to anger. This man had terrorized her and wreaked havoc with her life. Most of all, he'd made her feel helpless. She would not be helpless anymore. Raising her leg slowly, she aimed for his kneecap. "I don't leave a job undone," Rogelio hissed, ready to pull her back into the shrubbery. "Neither do I," she whispered, kicking backward with all the strength she possessed. She heard his knee crack and his cry of pain, then Jackson was on him, pinning him down until a police officer raced over to assist. When he was cuffed, Jackson rose. "Pretty nice kick there." She smiled. "Strong legs. Must be from climbing all those trees." Tyrone hugged Valerie, sobbing into her ear. "I never imagined when I sent you those pictures…" She pulled him to arm's length. "Where did you hide them?" 998

He smiled. "My friend Shirley works at the medical lab. She makes contact lenses. I saw on the billing info that her outfit makes your lenses, the ones they send you every six weeks. I noticed you were about due for another shipment." Valerie and Jackson stared at him as he continued. "I shrunk the picture to the size of a pinhead and she imprinted it on your lenses the day before they were shipped out to you." The police officer called Tyrone over and he trotted away, leaving Jackson and Valerie in shocked silence. Jackson shook his head. "So all this time the proof was literally…" "Right before my eyes." Valerie felt a swell of emotion. "Jackson, I've been blind about so many things. When you had your accident and almost died…I was afraid. I didn't want to feel that vulnerable, so I left you." He reached up to stroke her cheek. "It's okay." "No, it's not. God gave me love and I turned my back on it because of fear. I was so scared to lose you, like I lost my father." Tears streamed down her face. "I'm sorry." He put a finger under her chin and tipped her eyes up to meet his. She saw the love simmering there, the rich devotion that had not waned in spite of her betrayal, a love that would last. He kissed her then, slow and gentle, and she knew the love had been there all the time. Right before her eyes.

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