FIONA'S FANCY

by

Suzanne Marie Calvin

Prologue

"Where the hell is she?" he growled, a little too loudly.

With a self-conscious shake, Cal recalled that he was standing in a church, at the altar, in front of a lot of people who were here to witness and celebrate a wedding.

A wedding that may or may not take place.

Cal cursed under his breath, tapping one foot impatiently.

"Don't worry, Calhoun," said the minister, in an attempt to console the groom. "I've done a hundred weddings and I don't think any bride has ever been on time to a single one."

Cal knew that had to be an exaggeration, but still he managed a stiff smile at the minister for trying to alleviate an anxious groom's distress.

Standing there in his rented tuxedo - "monkey suit", he derisively called it - Cal Turner decided he hadn't perspired that much in years. No, perspiring was too polite. Sweating was more to the point. And he hadn't sweat so much since those long days spent in his Army fatigues, an M-16 strapped over one shoulder, a backpack slung over the other. He'd endured weeks and weeks of tromping across the sand in three-pound boots, in the blazing sun during Operation Desert Storm.

But that was a walk in the park compared to today.

It was Cal Turner's wedding day. Marcia Forbes, the sexy and beautiful local television news reporter he'd been courting for two years, had finally agreed to marry him. They were tying the knot today.

If she ever showed up.

His necktie seemed to be getting tighter and tighter, but Cal fought the urge to loosen it. His forehead beaded with sweat, but he was reluctant to blot it and ruin the starched white handkerchief at his breast pocket. Damn, Colorado Springs was hotter than hell.

A May heat wave held the area in an uncomfortable grip. Last May there had been an unexpected snowstorm. But this May was unbelievably hot. And humid. And sticky as all get-out. Almost as bad as South Carolina summers, at least for a guy dressed like an undertaker, standing at the front of a church which had no air conditioning, with three hundred pairs of eyes staring at him, while an organ bellowed what sounded like funeral music.

Minutes continued to tick by. The assembled guests began fidgeting in their seats, swiping at beads of perspiration, fanning themselves with church songbooks, and glancing at their watches. When the whispering became loud enough for Cal to plainly hear their comments, his reserve finally broke.

Frustration and panic crept up into his throat, hot and tight. He couldn't breathe. He tugged at the necktie that was beginning to feel like a tightening noose.

The minister laid a gentle hand on Cal's shoulder in an attempt to calm him. "Give her a few more minutes, son. You know how brides can be - "

"No, I don't know how brides can be," Cal snapped. "She's twenty minutes late, Reverend. For a punctual woman like Marcia, that's pretty friggin' late!"

The sudden look of shock in the minister's eyes made Cal feel ashamed for his outburst. When the quiet minister reminded him that he was in a house of the Lord, Cal felt even worse. He must get a grip on his impatience and anxiety or risk losing his cool altogether.

The minister cleared his throat and resumed a quietly-waiting stance. The organist played the same tooth-grinding song over and over. But worst of all, the wedding guests were starting to give him sympathetic poor-jilted-groom looks.

Just when Cal thought he might explode with uncontrollable frustration, the doors at the back of the church flew open. The organist immediately began playing the "Wedding March". Apparently thrown off by the delay, she seemed to have forgotten that the bridesmaids came first.

Shirley, the bride's older sister and matron of honor, strode purposefully down the aisle. She wasn't carrying a bouquet to match her pink gown, but a folded square of white paper instead. Her expression was a tad bit ashen and her mouth was down-turned in dismay.

Dread curled an icy fist around Cal's heart. Any way he looked at it, this couldn't be a good sign.

"Cal," she spoke quietly and inclined her head toward the church doors. "Let's go outside a minute, okay?" A sympathetic smile trembled on her lips. Her nose was red, as if she'd been crying. Smudges of mascara darkened her lower lids.

Cal rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, clenching and unclenching his fists. He couldn't desert his post at the front of the church. Besides, when Marcia finally showed up ... what if he wasn't there?

Ignoring his silent struggle, Shirley led him by the elbow toward the exit. He followed on feet that were as heavy as cement bricks.

His heart pounded, echoing in his gut, his ears, and his throat. When he heard someone whisper, "This can't be good," he almost lost it. He was a retired First Sergeant, for crying out loud. He was battle-hardened. He was a leader of men. He was a man who took control and never lost his cool head, come hell, high water, or enemy fire.

But this wasn't war. This was a damned wedding, or at least it was supposed to be.

Shirley tugged his arm to make him follow her. What was going on here? He wasn't sure any more. This was supposed to be the happiest day of his life. Wasn't it?

Outside the church, Shirley turned to him and met his gaze with eyes so troubled by fear and regret that Cal almost felt worse for her than he did for himself.

"Where is she, Shirley?" His tone was hushed, even though he wanted to shout, to scream.

Her gaze fell. "She's gone, Cal. I don't know where she went."

He lifted a brow. "Shirley, Marcia doesn't sneeze without you knowing it. Now, where the hell is she?"

Shirley bit her lower lip. Tears she clearly fought to keep from him shimmered on her lids. Cal pretended not to notice, for Shirley's sake, but he still expected an answer to his question.

"I promised her, Cal."

He did lose it then. "Do you really think I give a rat's ass what you promised her? What about me? What about us? What about all this?" He indicated the church and the wedding on hold. His tone elevated a notch or two and Shirley jumped when he grabbed her shoulders. "Where the hell is she?"

"California!" She gave him a frustrated glare. "I swore on my grandmother's grave not to tell. Thanks a lot." She swallowed, looked away, and added, "Sorry, Cal. I know this has got to be hard for you."

" California! Where in California?"

"I'm not going to tell you that, Cal. I promised her." Her lip trembled. She glanced at the folded paper she gripped, to the point of mutilation, in her shaking hands. "She accepted a job there. She doesn't want you to look for her, Cal. It's over. You know how Marcia is, once she's made up her mind. You just have to accept it and let her be."

"Like hell," he growled, swiping a hand through his hair with an infuriated jerk.

Shirley lifted dark, somber, serious eyes to meet his angry glare. "She doesn't want you, Cal."

He swallowed hard, wishing she'd said anything but that. "Why, Shirley? Why? " he managed to say over the aching lump in his throat. His back stiffened and every muscle in his body was taut with tension. "Why is she doing this?"

"Here." She thrust the folded piece of paper at him and tried to blink back tears. When her efforts failed, she swiped at her eyes and looked away, gnawing her lower lip, her arms folded.

He took the paper, unfolded it, and saw that it was a photocopied newspaper article. An advice column. "Fiona's Fancy," it was called. Then he looked at Shirley with a confused expression.

"Just read it," she said, a tear trickling down her cheek. "I - I'm sorry, Cal. I need to go. My kids are getting antsy and John wants to leave, since there isn't going to be a wedding. He doesn't want to be around for the ... for the blow-up. But my dad and his wife are here. They'll help you smooth things over." She kissed his cheek quickly and whispered a tense "I'm sorry," then left him.

He waited until the clicking of her high-heels had faded into the distance, then he read the clipping. He had to read it twice, because the words on the page were so insane, so out-of-this-world. He couldn't fathom Marcia Forbes - smart, intelligent, savvy Marcia - ditching her own wedding because of what was written in that column. All because of the stupid musings of some stargazing advice columnist hippie named Fiona Kelly.

He tore the paper into shreds, fighting mad. Anger suffocated him, until he couldn't stand to be in his own skin, much less the damned tuxedo he wore.

Cal yanked off the bow tie, then tore open the jacket. Buttons flew, threads ripped, but he didn't give a damn. This was so unbelievable ... But he might as well believe it. Marcia wasn't coming.

Cal stormed back into the church to break the news to three hundred guests, who probably had already figured out by now that there wasn't going to be a wedding that day. The minister hurried toward Cal, but Cal just shook his head.

Rancor heavily laced his words as he addressed the assemblage. "Might as well go home, ladies and gentlemen. There'll be no wedding today. It wasn't in the damned stars ."

Chapter One

"Nancy? Nancy? Oh, darn, I can't hear you. Hang on!"

Fiona Kelly stopped at a red-lighted intersection and stifled the urge to chuck the cellular phone out the window of her beat-up Chevy truck. Instead, she hung her head out halfway and hoped it would help the lousy reception.

"Nancy? Can you hear me now?" she screeched into the telephone, ignoring the gaping stares from passersby.

Fiona's assistant at The Springs Gazette chuckled on the other end. "I hear you fine."

"Okay, good. Now what were you saying?"

"I was saying that jackass on the radio, you know, from KKAL ... what's his name ... Spooky Rider or something..."

"Ghost Rider," Fiona supplied, and moaned. In the last two months, the popular local radio station disc jockey had become her archenemy. They had never met. Never even spoken. But the man seemed to have a penchant for making Fiona's life a living hell. "What has he done now? "

"I just heard him rip into your last advice column on the air. They're doing a recorded playback in an hour. You might want to tune in."

Fiona propped the cellular phone on her shoulder. With a free hand, she clutched the crystal around her neck and drew a deep breath. "He's been making fun of my column for two months now. I'm about ready to write to the station manager and complain."

"Oh, I'm sure you will." Even over the static-y telephone connection, Fiona caught Nancy's sarcasm.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Fiona, you don't have a vindictive bone in your body. I can't imagine you writing a complaint letter to the station manager."

"We all have our breaking points, Nan. I'm sick and tired of having that - that - evil man beat up on me every week. Manitou Springs is a small town. Everyone knows everyone, and people know me. And they listen to KKAL."

"My cousin in Denver can get KKAL on a clear day. It's scratchy, but he gets it."

Fiona grumbled. "Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because knowing there's one more person out there listening to Ghost Rider trash ‘Fiona's Fancy' isn't remedying my frustration."

Nancy chuckled. "Sorry. Listen, don't forget to stop by the office to pick up your mail. And the boss wants your column on time this week."

"Aren't I always on time?"

"Ha-ha! That's a good one, Fiona."

Fiona grinned despite herself. "He'll have it a day early, how's that? Tell him that, astrologically speaking of course, this is a good week for him."

"Nah, I'll let you tell him. You're the stars expert. Just make sure he gets your column on time, or he may go supernova on you."

Fiona had to laugh at that. "I don't think there's any real chance of that, Nancy. Lots of people buy the newspaper just to read my column. They love it. And he knows it."

"Well, don't be too sure about that," Nancy warned. "That Ghost Rider fella has stirred up a lot of folks against you."

Fiona gripped the cell phone and chewed her lip. "Okay, okay, I get the point. He'll have the column on time, don't worry. And I'll handle Ghost Rider myself. He can't be allowed to continue this kind of harassment indefinitely."

"You write an astrological advice column, Fiona," she barely heard Nancy say through the crackling on the phone. "That automatically makes you a target for - "

Mercifully the connection was lost. Fiona didn't want to think about being a target for - ...for anything.

* * * *

Cal Turner steered his shiny black BMW through the streets of Manitou Springs, on the way to radio station KKAL in Colorado Springs which he owned and where he did double duty as station manager and radio personality. The successful program theme of KKAL was talk radio with a bit of country music sprinkled in.

Cal's mouth curled into a proud smile - the way a man smiled when he realized his ideas were taking shape, growing bigger and better than he might have ever imagined. KKAL was a small hometown station that had managed to capture a steady fan base, but in a year or so, he would see to it that all of Colorado could tune in to his station, loud and clear.

Setting his espresso in the cup holder, Cal cranked up the volume on his radio, a devilish grin twitching his lips. Mick, his right hand man at the station, was replaying that morning's broadcast. Cal Turner, a.k.a. Ghost Rider, the disc jockey and talk show host. It was Cal's voice, with an only slightly exaggerated thick South Carolina accent he used for his secret alter ego, coming through the speakers, as he raked Fiona Kelly's advice column over the coals.

This last column was a classic. She'd given advice to a woman who was having trouble "relating" to her ornery Palomino horse named Humbert. Cal thought, right off the bat, that naming a horse Humbert might have been the start of this lady's problems to begin with. But, predictably, Fiona had "gazed into the stars" and come up with an entirely new plan of attack for winning over poor Humbert.

It began with looking up Humbert's date of birth to see what his zodiac sign might be, as this was supposed to give some kind of hint as to his "personality". Then it went on with advice about some kind of odd-sounding herb tea - chamomile? what the heck was that, anyway? - given once a day at bedtime. To Humbert. And ended with a suggestion of daily lavender oil massages. For Humbert.

Now, who the hell in their right mind would massage a horse with lavender oil! Cal shook his head in disbelief. For crying out loud, they were talking about an animal whose sole joy in life was grazing, making horse patties and swatting flies with his tail.

It was pure nonsense . And Cal had said so. On the air.

"Seems Fiona Kelly, the gal who pens that ‘Fiona's Fancy' column - Freaky Fiona , if you ask me - thinks she's some kind of animal psychic or something, recommending lavender oil massages and chamomile tea for horses. Now I ask you, what possible difference could it make to a horse what sign he was born under? Freaky Fiona needs a reality check. I'm thinking Humbert the Horse might be a whole lot happier with a name he can be proud of, and forget chamomile tea and lavender oil massages. Would Gene Autry have named his horse Humbert? I don't think so. Freaky Fiona needs to get a grip and bring her head down out of the clouds - or the stars."

Yep, that Fiona Kelly. The one who had advised Marcia Forbes that marriage to Calhoun Turner wasn't in the stars.

Revenge was sweet. Oh, so sweet! And a hell of a lot more fun than wallowing in self-pity.

* * * *

"Head in the clouds? Reality check? "

Fiona angrily batted at the knob of her radio to cease the irritating voice of the jackass misinterpreting her column. Clutching the crystal that dangled from the chain around her neck, she took a few deep calming breaths.

This was nuts. Ghost Rider had made her a laughingstock for long enough. She wasn't the village idiot. She was a well-respected Manitou Springs business owner and Gazette columnist. Folks came from everywhere, even as far away as Denver, to patronize her shop "Earth Tones" where they could buy homemade herbal remedies, crystals, oils, soaps, candles and things of that nature. And for free advice. It could very well hurt her business if folks continued listening to Ghost Rider's asinine babble.

Fiona drove her battered pick-up truck through town, headed for home. She would definitely be writing that complaint letter to the station manager at KKAL. She punched the number for Nancy's direct line into her cell phone dial pad. She could dictate the letter to her reliable assistant who would then get the appropriate name and address, and the letter could go out in this afternoon's mail. No sense wasting time. This man must be stopped before any real damage was done.

Nancy's direct line was busy. Fiona groaned and punched the end button on her phone. Okay, that gave her time to think about what she wanted to say in her letter. Didn't want to come off sounding unstable - that would only add fuel to the fire. Eyeing her radio knob, she was seduced by curiosity. She sighed and gingerly turned up the volume.

"The sad thing about a woman like Freaky Fiona," continued the radio voice, "is that you folks out there trust her. You write her letters. You take her advice to heart. And that right there is flirting with disaster. Come on, people! Take your lives into your own hands! You don't need some crazy stargazer telling you whether or not to date someone, buy a new dress, eat shellfish or ... or handle your horse!"

Fiona shrieked an oath in anger, then wrapped a hand around her crystal once more. In a whisper, she quietly chanted, "I am a reed ... I can bend ... I am a reed ... I can bend..."

Okay, so her chant was momentarily disturbed by a fleeting - but satisfying - image of her giving a sound thrashing to Ghost Rider with an unbent reed.

What was this man trying to do to her, anyway?

He had her all wrong. Totally wrong. Completely wrong. "Freaky Fiona" indeed! She wasn't a crazy kook. She'd studied with some of the best holistic doctors in the business, not to mention the years of herb classes and astrology seminars she had attended. This Ghost Rider, the poor sap, had no earthly clue what he was talking about. And he was about to find out just how mistaken about "Freaky Fiona" he really was.

Fiona picked up her cell phone again. Forget the letter - she was going to call the KKAL station manager. And settle this once and for all.

But before she could punch a single number, the cell phone fell from her shaky hand and dropped to the floor of the pick-up. "Darn," she groaned, and stretched to pick it up.

Bad karma stepped in, just that quick. There was a loud screech, the honking of a car horn, and Fiona stomped her brake pedal reflexively, then yelped as she smacked her head smartly on the steering wheel. She struggled to sit upright and peered out the window.

"Oh, criminey!" Fiona borrowed her Irish mother's favorite curse word, as she realized she had just sped through an intersection, heedless of the stop sign. Her heart slammed against her ribcage and she could barely catch her breath.

A black BMW had come to a screaming halt, halfway into the intersection, attempting to avoid a collision, mere inches away from the front fender of her pick-up. The dark-haired male driver shook his fist, mouthing an oath that Fiona could only imagine would have singed her ears had she been able to hear it.

Fiona ducked her head in humility. "Sorry, buddy." She flicked the annoying radio off. Glimpsing the cell phone on the floorboard, she angrily mumbled, "Stupid phone!" Then she took a deep breath. She knew better than to drive and use her phone at the same time. The authorities were always warning people not to do that. And this was a good example of what could happen if the warnings weren't heeded.

Fate had been with her. The vehicles had barely missed each other. It had been close, but no harm done. Fiona realized it just might be her lucky day after all. She flashed a brilliant smile at the good-looking guy in the BMW and pressed the accelerator.

But as she passed through the intersection, she could very plainly hear, through the window he had rolled down to shake a fist at her, that he was listening to KKAL's Ghost Rider.

* * * *

Cal Turner stormed into the radio station as Ghost Rider's pre-recorded program ended.

Mick, his assistant, popped a CD into the player then greeted Cal with a broad smile. "Well, if it isn't the man of the hour. Hey, Ghost Rider, how's it going?"

Cal mumbled something inaudible under his breath.

"What crawled up your butt and died?" Mick joked.

"A crazy woman driver, that's what." Cal slumped into the chair at his desk inside the broadcast booth. "Some redhead in an old pick-up damn near destroyed my BMW five minutes ago. She plowed right through a stop sign!"

He shook his head irritably, still put out by the near miss. It had more than rattled his nerves, which were overcharged by the two cups of coffee and double espresso he'd gulped down over the last four hours. Plus the piece of fudge that Beverly Tucker had forced on him when Cal passed her candy shop on the way to the cleaners.

"Here are your phone messages." Mick tossed a small stack onto Cal's desk. "I feel like I'm running a dating service here, except I've got more clients than I've got men to send out. I'd love to be you for a day, you ol' dog, you."

Cal grumbled incoherently, flipped idly through the messages, then tore the stack in half and tossed it all into the wastebasket. "It's been two months since Marcia called off our wedding. When's this going to let up?"

"When you've got yourself a ball and chain, I reckon." Mick's Southern accent was thick as sorghum molasses on a cold morning. He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and his wide unassuming grin made him look like a twelve-year-old boy. "It's rough being the most eligible bachelor in town, ain't it?"

"I'm jumping for joy." Cal's tone was bland, his smirk sarcastic. "I've got every single woman from the age of twenty to sixty-five calling me daily. I highly doubt I'm the only available man in these parts."

"Well, you're at least the only one available who owns his own radio station and drives a fancy new Beemer."

"Thanks, Mick, that helps." Cal straightened his desktop. His military-style attention to neatness and detail was so much a part of his nature he did the task without even thinking.

"Hell, I'm living my fantasies through you, my friend. Takes me away from the dullness of life since marriage took over."

Cal paused to glower at his friend then resumed tidying his desk. "You're lucky. Tracy's a great woman."

Mick sighed. "I know. Sorry. I didn't mean it that way, really. I know what happened with Marcia was - "

"Forget it. I have." Cal lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, but the acidic burn in his gut belied his indifference. "Any woman who'd base an important decision like marriage on the word of some idiot stargazing advice columnist isn't a woman I want to marry, anyhow. So I'd say things worked out for the best. I'm over it."

"If you're over it, as you say, then why do you still have that picture over your desk?"

Mick jerked his chin toward the picture of Fiona, taken from the top of her "Fiona's Fancy" column, that Cal had had enlarged and tacked above his microphone so he could throw darts at it. He'd blackened her teeth, drawn on a mustache and devil horns, and just recently added a wart on her nose.

"And why do you keep raking her column over the coals?"

"I said I was over Marcia," Cal responded, clenching his jaw. He lifted a brow, his eyes narrowing. "I didn't say I was through getting even with Fiona Kelly. When she's out of business, I won't have her column to rake over the coals anymore."

"When she's out of business. You make it sound so easy," Mick teased with a chuckle and shake of his head.

As the sweet mellow sound of Patsy Cline's "Crazy" filled the room, Cal pinched a miniature dart between his fingers then lobbed it at the photograph. It pierced the effigy of Fiona Kelly right between the eyes.

Bulls-eye . Easy.

* * * *

When Fiona pulled into the driveway of her farmhouse out in the beautiful Colorado countryside, she breathed a sigh of relief. What a day, no thanks to her stupid cell phone and a propensity to live life as if she were bumbling through an "I Love Lucy" episode.

She was quite annoyed with herself for nearly smashing into the BMW, after running a stop sign, no less. And to make matters worse, on the way home, Spencer Mason, Fiona's least favorite neighbor, called her on her cell phone to rant about Ceres and his cows.

Ceres, her precocious two-year-old Golden Retriever, whose life's ambition was to jump the neighboring fence and chase Spencer's cows, was staring up the barrel of a shotgun, as Spencer had so eloquently put it. He was sick and tired of his cows going nuts, ramming the fence in an effort to get away from Ceres and her annoying barking. It happened at least twice a week, and Spencer was threatening to call animal control.

Fiona pulled up next to her mailbox and opened the lid. A utility bill. A flyer announcing a sale at a local furniture store. And another letter from Dark Knight.

As she parked the pick-up and turned off the ignition, she looked around for Ceres, who usually never failed to meet her when she came home. The dog was nowhere in sight. With a resigned sigh, Fiona unlocked the front door of her farmhouse and walked through the one-room store she called "Earth Tones" into the back, where her personal living quarters were. She tossed the mail carelessly onto the kitchen table then went to the bathroom and peered at herself in the mirror.

She rummaged through an antique medicine cabinet and found and applied a little bit of homemade arnica ointment to her scalp, where her head had smacked into the steering wheel, leaving a nasty bump and a small cut on her forehead. Then she followed that with some yellow jasmine pills for headache and told herself things could have been much worse.

Still shaky from the near miss, and Ghost Rider's horrendous mockery of her column, she forced down two glasses of chamomile and lavender iced tea, to quiet her nerves.

There had been nothing in the stars about the events of that day. No tip-off about a near car accident. Nothing about Ghost Rider's antics. No warning about Ceres and her oddly-expressed love of cattle. Or the frequent letters Fiona had been receiving in the mail from a disgruntled fan, for that matter.

"Fiona's Fancy" was two years old. When she first began penning the advice column, Fiona had anticipated not being able to please the public at large. But if she could help just a handful of readers, it would satisfy her obsession to make a difference in the universe.

Granted, her approach to problem solving deviated from the norm of most advice columnists. Fiona incorporated a pinch of astrology, a dash of homeopathy and a good dose of herbalism into the advice she offered. It was her personal, eclectic approach to making sense out of an often confusing world.

Occasionally she received letters of disappointment from folks who claimed her advice hadn't worked for them, and she was sensible enough to know that not everyone could accept her words at face value. But the ones she'd been receiving lately were a bit...

She glanced at the mail lying on the kitchen table. She could tell by the handwriting on the plain white envelope that she had just got another one. The anonymous author of her troubling fan mail went by the alias of "Dark Knight". Moreover, he was candidly unappreciative of Fiona's approach to lending advice. And he had been telling her so in no uncertain terms for the last few weeks.

She had a collection of his letters, all bearing the same handwriting. More than once she had made up her mind to toss them out - but something always stopped her. They might be needed as evidence one day. Fiona shivered at the implications of that thought.

Initially, she had suspected that "Dark Knight" might be another one of Ghost Rider's deplorable antics - just another attempt to disparage and discredit her. But Fiona soon realized that even a low-life like Ghost Rider wouldn't risk his professional career to send her threatening hate mail. Not when he had the opportunity to flaunt his twisted viewpoint on the air every week. Oh, no. Why waste time on letters that only she would read, when he could publicly harangue her to thousands of listeners?

Dark Knight was just a disgruntled reader. And, hopefully, a harmless one. But frankly his letters were beginning to give her the creeps.

She stepped out into the backyard and whistled through circled fingers and Ceres came barking, heading straight toward her. The dog's exuberant welcome nearly knocked Fiona to the ground.

She stroked the dog's ears. "I hear you've been chasing cows again," she said in her most stern tone. Ceres whined a little, then proceeded to affectionately body-slam Fiona's legs. "I know. I don't fancy Spencer raising cows for burgers either, Ceres, but it's no reason to pester the cows. It's not their fault."

Again Ceres seemed to whine in reply. Fiona gave the Golden Retriever a last pat on the head, then took a jar of peach preserves over to Spencer Mason to apologize for the dog's behavior. He took it grudgingly, then warned her, for the hundredth time, that Ceres needed obedience training.

Back at the farmhouse, Fiona tucked long, naturally curly auburn hair under a wide-brimmed straw hat, then slipped her hands into gardening gloves. She spent the remainder of the day staking tomato plants and pulling weeds from herb patches and flowerbeds. At one with the earth, Fiona gardened and let the hours slip away.

Plunging her hands into moist, damp dirt always made her feel the familiar, peaceful magic that was both welcome and predictable when she worked outdoors. The solitude of her garden, the soft hum of bumblebees and other busy insects, the harmony of birds nestled in the oak and pine trees - all of it relaxed Fiona and set her mind at ease. Fragrant scents of lavender, rosemary and basil wafted to her nose and brought a placid smile to her lips.

She felt the heartbeat of the earth, the warmth of the sun, the essence of each plant in her garden - a quiet, wordless kind of music that lulled her into daydreams light years away from the realities of the day's events.

As the day turned to night and it began to be too dark to continue gardening, Fiona reluctantly put away her tools in the greenhouse. Ceres bounded happily at her side as she walked toward the back door of her farmhouse. Time to feed the dog. Time to feed herself. And then perhaps -

Her pleasant thoughts fled instantly when she saw the white envelope stuck on her back door. The handwriting was familiar - too familiar now to mistake. Fiona jerked around, looking frantically in all directions, but nothing stirred. A shiver went down her spine.

It was another disturbing letter from Dark Knight, who was slowly crossing the line from disgruntled fan to angry stalker. This time he hadn't bothered to mail it. He'd delivered it where he knew she couldn't help but find it.

Which meant he had been here, himself, on her property. She spared a glance at Ceres, the happy-go-lucky dog who was a loving pet but absolutely worthless as a watch dog.

Fiona clutched her crystal, whispered soothing words to calm her nerves, and realized she'd never been so frightened in her life.

Chapter Two

What the hell was he doing way out here? He had more important things to do with his Saturday morning, a ton of important things to do ... and yet here he was.

Cal Turner cast a sideways glance back at his BMW, parked in Fiona Kelly's driveway. The well-maintained, elegant ebony car sat beside a dilapidated pick-up that was hauntingly reminiscent of the one that had run the stop sign and almost plowed into him the day before. Shabby overused pick-ups were a common mode of transportation in the Springs area. Still, it was an odd coincidence that made his brow arch and his jaw clench.

He stared at Fiona's door in contemplative silence and reconsidered his motives. Justified them, actually.

His two-month-old vendetta against "Fiona's Fancy" was still causing a local stir, as well as an appreciable rise in ratings. But ratings were a lot like riding a roller coaster - for every rise, there would inevitably be a plunge. KKAL had been on that roller coaster ride for years now, but Cal just kept on chugging along.

So, there he was ... paying a little visit to Fiona Kelly. Calling it "research". Cal actually hoped to scrape up a bit more dirt on her. Anything to fill the holes in Ghost Rider's radio show.

Absent-mindedly, he straightened the wooden "Earth Tones" sign outside the door of Fiona's store. A scrap of paper was taped to the knob. "In the greenhouse" was penned in neat blue strokes, and with a smiley face that brought an irritable frown to his features.

The greenhouse. Cal sighed and looked around. Fiona was sitting pretty on one of Manitou Springs' oldest landmarks, a farmhouse that was circa eighteen-hundred-something. On twenty or so acres, no less. Further back was a barn twice the size of the farmhouse. Behind that, a good-sized greenhouse.

The place smelled incredible. Scents from the herb gardens and flowerbeds assailed him, rich and hearty in the humid morning sunshine. The moisture in the air raised the potency of the fragrances to an intoxicating level.

He moseyed down the porch steps and strolled toward the greenhouse. The closer he approached his destination, the more dilapidated it appeared. It needed one heck of a facelift. Panes were broken, likely by groups of bored kids during summer vacation. Pitching practice. Not much else to do in a tiny town like Manitou Springs except raise a little hell every now and then. There was no finer sport to children than tormenting the local witch.

Cal grinned in spite of himself. Judging by the defaced picture full of dart holes back at the station, she wasn't a bad looking woman. But then he'd never really seen a witch in person. Maybe he was about to get that chance.

Besides the broken panes, the framework was rusted and bent out of shape in areas. Not to mention the overgrown landscape it sat on. He groaned. What a mess. This Fiona Kelly had certainly let Mother Nature take things over.

He wouldn't let himself stop and compare her place to the well manicured half-acre his small but ample home rested on. Flexing his jaw, Cal instead redirected his thoughts. He didn't have the time or the need to imagine one hundred and one ways he could make Fiona's place more presentable. This wasn't a social call, after all. It was a business call under the guise of a social call.

"Hello?" he announced from the doorway of the greenhouse.

He saw no one in the jungle of plants and trees. The aroma inside was a lot like what he'd smelled on her porch, only a hundred times more dense.

"Hello?" he repeated, this time with more emphasis.

"Hello!" It was a moderately agitated reply from behind an average-sized orange tree.

Cal spied the top of an auburn head. Curls, thickly spiraled, fell forward, concealing her face. From the looks of it, that hair of hers was tangled up in a tree ... or a bush. He couldn't tell at first, much less figure out how in the heck any woman, no matter how wacky, could get herself tangled in shrubbery.

"I could use some help here," she sang out in a voice that reminded him of waves licking the shoreline. Or honey over sandpaper. "I'm ... well ... hmm ... actually ... I'm stuck is what I am. Could you give me a hand?"

In spite of his loathing for this woman, her feeble plea brought an amused grin to his face, and the aggravation of curiosity to eat away at his reserve. "Sure thing."

He entered the indoor jungle and broke into an immediate sweat. There was enough moisture in there to bring on a tropical storm. "Hot damn, it's miserable in here," he grumbled, stepping over plants and dodging limbs of small trees.

"It's a hothouse." Her silk and sandpaper chuckle stirred something in his gut. He hadn't imagined her voice would sound so ... sexy. No photograph could do a voice like that justice. Much less a photograph with blackened teeth, a warty nose and several little dart-inflicted holes.

With mild irritation, she added, "Greenhouses aren't known for dry climates. Are you coming?"

He tripped over a rock and cursed. "What the hell do you have rocks in here for?"

"I grow them."

"What?"

She laughed. "That was a joke."

Cal struggled his way through the mini-jungle until finally he was behind her. It was about to get hotter in there and climate didn't have a thing to do with it.

Fiona Kelly did.

The loony advice columnist had one hell of a figure. Slender, exciting and very sweet, poured into a tank top and denim cut-offs. Not a whole lot was left to the imagination, especially given the compromising position she was in.

She was bent over at the waist. Full breasts threatened to push their way free from the scooped neck of her top. Creamy white skin was flushed and moist with perspiration. A thin black strap fell over one shoulder, revealing a small beige birthmark that was so alluring, it took a mountain of self-control to pull his eyes from it.

Cal's heart jack-hammered in his chest. Not exactly the reaction he was expecting when he first met her.

Okay, so the nut job was damn sexy. He could handle it. Years of military training had taught him a thing or two, one of which was that the enemy was the enemy, no matter how attractive the packaging. A Claymore mine covered with a patch of daisies would still blow to smithereens if someone stepped on it.

He cleared his throat and tried to get a handle on his initial reaction to her. It wasn't exactly easy to picture her looking like a Claymore mine.

In exasperation, he swiped a sweaty brow with the back of his hand and tried to block out the thick aroma of herbs, vegetables, and flowers trapped inside the greenhouse. Fragrant and intoxicating. He almost couldn't think clearly.

Even as he struggled to refocus, it was no easier to ignore the sexy woman tangled in the tree. He felt his resentment and irritation, two months in the making, start to falter, as growing interest and male libido strong-armed its way in. It made him more frustrated with her than ever.

"How in the hell did you manage this?" He raked his hands through his hair, damp with perspiration.

"If I knew the answer to that, do you think I would have let it happen?" she retorted. "Are you just going to stand there?"

Cal blinked. He wasn't sure what he was going to do.

Fiona's hair was entangled badly, knotted around the tree's branches. A crystal dangled from her neck, pointing like an arrow at the ground. It swayed slightly with her movement, catching the sunlight every once in a while, casting rainbows on the dirt floor. It mesmerized him. Made it easy to focus on a blushing bosom, aching to be free of the tank top that had her breasts sufficiently confined.

Then again, that may have been Cal's interpretation alone.

He blinked again. Broke the trance. "I think we're going to have to cut it," he decided, having given the situation a split second of thought.

"What!" she balked, clearly mortified at the suggestion. "I beg your pardon, but you are not going to cut my hair!" She brought up two dirt-smudged hands, wrapped her fingers around the branches, and tried to undo the damage.

"I wasn't talking about your hair. The branches need to be cut. And stop that, you're only making it worse."

She pulled her hands away, dropped them at her sides, and let them dangle in defeat.

He cleared his throat and looked away. He couldn't think straight as long as he was eyeing that birthmark on her shoulder. Or the position of that crystal of hers, for that matter.

"What are you doing?" She shifted her weight as best she could, given her unyielding predicament.

"Thinking." Was that ever an understatement! Inside of him, a battle was raging. Male libido vs. common sense. It made him angry and uncomfortable to realize that, without any apparent effort, Fiona Kelly had made him flustered in under five minutes.

"Could you think faster? This isn't a very accommodating position, in case you were wondering."

He grinned because, from where he was standing, he might have begged to differ. Besides, he couldn't deny she had a witty sense of humor, something Cal was typically a sucker for.

Okay, remember she's the enemy, he reminded himself. In spite of the comic relief, he still hated the nut case.

He cleared his throat. "I need a saw."

"A saw?" Her two-word repetition was panic-driven.

"How else do you expect me to cut the branches?"

She paused, then admitted, "I hadn't thought of that."

"Do you have a handsaw?"

"Of course I do. But ... well ... would you mind at least telling me who you are? Before I trust you with a handsaw six inches from my neck?" She tried to turn her head a notch, to catch a glimpse of him. The effort incited a frustrated "Ouch!" from her.

"Don't move," he cautioned.

"I think I just got that part figured out."

Circling the tree, he tried to determine how she'd managed such a blunder. "I've never seen anything like this."

"Thanks. I pride myself on innovative ways of getting caught in jams," she dryly moaned. "I hope you aren't a doctor because your bedside manner stinks."

Cal grinned to himself. "No. I'm not a doctor."

"The handsaw is in the barn. Hanging on a hook with other tools. Be careful of Billy. He's a goat and he's got this habit of butting people he doesn't know. I'm trying to break him of it, but he's a little ... stubborn. And there's Ceres, my dog. She'll just lick you to death ... if she's not tormenting the cows next door..."

Cal's grin broadened, but he managed to bite back an amused chuckle. "Don't worry. I know goats. And dogs."

"Oh. Good. Mister ... umm..."

"Cal. Cal Turner."

"Hi, Cal. I'm Fiona Kelly. I haven't named the tree yet."

He shook his head because she said that last part as if she meant it. Laughter rumbled deep in his chest, but he didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she could tickle his funny bone. He'd already figured out she was the most dangerous kind of woman - the kind who didn't have to try, not even a little, to be irresistible.

With a tensing in his jaw, he stiffly managed to say, "I'll be right back."

She sighed. "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

As Cal left the greenhouse, Fiona drew a shallow, ragged breath.

Lovely. Yet another one of her infamous comedy-hour blunders. This time, she had a one-man audience. A virtual stranger. Sure, he had the world's sexiest voice, an intriguing blend of mellow baritone and mild, barely noticeable Southern grit. Nevertheless, could that smooth, sexy combination be the voice of a man who'd write hate mail to an advice columnist?

The prospect had tumbled through Fiona's mind from the moment this Cal Turner had walked into her greenhouse, finding her in the clutches of a sneaky, surprisingly tough-branched orange tree. Could her awkward situation be an angry reader's convenient opportunity?

"You're being silly, Fee," she muttered. Still, dark thoughts of a potentially dangerous fan, finding her trapped alone in the greenhouse, had perspiration beading over her top lip.

If he'd come to harm her, would he waste time trekking out to her barn for a handsaw?

A chill clambered along her spine. A handsaw. Was she nuts? To let a complete stranger, armed with a handsaw, near her?

Fiona chewed her bottom lip, as worry gnawed away at her common sense. With effort she rallied from deep inside somewhere, she willed her imagination to just knock it off. She'd seen one too many ax murderer movies with Piper, obviously. She was being ridiculous. After all, she couldn't judge a man based on nothing more than a pair of denim-clad legs, old cowboy boots, and a sexy voice, could she?

In a situation like this, she had no choice but to rely on her instincts. Fiona's survival instincts, on a scale of one to ten, were a strong - well - eight. Yes, eight. That was about right. Instincts that were strong in survival mode, but not exactly reliable when it came to her love life.

Once Cal Turner freed her from entanglement, and she was able to take a good, long look at him, Fiona would be able to breathe easier. After all, she dealt with strangers every day, by mail, by telephone, and by way of her little shop. Like most Aquarians, Fiona was a people person. A strong trait of her sign was the unfaltering belief that there was more good in folks than bad.

Clinging to that notion, she brought her fingers back up to the hair-covered tree branches and tried again to untangle herself. Unfortunately, it was a lot like a game she'd once played at a friend's baby shower - finding tiny gold baby-pins in a bowl of uncooked rice - while blindfolded. She'd been lousy at that game and was no better at untangling herself from a tree.

How embarrassing. And unnerving. She groaned irritably and, on hearing his footsteps scrape the hard-packed dirt ground, her heart jumped up to pound in her throat.

"I'm back." Listening to that voice of his was just about as sinful as devouring a block of imported chocolate. This couldn't be the voice of an angry fan - could it? "Good news ... I found the handsaw."

She was on the fence as to whether or not his finding the saw was good news. Her swallow was audible, her throat clenched so tight it hurt. If she screamed, would anyone hear? There wasn't a house around for miles ... not counting her crotchety old neighbor Spencer Mason, who probably wouldn't even lift an eyebrow if he heard her screaming. And that was a disturbing realization.

"I think your goat hates me," he chuckled, a sound that was pleasing to the ear. The knots in her belly released, just a smidge.

"Oh! I'm sorry. What did he do?" Leave it to Billy to aggravate a potentially disgruntled fan-on-the-edge.

"He sneaked up on me, then let me have it right in the ... uh-" He stopped and Fiona knew exactly what he was about to say.

"Oh, dear. I'm really sorry. He has terrible manners."

"Haven't met a polite goat yet." Again he laughed. "I had an uncle with a farm. His goats failed Etiquette 101 too." Off-handedly, he mentioned, "I didn't see your dog, though."

"Great. She's probably next door again." As if Fiona didn't already have enough to worry about. Ceres was supposed to be her friend and fierce protector, so where was that dog when she needed her?

"Chasing those cows?" There was amusement in his tone. "You've got yourself one heck of a collection of animals. A pig, a cow, a goat, chickens - "

"I have cats, too." She shifted uncomfortably and cleared her throat, wincing when the sound seemed to mirror her anxiety. "So, Cal, your uncle had a farm. Was that around here?"

"No. South Carolina."

"Oh..." Her brow furrowed and she tried to sound casual, as she further interrogated him, "South Carolina ... Is that where you're from?"

"Oh, here and there." He seemed to hesitate, the shift of his boots grating on her nerves like nails on a chalkboard, then he answered, "I bought the old Boucher house on El Paso Boulevard a while back."

"Next door to Irma Fitzsimmons?"

He laughed. "Unfortunately."

Her lungs released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Fiona didn't know everyone in the Springs' area, but Irma Fitzsimmons owned a tailor shop in downtown Manitou Springs. She was also the area's most avid gossipmonger. If Irma Fitzsimmons was living next door to someone of questionable character, the entire county would likely catch wind of it.

"Cal?"

"Yes?"

The query squeaked past a dry throat. "Will you tell me when you're going to start cutting, please?"

"How about right now?"

"Now!" she echoed in a voice two octaves higher. Her heart pumped like mad and she felt her face grow hot.

"Well, I'm here, now. With the handsaw. Do you want to wait until tomorrow?" He clearly had a sense of humor. Or a strange approach to being sarcastic. At any rate, it prompted more nervous laughter from Fiona.

"Now is fine. Just ... be careful. Please."

"I will. I don't want to do anything that might make my parole officer suspicious."

She gasped, a snap of shock zipping through her. "What?"

"Relax, Miss Kelly, I was just joking." There was a flicker of humor in his tone that somehow underscored his sincerity.

"Oh. Please don't do that again." Cold perspiration coated her forehead and upper lip. Before she could catch herself, Fiona was blurting, "I mean, I don't know anything about you..." The heat in her cheeks was scorching.

"Okay ... Fair enough," he considered, even if the amusement in his tone was painfully evident. "Would you feel better if I went and fetched my resume?"

"Maybe." In spite of her uneasiness, his wit made her smile. Again, she was being silly. If he was there to hurt her, would he be making small talk? "By the way, call me Fiona."

"All right, Fiona. Here I go. Cutting the first branch."

She pressed her eyes shut tight and a fleeting prayer danced across her mind, as she felt the vibration of handsaw chewing wood. While he freed her tangled mass of hair, one tress at a time, Fiona ground her teeth and held her breath.

When the last branch was severed, she straightened, with some effort, drew a deep breath, and acknowledged the painful crick in her back. She reached for her hip with one hand, and her forehead with the other, a bit dizzy after twenty minutes spent staring at her bare feet on the dirt floor.

"Are you okay?" Cal's voice was gentle and soothing.

"Yes. Just a knot in my back. Nothing a little eucalyptus and peppermint oil can't take away," she answered, then, setting eyes on him for the first time, she swallowed back a sharp intake of air.

The dark-haired incredibly handsome man who had just freed her from the miserable clutches of a citrus-bearing tree grinned lazily. His squared jaw was dusted with a shadow of late afternoon stubble that made his smile gleam white against the backdrop of his features.

"Good." His fetching grin broadened into something candidly boyish, not at all the leer of some psychotic crazed fan her imagination had conjured just moments before.

The lines etched at the corners of each mocha-brown eye deepened. Those creases and the trace of pepper gray in his ebony hair made Fiona wonder curiously at his age. The smile flashing back at her was unassuming and youthful, but there was a flicker of something deeper and worldlier in his eyes.

Tall and strapping, Cal towered at least a foot above her. He extended his hand, taking hers in a warm, firm shake that flooded warmth through her. She knew something about handshakes and his was straightforward. There was nothing menacing about this man.

With a shaky smile, she managed, "Thank you for rescuing me."

He ran long fingers through his hair. "Glad I could help." With that lazy smile, he teased, "You've got to be careful with those orange trees. They make the Most Wanted list once a month."

"Just as long as you haven't," she half-joked, almost giddy.

The man was gorgeous. Her dwindling apprehension left plenty of room for a pitifully neglected libido, seriously out of shape, to spring to life. It raced through her at mach ten speed, putting fresh heat in her cheeks and making her heartbeat throb at every pulse point.

When Fiona pulled her eyes from Cal, she realized the tree's branches, though thin and more like twigs, were still dangling in her hair. Talk about humiliating. She probably looked like some kind of "raised by wolves in the middle of nowhere" woman. Mother Nature having a really bad hair day.

Reaching up toward the mess of curls and twigs, Fiona managed to tug them free without yelping in pain, but it wasn't easy to buck up and act nonchalant. Stupid stubborn twigs gripped her mass of wild curls relentlessly.

With a shaky smile, as the pain in her scalp ebbed a little, she self-consciously remarked, "Thank you for getting me out of a sticky situation. You've earned the knight in shining armor award." Good grief, she was actually flirting with this man!

His grin was modest and he lifted the handsaw. "Not exactly my weapon of choice."

"Swords are over-rated anyway," Fiona teased with a wink. She inclined her head. "Come on. Let's go back to the house before any of the other plants decide to counterattack."

* * * *

Damp earth, orange blossoms, and tomato vines were what Fiona Kelly smelled like - a combined essence that made Cal's head reel and his thoughts wander as he followed her up the porch steps. Damned if he didn't have the nagging urge to bury his face into her neck and hair for a bigger whiff.

"Welcome to Earth Tones." The door squealed on rusted hinges when she shoved it open. "I need to fix that."

"The door's going crooked. You should replace the hinges."

She grinned and quipped, "I'll just add that to my list of a million and one things that need fixing."

It was on the tip of his tongue to offer. Instead, he raked an agitated hand through his hair and took a deep breath.

She was muddling his thoughts. Her fragrance, the sound of her words, the pitch of her laughter, it was all clouding his common sense. And, for heaven's sake, he damned well had to stop looking at that sexy caramel-colored birthmark on her shoulder.

His nose tingled with the scent of spices, flowers, perfumes, and some kind of incense she had smoking in a dish beside the door. The smells commingled in her shop, thrusting his senses into overload. He sneezed three times.

"It's a little potent in here at first, I know." She laughed again. "You get used to it after a while."

Her broad smile drew his attention to her full lips, framing teeth that weren't black at all. There were no devil horns, no wart on her nose. In fact she hadn't a single flaw to focus on. His discomfort shot up a notch, and he grasped for something to focus on besides Freaky Fiona.

"What's all this ... stuff?" He motioned toward a shelf that stood floor to ceiling at the right side of the modest little shop.

"Those are soaps. My friend Piper makes them. The business is mine, but her soaps sell very well here." Hands clasped behind her, she rocked back on her bare heels, smiling.

The fact that she was so at ease made Cal uneasy. Still, he managed to sound convincing when he said, "They smell nice."

Who was he kidding? He didn't smell soap. His sense of smell was overtaken by Fiona and her incredible earth and air scent. The stuff should have been bottled and used as defensive warfare to hypnotize the enemy.

"The soaps don't just smell nice, they work great, too. The lavender's for relaxing." She grabbed a pale purple bar and held it to his nose. "Smell."

He did. It smelled fantastic. "Wow," he breathed the single word. The muscles in his jaw unclenched.

"Chamomile is great for relaxing, too." She touched a faint yellow bar with the tip of her index finger. "Piper makes a fabulous eucalyptus and peppermint soap that's a real morning eye-opener."

Fiona lifted an oval bar that appeared to have yellow flower petals embedded in it. "This is a calendula bar. Men swear it's great for shaving with. It takes away the sting of the razor." She surveyed him with wide, interested eyes. "Did you come looking for something in particular today?"

Cal swallowed. Talk about a loaded question. His mouth went dry. What had he come for?

Oh, yeah ... Dirt.

For Pete's sake. He had to get out of there. He couldn't think straight. This wasn't like him at all. He wasn't the kind of man who caved this easily. He had an iron backbone. Found his target and attacked. Fiona had been his target for the last two months. That wasn't about to change just because she had his hormones bumbling around like a herd of elephants at the sound of gunfire.

With a jab of his index finger, he pointed at the yellow-flowered soap in her hand. "I'd like a couple of those. For shaving." His voice was gruff, but steady.

The curve of her lips was confident. Sexy. "You'll never use canned shaving cream after this, Cal." She winked and soft laughter, a little coarse, and very arousing, scraped past her throat.

Cal wanted to hate Fiona, but he was too busy noticing that her hair was the color of fire, especially when she turned on her heels, and it spilled across her shoulders and back. As she tossed a grin over her shoulder, the twinkle in her eyes was mystifying. In a strange and irritating way, she reminded him of little winged fairies in the childhood tales he'd never bought into because he'd been practical from a young age. His father raised men, not boys.

The fleeting memory of his overbearing father brought a tightening to Cal's jaw again. He cleared his throat. "What do I owe you?"

She tossed the calendula bars into a brown paper bag. "On the house. Call it payback for helping me with an ornery citrus tree." Closed lips, full and moist, curled into a sweet, unassuming smile.

The woman was lethal. Cal took a step back, caught the edge of a table with his hip, and sent something on it jangling noisily. "Oh ... shoot ... I'm sorry." He pivoted to steady a brass tree, loaded with what appeared to be pieces of glass in various shapes and sizes dangling from fishing wire.

Her eyes sparkled. "Nice save." When he didn't respond, she supplied, "Crystals." Her hand went to the one hanging from her neck. "Like this one. I wear this for protection."

He elevated a brow, intrigued. What or whom did Fiona Kelly need protection from? Besides herself! "Protection?"

She blushed, bit her lip, and looked away. He thought her transition was smooth, but he detected more to her anxious reaction than she let on. She answered without answering, "It sure didn't protect me from that orange tree, though, did it?"

Her tense giggle bordered on jittery and took a sizeable nip at his curiosity. He put off his questions. The sooner he got out of there, the sooner he'd catch his breath again.

He let her sidestep the subject. It wasn't any of his business, anyway. She looked away and babbled, "Crystals are great for sending or receiving energy. Positive or negative."

Cal felt a thin trail of perspiration bead along his brow. With some force, he dragged his eyes away from the crystal at the base of her slender neck and looked around again.

Odd statues, undecipherable posters, meaningless zodiac symbols, sticks of incense, colored candles, and containers upon containers of herbs filled Fiona's shop. All of it was alien to him, gnawing at his comfort zone. For him, it was all about control. He was desperate for it. Lack of it sucked the air from his lungs.

His words worked past the tightness in his throat. "I should go."

The corners of her mouth twitched with amusement that might have made Cal seethe, if he hadn't been enchanted by her eyes - bright hazel with tiny gold flecks that seemed to snap and crackle as she watched him wrestling with his demons. Excitement unfurled in his gut. Fiona Kelly could probably charm fish right out of the water.

"Well, thanks again for your help in the greenhouse." Her gratitude was sincere, even if it was accompanied by a mischievous wink and a matching grin. "Who knows how long I might have been trapped in there if you hadn't come along. Thank heaven for fate."

She handed him the paper bag. His hand brushed hers as he accepted it. A spark ignited from their touch. It startled him. Her eyes widened and she bit her lower lip again.

Cal looked away swiftly. It was static. That's all. Lots of static in the air during the summer.

"Thank goodness for fate," he repeated for her benefit. Fate nothing. He grabbed his own destiny by the horns.

Cal managed a thin-lipped smile as he turned for the door, his hand still tingling from that snap of electricity.

"Have a wonderful day, Cal," she called after him.

He let the door shut behind him as he left Earth Tones with a bag of soap, a mountain of confusing thoughts ... and not a single speck of new dirt on Fiona Kelly.

Chapter Three

Mick strutted into the KKAL broadcast booth beaming from ear to ear, toting the Sunday morning paper. "Hot damn, Cal, you got quite an article to chew up and spit out for tomorrow morning. Reminds me of one of them hot and steamy sex novels."

Ignoring Cal's outstretched hand, meant to command silence, Mick held up the paper. In a falsetto voice that was supposed to sound feminine, but only came across as a country-western version of Pee-Wee Herman, he read the advice column aloud.

"My husband has been less than passionate in the love-making department lately. I'm afraid I don't turn him on anymore. The other night, we started our lovemaking ritual and things got a little flat - if ya know what I mean."

Mick bellowed with laughter. "Tell ya what, if my wife ever wrote a letter to the Gazette, whining about how my junior couldn't rise to the occasion, she'd have more to worry about than whether or not - "

"Can it!" Cal held up a free hand, a bit more demanding this time. He made one final note on the "Fiona's Fancy" article he'd just marked up. "I read it already."

"Wait," Mick continued, in so deep there was no talking him out of finishing. "Just listen to the rest." The rustle of newspaper, then, "I'm a Scorpio and my husband's a Libra. Are we mismatched? Signed, Working on a Five-Year Marriage."

"Mick - "

"A five year marriage, Cal. Hell, I've only been married five months. Let me tell ya, I know my wife and I are matched up just fine, but whether or not she'll still curl my toes after five years, that's another story."

Cal lifted a brow. "You realize you're setting time limits on the sanctity of marriage, don't you?"

Mick's brows drew together in confusion. "Huh?" When Cal shook his head but didn't reply, Mick shrugged and muttered, "Whatever. Anyway, here's the response..."

The paper crackled again, then he read, "Dear Five-Year Marriage: Libra and Scorpio matches, on a scale of one-to-three, settle themselves in the middle of the road. At a strong two, you shouldn't consider being mismatched. It sounds to me like your husband might benefit from supplements that include gin-gee-ko, ginseng and saw palmetto. All of those increase sexual performance and stamina. Your situation is nothing that herbal supplements, a romantic dinner by candlelight, and maybe a new and exciting lovemaking ritual can't fix."

Mick plopped into a leather chair, facing Cal's huge mahogany desk, then tapped his foot. "What the hell does all that mean? Rituals. Gin-gee-ko. Saws and palm - whatevers. Sounds like some kind of hocus pocus crap, don't ya think?"

"Gingko and saw palmetto," Cal corrected abruptly.

He gave Mick an impatient look that meant stop-the-foot-tapping. Then another grim expression that said can-the-chatter-as-well.

Mick obliged until Cal tossed down the pen. "Okay. Done. All ready for tomorrow morning." He skimmed over his notes with a pleased as punch smirk. "This'll be great."

"Ya gonna use whatever dirt ya got the other day? When ya visited her store?" Mick's gray eyes squinted, his Southern accent far more pronounced than even Ghost Rider's. "I gotta tell ya, man, I used some of that cal-hula-whatever bar - "

"Calendula soap." Cal drummed his fingers on the desk. He eyed the telephone, the wheels in his mind turning, even as Mick rambled on about soap.

"Whatever the stuff is. I used it to shave with and it's incredible. I'd still be using it if Tracy hadn't snagged it to shave her legs. She hid the soap on me. Can't find the dang bar anywhere."

"Glad you liked it." Cal's mouth twisted into a scowl. "But I didn't get anything interesting on Fiona when I visited her the other day." Not a single damned bite.

Focusing on the newspaper column, he conceded, "Anyway, this article will stand alone. Her stuff just gets better and better. It doesn't take much to make her look like the town wacko."

He snatched up the telephone receiver from its cradle. "And I've got another idea." Lifting a finger in silent warning for Mick to button his lip, Cal dialed information. To the operator, he said, "The number for Earth Tones, please."

Mick's swallowed chuckle came in the form of a muffled guffaw, as he muttered, "Son of a gun."

With a sly grin, Cal punched the number to Fiona's store. After two rings, her throaty, silk and sandpaper voice came over the phone. "Good afternoon. Earth Tones."

"Fiona?"

A pause, then a wavering, "Y-Yes."

"This is Cal." He thought he heard her exhale. Otherwise, his greeting met with silence. Quickly, he added, "Turner. Cal Turner. Citrus tree wrestler at large. Remember?"

"Sure I do. Never forget anyone I let within a foot of me with a handsaw. How are you?" Behind her chipper tone was the whisper of both relief and wariness.

An odd mixture, Cal thought, for a woman who was in the business of meddling in people's lives on a whim.

Again, curiosity reared its head. He took a mental baseball bat to his nosey subconscious. Lately, his better judgment seemed willing to betray him at the drop of a hat.

He cleared his throat and reminded himself to get back on track. "I'm fine, thanks. I'd like to come by tomorrow to replace the hinges on your front door. How would that be?"

Mick had taken a sip of coffee. Suddenly it came spraying from his mouth. He gaped in shock at Cal, but said nothing.

Cal glowered at him, then tossed Mick a roll of paper towels. "Clean that up," he ordered with sharp, military-style abruptness.

"Excuse me?" Fiona chimed in reply.

"I wasn't talking to you, sorry." He rolled his eyes at Mick and raked a hand through his hair. "So can I come by this afternoon to see what kind of hinges the door needs?"

"Are you sure about this?" She seemed surprised, maybe. Or reluctant. Probably a bit of both, he guessed.

Whatever it was she was feeling, Cal figured she'd never see through his charming little facade to discover his ulterior motives.

With some precision scheduling, he'd be fixing the hinges on her door Wednesday afternoon, after she listened to Ghost Rider's program. Call it a perverse fantasy, but Cal wanted to see her reaction to the show. It was worth a few hours of manual labor, which actually happened to be something he was pretty good at.

He poured on the honey. "I've got tomorrow afternoon free and it would be my pleasure to get that door of yours fixed."

"Why are you doing this?"

He didn't have to see her expression to hear the skepticism in her voice. "I'm from the South, Ma'am. Just being neighborly."

"Well, Cal Turner, thank you." In a faux Southern tone that not only tickled his funny bone but also caused some pulsing in the most unexpected places, she breathed, "Ah've nev-ah been one ta turn down the kindness of a strange-ah."

He chuckled easily, but her Scarlet O'Hara impersonation made his blood race and his carnal appetite snarl like a hungry lion. "My pleasure." His tone was effortlessly sincere, which irritated the heck out of him.

Mick rolled his eyes and made a kissy-face.

"See you in a bit then, Fiona." He replaced the receiver onto the handset and breathed for what may have been the first time since dialing her number. When the afterglow faded, his eyes settled on Mick and he admonished, "For Pete's sake, man, you're like a kid. Keep the coffee in your mouth or in your cup. Not all over the place."

Mick waved a hand, rolled his eyes again, and tossed the coffee-soiled paper towels into a nearby trashcan. "Whatever. And you were flirting, ya know."

"Like hell," Cal snarled, maybe a bit too hastily.

"Yeah. Ya were. I know flirting when I hear it. It's what I wanna do, but what my wife whacks me over the head for if she catches me." He gave Cal a nod and a broad, taunting smirk. "I know flirting."

"I'm not going to say she isn't attractive. She is." Cal swallowed hard. His throat felt as if it were in the clutches of an iron grip. "But she's also a certifiable nut case. I'm just trying to stay on her good side. This is purely for my own gain." He cleared his throat and gave what he hoped was a casual shrug. "And for the good of the community. No one needs to be subjected to someone like Fiona Kelly."

Sounding cool and nonchalant took more work than he'd anticipated. He forced back a cuss word, hating the way this woman, the one responsible for his botched wedding day, was getting to him. He never should've gone to her in the first place. Or volunteered to fix her hinges. What the hell was he thinking?

"Trying to stay on her good side," Mick repeated with a knowing smile and a zealous nod to back it up. "Yeah. I'll bet." He wagged his head in amusement. "So ... which side is her best side? Front or back?"

Cal ducked his head behind the newspaper he'd lifted to block the view of his red face and perspiring brow. That way, Mick wouldn't see him grimace either.

He'd spent the last couple of days wrestling with his unexpected attraction to Fiona Kelly. He didn't want to be intrigued by her. Heck, he didn't even want to like her. Common sense and self-control were abandoning him. The fastest cure for that would be ripping her apart on the air tomorrow morning. And he would. But good.

* * * *

Cal arrived at four just as Fiona was about to close up shop.

"Done for the day already?" He flashed a smile that could have melted the entire continent of Antarctica. It sure did a number on Fiona's reserve. Cal Turner oozed charisma.

Fiona caught herself noticing even the smallest of details about him. The defined cleft in his chin. The keen sparkle in those mocha eyes. How his boyish smile was just a little crooked, in a very scrumptious way that made Fiona fantasize about those lips of his and the things she'd love them to do. With thoughts like that, it was no wonder her belly was full of butterflies the size of bats.

He was one hundred percent virile, sensual male. She had struggled, since his rescue on Saturday, to put him out of her thoughts. Her track record with men like Cal - Alpha males - wasn't exactly award-winning.

Fiona could spot an Alpha male a mile away and had learned to steer well clear of them. But his telephone call that morning had certainly thrown a monkey wrench into that plan. "Out of sight, out of mind," was next to impossible when she couldn't turn down his offer to fix her door. No woman in her right mind would have. She hadn't the faintest idea how to change door hinges. Home repairs weren't in her repertoire.

Nevertheless, something about Cal Turner spelled danger in big, bright neon letters. She hadn't quite put her finger on what it was yet exactly, but the twinge of it nipped at her. And always, in the back of her mind, was the thought that she still didn't know the identity of Dark Knight. So any man would be a suspect.

Even one who made her insides go all quivery like Cal Turner did just standing there looking like temptation on a warm platter.

"I close early to do my gardening." Her smile felt stiff and nervous. Not surprising. Fiona didn't trust herself alone with this guy for a minute. "Thanks for coming by."

He raked long fingers through his hair. "My pleasure."

Those muscles ... those hands ... those eyes ... A shudder coursed along her spine and Fiona's mouth went dry. Heart thumping like mad, she turned away. "I need to sweep up. Unless there's something I can do to help?"

His smile was wide and self-assured. "Nope. Got it all under control."

Fiona wished she could say the same.

Cal made long-legged, power-packed strides from his car to her porch, first with a tape measure, then with a notepad. Fiona tried not to steal sidelong glances at him, but sweeping the floor provided little distraction. Dirt was dirt. Uninteresting compared to the tall, dark and handsome drink of water standing in her doorway.

When he stretched upward to inspect the top hinge, his T-shirt hiked up a bit, revealing a strong, lean abdomen, slightly dusted with dark hair. Her pulse skittered clear off the charts. His arms were taut with muscle, his jaw squared, and his peppered-onyx hair slicked back and glistening.

The man was a god. Or the devil himself. She hadn't exactly figured out which yet.

Parts of her, however, didn't seem to care. A bead of sweat trickled between the swell of Fiona's breasts. She indulged in deliciously erotic daydreams of Cal's hands - those long slender fingers and the pleasure she was certain that just a stroke or two from him would give her.

He startled her by sending a grin in her direction. She turned beet red, blood roaring in her ears, like a child caught with her hand in the candy jar. He was some kinda candy. Sweet sin.

She dropped the broom. Gasping, Fiona jumped when it made a loud clapping sound as it hit the floor. Heart in her throat, she stifled a groan. Darn it. What a klutz.

His grin broadened. He looked rugged and boyish and Fiona could've jumped his bones in two seconds flat. With one seductive, alluring glance, Cal had managed to throw the equivalent of a gallon of gasoline onto the four-alarm fire already raging out of control inside of her.

When he reached for the hinge again, Fiona couldn't take the torture any longer. Stumbling over herself, she fled to the kitchen, trying desperately to keep her thoughts and hands busy. No task seemed too big or too small to fill the next few moments and hold her a safe distance from the mouth-watering hunk at her front door.

Where in the world was Piper? Fiona needed a chaperone!

She didn't exactly have a winning streak when it came to men. Especially men like Cal Turner. After a dozen or so failed relationships, in a bold but wise move, she had turned to astrology for romantic clarity.

Not surprisingly, it came to her as naturally as herbs and advice-giving had. As if it were in her blood. Maybe it was.

Her mother had followed the same path for as long as Fiona could remember. Before the age of five, she had come to know that, while her friends took over-the-counter cold medications and chicken noodle soup, Fiona's mother fed her teas made with things like Echinacea, white horehound or slippery elm, then sent her to bed with a eucalyptus and peppermint rubdown. Together, they had made soaps from goat's milk and lavender, and pain creams from plant oils and herbed mixtures, able to cure most anything.

And almost daily, her mother mapped her life by the stars.

While thus far the galaxy had done little to help Fiona find a mate, it had come to her rescue a time or two, and helped her weed out the losers. It was both unfortunate and predictable that weeds were a dime a dozen.

Was Cal Turner a weed? More important, did Fiona have enough nerve and good judgment to find out? Hard to know. She was fast becoming too distracted by his handsome attributes to focus on whether or not he'd be a decent intellectual and philosophical love match for her. Love at first sight? Doubtful. More like starved-libido-needs-feeding at first sight.

This wasn't the first time Fiona had considered settling for a man based on her physical reaction to him. Her last mistake was a fetching blonde-haired, blue-eyed model named Peter, who enjoyed spreading himself thin ... amongst practically the entire female population. After Peter, Fiona had decided to rely more on the stars and less on her sometimes-defective instincts - instincts that could be confused by an all-too-willing hormonal response.

So far, charisma and good looks weren't all Cal Turner had going for him, though. After all, he'd offered to fix her door. And he'd rescued her from the fruit tree. Good signs, right?

Not a moment too soon came the rattle and clamor of Piper's beat up sedan. In a whirlwind of dust, she pulled up to the farmhouse. Fiona breathed a sigh of relief.

Reinforcement had arrived.

* * * *

If Cal thought Fiona was a kook, Piper Davis blew that perception clear out of the water.

She looked like a gypsy, with her hair tucked into a scarf and huge golden hoop earrings dangling from her lobes. Her dress reminded Cal of living room drapes his mother had made back in the seventies. As far as makeup, he thought she must've applied her dramatic look with spackling tools.

She smiled broadly at Cal. Her big-as-saucer brown eyes devoured him from head to toe. Then she snapped her gaze to Fiona and suggestively cooed, "Ooh, Fee, you should have told me you had company."

Fiona's cheeks flushed a charming pink and she grinned apologetically at Cal. "Cal, this is Piper Davis, my closest gal pal and associate. Piper, this is Cal Turner." Without pause, she added to her friend, "Please don't embarrass me."

"The man who rescued you from the orange tree?" Piper gasped melodramatically. "Oh, my! You certainly are a knight in shining armor, aren't you?" With unmasked appreciation, her wide, dark eyes raked over him, then abruptly honed in on his face. "Did you like my calendula soap? Is your face as soft now as a baby's butt?"

Cal's laughter was spontaneous. This Piper was a hoot. It was hard not to like her. Running a hand through his hair, then over his chin, he admitted, "It's great."

He glanced at Fiona, who smiled, then bit her bottom lip.

Something pulled at his chest. Her natural beauty was a welcome contrast to Piper's sharply defined features. Fiona had an earthy glow about her that was so distracting, he barely noticed that Piper had grabbed his hand.

"Nice palm." She ran an index finger over the inside of his left hand. "No ring." She eyed Fiona, repeating, "No ring."

The color in Fiona's cheeks deepened and she sported a self-conscious grin. "Piper's studying palmistry," she whispered to Cal in a tone loud enough for her friend to hear. "Don't worry. She isn't very good at it."

"Hey! I heard that." Piper focused on tracing the lines in his palm with her index finger. "Shh ... you're breaking my concentration."

"This could take a while," Fiona warned him with a mischievous wink that tested his commitment to loathe her.

"You enjoy the elegant and luxurious things in life," Piper hummed in a deep, monotone voice.

"Piper, his BMW's parked right out front. Even I could have told you that."

"Shh." Piper elevated a brow and gazed up at him. "You're a businessman, right?"

"Oh, Piper." Fiona groaned and rolled her eyes. "No. He's a well-paid sanitation worker."

Cal bit back a chuckle. It would have been easier to enjoy the not-too-subtle jabs of humor between these two women if one of them wasn't poking her finger into the palm of his hand, and her nose into the center of his life.

"Funny, Fee. Please keep a lid on it." To Cal, Piper repeated, "Businessman? Yes or no?"

Panic jolted him clear to his core. What if this wacko Piper actually could read his palm?

Cal had the nuttiest urge to yank his hand away. Then he reminded himself that she could trace the lines in his palm until doomsday and never know the truth about him unless he chose to reveal it to her. His hands were once wrapped around an M-16 rifle, too, but the crags and calluses and crevices he'd earned while serving his country couldn't talk. And they certainly couldn't tell her that Cal owned a radio station. Or that he was Ghost Rider. Only weak ignorant folks who didn't have the guts to grab their destinies by the horns believed in palm readings.

His tone was bland. "I was in the military. But not now."

She rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed, and snapped, "You're not supposed to offer information. It ruins the reading!"

He cleared his throat and set his jaw, but said nothing.

"You were in the military?" she repeated a bit too loudly. Piper eyed Fiona, whose back was toward them, as she shifted bottles and canisters on the display table. Cal had the feeling she was trying to ignore them and only appeared busy.

He hesitated, not sure Piper wanted a reply, then confirmed, "The Army."

"Were you overseas?"

"Desert Storm."

She beamed with satisfaction. "I knew that."

"Sure you did." He laughed, in spite of the fact that she was making him a bit anxious.

"You aren't in the military anymore."

"True. But I think I already said that - "

"Shh!" She closed her eyes, her dark lashes shadowing heavily made-up cheeks. Still tracing the lines in his palm with her fingertip, she pursed full bright red lips and hummed.

Cal swallowed hard and tried to be patient. But this woman, tracing the creases in his hand over and over again, was starting to drive him nuts.

Her lids flew open and she studied him with huge dark eyes. "Nervous?"

"No." It wasn't his most convincing reply.

"Your palm is sweating."

"I - I think I've had enough." Cal tried to pull off a polite smile and hoped he succeeded. Then he stuffed his hands in his pockets, to keep them away from Piper.

She shrugged. "I'm better with Tarot cards anyway."

"No, she's not," Fiona added from where she rearranged labeled jars of herbs on shelves.

"I am, too." Piper lifted her chin and indignantly came to her own defense. "I saw that stalker, didn't I?"

Cal's interest was piqued immediately. It grew when Fiona whirled around to glare at her friend. Her eyes were sharp and angry.

"Stalker?" He glanced from one woman to the other.

"Piper..." Fiona spoke her name as a cautionary word.

"Oh, Fee, please." Piper rolled her eyes.

"Stalker?" Cal repeated, hoping someone would toss him a bone.

"It's ... personal." There was decisiveness in Fiona's tone. She glared at Piper once more, then brought her hand to the crystal around her neck, clasping the stone with a shaky grip. Was that why she wore the crystal? For protection against a stalker?

A stalker! An icy knot of tension formed in his gut.

Was he concerned? For Fiona, the nut case? Maybe. Why not? He had issues with the kooky stargazer, sure, but hell, he didn't want her being stalked by someone crazier than she was.

Besides, this could be the juicy tidbit, the dirt he was looking for...

Hands on his hips, he glanced from Piper to Fiona, but his silent interrogation met with a deafening quiet. As each woman turned her back to him, Cal's curiosity rose like a battered soldier from the ashes of a brutal war.

Damn it, he thought to himself, gritting his teeth against the unsettling reality. He wouldn't rest until he knew what the hell Piper saw in her Tarot cards, and why the crazy kook he'd pegged for his enemy suddenly seemed vulnerable and scared of whatever might be just around the corner.

Chapter Four

"Bet he's an Aries." Balanced on the porch rail, Piper swung her legs and delivered her two cents' worth of wisdom.

Fiona bit her lip to ward off a sulky response, swiped her perspiring forehead with the back of a dirty gloved hand and continued yanking weeds from the herb beds.

Typical Piper. Her usual odd mixture of aggressive indifference, made even more irritating by the casual manner in which she sipped her glass of iced tea.

The sun was riding higher into a sky so blue it could've made the gods cry. It warmed the emerald green hills and bumpy knuckles of lush landscape which rose to meet the azure sky.

Fiona took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the calming fragrance of lavender and jasmine, then feigned off-handed disregard. "He who?"

"Playing dumb was never your style, Fee."

"Well ... neither was playing it safe, but it is now," Fiona countered, snatching a dandelion.

"Don't bore me with your ‘safety first' speech. You missed a spot." She wagged a finger at three dandelion heads, jutting up amidst the fragrant purple lavender buds.

"Why don't you get off your duff and help me?"

"Because I'm better at delegating. That's what we Aries folk do best." A loud gulp of tea, then, "And we can spot our own a mile away. Bet you five bucks Cal's an Aries."

"Keep your money. I already know he is." Fiona glanced at her wristwatch, adding, "And he's due any minute, so you should skedaddle. You make him nervous."

Piper waved a hand as if she could care less. "He'll get over it." She sipped her tea thoughtfully, then prodded, "So, my Aquarian friend, if he's an Aries, you know what that means, don't you?"

Fiona heaved a weary sigh. "Of course I do. It means I'm in big trouble." She blew a breath across her bottom lip, scattering damp auburn spirals from her eyes. "I don't want to talk about Cal right now. So stop. You're distracting me."

Piper's spontaneous cackle was shrill. "Okay. I'm going to pretend, for a moment, that it takes complete concentration to tell a weed from an herb."

Fiona grimaced. "You have no idea." Weeds were everywhere, weren't they? Just like the ones entangled amongst the lavender blooms. They always managed to work their way into Fiona's life somehow.

"Something tells me we aren't talking about dandelions anymore."

"Piper, Cal is - "

"A hunk," Piper interjected with a cheeky grin. "And, according to the rules of astrology, he's your perfect match."

With an unequivocal shake of her head, Fiona disagreed. "He's not my type. I don't care what the stars say." Lifting a brow at her gaping friend, she added, "In this instance."

Piper grinned, but said nothing, which was actually more of an annoyance than her badgering.

"Besides, he's a little pretentious, driving that Beemer." Fiona tossed her head to one side, thinking aloud again. "And please, do you really see me with an ex-military man? I don't think so." Swatting away a hornet, she rose, carrying lavender clippings in her apron skirt.

"He was saving our country, and you want to save the world. Is it all that different?"

Fiona's jaw dropped and she focused a deadpan stare on her friend. "Do you really want one of my soapbox speeches on karma and harmony?"

Piper held her hands up defensively. "Sorry. Spare me. I've heard it all before. I keep forgetting my best friend is one of the last surviving hippies." She rolled her eyes and, straddling the rail, hiked her skirt up thigh-high. "He had a nice hand."

"The hand comes with the package."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Piper grinned, arching a brow. "The package wasn't so bad either, but I'm sure you've noticed."

"Of course I have." Making light of it, Fiona tossed her head to the side, wishing she didn't blush so easily. "I'm not dead, after all." She started up the porch steps. "But you're nuts if you think I'd ever fall for a guy like Cal. He's all wrong for me."

Fiona gave the situation a millisecond of thought before turning to Piper and saying, "That's the thing about Aries men. I'm not sure why in the world any sane Aquarian female would pair up with one. He's my polar opposite. No matter what the stars say. I need to find me a nice, down to earth Gemini, which, by the way, is also a perfect match for me." She nodded, eyes wide at the prospect. "Better yet, one of my own kind."

"Ha! Sure. You and your Aquarian mate can have a nice, peaceful, humanitarian-serving little life together. Sounds real ... passionate. Hot." Piper fanned herself with a hand. "Whew. Breaking out in a sweat here. Really. Wanna see?" She held out an arm.

"Hush up," Fiona flatly retorted, but not without an indulgent chuckle at her friend's predictable wit and sarcasm. "I've had lousy luck with guys like Cal."

She dumped the apron contents into her kitchen sink. While the buds soaked in water, Fiona checked on the lavender scones baking in the oven.

Piper sauntered in, grinning impishly. "He's a hunk, Fee. You can't tell me sparks don't fly when you look at him, honey. I saw them for myself."

Fiona threw up her hands. "Oh, for Pete's sake, Piper, will you leave it alone?"

"Speaking of Pete, that's who this is about, isn't it? Peter the model? Peter the Aries?" Her ruby-painted mouth twisted in disapproval. "I hated him." She looked to the ceiling and muttered a quick, "Sorry."

"Peter was just ... Peter," Fiona sighed, rubbing the back of one hand across her perspiring forehead. "The world is full of different personality-types. His was just one of the lesser appealing."

Her friend's laugh was shrill. "I wouldn't have put it so poetically, Fee, dear." Piper lifted a dark brow, something in her eyes softening a little. "You're too forgiving sometimes."

With a subtle smile, she teased, "You say that like it's a bad thing." Before Piper could respond, Fiona waved a hand, adding, "It's not just about Peter. It's about every testosterone-capsule I've made the mistake of dating in the last ten years, Piper."

"Maybe you just need to find the right Aries man," her friend suggested in a bright tone. When Fiona scowled at the prospect, Piper's smile dimmed, and she conceded, with a sigh, "Fine. I'll change the subject."

Fiona turned to the sink and hand-stirred the lavender buds gently while they soaked. She inhaled the rich fragrance and breathed, "Thank you."

"You know that guy on the radio is going to have a field day with yesterday's article, don't you? Watch out, Dr. Ruth, here comes Fiona and her supplements. Sure to cure any sign of male impotency." Piper elevated jet-black eyebrows, waiting for a reaction.

Fiona shrugged, pulling scones from the baking sheet. One at a time she tossed them into a breadbasket. "I'm not going to start screening my letters, and my answers to them, just because of Ghost Rider. You know my views on comprising."

"Yeah. That's also on my list of favorite Fiona speeches. Right up there with your lecture on war and peace."

Fiona lifted a brow, the corners of her mouth twitching at a smile. "Are you saying I'm a blowhard?"

"I'd never say that." Piper bit her lip in a failed attempt to keep from smirking and averted her gaze. "You give darn good relationship advice, for a woman whose love life could put the dead to sleep."

"Can it, Piper."

"I'm just saying - "

"Well, don't."

"You're good at giving advice and - "

"Piper..."

" - lousy at following it." Piper lifted her hands and vowed, at least for the moment, "Subject closed."

"You always have to have the last word, don't you?" Fiona groaned irritably.

Piper gave an apologetic lift to her brow, the tips of her smile almost repentant. "Toss me a scone. Please." Piper caught the roll Fiona pitched to her and continued, "Ghost Rider ... he's kind of a fan. At least you could look at it that way."

Fiona glowered at the prospect. "With fans like him, who needs enemies?" She popped a piece of scone into her mouth, closed her eyes and sighed at the rich, aromatic flavor that only a lavender scone could produce.

"Speaking of enemies..." Piper cleared her throat and focused on the scone in her hands. "Any more letters from Dark Knight?"

The mere mention of her angry letter-writing fan had Fiona's heart throbbing in hard jerks. Her mouthful of scone paused at the swell of apprehension in her throat, then finally passed with an audible gulp. "I don't want to talk about it." In a gesture of finality, she set down the scone, brushed her hands together, lifted a brow and met her friend's gaze squarely.

"Fee, you really need to do something about this."

Fiona shook her head. "What? Contact the police? Tell them that I, a newspaper advice columnist, have a disgruntled fan who won't stop writing to me? What'll they do, post a guard at my mailbox? Or at my back door?" Instantly Fiona bit her lip.

"Back door? What about the back door? Fee? Fee!"

She hadn't meant to tell Piper about the letter stuck in her door. Her friend already worried about her quite enough. She didn't need to know that the situation was getting worse. Much worse. "I-I just meant ... you know..." she trailed off vaguely.

Piper looked at her with an intense scrutiny but Fiona turned back to the sink full of lavender. The worried, helpless expression on her friend's face was uncharacteristic of her usual strong, fearless nature. "Fiona, this has gone on long enough. It's been happening for weeks now. This guy's not giving up."

With a tight, unyielding smile, Fiona swallowed hard over the tension in her throat. Lifting her chin, she ignored the waver in her belly. "Well, I'm not giving up either."

* * * *

"Done." Cal brushed his hands over the backside of his blue jeans and gave Fiona a contented grin. He had spent the afternoon not only changing the hinges on her door but the locks, too. The brass hardware matched, shiny and new. His work was impressive.

Fiona beamed at him over her shoulder, then turned back to her customer Mrs. Farnsworth, handing her a brown paper bag filled with soaps and cayenne oil.

"There you are, Mrs. Farnsworth. Rub some of that oil on your hands when the arthritis flares up, and tell Mr. Farnsworth to enjoy the calendula soap."

Elderly Mrs. Farnsworth nodded, smiled, and thanked Fiona. Shuffling to the door, she gave Cal's cheek a pat while he grinned boyishly and tipped an imaginary hat. Then, as if it were second nature, he hooked his arm through hers, and escorted her down the porch steps to her burgundy Cadillac.

Fiona watched, a warm pinch tweaking at her heart. Not only was he robust and handsome as the devil but gallant, too. With a shaky sigh, Fiona clasped the crystal around her neck. Suddenly the one thing she needed protection from most was her starved libido.

Piper's remembered words filtered through her head. "You can't tell me sparks don't fly when you look at him, honey."

Sparks nothing. It was the Fourth of July.

This was rapidly becoming more than physical attraction. Fiona was seeing another side of Cal Turner - a warm, generous, compassionate nature. While his physical attributes were turning her head, his deeper qualities were beginning to turn her heart.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the antique mirror over the fireplace made Fiona gasp in horror. For heaven's sake, she was a mess! Hastily she smoothed her hair back so that it lay in a mildly mussed bun at the base of her neck. Stray curls which had long ago tumbled free framed her flushed cheeks and damp forehead. A thickly coiled mess, her hair looked like a tumbleweed on fire. Her white blouse and blue cotton skirt were dirt-smudged and wrinkled as if she'd slept in them. She had been gardening when Cal drove up, minutes after convincing Piper to go, even if a chaperone might have come in handy.

Fiona didn't exactly trust herself alone with Cal, since the only thing standing between them was her weakening restraint and ambitious sex drive. But she didn't want Piper scaring him off before he fixed her door.

Two hours, seven customers, and three telephone calls later, Cal's work was done, though he didn't appear eager to leave.

Fiona smoothed her skirt, realizing that any effort short of showering and changing into another outfit altogether was probably pointless. And why did she care, anyway?

Because Fiona couldn't answer that question, she knew it was ridiculous to rely on her better judgment. After all, she hadn't been with a man in ... well, a long time. Her once dormant hormones, deep in hibernation, had sprung to vibrant life with the entry of this very attractive, very masculine man into her life.

Fiona managed a nervous, crooked smile of thanks as Cal sauntered back into the store. "You did a wonderful job, Cal. Thank you."

He nodded and his smile broadened. The flash of white seemed brighter against the shadow of afternoon beard on his jaw and chin. In a low and very sexy tone, he answered, "My pleasure."

Fiona's heart pounded like crazy. Her pulse did that wild skittering thing it always did just before her legs turned into something resembling cooked spaghetti noodles. "If you can give me a minute to lock up the cash register and put a few things away, I'll pour us some iced tea." She stuffed her hands into her skirt pockets. Their trembling would've definitely given away her teetering facade of composure. At present, it was all about the facade. She couldn't - wouldn't - let this man know just how much he unnerved her.

He gazed at her for the longest time, and she almost thought he was going to turn down the iced tea offer. The thought of rejection from him jangled her nerves even more. But finally he said, still gazing intently at her, "Sure. I'd appreciate that. I have some cleaning up to do myself. Do you have a broom I could use to sweep up the sawdust?"

She waved a hand toward the wood floor, but her voice was high-pitched and tense, an involuntary response to his steady, unfiltered gaze. "Oh, I can get that. I sweep everyday."

He shook his head and insisted, "No. I'll do it."

And there was that take-charge Aries attitude. On Cal, though, darn if it didn't enhance his sex appeal. She handed him the broom and tried not to stare as he swept. He wasn't exactly the type of man a woman could ignore without a whole lot of effort. Perspiration-glistened arms, thick with rugged muscle, beckoned from the navy blue T-shirt he wore. The shirt was untucked at his waist, just above a firm backside she had noticed once - okay, maybe twice - throughout the afternoon. Powerful legs were clad in worn denim that hugged tight in all the right places. Washed-out jeans had never looked so good. Tired old cowboy boots scraped the floor as he worked, making the hair rise at the back of Fiona's neck.

She made idle small talk in an attempt to keep her wits about her. "So, Cal, you were in the Army?"

"Yes, ma'am." The grating of his boots against the floor was countered by the soft swoosh of broom bristles.

"For how long?"

Fiona moved from table to table, straightening bottles, statues, candles and other display items that were askew. She wasn't obsessive about orderliness, but she liked her store the way she liked it - neat and organized. It helped balance out the rest of the chaos in her life. At present, with Cal in the room, life seemed a bit more chaotic than usual. Focusing her attention on rows of merchandise helped bring her heart rate back to normal, if not her body temperature.

"I served for eleven years. I joined on graduation day." He cleared his throat and added, "High school graduation."

Wide-eyed, she glanced at him. "Oh. Wow. You were so ... young."

A quiet chuckle rumbled deep in his throat. "In some ways, yes. In others, no." He stopped sweeping a moment, resting his chin on the tip of the broom handle. "My father was a general by the time he died. I was an Army brat. It was in my blood. I figured joining up wouldn't be much of a stretch for me." He opened the door and swept the dirt onto the porch. "Come to find out, it wasn't a stretch at all. In fact it felt more like home than home did. My dad wasn't around much, but when he was, he ran a tight ship. The military took over where he left off."

There was more than a smidgen of rancor in his tone. It sparked Fiona's curiosity but she didn't press. From what she'd learned through trial and error, Aries men despised having personal information pried from them. Cal would offer of his own accord, or not. Nevertheless something in his tone had her wondering about his relationship with his father.

"Did you become a general as well?" What she knew about the military could fit into a thimble, and still have room for a thumb.

His chuckle further supported that fact. "It takes years, many years, to become a general. I wasn't in long enough."

"So how far did you go?" Fiona looked up from the bottles of essential oil that she had been arranging in tidy rows.

He swept the dirt off the porch. When he was done, he stopped, looked at her, and smiled tentatively. "All the way to Desert Storm. I led troops across the desert."

She gaped at him. Fiona had never met anyone who had been to war. Her parents, renegade hippies, had protested bloodshed by holding anti-war demonstrations.

Sheer curiosity got the better of her. "Did you ... shoot anyone?"

From the doorway, Cal lowered his chin. He met her gaze with dark, solemn eyes, from beneath lifted brows - another typically Aries characteristic. "Something tells me you don't really want an answer to that, Fiona."

A coy smile wavered over her lips. Her belly twisted under his smoky stare, but she hoisted her chin a notch and didn't flinch. "Are you saying I can't handle the truth?"

Cal carefully took in his surroundings, as if what lined the shelves would influence his reply. Then he cleared his throat. "War is ugly. People get shot. People get dead."

He watched her with a purposeful stare that threw her off-balance. A chill stumbled along her spine.

"I was lucky. I only got shot." He stood the broom in a corner by the door. "Once you're injured in battle, you're discharged. Honorably. You walk away with a hole in you and a medal to cover it up."

"My parents were war protestors," she blurted, feeling a telltale heat creep into her cheeks.

His smile faded around the edges just a little. "And you?"

With a timid grin, she echoed his previous reply. "Something tells me you don't really want an answer to that, Cal."

He laughed. "That about wraps it up, I guess."

There was a catch in her voice as she felt inclined to add, "What I feel about the military and war doesn't overshadow the fact that I know that without men and women in uniform we wouldn't have the freedoms we have." She shrugged, her eyes lowering to the blue vial of basil oil she toyed with in her hands. "I'd just like to think we could find a better way to resolve issues."

"Maybe we can. Maybe we can't. After what I saw on the other side, believe me, I wish there was another solution." He looked away, his jaw clenched hard. "Too many lives are lost in battle. Some survivors come back wishing they hadn't, because what they saw was too terrible to forget, and too horrible to remember."

Fiona mumbled a breathy, "Oh," then blinked back the sudden sting of tears in her eyes and looked away.

His response was candid. It also explained volumes about him and the worldliness she saw in his eyes. The hardness. The two of them were so different. From alternate universes, actually. Realizing this was a bigger blow than she'd anticipated.

She cleared her throat. Her voice was dry as sandpaper when she asked, "You got shot? Where?"

Without hesitation, he pointed to his left shoulder.

"Did it hurt?"

He nodded slowly, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. His sensual mouth curled at the edges.

She rolled her eyes and muttered, "I'm sorry ... Of course it did. That was a silly question."

"Now it's a great barometer. No storm will ever hit without my knowing it first." His grin lifted the right side of his mouth, boyish and handsome. Her heart fluttered.

"I'll bet some eucalyptus and mint oils would help." With a little too much enthusiasm, she reached toward the table to snatch the bottles. Instead, she knocked over several tiny blue vials, causing a domino effect. In mere seconds, her carefully placed arrangement was in disarray. "Oh, for heaven's sake..."

Heart pounding like mad, perspiration beading on her brow, she fumbled with the bottles, trying to catch them before they crashed to the floor, creating a bigger comedy of errors.

"Let me help." In an instant, he was there, his arm brushing hers. The contact sent a wave of heat over her, feeding into Fiona's inner turmoil and flailing dignity.

"Are you always this skittish?" The humor in his tone was unmistakable.

Her cheeks flamed. It was foolish to come to her own defense, yet the words spilled from her anyway. "I'm not skittish. Just a veritable klutz." Could she be more transparent? "I just have a certain way I like things."

"Obsessive-compulsive, huh?"

Her cheeks were so hot. "No." She swallowed hard, closed her eyes a second, then conceded, "Okay ... maybe a little."

When he laughed, his dark eyes twinkled. "You don't have to explain it to me. I spent most of my life bouncing a quarter off of a perfectly made bed, and scrubbing the latrine with a toothbrush."

Fiona burst into spontaneous giggles, a release of nervous energy no doubt, and shook her head, admitting, "Suddenly I don't feel so bad."

With the tiny blue bottle fiasco under control, Cal stood back, hooked thumbs through his belt loops, and watched her work. Humming to herself, Fiona had the table back in order in no time at all. Having conquered momentary chaos, she heaved a sigh of relief and brushed the hair from her face.

Cal eyes raked over her and something she couldn't quite identify flickered dark behind his eyes. Whatever it was hung heavily, palpably, in the air between them, causing Fiona's heartbeat to pulse in her ears and the hair at the back of her neck to stand on end.

Then, just as quickly as the odd sensation came, it passed, and Cal ran a hand through his hair, off-handedly asking, "When did you start writing for the paper?"

She laughed softly, looked away, and felt her cheeks flush again. "Two years ago." Shaking her head, she mused, "It still catches me off guard when someone mentions it."

"That guy on KKAL - "

Her groan of displeasure cut him off. "Ghost Rider." Fiona's heart took an immediate nosedive, plunging deep into her gut. "World's biggest jackass."

"Pardon me?" The question sputtered from him. It was followed by a wide-eyed, hearty bellow of laughter.

Fiona grinned sheepishly, rolled her eyes, and bit her lip. She could've spewed a string of cuss words aimed at the half-witted disc jockey, but she refrained. Instead, she blurted, "I'm sorry. My annoyance with him is still fresh on my mind, after this morning's show."

He nodded in understanding, before setting his toolbox on the porch. "He sure raked your article over the coals."

"After two months, you would think I'd be used to it by now," Fiona grumbled irritably, folding her arms across her chest. "I keep hoping he'll give up on me and pick on somebody else for a change. Not that I'd wish his asinine rantings on anyone else."

Cal's dark, mysterious eyes settled on her. He had a way of sizing her up and making her feel ... naked. Something red-hot sliced through her.

It was probably a mistake to encourage him to stay, and Fiona wasn't supposed to be in the market for making mistakes anymore. Nevertheless, the invitation tumbled from her lips, hurried and breathless, as she offered, "Come on. I owe you some iced tea. You must be parched."

As his boots slid in step behind her, Fiona's common sense rose from the ashes long enough to question her actions. What in the world was she doing? In spite of her best-laid plans to play it safe, Fiona had no answer, and she couldn't help but wonder who or what was in control of her destiny now.

Chapter Five

Cal surveyed Fiona's kitchen with its modest space, cluttered countertops, dried herbs hanging from kite string, antique stove, and framed pressed-flower portraits. Rays from the slowly descending sun streamed through a window where crystals hung, casting a shimmer of rainbows to fill the room. Blue canisters of herbs, pastas, flour and dried beans took up the meager counter space. Another corner was rendered unusable by a huge fruit basket, laden with more apples, oranges, pears, and bananas than any single woman could possibly polish off by herself.

A dinette for two occupied the only bit of floor space left and was positioned smack dab in the middle of the room. A fat calico cat with too much fur and too little ambition was curled on the tabletop, nestled between a sunflower-design place mat and a potted miniature yellow rose bush.

"Scoot, Miriam," he heard Fiona whisper, as she swatted at the feline, missing the cat by a foot. Nevertheless, the gesture alone was enough to send the cat leaping from the table and bounding toward the store.

"Nice kitchen." He cocked his head to one side, dodging a bundle of dried herbs strung from the ceiling.

Fiona took a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator. "It's too small for me, actually. Most of my work is done in this room and in the shop." Her smile was soft and a touch wistful as she poured him a glass of tea. "I have high hopes of building on to this room someday, though."

He nodded once, then drank the glass of tea dry in five seconds flat. When he was through, he set the glass on the countertop and met her gaze. The flecks of gold in her eyes crackled and her cheeks turned a sexy shade of pink. Then she looked away.

Cal watched her hand shake as she poured a glass for herself, and then refilled his. All of her concentration seemed focused on the task. Was he making her nervous? The idea should have brought him great satisfaction, but it didn't.

Disgruntled, he knew that he'd let his guard down, and let her get under his skin. That wasn't supposed to happen. His motivation was animosity and the sweet taste of revenge. Having spent most of the day there with her hadn't sharpened his focus on revenge. Instead, it had swept aside motive and common sense, replacing them with a better-defined image of who Fiona Kelly was.

He could've changed the hardware on her door in a half-hour, easy. Instead he'd dragged out the project, turning a quick and simple task into a day-long undertaking, his only reason being that Fiona was an enticing distraction. At the time, he'd justified his covert gawking by convincing himself this was "business" - collecting information for Ghost Rider's show. He wasn't supposed to take a personal interest in her, or notice the way she flitted about the shop like a pixie without wings, tending to her wares, keeping the place tidy, refilling herb jars, restocking essential oils, dusting off statues, and polishing crystals.

Fiona hummed a mystery tune that filled the room and crawled into his head, until Cal grew to hate the silence that reigned whenever she stopped. She doted on customers, who seemed to be friends first and clients second. Fiona knew their needs intimately, suggesting remedies for headaches, dietary concerns - even athletes' foot. He had seen her slipping her specially-crafted cream into the hand of a blushing high school quarterback who'd paid her with a fistful of change she never even bothered counting.

Then there was Annie Applebee, who had been out of work for two months, on short-term disability for a knee injury. Fiona gave her some teas, herbal capsules, and massage oils to help with knee pain. Annie paid with an apple pie and two loaves of homemade seven grain bread, which Fiona took with gratitude and grace, a satisfactory smile curling her lips as Annie left Earth Tones with her head held high.

Watching all this from the doorway while he replaced her worn-out hardware, Cal could barely concentrate on his task, and damned near drilled a hole through his hand. When Annie Applebee hobbled past him, too young to have to rely on the use of a wooden cane, he found himself choking back a lump in his throat. He helped Annie to her car, listening while she went on and on about how she wouldn't know what to do without Fiona and her miracle potions.

Cal knew then that he had witnessed a kindness he wouldn't soon forget, although Fiona went about her day as if every Earth Tones customer paid her with baked bread and apple pie or fistfuls of change.

Even more disconcerting was that she fascinated him just by being Fiona Kelly. By the end of the day, he knew the tune she hummed by heart. He expected her to tap a slim unmanicured fingertip to her chin every time she pondered the arrangement of a display. He knew she measured out herbal teas with precise calculations, that she had a habit of smoothing wayward curls of hair behind her ears and, when she was frazzled, most sentences began with "hmm..." while she collected her thoughts.

She could walk around for hours with a smudge of dirt on her cheek and never even notice. He figured she had an aversion to shoes because she was always barefoot, except when she slid into a very worn pair of Birkenstocks as they entered the kitchen. Suddenly he had a foot fetish he'd never before realized until watching her pad softly over the wooden floors as she danced through her day.

This wasn't working out at all the way he'd envisioned. He was supposed to be disgusted by her.

Her fiery mop of hair was so mussed and so sexy it was all he could do to keep his hands from plunging into the lush coils of auburn and gold. Every time she moved, he could smell the perfumed fragrances of lavender, jasmine, and fresh dirt she carried with her. It made him fantasize about laying her on a bed of cool grass and devouring her from head to toe, until he was filled with nothing but her scent, her eyes, her hair and that mouth he hadn't stopped thinking about since the day he'd cut her loose from the orange tree.

Those reckless thoughts burning into his mind - and his groin - were cut short by the shatter of broken glass. Fiona had lost her grip on the tea pitcher. It made a deafening crash as it hit the wood floor, scattering tea, broken glass, and ice cubes in all directions.

Fiona's jaw fell open and he watched the color drain from her wide-eyed expression. "Oh, no!" she cried out. As quickly as the color in her cheeks had faded, it returned in hues of bright red.

His first concern was Fiona. "Are you okay?" he blurted, taking her hands, giving them, and the rest of her, a quick once over. It was a good thing she'd slipped her sandals on.

She nodded, her eyes glistening, her lush mouth quivering with humiliation. "I'm fine," she managed thickly before pulling her hands from his grasp, then self-consciously tucking hair behind her ears. "What a mess. I'm such a klutz!" She glanced down at the floor, then rolled her eyes in dismay.

He smiled despite himself. "No big deal." With methodical composure and control, Cal bent to pick up the larger shards of glass from the floor then put them in the sink.

"I don't know what's gotten into me." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in an obvious attempt to relax. Something about the way she looked, a little forlorn and at the end of her rope, tugged at his chest, when her turmoil should have given him satisfaction. Perplexed, he raked hands through his hair and tried to get a handle on things.

When Cal came toward her, Fiona drew back. Another wash of pink tinged her cheeks as he reached behind her, taking up a roll of paper towels. He flashed a nonchalant grin and chuckled softly, though his heart had begun to race, and his common sense was again trying to fend off an attack by his libido.

Fiona's heart was in her throat. Cal smelled like fragrant soap and perspiration, so robust and sensual it should have been bottled. It made her head reel.

She stood there, frozen and useless, plastered against the cupboards, watching Cal strategically lay paper towels over the spilled mess. The mess she had made. It was no wonder she couldn't control her propensity for accidents - this man had her physical response to him climbing the charts.

Her mind was lost. Long gone. Without common sense, she drank a tall glass of Cal Turner - firm, denim-clad backside; strong, wide-as-Texas span of shoulders; arms she would sell her soul to have wrapped around her straightaway.

He sauntered toward her with a sly grin. Could he read her thoughts? Panic shot through her at the prospect. Fiona gasped and grabbed for her crystal, as he tossed the roll of paper towels onto the counter.

Cal's stare was like liquid heat, caressing her face and neck, then dipping to stroke her breasts. His bold gaze might have offended her, if the responsive tightening of each bud, burning and needful of his touch, hadn't preoccupied her instead. She bit her lip, dying for him to kiss her, afraid of losing herself once he did.

This was wrong. He was all wrong for her and she knew it. Since meeting him, Fiona had made long mental lists of reasons why she shouldn't be attracted to him. But they all had to do with star signs and past experience. The concept of pushing him away shouldn't have been so alien to her.

But it was. When Cal reached toward her, she felt pulled to meet him halfway. And, heaven help her, when his fingers found the path from her cheek to her neck, the last thing she wanted to do was put a stop to the sweet agony of his caress. She closed her eyes against the torment for a split-second and sucked in a breath, her heartbeat tattooing almost painfully in her chest.

His fingers traced the silver chain to her crystal. A spiral of desire swirled in her belly. She held the stone with one hand, her skin hot and tingling where he touched her. The sensation branched out to zones that were miles away from where his fingertips seduced and tortured.

Fiona parted her lips, searching for something to say. The first thing that came to mind was "kiss me." But she bit the words back. Fate was quirky and best left alone to do its job. She had to say something. Anything. The silence was almost as seductive as his touch.

"If you touch my crystal, I'll have to cleanse it."

What a stupid thing to tell him. There he was, staring at her with sexy bedroom eyes, and what was her first inclination? To give him a lesson in Crystal Cleansing 101? No wonder her love life was nonexistent!

He paused and lifted a lazy brow. His hand rested comfortably beside hers, at the base of her neck. There wasn't a millimeter of Fiona that wasn't crying out to him and betraying her resolve. Too overwhelmed by sensations to control her mouth, she rambled incessantly. "When someone touches my crystal, it ... hmm ... has to be ... cleared of ... negative energy ... Not that you have any ... negative energy ... but ... ahh..."

His face dipped to her neck. Her babbling ended with a sensual moan that came from someplace deep inside of her. It trembled up from the center of her body, as Cal planted moist, hot kisses she could feel clear down to -

Oh, heavens. She was melting, no more than a warm puddle. Her knees buckled and he caught her.

"Interesting..." he murmured in her ear. His breath was hot, fueling the inferno raging inside her. In a voice husky with wants and needs he didn't have to express, yet laced with an edge of humor, he asked, "So ... are you telling me to keep my hands off your crystals?" Slowly his hand inched up her midsection, toward her breast. He placed another steamy kiss just below her earlobe, an erogenous zone, no doubt.

"Oh ... my ... stars..." she moaned, her eyes rolling back behind closed lids.

Spicy desire zipped through her veins. Oh, the things this man could do with his mouth. He nipped at her neck, her earlobe, and then slid her blouse over an inch, to kiss her shoulder.

"God, you smell incredible," he murmured, making it impossible for Fiona to think of anything but wrapping herself around him. "What is that scent?"

She stopped herself short of answering that it was the combined efforts of dirt and perspiration. If he thought she smelled great, Fiona wasn't about to argue.

It didn't matter anyway. What he asked of her next nearly made her legs give out altogether.

"Do you want to take it off?" An enticing smile curled his sensual lips.

She gaped at him, dumbfounded for a moment. Her clothing? He sure didn't waste much time, did he? The lack of a reply sat like a lump in her throat.

"Your crystal," he clarified, with a sly and delicious grin, as if reading her mind. His eyes twinkled and Fiona was sure she could have devoured him on the spot.

The back of her neck tingled. "No," she managed in a hoarse whisper. "I don't mind cleansing it."

She couldn't wait any longer. Fiona sighed and pressed her mouth to his. Standing on tiptoe, she wrapped her arms around his neck. Fire scorched her veins, and her heart pumped like crazy.

Cal groaned, deep and animal-like. With masculine vigor, he plunged his tongue into her mouth, tasting her. His hunger left her breathless and dizzy. She knew then that the little dance they had been doing, until that moment, had been driving them equally insane with desire.

Fiona's once dormant hormones woke with an explosion of spark and flame. Desire ran the rapids of blood pounding through her veins. Cal's hands were everywhere, clutching the hair at the back of her neck, working it free of the clip, until thick spirals he could rake his fingers through fell around her shoulders.

He moaned again, his hands moving to her hips, where he dug his fingers in, pressing her closer, before climbing anxiously, madly to her shirt.

Fiona writhed against him, her kisses frenzied, with a yearning that had her head reeling. She grabbed fistfuls of his hair, their tongues dueling, her body hot, her heart racing, as Cal's hand cupped her breast and tormented the peak with a graze of his thumb. The other hand came around to her hair, where he fisted it and held her firmly to his kiss.

His touch, his mouth took Fiona away from her kitchen, from the farmhouse, from Manitou Springs, to an exotic place where fantasy met with reality in a surge of molten desire and core-shattering need. This wasn't just a kiss. It was a direct attack on the fortress Fiona had built to protect herself from men like Cal.

In every fairy tale that had a princess held captive in a tower, surrounded by tall stone walls, thorny vines and fire-breathing dragons, there was always one man, one gallant knight who overcame every obstacle thrown into his path toward the treasure he sought. In fairy tales, he was a brave and charming prince, or a handsome and true knight. But now, in Fiona's real life, it was the steadfast, sexy soldier who had managed to scale the wall, without so much as a scratch from the thorns, and slay the fire-breathing dragons as if they were mere illusions.

Fiona ran wild fingers through his thick hair. She squirmed against him, wanting more than his hand on her breast, more than her clothed pelvis pressed against his, too entangled in emotion to be appalled by her lack of good judgment. She kissed him with unbridled yearning that vigorously betrayed the restraint she had fought so hard to maintain. Inside of her, wanton passion battled with wisdom and past experience. This Aries man was just too much of an Aries man for Fiona. She needed a mate who was sensitive. Capable of being at one with the earth, not at battle with it. A guy who was on the same page with her.

Cal Turner was all wrong.

But what Fiona's head knew, her heart, soul, and, heavens, even her body - especially her body - wouldn't heed. Her lips continued to defy her, over and over and over again. Her breasts disobeyed and sizzled at his touch. Fiona's disobedient hands kept moving a steady path over his torso and enjoying it. Even more distressing was the place between her legs that was exercising free will, hot and throbbing against the tight bulge of Cal's own pulsing, swollen desire.

Perhaps just one night with Cal wouldn't hurt. One night. What harm could it do? And maybe it would get him out of her system for good.

Cal abruptly jerked his mouth from hers and pushed himself away. He held her at arm's length for a moment, his breathing raspy, almost an angry growl. He stared with eyes so dark, so hooded with accusation, rage and bitterness, she felt a gasp of panic claw up her throat. He averted his gaze in disgust and raked his hands through his hair.

What he muttered she couldn't hear, but the frustration and regret in his expression was enough. She felt an icy chill begin in her belly, and then lift toward her face. When it met with the heat in her cheeks, her eyes stung with tears of humiliation. Hands shaking, she brushed the hair from her face, stroked it behind her ears, and wished she had words to smooth the terrible rift in the moment. She bit her lower lip, blinked back the tears, and waited while the seconds seemed like hours.

Finally, Cal turned to her, and the troubling expression on his face was gone. Vanished. As if it had never been there. But it had. And the memory of it remained etched in her mind, casting a shadow over her heart.

Why the rage? The disgust? Had she acted too presumptuously? Thrown herself at him? Was this not what Cal wanted? He sure hadn't responded as if he didn't want her. In fact, he was the one who instigated it to begin with ... wasn't he?

Fiona's silent reflections were interrupted by the steely edge of disapproval in his voice. "I have to go," he said quietly. He retreated, stepping back, his boots crunching over ice and broken glass. "This is wrong. I shouldn't have-" He paused, hands on his hips, and looked away, blurting, "You shouldn't have - "

She watched him struggle with his own disappointment, so obviously distraught that he couldn't complete a sentence, or his own thoughts, for that matter. She wrapped her arms around herself, looked to the ceiling, and wished for a rock to crawl under.

"I have to go," he repeated, closing the distance between his tall, strapping frame and the doorway.

Fiona trembled. "Cal-" His name sprang from her lips but nothing else followed. What could she say? He obviously thought kissing her was a mistake that he wished he could take back. He didn't want her. She'd misconstrued the attraction between them.

Still, there she stood, uttering his name as if she had a cure-all phrase, nothing short of brilliant, that might take away the sting of the moment. "Cal ... I..."

He held up a hand to silence her, but it was the icy glare in his dark stormy eyes that did the trick. "No. Don't ... say anything."

She blinked in amazement, a grapefruit-sized lump aching in her throat. Fiona willed it away, but there was no denying that a good cry was coming.

Cal turned on his heel and walked to the door. Glass and ice cubes popped beneath the sturdy thud of each step. Without another word, he left her there. Fiona heard nothing more but the slamming of her newly hinged door.

Chapter Six

"Hell. Everything's different now."

Frustrated, the words Cal muttered were bitter and angry, but laced with something that felt a lot like defeat. His eyes raked over the notes he'd made on Fiona's column, his usual Monday morning ritual, typically followed by gloating and extreme pleasure.

Not this Monday morning.

Almost a week had passed since Cal tossed aside better judgment to appease his raging libido. He'd been avoiding Fiona Kelly ever since. Physically, anyway.

His mind, on the other hand, betrayed him. He couldn't stop thinking about her. The sound of her voice, the way she made him laugh, her fragrance, her kiss ... It was all driving him insane. And he couldn't get that damned tune she hummed out of his head. She was everywhere, and he wanted her so bad his teeth hurt.

Cal gulped his fifth cup of tepid black coffee, wishing it were some kind of potion to make him forget her. But his coffee wasn't a magical brew. Just a cold cup of java that made his stomach churn.

His obsession for revenge was driving him crazy. It was the only solid explanation, since Fiona was as different as night and day from the women Cal was usually attracted to. He went for suave, sophisticated, no-nonsense types. Not world-saving, karma-dependent earthy types. Not the kind who lent advice based on the positions of stars in the cosmos, or who prescribed lavender rubdowns for horses, and herbs for the libido-challenged.

Calhoun Turner came from a long line of pragmatic thinkers. His father was a general, his grandfather was a colonel, and his great-grandfather a captain, all serving in the United States Army. Their military lineage lent itself to purposeful, realistic thinkers, not head-in-the-clouds free spirits.

Fiona's parents were hippie protestors, for crying out loud. Cal's father would've had a field day pounding Fiona's spirit into a helpless mound of nothingness. Dear old dad, the man who was never around to impart direction or life experience, much less an occasional father-son fishing trip. When he was around, he ruled the roost with a tight fist and a cold heart.

Cal had left the military atmosphere of home to join the Army, where life resembled what he was accustomed to. He moved up quickly, because he was hardcore, and a perfectionist, determined not to be branded a failure by his father. A few awards, one war and a bullet later, Cal was retired and attending college. He earned a business degree and bought a small home in Colorado Springs. For a song, he purchased KKAL, an old run-down radio station, and turned it into the Springs' most popular tune-in.

It belonged to Cal. He owned it. He'd made the choices. He'd served the time. The stars, fate, or destiny weren't about to get the credit for any of his hard knocks or accomplishments.

One day, he'd marry a woman strong enough to hold her own. Cal loved his mother, but she'd been more of a servant than a wife, to a man who never appreciated her. Strong-armed by a husband whose career came first, she had submitted to his way of thinking: women, worthless without their husbands, belonged at home, tending to the house and children.

Cal wasn't sure that being a lousy husband wasn't something encoded in his DNA. He wouldn't risk falling into the same emotionally abusive pattern his father had. Any woman Cal settled down with would have to be strong and independent. Career-minded and smart. Able to formulate opinions and express them at will. An equal partner in marriage.

Marcia Forbes had certainly fit the bill. No chance Marcia would let any man walk all over her. She had been Cal's perfect match - until she went nutty over that "Fiona's Fancy" foolishness.

Mick stumbled into the broadcast booth, flicking on the lights and peering at Cal with tired eyes. He squinted against the fluorescent glow. "Hey, man. You okay?"

Mick had fire-engine-red hair, barely combed, that sported a silly looking cowlick that dipped up in the front. His T-shirt was half tucked in, half hanging out, where his belt met a stout beer gut. But his smile was warm and genuine with concern.

Cal took a drink of his coffee and winced at how quickly it had grown cold. "I'm fine."

Mick lifted a brow. He was no sucker. "Fine, eh?"

"Fine." It was the worst kind of four-letter word in Cal's book. Hell, why not just wave a red flag in Mick's face?

Mick stood there, summing him up for a moment, skepticism etched into every line on his face. Slowly, he lifted his DJs Do It on the Air mug to his lips, took a long swig of coffee, and then conceded, "Okay. You're fine. Whatever."

"Yeah. Whatever." Cal averted his gaze. He tried to look busy, putting pencils in the cup holder, and folding the "Fiona's Fancy" column with neat, purposeful creases. Offhandedly he asked, "Tracy lets you out of the house looking like that?"

Mick glanced down at his T-shirt, then back at Cal, both defensive and clueless. "Hey ... I match."

Cal lifted his gaze a moment, before returning it to the desk, where he arranged stacks of papers. "You've got on one brown boot and one black one."

Mick turned red, his grin sheepish. "All looks the same in the dark."

"You're supposed to let your wife help you in the morning. It's part of her job. She makes you dress right. You tell her she always dresses right. It's an even trade." A small smile twitched the corners of Cal's mouth.

"You've got an awful lot of stuff figured out for a single guy." Over the rim of his cup, Mick's gray eyes gleamed in amusement.

"That's me. Always a best man, never a groom. What time is it?" Cal laid Fiona's column to his left, adjusted the microphone to dead center, and placed the coffee cup that needed refreshing on his right.

He glimpsed the defaced photograph of her. To his dismay, Cal didn't see a black and white laminated picture with inked-in teeth, a beard, devil horns, a warty nose and dart holes anymore. Instead he saw hazel eyes that sparkled when she laughed, hair the color of fire, lips whose taste he couldn't get out of his mind, and a face so beautiful it could make angels weep.

"Almost eight, buddy. You ready to go on the air?"

Cal cleared his throat and pulled his gaze from the photo. A steady pulse was throbbing at his temples. Pretending not to notice that Mick watched him with inquisitive eyes and a lopsided grin, he instructed, "Let's open with a twelve-in-a-row song lineup. George, Alan, some Garth ... You pick the rest."

"Cool." Mick set his mug on the corner of Cal's desk, eager to have free rein at choosing the music line-up. He wasn't a creative man by design, but he knew what kind of music he liked. For Mick, being in charge of the compact discs was one of life's simple pleasures, and Cal appreciated that.

Whistling, Mick pulled CDs from a stand that held nine hundred alphabetized country music albums. The quiet voiceless rhythm of two men at work was broken by his propensity to make idle conversation. His effort to sound casual and indifferent was far from polished. "So you're all ready with this week's article?"

"I'm ready." What Cal had planned to send Fiona's way would drive one heck of a stake between them. In fact, he'd bet his Beemer that it would snow in hell before there'd be any more kissing.

"You're ready," Mick repeated with a chuckle. "That's all? No juicy tidbits? Throw me a bone, man!"

At that, Cal laughed out loud. "Only if you sit up and beg real nice."

* * * *

Fiona tried to get Cal Turner off her mind. Yoga. Meditation. Gardening. Lots of herbal tea.

Nothing worked.

The man was, frankly, confusing. Bone-meltingly, super-addictively sexy, too. Even charming at times. Oozing with charisma. And one dynamite kisser. But confusing.

He ran hot and cold. Kissing her one minute, shoving her away the next. Clearly, he was easy to misread. A high-maintenance male, no doubt; so what girl in her right mind would fret over a man like that?

Besides, Cal fit his Aries description to a T. He was an ex-military typical Alpha male. Sure, astrologically, every chart indicated that he was her potential love match. But realistically, Fiona thought Cal was TNT with a very short fuse.

Once she was in her pick-up, she switched on the radio, threw the truck into reverse, and pulled out of the health club parking lot, where she'd just enjoyed Piper's early morning yoga class. She had nearly forgotten it was Monday until Ghost Rider's voice came through her radio, as he read her column with a rancor-thick Southern accent. After two months of his antics, the deja vu effect was beginning to wear off, and wear her patience as thin as onion paper.

Fiona groaned and slapped the steering wheel with an open palm. It did little to appease her rising frustration. Slapping his face - now that might have been more satisfying. She clasped her crystal and muttered an apology to the cosmos. Harming others wasn't her way. Ghost Rider was just good at bringing out her dark side.

As her temper bubbled, she held the crystal, and tried to snuff out the heat with calm, cool thoughts of letting the negativity go, until it floated far, far away from her. It would have worked, if not for the irritating voice that came across the radio, interrupting her efforts. Ghost Rider guffawed and poked fun at her mercilessly. Made his usual "head in the stars" and "flashback hippie" jokes. Beseeched his listeners to stop writing in to "Fiona's Fancy."

But what sent her over the edge was when Ghost Rider accused Fiona's readers of inviting her into their beds. Using colorful verbiage that made her choke on the fury climbing her throat, he reminded his listeners that she wasn't a sex therapist. That she had no business "lying between their sheets." No right giving lessons on love matches, marital vows, or compatibility. And if she continued giving this kind of "advice", listeners ought to wonder, perhaps, just exactly how she came by her intimate information...

Fiona shrieked, her once yoga-relaxed body tensing in exasperation. He'd finally crossed the line. His suggestions were vulgar and slanderous. She wouldn't let him get away with this.

Fury clouded her vision as she snatched up her cellular phone and punched the number for information. In moments she was ringing the radio station. When Ghost Rider answered, saying, "Caller number four, you're on the air," Fiona's heartbeat seemed to pulse everywhere all at once.

Feeling light-headed, she jerked the truck over to the side of the road, flicked off the radio, then cleared her throat, as he repeated, "Hello? Caller number four, you're on the air."

"This is Fiona Kelly." Her voice wavered, more from rage than apprehension.

The silence was powerful. And long. Had he disconnected her? She gnawed her lip and listened to the static, overshadowed only by the insistent pulsing at her temples, and the rush of blood in her ears.

His sugary-accented voice, thick with exaggerated civility, sliced through the hum of the connection. "Miss Kelly. What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?"

"Jump off the nearest bridge, for starters."

She bit her tongue, instantly remorseful, but not amazed that the heavy weight of anger had lifted considerably. Having a chance to say the first thing that came to mind, when speaking with her archenemy, was a bit of a mood lifter.

"Jump off a bridge. Nice. Is that your ‘professional' advice, or is that what's in the stars for me?" came his cutting retort.

Stars! She'd show him stars, all right. Just give her a pair of boxing gloves and a few minutes alone with him.

"You know, Mr. Ghost Rider, there's nothing worse than hearing someone who is clearly uneducated in astrology and herbal medicine making disparaging comments about either subject."

"Does it take an education to do what you do?"

She swallowed a string of cuss words. He was insufferable!

In a cool tone that would surely be her saving grace, she answered, "As a matter of fact, yes, it does take an education to do what I do."

His chuckle was a blatant attempt to further rile her. "I'm sure we're all relieved, Miss Kelly, that you graduated from the University of Certifiable Wackos. I'll bet that diploma is hanging proudly on your wall."

She was seething. An iron fist of bitter loathing curled around her gut. He was insolent to a fault and even more of an idiot than she'd suspected. Did he honestly think he could speak to her on the air in that manner and get away with it?

Fiona wiped perspiration from her forehead with a shaky hand. This man was messing with her body chemistry. She felt hot and cold all at the same time. Between clenched teeth, she ground out, "Listen, buster, your show is old. Tired and dull. You need to refocus and stop feeding off of my column. You're ... unoriginal."

"Ah, but you're wrong, Miss Kelly. My ratings are through the roof. I reckon I should be thanking you, actually. In fact ... yes. Thank you. Thank you for being a bona fide nut case. You've made my radio show a hit."

Fiona was so beside herself with anger, she took her foot off the brake, instantly alarmed, and then hit the gas pedal by accident. Her truck lurched forward, halfway into an intersection, before she brought it to a screaming halt. Thankfully, there wasn't another soul in sight.

With every explosive beat of her heart, her stomach knotted, and pinpricks of panic stabbed the back of her neck. Ghost Rider was hazardous to her health.

"Are you driving, Miss Kelly?"

Her cheeks flamed. "That's none of your business," she snapped, her tone too high-pitched to disguise the truth.

"Driving with a cell phone to your ear is dangerous."

"My driving record isn't at issue here, Mr. Ghost Rider. Your creativity-lacking talk show is."

"You're wrong, Miss Fiona. What's at issue here is your nutty advice column. Dear Abby you ain't, lady. Get your head out of the stars. Wake up and smell the eucalyptus soap. You're on your way out. Go clean your crystals and leave the advice-giving to the professionals. Good bye."

With the buzz of a dead line humming in her ear, Fiona was fuming. She cursed, trying to ignore the tears of embarrassment and exasperation that burned her eyes. Tossing her cell phone onto the seat beside her, she grabbed for her crystal.

Nothing made sense anymore. Between Ghost Rider, Cal Turner and Dark Knight, she was about ready to swear off men for good.

There wasn't a whole lot she could do about Cal Turner. And Fiona wasn't prepared to tackle the demented mind of Dark Knight. But that other angry horrid man she was ready to face, once and for all.

Swept away by what she attributed to a mild case of insanity, Fiona found herself driving into Colorado Springs, and she didn't stop until she was parked in front of the KKAL station building.

* * * *

Cal's hand shook as he flicked the mike shut-off switch. He was wracked with the kind of guilt only a pint of Jim Beam might help him forget. And it was only nine in the morning.

His mind was a million miles away, with Fiona and the grief he'd just caused her. He wanted to kick himself in the head. If it were possible, he would have. But his self-inflicted beating was put on hold while the world came tumbling down on him with a thud, when he glanced up and saw her standing just outside of the glass-enclosed broadcast booth.

Cal's heart sank clear down to his boots.

"Holy crap," he muttered, just before it became impossible to breathe. With a swift jerk, he pivoted his high-backed leather chair away from the windows, putting Fiona behind him.

Mick, standing at the CD rack, now faced him. With an expression of combined amusement and curiosity, he asked, "What's up?"

"You didn't lock the damned door when you came in this morning, did you?" Cal demanded through clenched teeth. Sweat crept over his brow and his stomach churned.

Mick turned red and bit back a chuckle. "Oops."

"Oops!" mimicked Cal, barely stopping himself from bellowing the word. Keeping the volume of his voice in check, he glared at his assistant. "That doesn't even come close. It's about to hit the fan. She's here."

"She who?" Mick lifted his gaze, extended his neck, and strained to see past Cal, as he peered out the windows.

"Her!" Cal jerked a thumb toward the altered newspaper photo.

"Hell, I didn't recognize her without the beard and warts."

"Mick, this isn't funny. She doesn't know who I am. Or that I work here."

"I'm not sure I'd call what you do work," Mick snickered.

Cal shifted in his seat and scowled. "Can the jokes. She doesn't know I own this place."

"That's a problem, see, because she's peeking through the window right now." Mick sported a silly grin and gave her a friendly wave. "Hi, sugar! Be right with ya!"

Cal ducked his head. "Son-of-a - "

"Guess it's time to come clean." With an easy shrug, Mick turned back to the CD rack as if Cal's life wasn't about to take a sharp left on the path to hell.

"Come clean?" Cal wagged his head. "Like hell!"

"She's damned good-looking, Cal." Mick's expression was one of approval as he watched her. "A real knock-out."

"Yeah. For a certifiable kook."

"Mm ... yup ... I can see that," Mick muttered, his eyes moving up and down, boldly appreciative. "She's got kook written all over every damn sexy curve."

Something odd and unfamiliar burned in Cal's gut. "Knock it off, Mick," he snapped irritably.

"I'm married, Cal, what else can I do but look?"

"Quit drooling and be ready, because I'm getting up now. All hell's about to break loose. I'm not sure what she'll do."

Heavy reluctance had him slowly shoving out of his chair. Heart hammering, Cal pivoted slowly and faced the glass. He couldn't summon the gall to smile. His entire body was wracked with anxiety and something that felt a lot like remorse.

With her hands framing her face, to shun some of the reflected light impairing her view, Fiona peered through the glass barrier at the two men. When she recognized Cal, she stiffened and fell back. Her jaw dropped open and she went completely white.

"Great. She's pissed." Cal stormed out of the broadcast booth, taking the corner too fast, and tripping over a boxed shipment of autographed CDs. "Ouch! Dammit!" He hobbled, shook the hurt out of his shin, and shouted, "Fiona! Fiona! Hang on!"

She bolted out the door in a flash of flaming hair and black spandex. He chased after her, his mind fumbling for something clever and gallant to say once he caught up.

Why the hell was he chasing after her? He should stop. Call it off right then. Wasn't this what he'd wanted after all? To make her pay? To destroy her? To get even?

"Hell..." he cursed breathlessly. His shin hurt, the boots were uncomfortable, and she ran too damned fast.

For the past couple of months, Cal had kept two things in mind: revenge and ratings. Luckily, both had walked hand in hand. Until he'd met the object of his loathing in person.

Fiona Kelly made him feel crazy and reckless. He'd never felt either in his entire life. Even his stint in Operation Desert Storm had been calculated and purposeful. That was his approach to life. Never flying by the seat of his pants.

So why was he chasing after her?

He had no control over his legs. An atom bomb couldn't have deterred his mission. To catch her. Before she got away.

She ran fast. Like the wind. Wild curls flamed like fire in the sunlight, flopping against her shoulders to the beat of her running shoes as they pounded the pavement. Long sexy legs and a firm backside taunted him, poured into skin-tight exercise clothing, covered by a T-shirt missing its midsection.

In a flood of memories, he recalled pressing that incredible body of hers close to his, longing to be nothing more than a sweat-soaked, pumping mass of entangled limbs with her.

Sexy? She blew sexy clear out of the water.

"Fiona! Would you stop? Please?" As his boots pummeled the pavement, the sun beat down on his dark shirt, making Cal's skin feel like it could burst into flames. Another ninety-five degree day with stifling humidity and the threat of rain in the forecast. Or so the ache in his shoulder indicated.

She spun around to face him and he skidded to a halt, just inches from her. He didn't want to get too close, worried that he might not be able to resist the impulse to kiss the hell out of her again.

"Go away, Cal Turner!" she shouted at him. The gold flecks in her eyes shimmered like hot angry sparks. Her full lips were pursed in frustration. Her body was rigid with a fury so passionate it sent an odd thrill pulsing through him.

The urge to tug her close and kiss her senseless, or worse, nearly overwhelmed him. Awareness lifted his tone a notch. "Go away? Go away? You came to me!"

Fiona took a step back and shook her head. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with shock and disappointment. He could see her world crumbling, slowly, and although that should have made him feel elated, it only felt more like a kick in the teeth.

He could have listed, without a second thought, the reasons he hated her. He could have counted them on his fingers, one at a time, but he didn't. He wanted to string her along a bit more, before he really let her have it for destroying his wedding day. His revenge still wasn't complete. And the fact that he still craved revenge was the most confusing thought of all.

She hissed, "You! It's you! I can't believe ... You're the station manager, aren't you, Cal?"

He gaped at her, clenching his jaw to keep it from falling open. Something inside him snapped. Or knocked. Opportunity. Better than he'd hoped for, actually.

Fiona still had no idea that he was Ghost Rider. It was too good to be true.

Slowly he nodded, regaining his composure. He felt his spine stiffen. His legs were strong, his body energized, his mind clear. There was an incredible power in having the upper hand and Cal knew it. "Yes. I'm the station manager."

"And that ... that jackass in the booth - the goofy guy with the red hair-" Her cheeks were flushed, her lips pale. "He's Ghost Rider?"

Cal bit his tongue and tasted the metallic flavor of blood. There was a time to talk and a time to shut up. He pinned his tongue between his teeth, held it there, and felt victorious. At this rate, he wouldn't have to lie. Fiona was drawing her own conclusions. If Cal believed in astrology, he might have figured the stars were aligned in his favor!

Rolling her eyes, she threw up her hands, and went wild with accusations. "I can't believe it! Of course! How else could he have made the eucalyptus soap comment! Or the one about cleansing crystals!" Fiona looked down and shook her head. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze. Her eyes were wiser, darker, and hard with resentment. She pointed a finger at him. "You came into my home and took something from me, Cal Turner. Then you hand-fed the information to Ghost Rider so that he could humiliate me!"

Swallowing hard, she looked away. In a low, deadly tone, she said, "You're a snake, Cal Turner. A mean-spirited, horrid little ... snake." When she turned back to him, her glare was icy, but moist with unshed tears. "Stay away from me." Her voice shook and she ground her teeth. She looked like she wanted to say more, but instead she simply turned on her heel and stomped away.

"Fiona-" He felt guilty, and he hated himself for it. Revenge wasn't as sweet as he had anticipated.

"I mean it!" she said through gritted teeth, never even looking back. And it sounded to Cal as if she really did mean it.

"Fiona!" He jogged after her. Hell, he was in lousy shape. He'd given up running after his military days. He shouldn't have. He could barely keep up with her long-legged stride as she walked away from him, out of his life. She had reached her pick-up. Cal added an extra burst of speed to catch her.

Fiona tugged open the door to her truck and started to climb in. Her foot slipped. She stumbled, caught herself before she fell, but was unable to save her purse. It dropped to the ground, its contents scattering across the asphalt.

Cal could have sworn he heard a soft sob come from her throat as she bent over to retrieve her things. With head hung low, shoulders slumped, her body language was unmistakable. She looked ... destroyed.

Something sharp and painful tugged at Cal's heart. He had the crazy desire to take her into his arms and hold her. Fiona. The enemy. Only she didn't look like an enemy now. She just looked defeated.

"Let me help," he insisted, squatting to the ground beside her, where she scrambled to gather her belongings.

"I think you've done enough." The weariness and resignation in her voice chilled him.

He snatched up her wallet, keys, a tiny flashlight, a can of mace, chewing gum, a few tiny bottles he assumed were essential oils, and a tube of lipstick. He dumped it all into her purse, all but the mace. "What are you doing with mace in your purse?" he asked.

"Is that really your business?" She glared at him, fresh emotion darkening her eyes, and snatched the small can away.

A twinge, an ache caught sharply in his chest, then swelled in his throat.

Knock it off, he admonished himself. He didn't care about Fiona. Didn't give a damn about her. He just wanted her out of business.

She threw her purse onto the seat and climbed into the truck. In another second the engine roared to life.

"Fiona, wait. Please. Can't we talk?"

"Cal, you have a business to run. Go run it. I wouldn't want your precious ratings to suffer."

She was leaving. He had to do something. "I'll call you," he said feebly.

She jerked the gearshift into drive and turned to give him one last icy glare. "Stay away from me. Don't call. Don't come to my house. Just leave me alone." Fiona punched the accelerator and the pick-up squealed tires as it sped away.

Cal ran a hand through his hair in helpless frustration. He should have been wallowing in pleasure. After all, his plotted revenge was resulting in sweet success, wasn't it?

Then why did he feel like such a coward?

Chapter Seven

Cal was always better at giving orders than taking them. Standing on Fiona's porch, he rapped hard on the door, hoping that her anger had cooled in the last several hours.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind rustled up leaves and dirt, making the air fragrant with the scent of flowers, herbs, and the promise of rain. He liked the way summer smelled on Fiona's front porch.

He'd never been good at apologies and hoped for the divine intervention of a silver tongue. The apology wasn't genuine, anyway. He had ulterior motives for being there.

KKAL listeners had gone wild over the on-air exchange between Cal and Fiona. The station telephone rang off the hook about the banter between the disc jockey and the advice columnist. Even more gratifying was how local advertisers were scrambling for airtime now. KKAL would receive several new promo spots, if Fiona would go on the air with Ghost Rider.

He couldn't let her say no. It not only meant increased consumer awareness for his radio station, but also for her shop "Earth Tones" as well as her newspaper column. Publicity like this was a potential goldmine. They must put personal differences aside. At least, that was the little speech he rehearsed in his mind as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and knocked again.

The nagging pain in his shoulder was steadily increasing, and he reached to massage the ache. The old bullet wound acted up when rain was on the way. And it was coming fast, forcing gunmetal gray clouds together to blanket an angry sky. Veins of lightening appeared off in the distance. Thunder rolled beneath the gloomy sound barrier.

"I told you to stay away."

Startled, Cal almost jumped clear out of his skin. The voice - that wonderful honey-sandpaper voice that he heard even in his dreams - came from behind him. He sucked in a breath of determination and then pivoted sharply on his heel. A tight about-face. Some old military habits died hard.

Fiona stood just off the porch, arms crossed over her chest, clearly livid, clearly not happy to see him. But she was still a beautiful, fascinating breath of fresh air and he almost staggered.

Flame-red spirals of hair had worked their way free of the pile gathered at the top of her head. The ringlets fluttered in the wind, framing her pink-cheeked face and bright hazel eyes. In a simple white T-shirt and a pair of beige shorts, she was the most alluring combination of softness and strength Cal had ever set eyes on.

Air froze someplace between his lungs and throat, and his mouth went dry. Maybe coming to see Fiona wasn't such a good idea after all. He ached with yearning for this woman. She must have cast some kind of spell on him. With that herb tea. Or something. A love potion. He'd heard about those kinds of things and wondered if they worked on folks who didn't believe in them.

"Leave, Cal. Now." She eyed him steadily with an icy glare.

Hardly the eyes of a woman who'd cast a love spell. More like the eyes of a woman who'd rather be sticking pins into the heart of a voodoo doll that looked just like him.

He tried to smile, but his lips wouldn't cooperate. Cal had never been nervous in his life, and he'd certainly been put in some pretty nerve-wracking situations. Like war, for example. According to his father, real men were never nervous or afraid. No matter the situation. No matter the stakes. But his father had never met the likes of Fiona Kelly.

"I came to apologize," he blurted. "And to make you an offer." So much for eloquence and his rehearsed speech.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as Fiona stared at him with skepticism that made a fist-sized lump swell in his throat. Her brow lifted dubiously. "An offer?"

He nodded, finding a smile, even managing to deliver it with sincerity. "An offer."

"The only thing I want from you, Cal, is Ghost Rider's head on a silver platter." She turned and, with willful strides, stomped away.

Cursing under his breath, he took the porch steps two at a time, racing to catch up with the fleet-footed woman again.

"You're a runner, aren't you?" He jogged behind her.

She glared at him. The gold specks in her eyes were like Fourth of July sparklers. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The hostility caught him off guard. He took a step back. "Nothing. Just that ... you must run. You know..." He moved his arms back and forth, like a jogger. "Running. For pleasure." Then he offered her a sheepish grin.

Her irritated expression softened just a bit.

Trying to keep it friendly, he probed, "So do you?"

"Do I what?" she asked, instantly perturbed again.

"Run. For pleasure." This was going to be a lot harder than he'd expected. He swallowed over the tightness in his throat and ran a hand through his hair.

She looked away, brows pulled together, her mouth set in a grim line. She was pondering his question with a lot more thought than he had put into it. After a moment, she squared her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed on him. "Can the small talk. Ghost Rider has managed to make my life a living hell over the last couple of months. The last thing I want is to give you more ammunition for Ghost Rider's next segment."

Fiona folded her arms across her chest, and watched him absorb that little speech, her eyes glinting with combined defiance and suspicion. Thunder boomed nearer. The dark angry sky brought somber bitterness to her features. It was discouraging. "I have work to do." Waving a hand toward the sky, she announced, as if he couldn't see it for himself, "There's a storm coming. Please leave now."

Cal swallowed hard and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Listen, Fiona, I'm sorry. For the whole - Well, for everything. I should've told you who I was."

There. He'd pulled off his best apology and hated every syllable of it. Just this side of two months ago, he could have throttled her. Now he felt like he was selling his soul.

"You're sorry." She gaped at him as if she'd been expecting more. Without even the tiniest of smiles, she watched him in disbelief. "This is a joke, right?"

"No. No, it's not."

Her gaze hardened again, and animosity flickered in her eyes. "You're insane if you think I believe your apology, Cal. You aren't sorry. Not for what you've done to me, anyway."

With a heavy sigh, he dipped his chin and watched her beneath furrowed brows, as she turned and headed toward the barn. The woman was wearing him thin. Dark clouds raced with the wind. He didn't have much time. The sky was ready. Soon it would crack wide open, dumping rain on his futile endeavor to win her back.

"Are you still here?" she asked, her tone impertinent, as he jogged up behind her. Instead of slowing, she sped up with little effort. Maybe to spite him. It was no secret he was huffing it five strides behind her.

He resisted the urge to reach out and yank her hair, though it sure would have given him great satisfaction. No woman had ever been able to rile him so much - and in so many ways.

"I can't talk and jog at the same time. Will you stop!" he shouted breathlessly, annoyance evident in his tone.

Fiona swung her arms with every determined step, the hair clipped at the top of her head bouncing, taunting him. "You're not in very good shape for a military guy."

"It's been years since I was in the military."

"Ha! That's a good reason to let yourself go."

"Can we cut back on the hostility, Fiona?"

She stopped dead in her tracks. Cal came to a quick halt, or risked plowing into her. Fists clenched at her sides, she glared at him, her entire body rigid. "You're one to preach about cutting back on hostility, aren't you?"

He rolled his eyes toward the sky. Hands on his hips, he prepared himself for another reaming. If he wasn't careful, he might start believing he deserved it.

"What do you want from me, Cal?" She cocked her head to one side.

He raked fingers through his hair in frustration. A week or two ago, his intention had been clear as that crystal around her neck. Now, her innocent question brought about images that were anything but innocent. In a flash, he saw satin bed sheets, fiery auburn hair splayed across a pillow, and his hands on her creamy, naked skin.

Revenge, he reminded himself. That was it. He wanted revenge. He'd use her on his radio show, and then put her out of business. It was a win-win situation, no matter how he looked at it. As long as he kept his hands off her.

He folded his arms across his chest. "Like I said before, I want to apologize. And to make you an offer."

Her brow rose a fraction and so did her chin. "Are you an Aries, Cal?"

"Huh?" Her bizarre, pointed question threw him off.

"You know," she said, as if he should. "An Aries. Your zodiac sign. When were you born?"

"March thirtieth." What did that have to do with anything?

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "An Aries. I knew it." Her top teeth sunk into that generous bottom lip.

His forehead creased. "Is that ... bad?" She had said "Aries" like it was an infectious disease.

"For you, probably not. For me ... definitely." She turned and continued toward the barn.

Dumbfounded, he just stood there. After a few steps, she turned back and lifted a brow. "If you're going to hang around, you may as well lend a hand."

"Yes, ma'am!" Once more, he was jogging toward her. At this rate he'd have to invest in a good pair of athletic shoes and ditch the cowboy boots.

"Hope you know how to milk a cow, Cal Turner."

He strode alongside her. Her scent mingled with the advancing rain made him think of picnics in the mountains in the middle of spring.

He shoved the romanticized notions from his head. "Matter of fact, I know how to milk a cow just fine."

"I figured you did, cowboy. I need your help. I have a whole list of things to get done before the storm hits."

"About my offer..."

With a decisive shake of her head, she cut him off. "I can't stop to talk now. You'll have to wait until the work is done. Or call me tomorrow, if you need to go - "

"No!" he cut in, perhaps a little too eager. "I'd like to talk about this today."

She surveyed him with a measure of distrust he couldn't rightly blame her for. "It's that important, huh?"

"You could say that." He nodded once, capturing her gaze for a moment. She looked away, her cheeks pink.

Out of nowhere came her barking, slobbery Golden Retriever. The dog was running about forty miles an hour, headed straight for Cal. He flinched and took two steps back. If the Golden had its owner's feisty temperament, he was a goner.

"Ceres! Don't jump!" Fiona shouted a moment too late.

Ceres and her muddy front paws were all over Cal. Fiona snagged the dog by the collar, but not before the exuberant canine had fully delivered her greeting. Cal was sporting four perfect brown paw prints on the front of his shirt and two on the back. A set of long, muddy streaks down the front of his pale blue jeans completed the fashion statement.

Cal threw his head back in warm, hearty laughter, the sidesplitting kind that came up from his belly. Fiona watched in amazement, as he roughhoused with the dog, who took an instant liking to him.

"I'm really sorry." Her eyes were softer, not as cold, while she inspected the damage to his shirt and pants. "Ceres is ... friendly."

"I'll say," he wholeheartedly agreed. He accepted the dog's wet, sloppy kisses, and rubbed her behind the ears.

"You're a dog person?" Fiona asked, and one eyebrow raised dubiously, but an appreciative smile teased at the corners of her enticing mouth.

"Oh, yeah. I sure am. And I have a soft spot for Golden Retrievers." He laughed, watching Ceres wag her entire body. "Gentle souls."

She watched him interact with the dog, blinked a few times, and then looked away. The fact that he may have just pleasantly surprised her satisfied him. He grinned and Ceres took it as an invitation to smother him with more sloppy kisses.

"I'm going to have to hose you down by the time she's done with you," Fiona said, but the amusement in her voice was evident. She reached out to tug on the dog's collar once more, as a warning. "Ceres, back off a little. Let him come up for air."

He gave Ceres one last pat on the head, then stood, glancing down at his clothing. Everything went to the cleaners, anyway. Cal hated doing his own laundry. One of his pet peeves. He brushed at the mud with his hands, as if it would help, but only made it worse.

Ceres took off in another direction, chasing ducks that flew into the somber sky and landed out of reach of the playful dog.

With an eager smile, Cal offered, "What can I do to help?"

She thrust a pail toward him. "Milk the cow. Thanks."

Bess was a friendly and patient cow who tolerated his out-of-practice hands. He hadn't yanked a cow's teat since childhood, but it all came back to him the moment he tugged in the wrong direction, and shot a stream of warm milk into his own eye. He ducked his head, chagrined, but relieved to discover Fiona was too busy caring for three chickens in a small coop to notice.

Two pails of milk later, Cal fed Bess, silently thanking her for not making a complete fool out of him. Then he tended to Hogan, the pot-bellied pig, who went into his pen per Fiona's instructions. Cal watched the pig eat slop that resembled cooked oatmeal and diced carrots. When he caught Fiona's intrigued gaze, he hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans, and grinned boyishly. "I wasn't kidding about spending summers at my uncle's farm."

She nodded, trying to shove Billy, the stubborn, skittish goat, out of his stall, and grunted, "Must have been nice."

"It was great." He watched her curiously, his mouth curled in amusement. "What are you doing?"

"Taking care of Billy. So you went to your uncle's every summer?" She scowled at Billy, who ducked her every effort to loop a rope around his neck.

"Every summer until my senior year of high school. Best times I had growing up. The farm was like freedom, even if it meant hot and muggy South Carolina summers. And shoveling manure." He paused and lifted a brow. "Doesn't look like he wants the rope around his neck." Cal bit back a chuckle as Billy nipped the cord Fiona held in her hands.

She sighed and dropped the tether. "I think I'm about to give up, Billy. You're far more stubborn than I am."

"Hard to believe," Cal teased with a wink. His humor gave way to a low chuckle when her jaw dropped, but her lips twitched at a smile. He watched her beneath two lifted brows. "Shouldn't the goat be going into his pen instead of out?"

"Billy hates thunder and lightning storms. And he thinks he's a dog. He'll come in the house with Ceres." She flashed a reproachful glare at the goat, who probably could have cared less whether or not his owner was upset with him. "Darn goat is strong as an ox. And stubborn as a mule," she grumbled.

Cal's laughter was rich as he came up beside her. When she took three paces back, he pretended not to notice. "Here. Let me help."

Shrugging, she stooped to pick up the rope, and then held it out to him. "Suit yourself."

"I don't need the rope." Grinning at Billy, he joked, "What? You're not going to try to butt me today?"

Cal scooped Billy up into his arms. His shoulder hurt like a son-of-a-gun, while Billy kicked and bleated up a storm, but Cal wasn't about to be humbled by a stubborn goat. He marched out of the barn with a firm but gentle hold on the indignant animal, talking softly to the ornery goat the entire way back to the farmhouse. Fiona followed him with Ceres at her heels. Cal heard her soft laughter from behind and it warmed him.

He chuckled too, calling over his shoulder, "When I put this goat in the house, I expect you to give me five minutes of your time, Miss Fiona Kelly. We've got business to discuss."

* * * *

Fiona stood on her front porch listening to fat raindrops splatter the roof and pummel the dusty ground. Thunder rumbled, shaking the earth with such force she could feel it to her very core. Bright jags of lightning tore across the canvas of gray sky. But nothing rattled her more than Cal's words. Not sure she had heard him correctly, she croaked, "You want me to do what?"

"To be a guest on Ghost Rider's show." He was dead calm. An unmoving rock of certainty.

"Why?" Fiona's heart hammered crazily. "Why would I want to do that, Cal?"

He shrugged, the epitome of nonchalance. "The jackass, as you so fondly refer to him, has had enough fun at your expense, don't you think? Why not confront him on the air?"

She arched a brow. "I wasn't exactly picturing a microphone as my weapon of choice."

He smiled wryly. "Why, Fiona Kelly, I wouldn't have pegged you for the violent type."

Dark eyes raked over her, bold and appreciative, but after that disastrous interlude in the kitchen a few days ago, Fiona wasn't about to attempt to read anything into Cal's expression again. The memory of that humiliation still stung her eyes and burned her throat.

She folded her arms across her chest. For extra insurance, she dug her fingers into her sides and tried not to remember the indulgence of raking them through his hair. Maybe it was true that he didn't want her, but neither that nor discovering that he managed KKAL had deterred her from wanting him.

A flash of heat passed through her, settling in her cheeks. She looked away and bit her lip, fighting to hide her reaction. The words inched slowly past the tightening in her throat. "Ghost Rider brings out the worst in me."

He didn't reply. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him run a hand through his damp hair.

Leaning against the porch rail, she watched puddles form in her dirt and gravel driveway. "You've let Ghost Rider torture me on the air for no apparent reason except to boost your ratings." She eyed him briefly, then looked away again. "Do you realize how vicious and self-serving that is?"

Her bitterness was acrid in her mouth. But crazy as it was, she had the urge both to slap his cheek ... and kiss him until her blood boiled. Fiona swallowed a groan and rolled her eyes. Leave it to an Aries man to turn her entire world upside down.

She gripped the porch rail and tried to ignore how incredible he looked, leaning against her doorjamb. Powerful. And sexy. Arms folded across his wide chest, his mouth curled into a perpetual smile that served both to rattle and seduce her. The impulse was strong to talk him into her bed. It wouldn't be the first time common sense betrayed her. Nor, most likely, the last. But she couldn't bear to see that look of rejection again.

When the wind blew, the cool rain, fragrant and refreshing, licked her cheeks. If Cal hadn't been there, she would have run down the porch steps and danced in it. She cleared her throat.

"Cal ... the other night ... when we ... kissed..."

"That was a mistake." His simple statement of fact sliced into her heart.

"You're right." Nodding, she swallowed hard. A dull ache drummed in her throat. "But you knew who I was then."

A pause. Then a reluctant but steady, "Yes."

Fiona bit her lip. Of course he had known. Just moments before that kiss, he'd asked about her column. Tears of disappointment pooled in her eyes. She resisted the impulse to swipe at them before they fell. Doing so would have given away her emotions to a man who probably didn't deserve them. She was clutching a meager strand of dignity. She'd sooner die than let go of it.

"Well, that makes sense then, I suppose," she managed to say with only a slight tremor in her voice.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"Why you ... stopped. The way you did. I understand that now." She drew a deep breath. Deliberately, she pivoted to face him. Reclining back against the rail, Fiona folded her arms across her bosom and met him with a bold accusatory stare. "What I don't understand is why you kissed me in the first place."

His grin broadened and he lifted an eyebrow quizzically. "If I recall correctly, lady, it was you that kissed me first."

That stung. That really, really stung. And try as she might to control her emotions, her stunned reaction must have shone vividly on her face, because Cal suddenly became sober. He shifted in the doorway. Looking away, he ran a hand through his hair.

"We're adults, Fiona," he said in a nonchalant rational way. "We both know what happened. Let's face facts. We're ... physically attracted to each other." He turned his steady gaze back to her.

Fiona had to look away or risk him seeing her blush from chest to forehead.

"I was. Attracted to you, I mean," she admitted with a slow steady nod. "But now that I know who you are..." She fired an unwavering glare in his direction, though everything inside of her quaked. "You're not my type, Cal."

He clenched his jaw and a fresh darkness settled over his eyes. It put the stormy sky to shame. In a tight, flat tone, he replied, "I agree."

Fiona's heart sank, but she bit her tongue. She had nothing of substance to add, anyway. Even a no-nonsense man like Cal wasn't blind to the fact that the two of them had nothing in common. Nothing worth basing a relationship on, anyway.

In a lighter tone, he fed her the same proposition, with a different appeal. "What I'm offering you, Fiona, has nothing to do with you and me personally. It's a chance to defend yourself on the radio. I would think you wouldn't want to pass up the opportunity."

His earnest smile was meant to entice her. It did. But the flicker of some mystery emotion in his eyes caused a flutter of warning in her belly. "Why would I want to put myself in the hot seat?"

His smile deepened, driving away the warning in her gut, replacing it with an instant, searing heat. Fiona had to give herself a good mental kick to get back on track.

"If you're clever, you can put Ghost Rider in the hot seat."

It was a challenge. A dare. And Fiona knew it. She was skeptical. "It sounds risky."

He shrugged. "What have you got to lose?"

"Self-respect, Cal." She lifted both brows and couldn't keep from smirking. "Do you remember what that is?"

He dipped his chin like the symbolic ram of his birth sign, meeting any obstacle head-on - a signature move that tickled her every time he did it. "I thought we were cutting the sarcasm."

"Hmm ... no ... no, I never promised that." She shook her head.

He laughed, unrestrained and sincere, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "This playful banter is fun, Fiona, but let's not get off the subject. I don't need to give you a laundry list of why it behooves you to come to the station, do I?"

With no attempt to keep the distrust from her tone, she prodded, "I don't suppose this has anything to do with ratings?"

He shrugged and offered a crooked smile. "I'm sure the ratings will jump off the scale. After all, the listeners want to hear your side of things. Think of your fans. The folks who read your column. The customers who buy from your store. The publicity this would generate for you should make it worthwhile, if nothing else."

"If that was your wild card, it's weak."

He shrugged and winked. "I've got more."

"I don't doubt it. You've got motives, too. That publicity works both ways. More listeners bring more sponsors."

Cal nodded slowly, a smug twinkle in his eye. "Right."

"Why would I want to do something that benefits you, Cal?"

"You'd be doing something that benefits us both, Fiona."

"Give me a break. I'm not that easy. I think I need to get something more out of this." She lifted a finger to her chin, thinking.

He held her gaze without flinching, but his mouth was set in a grim line that convinced her he was holding his breath.

After a moment, in a strong, balanced tone, she announced, "A formal apology. On the air. From Ghost Rider."

He hesitated. His mouth opened, and then shut again. He swallowed, looked down at his mud-covered clothing, then back at her again.

Fiona held firm. Arms still crossed over her chest, she eyed him confidently, not moving a muscle.

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. "I can probably arrange that."

"Probably?" She shook her head. "Not good enough."

"Give me a break, Fiona. I have to consult with Ghost Rider. Probably is the best I can give you at this point." But he looked nervous, as if he wasn't so sure of the plan.

Knowing she'd pushed a button or two made her smile. What could it hurt to go on the air with her archenemy?

Cal was right about one thing, it would give Fiona the opportunity to tell her side of the story. Ghost Rider would have a hard time censoring her when she held the microphone with a death grip. She would vindicate herself, once and for all.

It certainly couldn't make matters any worse.

Her decision was purely instinctual. "Well, if that's the best you can offer, I'll take it."

Raw disbelief passed over his features. "Then we have a deal?"

Fiona extended her hand. "We have a deal."

He took her hand in his warm grasp. A shiver of delight passed up her arm, nerves crackling in response to his touch. In a flash, she envisioned the two of them, hot, wet, naked, and entangled in her bed sheets. She felt a trembling vibration that touched her very core.

Cal Turner was all wrong for her. Still, Fiona stood there, shaking hands with the devil.

Chapter Eight

A week later, Fiona entered the broadcast booth, mentally wringing her hands. If not for a memorable pep talk from her friend Piper, she would've backed out at the last minute.

Cal looked comfortable behind the microphone. Aside from his impeccable appearance, he was visibly at ease. A half-smile deepened the creases around his mouth and nut brown eyes, all of which stood out against his peppered-onyx hair and white shirt.

"You're punctual. I like that." The lazy smile accentuated the gleam in his eyes. In a low, purposeful tone that sent a thrill tumbling along her spine, he added, "Hello, Fiona."

"Hi, Cal." Self-conscious and tense, she fiddled with the strap of her beaded purse. Her nerve endings were stretched thin as hair strands. After a quick glimpse around, she asked, "Is Ghost Rider here? It's five minutes to airtime."

Cal's gaze lowered to match his tone. "He's here."

A jittery laugh trembled past her lips and she half-joked, "Don't tell me he's afraid of me. Is he hiding?" She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to find the stocky man with bright red hair watching her from outside the glass booth.

Cal's brow creased, his tone somber. "He's not afraid."

A wry smile twitched her lips. "So in addition to being arrogant, he's punctually challenged?"

He sighed and extended a hand toward the chair across from him. "Why don't you have a seat?"

"Sure." She sat in a stiff metal and leather chair, and noticed a second microphone. Pointing at it, she queried, "Are you going to show me how to work this thing?"

His nod was deliberate and patient, as were the dark eyes that settled on her. Eyes that seemed to hold a thousand secrets, the prospect of which thrilled her beyond imagination.

Fiona's pulse began to throb in her temples, hot and hard. Tiny pinpricks of excitement stung the back of her neck, and a curl of desire spread through her belly.

She'd spent the last week trying not to think about the radio show. Or Cal, for that matter. The latter she failed at miserably. This complex man captivated her. Although they were as different as night and day, he drew her like the moon draws the tide. Telling Cal she wasn't attracted to him had been a bold-faced lie, and it was only a matter of time before he figured that out.

Out of habit, Fiona clasped her crystal until the edges dug into her palm. Drawing a deep breath, she tried to focus on the immediate task at hand: getting through the next hour.

"The green button is what you push to open the mike. The red one is what you use to cut it off. Pretty simple. Like a stop light." His smile was thin-lipped, but handsome still.

Fiona gave Cal a single comprehending nod. "Sounds easy enough. Do I need to speak loudly?"

"No. The mike's very sensitive. Just keep your mouth pointed at it, and speak naturally." For a moment, he focused on her mouth, but just as quickly averted his eyes, continuing in a brusque tone, "You've got a great voice for radio. The mike will pick it up just fine." He tapped the bottom edge of a paper stack on the desk, to straighten pages that already were as straight as possible, then set the pile back down.

Responding to his compliment, a few knots untangled in her abdomen. "Cal..." She glanced at her watch. "It's time to begin. Shouldn't Ghost Rider - ?"

He held up a hand meant to silence her. That and his solemn expression were effective. She bit her tongue.

Then Cal punched the button on his microphone. With stunning nonchalance, he addressed the KKAL listeners. Fiona nearly fell off her chair when Ghost Rider's voice came out of his mouth.

The room reeled and her stomach did a quick, nasty pitch. The nausea was overshadowed by the sensation of a fifty-pound weight on her chest. She couldn't breathe. Her heart slammed against her ribs and her body trembled with its impact. She blinked back stinging tears of outrage and humility, knowing she'd rather die than cry in front of this man. Icy heat swept over her. It sharpened the edges of her vision and drove the tears away. The room stopped spinning and everything became clear in one alarming, decisive moment.

Cal Turner was Ghost Rider.

Why hadn't she known? Why hadn't she been able to see? Her heart sank. Duped by another Aries man.

It was Ghost Rider's annoying honey-sweet timbre that brought her back to the reality of the moment. Fiona had a reputation to defend.

"We've got a special program for y'all this morning. Fiona Kelly, our favorite head-in-the-stars advice columnist is here, in the studio. Why don't you say hello to your fans, Fiona?" His expression was no more than an elevated brow and a twisted smile.

Fiona couldn't move, couldn't speak, and wasn't even certain she could breathe. She gaped open-mouthed at him, more than just a little lost for words.

He flicked the red switch on his microphone. "Say something, Fiona," he ordered in a flat tone.

How could he look her in the eye that way? Deliver orders as if she were one of his soldiers? Where was the remorse? The humility? What kind of a monster was he? Fury had her cheeks flaming. She glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes, and in a shaky whisper managed to say, "You lied to me."

His tone was excruciatingly patient. "You need to speak into the microphone, Fiona."

"No. No, I don't." She shook her head, shoved away from the desk, then groped for her purse. Rage threatened to choke the life from her. If it didn't, disappointment would. It sliced through her, sharp and agonizing.

Cal quickly stuck a CD into the player. A sad, twangy country tune filled the dead air space.

Fiona clutched her purse and pushed up from the chair. She made a beeline for the door, but this time Cal was faster. He took her arm in a gentle but unyielding grasp.

She fought back. This man had single-handedly robbed Fiona of her dignity and self-respect. There was no way she would let him steal her exit, too. "Let me go!" she shrieked in a frenzied, unstable tone. With no free hand to slap his face, she struck him with her hefty purse.

"Ouch! Damn it!" he growled, ducking, as his head took the blow. "What the hell do you have in there, bricks?"

"I wish!" She whacked him again, not in self-defense, but because it felt sinfully wonderful.

"Fiona! Stop!" He grabbed her purse. His face was red, his eyes blazing. He held the strap, rendering her immobile. Cal's right hand gripped her arm and the other clutched her bag. Fiona released her hold on the purse, shoved a free hand into the opening, and pulled out the can of mace.

Without a moment's hesitation, Cal dropped the purse, took her wrist with a firm grip, then raised her clenched hand, and the can of mace, overhead. His quick reflexes thwarted her efforts to spray him in the eyes, and Fiona shrieked in frustration, remembering too late that he'd probably had loads of hand-to-hand combat training in the military.

Huffing, she met his gaze in a brutal stare-down. Under the circumstances, he had her pinned. Surveying her with a raised brow and cautious eyes, he calmly said in a disapproving tone, "Mace. That's hardly playing fair, is it?"

"You don't know the meaning of fair play, Ghost Rider," she spat angrily.

Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I have to admit, Fiona, this passionate side of you is pretty ... intriguing."

Appalled by her body's instant betrayal, she silently cursed the wanton desire burning inside her veins, almost more blistering than her newfound fury and loathing for him. Hating Cal should have been black and white, not shades of gray.

"I'll scream," she warned in a half-defeated tone. The other half clung to indignation. The combination made her face burn and her heart pound like mad.

He shrugged, smirking. "Soundproof booth."

If he hadn't sported that wry, self-satisfied grin, Fiona might not have wanted to kick him in the shins so badly. But he did. So she did.

The man was built like a rock. He should have doubled over in pain, but he only winced briefly, and then regained his composure.

All efforts exhausted, she heaved a sigh of frustrated disappointment that lifted the curls from her forehead. This was silly. She felt like a child.

He watched her with staid calmness that made Fiona want to strike his face. Something hard in his eyes softened. So did his voice. "If I let go, will you promise not to use your purse, the mace, or any other weapon you might have at your disposal?"

She gave him a somber nod. "Promise." When he vigilantly glanced at both of her hands, she snapped, "Come on. Do you really think I'd cross my fingers?"

"You kicked me in the shins, Fiona. At this point I'm not sure what you'll do."

Cal released her and ran long fingers through his hair. Both hands on his hips, he studied her with a dubious stare.

In silence, she dropped the can of mace into her purse. She used to be calm. Mild-mannered. Not the kind of woman who would pound a man with her purse, or shoot a stream of mace into his eyes. Or kick him in the shins. Ghost Rider really did bring out the worst in her. Discovering his identity had driven her into wild territory that was alien to her.

Fiona adjusted her semi-disheveled appearance, smoothing the jade silk blouse where it met her denim skirt. She ran shaky hands from her cheeks to the hair clipped at the back of her neck. Her chest rose and fell with every ragged breath and a hand instinctively went to her crystal. When his eyes followed the movement, she let her fist drop to her side. With a steady stream of self-control flowing through her, she met his gaze. "You lied to me."

Cal shook his head resolutely. "No. I didn't."

"Like hell! You told me the red-haired man was Ghost Rider! That you were the station manager!" The words were more of an outcry than the poised, confident accusations she'd hoped for.

Self-assurance oozed from his every pore. "I am the station manager. And I'm Ghost Rider. I own KKAL. Mick's my assistant. I never told you that he was Ghost Rider. You just assumed he was and I didn't argue."

Fiona opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. There were no words. She felt like a dimwit, having fallen right into his little charade. She had been stupid and let her guard down. Given up common sense for a sexy smile. The self-satisfied flicker in his eyes infuriated her.

"I'm leaving." Her hand was on the doorknob, but she hesitated. Didn't turn it. Made no quick easy exit. Maybe leaving wasn't the answer. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she lifted her eyes to the ceiling.

What had brought Fiona to KKAL was the chance to set the record straight. To prove Ghost Rider wrong. To show his listeners that she wasn't the crazy loon he purported her to be. If she left, she would lose that opportunity.

Cal was Ghost Rider; that wasn't going to change. Maybe knowing this gave her an edge she wouldn't have had if her archenemy was a virtual stranger. At any rate, the initial shock of discovering his identity was over.

It was time to bring harmony back into her life. To face Ghost Rider with her guns blazing, for lack of a better confidence-boosting image. To make sure he would never use her, or her column, to hike his ratings again.

"Fiona." Was he going to beg? "Please..."

"Shh..." She held up a hand to ward off his words. Closing her eyes a moment, she collected her thoughts.

This was crazy. She was about to sit down in front of a microphone and speak to both her fans and her detractors. All in an effort to reestablish credibility. To stand up for what she believed in. Never mind that the man across from her had every intention of ripping her to shreds on the air. All it took was courage.

And if she had nothing else, she had courage.

* * * *

He didn't want to admire her. But Fiona Kelly made it damned hard not to. She was stronger than he'd ever given her credit for. And gutsy as hell.

He introduced her again, deftly and smoothly blaming the brief musical interlude on faulty studio equipment. Then she began to speak into the microphone. So he sat back, listened, and learned all about this woman who'd turned his entire life upside down.

Like Cal, she'd majored in business at Denver University. Then she had learned herbal medicine by touring Indian reservations in Colorado and New Mexico. After traveling, she settled in Southern California for a couple of years, working with a homeopathic doctor. Years of experience behind her, she moved to Manitou Springs, bought the farmhouse and opened Earth Tones.

"How does your stint at the newspaper factor into all of this?" He reclined in his chair, awaiting her answer, as if they were chatting casually over drinks.

She had relaxed. He'd kept his questions safe and fair so far, hoping Fiona would settle down a bit and come off her angry high horse. Ten minutes into her dialogue about growing up on the East Coast, her hands rested comfortably on the table, no longer balled up into fists on her lap. Her cheeks were a fair shade of pink, several hues lighter than the deep, infuriated red they'd been earlier.

Her fond smile was instant. "One of the Gazette editors was a regular customer. My column was her vision, actually."

"She hired you to give advice?"

Fiona nodded. "Yes. To give advice. Pam, the editor, thought I'd be good at it."

"Even without training in psychology?"

Keen eyes snapped toward his, the gold flecks in them crackling. "It's not a requirement for what I do." There was no rancor in her tone, but her shoulders were squared, and her chin elevated a notch. "People don't ask for counseling. They want specific herbal, homeopathic, and astrological advice."

"And you feel you're qualified to give it?"

"As qualified as you are to do this radio show."

With a dry chuckle, he rasped, "Excuse me?"

She laughed at his blatant disbelief. It was a throaty hum that crawled under his skin and made his blood sizzle. "Nothing personal." The gleam in her eye belied the words.

Her wit, and its sting, caught him off-guard. The radio had brought her to life. Filled her with piss and vinegar. He liked it. And, damn it, he liked her, too. The notion snuck up on him so quickly, he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of putting up a defense against it.

"I only give advice, Ghost Rider." When she called him by his pseudonym, he caught her scowl. "I give people the tools, the options. Then it's up to them. In spite of what you may think, my readers are pretty darn smart." Something impish and playful glittered in her gaze. She was baiting him, the vixen.

He wanted to kiss her. Kiss, hell. He wanted to throw himself over the desk, grab her by the shoulders and devour her.

Cal broke into a sweat and pulled his raging hormones under restraint. Dipping his chin, he watched her from beneath a creased brow. "I wasn't implying that your readers aren't smart. Don't twist my words."

"Twisting words is your forte, not mine." Her comment bit him. The tight smile on her lips proved it was intentional.

He cleared his throat and averted his gaze. Indignation put a clench in his jaw. "I don't twist your words - "

"You twist my intent," she replied, boldly keeping her gaze on him. "Which may be worse."

Going to a break now would seem like admitting guilt. He was desperate to get off the air, but he'd have teeth pulled without painkiller before he'd let her make him look like an ass.

"I've got an idea." He grabbed the Gazette and unfolded it. "This is yesterday's paper. The Sunday edition." He peeked at her from behind the black and white newsprint. "Mind if I read the first letter?"

Calmly, she relaxed into her chair. "Knock yourself out."

He ignored the implication that she meant it literally.

"Dear Fiona," he began, unable to keep a monotonous tone from his voice. Most of the letters to Fiona began in the same manner. "I'm a Pisces but the men I'm attracted to aren't those I'm well-matched for astrologically. Why is this? Signed, Another Fish in the Sea." He put the paper down, meeting her somewhat irritated gaze. "What was your reply to this fish?"

She jabbed her chin toward the paper on his desk, and sounded impatient when she answered, "You have it there. Why don't you read it instead of baiting me?"

He chuckled. "Cute. Baiting and fish in the sea. I'm not baiting you, but I have to admit, I'd like to hear you answer a letter in your own words, instead of through newspaper copy. Why not give the listeners a treat?" He flashed his most convincing smile and watched her sink deeper into her seat.

"Fine," she acquiesced with a sigh. She propped her elbows on the table, then clasped her hands and met his rather self-satisfied stare with easy confidence. "Astrology isn't for everyone," she said into the microphone, then tilted her head to the side. "Ghost Rider is living proof of that."

Cal gave her a slim, complacent smile that made her waver a moment, but she was back on track in a nanosecond. Clearing her throat, she went on, "Some turn to astrology just to read their daily forecast. Others live by the stars, making every decision based on alignment. Some fall in between."

"Where do you fall, Fiona?" He wanted to know and figured he'd sort out why later. Or not.

She swallowed, her contemplative eyes focused on his. "I'm someplace mid-spectrum. I depend on a mixture of astrology, common sense, and past experience."

Cal was different. He didn't need planets or stars to tell him who he was or wasn't. Who he was was the wrong man for Fiona. Or she was the wrong woman for him. Or both.

"Some people discover that a certain zodiac sign just seems to butt heads with their own." Glancing at Cal, she added, "No pun intended."

He got her little joke. A head-butting Aries the ram. Cal drummed his fingers on the desktop, but didn't offer a retort. Hard to think of a comeback when he was too busy wondering what Fiona would look like with her hair down, wearing nothing but the crystal around her neck.

"If one particular sign seems to bring you nothing but grief, you may want to reconsider the type of men you're attracted to, and focus on a sign more compatible with your own. Then again, you never know what fate might bring. Your destined mate may be the very zodiac sign you try to avoid."

Cal scoffed and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

Fiona narrowed her gaze. "What? Don't you believe there's one right person for everyone?"

Without a moment's consideration, Cal shook his head. "Nope. I think that a lot of times fascination or attraction are mistaken for rightness."

Clearly perplexed, she stared in silence, then shook her head.

For a moment, he forgot they were on the air. In a tone that was defensive, he demanded, with a grin, "What?"

"I'm not sure if that's cynical or philosophical."

He laughed. "I'm not philosophical."

With a lifted brow, she countered, "So you were being cynical?"

"Call it what you like." He flicked the red button on each mike and started another CD. As the music began, he turned to Fiona. In a clipped tone, he cautioned, "Don't make this personal."

She visibly bristled. "What do you mean?"

"My listeners don't need to know about me. We're supposed to be talking about you. Coffee?" He lifted a carafe from the small electric burner beside his desk.

"No. Thanks. I don't understand."

"About the coffee?"

She looked annoyed. "No. About the fact that you think it was getting personal. About you?"

He nodded and poured his coffee.

"You mustn't get personal very often, then. Our discussion barely scratched your surface."

He shrugged. "Maybe I'm shallow."

Fiona rolled her eyes. "Please. Even you couldn't be that shallow."

He grinned and set the carafe back onto the burner. "Maybe. Maybe not. But my listeners don't need to know about Ghost Rider. Let's keep this on track. Don't ask me questions like that on the air."

"Have you ever been in love?"

Her blunt inquiry took him by surprise. He gaped at her, his mouth turning as dry as the Sahara.

She lifted her shoulders. "We're not on the air."

Well, she had him there.

He took a gulp of coffee. After a moment's consideration, he decided to appease her curiosity. "Once. Maybe twice. How about you?"

As if he'd asked her something simple, for instance, whether she liked vanilla ice cream, Fiona nodded and declared, "Sure I have. A few times. Obviously not the forever kind." Without missing a beat, she inquired, "How old are you?"

He snickered, almost choking on another swig of hot coffee. "Trying to get all the personal stuff out of the way?"

She eyed the CD player and grinned. "The music's not going to last forever, is it?"

He didn't falter. "Thirty-eight." Age didn't bother him.

Both of her brows lifted. "And only in love once or twice?" She whistled for effect. "You must be a tough nut to crack."

He sighed wearily and set his mug down. "Okay. Enough personal chit-chat."

A twinkle of amusement passed over her features. "Whatever. Just give me my public apology so I can leave."

Without pause, he shook his head. "I'm not apologizing."

"What?" Face flushed, she set a burning gaze on him.

"I said I'm not - "

"I heard you," she snapped. "You have to apologize. It was part of the bargain."

"No," he corrected. "I said I'd see about it."

"You knew what you would do about it the day you asked me to come here!" Clearly displeased, she slumped back into her seat and folded her arms across her chest.

"I'm sorry. I decided it wouldn't be a good move for me. I have an image to consider."

Indignantly she asserted, "So do I."

"Come on, Fiona. You're a businesswoman. You can't honestly believe my apologizing to you on the air would be a wise move for me."

"Well, not apologizing won't be any wiser," she cautioned him. Eyes narrowed, she squared her jaw.

"Is that a threat?" he asked in disbelief.

Again, she rolled her eyes. "Give me a break. Do you think I'll cast some kind of voodoo spell on you?" She waved a hand. "Please. That's not my style." Raising a brow, she added, in a tone slightly ominous, "Piper's style, maybe ... but not mine."

"What is your style, Fiona?" he asked pointedly.

She blinked, looked away a second, then met his searching gaze with hazel pools he nearly drowned in. "I like to think I help people, Cal. That I make a difference."

The fact that she'd called him by his name, rather than Ghost Rider, warmed him almost as much as her candid reply. Her words stole something from him. Stole from him the fact that, until that moment, he'd been one hundred percent sure she'd deserved everything he'd fired at her over the past two months.

The music ended. The silence was deafening. With a jolt, he came back to the moment.

"We're on the air," he said into the microphone, "and about to take some calls. Fiona Kelly is with us this morning. As y'all know, Fiona pens an advice column in the Springs Gazette. She's also the proprietor of Earth Tones, your friendly neighborhood herb, mojo, and voodoo store. Fiona, since you're the guest of honor, what kind of calls would you like to take today? Want to talk about astrology? Compatibility of one sign with another? Or maybe you'd rather talk about herbal remedies for problem pets?"

Fiona leaned into her microphone and met his steadfast gaze with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. A sly smile curled her sexy mouth. "I'm glad you asked. I'd like to take a poll, and find out how many listeners wish Ghost Rider would stop using my advice column for his comedy material."

Cal slammed his empty coffee mug onto the desk. He should never have trusted her with an open mike. But he wasn't through yet. He trusted his listeners. They were squarely in his corner. "Sure. Why not. We'll take the first ten callers."

He could ignore his irritation. He could forget the troublesome fact that Fiona's unpredictability was actually a turn-on. Cal could even disregard the ease and grace with which she'd managed to take over his radio show.

What he couldn't ignore was Fiona's taunting, sensual voice as she teased him from across the desk. "Bet you wish you'd apologized now, Mr. Ratings Man."

The telephone lines lit up almost immediately. The fact that eager listeners were tuned in should have gratified him, but instead it only served to frustrate him even more.

He arched both brows at Fiona, no longer trying to hide his exasperation, then punched the first button on the telephone. "Caller number one, you're on the air."

"Hello, Fiona." The deep masculine voice was menacing, disturbing, and it crept into the quiet broadcast booth like an icy, unsettling fog. "You sound even sexier on the air. You ought to take up a career in broadcasting."

Fiona blanched. Cal watched her chest rise and fall rapidly, her breath coming in quick, audible gasps. Eyes wide with panic were shadowed by worry and fear.

Overwhelmed by a powerful sensation he couldn't ignore, an inexplicable desire to protect her, he held his microphone in a death-grip and took over. "Hello, caller number one, this is Ghost Rider."

Cal watched Fiona with a steady, unmoving gaze, his heartbeat pounding at his temples. Her face had gone pale, her hands trembled, and she shook her head forcefully, muttering, "No ... this ... can't be..."

Though a hundred different thoughts bounced around in Cal's mind, one was clearer than all the rest. This was Fiona's stalker. The one Piper had seen in her Tarot cards. The one Fiona didn't want to talk about.

"This is Dark Knight." The caller's voice was calm, self-assured, and purposefully ominous. He was toying with them. "I want to talk with Fiona Kelly."

Anger pulsed a hot, steady beat through Cal's veins. He had this guy's number already. The man was a demented wacko who had nothing better to do than intimidate an innocent woman. Nevertheless, he forced a calm reply past a throat constricted in fury. "Sorry, buddy. You're stuck with me."

Fiona stumbled to her feet. Fumbling for her purse, she muttered, "I-I have to go..." Then she bolted for the door. A shaky hand groped for the knob.

Cal dove from his chair, toppling the microphone in his haste. He didn't care. "Fiona! Wait!"

She glanced at him. The terror in her eyes formed an icy knot in his gut, but he couldn't stop her. With a white-knuckled grip on the knob, she shoved the door open.

Stunned, he watched her leave. The silence, in the wake of her departure, was broken only by Dark Knight's haunting voice, breathy and mysterious. "Fiona? Fiona ... Did you get my letters?"

Chapter Nine

Heavy drops of rain pummeled Cal's BMW as he sped to Fiona's place. Highway 25 was slick and hazardous, but he still drove like he was in the Indy 500. At four in the afternoon, daylight was cut short by another storm. Dusky gloom blanketed the Springs, except for the occasional vein of lightning that streaked across the sky. No wonder his shoulder had been throbbing like a bad tooth since the night before. Still, the pain in his arm was the least of his worries.

Was Dark Knight Fiona's stalker? She had run off before he could affirm it. His mind hadn't stopped reeling with worry since.

The farmhouse was pitch-black, but her truck sat in the driveway. Yanking his key from the Beemer's ignition, he desperately searched for a shimmer of light in her windows, but could see nothing.

A strobe of lightning flickered, and then relented to murky darkness again, followed by a crack of thunder that snapped at his nerves. There wasn't time to stop and think. The only thing he gave a flying hell about was making sure that Fiona was safe.

He sprang from the car, his heart slamming against his ribs. He took her porch steps two at a time, then pounded on the door with a clenched fist, and bellowed her name. Impatient to a fault, he tried to peer inside, but the window curtains were drawn. Thunder shook the porch with its reverberation. The wind whipped pellets of rain that stung his face and drenched his clothing. None of it mattered. He was a man on a mission, moving from window to window, looking for signs of life inside.

No lights. No Fiona. No sounds but the howling storm.

Panic formed a tight ball in his stomach. Fists clenched, he went back to the door, pounding again to no avail. "Damn it!" he shouted against the elements. He raked unsteady hands through his wet hair in frustration. The most unlikely thought crossed his mind. He'd done such a great job of re-hanging her door. A shame he'd just have to break it down.

He positioned himself and lifted a foot. Taking aim, he drew a deep breath, then heard Fiona shriek, "Stop!"

Cal lost his balance mid-kick and nearly fell back over the porch rail. He caught himself, gripping the rail for support.

"Cal! What are you doing here?" Fiona demanded. Her voice was tense, elevated a few notches, but the most reassuring sound he'd heard in a long time.

He could've kissed her just then. Elation swelled inside of him, then relief, warm and fluid, flooded his veins. She was safe.

With a fist curled around the handle of an umbrella, she stood there in a simple blue cotton skirt and a ribbed T-shirt, hugging breasts that were taut against the chilly air. Her mouth was full and pursed, her eyes wide pools that gaped back at him, searching, and mildly indignant about it.

His steady gaze traced her figure and something caught in his chest. Longing. Powerful longing. It washed over him, drowned him, filled him. Was it a sin to want someone so much? He swallowed, his throat parched. "I had to come check on you."

The white knuckles gripping the umbrella handle seemed to relax. Still, Fiona trembled where she stood, and her voice wavered. "You scared the hell out of me, Cal, peeking in my windows and banging on the door that way. I thought you were-" She looked away, blinking fast, her lower lip quivering.

"Oh, God..." It hit him then. She'd thought he was Dark Knight. Cal came toward her and she took a step back. "I'm sorry, Fiona." He meant it.

With a quick, dismissive nod, she glanced at the front door. "Were you about to kick it in?"

A little red in the face, he cleared his throat and nodded. "Don't you believe in turning the lights on?"

"Have you been living in a cave the last two hours? The power's out in most of Manitou." The smallest trace of a grin tugged at her mouth. "Mr. Radio, you really should keep up with the local news."

Not willing to let her off so easily, he snorted. "You didn't answer when I knocked."

"I didn't know it was you," she replied in a quiet but insistent tone. After a moment's hesitation, she sighed. "Come on in, Ghost Rider. Let's talk inside. You're soaked."

* * * *

Cal's flannel shirt was in the dryer, though he stubbornly insisted on wearing his wet T-shirt and jeans, even after she offered him an old pair of sweats her father had left behind the last time he and Mother visited.

He seemed uneasy, sitting in her kitchen, tense as a rubber band pulled tight enough to snap. Fiona watched him wince when he lifted the mug of coffee to his lips. Candlelight cast shadows in his eyes, illuminating the pain in their depths. She realized his shoulder ached.

"You need to call the police." Worry was carved into the creases surrounding his somber, dark-eyed gaze. There was thirty-eight years' worth of wisdom and experience in Cal's eyes. She knew that now. "He sounds creepy. You could be in real danger."

Fiona managed a wry smile. "If I didn't know better, Ghost Rider, I'd say you've got a soft spot in there somewhere."

Agitation clouded his eyes and he scowled. "This isn't something to joke about. How many letters so far?"

Tracing a finger over her cup handle, she tried to keep the anxiety from her tone. "One or two a week, for the past month."

"What do they say?" he probed, surveying her over his mug as he drew another gulp. The shadow of stubble on his jaw added an aura of mystery and raw sensuality to his features that was impossible to ignore. Something deep inside her ached for him. The fact that he actually seemed to care about her, even in a forceful, aggressive, Aries sort of way was both heartwarming and sexy.

She looked away. "He wants me to stop the column."

"That's it?" There was a trace of doubt in his tone.

Fiona stalled and looked down at her cup. There was more, but the thought of saying it was unbearable. The content of Dark Knight's letters was both frightening and unsettling. And personal.

"Fiona..." Cal coaxed her in a kind but insistent tone.

She sighed and brought a hand to her crystal. "He says he's an admirer." Because the word seemed harmless enough, Fiona met Cal's gaze, then lifted a brow, to let him know she meant "admirer" in the worst possible definition.

Cal's swig of coffee went down in a loud gulp. His eyes widened as her implication sunk in. In a tight voice, he further questioned, "Does he call?"

She cleared her throat, focusing on the murky liquid in her coffee mug. "Just this week."

"For crying out loud, Fiona - "

She locked gazes with him. He stopped mid-sentence and pressed his lips together. Warm candlelight licked his handsome face and danced on the flecks of silver in his dark hair.

Cal Turner was Ghost Rider. Why was she still so attracted to this man?

Fiona shook her head and looked away. "I know what you're thinking, but I'm not involving the police yet."

"Why?" He didn't bother masking his immediate frustration.

"I don't want to live my life in fear, that's why. Or surround myself with bodyguards." She shrugged, offering a smile that wavered with uncertainty. "It's just not me, Cal. I'd feel ... suffocated."

He lifted a brow, dipping his chin. "You're too trusting."

"And you're too cynical," she came back without pause.

His eyes held her gaze. In their shadowy depths, she read a combination of exasperation and worry. He was probably accustomed to having his way, she realized. He couldn't help it. He was an Aries, after all. Old habits died hard. And some never died at all, Fiona decided ruefully.

He took a contemplative sip of coffee. "You're mistaking cynicism for reality."

"The two walk hand in hand sometimes."

"Exactly my point." His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

Not missing a beat, she asked, "How's your shoulder?"

A low chuckle passed over the lips Fiona struggled against wanting to kiss again. "You're changing the subject."

"We're due for a subject change." Her shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. "I don't want Dark Knight in my house. Talking about him lets him in." She clasped her crystal and watched Cal's keen eyes dart to her closed fist.

He stuck out a finger and wagged it angrily. "That crystal's not going to protect you, Fiona. I know you think it will, but if Dark Knight wants to hurt you, he'll do it. No matter how big a rock you have around your neck." His eyes narrowed, an icy enforcement backing his words.

A tremor slithered up her spine. "Cal, don't bully me. And don't talk about my crystal. You can't understand something you're afraid of."

"Afraid!" he echoed in disbelief. Dry, sarcastic laughter rumbled up from his chest. "So I'm afraid of your crystal, am I?"

"You're not just afraid of my crystal. You're afraid of who I am." Lifting her chin, she assumed all of the dignity she could muster. "You wouldn't be the first man afraid of me."

Cal elevated a curious brow, but didn't ask for an explanation. Maybe someday she would tell him how many men had stepped into her store then taken off running in the other direction. Piper said they were intimidated. Fiona wasn't sure what it was exactly, or why Cal Turner hadn't sprinted yet, even if he was clearly uncomfortable there.

"You're not scary, Fiona," he said gently. "Different, maybe. Wacky, definitely. But not scary." Holding her gaze, he cautioned her, "Don't confuse fear with pragmatism. My way of thinking has nothing to do with stars, crystals or herbs. I'm not afraid, I'm practical. Nothing about you scares me."

Fiona shrugged and averted her eyes, hoping she wasn't so transparent that he might notice her trembling. The way he looked at her made her quiver in an odd way that could only be described as pleasurable. "If you say so."

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and laughed in amazement. "Unbelievable. You honestly think your crystal scares me?"

"That's not what I said. I think some things scare you. You squirmed while Piper read your palm. You were - "

"Uncomfortable," he supplied without hesitation. He raised his shoulders. "Sure, I was uncomfortable. But not scared. Nothing scares me."

It was her turn to laugh and shake her head. Cal's lips mirrored amusement. He studied her so intently, she could almost feel it. Her cheeks warmed and the sensation spread lower. Could he feel the sparks? The chemistry? Heaven help her, Fiona knew she did. She would never be able to resist him, regardless of her nagging common sense.

She cleared her throat and tried to focus on their current debate. "Everyone's afraid of something, Cal."

"Maybe everyone else."

She laughed again, then shoved away from the table. "Come on. Follow me." He began to rise from his chair, a thrilling look of expectancy on his face. "Let me rub some peppermint oil on your shoulder."

He plopped back down in his chair. "No, thanks. I've got some ointment and aspirin at home."

She stopped at the doorway to the store. "Peppermint works better." Holding his gaze, she mustered up a daring tone. "Unless you're ... afraid..."

"Aha..." He laughed softly, shaking his head, then dropping his chin to stare at the floor. She'd put him between a rock and a hard place and Fiona knew it. Slowly he pushed up from his seat, meeting her eyes with his own dusky stare. "You're on," he said with a throaty challenge. Her own throat went tight and her heart tapped in quick little flutters. She turned away before he could see her blush.

In the store, a single candle burned on a shelf. Fiona lit four others while he watched. In the background, thunder boomed and shook the old farmhouse. A few moments later, a sharp flash of lightning cast shadows in the room, followed immediately by another clap of thunder. The tempestuous storm lingered over Manitou Springs, yet nothing unnerved her more than being alone with Cal, and her impulsive desire for him.

She pulled a wooden stool from the corner and beckoned for him to sit. Without argument, he complied. Sitting on that stool brought him to the perfect height for a shoulder massage. The unsteady stool wobbled beneath him, but he set calm, attentive eyes on her, making Fiona's heart pump like crazy.

Her voice was raspy and urgent, baring her rapidly dwindling control. "You'll have to remove your shirt." She turned away in haste, her cheeks burning.

Reaching for the massage oil bottles with a shaky hand, Fiona paused and tried to calm herself. A platoon of raging hormones had suddenly declared war on her wavering common sense. Those hormones were armed and ready for attack, no doubt having planned this takeover for quite some time.

"How did you get shot?" Small talk usually did the trick. Usually. Not always. In this case, not likely. She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip and snatched two tiny blue bottles of oil.

"It was a stupid mistake." His voice was distant and pensive. She felt his eyes on her as she pulled a small marble bowl from a shelf. "My men and I were in a ditch, dodging enemy fire. A surprise attack. All I wanted was to keep the men in that ditch until it stopped. I rustled around too much in the process and was hit." He paused and sighed. "It happens fast. Before you even know it."

"What happened then?"

"Nothing. We were able to leave after a flanking unit took out the enemy's position.

Fiona looked up from the marble bowl where she blended lavender and peppermint oils together. "You saved those men."

"I don't know about that." He shifted on the stool and appeared self-conscious. Was this Aries man humble? Surprising. Warmth pulsed through her at the prospect.

With a boyish sideways grin, he added, "My men knew to stay in that ditch. They didn't need me to make sure they kept hunkered down in there."

"How can you be certain?" She dabbed lavender at the base of her throat, hoping its calming effect might soothe her aroused libido. Even put it to sleep. "I've heard that some of the best trained soldiers can forget what they've been taught in certain situations."

Cal didn't refute the possibility, but Fiona sensed, by his expression, that he wasn't sold on it, either. His modesty stupefied her. After all, she never would have pegged Ghost Rider to be the humble sort. It didn't fit his profile.

"It must have been hard to leave the military." Bowl in hand, her body went rigid. It would be just like her clumsy self to trip and pitch the bowl of oil onto his lap. She took a deep breath and willed herself to be blunder-free.

He watched her with an earnest expression. "It was like leaving one life for another. I was born and raised on military bases. Trading careers was the easy part. Living without so many rules wasn't as easy."

His honest introspection made her step falter. With a sincere smile, she continued toward him. "How does it feel?"

He rolled his shoulder. "Still sore."

Fiona laughed spontaneously. "Not that. Being on your own."

He winked, his lips curling into a delectable grin. "I knew what you meant." Still, he had sidestepped answering the question. Absently he ran a hand through his hair. The muscles in his bare arm flexed and Fiona's breath caught in her throat. His sheer virility was unnerving.

She walked around behind him on legs that wobbled a bit unsteadily. "The lavender oil is very soothing. The peppermint is probably like an ointment you'd buy at the pharmacy for joint pain. And there's a little bit of cayenne oil, too, so it might feel a bit ... hot."

Speaking of hot, Fiona felt perspiration bead on her brow. Cal Turner was hot. It was all she could do to keep from climbing onto his lap and kissing him until he couldn't breathe. Or she couldn't.

She stared at the back of his shoulder. Giving a massage had never taken so much focus. Then again, she'd never set hands on Adonis before, either. She dipped her fingers into the oil mixture. His skin was warm, and solid muscle rolled beneath her fingertips. "Relax," she breathed into his ear.

Heaven help her, Fiona knew she was playing with fire. Tempting fate. Being naughty. It felt delicious.

Her fingers worked his shoulder muscles, spreading the heat of mixed fragrant oils over his skin. She closed her eyes, breathing the scent of him, strong and virile, smelling of rain and wind blended with lavender and peppermint. The room was warm with incense of rose and sandalwood. The sensations enveloped her.

Her anger and disappointment from the day's events slowly melted away like butter left in sunshine. Good energy canceled out bad until the scales were nearly even again. The fact that Cal was Ghost Rider had been a blow to her. A tremendous blow. But he was here now, out of concern for her, wanting to know she was safe, which meant he must care. Cal's harried and troubled expression as he stood on her porch, ready to plow through her front door, nudged away many of her misgivings.

Sure, she was probably the world's biggest pushover. But to Cal's credit, he was a complex man. In the past, the men Fiona dated had clear-cut motives. Eat, sleep, sex - not always in that order - then the cycle repeated.

Cal seemed to march to his own drummer, rather than striving for a position with the rest of the pack. A man with a mind of his own - above the shoulders, no less - was enticing any way she sliced it.

Fiona circled to the front of him. Dark curled hair dusted the span of muscles on his chest, damp with perspiration, fragrant with his scent. Fiona met his smoldering gaze and a sensual spark passed between them.

She knelt beside him and caught an up-close view of his scar in the candlelight. She bit her lip and stifled a gasp. She had never seen a real honest to goodness bullet wound at close range. There was a sharp catch in her breast.

His brows knit together. "Are you okay?"

Fiona swallowed hard over her parched throat. "Yes." She stroked the livid scar tenderly with her index finger. "I've never seen ... a scar from a..."

"Bullet wound?" he supplied. A slow, sexy smile crept across his lips. "It looks worse than it felt."

"Hard to believe," she whispered.

Cal's face was inches away from hers. She felt his breath warm on her mouth. His dark eyes penetrated hers. Eyes that could have easily glimpsed her soul. Fiona inched forward, parting her lips, desperately wanting his kiss.

Thunder rocked the room, pulsing straight through her. She jumped and pulled back. Heart drumming in her ears, she managed a shaky smile, realizing she'd almost forgotten that day in the kitchen. The day Cal had kissed her senseless, then decided it was all a horrible mistake.

With hands that trembled, she worked the oil into his shoulder, kneading, massaging and applying pressure points. Every muffled moan that escaped his lips brought her incredible pleasure. It felt like ... foreplay. His relaxation beneath her touch was gratifying.

"Is this helping?" she murmured against his ear.

"Helping? This is ... heaven," he sighed, in a soothing liquid tone that tickled Fiona everywhere. "Where'd you learn to do this?"

"A massage parlor. On nights that I wasn't lap dancing." He stiffened and Fiona giggled. "Just kidding, silly. My mother's passion was hands-on healing. She was my first teacher in massage and the use of herbs."

"Mind if I hang on to that lap dancing image a little longer?" he teased her with a naughty grin.

"Never harass the masseuse," she warned playfully. "I know pressure points that could render you unconscious."

In a voice just as sexy and flirtatious, he replied, "So do I, thanks to the military. Maybe we could swap trade secrets sometime."

The prospect made her temperature rise. Fiona dealt with the hot flash, but couldn't get a handle on her imagination, which, in a snap, conjured up images of wrestling with Cal.

"Mom was a massage therapist. I picked up some things from her."

"I'll say." His agreement came without hesitation. He moaned and his head dipped forward. Totally relaxed. Putty in her hands. Oh, what she was tempted to do with him...

"You'll feel brand new by the time I'm done," she promised.

"I could get used to this."

Fiona smiled wistfully. So could she.

Coming around to the front again, her oiled fingers roamed over sinewy muscle. His skin glistened in the dusky candlelight and the flesh of the scar shimmered in the candlelight. On impulse, Fiona placed a moist, lingering kiss over it.

His lids flew open and raw desire burned like fire in his eyes. Longing was etched into the rough, masculine lines of his face, deepening the intensity of his gaze. He squared his jaw. Grasping her forearms, he tugged her close. She braced her hands against his chest, feeling the heat seep from her to him and back again in a single touch.

Their lips collided and need surged through her, hot and welcome. Her heart pumped harder, faster, and her pulse points sparked. When she opened her mouth to let him in, Cal groaned and took without hesitation. The sound vibrated past her lips, touching her everywhere. His tongue found hers and his hands cupped her buttocks. Swiftly and without effort, he had her on his lap, straddling him, her skirt hiked up to her thighs. There was nothing between her moist, aching loins and his full arousal but denim and lace.

His kisses were deep, probing. Fiona whimpered softly, dragging her hands over his smooth, taut flesh, spreading warmth over his chest, his shoulders, and his neck. She raked eager, anxious fingers through his hair and welcomed his hands, as they skillfully worked their way beneath her shirt.

"Oh, Fiona..." he moaned, discovering she wore no bra under her top. He welcomed her breasts, cupping them, tormenting each rigid bud with his fingertips.

She writhed against him, wants and needs tangled and burning inside of her. Fiona thought for certain that his touch would drive her over the edge. The final remnants of self-control and common sense were cast away, unheeded and forgotten. Cal's lips spread fire from her mouth along her jaw, to her throat, then, finally, to her breasts. His tongue rolled over each peak and tasted the curve of each swell. Fiona bit her lip and moaned in ecstasy. She clutched his hair, and her back arched, forcing his mouth closer and harder against her bare skin.

She panted, gasped, tried to hang on. Her bed. They had to get there.

"Oh, hell," he murmured against her bare chest. He licked one rigid nipple. "I shouldn't be doing this ... Tell me to stop..."

She should have stopped him, should have remembered there might be regret later, when lovemaking left them satiated and able to think clearly again. But Fiona was incapable of rational thought at the moment. She could no more tell him to stop than she could hurl lightning from her fingertips.

She brought her head down, her mouth hot and moist against his neck. She kissed, nipped, and savored him. Rain, sweat and skin. She loved the way he tasted.

"Fiona ... there's something I need to tell you..." The words were lost somewhere between her neck and shoulder, when Cal resumed devouring her again.

Fiona pressed herself against the swell between his legs. She didn't want him to tell her anything. There had been enough honesty for one day. She wanted him to take her to bed. To make love to her until she begged him to do it again. She didn't care if their attraction was an astrological blunder. She didn't care that he was Ghost Rider. She didn't even care that, when daylight stole the night away, this moment would be over. Maybe forever.

Carpe diem. Seize the day. Sometimes moments like this didn't have to make perfect sense.

He slipped a hand inside her panties, stroking her with tender but determined caresses. Fiona shuddered, rocking her hips with every touch, throwing her head back, as a low carnal moan scraped past her throat. He was pushing her beyond the brink of sanity to a point where she would inevitably become his, to do with her as he pleased.

She took his mouth again, their silky dance of tongues accompanied by the low hum of every ragged breath they exchanged. Fiona knew, with every fiber of her being, that she owned this moment. It belonged to her. And it belonged to Cal, too.

She cupped his face with her hands. His eyes gleamed bright, his mouth was moist and red, and his breathing was urgent. "What?" His brows pulled together in concern.

Hers, too, were drawn tight over eyes that had suddenly gone liquid. "Cal ... do you want me?"

He dipped his chin, holding steadfast to her gaze. In disbelief, he choked, "Are you kidding?" She shook her head, her expression somber. Awareness flickered in his eyes and candlelight illuminated his slow, understanding smile. "Yes, Fiona. I want you. Very, very much."

With a stifled moan, she kissed him again, closing her eyes tight to snuff out tears of relief and pleasure. He wanted her.

She kissed him until they were both breathless, pressing her body to his, their hearts beating in rhythm. When Fiona couldn't stand the wait any longer, when their fervent, entangled foreplay wasn't enough, she dragged her mouth from his. In a soft, throaty voice, she begged, "Cal ... please take me to bed."

Chapter Ten

Fiona's four-poster bed looked warm and welcoming, even if it was occupied by a sloppy Golden Retriever and an ornery billy goat.

Cal's eyes twinkled with amusement. "I'm not sure I've ever seen anything quite this ... unnatural."

Fiona's laugh was rich and lusty. "I told you, Billy's convinced he's a dog." She coaxed both animals off the bed with Cal's help. "The storm's over, time to go outside."

"I'll let them out," Cal offered, starting for the door.

"Oh, no, you won't." Reaching for his pants, she tugged the waist of his blue jeans and pulled him close. "There's a doggy door in the kitchen. They'll be fine."

With an index finger, she traced the lines of his mouth, enjoying his sexy boyish smile, the perfect white teeth, and the cleft in his strong, angled chin. She kissed that cleft, planning to work her way higher ... or lower ... or both...

He pulled away, just a little, his forehead creased, and his eyes troubled. "Fiona I need to tell you - "

She pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh. Not now, Cal. We've had enough honesty for one day. Just take me to bed and make love to me."

His silent struggle was short-lived. With a low, hungry growl, he covered her mouth. His kisses blanketed her in heat. Clothing was shed in wild and aggressive abandon, until they stood gloriously naked and bathed in candlelight.

Cal's gaze caressed her, raw desire carved into his expression. "You're beautiful," he sighed in a breathless tone that touched her deep inside.

Fiona closed her eyes as he reached out to stroke her cheek with the palm of his hand. He moved past her face, to the back of her head, where he worked the hair clip free. A wild array of spirals cascaded to her shoulders.

In a low tone, he murmured, "Hair like this should never be pulled up. It's like fire and silk." He twirled a ringlet in his fingertips. "I could get lost in it."

"If you pull a twig out of there, I'm going to scream," she teased with an impish grin.

Oh, how that afternoon in the greenhouse seemed light years away. Even then, it seemed, she had known this moment would come.

As if it was in the stars.

Now, she lost herself in this man's tender gaze. His dark eyes were gentle, affectionate, filled with longing so powerful she was overwhelmed with a sense of rightness. Of knowing their desire was alive, with its own heartbeat and breath.

Smiling, she touched his shoulder. "Feel okay?"

There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "It feels great. But there's another spot that's in desperate need of your attention."

She laughed, feeling beautiful and sexy. "I'm not sure a peppermint and cayenne rub down is the way to go this time."

His eyes widened and laughter sputtered past his lips. He cupped her buttocks and pressed her close, flush against his hard, pulsing need. "No offense, but a rub down isn't what I want right now."

"Lucky for you, I'm a woman of many talents. And I'm fairly sure I know the cure for what's ailing you," she purred, kissing his chin.

"I have to tell you, I'm not much into herbs."

"It's not an herb," she said softly, sliding onto the bed.

He fingered the crystal dangling between the swell of her breasts. "And your crystal's awful sexy, but wearing one's not my style."

The heel of his hand grazed the outer curve of her breast and she almost came off the bed. Her tone was urgent. "It's not a crystal, either."

He licked each taut nipple, then traced a line to her navel with his tongue, and breathed, "This feels good."

"Mmm..." she moaned. "I'll say." The place between her thighs pulsed wildly. Fiona would explode if he didn't make love to her soon.

His mouth delved lower. Then lower still. "This isn't bad either ... is it?" He nipped at the moist ache between her legs.

Fiona sucked in a sharp breath. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she had to grip the bedposts to keep her body from bucking with spasms of delight. In a voice that trembled, she gasped, "Works for me."

He laughed, his breath hot against her flushed skin. Cal dangled Fiona over the edge of a cliff that promised to drop her into a sweet abyss of earth-shattering fulfillment.

"Cal!" she cried out his name. It was a plea. "Make love to me. Please. Now."

"I thought you'd never ask," he murmured softly against her ear. In moments he had slipped on protection and Fiona felt him near again, enjoying her breasts, her neck, and then her mouth. He paused once, his eyes searching hers. Candlelight played across his tender masculine features, reflected flames dancing in his dusky gaze. "You're sure about this, Fiona?"

She smiled and kissed him. "I've never been surer of anything in my life, Cal Turner."

He moaned, plunging his tongue past her lips, as he entered her carefully, caressing Fiona's soul with gentle, loving waves of passion. When she could hold back no longer, she wrapped her legs around him, burying him further, rocking with each thrust. Raw, needy desire unleashed, she let Cal lead her with wild abandon, until all she wanted or needed was him.

His voice hummed in her ear, breathing her name over and over, until Fiona's heart throbbed and fresh tears of awareness stung her eyes. This man who had turned her world upside down was the man who now owned her heart.

She held him tight, molding Cal's body to hers, wanting nothing more than to become one with him. "I can't hold on much longer," Fiona murmured in his ear with a voice she barely recognized. The sensual voice of a woman awakened by a passion and longing she never knew existed. A woman ready to plunge from that perilous cliff. "Oh - Cal..."

"Let go, Fiona. Let go."

His plea was ragged and urgent, his strokes deeper, more fervent. Cal's caresses pushed her over the edge and Fiona cried out, her core shattering, release consuming her. He arched against her, breathing her name, as his mouth enveloped hers with needy kisses she returned between rapturous sobs.

Their hearts beat in unison as they entered paradise.

* * * *

Cal woke sometime later, dazed and groggy, befuddled by his surroundings, until he rolled over and his arm grazed the pillow beside him. When he could focus, he discovered Fiona sitting on the wide-ledged windowsill gazing at the moon.

Her robe of creamy silk shimmered in the silvery light. Moon glow illuminated her, putting stars in the halo of auburn curls. In silence, he watched her. Afraid to breathe. Afraid to disturb the moment. Instead, he etched it onto his mind forever. And it was then that Cal realized he was falling in love with Fiona Kelly.

The woman whose head was in the stars had worked her way into his heart. Now, she looked like a moon goddess, beautiful and ethereal, and Cal was just about ready to buy into all things cosmic.

His jaw tensed and an ache ballooned in his throat. A woman like Fiona deserved honesty. He'd wanted to tell her the truth about his ill-fated wedding day, before they had made love. He'd wanted to explain that, while he'd once been obsessed with thoughts of revenge, everything was different now. It was different because, until Fiona, he hadn't known what real love was, the kind of love that consumes a man, all at once, and makes him lose his head.

Now, the stakes were high. She didn't know who he was, not completely. She only thought she did. He could go crazy with worrying about what she would think once she found out the truth.

As if feeling his eyes on her, Fiona turned from the window. Slowly, she sought and returned his tender gaze. Her smile was soft and radiant. "Hi." Her voice was so serene and sensual, he felt himself ache for her again.

"Hello, Fiona." He pushed up onto one elbow and ran a free hand through his mussed hair. "Everything okay?"

"Everything is..." she sighed, "very much okay," she finished, then slid off the window ledge. Her silhouette swam through moonbeams, floating toward the four-poster bed. Cal was overwhelmed with wanting her again, between the cool sheets, until the moon slipped from the sky.

She paused at the edge of the bed. "Are you hungry?"

He smiled lazily, taking her cool, slender hand, and entwining his long fingers with hers. "My stomach can wait." He tugged, coaxing her onto the bed.

Fiona's laugh was throaty and seductive. The sound made him hard again. "You're insatiable, Ghost Rider."

His heart took a nose-dive and his throat went dry. "Don't call me that." He tried not to snap, but the words still sounded harsh.

In the dusky light, Fiona's eyes went wide and moist with regret. "I'm sorry." She blinked, looked away a moment, then rattled on. "I - I don't know why I called you that. Maybe just because ... it feels good to say it without the animosity attached. I don't know..." She dipped her chin, looking down at their clasped hands.

He brought their entwined fingers to his lips and kissed the backside of her hand. Something sharp and painful cut into his heart, because he knew exactly what she meant. It was all about coming clean, being honest, and, hopefully, moving past it all.

"I'm the one who should be sorry, Fiona. It's just ... Ghost Rider isn't who I am. It's someone I've pretended to be." Or hid behind, he realized, his throat aching. He paused, struggling with a cold band of guilt and regret that suddenly wrapped around his chest. It squeezed relentlessly. "There's something I want to talk to you about, Fiona."

With a mischievous smile, she was already sliding out of her robe. He bit back a moan as she pressed closer. "It might have to wait," she purred in his ear.

Words failed him as desire replaced thought. Cal ran his hands over her skin, warm and smooth as silk. Like the first time, his body was on fire. Molten desire pounded through his veins. A new, powerful wave of longing flooded him. He wanted her more than ever, if that was possible.

"Fiona..." For a moment, her name was just a ragged expression of the effect she had on him.

She trailed soft moist kisses and licks first on his neck, then lower. Her mouth aroused him, caressing his chest, then his abdomen. Lower. And even lower. Until his confession became lost and forgotten.

"Oh ... Fiona..." he moaned, losing himself, wondering if he would ever come back from this place she was taking him to. Wondering if he even cared about coming back. Emotion swelled in his throat, too simple to question, too huge to ignore. He reached out, stroked her hair, and gulped back a low, lusty growl.

Fiona tasted, stroked and indulged him in her hypnotic magic. It felt natural. Right. For the first time in his life, Cal's mind and heart became one with his body. Suddenly, things that had never before made sense ... did.

She straddled his legs, hands on either side of his mid-section. Her hair was a wild array of loose curls, cascading over her shoulders. Moon glow bathed her. She really was a goddess.

He ran a hand through those rich, fiery coils, cupping the back of her head, then drew her mouth down to his. "God, you're beautiful."

"Funny," she whispered hot and sweet against his lips. "I was just thinking the same thing about you."

He ravished her mouth, devouring the sweetness. His hands cupped her breasts, stroking, tormenting each bud until it stood erect, until she moaned and arched against him.

Teasing the powerful needy animal inside of him, she pulled her lips from his. Her honey and sandpaper voice flooded him with heat. "Don't move," she instructed with an alluring smile. "It's my turn to put the moves on you."

He laughed. "I think you've been doing that since the day we met."

"Honey, you haven't seen anything yet." She ran a moist tongue over her lips and Cal was certain that, if she didn't make her move soon, the crazy wild beast inside of him would be unleashed. And very, very hungry.

He lifted a brow, his mouth curving into an effortless grin. "What do you have in mind?"

Her smile seduced, her voice teased. "You're just going to have to trust me."

Trust, he realized dully. What she asked of him now, Fiona had given to him so willingly from the start. Knowing this made him want, even more, to give her the honesty she deserved.

For the moment, he swallowed his confession. Maybe he was a coward. Afraid to break the spell. Desperately trying to hang on to this incredible woman just a little longer. A coward.

That night, he'd told her he wasn't afraid of anything, but that wasn't true. There was one thing he was desperately afraid of now.

Losing Fiona.

* * * *

The telephone woke her. Fiona shadowed her eyes from the sunlight pouring in through the open window.

Cal's arm was curled around her waist, his face buried in her hair. The sound of his quiet, even breathing brought a wide appreciative smile to her lips. Her heart inflated and ached for a lifetime of mornings just like the one they were spending in her four-poster bed.

The telephone jangled again and Cal stirred, rumbling a half-snore, half-moan. She watched him turn onto his back, then slowly open his eyes. A sleepy grin curled his sexy mouth and, with a playful growl, he dove into her neck. Moist, warm kisses made her giggle and shudder with a longing that seemed unquenchable.

He murmured in her ear, between insistent nibbles at her lobe, "Are you going to get the phone?"

"Whoever it is can call back or leave a message."

He nipped her jaw. "It might be important..."

"Or not." She laughed. "That tickles!"

"How about this?" He reached beneath the covers to cup her bare bottom, then pressed her close to him. He wanted her again, and Fiona was giddy with an ache for him that bordered on delirium.

More laughter bubbled up from her throat, and she crooned, "Oh, Cal, I really think we need to eat something before we do this again." As if by instinctual response, her stomach growled, and she giggled. "See? I didn't have dinner. And, well, we've burned an awful lot of calories."

He poked his head under the covers, planting a delicious kiss on her breast. Fiona squealed in delight. "What are you doing?"

His voice was muffled beneath the quilt. "Did you hear that growl? I think there's a bear under here."

She laughed until her sides hurt. Grabbing a handful of his hair, she tugged gently, pulling him out from under the covers. "Not funny. That was my stomach. I told you I was hungry. Now get out of there before you change my mind."

Cal gave her a boyish grin that turned her warm and liquid on the spot. It wasn't as if they hadn't filled endless hours with lovemaking already. Still, her libido was as famished for Cal as her stomach was for breakfast.

Food, she reminded herself. Without sustenance, their next trip to ecstasy would probably cause her to faint dead away. She tossed her mussed curls to one side. "How about pancakes? With lots of syrup?"

"And bacon?" He raised a hopeful brow.

"Not in this house," she replied, climbing out of bed. "Your kooky hippie flashback is a vegetarian, Mr. Turner." Slipping into her silk robe, she gave him a good-humored wink, watching him out of the corner of her eye. "I hope that isn't too much of a disappointment."

He laughed heartily. "Are you kidding? I'll eat ten pounds of tofu with you, Fiona. Last night was incredible. You won't hear any complaints from me."

Last night was incredible...

His comment made her heart soar, but she yanked it back down to earth. She would be foolish to hope for too much. From experience, she knew that life with an Aries man had to be lived one moment at a time.

Sliding her feet into her favorite bunny slippers, she quipped, "Then you ought to love my ten-grain pancakes."

"Ten-grain?" He tugged on his jeans. "I didn't know there were ten grains."

"Let me guess - you're a white flour man, am I right?"

With a sheepish grin, he confessed, "Only if that's what's in a box of frozen waffles."

She lifted a brow, amused. "Cal, you're about to experience an entirely new and different taste sensation."

He wrapped his arms around her waist, tugged her against his bare chest, then took her mouth, savoring her with tender strokes. Between his slow, toe-curling kisses, he rumbled, "Mmm ... I thought I already had..."

Fiona melted in his arms, wanting him with a yearning so powerful she almost forgot about ten-grain pancakes and syrup. Until her stomach growled again. Loudly.

Cal tugged his mouth from hers with a wink and a naughty grin. "I reckon we got us a bear to feed."

"You know what happens when you feed the bears, don't you, Cal?" She gently gnawed his lower lip, and enjoyed watching his eyes roll to the ceiling, as he fought to maintain self-control.

He answered, his voice husky, "They could attack."

Teasing, she traced his lips with her tongue. "Hmm ... I sure hope so."

He buried his face into her neck and his mouth nuzzled the erogenous zone by her ear. "Don't you worry, Fiona. Pancakes or not, this bear's gonna attack."

* * * *

Poking a fork into his third pancake, Cal admitted, "I've never had pancakes with sunflower seeds and raisins."

"By the looks of it, you're enjoying them."

Fiona smiled with beautiful ease and Cal felt his heart swell. He wanted to kiss the maple syrup from her lips. So he did. Three times. Until she laughed and told him to stay in his seat and finish his breakfast.

He dragged the bit of pancake on his fork through a pool of syrup. "Listen, can you take a day off from work?"

She looked at him, wide-eyed and clearly intrigued. "What do you mean? Close up shop?" A forkful of pancakes, dripping with syrup, went into that delectable mouth of hers.

He nodded. "Sure. Close up shop. For a day. Can you?" He filled his mouth with ten grains and raisins soaked in butter and syrup. Licking his lips, he knew he'd never tasted better. Minding his manners, he swiped a napkin across his mouth, then flashed his most convincing smile.

"A day off..." She tilted her head to one side, considering the prospect, then gave an easy shrug. "Sure. Why not." Cradling her cup with both hands, she blew across it to cool the hot coffee, then took a sip.

"How about today?"

"Today?" She laughed. "You sure know how to push the envelope."

He didn't respond, but watched her with a steady gaze, enjoying how she blushed under the heat of his stare. He could've devoured her right along with his pancakes. Dipped her in syrup first, although she was already so sweet she didn't need any extra help.

He held his breath, watching her brows knit together, then relax. It took a moment, but finally she nodded, her smile broadening. "Sure. Okay." Everything about her brightened at the idea. "I can close up for one day. Of course I can. It's one of the perks of being your own boss, right?"

"Right." He beamed, reclined back in his seat, and picked up his own coffee mug. "Hot damn, that was easy."

"What about you? Don't you have to be at the station?"

He waved a hand. "Mick can handle things for a day. He's been bellyaching for a long weekend away with his wife." He winked, grinning. "I'll owe him one after this."

Cal stretched his long legs to one side of the dinette, realizing he hadn't felt so relaxed, so content in ... He'd never felt that way, in fact. It was a nice change that he decided he could easily adapt to.

"Hmm ... a whole day off," she mused quietly. With a slow, sexy grin, she asked, "What do you have in mind, Cal Turner?"

For a moment, what he originally had in mind slipped away. Images of her satin sheets and a day of lovemaking sneaked into his thoughts. Later, he promised himself. Slow, easy, and more than once, in fact.

But for now, he had the burning desire to spend a day getting to know Fiona Kelly. To do that, he'd have to take her as far away from her four-poster bed as possible.

With a sly smile, he told her, "Well, you've shown me your world. Today, I'd like to show you a part of mine."

Chapter Eleven

"Fiona, I'd like you to meet Navajo Joe." Cal made the introductions then stepped back.

Fiona's face lit up with a friendly grin, her eyes twinkling. She clasped Joe's hand in a vigorous shake. "Hi, Joe. I'm Fiona Kelly."

"Hello, Fiona Kelly." Joe's dark, intuitive eyes held hers for a long pause, then his gaze dropped to her necklace. An intrigued grin tugged the corners of his mouth. "Nice stone."

She brought a hand to the crystal, her smile and the sparkle in her eyes reflecting keen interest. "Funny, I was just admiring your turquoise ring." She glimpsed the large gemstone on his right hand, then locked gazes with him again, her beaming smile widening.

Joe tossed a curious glance in Cal's direction, his fascination and amusement abundantly clear. Joe knew the type of women Cal dated and none of them were remotely like Fiona. The women Cal dated wore dainty diamond pendants, not golf ball-sized crystals on silver rope chains. They smelled like designer perfume, not tomato vines, lavender, and oranges. Women Cal dated wore trendy clothing, made from exquisite fabrics, worth a small fortune. Not unpretentious combinations of cotton and denim in earthy, natural tones. This woman was different, all right.

"Lovely trading post you have here," Fiona was saying in an appreciative tone. She pivoted, taking it all in. She let go of the crystal, and Cal took her hand in his, giving it a quick but meaningful squeeze.

Joe nodded and removed his Stetson. A thick calloused hand smoothed his dark gray hair toward the braid at the back of his neck. Then he popped the hat back on his head. "Thank you, ma'am. It's been in my family for many, many years."

"I've been all over Colorado Springs, but I have to admit, though I've driven past here on occasion, I've never stopped." Her smile was apologetic, though her eyes shone with awe. "I've clearly been missing out. It's wonderful. Do you get many tourists?"

With an experienced eye, Joe surveyed the property, nodding. "Sure we do. With the horseback riding and the tours we give, it all pans out right fine."

"Fiona has a shop in Manitou," Cal told Joe. In a casual tone, surprisingly devoid of the animosity it once held just a few short days ago, he added, "Herbs, candles, incense, oils. Great stuff."

Joe shook his head and chuckled, disbelief and amusement glinting in his eyes. "Is that you talking, Cal?" He peered at his friend, his stare razor sharp and analytical. "Not sure I ever heard you use the words herbs and incense in a sentence before."

His curious expression drifted to Fiona, and Cal knew his Native American friend was sizing up the situation. Fiona, luckily, was so absorbed in the view from Joe's souvenir shack that she didn't seem to notice he was not only contemplating her, but trying to back Cal into a corner as well.

Cal's jaw tensed, though deep in his heart he had a strong affinity for Joe and his wife. He celebrated holidays with them, watched their children grow up, and felt a part of something greater than anything he'd ever had with his own family. Whatever that something was, it had slowly chiseled away some of the bitterness Cal felt about his childhood. When he spent time with Joe, it was impossible not to realize that not all families were dysfunctional. It gave Cal hope.

But, because Joe knew him as well as if they were related, Cal figured that if given the chance, Joe would corner him for a grueling game of twenty questions. He was probably dying to know how a woman like Fiona Kelly could nab the attention of a man like Cal. Maybe Cal himself would have it figured out by then.

In a humorous tone meant to pick at his friend, he confided to Fiona, "Joe and I've known each other a few years now. No matter what he tells you, I just come here for the horses."

Joe winked at her and broke into a smile that deepened the creases around his weathered eyes. "Don't let this scoundrel kid you, Fiona. He's around here for more than the horses. He loves my wife's cooking."

"I love your wife," Cal interjected in good fun.

Fiona's warm laughter was proof that she was enjoying the brotherly banter between the two men.

"Cal's got a crusty outside, but inside there's a big heart."

She grinned at Cal, her eyes soft as a caress, her voice smooth as she agreed. "I don't doubt it a bit."

Cal wrapped an arm around her waist, drew her near, and placed a tender kiss on the top of her head.

Smiling favorably, Joe pretended to overlook the intimate moment. "Comes out here once a month with a group of less fortunate kids who bus down from Denver. Cal teaches them to ride and care for the horses." He gave Cal a good-natured pat on the back. "Bet he didn't tell you that, though." He lifted his chin, met Cal's narrowed stare, and added, "Or the fact that he's a war hero."

Cal rarely blushed, but he felt his cheeks burn. Running a hand self-consciously through his hair, he muttered, "Quit tellin' her all my secrets, you ol' coot."

Fiona's laughter was spontaneous. "Oh, Joe, his accent's thickening. I think you've touched a nerve." Then she gave Cal's hand a gentle, knowing squeeze. Her smile was girlish, her cheeks pink, her eyes dancing. She was radiant, and his heart swelled with the powerful emotions that she evoked in him.

Grinning broadly, Cal brushed her bare arm with the back of his hand. "Don't listen to Joe. There's a rumor going around that he makes his own moonshine, and drinks most of it himself."

Joe tried to look serious, as he waved a finger in warning. "Watch it, now. I'm a few years older than you, but there's a dance I can do to even the odds, hombre."

Cal threw his head back and laughed. "You ought to hear Joe's tales about the magic he can do, Fiona. Makes it rain when we need it, don't you, Joe?"

"Hey, don't underestimate the power of a good rain dance," Joe cautioned, shaking his head, his deep, rumbling chuckle bringing another smile to Fiona's lips. Joe stole a long look at her, approval passing over his features. With a deep intuitive gleam in his eyes, he turned back to Cal. "Besides, I think you've found your own magic, my friend."

An odd tremor raced along Cal's spine. He shifted his weight and hooked his thumbs into his jean pockets. It made him a bit uncomfortable when Joe turned all deep and mystical. Especially when it concerned Cal's love life.

Joe had never much liked Marcia Forbes. Usually a fair and just man, he'd developed a bad feeling about her from the start. He'd claimed that any newswoman who maintained her plastic smile while reporting on the latest tragedies had to have serious sincerity issues.

Months ago, Joe's insight would not have mattered to Cal. But now he realized that the strength and independence he'd been searching for in a mate were attributes that took a backseat to sincerity and genuineness of character.

When he looked at Fiona, he knew there was nothing plastic about her. She wasn't polished or pretentious. She wore her emotions the way Marcia had worn her plastic smile. With Fiona, what you saw was what you got. And he liked that. Liked it a lot.

Changing the subject, he asked, "Mind if we take a couple of horses out for a ride?"

Joe waved a hand. "You know you can always make yourself at home here, buddy." Joe turned to Fiona. "Pleasure meeting you, Fiona." Flicking a glance in Cal's direction, he advised, with a grin, "You keep that boy in line, you hear?"

Fiona winked at Cal, and promised. "I'll do my best, Joe." She thanked him with an earnest smile, accepting the warm handshake he offered.

The air was fragrant with wild flowers and dirt still damp from the storm the day before. Honeybees, dragonflies, June bugs and other summer insects hummed from flower to flower. Kaleidoscopic butterflies flitted and darted through the tall grass, picking and choosing from a smorgasbord of colorful blooms. The sky was bluer than it had been in days, the sun mild and welcoming.

"Joe's great." Fiona's quiet observation wafted into Cal's satisfying thoughts like the gentle stroke of a butterfly kiss.

"He is. A good friend, too." He plucked a tall piece of grass, and slipped it between his teeth, then dropped an arm around her waist. "Treats me like part of the family."

"That's nice," she sighed, resting her head on his chest as they walked. "So you help less fortunate kids, huh?"

He watched her survey him out of the corner of her eye, a sweet smile playing across her lips. "Joe tells too many of my secrets."

"Maybe I should pay him a visit sometime then. To learn more of your secrets." She winked and her throaty chuckle stirred something warm and exciting deep inside him.

He swallowed past the ache of wanting to make love to her again. "You can ask me anything, Fiona."

Cal might have expected she wouldn't hesitate. "Okay. What drew you to underprivileged kids and horses?"

"I like kids and I like horses." That was simple. He caught her look of astonishment, and laughed. "What? You're surprised?"

She flushed a bit and tilted her head to one side, then confessed, "Well ... a little. I hadn't pictured you with kids."

He grinned, deciding he liked seeing her pleasantly surprised. "What was it Joe said? Don't let my crusty side fool you."

She chuckled. "Something like that. He thinks a lot of you, Cal. I can tell."

"He was just trying to make a good impression."

"Oh, just take the compliment, will you?" she teased, rubbing his back affectionately.

"Yes, ma'am," he joked in return. His cheeks felt hot, and there was no way he could wipe the silly boyish grin from his face.

She inhaled deeply. "So, Cal, does Joe get to meet all of your dates?"

He nearly tripped. He'd been so deeply entrenched in the fantasy he'd almost forgotten what had brought Fiona into his life to begin with. "Only one other," he answered in an even tone, although his heart raced. "I was engaged. Once."

An overdue confession hung from the tip of his tongue. The door was wide open, but Cal couldn't bring himself to go inside. He swallowed back the words he knew he'd have to say eventually. Just not then and not there. Not when things felt so perfect.

"Oh?" By her tone, Cal suspected she was trying to sound indifferent, but beside him, her body tensed a little. She didn't prod. Instead, she surprised him by admitting in a hushed tone, "I've never been engaged. Not even close."

Was that sadness he detected in her voice? Regret? Embarrassment? He wasn't sure, but something in her voice tugged sharply at his heart.

"I'm surprised," he declared frankly, withdrawing his arm from her waist, then dipping to catch her hand in his. "A pretty gal like you."

Her laughter was instant and her cheeks flamed. "It was just this side of a week ago you were calling me a kook," she reminded him.

His heart pitched. "That's not something I'm proud of, Fiona." He meant it. Earnestly. And admitting that was as stunning a blow as realizing that he was falling in love with her.

"That actually sounded sincere, Cal," she teased, but her attempt at lightheartedness fell victim to the tremor in her voice.

He stopped dead, tugged her around to face him, and held her gaze steadfast with his own, realizing, by her puzzled expression, that he'd caught her off-guard. "I'm sorry, Fiona. About all of it. Really. I just - I..." God, he needed to tell her the truth.

Tears shimmered on her lids, but a grateful smile trembled over her lips. Drawing a ragged breath, she blurted, with a sigh of relief, "That's really, really good to know."

Those tears and the quiver in her bottom lip did him in. Cal dropped his chin, the truth again swept aside, as he brushed his mouth over hers, tenderly at first, until yearning, too powerful to ignore, was reawakened inside of him. Lips parted, he drank of her, as if he might never have the chance again.

He was a coward. He was afraid.

Being honest with her would be the biggest gamble of his life. The fear of losing her sliced straight through him. He needed Fiona. He was a better man with her. She fed his soul, or at least helped him to discover that he had one. She could teach him to see the world without cynicism. Maybe even keep him from turning into the same sort of man his father had been.

"Earth to Cal." Her voice, and the kiss she placed on his chin, gently nipped at his thoughts.

He stared at her for a long moment, entranced by her smile, and the way mischief lit a sultry fire in her eyes. She was so full of life. His heart inflated like an overfilled helium balloon, and he pressed his lips to her forehead, letting them linger there a moment, as he breathed in the lavender fragrance of her hair.

"So, cowboy, are we gonna just look at the horses, or are we gonna actually ride ‘em?"

Relieved to set his dangerous thoughts aside for just a little while longer, he sported a boyish grin. "Well, Miss Fiona, that depends. Can you ride?"

"Like the wind."

He curled his finger through a loop on the blue jeans that fit her sexy, slender frame so well they should have been outlawed. One swift yank and they were hip-to-hip, denim-to-denim. Reaching around to cup her buttocks, he tugged her closer, against the hard, pulsing mound beneath his Levis. He was fighting back the urge to toss her into his Beemer. He could make it back to the farmhouse in ten minutes, be naked and loving her in twelve.

When she lifted a brow, a seductive grin curled her full mouth, and Cal knew she'd read his mind. The gentle breeze tossed her hair, fiery tendrils stroking her face and his. She was exciting and beautiful, and Cal's heart swelled with emotions so much bigger and stronger than he was, he could hardly believe it was possible to feel that way without bursting.

She sunk her teeth into her lower lip, a demure blush coloring her cheeks. "I think we'd better saddle up a couple of horses." The suggestion belied the smoldering desire in her eyes.

He cleared his throat, the heat in his gut creeping into his face. "I reckon you're right."

"How long since your last ride?"

He shrugged. "A week maybe."

"Good. I wouldn't want you getting saddle sore." She reached behind him and slid her hands inside his back pockets, gently caressing his buttocks and tugging him closer.

Cal's eyes widened and amusement twitched at his mouth. "And why's that?"

She pulled away and sashayed toward the stables, tossing a glance over her shoulder, those wild curls teasing him from afar. "The last thing I want is for your sore behind to ruin my plans, Cal Turner. Because tonight's going to be a night you won't soon forget."

* * * *

Joe had sixty acres of land, lush and fragrant with wildflowers and big bushy pines. Oaks, tall and shady, old as the landscape and heavy with leaves, stood lofty and wise to the ways of nature and all that walked in its path. Eagles and hawks soared high above the hills and jackrabbits bolted across the trail, playing games, before retreating to hiding places deep in the tall wild grass.

"Over there, you can see circles of stones where some of the ancient tribes performed their sacred rituals," Cal told her, pointing to red rocks that jutted up from the rolling landscape in the far distance. "Joe's preserved those areas out of respect for his ancestors. It's important to him."

Fiona nodded in whole-hearted understanding. "Families are important. When you have a legacy like Joe has, well ... I'm sure he can't fathom not respecting that part of his history."

Cal's smile was thoughtful, appreciative, and the sparkle in his eyes made her heart turn over. She was so drawn to this man. Falling in love with him, actually. When had that happened? Days ago? Moments? She wasn't sure. But now those feelings swirled steadily, deep inside of her, flooding Fiona with a slow heat that settled in her cheeks.

Her heart blossomed, knowing this love was good and right, in spite of her previous fears about falling in love with another Aries man.

Tugging on the reins of a pretty Palomino that proved to be the gentle ride Cal promised, Fiona coaxed the horse to meet Cal's white stallion stride for stride. "Tell me about your family, Cal."

"Not much to tell." His reply was clipped, puzzling her. She glanced at him, watching his jaw harden.

Though somber, he continued without further prodding.

"My family's probably dull compared to yours." His mouth curled into a tidy little smirk, but Fiona concentrated more on the pain in his eyes. "Living on a military base is different, and sometimes hard."

She'd asked about his family, not about life on a military base, Fiona reflected silently, finding it curious the way he avoided the subject. "Were there schools?" she casually asked, deciding not to poke her nose into a topic he clearly didn't want to discuss.

He nodded. "Sure. Most of the time, anyway, depending on the size of the installation." He sighed. "It was easier when the schools were on base. Civilian kids don't understand the life of a military brat."

"Do you have brothers or sisters?" She let her horse pause for a nibble of rye grass, and watched Cal expertly maneuver his stallion around to face her.

"One brother. We don't stay in touch. He's in the Navy, on a ship somewhere in the Pacific Ocean."

"And your parents?"

She watched him swallow hard, the lines in his face sharper, the glint in his eyes distinct. It was his tone, an odd mix of sorrow and finality, that nipped at her heart. "Dead. Both of them."

Her chest felt heavy. "I'm so sorry, Cal."

He shrugged, his smile forced. His effort to sound light and casual was so obvious, it only deepened the ache in her chest. "It happens. And yours?"

"They live in Florida. My father plays golf every day, and my mother complains that my father plays golf every day." She managed a fond smile, but the fact that she missed them tweaked her heart. "They're still madly in love and act like two newlyweds. It's embarrassing, really."

She winked and he laughed, the harsh lines in his face mellowing, the clench in his jaw smoothing over.

Nudging her Palomino back onto the path, she added, "But I'm an only child."

His brow creased. "Was it hard?"

"My parents are wonderful. I have no regrets about my childhood." Her cheeks warmed and her grin was shy as she admitted, "But I'd love to have a whole bunch of kids."

His chuckle was deep, hearty, and appreciative. "Me too."

Fiona bit her lip, smiling to herself.

When it came right down to it, she supposed, in many ways, they really weren't that different after all.

* * * *

"Don't you dare smirk at me, Mister," Fiona warned Cal, though her facade of annoyance cracked. She couldn't keep the amusement from her tone. Hobbling along, she massaged her sore backside.

"I'm sorry." What he offered wasn't his most genuine apology and she knew it. Still, he was putting forth a good effort not to poke fun at her. "But you can't tell me that you don't see the irony in this." Cal swallowed a chuckle, but his eyes sparkled. Fiona knew he was hard pressed not to explode with laughter. "Besides," he continued, "I was hoping the ice cream cone you had afterwards might've helped."

"It might have, if I'd sat on it instead of eating it." She maneuvered the porch steps with caution, angry with her uncooperative legs which throbbed relentlessly. She moaned, "This is terrible!"

"Relax." A sly grin curled his incredible mouth. "I'll give you the best peppermint rubdown you've ever had. I learned how to do it from this incredibly sexy masseuse."

He took the key ring from her, his fingertips lingering on hers. A wave of heat sliced through her belly. What she wouldn't give to have Cal's oiled hands on her.

"A bubble bath. That's what I need." She winked, adding, "First. Then a rubdown."

He pushed the door open and Fiona shuffled in, grimacing both from the pain and her humiliation. She wasn't sure which was bruised more, her butt or her ego. She would be walking bowlegged for the next week or two.

"You've got a billion messages here." He glimpsed the flashing red button on her answering machine. "Want me to jot them down while you bathe?"

"Actually, I'll listen to them now and return calls from the tub. I'm a multi-tasker." Waving away the chair he pushed toward her, she blushed. "No, thanks. I couldn't sit on that if my life depended on it."

She had ten messages. Four from Piper, whose agitation seemed to grow one message at a time.

"You'd think she could've seen what you were doing today in her crystal ball," Cal joked.

Giggling, Fiona said, "She'll appreciate that."

Three calls were from customers, placing personal orders for herbal remedies, while three messages were from Nancy at the Gazette, each more urgent than the last.

Fiona took the cordless telephone, and shared a tender smile with Cal, their wordless exchange so natural she felt a familiar warmth spread through her. "I'm sure you've got a few things to do. Why don't we both take care of some business, then you can come back later this evening. I'll make dinner."

He lifted a brow. "Are you sure?"

With a bewitching smile, she kissed him seductively on the mouth, and purred, "I want to be refreshed, relaxed, and smelling like jasmine instead of sweaty horses by the time you get back, cowboy."

He deepened their kiss, then drew her near, diving into her neck, where he murmured in her ear, "You smell great to me. I want you right here, right now."

A powerful wave of desire weakened her knees and she wondered if he liked bubble baths.

"It'll be worth the wait. You have my word."

His voice was thick and raspy, his eyes dusky with wanting. "I'll be back in a few hours. Around seven. And starving." Nibbling her mouth gently, he growled, "Not necessarily for dinner."

With a grin, she gave him a good-natured shove toward the door before she changed her mind and let him talk her into bed.

She wanted tonight to be special. A magical end to the wonderful day they'd spent together. As he drove his Beemer down the driveway, she watched, arms wrapped around herself, smiling the way a woman did when she was falling in love with the perfect guy.

Cal was sexy, witty, grounded, and sincere. Fiona felt safe with this tender, caring man because in Cal's strong, capable hands, her heart might never be broken again.

Chapter Twelve

Mick looked up from Cal's desk, sporting his usual crooked, unassuming grin. "A day off generally means you don't come in."

"Missed me that much, eh?" Cal quipped in return.

Inside the broadcast booth, he fell into a chair opposite Mick. Reclining, Cal lifted dirt-caked boots, one thump at a time, and rested his feet on the desktop, crossed at the ankles. Clods of red clay mud, indigenous to most of the Manitou Springs area, fell from his shoes, dirtying the otherwise pristine desktop.

Mick gaped, bug-eyed. When he spoke, it was slow and purposeful. "Cal ... is that you?"

Cal folded his hands behind his head and sported a lazy, contented grin. "Funny."

Mick shook his head. "Nope. Can't be you."

"Knock it off, Mick." Incapable of sounding irritated, he chuckled instead.

"Let's pretend I don't see you putting your mud-covered boots on the desktop you religiously clean to the point of spit-shining everyday."

"I'd hardly say religiously."

"That's because you don't have to work with you." Mick's expression deepened in amusement. "You're grinning the way only a man who got lucky last night would grin."

Cal fired a warning glare at him. "No locker room talk."

"You've got bags under your eyes."

"I didn't sleep much last night."

Mick bellowed with laughter. "Yeah. I'll bet you didn't." His brow furrowed and he squinted. "You son-of-a-gun ... You slept with her, didn't you?"

"Slept with whom?"

"The Queen of England. Who the hell do you think?"

Cal laughed, but didn't reply. Mick knew him well enough to see right through his telltale grin.

"I suspected something when you took the day off, you dog." Mick shook his head, snickering to himself. "I knew it. Damn. Tracy owes me a beer. I bet her this morning. You were at Fiona's when you called me, weren't you?" Mick's eyes twinkled and Cal couldn't wipe the wide, appreciative grin off his face. Mick slapped his hand down on the desk and cheered, "Hot damn! You ol' dog!" He laughed hysterically, his face as red as his perpetually disheveled hair.

Infected by his friend's good-natured response, Cal laughed, too, and it felt exhilarating. Like exercising long forgotten muscles.

"I knew it." Mick shook a finger at Cal and wagged his head. "I knew she'd get to you."

The laughter subsided to a slow, reflective smile. "Wish you would've warned me."

"Aw, hell. What good would that have done?" Mick hesitated, cleared his throat, and continued in a more sober tone, "You and Marcia were a mistake, you know. It was just a matter of time before one or both of you realized it."

"Wish you would've warned me about that, too. Before I spent a lot of money on a wedding that never happened." Cal drew a long, contemplative sigh. He rocked back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling. "Before I stood in front of that church and waited for her."

"Hell, Cal. Love and marriage are things you gotta figure out for yourself. Besides, if you'd backed out before then, you wouldn't have met Fiona, right?"

Cal shrugged. "Probably not."

Mick waved a hand in exasperation. "Probably not, hell! You just don't want to consider that it might have been fate."

"I think what you're referring to is coincidence."

"My Granny used to say, ‘There's a fine line between fate and coincidence,' and she was right, ya know." Mick gave a slow, steady nod, and a philosophical gleam lit his eyes.

Cal shook his head and snickered. He'd always been too practical to consider that anything like fate even existed. But as of late, he wasn't so sure anymore.

Mick fell back into his chair and twiddled a pencil between his fingers. "So what happened with you and Fiona?"

"I said no locker room talk."

"I don't mean that. Hell, I'd rather leave that to my imagination anyway. I'm talking about what made you change your mind about her."

Cal paused tentatively, closing his eyes, realizing he missed her already. "I'm not sure. I don't know. I think it's been going on for a while. But I was so blinded by revenge, I couldn't see past the red."

"Charging Bull. That'd be your Indian name. If you were one."

Cal glossed over the jibe. "She's quite a woman, Mick."

"Yeah. I reckon she is." He raked his hands through the mop of mussed hair on his head, smoothing it back. When he was done, every cowlick resumed its original shape. "The people in this area put a lot of credence in her remedies and advice. She helps ‘em. Even if she goes about it in a weird way." He grinned, his cheeks ruddy. "And that soap she sells is somethin' else." He shrugged. "She might be a little off the wall, but it's clear she's got heart." Lifting a brow, he added, "Heart was one thing Marcia was missing, if you don't mind my saying so."

A trace of a smile twitched at Cal's lips. "As if I could stop you?"

Mick's mouth spread into an unabashed grin. "Aw, heck, we're friends. I can be honest, right?" He waved a hand. "Hell, don't answer that, because no matter what you say, I'm doin' it anyhow." He sat back and ran his hands over his hair again. "Marcia was an ice queen, Cal. A shark in a skirt. I never understood what attracted you to her in the first place, aside from the fact that she had a great set of legs."

"She fit the mold."

"What mold?"

"The mold I had in my head of the perfect woman for me."

"Huh?" Mick looked confused.

Cal reconsidered, waving a hand. "Never mind. It doesn't matter now."

Peering at him for a long moment, Mick said slowly, "You've changed. The way a guy who's head over heels for a woman changes. Are you serious about Fiona?"

"Maybe." Cal sighed again, then set the front legs of his chair back down. He tugged his feet from the desktop, dropping them on the floor with a resounding thud.

"Maybe you ought to write "Fiona's Fancy" to find out. Sign yourself Anal Aries."

"Cute." Cal snorted, wagging his head, as he pushed himself out of the chair. "I need to go home and shower."

"Another date tonight?"

"None of your business." He turned his back to Mick and shuffled toward the door. He couldn't lose the silly grin that now seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face.

"Hey man, make love, not war."

"That's good advice, Mick. Got anymore nuggets for me?" Cal pivoted and leaned against the doorjamb.

"Matter of fact, I do." The solemnity in his tone matched the somber flicker in his eyes. "Let the past die, man. The botched wedding. The revenge. You against Fiona. Bury it. Let it go. Don't even bring it up, understand?" Mick held his friend's gaze.

"No." Cal shook his head. "I need to be straight with her."

Mick laughed, sincerely amused. "Buddy, if being married has taught me anything, it's to learn to shut up when it's time to shut up. Why dig up old skeletons?"

Cal dipped his chin and cocked a brow. "Don't tell me you aren't always truthful with your wife."

"The truth is overrated when it comes to spending a night or two in the dog house. You'll learn that soon enough. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it." He gave one determined nod of his head.

Cal drew a deep breath and looked away. Absently, his gaze centered in on the corner of his desk. Fiona's newspaper photo stared back at him, complete with Cal's cartoon enhancements.

Not so funny anymore, he thought to himself.