 
Taste of Love: A Romance Sampler

by Susan Connell

Copyright © 2012 Susan Connell

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

About this Sampler

A Woman to Blame

Glory Girl

A Man Like This

Trouble in Paradise

Pagan's Paradise

Some Kind of Wonderful

Rings on her Fingers

The Big Beach Book Anthology

Double Trouble in Paradise Anthology

Connect with Susan

eBooklist

Credits & Info

About this Sampler

When I'm online shopping for an enjoyable romance, many factors affect my decision. Covers and titles catch the eye, of course, and a quick look at the description helps too. But it's the next step that brings the moment of truth. **The excerpt.** A morsel of the finished product, hopefully enough of one to make my decision easier.

If I'm in a reality based bookstore, I can thumb through the physical copy. But with ebooks, the online retailers sometimes limit me to a handful of pages, or even just a few paragraphs. A sniff, so to speak. And that's not always enough to tell me if a book will be to my taste. Maybe you're like me, and sometimes you want to try a bigger bite of a book before you decide to buy.

It's with that in mind that I made the Taste of Love sampler. In it, I put the first three chapters from six of my bestselling contemporary romances. plus one teasing nibble from another bestselling _and_ award winning classic. That's more than 100,000 words. Read on and you'll find love stories set at the beach, like **A Woman to Blame** , **Glory Girl** , and **A Man Like This**. If foreign jungle locales are more your speed, **Trouble in Paradise** and **Pagan's Paradise** , might satisfy your exotic cravings. **Some Kind of Wonderful** has our hero and heroine falling in love on a sun-soaked island in Greece. And if you want a holiday romance to warm your evening, **Rings on her Fingers** features a long-legged shopping mall elf with an attitude.

If one of these mouth-watering titles look like they might satisfy your craving for a good read, you can get the full versions from major online ebook retailers. If you like what you read with more than one, you might want to try one of my anthologies, compilations of theme related romances, **The Big Beach Book** and **Double Trouble in Paradise** , available at the same sites.

\--Susan Connell

A Woman to Blame

Susan Connell

### Prologue

"Rrrrawk! Repent, you sinner. Repent. Repent!"

Rick Parrish wanted more time to take in the sights and sounds of Pappy's Crab Shack, to imprint them indelibly in his memory so that he could recall them at will during the next week. Now that Miss Scarlett had squawked his arrival into the second-story open-air bar, his private moment had ended. The regulars sent him a barrage of wolf whistles and catcalls, letting him know they'd seen him. And his suit. Reaching past the Flesh-Eating Killer Bird sign, Rick adjusted the parrot's red-ribboned boater.

"What'll it be, Captain Parrish?" Pappy Madison asked from inside the wraparound bar.

More heads turned in Rick's direction as he pretended serious consideration of the question. Pappy's query was the same every evening, and so was Rick's response. Half the patrons in the Florida Keys bar chorused the answer along with him.

"Cold beer, conch fritters, and a gaudy-awful sunset, Pappy!"

"Can do," Pappy said, pulling a frosted mug from the cooler.

Weaving his way through the crowded establishment, Rick exchanged several irreverent greetings as he headed toward his usual place by the west rail. He spotted one of his marina employees with his arms resting on the tanned shoulders of two attentive blondes. Jiggy Latham winked, flashing two victory signs before lowering his head to receive a kiss from one of the girls. Rick walked on by, trying for a fleeting moment to remember what it was like to be so young. When he reminded himself that he was barely thirty-eight, he hid a halfhearted chuckle in a hasty look around the room.

The tourists were trying hard to blend in with the locals. If their unfamiliar faces hadn't given them away, the scent of their suntan lotions, the sight of their sunburns, and the fruity daiquiris they ordered certainly would have. He glanced at his watch, then folded his suit jacket and laid it over a chair. With his luggage stowed in the back of his Jeep, a plane ticket in his suit pocket, and the almost desperate desire to drink in the bar's atmosphere, he felt like a tourist himself.

He looked at his watch again. He had fifteen minutes to immerse himself in the convivial din before he headed for the Miami airport. Fifteen minutes in an open-air bar that had become more welcoming to him than his own living room. And if all that weren't enough to draw him here, this place didn't have ghosts. But he didn't want to think about that right now. One of the waitresses was pulling the plug on the jukebox, cutting off a Motown classic. Before the protests could reach a rioting level, Pappy banged his hand on the bar.

"Behave yourselves," Pappy warned. "The show's about to begin."

The show, Rick noted with pleasure, had begun in the late afternoon when the sun, ballooning with color, began drifting down to the water. Pappy's patrons assembled for the last act. The grand finale. Chairs scraped the rough plank floor as they were turned toward the west rail. And then, as always, there was a moment of silence when everyone seemed to hold a collective breath. Rick never tired of the dazzling spectacle, a mixture of gaudy melodrama and timeless dignity.

As the show continued, good-natured laughter and the clink of glasses filled the balmy, salt scented air. Over in another corner Tweed MacNeil lifted his guitar, perched himself on a stool, and teased the audience with a few familiar notes.

"Do it to me, Tweed," a local woman begged, and "Margaritaville" rolled out rich and mellow.

Miss Scarlett joined in, exclaiming in a gravelly voice, "Make a joyful noise!"

After a while Pappy showed up at Rick's elbow and slipped a basket of conch fritters in front of him. He followed the neat presentation by thunking down two full mugs of beer, their foamy heads sloshing over the tops and onto the table. "Think I'll join you."

"I'm going to miss this, Pappy," Rick said, palming the foam away from the table edge then flicking it over the rail.

"That's right," Pappy said, wiping his hands on his shorts before taking the chair next to Rick. "You're flying up to Philadelphia tonight to see Angie's folks. No wonder you're dressed like... you're dressed." He strained for a look at Rick's lap. "Didn't get any on you, did I?"

Rick gave the old man an easy laugh. "No. I've been coming to this place long enough to know when to move out of the way."

As Pappy's eyes met his, the old man's voice lost its bantering tone. "How long has it been since Angie --?"

"Five years," he said quickly, reaching for the beer and taking a sip. Five years since he'd been coming to Pappy's alone. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he cleared his throat when he sensed Pappy was about to ask another question. Too soon he'd be bombarded by memories of Angie, and right now all he wanted was to enjoy his beer, Pappy's atmosphere, and one more gaudy-awful sunset. He eased back in his chair and looked around him.

Several tourists had balanced their cameras on the west rail and were snapping away in a manic move to capture the moment. Rick watched, keenly aware of their need to have a piece of the place to take away with them. He blew softly through pursed lips, hoping to ease the strange sensations in his chest. This wasn't his only sunset at Pappy's. Still, in the pinkish-gold tint bathing Malabar Key, he was never more aware of the earth rolling closer to twilight. Rick shifted in his chair, releasing his stranglehold on the worn wooden armrests. What the hell was he so uptight about? Unless there was a major hurricane about to hit the Keys, Pappy's Crab Shack would be here when he got back.

"My granddaughter's coming for a visit."

"I think you mentioned she was," Rick said, turning to his friend with a grateful smile. He was relieved to talk about something else. "Don't think I've met her. Have I?"

"Bryn? You'd remember Bryn if you met her. Come to think of it, she usually visits when you're up in Philadelphia." With a proud shake of his head, Pappy concluded, "She's a pistol."

"A pistol, huh?" Crossing his arms, he leaned them on the damp table. "Too bad I'll miss her."

Pappy lifted the front of his fisherman's cap and scratched his head. "Another time," he said, as the sun, accompanied by a trilling flourish from Tweed MacNeil's guitar, disappeared below the horizon.

"Another time," Rick said, reaching for his wallet. Pappy waved off Rick's motion. "Put your money away. It's on the house tonight."

"Take care, then," Rick said, knowing his grin was all the thank-you Pappy would accept.

A few minutes later he was headed north on U.S. Highway 1, fiddling with the satellite radio and already counting the days until he could return.

### Chapter 1

One week later.

Rick Parrish was coming home.

Tugging at the knot in his tie, he loosened it a few more inches, then unbuttoned another button on his shirt. He couldn't wait until he stored these clothes, pulled on his cargo shorts, and started the yearly process of putting his memories of Angie a little further back in his heart. The annual visit with her parents never got easier, but at least this year's visit was finally over.

He strained for his first glimpse of the mile marker for Malabar Key, and stepped down on the accelerator the moment he saw it. Like a white bullet, his Jeep sped onto the last bridge before home. A week away from Malabar Key was one week too long. And he was so close now, he could smell it.

The first thing he was going to do was have a frosty mug of beer at Pappy's Crab Shack. After that, he'd check on his marina. Life was beginning to feel normal again. Tapping out the rhythm of "Margaritaville" on his steering wheel, he drove from the bridge and onto the highway. That "almost home" feeling settled over him, as familiar and welcoming as his chair at Pappy's. He turned up the volume on the radio, and the smile that had been threatening to surface for the last two hours eased across his face.

Turning onto Marina Road, he hit his horn twice, announcing his return to the group he knew was gathered at Pappy's. A roiling cloud of dust followed him into Pappy's empty parking lot.

Rick's smile left his face before he had a chance to jam his foot on the brake. Yanking off his sunglasses, he waved away the dust billowing over him and stared slack-jawed through the windshield.

He was hallucinating.

He had to be, because Pappy's Crab Shack had been here a week ago and now it was gone. Or at least the peeling paint was gone, and being replaced with a second coat of banana yellow. He recognized the painter. Tweed should have been inside along with the two men who were hanging a new sign.

CHEZ MADISON

DISTINCTIVE CUISINE IN THE HEART OF THE KEYS - OPENING SOON

"Tweed!" Rick shouted, switching off the ignition. "What the hell's going on?"

Gesturing with his paintbrush, the man on the ladder said, "Plenty. And you're not going to like any of it." Tweed winked. "Well, maybe a bit of it. But you go inside and find out for yourself."

Rick vaulted out of the Jeep. His momentary shock was turning into an uncomfortable tingle across his shoulders. What was Pappy Madison up to? Striding across the parking lot and onto a newly laid, petunia-lined brick walkway, he felt a growing sense of apprehension.

When his foot landed on the first step, he hesitated, then slowly tested the next step. The creak was gone. A disgusted snort left his nostrils. The entire staircase had been replaced. So had the shaky handrail. Taking the steps two at a time, he crested the top one, stepped inside the bar, and choked back a groan.

It was worse than he could have imagined. The beer-stained floor had been sanded clean, the rickety tables removed, and the naked mermaid mural blotted out with more of that banana-yellow paint.

What horror was next? he wondered, scanning the room.

The ultimate insult struck him like a boom in the chest. The dark pine captain's chair, which everyone on Malabar Key knew to be his, his poker chair, the chair that held him while he bragged about his fishing, the chair he'd passed out in a few too many times, was splattered with yellow paint and shoved in a corner like a piece of discarded history. His heart sank, then rebounded to its rightful place, bringing with it a need for an explanation... and a burning desire for retribution against the perpetrator of the blasphemous act.

"Pappy, get your sorry ass out here before I—" Rick's words blended with those of a willowy redhead who was backing through the kitchen door with an armload of cloth napkins.

"All deliveries through the back entrance, please," she was saying. "And could you—oh!"

He'd startled her, but no more than she'd startled him. In that swelling moment of silence Rick took her in, front and back, with the aid of a new wall mirror. She was sleek yet curvy, with an aura of sophistication he sensed instantly. Hell, her trendy hairstyle alone could have told him that. The feathery fullness of it appeared to defy gravity, framing her shocked expression with what looked like curvy auburn sunbursts. He wasn't surprised when she blinked first. Under the weight of her thick, curly lashes, it was a wonder her eyes hadn't closed before he took note of their clear amber color.

"Pappy's not here," she said regarding his empty hands with cautious interest. When she let go of the napkins, most of them fell into a basket at her feet. "I'm his granddaughter, Bryn."

His gaze followed her ladylike yet provocative stoop near his feet. As she gathered up the napkins from the floor, he watched her cropped top move up and down her back. He'd seen hundreds, maybe thousands of women in skimpy bathing suits, but this peekaboo view of her flesh was different. Every movement was an invitation to touch her right there at the base of her spine. Each time she reached, he dug his nails into his palms and hoped it was the last time. He gave himself permission to breathe after she tossed the last napkin into the basket she now had perched on her hip. Rising, she smiled and extended a hand as if nothing had happened.

And nothing had. Yet.

Rick had seen her type at his marina. Just brimming with gracious enthusiasm until sea spray dampened her makeup or the first stiff breeze destroyed her hairdo. Take-your-breath-away beauty or not, he told himself to expect much of the same from this one. He was never wrong about these things.

Then she touched him.

Her perfectly manicured hand slipped into his, her fingertips wrapping around the side, before gripping him in a capable hold. She gave one solid shake that told him his theory didn't apply to her. No dead fish here. This was a live one. With each passing second her touch sent him more disconcerting messages. Confident. Competent. Assertive. Challenging. Threatening.

Threatening? Where had that idea come from? Where had any of those ideas come from? He knew nothing about her except that Bryn rhymed with win, and that she smelled like cool cream and cinnamon. "I'm Rick Parrish," he said, in a raspy voice he didn't recognize as his own. He cleared his throat.

"Is there something I can help you with, Rick?"

He was sure there was something, but he couldn't remember what that something was. He was far too busy trying to figure out why her spirited handshake and blended scent were still knocking him off his center. That dead-calm center he guarded with his life. The reason had to be more than Bryn Madison's confident smile and the self-assured way she jutted her hip to brace the basket. His gaze strayed to the mirror behind her, giving him a periscopic view of the way her short skirt curved so lovingly around her hips. Slim, firm hips that made his palms itch. She reminded him of Pappy's mermaid mural. In fact, she could have been the model for the mural.

Rick fought the temptation to totally immerse himself in the mirror's stolen view of her backside. Of course, he wasn't breaking any law by looking. Even so, he knew he was asking for trouble if he didn't quit it—right after he compared Bryn's backside to the mermaid's. Turning toward the wall, he bit down and exhaled sharply. He'd been staring at Bryn's body for so long, he'd forgotten that the mermaid mural no longer existed.

With that thought burning in his brain, he looked back at her. She was the cause of this. And the reason adrenaline was roaring through his body. He watched her as she riffled through the whites and pastels in the basket, and followed her to the bar.

"If you're looking for a job bartending or as a cook, I'm afraid we're not—"

"I'm not looking for work. I want to know what's going on. And where's Pappy?" he asked, losing the battle to keep his voice all business.

She stopped her riffling and looked up at him. Her lips lifted at the corners into a proud grin that made his stomach flip-flop. Damn it to hell. If he wasn't going to fixate on her perfectly curved behind, neither was he going to get hung up on her mouth. Her lush, red mouth smiling in a way that was adding confusion to his growing list of complaints.

"What's going on here is a much-needed remodeling. And none too soon," she said, with a don't-you-agree tilt of her head. "Pappy's still in the hospital, so we won't be able to reopen until—"

"Hold on right there," he said, turning an ear in her direction. That cold and queasy feeling started in his gut when he heard the word hospital. "Run that one by me again. What's Pappy doing in the hospital?"

"He broke his leg when his foot went through a rotted step. Of course, I immediately had both staircases replaced." She lifted her chin. "Then I started in on the rest of this."

A sharp, sibilant curse left Rick's lips, causing her eyebrows to lift and hold. He shook his head in a halfhearted apology, but more to clear it of those images of Angie. Those images that he'd fooled himself into thinking were gone for another year. "Is she...?" He closed his eyes to make the moment disappear, but he knew in the same instant that certain things never would. "I mean, is he going to be okay?"

"The orthopedic surgeon's assured me Grandfather will be fine, but he'll have to stay in the hospital over on Marathon for a few more weeks. Are you a regular customer of his?"

"I'm his friend. I own Parrish's Marina. I do fishing-boat charters." Lifting his chin in the direction of the north rail and its view of the marina, he waited until she had a look. "I've been away," he said.

"Rick Parrish. Of course. I've been preparing the box lunches for your charters since Grandfather's accident. I'd love to take a boat ride one of these days when I'm not so busy. Maybe—-"

"What happened to Misty and Shaniqua? Why aren't they doing the lunches?"

"The waitresses? I'm afraid I had to let them go. They've gotten work at a resort over on Islamorada. I think it's called Conch Castle. If they're still interested, I'll consider rehiring them when we reopen. In the meantime," she said, "life must go on."

"So I've been told," he murmured, looking around the room again, then throwing up his hands. "This is unbelievable."

"I know. I hadn't taken a good look at the place in quite a while, so when I walked in this time, I couldn't believe how things had deteriorated," she said with a disapproving roll of her eyes. Placing the basket on the bar, she pulled out a lime green napkin, and picked off its price sticker.

She wasn't getting it. But she would. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and considered her blissful ignorance. He could be patient. As soon as she stopped fooling around with that napkin and started paying attention to him, he would tell her how things worked around here. By the way she was concentrating on the napkin, it wouldn't be any time soon. He could be very patient.

He watched the precise way she was rolling, folding and tucking the cloth until, turning it over, she smoothed it for what he hoped was the last time. Her nails made a line of cherry red ovals when she pressed her slender fingers against the lime green cloth. His thoughts strayed to the kind of attention she could pay to him with those fingers. Those exquisitely feminine, deftly moving fingers that were turning a plain piece of material into a three-dimensional work of art. Concentrating on her hands, he indulged himself in a few seconds of erotic fantasies. The provocative ideas stirred his blood with shocking speed.

"See what a little inspiration and perspiration can do," she said, holding up the napkin she had folded to resemble a bird. She jiggled it, making its wings flap. "A miracle."

"Yes, but can it clean up after itself?" he asked, hoping she'd pick up on the tinge of sarcasm in his voice. She didn't. Her soft laughter volleyed his sentiment back to him, making him feel contrite. Or more to the point, plain nasty for trying to bring her down when all she wanted was to share a lighthearted moment with him. He'd turned away too many opportunities for lighthearted moments, but this one felt different.

"While we're on the subject of birds, where's Miss Scarlett?"

"A Mr. Latham volunteered to take her until things are a bit more settled here. And that won't be too much longer once I pitch the rest of that stuff and the new furniture is delivered," she said, pointing to the battered furniture and dusty beer signs piled in the corner. Leaning her elbows on the edge of the bar, she dropped her chin on her laced fingers and turned her face to his. "Amazing what a bit of elbow grease and determination can accomplish in so little time, isn't it?"

"Amazing?" He tested the sandpapery texture of his chin, running the back of his hand across it, then down over his Adam's apple. "You could put it that way," he said, his gaze straying over her. He told himself he wasn't interested in the way her hair moved when she looked into the basket, or the way her eyes got all dreamy when she was talking about the place. Or even the way the toe of her one sandal balanced behind the other. And he was especially not interested in the way she was again rolling another napkin beneath her flattened fingers, then manipulating the ridged hem to produce some desired effect that was making her smile again. He was mad. And more than slightly aroused, which made him madder still.

Straightening up, she reached into the basket and exchanged her half-folded blue napkin for an apricot one. Looking pleased with her selection, she flicked the folds from the napkin, spread it out on the bar, and began again.

"Color is so important in setting the right mood, don't you agree?" Her cautious look returned when he didn't speak. "Well, you do agree that Pappy's Crab Shack needed a face-lift, don't you?"

"What you've got going here is much more than a face-lift," Rick said, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice. "Pappy's going to have a fit when he sees the place."

Her laughter rippled through him like an unexpected shiver.

"Pappy is not going to have a fit, Rick. He's given me carte blanche to do over the Crab Shack." Pushing away from the bar, she motioned with her hands. "My specialty is hotel restaurant design. I usually have to work within established parameters on those jobs. Now, I'm not saying I don't appreciate that discipline, but no one is telling me what to do this time."

She stopped to look at him, giving him an exuberant smile. He fought the urge to smile back. She didn't appear to notice his tight-lipped expression as she continued telling him about her plans to ruin Pappy's.

"It's going to be stunning. Light and airy, but cozy." She wrinkled her nose in dismay. "That is, when I can find someone to do a drop ceiling and close in the walls. I'm willing to keep it a tad tropical, but I'm aiming for mostly French colonial. Oh, and there will definitely be a wine bar to replace that mess," she said, waving off the area where rows of rum, gin, and assorted liquors used to be.

Rick watched her move around the room, pointing out more changes to come. Once she got on a roll, her energy was astonishing. With each new idea, he felt his world rushing toward extinction.

"I'll limit the menu at first. No more than four entrees. And no peanut shells anywhere. I found peanut shells in the rest rooms. Can you imagine?" Clapping her hands together, she brought them under her chin, then turned back toward him. Suddenly she looked as if she'd tripped on something. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He slipped his sunglasses on the moment she began stroking that place below her breasts. It should have been easy enough to look at something else, anything else, but he couldn't stop watching her touching herself that way. One moment she was posturing and talking like a madame president, and the next she reminded him of an excited kid at summer camp. The first image was as intriguing as the second was poignant. He adjusted his sunglasses, thankful that they prevented her from knowing that he continued to stare at that place below her breasts, wishing he could stroke it too.

"Did you say that Pappy hit his head?" he asked, taking off his suit jacket and tossing it on the bar.

"No." Lowering her hand to her hip, she gave him a quick and suspicious once-over. Her wistful moment dissolved, replaced with that instructive tone he was already beginning to hate. "I told you, his foot went through a rotted step."

"I think he hit his head," Rick said, nodding as if he had just been convinced of it. "Yes, ma'am," he continued, walking over to where his old chair was and dragging it out into the center of the room. Sitting down, he lifted his feet to rest them on the sawhorse, then folded his arms. "As a matter of fact, I think Pappy must have whacked it good and hard to let you do this to his place. Bryn, take my word for it. This distinctive, French colonial crap isn't going to work."

Bryn stared hard at the broad-shouldered man relaxing in the battered captain's chair. She pressed her lips together, fighting back the urge to pull in a sharp breath. Rick Parrish was arrogant, opinionated, and not a little antagonistic. Those things alone should have been reason enough to dismiss him, but there was something else about the man that stopped her from telling him to get out. Forget that he possessed the most effective packaging for testosterone she'd even seen. Forget that his permanent tan, his sun-streaked hair, and his handsome face, made all the more handsome with its weathered touches, had been inviting her stares since the moment she'd seen him. And forget that his own blue-eyed gaze had her warm and tingly and strangely alert. All of it, she told herself, was nothing but an overblown reaction to the man's overpowering presence. The most fascinating thing about Rick Parrish was his passion and the way he was trying to hide it. And the fact that he couldn't.

She watched as he stripped off his tie and began rolling it into a neat bundle. When he stuffed it into one of his trouser pockets, he strained the open V of his shirt, giving her a peek at his curly chest hair. Without warning, she found herself picturing him unbuttoning his shirt and tugging it off to reveal a light and springy mat of hair covering a supremely masculine chest. A chest to stroke. Tickle. Kiss. And when he opened his arms and whispered her name, a warm and waiting chest for her to press her face against. The mesmerizing images continued until she pressed her fingers to her forehead and willed them to stop. She blinked.

"Crap? Did you actually just say crap?!" she asked in a distinct hiss.

"Bryn, honey," he said, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from his knee, "I know what I'm talking about. You're wasting your time and Pappy's money. Open your eyes and stop this before we can't fix it. You're making a big mistake."

For one shattering moment all she could focus on was his casually delivered endearment. Honey. She hadn't heard that word since her last close relationship. Maybe it wasn't her fiancé's fault that the excitement he generated was usually one-sided. His side. But she hadn't had a problem tossing the ring in his face when he'd accused her of loving her career more than she loved him. That was three years ago, and although her biological clock wasn't clanging the alarm, she didn't like to be reminded of what she still lacked—a man to love and be loved by, a baby, and all those sweet endearments that came with the both of them. And now Rick Parrish, this man she hardly knew, tossed off "honey" in such a cavalier way that it made her cheeks sting with angry heat. He was attempting to knock the wind out of her sails by telling her she couldn't handle a simple, albeit enjoyable, renovation for her grandfather. To top things off, he was also making it clear that her ideas were categorically wrong.

Rick Parrish wasn't going to get away with mocking her expertise. She'd kill him with kindness first!

"Well, Rick, honey, I disagree," she said, infusing her words with as much politeness as she could manage. "I think Malabar Key needs an upscale restaurant. Someplace special—"

"People can go over to Key West if they want special," he said, lowering his feet to the floor. As if her work weren't worth a full wave of his hand, he lifted only his fingers to indicate her changes to the restaurant's interior. "But they don't want this kind of special here. They want Pappy's."

"And how do you know what people want?" she asked, monitoring her composure with each strained word.

"Because I've lived here most of my life, and I know. What they want is a place where they can put their feet up, throw their peanut shells on the floor, and play the jukebox good and loud." Twisting around for a look at the back corner of the room, Rick did a double take, then came out of his chair, knocking it over in the awkward move. Pulling off his glasses, he dropped his voice to an unforgiving whisper. "What did you do with the jukebox?"

"I had it moved downstairs to the storage room. Someone's coming over from Grassy Key to look at it tonight." She leveled a look at him that was meant to tell him she wasn't backing down. "Does that meet with your approval?"

"You're selling the jukebox?" Before she could reply, he gestured toward the empty corner with his sunglasses. "That jukebox is not leaving Malabar Key," he said, his voice climbing again.

"Is that an order, Mr. Parrish, or an offer to buy it?" she asked. Picking up the basket of napkins, she walked calmly toward the kitchen door, her bejeweled sandals making slow, soft tapping sounds. Once inside she waited for him, certain that he wasn't going to give up. Not like some men she'd had to stand up to in her career. Not with his fiery personality. Rick Parrish didn't disappoint her, and that made her feel all the more triumphant when she heard him approaching.

"It's the truth," he bellowed, slamming the door back against the kitchen wall.

Bryn set the basket on the butcher-block table, slid it back a few inches, and took a measured, calming breath before facing him again. She would have missed the tremor in his hand if she hadn't looked at the door first. He was holding his fingers flat against the wood panel, but lowered his arm when he stepped into the room. If this had been any other man, she would have been impressed with her ability to illicit such a show of emotion. But Rick Parrish had bypassed that kind of self-indulgent reaction and hit her where it mattered. In her reawakening libido. The burst of energy was invigorating. "You're walking around here like the man in charge, but you're not in charge. Not here anyway." She tapped that place below her breasts. "I am. And my eyes are open. This place was in shambles. The accident opened Grandfather's eyes too. He realizes it's time for a change. And I'm only too happy to be the instrument for that change."

"Change?" Shoving his sunglasses into his shirt pocket, he rested his hands on his hips and lifted his chin toward her. "Except for a few minor repairs, there wasn't a need for this much change. This is a local bar, for locals. Friends. Real people."

"I have no problem with that. They'll be more than welcome at Chez Madison," she said, folding her arms as she backed up and bumped into the butcher block. "As long as they don't insist on a bucket of peanuts for an appetizer."

"Look," he said, his voice searching for a reasoning tone. The muscles of his jaw twitched with effort. "I know these people and I know Pappy. I think you ought to stop all of this remodeling business and wait until Pappy sees how far overboard you've gone."

"Pappy knows what I have in mind. What I want to know is, how does this concern you?"

"I'll tell you how," he said, tapping his chest with his fingertips. "Anything that happens on Malabar Key is my business." Striding to the opposite side of the butcher block, he leaned over it toward her. "Lady, wake up. People here don't want or need a formal, fancy-ass fern grotto with an unpronounceable menu, expensive wine list, or," he said, taking a folded napkin from the basket, "these toy sailboats, for crissakes."

She tugged the napkin from his hand. "This one is not a sailboat."

"Well, pardon me. A bird."

"It's a bishop's hat. But more importantly, it's made of cloth and has no dirty limericks printed on it." She made a face to lighten the tension, but he wasn't nibbling. Sighing audibly, she allowed a frown to replace her attempt at humor. "Can't you give Chez Madison a chance? I'm not closing the place, I'm simply giving it style."

"Pappy's Crab Shack had style," he said dryly.

"Well, now it will have a different style," she said as evenly as she could manage. "This key needs an upscale restaurant, and not only for the pleasure it will bring to the people living here. It's bound to attract tourists, seasonal residents, and perhaps locals from some of the other keys."

"More outsiders are not what we need around here."

"If it brings prosperity—"

"That remark just goes to show how little you know about this community. If people were interested in that kind of prosperity, they'd have sold their land to developers long before now."

"What is it specifically that bothers you about my changes?"

Rick shook his head. "Can't you see? You're setting up a situation here that Pappy won't be able to handle. He's an old man. He and his staff can boil crabs, tap a keg, and shoot the breeze. And that's about it, Bryn. Don't you care that you're going to set up this place, then leave him with more than he can handle?"

He'd sneered at her plans. He'd insulted her common sense. He'd even managed to steer her thoughts close to libidinous mutiny. But he wasn't going to get away with questioning her love for her grandfather.

"I would never do that to that dear man. I love him too much to ever allow such a catastrophe to happen."

"I'm not saying you don't love Pappy. You're simply not thinking this through from his angle." Pointing at her, he said, "And don't tell me you care about Malabar Key or its people, because you've already proved to me that you know nothing about them. There's a way of life here worth maintaining, Bryn. What you've got in mind will only disrupt it, and your venture will fail."

"Rick, we're only talking about a restaurant."

"No," he said, turning in frustration to slam his palm on the wall. "You're talking about a restaurant; I'm talking about a community institution. Pappy's Crab Shack is... is..." His words trailed off as he plowed his fingers through his hair, then reached for the edge of the block again.

He glared at her and failed to contain a low growl. And she glared back, certain that her eyelashes must be on fire. Rick Parrish was the most stubborn, most guarded, and most gorgeous man she'd ever met. And for any and all of those reasons, she wasn't giving in or giving up. Not now. Not later.

Tapping her nails on the wood surface, she slowly shook her head. "I still think there's something else you're not telling me. Besides your concern for Pappy and your devotion to the people of Malabar Key, what really bothers you about this?"

"What are you talking about?" he asked, eyeing her closely.

She started to circle him. As he turned his head to follow her with his eyes, Bryn watched his light brown hair play against his collar. When she was behind him, he gave up trying to look at her and took a deep breath instead. She was surprised that he held it so long. She sensed Rick Parrish wasn't the type to turn his back on many people. He most likely took things head on, yet she had managed to provoke him to a tense silence.

He continued holding his rigid posture, keeping the fabric of his shirt taut over his shoulder blades. The message he wanted to convey was lost in the truth she saw before her: Rick Parrish needed touching. The knowledge streaked through her like a tiny lightning bolt. But she wasn't going to touch him. She wasn't going to run her hands over the masculine delta of his back or trace the contours of his spine with her fingertips. Or her mouth. She felt for the back of her earring, pinching it hard enough to make an indentation on her thumb. Rubbing the mark, she silently applauded herself for removing the treacherous idea. She'd spent too many years building her professional reputation to commit such a rash act with a stranger. Walking around to the other side of him, she stayed close enough to see the muscles begin twitching in his jaw again.

"Rick, are there personal reasons—" She left off in midsentence when he jerked his head in her direction. Suddenly he was in charge of the moment, holding her in his dead-on gaze.

If he kept on staring like that, she would most definitely have to touch him to prevent herself from keeling against him. All five feet seven inches of her vibrating female form against his six-feet-plus wall of stubborn masculinity. And he would have to catch her in his arms, but he couldn't do that because he was folding them tightly across his chest.

Turning fully in her direction, he lowered his chin. Under other circumstances, he could have been lowering his head to kiss her, or inviting her to kiss him. From the intensity of his expression, she was certain kissing wasn't on his list of things to do to her. For one wild moment, she thought, _With lips like yours, it should be on your list of things to do to me._ The brazen idea had her cheeks scalding.

Rick considered pulling back from her, but he hadn't been near this much life in years. He closed his eyes long enough to remind himself about the important things in his world, and this woman was not one of them. "If you cared about Pappy, this place, and these people... but you don't."

She inched up closer to him. "But I do."

He lowered his face nearer hers. "The hell you do!"

"Will you please stop swearing?" she asked, scissoring her hands between them.

"Will you stop meddling?" he asked, countering her with his rising voice.

"Meddling?! I am not meddling. You – you just want someone to blame because you won't have your favorite hangout to do whatever you do. You're not at all concerned about the people –"

A third voice broke in, startling both of them to near-military attention.

"If you two cared any more about the people on this key, we'd all have to get earplugs."

Rick felt the breath rush from his lungs the second he realized who it was at the barroom door. Malabar Key's oldest cheerleader. "Hello, Liza. I didn't see you there."

"I'm not surprised," the gray-haired woman said before chuckling. "If you two can pull yourselves away from this engaging display of emotion and step out of the kitchen away from the knives, I'd like to talk with you."

He hadn't missed the not-so-hidden message in the older woman's voice. She was talking about the volatile male-female chemistry building between Bryn and him. A chemistry he could neutralize any time he wanted. Except for that unwanted physical arousal, he could turn off this feeling. What was bothering him had nothing personal to do with this flighty female with the expensive haircut and obvious time on her hands. Yes, she'd managed to stir up forgotten needs and touch him down deep in those dark and lonely places in less than twenty minutes, but that didn't mean a thing. Dammit to hell. He didn't want Bryn Madison.

All he wanted was his bar back!

### Chapter 2

Rick never thought a surprise encounter with Liza Manning could be considered a blessing, but today that was a distinct possibility. The sixtyish widow with the steel-colored braid usually had a problem she insisted only "Captain Parrish" could solve. Right now he'd be delighted to row the indefatigable woman all the way to Havana if she requested it.

No matter how anxious he was to end this emotionally charged discussion with Bryn, he hadn't turned into a raving lunatic. He knew Liza, and to offer her blatant encouragement would be a mistake. The widow's life was dedicated to community service, along with drawing everyone she could into the same endeavor. As often as possible he managed to sidestep her efforts to involve him in her projects. True, no one cared more about Malabar Key than him, but it wasn't his style to get himself included in Liza's endless committee meetings. Not that he or anyone could escape her for long. Liza had talked him into painting the fire hall, signing a petition for an enhanced version of the recycling program, and taking the kindergarten class on a fishing trip—a trip that had cost him two good rods and an afternoon of unrelenting depression. All this in one seven-day period.

"I got back this afternoon, Liza. I just heard about Pappy," he said, moving away from Bryn. Standing in the doorway, Liza gave a sympathetic shake of her head as Rick strode by her and headed toward the bar. A bar with no beer. Balling his fists, he resisted the urge to cringe. Bryn Madison was ruining the place.

"Pappy's accident was shameful, wasn't it, Captain?" Without waiting for Rick's response, Liza went on. "Bryn visits in the morning and I get over to see him in the afternoon. We both agree that there's nothing worse than being alone in the hospital."

Liza motioned for Bryn to come into the barroom. "I know you're busy, dear, but won't you join us?"

"I... really shouldn't."

Without the jukebox playing or the customers' noisy chatter, he could hear clearly the hesitation in Bryn's voice. Had he been so aggressive that she was trying to avoid him? Or was she trying to get rid of him gracefully? And why the hell was he thinking about any of this? He had places to go, people to see, and a business to run. As far as Bryn Madison was concerned, she could "hesitate" her sexy body right off Malabar Key.

"Look at this, Liza." Bryn appeared in the doorway with a handful of purple cloth. "The order arrived from South Carolina a few hours ago. This screaming heliotrope isn't going to work with the pastels. They're going back as quickly as I can wrap them."

"Are you sure you want to?" Liza asked. "I think festive colors bring out the best in people," she said, touching the brim of her lemon-colored hat.

Seizing the opportunity to get away from the stew of emotions he was up to his neck in, Rick said, "Since I don't have an opinion on purple napkins, I'll leave you two to discuss their fate while I get on over to the marina."

If he hadn't been looking at Bryn, he would have been halfway to the stairs by the time he'd finished his sentence. He should have waved and left, but he made the fatal mistake of watching her a second too long. The way she crossed her arms and leaned against a doorjamb shouldn't mesmerize him, but it did. With the purple material caught in a casual crush between her arms and breasts, she'd again managed to expose that luscious few inches of flesh at her waist. From that handy spot his gaze took a slow tantalizing journey north to her unrelenting stare. Knowing her for less than an hour, he was already recognizing "the look." That confident expression daring him to say something else stupid. Before he had the chance, his view was suddenly eclipsed by Liza's ample body.

With her spine straight and her blouse puffing around her, Liza sailed into his line of vision like a magnificent ship. "Hold on, Captain Parrish, I have something to say that you'll want to hear."

Doubting that, he winced. Twice. Once at Liza's refusal to let him leave. And again at Bryn's reaction, a whispered repetition of "Captain Parrish."

He had no idea how he was going to explain the "Captain" part to her, when he didn't fully understand it himself. There were plenty of fishing-boat captains on Malabar Key, but only he had ended up with the appellation permanently attached to his name. Keeping his eyes on the older woman, he willed her to state her case so he could leave. He didn't have to wait long.

"During the Friends of the Library meeting last night," Liza said, "we started talking about the deplorable condition of our ambulance. Did you know that Pappy had to be taken to the hospital in the back of Barry Bernstein's pickup truck because the gas tank on the ambulance was corroded and leaking? The tank's been replaced, but it's only a matter of time before something else goes on it."

"Bad situation, all right," Rick said. He had to get out of there before he let himself get sucked into another conversation.

"My grandfather had to be taken to the hospital in a pickup truck?" She dropped the napkins and pressed her hands flat against her collarbone. "No one told me that part."

"Yes, dear, I'm afraid that's what happened. With the ambulance in that condition, the EMT's couldn't get to Pappy any faster than Barry and Tweed MacNeil could. They did the best they could, but Pappy was hurting something awful by the time they got him to the emergency room." The older woman pulled on her braid and looked at the floor. "Captain Parrish can tell you how important good ambulance service can be, because—"

"Liza," he said, cutting her off, "what did you have to tell me?" He meant for his hard stare to be a warning to the older woman. He knew his attempt to silence her on that personal and painful subject had worked when her lips formed an even line and her gaze dropped to the floor again. That's all he needed, bringing Angie into it. Both he and Liza turned their embarrassed faces toward Bryn.

By the horrified look in her eyes, he knew Bryn was still picturing her grandfather in the back of the truck. Rick recognized the prolonged reaction and, without stopping to think of the repercussions, reached out to give her a reassuring touch. His thumb grazed her skin, and before he thought it through, he was giving her shoulder a comforting rub.

"Hey, everything's okay now," he said softly. "You told me the doctor said he's going to be fine."

"I know," she said, staring out at the palm fronds brushing against the rail, "but it hurts to picture him like that. Waiting for help, then bouncing around in the back of a truck. No trained medical people to help him."

For one earth-stopping moment, Rick was jolted back to an afternoon five years ago. The sequence of events flashed through his mind, leaving him with the raw taste of his remembered fear. He squeezed his eyes shut in a private moment of hell. Dammit, how many times would he have to relive that afternoon? Forcing himself to focus on Bryn, he began squeezing her shoulder. "People do the best they can."

"That's right, Captain Parrish," Liza said. "And that's what I have a mind to do."

Brought back to his senses by Liza's no-nonsense tone, Rick lifted his fingers from Bryn's shoulder. As casually as he could, he stepped back and slid both his hands into his pockets. Everyone experienced tragedy, but that didn't call for a group hug. What was he thinking of, touching her like that? He'd survived the last five years without succumbing to smarmy displays of emotion. "Let's hear it, Liza," he said brusquely.

"I want to have a community fund-raiser to buy a new ambulance for Malabar Key."

"Oh. Why not just put it to a referendum? Next county election is—"

"Too long to wait," said Liza, interrupting with a waving index finger. "I need you to advertise it at your marina. And I'll need Bryn's help too."

"You want me?" Bryn's head came up, her eyes meeting first with Liza's and then with Rick's. Pressing both hands to her midriff, she asked, "But what could I do?"

"That's what everyone says," Liza said, dipping her chin to look over her glasses and smile. "You're a breath of fresh air, and that's enough to start with. But more importantly, you're motivated to help because of what's happened to Pappy." She patted Rick's arm. "How about a little encouragement, Captain?"

"How long are you planning to stay?" he asked. No matter what message his body was sending him, he was not interested in the way she was touching herself. There was simply nothing else to look at.

"I'm not certain." Bryn looked around the room. "It depends on a lot of things."

Keeping his gaze on Bryn, he said, "Well, Liza, she tells me she cares about Malabar Key, but if she's not going to be around long enough to—"

"I'll be around," she said, swiveling her head in his direction.

"Really?" he asked, shifting his weight as he gave her his cockiest smile.

"Really."

Studying her for the first signs of fidgeting, he finally turned his attention to Liza and shrugged. "Then sure, I'll give her my vote."

"I'll be glad to sell tickets and even advertise once the restaurant is opened, but I don't have any experience with planning a fund-raiser. As you both can see, I'm putting together this restaurant and looking after my grandfather's affairs. Then there's my own business I'm keeping tabs on. I don't think I'll have the time for much else."

Liza laughed a self-satisfied laugh. "Everyone is so reluctant to get involved, but once you're working on the planning committee, I know you'll do Pappy proud as you always do. He's told me you've worked with subcontractors and cranky clients. Considering your successful business, it's obvious you have the organizational skills. Coupled with your charm, I don't see any problems."

Pretending to scan the paint job on the wall behind her, Rick wasn't missing a blink in Bryn's worried expression. Was she thinking of a way to stay off the committee or a way to fit it in her schedule?

"Charity committees are different, Liza. I'd be working with nonprofessionals." She shook her head. "I really don't think I ought to get involved."

Smiling at Rick, the older woman wiggled her index finger. "Is this the same young woman who, minutes ago, was shouting something about how much she cared for Malabar Key and its people?"

"Well, yes—" Bryn began, tugging at the strands of hair falling onto her forehead.

"And the same young woman gasping from the image of her grandfather being transported to the hospital in the back of a pickup truck?"

Bryn nodded.

Liza threw up her hands. "Then I know I can count on you to do a great job heading the committee."

"Heading the committee? Oh, Liza, I just can't see how I could handle that along with everything else."

Rick pressed his lips together to suppress the snicker he knew was coming. Watching Bryn trying to politely sidestep the older woman's request was giving him tremendous satisfaction. But it was short-lived and hollow once he realized that he'd sized up Bryn perfectly after all. Although she was concerned about her grandfather, she was like so many other outsiders. She would stick around long enough to stir things up, then she would head on out the moment her restaurant experiment failed. The important issues, like the need for a new ambulance, paled next to her cloth party hats and new paint job. Her shallowness set his teeth on edge. Where was her Mary Sunshine demeanor now?

"Everyone talks about helping, but when it's time to do something," Liza said, her words beginning to echo Rick's opinion of Bryn. "I don't know..." Her voice trailed off in tones of well-practiced, sympathy-provoking despair.

Having exhausted all her reasons for not heading the committee, Bryn slid her gaze toward Rick.

She couldn't figure out what was more upsetting, his smug I-told-you-so smile or her growing guilt about attempting to talk her way out of the committee. Damn him. It was none of Rick Parrish's concern that she was exploring the possibility of moving her business and herself to the Keys. Because of her extended visit, she was learning about the business climate there. A number of places needed design services, and there had to be dozens more she hadn't yet discovered. Since her established clients were scattered across the country, she could base her operation anywhere. And there were other incentives for moving that she couldn't ignore. Truth was, those unfinished issues between her and her grandfather kept tugging at her heart now that she was near him. But Rick Parrish didn't need to know any of that. What he needed was to wipe that supercilious expression from his face. And she wanted to be the one to do it for him. The more she looked at Rick, the more she felt challenged to immediate action.

"Forgive me, Liza. You're right," Bryn said, nodding. "Too many people talk about how they care for their community, but when it comes to the hard work, most aren't there for it. Rick agrees with me. Passionately."

"That's true," he said, staring hard at her. "A person could drown in the rush of soapbox sentiments flooding this place."

"Right again... Captain," Bryn said, wrapping her voice in innocent enthusiasm. While he had been busily restating his opinion of her, she was happily sharpening her own barbed comeback. "Everything you said in the kitchen makes perfect sense. People should get involved more. I'd be honored to head the committee."

Liza's hands went to her hips. "Now, that's simply wonderf—"

"Under one condition," she quickly added.

Liza's sparkling smile of victory dimmed, her eyelids blinking beneath the flipped-up brim of her hat. "And what would that one condition be, dear?"

"I'm going to need a cochairman," she said, clasping her hands behind her. Stepping past both of them, Bryn turned to lean her shoulder against a support column. Pausing for effect, she waited until she had their total, albeit wary attention. "Let's see. It'll have to be someone who knows the people here. Knows how to inspire others. A person who not only says he cares, but who'll be willing to prove it with involvement every step of the way."

"What about that, Liza?" Rick asked, looking decidedly uneasy. "Can you think of anyone?"

Raising her eyebrows, Liza opened her mouth. "Well—"

"Don't bother, Liza," she said, pushing off the column to take a step toward Rick. "I've already thought of someone."

"Really, dear? Who?"

Bryn looked up at Rick, raising her eyebrows slowly. A second later Liza whispered an "Oooooh," followed by her own list of reasons why Rick was the obvious and only choice for the job.

Rick wasn't listening to a word the older woman said. He appeared to be concentrating all his efforts on not wringing Bryn's neck. But Bryn knew by his intrusive gaze that although he'd like to, he wasn't going to fight her on this. How could he after that explosive speech he'd given her minutes ago?

"So you'll do it, Captain Parrish? You'll cochair the committee with Bryn?"

"How could I say no?" he asked, slowly shifting his gaze to Liza.

"Yes. How could you?" Bryn countered, enhancing the sweetness of her tone with a casual shrug. Stepping back, she allowed Rick plenty of space to maneuver around them.

"Ladies," he said, pulling his sunglasses from his pocket and slipping them on. "I'm sure you'll get back to me on this."

"We will," they said together.

Bryn watched him head for the stairs. When he disappeared down them, she continued staring at where he'd been. "What have I gotten myself into, Liza?"

"I assume you're referring more to working with Captain Parrish than to taking charge of the committee."

"That's it exactly," she said, dragging her hand along the bar as she turned to face Liza. "Oh, look, he forgot to take his jacket." Grabbing it off the bar, she said, "I'll run it down to him—" She broke off as Liza, shaking her head, pointed a finger.

"Not just yet, dear."

She joined Liza, looking over the rail to where the older woman was pointing. As if on cue, Rick appeared below them.

Holding his jacket in her arms, Bryn studied the enigmatic man as he made his way through the palm grove toward his marina. If he'd been anyone else, she would have wished that this view of him were her last. But he wasn't like anyone else she'd ever met. He made her defensive about things she'd never felt defensive about before. He made her angry, too, and he also made her wonder how he accomplished those things. The strangest thing of all was that he made her want to get closer to him, to understand why all that passion sizzled inside him and what it would be like to unleash it... with her.

"It's going to be lovely having such an intelligent woman in charge of this committee," Liza said as she left the railing and started across the room toward the stairs.

Bryn wasn't through looking at the broad-shouldered man strolling across the hard-packed sand. He'd shoved both hands into his trouser pockets and picked up his pace, making the material pull snug against his backside. Her face warmed with feminine appreciation. "But, Liza," she said, turning her face and then her eyes to the older woman, "Rick is cochairing this committee with me."

Liza took her broad-brimmed straw hat from her head. Feeding the curved edge through her fingers, she smiled to herself before looking at Bryn. "Like I said, it's going to be lovely having an intelligent woman in charge of the committee." Plopping the hat back on her head, she tipped it sideways before continuing toward the stairs.

"But—" Bryn said, trying to gather her thoughts for a believable protest. That task was impossible with her attention bouncing back and forth between Liza's jaunty steps and Rick's enticing body.

"Don't be in such a hurry to get the jacket back to him. He'll be along for it one of these days. And don't worry about the committee work either. I'll bring the necessary paperwork to your first meeting. Let me know when you want to hold it." Liza kept on walking, finally turning around when she neared the stairs. "I'm on my way over to the hospital. I'll tell Pappy what you've done. He'll be so proud of you. And Bryn?"

"Yes?"

"You're not going to be sorry you took this on."

"It's because of Pappy that I'm—"

"Oh, I understand perfectly, dear. I've been married three times, and I've enjoyed several very fulfilling relationships between and after those marriages." She gave Bryn a slow, soft wink before turning the corner. "Enjoy."

Bryn felt a quirky smile forming. Drawing her fingertips across her lips, she looked back over the rail. There was no use arguing. She'd hardly taken her eyes off Rick since the moment she first saw him. His energy had been flying around her like a bottle rocket, and capturing him for the committee was the most exhilarating thing Bryn had done all day. His vital presence was still affecting her, and to deny that would be lying to herself. Besides, from this distance she was still enjoying her view of him. If Liza got a kick out of that, no one was getting hurt.

For a few seconds she lost sight of him among the dozen or so people milling around the dock. It wasn't as if he'd fallen into the water and drowned, but she couldn't tell that by the way her heart fluttered in her chest, then jumped when she spotted him by the bait shack.

One of his employees was handing him a clipboard. She couldn't hear their conversation, but the way the men were crowding around him and reaching to shake his hand strongly indicated that Rick Parrish fit his title well. "Captain," she whispered to herself. Commanding. Respected. And most intriguing of all, alone among his men. Gripping the rail, she strained to keep him in sight, then scolded herself for the action. Allowing one brief encounter with a man to affect her this way wasn't like her. No, not like her at all, she told herself, hanging over the rail for another indulgent glance. And connecting with a stubborn, self-possessed male was the last thing she needed. Getting involved in a new work project was where her focus should be, not feeding her curiosity about an opinionated man. Still, there was passion beneath the slightly weathered skin of the handsome fishing-boat captain. Hidden passion that was fighting for expression. By his steely reaction to its unbidden display, she knew he worked hard to keep it hidden. As carefully hidden as she kept hers.

But this afternoon, in a glorious explosion of emotion, he'd failed. She was still feeling aftershocks when she pictured the way he'd met her stare. She wanted to laugh off the phenomenon, but not as much as she wanted it repeated. Pushing away from the rail, she stopped before she turned around. Indulging herself in one more sensual tremor wouldn't be the end of the world. She strained her chin in the direction of the marina. To her surprise Rick raised his head and met her eyes. From forty yards away she sensed him daring her to look away first. "After you, Captain Parrish," she whispered. Then someone jostled him and their moment ended, but like a forbidden kiss, it left her wanting more.

* * *

The following morning Rick made his way down the hospital corridor toward Pappy's room. Trying to escape the antiseptic smell, he held his breath and quickened his pace. By the time he reached Pappy's door, his stomach was churning and his mind was filling with images of Angie. Pushing open the door, he threw his energy into a blustery greeting.

"For crissakes, Pappy, I told you something like this was going to happen if you kept chasing the ladies. Which one did it? The blond gift shop owner over on the highway or one of the Fagan twins?"

"About time you got over here," Pappy said, ignoring Rick's questions while keeping the mock gruffness going between them. "I could have died and been desiccated by now."

"Desiccated, Pappy? Has someone been sneaking you the New York Times crossword puzzle again?"

"Yes, someone has," came a familiar voice from behind the privacy curtain. He heard the click of a light switch and then her footsteps. "Hello, Captain Parrish." Bryn brushed by him to settle a vase of red carnations on Pappy's nightstand. While she fluffed the ferns and adjusted the ribbon, he remembered what Liza had said. "Bryn visits in the morning."

He also remembered deciding not to stare at her again. After locking gazes with her across the palm grove yesterday, he came to a few other conclusions too.

Plain and simple, he wanted her stretched across his bed, feathering her fingertips below her breasts, lowering those curly lashes at him and whispering shameless suggestions. But he'd be damned if he'd ever let things go that far. He wasn't looking for a complicated relationship. And she was just the type to make it complicated. Besides, no matter what Bryn Madison said, she would soon be gone from Malabar Key.

"Hello, Bryn." He hooked his thumbs in his waistband and held on tightly when she turned to smile at him. No, it was definitely not safe to look too long at those amber eyes. And looking at the rest of her wasn't safe either. Her blue-and-white-striped top was coming dangerously close to slipping off her shoulder. That sun-kissed shoulder, all rosy and sprinkled with freckles, was making his mouth water. He moved his gaze out of one danger zone and into another. Lord help him for thinking it, but he could forget about those blue bicycle shorts ever slipping off as easily as her top. Those shorts would have to be peeled off with both hands and a groan. He cleared his throat. "Sorry I interrupted your visit." Turning on his heel, he headed for the door. "I'll come back later."

"That's okay," she said, following him. "You stay. I'll go out for a while."

"I insist," he said, reaching for the handle and bumping her hand in the process. Her cool touch sent prickles spiraling up his fingers and over his hand. Taking an extra breath, he pulled in her scent along with it. That cool cream and cinnamony scent. He wanted to breathe it in again. Moving in closer, he reassured himself that the pleasure of her fragrance was nothing more than a welcomed respite from the antiseptic odors.

"No, really. This is your first visit with him since you—"

"What are you two talking about? There are four chairs and an extra bed in this room. Get back here, the both of you," Pappy said.

Laughing, Bryn let go of the handle and walked back to the bed. "I'm told his grouchiness is a sign he's getting better."

Rick studied her relaxed posture and the teasing look she gave Pappy. So this was how she was going to play it. As if her decision to run out of the room were based on politeness and not an attempt to escape him. He looked at her again as she reached for a chocolate on the bedside table. Taking a bite, she sighed loudly and sat down. "I love dark chocolate. Would you like a piece, Rick?"

He'd love a piece all right, but he wasn't thinking about candy. Rolling his eyes, he quietly cursed himself for the roguish thought. She hadn't been trying to escape him. She was relaxed. He was the one with the sweaty palms and lusty thoughts. "No thanks," he said, walking around to the other side of the bed. Taking a chair, he spun it around, pushed it closer to the bed, and straddled it. "So, Pappy, how are they treating you?"

"Terrible. They stapled my bone together, took away my cigars, and stuck me in a room without cable TV. There's nothing to do. And just to torture me," he added, stabbing the air with his finger, "they have me peeing in a bottle."

"They did not staple your bone, Grandfather, they inserted a pin."

"I'm bored out of my skull."

"Really? Your nurses tell me you spend half your day playing poker with the housekeeping staff. They can't get anything done."

Pappy stared at the ceiling and pursed his lips. "Maybe, but it beats being shanghaied onto one of Liza's committees."

"Captain Parrish wasn't shanghaied," Bryn said, scolding her grandfather with a wave of her hand. "He didn't even put up a fuss when I asked him to cochair it with me. Right, Captain?" She nibbled the corner from another piece of candy.

There she goes again, he thought, smiling so sweetly it made his teeth ache. Well, he'd be damned if he'd allow her smile to get to him, especially when she was shining it on Pappy. If she would stop nibbling chocolates with those pearly white teeth and give him more than a passing glance, she would know he was a changed man. A man dedicated to redefining stoicism; Bryn Madison was not going to rattle his chain again.

He waited.

And waited.

She kept her attention on Pappy, feeding him chocolates while bantering with him about pretty nurses and the perils of cheating at poker. Shifting in his chair, Rick shoved his fingers through his hair. Like an uncontrollable current, her laughter moved through him, tangling his serious mood with unasked-for pleasure. Each time she brushed back her hair, or dropped her chin on the backs of her fingers, or brought a piece of chocolate to her mouth, he felt a tug down low in his gut. Dammit, he hadn't come here to watch her lick caramel from her lips. "Pappy, has Bryn been filling you in on her changes at the Crab Shack?"

The old man's eyes brightened. "No, but I'm sure she's doing a bang-up job. She knows all about these things. She's got her own interior design business." He beamed at his granddaughter. "You redid that room of the real estate mogul in New York, didn't you, Brynnie? It was in a magazine."

"I did," she said. "Three times. Remember me telling you about how he and his wife kept changing their minds?" she said, laughing with the memory. "They finally settled on the English garden look because she said she wanted to feel comfortable serving tea cakes and cucumber sandwiches."

Terrific. She'd dealt with people from a different universe. He dropped his chin on his forearms. "This could be worse than I thought," he mumbled to himself.

"Excuse me?" she said, blinking with surprise.

"You know what I'm talking about, Bryn. The people who come to the Crab Shack aren't interested in tea cakes or cucumber sandwiches. And unless they can squirt them from plastic packets, French sauces are out too."

Pushing away from the bed rail, she straightened her back. "Well I'm not a complete idiot when it comes to understanding clientele."

Standing up, he spoke directly to Pappy. "Don't get me wrong. I'm sure whatever she did up North was successful there, but we are talking about Malabar Key. I think you're in danger of losing your shirt over this."

With his eyebrows raised, Pappy's gaze flicked from one visitor to the other.

"Don't listen to him, Grandfather," Bryn said, standing as she patted the old man's arm. "Everything's coming along beautifully."

"You haven't opened yet," Rick reminded her loudly.

Grabbing the bed rail, she leaned over Pappy and matched Rick's volume. "But when I do, the people of Malabar Key are going to love having a well-appointed restaurant."

Rick met her halfway across the bed. "That's your opinion, and unfortunately for Pappy, it happens to be wrong."

"May I remind you that my opinion," she asked, pressing her fingers between her breasts, "happens to be valued by some people?"

"And may I remind you, again, that Pappy hasn't seen the changes yet?"

She was about to respond when the door swung open behind her. A nurse rushed in waving a blood pressure cuff.

"That's quite enough. We can hear you at the nurses' station." She pointed over her shoulder. "Out, you two! Right now."

"Aw, jeez, Ruthie! Don't send them out," Pappy said. "This is getting interesting."

"That's all right, Grandfather," Bryn said, leaning down to drop a kiss on Pappy's brow. "I'll be back once I've explained a few things to Captain Parrish." Without looking in Rick's direction, she breezed out of the room.

"Sorry, Pappy." Rick swore under his breath as he headed around the bed for the door. Yanking it open, he went out after her into the hall. She wasn't there.

He found her standing a few yards away in the middle of a pale blue alcove, her hands primly folded near the juncture of her thighs and her eyes fixed straight ahead. Except for that exposed shoulder, she was a living shrine to dignity. Unfortunately, he wasn't in the mood for a religious experience.

Several charged seconds ticked by as he tried to keep his eyes off her temptingly displayed flesh. The graceful angularity of her shoulder was hard to ignore. The more he stared, the more it seemed to beg for his touch. Clearing his throat, he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Think we raised his blood pressure?"

"Probably, since mine is about to go through the roof," she said, staring at the fire extinguisher hanging on the opposite wall.

The silence returned, broken by an occasional ringing telephone and soft, distant laughter. He rubbed the back of his neck and wondered if he should sit down and be quiet. He started for a chair, then stopped beside her. The hell he'd be quiet. He would give her one last chance, and if she didn't want to listen, he would can the effort to communicate with her. Permanently.

Forcing his voice low, he turned to her. "Look, Bryn, I still think I'm on track about the new restaurant. Even if you won't face facts, Pappy has the right to hear another opinion."

Crossing her arms in front of her, she tapped her shiny red fingernails against her forearms before turning her wide-eyed gaze in his direction. She studied him as she licked the corner of her mouth thoughtfully. "You are right about one thing."

Yesss! Triumph at last. She'd come to her senses; there was justice in the world. Well, whatever it was that she was about to tell him, he would accept it stoically. He lowered his chin, hoping she'd interpret the gesture as an invitation to begin. While he waited, he fought back the urge to gather her into his arms and track down the source of her scent. In the morning, after her shower, where did she dab it? He pictured himself starting the search at the high hollow of her shoulder, then nuzzling her all the way to that place between her breasts... and maybe lower. As if she'd read his thoughts, Bryn's lips parted with a tiny gasp. Share with me, Bryn. What are you thinking while I'm making love to you in my mind? She was tilting her face up to meet his. The closer he came, the sweeter her lips looked. At the moment Rick sensed their tickling touch, a jolting voice called out to them from down the hall.

"If you two can control yourselves, you can go back into him. One at a time."

He pulled up first. "Go on in. I'll come back later," he said, as reality crashed between them. She started away from him, but he reached out to stop her. "Before you go, I'm still curious."

"About what?" she asked, looking slightly shaken by what had almost happened.

"What is that one thing you think I'm right about?"

She hesitated, then pressed her fingertips against the front of his shirt and looked up at him through her thick lashes. For one pulse of a moment he thought she was going to kiss him. Really kiss him. His hands itched to hold her close and help her make it a long, wet one.

But he wanted more than a kiss. He wanted to bury himself in the tantalizing puzzle she was to him.

"Oh, yes," she whispered as if she'd just remembered. "You were right when you said that whatever he does with his restaurant is none of your business." Stepping away from him, she adjusted her striped top, then started back down the hall toward Pappy's room.

Watching her go with her little victory riding high on her shoulders, he couldn't help but smile. She'd pulled out of the charged moment neatly, earning the right to strut. This time. Nodding, he allowed himself to enjoy her deliciously sexy gait while he thought about the coming weeks.

In winning this skirmish, she had also gifted him with a challenge, and he never backed down from a challenge. Especially when it involved Pappy's Crab Shack, and in a larger sense the preservation of Malabar Key. But with her unique blend of feminine subtleties and fiery passion, he wondered how he was going to go about fighting for his own preservation.

### Chapter 3

"What are you waiting for, dear?"

Before Bryn could answer, Liza continued speaking, her voice as urgent over the telephone as it was in person.

With the receiver tucked snugly between her shoulder and ear, Bryn packed the last box lunch into the carton, then sank into Rick's old pine captain's chair next to the wall phone. There was something oddly comforting about the worn armrests and the firm curve supporting her back. She'd assured herself that Rick's use of it the other day had nothing to do with why she'd chosen to drag this particular chair into Chez Madison's kitchen. Entwining the coiled phone cord through her fingers, she smoothed a tight fist along the hem of her running shorts when thoughts of Rick and that almost kiss slipped unbidden into her thoughts.

"Bryn dear, are you there?"

"Yes. Sorry. What were you—" she began, then broke off when she heard Liza's strangled sigh.

"We don't have a lot of time to waste, you know. Jacaranda Key is planning a water festival for next month. Islamorada and Conch Key have already started advertising for their fishing tournaments. We must lock in a date for our fund-raising activity. I'll contact your volunteers and tell them to be at the restaurant tonight."

Bryn had given a wide berth to Liza's zealous style, but tonight simply wasn't a good night to have the meeting. Furniture samples were being delivered to Chez Madison today. Before they arrived, she had her grandfather to visit and at least four calls to make concerning her design business. Once Jiggy picked up the box lunches and her morning jog was out of the way, she was going to be busy well into the night. "Liza, it's a mess over here."

"No one's going to care. All your committee people require are a few snacks and a place to eat them. By the way, Captain Parrish loves key lime pie, so keep that in mind when you're preparing the food. And since you're right next to his marina, I'll let you tell Captain Parrish to be there at eight-thirty. I'll take care of notifying the rest of the committee, and I'll drop off the folders to you later today too."

While Liza chattered on, Bryn looked across the kitchen where Rick's blazer was hanging. The navy blue linen blend was beginning to look as if it belonged in the kitchen. Even though she knew the act was a silly tactile indulgence, she caught herself touching the buttons and patting the pockets several times a day. If you'd, kissed me, Rick Parrish, I wouldn't still be wondering, waiting, wanting.... If he'd kissed her, maybe she wouldn't have this overwhelming desire to keep touching his jacket. All the errant, erotic thoughts she'd been having would most likely disappear with a real flesh-on-flesh experience. She felt her mouth squinching into a self-deprecating frown. How could she have spent the last few days letting her imagination build an almost kiss into the erotic event of her life? He was probably a lousy kisser anyway. She rubbed her thumbnail back and forth across her lips. Probably a brusque kisser, hard and tight-lipped and unsatisfying. Staring at his jacket, she started to think how she could remedy the problem when Liza's voice startled her.

"Bryn, are you still there?"

"Yes," she said, getting to her feet and turning away from the jacket. Fool, she thought to herself, let Rick Parrish remedy his own kissing problems. If he has any. "I'm still here."

"Bryn?" Liza's voice was strangely soft.

"What is it?"

"Contacting Captain Parrish about the meeting isn't bothering you, is it?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I have an instinct for these things." Before Bryn could ask what "these things" were, Liza continued. "Maybe I'm out of bounds on this, but I think you ought to know how Captain Parrish's marriage ended."

"Liza, wait." A sudden and overwhelming impulse told her not to listen. Staring at her white-knuckled hands squeezing the phone, she willed herself to relax her grip. "I-I think Rick should be the one to tell me about his past." She rolled her eyes. Why, oh, why had she responded that way? When was Rick Parrish ever going to be close enough to her to tell her anything about himself, especially about a divorce? "I mean, I like to stay clear of anything resembling gossip." Great! Now she sounded like a snob.

"It's not gossip, Bryn. But you're probably right. Maybe Rick ought to tell you about it himself."

Grateful that Liza's tone was reflective, and not hurt, she said, "Yes, well, I'll go over now and talk to him." She quickly added, "About the committee meeting, I mean."

"Of course, dear."

* * *

Rick was talking quietly into his cell phone and didn't notice her when she walked into the marina office. Dressed in her running clothes, she stood inside the door with his jacket folded over one arm and the carton of lunches resting on her hip. Setting the carton on a display cabinet inside the door, she caught the jacket as it began slipping from her arm. Stroking it one last time, she was alarmed to realize that she was going to miss it hanging on the kitchen door. Running her fingers over the raised anchors on the brass buttons, she checked to make sure Rick wasn't looking at her before she sniffed the collar. How had a simple navy blue blazer become an object of fetish? Her search for the answer was interrupted by Rick's voice.

"I know we should have talked about it before this," he was saying, his upward gaze dropping in defeat, then wandering across the room to Bryn. Holding her gaze boldly with his own, he kept on talking into the phone, "I have to go. Sure, I'll remember. We'll talk later."

As he closed and pocketed the phone, Bryn felt her moxie waning. Feminine instinct struggled against common sense. Was his conversation about an upcoming fishing charter or a date? And why should it matter? While she'd been mooning over him for days, he had been avoiding her.

"Good morning," he said, before pointing to her red running clothes. "Challenging me to a race this morning?"

"Hello. What?" Looking down at her clothes, she said, "No," before brushing back her hair. A bouncy lock dipped across her brow again, but this time she pretended to ignore it. What had possessed her to give up hair spray and extra-body styling gel since she'd been down here? "I didn't mean to disturb your phone call."

"You didn't. I was through," he said, picking up a pencil and writing on a clipboard. He looked up at her long enough to register the point with a smile. Turning back to the clipboard, he erased what he'd written, then wrote again.

So it wasn't a lover he'd been talking with. Her shoulders relaxed along with her tightly clamped jaw. The call must have been about a charter, because he continued to write down numbers in little squares and make check marks in several columns. Standing by the display of potato chips and cheese curls, she had a nearly overwhelming urge to tear open the cellophane and toss them into the air like confetti.

"So, what's up?" he asked, hanging the clipboard on a wall hook and sliding the pencil onto the counter beside the cash register.

"Jiggy doesn't have to pick up the lunches. I brought them myself," she said, indicating the carton on the display cabinet. "Two roast beefs, three chicken salads, and one peanut butter and jelly. I put in extra pickles and pasta salad. And French apple pie. I didn't have any key lime." Why was she reciting the menu? He hadn't asked.

"Jiggy's coming by to see you later. He's bringing Miss Scarlett back to Pappy's." Rick shook his head, fighting back a laugh as he rolled his tongue inside his cheek.

"What's wrong?"

"Jiggy's love life. Seems the parrot starts spouting scripture at the worst possible moment, and by the time he quiets the bird..."

"I see," she said, exaggerating her nod. If anyone but Rick had told her, she would have been laughing out loud, but instead all she felt was a stinging rush of blood to her face. Why did she let him get to her like this? she wondered angrily. Swallowing, she took a step forward and began again. "You forgot your jacket."

He was pouring himself a cup of coffee. "I thought I might have left it at Pappy's," he said, twisting to look at her while he squeezed honey onto a spoon. "Would you like a cup?"

"No, thank you." Why hadn't he come by for the jacket if he thought he left it there? Why hadn't he at least called about it? Why hadn't he...? The silent questions building in her head suddenly exploded. "Why haven't you answered the messages I left on your phone?" she demanded. He hadn't been answering her phone calls for a full five days, but that was no reason to blurt it out like a recalcitrant teenager.

The air conditioner started in with a warning rattle and then a blast of frigid air.

"Sorry about that," he said evenly. "I've had a lot of unfinished business to deal with since I got back from my trip."

Giving his coffee one last stir, he clinked the spoon against the edge of the mug before lifting it to his mouth. He did a thorough job of licking the residue of honey from the inside curve of the spoon and then the outside curve. The action was an everyday one, ordinary and commonplace, but when Rick performed it, it vibrated with erotic overtones. Suddenly she was picturing him sliding his tongue over parts of her. Her eyes began closing.

"You're right," he said as he dropped the spoon onto the tray with a loud clatter. "I should have called you back before now. I apologize."

She searched his guileless expression, trying to find a sign that he knew what he'd been doing to her, but her gaze kept coming back to the shine on his lips. She could almost smell the warm honey and, if she moved closer, taste it. She wondered what he'd do if she ran her tongue over his lips. Encourage further exploration? Images of their naked bodies tangled together filled her mind until she had to pull in a long and calming lungful of air. Why was she allowing these images to continue? Eroticism had been a much-heralded but ultimately disappointing undertaking for her. Still, she couldn't seem to stop thinking about what being with him would be like. Attempting to banish the confusing thoughts and the accompanying tension they produced, she tilted her head to a comical angle. "Yes, you should have called me... but I have you here now."

"Yes, you do," he said, reaching back with his hands and lifting himself onto the counter. "Up against the wall, as a matter of fact." Picking up his mug, he examined its sailfish decal before rubbing his knuckles over it. Before she could yell "Stop!" he was licking drops of honey from his fingers. "Hot," he murmured before looking up at her. "So what are you going to do with me?"

She'd stared a moment too long at his fingers. His incredibly sexy, wet fingers. Down went her guard in a rush of delicious confusion. What was he saying?

Hot?

Wet?

Up against the wall?

What was she going to do with him?

Streaming heat pooled in forgotten places inside her. Her lips felt full and tingling. For one lost second she felt like doing something very foolish. Very sexy. Very unlike herself. Finding herself in a free fall through her wildest fantasies, she struggled against them. He kept on smiling. Kept on staring. Kept on melting her resolve to pull out of this vortex of sensuality. And he was winning. Her hand drifted across her midriff before languidly moving to her arm. "Our first committee meeting is tonight...." She traced a long line down her arm, paused at her wrist, then dragged her fingertips up to her elbow. Perhaps it was the way his stare locked onto her movements, but her voice was beginning to sound low and sultry even to herself.

"Tonight," he repeated, his voice dropping into a whisper suggestive of murmured endearments and soft kisses.

Somewhere in all of this pseudo-foreplay she had to pull out and land on her feet. And soon. But not too soon. She took an extra breath before sending him the beginning of an invitation with a tiny lick of her lips. Holding his jacket against her hip, she moved forward and placed one hand on the counter. "They're all coming to Chez Madison at eight-thirty, but if you wanted to—"

"Tonight?" The teasing maze of moves he'd been guiding her through went straight out the window with his bitten-off curse and shifting gaze. "I have something on my schedule for tonight."

Don't stop this, she wanted to tell him. Don't stop this fresh energy tickling at my heart. I like it. I like the way it feels. Please don't do this because I called it Chez Madison instead of Pappy's Crab Shack. Please don't make me say anything reckless. Blood was pounding in her ears from sheer embarrassment, but that didn't keep her from whispering, "I need you there, Rick. Couldn't you ask someone else to help you out?"

With an almost apologetic tone, he shook his head. "I can't get out of this, Bryn. Look, if I can make it later, I'll come by. Or maybe you could reschedule."

Reschedule? Instead of a lovers' rendezvous, he made it sound like a business meeting. Her heart skipped a beat and she almost groaned out loud; it was a business meeting. Her hand dropped to her side as the sensual fog burned away, leaving her in a room filled with fishing tackle, sunscreen, and brightly colored hats that read Fish or Cut Bait.

"Maybe you could reschedule," she said smartly, brushing her hair from her brow. She waited in silence until she felt her ears smarting with his answer.

"I can't."

Lifting her hand from the glass counter top, she straightened her spine. "The meeting's at eight-thirty," she said, clinging to the cool professionalism she willed to return to her voice. She headed for the door, but before her hand closed around the doorknob, more words welled up from a raw spot inside her. She could barely contain the hot anger she felt. "I'm busy too. I'm trying to run my business by phone from down here. I'm up to my neck in renovations at the restaurant. And my grandfather needs me." Twisting the knob, she fumbled twice before yanking open the door. "I don't have time to chase down the rest of the committee to reschedule this for your convenience, Captain Parrish."

She didn't mean to rattle the glass panes in the door when she pulled it shut, but when she returned a second later to place the jacket on his counter, she didn't apologize. If she did that, he might turn his face from the window and see the stinging tears in her eyes. Then he'd ask why they were there, and she wasn't sure she knew the answer.

* * *

He hadn't lied to Bryn; he couldn't get out of his plans. He'd put them off too long as it was. Facing Sharon Burke and telling her their arrangement had to end wasn't going to be easy. For the next hour he busied himself with paperwork while he waited for his customers. Several times he stopped, pencil poised in midair, while he tried to think of a way to let Sharon down easily. Thumbing through one of his astronomy magazines hadn't helped either. In the end he decided to rely on the one thing Sharon always insisted on. Honesty.

Picking up Bryn's carton of lunches, he walked out to the Coral Kiss. Below deck, he lifted out the first box to place in the cooler. She'd wrapped each one in banana-yellow ribbon with a hand-lettered card attached. He tipped the card to read it. Chez Madison—distinctive cuisine in the heart of the Keys. Shaking his head, he laughed softly. If he didn't admire her goal, he had to admire her perseverance. After storing the food, he went topside hoping to catch a glimpse of her upstairs at Pappy's in the open-air room. He never got the chance to look for her, because his group charter was climbing out of their van in the parking lot. As they gathered their gear he jumped down onto the dock and directed them inside the office to sign several forms. While he waited, he found himself thinking about the woman he would see tonight. Maybe with him out of her life, she could start thinking about a plan for the rest of it. About goals. And about finding the courage to move on.

Sharon Burke was a good person, and after her husband died, a lonely one like himself. There were plenty of men lined up to impress the lovely widow, but as she told him, no one understood that she wasn't looking for another husband. Just a decent man to talk to, a man who didn't demand her constant attention when she simply wasn't ready to give it.

At first, talking was all they'd both wanted. All they needed. Their no-strings relationship hadn't slipped mindlessly into a sexual one. They'd rationalized that move two years ago. When the need to find comfort and release grew strong enough, one of them would make a phone call to the other. Since she had been the last one to call over two months ago, he knew it was his turn. Maybe it was because of his visit to Angie's parents, but he kept putting off calling Sharon. Like a habit, his relationship with Sharon demanded little attention, required minimum imagination, and offered no challenge. His life had drifted on. Then Bryn with her peekaboo clothes, disturbing ways, and determined attitude blew into his life like an unpredicted hurricane. No matter how hard he tried to discount his attraction to Pappy's granddaughter, he'd known from the moment he'd met Bryn that it was time to end his relationship with Sharon.

As he directed his customers aboard the Coral Kiss, he felt a sense of relief along with impatience to get the day over with, and to get on with his plans for tonight. Glancing out at the open water beyond the marina, he repositioned his ball cap and asked loudly, "Anyone here fish these waters before?" Through a chorus of noes, Rick came back with, "Aw, hell, neither have I." Everyone laughed, and as they motored out of the slip, he had the feeling that his attempt at humor had more to do with relaxing himself than his customers.

* * *

The rest of the day Bryn worked on turning Pappy's Crab Shack into Chez Madison. As she watched the sample furniture being carried upstairs, she realized a moment of sweet triumph. Rick was going to hate the pastel upholstery and the delicate flowers carved into the light wood. Positioning the chairs around the tables, she told herself it would serve him right to cringe every time he passed by Chez Madison. He'd had no right or reason to treat her so shabbily. The dark justice was she could no longer fool herself into thinking he was interested in her. No more wasted time for her. Now she could give her attention to important matters.

To her chagrin she began wondering if Rick would change his mind and assign the night charter to someone else. That possibility niggled at her mind all morning and afternoon. Later she went to Pappy's house to shower and change, and on her way back detoured three miles off Malabar Key to buy a key lime pie. She ended up buying the last two at the bakery. Halfway back to Malabar Key she glanced at the pie boxes, screamed in the privacy of her car, and pounded her fists on the steering wheel in frustration. She couldn't deny the evidence on the seat next to her; she couldn't stop thinking about him showing up at the meeting.

At eight-ten she thought she saw the Coral Kiss inside the horizon.

At eight-fifteen she put away the binoculars and requested his presence with a bargaining prayer. The committee, including Jiggy and the parrot, arrived instead. They all insisted on waiting for Captain Parrish.

That was twenty minutes ago. Twenty endless minutes filled with Jiggy's noisy eating, May Leigh's high-pitched laughter, Hazel Miller's endless gossip, and Rita Small's card tricks. There was nothing remotely professional about the group, unless no one had bothered to tell her they were actors auditioning for a television sitcom. Her thoughts kept returning to Rick.

Are you having fun out there with some pretty woman who can't bait a hook, but laughs at your jokes? And why haven't you told me any jokes?

Pressing her fingertips against her brow, Bryn scolded herself for thoughts befitting a jealous lover.

She wasn't the jealous type. And she wasn't Rick's lover. He wasn't interested anyway. She looked to a point beyond the freshly painted north rail. Beneath a big yellow moon, the inky ocean shimmered with spangles of gold light, intermittently broken by the dark clumps of tiny islands. The rustling palms framing the scene blocked her view of the channel and the twangy country and western music on the radio made it difficult to hear a boat's motor—if one happened to be trolling by.

Just how much fun are you having out there on this beautiful balmy evening, Captain? And when do I get invited out on the Coral Kiss?

Pointedly ignoring the nuzzling couple seated on the floor, she adjusted the mandarin collar of her blouse then smoothed the legs of her capris. Thumbing through the ambulance brochures, she tried to interest herself in comparing the different models. This was one heck of a beginning to her first fund-raising committee meeting. From the cage on the bar, Miss Scarlett echoed Bryn's sentiments with a barrage of gravelly squawks. The unexpected noise had Bryn clutching for her heart. Enough was enough.

"I believe we've given Captain Parrish more than enough time. Let's get started," she said, reaching for the stack of folders Liza had brought by earlier.

"We ought to wait for Captain Parrish before we do anything," Hazel said, running her hand along the carved armrest of the new chair.

"Yeah. What's the rush?" Jiggy Latham asked before May Leigh scooped up the maximum amount of salsa a tortilla chip could hold and shoved the whole thing into Jiggy's mouth. Rick's lanky employee hummed with pleasure at his current love before continuing. "We'll just have to start over when he gets here."

"If he gets here," Bryn said, then instantly regretted it. Four sets of eyes flicked their attention in her direction.

Rita Small, the owner of the Nauti-Us Swimsuit Boutique, pushed her idea list aside to flip over the playing cards in front of her. Leveling a squinty gaze across the table at Bryn, she said, "The truth, sugar pie. You and Liza weren't telling a white lie about Captain Rick being a part of this fund-raiser just to get us to join, were you?"

All four committee members leaned toward Bryn. She gave them a pulse of a smile. Friendly but professional. "Of course he's cochairing with me." Doubt prevailed in each stare directed her way. She sighed with frustration. "If you don't believe me, ask Liza." That appeared to work. They were easing back from her, mumbling contentedly.

Sorting through the folders, Bryn handed the first one to Hazel. Hazel opened it, blinked at the lists inside, then closed it. "I miss Pappy's. Don't you, Jiggy?"

Jiggy Latham's face was suddenly wistful as he stopped testing the edges of his new tattoo and looked at the wall where the mermaid mural used to be. "Yeah. We had the best times at Pappy's. Remember when the Captain bought the Coral Kiss and we went down to christen her?" Laughter rippled through the room, encouraging Jiggy to continue. "And the time Bill Harper dragged that ten-foot sailfish up the steps, plunked it on Captain Parrish's table over there, and insisted he buy it a beer?"

"I'd call that one sushi grande," May Leigh managed before collapsing in giggles across Jiggy's lap.

As laughter swelled again, Bryn couldn't deny the funky charm of Jiggy's stories. She pursed her lips to keep back a smile, then gave in to a chuckle. The rest of the group stopped laughing and looked at her. In the unnatural silence that followed, Jiggy cleared his throat.

"Can't see that happening in a place like this," he said, glancing away from the pastel plaid upholstery and over to the French impressionistic paintings leaning against the newly mirrored inner wall. "What time did Captain Parrish say he'd be here?"

"I thought you said that charter was getting back about eight or eight-thirty," Bryn said while attempting to banish the slightly guilty tone in her voice. These people could have a good time at Chez Madison too. Just a different kind of good time.

"That's right, but Captain Parrish wasn't on for that charter."

"I—I didn't know that," she said, flabbergasted by that bit of news. Where was Rick if he wasn't fishing? She made a valiant attempt to push back a tidal wave of panic. "Well, we shouldn't put off starting any longer. Wouldn't you and May Leigh like to join the rest of us up here at the table?"

"We're fine down here," he said, planting a kiss on May Leigh's head. Jiggy and Bryn each reached for the plastic pitcher of iced tea at the same time. The pitcher slipped from their struggling hands, crashing to the floor, spilling tea everywhere. In the end May Leigh's bangs were liberally splashed, and the front of Jiggy's T-shirt was lightly sprinkled, but Bryn got the worst of it. Scrambling to her feet, May Leigh took off for the ladies' room, shrieking at Jiggy in a mixture of Japanese and Spanish. Alternately swearing and apologizing in highly understandable English, Jiggy was right behind her.

Bolting out of her chair, Bryn grabbed a stack of napkins from the dessert tray and dropped to her knees to begin sopping up the spill. Although the floors had been sanded, a finishing coat of polyurethane had yet to be applied.

"For pity's sake, Jiggy, that's a fine how-do-you-do," Rita called out after him. "What'll we serve Captain Rick when he gets here?"

Bryn did her best to keep the steam from shooting out of her ears. Who cared if "Captain Rick" had anything to drink? She dropped a slice of lemon onto a soggy napkin. "Captain Rick" wasn't here. Brushing up another two slices, she set them beside the first. "Captain Rick" wasn't going to be here. Chasing ice cubes around the hardwood floor, she reminded herself that she didn't want to think where he could be.

"Bryn, sugar pie, do you have any chilly-cold beer in your Frigidaire?" Rita asked as she pushed back her chair and stood.

"Chilly-cold beer?" Bryn repeated, wondering if it was a brand name she'd never heard of. "It's possible I have some in the back of it."

Jiggy trailed back into the room after May Leigh. The almond-eyed woman nodded toward Bryn. "Cool. Captain Rick loves chilly-cold beer. I'll get it."

"Don't bother, May Leigh. I doubt if the Captain's going to make it here tonight. He never said for sure—"

A chorus of mutinous groans filled the room. "Well, he didn't say he wasn't coming either," she added, her hands planted flat on the floor a few inches in front of her knees.

"I said I'd come later if I could."

Four heads turned toward the familiar masculine voice. At the sound of his voice Bryn's hands stopped moving, her heart started pounding, and her body shook with every emotion she could name and a few she couldn't. Excitement over his rich baritone voice. Relief that he'd finally shown up. Thankfulness that he'd made it at all. Pure annoyance that he'd gotten himself there this late! Being held hostage to another person's schedule always irritated her, but when Rick did it, she considered it a terrorist tactic. And did he have to sneak up on her like a one-man SWAT team?

She knew the moment Rick appeared from behind the ornate screen by the stairs. The ripple of excitement in the room was almost palpable. She waited until the rest of the group finished their hero-worshipping hellos. "Good evening, Captain Parrish," she said, tossing another wet napkin onto a growing pile. Once she was sure she'd gotten control of her traitorous physical reactions, her breathy voice turned smooth. "We were just about to start... without you." Her hand carefully closed over the wet pile of used napkins as his polished shoes appeared in front of her. She took a cautious glance up his body. From his neatly combed sun-streaked hair, to his bronze-toned skin and sky blue eyes, he looked Esquire perfect.

"Start what?" he asked, lowering himself to his haunches to set the empty pitcher upright. He pulled a handkerchief from inside his jacket and dabbed her chin. "A food fight?"

###

If you enjoyed this excerpt from **A Woman to Blame**

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Glory Girl

Susan Connell

### Chapter 1

"My daddy's got your poster."

Holly Hamilton's fingers stiffened in the sand. Only one thing mattered. Anonymity. And she'd just lost it.

In a singsong voice the little girl with the glob of zinc oxide on her nose who had materialized beside Holly's beach towel continued, "And you still don't got your panties on." No matter how intensely Holly shushed the pigtailed child, high-pitched giggling accompanied by a great deal of jumping up and down continued.

Holly tugged at her swimsuit, then pushed herself up into a sitting position. Heads were already turning in their direction as she pulled the brim of her straw hat to her nose. "Does your mother know where you are?" she whispered through clenched teeth.

Oblivious to Holly's question, the child continued loudly, "I'm gonna tell my daddy. I am. And my Uncle Scotty. He's got your poster too. The gold one."

Holly began struggling into her caftan, determined to put a quick end to her afternoon on the beach. She'd specifically chosen the isolated and normally less crowded Dune Island Beach over one closer to her cottage. She'd been so careful, so discreet... so stupid to venture out. Holly jerked the hood over her head and readjusted her sunglasses and hat just as the child's mother arrived.

"Nina! Here you are. You scared me half to death."

The mother grabbed the child by the elbow and began leading her away. "Haven't I told you never to talk to strangers?"

"But Mommy, it's the naked lady," the child protested.

Holly quickly scanned the beach to see who might have overheard. The good-looking man she'd been peeking at shifted lower in his beach chair. Maybe he hadn't heard. Maybe that smile underneath his sunglasses had nothing to do with him recognizing her. She took a shallow breath and held it. Several prickling seconds later she released it. "Maybe" wasn't good enough.

ESCAPE blinked in Holly's mind's eye like a throbbing neon sign. When would this all end? It had been over a year since she'd left modeling. Over a year since she'd finally decided what she really wanted to do with her life. And now celebrity had reared its unwelcome head again! Shoving the rest of her possessions into her tote, she looked toward the path leading back to the changing pavilion. Three college-age young men singing the Morning Glory Soap jingle were heading straight toward her. My God, she thought, they're coming at me from all directions.

"I'm telling you, Dougie. Older women. Take the Glory Girl..." one of the young men began.

Momentary silence. Then, in unison, the three young men yowled lustily.

Holly froze at the mention of the Glory Girl. Things couldn't get any worse... unless the handsome stranger had heard, confirming his possible suspicions about who was hiding behind the dark glasses and hat. She chanced a look in his direction. He hadn't moved one muscle of his gorgeous body, but the college trio was moving closer and getting louder. She cringed at the next remark.

"Tush. Pure and simple. Ah, what a piece! So round. So smooth and tight. So squeezable."

"Nah. It's that surprised look in her eyes. They say her husband took the photo without her permission, and since their divorce he's been making a fortune from the posters. The concept is really retro. Like pure 70's stuff. Right Sean?

"Right. Right. Not skanky. Classy.

"The man's a genius, I mean, putting it out in three colors. Which one did you get, Ryan?

Ryan threw open his arms. "One? Out of respect for our school colors I have the red one and the blue one.

Hearing their every word, Holly's hands tightened along the edge of her hat brim. Stuart Hamilton, ex-husband and rat, was going to pay for all this humiliation. But first she had to escape from Dune Island State Park and make it back to the Cape Shell beach house. Then she had to call her lawyer to find out if capital punishment was yet in effect in New York. Maybe murdering Stu wasn't such a crazy idea after all. Grabbing her tote and her towel, she made a dash for the path.

* * *

Evan Jamieson dropped his head back against his chair with an exasperated sigh. "Gone," he whispered to a perplexed-looking sea gull strutting nearby.

Probably the best body he'd ever seen had just left, and he'd never even gotten a good look at her face. In a flurry of turquoise, she'd hightailed it off the beach like a whirling dervish, her hand firmly planted on top of that damn hat! Because of it and those sunglasses he could only imagine her face.

He'd been keeping an eye—correction, both eyes—on that one-piece orange suit. Lying there at his feet... well, ten yards away anyway, playing peekaboo with him. The scenario had a vaguely familiar feel to it. Had they played this game together somewhere in his fantasies? He squirmed in his chair as he pictured her reaching to adjust the hat. A fragment of memory teased at his consciousness. Where had he seen her before? Her suit, already cut to the hip bones, rode higher still, revealing creamy white flesh above her tan line. The orange suit, the light tan on her legs, and the cream-white line at her hip... He thought of a good old-fashioned Creamsicle, and his mouth began to water. He looked past the college kids already spreading out to take her place and toward the path leading to the pavilion and the parking lot.

Evan drummed his fingers against the arms of his chair. Here he was, thinking about Creamsicles, while she was getting away. He did need a vacation! He stood up, startling the sea gull into flight as he collapsed his beach chair and threw his shirt onto his shoulder. Sprinting toward the pavilion, he remembered the words of his FAA physician, the words that convinced him to use the beach house for the month of August.

"Rest, exercise, unwind a little. Have some fun, Ev. You're in great shape. Let's keep it that way." With the sand gritting beneath his feet, Evan Jamieson agreed with gusto. "Roger that, Doc." Now, if he could catch up with her...

* * *

Leaning against the stall in the bathroom, Holly dug through the contents of her tote again. Her keys weren't there. She swore under her breath at her carelessness. Somewhere between the beach and the pavilion she'd lost the car keys, and she couldn't risk returning to the beach area to search for them. Not with old Dougie and his friends out there drooling over the Glory Girl.

She looked down at the thin sandals she'd dumped on the floor, slipped her feet into them, and sighed with resignation. She wasn't looking forward to a seven-mile walk back to Cape Shell, but there was no other alternative. Calling a service station would lead to bullet-speed publicity. Calling the local cab company would probably take forever. The one person in Cape Shell who knew her situation and could help her would be up to her elbows in Italian dressing and imported salami right about now. Annie's Deli must be in high gear with the late-afternoon crowd, and would be for quite some time.

Holly opened the stall door a crack and looked out. She couldn't stay in here forever. Knowing she'd have to forgo the cold drinks at the crowded refreshment stand, she stealthily made her way toward the bank of water fountains. The water turned out to be low pressure and lukewarm, but she gulped it down. It was going to be a long walk back.

"A bad day at the beach is better than a good day at work," someone had once told her. Well, she'd had quite a day at the beach so far. She'd managed to delight one very loud child, send three young males into rut, and humiliate herself in front of him. And now she was preparing to walk seven hot, dusty miles in the thinnest sandals she owned. She began lifting her head from the fountain, ready to laugh at the absurdity of her situation. Halfway up she heard someone humming the Morning Glory Soap jingle. She stopped suddenly, not daring to lift her head a fraction of an inch more. One of the young men from the beach—Dougie—had entered the pavilion.

Without hesitating, Holly turned from the sound and ran smack into a very broad, very masculine set of pectorals. A beach chair, the tote bag, and Holly's sunglasses clattered to the cement floor. Quickly followed by an ice-cream bar still in its wrapper.

Glancing nervously over her shoulder, Holly knelt down and fished her glasses from the pile. She pushed them on. "I apologize, I really do," she whispered to the pair of feet before her. Darting glances over her shoulder, she managed to pick up the dropped items and shove them into a large pair of hands. This day at the beach was turning into a nightmare. She reached for the ice-cream bar, noting almost unconsciously that it was a Creamsicle.

"Excuse me? Are you okay?" The voice was deep and steady, sending a slight shock wave of feminine awareness through her. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"What? No, no, of course not." Holly tugged at her hat brim, bringing it close to one cheek. "Here." She dropped the paper-wrapped ice cream into his hand and froze. It couldn't be. Not the stranger across the beach with the shoulders to kill for and a smile that... She let go of her hat brim and stared up at him.

"I thought I recognized you from—" he began as she stood.

"No," she began firmly before he could say it. "I'm not who you think I am. You're wrong." And, as an afterthought, "I'm sorry."

She scurried past the refreshment stand, then out through the closest exit before realizing she was exiting south and away from Cape Shell. With sand hitting the backs of her legs, she hurried along the south wall. Someone was following her. Breaking into a run, she rounded the corner of the cinder-block structure and skidded on macadam. A steadying hand closed around her wrist, saving her from a fall.

"Excuse me?"

There it was again. That voice that sent shivers to the pit of her stomach. Holly's shoulders sagged. Please God, don't let him be a reporter, she prayed. She turned warily around to face him. "Yes?"

He handed her the tote she had tossed into his hands moments before. "Thanks anyway, but I really think you want this back."

"My bag!" She took it with both hands and clutched it to her chest. Her address book, her cell phone, her credit cards, her driver's license... her name. "Thank you."

"By the way, you're getting quite a sunburn on that nose, and I do recognize you from the beach today." He tore the bottom out of the ice-cream wrapper. "If I'm not mistaken," he said, knowing full well he wasn't, "there's an orange bathing suit underneath your, uh..." He pointed with the dripping ice cream.

Before Holly could say "caftan," he'd pulled the ice cream from its wrapper and bit off a good-size chunk. She watched his cheeks hollow in and his lips purse as he sucked on the mouthful. She wasn't sure how he managed it, but he looked damn sexy eating a dripping Creamsicle.

"That was me on the beach," she mumbled as he took another huge bite. He didn't act like any reporter she'd ever met. Reporters tended to hold microphones, not ice cream, and their shouted questions came swiftly and with barbs.

The stranger's lips remained brazenly pursed for the longest time. He nodded finally, then walked past her. Was it possible? she wondered, turning to watch him. Hadn't he recognized the Glory Girl?

A short distance away he was busy opening the trunk of his Mercedes. Tossing in his beach chair, he pulled out a pair of brown leather boating shoes. Looking in her direction and smiling, he tilted his head to a questioning angle. Ah, here it comes, she thought, the polite request for an autograph. She waited. But the request didn't come.

She watched him closely and wondered vaguely if he was staring back while his tongue lavished attention on the dripping ice cream. With a thoroughness that sent quivers through her body, he thrust all but the end of the stick into his mouth, then slowly drew it out. Then he did it again. As his tongue slipped under the remaining lump, she flicked her tongue over her lips. And when he finally stroked off the last bit of cream with the tip of his tongue, she swallowed hard.

His lips glistened as he spoke. "Thought I had a meltdown going there for a moment."

Meltdown? She hadn't watched a man's mouth do anything like that since... come to think of it, in all her twenty-eight years she'd never seen anyone do that before. She blinked. The sun had become unbearably hot on her skin, making her temples ache. Yes, that was it. The sun was to blame for the crazy pictures in her mind and the resulting sensations pulsating through her body. Recapturing her composure, she forced a shrug. "Gotta watch those meltdowns," she offered with an airy innocence she didn't feel.

He moved his head to one side again. "Are you sure everything's okay?"

He didn't recognize her. For a moment relief washed over her, and then the oddest thing happened. A slight but definite feeling of disappointment seeped in. She was dumbfounded at her own reaction, because disappointment was the last thing she should be feeling after all she'd gone through to protect her identity. "I lost my car keys."

"Hmmm." He dropped his shoes to the pavement and stepped into them. "Where do you think you lost them?"

"Probably the beach. I only realized I'd lost them a moment before I ran into you at the fountain," she said, remembering how she'd bolted from him in the pavilion.

"Right," he agreed with an understanding nod. "Why don't you look in the pavilion, and I'll check back on the beach? By the way, what do they look like?"

Holly toyed with the side of her sunglasses as feelings of anxiousness started again. If he wasn't a reporter, why was he offering to help her? He didn't even know her. She winced. She was so tired of suspicion and mistrust. Where would it all end?

The stranger stepped closer, offering her his hand. "I'm sorry. I haven't introduced myself. I'm Evan Jamieson. And you are...?"

"H-Hilary Smith," she lied, allowing him to take her hand.

Ordinarily, she made a point of looking into the eyes of the person she was shaking hands with, but Evan Jamieson was still wearing his sunglasses. She found her stare fixated on the chiseled planes of his mouth and the slight sheen left there by the ice cream. His grip was strong, yet gentle, and he held her hand a few seconds longer than necessary. Holly's heart thumped with a combination of excitement and fear. Who was Evan Jamieson, and why was shaking hands with him so extraordinarily... intimate? A few grains of sand were trapped between their fingers, heightening further her tactile awareness of him. She quickly pulled her hand from his and took a step backward.

"My keys? Oh, yes, they're on a bamboo ring with a little plastic lemon hanging from it."

He shrugged into his shirt. "Ten minutes?"

Rubbing her palms together, she felt the grains of sand, and it was as if he was touching her again. She nodded, and only then did he turn to go. Madras button downs never looked so good, she decided, watching him break into a trot across the parking lot. When he disappeared behind the dune, she dashed off to the bathroom to hide until he returned.

Ten minutes later Holly was back by his car watching him cross the parking lot.

"Have any luck in the pavilion?"

She took a step away from the car and shook her head guiltily. He'd been out on that hot sand searching for her keys while she'd been hiding in a cool, shadowy building. "No, but Mr. Jamieson, thank you so much for looking. I really appreciate it."

He held up his hand. "Evan, please. What are you going to do now?"

She shrugged. "Start walking."

He pulled back in mock horror. "You weren't. Not in those," he said, pointing to her sandals.

Holly looked down and wriggled her toes. The sandals' thin straps and delicate beading didn't appear sturdy enough to cross a carpeted living room, let alone a designated wilderness area.

She grinned sheepishly. "Afraid so."

He shook his head. "You won't last a mile in those things. Why don't you let me drive you back?" He watched her hesitate. Nice to know she's cautious, he thought, but that wasn't helping either of them at the moment. He unlocked the passenger door. "Your mother was right most of the time."

She backed away. "About what?"

"About not taking rides from strangers." He watched as she looked him over once again. "For what it's worth, you'll be perfectly safe with me."

Common sense fought with feminine instinct. He'd been more than generous with his time, and he did appear to be sincere. And well balanced. She laughed softly at the last thought. Living in New York City as long as she had, she'd developed a sixth sense about people. Evan Jamieson felt safe. Any lingering uneasiness was natural, considering her present circumstances. "Well, if you promise never to tell my mother..." she began teasingly.

"If you promise never to tell mine," he said, pulling open the door.

The interior was stiflingly hot, but Holly let out a grateful sigh once she was inside. She'd been lingering in a public place much too long. The sooner she disappeared from view, the better. Holly smiled at Evan, then reached out and pulled the door shut.

Evan walked around his car, lifted the trunk, and then shut it before he opened his door and slid into the driver's seat. "Sorry I took so long," he said as he placed his paper on the dashboard, started the car, and turned on the air conditioner. "You're in a hurry, I take it?"

Holly removed her hat and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. "Me? In a hurry? What makes you ask that?"

Evan shrugged as a quirky smile tugged at his mouth.

She allowed him to take her hat and toss it on the backseat. His right arm came to rest on the back of her seat, and for a moment he said nothing. Then he lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head, and Holly found herself staring into a pair of deep-blue eyes shining with intelligence, wit, and questions.

"My windows are tinted, so you can take off your sunglasses."

She started to remove them, then hastily slipped them back on. Her glasses were the last barrier to Evan's full-face view of the Glory Girl. Sooner or later he'd find out the truth, but right now later seemed so much better. "They're prescription."

"But how will I ever see the color of your eyes?" he asked with feigned innocence.

"They're green," she explained with businesslike efficiency as she adjusted her seat belt. When she turned back to him, she saw his eyes narrowing to skeptical slits. If she wasn't careful, she'd arouse his suspicion. She smiled calmly. "Really, they're light green. My dad says they look like anemic shamrocks."

"You're a very mysterious lady, Miss Hilary Smith. Tell me more about yourself. Like what you do when you're not dealing with traumatic childhood events like that?"

She would have loved to explain her father's sense of humor, but she hardly knew Evan. She also wanted to scold him for treating the subject of childhood trauma so lightly, though somehow she knew he was the kind of person who wouldn't. "I'm a travel writer," she lied. "I, uh, freelance. How about you?"

"Aircraft management. Corporate and private. And I occasionally pilot a plane myself."

Tucking her legs under her, she turned toward him. "Isn't that the kind of business where you fly the rich and famous around?"

"The rich and occasionally famous."

Holly nodded. The thing to do now was to keep the conversation away from her. Besides, his job did sound interesting. "Well, where do you fly?"

"All over. I've been in South America for the last four months. Mostly Peru." The air conditioner had finally blown most of the hot air from the car, and he pulled his door shut. "It's good to be back." He shifted into drive then turned to her with a thoughtful smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Hilary."

No one had ever smiled at her in quite the way he was smiling now. Or, if anyone had, she'd never before experienced such an immediate and intensely visceral response. There was a challenge in the depths of his eyes, and it seemed to say "If you'll allow it, we're going to have a wonderful time." His sensual energy continued rippling through her like a fresh breeze across a desert, eroding her doubt. She relaxed against the seat, almost giddy with the knowledge that she remained incognito.

"It's a pleasure meeting you, too, Evan. Thanks again for looking for my car keys and for offering to drive me back. I'm staying just across the bridge in Cape Shell."

"Me too."

"Vacation?"

Nodding, he swung his car out of the parking lot and headed toward the bridge at the north end of Dune Island State Park. "My FAA doc told me it was time to work on my tan. Maybe build a few sand castles and meet Hilary Smith." He glanced at her. "Seriously, my doctor gets a bit cranky if I let three years go by without taking a vacation. And you?"

"Me? Just a vacation."

Ah, Hilary Smith, he thought. What a beautiful woman. What a terrible liar. What an intriguing combination.

Anxious to change the subject, she continued quickly, "You mentioned Peru before. Were you there during the earthquake?"

"Yes." He glanced across the car's interior and caught her checking the rearview mirror. She was still skittish about accepting a ride from him. She was definitely running from something on the beach, too, and she was avoiding talking about herself. What did he have here? What was she really? A mob moll on the run? A beauty pursued by a jealous lover? Could she be hiding from a blackmailer? Well, he wouldn't push. Patience, he told himself. Patience always paid. He decided to let her have the next words, whenever she was ready. What a looker she was. What he could see of her, that is. She wore those glasses like a piece of armor. What kind of fire-breathing dragon was threatening her anyway? Who or what would force her to walk back to town in this hellish heat? Patience, patience, he counseled himself.

Evan looked out the window to gather his thoughts. This crazy speculating wasn't like him at all, but she could be trudging along the roadside right now, perhaps carrying a sandal or two with broken straps. The beauty of wild beach plum and other scrubby vegetation couldn't cancel out his thoughts. She might never have made it back. She could've succumbed to heat prostration. Or God knows what.

"Well, aren't you going to tell me about it?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Heat prostration? Circling buzzards? "About what?"

"The earthquake. What was it like?"

"It scared the hell out of me. We were in Cuzco, and half my hotel was turned into rubble."

"Were you hurt?"

"No, but the shoe-shine boy in the lobby broke his leg. Luckily the airport was operational. We flew him down to Lima. You know, the kid had never been in an airplane before. The ride inside a luxury jet coupled with the painkillers had him believing he was on his way to heaven." Evan shook his head. "Makes you realize how lucky you are when something like that happens."

Holly nodded. "What happened to him?"

"We had a call last week from my client. The boy's healing nicely and wants to go flying again."

Holly laughed along with Evan. "You know, that was a wonderful thing you did. Helping out like that. Children are so helpless during a disaster. I wish more people were like you."

She was relaxing. He meant to keep her that way too. "Sounds like you have a special interest in this sort of thing."

"I do volunteer work for Lemon Aid. It's a disaster- relief organization." She became more animated as she continued. "It's children helping children on a grass-roots level. They hold car washes, walk dogs, clean out garages, stuff like that. The money they raise goes to relief efforts for other children, who are caught up in disasters."

"No kidding. Sounds worthwhile. What exactly do you do?"

Holly sank back in her seat and dutifully retested her seat-belt buckle. This man was too easy to talk to. She'd really have to watch what she was saying. "I just help out licking stamps, stuffing envelopes. That's all. Tell me more about your stay in Peru."

By the time they'd driven up and parked by a small strip of stores in Cape Shell, he had her laughing about a family of timid llamas he'd happened upon in some ancient Incan ruins.

"I need a few things in here. Want to come in with me?"

She was about to say yes, but when Holly glanced out her window, reality took hold again. Too many people. Too many chances to be recognized. "That's okay. I'll just wait here."

Watching him saunter into the little grocery store, she felt a wave of depression weigh down on her. What would he do if someone recognized her while they were together? She remembered the mob scene on Madison Avenue last week. What would he think if he knew about a poster of her naked backside going for twenty dollars a pop? She winced. Whoever said life was fair was probably the same jerk who promised that marriage was forever.

Evan returned a few minutes later with two paper sacks and put them on the backseat. He raised his chin in the direction of one of the sacks. "I've got to get to my freezer pronto. Mind if I drop this stuff at my house?"

Another few minutes with him? "I don't mind."

"Good. Then we'll call a dealership to see about a replacement key."

Holly shoved a lock of hair behind her ear and grinned. Evan's energy filled the car, leaving little room for depressing thoughts. "You think of everything. Are you always so good at solving problems for strangers?"

Evan laughed. "Actually, that's exactly what I do at my office—smooth out rough spots for our clients. But enough about work. This is my vacation." He looked at one of the plastic sacks. "There's a present for you in that one."

"Me?" she peered in and laughed. Lifting out the plastic tube, she read the front of it. "Zinc Oxide. You didn't have to buy me this."

"Nonsense. Someone had to. That nose is bright enough to put Rudolph out of work."

During her modeling days she'd used enough sun block to stock a chain of pharmacies. Today she'd forgotten to use any. Holly jerked down the windshield visor and leaned in toward the mirror attached to it. Groaning, she slapped the visor back into place. Because he'd leaned in to look, too, their faces were inches away from each other.

"I thought my hat was taking care... of... that problem."

"Is that right?" His voice was husky as he leaned a fraction of an inch closer. "Back there on the beach you kept readjusting that hat every time you looked my way."

Holly felt her mouth go dry. "I didn't know you..."

"Were looking back? I couldn't take my eyes off you." Evan reached to remove her sunglasses when someone began pounding on his window.

"Hey, buddy. Take her home and kiss her. I need this parking space for my deliveries."

Evan turned around to see a huge, grinning face, framed by two cupped hands, pressed against his side window.

A soft sibilant curse broke from Evan's lips, but he gave the man a smile and partial salute.

Shielding her face with one hand, Holly sank low in her seat. This was not that bad, she told herself. Certainly not as bad as that one reporter, Dennis Cracci, following her into the ladies' room with a microphone. All the same, she found herself crouching lower.

She watched Evan look into his side mirror and shift gears. With good-natured restraint he looked over his shoulder and commented, "I don't think I want to cross the Hulk. His truck looks pretty big."

"No," Holly agreed. "You don't want to cross the Hulk." That's all she needed, involvement in an altercation with a burly truck driver and a gorgeous man like Evan. Wouldn't the press just love it!

She kept her head down as they drove along the crowded street. In a surprisingly short time Evan was reaching for the remote-control garage-door opener on the console. "We're home. And I can't wait to hear why you're practically wedged under my dashboard."

She sat up and looked out the window. The paved drive to the three-story house was remarkably familiar, as was the six-foot privacy fence surrounding it. Her mouth fell open in genuine surprise. "Is this a joke? I mean, you've got to be kidding."

Evan drove inside the garage and aimed the control over his shoulder. "Hilary, you're evading the issue." The door clamored shut. "Do you usually ride in the fetal position, or is it my driving?"

"Evan," she began, ignoring his question, "I'm in the house directly behind this one. Right behind you. The little house," she added, as if he hadn't heard her.

"Annie rented that out, did she?" His eyebrows moved closer together and then, suddenly, apart. An easy grin slid across his face. "This is going to be a very interesting vacation."

Holly smiled warily and shook her head. "Wait a minute. This is too much of a coincidence." But she'd known Annie since junior high, and Annie wouldn't do anything to screw things up for her. "It's just... Evan, this is—"

That slow, sure smile was lighting his face again. "I think, Hilary, they call it kismet," he offered, reaching for the sacks of groceries. The devastating smile never quit. "What do you think?"

Kismet? She felt as if she'd been clinging to a rope and was suddenly asked to let go of it. To trust. She looked at the tube of zinc oxide still clutched in her hand, and then she looked at him. She should leave right now. She should say thank you very much, but no thank you, and be on her way. She really should. The silly yet practical gift had touched her, and so did the honesty she found in his eyes. Trust him? Maybe, just a little, for a while, she could. "Maybe."

"Maybe," he repeated, winking. "Then gather up your things and come on in."

She did, following him from the garage and into a spacious kitchen-dining room area. She stared up at the skylight and landing above the dining room. "This place is wonderful. You must have a very large family." She turned to face him. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, but these days that was not necessarily a sign of bachelorhood.

He'd gone directly to the refrigerator and was stuffing the first sack into the freezer section. "Before you have to ask, the answer is no. I'm not married. This friendly old monster of a house is a hand-me-down from my folks. They moved to Florida three years ago."

A smile played on Evan's lips. He shut the freezer compartment, then shoved the second bag into the refrigerator.

Holly nodded solemnly, trying hard not to return his smile. She cleared her throat. "Do you always store your groceries like that?"

He shut the refrigerator door, then took her by the hand and drew her toward the wide central staircase. "Always when Hilary Smith comes to visit and remarks that my beach house is wonderful. Come on, I'll show you where I jumped off the landing using Uncle George's umbrella as my parachute. I was six at the time and watching too many cartoons."

Laughing, she allowed him to draw her up the stairs, then across the landing. Evan slapped the railing.

"This is where I began my career in aviation. Of course, my landings have shaped up considerably since then."

"Evan, you could have broken your neck."

"My leg, actually." Taking her hand he led her into a wide hallway. "I spent July and part of August of that year in here," he continued, pushing open the first door on the left. She hesitated. "Come on. You don't want to miss this point of interest on the tour. I promise, it's better than anything at Graceland or the White House."

She followed him into the shadowed room. There was shared amusement in his eyes as he leaned her back against the wall. "This," he said smiling, "is a bedroom wall I hoped never to have to look at again."

Evan Jamieson studied the beauty before him. He reached up, took off her sunglasses, and dropped them to the carpet. It was too dark to see the color of her eyes, but they sparkled in the thin light coming in through the shuttered windows. He reached to touch her hair, which cascaded to her shoulders in silky waves of golden red. And her face... well, if she wasn't a model, she ought to be, he thought. Desire soared through him with the shocking speed of unsuspected wind shear. He forced his voice to remain casual, but he was fast losing that battle. "The Hulk said to take you home and kiss you."

Feeling recklessly happy, she reached up and placed her hands against his chest. She didn't want to think about the fear and uncertainties presently ruling her life. She only wanted this moment with this man and the feeling he stirred inside her. As wonderful and as real a feeling as she'd ever known. "Well, we don't want to cross the Hulk," she said, feigning surrender to a shared conspiracy, "because his truck is pretty big."

"Screw his truck," Evan whispered, twisting his head to lower it to hers. "I just want to kiss you."

His lips were warm as they brushed hers. Her eyelids fluttered closed, but not before she saw what hung on the opposite wall. "Oh my God!" Holly thumped him hard on both shoulders. "How could you!" She shoved him away with tightened fists.

"Ouch! What?"

Pointing across the room to the framed poster on the opposite wall, she growled her frustration. Then, with her voice spilling over with hurt and accusation, she spoke. "You knew." She lowered her head, bouncing both her fists on her thighs as she did so. "You knew from the first moment you saw me, didn't you?"

"Knew what?" Evan looked genuinely confused.

"That I'm the Glory Girl."

### Chapter 2

Evan squinted through the shadows behind him. A framed poster of a nude female caught his attention. The girl in the gold-tone poster was staring back over her shoulder. She appeared to be emerging from a musical instrument. Or was it a flower? Evan took a step closer.

Holly flicked on the light switch. "Go on. Get a good look. Everyone else has," she snapped.

He knew he should be looking at Hilary, but he couldn't help himself. He kept staring at the poster. The naked beauty with the strawberry- blonde hair fanning around her shoulders was emerging from a honey-colored morning glory. An unquestionable quality of candor dominated the composition. He noted the deliciously imperfect circle of her mouth and the glinting green of her eyes looking back over her shoulder. From the tilt of her right hip to the graceful way she was splaying her fingers on the velvety petal, the model had definitely been caught off guard. And she was mad as hell!

"Hilary? Is that—that is you!"

Holly picked up her sunglasses from where he'd dropped them, then shoved past him and out of the room. Hurrying out to the landing, she shouted, "Just how dumb do you think I am? How dare you trick me into trusting you when all you wanted was to get your hands on the Glory Girl!" Grabbing the top of the banister she twisted around and shouted even louder. "You were watching me on the beach all afternoon planning this whole thing. Go ahead, admit it!"

There was no answer. The slightest tremor of curiosity pulsed through her. Why wasn't he out in the hall apologizing or lying some more? What was he doing in there?

"Evan Jamieson, the least you can do is be man enough to answer me."

He did. The longest, loudest wolf whistle she'd ever heard cut through the silence. Lifting her chin, she drew on her pride and marched down the stairs. She'd actually allowed herself to think this Jamieson character could be someone special. "Kismet," he'd said. What a card-carrying romantic fool she was turning into. She snatched her belongings from the countertop and headed out the glass sliding doors. The little cottage across the brick patio never looked so inviting.

"Wait a minute. I remember you. Sports Illustrated. Green suede thong on the beach in Mykonos." Evan stepped out of the bedroom. "Right?" The only answer was a door being shut. He crossed the landing to watch her from the back window. Her squared shoulders and determined stride would have made a perfect exit, except that she managed to trip over the garden hose on the way. He shoved the window open. "Hey, we have to talk."

Without responding, she reached the screened porch of her cottage and jerked the door open. A pronounced bang soon followed, and then another as she entered the cottage. Evan leaned both hands on the windowsill and smiled.

"Dinner in an hour, Hilary," he said quietly. She hadn't heard him. He hadn't meant for her to. Not yet, anyway.

Looking around his beach house, he welcomed the old memories as they rushed back in. He shook his head. He'd never sell the place, no matter what his accountants had recommended. One day, when he had children of his own... Allowing the unfinished thought to linger, he returned to the threshold of the guest room and stared at the poster again. The photo, candid as it appeared, was definitely the work of a professional photographer. The expert lighting, the morning-glory prop, and the perfection of Hilary—no one had skin that flawless—proved that.

What had she called herself? The Glory Girl? Well, the Glory Girl was more than a girl, she was all woman. What couldn't be seen could well be imagined. Evan cleared his throat, turned out the light, and shut the door. Poster art had come a long way since his college days.

Time for a shower. A cold shower, he amended, making his way to the master bedroom. Absolutely no one had skin like that.

Making a check-in call to Air Service International, he was informed his business had not dropped off the stock exchange since he'd left it last evening. None of ASI's testier clients had called to ask for him either. Contract renegotiations were about to begin with one, and Evan wanted them handled with kid gloves.

"This is your vacation, Mr. Jamieson. Please see to it that you enjoy it," Ashlee, his secretary, instructed him.

Evan glanced out his back bedroom window at the cottage. "I fully intend to, Ashlee. Call me, though, if—" He didn't bother to finish his sentence. Ashlee had hung up.

Stripping off his clothes, he reached into the linen closet and pulled out a towel and bar of soap. He started to tear the wrapper from the soap, and there she was again, the Glory Girl. Only this time the trumpet of petals was mint green and, compared to the poster, offered a very modest profile of her head and shoulders. Beneath the picture on the wrapper were the simple words Morning Glory Soap, a glorious way to start your day... and end it. He chuckled to himself as he headed toward the bathroom.

Showering quickly, he dressed in khaki shorts and a T-shirt, shoved his phone in his pocket and headed downstairs. He whistled a tune he'd heard but didn't know the name of. A tune that matched his mood perfectly. It was time to start the grill; he had a glorious evening planned.

* * *

Holly placed her writing pad and pencil on the floor of the screened porch, picked up her ice water, and continued swaying on the porch swing.

Concentrating on a fund-raising letter for Lemon Aid was next to impossible when the memory of Evan Jamieson's wolf whistle kept interrupting her thoughts. An extra flood of heat rushed to her sunburned face when she thought about how willing she'd been for his kiss. Eager, even.

She lifted her legs and stretched them across the wooden slats, placing her feet on the opposite arm rest. As soon as Annie got here with the groceries, Holly would discuss the possibility of moving to another secluded rental. Fat chance, though, of finding a rental for August. She had lucked into this place several weeks ago only because she knew Annie. People had reserved Cape Shell houses as far back as last summer. It looked as if she might be stuck in Evan's backyard. She pressed the plastic tumbler to her temple and blew at the irritating strands of hair sticking to her face. There was barely a breeze, and a land breeze at that, to move the hair that had slipped from her ponytail. Her gaze strayed to the sliding glass doors across the patio. One thing was for sure—she didn't want another heated exchange with Evan Jamieson.

As if on cue the sliding door opened, and out stepped Evan. Holly dropped a foot to the floor, stilling the swing. It was like seeing him for the first time all over again; she couldn't take her eyes off him. His hair was wet and slicked back, making it easy for her to remember how he'd looked emerging from the ocean. The crisp, dark hair dusting his body had glistened with ocean water. Shorts and a T-shirt now covered his tall, broad-shouldered body. His reddish-tan skin reminded her of a lifeguard she'd drooled over as a teenager.

One wet lock of hair fell over his forehead, and with casual precision Evan smoothed it back from his incredibly blue eyes—bluer now because of the heightened color of his face.

Mesmerized, she watched as he entered the storage shed next to his house. After a loud crash and several cuss words, he wheeled out a barbecue grill. In a few moments he'd lifted the lid, turned on two knobs and smiled. And he didn't even bother to glance toward her cottage before he reentered his house. Not that it mattered to her, she reminded herself. She snatched up her pad and pencil, then leaned back and waited.

A short time later the slider opened again. Evan stepped outside with everything needed for a cook- out piled high on a tray. Holly dropped the pad and pencil once again, and slowly sat up. She was never going to get the letter roughed out. And now what was he doing? Straining her neck, she saw him placing the tray on the table, opening the table's umbrella, then arranging plates and eating utensils. For two. Two? He had a dinner guest coming?

Both of Holly's feet hit the floor along with the plastic glass of ice water she'd been holding. He was walking toward her with a bottle of beer in each hand. She didn't know if the shiver she felt was from the icy splash from her tumbler, or from his presence. The last time Evan Jamieson was close, they'd almost kissed.

"Hello in there." He pressed his nose to the screened door. "Care to join me for a beer and some sparkling conversation? Dinner'll be ready in about half an hour, and you're invited."

"Dinner?"

His cheerful, confident tone continued. "Yes, you know. Comes between lunch and a midnight snack."

Ignoring her wet leg, she pushed herself up from the swing and walked casually toward him. "All this for an autograph, Jamieson?"

Laughing, he leaned one elbow against the door- jamb. "I'm not asking for your autograph. I'm asking for your company at dinner. What do you say?"

"I'd sooner eat sand."

"Hilary, your beer's getting warm."

"My name is not Hilary. It's Holly Hamilton, and I didn't agree to have dinner with you. I want you to go away. Now." She moved toward the screen door leading from the porch into the cottage.

"Holly Hamilton," he repeated. "Will it be Holly Hamilton tomorrow too? Or should I just call you the Glory Girl?"

"Go away!" She walked into the house, letting the inside door bang behind her.

Evan took a deep breath. He wasn't about to barge into her house, even if he owned it. Not yet, anyway. But, come hell or high water, they were going to talk.

"I said, 'should I just call you the Glory Girl?'"

Holly was out of the house and across the porch in two seconds. "Shhhhh! Do you want the whole Jersey shore to know I'm here?" she whispered, her hands flailing in the air.

"Would that get you outside?" His tone softened. "Glory Girl, I need to explain a few things, and so do you. Would you have dinner with me?"

Holly rubbed the back of her wet leg with her toes while she mulled over his words. It was his property; he didn't have to go away. In fact, he could order her to leave at any time. Or make an announcement to the press that she was here. She sighed deeply. He sounded so sincere, so normal. She stared past him at the cloudless sky. The smell of the nearby ocean mingled with his after-shave. If she didn't watch herself, she'd be giving him a second chance. She nibbled the inside of her lip. At that moment her stomach rumbled noisily.

"I heard that," he teased.

"Annie's supposed to have delivered my groceries by now," she said when her stomach growled again. "I'll be out in a minute, and I'm only doing this because I'm starving."

A few minutes later Evan watched her, dressed again in caftan, hat, and dark glasses, walk across the patio and sit down on a lounger. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and sipped his beer. She looked as if she'd just fallen out of a piñata. Her arms were wound tightly around her waist and, crossing one leg over the other, she began tapping the patio incessantly with her foot.

He squinted toward a willow, taking note of its barely moving branches. "Warm enough?" he asked, gesturing toward her garb with his beer bottle. "Wind chill's got to be all of about ninety-five degrees." He bowed gallantly while she picked up a chunk of bread and bit off a piece. "But, if you'd like to move closer to the fire..."

"Just cut the comedy and keep your voice down," she said in an alarmed whisper as she motioned with the bread. Most of the houses on the populated sections of the barrier island had been built closely together, but this was not the case for the Jamieson property. Evan's fenced land was situated on a corner and bordered by two empty lots. Even so, someone could be walking by this very second.

Evan set his beer on the table, scratched his head, and pulled a chair closer to her. Straddling it, he sat down and spoke softly. "Holly, I just arrived in town this morning, dropped my things at the house here and headed right out for Dune Island Beach. I swear to you, the first time I saw that poster was after you saw it. What is going on?"

She made a disgusted sound with her tongue and shook her head. "Why are you still pretending you don't know?"

"Pretending I don't know what? That Sea and Sun Interiors hung a poster of you in my spare bedroom when they redecorated last month? That I just took a shower with a bar of soap wrapped in your picture? Look, I've been out of the country for the last few months, but I still appreciate an American beauty when I see one, whether her picture's hanging on my wall or she's lying on a beach or sitting next to me." He reached out and took her hand. "What I can't understand is why all of this subterfuge?"

His hand was still cool from holding the bottle of beer. Suddenly she found herself fighting the urge to press his palm to her cheek. She didn't see a spark of dishonesty in those big blue eyes of his, only concern. Then he squeezed her hand, and all the vinegar on the tip of her tongue turned to honey. "You really don't know, do you?"

He shook his head slowly. "I really don't."

"Evan, because of that poster, I've become the flavor of the month. The summer! I'm fair game for any weirdo who comes along, and believe me, there are plenty of them. In a bar on Sixty-second Street that poster of me has been turned into a dart board. It has it's own Facebook page. I've even had a male reporter follow me into a public rest room." She watched his eyebrows lift in surprise. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. "It's true. And my parents called me last week to tell me about some church group in the Bible Belt insisting the poster be banned because it's warping their children's minds." She pulled off her sunglasses. "Their children's minds," she repeated. "Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?" She leaned in toward him. "I don't want to be in People magazine or on ET, all I want is to be left alone to get on with the rest of my life."

Evan squeezed her hand. "Holly, humiliating isn't the word I'd use to describe the poster. I think it's absolutely gorgeous. It's sweet, it's sassy, it's romantic, it's innocent, it's—"

"Innocent, my butt!"

"That too." He tried hard not to smile as that gorgeous tush of hers appeared in his mind's eye once again.

Holly jumped to her feet. "Evan!"

"Calm down, calm down." He was still holding her hand, and she sank back at his tugging. The brazen blue of his eyes softened with self- reproach. "Forget about the adjectives. Tell me why you posed for it in the first place. I mean, if you felt so opposed to it, why did you do it?"

If his tone had communicated anything but honest interest, she would have screamed. The laugh lines around his eyes deepened with concern when she didn't answer immediately. Suddenly she wished she could tell him everything. For now at least, she would tell him what she could.

"Evan, that's just it. I wasn't posing for the poster. It was about two years ago during the shoot for the Morning Glory bath products line. I was getting ready for the shampoo shot. I stood up to position the shower nozzle, and Stu called my name. By the time I heard the shutter clicking, it was too late. Stu promised he'd destroy the negative. I trusted him."

"Stu? Can't you sue this Stu guy? Isn't this photographer bound by some release you signed to use the photos only for the product?"

Holly rubbed her forehead. "At the time, this 'Stu guy' was my husband. What started as a piece of fun for him has turned into a very lucrative business move. You see, before the divorce I was his chief source of income. He hated losing my face and body." Holly winced. That had to be the most conceited statement ever made. "I know that sounds pretty awful, but I'm not talking about his emotional pain when I left him. I'm talking about the business part of our marriage. He was angry and insisted that if I wanted the divorce, he wanted all legal claims to my Morning Glory contract. By then I wanted out of the marriage so badly that I ignored my lawyer's warnings and signed it all over to him."

The lines forming between Evan's eyebrows were deep and numerous. He probably thought she was the biggest fool who ever drew a breath. What was she doing telling this man about one of the worst periods of her life? She'd known Evan Jamieson less than half a day. Blood pounded painfully in her temples.

Evan got up and handed her the beer he'd opened for her. He turned his back and made a business of adjusting the flame in the grill. "You don't have to explain the end of a marriage, Holly. I've been there myself."

She found herself staring at the sunburn on the back of his neck, and then her gaze strayed to the tender reddened skin behind his ears. Her Sir Galahad of the parking lot knew hurt, too, and it went deeper than his sunburn. She hadn't missed the slightly bitter edge to his voice.

Evan forked on two steaks. "Doesn't Morning Glory Soap object to any of this?"

"I wish. Stu airbrushed the prop on the poster so it doesn't match the soap company's morning glory. And, according to my lawyer, they couldn't be happier. Their sales have increased dramatically since the poster came out."

"Holly, I still don't understand why you're hiding. You're a model. You gave up a certain amount of privacy along the way. What's the big deal?" He turned back to her when she didn't answer. Her spine had stiffened, and her lips were trembling the tiniest bit.

"But I'm not a model anymore. I want all of that to be over."

Evan shrugged. "Then allow it to be over. Give the media and the fans what they want. Do a few interviews and, before you know it, they'll move on to someone else. You're adding fuel to your own fire by tantalizing them with your absence."

"You don't understand. Stuart took... something from me... and I want it back."

"What was it?" Evan asked quietly. "What did he take?"

"Maybe the opportunity to do something worthwhile with my life. There are certain plans I've..." She paused before blurting out angrily, "He's taken my dignity."

Evan considered her impassioned statement. He turned the steaks, searing them with a sizzling hiss. "Dignity, when you get right down to it, is a very subjective concept."

"Then you understand perfectly."

He rolled his eyes to the sky, then back to her. An initial embarrassment he could understand, but only she knew the depth of her "humiliation." He'd be damned if he understood it. He watched as her chin lifted a little higher, a little too high. Then it hit him like a crosswind. She wasn't telling him all of it. There was something she was leaving out. Something that made her eyes glisten and her chin almost quiver. Something that had to do with her ex-husband, Stuart Hamilton.

Instantly Evan's heart went out to her. Trust me, Holly, he wanted to say, but he didn't. After a divorce, allowing yourself to trust again was the scariest thing of all. He wouldn't cajole her into telling him either. He wouldn't tell her about the ugliness of his own divorce. That was positively the last thing she needed to hear and, besides, it was the last thing he wanted to talk about. In fact, he'd never talked about it with anyone.

"So, what about your plans?" he asked evenly.

Holly stood up, opened a carton, and began spooning potato salad onto his plate. "To stay right here," she mumbled.

He wasn't asking her about her immediate plans. He was asking about the plans her ex had somehow messed up, about the opportunity to do something "worthwhile." Had she deliberately skirted his question? He decided not to press. All in good time, he silently reminded himself. "Your plans are to stay right here? You mean, right here inside the fence, inside the cottage?" he said.

"You got it. By the way, I like my steak medium rare."

"You're joking?"

She gave him a queer look. "No, I really like my steak medium rare."

He set the barbecue tongs on the table, then picked up his beer. "Holly, I mean about staying here inside the fence. That's no way to spend your vacation. You simply can't do that."

She shoved the spoon into the carton and set it back on the table. Just as she'd thought. Once he'd heard about the tacky incident, he would want her gone. And what she'd told him wasn't the half of it. Folding her arms across her middle, she turned to face him. "Vacation?!" she exploded. "This isn't a vacation, Evan. Can't you understand that this is a self-imposed exile, that I'm in hiding until the world turns enough to expose someone else's butt. Meanwhile, I want to remind you that I've paid my rent."

Her dander was up again; this woman was not about to succumb to a bout of weepiness, Evan noted happily. "Hiding? Is that what you were attempting on a public beach this afternoon while wearing an orange bathing suit cut up to the equator? Then covering it with that thingamajig?"

"Dolce & Gabbana does not design thingamajigs. Besides, I didn't bring attention to myself this afternoon rubbing suntan oil all over my chest!" They stood toe-to-toe, glaring at each other, when someone rapped on the gate.

Holly's immediate response was to grab Evan by the shoulders and slouch to the level of his chest. "Oh my God! They've found me," she whispered frantically.

"Ow! My sunburn."

Holly pulled her hands from his shoulders. "Sorry," she whispered, then turned and ran for her cottage.

That was the second time today she'd disappeared in a whirl of turquoise, Evan noted. He set his beer beside the salad and went to the gate. "Yes?"

"Evan? Is that you?" The owner of the voice gave a quick laugh and, before he could answer, continued, "It's Annie. What are you doing here? Never mind. First just help me. I can't juggle a box of groceries and work the latch too."

Evan opened the gate, and his hands were immediately filled with a box of groceries.

Annie stepped inside. "I thought you were in Peru."

"I own the place, remember?"

Ignoring the question, she asked one of her own. "Where is she?"

"In the cottage. Didn't Ashlee tell you not to rent this month?"

The trim, five-foot brunette in jeans and a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt held her ground. A sly grin creased her face. "You complaining or thanking me?"

Evan heaved a sigh. Annie knew him too well, and he could no more bluster her today than he could during their childhood. Besides, she'd proved more than satisfactory as a rental agent and friend over the years. "Me? Complain? Where did complaining ever get me with you?"

"Nowhere, handsome. Your secretary's doing her job. She called a while back and said the big house was being redecorated and that you didn't want either house put on the rental market for the rest of the summer."

"But you went ahead and rented the cottage."

All traces of humor disappeared from Annie's expression. "Only the cottage. Evan, Holly's in a real mess right now. She's been my closest friend since junior high. Tell me you and I aren't going to part company over this."

"Of course not. But what's her story?" He motioned with his chin. "Her real story."

Annie looked past Evan toward the cottage. "Best friends keep secrets. You'll have to hear it from her, if and when she wants to tell you. Besides, if I told you what her ex-husband's done, you wouldn't believe it."

Evan studied the short brunette. "It's not just that poster, is it?"

"Of course not. Once Holly had a moment to cool down, even she admitted it was pretty cute."

Holly shot past both of them, slammed the gate, and latched it.

"Annie, I thought you said I'd be alone."

Annie looked back and forth at the both of them as if they were crazy. "Hi, Annie. Great to see you, Annie. You did a great job with the last tenants, old friend. Thanks for helping me out in a pinch, dear."

Holly exchanged a sideways glance with Evan before she spoke. "Guess I'm sounding ungrateful. I'm a little jumpy. Bad day at the beach."

Annie held up her hands. "Bad day at the beach? Nonsense. No one has a bad day at the beach. That's bad for tourism." Annie gave her a hug. "Deep breath. Relax. Has Mr. Electric-Blue Eyes here been threatening you with eviction or something?" Both women looked at Evan.

"Hey, don't look at me. I'm just the porter around here. Where do you want this stuff?"

"Put it in her house," Annie said. Evan started to walk away. "And put the perishables in her refrigerator."

"If it's not too much trouble, maybe somebody could turn the steaks," he called over his shoulder.

Holly hurried to the grill, snatched up the tongs and turned over the meat. "I have the address list for donations in my laptop for Lemon Aid. They're supposed to be sending me mailing labels with their logo. You will let me know as soon as they arrive, won't you?"

"As your mail collector, I do solemnly swear."

"Thanks. You know, at this stage in my life I thought I'd be doing a lot more for Lemon Aid than printing out address labels. I'm not really complaining about it, but I miss working in the Manhattan office. You know—"

Annie wagged her finger. "I'll tell you what I know. You've rearranged your life to help Lemon Aid. To help kids. You'll never be satisfied just licking envelopes and slapping on address labels. That's why you've got to do something about Stu and his threat."

"He hasn't called you, has he?"

Annie shook her head.

"That's good. I'm sure he would have if he thought I was down here." Holly stared off into space for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I think that's a good sign."

"Holly, no communication is not necessarily a good sign when it comes to that snake in the grass. You've got to talk to him sooner or later."

Holly waved off the direction Annie's conversation was taking. "I can't think about Stu right now. Annie, I didn't sign a lease on this place. I think I could be homeless really fast here. Is Evan going to kick me out?"

"I doubt it."

"But if he does, what are my chances of finding another place?"

Annie's eyebrows lifted and held. "Slim to none. Look, you'd have nothing to worry about if you'd move in with us until you've settled this mess. Hasn't this solitary confinement taught you anything?"

"To appreciate my prison fan mail more."

"Ah, Holly, Tony means it when he says he'd love to have you."

"Your husband is one in a million, but I can't. I'd spend all my time hiding in your bathroom. Your neighbors and family drop in like snowflakes in February." She moved the steaks onto the holding rack above the grill. "What I have to do is convince 'Mr. Electric-Blue Eyes,' as you call him, to let me stay."

"You never met him, did you? All the girls called him that when he was a teenager. By the time you started coming down to the shore, he'd already gone off to a university out west. Then he married out there, and she never liked it back here. She said Martha's Vineyard was more her style. They're divorced now."

"Any kids?"

"None. I think he wanted them, but she never seemed interested." Annie rubbed her brow. "I can't remember her name. Let me think a minute."

So Evan Jamieson had wanted children and his ex didn't. How sadly familiar that situation was, she thought.

"I remember now. Her name was Patricia, and when Peter was just a baby he had the good manners to wet all over her."

Holly didn't bother to stifle her burst of laughter, and Annie soon joined her. When they'd both stopped, Holly asked, "Did you ever date him?"

Annie shook her head. "Back then I was too young by about six years. But I use to bug the hell out of him and his brothers and friends. Some of them dated my older sisters. I'd follow them up on the boardwalk and pop up when they least wanted me."

"That she did," Evan affirmed as he rejoined them. "Those were the days, weren't they, Annie? Pizza from Rossella's stand on the boardwalk, our pockets filled with tokens for the arcade games, and, if you got lucky, a blanket under the boards."

Annie gave him a thoughtful look. "Things haven't changed much. You ought to get yourself up there. Lucky Duck has a few new games I think you'd like to try." She walked backward to the gate and opened it. "Then you can bring Holly some of Rossella's pizza. Hey, I've got to run." The gate clicked shut.

Holly looked at Evan and narrowed her eyes. "What are you smiling about?"

"The boardwalk," he said, lifting the steaks onto their plates. "I haven't been there in years."

"Oh. Neither have I." She wrapped her arms around her waist and shook her head wistfully. "The ocean breeze. The smells. The sounds. The people. Nothing compares to that boardwalk on a hot summer night."

"Nothing," he agreed. He pulled out her chair and motioned for her to sit down. "Holly, I think I understand why you've chosen to exile yourself in Cape Shell."

"You do?"

"It's because of Annie, because you trust her." Evan watched her mouth soften and her shoulders relax. He felt an almost smug satisfaction. She would eventually tell him the real problem behind her exile, and whatever that problem was, he was going to help her with it. He was good at solving problems, damn good, and he'd never had such a beautiful client before. Propping his elbow on the table, he rested his chin in his hand and waited. Soon she would trust him.

"You're right. I have plenty of friends in and out of this country, but none that I trust like Annie. We've been through so much together. You know, we bought our first lipsticks together. I was her maid of honor, and she even..." Holly stopped. She wasn't about to tell Evan about Annie's warning not to marry Stuart. Holly reached for the bottle of steak sauce and shook it vigorously.

Evan had always believed in facing problems head-on. Hiding away on the Jersey coast didn't seem right. Not for Holly Hamilton, at least. From the short time he'd spent with her, he'd already decided she was a gutsy woman. A woman who needed to be getting on with her life. "Holly, I don't know if this is going to work."

A piece of potato almost made it to Holly's mouth before she replaced it on her plate. He wanted her to leave and to take her half-told tawdry little problems with her. For the next minute the loudest sound was that of two impatient sea gulls perched on the gate's lampposts. As they screeched for food, their determined cries began to grate on Holly's nerves.

Evan continued to rest his chin in his hand. "Okay, what is it? What's got you so"—he fluttered his other hand—"so quiet all of a sudden?"

"Mmmm. Nothing," she replied in monotone. "This is so delicious. The steak's perfect. And you were very nice to ask me to dinner."

He smiled stiffly at her response. This strawberry- blond, green-eyed beauty was challenging his control in more ways than one. "If there's anything I can do to help you, if you need anything, all you have to do is ask."

She looked at him uncertainly. It appeared he wasn't kicking her out tonight. "Well, maybe there is something."

Evan folded his hands, rested them on the edge of the table, and leaned forward. Now he was getting somewhere. "Yes? Go ahead."

"Well. I don't know how to say this without sounding demanding."

He leaned forward a little more and nodded. "It's all right, Holly. Feel free to just speak your mind."

"That old air conditioner in my cottage conked out three days ago. I was wondering if you had an extra fan I could use."

Evan exhaled, closed his eyes, and slumped back against his chair. "A fan? You need a fan? That's it?"

"Yes."

"I'll get you a fan." He rubbed his forehead. It was obvious that she didn't trust him. Not yet, anyway. What he needed to do, he supposed, was to show her how. He'd simply have to open up to her. "I'll be right back," he explained, leaving the table and heading into his house. In a few minutes he returned to the patio.

"I thought you went to get the fan."

"Later. Holly, we need to talk some more."

Her jaws suddenly clamped shut on a mouthful of food as he placed her car keys beside her plate. Confusion clouded her eyes, and then she started chewing and swallowing at a rapid rate. When her mouth was empty, she swiped at her lips with a paper napkin and pushed up from the table.

"How long were you planning on keeping these?" she asked, snatching them from the table.

"Not too long."

She turned and headed for her cottage, managing to trip over the hose for the second time that evening.

Evan shot to his feet. "Hold on a minute. I'm not sorry I took them."

She whirled around. "Not sorry?! My mother was right, I never should have accepted a ride with a stranger."

"Holly."

He'd lowered his voice, and in doing so, tapped into her spiraling emotions, scattering her fury like hot air. What was it about him that drove her nuts? And what was it about him that demanded sanity?

"Yes?"

He walked over to where she stood, picked up the hose, and tossed it toward the far side of the patio. "Keeping the keys wasn't so terrible, once you understand why I did it."

He slid his fingers under her chin. "Look at me. That's it." He smiled, and she found herself taking an extra breath. "It's true what I told you in the car. I saw you looking at me today on the beach. And I was looking back. I wanted to meet you, but before I could think of a non-moronic way to do it, you'd left."

"Evan—"

He held up his other hand. "So I'm not sorry I kept the keys. Keeping them seemed like the only chance I had to spend time with you. I'm giving them back now because I want to begin this relationship in total honesty."

"Relationship? But Evan, you don't understand."

"Trust me, Holly, because sooner or later, I intend to understand everything."

"I can't—"

He leaned down. "Shhh. I'm going to kiss you."

"Ohh."

As his mouth closed over hers, a shiver of excitement swept through her. A part of her had been waiting for this kiss since he'd held her against the bedroom wall, and maybe even before then. Responding to his kiss was the easy part, controlling her response was not. As he drew her closer, enfolding her in his arms, she fought the urge to reach up and sink her fingers into his hair, to part her lips for his gently probing tongue, to moan from the want of sweet surrender.

Blood raced through his body at a pounding speed. He hadn't had such a lightning-quick reaction to a kiss since his teens. He broke the kiss slowly, pulling back finally when she opened her eyes. Maybe it was the sun and salt air that made him feel this way, he reasoned, looking at Holly's sunburned nose and soft smile. Or perhaps it was the memories this place evoked, he reasoned further, looking at her slightly parted lips. He looked her up and down and felt something catch in his stomach. The reason he felt this way wasn't because of a yesterday, it was because of Holly.

How quickly he'd caught on. Evan Jamieson, pooh-pooher of horoscopes, scoffer of biorhythms, skeptic of all "proven" miracles, was being struck by the proverbial thunderbolt. Kismet existed, born again in Holly's jade-green eyes. There was a hunger there he suspected would have shocked her if she could have seen it. There were clouds there, too, but no one could deny the glorious fact that Holly Hamilton needed him. As a friend, a confidant... and a lover. For now he'd have to convince her that he would be her friend. Soon, he'd be her confidant. Later, when it was right, he would be her lover. He knew in this moment that it was a fait accompli.

"You can trust me. Believe me. You can depend on me like you depend on Annie, only I'll be right across the patio. For the rest of the summer. And if I have to go to my North Jersey office, I'm just a phone call away."

A slow smile of relief lit her face. "You mean it? I can stay?"

It wasn't the response he'd hoped for or even the explanation he wanted to hear. It wasn't the cathartic rush of words he needed to hear, either, but it was a step in the right direction. Forward. "Yes, you can stay."

### Chapter 3

Holly liked the decisive bang of her screen door as she crossed the wide patio heading toward the gate. A moonlit swim was exactly what she needed. During the day Cape Shell's beach was too crowded to attempt a swim, and because of yesterday's fiasco the less crowded Dune Island State Park was now off limits too. She closed her hand over the gate latch and sighed. Since she'd met Evan Jamieson, cabin fever had taken on a deeper meaning.

She lifted the latch, eased open the gate, and peered out. Not a soul around. The night was blessedly still outside the Jamieson property. Still, she had to be careful; night jogging and dog walking were popular pastimes in the family- oriented New Jersey resort town. Holly swallowed. An overzealous reporter was not an impossibility either. Across the road paralleling the beach and the boardwalk, the streetlights shimmered menacingly. Beyond those lights the deserted beach beckoned.

Thank goodness Evan was at his North Jersey office and not in his upstairs window looking out. What a comical sight she would have made as she hobbled, barefoot and wincing, across the pebble- strewn blacktop. Next time she decided on a midnight outing, she swore to herself, she'd remember to wear shoes.

Heading up the pedestrian ramp, she paused to look north. One mile away a canopy of colored lights glittered against the jet sky. Underneath, a few thousand people were enjoying the unique experience of a summer night on a livelier section of Cape Shell's boardwalk. With a slight wind out of the north, she started to imagine she could hear the arcade hawkers and smell the sausage and peppers grilling in the open air. Nameless emotions stirred, bringing back moments from her youth. Moments she'd started to recall at dinner last night with Evan.

Holly clutched the towel to her breast and thought of him with his sunburned ears and his questioning eyes. With his hair lifting and falling on his forehead in a warm breeze . She pressed the towel against her heart and shivered with the next memory: his mouth on hers.

Evan, who'd disturbed her in such an endearing manner. Evan, with his hard, muscled body begging to be touched. Evan, with his voice vibrating nerve endings she'd forgotten she possessed.

Weren't those visions of Evan the reason she'd decided on this midnight swim? She slipped her fingers through her hair and gave a little tug. She could not, she reminded herself, afford to indulge in any more thoughts like that. Thoughts might lead to actions, and actions to reactions. It was easy, so easy, to picture herself in Evan's arms. Turning toward the water, she hurried down the steps and out onto the sand. There was no denying their attraction for each other. Holly kicked hard into the sand. No denying, but no yielding to it, either. Once her unsavory secret was out, he would despise her. Those beautiful blue eyes would turn to steel once he knew the truth. Once everyone did.

Of all she'd been through this past year, she knew instinctively that Evan Jamieson's disapproval would be the one thing to finish her. So one way or another, she was going to stay away from Evan Jamieson.

Moonlight dappled the surface of the ocean invitingly. A bracing plunge and a rough swim would help her forget for awhile. She dropped her towel onto a twisted portion of weathered fence and made a run across the cool sand.

* * *

Finishing a second Creamsicle that night, Evan was heading upstairs for the third time. He was having a hard time falling asleep. The different bed, he told himself. Or maybe it was company business niggling at his mind. Louis Stoddard had insisted Evan was the only person he'd allow contract negotiations with, and so on the second day of his vacation Evan had gone to Stoddard's Manhattan office. The only thing pleasant about the two-hour return drive down the congested Garden State Parkway was that he was heading back to Holly. So he was disappointed when, on his arrival, her cottage was already dark.

For the umpteenth time he found himself glancing out the window on his second-floor landing. He tapped the pane with the clean wooden ice-cream stick. "Wake up," he muttered softly. "I've missed you, Glory Girl."

Bright and beautiful Holly with her secret. What was he letting himself in for? he wondered. Then the memories of her jade-green eyes flashing in anger when she'd seen the poster on his wall, sparkling with relief when he told her she could stay, and closing softly as he kissed her tripped across his mind. Holly with her endlessly long legs. Holly stumbling over the garden hose. Holly's skin beneath his fingers.

Evan chewed the little wooden stick. How had she taken possession of his mind and body in less than forty-eight hours? Evan Allen Jamieson, head of a multimillion-dollar company, a qualified pilot in four different aircraft, and select negotiator to Louis Stoddard, was bewitched, smitten, enchanted, and just plain thunderstruck with the Glory Girl. He was also thirty-seven, divorced, and had not just fallen off the proverbial turnip truck when it came to women.

He rolled his eyes heavenward and pleaded. "A sign, just give me a sign. Something that—"

A noise out on the street interrupted his thoughts, bringing him back to the rational, reasoning person he was. Snapping the ice-cream stick in half, he reminded himself he was not entering puberty. Tomorrow he'd reevaluate Holly's situation. Yes, that was it. Examine the facts coolly, weigh the known against the unknown. Then get to work at uncovering the unknown.

Evan walked down the hall with a new resolve. Things had a way of working out. All he had to do was keep a cool head. And find out who was making all the racket in his front yard. He quickened his steps. Probably just a few teenagers harmlessly celebrating summer.

The shouting got louder.

"Jeese." Was he ever this loud at that age? Entering his bedroom, he strode across celery- colored carpet and pushed open the balcony doors. From his vantage point some fourteen feet above he could see three young men out on the sidewalk. He could also see Holly Hamilton pressing against his privacy fence as she crouched behind a shrub not five feet from the young men.

"Idiot!" one of the boys shouted to another.

"You lost her?" another shouted. "How in Alpha Chi's name could you lose her? I swear you'd lose your—"

Evan reached behind him and flicked on the spotlights. "Excuse me," Evan whispered loudly.

Three faces looked up toward the balcony, their eyes squinting in the spotlight's glare. Evan leaned over the balcony rail and stared down at them. "Could you keep it down? My wife just got the baby to sleep in there," he said, pointing over his shoulder.

Although she was well hidden in the shadows, Evan could see Holly's mouth open then close quickly. Now if she'd only trust him on this, he'd have her safe within the fence in half a minute.

"Sorry," one said. "It's just..."

Another picked up the line. "The Glory Girl. We think we've spotted her, but bat brain here," he said, indicating one of his friends with a punch to his shoulder, "lost her."

Evan leaned over the railing and feigned lusty interest. "Really? The Glory Girl, the one with the, uh..." He traced the traditional feminine form with his hands as Holly glared up at him.

"Yes!" the threesome shouted from below.

Evan nodded, then rocked on his heels. "Well, I did see someone in a bathing suit rush by here a few minutes ago. She got into a, now let me see," he said slowly. "A convertible. That's it, a light-colored Jaguar."

"Which way was it headed?" asked the one rubbing his shoulder.

"Ah, forget it, dork," said another. "She could be anywhere by now." He looked up at Evan. "Thanks. Sorry if we woke your kid."

"No problem," Evan answered back in a stage whisper. He watched them walk to the corner and waited until they'd disappeared around it.

Leaning his elbows on the wrought-iron railing, Evan rested his chin in the cup of his hands and stared down at Holly. Still pressed against the wall, she'd sunk to her haunches and had dropped her forehead against her knees.

"Hello, down there."

Immediately she twisted her head up in his direction and mouthed the words, "Are they gone?"

"Yes."

She struggled to her feet as she brushed leaves and sand from her body. "You don't have to sound so smug."

"I don't, that's true," he said in a purely conversational tone. "Then again, you ought to have seen this from my viewpoint."

Holly sighed. "Well, you may as well double your smugness and get it over with. I forgot my gate key. Hey, aren't you supposed to be in North Jersey or Manhattan?"

"I'm back."

"I can see that!"

"Shhhh. You'll wake the baby...."

Holly pushed her way free of the shrub and onto the sidewalk as she glared up at him again. "You don't have a baby up there."

She was wearing her orange swimsuit, and her hair, still wet from the ocean, clung to her shoulders in thick locks. Sand coated her legs like a dusting of light-brown sugar, and that suit, that suit that reached to the equator, stuck tightly to her body like plastic wrap. Evan sighed.

She stared up at Evan. He hadn't changed his stance; he continued smiling at her. "What are you staring at?" she demanded.

"You."

She wrapped her arms around her waist and, staring down at her toes, her legs, her body, asked indignantly, "What's so funny?"

"You are," he said. He pushed up from the rail.

Funny? He thought she was funny? She shifted her weight from one leg to the other. Should she be upset? she wondered. Or should she be delighted that she'd amused him and he cared enough to tell her so? Somehow she liked making him smile. On some unexplored feminine level it tickled her. She smiled back.

"Holly, why were you swimming alone out there at this time of night? It's dark and dangerous as hell in that water."

He wasn't kidding; his tone was deadly serious now.

"I had to get out of there," she said, pointing over the fence. "I needed the exercise."

"You weren't frightened? Didn't you see that movie about the shark?"

"Evan, I'm a big girl. Right or wrong, I make my own decisions." She was practically shouting at him. If she didn't watch it, the boys would be back chasing her. Quietly she asked, "Could we talk about this inside the gate?"

"Good idea."

In less than a minute he was out of the house and releasing the gate latch. The gate sprang open, and Holly was through it like lightning. Instantly she backed against the fence, spread- eagle fashion.

"I thought I heard someone." She closed her mouth and forced herself to breath deeply through her nose.

"Do you ever do anything calmly?" Staring at her heaving chest, he realized he was feeling anything but calm himself. The thin material of her suit accentuated the swell of her breasts and the pebbly outline of her nipples. The tugging in his gut was starting again. Come to think of it, the tugging had begun the first few moments he'd seen her on the beach and had never completely stopped. And why should it stop? he asked himself. Had she any idea what her uneven breathing was doing to his?

She finally managed a whisper. "I can't remember."

Evan blinked. "Can't remember what?"

"The last time I had a calm moment." Her gaze traveled over his body. "Evan?" she whispered conspiratorially.

The tugging had taken on a wrenching quality. He reached out to trace her cheek with his fingertips and decided in that instant that he liked her best breathless. "What is it?"

The waistband of his pale-blue boxers rested dangerously low on his hips, exposing a vertical line of crisp hair below his navel. "Evan, you're in your underwear."

"I sleep in my underwear." Leaning closer, he inhaled deeply. She smelled of sea water and cherry candy. "What do you sleep in?"

She slept nude and had no intention of telling him. And even if she wanted to, how could she tell him anything with his lips skimming hers?

Evan stepped closer. The cool curves of her breasts pressed against his chest. Her lips were cool and sea salty on his tongue. He probed gently, and her lips parted. Groaning softly, she shifted against the intrusion of his touch. Slipping his hands over her hips, he pulled her closer. "Kiss me, Holly."

Holly pushed slowly off the fence and into his embrace. Evan's arms and the shadows of the night closed around her. Strong arms held her, protected her. No one could hurt her. Not while Evan held her so close and kissed her so deeply. She moaned softly from relief and from desire as she drank in the sensations. With his thighs pressed against hers and the heated flesh of his arms across her back, the rest of the world disappeared. His hard determination was melting her, making it impossible to think of anything but making love with him. But giving in to her own desire and his would complicate their lives. Making love would result in no good for either of them. No matter how badly she desired him, she couldn't do it. To him or to herself.

Here and now he wanted her. To hell with the world, he wanted her so badly it pained him. He slipped his fingers inside the straps of her suit and slid them down her arms.

"No," she whispered, pulling back. She made a business of adjusting the straps of her swimsuit. If she didn't watch it, she'd be trusting him with everything. "This is crazy. I can't."

Taking a step back, he rubbed his hand over his mouth. A slight tremor coursed through his body, and then he was in control again. "You're right. We're not a couple of teenagers." He took a huge breath and smiled at her. "We just feel like them. Come on, let me walk you back to your door where we'll shake hands good night."

"Like on a first date?"

He nodded.

Shaking his hand was safer than kissing him. Unsatisfying, but definitely safer. Evan's kisses were not meant for endings, they were meant for beginnings. She shivered at the delicious thought.

"Are you getting a chill?"

"A little. I dropped my towel when they started chasing me." She rubbed her arms.

"Sorry I don't have my letter sweater to wrap around you." They began a slow stroll across the patio. "I'll remember to bring it on our next date." He pointed back to the attic of the huge house. "My mother's got it packed away up there with—"

"Evan, we can't have a next date. You know I can't..."

"Playing hard to get, are we?"

She decided not to pursue the conversation, even if he was keeping it on a light note. When they arrived at the cottage she reached for the door handle. She was almost home free. Once inside she wouldn't be tempted to give in to the flood of feelings rushing through her. Once inside she wouldn't have to stare at her feet while trying to avoid staring at him. Once inside the temptation of Evan Jamieson would cease.

He reached out to take her hand.

"Holly?"

One more kiss, that's all, she promised herself. Reaching up, she wrapped her fingers around the nape of his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. This time she explored. This time her tongue did an erotic dance inside the warm cavern of his mouth. Quick and hungry and thorough. Then it was over, and she was inside her screen door and heading for her living room.

He clawed the screen. "Hey, I just wanted to shake your hand."

Holly stood stock-still as she listened to Evan whistling "As Time Goes By" while he made his way back across the patio. When he'd slid his door shut, she went into her tiny living room and sat down on the sofa. And laughed. Evan. Precious, sexy Evan. Teasing, intoxicating Evan. Evan. She laughed until the tears slid down her face. And then she began to cry.

###

If you enjoyed this excerpt from **Glory Girl**

and want to read the rest, visit

<http://susanconnellbooks.com/site/books>

for more information

And now for that nibble I mentioned

A Man Like This

Susan Connell

### Chapter 1

Jill Stuart watched Frampton's eyes a moment more, then stole a glance toward the horizon. At most, she had another five minutes before the March sun rose on the island community off Florida's west coast. When had she lost control? She looked down at her scanty attire and immediately took a deep, calming breath. If she worked quickly and carefully, this fiasco would end before anyone in Cinnamon Key spotted her in her nightclothes.

Her thoughts were interrupted by an impatient growl. Pressing a hand to her collarbone, she took a step forward. The small white terrier continued chewing on her silk kimono and was now dragging it with him as he backed away.

Today was not the day for this. Not with little Andy coming. Not with the parrot funeral to plan. And certainly not with her boss, Mr. Merriweather, due for a "surprise" visit.

"Come on, Frampton. Let's go home. I'll give you a treat. I promise, I will."

With his tail wagging like a metronome, Frampton flattened his forelegs to the ground. Lowering his chin to his paws, he shifted his eyebrows as he continued staring at her.

While she studied his moves, Jill sensed the situation coming to a turning point, and the tension between her brows began to ease. She was going to regain control any moment now. Everything was going to be fine. It was simply a matter of reeling him in on the kimono. As she began reaching forward, she measured out her voice—half reasoning, half promising.

"That's right. We'll play a game. We'll—"

His tail slowed to a stop as he raised himself on all fours and stepped back. Jill eased herself down to a crouch and into a slow crawl over the dew-soaked grass. Any second now she'd have him. Any second.

As the sun began filtering through the screen of hibiscus, she winced at her miscalculations. Daylight was upon her, and she was still in her nightclothes pleading with ten pounds of mischief. Her control was slipping again. She closed her eyes to center her scattering thoughts.

"Please come home, Frampton. I'll give you anything you want. Anything."

The dog stopped backing up, cocked his head, and watched with growing curiosity.

So did the man in the window.

With a coffee mug in one hand and his cell phone in the other, Drew Webster pressed his nose against the glass. Who, he wondered, was this blond Venus kneeling in his uncle's backyard? And why was she begging this Frampton guy to come home with her? He lowered the phone and twisted his head until his ear was flat against the glass. And why was she clad only in lingerie?

"Drew? This is important," came the voice over his cell phone. "That casino in Atlantic City has agreed to talk about our proposal for their atrium. I told them we'd get back to them. Drew? Are you there?"

Atriums were the last thing on Drew's mind as he leaned his cheek against the window to get a better look at the mesmerizing tableau outside. She wasn't moving a muscle of her sleek and perfectly tanned body. The only thing in motion was the morning sunlight dancing through her white-blond hair. He smiled. So Venus had white-blond hair. Twisting his head again, he noticed that the pale pink of her boy shorts and lace-edged camisole contrasted rather nicely with the shocking-red hibiscus. Shifting her hips, Venus began reaching out to something or someone beyond the window. His jaw dropped open at the same time one pink strap slipped from her shoulder. Drew set his mug down and pressed his forehead against the window for a better look, but the lady in pink was moving slowly out of sight.

"Right. I'll get back to you, Jeff." Without taking his eyes from the scene outside, Drew clicked off the cell phone and tossed it onto the four-poster behind him. He straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. The last thing he expected to find in his uncle's backyard was a love goddess.

"Frampton, I am not playing anymore," he heard her wail as he opened the door.

She was hitting the grass with her hand. Shaking his head, he quietly crossed the patio to where she was sprawled on her stomach. He moved close enough to notice a bare trace of downy white hair between her shoulder blades and a tiny mole above the band of lace. With only a quick glimpse of her profile, he couldn't see much of her face. White-blond curls parted on the side and reaching just below her ears obscured it. Right now he'd have to be satisfied with the exquisite curves of her body and lean lines of her legs and arms. Lord, she was femininity from head to toes. And all that lovely sun-kissed skin interrupted by nothing more than sexy silk lingerie.

"Please don't run!" Jill lowered her head onto her forearm and hit the ground again. Things were definitely out of control. She should be in her office preparing for Mr. Merriweather's visit. And why had she promised to take little Andy miniature golfing?

Nearby she heard a slider door open, then shut. Several seconds later a pair of oxblood wing tips appeared in her peripheral vision.

"Never beg," instructed a masculine voice above her.

"What?"

"I said, never beg. Besides, he can't be worth it if he has you groveling in the dirt."

"I can't lose him. Shhh." Not bothering to look up at her uninvited adviser, she scrambled on all fours past the patio, then stopped. Sinking back on her heels, she shoved her fists to her hips. "Now you've done it. You've scared him away, and I'll never catch him."

She heard amusement mixed with uncertainty in the man's voice when he replied, "Catch him? Why would he ever want to run from you?"

Jill stood up and brushed the dew from her hands and legs. "It's just a game he likes to play," she said, straining her neck toward the picnic area. Whoever this man was, she wished he would quietly leave. He was breaking her concentration. She picked her kimono off the lawn, gave it a quick shake, and slipped it on. As she was about to turn to confront the stranger, a ball of white fur caught her eye.

"Some game he likes to play," the man remarked. Then, in a tone of disbelief, "A dog?"

Frampton had reappeared from behind a palm, launched himself inches into the air with an energetic bark, and tore off again.

With frantic energy Jill waved her hands in the air. "Not the canal, Frampton," she said in a fierce whisper as she sprinted after the dog.

Dashing through the backyards of Nutmeg Court, Jill recognized the signs of an awakening neighborhood. A few automatic sprinklers were on, and newspapers were already being retrieved from several lawns. One person waved at her. Pretty soon they'd all see her running through their backyards in dishabille and out of control. She began imagining the letters that would be written to Merriweather Development about this incident. She had to put the consequences out of her mind, though, because Frampton had just rounded the gazebo and would be at the canal any moment.

Jill stopped beside the large, bougainvillea-draped structure, trying once again to gather her thoughts and plan a new strategy.

"Is it always so lively around here in the morning?"

Hadn't he gone away yet? "Shhh. Of course not," she whispered.

"I thought Cinnamon Key would have a leash law."

Turning to him, she was about to explain that Cinnamon Key did have a leash law, because she'd written it. What she saw left her tongue attached to the roof of her mouth.

Her first impression was that he didn't belong there. Looking totally out of place in the 90-degree heat, he was still undeniably gorgeous in his three-piece business suit and Italian print tie. He looked as if he'd missed his jet to the polo matches but could call up another anytime he felt like it. That was an easy speculation considering he had the most confident, engaging smile she'd ever seen. Thick chocolate-brown hair swept back and to the side over his smoky topaz eyes. His gaze was magnetic, so magnetic, she couldn't stop staring. Who was this guy? Like a deer trapped in a headlight's beam, she found it impossible to look away. Finally, her gaze drifted down over the rest of his face. There was something roguish about the trace of dark stubble on his chin and jaw and the way it contrasted with the rest of his face.

Appearing to be in his mid thirties, he was too young for a snowbird. So if he wasn't escaping the cold winter season up north, he had to be visiting one of the residents of Cinnamon Key. There was no other explanation. An alarm went off in her brain. No. It couldn't be one of Mr. Merriweather's associates. Suddenly conscious of her nightclothes, she pulled the kimono closer, retied the sash, and smoothed the lapels. He didn't look like the type usually accompanying Mr. Merriweather, but she had to ask anyway.

"You wouldn't be from Merriweather Development, would you?"

"Not unless you wanted me to be."

His outright flirting was disarming, but she forced herself to accept his answer as nothing more than a reprieve. Brushing away a lock of curly hair from her forehead, she sighed loudly. "I have to catch Frampton. What time is it?"

"Right. Frampton."

As he lifted his wrist to check the time, the man was barely concealing his amusement with the mini-drama. Slipping both hands into his pockets, he leaned against the gazebo. "Almost six-thirty. Mind if I watch this?"

The twinkle in his eye was daring her and teasing her at the same time. When she moved the edge of her kimono to cover one knee, his gaze followed her hand, then continued slowly to her toes and back up her body. He'd meant for her to see the appreciation in his eyes. And in his slowly evolving smile. Her own nerve endings were humming with interest. Something delicious was stirring between them. Something rich and real in the perfumed morning air. The laugh lines around his eyes continued deepening. As she began returning his smile, Frampton barked, she blinked, and the moment was gone.

Was she losing her mind? She was standing in her nightclothes letting this stranger flirt with her when she should be off catching Frampton! "I'm sure you must find this all quite amusing. Well, it isn't going to stay funny for long if he reaches the canal," she said, stomping away.

"Forgot his inner tube, did he?"

"Alligators," she shot back over her shoulder. The man suddenly stood to attention.

"Alligators? What alligators?"

"The Cinnamon Key Wildlife Sanctuary backs up to this community. The alligators are always swimming into our part of the canal and—Frampton!"

The little white dog rounded the gazebo and ran between them, punctuating every other step with a bark. He was like a windup toy wound too tightly. He also appeared to be having the time of his life.

Drew sized up the situation, which was close to chaotic. "To the right!" he shouted.

In a matter of seconds he headed off the dog, sending him straight to the lady in pink. Her look of relief as she scooped up the small bundle of white fur was a visual delight. She was patting the happy creature, her pink nail polish and tanned fingers making an interesting contrast against the dog's back. With the tips of her fingers sunk into the white fur, it made Drew think of snow and Christmas. He began imagining her hand resting against his ski-sweatered chest. Then he pictured her hand drifting down—

Breaking into his thoughts, he heard her scold, "Bad dog, Frampton." Any corrective effect was lost when she allowed the dog to lick her chin. With relief still evident in her blue-green eyes, she looked up at him. "Thanks. I'm sorry, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Jill Stuart, the sales manager and resident liaison here at Cinnamon Key."

"Drew Webster. You're probably the person I want to see. I'm here visiting my uncle. Maybe you know him. Ralph Webster?"

Her thick blond brows lifted in amusement. "You're Ralph's nephew? You're little Andy?"

He pressed his hands together, then opened them and shrugged. "What can I say? I've had a growth spurt."

He certainly had. His broad shoulders didn't come from a padded suit, and that impish grin held a degree of sensuality that didn't quite fit the seven-year-old she was expecting.

"When he told me his nephew, Andy, was coming for a visit, I volunteered to help keep you busy. I'm supposed to take you golfing this afternoon. He didn't expect you until later."

He walked alongside her. His height, somewhere over six feet, was perfect for blocking her five-feet-eight-inch frame from Mr. Hernandez's line of vision.

Drew slid his hands into his pockets once again. After a sideways glance at her he decided not to touch her remark about keeping him busy. Sooner or later, though, he'd remind her of her promise to Uncle Ralph. "I was through with my business meetings in Atlanta earlier than I expected. Luckily, I was able to catch a ride on a friend's company jet at four this morning." Rubbing his chin, he began to add, "I didn't even take time to—"

She slapped a hand across his chest. "Don't move."

"I beg your pardon?" He looked at her hand and was instantly reminded of the image he'd had several minutes ago. Her pink-polished nails were a feminine counterpoint to the firm pressure she kept up against his shirt and tie.

"Oh, no." Wrapping her fingers around the knot in his tie, she led him behind a storage shed. "Sorry," she said, letting go of his tie. "Mr. Hernandez was about to see me." Covering her bottom lip with the edge of her teeth, she peeked around the corner of the building and held her breath. After a moment she slouched against the wall and exhaled. "Okay, he's gone. I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

Standing closer, Drew braced a hand on the wall next to her head. Frampton sniffed suspiciously. "Just that Uncle Ralph left his key and a note with the gatehouse guard. Seems he and a friend are in Miami. They're due back this afternoon. So-o-o..."

"So?" she asked as she watched his serious expression turn into a challenging grin.

"So what are we going to do to keep me busy?"

Her breath caught in her throat when all sorts of delicious images presented themselves to her. As if he were reading her mind, his eyebrows lifted in pretended shock. Ducking under his arm, she came out on the other side of him. When he looked over his shoulder, she was already backing away. "You're a big boy, Mr. Webster. And I have work to do. Thanks again for helping with Frampton."

"I'll walk you."

"No." She was hurrying now. "I mean, please don't go to that trouble."

"Wait. What about our golf date?"

"Tell Ralph I'm canceling that reservation at Rex World."

"Rex World?"

"He suggested I take little Andy miniature golfing."

"Then by all means don't disappoint little Andy," he called after her. "He loves miniature golfing."

She put a finger to her lips to quiet him. "I don't," she said, teasing him back. "I've really got to get Frampton home and then get ready for work."

"Jill?"

"Yes?"

He waited the longest time before answering. "What would you really like to do today?"

There it was again. That sensual challenge in his voice that belied the innocence of his words and stirred up the butterflies low in her belly. "To keep my job," she said, darting behind a house as its resident came out and hung up a bird cage on his carport. She waited for the man to go inside again before pulling on her robe. "I work here, Drew. This is getting embarrassing."

He nodded once as a businesslike tone returned to his voice. "Is your office in the building by the main gate?"

"Yes. Twenty-one Cinnamon Circle."

"I'd like to come up later and talk to you about something. Uncle Ralph's concerned about a problem he—"

"A problem? Is there something wrong with Ralph? He isn't ill, is he?"

"No. It's a security matter."

A security matter? That was all she needed on top of everything else. "What kind of security matter?"

"Hi, Jill. I like your new clothes."

Another resident had discovered her. Rolling her eyes, she lifted one of the little dog's paws, on her index finger, to wave it. "Frampton got out," she explained.

Returning her gaze to Drew, she felt her stomach contract. And not from hunger. Or the possibly worrisome situation he was about to explain. He was smiling at her. It wasn't a smug smile, or even the kind that enjoyed another's discomfort. It was the kind of smile that begged you to see the humor inherent in the moment and enjoy it with him. She bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. He had her attention once again. All of her attention.

"You're a very popular lady around here," he said, strolling closer. "Tell me, should I take a ticket and wait my turn?"

His voice was deep and masculine, curling around her like a warm caress. Every fiber of her being locked into the intimacy of the moment. The humid air took on a misty quality, and only the light in his smoky topaz eyes shone through.

Something was happening to her, something warm and alive and—Frampton struggled in her tightening embrace. She blinked and looked down at the little dog. Rescued from the evolving fantasy, she felt the sting of a blush on her face. "What kind of security matter?" she repeated as Drew caught up with her.

"He thinks one of his neighbors is being systematically burglarized."

Jill amazed herself by keeping her lower jaw in the up position. He'd managed to melt her bones, then turn her stone-cold, both inside of one minute. Presenting a calm exterior to this man would be a minor miracle. She shook her head, fighting the crazy idea of crime in Cinnamon Key. "Someone would have reported a burglary to me. I'm sure there's been a mistake."

He shook his head firmly. "Not according to Uncle Ralph. Seems it's happened several times over the past three months."

She shook her head again. "This can't be true. Ralph has simply misinterpreted something." Of course it wasn't true, but a tiny shiver rippled through her body anyway. The mere thought of a burglary at Cinnamon Key was enough to make anyone shiver. Or was it that Drew Webster was moving closer?

"I know Uncle Ralph, and he's not the type to misinterpret this sort of thing. He's one of the most levelheaded people around." He ran his fingers through his thick, straight hair, combing it back from his forehead. "Look, I've come here because I'm very fond of him. I hate seeing him distressed, especially at his age. Jill, he's seventy-two years old, and I wouldn't want him to be next."

"Of course you wouldn't. Neither would I. But I find it seriously hard to believe there's a crime wave in progress here. My fingers are on the pulse of this community. These people are like family to me."

He reached out to give a gentle tug on the dog's whiskers. The dog responded with a playful nip. With his thumb still in Frampton's mouth, Drew looked up.

"Then you can appreciate my concern for my uncle."

His steady gaze and serious expression shook her confidence. Maybe, just maybe, he was onto something that had escaped her attention. "Yes, I do appreciate your concern. Just who did Ralph say is the victim?"

"He didn't tell me."

When the backs of his fingers brushed her wrist, he left them there. The continuing contact was sending sparks flying through her, disorienting her. "How long will you be visiting Ralph?"

"I think I could stretch this visit into a week or more... with a little encouragement."

A week. A whole luscious week with Drew Webster down the street. What a provocative idea. She looked down at where his fingers were rubbing against her wrist.

"Jill, I'd hate to think of anyone in danger here. I want to help."

Danger?

Help?

His friendly attitude coupled with his determined sensuality had her breaking a sweat. Temptation never looked or felt so good. Then that old panic began spiraling in her stomach, and something akin to a warning flare went off inside her. The burgeoning sensations suddenly imploded to one nugget of truth. Right now Drew Webster was the danger. No matter that she felt herself drawn to him, she couldn't afford the luxury of seeing where the attraction could lead. She'd been disappointed by people before, and she wasn't about to take that risk again. Long ago she'd learned not to need anyone for anything; she'd learned to depend on herself. Wrapping her arms firmly around Frampton, she stepped away. She didn't know how she was going to do it, but she was going to check out his burglary story and avoid him at the same time. "There's really no need for you to stay the whole week. No one's in danger here, and if someone were, I'd take care of it. I take care of all the problems at Cinnamon Key. That's my job."

She turned away from him as he narrowed his eyes and scratched his chin. Heading for the side yard, she could feel him staring at her. Controlling her desire to run, she walked across the street to Barbara Brody's house. There were other things to occupy her mind besides Drew Webster. Like getting Barbara's dog home.

Barbara met her at the door of her screened porch.

"Jill." The older woman pressed a fistful of pearl necklaces to her breast. "Where did you find him?"

"I was out on my balcony having my morning coffee when I spotted him trotting toward the gatehouse."

"I had no idea he'd gotten out," Mrs. Brody said, looping the opera-length strings around the fingers of one hand. Taking the dog from Jill, she hugged him to her chin. "I know what a handful this little maniac can be once he gets going, and I can't thank you enough for bringing him back. I was up early this morning cleaning some jewelry and completely forgot about him."

While Barbara showered Frampton with embarrassing attention, Jill looked toward Ralph Webster's house. "It did take a little longer to catch him than I expected."

"Well, won't you come in for some coffee, dear? You probably didn't get a chance to finish yours." The dog looked up from Mrs. Brody's arms and barked.

"Thanks for the offer, but I have to get back and dressed for work." She turned for the door, stopping before her hand reached the doorknob. "Mrs. Brody, how well do you know Ralph Webster?"

"Rather well. He's in my bridge club, and I've had him over several times for dinner. Why do you ask?"

The last thing she wanted to do was alarm the older woman. Recently widowed, Barbara Brody was trying valiantly to put her life back together. Unwarranted speculations about neighborhood crime would only cause the older woman needless worry. Still, Jill felt an obligation to the community to put Drew Webster's words to rest permanently. "I, uh, just met his nephew, and I was wondering if Ralph had ever said anything to you about him."

Barbara's exaggerated expression was meant to tease. "Andy? You met little Andy in your nightclothes?"

"He's no little Andy. He's probably in his mid thirties and likes to be called Drew. What has Ralph said about him?"

"Not much. Only that he's from up North and Ralph doesn't see him often enough. They do talk on the phone at least once a week. Seems the boy's very involved in expanding his business." Barbara ran her fingertips over the little dog's nose. "For what this is worth, Jill, he's divorced. No children."

"Lots of people are divorced, Barbara," said Jill, a bit too quickly.

Tilting her head to one side, Barbara looked up at Jill. "So, what do you think of him?"

"He's... very interested in his uncle." Jill fixed her eyes on the pearls while she tried to figure out a way to slip in a question about the alleged burglaries. "He wants to make sure Ralph is safe here in Cinnamon Key. Isn't that funny? I mean, who doesn't feel safe in Cinnamon Key?"

While Barbara patted the back of her neatly chignoned hair, the strings of pearls dangled from her fingers, clicking softly. "I can't imagine."

"You've never seen anyone or anything suspicious around the neighborhood, have you?"

"Of course not, dear. Nothing of a suspicious nature happens here. But if it ever did, I'd call you immediately, and you'd take care of it."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jill nodded. "You've always taken care of things so well, Jill."

Frampton barked, it seemed for emphasis, and the two women laughed.

"That's right, Frampton," Jill said, shaking her finger at the dog. "I take care of all the problems at Cinnamon Key. That's my job."

###

If you enjoyed this excerpt from **A Man Like This**

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Trouble in Paradise

Susan Connell

### Chapter 1

"I've heard of 'going native,' but isn't this pressing the point?"

The voice was distinctly disapproving, close to his hammock, and utterly female. Reilly Anderson lifted his hat enough to see an expensive pair of high-heeled shoes and a take-me-to-heaven set of legs beside him on the veranda. He had to be dreaming. Legs like these weren't seen in the rain forests of Central America. He knew. He'd looked.

"Have you lost your voice along with your mind?" she asked impatiently.

Reilly stirred. So he wasn't dreaming after all. "Who wants to know?"

He heard her gasp.

"Tony? Tony, is that you?"

The hem of her white linen skirt slid up her thighs as she leaned down to peek under his hat. Twisting her head to get a better look at his face, she narrowed her gaze indignantly.

"You're not Tony," he heard her say over the roar of the float plane's engine. "I'm looking for Tony Church."

Reilly stared back at China-blue eyes and what could be the most gorgeous woman he'd seen in eight months. He wasn't sure, because she continued her accusing stare from a peculiar angle. Everything else seemed to confirm his suspicion, though. Tendrils of blond hair were slipping from her topknot and drooping like damp ribbons around her earrings, high cheekbones, and dewy complexion. Because she was bending at the waist, her necklace hung below her chin and away from her clingy silk blouse. Then there were those lips, shimmering like her stockinged legs but peach-colored, pouty, and... He closed his eyes, frowning at the physical reaction she'd triggered in him. She definitely belonged in his dreams, but she didn't belong at the Paradise Hotel.

Not if she was looking for Tony Church.

Throughout his perusal the float plane's roaring takeoff wiped out every sound. She'd been trying to ask him something and when he finally heard her, she was shouting. "Can you tell me where I can find him?"

Dropping his hat on the floor of the veranda, Reilly straddled the hammock and sat up. With less than a month to go, this was all he needed. An insistent outsider poking her pert little nose around for Tony. "What makes you think he's here?"

His deliberately quiet response startled her. Straightening up, she smoothed the long, thin strap of her shoulder bag. When she'd regained her composure and was about to speak, her gaze wandered to a place below his face. Her smile faded as her lips parted to take in a breath.

Reilly looked down to make certain his fly was zipped. No surprise there. Hell, except for nature calls, he hadn't had it unzipped for months. He looked up at her again and guessed his clothes were causing her gaping stare. The faded Hawaiian shirt with the ripped-out sleeves and no buttons had seen better days. "I said, what makes you think Tony Church is here?"

"I, uh..." she began. Blinking, she looked out toward the river. Her voice was suddenly businesslike. "The young boy I spoke to at the dock—you see? There he is now. When I asked about Tony, he pointed up here to the veranda. I thought you were Tony." She looked him squarely in the eye this time. "Obviously you couldn't be."

"Obviously," he agreed dryly, turning his head toward the water.

A barefoot, shorts-clad ten-year-old was doing his best to half drag, half carry three suitcases over the wooden walkway leading to the hotel. The boy staggered to the stairs with a smile plastered across his face. Reilly winked at him, then returned his attention to the woman. She had managed a smile, too, but it was sliding away as the boy dropped a piece of her luggage.

She reached out her hands in a vain attempt to caution him. "If you could be a little more careful with those, I'd appre—" She winced as each piece banged against the wide steps. "—ciate it." Under her breath she whispered to Reilly. "Can't you help him? He's so small."

Small, yes, but Reilly had seen him carry thirty-pound bundles balanced on his head. Still, her voice was tinged with concern. He checked out her legs again as he spoke. "Chico."

As his brown toes reached the veranda, Chico turned toward the hammock. "Yes, Reilly?"

"Don't carry so many at the same time."

"Okay, Reilly." The boy opened his arms and let the luggage drop. One of the suitcases hit the edge and popped open, scattering its contents while tumbling back down the steps.

"My clothes!" Hurrying by the boy, she headed down the steps, grabbing up her belongings as she went.

Reilly raised his eyebrows as the boy moved toward the hammock. "We've got to work on this bellhop thing, Chico."

Chico nodded earnestly. "Three suitcases, Reilly," he whispered, holding up three fingers. "She is good for business. We'll be good to this lady, Reilly. Then this one won't go away fast like the others. She will spend lots of money. No?"

Reilly eased his gaze from the seat of her white linen suit. He frowned, thinking about the complications her presence would bring to at least two areas of his life. His work and his libido.

"She won't be around long enough. And you won't, either, if you don't get a set of bed linens over to Room Two. _Rapido_."

As the boy scurried into the hotel, Reilly stood up, swung a leg over the hammock, and made his way across the veranda. The leggy blonde didn't look up. Flowery silk nightgowns, several swimsuits, and enough pastel panties and bras to fuel his dreams for a decade disappeared back into the suitcase. He sighed. She was moving way too fast, and he was enjoying the show way too much.

"I didn't catch the name," he said, heading down the steps. He surveyed the scene, then reached for something pink and lacy and intimate. Whatever the article was, the sheer material would surely dissolve in the afternoon rains.

"Please don't touch those," she said, snatching whatever it was from beneath his fingers. She continued gathering up the rest of her belongings. How many of those things had she packed? he wondered.

As if she'd heard the unvoiced question, she raised her head. Her glance landed on his bare chest, moved up to his face, and then veered sharply to the right. She was frowning again, and he knew why even before he looked at the hotel's sign behind him.

"Kind of takes your breath away, doesn't it?"

She shook her head. "I've never seen anything like it."

When he'd taken over the Paradise Hotel eight months ago, he'd had to pit his immediate goal against his years of marketing experience to leave the sign the way he'd found it. The results of the humid climate and parrot droppings had all but obliterated the red and gold letters, turning the thin wooden rectangle into something resembling a prop from a bad B-film. The realist in him had won out over his executive ego, and the sign had remained in its original deteriorating state.

"I'm trying my best to keep us out of the travel guides."

"I don't think you'll have much trouble there," she said dryly.

Shaking his head, Reilly pulled on his ponytail and snorted with amusement. The Paradise Hotel wasn't what he had in mind when he'd studied at the Wharton School, but he had to admit that he'd developed a soft spot for the place. Probably his brain, he concluded wryly. What the hell? If the dilapidated structure didn't have charm, it certainly had atmosphere. And the rain forest, still standing, leant it an exotic backdrop.

In an unguarded moment he turned to the woman beside him. From the roll of her eyes he knew she wouldn't be sticking around for long. Clearly she didn't share his feeling about the place. Good, he told himself while trying to absorb the small bump she'd delivered to the executive side of his ego. Yeah. Right. Fine with him. She looked like trouble anyway, and trouble was something he didn't need at this stage of the project.

He took a half-smoked cigar from his pocket and slid it between his teeth. If she disapproved of his shirt, he couldn't wait for her next reaction.

"Maybe I shouldn't hide this little jewel. I think I will get postcards made," he said, holding a match to the shredded end of the cigar. He drew in enough to turn the tip orange, and when she finally turned to him , he tried out his grin, the snaky one Chico assured him made children in the nearby village hiccup. Removing the cigar, he waved it toward the building. "Welcome to the Paradise Hotel. I'm Reilly Anderson." He rubbed his hairy chest, then extended his hand, palm up. "I didn't wear my tie."

"I noticed," she said with ladylike contempt. Taking a business card from her purse, she placed it in his hand. "I'm Allison Richards."

Without a glance he slipped the card into the torn shirt pocket and his cigar between his teeth.

And then the staring contest began.

It lasted too long. In that steady, China-blue stare he met his match. And he didn't like it. Especially since the mirrored determination came packaged in feathery framed eyes, a resolute tilt of a chin, and a mouth that he sensed was capable of constantly surprising him—if he let it. And then of course only in his dreams. Her look continued boring into him with enough feminine energy to blitz every masculine circuit in his six-foot-two-inch frame.

It was his turn to look away. What was happening to him? Heatstroke? He was feeling peculiarly disoriented. He almost expected to look down and see himself standing in a boardroom in his business suit and power tie instead of on a rotting wooden walkway in khaki shorts and half a shirt. Drawing on the cigar, he reminded himself that disapproval was what he'd spent the last eight months courting from anyone wandering into the Paradise Hotel. Why was he allowing her disapproval to get to him? For safety's sake he allowed himself to look at her shoes while he thought about it. But he couldn't keep his gaze from its upward journey. When he got past her hips and those perfectly shaped, just-big-enough breasts, he was no closer to an answer. In fact he wasn't sure of the question.

"Mr. Anderson, I have my reservations—"

He looked at her face. "We don't make reservations."

"I meant, I have misgivings about staying here. But since the plane left already, I'll have to spend the night."

"I think I can fit you in," he said as she scanned the ground for any stray possessions. He could understand wanting her in that instant, sexual way any man would want her. Even with the humidity at one hundred percent, her hair straying around her cheeks, and the sheen of perspiration lighting her brow, she still managed to look as if she'd been sculpted from a breath mint. He could even understand his uneasiness about her asking for Tony Church. One wrong word on that subject, and they could all end up in the river. What he couldn't understand was the frisson of alarm bounding merrily through his body. Pulling the cigar from his mouth, he muttered a sibilant curse. Eight relatively uneventful months had gone by, and with less than one to go, she walked in. There was trouble in paradise, and he had to get rid of it. Fast. Picking up a can of hair spray she'd missed, he _tsked_ several times. "The mosquitoes love this stuff."

"Thank you." She snatched the can from his fingers, tossed it in with the rest of her belongings, and closed her suitcase. "We were talking about Tony Church, Mr. Anderson. It's very important that I find him."

Beyond the clearing a howler monkey let loose with a leaf-shaking growl. Allison Richards's purposeful expression softened as she scanned the jungle around them. Reilly didn't miss the growing excitement shimmering in her eyes. The first time most people heard a howler this near, they usually started from the sound. By the look on her face she was hoping for a chorus.

Perturbed at the pleasure her reaction was providing him, Reilly wrinkled his brow and tried sizing her up again. This time he vowed to do it more analytically.

She was on the thin side, but definitely fit-looking. Health-club-fit-looking, no doubt. Those silky pastel scraps she'd returned to her suitcase were bound to look like cellophane candy wrappers hugging her—Whoa! Pinching the bridge of his nose, he forced his thoughts to the other mind-blowing subject she'd presented him.

"What makes you think Tony Church is here?"

Looking back at him, she was all business again. "His letter. The return address was the Paradise Hotel, in care of Selva Verde Airlines. I know he's been here."

"Well, he's gone."

"Mr. Anderson—"

"Reilly."

"Reilly." She offered him an economy smile, the one she probably reserved for the mail boy or her pedicurist. "Where did he go, and how do I get there?"

Allison clasped her hands behind her back and held on for dear life as Reilly Anderson's gaze roamed over her again. And again. Lord, she hoped he wouldn't stroke his chest anymore. Whether he realized it or not, each pass of his hand was an invitation for her to follow suit. Once she felt those tight curls spring back beneath _her_ fingers, she'd want to test his biceps with a squeeze and run her knuckles over his smoothly shaved chin and cheeks. While her attention was focused on his face, she'd most certainly have to test those lips with her own. A quick, hard kiss to knock his socks off, if he'd been wearing any.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Perfectly all right," she assured him while her heart continued ricocheting off the insides of her rib cage. But everything wasn't all right. Something about Reilly Anderson's blunt attitude had shaken her composure. While she was trying to figure out how that had happened, a long-forgotten image began fighting its way to her consciousness. She couldn't quite make it out. Tucked away for years, the image continued calling out to her for recognition, demanding attention to a once-familiar scenario. More confused than ever, she struggled to understand the meaning behind the shred of memory and why it connected to this moment. And to Reilly Anderson. The image started gathering momentum, but Reilly's compelling presence challenged it every step of the way. The tug-of-war continued for several disturbing seconds. Pressing her fingers to her temple, she looked toward the jungle.

Reilly broke the spell. "It's the heat up here," he explained. "Follow me." Picking up her suitcase, he returned to the veranda and picked up two more.

Forcing the memory back, she hurried up after him. He was right. Of course it was the heat. No one was calling her. Reaching for the screen door, she jerked back when he kicked it open and went inside. As he tossed her suitcases into the corner of the lobby, she bit back a groan. She hadn't survived that river landing in a one-engine float plane only to have Reilly Anderson stop her search. He knew something about Tony, and she wasn't going to blow her chances of finding out what by whining over scuffed luggage.

Following him through a pair of saloon-style doors, she walked into the Paradise Bar and Grill. At least that's what the unlit neon sign advertised. The place looked more like a storage area for used and abused bar furnishings. Even the overhead paddle fan dipped and swayed like a warped record album.

"Name your poison," he said, ducking under the bar and popping up on the other side.

"A lemonade, if you have it." He gave her a skeptical look as she slipped onto a barstool and crossed her legs. "Perhaps iced tea, then?"

"Perhaps not. Better make it bottled water or beer." After mashing his cigar in an empty peanut can, he pointed over his shoulder at a modest array of recognizable labels. "I don't offer my hard stuff until after sundown."

His hard stuff. After sundown. Inside and out she melted a little more. Swallowing with effort, she took her time wrapping the strap around her purse before placing it on the bar. Sure, all Reilly's body parts spelled stud with a capital S, but there had to be a better explanation for this overwhelming fascination. Squirming on the barstool, she reminded herself that she always stayed clear of such an irritating type of man. She settled instead for—no, that wasn't right—socialized with a more intellectual type of man. A responsible type. At the very least, a civilized man, who wore shoes and had buttons on his shirt and used them. And never, never wore his hair in a ponytail.

Trying to avoid looking at him, she thought long and hard about her present state. There had to be a deeper reason why desire was flooding through her like a rushing river. Fanning herself with her one hand, she decided to blame this mix of fascination and desire on the humidity. Didn't everyone blame things on the humidity when they didn't want to think about... deeper things? "Perrier would be fine."

"Yes, it certainly would," he said, pulling a nondescript bottle from the bar's refrigerator. "But all I can offer you is our house brand." He presented it for her inspection as if it were a bottle of fine wine. "Cholera free and cold."

_Goad on_ , she wanted to tell him. _You're not going to win. As vice president of mortgage loans I've been goaded by the best. And I don't want to like you anyway!_ Okay, so that attitude was childish, but Lord, how she wanted to shout it.

"See?" he said, tapping the bottle with one finger. "It has all those tiny bubbles too."

She saw. Like the proverbial jungle cat in those documentaries on the Discovery channel, he lazed around his lair in the midday heat, sleek and deceptively mellow. When the time came for action, she knew, he'd spring to it like an arrow from a bow. Direct and dangerous. Touching her fingers to her brow, she pulled in a long breath. The last thing she wanted to do was put herself into a situation she wasn't prepared to deal with. Not on any level. Reilly Anderson might be her only link to Tony. She couldn't risk losing that link over another smart-ass retort.

"Yes, I see," she said, keeping her voice neutral. The tension between them continued tightening. How was he doing that? How was he reaching inside her with nothing but those big green eyes and shaking the very core of her? She pressed her lips together, willing herself not to respond, but he had already hit his target. She looked at him again, letting the smile creep slowly up her face before she spoke.

"What more could a girl ask for?" Taking the glass container from him, her fingers brushed his. Her gaze drifted down to the big, strong hands that had cradled the bottle. Tiny scars and a few calluses couldn't hide their sensual potential. They waited, open and empty and more than capable of answering her last question.

"You tell me," he said, locking into her gaze.

"Just a clean glass, but I don't think I'd offend anyone if I drank straight from the bottle."

He leaned back against the low cabinet behind him and folded his arms. "Knock yourself out."

Unscrewing the cap, she lifted the bottle to her lips and drank. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was until she'd finished half the water. When she started to lower the bottle, she realized he'd been staring at her. The air in the room suddenly thickened, slowing her movements. She wiped her lips, and his green eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Go ahead," he said, daring her with a dip of his chin to take the bottle once more to her lips. "There's more where that came from."

She knew he was trying to unnerve her and that the only way to win this round was to accept his dare and finish the water. She also understood that by wrapping her lips around the bottle a second time, she'd be a willing party to an erotic charade. A charade he wanted her to perform for him again. She meant to slam the bottle on the bar, but in that same instant something arced between them. Something strong and vital and more stimulating than the touch of any of her lovers—few though they had been. She started to raise the bottle, but his eyes suddenly darkened. Pushing off the cabinet, he swiped it from her hand before it touched her lips.

"Slow down," he demanded, trying to hide the fact that he was breathing harder than he should have been.

She let what she knew was a shocked expression remain on her face. So he felt this desire, this fascination too. The knowledge invaded her body with a drugging heat, or maybe that came from his closeness. Just inches away. "Why?" she whispered. "It's so good."

He leaned toward her. Her eyelids fluttered shut. When she opened them a second later, he'd moved back, suddenly standing tall again. "Because I don't want you puking all over the bar."

That explanation brought her to her senses. It also appeared to bring Reilly Anderson to his. He kept his hips pressed to the bar as he picked her card out of his pocket. "So tell me, Ms. Allison Richards, vice president of mortgage loans, why are you looking for Tony Church? Did he miss a house payment?"

"It's a personal matter."

"Yeah?"

"Do you know where he is?"

"Maybe I do and maybe I don't."

Without breaking their connected gaze, she pushed off the barstool and tucked her purse under her arm. "Forget I ever awakened you from your nap. I'm sure there's someone around here capable of answering my questions if you aren't."

The staccato sound of her heels filled his ears as she walked across the barroom and out the saloon doors. The sound tapped into a dormant part of him, stirring his competitive nature. Adrenaline surged through his veins as that neat linen suit covering her backside continued baiting him. For one strange instant the past eight months vanished, and he was back at Taylor Pharmaceuticals moving and shaking with the best of them. Could this be true? Did he miss his pinching collars? Coffee in a paper cup? A good scrap about profit margins? He would muse over those things later. Not now. He wasn't through with Allison. "You'll be wasting your breath, Mzzzzz Richards."

"No more than I'm wasting it with you," she shouted back. "And how do I get a room around here?"

He ducked under the bar and joined her in the lobby. "You sign that book and follow me," he said, picking up her suitcases. He watched her flip through the pages, lingering over a few near the end. When she began signing her name, he shifted the weight of the suitcases and turned to the door. "Don't bother filling in the rest of those blanks. I have your card. That's all I need."

She turned around and shrugged at the back of his head. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Beats me," he said, managing the veranda door with his toes.

"Can I use my cell phone up here," she asked, reaching into her purse and catching the door at the same time.

"You could if we had service up here. Sometimes the house phone works."

"Sometimes," she echoed.

She followed along, staring first at his hopelessly broad shoulders and the balling muscles of his arms and then at his behind, tight and compact—and begging for a pinch. Her eyes widened at the audacious thought. She'd never pinched a man's butt, but if she were so inclined, this was the butt to pinch. She couldn't help herself. She snorted a giggle and then another.

"Something funny back there?" he asked, turning the corner on the veranda.

"No."

He stopped at the second door and motioned with his chin for her to open it. Following her in, he dumped her suitcases on the floor. "Just a word of caution. People come to San Rafael for many reasons. Maybe Tony came to get away from something. Maybe he came to forget someone."

"Is that why you're here?" she asked.

_If she only knew_. He ignored the question. "Maybe Tony Church doesn't want to be found."

"Too bad, because, come hell or high water, I'm going to find him." She gave him her sweetest smile as she tossed her purse on the dresser.

"You're one determined woman," he said, shaking his head.

"I know Tony, and he'll want to hear what I have to tell him."

Reilly felt a trickle slide down his back. Damn heat. He reached to rub a low point on his spine. The trickling sensation continued even after he stopped rubbing. "Leave the message with me. I'll give it to him... if he passes through here again."

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

He shut the door with a backward push from his foot. Moving a step closer, he lowered his voice. "I'll be discreet."

"I doubt that."

"Come on. What's this all about, Allison? What brought you all the way to San Rafael?" He leaned in close, but this time her eyelids didn't flutter shut. "What's the big secret? Is he in trouble with the law?"

She shook her head. "No, Reilly. He's going to be a daddy."

"What?!"

Reilly Anderson couldn't have looked more shocked if she'd sucker-punched him in the stomach. Or was it possible that his dazed expression was one of disappointment? Whatever was going on behind those deep-green eyes of his, she decided not to gloat. Reilly still hadn't told her what she needed to know. Perhaps this news would spur him to talk. "I said Tony Church is going to be a daddy."

His mouth opened and shut several times before he spoke. "How? I mean, when's the baby due?"

"In about four months."

"Four months?" he asked, staring at the neat gold belt buckle lying flat against her middle. "But you don't look pregnant."

"What? Not me, you idiot. My sister. He's married to my sister."

His dumbfounded expression turned to relief and then to doubt. "Tony never said anything about impending fatherhood."

"Of course not," she said, taking in the scene around her. Clean, folded sheets and a pillowcase lay on the unmade bed, a flashlight stood upright on the nightstand, and nothing large and leggy crawled in or out of anything. Convinced she could survive the night in this place, her gaze returned to Reilly. Her gaze always returned to Reilly.

"Allison, what do you mean by 'of course not'"?

"I mean, Susan didn't find out she was pregnant until after he'd left."

Raising his eyebrows, Reilly kept them up for several seconds before speaking. "How long after he left?"

"What kind of a question is that? Are you implying that my sister would lie about this?"

He ran his hand over his sleek hair and ponytail, then forced an apologetic grin across his face. "Sorry about that. Really." He cleared his throat. "So, how is Susan doing? Everything okay?"

This was an interesting turn. Reilly Anderson asking after her pregnant sister. She began answering without trying to hide her suspicion. "Everything's fine. A healthy textbook case, her obstetrician says." Adjusting her watch, she hesitated before telling him anymore. For once, instinct overrode her cautious nature, urging her to trust him. "Susan and Tony love each other very much. They just had a misunderstanding that somehow got out of control. Probably had a lot to do with all those hormones charging up in her." She wrinkled her nose. "You know how it is."

He wrinkled his. "No, I don't."

All those soft, sweet feelings welling up in her breast disappeared with his patronizing imitation of her. Off guard and confused, she mumbled, "Oh. Well, I don't either. I've just heard things." Damn him. Probably the only thing he knew about pregnancy was how to start one.

She watched him pull his hands down over his face and sigh with unnamable frustration. "Go home."

"Not on your life."

He gave her one long, unreadable look as rain suddenly banged onto the tin roof. "Drinks are at six, dinner... whenever," he said over the clattering noise above them.

Reaching for her wrist, he brought it close to his mouth. For a second she thought he was going to kiss the back of her hand. Instead he took a look at her watch, running his thumb along the delicate gold bangle, then capturing the mother-of-pearl face between his fingers. Allison, however, wasn't looking at her watch. The hand holding it and her wrist had captured her attention. The corded back of it was wide and tanned with a recent history written in fresh nicks and several scratches. Such a beautifully masculine hand; she'd never felt quite so fragile. With her heart booming loud enough to drown out the rain, those mysterious images were on the move again. As if it were an old tune fading in and out of her consciousness, she strained to hear the words, but no one was singing.

"That's in two hours," he was saying. Letting go of her wrist, he headed for the door. "You can share my bathroom. Just lock my door when you're in there and don't forget to unlock it when you're through."

"Just a minute. Did you say I could share your bathroom?"

With one hand on the door he turned around, bracing his fist on his hip. She sounded as if he'd invited her to commit murder with him. "Hey. I don't offer to share it with just anyone. If you don't think you can keep your things picked up in there, tell me now."

"Doesn't this room come with its own bath? I mean, I've never stayed in a hotel room without its own bath." Panicking now and not caring that he knew, she concluded, "I've never had to share a bathroom with a... strange man."

Reilly bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "Besides the public facility near the bar, there's only one other working bathroom. It's on the opposite side of the hotel. If you think I'm that strange, you can share with Reverend Phillips and the Bartolino sisters. And Mr. Garfield, when he's around."

"Who?" she asked, touching her temples. She gave him a tired shake of her head. "Never mind. I don't want to know. I'm sorry I asked."

Reilly watched her sink wearily onto her bed. Her travel and her troubles appeared to be catching up with her. She stared at her shoes, then leaned over to wipe dust from the tip of the taupe-colored leather. When she raised her head to look around the room, he fought his inclination to give her a gentle hug. She looked as if she needed one. Cripes, with one word of encouragement she'd probably wrap her arms around him and cry. And then regret it. "Take a nap. Meanwhile I'll see if I can find the mosquito netting for this room," he said, going out and shutting the door.

### Chapter 2

As he stuck paper umbrellas in the Bartolino sisters' drinks, he heard Allison coming along the veranda. He wasn't the only one who heard her. That purposeful stride, punctuated by her heels, was announcing her imminent arrival to everyone in the Paradise Bar and Grill. Six heads were already turned toward the doors when she pushed through them a few moments later. Half a step into the room, she froze. Staring straight at him, she appeared to be seeing him for the first time. Her expression changed to a nervous grin before returning to that determined look, making Reilly wonder what would happen next.

Ignoring the curious smiles she was receiving, Allison marched across the room and up to the bar where Reilly stood. Her see-through shirt billowed behind her light-blue, low-cut, body-hugging jumpsuit.

"What'll you have?" he asked Allison while handing two drinks to Chico and pointing him toward two middle-aged women.

"Those mushroomlike things removed from your shower. The little ruffly beige ones growing in the corner," she whispered. "And my own towel, if you don't mind. I had to use a corner of yours."

"Hmmm? Which corner?" he asked, pouring a good measure of gin into a glass. He looked up to see her cheeks turning a bright pink.

Her gaze quickly darted to the bottle in his hand. "I—I thought you said you didn't serve your hard stuff until after sundown."

"I fibbed a little."

Patting the back of her smooth French twist, she turned away from him only to find the rest of the people staring at her. "G-good evening," she stammered.

Ducking under the bar, Reilly came up next to her. He draped an arm around her shoulder, sweeping his other toward the rest of the people. "Allison Richards, meet your fellow _guests_. The Bartolino sisters from Nebraska. Pamela and Marilyn. Down here for a few weeks collecting butterflies. Reverend Phillips. He's writing an ecumenical cookbook and, in his spare time, saving souls in the village. He's also our cook. The last one left for a better-paying position. And Mr. Garfield. He returned this afternoon from one of his, uh, excursions."

As the group gave Allison a collective nod, Reilly gave her a jerking hug, a deliberate parody of the one he had almost given her in her room. Her hand flew up to his waist to steady herself against the sudden movement. Now he knew what her frantic touch felt like, a piece of heaven exploding on his skin.

He paused, pretending Allison needed the moment to recapture her composure. "Of course you remember Chico from this afternoon."

Chico folded his arms across his chest. "You didn't tip me, lady."

"I'll take care of that before I leave."

"Don't forget."

"I won't."

The Bartolino sisters giggled.

"Hello, everyone," Allison said in her best toastmistress voice. Moving out from under Reilly's arm, she distanced herself from his casual posturing. "I'm here looking for my brother-in-law, Tony Church. He probably stayed at the Paradise Hotel sometime during the last three months. Reilly thinks Tony might not want to be found, and he's not being very helpful. I'd appreciate any information any of you have on this matter."

"Family matter," Reilly said, drawing attention away from Allison. "And I suggest we all stay out of it."

"My sister's going to have their first child, and I think—"

"I think," interrupted Reilly, "that Tony Church will go home when he's ready."

Glaring at Reilly, Allison pulled a photograph from her pocket and handed it to one of the sisters. "Do any of you remember him?" she asked, wishing she had a better photo than this one she'd taken at Susan and Tony's last barbecue. Since Susan didn't know she was looking for Tony, Allison hadn't wanted to stir up suspicion by asking for a better one.

Marilyn spoke first. "Sorry, Allison. We haven't seen him. We just arrived two weeks ago."

"What about you, Reverend Phillips?" Pamela asked, passing the photograph to the white-haired man wearing the clerical collar, wife beater tee-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and glasses. "You've been here for several months."

Chico stood on his tiptoes to get a look, then shrugged dramatically.

The Reverend stared at the photo for a long time before answering. Allison held her breath when he raised his index finger. "Short fellow, red hair and beard?" he asked, beaming her a smile.

"No. Tall fellow, blond hair and mustache." Taking back the photo, she studied it closely. "Of course he could have a beard now."

Shaking his head, Reverend Phillips sniffed the air and muttered something about poached fish before disappearing into the kitchen with Chico. She walked over to where Mr. Garfield sat. "Would you take a look at this photo?"

"Awright, pretty momma." The man with the long sideburns and turned-up collar glanced at the photo, then stared at Allison. A nerve twitched in his upper lip. "Haven't seen him lately, but I haven't been around much lately."

The man remembered Tony. Allison glanced at Reilly long enough to register her small victory. Now she was getting somewhere, even if Reilly refused to acknowledge the fact.

How much polishing did that battered old bar need?

Mr. Garfield leaned in close. "I'm lookin' for someone myself."

"You're searching for someone too?"

"That's right, pretty momma. That's my job. That's what I'm here for." With a flick of his head a jelly-roll lock of hair settled lower on his forehead. "Once I've closed the file on my current case, maybe I could help you."

Allison's sudden optimism was turning to suspicion as she continued watching Reilly. Busily checking his supply of paper umbrellas, he refused to meet her stare. "Mr. Garfield," she said, not taking her eyes off Reilly, "what exactly is your current case?"

"I'm lookin' for the King, pretty momma."

Reilly gave nothing away except a quick lift of his eyebrows. That was enough. He was going to pay for this. Slowly. Horribly. And with a lot of yelling. She closed her eyes. "The King, as in Elvis, Mr. Garfield?"

"The one and only, pretty momma."

"No, thank you." She made the short walk back to the bar.

"He's harmless," Reilly whispered.

"I'm not."

"Oops."

"You know where my brother-in-law is, don't you?"

"I know he's not here," he said, opening a lime-green umbrella and dropping it into a glass with two plastic straws. "Gin and tonic. Your first one's on the house." Sliding it toward her, his voice dropped to an intimate level as he looked her in the eye. "Nurse it."

A double-dog dare, if she'd ever heard one. Picking up the drink, she slid her tongue under the straws, closing her lips around them with puckering precision. After a moment she lowered the glass, fluttered her lashes, and smiled. "Like that?"

"Just like that," he said, resting his chin in the cup of his hand. He sighed. "Want to try it again?"

"Want to tell me where Tony is?"

Frowning, Reilly stood up, reached for a towel, and began wiping down the bar.

"I mean it, Reilly," she said with barely controlled anger as she placed her palms flat on the bar. "I'm not leaving San Rafael until I've found Tony. My sister deserves a second chance with her husband." She leaned in closer. "Their baby deserves a father."

Her last remark hit too close to home. Balling the towel between his fists, he turned away to jam it on the ledge behind him. When he could force his jaw to unclench, he infused his voice with as much light-hearted charm as he could muster. "Come on, Al. Do you honestly think I'd clutter my mind with information on someone who came through here months ago?"

"Clutter your mind? What else is taking up so much space? Certainly not your dedication to the efficient running of this hotel. And that reminds me, the air-conditioning is off in my room."

"What air-conditioning?"

"Oh, brother," she said, picking up her drink and taking another sip. "I hate even to mention this, but you never gave me a key."

A bell tinkled in the background.

"Dinner's being served on the west veranda," Reilly announced to everyone. Pointing across the room to where the others were already heading, he fell in step behind Allison. "We don't bother with keys, Al. People keep losing them or forget to turn them in when they check out. Most of the guests are a modest lot with nothing much to steal anyway. You, on the other hand, stand out like one of Marilyn and Pamela's butterflies."

"I do not." Stopping dead in her tracks, she stretched out her arms, looking at them and her body. "What did you mean by that?"

The screen door banged behind the sisters before Reilly moved closer and began his answer. "Your clothes," he said as she lowered her hands to her hips. "They look expensive." Easing forward, he made certain his thighs were pressing against her backside. "All of them."

Picturing her panties and bras strewn over the walkway earlier, Allison sucked in her cheeks and stared straight ahead. His body heat penetrated her legs and rear, causing a generous rush of blood to every erogenous place she possessed. Damn gin. Two sips and her eyelids were closing. Yes, it had to be the gin, because she'd already reasoned that Reilly wasn't her type.

Leaning down, Reilly breathed against her ear, then whispered words that warmed her in more ways than one. "What exactly did you have in mind when you were packing for this trip, Al?"

His touch was a light caress, but she started peeling his fingers away from her arms as if it were a bone-crunching grasp. Hurrying through the door, she pulled out a chair at the end of the long table. "Not that it's any of your business, but as soon as I locate Tony and inform him of his responsibilities, I have plans to fly on to Costa Rica. There's a lovely resort there with all sorts of amenities. And who said you could call me Al?"

"Loosen up," he said while seating the sisters. "We're all friends here. Right, ladies?"

"Right, Reilly," the sisters replied in unison, following it up with a double dose of laughter.

"Allison? Pamela and I were just saying how that shirt and the chopsticks in your hair make you resemble the _anartia amalthea linnaeus_ ," Marilyn said.

"You're the first one we've spotted," Pamela added before the giggling began again.

Allison thanked them for their compliment while Reilly, mugging innocently in her direction, took a chair at the opposite end of the table. She resisted the urge to mug back. There were, after all, certain behaviors adults did not engage in—even if they were dying to. Besides, she had other things to think about.

During dinner Allison reviewed the status of her search. Thus far the Paradise Hotel had been a resounding disappointment. She had hoped to find Tony there or at least find out where he'd gone. Staying on for a few days was never part of her plan, but Reilly Anderson knew more than he was telling. She glanced at him over a basket of bread, then quickly looked around the table to see if anyone had noticed. Under no circumstances would she stay around him a second longer than necessary. Like the dark jungle, she thought, his sensuality both attracted and frightened her. The compelling imagery only served to confuse her as her gaze drifted back to him.

"A little more pressure," Reilly was saying as he instructed Chico how to manage a knife and fork properly. "That's better. We'll have you eating down at the palacio with el presidente if you keep this up."

"I want to show _mi padre_ first, Reilly," Chico said.

She found herself smiling at the scene until Reilly looked up and winked at her. Annoyance replaced the pleasure of watching him help the boy, and she returned her attention to her plate, stabbing into the mashed yucca with her fork.

Concentrating on revising her plans wasn't easy with the sisters discussing their butterfly collection in Latin and Reverend Phillips explaining, at leisure, how to bone river fish. All of that would have been crazy enough fare for anyone, but one soft smile from Reilly and images from her childhood started creeping in. Laying her fork aside, she watched the engaging pair at the other end of the table. Distant images swirled closer.

Her parents taking turns reading aloud from a storybook... sitting beside her at the movies... watching television... and she was holding her breath and her sister's hand... because the world was a wondrous place... shaking with laughter and love and... what?!

What was that sound?

Something rustled above her head. Reilly shushed the table. Everyone grew silent, focusing rapt attention on his towering figure. Allison shivered with anticipation as Reilly brought his finger to his pursed lips. She held her breath. Whatever was out there beyond the clearing, whatever terror might be near, she knew one thing. One extraordinary but primal truth. Reilly would save her. Looking over the platters of fish and vegetables and plantains, she gave herself up to the hypnotic wonder of her revelation.

Reilly waited until the time was right before he began the chirping sounds. Each time he stopped, the answering rustle above him increased. Smacking his lips several times, he called out softly, "Puddin' Head, Puddin' Head, come to daddy."

The capuchin monkey dropped out of the rush ceiling and onto Reilly's shoulder. Small, furred arms wrapped around his neck as the others at the table scolded Puddin' Head for his long absence. Apparently he had dropped in to dinner several times before.

Allison pressed her fingers to her mouth as a gasp broke from her throat. Tarzan. The images were all about Tarzan. Her beloved hero from childhood sat before her with a monkey on his shoulder, a boy at his side, and all that glorious jungle behind his perfectly gorgeous face and body. She could have sat there for hours staring longingly at him as every childhood fantasy came flooding back to her. How she'd treasured those stories, every word of them and every reaction she had for them. She hadn't thought about the books or movies or television shows in years.

"Cheetah?" she whispered, delighted beyond reason.

The little head lifted toward her, its tiny shining eyes blinking with curiosity.

"Puddin' Head," corrected Reilly, picking up a piece of fruit and rising from his chair.

The monkey hid behind Reilly's head, leaving a furry tail twitching against the muscles of his shoulder and two tiny paws pressed against his smoothly shaved jaw. As he reached Allison, Reilly continued making the strange, soothing sounds. He handed her a fig, then lowered himself beside the chair of his enchanted guest. Her eyes were widening in blissful expectation. She held the fig close to her chest.

"Don't let go of it," Reilly said. He began transferring the monkey onto her arm. The moment the monkey saw the fruit, he leaped onto the front of her clothes and grabbed for it. Allison froze, her fingers banding around the fig. The monkey's mad scramble ended with the fig pushed deeply into her cleavage and Puddin' Head frantically shoving his tiny paws in after it. With the monkey screaming in her face, Allison grabbed her chair and stopped breathing.

"It's okay," Reilly told her. "Just stay calm."

Making a lip-smacking sound, he caught the monkey's attention, then slipped two fingers into Allison's cleavage. Her eyes widened at the surprise invasion.

"Don't move," he said during his lip-smacking lullaby.

Stroking the firm, satiny cleft, he twisted his fingers, easing them closer to the fig. That would have been outrageous enough, but when he wiggled them between her breasts, she felt a corresponding vibration of pleasure quivering between her thighs. A tiny moan escaped her throat.

"Sorry, tight fit," Reilly murmured, keeping up the rhythmic pattern.

She groaned again as currents of terror and pleasure shot through her body.

"You're doing fine, Al." Smacking his lips at the monkey, he shoved his fingers deeper. "I think I've got it," he said as his fingers slipped over one stiffened nipple. His gaze left the monkey's and locked with hers. "Sorry." And then, "Here it comes."

The fruit popped out, the monkey reached and caught it, then ran screaming across the table. The rest of the group left the table to follow the monkey along the veranda.

With her elbows locked to her body and her hands clenching the chair, Allison dropped her head back in the only show of relief she could manage. Her breathless state continued as Reilly ran his fingers across the top of her breasts. With the terror removed, his gentle touch brought her close to the edge of rapture.

"Let's have a little look." He began easing down the top of her jumpsuit.

_Let's have a little look?_ Was he crazy? Reilly had taken her to the edges of sanity, then dropped her back to earth with a thud. She came to her senses, slapping his hand away and standing up in one smooth movement.

"Don't you dare," she whispered fiercely, pushing past him.

"If you have a scratch, you should have it tended to immediately." He followed her to the group on the front veranda. When she pushed around them, he stopped. "Neglecting nicks and scratches in this climate can be dangerous."

"We know that. Go after her, Reilly," Chico said, pushing the man twice his size toward her. "She'll leave, and I won't get no money."

Reilly was on his way again, urged now by the rest of the group. The veranda wrapped around the hotel, and with Allison headed the long way to her room, he had time for one short detour. Grabbing mosquito netting and a first-aid kit from the storage room, he finally slowed his steps as he neared her door. Just another day at the Paradise Hotel, Reilly told himself, only this time one of his guests was going to murder him. He wasn't surprised; he just wondered how she was going to do it.

Before he had a chance to knock, she opened the door as if she'd been expecting him.

"Did Puddin' Head hurt you?" he asked, stepping inside and away from her dagger-shooting eyes. She slammed the door. He was in for it, not doubt about it.

"No, Puddin' Head did not hurt me."

"Good," he said, stepping barefoot onto her bed. After that monkey business at the table he planned to be in and out of her room as quickly as he could. Unfolding the mosquito netting, he was reaching to fasten it to the wire form above the bed when she whacked him on the hip.

"Puddin' Head scared the hell out of me!"

In a caressing voice he said, "Al, you're blowing this way out of proportion. You should relax. Let down your hair, or put it up in a ponytail like mine."

"Don't you dare lecture me after that dog-and-pony show. What are you running here? A petting zoo?" She beat softly on his hip, pulling her punches but letting him know she was angry. "How did you ever manage to get this job? Who hired you anyway?"

"Hired me? Hey, lady, I own the place," he said, draping the net over a grid of wires hung midway between her bed and the ceiling. He wasn't into kinky sex, but if she continued jarring that area of his body, he might have to consider a forbidden pleasure or two. "Watch out."

She stopped whacking his hip and pointed up to him. "You own the Paradise Hotel? Pray tell, what inspired you to get into hotel mismanagement?"

Stepping off the bed, his bare feet touched the floorboards soundlessly, inches from her. His shrug was as big as his smile when he announced, "I won it in a poker game."

Her mouth dropped open.

He had won it in a poker game, in the boardroom of Taylor Pharmaceuticals less than ten months ago. Playing against three other unmarried executives, Reilly had won the dubious privilege with aces and queens. As the duly selected undercover man in the field, he would "own" the Paradise Hotel until the bromeliad specimens were safely back at the company's laboratory. Then some other lucky person would take his place. But that information, he reminded himself, was not for Allison Richards's edification. Nor was the fact that her brother-in-law, Tony Church, had been the botanist hired to gather the specimens.

Closing her mouth, she began nodding her head. "A poker game. That explains a lot."

_There she goes again_ , he thought angrily. Taking aim at his ego with her disapproving, condescending, chin-jutting smile! "Just what does that mean?" he asked evenly.

"It means I'm beginning to understand why you're so anxious to keep silent about Tony."

"And why is that?" he asked, taking a step in her direction. He'd startled her with his movement, and when she stepped back, the lacquered chopsticks in her hair and that iridescent film of a shirt made her look more like a butterfly in flight than a vice president of mortgage loans on a manhunt.

"Because you're evasive, irritating, and irresponsible about everything else around here," she said, flattening her back against the opposite wall.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know exactly what I'm talking about." Sticking out a finger, she tapped him in the center of his chest. "You."

_There's a good reason_ , he wanted to shout as he stared down into those big blue eyes of hers. _I'm saving your brother-in-law's butt and mine by behaving this way._ But he couldn't tell her about the dangerous timber company that would stop at nothing to own this rain forest, and that frustrated him further. "Shut up."

"I will not. You _are_ evasive, irresponsible, and irritating. And impolite too."

"Will you shut up?!" he shouted, slamming a flattened hand against the wall behind her.

"Make me."

He accepted the challenge with gusto. Lowering his head, he sealed his lips to hers with a suctioning kiss. The effect was instant and shattering, pulling up a yearning from an untapped depth inside her. Her only struggle was to get closer. Quicker. He was all heat and hands and mouth, filling in the empty spaces of her life in one great surge of masculinity. She grabbed for his shirt sleeves, but instead felt the muscles of his bare arms as they wrapped around her, pulling her close to mold to his will. Her tongue dueled with his. The kiss went on, searching for its place in eternity until someone banged on the door.

Reilly dragged his mouth from hers. "Go away. Can't you hear us arguing?" he managed before he let her pull him back into the kiss.

"Reilly? Reilly, Puddin' Head came back," Chico said in a loud whisper.

As the child ran back down the veranda, Allison stiffened in Reilly's embrace. He lifted his head, his expression drowsy with desire.

"I'm—I'm appalled at this," she said, not sounding at all convinced.

His eyes hinted at a coming smile as he stroked her jaw with his thumb. "You don't feel appalled," he said, starting back down for another kiss.

Pushing away from him, she wiped his moisture from her lips with a surprisingly shaky hand. "Okay, I'll admit, I was having a dysfunctional moment."

"What a crock," he said, turning his back to the wall to watch her move around the room. "You were functioning just fine, Al."

Reilly, in his indefatigable style, was right. Everything about her was functioning at optimum level. Except her brain. "Not true," she lied. "I let you take advantage of me."

"Really? Was that before or after you pinched my butt?"

"Before." With her voice ringing in her ears, she knew exactly how she sounded. As if she knew Reilly on an intimate level, and that wasn't true and never would be. Crossing the room, she opened the door. "Just get out."

Shaking his head, he sighed heavily. "You are a piece of work, lady."

She swallowed and started again. "About my brother-in-law. Are you going to tell me where he is?"

"I'll tell you this." He leaned in close to her, trying like hell to ignore the ache in his groin. "I think I was the one having a dysfunctional moment."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" she said, tapping her nails on the open door while she avoided his eyes.

"It means, I don't enjoy having you in my pockets."

"Well, you won't have me in your pockets much longer." Meeting his stare, she followed his eyes as he straightened up. "Coming to this hellhole and laying eyes on you has been a complete waste of my time."

"And mine," he added.

Ignoring his interruption, she continued. "I'm taking the next flight out of here to San Remo."

"I can't wait!" he said, jerking the door from her grasp and slamming it hard after him.

Pulling it open, she stuck her head out. "Neither can I!"

### Chapter 3

She was easy to find.

No surprise. With those take-me-to-heaven legs, her impatient attitude, and a command of Spanish that wouldn't get her through Taco Bell, a dead detective could have tracked her down. Reilly still said a prayer of thanks when he found her in the lobby bar of the Hotel de San Remo the following afternoon. He got himself a beer, then started toward her past the bank of potted palms and the cage of squawking parrots.

Intent on the map spread out over her table, she didn't see him coming. That was fine with Reilly. This way he had a few more moments to match his memory with the reality of Allison. At first glance she looked like an advertisement for Barbie Goes Camping with her perfectly tailored khaki shorts outfit, the pink scarf knotted at her neck, and a pith helmet dangling from her chair post. Smiling, he slowed his pace, then stopped completely. She was toying with the end of her French braid, brushing it back and forth against her cheek. How she managed to parlay that innocent gesture into an act of eroticism was beyond him. At least mentally beyond him. Quietly cursing his growing arousal, he pulled on the inseam of his trousers before continuing to her table. Dropping his hat beside her, he waited until she raised her eyes.

"Mind if I sit down?"

The large map she was holding crumpled slightly in her grip. If she was hesitating, it was only to straighten that aristocratic spine another ten degrees. "Yes, I'd mind. I'm expecting someone." With her gaze returning to the map, she reached for his hat and handed it back to him.

Sitting down, Reilly dropped it in his lap and took a swallow of beer. "Who?"

"A tracker named Ramon Quintero, if that's any of your business." Then, apparently annoyed with herself for revealing that much, she folded her arms and looked away. "What do you want, Reilly?"

Ignoring her question, he squinted in exaggerated surprise. "Ramon Quintero?" With a long, low whistle Reilly leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs. "Are you sure you want to hire him? He's a lousy tracker and a worse guide. I heard he lost his last two clients down in Madre de Dios."

Shaking her head, she gave him an indelicate snort. "I told you, my mind's made up." Smoothing the map, she began studying it again. "I'm not leaving until I find Tony, so you can forget trying to scare me away."

Taking a slow breath, he blew it out quietly as he picked at the edges of his beer label. The longer Reilly knew her, the more he realized how determined she was to get to her goal. As determined as he was to get to his. He stared at her, hoping to discover a weak spot in her composure. After a while she checked her watch, then looked toward the door.

"I'm sure you didn't fly down here just to ruin my afternoon. Why don't you get on about your business and I'll get on with mine."

If he'd had any misgivings about his plan, they'd vanished when Allison had mentioned Ramon Quintero. Before Ramon took her money, everyone in the city, including El Diablo Timber, would know about an American botanist named Tony Church wandering around in the rain forest. And Reilly could say good-bye to his carefully tended low profile for Taylor Pharmaceuticals. He hated to think how quickly El Diablo would move its logging operations into that part of the rain forest, ending the chances of it becoming a pharmaceutical-research preserve. And besides all that, Ramon Quintero would take her for a swing in his hammock whether or not she was a willing participant. Dropping the front legs of his chair to the floor, he plunked his beer bottle down and reached for her hand. "Allison?"

Since he'd appeared at her table, every second had been a struggle not to stare at him. It was hard enough fighting back the memory of their kiss while she was breathing in a mix of his clean male scent, his cold beer, and his new cotton shirt. Now he was touching her hand and quietly speaking her name. Her full name. Achy heat was spreading up her thighs when she turned to look at him. "What is it?"

"I came looking for you."

"Why?" _Because you couldn't get that unfinished kissing business out of your mind either? Because you woke up last night throbbing with the need to take it farther, to take me farther?_ Swallowing the unvoiced questions, she asked instead, "Have you heard from Tony? Did he come back to the Paradise Hotel?"

"No. I was thinking over how things got out of hand up there between you and me." He heaved what sounded like a reluctant sigh. "I was wrong and you were right. Tony Church deserves to know he's going to be a father. I know where we can cross paths with him, and if you're still interested, I'll take you to him."

"Oh."

Withdrawing her hand, she tried to dismiss the vague feeling of disappointment. Of course this wasn't about that kiss they'd thrown themselves into or the touchy-feely moments that she had allowed him. This was about something far more important than the pursuit of hot sex. Wasn't it? She eyed him skeptically; something was going on behind those gorgeous green eyes of his. Maybe this was a complete turnaround for Reilly. Maybe he was more responsible than she'd originally thought. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe if she thought about it for one more second, her head would explode.

"Reilly, why would you do this for me?"

"I'm not doing this for you. Tony deserves to know."

She waited for him to blink and revert back to the cocky, confident Reilly Anderson she knew. He was holding a steady gaze while a crazy energy continued building between them. Agitated by her own indecision, she narrowed her eyes at him. "Who's running the Paradise Hotel?"

"Reverend Phillips is doing the cooking. The Bartolino sisters are sharing chambermaid duty in exchange for part of their bill. And Mr. Garfield is off on another Elvis lead."

She wasn't going to comment on his irresponsible behavior concerning his hotel. She had plenty to think about already. "I don't know what to say. First you tell me to go home, and now you're telling me you'll take me to Tony." Shaking her head, she dragged her finger across her lip, then pointed at him. "No, there's something else going on here," she said firmly. "You're not telling me everything."

Reilly squirmed forward in his chair. "Can't a guy just change his mind and admit he was wrong?"

"You'll have to come up with something more convincing that that."

"Like what?"

They both heard someone crying Reilly's name before she could answer. Chico came running through the door, sobbing hysterically and looking frantically in every direction.

When he saw Reilly, he broke into a run across the room and threw himself against Reilly's shoulder. The empty lobby echoed with the Spanish he managed between broken breaths.

Allison was on her feet and around the table instantly. "What is it? What's happened to him?" she asked, pulling the pink scarf from around her neck and shaking it out. She managed to wipe Chico's nose and made a quick pass at his tears before he buried his face against Reilly's chest.

"I brought him down to visit his father and the kid just missed him. Sounds like the timber company he works for sent him to a camp upriver yesterday."

She lifted her head slowly, then backed away. "You flew him down here to visit his father?"

Cursing himself, Reilly patted the boy's shoulder, then brushed the straight black hair away from his eyes. "Yes, but I should have brought him down sooner." Reilly lifted the boy's chin on his finger and spoke soothingly in Spanish.

The words meant little to her, but Reilly's compassionate tone curled around her heart. Soon the boy's heaving sobs quieted to an occasional shudder. She stared down at both of them. "How about a Coke, Chico?" she asked softy.

"He likes it in the can," said Reilly, his eyes never leaving the boy's. "Right, Chico?"

Without turning around, Chico nodded. "I'll open it myself, lady."

She headed for the bar, realizing her challenge had been answered. Reilly's actions with the disappointed child had turned out to be far more convincing than any explanation he could have attempted. When it came right down to it, Reilly Anderson had a heart as big as a teddy bear.

By the time she'd returned from the bar, she had a new plan ready for them. "Reilly, where exactly is this timber camp?"

"Up by Pucalli."

"Is that anywhere near Tony?"

Reilly stared at her for a long time, then nodded. "Yes, it is."

"Great," she said, handing Chico the soda. "If you're serious about taking me to Tony, we can take Chico with us when we go."

"Can we go, Reilly? Can we?" Chico asked, tugging on Reilly's belt and splashing soda on his pants.

"You bet," he said, standing up to inspect the extent of the damage. When he saw it was minimal, he folded the map and dropped it on the table. "Just as soon as we can get you two a couple of backpacks."

"Oh, I won't need a backpack," she said, waving off the suggestion and sitting down. "Everything fits nicely into my suitcases."

"You're only taking what you can carry on your back. Choose wisely. We'll be gone at least a week."

She came off her chair like a bouncing ball. "A week!"

"At least a week," he said, placing her pith helmet on Chico's head. "Let's get going. We have some shopping to do." He tossed a few colorful bills on the table, then headed for the door with Chico in tow.

"But you said you know where he is," she said, picking up her map and purse, then racing to catch up with them. "Why will it take so long to get to him? What's he doing up there?"

"Because we have to take a riverboat. After that, it's deep jungle. And what he's doing up there is his business. By the way, we'll be on foot for a day. Maybe two. Think you'll be able to handle that?" he asked as they stepped into the late-afternoon sunshine.

The magnitude of what she agreed to began sinking in. Up in the jungle with Reilly... for days. She hadn't realized she'd stopped walking and had to hurry through the heavy foot traffic along the boulevard. "Of course I can handle it. As long as you don't decide to make it a race," she said crisply.

* * *

Since they'd left the capital city two days earlier, Allison had been avoiding him. The closer they got to Pucalli, the quieter she became , spending most of the trip at the boat rail staring at the jungle. Reilly smiled to himself as he watched her making her way along the swaying deck. The sight of her had every one of his muscles tensing with masculine appreciation. She put pole dancers to shame just trying to keep her balance. He knew by her determined movements forward that she was heading for him. He also knew it by the way she was flaring her nostrils. When she plastered that economy smile on her face, he leaned his elbow on the cargo tarp and waited. Whatever she had to talk about was going to be a pain-in-the-butt subject. But at least she was going to talk.

"Hi," she said too cheerfully, immediately confirming his suspicion.

"'Morning."

Glancing at the caged monkey next to his shoulder, she asked, "What was the name of the last place we stopped?"

"That was Oca Oca in Paradise Province. This river is the border between Paradise and Oriente. We'll be getting off in Oriente at Pucalli to make arrangements for Chico to meet his father. Then you and I will take a ferry across the river to Paradise." His gaze wandered to her blouse. This was going to be one hell of a trip. He cleared his throat. "Did you sleep okay last night?" _Did you sleep in that lace bra showing so nicely through your blouse?_

"Yes, I did."

_Bummer. I would have happily taken it off you... slowly... with my teeth._ He smiled. Maybe he was lousy at flaring his nostrils, but he had other talents. Such as locking his gaze to hers and not letting go until she began to sweat. The problem with that was he ended up sweating too. He turned to slip a piece of fruit through the wire cage by his shoulder. "Where's Chico?"

"Last time I saw him, he was steering the boat," she said, keeping an eye on the tiny arm reaching through the cage. "Tell me again why you made a trip back to the Paradise Hotel for Puddin' Head."

She hadn't left her chair on the sunning deck to inquire after the monkey, but he'd play along. Hell, he'd do anything to keep her near. Then again, he had all he could do not to pull her into his arms, sniff her hair and taste her all over.

"Puddin' Head's starting to prefer people over his own kind. I decided to take him to new territory after he almost scratched your, uh..." Reilly pointed to her breasts, remembering the enticing sensations when he'd delved down between them to search for the fig. His palm was itching to curve around one again. They were perfectly shaped, firm but giving and smooth as warm silk.

"You were going to say 'breasts,'" she said, rimming the underside of her watch with a fingertip. Frowning with the last remnants of indecision, she ran her tongue along the edges of her teeth before she spoke. "Reilly, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Before we start our trek into the jungle, I think that I should tell you I have no intention of being intimate with you."

"Okay."

"So if you have any plans to—"

"I don't."

"I mean, it's better to settle—"

"It's settled."

She opened her mouth to speak again, then closed it with a quick nod. Turning on her heel, she started back up the deck. He knew he could have suggested she try flexing her knees for better balance, but once she started that marvelous bump and grind he decided against it. "Al?"

Grabbing the rail, Allison twisted around to face him. Before she could answer, a whistle rudely blasted their arrival into Pucalli. "It's Allison."

"Allison." He tipped his hat and smiled. "I wasn't going to say 'breasts.' I was going to say 'boobs.'"

"I'm surprised you didn't," she said with more bravado than she felt. The boat shuddered to a stop, dropping her center of gravity against the bulkhead. Brushing bits of rust from her shorts, she found her backpack and headed for the gangplank.

His crudeness had actually helped to clear her mind. Until that moment she had agonized over her attraction to him and what their time together could lead to. Plagued with visions of a neatly groomed, impeccably mannered, and irresistibly desirable Reilly guiding her through a tropical paradise, she was afraid she was already seduced. And now this. "Boobs." She shook her head, not caring that several people were staring at her as she muttered the word again.

* * *

Two hours later they had crossed the Rio Verde and were standing several yards from its bank. Reilly had pointed out the trailhead twice, but she'd lost it in the tangle of vines and bushes. For one overwhelming moment she wanted to tell Reilly she wasn't going. That it would be better if she stayed at the hotel in Pucalli while he went in there for Tony. She looked across the half-mile-wide river to Pucalli and then at her watch. If they didn't start soon, she was going to lose her nerve completely.

"How's he doing?" she asked, interrupting the spirited conversation in Spanish that Reilly was having with Chico.

Chico answered before Reilly could. "Not good, lady. And it's your fault."

"My fault?" She looked at Reilly. "Why is it my fault that he missed his father again?"

"You tell her, Reilly," Chico said before smearing his tears across his cheeks and walking away.

"He thinks we should all wait in Pucalli until his father shows up again. That could be three or four days."

"And this is my fault?" she mumbled to Reilly.

"Of course it's not your fault," he said, hooking Puddin' Head's leash to his belt. "Look, I can't leave him in Pucalli and I can't drag him into the jungle either."

"I know that," she said indignantly. She took a step back as the monkey reached out from his perch on Reilly's shoulder. "Maybe I should try talking to him."

"Let me handle this. Man to man."

She rolled her eyes, then tapped her watch. "You said if we get started soon, we can make it to shelter before the afternoon rains begin. You've been handling this for twenty minutes."

"I heard that, lady." Giving her a thoroughly disgusted look, Chico stomped over to her. "Reilly says Pucalli is no place for ladies. He says we gotta take you in the jungle so you can be safe and then later he will bring me back to Pucalli." Wringing his hands and shaking his head, the boy appeared to be on the verge of tears again. "We gonna miss him, Reilly. We gonna miss mi padre, and it's her fault."

"Chico, it's not her fault."

Wrenching her shoulders from her backpack, she dropped it at Reilly's feet. "Woman to boy," she said to Reilly as she grabbed Chico's hand and walked him to the riverbank. She pointed to a dry spot, and when he sat down, she took the place beside him. "I'm going to tell you a story."

Chico looked over his shoulder at a doubtful Reilly and shrugged. "Is this gonna take a lotta time, lady?"

"It could," she said, turning the boy's face toward her. "But we have a long walk ahead of us, so I'll give you the short version."

"Hurry up."

"Do you know what a whale is?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, brushing the hair out of his eyes. "I saw one in a book."

"Well, once, when I was your age, I was sailing with my father and a whale crashed into the side of our boat," she said, watching the boy's eyes suddenly rivet to her face and grow bigger. "My sister was screaming. I was crying. The whale kept crashing against the boat. We didn't know what to do, but my father reminded us that he was the captain and that we had to trust him to do the right thing." She took an enormous breath and let it out slowly.

"We're all alive today because we listened to the captain. Chico, Reilly is our captain."

"Yeah, but what happened to the whale?"

"It's too long a story to tell now. Maybe later when we stop for the rains," she said, walking back to Reilly and the monkey. Chico was on her heels.

"Reilly, come on. Let's go," he said, pointing toward the jungle.

Shrugging into her backpack, she adjusted the weight and looked up at him. "The boy said, 'let's go,' so let's get this show on the road, _bwana_ ," she said, knowing she was going to savor Reilly's look of surprise for a long time.

"How did you do that?" he asked, still looking dumbfounded while he pointed to Chico. The boy was scurrying over to the trail-head while struggling to put on his backpack.

"I used a business technique that we in the civilized world call negotiating. Something he wanted in exchange for something I wanted. You ought to try it sometime," she said, slipping her hands into her pockets. She smiled modestly. There was nothing quite like a clean kill. They walked wordlessly toward Chico and the trailhead. Her moment of triumph was short-lived when she saw the boy's skeptical expression.

"Lady, that story about the whale better be good," he said before disappearing into the wall of vines and bushes.

Allison winced.

Pushing back a leaf the size of her desk pad, Reilly raised his eyebrows. "The whale?"

Trying to ignore his candy-eating grin, she took her first step into the jungle. She could have kept on walking, but she made the mistake of stopping to look at him. Now was the perfect opportunity for a flippant remark, but she couldn't get the words to come out. And the longer she stared into his eyes, the more breathless she became. Like the exotic jungle palette behind him, every shade of green seemed to be reflected there.

He leaned closer, his voice resonating with unspoken promises. "I'd love to hear that story. Maybe we could negotiate." One side of his mouth curled in a teasing smile. "Something you want for something I want. What do you say?" He winked, and she closed her eyes.

A recalcitrant ten-year-old.

A breast-obsessed monkey.

And a man who made her want to fling responsibility aside and indulge every one of her fantasies. And then every one of his.

Was it true that God gave you only what you could handle? she wondered. High in the green canopy above, a bird screamed with laughter.

"It's going to be a very long trip."

###

If you enjoyed this excerpt from **Trouble in Paradise**

and want to read the rest, visit

<http://susanconnellbooks.com/site/books>

for more information

Pagan's Paradise

Susan Connell

### Chapter 1

He was looking at her again.

Joanna McCall looked back through her camera lens, noting with guilty pleasure the sexy way he'd twisted his tall, broad-shouldered body in her direction. His strong, symmetrical features, his chiseled lips, and his thick, dark hair made the American across the Plaza de San Remo a portrait photographer's dream. But his pale blue eyes and the way he quietly raked the crowd with them were what truly captured her attention.

Those eyes were watching her now with growing interest as he began rolling up his shirt-sleeves in the muggy night air. Each inch of his well-muscled forearm was revealed ever so slowly, his casual moves bordering on a carefully orchestrated seduction. Joanna swallowed. A private seduction in a very public place.

The excitement tingling through her, she told herself, had nothing to do with sexual attraction and everything to do with heightened professional interest. Besides, she'd seen his type before; he was flirting with every pretty girl on that platform. Clearing her throat, she braced her elbow against the stuccoed column and steadied her camera. When his stare didn't waver, she hesitated a second, wiping perspiration from her brow while she made her decision. "Why not?" she murmured. Accepting his bold stare as part of the price for a photo, she zoomed in, then tightened her focus on his face.

"Come on, Mr. Wonderful, smile for me," she said, knowing he couldn't hear her above the strumming guitars, the steady drumbeats, and the shouts of the dancers.

A corner of his mouth suddenly rose, creasing one side of his face with a dimple. Instinct had her squeezing the shutter the same moment he winked at her. Jerking the camera away from her face, she slipped behind the column and pressed her backside against the rough finish. Groaning, she slapped a hand to her forehead and stared at the camera dangling against her breasts. Her first night in San Rafael, her first opportunity to immerse herself in its unique flavor, and she'd spent the time focusing her lens and her attention on an American. A highborn, hold-your-breath-handsome American hobnobbing with government officials, flirting with their pretty daughters, and, according to that wink, highly amused with the attention she was giving him. She thought she'd learned her lesson about men like him.

Obviously not.

Flaring her nostrils, she lifted her head, narrowed her eyes toward the covered alleyway, and tried not to think about all the worthwhile photos she'd missed because of him. Well, she was not wasting any more shots on him.

Joanna smoothed the sides of her carrot-red ponytail, then leaned around the column to make certain he wasn't coming her way. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him, in silhouette, talking with two military officers.

Like everyone else the American talked to, the officers appeared mesmerized by him. From the moment she'd found him with her lens, she'd been mesmerized too. She took a step closer. More than the American body language that set him apart from the others, he carried himself with bone-deep, blue-blooded confidence. His aura of self-assurance seemed to captivate the officers rather than intimidate them. And the easy way he laughed and made them laugh continued to charm everyone near him. She rolled her eyes. So what!

Joanna made a move to turn away, when something made her stop. A ripple of awareness eased into her consciousness. She studied the American for several more minutes before she caught on to his routine. What passed for a drifting gaze when he was working up a smile or a thoughtful response was a simple surveillance technique he had honed to an art form. From the pickpockets to the Guardia Civil, the American missed nothing in his scattered sweeps around the Our Lady of the Flamingos Festival.

Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Joanna strained forward and narrowed her gaze again. She'd seen smooth operators before but never one so accomplished. Maybe his intent was a little more complicated than checking out every pretty girl there. She looked quickly around the plaza. Whom or what was he looking for? Whatever he was up to didn't matter to her, she decided. She hadn't come to San Rafael to gawk at Americans. Especially the winking, aristocratic type.

Adjusting the stretchy neckline of her peasant dress, she ran her hands over her hips, then reached for her camera.

She prided herself on being able to change out a memory card in the dark. Now was as good a time as any to practice that trick because the card was nearing full capacity. If she hurried, she could slip in an empty one and shoot the dancers twirling around the plaza. That way the evening wouldn't be a total waste.

Deftly removing the plastic piece from the camera, she continued looking at the American. She bit back a smile as she slipped the tiny card into its waiting sleeve. What, she wondered, did _he_ pride himself on doing deftly in the dark?

Keeping an eye on him, she allowed her imagination full range as she located another card in her hip bag. Steamy images concerning deep kisses and deep-voiced whispers had her breathing through her mouth. Suddenly she was all thumbs, fumbling with the card like an amateur. When she realized what was happening, she put a stop to it with a self-deprecating frown. She had better things to do than to fantasize about a blue-eyed stranger.

She raised the camera just in time to hear the dancers giving a chorused shout as they hurried by her and out of the plaza. As the last swishing skirt brushed her arm, she let out an exasperated sigh. There went her chance to photograph the colorful group with the feathered headdresses.

"Damn," she muttered, knowing she deserved to miss them after what she'd been doing for the last half hour. Indulging herself with throwaway shots of an indecently attractive man because he had simply smiled at her. It bordered on sacrilege when she'd flown two thousand miles for the purpose of photographing underprivileged children.

Leaning against the column, she thought about the photo project for Lemon Aid that had brought her to the tiny Central American country. The children's relief organization had also hired her to photograph scenes of everyday life in San Rafael. She was sure that the military officers and politicians clustered near the microphone were not what Lemon Aid had in mind. Besides, the only time she'd seen any honest emotion on their faces was when they were talking with the American, and she had no intention of bringing back _those_ photos to Lemon Aid.

As the microphone's squeal began lacing itself through the first speech, Joanna wandered through the crowd fringing the plaza. Once she stopped looking at the American, she set herself to the pleasurable task of selecting festival scenes for her photo project. Food vendors tending their sizzling braziers, souvenir carts stacked with colorful religious statues, and, in a whimsical moment, a cat sleeping soundly in a flower box tempted her and won. She passed on the lovers sharing caresses and stealing kisses, but the children, their mouths and hands filled with cotton candy and their eyes filled with greedy wonder, were the easiest and most inviting subjects of all.

"Oh, yes," she murmured to herself.

Satisfaction swelled in her chest; these were the kinds of scenes she'd longed for years to capture. And the kinds of people too. Real people. Simple, honest, hardworking people. The type Lemon Aid wanted for their brochure.

Her gaze drifted toward the platform where the American had been. He was gone. She fought the inclination to look around for him and instead took a photo of an elderly peasant lifting a glass of wine to honor his wife. The eloquent gesture made her smile. At last she was in the right place at the right time doing what she was meant to do. Her evening was on track. She laughed to herself as she strolled around the plaza. Her life was on track as well.

Suddenly the music began again along with the familiar shouts of the dancers. She wasn't missing those smiling faces and colorful headdresses this time. She moved into a covered alleyway to give the dancers plenty of room for their entrance. The music grew louder as the crowds welcomed them back with a deafening roar. Joanna had just lifted her camera, when a hand came out of the dark and closed around one of her wrists. Another hand grabbed her camera strap and tugged. She tugged back, and all hell broke loose. Ham-like hands were groping her in the dark, hitting her arms and jerking on her camera strap.

"Not my camera, you—"

An explosion of multicolored stars lit the darkened passageway as one of the muggers whacked her in the face, then whipped the strap from around her neck. Grabbing for the camera, she slugged back but missed her target. The next blow she took knocked her sprawling to the cobblestones. Pain pulsed in the center of her face, but her will to retaliate overrode everything. No one was going to mess with her new life or anything in it. Pushing up on one knee, she grabbed for a pant leg, but the two men were already sprinting away and down the alley.

"Bring back that Nikon, you bastards!"

As she pushed up on her other knee she felt a pair of hands closing on her shoulders. "Oh, no, you don't," she said even as she was being lifted off the cobblestones and pulled against a man's thighs. She struggled as he closed his arms around her waist, then stooped down and drew her harder against him. God help her, whoever this was, he wasn't letting go. Panic filled her in the dark alleyway; _this couldn't be happening again_.

"It's over. They're gone," he said, his breath warm on her cheek.

Joanna fought the mixed messages of protection and restraint that his towering form and relentless embrace were giving her. She had wanted a challenging adventure on this trip, but she hadn't counted on getting it so soon. "Let go of me," she said with a growl, thumping her fists awkwardly against his arms and striking his watch. Her blows bounced harmlessly off gold, glass, and his hard muscles. For one awful moment she felt hysterical laughter convulsing in her chest. What was wrong with her? She was almost enjoying the masculine press of his body against hers.

"They're gone," he said again, his voice more determined this time as he caught her wrists in one of his hands and held them against her breasts. He gave her a gentle shake. "Calm down, Red. I'm not here to hurt you. You're safe now."

Unspent anger roller-coasted through her again. "I don't want to calm down," she said, trying and failing to pull herself from his grip. "I want my Nikon back!" As she wriggled against him she lifted her chin in the direction of the boulevard at the far end of the alley. "They ran down there. Let... me go." She gritted her teeth. "Please, just—."

"I will not," he said evenly.

She turned in his arms to get a look at the man. She could barely make out his features in the dim shaft of light, but she recognized those pale blue eyes immediately. And that hold-your-breath-handsome face. The American's face. Tiny hairs stood up on the back of her neck. She realized she'd given him the wrong voice. His was a deep voice to be sure, resonant and masculine, but gentled by a cultured southern accent. He was from Georgia, she guessed, or the Carolinas.

"You," she whispered as he let go of her hands. She instinctively curled them around one of his biceps. All evening long she'd tracked him with her camera, unable or unwilling to ignore his magnetic pull. Now she was in his arms, staring into those improbable eyes and listening to the rich cadence of his words while her heart thundered. Her lips parted and her mouth went dry. If he were any better-looking, she'd go blind, if she didn't die of acute embarrassment first. Closing her eyes, she gave a low but satisfying grunt of frustration.

"Stratford. Jack Stratford," he said, sliding her dress back onto her shoulder. If he had to look at those gorgeous, perky, milky-white breasts of hers for another moment, he'd be dealing with a distinct discomfort of his own for the rest of the night.

"Now, don't go passing out on me," he said before she reopened her eyes. Lifting her chin on his fingertips, he glanced at her still straight nose, then sent a silent thank-you prayer toward heaven before raising his gaze to her wide-set eyes again. He couldn't make out their color in the bad light, but he knew God hadn't graced this redhead with such an extraordinary face and body then blown the package on an obscure eye color. He smiled, more to himself than to her. He was betting on sea green with gold flecks, but that revelation would have to wait.

"Looks like you took a direct hit. Easy there, darlin'. Scoot back against the wall. That's it. Now try to relax and catch your breath," he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at her nose with it.

"Ouch!" Stinging pain snapped Joanna back to her senses. Taking the handkerchief from him, she looked away as she held it to her nose. She wasn't about to tell him that the self-consciousness she was experiencing at meeting him after taking those photos was almost as bad as the pain. She winced. And then there was the issue of the stolen camera. When she thought of all the work she had ahead of her—minus her most reliable piece of equipment—she groaned again. It was an expensive camera, but most important, it was her sentimental favorite.

"Are you okay?"

"No, I am most definitely not okay. They stole my Nikon. My good Nikon," she wailed, slapping the paving stones, then wincing with the pain shooting up the palm of her hand.

She glanced at the raw red skin, then bit off an unladylike curse.

"Your good Nikon?" Standing, he searched for her shoes, then tucked the red leather flats in the crook of his arm. "Now, is that like your good pair of scissors?" His joke caught her off guard, as he had meant it to, and she gave in to halfhearted laughter. The reassuring sound proved to him that she hadn't been seriously hurt in the attack.

"Whoa. There it goes again," Jack said, guiding her handkerchief-filled hand back to her bleeding nose. She leaned forward, sending that naughty neckline sliding partway down her arm. One naked shoulder glowed invitingly in the dim light, the other, Jack managed to notice, remained covered. He flicked his gaze to her face and found the first look of uncertainty beneath her thick lashes. Bloodied nose or not, she was still the gutsiest woman he'd ever laid eyes on. And undeniably beautiful. He shook his head. He wasn't going to think about the romantic possibilities inherent in their encounter. Nothing was going to come of this meeting because, as with most things in life, timing was everything. And after what he'd heard around the speaker's platform tonight, he had barely enough time to get this lovely tourist out of San Rafael before the bullets started flying.

He shook his head, tsking sympathetically as the crowd in the plaza cheered the dancers. "Those travel brochures never prepare you for these situations, do they?"

She shook her head.

"Try not to think about it. Once you're out of here, you'll be able to put this all behind you." He bent down to give her a reassuring pat. "What's your name, Red?"

She started to speak but stopped when the dancers began rushing from the plaza again. Jack moved closer and stretched out one arm to prevent her from being trampled during the spirited exit.

"Joanna McCall," she said, turning her head to watch the last of the dancers rush by. A pink feather from a dancer's costume floated to the cobblestones beside her. She lifted her hand, then let it fall into her lap. "My camera." Her whispered words were meant to convey a mix of dramatic desperation and self-pity so overdone, it bordered on comedy.

Biting back a laugh, he shook his head instead. "Well, Joanna, you can't stay here. When the procession to the cathedral starts, this tunnel is going to be filled with people. Can you stand up?" He watched as her chin began trembling under the balled handkerchief she had pressed to her nose. He checked his watch in the dim light. Five minutes until the religious procession was scheduled to begin. "Go ahead, darlin'. Cry and get it over with," he said, thinking about the irony of his words. Indeed, bad timing. He looked at the inviting way her softly flowing dress caressed her slim hips and shapely legs and sighed. He'd have her on the plane to Miami before he had a chance to see her without his handkerchief pressed to her bloody nose. He ought to have a good cry over this mess himself.

"Cry?" she whispered in disbelief as she threw down the handkerchief. "My camera's been stolen and you expect me to cry?" Bracing her hand against the wall, she pulled her shoes away from him. "I don't think so, Mr. Stratford. I intend to file a police report, then see what can be done to get my Nikon back," she said, her voice suddenly strong as she stood up and pushed away from the wall. Without warning she cringed, then toppled against his chest.

"Call me Jack," he said as he looked down at the disheveled woman filling his arms.

"Jack... I stood up too fast."

She was clinging to his shirt and belt buckle as if she would fall off the earth if she dared let go of them. Widening his stance, he took more of her weight against him. Poor kid. Maybe she was a little more the worse for wear than he'd thought. Shifting slightly in his embrace, she rubbed her cheek against his chest. "Oh, Jack," she said, her whispered words ending on a sigh.

But it wasn't just any kind of sigh. It was a pain-free, promise-filled kind of sigh. Narrowing his eyes, he pursed his lips and considered the potential implications in a sigh like that. "That's it. Relax," he said, gliding his hand up her arm. Every satiny inch he touched was arousingly and marvelously female. For one cockeyed moment a world of sensual possibilities began opening to him.

She sighed again; he swallowed.

It wasn't easy being a gentleman when her curvy warmth and soft sighs were singing out to the core of his manhood. But he'd try—even if it killed him. Peeling her fingers from his buckle, he started to lift her into his arms. She suddenly stiffened and pulled away.

"I—I'm all right now. See? My nose stopped bleeding," she said, reaching for the wall. Dropping her shoes to the ground, she slipped her feet into them as the drums and horns started up in the plaza. She cupped her hands to her mouth and raised her voice above the music. "Thank you. You've been very kind to help me, but I need to talk to a policeman." She brushed the front of her dress and tried smoothing her hair as she backed away from him. "I saw a few uniforms in the plaza. Maybe—"

He reached for her arm then pulled her close to him.

"Joanna, it's too late."

She shook her head. "I can't hear you."

"You can't go in there now," he said, pointing toward the plaza.

"What?" She twisted around for a look, but the arched entrance was filled with singing people, many of them carrying tall white candles. And they were all headed her way.

"Come with me," he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. She dug in her heels.

"But, Jack—"

"No buts, Red," he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. "That's what's known as a solid wall of humanity. Unless you want to end up circling the park most of the night, then marching up the steps of the cathedral at daybreak, I think you'd better move it. Now." They both glanced behind them, then at each other.

"If I had my camera—"

"You don't," he said as they hurried out of the alleyway and into the boulevard. The religious procession had picked up speed and was a few yards behind them. "This way," he shouted when she hesitated.

"But my hotel's that way," she shouted back to him as the people streamed their way.

"That's west of the cathedral. Those avenues are blocked off now and will be until tomorrow. Come on," he said as the crowd began engulfing them. He felt her hand tighten around his like a frightened child's.

"It's okay. I won't let go," he shouted, but she didn't appear to hear him. Leaning closer, he started to speak again, but cymbals began crashing in time with the drumbeats. When Jack looked at her face he expected to see low-grade terror; instead, she was almost smiling at the spectacle surrounding them. He rolled his eyes; if she enjoyed this, she'd probably see the coming coup attempt as a trip through Pirates of the Caribbean. Thank heaven she would be leaving San Rafael before the fighting began.

The crowd suddenly surged, and the steady pressure of his hand around hers was gone. Panic zipped up her spine. Twisting around, she looked for him. "Jack!"

"Over here," he shouted.

She spotted him to the left, then struggled against the wave of worshipers toward him. He was just a few feet away, reaching out for her. She stretched to take his hand when hot candle wax splashed her fingers. More startled than hurt, she yelped. In the next moment he lunged through the crowd, wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her from the thick of it.

"Don't let go this time," he said, hurrying down the boulevard through the growing crowd.

"I didn't let go. You let go."

"Right," he said, turning for an instant to wink at her.

A lock of his hair fell onto his forehead, the collar of his shirt flapped against his throat, but his smile was as true and steady as the first time she'd seen it through her lens. She laughed out loud at the crazy, carefree feeling winding through her. Reaching behind her, she pulled off her ponytail tie and shook her head. She had no idea where they were going or why, and for the moment she didn't care. Tonight Jack Stratford had saved her life—maybe twice—and she had the right to run through the streets of San Remo with him. There had been far too few spontaneous celebrations in her life, and that she was sharing this one with a handsome stranger provided her with a welcomed if unexpected thrill.

"I swear, Red, I think I saw this night in a movie once," he said, his drawl charming her enough to let another unapproved "Red" go by. Crossing into a side street, he pointed over his shoulder to indicate the singing that had recently started. "And heard it too."

"Really? Did the woman in the movie get her camera back?" Joanna asked between heaving breaths as they slowed to a walk beside a high wall.

"No." He stopped to locate a security panel that was hidden by an overhanging branch of flowers near a door in the wall. He waited until several pedestrians hurried past them in the opposite direction before tapping in the code. Chewing on his lip, he hesitated before slowly turning to her. If his expression wasn't somber enough, his voice certainly was. "Come to think of it, the woman didn't fare too well. You were lucky tonight, Red."

As the possibilities of what could have happened to her hit home, she could feel the smile fade from her face. Nodding once, she looked away from him. She hadn't come to San Rafael to run through the streets with a good-looking stranger—even if that stranger had biceps of steel and a smile to melt her heart. She had come to the small Central American country to work. And to forget.

"Joanna, if you're thinking again about hunting up a policeman, you'd best put it out of your mind. The ones that weren't in the plaza getting drunk are out committing their own crimes tonight. This city and this country have more than their share of roughnecks. That's the way it is here." Pushing open the wooden door, he stepped aside to guide her in.

"Wait. I—I'm not sure," she said, looking around nervously.

"It's okay," he said, his tone gentle with understanding. "It's just my house. You'll be safe inside until morning. I have plenty of guest rooms and, for what it's worth, all of them have inside locks."

"I don't know anything about you."

"What do you want to know?"

"For one thing, why are you here, Jack? I mean, if San Remo and the rest of San Rafael are so dangerous, why are you down here socializing with the elite?"

"Business opportunities. I'm developing a string of tourist hotels throughout the country. Come on inside and I'll answer any questions you have about it."

She studied him for a few seconds. Why not? She had nowhere else to go until she could make it back to her hotel. What would a few more hours spent with Jack Stratford do to her? Shrugging, she smiled up into those improbable blue eyes. Dumb question. With all the adrenaline still pumping through her, she was bound to come up with some breath-stealing scenarios.

She stepped through the doorway, then stopped dead. "Here? You live here?" Opening her hands, she gestured to the structure on the other side of a lily pond. "That isn't a house, that's a... villa." She turned an accusing stare on him. "You're very wealthy, aren't you?"

He made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Loaded," he said, stepping into the garden and closing the door. "Is that all right with you?"

"I'm sorry. That must have sounded rude. I shouldn't judge everyone like..." Her voice trailed off, but it was a matter of seconds before she recovered from the distasteful memory worming itself through her mind. Not every rich man was a jerk like Todd Daniels, at least not until they proved it by doing something stupid. And totally unforgivable. She gave Jack a weak smile. "I guess I'm still catching my breath from all that's happened."

Jack watched as she shoved a lock of hair behind one ear. Blood spotted the front of her dress, one of her earrings was missing, and a small bruise had formed near her shoulder. On the other hand, her nose had stopped bleeding, and she was standing without his help. If he stared much longer, he'd be hard pressed not to kiss her. He cleared his throat. It would have to be a good-bye and good luck kiss, of course. Guiding her around the lily pond, he headed across the side lawn to the main house.

"You know, you could have broken that pretty little nose of yours, sticking it in a dark alley the way you did. But don't worry about it. Next time you see your boyfriend, I'm sure he'll tell you that you're more beautiful than ever."

"Hold it right there," she said, reaching for his arm and forcing him to stop and turn back to her.

Her other hand lay on her breastbone, her fingers pointing to her fine-boned face, sensuous lips, and huge eyes. When she let go, Jack slipped his hands into his pockets and watched the moonlight do amazing things to her already-luminous beauty.

"What?" he asked, sensing her stubborn nature gathering strength again.

"I had a right to be in that alley, I don't have a boyfriend, and it wouldn't be the end of the world if I'd broken my nose. In fact, it might have added a little character to my face."

"I see," he said, guiding her to the steps and onto the wide veranda. She was the most refreshing personality he'd dealt with in months. And the most provocative. He shook his head, knowing he shouldn't be entertaining such thoughts. Now that he knew the coup was coming, his clandestine agenda would demand every spare minute of his time. And he knew without a doubt that Joanna McCall's presence in his life would demand more than he could give her.

Dammit.

"Well, I'm glad you didn't break your nose. And once you're back home, I think you'll be glad too. We'll get you cleaned up, take it easy for a while, and in a few hours I'll take you back to your hotel and then on to the airport." As he started lighting the citronella candles, he called out in Spanish to someone inside.

"My maid," he said when Joanna gave him a questioning look. "I told her I'd brought someone who needed to freshen up. She's getting clean towels and soap. Have a seat."

"Thank you." Joanna sat down on the striped cushioned chair, drew her legs up Indian-style, and then raised her brows. "Why would I want you to take me to the airport?"

"To catch the noon flight back to Miami." Blowing out the match, he dropped it on the tiled tabletop, then tore another match from the pack. "Don't worry. I have connections out at the airport, and I'll see that you're on that flight."

She squinted comically at him. "But I'm not going back to the States right now. Jack, I didn't come here to vacation."

As he blew out the second match, he shifted his eyes toward her. "You didn't?"

"No. I have work to do down here."

"Work?" he asked, disliking the sinking feeling in his stomach. "What kind of work?"

"A photo project for Lemon Aid. You've heard of Lemon Aid, haven't you? The children's relief organization headed by Holly Hamilton. She was a model. She used to be the Glory Girl. No? Anyway, she thinks classrooms of kids stateside would be interested in adopting classrooms of kids in underprivileged areas around the world. The stateside kids would provide money for health care, books, clothing—things like that. In return they'd find out about life in other countries. Lemon Aid hired me to bring back a test package of photos and videos."

Jack drew his blunt-cut nails across the opening of his shirt before pulling at his collar. This surprise turn of events wasn't going down well at all. _Not at all_. The military-backed groups in the northern provinces were secretly training for the coup. What they would do to a single female loaded down with camera equipment and moving around their territory made Jack's hair stand on end. Abduction, imprisonment, and even worse scenarios came to mind when he pictured the indefatigable redhead in action. Hope, wild and sweet, was slipping away. "So, how long are you planning to stay down here on this project?"

"Oh, I don't know. A month. Maybe two. I'm already planning trips to two of the provinces. A place called Oca Oca in Paradise, and another called Pucalli in Oriente. Aren't they the most exotic names you've ever heard?"

He tried not to cringe. "I'll tell you what's exotic up that way. Their particular strain of dysentery."

"I brought a bottle of those tiny white pills."

He gave her his most skeptical look. With the exception of Madre de Dios, the areas she'd mentioned couldn't be more dangerous. "And, you've come here alone to do this project?"

"Yes, I'm here alone," she said. "But I can take care of myself."

"Really? How's that nose? It's not bleeding again, is it?"

She reached for her nose, but crossed her arms over her breasts instead. "No, it is not." A sigh rushed from her throat. "Hey," she said testily, "accidents happen."

"Look, I'm not trying to criticize you, and I'm sure in other circumstances you fend rather well for yourself, but this is San Rafael. Things are different here. If I were you, I'd reconsider this project. Or reschedule it for a later time—"

She cut him off. "But you're not me. And I'm not going to be alone for long. I've been here since three this afternoon, and I've already arranged for a guide to take me upriver."

Every out-of-work timber man with a smattering of English called himself a guide. Of the lot, several unsavory characters came to mind. One particularly nasty one took center stage. Jack eased back in his chair, then let out his breath. What a ridiculous notion. She couldn't have hired him. "Who?" he asked, then held his breath again.

"Oh, a professional. He came highly recommended. Maybe you've heard of him. Ramon Quintero." She leaned forward and touched his knee. "Are you okay, Jack? You're looking a little pale."

### Chapter 2

"Do I look pale?" Jack asked, still reeling from her mention of Ramon Quintero. "It's probably the, uh, light from these candles," he said, moving them several inches across the table.

Of all the characters Joanna could have named, Quintero was the sleaziest. He had the movements, not to mention the morals, of a jackal. And Joanna McCall was Quintero's favorite kind of prey—beautiful, lively, and, most tempting of all, alone. Lacing his fingers together, Jack leaned forward in his chair to explain the situation. "Joanna, there's something—"

Her gaze had drifted across the lawn, but at the mention of her name she turned to him again.

"Yes?"

The alertness in her expression was underscored by a distinct challenge in her tone. A little voice inside Jack's head made him hesitate before offering his advice. He'd known her for less than an hour. One word, besides beautiful, kept coming to mind every time he looked at her. Determined. She knew what she wanted, and she wasn't going to be swayed by a few colorful anecdotes about the guide she'd hired.

He raised his brows; there was only one thing left to do. And he did it so well. He would deal with Joanna McCall in the same way he was dealing with his other responsibilities in San Rafael. By manipulating, maneuvering, and lying, he would finesse his way to a greater good. In Joanna's case, saving her butt. He pulled in a lungful of gardenia-scented air and smiled. "I was just wondering how you met Ramon Quintero?"

"I haven't actually met the man yet," she said, running her hands along the armrests of the chair.

"You haven't?" he asked, watching her long, tapered fingers gliding over the gleaming dark green enamel surfaces. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Hell, he'd been staring at her nonstop since they sat down. When she clutched at the thick metal pieces, the pleasant tension he'd been experiencing quickly intensified. He never imagined any woman capable of producing such pleasurable sensations in him by simply grabbing at two metal armrests. Yet she was. So what did that make him? A man on the verge of developing a metal fetish? Or someone who'd gone too long without sex? Or, simply, a good ol' boy stirred up by the notion of an unpredictable woman?

Scratching his temple, he told himself to get a grip on reality. Where it concerned Joanna McCall, his one and only objective was to get her safely out of the country. No matter how much she was turning him on, he was not giving up another inch to his libido. He blinked. Bad choice of words, he thought as he continued to watch her while repositioning himself more comfortably in his chair.

Clicking her nails against the curved ends of the armrests, Joanna's gaze moved to his face, then quickly skidded past him. This time she fixed a stare on the tropical flower arrangements spilling over the china pots lining the veranda. When she finally turned back to him, her furrowed brow and steely stare made no sense, unless... A sinking feeling dragged at his insides. While he was thinking about how her naked body might appear in flickering candlelight, she could be suffering a concussion.

"Are you all right? You're not feeling dizzy again, are you?" Starting from his chair, he reached for her chin and tilted it upward. "Joanna, look at me. Let me see your eyes."

"No, no. I'm fine," she said, looking as upset and confused as he had felt. "I'm sorry I—"

"I'm the one who is sorry. You need rest. We can talk later."

"It's nothing, Jack. I was... distracted by... s-something," she said, taking his hand in hers and lowering it to her lap. For a long, liquid moment she stared up into his eyes as she leaned closer to him. "You're being so kind to me," she said as if she could hardly believe it.

"You sound as if you're surprised, Red," he said, patting her knee as relief uncoiled a few of his major organs. "Is there a reason I shouldn't be kind to you?"

"No, of course not. It's just been a strange night," she said, letting go of his hand to retuck a lock of hair behind her ear. Sitting up straighter, she backed away from him. "Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh, yes. The guide I hired. His cousin runs the travel agency next to my hotel. I'm meeting him in the morning to discuss the details of the trip."

Visions of Joanna sitting in a seedy cafe in a questionable part of San Remo with Quintero danced before his eyes. "What time?" Jack asked, retaking his seat.

"Ten-thirty. Why?"

"Ten-thirty," he repeated, picturing the man fighting off his usual morning hangover. "I want to make sure you don't miss him," he said, consciously hardening himself to the fact that he lied so easily.

"Oh, he'll be there," she said, turning at the sound of footsteps behind her. "I've already paid the travel agent half his fee."

"Then I guess you've taken care of things, and all I can offer to do is get you safely to your meeting," he said in a deceptively innocent voice as he glanced up at his housekeeper. Before Joanna could deliver her response, he asked the older woman a series of questions in rapid Spanish. When she'd answered him, he turned back to his redheaded guest. "You wanted to say?" he asked, standing and offering Joanna his hand.

"You've done too much already, Jack. I can't let you chauffeur me around town. I'll take a taxi in the morning."

"Nonsense, I have business over that way tomorrow," he said, lying once again as his plan started to jell. "So what's the going rate for a guide these days?" _Sorry, Red, but whatever you paid, you'll never see your money again._

"Twelve thousand pizoles now and twelve thousand when the trip is over. The travel agent said that the timber companies employ most of the guides now, so I think I was lucky to get him for that."

Following the housekeeper down the hall and into a spacious powder room, Joanna twisted back to him as the woman turned on the light in the shower room beyond them. "Well, don't you agree?"

Standing outside the door, Jack was achingly aware of her backlit figure. He began drumming his fingers against the dark wood doorjamb. If he hadn't been aware of her shapely from-here-to-Saturday-night legs before this moment, he was aware now. Joanna McCall wasn't wearing a slip. "Lucky? You bet." He pointed to clothing spread out on an upholstered bench. "Marisol laid out those things for you. The wife of a friend left them last time they visited. She won't mind you using them."

"Jack, there's no need to go to this trouble. All I need is soap and water and a towel. You forget, for the next month or so I'll probably be putting up with much worse conditions than this," she said, pointing to the spots on her dress.

"Then enjoy a hot shower while you can. I'll ask Marisol to stay with you if you want. Otherwise, you can give her your dress to wash while you clean up."

"Thank you, but please don't keep her here for me. I don't need a personal maid standing by."

"At least give her your dress, and she'll take it to the laundry and wash it for you." He held up his hand. "Don't say no. She'll be offended if you refuse."

"Offended? Why?"

"Integrity. I pay her better than most housekeepers and she wants to know she's earned it." He turned to explain to Marisol in Spanish what he wanted. While the woman waited for the soiled dress, Jack turned to go. "I'll be in my office down the hall."

"Wait, Jack," Joanna said, walking back toward the door. "You know Ramon Quintero, don't you?"

Behind her, Marisol narrowed her eyes toward Jack, mouthing Quintero's name with tightened lips. After making the sign of the cross, the housekeeper hurried around Joanna, under his arm, and out of the room, whispering fiercely in staccato Spanish. Jack kept his gaze on Joanna as she ducked under his arm to watch Marisol's departure.

"What was that all about?"

"She must have forgotten something in the kitchen. Just leave your dress here. She'll be back for it later."

She raised her brows but let the matter of Marisol's emotional departure drop with her next words. "You haven't answered my question about Quintero."

"Do I know Ramon?" he asked as guilt crawled up his back. For reasons he couldn't fully understand, he hated concocting another lie to tell her. Maybe this assignment was getting to him, although he didn't know why it would. It hadn't gotten to his predecessor, Reilly Anderson, and Reilly had had to tough it out up on the edge of the rain forest in a run-down hotel for ten miserable months. Of course, while securing Paradise province for pharmaceutical research, Reilly managed to lay the groundwork for Jack's cover, meet the love of his life, and get a transfer to Brazil. Jack turned his head to stare at the hall ceiling fan. All he'd accomplished in his undercover work for Taylor Pharmaceuticals was to go over budget with the parties he'd thrown, bribe several government officials who did next to nothing for him, and fend off the advances of more military officers' wives than he cared to count. Was he ever going to feel that he was doing something worthwhile? Or honest? Or at least ethical?

"Well, do you or don't you know Quintero?" Joanna asked, moving to his side to rest her shoulder against the wall.

He looked over his braced arm at her. The eager expression in those wide-set eyes of hers made him ache all over. She had just enough guts to get herself into deep trouble, but not nearly enough experience to get herself out of it. Maybe the small victory of seeing Joanna McCall safely out of San Rafael was exactly what he needed before he threw himself into investigating the coup he knew was coming. He shrugged. "I've run into him once or twice." _With that fake diamond embedded in his front tooth, Red, he's hard to miss._

She moved closer, whispering, "Is it true what the desk clerk told me? Is part of his ear missing?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Jack!" she said in that comfortable way that made him want to tickle her just to hear her laugh some more. But he wasn't going to tickle her. Ever.

Reaching up, she squeezed his shoulder, then gave him a playful push. "Don't look at me like that," she said as a jolt of riveting pleasure shot to his groin. "This is my first trip outside of the United States, and I'll be honest... I'm ready for anything." Her brows shot upward as she moved her face closer to his. "So tell me, is it true?"

He rested his chin on his arm and smiled. Her eyes were sea green with gold flecks. "It's true. Half of his left ear is gone." _And no, Red, you're not ready for Quintero, but if circumstances were different, I'd be more than ready for you._

"Hmmm," she murmured. "From that skeptical look, I have a feeling you don't believe the story about a wildcat tearing it off." A devilish smile lit her face as she rolled her eyes in his direction. "Or do you?" she asked teasingly.

He smiled back, knowing it was a much weaker version of the one she was beaming at him. "Oh, he lost it in a cat fight, Red, but I'm not sure about the details," he said, gently closing the door. _Except that the cat fight involved two women, turned into a major brawl, and took place in a whorehouse._

He tried to remember the last time he'd run into Quintero. The self-described guide had been trying to sell a pitifully thin puma from a cage in the back of his Land-Rover. Before the illegal transaction could occur, the police seized the animal and arrested Quintero. The next day Quintero was out on bail and headed upriver with several empty bird cages in tow. Piece by piece, Quintero and his kind were destroying the rain forest. They sickened him with their disregard of anyone or anything but their own greed. But he'd never felt alarmed until he found out about Joanna's plans to travel alone with Quintero.

Jack checked his watch as he headed down the hall to his office. If he had to lie, cheat, and steal, he was going to make certain that Quintero never got close to Joanna.

* * *

Twenty minutes later Joanna replaced a comb on the marble vanity while she continued looking into its mirror. Fresh calla lilies in a cut-crystal vase, floor-to-ceiling cerulean tiles, and vanilla-colored Italian bathroom fixtures surrounded her reflected image. The room smelled of lemon soap and the night air wafting through the windows. Outside a fountain splashed in a small garden she'd glimpsed through the opened jalousies.

Attempting to force the sublime setting from her mind, she squinted into the mirror, then began tapping her fingers on the marble surface. When she should be thinking about the needy children she'd come to photograph, Jack Stratford's handsome face stuck in her mind. She frowned. Jack Stratford, the least needy person in the entire country. Slapping her hands on the vanity, she leaned closer to her reflection.

"Okay, okay," she murmured to herself. "So he looks and lives like a king while most of San Remo and the rest of San Rafael live in tin-roofed shacks. So what? He got me out of a tight spot and thanking him for that is all that matters." Lifting her hand, she shook a finger at the mirror. "So don't pick a fight with him about his lifestyle, and as soon as you can manage it, get the hell out of here."

She fished out the memory card from her fanny pack and looked at the small piece of plastic as she recalled the photos she'd taken of him.

Every gesture, every move, every pause, every smile, and every mysterious look around that crowded plaza had captivated her. She touched the plastic square to her chin. It wouldn't do to start thinking about him in any terms other than part of an exciting travel incident. "So remember this. Except for these photos, you're never going to see Jack Stratford again." After a moment she slipped the chip into her pack and headed for the door. More determined than ever to put hold-your-breath-handsome Jack Stratford from her mind, she yanked open the door, then froze on the threshold.

He was standing directly across the hall, his hands in his pants pockets, his backside resting against the wall, and his smile as riveting as ever. She smiled back while she died a little inside. Just how loudly had she been chattering to herself in front of that vanity mirror?

"Everything okay?" he asked, pointing at his nose.

"Terrific," she said, ignoring the throbbing when she touched the bridge of her nose. She had more pressing issues to deal with than her bruise. For example, finding a hole to crawl in if he said anything about the voice coming from the bathroom. Smiling as convincingly as she could, she pulled the heavy door shut behind her, then sighed with genuine happiness. The solid thunk told her that her words had been nothing more than muffled sounds when or if they had reached his ears. But that still didn't end the disturbing ripple of awareness she experienced every time she looked at him. She blinked, but his compelling presence continued to affect her the second she reopened her eyes. Was it possible he'd gotten better-looking since the last time she'd seen him... twenty minutes earlier? She rubbed her forehead in a panic. Okay, okay, so she would make herself look at the wall decorations while she bargained with God to give her a break. "Nice horses," she murmured.

During her futile moment of frenzied praying, Jack pushed off the wall.

"You have an observant eye," he said, running his hand over the carved wood panels by his shoulders. "These pieces were done by an obscure seventeenth-century Spanish artist. The government considers them important works of art. National treasures of San Rafael." He crossed the hall to rim his fingers over the panel behind her. "Here, have a look at this first one. It's quite good." Curving his fingers over her upper arm, he set off those addictive ripples inside her rib cage as he turned her around. "If you start with the ships on this side of the hall, you'll see that they begin to tell a story. It's the history of San Rafael from the Spanish point of view."

Staring at the corded muscles of his forearm visible below his rolled-up shirt-sleeve, Joanna could think of only one work of art that she wanted to study: Jack Stratford. Preferably three inches closer, unclothed, and—What was wrong with her? Just because she was close enough to see his pulse throb in his neck, inhale his expensive aftershave, and wallow in his body heat didn't mean she had to give up what was left of her sanity. During his vivid description of the first battle between the conquistadors and the locals, she held her breath and tried figuring out why she was awash in sexually explicit images of Jack and herself. When tiny points of light began clouding her vision, she gave in and began breathing again. The answer was embarrassingly simple. Jack Stratford turned her on. She frowned. Actually, it was more complicated than that. Much, much more complicated when she took into account that this perfect specimen of masculine desirability resided in a villa large enough to house a good-size orphanage. No matter how charming, thoughtful, and generous he was to her, he was also materialistic, opinionated, and a stunningly accomplished flirt. That last fact grated on an overly sensitized part of her ego. The part Todd had disrespected by unceremoniously dumping her for a "girl of good breeding." The disgusting memory set her teeth on edge.

"Wait, wait, wait," she said, interrupting his impressively detailed account of the first mission erected in San Rafael.

"Am I going too fast?"

She shook her head. "You said something about these panels being national treasures. Why aren't they in a museum, where everyone can view them?"

He slipped his hands into his pockets and nodded thoughtfully until the gesture melted into a shrug. "They're on loan to me. A sort of favor, if you will."

"A favor?" she asked, planting a hand on her hip. "Well, what if I wanted to borrow them? Would I receive the same favor?" she asked, knowing she was baiting him by pursuing the subject.

"Good question." He pointed down the hall, and she began walking with him before he started to answer her in a thoughtful tone. "If you were here creating jobs for the people of San Rafael, improving the tourist facilities, and bringing in a positive cash flow, then the answer to your question would most likely be yes. The minister of the arts would probably consider lending you a few pieces."

"So it comes down to who you know."

"It comes down to not insulting the minister of the arts. Of going with the flow. Besides, I have business dinners and at least one large gathering a month here at this residence. These panels, the statues in the garden, and several other valuable pieces are viewed by dozens of people every week."

"Just dozens? I think hundreds of people would view them each week if they were displayed in a museum. Don't you?"

He slowed his steps as they started up a winding staircase at the end of the hall. His lips tightened, then curved into a lopsided smile.

"You're a very bright lady, Joanna McCall." He shook a finger at her. "You know how the game is played."

"Not firsthand the way you do," she said, matching his step as she dipped her chin in his direction.

"Hold on now," he said, his drawl more pronounced than ever. "What you are most likely thinking about me is probably true. But corruption is on the wane here, and if I have to play the game for my company and this country to get a leg up, I'll be glad to put up with these perks."

"Necessary evil and all that, I suppose. Well, if you ask me, dealing honestly and openly with people is highly underrated," she said, knowing she was stepping over the line with that remark.

He gave a low whistle as they arrived on the second floor landing. "Miss McCall, it sounds as if a bad boy once stole your lollipop and you've been out for justice ever since."

"A bad boy did, but I already made him pay for it," she said, remembering the bittersweet taste of vengeance.

"I'll bet. And when did this transgression take place?"

"Three weeks ago," she said, crossing the landing and pushing open the screen doors leading onto a balcony. The moonlit view of the city beckoned her to the railing, then made her forget her reason for not wanting to like Jack Stratford and his lifestyle.

Spread out below were the tree-lined streets, walled villas, and manicured lawns of his exclusive neighborhood. To the right, on a curved driveway inside the curlicued, wrought iron gates of his property sat a polished Mercedes. A movement to the left of the car caught her attention. Squinting at the darkest shadows, she held her breath when a wispy apparition appeared to float across the lawn. Taking a stranglehold on the railing, she motioned with her other hand for Jack to join her. "Quick. What was that?" she whispered, stretching for a glimpse as the thing began disappearing behind a bush.

"Oh, that's Chivas," he said quietly as he rested an elbow on the rail next to her white-knuckled grip.

"Wait. I—I mean th-that white thing. There. Right there." She jabbed her index finger toward the fluttery white movement directly below them now. "What _is_ it?" she demanded, closing her hand over his.

"Chivas," he repeated as a servant walked onto the balcony and placed a cloth-covered tray on the table nearby.

"What's a Chivas?"

He waited until the servant had retreated, then twisted to reach around her waist as he leaned in close to her ear. He was so close his lips brushed her hair, his breath warmed her cheek, and his presence made her want to cuddle closer. Turning her face toward his, she let her eyes repeat the question.

"He's a white peacock, Red," he said before moving across the balcony to the table.

"You actually own a white peacock named Chivas?" she asked, not bothering to keep the awe out of her voice. Turning from the rail, she planted a hand on her hip and looked at Jack. He crooked his finger, and she walked to the table next to him. Palm fronds rustled in the warm breeze that was lifting the hair on his forehead. She waited, watching his amused expression while she rolled her tongue along the inside of her cheek. He looked at her in a way that made her hold her breath, then suck it in. The scent of gardenias was mixing with the ocean air, enveloping her in a haze rich with sensual promise. There was no use pretending what was happening wasn't happening. The gorgeous guy, the exotic moment, and a final spurt of adrenaline were seducing her.

He winked and the scene the previous month at Valentine's Bridal Photography Shop never happened. The lecture to herself in the downstairs bathroom never happened. She hadn't turned her life upside down and shaken it with a vengeance either. Everything was as it should be. The moment was filled to the brim and humming with Jack Stratford's presence. She tilted her head to one side. "What's that wink for?"

"Chivas is another perk. He's on loan from the San Remo zoo. They're overstocked with white peacocks this year, and they were happy to have him out of there." He pulled a chair out for her. "Care to sit down and have a midnight snack with me?"

He'd popped her balloon with a howitzer. "I swear, Jack Stratford," she said, moving around to the other side of the table to take the chair there. "You live like a pagan in paradise."

"A pagan in paradise," he repeated, staring out over the balcony railing. He shook his head, laughing with private amusement before sitting down opposite her. "Red, you'll never know how right you are."

She'd planted her elbows on the table and dropped her chin into the cups of her hands. "And what, pray tell, is under there? Caviar canapés? A small bottle or two of Taittinger's finest?"

"Something a little more difficult to get hold of down here. I gave up trying to find it at the local bodegas. I ended up having it smuggled in," he said, whisking the cloth from the tray.

She blinked then rose from her chair to get a closer look at what was stacked on the dainty paper doily lining the silver tray. She stretched across the table and sniffed. No, it couldn't be that. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and diet soda?"

He rose from his own chair, took a sandwich from the pile, and lifted the top slice of bread. "Super-chunky style. Grape jellies are stacked on your side of the tray and strawberry jams are on mine. Will these pretentious gourmet treats get you through the night, Red?"

"Yes, they will," she said, reaching for a sandwich. She bit into the sandwich, then chewed the mouthful slowly. Peanut butter, chunky and rich. And great globs of grape jelly, its sweet aroma doing scary things to her stomach. With all that had happened, she'd forgotten about dinner. The familiar flavors had never tasted so delicious. Before she could think to stop herself, she moaned with pleasure. Her hand came up against her mouth the instant she heard the throaty sound coming from her. Swallowing, she wiped her mouth with a lace-edged cloth napkin. "I'm sorry I did that. I've been away from the States for only a day, but I feel as if I haven't had one of these in months. Thank you, Jack... for everything you've done for me."

"Just consider this a perk from the pagan in paradise."

"I will," she said, reaching for a soda bottle.

The following day, when she left Jack Stratford, she was going to forget the embarrassing moments and remember only the lighthearted ones. She ran a finger down the perspiring bottle before lifting it from the tray. Except for a stray lingering look or two, she was certain she hadn't done or said anything to make him think he was the sexiest guy she'd ever met.

"To you, for your patience, for your hospitality, and for scaring the bad guys away tonight." Clinking bottles with him, she playfully added, "To my hero."

Their bottles hovered near each other for several seconds before she brought hers to her lips. She held off taking a sip. "You wanted to add something?" she asked, her gaze straying to his finely pleated white shirt. Dark, curly chest hair peeked out from the unbuttoned portion. Before she realized it, she was imagining how it spread across his chest then arrowed down to his navel... and below.

"Joanna?"

"Yes," she said, praying the shadows from the palms were hiding her face.

"Too bad about those thieves getting your good camera."

She swallowed, then forced a sad little smile onto her face. "The good camera. My telephoto lens. All that expensive equipment gone," she said, shaking her head before taking a swig from the bottle.

Reaching for a sandwich, he stopped to look up at her. "And what about all those photos of me?" he whispered teasingly.

As she sputtered and choked, her eyes began to water. She brought the bottle to the table with a resounding thump, then covered her mouth with both hands. Her restored sense of control was gone, exploded in a choking cough. "That was not funny," she said, but his good-natured laughter continued ringing out in the gardenia-scented night.

### Chapter 3

Tapping her fingernail against her Spanish-English dictionary, Joanna attempted to smile at the waiter as he checked his watch. No reason to panic. Or was there? This time the curve of her lips barely made it out of an even line as she glanced at the wall clock and then her own watch. After two hours of avoiding a frisky party of cockroaches playing near her feet, her optimism was all but leeched away. The one thing that remained was the question she'd been avoiding asking herself for the last hour and a half. She stomped out two roaches and scared a third toward an empty table. Where the blue blazes was Ramon Quintero?

The very best answer she could hope for was that Ramon Quintero was not punctual. There were several alternative answers she dreaded thinking about. She thought about one anyway; maybe she had somehow missed him. As the inevitable self-doubt started again, she picked up her dictionary. The red vinyl-bound book had been close at hand all through her lunch, her gooey meringue dessert, and the strongest, blackest coffee she'd ever urged from a cup. With the caffeine and sugar overload, she could use a calming word about now. She grimaced. No, what she needed was an encouraging word, and if she ran across one while attempting to construct a question, she promised herself she'd memorize it.

Wading through the far-flung dialogue examples, she fought back a fit of frustrated growling. Whoever said Spanish was an easy language to learn hadn't thought about its practical use outside a classroom. She flipped through several more pages. She did not need to buy aspirin, ask directions to the bull ring, or inquire about the price of clothing alterations. And what was she supposed to gather from all those extra, upside-down question marks? Was there a hidden message? she wondered while she turned the book sideways and cocked her head.

" _Señorita_?"

"Yes... I mean, _si_?" she replied, closing her eyes to focus on his voice. She was going to listen with exquisite care, but only after she asked the man to speak slowly. Very slowly. " _Muy despacio, por favor_ ," she said.

In painfully broken English the waiter explained that she had to leave because Boca del Toro was about to close for the afternoon siesta.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. He wanted her to leave, and she still had not connected with the guide she'd hired. She wasn't going to argue with the waiter; her embarrassment quota for the week had been used up hours before. "I understand," she said, counting out the money to pay her bill. At least Jack Stratford wasn't around to witness this setback. Or rescue her from it. Although she had to wonder how he would have handled this moment, when she was close to a hardy shriek of frustration.

She took a deep breath and looked around. She knew just what Jack Stratford would do. And she would do it too. She would use her head and not her emotions. Turning to a waiter who was busy loading water pitchers onto a tray, she asked, "Ramon Quintero? Do you know him? Does he come here?"

As water slopped over the rim of one of the pitchers, the waiter's eyes shifted in several directions as if looking for guidance. Or reassurance. He repeated Quintero's name.

"Yes, that's his name. Is he coming here today?" she asked, pointing at the floor.

Joanna waited, sensing the tension building around her. The door to the kitchen suddenly flew open. Placing her thumb against the edges of the dictionary's pages, she smiled, poised, and ready to converse.

"No, no, no, _Señorita_ ," a man said as he rushed over to where she stood. Taking her by the elbow, he ushered her through the tables and chairs, out of the restaurant, and onto the sidewalk. "Quintero is no here," he said, scissoring his hands in front of her face. "You go. Now."

Rapidly thumbing through her dictionary, she struggled to hold the man's attention. "Just one question," she said a second before she dropped the book. Her mind went blank when the large man dismissed her in rapid Spanish.

What was wrong with her? She'd been glued to the Spanish channel for the last two weeks picking up key phrases and a survivor's list of nouns. That ought to count for something, but it didn't since everyone spoke so fast around there. "Oh, please, wait—"

Stepping back inside, the man slammed the door.

"Right. You have a nice siesta too," she shouted. Where was a bilingual American when you needed one? Standing alone on the sidewalk, she pictured Jack Stratford and how quickly he had made himself understood to his maid. How every time he spoke to anyone, in English or Spanish, things happened. Smoothly. Effortlessly. An achy sadness feathered through her breast, but before it could settle in she willed it away. Jack Stratford, with all his tempting expertise, hinted at or otherwise, was gone from her life. She was on her own.

Shading her eyes, she stared through the window as the voices inside the restaurant became louder. The man who had rushed her to the sidewalk was now gesturing wildly at the waiter. She shook her head. Not for a minute did she believe anyone that high-strung could nap in the middle of the day. Not without sleeping pills and a slug of scotch.

Hitching her purse strap higher onto her shoulder, she looked down the sidewalk as thunder clapped and rolled through the neighborhood. A nondescript dog was rubbing his bony rump against a graffiti-covered wall. Across the street a small boy was tugging his tricycle into a gaudy blue building that was covered in the same Day-Glo orange graffiti. The door shut after him, leaving an eerie silence hanging over the neighborhood. She groaned at the thought of walking back to her hotel in the rain. Where had all the taxis fled to? Minutes earlier they'd been zooming by, horns honking, drivers shouting. And why wasn't she in one of them on her way back to her hotel!

The door to Boca del Toro was jerked open a second later. She felt a sigh whoosh from her throat at the sight of the waiter. Maybe someone inside remembered his manners and was willing to talk to her. Slowly. And with a generous amount of sign language. Eyebrows raised, she strained toward the waiter. " _Hola_?" In return he offered her a pulse of a smile. A reassuring sign if she'd ever seen one, she thought optimistically.

He pointed up the street to the dark clouds above the mountaintops. "Ren, _Señorita_."

"Ren? Oh, you mean rain," she said, stepping aside as he began rolling the bar gate over the plate glass window fronting the restaurant. Opening her arms, she raised them to the sky. "Buckets of rain, by the looks of those _nubes_." She began thumbing through the dictionary again, heartened by the small victory of remembering the Spanish word for "clouds."

"If you could spare a minute," she said, hoping her cheery tone would give him cause for patience with her. Before she could locate the first word in the dictionary, the waiter locked the gate, hurried past her, and back into the restaurant. Someone shut the door after him, then whipped down the shade.

"All right, I get the hint," she shouted through gritted teeth as she slapped closed her dictionary and shoved it into her oversize purse. She gave one shake of her head before heading toward the pay phone at the corner.

"You do not need to be held by the hand," she told herself. "You can handle this one, Joanna. Just like you've handled every other mangy situation in your life." She stared at the phone for a second and thought about how safe she'd felt pressed against Jack Stratford in that alleyway the night before. Plowing her fingers through her hair, she strived for a logical explanation for thinking about Jack. This situation was one hundred and eighty degrees different from their encounter the previous night. It wasn't as if someone had knocked her down or punched her in the nose again. Still, she felt the slow burn of humiliation at being pushed out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, then being royally ignored. Memories of Todd crept into the already awful moment. That ego-deflating episode prickled against the raised hackles on the back of her neck. If there was one thing she hated, it was being treated as if she somehow weren't good enough to be there.

She pulled in a deep breath and looked around her once again. At least Jack Stratford wasn't there to witness this ego-leveling episode. Being discovered on her knees in an alleyway seemed a lot less humiliating than being discovered standing in front of a restaurant in broad daylight, frantically thumbing through a dictionary while people repeatedly slammed the door in her face. She fished out a paper from her purse, dropped too many coins into the phone box, and punched out the number of the travel agency. As the line began ringing, the sky opened up like a trapdoor, deluging her with rain. She pressed her body against the phone and begged shamelessly for someone to answer on the other end. As the phone continued ringing, the wind picked up, chilling her soaked body from head to toe. What had Jack Stratford said to her last night? " _...enjoy a hot shower while you can."_ She rubbed a hand over her face and thought about another kind of heat Jack Stratford had to offer. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel the sensation of his warm breath against her cheek and the ache in her lips for a brush from his. Another memory tumbled in. One she had decided to forget as soon as it happened. In the miserable state she was in at the moment, she wanted to recall every millisecond of when he was holding her in the alley. She stroked rainwater across her chin and then down her throat. His full-body embrace would feel like paradise right about now.

Someone picked up the phone, and she quickly pushed those pictures from her mind, stood up tall, and wiped heartily at the rain wetting her face. Before she could speak she was put on hold. She let out an admirable stream of curses, then leaned the back of her head against the phone and resigned herself to another wait. Sun streaked through the downpour, adding a metallic sparkle to the water-filled ruts between the paved patches of street. She convulsed with mad laughter. There was a silver lining after all.

"Agencia de Zarzuela Viajes."

She snapped to attention, then whipped around to face the phone. "This is Joanna McCall. I've been waiting at the Boca del Toro for two hours for a Mr. Quintero. Has he been by today? Did he leave any messages for me?" She forced down a gasp as a speeding taxi splashed water onto the backs of her jeaned legs.

" _Señorita McCall._ Momento, por favor."

The muffled argument exploding on the other end of the line vied with the cracking thunder in intensity. She glanced up the sidewalk. A river of rainwater gathered speed as it ran downhill and over her shoes. Grasping the receiver with both hands, she raised her voice to match those on the other end. "Excuse me. Can anyone there answer me? Hello? Hel-lo!"

The volleying voices on the other end continued, but dropped to a whisper when she spoke. Pressing the receiver tightly against her ear, she kept her voice raised. "Look, I'm standing in a downpour. I could be washed away any second. Just give it to me straight."

They did.

As her shoulders drooped, she dropped her forehead against the edge of the phone. No. This couldn't be happening. Not after the incident in the alleyway. And not after the scene in her hotel room that morning. "He picked up the money I left for him? Uh-huh. Then what?" She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as the rain succeeded in covering every square inch of her body. "Yes. Go on," she said, "I'm still listening." She stood up straight, stiffened momentarily at the next words, then slammed her hand against the telephone. Her voice topped their former volume with a heartfelt "He went where?"

Jack drove with his hands clenched as he peered through the rain-coated windshield and slapping wiper blades for Joanna McCall. Where the hell was she? She should have been back at her hotel two hours ago. He turned a corner, but the pitiful scenery in San Remo's poorest district didn't change. Even the dog and the Day-Glo graffiti looked the same as all the others in the area.

He must have been out of his mind to let her come there by herself. Setting up an elaborate plan to keep her safe by sending Quintero out of town, then not keeping a close enough watch on her, was unforgivable.

What if he hadn't outsmarted Quintero? What if the bastard had somehow figured out what was happening and decided to see who all the fuss was about? Jack's stomach clenched in time with his hands on the steering wheel. And then he saw her. A bedraggled form, slapping back a sleek auburn lock from in front of her eyes, then gesturing with her hand. She held the receiver in front of her face as if it were a microphone. Or a bullhorn. Someone was getting an earful of a very unhappy Joanna McCall, but he didn't care. His heart rate was stabilizing, color was finding its way back into his knuckles, and the strange echoes had ceased in that once-soundless place inside him. He didn't want to think about the implications of that last phenomenon. Finding Joanna McCall alive and unharmed was enough for him.

He parked on the opposite side of the street and waited for her to finish speaking—and watched the way she shifted her backside in exasperation over her phone call. The clinging fabric, darkened by the rain to a blue-black second skin, reminded him of midnight up north in Paradise. When she knocked the receiver against the phone box, he caught sight of her jiggling breasts, covered in a white gauzy material that stuck to her like wet tissues. The profile offered him a glimpse of her face and proved to him that she was anything but bedraggled. Ripping mad was more like it. He couldn't have been happier to see her if she'd been bare-ass naked. He dropped his forehead against his steering wheel, then lifted it with a smile. He plowed his fingers through his hair. "Hmmm." Well, maybe a little happier.

She appeared to be pleading now. This had to be the last explosion of emotion before she packed it in and left San Rafael. She definitely was giving up. Any second now. Sheets of rain continued hurtling against her. He shifted uneasily in his seat as a trace of guilt stirred in his midsection. After expending all this energy, at least she'd have a good sleep on the flight back home later that night. He stared a little longer, then bit off a barnyard expletive as he opened his door and got out. Hadn't she melted that phone line yet? What was she going for here? A case of double pneumonia and laryngitis?

His timing was impeccable. At the precise moment his foot took the curb, she slammed the receiver onto its cradle. His first step onto the narrow sidewalk brought him to the front end of her pivoting exit. His arms went around her waist with the pretense of steadying her. She wriggled in response, and her soft breasts and her hard hipbones instantly began doing dangerous things to his good-guy image.

She let loose with a scream that would have parted his hair if the drumming rain hadn't. "Jack, for God's sake, don't ever scare me like that again." Stepping back, she removed the pressure of her breasts and hips, but left him with a physical memory that continued to grow.

"What are you... doing here?" she asked while she slung her purse back onto her shoulder, then planted her hands on her hips. The rain stopped as abruptly as it had started.

He had his answer ready, and properly padded with innocent confusion. "You mean here?" he asked, pointing to the ground. "I saw you as I was—"

"Not right here. I mean in this part of San Remo?"

"Oh. I'm on my way to an old convent about a mile up the road. The place is for sale. What are you doing here, and why are you beating up a defenseless telephone that way?"

She slid her tongue along the edges of her teeth and without preamble said, "I was just on the phone with that travel agency next to my hotel. They allowed that guide I hired to pick up my twelve thousand pizoles this morning. They say he called shortly after that about an emergency trip to Panama. I couldn't understand it all. Something about race horses."

She crossed her arms and looked at the next approaching raincloud. "What do you think, Jack?"

Jack whistled long and low while he secretly marveled at her guileless admission. He couldn't remember the last person who laid true colors on the line in quite the way she did. Her straightforwardness made him want to give her back her hope, but he couldn't afford to do that. Not if he wanted her out of San Rafael. And not if he wanted those warm feelings out of his center. "Panama? Quintero? Your money and race horses?" He shook his head slowly. "Those add up to one big zero."

She looked up at him through rain-beaded copper-tipped lashes, a deflated look on her once-animated face. He had the most incongruous urge to cup her cheeks in his hands and kiss a smile onto her face. The kind of smile she'd cast his way the night before while they were running through the streets of San Remo. The kind of smile that made him feel alive in this rich, rain-soaked moment, believe in sunny tomorrows, and forget there were ever dark yesterdays. But he knew better; he didn't smile. Instead, he delivered a friendly pat to her shoulder. "Joanna darlin', you've been had."

He expected a gasp or a sigh of disappointment, maybe that most predictable gesture of feminine shock, her hands flying to her mouth. Perhaps her pretty, pouty mouth would quiver with the imminent arrival of tears. Okay, skip the tears, she wasn't the type. What he didn't expect was the spicy flow of expletives that nailed Quintero's canine heritage as she paced before the phone. "Three times," she said with a growl, slapping three fingers against her palm, "in less than twenty-four hours. That's some kind of a record, even for me!"

"Three?" He held up his thumb. "You've been mugged and robbed." He uncurled his index finger. "And now you've been cheated out of your money." Opening his hand to her, he gave her a quizzical look. "What's the third?"

"My hotel room was broken into," she said, shaking her arms at the outrage. "My video equipment, my American Express card, and some US dollars. I suppose I should feel grateful that they left me my clothes and—"

"What? When?" he asked, reaching past the panic in his chest to close his hands around her arms. "Slow down," he demanded, stilling her in her short-leash tracks. She turned her eyes to him, her momentary look as fragile as those meringues displayed in the restaurant window. Feelings he'd forgotten he was capable of leapt inside him like flames feeding oxygen. "Did anyone hurt you? Why didn't you call me?"

With the anger drained from her eyes, she was now left with a look of clear surprise that quickly turned to wonder. And then uncertainty. He had glimpsed that look before, but he'd read it as a woman's normal suspicions over a stranger. Him. Now he wasn't so certain. In one flash of a second he sensed she was doubting herself, or maybe questioning a belief she'd long held. Undecipherable emotions stirred in the depths of her green-gold eyes before she turned them away. Their moment of intimacy had lasted a second. Maybe two. Maybe longer. He couldn't say, except that it was more real, more substantive than toasted meringue.

He let go of her wrists, and she waved him off breezily. "I'm fine. Really. It must have happened last night, before I got back from your house. The police came right over when I discovered it. Besides, I've already called American Expess and – "

"Why didn't you call me?" he repeated quietly.

She exhaled a huffy sigh, then shrugged as she planted a hand on one hip and began picking at her clinging blouse. "Because I'm getting tired of... people thinking I'm just an accident waiting to happen. And I'm not, Jack. Besides, I had locked my door before I left the hotel. This could have happened to anyone."

"Did it happen to anyone else?" he asked, his even quieter voice demanding that she face him again.

She glanced at him, then looked away. "Not that I know about. But that doesn't mean anything. It's not like someone's out to get me. I mean, why would someone be out to get me?"

"You? There's no reason I can come up with," he said, waiting for a blinding flash of insight. None came while he wandered through the shady world of his suspicions and doubts. Any criminal act against her would have angered him, but three acts in less than twenty-four hours made him angry as well as suspicious. He felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation spreading across his shoulders. A prescient warning that had him holding his breath. In these troubled times coincidence was too easy an explanation. "Except that you are an attractive woman traveling alone. Word gets around quickly in this town. And maybe you're not staying in the worst section of it or at its seediest hotel, but you're damn close on both counts."

"Well, I won't be staying there much longer."

She was leaving. There now, he'd finally accomplished his goal. He raised his eyebrows. So why wasn't there a victory dance cha-chaing through his head? He should be experiencing a sense of accomplishment, a rush of relief. At least a secret jolt of purely male triumph. Instead, he sensed himself holding back in that place where he'd spent the last two years. An emotional void defined by the corporeal world of shallow conversations kept going with worthless platitudes, bloated praise, and questionable innuendos. A place where he allowed himself to feel nothing real. Except now it had begun to feel like a tight fit, but he was in no position to examine the cause.

He cleared his throat. "Not staying? Probably the wisest choice, Red." He chose his words with exquisite care because the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her feelings. Or start her up again. "Look, don't feel too bad. Even in your own hometown, people aren't always who and what they appear to be. Down here it's worse because everyone's desperate to get a slice of this banana. And therein, Red, lies the problem."

"Which is?"

"Life is always dicey when those around you are living it with a frontier mentality." He watched the tension dissolve, first around her eyes and then her mouth. That mouth that held promises, those lips that sent him secret messages, and that glistening tongue tip that requested his total and most thorough attentions—and all this without a spoken word. Oh, God, save him from drowning in a dream tonight.

"You're right," she said in that sensible tone that gave him more reason to hope she would be leaving soon. "You do have to be careful in whom you put your trust these days. And I'll be the first to admit it. I made a big mistake hiring someone, sight unseen, to take me upriver. I was gung ho from the get go about this project, but I'm beginning to see it in a sobering light. No, really I am," she assured him.

"Erring on the side of caution. That's much better, Red."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I'm just surprised how much this betrayal hurts coming from someone I've never met, but that's probably because the Lemon Aid project has become so important to me. To my life."

As he glanced across the street at his car, visions of Alicia and his father stung his consciousness. The two of them were sprawled across the front seat of a limousine, its hood still sporting beribboned white doves. Betrayal? He could teach Joanna McCall a lesson or two in betrayal. The ugly scene between his now-ex-wife and father played itself out to its shuddering conclusion again, while on the periphery of his consciousness he heard Joanna's voice.

"...take care of things myself... not that difficult... welcome the adventure actually..."

"What was that?" he asked cautiously as he turned to face her.

"I said, I'm through wasting Lemon Aid's money. I have to face it sooner or later. Ramon Quintero is long gone with those pizoles. I have to replace the cameras, and down here I know they can't be cheap. There's only one thing I can do, Jack."

"I know," he said, ready to comfort her before speeding her butt to the airport. He spun his key ring around his index finger. _Ah, Red, we could have had some good times. But that's not going to happen._ "So, what do you want to do?"

"Replace my cameras. Then I'm getting hold of a good map. I figure in a few days I can make it upriver by myself."

"What?" he asked, cupping his keys in both hands when they threatened to drop. "You're not serious."

"I've never been more serious in my life." She looked around at the sound of thunder. "Can I ride with you to that convent. I promise to stay out of your way, and when you're through with your business there, you can drive me back to my hotel?" she said, lifting her chin toward his car. "Tell me quick, big guy. We're about to get dumped on and I haven't seen a taxi around here in a quarter of an hour."

They were in the car and moving within a minute. He kept glancing at her rain-soaked clothes which stuck to her body like a racy fantasy he'd already indulged. But that was just a fantasy. She was there beside him, more beautiful, more vulnerable, and more real than ever. Those fine bones of her jaw, that touch of innocence in her eyes that he knew she'd never admit to, and her unwavering determination to continue with her project set off more alarms. She had no idea what she was letting herself in for. He did. "Red, let's not get hasty about this. I think you should reconsider your decision. You can't go up there alone. You'll need assistance."

Joanna pretended to consider what he had just told her. After combing her fingers through her hair, then flicking water droplets toward the carpet, she leaned an elbow on the armrest. "I will?" she asked, infusing her words with serious drama. Forcing her gaze from his chest, she watched as he did a double take at her. Okay, she did resemble a sea otter with her hair soaked and slicked back and her ears protruding. Those darn ears together with her freckles would forever present her as a plain Jane, and in this case to the most sophisticated man she'd ever met. She pulled two wet clumps of hair over the tops of her ears in a desperate attempt at camouflage.

"Ah, jeez," he mumbled, flicking on the wipers as another downpour hit the windshield. "You're going to do it. You're going to take that trip alone, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm going to do it," she said, more upset with her attraction toward him than his irritation at her. She sat up, tossing her head to clear those invading nighttime images from her mind. They were cozy images of them cuddled up together on that big veranda chaise, laughing at an outrageous peacock story she was sure he could tell, or stretched out on his bed, intent on other things when the laughter stopped.

"You don't know a thing about the terrain, the diseases, or the danger up there. The local police are touchy about foreigners. How can you—?"

"And you don't know Joanna McCall, so how can _you_?"

She watched him quietly reassess the situation. That he took an interest in her set her blood humming, until she reminded herself that it was most likely a generic man-protect-woman motive. Besides, they had nothing in common... except a penchant for p.b.&j's and diet soda at midnight. She wiped the smile off her face and shifted in her seat.

He was probably on his way to making his fifth million in his obviously lucrative hotel business. She, on the other hand, was determined to locate a bunch of kids who desperately needed help. Except for the few tempting hours they'd spent together, there was no common ground between them. He was in San Rafael to make money, running in circles she had learned to despise. He probably had scores of glamorous women vying for an opportunity to see how far south his chest hair traveled. She squinted hard through the rain-glazed window next to her. She, on the other hand, had a mission, a plan, and a numb spot in her heart when it came to—to what? Romance? Of course it was romance, or at least the possibility of one that left her in turmoil every time he came near. She squeezed her eyes shut as she remembered the way she'd rubbed herself against him in that alleyway. He'd felt like a new sin begging to be committed. Okay, so maybe that numb spot wasn't so numb, but that didn't make her crazy either.

She knew what she'd come to San Rafael for, and Jack Stratford was simply a momentary distraction. That rub and tickle in the alleyway, that almost kiss on his balcony, and all the rest of those lingering looks and accidental touches meant nothing. Even if they did, she could brush away those romantic notions the way she'd brushed away those distracting butterflies she'd seen in his garden. She turned to him, meeting his gaze as he was turning to her. They both spoke at the same moment.

"Don't think I don't appreciate what you've been—"

"Don't take this the wrong way, Red—"

"Oops. You go ahead."

"No, you go ahead."

"Okay," he said with a decisive nod. "You're asking for serious trouble if you insist on taking this trip by yourself. At least give yourself a little more time to settle into the rhythm down here before you take off for the provinces. Let me give you a few pointers on how to deal in this culture."

"Well..."

"Look. I have an appointment in Pucalli soon. If you're determined to go there, then wait and go there with me."

"But what if getting my equipment and my permits replaced takes longer than a few days? Wouldn't that hold you up?"

"It's my company, Red. We'll work out something. And once we hit Pucalli, we'll go our separate ways. What do you say, Red? Will you allow this gentleman from Charleston to keep his hair from turning prematurely gray worrying about you?"

If she accepted his offer, she'd never have cause to wonder if she'd been missing something by running away from him. Not to mention that she would sound foolish if she turned down such generosity. Here was her chance to prove that her attraction to him would soon become a distraction she would be happy to put behind her. Her gaze drifted to the raindrops beading in the crisp dark chest hair showing through the shirt opening at his throat. The masculine flag waved at her like a blue wrapped package from Tiffany's. She cleared her throat and looked out the windshield. Tiffany's? She'd never shopped in Tiffany's. She'd never been to Tiffany's. "That's very kind of you to offer."

"And very smart of you, if you'll accept it. Will you?"

"I don't see why not," she said while an image of them standing at the boat railing with a full moon above them floated through her mind. Lord help her, but if she flunked this self-imposed test, she deserved to have that riverboat's hull made out of chicken wire.

"Good move. One other thing, while we're sounding sensible."

"What's that?" she said, trying for light laughter when images of them being anything but sensible under that full moon passed through her mind.

"Save yourself some money and check out of the hotel and into my place for the next few days."

"Oh, I don't know about that."

"Joanna, you're running the risk of another robbery if you stay. You can't afford it. Besides, this way our departure will go more smoothly. It's the sensible thing to do."

Sensible? Yes. But she wasn't looking for a temptation overload when she decided to disprove the extent of her attraction to him. She closed her eyes. They'd be under the same roof, bumping into each other for the next few days. She nibbled her bottom lip as more tempting possibilities buzzed through her mind. She could see him now, crossing the hall in the morning, a towel hanging low around his hips, that perfectly distributed light mat of chest hair curling all the way to his navel. If she could handle that—well, maybe _handle_ wasn't the best choice of words. But they were words and only words. The doing or the not doing was what was important here. She touched her fingertip to the bridge of her nose. _Get a handle on reality!_ she told herself. _After what you've been through lately, sharing quarters with a hold-your-breath-handsome guy will amount to nothing more than a light exercise in character building. Do it, girl._

"Then call me sensible and let's get on with it," she said enthusiastically while ignoring that warning whisper in the back of her mind.

###

If you enjoyed this excerpt from **Pagan's Paradise**

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Some Kind of Wonderful

Susan Connell

### Chapter 1

Alex Stoner could think of several reasons why he should return to his office, but only one to linger over his lunch in the Plaka. And she wasn't even his type. He checked his watch, then shook his head as laughter rumbled in his chest. Was he crazy? He'd spent almost two hours trying to make eye contact with a tourist—who was so busy shopping for souvenirs she hadn't noticed him. She was a tourist. Ah, but what a tourist. Those long legs, that willowy figure, and the face of an angel...

"Get a grip, Stoner," he said to himself, drumming his fingers on the table. This was his last full day in Athens before he flew out to his island retreat. Plenty of work was waiting back at Stoner Exports, plus that mysterious three-fifteen appointment. He rolled his eyes as more tasks came to mind. He hadn't packed, and somehow he was going to have to fit in a rug-factory inspection. And he still had work to do on the upcoming meeting with the Grimaldi brothers.

He began reaching for his sunglasses and cell phone, then hesitated. The trees were shading him from the late May sun, his street table offered an excellent view of the Acropolis, and another Athens siesta was about to begin. More important, he told himself as he settled back in his chair, it didn't hurt to look.

"She's not your type, Alex."

Alex glanced sideways at the _taverna_ owner, groaning just loud enough for Dimitri to hear and smile.

"You know me too well, Dimitri, but I passed up the honey cakes today, and I ought to have something sweet." He looked down the narrow street, searching for the slender brunette.

"You should be at home sampling the sweets of a wife, my friend. Making sons." Presenting the check, Dimitri demanded as only an old friend could, "What happened to the French girl?"

Alex stood, pulled several bills from his pocket, and placed them on the table. "She left me."

"I know she left you. But _why_?"

Alex's gaze had strayed back to the little shop blaring bouzouki music. He checked his watch again. The brunette had gone in there fifteen minutes ago. "If you must know," he murmured absently, "because I wouldn't take her to Zephyros with me."

Dimitri patted his own shirtsleeves, then laughed loudly, causing several pedestrians to turn and look their way. "She demanded a piece of your soul, and you wouldn't share it," he said.

Again, a knowing look passed between the two men. Alex had fallen in love with the uncomplicated lifestyle on Zephyros years ago. Although he could never quite explain it to himself, he'd made it a point never to mix his city life with his island life. Keeping his business clients away was easy enough. The hard part was keeping a lover from finding out about Zephyros. Dimitri offered him a scolding look, then retreated into the _taverna_. Alex retrained his eyes on the pedestrian-filled street.

For seven years he'd lived and worked in Athens. Seven years and he couldn't remember the last time he'd stretched a non-business lunch to three o'clock. He ran his fingers through his straight blond hair and sat back down. Hadn't he read that life ran in seven-year cycles? An amusing thought, but he doubted it. Of course, if he were approaching a momentous change, it wouldn't hinge on eye contact with a pretty stranger.

With Dimitri's distracting conversation he'd lost sight of her. Where had she gone? He lit a cigarette, then stubbed it out after two puffs. He was quitting. It was just a matter of time.

Where was that brunette, and why had she made such an impression? Perhaps it was her youthful energy that had captured his attention, or the casual manner in which she flipped back her shimmering curtain of hair. The way she moved in her short denim skirt, pink sweater, and pink leather flats reminded him of girls from his college days. He thought about that for a moment. The appeal of a college girl to his thirty-three-year old self seemed vaguely perverse, or worse, reeking of sentimentality.

He felt his eyebrows lift with that last revelation, because if Alex Stoner knew anything about himself, he knew he wasn't a sentimental fool. Not the way some men were. Still, there was something warmly satisfying about the brunette. From a distance, he could handle "warmly satisfying."

After several minutes his waiting was rewarded. She stood in the middle of the street counting her money, in view of every pickpocket in the popular shopping district. She wet her lips, then rested the tip of her tongue in the corner of her mouth as she mentally calculated. He shook his head in masculine appreciation. She was probably being overcharged by every merchant in the Plaka. Shifting several packages, she began walking in his direction. With unnamed relief, Alex reassessed her age as late twenties. She was definitely alone, and by the looks of it, doing her best to bring the art of souvenir shopping to new heights.

Large gold earrings danced against her jaw and in and out of the long curves of her hair. He leaned forward in his chair. Her eyes were the color of root beer, and they were eagerly drinking in her surroundings.

Then it happened.

Alex caught her gaze and held it. She smiled warmly. He returned the smile quickly and reached for another cigarette. What the hell had he expected? A flirty little wink, an open invitation to join her, or even a quick roll of her eyes to discourage him? Any of that wouldn't have surprised him, but that smile... that warm and open smile. He lit the cigarette and drew in deeply. A familiar loneliness resonated painfully within him. He didn't like stirring up those feelings, and avoided them whenever they started emerging. Besides, he was getting too old for this kind of torture.

Repositioning her packages again, she tossed her hair away from one eye and checked her watch. Without another glance, she hurried into a narrow alleyway.

"A guileless one," announced Dimitri from the doorway. He pulled a cloth from the glass he was polishing and shook the twisted material at Alex. "You always manage to pass them up, but if you hurry—"

"Always," Alex confirmed, picking up his cigarettes. He slipped them in his shirt pocket, gave his friend a mock salute, and began his walk back to his office.

* * *

With her arms wrapped firmly around the carton, Sandy Patterson scurried up the steps of the office building and elbowed open the glass doors marked Stoner Exports. Passing the display of flokati and hand-woven rugs, she made her way down the marble hall, praying that she hadn't missed Alex Stoner.

His secretary had been polite but firm when she'd telephoned yesterday. "Mr. Stoner's calendar is completely filled, but I'll try to fit you in at three-fifteen tomorrow. Please be on time. He's going on a trip and won't be back for several weeks."

Setting the carton on the first desk she came to, Sandy smoothed the sides of her short denim skirt, pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, and gave in to the first sign of tension since she'd arrived in Greece yesterday. She inhaled, looked around the large reception area, then exhaled sharply. No doubt about it. She was late, and every desk in the reception area was empty. Damn. Her mandatory gift shopping was just about done, and she wanted this chore out of the way too. Then she could get on with her own plans. For once free of duties, obligations, and other people's expectations, she was going to spend the summer painting whatever she felt like painting. When her advanced art classes began in the autumn, she was going to be thoroughly inspired by this trip. Life was suddenly exciting again, and its possibilities for happiness were endless. She felt ready for anything—except rescheduling this meeting with Alex Stoner.

Reaching into her shoulder bag, she pulled out the business card. Except for a bent corner, the card was in the same crisp condition as when she'd received it two years ago. The small white card with the bright blue lettering had been tucked in with Alex Stoner's letter of condolence over her husband's death. She rubbed her thumb over the name as she thought about her late husband. Jackson had always insisted on black ink for his cards and stationery.

"Black is not only appropriate, Sandy, it's the perfect statement of sincerity," she remembered him saying.

And pedantic properness, she now added silently. She closed her eyes. Those years were over, and once she'd delivered Jackson's college memorabilia to Alex Stoner, she'd be free of any obligation connecting her to that period of her past. Free to get on with her new life.

"Is there something I can do for you?"

Sandy turned toward the rich baritone voice. "Yes, I..." she began, then pressed the card to her lips. Whoever he was, he was gorgeous, golden, and tall. Very tall. Even at her own five feet nine inches, she had to look up at him. His feet were planted wide apart, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his jaw raised for any challenge that dared to confront him. She sensed immediately that he'd been watching her through those half-closed, thickly fringed eyes. The long, straight nose, squared shoulders, and broad chest pinned her in place like a royal command, but his mouth mocked that intimidating image. He had a mouth stolen from a statue. A mouth made for pagan pleasure. She blinked. Lord help her—two days away from Atlanta and she was surrendering to sensuality.

Lowering the card, she pointed it at him. "You're the man I saw at that little outdoor restaurant—"

He nodded, his steady gaze never faltering. "And you're the shopper."

Shaking her head, she laughed softly. "Oh, my. Was I that noticeable?"

His return smile was economical, and as he continued to stare, he pulled his hand from his pocket and shoved back a lock of light blond hair. She'd feel a lot more comfortable if he'd only smile the way he had in the Plaka. It would work wonders now, but he was probably busy and seeking a way out of their exchange. She winced at her next thought. Here she was, a graduate of Miss Hollingsworth's School for Young Ladies, forgetting her manners. "I'm sorry. I haven't introduced myself. I'm Sandy Patterson, and I'm afraid I'm late for my three-fifteen appointment with Alex Stoner."

"I'm Alex Stoner."

She felt her eyebrows raise, but quickly turned the involuntary gesture into a full-face smile as she stepped forward to shake his hand. He wasn't at all like the outgoing, thrill-seeking scamp Jackson had described. The diamond-in-the-rough description was blotted out by his cool and masterful presence.

"Alex, how are you?"

"Sandy Patterson? I'm afraid I don't remember ever having met you."

"You haven't, Alex. I'm Jackson Benedict's widow. I took back my maiden name." The silliest thrill coursed through her as she watched him trying to put the pieces together. Taking his hand in both of hers, she gave him a gentle squeeze. "I've really surprised you, haven't I?"

He still looked stunned, and she began to wonder if her surprise appearance had been such a great idea after all. "I know it's been two years since he died, but I did promise in my letter to give you a box of Jackson's college memorabilia." She let his hand drop from hers and pointed over her shoulder before lacing her fingers together. Only then did he respond.

"Oh, right. I do remember you writing me something about photos and a track jacket." With a perfunctory strain toward the box, he nodded.

"Those things were put away by a well-meaning friend, and I only just found them a month ago. I was cleaning out the attic and... You know, you don't look at all like those photos."

Close up, Sandy Patterson wasn't just pretty. She was beautiful. Polished and gracious. Patient and warm. And that sparkle in her eyes ricocheted off every erogenous zone in his body. The truth was, she was eliciting more of his interest than any of the clever and sophisticated women he'd chosen to spend his leisure moments with. "Sorry. I've been up to my neck in paperwork. I wasn't expecting... you. I thought my three-fifteen appointment had to do with a business matter."

He couldn't take his eyes off her. Her soft southern accent and those sparkling root-beer eyes were a deceptively potent combination. She reminded him of girls he'd wanted and knew he couldn't have. Those good girls destined to marry men from good families. What a fool he was, believing he'd gotten rid of those old feelings. Those old desires.

Her smile was more hesitant now. "Well," she began in a whispery attempt at an apology, "I won't take up any more of your time. It was a pleasure to finally meet you. I'll just leave the box."

His carefully nurtured plan for self-preservation shriveled when he saw her turning to leave. "Please, come in. I can spare a few minutes... for Jackson's widow. "He pushed open his office door and watched heaven move a little closer.

Knowing her scent would be a treasure he'd have to steal, he stood in the doorway, forcing her to pass close to him. He lowered his head as she entered. The soft, warm scent of honeysuckle invaded his nostrils, drifting through his brain like an illegal drug.

Avoiding her eyes, he took his place behind the desk and leaned back in the thickly upholstered executive chair. A minimum of small talk and then she'd leave, taking with her those reminders of his past. Those haunting feelings of inadequacy around the privileged.

Strangely enough, if it hadn't been for her late husband, he could still be carrying the title Stoner the Loner. Good old Jackson. Stable, reliable, and highborn, Jackson had taken a liking to Alex's streetwise, enterprising ways. The old adage that opposites attract had been the improbable basis for a friendship lasting until graduation. Did this lovely creature before him have something to do with the slow dissolution of that friendship? Let it go, he told himself. It didn't matter. Jackson was dead, and all Sandy wanted was to drop off the memorabilia and be on her way. Wasn't it?

She was fidgeting. He hated when women fidgeted. It was almost as bad as when they cried. He never knew what to do with them when that happened.

"You're traveling alone, aren't you?" His question came out sounding more like an accusation than an opener for polite conversation. He saw those root-beer eyes narrow the tiniest bit.

"Yes. How did you know?"

She was suddenly on guard and looking guilty too. Just what was she up to thousands of miles from Atlanta?

"Sandy, when I spotted you today, you were alone. And, if you don't mind me saying so, behaving incautiously."

Her pretty pink lips thinned. She laced her fingers together in her lap and tilted her chin. "Incautiously? May I ask what you mean by that?"

He adjusted the knot in his already perfectly knotted tie, then opened both hands palms up. "Forgive me, but you looked like you needed help." Not quite like the help he needed now. She didn't look to be in a forgiving mood. Warm and friendly Sandy Patterson had thrown in her smile for a fixed stare at his tie clasp. A long fixed stare that was probably intended to dismiss him as some inconsequential person not worthy of a response. As the uncomfortable silence continued, he fixed his own eyes on the gold chain around her neck. Part of it was hidden in her sweater, and lifting it out, she slid her fingertips over it. The totally feminine gesture stirred him, and when he realized what was happening, he could have kicked himself. Of all the women in the world, it was well-bred, proper Sandy igniting him like dry tinder. He cursed the heat flowing through him. She was exactly the kind of woman who reminded him that no matter how impressive his accomplishments were, he would never fit comfortably in a conventional family situation.

Sandy frowned. Her family and friends had been against her taking this trip, but she'd fought them on every argument. The trip was an important, if not an easy, way of announcing her choice for a new life. Damn Alex Stoner. Not only did he have her squirming under his worldly manner, he'd actually said she looked like she needed help. As if he knew exactly the next button to push, he pointed to her like a forgetful child. Perhaps he meant the move to convey informality, but it struck her as condescending.

"You do realize you were standing in the middle of a pedestrian thoroughfare counting your money in front of everyone?"

She didn't have a chance to answer because his telephone rang, and with a quick apology he answered it. He spoke in Greek and, after a few words, placed his hand on the desk and turned partly away from her.

Just as well he'd turned away, she thought as her gaze dropped down to the desk... and his hand. Large and masculine, and with a hint of a tan, it contrasted beautifully with the white cuffs of his shirt. His nails were blunt cut, and his university ring, with its blue stone, nestled between the golden hair of each finger beside it. She kept on staring, mesmerized by the sensual images his hand was inspiring. A tingling sensation started between her thighs when she imagined him stroking her, arousing her to tantalizing heights of arousal she'd never reached before. His masterful but delicate touch had her silently gasping for air, and for more.... She jerked up her head when a bus backfired in the street below. If that weren't embarrassing enough, she found herself looking directly into his blue bedroom eyes. Her cheeks were stinging, her heart was pounding, and her mouth was watering. Could he have any idea what she had just been fantasizing?

He, too, looked as if he'd lost his concentration, and he hurriedly turned away from her again. Seconds later he ended his conversation and replaced the receiver. Plowing his fingers through his hair, he succeeded in rearranging it to something less than perfect and more than attractive.

"Sorry about that interruption."

Those sexy images wouldn't stop. They couldn't, not with the suddenly serious look on this demigod's face and the penetrating quality of his stare. Thank God Alex Stoner couldn't see what was on her mind. Those erotic scenes had taken over and were close to out of control. With his next words the intensity of the moment was over.

"Sandy, I hope you thought out your travel plans with some regard to personal safety. I'm surprised you're making this trip alone. Since 9/11, I think everyone should be more careful." He shrugged. "Of course I don't know, you could have plans to meet up with a... friend. I presume you must have a friend in your life by now."

As his suggestion sank in, the last of the glittering heat fell like a barometer before a storm .He'd meant a lover. Tensing, she leaned over his desk. "Where I come from, we do not presume such things. Nor would we state them if we did. We have manners, Mr. Stoner, and you are out of line." She'd moved so fast, the delicate gold chain was still shimmying against her collarbone.

"I didn't mean to insult your reputation, Sandy. But considering your naïveté, you appear to need assistance or maybe a bit of looking after."

"Looking after?" The words cut through her like a shard of glass. Those had been Jackson's favorite words when she wanted anything he didn't want. She was up on her feet. "Wrong. The last thing I need or want is looking after." Snatching her purse from the chair, she slung it over her shoulder and headed for the door." I'll leave you to your memories. Good-bye."

She was in the hall and pushing her way out of the front doors before he caught up with her. He pulled her back in and drew her around to face him. "Please let me apologize. I had no right to say those things."

She wasn't struggling from his grip, but she wasn't looking up at him either. He knew it wasn't necessary to keep holding her, but there was a pleasantly solid feeling to her biceps. He pictured her swimming in some country-club pool, dazzling her opponent on a nearby tennis court, or pulling him into her embrace. A hot, crazy embrace where nothing mattered but the feel of skin against skin and mouth against mouth. He closed his eyes and slowly swallowed for control. His desire to make love to Sandy Patterson was overpowering. "Look, couldn't I make it up to you for being so presumptuous?" '

"Where would you find the time?" She was staring at the center of his chest. "Your secretary could barely fit me in today."

Reluctantly he removed his hands from the pink sleeves of her sweater. He raised his chin and closed his eyes. The rug-factory tour had been put off long enough, but it was getting too late to make the trip today. Then there were the preparations for his Zephyros vacation. "I have to make a day trip up north tomorrow. Maybe you could join me."

Raising her head just enough to look at him, she appeared to be thinking over his invitation. "Well, I had planned on doing a little more shopping tomorrow—"

"More shopping?" He tried teasing her with a shocked expression. "You're not finished?"

Her eyes grew wide with indignation." No, I'm not. I have lots of friends and relatives, and... why am I defending my actions to you? You're really getting a kick out of this, aren't you?"

He raised his eyebrows, trying to make her see the humor, but she'd have none of it. "You looked like you were having fun down there today. Like a kid in a candy shop."

"I'm not a kid in a candy shop." She reached behind her to push open the door. "I'm twenty-seven. I'm going to have a birthday this summer." Pressing her lips together and tilting her head to emphasize her seriousness, she turned and left.

He'd done it again. He'd ignited her like a pink rocket, and before he could do anything, she'd launched herself out the door and down the steps of Stoner Exports. She'd passed two pistachio vendors before he caught up with her. Walking fast beside her, he made it a point not to touch her. Who knew what she'd do on a public street?

"Sandy, I'd like to get together with you and talk."

"Sorry, I have this shopping thing to do. We tourists thrive on it. You know what I mean, Mr. Stoner. When I'm not gawking at the ancient architecture, I'm haggling over every Acropolis paperweight and string of worry beads I can find."

Staring straight ahead, she continued down the sloping sidewalk until she'd reentered the Plaka. "Are you sure you want to be seen with me? I'll have to warn you that I can pull out my camera at the least provocation." Stopping to take a breath, she repositioned her sweater sleeves, then crossed her arms over her middle. "Still want to talk?"

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, fighting back the laughter. "If you can fit me into your busy schedule."

She spent the next half minute looking at every tree and building on the block before she shook her head and began to laugh.

He laughed, too, then gave her a tentative look. "Are you always so explosive, or is this a woman thing?"

"It's a Sandy thing."

First he nodded, then changed directions and shook his head. "I don't get it."

"That's the problem, Alex. Nobody gets it."

He wanted to ask more about her last statement, but sensed this wasn't the time or place for it. He guided her to the side of the street as a three-wheeled delivery van buzzed by. "You didn't come all the way to Greece just to find me. You must have other travel plans. How about Delphi? Everyone has a plan to visit Delphi."

A smile lit her face, a smile like the one she'd given him in the Plaka. "Yes, of course I plan to visit Delphi."

"Why don't you let me take you? I'm traveling that way tomorrow, and I could show you the ruins. Then we could have lunch. Talk. And, if it would interest you, I'll even throw in a tour of one of my rug factories. What do you say?"

At first she appeared skeptical, but lifting those pretty pink shoulders in an enormous shrug, she said, "Depends."

"On what?"

"How's the shopping up there?"

"Great. The area's well known for its pottery and..." Her wide-eyed expression was serious. Too serious. She was teasing him without mercy. He leaned his shoulder against a stone wall and laughed silently. What a wonderfully satisfying feeling that was.

### Chapter 2

Stopping on their way up the footpath, Sandy removed her backpack, dropped it to the ground, and pivoted for a better look at Delphi. The sun blazed above them, showering the ruins with crystal-pure light. Books and pictures hadn't done it justice, she mused, as she experienced the mystical power of the ancient site. She pulled in another lungful of cool mountain air. Mystical power, or was it the effect of slightly less oxygen?

Laughing softly, she turned to Alex. "I've never felt so far from Atlanta in all my life."

His smile was one of amusement, and the silent laughter brightening his eyes embarrassed her. He probably thought she looked like a giddy child on her first trip to the circus, or that kid in a candy shop again. Confusion whirled inside her. That's exactly how she did feel, exhilarated with the moment and wanting to share it with someone... special. For a fraction of a second their stares connected, but just as quickly she looked away.

This magnetic pull she felt toward him was incredible. It was getting stronger every time she looked at him, every time he looked at her. She winced inwardly. Could he sense what it was doing to her physically? she wondered, and if he could, was that the reason for his laughing eyes?

Looking back at the ruins, she attempted to untangle the ribbons of nerves knotting in her stomach. A potent case of infatuation, that's all this was. Well, she wasn't so green that she couldn't understand its causes. The excitement of traveling alone in a foreign country couldn't always keep her safe from an occasional moment of loneliness. And Alex, with his golden-god looks, was right beside her. There was also the language. Except for a few food names, she didn't understand a word of Greek, and his mastery of the rhythmic syllables fascinated her. What little he'd told her of himself was fascinating too. He was a self-made man. With no one to back him and no close family to hand him a business, he'd built his export company single-handedly.

He'd propped a foot on a stone block and was resting his corded and well-muscled forearms on his thigh. That hand she'd studied so well yesterday hadn't lost its ability to stir her. His mouth too. His beautiful mouth. And his tongue... as he skimmed it expertly over her breasts and belly. She closed her eyes. _Sex_ , she thought boldly, _or the lack of it_. Her close girlfriends had all agreed. "Sooner or later, Sandy, the need will come back." If they only knew. She shifted her weight from one foot to another as she tried to force her thoughts away from those disturbing images. Her path into a world of independence, not to mention her morals, had no place for one-night stands or vacation flings. Yet something beneath Alex's handsome exterior, something beyond the normal mating needs of man and woman, something poignant and compelling, was tugging her to him.

"Sandy?"

She felt her heart skipping beats again. "Yes?"

"You're not the only one feeling it."

Short of fleeing down the footpath and hijacking a tour bus back to Athens, there was no escape.

"Really?" Her voice was a whisper on the breeze.

"Delphi packs a pretty powerful wallop, no matter how many times I've been here."

She forced a weak smile. At least he wasn't adding fuel to her fiery infatuation by whispering something romantic. "A wallop. Definitely a wallop."

"Yes. I'd almost forgotten how it hits a person the first time. _Your face, your eyes, they bring it back to me_."

She repeated the words silently. Your face, your eyes, they bring it back to me. The sweet simplicity of his words settled softly into her heart. Squinting at the ruins below, she pulled out her newly purchased map of Delphi and began unfolding it.

"Alex, what is that circle of marble blocks? Do you know?" Before she could turn to look at him, he was beside her, his breath warm against her cheek. That would have been hard enough to handle, but when he touched her hand to steady the map, a stinging rush of blood flooded every sensitive spot on her body. He smelled like leather and limes and, best of all, his own natural scent. Clean and masculine.

If she lifted her mouth, and he lowered his—Lord, would this day ever end?

At that moment a puff of wind snatched the map from one of her hands. Her reaction was immediate, and so were the consequences.

Digging her heels into the path, she bent her knees and grabbed at the air. His arms went around her waist in the same instant she started her slow skid. Her inelegant maneuvers were no match for his strength. Still, she fought for purchase, praying she would right herself before she had to lean back into his embrace. Stones scattered everywhere, and the soft brown dirt began filling her shoes. She knew she was going to lose with either choice when he stepped closer and she felt her backside burrowing against his masculinity. Why did it have to feel so damn _good_?

"Relax, I've got you."

"I'm okay," she lied.

He wasn't letting go.

Defeat never felt so fine as she closed her eyes, let go of the flapping map, and leaned back. His navy cotton sweater did little to soften the hard planes of his body. She consoled herself with the notion that the worst of it was over. It wasn't. The soles of her shoes slipped over several more stones, and her feet went out from under her. As she settled closer to the ground, first his arm, then his hand, slid over one breast. She felt his fingertips kneading the soft mound, then flattening it to her chest. The contact lasted less than two seconds, but it was enough to send an electrifying current throughout her entire body.

"I told you to relax," he said, an air of apology apparent in his voice.

She brushed nonexistent dust from her sleeves. "And I told you I was okay."

"But you weren't."

She opened her mouth to argue, but to do so would make her look foolish. And that she already looked. Or maybe only funny. "Well, thanks for saving my life."

The words were melodramatic in nature and— she realized too late—a perfect lead-in for his comeback.

"It was my pleasure."

She'd set herself up for that one. Staring at the dusty hill, she dragged her backpack off the steep incline and into the grassy ruins. "Well, anyway, that was a good map."

"I can see it from here. Will you be okay if I go after it?"

Slitting her eyes, she tightened her jaw, making her words barely understandable. "I'll brace myself against this cornerstone and try to hold on until you get back."

He started down the hill, then stopped his jaunty descent to look up at her. "Sandy?"

She looked up from emptying her shoe. "Yes?"

"Don't hesitate to call me if you feel yourself slipping again."

Sinking down on the grass, she couldn't help grinning over the wink accompanying his words. Despite the recent embarrassment when his hand cupped her breast, she was glad to see him relaxing with her. Although he'd been trying hard to hide it, she was beginning to recognize hints of a great sense of humor. And it was about time. He'd been a perfect gentleman on the drive up from Athens. Stiflingly perfect. During the drive he'd listened attentively as she told him about Jackson's civic, social, and political accomplishments. About their house and his low golf score. Even that he'd been part owner of a racehorse. But when she should have been telling him about Jackson's final days, a gaping silence filled the space between them. Unless Alex asked outright about that time, she had no desire to bring up those painful memories. He'd finally taken the initiative and told her how his own vacation to Greece had become the major transition period of his life. In search of the perfect flokati rug, he ended up, two years later, exporting them all over the world.

While she waited for him to return with the map, she pulled out her sketch pad and was well into her composition by the time he'd returned. As he tucked the map into her backpack, she looked up from her sketching. "Thanks. I'll be through with this in just a second. It's probably time to leave for your rug factory."

He sat down, stretching out those long chino-clad legs of his alongside hers and planting his elbow in a clump of grass. "Don't hurry. There's plenty of time." His cheek rested in the cup of his hand as he watched the pencil sketch taking shape.

"A hobby?"

"Oh, I couldn't have this as a hobby."

"Couldn't? Hmmm."

His questioning tone begged to hear more, but when she didn't offer, he pulled off his sweater, bunched it behind him, and, reclining, closed his eyes. It would have been a luxury to be able to accept his companionable silence, because she'd had little of that in her life. She lifted her pencil from the pad. If she didn't give him an explanation now, he might ask a more direct question she wouldn't be able to sidestep.

"I guess I meant to say I've always wanted this to be more than a hobby. For years the only drawings I did were posters for the garden club. You see, I was kept—I mean, was quite busy as Jackson's wife."

She waited for his reaction, but when there was none, she dismissed the fear. So much was behind her, and there was no reason to look back. With a little more wistfulness than she would have liked, she said, "I'd forgotten how good it feels to put a pencil to paper and draw what I want to draw."

His words came muffled in drowsiness. "Well, this is the place to make pretty pictures." He drew in a long breath, then exhaled contentedly. "Where are you planning to travel, by the way?"

"The islands."

From the corner of her eye she saw him raise up on both elbows.

"Which islands?"

"Mykonos. Santorini. Crete." Twisting her head to face him, she noticed the tiniest signs of alertness that hadn't been there a moment ago. She also noticed pieces of grass stuck in his collar and a lock of hair dangling on the side of his forehead. She picked the grass from his collar, then looked into his sexy, bottomless eyes. "And maybe I'll come back here. This place does pack a wallop," she said, surprising herself with the whispery quality of her own voice.

He was the first to look away as he turned toward her sketch pad. Pulling himself into a sitting position beside her, he took the pad and studied it. "You kept the power in the toppled columns, but softened them with shadows. They look like sleeping giants." He looked at her with a different kind of awareness when he passed the pad back to her lap. "Sandy, you're much too good to call this a hobby."

Then it happened again. His fingers brushed hers, sending sparks up her arm and through her body. No, she told herself, it was his compliment and not his touch that warmed her. Anyone would be thrilled by such sincerity. Even if it came from the devil himself. "Thank you."

Putting away the sketch pad, she clasped her hands around her knees and looked away from him. A yellow butterfly circled a clump of bright red poppies, then suddenly took off. Not that she wanted to boast, but it might keep her mind off him if she told him she'd been accepted by one of the most prestigious art schools in Chicago. She turned to tell him when a group of raucous children rushed by, sending sprays of pebbles and dust everywhere. Although she didn't understand Greek, their message was instantly understandable. They were out of the classroom on a glorious spring day, and their attitude was infectious. Waving away the dust, she coughed theatrically. "I believe Delphi's being invaded by the barbarians again."

Alex looked up the path toward the shouting children. "Nah. Too well dressed for barbarians."

She giggled at his quick comeback. Some of the children were singing the explicit words of a popular rap song. Alex smiled and shook his head. The words became more explicit. Soon Sandy was laughing, and he joined her. His masculine timbre covered her like a warm, familiar hug until the last of it, along with the song, echoed down the ruins.

He was twisting his university ring around and around his finger as they continued a playful game of staring each other down. They were completely alone now, and she leaned toward him on her forearm. "I'll bet you were a very naughty schoolboy."

Never breaking their gaze, he nodded in serious agreement. "Very naughty."

Mesmerized by his low voice and the sparkling blue of his eyes, she whispered back, "How naughty?"

"This naughty."

Cupping her chin in his fingers, he brushed his lips against hers, then pulled back. His kiss was the last thing she'd expected, but her own response surprised her more. "That's not so naughty."

Without a word he slipped his arm around her and drew her close for another try. He began the kiss, like the first, with a passing brush at her lips. _It's only a kiss_ , she told herself, about the time he began gently nipping at her mouth. The sensation of his touch spilled through her like liquid sunshine, and soon her mouth tingled for the attention he was lavishing at its corners. _I can stop this anytime I feel like it._ She closed her eyes. With a slight suction he sealed her lips to his. Dipping his tongue into her mouth, he probed with a swirling swiftness that brought her breasts to pebbly peaks. He'd been polite. He'd been helpful. He'd even been funny, but this was a different Alex Stoner. Passionate. Inviting. Arousing. And aroused. He pressed his length against her as he continued the kiss. Penetrating deeply with his tongue, he rhythmically stroked the sensitive recesses of her mouth. She groaned with the overwhelming pleasure he was giving her. No one had ever kissed her like this. She'd never imagined a kiss could be like this.

Alex Stoner was about to go over the brink, and if it hadn't been for that sound she was making, he'd have forgotten where he was and whom he was with. Breaking the kiss, he lifted his head and stared into her half-closed eyes. Their longing made his heart cringe and his arousal stronger. She smelled like honeysuckle on a hot summer day and tasted like it too. Honeysuckle. That fragile-looking vine that flourished on white picket fences and up trellised terraces on the right side of the tracks. Why the hell was she with him?

He released her, then sat up and reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. "Naughty enough for you?"

With flaming cheeks, she sat up and pushed her fingers through her hair. "Quite."

He knew he'd wounded her with his sarcasm, but it would be wrong to allow her to read anything into the moment. Having gotten way out of hand, the kiss had become intense, passionate, and much too revealing. Angry with himself, he bit off the question, "Why the hell did you come to Greece?"

She didn't bother to face him." I told you .I'd always wanted to see Greece, and I'd promised to give you those things of Jackson's."

Taking her by the shoulders, he twisted her around to face him. "The real reason."

Determination glowed in her eyes. "The real reason, Alex, as trite as it might sound, is that I'm here to test myself. To see what I'm capable of. To find some answers. No matter how well intentioned some people are, they haven't any right to tell me what I can't do or to force me to live any way other than my own way. And maybe I don't know what my own way is yet, but it's time I found out."

Confusion and embarrassment clouded her eyes, and earnestness took over where anger left off. Her soft southern drawl wrenched at his gut.

"Alex, I have so many questions."

He looked her over. "What questions? Sandy, you have everything back there in Atlanta. You're a respectable member of your community. You have friends, and a family who care about you. A place you call home. It sounds pretty damned perfect to me. So rather than traipsing around the Greek islands, kissing naughty boys, I think you'd be much better off, much safer, if you were back in Atlanta in that perfect life."

Her laugh was short and sharp. "I thought for a moment there that you might be someone who would understand."

"Understand what?"

"I had a perfect life—now I want a real one."

Shrugging free from his hold, she stood up. "And who asked you, anyway?" Grabbing her backpack, she stepped over his legs, out onto the path, and promptly slipped and fell. The pain in her wrist was immediate and astounding.

* * *

"Alex, it's a little scratch."

He helped her from the car and over to the low stone wall bordering the outdoor restaurant. "Sit."

She cradled her left wrist in her right hand, moving it only when he placed the first-aid kit in her lap. "It stopped bleeding ten minutes ago. See?" She held up her wrist. Several people in the restaurant waiting line craned to look, but Alex didn't. "I know your wrist has stopped bleeding." He knelt on the flagstones in front of her." But your leg's just getting started."

"My _leg_? I didn't know—" Before she could stop him, he'd ripped her slacks from ankle to knee. "Good gracious! What are you doing? Alex, everyone is looking."

He picked her up from the overlook wall and carried her to the far corner. "Unless you want to struggle in the ladies' room with your one good hand, or drop your slacks behind those bushes, this is the only way to get a good look at the damage." Lifting the torn cloth, he let out a low whistle. "I see you've got Skinned Knee One-oh-one down pat."

Holding her wrist away from her lap, Sandy leaned over to have a look. She was nose to nose with him. "It doesn't hurt... much. Really."

"It will when I start picking out the gravel." By the way her eyes widened, he knew she was lying about how much it hurt. She was in pain, and he had the overwhelming need to stop it. True, the knee injury wasn't serious, but he'd done something quite similar to himself, and it had stung like hell. He closed his hand over her good knee.

"Wait here. I'll get something to clean this with."

While he was gone, she carefully inspected the knee again. A little antiseptic and a four-by-four bandage would take care of it. The injured wrist was something else. Her gaze dropped to her throbbing joint. She hated to think what damage she'd done to it. With a loud sign she turned to the view behind her. The Gulf of Corinth was a beautiful soothing blue, but she wished she could look at it without wincing. Her trip had only just begun, and difficulties were piling up at an alarming rate. A messy knee, a possibly sprained wrist, and... Alex. Even the calmest, quietest moments spent with him seemed to resonate with tension. He'd touched just about every emotion she was capable of, and a few she hadn't known about. And that kiss. She'd held back from active participation, but he'd taken that as a challenge. Then, just as she'd begun to get into the action, he'd pulled away and resumed treating her like a child. The man was simply infuriating.

Alex plunked a plastic liter bottle of water on the stone surface next to her. "Sandy?"

With lips pressed firmly together, she tore her gaze from the gulf. If he wanted another argument, she'd be pleased to participate.

"Sandy, I'm sorry this happened. I should have warned you—"

The words weren't what set her off. His tone was calming and patronizing, and if he didn't stop treating her like a four-year-old, she'd scream.

"Let me assure you, this is the result of my own carelessness, not yours, Alex."

While she was speaking, he'd removed her shoe and sock. "Carelessness," he repeated.

"That's right. My carelessness."

He picked up the water bottle and twisted the top until it opened with a crack. "Your honesty is refreshing. It's also enlightening, if you'd only listen to yourself." Lifting her injured wrist, he poured water over it.

"What do you mean?"

Slipping his hand beneath her injured knee, he bypassed her question with a firm command. "Hold still. This one's going to hurt."

He poured half a bottle of water over her knee. "Those stones are washing right out." Making a satisfied clicking sound from one side of his mouth, he smiled up at her. She didn't see it. Her eyes were closed, her posture rigid, and she was sucking in air through clenched teeth.

His tone changed. "Sandy, I'm sorry I'm hurting you. That's all I seem capable of doing to you."

Opening her eyes, she took the bottle from him and placed it beside her. "You didn't do anything to me. I told you, it was my own carelessness."

He took a spray can of antiseptic and a package of bandages from the first-aid kit. "And that only proves you can't travel alone."

"But I _am_ traveling alone."

"Not any longer." He gave the can of antiseptic a quick shake, then liberally sprayed her knee. Reaching for her wrist, he gently positioned it away from her lap and sprayed that too. "There's no way you can continue your vacation now."

She'd just about gotten the courage to test the edges of her injury with one fingertip when she jerked up her head. "Alex, I'm not going back. Not yet, anyway."

Blowing on her knee, he quickly taped a bandage over the cut. "How do you think you're going to manage? That's a superficial cut on your knee, but look at the wrist. How many suitcases do you have?"

"Three."

"Three? Plus your backpack and purse? And who'll be carrying all this?"

"Well, I'll, I'll... I'll tip the cabdrivers well. And the bellboys."

He shook his head. "You're planning on heading out to the islands. Cabdrivers won't take your bags up the gangplank and onto the ferry, and once you're on the islands, you'll have to get yourself to your hotel."

"Alex, I can manage this," she insisted. Her jolly tone didn't appear to move him. She looked around, then spotted the half liter of water. "See?" Grasping the bottle with her injured wrist, she managed to lift it several inches before dropping it with a startled cry.

The plastic bottle hit the stones just as pain gathered in her stomach like a frozen bowling ball. Her forehead and upper lip broke into a sweat as she doubled over. Alex was beside her in a flash, holding her head against his chest while she gasped for breath. When her breathing slowed, he lifted the wrist for closer inspection, then looked up with an accusing expression.

"Just what did you think you were doing?"

"I didn't know—Ouch! Stop touching it."

Alex stuffed the second bandage into the first-aid kit, clicked it shut, and stood up. "Let's go."

"I'm not very hungry. Why don't you get in line?"

"Forget lunch. We have to go."

She nodded slowly, surprised at his sudden change in attitude. Then she remembered where he had to be today. "The rug factory. Right, I didn't want you to be late for your inspection."

"The rug factory is last on my list, if it's there at all now." He stuffed her sock in his pocket and slipped her shoe on her foot.

"Wait a minute. Wait just a minute." If he thought he was getting her on a plane to Atlanta... "Forget it, Alex. I don't care how many times you whack yourself in the forehead, you're not taking me to the airport. I meant it when I said I'm not going back to Atlanta just yet. You can't make me go."

"Much as I think you should go, I know I can't make you. Sandy, I'm taking you to a doctor."

"A doctor?" Her wrist was positively throbbing with pain now. She gave in with a weak smile. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt."

An hour later she watched as Alex listened attentively to the doctor at the local clinic. The conversation was almost inaudible from across the room, but since she didn't understand Greek, it didn't matter.

Alex had already translated the diagnosis. Sprained wrist. As the minutes ticked by, her heart sank lower. And lower still. As much as she hated admitting it, Alex was right. There was no way she could continue her trip alone. Whether it was because of the pain or the decision she'd been forced to make, she felt tears welling up in her eyes. This wasn't going to be the end of her life, but then it wasn't going to be the new beginning she'd planned either. She smacked one fat tear from her jaw. Damn, why did it have to be now?

Alex was scratching his head and nodding. How many instructions, she wondered, came with a sprained wrist? The naughty schoolboy had vanished, and in his place was a concerned and determined man. A gentle and tender man who cared enough to look away when he saw that tear slide down her face.

The doctor walked over to her and patted her shoulder. After saying something in Greek, he smiled, then left them alone in the stark white room.

Alex looked as if he'd resigned himself to slow torture as he turned to face her. "That settles it, Sandy. The doctor and I agree. Your plans have definitely been changed."

She tried smiling, but the brave attempt was a lousy charade. At least her tears had disappeared. "I think I knew that before we got here."

Alex smiled then for the first time. She had set aside her feistiness, for the time being at least, and was facing up to what she conceded to be the inevitable.

"Maybe we could stop at the travel agent across the street and change my ticket." She swallowed back more tears. "That way we could pick up my things at the hotel in Athens, and you could drop me at the airport. There are plenty of flights—"

"Hold on there. I said your plans have been changed, but I didn't say to what."

"What are you talking about?"

"According to the doctor, if you keep the splint on and don't lift any more bottled water, in about two or three weeks you should have full use of it. The choice is yours. You can go back to Atlanta and sit around Peachtree Street like Miss Melanie, or you can do what Scarlett would have done."

She smiled in spite of her confusion. "What's that?"

"You can come with me to my place on Zephyros. I've already planned to stay a few weeks anyway. It will give you plenty of time to recuperate."

"I couldn't. I absolutely could not impose on you a minute more."

He couldn't believe he was attempting to convince a woman to come to Zephyros. "I'm not going to kidnap you, but think about this before you answer. It's your choice. Back to Atlanta and all that perfection, or on to Zephyros," he said, before leaning on the examination table, "with the real Alex Stoner What'll it be?"

She nibbled the inside of her lip as she looked at the plastic splint encasing her wrist. She could handle one day with Alex. But three weeks with this man who stimulated her on every level imaginable? His nearness was as much of a challenge as his words were. "Are you sure I won't be imposing?"

"Only if you can't make up your mind."

Three weeks? Three unpredictable weeks when anything could happen? Wasn't that what she'd come for? Wasn't that what her new life was supposed to be about? She smiled. "Then, the real Alex Stoner, if you please."

He nodded once and carefully helped her down from the table.

"Alex?"

"Changed your mind?"

"No. I just wondered what the doctor said to me before he left the room."

"He said, 'Welcome to Greece.'"

### Chapter 3

By the time Bertram MacDougall walked into the Zephyros airport terminal, Alex's patience was already worn thin. He'd had time to reconsider his impulsive invitation to Sandy. While he knew he could handle the next few weeks, he wasn't so certain she would be able to do the same. Alex's tightly knit group of expatriate friends weren't exactly the country-club set. Their unpredictability was enough to send most "settled" people over the wall.

He looked down at Sandy, curled and sleeping in a molded chair, then up at his friend crossing the small terminal. Bertram was wearing his kilt. Alex closed his eyes. "Where's Niko?"

"And hello to you, too, Alexander. Your gracious housekeeper called before supper to tell me her husband's truck hit a goat and would I please fetch Mr. Alex at the airport. I'm very sorry for the delay."

"You'd better plan on dying a day early."

The six-foot-four-inch Scotsman shared his toothy grin and a wave with the remaining terminal personnel before he hooked his thumbs in the top of his kilt and closed one eye at Alex. "And why is that?"

"Because you'll be late to your own funeral if you don't." Alex tapped his watch face. "You're through with your supper by eight. It's now nine. What have you been up to for the last half hour?"

Bertram slapped him on the shoulder, then gave his hand a vehement shake. "Well, if you must know, I've been fine-tunin' me fiddle." He pulled back for a better look at Sandy.

Alex shoved a lock of hair off his forehead. _Here we go_ , he thought.

"And, by the looks of her," his friend continued, "you've been fine-tunin' yours too, laddie." Screwing his mouth into mock disapproval, Bertram picked up several suitcases and headed for the door. "It's a shame you had to break her wrist when you were doin' it. There's such a thing as technique."

Alex closed his eyes. From the moment he'd decided to bring Sandy, he knew he'd be in for a ribbing. Scooping her up, he followed his friend to the minivan, illegally parked by the front door, and settled into the front seat with her. When Bertram had stored the baggage, he climbed in by Alex and started the engine.

"It's about time you shared your fine house with someone."

"Bertram, you know damn well how I feel about this. I work hard at my business, so when I schedule time out here, I don't want to have to entertain someone every minute. Besides, the last time I brought someone out here, she didn't want to leave."

"Laddie, it's those signals you're always sending to the lassies that's put you in this fix."

"I'm not in a fix. What signals?"

"You're a bachelor who's determined he'd like to stay that way. You're also rich, good-looking, and you don't go without a lover for long. Think about the challenge you're presenting to those lassies."

Alex stared out the windshield. The gist of what Bertram had said was true. Right from the beginning he always made it clear to his lovers that he wasn't interested in a long-term commitment. More times than not, they'd taken his words as a challenge. There was that one time he felt certain the woman understood, so he'd brought her to Zephyros. Before the month was up, she'd shipped her entire wardrobe, her art collection, and her three chihuahuas out to the island.

"I'm not challenging this one, Bertram. Her name's Sandy Patterson. She's the widow of an old friend. She had an accident up at Delphi, and I offered her my guest room until she's strong enough to continue her trip."

Bertram shifted gears, then looked out his open window as he pulled away. "Sandy Patterson. And if Sandy Patterson's husband were to rise from his grave, would you be cuddlin' him so close?"

Alex shot a warning glance. "Bertram."

"Well, you could have stretched her out in the back, lad. It's a wonder you haven't cut off the circulation in your—"

"Bertram!"

The Scotsman roared with laughter, causing Sandy to moan, then nuzzle under Alex's chin.

He kept a warning eye on Bertram as he patted Sandy's thigh. No man could ask for a better friend, but Bertram had the bawdiest sense of humor of anyone Alex knew. Alex closed his eyes and rested his chin against Sandy's forehead. "She's on pain medication—which is what you'll be on if you don't stuff it."

"Hurtin', is she?" As they approached the one hairpin turn on the hill road, Bertram slowed the van. He usually took the turn on two wheels.

Grateful for the letup in his ribbing, Alex asked about the second closest thing to Bertram's heart. "How's the gallery? Sales picking up yet, or are you still waiting for the summer cruise ships?"

With almost as much gusto as he'd given to ribbing Alex, Bertram spent the rest of the drive filling Alex in on his art gallery. Half listening, Alex slipped his hand under Sandy's wrist, holding it in what he believed was a more comfortable position. She'd fought against taking pain medication all through the afternoon and early evening. When Alex told her the short flight to Zephyros would be a bumpy one, she finally gave in and took the pills.

Like a curled-up kitten intent on slumber, she slept through the noisy greeting by Alex's housekeeper. As Eleni took charge of a sleeping Sandy, now deposited on the guest-room bed, Bertram and Alex unloaded the van.

"The clan expects you at seven tomorrow night. Don't forget to bring your girl."

"She's not my girl."

"Aye." Bertram shut the back of the van, then climbed into the driver's seat. "Bring your widow friend, then. Taro knows you're back, and he's making something with a black butter sauce."

"Bertram?"

"Speak."

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just wanted to thank you for picking us up tonight."

"Now, laddie, don't go all soft on me," he said with a fake scowl. "Besides, I owed you, didn't I? That last bit of gallery business you sent my way kept me going through the winter."

Alex remained in the driveway long after the minivan's tail lights disappeared. The sound of breaking waves and the scent of the sea filled the air around him, and a sense of peace descended over him. So Taro was making his black butter sauce for tomorrow night's get-together. Bertram was wearing his kilt, which meant he'd been romancing a new lady in his life. And his housekeeper's husband had hit a goat. It sounded like life on Zephyros was rolling along at its usual pace. The interesting part of the reunion would be Sandy's reaction to "the clan," Bertram's favorite description of them. Chuckling to himself, he turned to go in.

"Mr. Alex?"

"Yes, Eleni, how's our guest?"

His short, rotund housekeeper smiled knowingly. "Pretty. Very pretty. It's pleasant for you, no? To bring a very pretty lady to Zephyros."

Better, he decided, to move past her innuendo and into his bedroom for a good night's sleep." Pleasant," he agreed. "Is she sleeping?"

"Soon. She took the pills you gave me. Mr. Alex, she has pretty nightclothes." Eleni's calm expression was meant to tease him. "Come, I will show you."

He patted her gently on the shoulder. "No, thank you. That will be all for tonight."

"Niko is coming to walk me. You don't have to drive me. Mr. Alex, her accident will be healthy soon?"

The concern in her eyes touched him. "Yes, her accident will be healthy soon. Two or three weeks, the doctor says."

"You are a kind man to bring her here. She will thank you. Welcome home, Mr. Alex," she said, before closing the front door behind her.

Alex went to the guest room, telling himself it was only right to check on Sandy. With only a faint light from the bathroom, it was difficult to see her at first, but he had no trouble hearing her restless movements. The tender emotions welling up inside him were unsettling. He forced himself to interpret them as a call to action. Sandy didn't need her recuperation period extended by further injury, so he found another pillow and placed it under her wrist. Before his eyes could adjust to the dim light, he retreated from her bedside. The last thing he needed was a better look at her breasts under that gauzy nightgown.

* * *

Sandy checked that all her buttons were buttoned, then reached for the door handle. She managed to close her fingers all the way around the brass lever before withdrawing them. She stared down at the floor, then took an extraordinary amount of time straightening the corner of the throw rug with her toe. Her hesitant manner was beginning to irritate her.

"For goodness' sake," she chided herself. This wasn't the end of the world. If she couldn't remember undressing for bed last night, then there could be only one explanation. Alex had been the one to remove her clothes, dress her in her diaphanous negligee, and tuck her into bed. Circumstances had necessitated those actions, and if she mentioned them at all to Alex, or if he did to her, she would thank him for his efforts. After all, it couldn't be much fun undressing dead weight. Could it?

Saying a silent prayer that her cheeks weren't flaming, she flipped a lock of hair behind her ear and opened the door. It took her a few minutes to find the kitchen, but the search turned out to be pleasant and revealing. The rambling house was inviting in its fashionably rustic simplicity. Large and small flokatis and woven rugs were scattered around the marble and wood floors of the sun-filled rooms. Unlike the fragile antiques she'd lived with, Alex's furniture looked comfortable and indestructible. The only thing in common with her home in Atlanta was the choice of fine-quality appointments.

"Alex?" Her voice echoed off the thickly plastered walls, timbered supports and ceilings, and colorful Grecian tiles. When he didn't answer, she gave up her house search and stepped out onto the patio. The remains of his breakfast were still on the table there, along with a place setting, presumably for her. As she drank a glass of orange juice, she looked around the patio, hoping to keep her mind off last night. This part of the house jutted close to the cliff and the towering rock formations rising straight up from the: shore. At the far end of the spacious patio was a bright blue railing, with an entrance to a set of steps leading down to the sea. Picking up a piece of toast, she went to the top of the steps and started down.

Halfway down and past a dogleg turn, she saw the thick crescent of sand hugging the sparkling Aegean. The sun was already high in a cloudless blue sky, its reflections a scattering of broken gold glass on the aquamarine water. She wanted to set up her easel and capture the breathtaking scene:

Towering rocks and cloudless sky, the soft beige beach and jewel toned-water... and Alex as he broke through the surface....

The artist inside her appreciated the unique quality of the light bouncing around the little cove, but the woman inside centered her appreciation on the way it played on Alex. Sinking slowly to the steps, she welcomed in the details. He was standing waist-deep in the water and facing away from her. Sandy propped her good arm on her knee and leaned her chin into the cup of her hand. The definition of his muscles and the straight indentation of his spine were enough to inspire any artist, but something else set him apart. Rivulets of water cascaded from his hair and down over his shoulders and arms and back. Water and sun worked together, glazing him in a glorious gold light. When he reached up to rest his hands on his head, the muscle definition in his back and shoulders begged to be reproduced by her paintbrushes. Suddenly he leaned sideways and into the water, disappearing for a long time, then breaking through the sun-dappled surface again.

His boyish antics had brought him closer to shore this time.

It would be just a matter of seconds before he saw her... spying on him. Jumping to her feet, she waved and shouted his name. "Good morning!"

Soon he was waving too. "How's the wrist?" he shouted.

Holding up her hand for him to wait until she joined him, she climbed down the rest of the steps and crossed the sand to the water's edge.

"My wrist is fine."

"Did that pillow help? I thought you'd be less likely to roll over if I propped up your wrist."

So he had undressed her. An uncomfortable silence hung between them. She licked nervously at her lips, then decided to get it over with. "Yes, that pillow did the trick. Thank you for, uh, getting me to bed last night."

He rubbed water from his mouth, then shrugged. "Don't you remember? My housekeeper did that. I just propped your wrist."

"Your housekeeper? Oh, yes, of course I remember."

He was giving her a doubtful look that was slowly turning into a knowing smile. She had to change the subject. Now.

"How's the water this morning?"

"Would you believe, it's cold at first, but once you're in—"

"—it warms right up," she said along with him.

Her gaze drifted lower. The gentle waves lapping at his stomach soon had a hypnotic effect on her. Starting at his breastbone, thin arrowheads of wet hair ran down his stomach and disappeared into a dark blond whorl around his navel. After each breaking lap, she noticed, the arrowheads-continued lower.

"Sandy?"

She looked up to catch a curious grin growing on his face.

"Yes?"

He urged her toward him. "Come on in." He made it sound like a reasonable suggestion. Something close to "Have a seat."

Opening her arms, she looked down at her clothes, then back to him.

He tasked in disapproval. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"But I'm not wearing my suit."

"No problem. Neither am I."

She fixed her eyes on the horizon over his right shoulder. "I—I knew that." Flustered, she quickly lowered her gaze to her splint. "It's my wrist."

He pushed forward in the water. "Well, if you came all the way down here, I guess I'll have to have a look. I thought you said it was fine."

She took a step sideways." The splint's come loose. I mean, I don't want to get it wet. You don't have to come out now." Her words ran together like stampeding horses, but Alex reached the finish line first. Churning up a screen of white water with both his hands, he was out of the water and standing beside her before she could catch her breath. He'd splashed her from head to toe, and when she stopped blinking, she stared at him in disbelief. Hanging dangerously low on his hips was a pair of green-and-blue swim trunks. "You tricked me!"

He slipped his thumbs inside the waistband and began lowering the wet trunks. "Never let it be said Alex Stoner tricked a lady."

"Don't you dare."

He took them down another half inch.

She backed up. "Stop that!"

He did, but only to peruse her with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "You knew I wasn't wearing a suit, did you?" he asked, waving a scolding finger at her.

Relieved that he'd pulled the waistband back to its proper place, she let down her guard. "At first I thought you had, but... well... that's beside the point! You led me to believe you weren't."

"Are you always so trusting?"

She picked at the Velcro fasteners on her splint. Back in Atlanta no one would dare bother her—Jackson's widow, Patterson's daughter, the garden-club artist—with such picayune antics.

"Not going to tell me?" Picking up his towel from a nearby rock, he began rubbing his chest. "Truth is, I usually don't wear anything in the water. I wore these because I wasn't sure how you'd take my libertine lifestyle if you happened to find your way down here this morning." He finished drying, then knotted the towel around his waist and moved closer. Taking the splinted wrist in his hands, he began a readjustment of the fasteners. "How's that? Too tight? Wave your fingers."

She waved her fingers. "No. It feels better now. Thank you."

"Sandy?"

He was still holding her splint, his fingertips cool and soothing against her sun-warmed hand. She raised her eyes without raising her head. His lashes were spiked with water, he needed a shave, and his eyes were still brimming with boyish mischief. He took her breath away.

"Wondering what it's like without your suit?"

"No." But she was.

"Yes, you are. Everyone wonders at one time or another."

Her eyes were locked with his as he continued.

"This is my beach. My private beach. No one gets onto this beach unless it's through my property up there. I can see a boat approaching for miles. Do you understand why I'm telling you this?"

She shook her head.

"If you stay here long enough, your inhibitions will drop out of sight, like stones pitched in the sea."

"I don't think so," she whispered.

"It's true, Sandy. Most people on this island swim nude. Sooner or later you'll look at them and start to think about it. About how it feels. All that water flowing over you, being one with the sea. It's exhilarating. Almost spiritual." He leaned closer, his voice low and inviting. Frighteningly inviting. "It's some kind of wonderful."

He wasn't teasing anymore. He meant every word of it. "Alex, I've never taken my clothes off in public, and I don't intend to start now."

"Like I said, this isn't public. It's private."

He kept on smiling. Waiting. Challenging her to cross a line she'd been taught never to cross. She looked up at the surrounding walls of rocks, then at the aquamarine water turning to a frothy line at her feet. And Alex's. There were certain things good girls just didn't do. Withdrawing her hand, she stepped away from him. "Never. Not in your lifetime or mine."

* * *

After lunch he showed her his small library. When he explained he had to get to some paperwork he'd brought from Athens, she thanked him for showing her the book-lined room. She didn't bother to tell him that the last thing she'd come to Greece to do was to read old issues of _National Geographic_ , wool-production reports from New Zealand, or even his collection of best-selling hard covers. She had come with plans to paint, and the light on the partially shaded patio was too inviting to ignore. After managing to assemble her easel with her one working wrist and carefully setting out her supplies, she began to paint the seascape visible from the far end of the patio. She felt an excitement building as various blues and creamy beiges were delicately blended into an impressionistic view of the Aegean. She'd been right to think Greece would inspire her to do better work, but she'd never imagined that it could happen so fast. When she stood to arch her back and stretch two hours later, she saw Alex leaning against the doorway.

"How long have you been here?"

"About ten minutes. You certainly have a gift for concentration." He pushed off the doorjamb and came toward her. "Let's have a look."

To allow a look at a hasty sketch was one thing, but once she'd put paint on the canvas, no one was allowed a peek. Shielding the easel with her body, she pleaded, "Please don't ask to see it."

He gave her a pitiful smile. "Pretty bad, huh? And you were doing so well with that sketch at Delphi. Don't worry. Tonight we're going to a party with some friends of mine. I'll introduce you to Bertram. He owns a gallery on the waterfront, and maybe you could find something there to take back with you. What's so funny?"

"Nothing at all." She took him by the elbow and walked him away from the easel and toward the house. "How's your paperwork coming? Time for a lemonade break?"

* * *

"Remember, the first sign of pain in your wrist, let me know. These get-togethers tend to go on until dawn." He'd parked near a house on the edge of the waterfront and was helping her out of the car as he spoke.

"Alex, you said you haven't seen these people in three months. I'm not about to take you away from them at the first little ol' twinge." Straightening the standaway collar on her dress, she looked down at the pink-cabbage-rose-and-multileaf print, then up at Alex, who was staring at her. He was also drumming his fingers on the roof of the car.

"What's the matter?" She looked down at her dress again and sighed. "Don't tell me there's a dress code for these get-togethers." If there was, she was going to be disappointed. She thought she'd left those rules behind her. "Well, will I do?" she demanded.

He lifted his hand from the roof and twisted it in a helpless gesture. "You look great," he said, his voice strangely husky.

"Oh. What is it, then?"

"I just wanted to tell you, before we go in, that this group can get rowdy."

Widening her eyes, she laughed. "Rowdy? I've never done 'rowdy' before." He had to be joking of course, or exaggerating. Rowdy was a condition reserved for rodeo riders and barroom brawlers. She shook her head as they walked to the house.

As Alex reached for the handle, the door was opened by a tall, bearded man in a kilt. He leaned out and kissed Sandy noisily on both cheeks.

"The last time I saw you, you were curled like a wee kitten in Alexander's arms." The Scotsman slipped a bottle of beer into her hand and wrapped his arm around her, saying to Alex, "You're needed in the kitchen. Taro wants you to taste the sauce."

She twisted to look at Alex, not sure of what she should do.

"Now, lass, unless you're plannin' to catch the midnight plane to Athens, you'll have plenty of time to spend with Alexander. Right now, some of us need a fresh opinion on a subject dear to my heart. My name's Bertram, by the way, and yours is Sandy, but you've known that for years."

She went with him to the piano and, without warning, he picked her up and deposited her on top of it. The group already leaning against it made hasty introductions, and the argument over the fashionable versus the proper length of a man's kilt continued. After reaching a loud impasse, the subject suddenly changed to a fail-safe dysentery cure if one happened to be stranded in southern New Guinea.

The enthusiastic sixsome had her clutching her sides with laughter, and before she realized it, an hour had slipped by. She looked up several times for a glimpse of Alex. Sometimes she caught him looking at her in a way that made her want to straighten her dress or pat her hair. Once when Bertram saw her looking for him, he closed his hand over hers.

"It's good that a man has his space, lass."

She returned the Scot's generous smile, then shook her finger at him. "It's good for this woman too."

Bertram roared his laughter. "Alex," he shouted, "she's a bonny lass. Bonny lass."

Nothing, Sandy soon learned, was considered a taboo subject for the group, but Bertram insisted on withdrawing her from the discussion on goat breeding.

"I'm fifty-eight years old, and I don't want anyone telling me, or our guest here, that goats don't come from acorns. Come along, Sandy," he said, lifting her down from the piano, "I'll give you a look at the gallery before dinner. It's a few doors down, and we'll have ourselves a fine chat along the way."

Dear God, she looked beautiful, Alex thought. Wrapped in roses, scented with honeysuckle, and dripping with southern charm. He caught the shrug she sent his way, then watched as she followed the kilted Scotsman out the door. As boisterous as Bertram was, he had a sensitivity about the moods and feelings of those around him. Alex hadn't had a moment alone with Sandy since they'd walked in, but he was grateful to his friend for getting her outside for a quiet moment. Not that he didn't have enormous admiration and respect for his friends, but their free-spirited antics would never play in her society. No matter that she'd insisted she was ready for a "real" life, ladies like Sandy Patterson flourished much better in their own polished environments.

When dinner was served in the lantern-lit garden, Alex made certain he was seated across from her. He'd seen the way she'd looked for him all throughout the evening. Well, maybe three or four times, if he was honest. Every time he attempted to join her, his friends would corral him back into their group. If he didn't know any better, he'd think there was a concerted effort to keep him away from his houseguest.

Just when he wondered whether she was faking her laughter at still another of Bertram's colorful stories, she joined with two other Americans in singing "The Star-Spangled Banner." Alex whooped with the others at its conclusion, but wondered how she was going to feel about her actions tomorrow. As harmless and good-natured as her performance had been, he knew she wasn't the type to call attention to herself like this.

When he was finally able to slip away from his friends, he spotted Sandy alone in the garden. She stood by one high wall, her posture-perfect, ivory-toned shoulders glowing in the lantern light. Whether it was the flowered dress moving in the breeze or the way she'd gathered her hair high on her head, she gave off an aura of femininity that made his mouth go dry. There was probably a time in the past when knowing she'd belonged to Jackson would have caused Alex to feel guilty about his attraction to her. Fact was, Jackson had been a lucky man, but Jackson was gone now. Alex couldn't muster one guilty feeling to cling to in his effort to fight his desire for her. He shoved his hands in his pockets and wished like hell he'd remembered his cigarettes.

"Well, you're certainly full of surprises."

She looked over the rim of her after-dinner drink, then lowered it to smile at him. Bagpipe music was alternately whining and waning in the house. "Whatever are you talking about? I haven't danced on the piano... yet."

"I'm talking about your hobby." He pulled one hand from his pocket and wiggled his finger in the air. "That little sketching thing you do. That knack of yours that got you accepted to one of the most prestigious art schools in America."

"Oh, that little hobby. Who told you?"

"Bertram. He says Chevalier is one of the best schools in the States."

She placed her splinted wrist against the creamiest, roundest cleavage ever to blossom forth from a sweetheart bodice.

"And you're surprised they chose me?"

He looked at anything in the garden that wasn't Sandy. "No. I'm surprised I'm the last to know."

She'd meant to tell him sooner. Pressing the rim of the glass to her lips, she tried looking contrite. It was next to impossible with all the music and laughter coming from inside the house. "Are you throwing me out in the streets for my oversight?"

Before Alex had a chance to reply, someone stopped the bagpipe tape, then started another.

"This one's for Alex's friend, Sandy."

"Georgia on My Mind" wafted out into the garden.

Sandy placed her glass on the window ledge." Well, bless his heart," she said, holding her hand out to Alex. "Here's a surprise for you. I'm not going to ask you to dance with me on the piano, but I'd love a few turns around this garden. Relax, I've had all my shots and haven't bitten anyone since Thursday." Without waiting for his response, she slipped into his arms.

She felt more than heard his laughter, as he eased her closer and began to dance. Like most men she'd danced with, Alex managed to hold her at a safety shield's distance. Once his fingers brushed the skin above her zipper, and she welcomed the tiny tremors passing between them. When wind swept into the garden and blew a curl of her hair against his hand, he didn't bother to move it. His chin grazed her head twice before he finally gave up and rested it there. The world moved back, spinning silently around them.

After a while he asked, "What were you doing out here all alone?"

"Just studying the silhouette of the church's dome against the streetlight. And giving you time to get reacquainted with your friends.".

"That wasn't necessary."

She stopped dancing and looked up from the circle of his arms. "I wanted to."

"I've hardly seen you all night."

"I saw you looking at me."

He danced her slowly around the garden, pressing her body more intimately against his with each turn.

The wind picked up, plastering her skirt against both their legs and that curl of hers against his hand again. He tucked the errant tress behind her ear, then let his thumb slide down her cheek and under tier chin. His breath smelled sweet, and she remembered how, when he was eating his dessert, his lips glistened with honey.

Just when she thought he was going to kiss her, someone shut the door. The song diminished to a background whisper, and the intimate moment disappeared.

Alex stopped dancing, took a step backward, and forced himself to cough. "How's your wrist? If you're tired, we could leave."

"Leave? Why? I'm having a fabulous time. Aren't you?"

"Sandy, this isn't exactly your debutante ball at the country club. You don't have to pretend—"

"Oh, Alex," she said, thoroughly exasperated. "I thought we were beyond all that, but you're doing it again."

"What? What am I doing?"

She planted her good hand on her hip and narrowed her eyes. "You're sticking me in a slot. This one's called Country Club Snob."

"I never called you a snob."

"You didn't have to." She gestured with her splinted wrist. "Look, maybe I haven't gotten up on the piano and danced the Highland fling like Bertram, but that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy watching him do it. And did I complain when the octopus salad was served without a fork? As a matter of fact, when you tried to convince me to take off my clothes and go skinny-dipping this morning, I thought I handled that rather well too."

"I'm glad you brought that up," he said, not looking at all glad. "I want to apologize for making you so uncomfortable on the beach this morning. After all, you're—"

"Slot number two."

"You're my friend's widow."

"Is that all you think about when you look at me?"

Looking away from her, he brought both hands to his hips. "I—yes." Nodding vigorously now, he continued emphatically. Too emphatically. "Yes, I see Jackson's widow."

"Alex, that's like me saying, 'Meet my friend, Alex. He's a graduate of Braxton University. That maybe a true statement, but it doesn't tell a tenth of who and what you are." He looked away, but she took him by the sleeve and made him look at her again. "When you look at a rainbow, you don't see only the red part. Right?"

He nodded once, reluctantly.

"Well, when you look at me, why do you see only one part of me?"

"Sandy, we know each other because you are Jackson's widow. I can't forget that."

"Really? I think you've forgotten it a few times," she said evenly, as she placed her hand on his chest. His heart was beating double time.

"And I've said I was wrong. Wrong about the way I talked to you on the beach and wrong about kissing you yesterday. Please accept my apology."

"No, I don't accept your apology." She ran her hand up the front of his shirt, and with a white-knuckled fist gripped the shoulder of his shirt. "If I did, my life would be a rerun of the one I've left behind." She backed him up to a chair and gave him a little push until he sat down. Looming over him, she continued. "And you remember what a summer rerun's like, don't you?"

Moving her face closer to his, she dropped her voice to a threatening softness. "Sterile cubicles filled with polyester people wearing vapid smiles." Sliding her hand over his nape, she let her fingers stray up into his hair. "Where people stand where they're told to stand, where no one dares deviate from the script, and..." His face was tipped upward, his mouth was open, and he looked as if he expected her to explode. She had a bigger shock than that in store for him. "... where there are no surprises like this."

She lowered her face and, looking into his eyes, kissed him hard on the mouth. She didn't let up on the pressure, but concentrated on the honey -flavored lightning stinging her lips and the surprised expression she saw in his eyes. They widened as her enthusiasm increased.

When he finally realized she wasn't letting up, he pulled her into his lap and deepened the kiss still further.

###

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Rings on her Fingers

Susan Connell

### Chapter 1

Diamonds.

Eight, perfectly cut, dazzling beauties. And for a few stolen moments they were all hers. With a smile tugging at her lips, Gwen Mansfield adjusted the two-carat, pear-shaped stone on her second finger and sighed. If there was one thing she knew, it was quality jewelry. Wriggling her ring-laden fingers, she held them close to the colored lights and hummed along with the mall's Christmas music. Even the embarrassment of her four broken engagements couldn't dim her appreciation of the magical mix of fire and ice.

As her gaze drifted toward her white fur cuffs and her red velvet sleeves, she winced then rolled her eyes. Dressing in an elf costume for the entire holiday season was not the best way to rebuild her reputation. But she wasn't about to argue with Bixby and Mellon Jewelers. Spending several nights a week surrounded by their fine jewelry certainly beat flipping burgers to help pay for the upkeep of Scarborough Hall. She frowned, thinking about the bills from the carpenter, the electrician, and from that darned plumber. Picturing the growing list of creditors, she stiffened her fingers in protest.

She had managed to lose four fiancés, but she wasn't going to lose Scarborough Hall. Keeping the apartment house was her best chance to prove to herself and everyone else in King's Crossing that she could manage at least one part of her life without disaster. Furthermore, her tenants' faith in her was doing wonders for her self-esteem.

She pictured the once elegant mansion, its mullioned windows warmed with candlelight, its scars softened by the evening snow, and its eight tenants happily counting on her for a roof over their heads. Lord knew that, like her, the tenants would never be able to count on Brian Flanagan. The sooner she could buy his half of Scarborough Hall and obtain a renovation loan, the more secure all their lives would be. Until then she'd take a third job besides her freelance graphic-design work to pay the expenses, because nobody was taking Scarborough Hall from her. Absolutely nobody.

In a rush of renewed determination Gwen smacked both hands on the display case. Realizing her mistake too late, she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach as a one-carat, emerald-cut diamond flew off her finger. A sibilant curse escaped her lips as she watched the ring arc across the room then disappear into the jewelry store's Christmas tree.

Flipping the latch on the half door, she shoved it open and hurried onto the floor. "Let it be under the tree," she prayed, holding her fists to her chin. "Please, please, let it be under the tree, and I'll never, ever do another self-indulgent thing in my life."

Ting, ting, ting!

The bells on her elf slippers seemed to mock her plea. She didn't care, she told herself as she searched the upper branches. Nothing could be more embarrassing than calling Mrs. Bixby out of the back room to tell the old witch she'd just thrown away a three-thousand-dollar diamond.

Ting, ting, ting!

Dropping to her knees, she reached over the circling toy train and began searching through the miniature village laid out in front of the tree. No ring. Panic spiraled through her. She couldn't afford a new hot-water heater, so how in hell was she going to pay for a three-thousand-dollar diamond?

"When you're done there, would you come play under my Christmas tree?"

The voice, rich and baritone, came to her through the Christmas music, the _ting, ting, ting!_ of her elf shoes, and her pounding heartbeat. Just what she needed, another man to humiliate her, and this one didn't have the grace to leave town first. Without turning, she said with admirable control, "Sir, this elf doesn't make personal visits."

"Even if I'm very, very good?"

The voice was closer now, good-natured but insistent. While continuing her search, she answered impatiently. "Bad or good, it doesn't matter. This elf is getting a headache. Please, go away."

"And miss this? I don't think so."

The genuine amusement in his voice caused her to hesitate in her search and soften her tone. "Look, I'm kind of busy. Why don't you get in line over there?" Not bothering to raise her head, she pointed to a spot several yards out in the mall. "Tell Santa what you want. He sounds as if he's in better spirits than I am."

As if on cue, Santa let out another string of ho-ho-hos, then punctuated the presentation with a loud hiccup.

"Well, he does sound jolly."

Gwen twisted around for a cursory glance at the man whose attention was on center court. Snow-flakes were melting in his dark, wavy hair and on the shoulders of his topcoat. The burgundy scarf tucked inside his flipped-up collar accentuated the healthy color in his cheeks and contrasted perfectly with his eyes—big blue ones, with tiny crinkles at their corners that deepened when he began laughing. The sound made her insides flutter, her spirits lift, and her vow against self-indulgence a cruel joke. She wanted to laugh, too, but she held her breath instead.

From the thick dark lashes that rimmed his eyes down to the high-gloss shine on his shoes, everything about him chorused for her continuing attention. She gave it until all she had left to give was an inevitable sigh of wariness. Good-looking, obviously successful, and by the sound of his laughter, most likely a well-balanced, happy man. Mentally tagging him, _Do Not Open Until Your Next Life_ , she then willed him to step into the crowd and disappear.

Leaning toward her, he rested his gloved hands on his knees and whispered, "I think Santa's been dipping into the eggnog."

Pressing her lips together to suppress a giggle, Gwen hunched her shoulders and nodded in mute agreement. Whoever he was, his deadpan humor tickled her. Catching sight of her reflection in a tree ornament, she coughed sharply. Not that enjoying an errant moment with a handsome stranger should hold any significance for her. How could it, when he was dressed for a night at the opera, and she resembled a game-show hostess involved in a tacky skit?

"Haven't found that ring yet?" he asked, removing his gloves and shoving them in his pockets.

Pressing her fingers against her thighs, she stared at the other rings she was wearing and shook her head. _Please don't be nice and offer to help. Just go away before anything humiliating can happen._

"I think I saw it land under the branches. Here, let me help you."

As he lowered himself onto one knee his coat caught between her leg and his. Her sheer red panty hose did nothing to defuse the sensual shiver zipping up her thigh. Lord, if she kept on holding her breath this way, she was going to keel over on him.

"Sorry," she murmured as their hands tangled in a clumsy attempt to push back his coat.

"My fault," he said.

But it wasn't his fault or hers when their fingers curled together, locking tight like two pieces of a puzzle. A cleverly simple puzzle. When they tried pulling away, neither seemed willing to let go. During the struggle she took in an extra breath and with it his scent—a mix of musk and citrus and cool, clean male skin. At such close range she had no choice but to look at him again. The snowflakes had melted into a mantle of beads on his hair and shoulders, making him glisten under the tree lights. In the hazy distance the children were laughing again. The fairy-tale quality of the moment turned to pure, pulsing reality when their wandering gazes met and held.

When a different kind of awareness began, she let go of him, pulled off her elf cap, and shoved back her hair. She had to clear her head of those unexpected and therefore peculiar notions. "I must find that ring," she announced loudly.

"Okay, let's do it." He reached toward the toy train, but before he could touch anything she spoke again.

"That's okay. I'll find it." She gestured impatiently with both hands. If he would simply go away...

"But—"

"You don't have to help. I'll find it." Trying with all her might to ignore the tickling sensations of his trousers against her thigh, and the corresponding sensations in a more central part of her body, she reached past his hand and over the train set. "I _have_ to find it."

Steve Stratton knew what he wanted for Christmas. A long-legged elf with an attitude.

The last time he felt so certain about a gift was three decades ago, and that was a ten-speed bicycle. Since then he had to be forced to the wall and made to mumble "anything but clothes" and, later, the name of the latest aftershave. But this year he _knew_ , and it was only the day after Thanksgiving.

Smiling, he watched the elf with the upturned nose and big hazel eyes frantically sifting mounds of artificial snow through her fingers. With a frustrated growl, she sat back on her heels, pursed her full lips, and attempted to blow the snow from her other rings with quick puffs of air. After several enthusiastic tries, she flipped her hair away from her face and stuck out her hands.

"Would you look at this stuff? I'll be searching through it until closing time."

He was looking, all right, but not at her hands. A cloud of hair the color of shiny chestnuts and warm brandy wreathed her animated expression.

From her guileless eyes to her squinched-up mouth, she pulled at something inside him until he wanted to laugh with joy. Crazy, unadulterated joy. He couldn't remember the last time anyone made him feel so damned good.

Glancing at the toy train, he kept a serious expression on his face. "If you won't let me under the tree with you, would you allow me to give you a clue?"

"Please. If you see the ring, just tell me. I have enough mysteries in my life."

Now that she was looking at him, he couldn't tell whether it was the light reflecting off the glass display cases or tears of frustration gathering in her eyes. Considering the tenseness in her voice, he decided it was a combination of the two. Reaching into the coal car, he picked out the diamond ring. "One less mystery," he said softly as he held it up between them.

Her cherry-red lips rounded in surprise as she reached for the ring. If he leaned forward he could turn that inviting circle into the tastier half of a kiss. Before he could act, her expression changed into a radiant smile that hit him in the solar plexus.

"You saved my life," she said as she slipped the ring back on her finger.

"Really?"

After staring at it for a few seconds, she lifted her head. "I know it sounds melodramatic, but... really. I mean, I could have lost my job."

That she cared so much about her work moved him. But her lack of superficiality moved him more. Who was this enchanting creature? He dipped his chin in mock seriousness as he read her name tag. "Is Gwen your elf name?"

Looking at him with renewed caution, she answered slowly. "Y-e-s-s-s."

"Well, Gwen, elfing sounds a lot more dangerous than it used to be. Rings flying through the air, the hazards of artificial snow..." Swiping a hand over his wet hair, he mumbled, "Thank heavens you know how to fill those Christmas stockings," he said, eyeing two of the most beautiful legs he'd ever seen.

"Pardon me. Did you say something about Christmas stockings?"

"Hmmm?"

"Never mind, Mister..."

"Stratton. Steve Stratton," he said, standing and reaching into his coat pocket. "I'm here to pick up—" His words were interrupted by shrieks of laughter from the mall's center court.

"Sounds like you were right about the eggnog," she said, straining for a look around him, then shaking her head. "Santa's just spilled his sack of candy canes all over the steps."

As Gwen returned to straightening the village under the tree, a little girl broke through the crowd outside the jewelry store and rushed up to them. She pushed her glasses back up her nose then pointed at Gwen. "You're an elf, right?"

"Part-time elf. Wednesday nights and alternate Saturdays I'm, uh, someone else," Gwen said, backing away from the tree on her knees.

"Well, what's wrong with Santa?" the little girl asked, her voice demanding immediate satisfaction.

"Santa's not feeling well," she said, looking up at Steve. He urged her on with a you-can-do-it nod. "He, uh..."—she stopped and shrugged, before continuing—"has an allergy."

Steve watched the child's expression turn from concern to healthy skepticism, her large brown eyes shifting toward Santa then back to Gwen. "Really?"

"Shall we tell her the truth about Santa, Elf Gwen?" Steve asked.

Her hazel eyes blinked furiously at him. "Mr. Stratton, I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" he asked, pretending to ignore Gwen's yanking on the leg of his trousers. Looking down at the little girl, he slipped his hands in his pockets and cocked his head. "Do you think you're big enough to handle the truth?"

The little girl stepped forward. "Sure. I'm six and a half years old."

"Mr. Stratton!"

Gwen was whacking his knee with both hands. The act was one of familiarity that bordered on intimacy, but he doubted she realized that fact. The truth was, he liked that she was unaware of it. And he liked knowing that her fury was based on protecting a child and not on a well-rehearsed tantrum just to get her way. He'd witnessed enough of that over the past two years to last his whole life.

Covering Gwen's hands with his, he held them against his leg as he smiled at the little girl. Lord, this elf was a walking advertisement for Bixby and Mellon's, he thought as he felt her rings pressing against his palm.

"Mister, are you gonna tell me what's wrong with Santa?"

"No, he's not."

"Yes, I am. Unfortunately, Santa has an allergy to eggnog."

Steve heard Gwen's quick intake of air, and then a strangled laugh as she withdrew her hands.

"Well, is he gonna be better by Christmas?"

"If he stays away from eggnog, there shouldn't be a problem. Don't worry. I'll speak to Elf Gwen about this," he said, tilting his chin in her direction.

"I'll take care of it," she said to the child.

"Thanks, Elf Gwen." After flashing them both a smile with several teeth missing, she waved and started out of the store. "I have to go tell my brother. Bye."

As the little girl rushed back into the line of children, Steve pulled a receipt from his pocket. Pretending the embarrassing, last several minutes never happened, he waved the pink slip in front of her. "I've been told you gift-wrap."

Gwen studied his deadpan expression until something wonderful danced out of her heart and around and around her rib cage. The bursts of energy warmed her in a way that made her wish she'd been born yesterday when it came to dealing with the opposite sex, and this man in particular. She blinked; was she crazy? This entire situation was getting out of control. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried behind the counter as if it were a stone fortress.

"Look, I can push down on the ribbon when you tie the bow, but that's about it," he said earnestly.

She knew she was staring at him as if he had two heads, but it wasn't fazing him. Planting his elbows on the counter, he raised his eyebrows. "I saved your life; you have to wrap it now."

The way his gaze wandered slowly over her face told her that he wasn't in a hurry to zip through the transaction. Neither was she. He made her want to do all kinds of soft, feminine things with her voice. And with him. Leaning over the counter, she rested her elbows close to his.

"We do gift-wrap," she said, taking the pink slip from him. "Christmas paper?"

He shook his head.

"Birthday? Some other special occasion?" she asked, shocking herself with her whispery voice. Lord, he was handsome. Funny. Kind to small children. Exhibited no signs of bizarre behavior, just a generous dose of effective flirting. And she would be the first to admit she was encouraging him. Lowering her lashes, she studied his hands. Long, strong fingers, a recent tan, and the capacity to make her very, very happy. Maybe it wasn't out of the question for her to think about having a relationship. Glancing down at the pink paper, she read his name once again. "Mr. Stratton."

"Yes. I'm picking up—"

"An engagement ring," she whispered to herself as she straightened up from the counter. Looking at him, she asked, "You're picking up an engagement ring?"

"I am. The big announcement's tonight," he said, pushing back his sleeve and checking his watch. "We're having a party over at the Betancourt Hotel. Everyone there thinks we're celebrating my brother's new law partnership, but that's just the beginning."

Funny, she thought as her heart plummeted through her stomach for the second time that evening. He looked so normal. She closed her eyes. _As if she could recognize normal!_

Once she put her mind to it, forcing a smile onto her face wasn't difficult. Over the years she'd had plenty of practice in these kinds of brain-numbing situations. Besides, Steve Stratton would never have to know the silly thoughts that had run through her mind, or what those sexy, tickly thrills tripping through her body and warming her heart had cost her. All he was going to remember was a few amusing moments with a professional sales-clerk. And all she was going to remember was the back of his head. Well, she would try.

"Sounds lovely," she said, unlocking a drawer behind her with a pair of shaking hands. "I had... I mean, I was at an engagement party there once." When he began to respond, she cut him off. The less she had to hear about his party, the saner she would stay. "I'll have the ring in just a second."

Reading down the list of names in the logbook, she paused to look at her left palm. Even with her hand still shaking, she could read the lettering on the tiny white tags stuck to each of the rings she was wearing. Checking the ring tag on her second finger for the second time, she slowly closed her hand. The two-carat, pear-shaped ring belonged to Mr. Stratton. If she was extremely careful, she might be able to slip the ring off, drop it in the little envelope, and pretend it had been there all the time.

"What's the bride-to-be's favorite color, Mr. Stratton? Perhaps we have a silk ribbon to match," she said, twisting the ring and giving it a slight tug. Her heart squeezed painfully when the circle of gold didn't budge.

"Lisa's favorite color? I've no idea."

Gwen tugged again as her concern turned to alarm. She wanted to ask what kind of a groom-to-be wouldn't know his beloved's favorite color, but she had another, more pressing problem. The ring hadn't moved one millimeter. Dropping her chin to her chest, she wondered how bad it was going to be flipping hamburgers.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

Staring at her fingers, she recognized the problem and that it wasn't going to go away in the next few minutes. Since the outside temperature began dropping, the mall's temperature had been rising, causing her fingers to swell. There was nothing to do but confess that she'd been wearing the ring he'd come for. Gathering her courage, she turned to face him again.

With her attention focused on removing the ring, she'd forgotten what one look at him did to her. Once again she was staring at him, her heart racing inside her rib cage like a runaway sleigh, her lips curving into an unrestrained smile, her mind conjuring holiday joy for both of them. Why did he have to be so darn appealing in every way it was possible for a man to be? Rubbing her forehead, she attempted to dismiss the bogus sense of wellbeing and, God forbid, the renewed hope in mankind that he caused in her.

She wasn't well yet; she was still suffering from the sort of insanity caused by being left by her fourth fiancé. Until she had Scarborough Hall on a firmer financial footing, she had to insulate herself from certain distractions... of the male persuasion.

"Mr. Stratton—"

"Steve," he said, hunching over the glass counter with an inviting smile.

Leaning toward him, she repeated, "Steve." For a second the sights and sounds around them dissolved into a sensual buffer and only his handsome face and smile existed. Then he winked. Groaning inwardly, she pulled herself up from the counter. He had enough charm to make an angel tumble. Shutting her eyes, she scolded herself for not having the courage to stop his flirting and tell him exactly what she thought about his lighthearted behavior. With a fiancée waiting for him at the Betancourt, he wasn't playing fair to anyone. "Mr. Stratton."

"Gwen?"

His hands closed over hers, soothing the tension in them.

"Gwen, are you okay?"

"Not at the moment," she said, opening her eyes. Pulling her hands from his, she sent him a flickering glance. "But I will be," she said as she tried twisting the diamond from her finger. "I'll be right up-front about this."

"Yes, Elf Gwen?"

He was flirting again, and he was doing such a marvelous job of it. She was going to ignore it, even if it killed her. "Mr. Stratton, I was trying these on earlier," she said, holding up both hands. "Since then the mall has turned up its thermostat and my fingers have swollen. Except for the ring that ended up under the tree, they're all stuck. And this one, Mr. Stratton," she said, wiggling her middle finger, then quickly clutching it to her chest when she recognized the obscene gesture, "this one is yours."

His smile turned into roaring laughter.

She gave him what she hoped was a genuine scowl. "I'd stop laughing if I were you. It's not funny."

"Yes, it is."

"Well, it would be funny, if you didn't have plans for this—" she said, holding up her finger, then pulling it back again. Her face stinging with embarrassment, she continued. "Th-this evening."

Bringing his laughter in check, he nodded then looked at his watch and gave a slight grimace. "I appreciate your honesty," he said, taking her left hand in his. "Let's see if I can... hmmm, this is on tight. What possessed you to try them all on?"

"It's a habit, Mr. Stratton. A very bad habit I've been trying to break, and I swear, I've learned my lesson this time," she said, pulling her hand from the warmth of his. "Don't worry, I'll get it off. I'll get all of them off." Rolling her eyes, she mumbled more to herself than to him, "Lord knows, I've had plenty of practice."

Reaching in the drawer below the cash register, she pulled out a jar of petroleum jelly. "We keep this for emergencies. Sort of a last resort," she said, opening the jar, scooping up a dollop, and smoothing it across her fingers. "It leaves such a mess," she said, glancing up at him.

With his elbows back on the counter and his chin resting in the cup of one hand, she thought she saw a twitch of a smile behind his fingers. Was she totally mad to think he was imagining off-color images involving petroleum jelly? Whatever he was thinking, he had the grace to keep his mouth shut while she went through the contortions necessary to remove the rings.

Miraculously they began sliding off her fingers. "Thank you for being so patient," she said, her tone of professionalism offset with a heaving sigh. Reaching for a tissue, she gave each ring a quick swipe. "Later, I'll clean off the jelly, and then put them in their proper slots and holding envelopes," she said. "If you'd like to inspect this before I wrap it—"

"That's okay. It is getting late."

"But wouldn't you like to look at the ring up close?" she asked, surprisingly reluctant to see him go. "Customers usually want to see that sizing the ring hasn't left any marks."

"I trust you. Besides, the sooner I see it on Lisa's finger, the better I'm going to feel."

A loud _thump! thump!_ sounded from center mall as Steve's words sank in. He walked to the end of Bixby and Mellon's carpeted space, leaving her to put the last few minutes into perspective.

For some desperate reason she'd misinterpreted his pleasant personality and natural charm for flirting. But he wasn't flirting. Steve Stratton was in love and, like everyone in love, at his most charming. Why wouldn't he be? In a matter of minutes he'd be at the Betancourt announcing his engagement. Picturing the romantic moment caused a series of strange sensations in her chest. Sensations she attempted to process through a sensible part of her brain until another picture came to mind. In her mind's eye she saw him entertaining everyone at his engagement party with a story about a klutzy mall elf who almost lost the ring.

While she picked his ring from the pile in her hand, she glanced up at Steve Stratton. Eight months had gone by since Brian had left, eight months of avoiding every eligible man who'd shown an interest in her. Eight months of shutting off a once enjoyable part of her life. In a moment of crisis one charming, good-looking guy had paid a little friendly attention to her. Before she could stop herself, she'd spun a scenario of seduction from his teasing comments and pleasant smile. Shaking her head in disbelief, she pictured her self-esteem imploding to a pile of dust. The worst thing in the world wasn't being pitied, it was being laughed at. Maybe it was time to consider professional counseling. Again.

Sliding his ring up to the first knuckle of her thumb for safekeeping, she locked the other seven inside the case. "What's so funny out there?" she asked, pulling precut wrapping paper and ribbon from beneath the counter.

"Santa's off his chair and down for the count this time," he said, returning to her. "Can I help you with that?"

"No, thanks," she said, managing a smile without meeting his eyes. "I'll have this ready in record time, and then you can be off to your party."

Pulling apart the identification tag, she peeled it from the ring and set the tiny paper aside. Settling the ring into the cleft of white satin, she snapped the box closed. The sooner she got him out of there, the faster her hands would stop shaking. Clearing her throat, she pointed to a place on the pink slip. "If you'll sign here, I can release the ring to you," she said, before dropping the velvet box inside a small white gift box. Quickly wrapping the box, she reached for the ribbon and began tying it. "I'll give you some other literature and then go over our warranty when I've finished with—"

"That's okay," he said, slipping the forms and pamphlet in his coat pocket. Placing his index finger on the intersection of blue silk, he added, "I'll have my brother look them over after the party."

Try as she might, there was no way she could avoid touching him once she began tying the bow. "Your brother?" she asked, staring at his hand so close to hers. When he didn't answer, she looked up.

"The lawyer in the family."

"I see," she said, but she didn't. She wanted to ask him why he needed a lawyer to read over a diamond warranty, but that would mean staring into his eyes longer. Redirecting her attention to the package, she reminded herself that tying a simple bow shouldn't cause temporary paralysis. Plunging in, she worked the ribbon as quickly as she could, telling herself that this wasn't as complicated or as challenging as brain surgery and that it would be over in a matter of seconds. So what if their fingers kept brushing, their knuckles kept bumping, and her heart kept fluttering like a bird trapped in a net?

By the time she completed fashioning an easy-to-untie bow, she knew she would be able to identify Steve Stratton in the dark. The thought had her brimming with guilt; the man was on his way to his beloved. "There," she said, clasping her hands behind her as she took a step backward.

"Finished?".

Completely, she wanted to say. Totally drained. Emotionally exhausted. "Finished," she replied, placing the pretty package into a miniature, shiny red shopping bag and handing it over to him.

For a moment he stood there staring at her as if he wanted to say something. Or maybe ask her something.

"It's been a pleasure," he finally said with a nod bordering on a gentlemanly bow.

She nodded back as she pictured him dashing across the snowy parking lot on his way to his engagement party. Soon enough he'd be whispering enchanting things in his fiancée's ear. Her throat ached with unwelcome tears. What was wrong with her? "I wish you the best, Mr. Stratton."

He leaned in close. "Do you want to know what I wish?"

"Sure," she said, staring into those mischievous blue eyes of his.

"I still wish you'd come play under my Christmas tree," he said, before giving her a kiss on her cheek close to her lips. Very close to her lips.

Then he was gone, leaving her in a state of shock. She held her breath until her head began aching. Would she ever regain full brain function after tonight? she wondered. Fumbling for the keys dangling from her wrist, she unlocked the diamond case and removed the ring tray.

"Forget this ever happened," she whispered to herself as she turned her attention to sorting and cleaning. A kiss like that had no deep or hidden meaning. It was nothing more than a playful peck. At most, a friendly thank you mixed in with his teasing remark about playing under his Christmas tree.

Picking up another ring, she stared at Santa's empty chair while she wiped the diamond with a tissue. Even if Steve Stratton weren't becoming engaged, she wouldn't have allowed herself to think about playing under his Christmas tree. She was too busy reinventing her life and restoring her reputation ever to give Steve Stratton another thought. Thank heavens there was no reason she would have to see him again.

Striving for a sense of completion to their encounter, she glanced at the clock then forced a smile onto her face. In another twenty minutes she'd be on her way home to Scarborough Hall. She looked down at the last ring she was cleaning. Her smile froze as she swallowed a scream. Bringing the ring closer to her eyes, she fought to steady her shaking hands. After checking the tag, she continued staring at the diamond until her eyes burned. _This wasn't the oval-cut ring._ This was a two-carat, pear-shaped diamond ring. Steve Stratton's diamond ring.

### Chapter 2

"Where's the ring?"

"Same place it was three minutes ago. Right here in my pocket," Steve said. "Do you want—"

"No, no, don't give it to me yet," Sam Stratton said as he ran both sets of fingers through his hair. The light from the crystal chandeliers glittered off his forehead. "I want one more dance with her before I ask her." Straining for a glimpse of his girlfriend, Steve's younger brother pulled at his tie as he mumbled his next words. "I don't want her accidentally rubbing up against it and asking questions."

Leaning into Sam's line of vision, Steve arched one eyebrow. "Like what? Is that an engagement ring, or are you just glad to see me?" he asked in a pointedly bad imitation of Mae West.

"I'm going to ignore that smutty remark out of respect for your current circumstance."

"Which circumstance would that be?" Steve asked, raising his chin in greeting to a passing couple.

"Come on, you don't have to fake it with me, Steve," Sam said, turning his full attention to his older brother. "Finding your significant other in bed with your business partner stinks."

Shaking his head, Steve removed a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. "God, I hate to burst your bubble, but I miss him more than I do her," he said, before taking a sip from the crystal flute.

Sam's lips parted as he gestured with his hand. "Are you serious?"

Skimming a lazy gaze around the room, Steve asked, "If you mean, am I devastated because my lover—correction, my ex-lover—had an affair with my ex-business partner, the answer is no, I'm not. Granted, my male ego is bruised, but my heart," he said, thumping himself in the chest, "is still waiting for the big one."

"You're unbelievable. You're tossing off a relationship of what, eighteen months, without a little angst creeping in? How do you do it?"

Checking the fine streams of bubbles in his champagne glass, Steve decided against a serious discussion with his brother. What purpose would it serve tonight when Sam was celebrating a new law partnership and gathering his nerve to propose to his childhood sweetheart? Besides, explaining vague feelings of loneliness to another man was better left to characters on soap operas. No one would believe him anyway. Not with the confident, unflustered way he had with women.

"Let's just say that a couple of weeks spent bumming around the Caribbean has put things in perspective. Whatever feelings I had for her were withering away months before I found the two of them together. Anyway," he said, reaching for a canapé on the buffet table, "you've been great to put me up, but I've got to start looking for a place of my own. You and Lisa are going to want more privacy now that you'll be engaged, and until I decide on new office space, I'll be working out of my place... wherever that will be."

"And that's the other thing," Sam said as Steve put the tiny canapé in his mouth. "You kissed off half ownership of the busiest architectural firm in the state. In one afternoon, you packed in what took twelve years to build and, Steve," he said, touching his brother's arm, "you didn't even blink."

Steve nodded, knowing Sam would never understand that dissolving both his personal and his business partnerships had been strangely easy. Everything in his life had been strangely easy, for that matter. It was starting to give him the willies. "The new year's coming. So's the new me," he added.

Still fixated on Steve's current situation, Sam struggled to keep calm. "Doesn't anything bother you?"

With a droll expression, Steve stared quietly into his champagne glass. At thirty-six he had wealth, a trusted business reputation, and the ability to attract and keep just about any woman he'd ever shown an interest in. Deep down where the scorecard counted, none of it mattered except that vague rattle every now and then. "Nothing yet."

"Nothing yet," Sam repeated, shaking his head.

"I promise, I'll start worrying."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

"Look, I've been talking for years about taking the business in a different direction. Now I have the chance to see if I was just blowing smoke." Grabbing the back of his brother's neck, he gave him an affectionate shake. "Relax, little brother," he said, recalling a similar intensity in his elf at the jewelry store earlier that evening. _His_ elf? He laughed out loud at the notion. "Is everybody uptight tonight, or am I just early with the holiday spirit?"

"Hell, I don't know, Steve," Sam said, straining for a view of a pretty redhead in an off-the-shoulder, green taffeta gown. "I'm about to pop the question, and you've got me pinned against the buffet table telling me elf stories."

Picturing the long-legged elf again, Steve patted his brother's back before withdrawing his hand. Sam was right. Until the Mae West impersonation, he'd been talking nonstop about Gwen.

Sure, she'd noticed him in that way that most women seemed to, but she'd also turned her attention away from him just as quickly. Draining the last of the champagne from his glass, he let the fluted crystal dangle from his hand. What in hell was so intriguing about a jewelry-store clerk in an elf costume? Surely the fascination wasn't about the comical images of her scrambling under that Christmas tree, or her pulling on his pant leg, or even her tugging at all those rings on her fingers. Nibbling the inside of his cheek, he remembered the impulsive kiss he'd given her. If not holiday spirit, she'd inspired something in him.

Clearing his throat, he turned to Sam. He watched as his brother pinched his cuff links, then smoothed the front of his jacket. "Sam?"

"If you're going to ask me if I want to hear more about that elf, the answer's no."

"I wasn't," he said, stirring the air with his glass before setting it on the buffet table. "When, uh... when did you know Lisa was the one?"

From the furrow that formed between Sam's eyebrows, Steve knew his sentimental tone had caught his brother by surprise. Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other. After a moment of serious consideration, he spoke. "Last month when she began to talk about taking a job in Denver. It scared me."

"So why didn't you ask her to move in with you?"

"If you have to ask, you wouldn't understand."

A steady, knowing look passed between the two brothers. After several seconds Sam spoke. "You know what your problem is? You're too damn successful, too damn cocky, and too damn good-looking. You've never had to do any aggressive pursuing. You've never experienced the sheer terror of love, big brother. Or the overwhelming need to seize the moment, no matter how little sense it makes at the time. But one of these days when you're least expecting it..." He shook his finger at Steve.

"The big one!" Steve said, flattening his hand to his chest as he buckled his knees.

"The big one," Sam repeated. "And whoever she is," he said, slapping his brother on the arm as they both began laughing, "I want to be there when it happens, because she's going to blow you away."

As Sam took a step toward the girl in the green taffeta, Steve pulled him back by his sleeve. "Hey, is that a ring in your pocket?"

Sam took a quick look at his pants before delivering a deadpan expression to Steve. "Thanks for that confidence booster."

Before the good-natured ribbing could continue, the brothers caught sight of the kitchen doors opening several yards away from the buffet table. First an elf cap appeared, followed by a wide-eyed Gwen. Steve turned to his brother.

"And you thought I was making her up. Shame on you."

Every step of the way her slipper bells underscored the whispering of his name with a distinct and now familiar _ting, ting, ting!_

"Mr. Stratton!" she said in one final stage whisper when she saw he was looking her way. "Stay there." Doubling her efforts to reach him, she held her cap on her head as she came barreling around the end of the buffet table.

"I don't believe it," Sam said. "She's exactly the way you described her."

Five steps away and she slipped into a highspeed slide across the floor. Steve's arms shot out in time to wrap firmly around her waist from behind. With seamless coordination he pulled her out of the path of the support column and into his embrace.

"And I thought you said you didn't make personal visits," he whispered against the side of her face.

"This... is an... emergency," she whispered breathlessly. "The announcement... tell me you haven't... made it yet."

"Announcement?" he asked, continuing to hold her firmly against him. Her curvy backside fit perfectly at the juncture of his parted thighs. So perfectly, he willed himself to concentrate on something higher up. The velvet beneath his fingers molded the delicate structure of her rib cage, which was expanding and contracting. Rapidly. She needed more air. So would he if he didn't move his hands to safer regions. He slid them carefully to the curves of her waist, hoping she took his slow move as proof of his concern for her breathless condition. If she had any idea how good she felt to him, he'd probably be picking her elbow out of his stomach about now.

It took her several seconds before she attempted to speak again.

"Your... engagement... announcement."

His brother greeted Steve's sideways glance with a wince. "I feel another elf story coming on." Holding up his hands, he backed away, imploring, "Why don't we save it until later, when Lisa can hear it too?"

Gwen watched the younger, fairer version of Steve Stratton walking away from them. He stopped his escape long enough to respond to a few questioning stares from a nearby knot of people. When they discreetly turned their backs, Gwen twisted around to give Steve an accusing stare.

"You've been telling him stories about me, haven't you?"

"They were all true," he murmured as he let go of her. Crossing his arms, he leaned back against the column.

He was sizing her up again as if he'd just been handed another piece of pertinent information. And he was planning to do something with it too; she could feel it in the insatiable stare he continued holding on her.

With a couple of tries she broke the stare.

"True or not, I had hoped you'd forgotten about me," she said, reaching down to flick away chunks of snow from the curled-back toe pieces on her slippers. She managed to ring the bells hanging from them half a dozen times before dislodging the snow.

"How could I forget you? You were my sister's favorite rhyme."

"Rhyme?"

" 'Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, she shall have music wherever she goes.' Want me to see if the band can put it to music?"

Straightening up suddenly, she gave him a weak smile as she talked through clenched teeth. "Let's not do that. People are starting to look at me again."

Taking a backward step, she urged him to follow. "I need to talk to you. Maybe we could step into the kitchen? Please." Brushing her hair from her forehead, she stared hard at him, willing him to move. As he pushed off the column and started after her, a voice from out of her past stopped them both.

"Gwen? Gwen Mansfield? Is that you?"

Hunching her shoulders in terrorized surprise, she shot a "save me!" look toward Steve. Mattie Goldman was the last person she wanted to see. The social editor and gossip columnist for the local newspaper had written about her four engagements and each of their subsequent dissolutions.

"Why, Gwen, it is you," Mattie cooed, circling her gaze around both her and Steve.

"Hello, Mattie," she said, pulling off her cap and hiding it behind her back. "I haven't seen you in"—she threw up an empty hand—"months!"

"Eight to be exact," Mattie said, her gaze bouncing all over Gwen's elf costume. "Who is your newest beau, dear?" she asked before breaking up into laughter. "Santa Claus?"

Gwen glanced up at Steve, who appeared absorbed in the unfolding spectacle she was creating. Again. How he continued to be so appealing when he looked close to laughing—at her probably—was beyond her. True, the healthy glow of his tan set him apart from every other man in the room. And those blue eyes of his, so clear, so sure, so—

Mattie Goldman's voice caught her attention as quickly as the sound of breaking ice.

"How are things, Gwen? I mean, since Brian—"

Gwen turned her head in the woman's direction fast enough to cause whiplash in less practiced mortals. "Since Brian? Things have been fine. Better than ever."

"Really?" Mattie's eyebrows shot upward then re-formed at odd angles. "I thought I'd heard Scarborough Hall was changing hands again."

"Well, you heard wrong. We're all cozy up there overlooking the river," she said, feeling a sweat breaking out on her forehead. If Mattie mentioned old Mr. Graham's unscheduled demise, she swore she was going to crawl under the buffet table.

"And I heard you'd lost a tenant. The old gent renting that big apartment. Have you been able to rent it out again?"

Before Gwen could turn to lift the tablecloth and crawl under the buffet, Steve pushed off the column and took her hand. "Mattie, I promised Santa Claus I'd dance with his favorite elf when this song came on. Do you mind?"

"Not a bit," Mattie added, eyeing their departure with bold-faced interest. "But, Steve, let's chat later," she said, her voice continuing to rise despite the stares she was causing the three of them. "I want to know why the most successful architect in Philadelphia has moved to King's Crossing."

He led a grateful Gwen into a slow-moving sea of floor-length gowns and conservative tuxedos.

"Thank you. If you hadn't gotten me away from her, she would have—" Gwen broke off in mid-sentence. She couldn't tell him that the older woman would have delighted in relating every sordid detail of her four broken engagements.

"Well, it looks as if I saved your life again," he said, in a charming pretense of dead seriousness.

"Yes, you did," she said, scanning the close quarters for an escape. When she saw a way and made a move, he grabbed her other hand.

"One dance. You owe me that."

Why not? What was another pound of guilt when she had a sackful to sort through alone in her four-poster later tonight? The music swelled as he pulled her close and danced her around the floor. No matter how smoothly he moved her, it was painfully obvious to both of them that she wasn't relaxing.

"Miss Mansfield, I think I'm going crazy."

"You are?" she asked, forcing a smile when she realized he was teasing her again.

"Yes. It seems I'm the only one in this room hearing... bells. Tiny bells. They keep following me."

For the life of her, she couldn't suppress the laughter rising up from somewhere near her heart. "Mr. Stratton, I must be going crazy too. I've been hearing them for hours."

He swirled her neatly around the crowded dance floor, and for one temporarily insane moment she felt as if she belonged there in his arms. She liked his attention, liked his private jokes, liked the steady pressure of his hand spread across her lower back. Liked it _too_ much, in fact. When she tried putting space between them, he winked and gave her the minimum. Of course he was in a devilish mood, but she wasn't the reason for it. He was getting engaged, and she was getting out of there as soon as she could exchange the rings.

"Wait," she said, stopping dead.

"Are you okay?"

"My feet hurt, but that's beside the point."

"That's right. You've been on them all evening. We'll sit down. There's a space for you at my table, next to Lisa and my brother."

Before he could maneuver her around another slow-dancing couple, she began blurting it out. "Steve, I've made a terrible mistake. I gave you the wrong ring. I'm not sure how it happened, but I've got yours, the right one, right here."

Reaching into her skirt pocket, she pulled out a duplicate of the one he'd helped her wrap. When someone jostled her back into Steve's arms, she instinctively cupped the package against her breastbone. With her knuckles locked snugly between their chests, and the way he was swaying her in a one-arm embrace, she had all she could do to form a coherent sentence. "If we could exchange the packages without a lot of fanfare, I could slip quietly out of here."

He was waving to someone at a table near the dance floor. "Without fanfare?" he asked during a quick look back at her. "Oh, I don't see how we could do it without fanfare," he said, nodding to that someone she couldn't see.

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm into fanfare. Heavily into it. Come with me," he said, taking her hand and leading her off the dance floor and into a grouping of round tables. "I want you to meet my brother."

"Your brother? The lawyer? Really, Mr.—I mean Steve, everything's on the up-and-up about this. This is your ring. I checked the tag about ten times when I realized I'd sent you off with the wrong one. I swear, this is the two-carat, flawless, pear-shaped stone you ordered sized. You're not going to take legal action over this, are you?"

"I don't think that'll be necessary." Pulling out a chair, he waited for her to take it. "Are you sure this is just a Christmas job at Bixby and Mellon's? You sound as if you're quite an expert."

She was a diamond expert, all right. "Self-taught," she murmured, sitting down. But beyond the accepted four Cs of color, cut, clarity, and carat, she had personal knowledge of a fifth. Catastrophe. And here was another one for her in the making, she thought as she made herself smile at a pretty woman in green taffeta. This must be Lisa. Lucky Lisa.

Steve took the chair next to Gwen, then casually draped his arm over the back of it. "Sam. Lisa. Meet my elf, Gwen Mansfield."

"Hello, Gwen. So tell us. Did Steve put in a special request to Santa for you?"

Before she could respond, Lisa playfully patted Steve's hand. "As if Santa or anyone ever said no to you."

Gwen fidgeted with her cuffs. All she wanted to do was apologize and then leave, quickly and quietly. If these people kept trying to engage her in friendly conversation, she'd probably end up blurting out a confession about the ring mix-up. Deciding her own social suicide would be a tacky move right before someone's marriage proposal, she made it through the introductions with a tight-lipped smile. God was punishing her; there was no other explanation.

After a moment of silence Sam looked at Steve then cleared his throat noisily.

"Oh, right," Steve said, picking up his bread knife and clanging it against his water glass.

"Gwen's delivering Christmas presents early this year," Steve said to everyone in a ten-yard radius.

"Is she?" Sam asked.

"Yes. She's brought one for you, little brother. Gwen, why don't you give Sam that package you're holding?"

Wide-eyed, Gwen leaned toward Steve and whispered in his ear, "This package? Are you sure you want me to do that?"

"As sure as I am that my elf has long legs," he whispered back.

The music ended as she placed the package in front of Sam's water glass. "Merry Christmas," she said, confused beyond reason at Steve's strange request. Why would he want his brother inspecting the engagement ring in front of Lisa? And what was that crack about her legs being long?

Sam unwrapped the package, lifted out the ring box, and held it close to his nose for a peek inside. "Oops. I think you made a mistake, Gwen," Sam said.

"Several, but you can trust me about what's inside that box."

"This looks like something for Lisa," Sam continued as he lowered the box and lifted out the ring.

Two tears welled up in Lisa's eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. "Sam," she whispered, staring at the ring as he worked it down her finger. "Oh, Sam."

Lost in the moment resplendent with tears and kisses, Gwen leaned her forearms on the table and raised her chin to get a better look at the ring on Lisa's finger. It took Gwen a second to realize Steve was standing up.

"Fanfare's over. I think it's time to leave them alone."

Gwen's back stiffened as an avalanche of reality dropped on her head. He'd known she'd been assuming he was the one proposing tonight, and he'd kept that knowledge to himself while he'd had his fun. Well, he wasn't going to get the last laugh. Holding on to the edge of the table, she gritted her teeth before politely agreeing with him. Standing, she turned her back to the crowd gathered around the table. "Follow me, please," she instructed him, then turned on her heel and headed for the kitchen doors she'd entered through.

There was nothing to be done about the _ting, ting, tinging_ noise or the mild interest it was causing in her wake, but she could and would do something about the way Steve had tricked her. Shoving open the doors, she hurried through the busy area, ignoring the chefs and waiters in the same way she had when she'd arrived.

"Hey, you two can't go in there," someone shouted as she reached for a door near the back.

She shot the man her most dangerous look, but it was Steve's raised and cautioning hand that silenced him.

"Do you know this is the canned-goods pantry?" Steve asked after following her in.

Ignoring his question, she closed the door behind them. "Just tell me one thing," she said, before turning to face him. "When did you figure out that I thought you were the one getting engaged here tonight?"

He smiled at her with enough boyish charm to make her doubt the necessity of her sharp tone.

"Does it matter, when we both had fun, and two very special people are one step closer to living happily ever after?" he asked in a low, apologetic voice that vibrated forgotten nerve endings in her body.

She looked away, fixing her gaze on a high shelf where giant jars of roasted peppers were stacked. Why couldn't he simply be a jerk about this so that she could file the whole evening, along with him, in that bulging file marked _Why did I get out of bed this morning?_

"You could have said something," she said, walking past him to raise the window shade. "I came racing in there like a maniac."

"You came racing in there like an elf on a mission. I was impressed."

"You were? Why?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. When she looked at him again, the room appeared to have shrunk around them. His nearness made her head swim and her body melt; she had to get out of there before she turned into a puddle on the floor. "Forget I asked that."

"I will not. How else am I going to convince you to go out with me?"

She took a deep breath as prickles of alarm spread down her back. "I have to go. The snow's coming down harder, you have to get back to your party, and I don't want anyone else to see me in this costume. You know, I'll never be able to show my face in this place again. It really was a crazy night, wasn't it?" She was babbling again, but as long as she could avoid commenting on his comeback, she'd take the risk of sounding terminally wacky.

His hand closed around hers. She hesitated, then looked up the length of him to his face. He had that look in his eyes, the one that asked, "Why are you pretending something isn't happening?"

"Gwen?"

"What?" she asked, nervously licking her lips.

"Mattie Goldman mentioned you had an apartment for rent at Scarborough Hall."

"What about it?"

"Well, I'm looking for—"

"It's practically rented."

"You'll get coal in your Christmas stocking for lying that way."

"You wouldn't like the place."

"Why not?" he asked, bending closer to her.

"Because... it's... I just have this feeling-"

"I have this... feeling too," he said, tilting his head to bring his mouth closer to hers.

"You do?" She had all she could do to resist the powerful pull of his sheer masculine presence. "About what?"

"About how wonderful this Christmas is going to be." Touching the underside of her chin, he brought her lips closer to his. "You see, I've never had my own elf before."

His silly words spun a magical web around them, shutting out the argument between two chefs on the other side of the door and the sounds of the snowplow outside the window.

Parting her lips to take in a little breath, she felt his lips on hers before she could think to protest. His kiss was warm and sweet and much too short.

"I hope this means you've forgiven me," he said.

She hadn't realized until then that she'd reached up and curved her hands around his arms. Lowering them, she looked away to catch her breath. "Yes, of course, I've forgiven you. Actually, there's nothing to forgive. This was all in good fun, and we're both grown-ups. What's one little kiss or two? Right?"

She was not going to rush to the door. With her luck, she'd probably trip. Besides, her heart was racing since he'd kissed her, and she wanted desperately to appear unfazed by the episode. "Good night," she said, reaching for the door.

"That bad?"

She knew what he meant. "It was a... decent kiss." When he didn't respond, she went against her better judgment and looked over her shoulder. His mischievous grin caused a smile to tug at her lips.

"Please, give me another chance. I can be very indecent."

"I didn't mean it was a bad kiss. I meant—"

He was walking toward her, encouraging her with a ridiculous amount of interest in his expression. "Yes?"

"I don't know," she said, and she didn't know. At that point she was only aware that her body felt light and heavy, fresh and ripe and ready. Ready. The promise of the moment overwhelmed her senses as he continued staring. Then they weren't laughing anymore.

As they leaned forward a tiny _ting_ from her slippers sounded a warning to both of them. He pulled back first.

"What do you want?" she asked quietly.

"I want to see you again."

Even though she knew it would be wrong to encourage him, she also knew he wasn't the type to take no for an answer. Their attraction was undeniable, but if she dealt with it carefully, she would end it before anything embarrassing happened. "All right," she said, her mind already at work on a masterful plan of sabotage.

"And I want to see the apartment you have for rent too."

"That can be arranged," she said, opening the door and moving out into the kitchen again. The sooner she dealt with him, the better. "Anything else?"

"Lots more, but just one other question right now."

He reached in his pocket and brought out the package they'd wrapped together in the jewelry store. She didn't bother hiding her sharp intake of air when she saw it. With everything that had gone on between them, she'd forgotten about retrieving it. As she reached out for it he pulled it back.

"Who's Brian?"

"You ask a lot of questions," she said, snatching the package. She was out in the side parking lot and unlocking her car before she heard him reply.

"Tomorrow night. Seven-thirty. With bells on, Gwen."

### Chapter 3

"You gonna eat at Burger Babe's tonight, Gwen?"

Leaning toward the tall mirror with the rococo-styled frame, Gwen repositioned a hairpin in the loose gathering of curls on her head. If the evening went as she planned, she could easily envision eating her dinner alone at the local diner.

"Could be, Marlin," she said to the seven-year-old standing behind her in the elegantly appointed foyer of Scarborough Hall. A chilly breeze blew across her back. "Honey, the door didn't catch. Go back and give it another push."

"Okay," he said, but his only move was to shift his battered sled into a two-arm embrace. "You look real nice in that."

"But not too nice, right?" she asked, twisting partly around to check the back view of the slate-gray lace dress. When she glanced down to her matching _peau de soie_ heels, her gaze slid across to the puddle of melted snow. With each passing second the puddle grew, forming a small pond around the little boy's boots and the runners of his sled.

"Not too nice for what?" Marlin asked, stirring the puddle with his boot as he swiped at his nose with his mittened fist. "Burger Babe's?"

"Of course, Burger Babe's," she said, knowing her complicated strategy and reason for getting rid of Steve Stratton would be too much for the second-grader to grasp when she was having trouble with it herself.

Originally she planned to put together a brazen outfit for Steve Stratton's debacle. One look at herself in the skin-on-a-grape-fitting jumpsuit, and she'd peeled it off. Steve was too smart for such a ploy; he would figure out her objective before she began popping her bubble gum, another device she decided against using. Besides that, she was in the midst of rebuilding her reputation, not grinding it under Cat Woman's stiletto heel. Under no circumstance would she take the risk of being recognized in public in borrowed, neon-bright, mustard-colored vinyl. That she was desperate enough to conceive the idea in the first place made her shudder.

Settling her palm against her breastbone, she narrowed her eyes and gave the long-sleeved, knee-skimming dress she was wearing a hard study. The jeweled neckline dipped low in the front to flatter her cleavage, and lower in the back to cause a few gasps. With its classic styling and feminine lines, the dress's neutralizing effect on a man's libido was still hard to fathom. Shrugging, she gave up trying to figure it out; the fact still remained that the neutralizing effect had been commendably proven. The last time she'd worn it, her second fiancé had confessed his passionate desire to join the priesthood. Or had she worn it the night her third fiancé announced, at their engagement party, that he was gay? Arching an eyebrow at her reflection, she nibbled her lip, trying to recall.

"You gettin' engaged again or something?"

"Marlin!" she wailed. "Don't even think it."

His mittened hands flew up to his face. "I'm sorry, Gwen. I forgot I wasn't supposed to say stuff about that. You're not gonna cry, are you?"

"No, sweetie." She reached across the wrought-iron wall table to turn up the radio. "I just don't want..." she said, before pausing to raise her voice, "someone to accidentally hear about all that."

The heavy-metal song, barely audible a second before, suddenly filled the majestic foyer with sounds reminiscent of ongoing mayhem. Exactly the irritating sounds she wanted Steve Stratton to hear when he arrived for their date.

"What did you say?"

Smiling, she turned the volume higher. "I think I hear your mom calling you."

His chubby-cheeked, questioning expression disappeared from the mirror. A second later she heard his battered sled hitting the floor, the sound of its clattering impact lost in the banging twang of Metallica.

"Marlin, you forgot your—"

Too late, he'd already disappeared through one of the doors on either side of the stairs. Crossing her arms, she tapped her ringed fingers against her sleeves as she stared down at the sled. Returning Scarborough Hall to its former grandeur loomed high on her agenda, but she had to fight the urge to move the Flexible Flyer aside and mop up the water. If this mess would add to the disagreeable evening she'd cooked up for Steve Stratton, then the sled and puddle would remain right where they were.

The thought of Steve Stratton sparked a warming memory from the previous night. Giving in to a shiver from another chilly breeze, she pictured Steve shouting from across the Betancourt parking lot, _With bells on, Gwen_.

Tracing her ear with her fingertip, she stopped when she touched an earring. What lapse of logic allowed her to commit the rash act of wearing miniature bells? She should have shoved them to the back of her jewelry box the instant she saw them. Instead, she'd picked up the pair, marveling at how perfectly the filigree silver complemented the slate-gray lace.

Why not go with the black-pearl drop earrings she had in mind to begin with? she'd asked herself. She didn't have to look her best; simply good enough would do. And what was so appealing about showing up with bells on anyway?

When she'd held the pair close to her ears and jiggled them, they produced a whispery ring and a sad smile. The dark irony was irresistible, she'd told herself earlier as she fastened on the pair. Steve Stratton would not be getting close enough to hear them anyway.

* * *

Steve eased open the tall oak door already ajar and stepped into the foyer. The first thing he saw was Gwen staring at a sled on the pink marble floor. Because of the screeching sounds coming from the radio, she hadn't heard him enter. He took full advantage of the moment to drink her in. Her sophisticated appearance replaced the elf image he couldn't get out of his mind for the last twenty-four hours. The gray lace dress tracing her slender curves was as inviting as a leafy shadow on a hot August day. Hell, from her upswept cloud of shiny dark hair down to her shimmering stockings, everything about her was inviting. She feathered her fingertip over her ear and he found himself imagining what it would feel like if she touched his ear like that. And then his neck and mouth. Closing his eyes for an instant, he gave a quick shake of his head. He could only guess, but of one thing he was certain. More seductive than a lingerie and perfume advertisement combined, she had the power to send him up in smoke. And he was looking forward to the ignition.

He started smoothing his tie but stopped his hand halfway down when he realized the gesture was one of his brother's. Holding back a chuckle, he closed the door and stepped forward. "Thinking about taking that sled out for another ride?" he asked above the loud music.

Looking up, she stared at him for a moment, then fluffed her bangs and gave a too-relaxed shrug. "I don't know. It's right here if I want to, though," she said, stepping over it. "Welcome to Scarborough Hall. Here, let me take your coat."

He was on guard immediately. Something about the way she avoided looking at him made him wonder what she was up to. He slipped out of his coat and handed it to her. While she carelessly tossed it on a pile of old lumber, Steve reached to turn down the radio.

"Was that too noisy? Sorry about that, but I try to keep a party atmosphere going around here at all times. I never know when enough's enough until I get a complaint."

Before he could do more than nod, he heard a door opening down the hall. A second later a boy ran toward them.

"My mom says, if you're done with the radio, she wants it back. She said that kind of music makes her want to pray double hard for you."

Fluffing her bangs again, Gwen stooped down to pull the plug from the wall. She wrapped the cord around the radio and handed it to the boy. "Tell your mom thanks, Marlin."

"Okay. She says anything else she can help you with tonight, just let her know," he said, setting it on the sled then dragging them both back to his apartment door.

"Colorful place," Steve said.

"Maybe you'd like to take a look at that apartment now. It's upstairs." She pointed toward the staircase, the size and grandness of which he hadn't seen since _Gone With the Wind_. "Make a right at the landing. It's the only apartment up there on the east side. It's unlocked. I'll join you as soon as I mop up this puddle."

As he started up the steps Gwen disappeared down a corridor. Halfway up he took a moment to view the tall, stained-glass window overlooking the landing. Doves holding olive branches in their beaks, beautifully rendered in milky-white glass, evoked in him a mood of serenity that was instantly broken by the deepest and loudest barking he'd ever heard. Before he had time to turn around, he took a body check from something large and furry. The energetic animal stood on its hind legs, planted two enormous paws on Steve's shoulder, and began licking the back of his head and ear.

"Bambi, down, girl," Gwen said pleasantly.

Instantly, the Great Dane pushed off Steve, then bounded up and down the stairs, effectively corralling him there. As Steve wiped his ear with his handkerchief he took care to hide his smile. If Gwen Mansfield thought she could scare him off with her sideshow of messiness, noise, and confusion, she had another think coming.

"Bambi didn't hurt you, did she?"

He cleared his throat. "No permanent damage."

"Bambi, come," she said, letting the mop in her hands fall against her crooked arm.

Leaping across four steps, the dog landed inches from Gwen, where it hunkered down to gaze up adoringly at her. "She's little Marlin's puppy. I don't know what we'll do with her when she gets bigger."

"Hmmm." After swiping the back of his head and neck again, he shoved the handkerchief into his back pocket. "When I asked to see the apartment, I didn't realize you allowed pets."

"Oh, yes," she said, clapping her hands. The dog was on its feet instantly, maneuvering itself to the heel position beside her. "The more the merrier. Right, Bambi?" With an emphatic "woof!" Bambi lunged playfully against Gwen, knocking the mop from where it rested inside the circle of her arm to the floor.

"Well, I'm glad I found this out now," Steve said, keeping a straight face by locking his jaws together and lowering his chin.

"Then you don't want to see the apartment?" she asked, reaching down for the mop.

"Are you kidding? I can't wait."

Bambi lunged again, bouncing an already startled Gwen against the wall.

Steve grabbed the railing to start down the stairs, but stopped himself when Gwen appeared more surprised than anything else. By then, the dog had taken off down the corridor with the mop.

"Playful little thing," he said, watching Gwen repinning a lock of hair that had spilled to her shoulder.

"Hmmmmm?"

"I've wanted a big dog for ages," he continued in a friendly tone. "If I take the apartment, and as long as you don't mind a few more puddles here and there, I'd like one I can train myself."

Pretending he didn't hear her sputter and groan as she took off after the dog, Steve continued up the stairs to the landing. The area was big enough to park a Hummer, with room left over for a dozen Christmas carolers. He stopped to run his hand over the rococo detailing on the frame surrounding the stained-glass window, then looked up at the vaulted ceiling. Despite a few needed repairs, Scarborough Hall was a spectacular showcase of old-world artistry. If he needed inspiration for his architectural work, this was the perfect place to look for it. The attention to detail, the smooth carry-through on the eclectic theme, and the sense of grandeur spoke to the architect in him. He was going to love exploring every inch of the place. But not now, he reminded himself. There would be plenty of time to do that after moving in. Walking across the worn Oriental carpet and up the next short flight of stairs, he smiled as he heard Gwen scolding the dog somewhere below. Had he really believed he'd been happy living in that stone-and-steel tower in Philadelphia?

Stepping inside the dark apartment, he felt the wall for a switch. A single bulb in the entryway's chandelier glowed dully, shadowing the burnished silk wallpaper with added texture. He flipped a second switch and headed across the marquetry floor toward the set of French doors. Opening them, he walked into the partially furnished living room. The tall windows and massive fireplace were enough to impress any prospective renter, but the frescoed ceiling had him swearing with admiration. He'd lived within a fifty-mile radius of King's Crossing all of his life. Why hadn't he known about this place before now?

Gwen hurried to the French doors, then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw him. Like any prospective renter, he was examining the room from every possible angle. A jolt of guilt twisted in her stomach. She was wasting his time and hers on this shameful charade. Rubbing her thumb over the antique silver rings she wore, she flicked her thumbnail over the garnets. Maybe she should tell him the truth about why she didn't want him living at Scarborough Hall and why she wasn't going to date him. How much more of a fool could she make of herself in one night anyway?

"Find that mop?" he asked, dutifully checking for drafts around the windows.

"Yes... well, what was left of it. How dangerous is it for a dog to eat mop string?"

"For most dogs? Pretty dangerous." Straightening up, he took off his suit jacket and laid it on a straight chair. "For Bambi? Consider it a little extra fiber in her diet."

Nodding, she watched him striding slowly around the dim room, his sure moves filling it with a vital masculine presence. Plopping into the overstuffed armchair, he stretched out his body and shifted his backside to find the comfort zone. When he found it, he slapped his hands on the rolled arms, leaned his head on the back of the chair, and closed his eyes. "Ahhh, just right."

What was that old saying? she asked herself while riveted to the sublime expression on his face. Something about _having a man around the house_. Tilting her head, she studied the way the tip of his tongue touched his lip. She licked at hers as her blood thickened to the consistency of warm honey. Living across the landing from him would never be dull.

"You're a little short on electrical outlets in here, but I can fix that."

His relaxed moves had relaxed her guard, but the moment his voice rippled through her body, she remembered why he couldn't live there. She crossed her arms around her middle, held on to her sides, and lied again. "The apartment needs rewiring. Maybe I'll get to it in the spring... if the noises stop." She held her breath as he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her.

"What noises?"

Dropping her gaze to the floor, she kept it there. It wasn't that she minded telling a white lie or two; she simply wasn't very good at it. "Strange noises. They're..." she said, shaking her hands in a helpless gesture, "difficult to explain."

"Strange noises," he repeated, standing up.

"I'm sure it's not true," she said as she moved through the living room toward the dining room, "but those who've lived at Scarborough Hall longer than I swear it's Mrs. Graham's ghost. You see, she lived here with her husband since 1958. She's been dead for ten years."

"What does she want?" he asked, casting an interested glance around the room.

"She wants Mr. Graham," Gwen said, leading him into the kitchen, "but he's not here."

"Where is he?" Steve asked as he scanned the appliances and the tall, glass-fronted cupboards.

"In a cemetery in Ohio."

"I see. So this place comes with a six-burner stove, frescoed ceilings, and its own resident ghost," Steve said, looking around and nodding. "There's no blood oozing from the walls, and I haven't heard any strange moaning." He beamed at Gwen. "I think she likes me. What do you think?"

_I like you too_ , she thought, _but I'm not, repeat, not going to let you know that._ "Why don't I show you the rest of the place instead?" Leading Steve down an adjoining hall, she waved her hand toward the opposite end of it. "Those are just guest bedrooms down that way," she said, hoping he didn't feel the need to see every square inch of the place. Pushing open the door at the end of the hall, she motioned for him to enter. "The master-bedroom suite."

He walked past her into the room, then stopped in his tracks and whistled. "Outstanding," he murmured, walking toward the raised area where the four-poster stood. "Eighteenth-century English, isn't it?"

Standing outside the door, she stuck her head in and shrugged. "It's just an old bed."

"Just an old bed," he repeated with a shame-on-you look in her direction.

Avoiding his gaze, she moved into the room toward the windows. The last subject she wanted to discuss with Steve was a bed. She cleared her throat. "All of the furniture stays unless the new tenant wants to move it to the attic," she said, tugging aside one panel of the tapestry draperies. "Have a look at the dressing room and its walk-in closet. The bath's on the other side." Hoping to catch the breath he'd stolen with his last look, she turned her attention to the window and the scene outside.

With the aid of the floodlights, she could make out the tracks from Marlin's sled on the snowy east hill. Down the hill, below the tracks, the unused, snow-covered carriage house resembled a Christmas card minus lighted windows and a smoking chimney. She frowned. What was wrong with her? Hadn't she gotten over believing life could parallel a fairy tale? Weren't four broken engagements proof of that? Pressing her fingertips against the glass, she relaxed her frown. At least she had Scarborough Hall, and when she remembered that, she knew she had a reason to dream. She simply had to work harder to realize that dream. One day she would be able to repair the carriage house and rent that out too.

Lifting her other hand to the windowpane, she pressed it next to the one already there. Sometimes the magnitude and complexities of her situation got the better of her. She had so many plans, but until she located Brian Flanagan and bought his share of Scarborough Hall, major improvements were at a standstill. Somehow she'd make things work out, but finding Brian was first on her agenda. The problem was that no one seemed to know where he was.

Lifting her gaze, she looked out the window again. No matter the season or time of year, there was something magical about the slope of the land, the curving swath of river wrapping moatlike around it, and the charming town of King's Crossing on the opposite bank. She strained to see the river barges coming into view. When she sensed Steve approaching, her body stirred with warm excitement. She let it, telling herself it was Scarborough Hall, the lighted parade on the river, and a spark of hope for the future rekindling in her heart.

"Kind of like make-believe out there in the dark. The barges look like lighted toys," Steve said, moving close behind her. "And that part of King's Crossing reminds me of the village under Bixby and Mellon's Christmas tree. Especially with the church steeple there in the middle. See it?" he asked, leaning in so that his face was next to hers.

He smelled as wonderful as he had the first time he'd been so close. The solid sense of him made her weak at the knees and wishing she were someone else. Someone with a little luck when it came to men. She also wished she wasn't so acutely aware of his hand resting on the small of her back and his thumb touching her flesh. If she turned her head, his lips would be pressing against hers. Her mouth began aching with a hunger that scared her back to reality. She had to keep her focus on the things that mattered. Keeping Scarborough Hall and keeping away from Steve Stratton.

"You pay for a view like this," she murmured more to herself than to him.

"How do you mean?"

"I'm afraid it's stays cold in here at night all during the winter," she said, taking hold of the edge of the drapery with both hands. "You see, this bedroom catches the wind off the river."

"Are you cold?" he asked, moving closer and somehow managing not to kiss her.

Staring into his eyes, she moved her head from side to side. "Not a bit," she whispered.

"I see." He appeared to straighten up as he brushed his hand over his head. "That building down there," he said, gesturing toward the carriage house. "Is it for rent too?"

"Not yet. It needs renovating. Why?"

"I'm an architect, and I'm looking for new office space. If I see that the space could work for me, maybe we could come to an agreement over the rent in exchange for the cost of the renovations."

Brian aside, Steve's offer was incredibly tempting. Who knew when she'd be able to make the carriage house habitable? "I'll have to think about it."

"While you're thinking about it, maybe I could have a look at it tomorrow."

"Maybe."

Crossing the room, he stooped to take a look at the fireplace. Reaching inside he worked the damper back and forth, then stood up as he brushed off his hands.

"Needs a sweep, but it appears capable of radiating a good amount of heat." Stroking the mantelpiece, he studied the grain of the wood. "Just beautiful. How'd you come to own this place?"

"My grandfather left some money to each of his grandchildren."

"But why did you buy Scarborough Hall?"

"Grandpa lived down River Road, and when we visited him as children, we'd play in Scarborough Hall's pear orchard. My sister and I made up stories that we were princesses, this was our palace, and we were fighting to recapture it. A few years after Grandpa's death this place came up for sale because of unpaid taxes. Of course, this isn't a palace by most people's standards, but sometimes when I squint, I think I see one again." Rubbing her thumb against one of her rings, she pretended to check the garnet's setting as she avoided Steve's stare. She wasn't about to mention that her inheritance had covered only half of the sale price. Why invite embarrassing questions about her ongoing link with Brian? "Sentimental sounding or not, that's how I came to own it."

"I understand," he said as he continued to watch her with a knowing smile. "A special moment presents itself, and no matter what happens, you have to act. Seize the moment and all that."

Tilting her head to one side, she stared at him in disbelief. "Yes. That's exactly how it happened."

When he moved to the upholstered armchair and punched up a down-filled cushion, she gave in to the urge to be closer to him, telling herself she was drawn by his sheer enthusiasm over Scarborough Hall. She'd done exactly the same things the first time she'd seen it. She remembered the tactile pleasures of stroking, touching, smoothing, and fluffing. She'd even pressed her cheek against the draperies when she was certain that no one was looking.

Leaning his elbows on the back of the chair, Steve motioned with one hand. "I can see it now. Amaretto bottle on the table. Adele on the CD player. My arm around, say, a beautiful..." She held her breath. He winked shamelessly. "Great Dane."

He didn't miss the pulse of a smile that she tried to hide behind her hand.

"I sleep in on Sunday mornings."

"So do I, whenever—" She stopped abruptly. He'd eased in the non sequitur, catching her off guard with his matter-of-fact tone. Switching to her no-nonsense attitude, she silently swore he wasn't going to do it again. "The sun hits this room first, so you'd be awake at the crack of dawn whether you like it or not."

"Uh-huh." Stepping up next to the bed, he pushed on the mattress with both hands. "Of course, I could always close the drapes, couldn't I?"

"Yes, I suppose you could," she said, moving quickly out of the room. It wasn't his enthusiasm over Scarborough Hall that had drawn her across the room to him. It was Steve Stratton himself. And he wasn't even pretending to be annoyed by her flimsy attempts to discourage him.

"So how much are you asking?"

"Twenty-five hundred."

"Is that about average for one of these apartments?"

"No, but the rent-control ordinance doesn't apply to new tenants. And I haven't mentioned the security deposit is also twenty-five hundred."

He followed her down the hall, but before he could say anything more, she quickly opened another door. "Here's the second bathroom."

He came in behind her, resting his hip on the edge of the pedestal sink, effectively blocking her exit. He dutifully turned the porcelain handles. Nothing happened. Raising his head, he caught her eye in their mirrored reflection. "And where will you be when I need my plumbing worked on?"

"Right across the landing, the west side," she said, sidestepping him to shut off the faucet. A rattling vibration emanated from somewhere below them. "You should know up front that the plumbing in this apartment isn't always reliable." Brushing by him, she moved into the hallway and hurried down it.

"What's in here?" he asked, stopping at a door she'd pointedly ignored twice.

"There? Nothing much. Just an unused..." Her voice trailed off as he opened the door. If she ever had a chance of discouraging him from wanting to live at Scarborough Hall, she'd lost it now. Retracing her steps, she sighed in anticipated defeat. "Go on in."

Pushing open the door, Steve stepped into the solarium and held his breath. Light from a full moon spilled through the glass ceiling above him and the glass wall opposite him. Crossing the bare wood floor, he caught his first glimpse of what once must have been the centerpiece of the grand old mansion. His architect's eye took in the cast-iron supports, arched buttresses, and the delicate-looking web of metal that gave shape and strength to the glass dome above. His palms itched for his drafting tools as he pictured himself reconfiguring the dimensions for a series of different exteriors. Rubbing the back of his neck, he tried unsuccessfully to stop the prickles of excitement. The space was affecting him on both a personal and business level. Turning to look behind him, he knew immediately where he was going to place his drafting table.

"Do you want me to turn on the light?" Gwen asked from the doorway.

He studied her from across the narrow room. "No. Not right now," he said, watching her through the moonlight. The stronger light from the hall silhouetted her, casting a nimbus around her hair and warming the lace near her hem. He could tell by the tilt of her head and the stillness in her posture that she was straining to make out his reaction to the apartment's solarium and, beyond it, Scarborough Hall's conservatory.

He motioned for her to come to him, and when she did he tried not to stare. It was the hardest thing he tried doing all evening. He looked down into the conservatory, its contents coated in sugary light. Broken lawn furniture, stacks of planters, and an odd assortment of ground-maintenance machines were lying helter-skelter around the floor. A child's abandoned fort made from two refrigerator cartons defended the weed-filled center fountain.

"Were you trying to keep this a secret?"

Lacing her fingers together, she held them at the juncture of her thighs and stared at them. "If I'm trying to do anything, it's not to think about it at all."

"It must have been a jewel in its time."

Clearing her throat, she kept her eyes downcast. "The original owner had this part of Scarborough Hall designed for his lover. They say she was from Brazil and missed the tropical climate. He filled it with plants from there. He even had exotic birds flying around." Lifting her eyes, she stared up at the glass dome and shook her head. "Banana trees and a fountain with stone angels. A piece of paradise under glass. Can you imagine?"

The glimmer of wild hope he saw flicker across her face sent pleasure and pain racing through his chest. Steve swallowed, shaken by his reaction. How had he fooled himself into believing living next to her was going to be nothing more than a fanciful experiment before he went on with the rest of his life? "This man..." He coughed. "This man must have loved her very much."

"Yes, I guess he did," she said, crossing her arms and looking away.

He moved closer. "What happened?"

She shrugged as she reached to pull on a few escaped curls dangling near her ears. "He wouldn't marry her. No one seems to know why. Anyway, she left him and went back to Brazil."

"And?"

"Remember what happened in _The Secret Garden_? The same thing happened here. The owner closed up the conservatory and never went in it again. The subsequent owners of Scarborough Hall made attempts," she said, unable to resist the impulse to turn back to the three-story glass room, "but no one has brought it back to its former glory days."

"It wouldn't be difficult to put it right." He shook his head in dismay. "A place like that ought to be enjoyed."

"When everything's settled... when the time is right—" Breaking off, she ran her fingertips down the windowpane then rested her forehead against it.

If those poignant gestures hadn't sealed his fate, her lopsided smile did. "Seems like restoring it would be a priority to anyone with the least bit of a romantic streak."

"A romantic streak? Is that all it would take to fix this?" Looking up at the moon, she snorted indelicately. "Then it's going to be a long time before I'll see birds and banana trees down there. Don't you know it takes more than a little romance to guarantee anything?"

If the moonlight hadn't provided him license to kiss her, it was her cool tone and his need to warm it. Skimming her lips with his, he whispered, "But sometimes a little romance can inspire great things."

Stiffening, she pulled back and swiped at her lips. "Do you think that's what I need? A little romance?"

Whatever little demon she was fighting hadn't sapped her spirit or extinguished her spark. If he was reading her correctly, that fixed stare of hers was daring him to disprove her.

"What's wrong with a little romance?" he asked, moving closer as he slid his thumb down her nose and across her lips. Before she could answer, he brushed his lips against hers again. She held back, protesting his move with a throaty moan and an odd little shiver.

"We—you shouldn't do that," she said, reaching for her lips but not quite touching them this time.

"I'm one of the last romantics, remember." Closing his fingers over hers, he moved her hand away and invited her closer with the whisper of her name. This time she melted into his light embrace, letting the kiss blossom into a splendid affair. With her body close to his and the moonlight spilling past them into the conservatory, he had the strange sensation of them floating above the world, surrounded by pearly light, her perfume and... the tinkling of little bells.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, lifting his head in astonishment.

"Hear what?" Gwen asked, slowly opening her eyes.

Suddenly a clanging noise erupted from across the hall.

"What is _that_?" he asked.

"The plumbing," she said, pushing away from him and hurrying across the hall to the bathroom. He was behind her every step.

The noise continued, louder and more insistent with every passing second. Bracing her hand on the porcelain rim, she reached in back for the shutoff. "This gets harder every time I—" She felt the oval handle give and a second later come off in her hand. When she tried to force it back, she realized the threaded fitting had snapped in two. The pipes continued rattling with ominous intent.

"Can you shut it off?" Steve asked. "Try—" he began, but stopped when she held up the handle. "Uh-oh."

"Is it _that_ bad?" she asked, backing away from the deafening noise. A minor explosion sent her scurrying into his arms with a scream. Water shot out from behind the sink, soaking her legs and the lower back of her dress.

Steve set her aside and scrambled under the sink. After denouncing the heritage of the plumber who'd installed the pipes, he pulled back and stood up. With pant legs dripping, his shirt sticking to his chest, and his tie on his shoulder, he managed two words. "Basement. Quick."

"This way." Kicking off her high heels, she led him out of the apartment and across the landing.

"Does this happen often?" he asked, catching up with her as they headed down the staircase.

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"Okay, okay," she said, slightly breathless. "Not that often and not this bad."

Hitting the marble floor of the foyer, she grabbed his hand and took off down the hall behind the staircase. "This way, and I hope you know what you're doing."

"So do I," he said, catching a glimpse of the conservatory through a set of glass doors, "or we're in for one hell of a mess."

Twenty minutes later they were wading through four inches of water in the basement.

"I don't know how I could have forgotten where I put that part of the sump pump. I'm sorry it took so long," she said, wringing her hands in an attempt to warm them. "Can I help you with that?" she asked, feeling a double dose of guilt. How had her plan to sabotage their evening gotten so out of hand? And why was she enjoying the sensual spectacle of his clothes plastered to his body as he set up a sump pump?

"Next time don't turn or twist anything until I ask you to."

She gave him a weak smile. "At least when I drained the hot-water heater, it warmed up the water."

"Yeah, that was a real plus," he said, his voice anything but convincing. Wiping his brow with his knuckles, he pointed to her. "If you can answer a question for me, I'd appreciate it."

"Of course," she said, ready to do calculus equations in her head or sing "O Christmas Tree" in German if he liked. He'd saved her the price of a service call plus labor from a plumber she was already in debt to for seven hundred dollars.

Turning on the sump pump, he sloshed over to her. "Why don't you want me to rent the apartment?"

She looked everywhere but at him. She didn't want to tell him the truth. She didn't want to think about it either. Then he spoke, his voice rich with the promise of understanding.

"Gwen?"

"Because of what happened up there."

He did a double take on her as he jabbed his thumb in the air. "Because the water pipe burst in the bathroom?"

"No, up there in the solarium."

"Because I kissed you?" he asked, twisting his head as if he hadn't quite heard her. He smiled slowly. "Or because you let me?"

Shoving her hair back, she sloshed a few feet away from him. "Please don't push this. It would be better for both of us if you would find another place to rent. I'm not interested in you... in that way."

"What way?"

Dropping her shoulders, she turned to face him squarely. "You know what way. I—I guess I was embarrassed about accidentally switching the rings, and in order not to make any more waves, I allowed you certain liberties."

"Sacrifice, was it?"

Rubbing her forehead with her fingertips, she dragged them over her face. "I appreciate everything you've done here tonight, but that doesn't mean I'm going to pretend certain things." This wasn't working at all. He'd been offering exaggerated nods during her explanations, each nod more insincere than the last. "Are you listening to what I'm saying?"

"You know," he said, wiping his hands on the last dry spot on his clothing as he stared at the side of her head, "you almost had me convinced." Reaching over with both hands, he flicked the tiny bells hanging from her earlobes. "Almost."

Her hand flew up to stop him, but it was too late to stop the heat rising in her cheeks.

"Why those earrings, Gwen?"

Faking astonishment over the question, she lowered her hand and opened her palm. "Because they go with this dress."

"Don't believe her," said a voice from the stairs. "She has black pearls she could wear with that dress. Who are you?"

Both Gwen and Steve turned toward the voice. Seven people looked back. Six of them held coffee mugs and all seven wore interested or concerned expressions on their faces.

Wading toward the step, Steve wiped his hand again and began offering it to each of the people perched on the steps. "Steve Stratton. I'm trying to rent the vacant apartment on the second floor. You know, the one with the bad plumbing and the resident ghost."

After introductions, the comments began.

"Let him take the apartment, Gwen. Next time my sink leaks, you won't have to call Charlie the Mad Plumber."

"Mrs. Macleod, I haven't decided," Gwen said, instructing the woman with her frowning eyebrows to back off.

"Girl, are you crazy? He knows how to work the sump pump and I bet he won't charge you. You've got to let him stay."

"Seems a shame, with Christmas approaching. All that no-room-in-the-inn sentiment flying around."

"Fantastico! El senor es muy fuerte y tan guapo. Por que no, senorita?"

"What did she say?" Steve asked Gwen.

"She said you're big and mean and scary-looking and—"

"Teresa didn't say that, Gwen," Marlin said. "She said he's fantastic and strong and handsome, and why shouldn't you rent to him?"

"Thank you, son," Steve said, reaching out to shake the boy's hand. "How did you learn Spanish?"

The dusky skinned boy beamed. " 'Sesame Street.' "

A ripple of laughter rolled down the stairs.

"What's happening now?"

"Harry's blind," Marlin said. "And he talks funny 'cause he's from England. You have to fill in the quiet spaces, or he doesn't always know what's happenin'. So, Gwen, what's happenin'?"

"Yes, dear girl," Harry said, lifting his chin in her direction. "What's happenin'?" he asked, underscoring each syllable with a knock to the step from his cane.

"Yes, Gwen," Steve said, "why don't you tell us what's happening?"

A massive headache, she wanted to say. Staring silently at her tenants, she sent them all a message of disappointment. They smiled back. Tsking, she switched her stare toward Steve and his gotcha grin. Maybe she could have held out, but when she took another look at his pant legs soaked up to the knees and the rust stains on his shirtsleeves, she started to fold. Besides, he knew plumbing, his rent checks might get her out of the hole financially, and she'd never hear the end of it if she didn't. Staring down at the moving water, she tried again to think of a way out of renting to him. "Okay, okay," she said, flailing her arms. "You win."

A loud cheer went up from the steps, followed by messages of welcome. She turned to Steve as the others began leaving. "I'm doing this against my better judgment, because I can't afford to keep it vacant. This is not, repeat, not an invitation for anything more than a tenant/landlady thing," she said, following her tenants up the steps to the first floor.

"I'll remind you of that the first time you get fresh with me," he said, grabbing his shoes from the step and following her up.

She snapped to attention, turned around, and stopped his ascent with her index finger against his chest. "Don't push it. You haven't signed the lease yet."

"Yeah. We ought to make this legal as soon as possible," he said, wiping rust from the back of his knuckles as he slid past her.

"Monday or Tuesday all right with you?" she asked, reminding herself she was doing it for the rent money, his plumbing skills, and because it was Christmas. His blue eyes, relentless smile, and seductive presence had nothing to do with it.

"How about tonight, over dinner?" he asked, walking down the hall toward the foyer. She followed close behind.

"Dinner? Just look at us. We're a mess."

"Well, we are late for our dinner reservations."

"Maybe we ought to forget about dinner tonight. I don't think there's a restaurant in town that would let us in the front door."

"Gwen, you could go to Burger Babe's," Marlin said, before his pregnant mother guided him inside their apartment.

"Burger Babe's? I love the place. The strawberry milkshakes, those potato plank fries. Okay, let's clean up the bathroom, and then while I check on the pump you can dig out a lease and put my name on it."

"Steve, there's no real hurry to get that lease signed."

"Actually, there is."

Lowering her chin, she looked at him with open suspicion. "Do I want to know why?"

"The movers are arriving here tomorrow morning. Gee, I hope Bambi didn't destroy your only mop. I hate to think of my bathroom floor underwater all night."

"Are you serious? You arranged to have your things delivered here when you hadn't even seen the apartment? When I hadn't said you could have it yet? You took it for granted that I'd say yes?" She pressed her hands to her chest. "Tell me these things aren't true."

"White lies aren't my forte," he said, pulling his dry socks from his pants pockets. Shaking them out, he leaned against the curved banister and slipped one on. "They're yours."

* * *

Gwen looked across the vehicle's interior at Steve as he drove into the diner's parking lot. He was about to tell her another outrageous practical joke he and his brother had played. Gwen hadn't meant to be enjoying his company quite so much, but his tongue-in-cheek style of storytelling had her dropping her guard. At least for the short ride to Burger Babe's. Maybe his masculine profile, the way his hands curved around the steering wheel, and the scent of his aftershave had a little something to do with her enjoyment too. She frowned at her predicament. He hadn't flirted outright, hadn't given her unnecessary compliments, or even attempted to kiss her since the time they'd spent in the solarium, but his magnetic presence continued to hold her total attention. Nibbling her lip, she reminded herself that she could get through the rest of the evening without a spark of romance entering the picture.

Pulling into a space near the entrance, Steve shifted to park and switched off the ignition. Breaking off at the beginning of his story, he removed the keys and pointed toward the windshield. "I do believe that the sign says 'Good Eats Now.' " He opened his door, and a blast of cold air whipped through the vehicle's interior.

"Wait," she said, reaching out to take his wrist. Once they were in the brightly lit diner going over the lease, those warm, fuzzy feelings he caused inside her would have to end. A few more minutes of them wouldn't wreck the rest of her life. "You can't stop now. You have to finish this story for me."

The blinking neon sign teased her with an on-again, off-again view of Steve's smile as he watched her for a few silent moments. Finally he closed his door then positioned his back against it.

"Well, Sam and I waited behind the sofa for someone to come in and discover what we'd done this time. We expected a commotion, but we weren't prepared for the twenty-eight people piling into my grandfather's library."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook with laughter at the next memory.

"Don't tease me, Steve," she said, pushing playfully on his hand and making his keys jingle. She kept her fingers curved around his to urge him on with his story. If she liked the way her white hand looked against his tanned one, or the way his warmth seem to emanate from deep within him to deep within her, that was okay. He'd been making her laugh all the way to the diner.

"Remember, this was Christmas Eve. Our sister, Natalie, was back from college looking for a private corner with her boyfriend. They came in and headed straight for the flokati rug in front of the sofa. Sam and I were trapped. They were at it hot and heavy in about two seconds. Then Natalie sat up to pull off her sweater."

"And?" Gwen asked, trying hard to ignore the sexy images of the two lovers.

"Natalie spotted them immediately."

"Spotted them?" Gwen asked, giving in to laughter when he could no longer contain his. She leaned closer. "Steve, you tease, tell me!"

In the close space she could see the shadow of his lashes against his cheek and the plane of his bottom lip glistening where he'd just dragged his teeth. Suddenly she wasn't sure whether his stories or his compelling masculine presence had caused her to make so bold a move.

"Natalie spotted the two dolls we'd undressed and arranged in a compromising position under the tree. She let out a scream that brought everyone in the house in there."

"And you were caught?"

"Like two rats in a trap. To this day whenever someone mentions G.I. Joe or Barbie, Sam and I have a chuckle," he said, shaking his head as he leaned it back against his side window.

A lock of his hair had fanned out over his forehead. The urge to reach across the vehicle's interior, sink her fingers into his hair, and smooth it was inviting. Strongly inviting. But she was stronger, she reminded herself, and not completely daft. Pressing back into her shadowed side, she watched him with a growing hunger. His casual, masculine sprawl had her aching to wrap herself around him and sigh with pleasure. She swallowed. Watching him would be her only pleasure.

He played one ringless hand against the steering wheel, stroking it lightly as he continued reminiscing. After a moment he stopped. "What are you staring at?"

"Nothing," she said, too embarrassed to look away. "Well... your hair."

"My hair?" he asked, rolling his eyes and making her laugh again. Straining forward, he adjusted the rearview mirror and crooked his neck awkwardly. Without realizing it, she found herself watching for signs of vanity. There weren't any, just a boyish curiosity that delighted her. After tilting his head in several directions, he shrugged.

"Here, let me," she said, bracing herself with one hand as she raked her nails back through his hair to straighten it. "Wait, that made it worse." Feathering the part inch by inch, she managed to make a decent line to his forehead. "There," she said, brushing the rest sideways off his forehead as she looked down past her outstretched arm. Her hand cradled the side of his head, her fingertips buried in his thick, healthy locks. Their gazes collided without warning. The warmth she'd been experiencing suddenly flared to a feverish heat, and it took all her effort not to meet him halfway for a passionate kiss. Shifting her gaze, she tried escaping the mesmerizing moment their closeness had created. Her plan failed when her shifted gaze met the fogged-over windshield. Holding her breath, she withdrew her hand and sat back in her seat. "Maybe you should have another look in the mirror," she murmured, drumming her fingers against her purse.

In the blinking neon light she could see him moving his hand toward her. Closing his fingers over hers, he stopped her drumming with a gentle squeeze. "Why? It's bound to happen again, Gwen."

Without moving her head, she looked up through her lashes to see him moving toward her. As he lifted his hand to touch her face she realized he wasn't talking about his hair. Her lips parted in halfhearted protest as he slid his fingers beneath her jaw to raise her mouth to his. She closed her eyes as he began kissing her. The longer he continued the velvet-soft connection, the more magical it became. The tingling kiss slowly dissolved on her lips, until it was suddenly replaced with a blast of cold air. Her eyes flew open in time to see him smiling as he stepped out of the car.

###

If you enjoyed this excerpt from **Rings on her Fingers**

and want to read the rest, visit

<http://susanconnellbooks.com/site/books>

for more information

The Big Beach Book

an ebook bundle from

Susan Connell

### About The Big Beach Book Bundle

A compilation of three classic romance novels featuring romantic comedies set in beach vaction destinations.

INCLUDES

A WOMAN TO BLAME, Rick & Bryn's story, is set in the Florida Keys, and deals with a man having trouble letting go of his past in order to have a future with his new love.

GLORY GIRL, Evan & Holly's story, is set on the Jersey Shore, and features a generous dose of naughty blackmail and two of the most passionate, playful lovers doing their best to solve that problem.

A MAN LIKE THIS, Drew & Jill's story, is set on an island on Florida's Gulf Coast, and has the hero's head spinning; is the woman of his dreams capable of a felony?!

###

To get this 3-in-1 anthology, visit

<http://susanconnellbooks.com/site/books>

for more information

Double Trouble in Paradise

an ebook bundle from

Susan Connell

### About the Double Trouble in Paradise Bundle

A compilation of two classic romance novels by award winning, best selling author Susan Connell featuring connected romantic comedies set in a Central American country on the brink of revolution with the rainforest at stake and love on the line.

In TROUBLE IN PARADISE Allison Richards must track down a relative while a seemingly shady inn keeper, Reilly Anderson, thwarts her every step of the way. Working under cover he does what he must to save the rainforest, even playing to her Tarzan fantasies. A breast obsessed monkey and a village boy with attitude adds to the fun. Near the end readers meet the hero of the second featured book.

PAGAN'S PARADISE concerns an ex-pat working under cover to stave off a revolution. Jack Stratford's job becomes more complicated when photographer Joanna McCall gets in his way and under his skin. A crusty jungle guide and a wacky Elvis impersonator provide comic complications.

###

To get this 2-in-1 anthology, visit

<http://susanconnellbooks.com/site/books>

for more information

Connect with Susan

**website:** http://www.susanconnellbooks.com

**twitter:** @susan_connell

**goodreads:** http://goodreads.com/susanconnell

**email:** authorsusanconnell@gmail.com

Susan Connell Ebook List

find these titles at many online retailers

The Big Beach Book Bundle

A Woman to Blame

Glory Girl

A Man Like This

Double Trouble in Paradise Bundle

Trouble in Paradise

Pagan's Paradise

Some Kind of Wonderful

Rings on her Fingers

Credits & Info

COVER DESIGN

Pilcrowphile Productions: A Taste of Love, The Big Beach Book, Double Trouble in Paradise, A Man Like This, Glory Girl

eBook Prep: A Woman to Blame, Trouble in Paradise, Pagan's Paradise, Some Kind of Wonderful, Rings on her Fingers

FORMATTING FOR SMASHWORDS

Pilcrowphile Productions

STOCK PHOTOGRAPY

Fotolia

ORIGINAL PUBLICATION DATES

The titles excerpted in this sampler have been revised for their reissue

The original novels were published by Loveswept.

A Man Like This (original title Looks Like Love) 2/94

Glory Girl 5/92

A Woman to Blame (original title Captain's Orders) 7/94

Trouble in Paradise 9/93

Pagan's Paradise 8/95

Some Kind of Wonderful 4/93

Rings on her Fingers 1/95

