Three gorgeous men and one powerful
dynasty worth fighting for…

THE PARKS
EMPIRE:
SECRETS, LIES
& LOVES

Your favourite authors bring you three
glamorous romances

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September 2009

The Parks Empire:
Secrets, Lies & Loves

Featuring

Romancing the Enemy by Laurie Paige
Diamonds and Deceptions
by Marie Ferrarella
The Rich Man’s Son by Judy Duarte

The Millionaire’s Cinderella

Featuring

Renegade Millionaire by Kristi Gold
Billionaire Bachelors: Gray
by Anne Marie Winston
Her Convenient Millionaire by Gail Dayton

THE PARKS EMPIRE: SECRETS, LIES & LOVES

LAURIE PAIGE
MARIE FERRARELLA
JUDY DUARTE

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Other Books By

Title Page

Romancing The Enemy

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Diamonds and Deceptions

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

The Rich Man’s Son

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Copyright

ROMANCING THE ENEMY

BY
LAURIE PAIGE

Laurie Paige has been a NASA engineer, a past president of the romance Writers of America, a mother and a grandmother. She was twice a romance Writers of America RITA®Award finalist for Best Traditional romance and has won awards from Romantic Times for Best Special edition and Best Silhouette in addition to appearing on the USA TODAY bestseller list. Recently resettled in Northern California, Laurie is looking forward to whatever experiences her next novel will send her on.

To Judy, Allison and Vanessa
for the good times at Sundance.

Chapter One

The private telephone line rang in the quietly luxurious office located above Parks Fine Jewelry, West-Coast rival to Tiffany’s in New York.

Walter Parks lifted the receiver. “Yes?” he said without preamble. He listened to the message with no expression, then asked one question. “You’re sure?”

The caller answered affirmatively.

“Send me a copy of the death certificate,” Walter ordered the private detective. “No, not here,” he said a trifle impatiently as if the man should have figured it out for himself. “To the post office box.”

In twenty-five years, he’d well learned how to cover his tracks. The post office box was with a private postal service two doors down the street. No one in his family knew of it. But then, no one in the family knew much of anything that he didn’t want them to know.

He replaced the phone and stood by the window, watching the December rain fall endlessly from the winter sky. The only place as cold and dismal as San Francisco could be in the winter was San Francisco in the summer on days when the coastal fog shrouded the city.

So. Marla was dead. About damned time. Twenty-five years he’d had to worry about her, and had even felt guilty at times about her and her pack of brats. But no more.

As his old man, poor as the proverbial church mouse, had often said—life was what it was and a man had to look after his own fate.

Walter had found that to be true. The gods of fortune smiled on those who grabbed each opportunity when it came along. A slow man was a loser. That man wasn’t him.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to sense the weight rolling off his back, to experience the easing of it in his spirit. Realizing he didn’t feel lighter in heart, body or soul, he grimaced. No matter. The last link to his past, the dangerous part of it at any rate, was gone.

He put a hand to his chest. A little heartburn there. He should eat healthier. He knew it. And no alcohol, except for a couple of glasses of wine. That was good for the ol’ ticker, according to the doctors.

The rain pelted the windowpane in a wind-blown fury, sending an odd chill along the back of his neck. He rubbed the spot, then started as the phone rang again. Glancing at the light, he saw it was his office line.

“Parks,” he said upon answering.

The caller was his oldest son, destined to one day run the company. Pride lifted his spirits. He and Anna had produced a fine brood, if he did say so himself.

Cade was the best of the bunch—smart, handsome and coolheaded. Walter had wanted the boy in the office with him, but Cade hadn’t been interested in the diamond and jewelry business, the wheeling and dealing on a global level. He’d been fascinated by the law. Walter had conceded a lawyer wasn’t a bad thing to have in the family.

Now the boy worked for a prestigious law firm—something Walter had personally seen to—and handled the business of the jewelry company from contracts to taxes. At twenty-nine, Cade already knew every aspect of the diamond trade. He was in position to take over when Walter needed him to. The boy’s sense of responsibility would see to that.

“Cade, how about some lunch?” Walter asked in a jovial tone. “Top o’the Mark in half an hour?”

“Fine. I have the information you wanted on King Abbar and his son, Prince Lazhar, of Daniz. The king is ill. I understand the son handles most of the details of running the kingdom nowadays. Shall I bring the folder with me?”

“Yes.”

Walter smiled as he hung up. Daniz was one of those tiny European countries most people had never heard of. Which showed how stupid most people were. Its diamonds were some of the finest in the world. A new find, its mines produced pink-and champagne-colored stones, which fortunately were becoming the rage among the celebrity crowd…with a few judicious gifts here and there on his part. A sharp deal with the ruler could be lucrative for them both.

Two pieces of good news in one day. A fine way to start the new year. The gods were truly smiling, even if the heavens were not. He instructed his secretary to call for his car and hardly noticed the rain as he headed to lunch.

Sara Carlton shivered as a gust of wind hit her. Someone needed to tell the weatherman that winter was six months ago and it was now June, not January.

Pulling her jacket closer around her, she stared at the elegant house standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a whole block of equally expensive Georgian-style homes.

Since she’d done her homework before moving from Denver to San Francisco, she knew a kindergarten teacher, which she was, couldn’t afford the rent on such a prime piece of property in the St. Francis Woods area of the city. Fortunately she didn’t have to.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Rachel Hanson commented.

Rachel was a kindergarten teacher at Lakeside, a prestigious private school only three blocks from there and the place, come Monday, where Sara would also be employed. Rachel was also the older sister of Sara’s best friend from her high-school days back in Denver. She had taken Sara under her wing when Sara had written for information about teaching positions in the city back in January.

Five years older than Sara’s own twenty-nine years, Rachel had graduated from college, married and moved to the West Coast while the two younger girls had been high-school seniors. Her husband had abandoned her, so Sara assumed they were divorced. Rachel knew why Sara and her brother had returned to the area and was wholly sympathetic to their quest.

“Very much so,” Sara agreed, her gaze sweeping over the tiny front yard and decorative wrought-iron fence that separated the patch of green from the street. “I can’t believe my luck in getting to house-sit a mansion for six months. Are you sure your artist friend said it was okay?”

Rachel laughed at Sara’s doubts. “You only get half the mansion,” she corrected. “It’s a duplex. And yes, I made sure we got permission in writing since the owner is actually a friend of a friend. Let’s go inside.”

The front walk widened to accommodate three steps and a marble-tiled stoop. Two identical doors—both white with leaded oval windows in beveled, frosted panes that formed a woodland scene on each—were set side-by-side in the sheltered alcove and gave entrance to the two homes.

Rachel had explained in a letter that the mansion was divided into two town houses, which meant the bedrooms of each were directly over their respective living room-kitchen-den areas, which afforded the maximum privacy for each occupying family.

Sara inserted the key Rachel had handed her and opened the door on the left. The chill of an unoccupied house rushed over her as she stepped into the foyer. It settled along her spine like the touch of a cold, unfriendly hand…a ghost who wasn’t happy at her intrusion, she surmised.

“There’s a fireplace,” Rachel said. “This place could use some heat. Let’s see if we can find the thermostat.”

The foyer floor was pink-marble-edged with black granite. Sara followed the other woman into the living room, which opened to the left of the foyer. The wall to the right divided the mansion into the two town houses.

“Don’t you like it?” Rachel asked.

Realizing she’d been silent too long, Sara put on her brightest smile and nodded. “What’s not to like?”

She made a sweeping gesture of the place. The walls and velvet curtains were pale coral, the trim and crown molding glossy white, the accent color black. The colors were taken from a Chinese vase, which was about four feet tall and stood on a black pedestal, with ornately carved balls for legs, to one side of the fireplace. The vase was a mosaic of peaceful garden scenes.

The twenty-foot ceiling was interrupted by a loft that jutted halfway across the room and housed a collection of books and Chinese art in green and pink jade in its wall-to-wall bookcases. Access to the loft was by a library ladder attached to a brass railing with brass rings on the top end.

The loft had a black wrought-iron railing across it with a gate that at present was open. The ladder could be pushed against the far wall when it wasn’t needed.

“Clever,” Sara said, then surveyed the rest of the room. She didn’t think she would ever sit on the velvet sofa of deep coral with shiny, black wood trim. Ebony, maybe? Or Chinese lacquer? She wasn’t sure about the wood.

End tables and a coffee table were also black and inlaid with ivory birds and jade bamboo. A collection of Chinese puzzle boxes was displayed in a glass cabinet that had a lock on it. The carpet looked Oriental.

“This looks too expensive to use,” she murmured to the other teacher. Rachel’s one-bedroom flat, where Sara had gone upon arriving in town that morning, didn’t compare to the opulence of this place.

“I agree. The kitchen and den are through here,” Rachel told her. “They’re more comfortable.”

White cabinets on either side of the fireplace had glass doors opening to both the living room and the kitchen. Fine china and more collectibles were inside.

The kitchen had black granite counters. The cabinets were white. The coral walls continued in here as did the oak floors that were stained rather dark for her taste.

Not that anybody would ask her.

Once she’d lived in a mansion only a few miles from this neighborhood, but that had been years ago. She’d been in junior kindergarten herself back then. Back before her father mysteriously disappeared, presumably drowned, from a yacht off the coast of California. Back before her family had lost its diamond-trading and jewelry business. She pushed the bitter thoughts aside as she continued the inspection of her new, albeit temporary, home.

The stainless-steel appliances stood in modern contrast to the Oriental feel of the town house. Between the kitchen and den was a small, formal dining room—table and chairs in the shiny black wood, two vases holding peacock plumes, Chinese scrolls with black lettering on the walls.

“Ah,” Sara said, entering the den, “this is lovely.”

While the floors and walls repeated the Oriental theme, the sofa was leather and two easy chairs were covered in fabric, all in earthy browns and tans. Tiny figurines carved in jade, onyx and ivory were displayed in another small glass case hung on one wall. There was a fireplace in here, too, one that obviously had been used. A staircase led to the two second-story bedrooms.

“Here’s the television and stereo equipment.” Rachel opened the door of a built-in cabinet. “And the thermostat. What temperature do you like?”

“Sixty-eight.”

“Brr, that’s too cold for me, but you probably still have antifreeze in your blood, coming from Colorado.”

Sara had grown up counting every penny. Her family had been frugal about utilities and food and clothing out of need, but she didn’t say any of this. She heard a soft click, then the gentle stir of air in the room. “Well,” she said. “I’d better settle in. It looks like rain.”

Rachel shook her head. “Not at this time of the year. That’s just the morning fog. It’ll burn off by noon.”

It was Wednesday, the last day of June, and a cool sixty-two degrees. On Monday, July the fifth, she would start her teaching job at Lakeside. It had been pure luck that the former teacher had taken maternity leave for the year just when Sara had contacted Rachel about a position.

They brought in her clothing and the few household items she’d packed in her ancient compact car. She decided to leave her dishes and pans in their box and store them in the closet. In less than two hours, they were finished.

“Let’s go to lunch,” Rachel suggested. “There’s a Chinese place on the next block that’s wonderful. I love their noodle bowls.”

Sara shut and locked the door behind them. The sun broke through the low cloud cover as she joined her friend on the sidewalk. The city was bathed in bright warmth, and she felt comforted, as if the sunlight was a benediction on her and her quest for the truth behind her father’s death.

And vengeance for all her family had suffered?

Maybe she could find a way. With her brother’s help. Tyler was a detective with the SFPD. They would work together to solve the mysteries from their past.

The first thing Cade noticed upon arriving home that evening was an older model compact car in the driveway of the adjoining town house. Hmm, his neighbor was supposed to be in the Far East, studying the Chinese art he found so fascinating. Who was at the house?

He would investigate, but first he needed to check in with Stacy and Tai. After pulling into the garage, he dashed up the short flight of steps and into the kitchen.

Five-year-old Stacy and her sitter were in the middle of dinner preparations. “Now stir,” Stacy ordered.

Tai stirred the contents in the mixing bowl. She was twenty-one and a student at the nearby medical school. She picked up Stacy at day care every afternoon and stayed with her until Cade got home. She prepared dinner for the three of them, too. At times, his arrival was very late, but Tai never complained. She used the time to study.

Cade paused at the door and smiled. Sometimes he wondered who was the boss in this household, but then he knew—it was Stacy.

“Daddy!” she squealed when she saw him. “We’re making a cake. It’s a surprise.”

He closed his eyes. “I won’t look,” he promised.

She giggled. “It isn’t for you,” she informed him. “It’s for Sara.”

“Sara?” Cade glanced at Tai.

“She’s your new neighbor. Stacy and I found her weeding the flower bed in front of the house when we got home.”

“That explains the strange car in the drive over there,” he said. “I didn’t know Ron planned on renting the place while he was gone. He usually doesn’t trust anyone with his stuff.”

“She’s a friend of a friend,” Tai explained.

“She’s sitting the house,” Stacy added, then covered her mouth as she giggled over this.

“A house-sitter, huh?” He swung his daughter off the kitchen stool and into the air. She squealed again, this time in laughter as her baby-fine hair swirled out in a blond pouf. After a couple of spins he stopped, then they rubbed noses. Stacy had seen a movie featuring an Eskimo family and learned this was the way they kissed.

“She’s pretty,” Stacy confided when they were through with the ritual greeting. “Her hair is dark like Tai’s, but her eyes are the color of Mrs. Chong’s.”

Mrs. Chong was a very fat, very green-eyed cat belonging to Mrs. Ling, who owned the local ice-cream shop. Cade and Stacy were frequent customers.

“Do we have enough dinner to invite her over?” he asked the sitter.

“Sure,” Tai answered. “There’s a meatball and green bean casserole, roasted potatoes and salad, all ready. I’ve got to run. I’m memorizing bones this week.”

“I’m memering them, too,” Stacy declared importantly.

“Memorizing,” he automatically corrected. His daughter didn’t let pronunciation get in the way of her expressing herself. “Shall we go over and invite our neighbor to eat with us?”

“Yes, but we don’t have the surprise cake done yet.”

“Maybe she’ll help us finish it.”

“See you tomorrow,” Tai said and headed out.

Cade took her place at the mixing bowl. After he put the cake pans in the oven at Stacy’s direction, he set the timer, then held out his hand. “Let’s go meet our neighbor.”

“I already met her.”

“Good, then you can introduce us.”

They went out the front door and rang the doorbell to the other town house. In a couple of seconds, Cade saw a blurry figure hurrying to the door.

“Come in—oh!” the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen called out gaily as she swung open the door, then visibly started when she saw him.

Although Stacy had warned him their new neighbor was pretty, no words could do justice to that combination of black hair and green eyes, the eyes offset to perfection by a sweep of black lashes.

She was average in height and had the type of lithe slenderness he liked in a woman—a long-legged coltish appearance but curvy in the right places, as revealed by a jade-green outfit made of soft clingy material.

For a second, he was speechless as they stared at each other. Then emotion rippled across her face…shock? pain? anger?…he wasn’t sure.

No, he must be mistaken, for now she was smiling in a polite manner, then warmer as she glanced at Stacy, a question in her eyes.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m Cade Parks, Stacy’s dad. You must be expecting someone….” He let the words trail off into a question.

“No,” she said quickly. “Not really. Uh, I’m Sara Carlton, the new kindergarten teacher at Lakeside. Tai says Stacy will be one of my students when classes start.”

“Sara, come to our house,” Stacy invited. “We’re making a surprise for you.”

“You must call her Miss Carlton,” Cade said.

“Do I have to?” Stacy immediately asked her new teacher.

“Yes, for as long as I’m your teacher.”

Stacy nodded in understanding.

“Tai says there’s enough food for a guest. We would be honored if you would have dinner with us,” Cade told the lovely woman who stood at the door as if guarding the place. “And Stacy has prepared a surprise.”

The neighbor smiled.

Oddly, his heart started thumping. Heat gathered low in his body. Other than casual dates, he hadn’t had time for a woman since his wife died in a car crash two years ago. All his energy had been expended on his child and his work.

“I never could resist a surprise,” the neighbor said. “Let me get my keys.”

Stacy went into the house, although they hadn’t been invited. Cade stepped into the foyer, too.

“Let’s lock the front door,” he called after Sara, liking the way she moved, an almost catlike grace in her form as she stopped by a table where her purse sat. “We can go in through the back.”

When she nodded, he turned the dead bolt on the ornate front door, then followed as Stacy ran in front to walk with her new teacher. His gaze stayed fastened on the alluring sway of her body as she shortened her steps and took his daughter’s hand. Stacy chatted nonstop down the hall, out the back door, onto the shared deck and into their home.

The scent of the baking cake filled the town house, welcoming the three of them inside. “Mmm, is that the surprise I smell?” Sara asked.

“It’s a chocolate cake,” Stacy told her, unable to hold the secret inside anymore.

“My favorite,” Sara said, her eyes going wide. “How did you know?”

Stacy grinned. “Because it’s mine and Daddy’s, too.”

Their laughter flowed over and into him, adding to the intimacy of the moment. Observing their guest as he removed plates from the cabinet, he wondered if they had met before.

He felt as if they had. In another life, perhaps. Perhaps they’d been lovers, separated by some tragic fate, but destined to meet again….

A surge of need so great, it was almost a pain rolled over him. He’d never felt anything like it, not even when he fell for his wife. Rita Lambini was the deb of the season six years ago, a beautiful socialite who’d enchanted him with her smoldering glances and flirty, laughing ways.

That hadn’t lasted long.

In less than six months, the enchantment was gone, leaving the bitter knowledge that she’d married him for the money he’d inherit one day. He’d wanted out of the marriage, but she’d been pregnant by then.

Recalling his own past, with his mother in a Swiss sanitarium due to health reasons and his father only interested in the diamond business, Cade had known he couldn’t leave his child fatherless. So he’d stuck it out until Stacy was born.

Watching his daughter come into the world, he’d felt nothing but love at first sight. And it had stayed that way.

Rita, knowing she now had a weapon, had fought the divorce and threatened a lengthy custody battle. She’d even hinted she would accuse him of child abuse if he tried to kick her out.

He still felt guilty over the relief her death had brought. She’d been returning from one of her many social affairs…a few drinks and the winding, fog-slick coastal road coupled with fast driving had ended at a curve with a fifty-foot cliff on the other side. Rita had crashed through the barrier and gone over the edge—

“Daddy!” Stacy tugged at his arm.

He realized she’d been speaking to him. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“We’re ready. Sar—Miss Carlton and I set the table.”

Seeing those green eyes watching him with a curious expression in their depths, he shrugged off the past and smiled at the other two. “Good job.”

The timer buzzed just then. He removed the cake layers from the oven and put in three dinner rolls to brown while they started on the salad course.

“Is this your first teaching position?” he asked when they were seated.

“Uh, no. I taught for almost five years in Denver.”

“So what brought you to San Francisco?”

Her hesitation was noticeable. “I have friends here,” she said. “They arranged things for me.”

Disappointment hit him. “A boyfriend?”

She glanced at him, then shook her head. “A fellow teacher, actually. She’s a friend of a friend of the artist who owns the other town house.”

“Miss Hanson,” Stacy informed her father.

“Yes. Rachel and my…”

Again the pause, as if she wasn’t sure if she should disclose this much, Cade noted.

“Rachel and my brother thought I needed to get away.”

“From Denver?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Why?” He realized he sounded like a lawyer before the court, trying to wring information from a witness.

“My…my mother died after a long illness. In the winter. She loved the spring in Colorado and the wildflowers. She used to say flowers and children were the only consolations life offered.”

This last part was said with such sadness, Cade felt like a heel for making her speak of it. “I’ve caused you pain,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Her smile bloomed once more. “I thought it was time for a change, too. Meeting Stacy today convinced me this move was the right thing.”

Again he had an overwhelming sensation of déjà vu, as if they’d talked like this before, as if they’d shared secrets, laughed together. It was damned odd.

“The rolls are ready,” Stacy announced.

Cade served the rest of the meal, then they opened a can of chocolate icing and finished the cake. “Let’s sing Happy Birthday,” Stacy requested.

“It isn’t anyone’s birthday,” he reminded his daughter.

“Mine was back in the spring,” Sara told them. “No one made me a cake, so this can be a belated one.”

He thought of all she didn’t say—her grief over her mother, the loneliness in those eyes, the fragile quality that brought out something protective in him.

“Great,” he said. “Stacy, start us off.”

Stacy began. “Happy birthday to you…”

He joined in, harmonizing with her childish soprano. Their guest looked at him in surprise. He smiled, pleased that he’d managed to break through the reserve that surrounded her.

“How old are you?” Stacy demanded while he cut the cake, then served their guest first.

“Twenty-nine.”

“Stace, you’re not supposed to ask a woman her age,” he chided.

“Why?” she asked.

“Yes, why?” Sara echoed.

He pretended to think. “Darned if I know,” he finally said. “Someone told me it was rude, that women don’t like admitting how old they are.”

“We don’t mind being old, do we, Sar—Miss Carlton?”

“Not at all. Age makes one wiser, I’ve heard.”

A full, unforced smile appeared on her sensuous lips. Cade couldn’t take his gaze from them. “I’ve seen that smile before,” he said. “Where have we met?”

Sara was unprepared for the question or his intent perusal. After twenty-five years, she hadn’t expected him to make any connection to her at all. She tried to maintain the smile, but it was impossible.

“Long ago,” she said in a low voice, “we were in kindergarten together. You and I and your twin sister, Emily. Here, in San Francisco.”

His eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “Yes,” he said after a thoughtful silence. “Sara Carlton. Yes. That explains the eyes. And the smile. I knew I’d seen them somewhere. I had a terrible crush on you. Then one day you left without a word. I was heartbroken.”

“We moved away.”

He nodded. “I remember. Your father died. A boating accident or something,” Cade said.

Or something, Sara echoed to herself, that something being the murder of her father by his. She bit the words back with an effort. She hated subterfuge and lies, but in this case it was necessary.

“A hard year for you,” he murmured. “For everyone,” he added on an introspective note.

His smile was sad as well as sympathetic. She knew his mother had been sent away “for health reasons” later that same year.

She rejected pity for him and his family. After all, she was here for revenge….

No, it was justice she sought. She was here to see that Walter Parks paid for his crime.

Chapter Two

Sara sat on the sofa in the den Thursday night and watched a bead of moisture gather, then meander down the window, gaining speed as it collected more water.

No rain fell. With darkness, the fog had rolled in off the ocean and tumbled over the low hills like spirits released on the unsuspecting city folk. It condensed on the panes and formed the droplets.

Inside, she had a fire going in the grate, which held artificial logs, the flames fed with gas rather than wood. But it was still cozy and cheerful.

She needed cheering.

During the day, her first full one in the city, she’d kept busy. There’d been groceries to buy and errands to run, then she’d walked over to Lakeside School for the Gifted to be sure she could find it come Monday.

The private school was housed in elegant brick quarters, which had been a donation from the school’s founder in memory of his son, much as Stanford University had been established.

On her walk along St. Francis Boulevard, she’d passed the California Scottish Rite Temple and a forest preserve called the Sigmund Stern Grove. Directly across the street from the preserve, she’d found the school.

She’d also discovered that street names often changed at a cross street for no discernible reason. Junipero Serra became Portola Drive which became Market Street as it neared downtown. However, the area was interesting and lovely, with the ocean, several parks and golf courses, plus three universities within a two-mile radius of her temporary home.

Like Rome, San Francisco was built on hills. Mt. Davidson at nine hundred and twenty-seven feet was the highest peak in the vicinity while Twin Peaks, a short distance north of it, was next at nine hundred and ten feet. They were nothing like the rocky, snow-covered crags near her old home in Colorado.

During the fall and winter, she’d often sat for hours and gazed at those lofty spires as she’d waited for her mother’s life to be over….

“Sara?” the feeble voice said in a whisper.

“Yes, Mom?” Sara rose from the hospital chair, which also made a bed, and went to her mother’s side. It was the day after Christmas.

Marla Carlton gazed intently at her daughter. “You remember everything I told you? Kathleen and the twins…they know, don’t they?”

Sara took her mother’s restless hand. It felt like a skeleton’s, it was so thin and bony now. “Yes, they know. We all know.”

“Find my brother. Find Derek.”

“He’s here, Mother. He arrived this morning. He’ll be back at visiting hours.”

“He knows…he saw…everything.”

“Shh, don’t talk. Rest now,” Sara urged.

It hurt to look at her mother. The vestiges of her former beauty were still visible. Full, sensuous lips. An enchanting smile. Black hair threaded with gray but still thick and luxurious. Green eyes with long black lashes. A petite, lovely Cleopatra once, she was ravaged by illness more than time. At fifty-five she was dying of heart disease and there was nothing the doctors could do.

Pain speared through Sara at the thought. As the oldest of her siblings, she’d taken on the responsibility for the family during her growing years. Their mom had never been well. Depression and dark moods had plagued her.

Now Sara understood why. Marla had carried a horrible burden in her heart for twenty-five years, ever since her husband had disappeared from a yacht off the coast of California. Now Sara understood why she and her sister were snatched from their familiar world in San Francisco and taken to Denver to a life of struggle and uncertainty.

“Derek was there,” Marla said, clutching Sara’s hand as if to hold her captive to the tale the daughter had already heard more than once of late. “He saw Walter….”

Sara bent close as her mother’s eyes closed and her words lapsed into agitated mumbling. The story she’d heard during the past week had been a strange, terrifying Christmas gift—a disclosure of greed, murder and ruin visited on her father by the man who was supposed to be his friend and business partner in the diamond trade.

Walter Parks.

The name conjured up unspeakable evil in her mind as she stared into her mother’s pale face. The man had threatened Marla with her life if she didn’t disappear from San Francisco forever. He’d threatened the lives of her children, Sara and Kathleen, too. He hadn’t known Marla had been pregnant with the twins, Tyler and Conrad.

Or that those two unborn babies were his—

The ring of the doorbell startled Sara out of the painful memories. It was almost nine o’clock. Maybe her brother was making an appearance at last. She’d expected him yesterday.

“About time,” she scolded when she opened the door and saw that it was indeed Tyler.

He was still in the suit he wore as a detective with the police department. Giving her a grin, he swept her into a bear hug.

It never failed to amaze her that the twins she’d adored—at five, she’d thought they were some sort of living dolls made especially for her—had grown into men, six feet tall with broad shoulders and muscular bodies.

“Oomph,” she said to let him know he was squeezing the breath out of her.

“Sorry, sis,” he said, not at all apologetic. “God, it seems like years. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too. I think.”

Their eyes met in grave acknowledgment of the task they’d set for themselves before leaving Denver—find their uncle, sole witness to the crime against their family, then present the case to the local district attorney.

“The den is through here.” She led the way.

His low whistle told her he was as impressed by the town house as she’d been. Tyler had arrived in town a few months ago, landed a job as a police detective and found a best friend in Nick Banning, his partner on the force.

Nick was responsible for the connections that had led to her living in the town house, right next door to Cade Parks, son of the man they were after. Step Two of their plan was now in action.

The first step had been for both of them to get jobs here. The second had been to find a way to infiltrate the Parks family. What better way than to live next door to the oldest son, who was also the Parks family attorney?

“Pretty nice digs,” Tyler said, settling in one of the easy chairs before the hearth. “You should see the place Nick found for me.”

His wry laughter dispelled any impression of envy. Her baby brother didn’t waste time on useless emotions.

“Irish coffee?” she asked. “There’s a latte machine, if you’d prefer that.”

“Can you make it both?”

Sara foamed nonfat milk into fresh coffee, then added a generous splash of Irish cream liqueur. After placing a stirring stick coated with brown sugar crystals in each tall mug, she carried them into the den where Tyler waited, his eyes, green like hers, fixed on the flames leaping over the fake logs.

Marla had left her stamp on all her children, bequeathing her black hair and cat eyes to each of them, along with a megawatt smile and a metabolism that enabled them to eat anything and stay thin, a fact their friends often lamented.

“Have you met your neighbor?” Tyler asked.

Sara was drawn out of her introspection. “Yes, yesterday. Cade’s daughter, Stacy, is friendly and inquisitive. As soon as she saw me weeding the front yard, she came over and demanded to know if I was the new gardener and what had happened to Mr. Lee.”

“Cade?” Tyler questioned, at once picking up on the use of the first name.

“He and Stacy had me over for dinner last night. They made a surprise cake. And sang happy birthday to me.”

Tyler muttered an expletive. “I forgot about your birthday.”

“That’s okay. Some friends in Denver took me out for a gala celebration.”

“You’ve lost weight. Is this going to be too hard on you? Nick and I can handle the investigation.”

“No, no. I want to do it. I want to find out the truth about our father and his partner.”

When Tyler’s eyes flicked to her with more than a little irony in their depths, she recalled her father wasn’t his father. She still found it hard to believe that the man they sought to bring to justice was father to the twins.

“Dear God, what a mess, if this is all true,” she murmured.

“Didn’t you believe Mother’s story?” he asked in his blunt fashion. His gaze bored into her as if he dared her to deny it. Tyler was always direct.

“Yes, but we can’t prove anything without finding the uncle I don’t recall ever seeing until just before her death. How did he know she was sick? He had to have been keeping track of her somehow. Could they have corresponded all these years and Mother never told us?”

“Who knows? Mother could be as silent as a sphinx when she chose. Derek Ross is one hell of an elusive relative,” Tyler admitted. “All I could find out was that after the funeral his flight from Denver ended in San Francisco. He isn’t listed on the Internet or in any telephone book, hasn’t been called to jury duty, gotten any traffic tickets or been delinquent on his taxes that I can find.”

“I was thinking of those last days in the hospital earlier tonight, just before you arrived, in fact,” Sara said in a pensive tone. “We all reacted differently.”

“Yeah,” Tyler agreed in disgust. “Kathleen, the mystery writer, ran away to New York after the funeral. You would think solving a twenty-five-year-old mystery would be right up her alley.”

“And Conrad wouldn’t budge from Colorado. They both want justice, but they act as if they’re in denial about the whole situation.” She stirred the latte, then took a sip of the hot brew, feeling its warmth flow all the way to her tummy.

“It’s pretty hard to realize the man you thought was your father wasn’t in actuality. And that the man who is really your sire killed the one you thought was. Man, try explaining all that to a jury,” he finished grimly.

“Are you going to confront Walter Parks about your paternity?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon. I want to see the bastard’s reaction when he realizes his sins have come back to haunt him.”

“Tyler, be careful. He’s killed once—”

“That we know of,” Tyler interrupted.

“It’s probably easier the second time,” she warned. Anger and grief brought tears to her eyes. “Sometimes I’m so filled with hate,” she said. “Other times, I think it might be better to go away and forget everything. It was so far in the past and there are so many innocent people who may be hurt by bringing it into the open.”

Tyler studied her for a long minute. “Like your neighbor?” He gestured toward the town house in the other side of the duplex.

“Like his little girl.”

“Why should they get off scot-free?” he demanded. “Our family didn’t. Justice will be done.” He slapped the ball of his fist down on his knee.

Tension filled the beautiful town house which had been arranged in feng shui fashion for the maximum tranquillity of the human soul.

“Justice can be harsh,” she murmured. “There’s an ancient Chinese saying that sounds as if it’s a blessing, but it’s really a curse.”

“What’s that?” he asked when she paused.

“‘May you live in interesting times.’ To the sages, interesting times were those filled with chaos and troubles. Their greatest wish was for serenity. I think, little brother, that we’re in for some interesting times.”

He finished the drink and stood as the clock on the mantel chimed ten times. “Good. We’ll see who’s standing when the Parks house of cards comes tumbling down.”

After she saw him out, watching as his taillights disappeared around a corner, Sara stood at the door for another minute. Down the street, the fog encircled the streetlight in a dim haze. The faint glow gave the promise of warmth and succor to the lone man who walked toward it with quick strides. He paused at the corner and looked over his shoulder, then hurried on.

She wondered what demons he feared might come after him out of the swirling dampness of the night.

On Friday, Sara reacquainted herself with the city. Not that she remembered much from twenty-five years ago, but she tried. She visited the zoo and took the scenic drive in a loop around the city and surrounding urban streets.

One of the two windmills near the old Cliff House spa resort had been restored. The fresh and saltwater pools had long fallen into ruins, but the house remained, having been rebuilt a couple of times due to fire. She ate lunch at the restaurant and knew she’d eaten there in her childhood, although she couldn’t dredge up a specific occasion. Perhaps someone’s birthday.

Past the windmill, facing the ocean, the houses were being gentrified. New construction was going on in the area. None of that was familiar to her.

However, another neighborhood, down the Great Pacific Coast Highway toward Half Moon Bay, brought back sharp, poignant memories. There, in an expensive enclave of homes on five-acre estates carved from sage brush and artichoke farms, she located her former home with the help of an address she’d found in her mother’s possessions.

Standing at the locked gate of the imposing but run-down mansion, images flooded her mind. She’d been riding a tricycle on the sidewalk. Her father was yelling for her to stop as she gained speed on the downward slope. She’d shot through the open wrought-iron gates and gone off the curb in a tangle of arms, legs and tricycle wheels and had a terrific crash on the pavement.

Her parents had taken her to the emergency room for a broken collarbone. She’d tried not to cry, but it had been the worst pain she’d ever experienced.

Running her fingers over the long-repaired bone, she reviewed her life since that time. Her mother’s fears. Her weeping. Moving from one cheap apartment to another. Settling at last in Denver. Her own childish delight in the snow, which she’d never seen, and the birth of the twins. Another delight for her, but more pain for her mother.

The mansion was unoccupied and in disrepair. The old man who had bought it by paying the back taxes had lived here alone after his wife died. He’d passed away a few years ago, and his children were in a battle over the property, according to Tyler. So the place sat empty and forlorn, looking like an aging beauty waiting for her fickle bridegroom to return and make things right again.

“May I help you?” a voice asked, startling her.

A policeman had stopped at the curb and called to her from the open window of his cruiser. A stab of fear hit her. She reminded herself she wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Sara shook her head. “I used to live here. A long time ago,” she added when he looked skeptical. “Since I was in the city, I decided to see if I could remember the place.”

“This house has been empty a long time. I try to keep an eye on it. An unoccupied house is an invitation for drug dealers to move in.”

“That would be terrible.”

“You had better move on,” he told her, but in a kind manner. “Your staring has made the lady down the street nervous. She reported someone was ‘casing’ the estate. That’s why I came by.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Sara told the officer.

She walked back to her car, parked at the curb near where she’d fallen so many years ago. She felt close to tears as the nostalgic mood lingered.

Heading for the town house in her old but dependable vehicle, she had to laugh. Obviously she and her family had fallen on leaner times since their days in the mansion. The policeman would probably tell his fellow cops about the encounter and spend the afternoon painting scenarios of what had happened to them. Someone at the station might even recall the disappearance of Jeremy Carlton and the mystery surrounding his death, presumably by drowning, but the body was never found.

Sara had questions of her own. What had happened to her father’s business? His money? How had her mother managed with four children and no job?

The latter was answered when she and Tyler had discovered funds in a brokerage account after their mother’s death. She’d lived very frugally off the interest, using extra money only during emergencies.

Sara thought her mom would have been better off if she’d had to work, to get out and interact with people so that she wouldn’t spend hours alone in the tiny rental house where they’d finally settled in a suburb of Denver.

At the town house, she pulled into the short driveway and turned off the engine. Stacy was sitting on the marble stoop, chin in her hands, elbows propped on her knees. She smiled broadly when Sara came up the walk.

“I ringed…rang your doorbell but you weren’t home,” she said, moving over so Sara could sit.

Sara enjoyed the coolness of the stone through her slacks as she joined the child. By midafternoon the temperature had climbed into the upper seventies and the shade of the alcove was nice after her day of exploration.

“I’ve been on the scenic tour of the city,” she told Stacy. “I saw Fisherman’s Wharf and the Golden Gate Bridge and had lunch at Cliff House. My table was by the window so I could see the ocean.”

“Did you see any ships?”

“Yes. A huge one. It looked like an oceangoing barge.”

She was rocked by a sudden image of herself at four. She was standing by a window and looking out at the sea, wondering where her daddy could be and why he’d gone off on a boat and when he was going to come back.

With grave certainty, she knew she’d been looking out the window of her bedroom in the mansion—

“Do you have a headache?” Stacy asked.

Sara dropped her hand—she’d been unconsciously rubbing her temple—into her lap. “No, just thinking.” She smiled to show she was all right.

“My mommy used to have headaches. She’d tell Daddy to leave her alone, she had a headache—whenever he was mad at her.”

Sara was startled by the grown-up words coming from the child’s mouth. Surely Stacy had been too young to remember what sounded like frequent quarrels between her parents.

But maybe not. Vague recollections were coming back to her from her youth now that she had returned.

A premonition that she and Tyler should leave the past behind and get on with their lives pierced her heart like a hot spear. Surely there had been enough unhappiness back then to last all of them a lifetime.

Looking at young Stacy, Sara wondered if bringing the ancient case up, assuming they found their missing uncle and solved the murder, was worth it in light of the pain it might cause innocents like this child.

“Daddy!” Stacy yelled, jumping up and running to the end of the sidewalk.

Cade Parks pulled into the garage on his side of the house, then joined his daughter, coming through the gate and scooping her into his arms. “What are you doing sitting out front? You know you’re not supposed to do that.”

“Tai said I could wait for you. You’re late,” Stacy said, turning the reprimand on him.

Sara couldn’t help but grin. She wouldn’t say the daughter was smarter than her dad, but she certainly had learned the rudiments of outfoxing the main male in her life. Sara pitied the men in Stacy’s social circle when the little scamp grew up.

“Huh,” her dad said, then added, “Sorry I’m late. Grandpa called at the last minute. You know how hard it is to get off the line when he wants information.”

Grandpa. That would be Walter Parks. Well, Stacy did have another grandfather, but according to Tyler, the families didn’t mingle much, except for delivering the girl for an occasional visit.

Stacy giggled, then held her face up. To Sara’s amusement, the big city lawyer solemnly rubbed noses with his daughter, then settled on the steps with her in his lap.

“Nice out today,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Did you go sightseeing?”

“Actually, I did.”

Tai came out the front door. “I’m off to the library. See you Monday, pie face,” she said to Stacy, leaning down to plant a kiss on the child’s forehead.

“The office will be closed Monday since the fourth is on Sunday this year,” Cade reminded the sitter, “so you don’t have to pick her up until Tuesday.”

“Ah, that’ll give me more time to study.” Looking pleased, the medical student rushed off with a backpack of books swinging from her shoulders, her long straight hair bouncing against it with each hurried stride.

“I don’t know what I would do without her,” Cade murmured as Stacy followed Tai, then swung on the gate after waving to her sitter. “She’s totally dependable.”

“When I was little, I tried to eat a whole pie by myself,” Stacy called to Sara from the gate. “Tai took my picture. It’s so funny.”

Sara observed the warmth in Cade’s smile as he nodded in agreement with Stacy’s story. She could remember her father coming home and sweeping her and baby sister Kathleen into his arms for a big kiss, then bending their mother over his arm for a dramatic Hollywood embrace. They’d all laughed at how funny he was.

“What?” Cade asked, bending his head so he could look into her eyes.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You looked so sad there for a minute.”

Sara realized she needed to be more careful about concealing her feelings. “Not at all. I was just thinking about how good you are with Stacy and how I wish other fathers were as involved with their families.”

He was silent for several seconds. “I want to be different from my father. It has always been obvious to us kids that his business came first.”

“I remember your twin sister, Emily. Are there others in your family?”

Tyler had already told her about the Parks family, but Sara thought it better to feign ignorance.

“Two. Jessica is an artist. Her paintings are becoming known and beginning to sell. And there’s another boy, Rowan. He’s the wild one in the family. He drives the old man crazy with some of his stunts.”

“Such as?” Sara asked, unable to suppress her interest.

“Tearing around on a motorcycle. Having his picture plastered all over the newspaper in a compromising position with a politician’s wife. Just the everyday rebellions of a middle child who got little attention.”

“You’re the ‘good’ son,” she concluded. “The oldest, who is expected to step into the father’s shoes when the family patriarch decides it’s time.”

Cade hesitated, then chuckled. “Except I went into law instead of the diamond business.”

“Why?”

“I like the purity of it, the fairness—”

“Not always,” she interrupted, thinking of her quest. “There have been innocents on death row.”

“Well, I’m speaking of the idealism of the law, not the reality of its execution by mankind.”

She found herself laughing with him, his deeper tones like the mellow notes of a bassoon underplaying her higher fluting ones.

“Stace and I are grilling hamburgers tonight. Want to join us?”

She hesitated. “I imposed on you night before last.”

“It’s no imposition. We like the company. Besides, knowing you will make Stace feel more confident when she starts school at Lakeside.”

Sara couldn’t help it. She started to laugh.

“What?” he demanded. He nudged her shoulder with his.

His smile was brilliant against his somewhat swarthy complexion, inherited from some pirate ancestor, Sara decided as her breath quickened at his playful touch. His eyes were hazel, a fascinating mix of brown and green with golden flecks near the pupil.

“If Stacy gets any more confident, she’ll be running the class and I’ll be sitting in the corner for talking while she’s explaining the lesson plan.” Sara gave him a sardonic glance from under her lashes. “I think it’s her daddy who’s worried about school.”

A sigh escaped him. “Day care is one thing. Real school is something else, even if it is kindergarten,” he admitted. “It’s like she’ll be taking on a whole new life, one that doesn’t involve me. I’ve cared for her since she was born. Now someone else will influence her, maybe have a greater impact on her life. Next thing I know, she’ll be dragging some boy home and announcing marriage plans.”

He swiped a hand over his brow in an exaggerated fashion, causing her to laugh again. The gate clanged merrily as Stacy swung on it and hummed a song.

“Well, you do have a few years to get used to the idea of marriage and all that,” Sara said ruefully, unsympathetic to the woeful picture he painted.

“Thank God. Come on, let’s get those hamburgers on. Stacy requested them especially for you. She said they were your favorite food.”

“Next to chocolate cake. Is there any of that left?”

“You bet.” He stood and offered her a hand.

Sara let him help her up, then when he called the child to them, they all went to the back deck to eat. Later they watched the sun set far out on the horizon.

“Look for the green flash,” Cade said, peering intently toward the sea.

“What’s that?” Sara wanted to know.

“In the instant the sun dips below the ocean, there’s a green flash, so quick you’ll miss it if you blink. If you see it, you’ll have good luck. Ah, there it is. Did you see?”

“I did,” Stacy declared. “Did you?” she asked, looking at Sara with hazel eyes that exactly matched her father’s.

Sara nodded. Amazingly, she had. She really had.

Chapter Three

One way to get information was to insinuate oneself into the informant’s life. That was part of the plan when she and Tyler had contrived to get jobs here and find out all they could about the Parks family.

So why, Sara wondered on Sunday evening, did she feel so guilty about accepting another invitation from Cade and Stacy?

Draping a warm sweater over her arm, she slipped her wallet in the pocket of her jeans, looked around for anything she might have forgotten, then went to the front door when the doorbell rang several times.

Stacy stood on the other side, a big grin on her face. Sara returned the smile and felt just miserable. Why did doing the right thing feel so wrong?

Because of this youngster, she answered her own question. Because once she’d been Stacy’s age and her world had turned upside down. She’d been bewildered and frightened by her mother’s strange behavior.

“Come on,” Stacy coached. “We’re ready.”

“I’m coming.” Sara locked the door and followed her young hostess to the expensive sedan parked at the curb with Cade inside and waiting for them.

“We have cookies,” Stacy announced, taking her place in a child’s safety seat in the back. She expertly buckled herself into the harness.

Sara sat in the front with Cade. Her dealings with them were beginning to feel too intimate.

No, that wasn’t the word. They were getting too companionable. As if they were a family.

The plan that had seemed practical and logical in Denver now took on sinister shadings as she interacted with Cade and his daughter. She liked them. Unfortunately, that fact hadn’t figured in her planning.

And there was another problem.

She hadn’t counted on being physically attracted to him. He was tall, probably eight inches above her own five foot six. He wore his dark-brown hair rather short as befitted an attorney. He looked great in three-piece suits or in jeans, T-shirt and a green corduroy long-sleeved shirt, which was what he was wearing now.

There was a seriousness about him that inspired confidence, yet his smiles were quick and frequent, especially in dealing with young Stacy. He had a world of patience, yet he could be firm when necessary.

Maybe she should ask Tyler what the contingency plan was if either of them fell head over heels for someone in the Parks family. What then, little brother? she mentally asked with a heavy dose of irony. She couldn’t come up with an answer on the short ride to Twin Peaks.

Deep twilight had fallen when Cade stopped by a parking space at the observation point, and the youth who sat there in a lawn chair moved so he could pull in.

“Nothing like having friends in high places,” Sara murmured.

“Nothing like having a secretary whose son will do nearly anything for money. He’s saving for his first car.”

“When will the fireworks start?” Stacy demanded. She unbuckled the seat belt and stood leaning over the front seat between her father and Sara.

“Soon,” Cade promised. He glanced at Sara. “Each city along the bay schedules their Fourth of July display one after the other. We’ll see at least three different shows from here.”

“Mmm, there’ll be a lot of tired teachers in school tomorrow,” she said. “We have a week of training and orientation before the students arrive.”

Cade frowned. “I’m not sure I like this year-round school idea. Or the idea of moving kids up from the day care center to kindergarten on an irregular schedule.”

“They’re moved when the tests show they’re ready. Otherwise, they get bored and decide school is no fun.”

“Back in my day, no one thought it was supposed to be fun. It was for learning. Or else,” he added ominously.

“Yes, but that was in the olden days,” Sara said tongue-in-cheek. “Things are different in modern times.”

He burst out laughing. “That’ll teach me to refer to my kindergarten days. But let me remind you—you were in the same class as I was.”

“Daddy, are you as old as Sara?” Stacy wanted to know.

“Miss Carlton,” he corrected. “Yes, we’re both as ancient as the hills.”

The girl thought this was extremely funny. Cade glanced at Sara, his eyes alight with amusement. They shared a smile. It was on this humorous note that the fireworks began. They exclaimed over the brilliant exhibitions and argued about which city had the best shots while munching on the homemade cookies Stacy and her dad had made.

Sara sighed contentedly on the way back to the house.

“Tired?” Cade asked, picking up on the sound.

“Yes, but pleasantly so,” she said. “I haven’t paid much attention to holiday celebrations for the last couple of years.”

“Because of your mother’s illness?” he asked softly, his tone sympathetic.

“That was part of it,” she admitted.

She stared into the darkness as despair returned. The burden of caring for her mom had fallen on her. Kathleen couldn’t deal with illness. Or anything else, if she didn’t want to. Her sister had been spoiled, but Sara knew it was partly her fault. It had been easier to do everything herself than cajole the other girl into helping.

It had been the same with Conrad. Tyler had taken on the responsibilities of the man of the house as he grew older. Between the two of them, she and Tyler had made most of the decisions involving their family. They had grown close because of it.

“Here we are,” Cade said, breaking into her musing. “Stacy’s asleep. I’ll carry her inside.”

“I can help,” Sara volunteered.

She opened doors so Cade could carry his daughter inside. In the child’s bedroom, Sara watched as he slipped Stacy’s coat and shoes off. The child had come dressed in pajamas beforehand. Leaning down, he kissed the smooth forehead and pulled the covers up. He was the most caring man Sara had ever met.

She moved back from the doorway when Cade stepped into the hall and closed the door.

“How about a cup of coffee?” he asked.

She hesitated. It was close to midnight. A dangerous hour. “All right,” she heard herself say and was surprised. She hadn’t meant to say that at all.

Downstairs she stood at the kitchen counter which, as in her place, divided it from the hall that connected the living quarters. Cade’s town house was much less formal than the one she was in. The walls were sunny yellow in the den, a soft doeskin beige in the kitchen and dining room.

The furniture was old and comfortable. She suspected some of the pieces were antiques. If so, they had been restored to prime condition by an expert hand.

“My brother Rowan refinished that piece and gave it to me and Rita as a wedding gift,” Cade said, seeing her gaze on a maple secretary with inlaid rosewood.

“It’s lovely.”

“It was a surprise,” Cade said, his expression rather thoughtful. “I didn’t know he knew oak from pine at the time. Now he works as a carpenter and furniture maker.”

“People can amaze you,” she murmured, thinking of her mother and her secrets.

“There you go again,” Cade said softly. “Looking sad,” he added when she glanced his way.

“I’m not sad at all,” she quickly told him and smiled to prove it.

He said nothing further, but his glance was skeptical. She really had to be more careful of her emotions around him. He saw too much.

When the decaffeinated coffee was ready, they carried the mugs into the den. He turned on the gas long enough to start the wood so they could have a fire.

“You have real logs,” she said.

“Yes. I buy a cord from the Boy Scouts each year. For twenty bucks extra, they stack it in the garage, so it’s a good deal.”

She nodded. “I’ve wondered what the artist was hiding in his garage. The inside door is locked with a dead bolt, which I don’t have a key for.”

“Nothing sinister,” Cade assured her. “He stores art treasures there until he can move them to his gallery, which is where he sells his paintings as well as imported art.”

“I see.”

Sara was aware of the silence surrounding them as they watched the flames, each on an opposite end of the sofa. Cade set his mug on the coffee table, then turned so that he leaned into the corner, facing her.

“Sara,” he said and took the mug from her trembling hands and set it aside.

Sparks shot along her nerves at the husky tone. She cleared her throat. “Yes?”

He slid along the sofa until he could hook a finger under her chin and turn her face to his. “Just…this,” he murmured. Then he kissed her.

His lips were warm and mobile over hers, his touch firm but gentle, filling her with a vast yearning for things that could never be, not between them.

Quick, hot tears pressed behind her closed eyes, forlorn, useless tears, for all the years and all the sorrows that stood between her and this man. One slipped over her lashes and wended down her cheek.

Laying her hands on his chest, she pressed slightly.

“What bothers you so?” he asked, a puzzled frown forming on his face as he caught the tear on a finger. “Is it me? Or something from your past? Or from our past when we knew each other as children?”

All of the above.

But she didn’t say that. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been kissed.” She tried to smile but her mouth trembled too much. She pressed her lips together.

“Why?” He bent his head slightly in order to study the expression in her eyes. “Why has it been a long time since you’ve been kissed?”

She looked away, staring into the flames until she was sure the words would come. “This time last year I went to a party. With my fiancé.”

Cade’s face disclosed no reaction to her words. “And?”

“We had a quarrel, and he…drove home alone while I had a friend drop me off.”

When she paused, Cade nodded and told her to go on.

“He was drinking and I thought he shouldn’t drive, but he wouldn’t listen, so I…I let him go. He had an accident and…and…”

“He died?” Cade said, supplying the ending to her story.

“Yes. Luckily no other cars were involved. He wasn’t found until around noon the next day. He’d gone off an embankment and the car wasn’t visible from the road. A man and his son trying to get to the river to fish happened to see the tire tracks. They found him, but it was too late.”

“I’m sorry,” Cade said.

He slid his hands into her hair at each temple and held her. He kissed her eyes, each cheek, then the corner of her mouth. Each touch was unbearably tender.

“I should have called the police, or at least threatened to. Maybe he would have listened then. But I didn’t. I was angry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He licked away the tears that seeped from beneath her closed lashes. “It wasn’t,” he insisted when she tried to tell him it was. “We make choices. Sometimes they’re the wrong ones. Each person is responsible for his or her decisions, not someone else’s.”

He kissed her again, angling across her mouth, seeking greater contact. She pulled away. “You don’t know,” she whispered. “You don’t know.”

“I do. My wife’s car went over a cliff two years ago. I was relieved that she was gone. I felt guilty as hell for feeling that way. I still do. But we have to go on,” he added on a gentler note. “You were wise to move here.”

“Wise?” she questioned, staring into his eyes and wondering why he thought that.

“You’ve had two tragedies to cope with this past year. Leaving Denver means you’re ready to get on with your life. Stacy and I are very lucky that you decided to come to California.”

She fought the hot rise of tears and managed to hold them in. “I wonder if you’ll feel that way a year from now,” she said, then stood and hurried out the back door and into the sanctuary of her house.

After locking the door, she stood in the dark with her forehead pressed against the wooden panel and listened to the frantic pounding of her heart. She wasn’t moving forward with her life, but going backward, she wanted to tell Cade.

Twenty-five years, to be exact.

Sara’s first week at Lakeside was spent in meetings with the administration, going over schedules and class plans. She marked holidays and vacations in her day planner. Her friend Rachel had a PDA, a small electronic device which had a calendar, address book and several other functions.

“I’m going to save up and get one of those,” Sara declared at lunch on Friday.

The teachers’ orientation program had ended at noon and they were free the rest of the day. The two had opted to go to the nearby Chinese restaurant in celebration.

Rachel agreed. “With the school on a year-round program, it’s a great help. Otherwise, I can never keep up with student holidays, when we teachers have to work, versus school holidays, when the whole place is closed down.” She smiled past Sara’s shoulder. “Well, hi, there,” she said. “It’s a really good-looking guy,” she said to Sara.

Sara glanced behind her. “Tyler, hello,” she said in surprise. She hadn’t heard a word from him all week.

“Hey, sis. Hello, Rachel. Nice seeing you again,” he said, joining them at their table. “I’ve been looking for you two.”

“How did you find us?” Sara asked, feeling only slightly apprehensive at his remark. His manner was relaxed, so she assumed he brought no compelling news.

“I stopped at the school and asked. The gal in the office said she thought you were coming here.” When the waiter appeared, Tyler ordered the day’s noodle bowl special, then glanced at the two women. “Nick and I have tomorrow night off. How about dinner and a movie? We’ll spring for both of you since cops make a lot more money than teachers.”

“Now that’s an offer I for one can’t refuse,” Sara murmured in amusement at her brother’s sardonic style. “How about it, Rachel?”

Her friend considered. “We could hold out for a better deal. The hot dog guy down at Fisherman’s Wharf makes more than cops, I think. But,” she added quickly, “he isn’t nearly as handsome. What time are you two big spenders picking us up? Or shall we meet you somewhere?”

Tyler grinned. “Can you be at Sara’s place at six? We’ll eat early and catch the eight-o’clock show.”

After they finished their lunch, Tyler went back on duty. Sara and Rachel decided to spend the afternoon window-shopping. “There’s a place I want to go,” Sara said when they exited a department store in Union Square.

“Parks,” Rachel said, understanding at once. “It’s down this way.”

Sara found her heart speeding up when they stopped to look in the window at the top-line jewelry. Entering the showroom, she felt like a sneak thief, as if she was there for nefarious purposes.

“May I help you?” a smartly dressed woman asked.

She wore a black suit with a black silk camisole and a necklace of the largest pearls Sara had ever seen. The necklace and earrings were set off to perfection by the fairness of the woman’s skin and the darkness of her hair and suit. Her eyes were very pale blue-gray.

“We’re just looking,” Rachel said breezily, her tone implying they might buy something if anything struck their fancy.

The woman smiled, nodded and faded into the background.

Sara glanced around the store. It was as exquisite as the woman, done in subtle tones of beige and blue and red, colors taken from an Oriental rug that separated a small seating area from the rest of the store.

Diamond jewelry in gold settings was displayed on a background of deep royal-blue velvet. Other pieces in white gold, or perhaps platinum, were on red velvet. In one case, hundreds of loose gems were artfully arranged like a river of ice cascading over the landscape of velvet.

Everywhere she looked, Sara saw elegance—in paintings on the walls, in rich drapes at the windows, even the gate barring entrance into a back room was made of delicately scrolled wrought-iron that looked like a work of art. Classical music played softly through unseen speakers.

It was all so understated in a rich and sumptuous way.

This was what the Parks family had. This was what their children believed to be their birthright. But part of this empire should have belonged to her family. And what of Tyler and Conrad, Walter Parks’s sons through his affair with their mother?

The door swung open, interrupting her inspection.

A subtle tension entered the elegant showroom. The woman in black straightened slightly, as if coming to attention. A younger man, busy shining an already shiny counter, became busier. Three elderly women, who had been discussing a graduation present for their niece, glanced up, then smiled at the man who’d entered.

Sara recognized him at once.

Walter Parks was sixty, but he was a man who kept himself in good physical shape. He was trim and athletic-looking, his face deeply tanned and leathery from hours in the sun. Tennis, she thought. Golf. Exclusive country clubs. He could afford the membership and greens fees.

At six-two, he was as tall as his son and her neighbor, Cade. His hair was salt-and-pepper gray, his eyes brown.

She hated him on sight.

Rachel laid a hand on her arm and gestured toward the man as he walked through the store and went behind the far counter. Sara nodded that she knew who he was.

“Did the courier arrive?” he asked the store manager, not bothering with a greeting.

“Yes. I put the package in the safe.”

He nodded and disappeared into the back.

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

The word pounded in Sara’s head with each beat of her heart. She could hear her mother’s weakened voice, murmuring his name and the accusation as she sank into a coma, her heart giving up the battle to sustain life.

“Make…him…pay,” Marla had whispered to her children as they gathered at her bedside.

“We will,” Tyler had vowed.

“Let’s go,” Sara said to Rachel. “Let’s get out of here.”

After one glance at Sara, Rachel nodded and took her arm, leading her outside and away from the sight of anyone in the store. Sara leaned against the building and forced air into her constricted lungs.

“Are you all right?” Rachel asked.

“Yes. I think so,” Sara added, pushing a smile onto her face. “I am. Really.”

“I didn’t think about him walking in the door while we were there,” Rachel admitted. “It took us both by surprise.”

“Yes. He looks like…”

“Cade?” Rachel guessed.

Sara nodded. “I didn’t realize there would be so much family resemblance.” She shook her head slightly as if to ward off the comparison. “I think I’m ready to go home.”

Back at Sara’s house, Rachel dropped her off, then rolled down the car window. “Don’t forget our big date tomorrow night,” she called out, laughter in her voice.

“I won’t.” Sara waved goodbye before opening the door to her place. No one seemed to be in next door.

Thinking of Stacy, she was filled with regret for the future and the possible hurt to the girl and her father. But then, there was all the regret of the past that Marla Carlton and her four children had had to live with.

“You’re all dressed up,” Stacy said Saturday evening, coming out the door and sitting on the stoop beside Sara.

Sara wore a red knit pantsuit that was one of her favorite outfits and a splurge last year when she’d been happy. Before her fiancé, Chad, then her mother, had died.

“I’m going out to dinner with my brother and his friend tonight. Miss Hanson is going, too.”

Stacy nodded as if she approved.

Sara glanced up and down the street. “She’s supposed to be here by now, but she’s late.”

“Maybe she had a wreck like my mother did.”

The child’s matter-of-fact suggestion startled Sara. Stacy’s world had been shaken by her mother’s death when she was three. Sara wondered again how much the child remembered. Did the bright youngster recall anything her grandfather and father might have said—

Realizing where this thought was leading, Sara broke it off, appalled at the idea of quizzing a child about her family’s private conversations. She could never be a detective as Tyler was, asking intrusive questions and suspecting people of lies and evasions.

“Hello,” a masculine voice said behind them.

Sara stood, her gaze held by Cade’s as he stepped out the door. His smile was warm and beguiling, but in an open way, as if his thoughts were as innocent as his daughter’s.

Since meeting this man, she’d realized how self-centered her fiancé had been. He’d always insisted on having his way. Cade was considerate and good-natured.

“Good evening,” she said, sounding breathless and unsure of herself as undefined emotion clutched at her throat, making it difficult to breathe.

“You look especially lovely tonight.”

“She’s waiting for her boyfriend,” Stacy informed him.

Sara felt heat rise to her face. “Just friends,” she quickly corrected. “And my brother.”

Two cars arrived at the same time. Rachel pulled into the driveway behind Sara’s car. Tyler stopped at the curb and got out. “Ready?” he asked, coming up the sidewalk.

“Yes,” Sara answered.

She realized she had to introduce the two men. She did so quickly. Tension crawled along her nerves like a poisonous snake as the men shook hands and spoke.

“You look like Sara,” Stacy said.

Tyler dropped to his haunches and shook her hand as Sara introduced the child. “Yes, all of the kids in my family look like our mother.”

“I look like my daddy,” Stacy told him.

Tyler studied her, then her father. “You sure do,” he agreed. He smiled at the child, then stood. “We have dinner reservations, so we’d better get along.”

“Have a pleasant evening,” Cade said.

Rachel was already seated in the back of Tyler’s car along with Nick Banning, Sara noted when she and Tyler joined them. She sat in the front passenger seat.

“I recognized Cade Parks,” Nick said when they were on their way. “The child was his daughter, I presume?”

“Yes. Stacy. She’ll be in my class Monday.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to face a roomful of rowdy kids.” Rachel made a fearful grimace.

Nick chuckled, then became serious. “Mark is meeting us at the restaurant.”

“Has he learned anything?” Tyler demanded.

“I don’t know. He’ll tell us when he sees us.”

At the cozy Italian restaurant, complete with an accordion player, the two couples met Nick’s older brother.

“My brother, Mark,” Nick introduced them. “He’s a private detective and is helping us on the case.”

Mark Banning wasn’t old—early thirties, perhaps—but his eyes said he’d seen enough to last a lifetime. A terrible scar under his right eye spoke of his days with the New York police force, before he and Nick had moved to San Francisco and he’d opened his own detective agency.

Sara took Mark’s hand. Smiling into his eyes, she said, “Thank you for helping us.”

His manner was introspective and serious. “I believe in justice being done.”

After they were seated, she leaned close to him. “Have you found anything on Derek Ross?”

“Yes. At least, I think I have. Tyler mentioned your mother once said her brother was a book lover and collected antique volumes.”

Sara nodded. “Yes, she did.” She waited impatiently as they placed their orders with the waiter. “You’ve traced him?” she asked as soon as they were alone again.

“Not quite, but I did some checking with a dealer in rare books who I ran into while investigating a theft once.” Mark paused while he studied first Tyler, then Sara. “I asked him if he’d heard of Derek Ross. He hadn’t, but he had done business over the years with a man called Derek Moss.”

“Oh,” Sara said in disappointment.

“Lots of times, when people change their names, they use the same initials…or something very similar to their real names, usually by changing one or two letters.”

“You think…” she began, then stopped, almost afraid to voice the question.

Mark shrugged. “I’ve got a trace going on the man. The dealer couldn’t find an address in his records, but he’s pretty sure Derek Moss has, or had, a bookstore. Moss got a discount on the books due to having a retailer’s license.”

Sara’s mind whirled with the possibility of finishing the case so soon. She pictured the tall, older man she’d seen in the jewelry store behind bars, paying for his crimes against her family.

Tyler must have had the same thought. “It’s odd,” he said, “to discover that you belong to another family, that your father is a man you despise, that you have other brothers and sisters you’ve never known. And a five-year-old niece who’s bright and friendly…and innocent.”

At once another image imposed itself in her mind—Cade Parks and Stacy, their eyes accusing as they stared at her.

Pressing a hand to her chest, where a ball of pain and misery formed, she wondered for the hundredth time that week if she and Tyler were doing the right thing. People were going to be hurt….

“You and Rachel might have an additional worry,” Mark told them. “Cade Parks is on the board of directors at your school. Cause trouble for his family and he could get you fired.”

Chapter Four

Walter Parks paced the floor in quick, furious strides on Monday morning. Someone was checking into his life, both personal and business, and he didn’t like it, not one bit.

Get rid of one problem, it seemed, and two appeared. That was certainly the case in the present situation. Marla was dead, but her brats weren’t.

Just to be sure the past stayed in the past, he’d had the detective check on them. One, a rather well-known mystery writer, had moved from Denver to New York. One of the twin boys had stayed in Colorado. So far, so good.

He paced some more as rage rose to a choking level inside him. He wanted to punch somebody. He wanted to rip something to shreds, to destroy the things that stood in the way of his complete freedom and relief from worry.

Like the two Carltons who now lived in San Francisco.

Dammit, twenty-five years was long enough to suffer for a moment of madness. He’d paid for it. He’d spent his life always having to watch over his shoulder, wondering if Marla would speak up—

“Mr. Parks, Cade is here,” his secretary interrupted his pacing with the announcement.

He glanced toward the open door. Connie was forty-three, a single mother with a gifted son who attended the university at Berkeley, thanks to him. She’d worked for him for fifteen years. He provided her with a good living and a few other perks. In return, she was a totally reliable secretary and a discreet mistress.

Why couldn’t all of life be as simple?

“Tell him to come in,” Walter said impatiently. “Close the door,” he said to his son as soon as Cade was inside.

A fleeting expression of annoyance crossed the boy’s face. Well, he could just be annoyed. Walter was furious.

“Do you know who lives next door to you?” Walter demanded as soon as they were alone.

Cade was surprised by the question. “Yes, Sara Carlton,” he admitted warily. Knowing his father, he felt there was more to the question than paternal curiosity.

“Yes. Sara Carlton,” Walter repeated in a nasty tone.

Cade waited until the irritation settled before he asked, “What about her?”

His father paced the room like an angry lion, caged and resenting it, ready to lash out at anyone who got in his way. Cade was familiar with Walter’s temper. Usually he waited it out without saying much. At the moment, he didn’t like either his father’s attitude or the subject.

“Do you also know her brother is a detective on the police force here?”

Cade nodded.

“And you never thought to mention it to me?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Someone has been making inquiries about…about the family business,” Walter announced, his face becoming red as his anger rose higher. A vein throbbed in his neck.

Cade noted the hesitation and knew his father had changed what he’d been about to say. Lately, in dealing with the family patriarch, he’d had uneasy hunches that all was not well. His father’s mood swings had grown increasingly unpredictable.

“How do you know?” Cade asked.

His father paused again, as if deciding on how much to tell him. “Someone claiming to be with the IRS called the bank and asked about the company’s accounts and my personal ones. When I called the local IRS chief, he indicated they were looking into certain matters on companies dealing with imported diamonds. He wouldn’t say why.”

“There could be lots of reasons—money laundering or gem smuggling from countries engaged in war. The press calls them ‘conflict diamonds.’” Cade shrugged. “Since we don’t do business with those countries or with smugglers, and the taxes are in order, we don’t have anything to worry about.”

Walter stopped pacing and spun around. “A man in my position always has to worry.”

“Why?” Cade asked, keeping his tone neutral.

His father glared at him so hotly, Cade wouldn’t have been surprised if a laser beam burned right through his forehead.

“People are envious of those who pull themselves up and make it in life.”

By marrying into the business, Cade thought but didn’t voice the accusation. For a second, he felt the overwhelming loss of his mother. Like Sara, his world had changed when he was four. He’d never understood why she had to be sent away.

When asked, his father had sorrowfully admitted that Anna Parks was “unstable” and couldn’t be trusted outside the mental hospital, that she was in the most progressive sanitarium in the world and, if she could be helped, the doctors there were the ones to do it. All he would tell the children was that Anna was safe and happy, insofar as she could be, and living in Switzerland.

Seeing his father’s agitation, Cade tried to figure out what the old man was getting at. “So, is someone threatening you in some way? Did you get a poison pen letter or a call or something like that?”

“No,” Walter snapped. “But I don’t trust the Carlton brother and sister. They’re here to make trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Knowing Sara and having met her brother, Cade couldn’t bring himself to take his father’s odd worries seriously.

“Their father…”

Again the odd hesitation, Cade noted.

“Jeremy Carlton and I were partners on a project long ago,” Walter said, his eyes narrowed as if he saw directly into the past. “Things were going bad for him, but I didn’t know he was in financial trouble. Anyway, there was a rumor about smuggled diamonds, but I never paid it much attention. When Jeremy drowned—”

“Aboard a yacht our company owned at the time,” Cade interrupted. “I was curious and checked into it after Sara moved in next door,” he said when his father gave him a questioning glare.

“Yes,” Walter said. “He drowned and that was the end of it. His family apparently lost everything. They moved to Colorado and I lost track of them after that.”

“I see,” Cade murmured. “What kind of project were you and Carlton working on?”

Walter’s strained features relaxed somewhat. “We were going to produce the most expensive diamond necklace in the world, using nothing but the rarest of flawless stones. That was to be our launch into the market for the ultrarich.”

“Celebrity chasing,” Cade murmured, a degree of scorn showing through.

“Not celebrities. The truly rich,” his father asserted, “are those who can afford a string of polo ponies, who have their own planes and seagoing yachts. Their net worth is over half a billion, and they take pains to stay out of the public eye.”

“A very small market base.”

“In that price range, we wouldn’t have needed many sales to ensure our fortune.”

A chill crept along Cade’s nape at his father’s smile. Cold, greedy and calculating wouldn’t begin to describe it. “The company has done just fine over the years.”

“We’re overextended,” Walter stated flatly.

“The economy has slowed down some, but the rich are with us always. And they always want something bigger and better than their neighbors.”

“In business, a man can never relax. I want you to have the Carlton girl fired.”

“What?” Cade wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

“You’re on the board of directors at the school. Get rid of her. Make sure she has to move, too. You have the phone number where the artist can be reached, don’t you? Tell him she’s throwing wild parties or something.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Cade informed his father, his own anger building at his father’s scheming.

Walter placed both hands on his desk and leaned closer, his eyes boring into Cade’s. “You will if you want to keep that ranch you’re so crazy about. I got you your position with the law firm. I can take it away.”

Cade took a deep breath. Another one. It was no use. He headed for the door.

“Where the hell are you going? I’m not through talking to you,” his father said in a snarl.

“I’m leaving,” Cade said, keeping his own tone quiet and carefully controlled. “Before I punch you out. It’s never good form to beat up one’s father.”

He walked out without looking back. The secretary kept her gaze pinned to the papers on her desk as he swept past.

Cade was careful around her. He and his siblings had figured out long ago that anything they said to her would be repeated to their father.

In the hall, he nearly ran over Linda Mailer, his father’s accountant. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It was my fault,” she said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.” She gestured at the sheaf of papers in her hand. “Do you have a moment? I have some questions—”

“Later,” Cade said and forced a smile. “I have to be somewhere.”

Anywhere but in the vicinity of his father, Cade thought, going outside and breathing deeply.

The day was clear and warm, an invitation to be outside in the summer sun. Perusing the display of jewelry in the store window, he experienced an overpowering need to get away from everything that bore his father’s touch. The ranch was just the place for that.

“It’s no problem,” Sara assured Tai Monday afternoon. She’d agreed to take Stacy home and let the child stay with her until Cade arrived.

“Thanks, Sara. That’s a load off my mind,” Tai said, relief mingling with the worry in her eyes.

The young woman’s mother had undergone emergency surgery during the night for a ruptured appendix. Tai, an only child, needed to take care of her for a few days until the older woman was on her feet again.

“Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll explain what happened to Cade.” Sara walked the premed student to the classroom door and waved as Tai hurried from the school grounds.

It was lunch recess and the babble of conversation and laughter on the playground was reassuring to Sara. As long as there were children and laughter, then the world couldn’t be all bad.

But it could be harsh.

She thought of Tai’s concern for her mom, of the past winter and her own mother’s slow fading, those thin hands growing paler and colder each day as Marla’s heart failed in its effort to supply the vital link to life.

With the death of her mother, Sara had felt adrift in life, cut off from her roots and all the past generations that made her the person she was. The future had seemed dark and fuzzy, an endless road leading to a place she couldn’t see. Sensing Tai’s fear had revived her own.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period. The children ran about in seeming disorder, but soon sorted themselves into lines in front of their classrooms, then marched in with their teachers.

Sara put the past out of her mind and finished her teaching duties. She ended the day by having the children dance around the classroom in time to a lively tune, then she and the twenty students straightened up the room in preparation for the next day.

“Stacy, you’ll walk home with me,” she told the youngster when the final bell rang. “Tai’s mom got sick and Tai will have to stay with her for a couple of weeks.”

Stacy smiled happily. “I like being with you. And Tai,” she added, loyal to her sitter.

“You’re a very likable person to be with, too,” Sara said. “Shall we plan dinner for your father tonight since Tai won’t be there to start it?”

“Let’s have spaghetti. That’s his favorite food.”

Sara gave a little skeptical snort. “I think I know whose favorite it is,” she said as Stacy skipped along beside her.

Stacy pressed a hand over her mouth and giggled.

At the town house, they worked together and soon the spicy sauce was bubbling in the pan. While it simmered, the two weeded the front flower beds, not that they needed much work. The mysterious Mr. Lee—Sara had never seen him—kept the grounds in tip-top shape.

That’s where Cade found them when he arrived at six o’clock.

After the usual hug, swing and nose-rubbing with his daughter, he turned to Sara. His stare was so intent, she became flustered and dropped the small bunch of grass sprouts they’d pulled from among the flowers.

“We cooked dinner,” Stacy told him.

“Where’s Tai?” he asked Sara.

“Her mommy’s sick,” Stacy answered. “Tai has to stay with her ’cause she had a op’ration.”

“An operation,” he corrected.

“Mommy wanted Daddy to have one, but he got mad,” Stacy said to Sara. The child gazed earnestly at her father. “Sara and I could stay with you if you had one,” she volunteered.

Before Sara could quite figure out the implications, Cade abruptly set the girl on her feet, unlocked the door and disappeared inside with her. His face had turned an interesting shade of red.

Sara felt her own face heat up as she sorted through the conversation. While working together last week, Rachel had told Sara all she’d read about Cade’s wife. The woman had been an ardent partygoer. It didn’t take a strong leap to imagine her not wanting more children…or that she’d wanted Cade to do something about it.

Had he?

Going inside, she prepared the pasta and salad and rolls, then studied the ebony table with its perfect finish. She’d never used it.

Getting a colorful tablecloth from her belongings, she went onto the deck and spread it over the patio table there. With the table set and the food ready to bring out, she wondered what to do next.

Feeling embarrassed and more than a little foolish, she knocked on Cade’s back door.

He answered in less than a minute. He’d changed to jeans and a blue chambray shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the buttons not yet fastened down the front.

His chest was lightly sprinkled with dark hair. His skin was tanned. She wondered when he spent time outside to acquire it. He wasn’t a brawny man, but he looked strong and fit, with a whipcord leanness to him that spoke of latent energy, ready to be unleashed on a second’s notice.

Unexpected hunger uncoiled and flooded her with intense longing. She hadn’t felt passion in so long it took a moment to realize fully what it was.

She wanted this man. She wanted his arms around her. She wanted to feel his warmth, his intimate touch. She wanted to caress him, to explore his masculine flesh with her hands…with her body…

“Yes?” he said.

Sara hesitated at his tone—not exactly cold, but not exactly friendly, either. “Uh, did Stacy tell you we prepared dinner?”

“Yes. I was just about to call and see if the invitation was still open.”

“Of course.” She dredged up a smile. “I don’t want to eat leftover spaghetti for the next six nights.”

His answering smile was forced. “I’ll get Stace. We’ll be over in a minute.”

“I, uh, thought we would eat on the deck.”

“Great. We’ll be right out.”

Sara retreated, leaving her door open so they could come inside if they wished. Her fingers trembled slightly as she removed crisp sourdough bread from the oven and placed it in a cloth-lined basket. She made a nest for the sauce in the center of the pasta, which she’d placed on a platter with a high rim.

“I’ll take that,” Cade said, coming to the door. He removed the platter from her hand.

“Thanks. Stace, if you’ll put these rolls on the table, I’ll get drinks. Milk or iced tea?”

“Tea for me, milk for the young lady,” Cade said.

Since it was early, the air hadn’t cooled to the point of being chilly. The temperature was a pleasant seventy-two degrees. With the irrepressible Stacy there to bridge any awkward pauses, the tension between Sara and Cade eased and the evening became quite cheerful.

“So, did both of you enjoy your first day of school?” he asked when they were seated.

The two females gave him a thorough review of their day while the shadows lengthened and the sun hid behind the fog bank on the horizon. They finished the meal, but lingered at the table and talked.

“There’ll be no flash tonight,” Cade told them, gazing at the horizon.

Sara thought he looked wistful, but in the next instant, as his eyes met hers, she decided she was wrong. She’d been aware of his gaze on her several times during the meal, but his thoughts had been too obscure to read. Now he merely looked amused and somehow distant.

Not that they’d ever been close, except as children in school together, she mused, her senses keenly aware of him and his physical presence, the innate masculinity that called to something equally strong but feminine in her.

After eating, they all pitched in to clean up the dishes, then Cade and Stacy went to their place so the child could get ready for bed. Sara draped a sweater over her shoulders and returned to the deck.

Twilight deepened into night, and still she lingered. No mosquitoes came out to annoy her. Few sounds from the street penetrated back here. It didn’t even feel as if she were in a city.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Cade asked from his doorway an hour later.

“Yes, that would be nice.”

He joined her on the deck and handed her a glass of wine, which was red and mellow, holding only a hint of tannin from the oak barrel in which it had been aged.

“Very good,” she murmured after taking a sip.

“An eight-year-old Cabernet,” he told her. “It won the blue ribbon in a recent international competition.”

“You should have saved it for a special occasion.”

“I think this is special enough. A fine dinner and interesting conversation, two beautiful women to share the evening—what more could a man want?”

The cheer sounded somewhat forced, but his voice had deepened. It flowed over her with the same dark complexities as the wine, a subtle weaving of spicy flavors that spoke of other pleasures to come—

She stopped the train of thought with an effort. She couldn’t afford to think like that. Rising, she stood by the railing and stared out toward the sea.

Ships were visible as lights that rose and dipped with the movement of the sea. They struck her as unbearably lonely as they sailed off into the night.

But she knew the loneliness was in herself. She swallowed the painful knot in her throat when Cade came over and stood beside her.

“I used to watch the ships when I was a kid,” he said. “I wanted to go on a grand adventure with the sailors, a modern-day Jason on the trail of the golden fleece.”

She heard and understood the undertone of sadness when he chuckled at his boyish ideas. It reached down into her own heart and opened places she’d thought were closed forever.

“We all have dreams,” she said in hardly more than a whisper. “And we all have to grow up.”

“Some more quickly than others. You, I think.”

“And you,” she murmured.

“Perhaps,” he said.

She knew a lot about his life now and wondered if he was thinking of his mother, who’d been sent away to a very private hospital, it was rumored, for the mentally ill. Mark Banning had told them this news.

“When your mother was sent away?” she asked.

He was silent for a long moment. “Yes. It was like the sun went out.”

His voice was so low she had to strain to hear. “Do…do you ever see her?”

“No. My father thinks it would serve no purpose. She has the best of care and, according to him, she wouldn’t be interested in any of her children anyway.”

“I’m sorry.” She couldn’t deny the compassion she felt for him and his loss.

“Into every life…” He shrugged philosophically.

“Some rain must fall,” she finished when he stopped.

His smile appeared, a beacon in the dark. “We’re getting awfully serious, young Sara.”

“I don’t feel young. I haven’t for a long time.”

He touched her shoulder. Warmth flowed from his hand all the way to the center of her. Without meaning to, she leaned into him when he stepped closer. He slipped both arms around her, clasping his hands over her tummy and tucking her against his body.

For some reason, it made her ache inside, as if her heart were weeping. She laid her hands over his. They stayed that way for a long time, not speaking as they watched a few stars appear.

“Without the glare of city lights,” he said, “you can see a million stars. At the ranch, the only way to tell the ocean from the night sky is to note where the stars begin.”

“You have a ranch?”

“Yes. I plan to go up Friday night. Stace and I would like to have you join us.”

“I may have work to do,” she hedged, wanting to go but not sure if she should. When she glanced up, he lowered his head and gently touched her lips with his.

“Sara,” he said, his voice soft, husky.

A tremor rushed over her. He tightened his hold, then stepped to the side, turning her at the same time. They faced each other, their expressions solemn, their eyes questioning. She wondered if his doubts were the same as hers. At the moment, it didn’t matter.

Slowly she raised her hands and caressed along his shirtfront. “Warm, so warm,” she said.

“Burning up,” he admitted.

Cade cupped her face in his hands and sipped from her lips as if he’d found a rare and perfect wine, a nectar of incredible sweetness stolen from the gods. And like all mortals who dared the fates, he knew he would pay…someday…somehow….

He groaned as need pushed aside the dire musing. He took her mouth in a kiss of fire, of insatiable passion. He needed more from her.

“Have to touch you,” he said in half apology, half anticipation.

“Yes. Oh, yes.” Sara wanted nothing between them—no clothing, no second thoughts, no past filled with hatred and regret. She pushed her hands under his shirt and caressed his back.

The muscles flexed beneath her fingers, hinting at raw power kept under tight control. She wanted to experience that power for herself, to feel it against her…in her.

She turned her head and sighed shakily. “This is…we shouldn’t…It’s so…unwise.”

“I know,” he whispered, his mouth hot on her neck just below her ear. “Stop me. If you can.” Cade chuckled ruefully, knowing she was as caught up in the moment as he was. Something primitive and wild flashed through his blood, driving out sanity in the face of this terrible need. For her. For this woman.

“Come. We need to go inside,” he said, feeling her tremble again. He held his breath as he turned them toward her door.

“Stacy,” she said.

“I have the monitor on. With the doors open, we’ll hear if she calls out.” He guided her inside.

Sara felt the sofa touch the back of her knees. She tossed the sweater on a chair and kicked off her shoes when Cade did. He enclosed her in a warm embrace and together they sank onto the cushions.

Their bodies meshed as if they’d done this a thousand times. They stretched out on the supple leather—thighs locked, chests and abdomens touching, hands reaching, searching beneath the barriers of their clothing until they could touch living flesh.

“Your skin is as smooth as flower petals,” he murmured as he imprinted kisses over her face.

“So is yours,” she said just as ardently, completely entranced by the growing intimacy.

His low laughter delighted her, and she laughed, too. It felt natural and reassuring.

“I need more,” he said.

She let him unfasten the buttons on her blouse, helped shed it and the bra, then waited, her heart surging like a storm-driven tide, as he unfastened his shirt and wrapped her in it so that skin nestled against skin.

“You’re burning me up,” he told her, his mouth stirring her to madness as he kissed along her neck, then drew back enough to lave her peaked breasts with his tongue until she gasped and moaned with hunger.

Arching slightly, she moved against him, feeling the enticing hardness against her tummy. He clasped her thigh in one hand and positioned it over his hip.

“Oh,” she cried softly as sensation whirled through her at the greater contact. She only had to press slightly to experience even more.

He moved with her, their breathing shallow and rapid as the flames danced and leaped through their entwined bodies.

“Cade,” she whispered. “You must…you must come to me….”

“I want to,” he assured her. “But I didn’t expect this. I didn’t prepare for it.” He caught her hand when she tugged at his jeans, then pressed her palm against his chest. “No more. I don’t have protection.”

She bit into her bottom lip as disappointment hit. “You, uh, the operation…”

“A vasectomy was Rita’s idea. I never had one.” He gazed into her eyes. “Unless you’re protected, we have to stop…now.”

A tangle of questions wrapped around them, buzzed like angry bees between them as they contemplated each other solemnly. His smile was unexpected—a rueful acknowledgment of their predicament.

“Okay, let’s quit while we’re ahead,” he said.

He swung up and away from her. The night air from the open door swept over her, chilling the ardor to embers but not quite putting the fire out. She sighed.

“Me, too,” he said. He leaned down and kissed her lightly, picked up his shoes and departed.

Sara wrapped her sweater around her shivering body. Sitting there in the dark, she went over the events of the evening. There had been such strange undercurrents between them. And then the passion.

She’d never known a man like Cade. Gentle. Caring. A wonderful father. There was something deeply honorable about him. She felt it in her bones. She should tell him why she’d come to San Francisco. Before he found out in a different way. Like when the police came to arrest his father.

“Complexities,” she said aloud and sighed again.

Chapter Five

Two nights later, the ring of the doorbell startled Sara as she sat in the den and tried to read a long novel about a rich family and their problems.

She personally thought it would do the fictional characters good to take on a poor family’s problems and see how life felt when there wasn’t enough money to buy one’s way out of difficulty.

Rising, she went to the front door. It was too late for Stacy to be up and she assumed Cade would use the back door since the den was in the rear of the house. That left Tyler to be calling at nine-thirty in the evening.

She was right. Flicking off the dead bolt, she opened the elegant portal and invited him in. “Did you just get off work?” she asked, seeing his suit.

“Yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his face after entering the town house. “Got anything to eat?”

“Ham-and-cheese sandwich or omelette?”

“Omelette. Three eggs. I’m starved.”

After locking the door, she led the way into the kitchen. “Don’t they let police detectives eat in this city?” she asked with a sympathetic glance.

“Not if they can help it.” His smile was weary.

She prepared a large omelette and poured it into a skillet. While it cooked, she dropped an English muffin into the toaster, considered, then added one for herself. In a few minutes, she handed Tyler a tray with his food and carried one for herself with the toasted muffin, strawberry jam and a glass of milk on it.

They ate in the den with the trays across their laps. “So what’s happening?” she demanded when her brother remained stubbornly silent.

He roused from his introspection. “Trouble.”

The hair prickled on the back of her neck. “What kind of trouble?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know.” He finished off the omelette and the last drink of milk. “Got any coffee?”

“I’ll make you a latte.” She prepared the steamed milk and coffee, did one for herself, then returned. “Help yourself,” she said dryly, noting that he had devoured the other half of her muffin and jam and was swallowing the last of her milk.

“Sorry. I was still hungry.”

She handed him the steaming mug and settled onto the sofa again. “Has Mark Banning found our dear uncle?”

Tyler shook his head. “Someone tried to hack into my computer, though, and set up a worm to send everything I had on file to a third computer.”

Alarm spread through Sara. “Who?”

“I couldn’t trace ’em. They covered their tracks well.”

“Did they find out anything about our quest?”

“No. Fortunately I use a separate drive for all Internet searches and then check it for viruses and worms after each session on the Net. That’s when I discovered someone was trying to implant a tracking program on me.”

“We haven’t tried to hide,” she reminded him. “We use our real names. Do you think Walter Parks had anything to do with the hacker?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, I live next door to his son. Cade remembers me from years ago. If he mentioned me to his father, then Walter would know the Carltons—at least some of us—are back in town.”

“And he might wonder exactly what we’re doing here,” Tyler concluded.

“Only if he has a guilty conscience. Otherwise why would he care?”

Her brother snorted. “I’ve done some research on his business dealings. He’s known to be a ruthless competitor. I doubt his conscience bothers him much.”

“Cade doesn’t seem at all like his father,” she murmured, recalling the son’s determination to be a better parent to his daughter than his father had been to him and his siblings.

“Have you found out anything from him?” Tyler asked.

“Like what?”

“How the family business is prospering? The old man has been doing a lot of buying lately. There’s been a large payment to a foreign diamond dealer of dubious reputation through an overseas bank. There’s also been a couple of mysterious deliveries to his store of late. Uninsured deliveries by courier.”

“So?”

Her brother shrugged. “So, I don’t know. Too bad the company is family-owned. Their records are private, so it’s more difficult to check on their business dealings. But not impossible,” he added. “Twenty-five years ago, the Parks empire seemed to take off. Where did the money come from?”

“The Carlton diamond business that apparently somehow disappeared into thin air without a trace just as Father did during that ill-fated yachting party?”

“That’s what I think,” her brother confirmed her guess.

Sara sipped the latte while she thought. “You and Nick and Mark Banning have the inside track on the investigation. I feel rather useless in the grand scheme of things. What do you want me to do?”

“Feed me when I drop by?” Tyler suggested with a grin, then became serious again. “The son knows the business. Can you get him to talk about the family’s fortunes? See if he knows how much was inherited from his mother’s side of the family. Walter Parks didn’t have much but ambition and a sharp mind before he married. As soon as his father-in-law died, two years after the marriage, Walter changed the name of the company from Lindsay Mining to Parks Mining and Exploration.”

Sara glanced at her brother in surprise at this news. “You have been busy. There’s something that occurs to me as sort of suspicious. Remember Mark told us that shortly after the party on the yacht, Walter sent his wife to a Swiss sanitarium?”

“Swiss, huh? I don’t think Mark knows that. I’ll have him start checking—”

“Sorry, that was just a manner of speaking. In novels, people always get sent to reclusive Swiss hospitals high in the mountains when their kin want to get rid of them. Anyway, Anna Parks was sent overseas somewhere when Cade was a child. He said the children never saw her, that his father said she wouldn’t care about them.”

“So?”

Sara frowned intently into the middle distance while she marshaled her thoughts. “Don’t you think that’s rather convenient and coincidental? According to Mother, Anna was present at the celebration aboard the yacht. What if she saw her husband have a quarrel with his partner? Maybe they got into a fight and our father, sorry, my father—”

“It’s okay. I still think of Jeremy Carlton as my father, too,” Tyler assured her.

“So maybe Jeremy fell and broke his neck or something. Then Walter panicked and threw the body overboard and Anna witnessed the whole thing. If she insisted her husband go to the police with the truth, then he might have needed to shut her up. What better way than to get her committed to an asylum for the insane in a foreign country?”

“Good point,” Tyler murmured.

“Also,” Sara continued. “When did he go into the retail business? It seems to me it would take a lot of money to open a jewelry store, and now he owns two of the most prestigious ones in California. Was that after our family somehow lost everything?”

Tyler ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as if he could erase the weariness. He covered a huge yawn before answering. “He has a way of taking over any enterprise he’s involved in while his partners—I use that term loosely—have a way of losing out.”

“Or disappearing,” Sara reminded him. “Tyler, be careful. I feel threatened. I don’t know if that’s the right word, but I have this odd feeling, like a noose tightening around us. Both of us.”

He patted her arm as he rose. “I always pay attention to hunches and odd feelings. I think we’re making someone nervous—”

“Walter Parks,” she said grimly, also standing and walking toward the front to see him out.

“Yeah. Are you going to back out?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“Just a feeling.” He gave her an insouciant grin, then nodded his head toward the other town house. “He was pretty interested to see who rode up front with me and who rode in the back with Nick when we went to dinner Saturday night. Anything going on between you two that I should know about?”

Sara sighed and wrinkled her nose at her smart-mouthed sibling. “He’s very attractive,” she finally admitted.

“Aha,” Tyler said softly as they arrived at the front door and paused there.

“It’s confusing. He doesn’t seem ruthless. In fact, he’s a wonderful father.”

“Even an animal looks after its own.”

“I know. He’s my enemy and yet…” She shrugged.

Tyler studied her for a few seconds, then rubbed his brow as if his head hurt. “Sometimes lightning strikes, and there you are, burned to the core.”

The words were so startling, so much like a confession, that Sara was startled. “Tyler, have you met someone? Are you in love?”

His brief laughter was tinged with bitterness. “Hardly. It was nothing. A one-night stand.”

Sara was confused. “But if there’re feelings—”

“Forget it,” he said. “The lady obviously did.”

With very mixed emotions, Sara studied him. Tyler—who’d vowed he would never marry or have kids and “all that stuff” as he used to scornfully mutter—in love?

Well, maybe not in love, but certainly a chord had been struck in him by someone. Unfortunately, it appeared the same thing hadn’t struck her.

“Wait,” she requested when he opened the door. “Cade has invited me out to his ranch with him and Stacy this weekend. I told him I might be busy.”

“Go,” Tyler said at once. “This could be a chance to pry some info out of him. See if you can find out how the Parks empire is faring money-wise. Maybe he knows of some new deals his father is putting together. Or what was in those packages the courier dropped off.”

“Right, like he’s going to tell me they’re smuggling diamonds or something.”

Her brother gave her a sardonic glance. “Men have been known to disclose a lot during a weak moment.”

Her face flushed hotly in a sudden surge of guilt and remembered passion. Tyler touched her cheek. “Perhaps you and he have already had that moment?”

She shook her head. “There is an attraction. That’s what worries me. I want to believe that Cade is decent and honorable, then I think of his father and what Mother told us. It gets me confused and angry and frustrated.”

Tyler nodded. “I know the feeling. Maybe you’d better stay out of it, let me and Nick and Mark handle everything.”

Sara shook her head. “I came here to help. I’ll stick it out. And do my part.”

“No matter what it takes?” he asked.

“No matter what it takes.”

They agreed to meet Monday and discuss the weekend, then said goodnight. Sara locked the door and returned to the den. She cleaned up the dishes and went to bed, but not to sleep. Too many restless thoughts filled her head.

“Miss Carlton, guess what?” Stacy demanded Friday morning when Sara stopped at the adjoining town house to pick up the youngster for the short walk to school.

“What?”

“Dad and I are going to the ranch tonight and you’re invited!”

“Yes, your father kindly included me,” Sara admitted. She’d been over and over all the arguments about why she should go, but her conscience had bothered her all week. It seemed underhanded to take advantage of Cade’s and Stacy’s trust in her. “I don’t think I should intrude on your private time.”

“Please, you have to come. You haven’t seen my pony. She’s so beautiful. She can do tricks, too.”

“I think you’ve taken Miss Carlton by surprise,” Cade said, opening the door wider and handing his daughter a bright red lunchbox. “The invitation is still open. Can you join us?”

Sara tried to think of a plausible excuse to refuse, but some willful part of her urged her to accept. “You’re spending the night?”

“Yes. We’ll leave early Sunday afternoon. Stace and I have a family dinner at my father’s Sunday night.”

Stacy wrinkled her nose. “Do we hafta?”

“Yes,” her father said firmly.

Stacy went back to the original question. “Can you come to the ranch? We got cows and everything. We can help milk.”

“You have milk cows?” Sara asked, surprised.

“Actually I lease the operation. The farmer also takes care of our five horses and two dogs. The ranch is a two-hour drive north of the city. We would really like for you to join us, if you haven’t made plans for the weekend.”

“Uh, no—”

“Please come,” Stacy urged.

“Yes, do,” the father chimed in. “I would consider it a slight repayment for the help you’ve given me and Stace while Tai is unavailable.”

This really was a chance to find out more about his family, she decided, then wondered if she was rationalizing her desire to go. “Okay. It sounds like fun.”

“Yay, she’s going. I told you she would.” Stacy twirled around in delight. “We’re leaving right after school.”

“You’re quitting work early?” Sara asked.

“I thought we would try to beat the traffic, if that’s possible.”

His smile made Sara’s heart do weird things—speed up, skip a couple of beats and generally act silly. “What clothing will I need?” she asked.

“Jeans. A jacket. Boots, if you have them, otherwise sneakers will do. Do you ride?”

“I’ve never been on a horse in my life.” She opened her eyes wide and gave them a horrified grimace.

Stacy burst into giggles, which were underscored by his deeper chuckles. “It’s easy,” the girl assured her teacher.

On the way to school, Sara wondered just how easy the weekend would be.

“This is lovely,” Sara murmured that afternoon after they’d left the city and its traffic behind.

Cade expertly followed the winding coast road north of San Francisco. Bay laurel grew profusely along narrow canyons that opened at frequent intervals to the side of the highway. On one curve, the road had recently been repaved.

“There was a landslide during the March rains,” he told her. “They had to build a bridge-type understructure to make the repair. The highway department would like to close the road, I think, but people object. On nice weekends, this is a busy stretch.”

“It’s very scenic,” she said.

They left the highway and turned toward the west, passing through ranch land where cows grazed.

“This is it,” Stacy said from the back seat. “This is our ranch.”

Cade drove over a grate designed to prevent livestock from crossing it. Fences stretched to either side, but no gate barred the gravel road from access. Black-and-white cows stared at them with casual interest.

“These are the milk cows,” Stacy told her.

Cade drove past a large barn. “The milking parlor,” he explained. “It has the latest equipment.”

A neat white house was set back from the road. Cade nodded toward it. “Roger and Candy Mendolson. They milk two hundred cows twice a day, every day of the year. No time off for good behavior. Fortunately they have help, so everyone gets a weekend off once a month.”

“Gracious,” Sara said. “Teachers complain about only getting a month off during the summer when we’re on the all-year program.”

“Roger and Candy say they wouldn’t have it any other way. Life in a town would drive them nuts.”

“I can identify with that,” Sara muttered darkly, drawing a chuckle from him.

The road sloped upward, then dropped over the top of a hillock. In a secluded dip of land nestled another house, one made of fieldstone on the bottom third, then split logs on the rest. A quarter mile away, the land dropped over a cliff to a rock-strewn beach that stretched northward until it disappeared into the salty haze from the sea.

“This is incredibly lovely,” she said. “The grass is green.”

Cade pulled into a carport and turned off the engine. “We get condensation from the coastal fog. That’s why the fields along the coast stay relatively green in the summer. The cows will graze on dried grass, too.”

Cade helped the two females out, then unlocked the front door. Inside the cottage, Sara surveyed the open living area that flowed into a small but modern kitchen. A natural stone fireplace dominated the main wall. To the left of the fireplace was a set of steps to the second story.

“Your bedroom is back here.” Cade, carrying her suitcase, led the way down a short corridor. “The bathroom is directly across the hall. Linen closet there.” He indicated the doors to each, then entered the bedroom.

The furniture was made of pine and was simple in design. There was a double bed, a tall, narrow chest of drawers between two windows, a lamp and table next to the bed and a cane chair with a blue cushion beside the table.

“Here’s the closet in case you need to hang anything.” Cade opened a door to show her a space about eighteen inches wide with a shelf over a clothes rod. He put her case on the floor between the bed and the closet. “We usually walk down to the beach first thing. Do you feel up to joining us or would you rather rest?”

“I’d like to go, too,” Sara said.

“Bring a jacket. It might be windy.”

After he left, Sara removed her pajamas and toiletry case, laid the pj’s on the bed and took the case to the bathroom to freshen up. Upstairs she could hear Stacy calling to her father, but couldn’t make out the words.

When she returned to the main area, she stood at the window and looked toward the ocean. It was more gray than blue. The horizon blended into a barely discernible line separating sea and sky. For some reason, the lovely vista seemed vast and lonely.

She smiled slightly, knowing the feeling was within herself. A nagging sense of deception hung over her spirits.

Stacy clambered down the stairs and dashed toward the door. “Come on, let’s beat Daddy to the shore.”

Sara followed her student out of the cottage and along a path that led down a rocky slope into a ravine cut by the periodic flow of a creek. From there, they walked out on the sandy shore cluttered with rocks and boulders of various sizes. A few pieces of driftwood littered the beach.

Cade caught up with them when they paused to remove their shoes and socks. He grinned and added his to the boulder where they left their things.

“We were here first, Daddy,” Stacy cried and raced into the shallow waves that crested on the beach.

Sara was in the water past her ankles before the sensation of pain registered in her brain. “Oh, it’s cold,” she complained, hopping from one foot to the other.

“Your feet will be numb in a minute,” Cade assured her.

“Right,” Sara agreed. “As soon as they turn to ice.”

“Look, sea lions,” Stacy called, pointing to a large rock in the water. “You can tell ’cause they have ears.”

“Sea lions still have visible external ears,” Cade explained. “Seals don’t. That’s how you tell them apart.”

The animals snoozed in the setting sun. One scratched lazily with a flipper. From down the coast, Sara could hear a foghorn sounding a warning off a rocky promontory.

“Each foghorn has its own signal,” Cade told her. “By timing the blasts and the silence between, sailors can tell which lighthouse they’re passing, even if it’s foggy. The same is true of the flashes of light.”

“How interesting,” Sara said, throwing off her qualms about being there. “I didn’t know that.”

Behind them, the excited barking of two dogs drew their attention. The animals rushed down the ravine.

“Teddy! Rufus!” Stacy clapped her hands and called the two pets to her. The dogs raced around the girl, jumping, barking and licking her face in delight. One dog had a rusty red coat.

“That’s Rufus,” Cade told her. “Teddy is the brown-and-white one. Stace thought he looked like her teddy bear.”

Teddy had thick fur with splotches of brown and white, and patches around each eye. Sara thought he looked more like a panda.

“I told her she should have named him Panda,” Cade said, echoing her impression.

Their eyes met, and they both smiled.

Warmth flowed over her, reminding her of the heat that flared between them when they had kissed. She stared at his mouth and wanted that fire again.

“Keep that up and I’ll be forced to kiss you,” he murmured, touching her lower lip with a fingertip.

“Come on,” Stacy yelled, running along the breaking waves with the two dogs circling around her. “Let’s explore the cave. This way.”

Flustered, Sara hurried after the girl. Behind her, she heard Cade’s chuckle and knew that he knew she was running from him, from herself, from the passion that rose too readily between them.

After exploring a shallow cave farther down the line of cliffs, they returned to the ravine to climb the path back to the cottage.

“I’m hungry,” Stacy announced upon their return.

Inside the cabin, they made sandwiches from supplies that Cade had brought, ate at a round pine table, then continued their exploration of the ranch.

“We’ll go for a ride in the morning,” Cade promised his daughter when five horses rushed to the fence and stuck their heads over the top of the barbed wire.

Sara slipped her jacket on as the sun dipped into the ocean and out of sight.

“It gets cold along the coast at night,” Cade commented as they ambled back to the house.

Sara nodded. “I read something about the tides along the coast. The current sweeps out of the north, flowing from Alaska, then southward down the continent’s edge. I assume that’s why it cools down so much at night.”

“Right. The current churns up colder water from the depths of the sea, which produces an afternoon breeze off the ocean and brings in the coastal fog.”

“I like to walk in the fog,” Stacy told them. “It’s creepy. You could fall off the cliff.”

“Which is why we don’t run when we can’t see more than a few feet in front of our noses,” Cade reminded the child.

She laughed and ran ahead with the two dogs.

Cade shook his head as he lightly clasped Sara’s hand. “Tell me, teacher, how do you keep up with that kind of energy from twenty kids?”

“With great difficulty,” Sara said.

They again smiled at each other. It was a moment to savor, she thought. A time out of time, separate from all the troubles that had been or were to come.

“Let’s make brownies for a snack,” Stacy suggested when they were back in the cottage.

“Good idea,” Cade said.

“Can we have a fire?” the girl wanted to know.

“After we get the brownies in the oven.”

They ate in front of the fire, then played Go Fish until it was time for Stacy to go to bed. Cade escorted the child upstairs while Sara sat on the sofa, relaxing in pleasant idleness.

The evening seemed like something in a play—the perfect family holiday…before the aliens landed or the body was found or some other tragedy befell the players in the scene.

She gazed into the fire as a shiver rushed over her. Someone was walking over her grave, as her mother would have said.

Hearing Cade’s steps on the stairs, she carefully wiped all emotion from her face and waited, heart pounding. She wasn’t sure what she was waiting for.

Chapter Six

Sara knew, when her eyes met Cade’s, that she’d lied to herself about her reasons for coming to his ranch. It wasn’t for fact-finding, but for herself and the hunger that refused to be suppressed any longer.

In the soft lamplight, his eyes were dark and mysterious. Alarm sizzled through her body, warning her against being foolish, but even that couldn’t overcome the intense need that surged like a lava flow in her blood.

He sat on the sofa beside her and kicked off his shoes, then propped his feet on the rustic coffee table that looked as if it had been made from saplings with the bark whittled away. The latest fishing and hunting magazines were stacked on it. Older editions were piled in a bookcase along a side wall. A small television resided on a shelf.

The cabin had a welcoming feel. It seemed comforting to her. A warm, safe place, the way a home should be.

But it wasn’t her home, she reminded herself.

“We don’t get cable here,” he said. “And I haven’t bothered with a satellite dish. Stacy and I keep movies and video games on hand. You ever played Banjo-Kazooie?”

Sara shook her head.

“We’ll have to try it. Tomorrow, maybe.”

When she glanced his way, the expression in his eyes told her movies and games weren’t uppermost in his mind. A sensation of anticipation, so strong it was painful, rolled over her.

He moved close, crowding her, but she didn’t mind. “I didn’t bring you here for this,” he said in a low tone, “but now that you’re here, I can’t stop thinking about it. About us. About making love with you.”

Sara sighed. “I know. I’ve argued with myself all week, going over the reasons I shouldn’t come up here and why it’s impossible for us to become involved.”

“Why?” he asked, leaning close and sliding his fingers into her hair. “Why is it impossible?”

Why? Let me count the ways… “I’m Stacy’s teacher, for one thing.”

He nodded. “She’s the most important element in this triangle. I don’t want her hurt by anything that happens between us. I think we can guard against that.”

“We hardly know each other.”

“Ah, but that’s not true. We’ve known each other all our lives.”

His quick smile was almost her undoing, but she held to her argument. “Not really. A year in the same kindergarten class doesn’t qualify as a lifelong friendship.”

“It counts for something,” he murmured huskily. “If I remember correctly, the second week of school you announced that we were going to be married when we grew up. Since then, when the world has seemed a dark and uncaring place, I’ve remembered that somewhere out there was a beautiful woman who loved me.”

His smile was so wonderful as he teased her, she could have cried. He caressed her scalp with his fingertips, making little round motions that soothed and excited her at the same time.

With a sigh, partly of defeat, partly of anticipation, she turned her face to his. Their lips were mere inches apart as they gazed into each other’s eyes.

“You remember because you associate me with happier times in your life.” She cradled his handsome face in her hands, returning the intensity of his stare with that of her own. “It’s the same with me. But Cade, that was long ago. So many years have passed. So many things have happened to each of us.” She dropped her hands to his chest.

“Yes, but we have this moment. The fact that we’ve found each other again must mean something.”

His eyes were sexy and compelling while he waited patiently for her agreement or rejection. Unlike her former fiancé, Cade didn’t insist on having things his way. He treated her as an equal, one who had opinions and needs as strong as his. She could have loved him for that reason alone.

No, not love, she quickly corrected. She wasn’t in love with anyone. But she was terribly attracted to this man.

Sex for enjoyment only, without love and commitment? a hesitant part of her questioned.

“You’re doing an awful lot of thinking,” he murmured, a smile playing across his lips.

She managed a laugh. “I know. My sister calls me Plato when I take a long time to decide something. My mother said we should ask ourselves if, a year from now, we would regret whatever we’d done. She said to let that be our guide.”

“A wise woman.”

“I think she learned from experience,” Sara told him, a strum of returning sadness running through her like the plaintive moan of a bass viol, low and mournful.

She stared into his eyes, then closed hers tightly, wanting his touch with everything in her.

When he kissed her, she forgot the qualms about sharing passion while planning his father’s downfall. Raking her fingers into his hair, she responded to the kiss by pulling him closer.

Cade felt as if he held a magical goddess who could change her form at will, becoming earth or air or water as well as flame. Whatever she was, her essence burned brightly through him. It tugged him ever closer to the pit of self-deception he’d experienced once before, when he’d thought fascination and desire were everlasting love.

When she slipped her hands under his shirt so that she was touching his flesh, he knew he would sell his soul to whatever devil wanted it, if he could but have her to himself for this one night.

He planted kiss after kiss over her mouth, her eyes, her throat. When he bit lightly, she gasped, then gave him a playful pinch on his chest.

Going back to her mouth, he tasted the honey inside, then parried the delectable thrusts of her tongue as they staged a mock battle, each knowing there would be no losers in this skirmish.

Sara soon found kisses weren’t enough. She kicked off her slippers and swung her legs up and around so they were resting across his lap. He pressed against her so that she half reclined in the cozy corner.

With his chest touching hers, she arched upward while exploring the muscles of his back. His skin was warm and smooth, inviting her to roam further. Their breaths mingled intimately as the embrace grew ever deeper.

“This isn’t going to be enough,” he said in a low growl, deserting her lips to nibble on her ear. “I need to touch you…all over.”

“I need it, too,” she whispered, frustrated with the clothing that interfered with sensuous stroking.

He lifted his head. “Your bedroom is close. It has a lock on the door.”

She could have refused. She could have weighed the situation and wisely refrained from giving in to temptation. It hardly crossed her mind. “Let’s go there.”

He stood and pulled her to her feet, then carried her on the short trip to the guest room. Standing her by the bed, he turned on the lamp, then closed and locked the door.

When he returned to her, her knees went weak as he took in all of her, from her head to her toes, his gaze rampant with hunger. With casual movements, he began to undress. She did the same. He finished first and helped her.

“Your hands are cold,” he said, catching them between his and pressing her palms to his chest. “You can warm them on me. I’m burning up.”

She nodded. “So am I. Inside, I feel as if a thousand fires are burning. Here.” She touched his lips. “Here.” She touched each of his nipples with a fingertip. “Here.” She slid her hands down, past his waist, his abdomen. “Here.”

Cade caught his breath as she touched him intimately. His body reacted eagerly, and he felt sixteen again with all of life still before him, his hopes high and certain.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like this,” he told her, skimming the covers aside and gently pressing her onto the bed. Lying beside her, their bodies in full contact, he wondered if life had ever been this good or felt so right.

She touched his face so tenderly, he felt humbled by it and by the passion he felt for this woman, his childhood friend and long-lost sweetheart. When he smiled, she did, too. It did something to his heart, causing a strange ache inside that unpredictable organ.

Sara had never been so consumed by physical need, so driven to explore and excite another with every caress. A spark of wildness ignited her blood, and she writhed and moaned in his embrace, loving his masculine touch, the sensation of every part of her touching every part of him.

“Come to me,” she demanded after hours, days, eons had passed in hot, desperate kisses.

He caught her wandering hands and held them captive against the mattress. “I will,” he promised. “Give me a minute.”

This time he was prepared, she saw, as he removed a packet from his jeans and affixed the condom in place. She held her arms up to him when he turned back to her.

“I didn’t plan this far in advance,” he murmured, joining her again, “but I wasn’t sure I could stop again if things got heated between us.”

She nodded in understanding. “This time I don’t want to stop.”

He would have loved her for her honesty if nothing else. But there was more between them than the moment. A lifetime, he thought. A lifetime of waiting for her.

He moved over her, stroked her intimately, then slowly entered. Her quick inhalation told him how much pleasure she experienced as they merged into one.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Cade, yes!”

Everything became centered on the two of them after that…sweet words, sweet kisses, then bliss…sweet, sweet bliss…

Feeling her climax, Cade let go the reins on his own passion and took his fill of her, thrusting again and again until he was spent, and even then he didn’t want to stop, didn’t want it to end. He felt her tense beneath him, then heard her little gasps of ecstasy as she responded to him yet again.

Pleasure, so deep and primitive it rocked his soul, shot through him. He wanted to shout in triumph as a sense of primal possession rolled over him.

After they regained their breath somewhat, he turned them to the side, still holding her close.

Sara laid an arm across him and rested her head on the pillow beside his. Outside the wind off the ocean blew around the cabin, but inside they were snug and safe.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like that,” he said, kissing along her temple.

He turned the lamp off and pulled the covers over their cooling bodies. She was glad. The dark hid the tears that slipped unbidden from her closed eyes.

“See how easy it is,” Stacy shouted, looking back over her shoulder at the two adults who trailed behind her.

Sara nodded without loosening her grip on the reins or the saddle horn. Beside her, Cade chuckled.

“Try to relax,” he encouraged. “You’re hinged in the middle. Let the movement come from there.”

“That’s easy for you to say, but your muscles haven’t frozen in position.” She flashed him a quick smile as he laughed, then went back to concentrating on her horse’s movements while she hoped the mare wouldn’t make any sudden decision to run or something. “I may not be able to walk when I get off.”

“The lighthouse isn’t far,” he said.

The Point Reyes lighthouse was their destination this morning. Stacy had knocked on her door at seven o’clock and told her they needed to get on their way in order to beat the crowd.

Sara had been startled out of a deep sleep and relieved to discover she was alone in bed. She’d slept so soundly she had no idea when Cade had left her side.

A funny, warm thrill ran over her as she thought of the night and the passion. The closeness afterward had been a surprise, an unexpected gift….

“Stop thinking like that.” Cade’s deep, quiet tone broke into her wayward musing.

He reached out and stroked her cheek as heat rose to her face. His smile was solemn even though a flame burned in his eyes.

She lifted her chin and told him, “I was wondering about the lighthouse and how lonely it must have been for the lightkeeper to live there day in and day out for years and years.”

“Often a wife and family lived there, too.”

During the ride, she questioned him about the ranch and how he’d come by it. He told her he’d used a legacy from his maternal grandparents as a down payment.

“Against my father’s advice,” he added ruefully. “He thought it was a waste of money, but Stace and I needed a place to stretch our legs.”

“And to have the horses and dogs,” Stacy had chimed in, circling back to them, then racing ahead again. She was a fearless rider and good at it.

Sara nudged the conversation to the jewelry business. By listening and asking a few questions, she learned the family wealth had come through his mother and her mother before that.

“Did you know my father and yours were in a partnership when we were little?” he asked.

A jolt of guilt hit her at the question. “I vaguely recall they were planning something.”

“According to my father, they wanted to go after the really wealthy crowd—the crowned heads of Europe, billionaires and those types.”

“That sounds rather ambitious. Did they have the assets for it?”

He frowned as he considered. “I suppose together they could have swung it. They were planning to make the most expensive necklace in the world out of matched, flawless diamonds. Unfortunately things didn’t work out.”

“My father drowned. I guess that ruined the plan.”

She heard the bitter undertone, but couldn’t take the words back. If her father had invested all his money in the diamonds and Walter Parks had kept them upon Jeremy’s death, that would explain where her family’s wealth had gone.

The mare tossed its head as if catching her agitation. Cade rubbed the animal’s neck, which calmed it down.

“Aboard a yacht that belonged to my grandfather originally,” Cade continued her thought. “I’m sorry for that, young Sara.”

He spoke with such tenderness and compassion that the anger melted, leaving her feeling wounded and raw with guilt for wanting revenge.

Nodding, she urged the mare to a faster gait as Stacy waved impatiently for the two laggards to hurry. A few minutes later, they tied their mounts to a low branch on a scraggly cedar and walked to the crest of the hill.

From there the full vista of the sea spread before them like a painting. Seagulls wheeled overhead. Far away loomed the darker silhouettes of islands, barely visible on the horizon. A young couple walked down a long flight of steps toward the lighthouse on a promontory.

A park ranger stood beside a low building to her right. He smiled and spoke to them. A sign declared the area to be the Point Reyes National Seashore.

“Let’s go down,” Cade suggested. “Stace, hold the railing and don’t run.”

Sara held on, too. The stairs were steep and narrow. She noticed resting places at intervals along the side. “It’s a long way down,” she said over her shoulder to Cade.

“Three hundred steps. Just wait until we start back up.” His smile felt as warm as the sun that caressed her shoulders as they descended.

They, along with the couple, explored the well-kept lighthouse from top to bottom. Stacy decided she wanted to live there when she grew up and turn the light on and off for the ships at sea.

By the time they returned to the crest—all three hundred steps—Sara was ready for a rest. They admired the colorful flowers of the lupine plants in the area and the orange mossy lichens on the rocks before mounting and riding back to the cottage along the cliff overlooking the beach.

They spotted the ranger setting up road signs in a parking area a mile from the lighthouse area.

“When the parking lot is full up here,” Cade informed Sara, “he’ll stop traffic down there until someone leaves, then the next in line can come up.”

“I had no idea it would be that busy,” she told him. “It seemed so isolated when we arrived.”

“City dwellers like to get out on weekends. I don’t blame them. If I didn’t have the ranch to go to, I think I’d go stir crazy or something.”

His eyes went dark for a second, then he smiled at her, which generated a ripple of electricity throughout her body.

For the rest of the day, they ate and played games and napped. In late afternoon, they helped the farmer and his two sons and two hired hands with the milking.

Stacy proved quite adept at washing the cows’ teats in an iodine solution before the animals went into the milking parlor. Sara was conscious of four hooves near her head as she bent under the rounded bellies and followed the girl’s instructions. The cows were on a platform three feet higher than where she stood, which conveniently brought the necessary parts close to hand.

Behind her, Cade chuckled each time she gave him a mock fearful glance as she did the chore.

“Good job,” Stacy told her, obviously thinking her teacher needed some encouragement.

Cade suppressed a chortle as one sassy cow swung her tail and slapped Sara upside the head, startling her and making her slosh the cup of antiseptic solution on the concrete.

“You’ll pay for that,” she assured him as she refilled the cup and dipped each fat teat in the liquid before wiping it down with a soapy cloth.

“This,” he assured her, “will give you a deeper appreciation for farmers next time you’re at the grocery.”

When the cow whacked her again, Sara handed the washcloth to him. “You need to increase your own appreciation.”

He stepped up and circled her with his arms, then expertly performed the task. “This is the queen cow,” he said, looking over her shoulder, his mouth close to her ear. “She has two or three ladies-in-waiting who come in first to make sure it’s okay. They always enter in the same order.”

“What happens if another cow wants to be queen?”

“The ladies-in-waiting put her in her place.”

Sara felt his chest move against her back as he chuckled, then he stole a quick kiss just under her ear before returning the cloth and moving back.

Her own breath caught, then she cleared her throat, gave him a warning glance, then waited as the gate to the milking room opened and the queen regally ambled through, her tail swinging from side to side. Another cow stepped forward, and Sara started the dipping and washing again.

“Thanks for the help,” the farmer said when, after an hour, the three left the barn and returned to the cottage.

After grilling chicken strips and vegetable kabobs, they ate outside, the two dogs politely lying at their feet but keeping an eye out in case a morsel should happen to drop to the flagstone patio. Sara saw Stacy slip a couple of bites to each. So did Cade, but he pretended he didn’t.

Sara smiled contentedly while her heart flitted around like a drunken butterfly as she waited for night to fall.

After Stacy’s bath, Sara read her a story. The girl’s bedroom was similar to the guest room in furnishings. A large teddy bear shared the bed with her. There was another bathroom upstairs and, of course, Cade’s bedroom.

Sara had glimpsed a queen-size bed with an old-fashioned quilt over it in there. Tables with matching lamps were on either side of the bed. A cedar chest was next to the wall under a window. Scenes of a happy family preparing for the night after a busy day kept popping into her head.

“Ready for a back rub?” Cade asked Stacy, coming into the child’s room when the story ended.

Sara moved to the end of the bed while he rubbed his daughter’s back, then turned out the lamp and kissed her forehead. “Sleep tight.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Stacy replied. She yawned and pulled the cover to her neck. “Good night, Sara, I mean, Miss Carlton.” She giggled, then closed her eyes.

Sara and Cade left the room, leaving the door ajar. He turned out the hall light when they reached the stairs.

At the bottom of the steps, he took her into his arms. “Alone at last.”

His husky murmur was sexy and intimate. Sara wrapped her arms around his neck and met the kiss halfway. She, too, had been impatient for this moment.

His hands roamed her back, her sides, then moved between them to caress her breasts. She tilted her head back so he could reach all the sensitive places along her throat with his magic lips. When he slipped his hands beneath her and lifted, she swung her legs up and around his waist, clinging as he carried her to the privacy of the guest room and locked the door behind them before flicking on the lamp.

He sat in the cane-backed chair with her straddling his lap. With hands on her hips, he urged her to move against him. He was as ready for her as she was for him, she found.

When he smiled, she did, too, and felt a wrench deep inside, as if part of her already knew that the closeness of the day and the passion of the night were fleeting things, the elusive dreams of what might have been.

“You’re thinking again,” he scolded, touching the slight frown line between her eyebrows.

“I’ve never found it easy to live in the moment,” she admitted. Or to deal with a guilty conscience, she added silently, wondering if he’d noticed her prying.

“Let’s see what we can do about that,” he suggested.

They kissed again and made love, then slept together until shortly before dawn. He woke her with his gentle touch and made love to her again. Later, she heard him in the shower, but she didn’t get up until he called her and Stacy to join him for breakfast.

Then it was time to go back to the city.

“All good things come to an end,” she murmured as they drove over the cow-guard and away from the ranch.

“I hope not,” he said, smiling at her before facing the winding road back to the highway.

“We can come back next weekend,” Stacy assured her.

Sara looked back before they turned onto the main road and she could no longer see the lovely rolling pastures of the ranch. Someone, she recalled, had written that a person couldn’t go home again.

Once San Francisco had been her home, then her family had moved to Denver. With a child’s acceptance of adult decisions, Colorado had become home. At the moment, she felt she didn’t belong to either place.

What of the little paradise she’d shared with Cade and his daughter that weekend? Did she belong there?

She wanted to, she acknowledged, then sighed quietly as awareness stole over her. She’d foolishly done what she shouldn’t. She’d fallen in love with the son of her enemy.

Chapter Seven

Cade went to the front door of his father’s two-story Pacific Heights mansion while Stacy stopped to splash her hands in the Poseidon fountain in the front courtyard. He’d grown up in this house, but he felt no sense of nostalgia nor attachment to it.

His father had redone the interior some twelve or so years ago, removing the ornate furniture Cade remembered from his childhood and replacing it, with the help of an expensive decorator, with a minimalist style. The house now seemed like a store display—too sterile to house a family.

The door opened before he could ring the doorbell, and Brenda Wheeler, the housekeeper who’d raised Cade and his siblings, beamed at him.

“Wheelie,” Cade said as he swept the matronly widow into an embrace and bussed her on each cheek.

“You rapscallion,” she scolded, hugging him back. “Stop this foolishness and come in the house. Is that other rascal with you? I have a special treat for her in the kitchen.”

“I’m here,” Stacy called, running across the flagstones and up the steps. “What is the surprise?”

“Now that would spoil it, wouldn’t it?” Mrs. Wheeler declared. “Mr. Cade, your father is waiting in the library. You come with me, missy.”

Stacy went with the housekeeper while Cade directed his steps to the library, his favorite place in the fifteen-room mansion during his growing years. His father was there, a glass of wine in his hand, as he stood at the window and gazed at the night view of the city.

So was his sister, Emily. She stood at the bar, pouring a glass of wine for herself. “Cade, join us?” she asked, holding the decanter up.

He nodded. “Thanks, Em,” he said, taking the glass, then leaning down to exchange a hug.

His twin had golden-brown hair, green eyes—which reminded him of another woman with brilliant green eyes—and their mother’s dimples, which now deepened as she smiled warmly at him. Emily was a romantic. She denied it, but the facts belied her protests—she was a wedding planner. A very good one, according to their friends.

“I wondered if you would make it,” Walter said, crossing the room and stopping in front of Cade. “Your secretary said you’d left work early Friday and gone to the ranch.”

Cade shook his father’s hand and smiled in spite of the other man’s sour expression and the fact Walter hadn’t asked about Stacy, his only grandchild. “Of course I came. It’s a command appearance, isn’t it?”

He caught his sister’s warning grimace, telling him their father was in no mood for jocularity. So? When had he ever been?

“Huh,” Walter said and sat in his favorite chair. “I suppose we’ll have to drag Jessica from her lair. Rowan hasn’t yet informed me of his plans for the evening.”

Jessica, the artist of the family, lived in a cottage on the estate. Her studio was there, and that’s where she stayed unless otherwise summoned to the main house.

Rowan, the wild one, as Cade and Emily dubbed their brother, might or might not stop by. At that moment, Cade heard the roar of a motorcycle. “I believe he’s here.”

Emily smiled in relief. She, more than anyone, tried to keep peace between Walter and the children. Cade was glad she had her own place and a successful business. A hundred years ago, she would probably have lived at home, a spinster who had to bow to their father’s orders.

Hearing voices in the back hall, Cade surmised Rowan and Jessica had arrived at the same time. He heard them both speak to the housekeeper, then her low voice urging them into the library.

Jessica came in first. She smelled of a floral perfume and the mineral spirits she used to clean her brushes. She was dressed in black from head to foot. The slacks and form-fitting knit top were striking with her blond hair and blue eyes. Like Em, Jessica also had Anna Parks’s dimples and winning smile.

Rowan entered wearing jeans, boots and a ragged long-sleeved shirt over a black T-shirt. His hair was too long and he sported a three-day beard, all elements designed to irritate their sire. Like Jessica, he had blue eyes and dimples, but his hair was black as midnight.

Long ago, Cade had gotten used to Rowan’s good looks stopping women cold in their tracks. Since the brothers had run in different circles, it hadn’t been a problem.

“Cade,” Jessica murmured, coming forward to hug him, then Emily. She spoke politely to the patriarch of the family, but that was all.

“Hey, bro,” Rowan said in his irrepressible fashion. The two high-fived each other, then shook hands.

Of the four siblings, Cade thought his daughter took after Rowan the most in personality and high spirits, a fact that caused his brother to laugh uproariously in approval and conspire with the child to drive Cade up the wall on his rare visits to their house.

Rowan turned from Cade. His grin disappeared when he looked at his father. “Father,” he said in less than cordial tones and didn’t offer to shake hands.

Walter nodded to his younger son.

Like emissaries from warring countries, Cade observed, each keeping a neutral stance while plotting the overthrow of the other.

“Wine?” Emily asked, breaking the little silence that hung over the room now that all were present.

“Got a beer?” Rowan asked.

“No, sorry.” Emily gave him a beseeching glance, as if pleading with him to behave, then poured two glasses of wine and gave them to the younger pair.

When Mrs. Wheeler came to the doorway, Walter stood. “Dinner,” he announced and held out an arm to each of his daughters.

Cade smiled grimly when Rowan waggled his eyebrows and fell into step beside him. They followed the other three into the dining room.

Assessing the others, Cade had a sudden sense of impending disaster. His father was unusually tense and dour, Rowan was obviously geared up for a fight, Jessica was oblivious, or indifferent, to all but her own dark thoughts, while Em probably hoped they could get through the evening with a modicum of grace and family unity.

Just another happy evening in his father’s house.

As Jessica and Rowan became more and more silent, Cade and Emily kept the conversation going during the meal. He told of Stacy’s new experiences in kindergarten and how much she liked her new teacher.

He explained about Tai and her mother’s illness. “Sara has been taking Stace to school and keeping her every afternoon, so that’s been a load off my mind.”

“Sara Carlton,” his father interrupted the story. “You took her to the ranch over the weekend.”

At the accusing tone, all eyes turned toward Cade. “That’s right,” he said, forcing a calm he no longer felt. “I owed her for helping out.”

“Big-time,” Rowan agreed, giving their father a hard glance before finishing the last of his salad.

Mrs. Wheeler entered with the serving cart. She removed the salad plates, then served salmon and rice pilaf with a medley of vegetables and hot rolls.

“Is Stacy being a bother?” Cade asked.

“Not at all,” the woman assured him. “She’s had her dinner and is playing with the new kittens Tansy had. She’s picked out the one she wants,” she added with a smile before leaving the dining room.

“Stacy loves pets,” Emily said to Cade. “Perhaps having a kitten will make up for having to leave the dogs and her pony at the ranch.”

“What about leaving it at home alone all day?” he asked.

Jessica spoke up. “Cats are marvelously adaptable and easy to train.” She glanced at Walter at the head of the table, bitterness in her eyes. “As are children.”

Rowan held up his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” He finished off the wine.

To Cade’s surprise, Walter merely glanced up, then continued eating, his mind evidently far from them.

When the meal was over, they returned to the library where Mrs. Wheeler had set up a tray with fresh coffee and a platter of various kinds of mints.

Cade, seated next to Emily on the sofa, wanted to collect Stacy and escape, but he sensed the evening wasn’t over. The best or worst, according to how one looked at it, was yet to come.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of this little family get-together?” Rowan challenged as soon as the group was alone again. He poured another glass of wine, his fourth by Cade’s calculation, and leaned an elbow on the mantel over the marble-tiled fireplace.

“Trouble,” Walter said bluntly.

Emily and Jessica glanced at each other. There was no surprise on either face. They turned back to their father.

Walter perused one, then another of them, before he spoke. “There’s a traitor among us.”

“Father!” Emily said in shocked, scolding tones.

“It’s true.” Walter stirred cream into his coffee. He looked at Rowan. “Someone has been asking questions about the family, more specifically, our business dealings. And someone has been talking.”

“What do you mean?” Cade asked.

“I mean there are questions being asked about our personal affairs and…about things from the past. Old gossip is being stirred up.”

Cade noted the hesitation as his father picked his words, something that had been happening frequently of late when they discussed the state of the jewelry business.

What was Walter worried about?

The question startled Cade even as it leaped into his mind. He knew he’d hit upon some part of the truth—their father didn’t want anyone delving into the past…because he was scared of what they might find out?

The icy hand of premonition glided down his spine. Something from the past was haunting the old man, but it wasn’t ancient history that bothered Walter, Cade surmised. Instead, their father was worried about how this mysterious something from days gone by would affect the future. For some reason, Cade thought of Sara’s father, who had once been Walter’s partner.

“What kind of questions? What gossip?” Rowan demanded.

“Ancient happenings that don’t matter a damn,” Walter said, dismissing the queries scornfully. “I don’t want anyone in this family telling any outsiders a thing. Is that understood?”

“No,” Cade said before his brother could jump in, “it isn’t. Who are you worried about? What do you see as a problem from the past? What makes you suspicious that someone is probing into our business because of it?”

The familiar signs of anger suffused his father’s neck and face in a dull red. An artery throbbed visibly near his temple. Cade maintained his cool.

Walter glared at him. “Maybe the new neighbor that you’re so taken with, for one. Her brother, for another.”

“Who the hell are you talking about?” Rowan demanded.

“Jeremy Carlton’s son and daughter,” Cade answered, putting two and two together and not liking the way things were adding up. He felt defensive where Sara was concerned. “Sara lives next door to me. Her brother is a detective with the SFPD. I don’t know if you remember, but Carlton was Father’s partner in an enterprise long ago.”

“He drowned,” Emily said, her eyes widening. “His body was never found. I remember how upset Mother was. There was speculation that he was murdered.”

“Mere rumors that don’t bear repeating,” Walter scoffed, his manner containing a warning and a threat. “I’ve hired a private detective. If I find any of you have talked about the family or the business, I’ll see that you’re cut off without a penny.”

“God, I don’t believe this.” Rowan set his glass on the mantel so hard the stem cracked and a chip of crystal went flying across the expensive carpet. A pulse pounded in his temple, lending him the same cold, calculating look of fury their father had sometimes turned on them over the years when they pushed too hard or asked too many questions, especially about their mother.

“Afraid we’ll let the world know our mother is in a lunatic asylum in a foreign country?” the younger son demanded, his voice just as scathing as the old man’s. “Afraid someone will find out your diamond dealing isn’t quite on the up-and-up as you would have everyone believe?”

Walter surged to his feet. “Shut your mouth, boy, or I’ll shut it for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were stirring up trouble just for the hell of it.”

The silence streamed like a force field throughout the gracious room, binding the five of them in a miasma of anger and resentment and dislike.

“Yeah,” Rowan muttered. “Maybe that’s exactly what I’ve done. After all, I’m the black sheep of the whole bunch, aren’t I?” He glanced at his sisters, then at Cade. “He’s like a spider, wrapping everyone in his web of control. I’d advise all of you to get out while you still can. That’s what I’m going to do.”

“Rowan,” Emily began worriedly.

“Don’t say anything, Em,” their younger brother said bitterly. “Nothing would convince me to stay. I’m outta here, like forever.”

With that he left them, going down the hall and out the back door without a backward glance. In less than a minute, the roar of his motorcycle blasted the house from the driveway, then faded into the night.

“Father,” Jessica said. “I think you’ve gone too far this time.” She rose and set her cup and saucer aside, but gently. “Rowan won’t forgive you, and neither will I.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I ask for forgiveness from my own children,” Walter said coldly.

“Fine. I’m glad we had this little chat.” Smiling rather defiantly she, too, left.

Cade stood. “You ready to go, Em?”

“Yes.” Her lips trembled slightly as she tried to smile. “I’ll say good night to Wheelie.”

“Send Stacy out, will you?”

“Yes.”

When they were alone, Cade turned to his father. “Is the house of Parks in trouble?” he asked, unable to hide the sardonic tone. “As your attorney, I need to know.”

“No,” Walter snapped. “Nothing’s wrong. I’ll explain things to Rowan next time I see him.”

“I think,” Cade murmured, heading for the door when he heard Stacy’s voice in the hall, “that might be a long time. Stacy, come say good night to your grandfather.”

When he and his daughter arrived home, Cade breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know what the mess was, but he was damned sure his family was in deep.

After putting Stacy to bed, he went out on the back deck. The town house next door was completely dark.

Hell, he wasn’t fit company tonight, anyway.

“I beg your pardon?” Sara said, staring at the principal of the Lakeside School for the Gifted on Monday morning. The woman’s words made no sense.

“We are no longer in need of your services,” her boss said again, her voice a monotone as if she read aloud from a dull script.

“Are you saying I’m fired?” Sara demanded in disbelief. “You can’t fire me without cause. I have a contract.”

The woman hesitated. “There’s a clause in it relating to student enrollment.”

“I have a full class.”

“You’ll receive payment for the semester, of course,” the principal continued as if Sara hadn’t spoken. “The secretary has the check. You may pick it up when you collect your things and sign out.”

Sara started to protest further, but realized from the closed face across the desk that it was useless. Rising, she nodded with what dignity she could muster and went to clear her desk before classes started.

Fortunately she didn’t have much this early in the school year. The supplies fit in one box that she could easily carry the three blocks to her town house.

When she went to the office to collect her check and sign out, Rachel was there, two bright red spots of anger in her cheeks. “I just heard,” she said to Sara. “What is this all about?”

Sara shrugged. The school secretary pretended she couldn’t hear a thing. She handed Sara an envelope and observed while she signed herself out. Under “reason for leaving campus,” Sara put a question mark.

Rachel escorted her from the office to the front sidewalk. “This isn’t right.”

“No, but there’s nothing we can do.” Sara managed a smile. “You’d better go to your class. I don’t want you in trouble because of me.”

Her friend dismissed the thought with a wave. “I thought you and Cade were getting along rather well. Why would he have you fired?”

The question shocked Sara. “He wouldn’t—”

She and Rachel stared at each other.

“Do you think Cade would have done this?” Sara asked after a moment of strained silence.

“Who else? He’s on the board of directors. You know we always need good teachers. The old bat would sign away her soul before letting someone out of a contract, not to mention paying them a whole semester’s salary for nothing.”

Sara touched Rachel’s shoulder, comforted that her friend was angry and indignant on her behalf. “Well, I suppose I’d better go before I get thrown off campus.”

“I’ll see you tonight. Let’s go out to dinner,” Rachel said. “Call your brother and see if he can come. We need to have a strategy meeting.”

“Not tonight. Later this week. I’ll call you,” Sara promised, needing privacy to lick the wounds inflicted by this blow.

When Rachel nodded and retreated to her classroom, Sara started home. Glancing back as she approached the street corner, she saw a stranger standing at her classroom door, smiling and answering questions from the students when they realized Sara wasn’t there.

She would have to return at three o’clock to pick up Stacy. Then…then sometime this evening she would tell Cade Parks exactly what she thought of him and his lying, conniving family. Like Rachel, she was convinced they were the ones who’d arranged this humiliation.

A frigid resolve entered her soul. She’d let herself get distracted by Cade and his charm, had fallen for his daughter and even thought she was falling for him, but she wouldn’t be that foolish again.

Cade smiled at the warm leap of his heart when he pulled into the drive on his side of the duplex at nearly seven o’clock that evening. Home. And his two favorite girls waiting for him. He was eager to see them.

His day had been spent in a wrangle over a property settlement that had gone to civil court. Two brothers had started a business together. Now they’d had a falling-out. Such was the wisdom of doing business with family members.

As soon as the garage door was open, he pulled inside, parked and leaped up the steps leading to the kitchen.

“Hey, anybody home?” he called.

“We’re here,” Stacy responded. “We’re drawing.”

He tossed his suit coat and tie aside, then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt on the way to the deck. One glance at Sara chilled the warm glow inside him.

Although she was smiling, her eyes were as opaque as the cheap jade sold in tourist shops.

After going through the greeting ritual with his daughter, he turned to their neighbor. She held an artist’s sketch book in her lap. On it was a pencil drawing of Stacy sitting on the deck railing, the city behind her and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond that.

“That’s very good,” he said, pausing beside her. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“I dabble,” she said. “I’m not anywhere as good as your sister. I saw some of her work at a gallery today.”

He tried to put all these pieces together and come up with a coherent picture. “Did you take your class on a field trip?”

She shook her head.

“We had a sub’tute,” Stacy told him. “I didn’t like her as much as Sara. None of us did.”

“Substitute,” he automatically corrected. “Sara is Miss Carlton to you,” he reminded the child.

“She said I could call her by her first name since she isn’t going to be my teacher anymore.”

While his daughter gave Sara a disapproving glance for this latter sin, Cade added this information into the mix and still came up with a jumble. “This isn’t making sense.”

“I’m no longer employed at Lakeside,” Sara informed him, her manner casual, her gaze cold.

The icy surety of knowing what was to come hit him like a flash flood in winter. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Apparently the class size wasn’t big enough to sustain an extra teacher. That was the clause invoked to let me go. The good news is they gave me a check for my salary for the rest of this term. Nice, huh?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” he said, giving his neighbor a pointed perusal to assure her he meant to get to the bottom of this mystery.

Sara nodded, her head bent over the sketch as she went back to shading it with pencil strokes.

Stacy looked from one adult to the other. Cade knew his sharp-minded daughter had picked up on the undertones between him and Sara. It was time for a distraction.

“I’m starved,” he said. “Let’s go out for dinner.”

“Sara and I already ate,” Stacy told him, bridging the tense silence between the other two. “We had ice cream after school, and Sara got to meet Mrs. Ling. When Mrs. Ling held Mrs. Chong up next to Sara, their eyes were almost ’xactly the same. Raymond was there, too. He’s in my class. Then we had Chinese.”

Cade sorted through this information. Raymond was Mrs. Ling’s grandson. Mrs. Chong was her cat, whose eyes indeed were as green as Sara’s. The cat was also as aloof as Sara appeared at the moment.

“We got Chinese take-out,” Sara clarified. “There’s plenty left in the refrigerator for you.” She stood. “I have some work to do. I’ll see you in the morning, Stacy.”

“Okay,” Stacy said.

“Wait a minute.” Cade tried to suppress his frustration while Sara gazed at him as if they were perfect strangers. Aware of his daughter taking every word in, he changed his mind about an interrogation at the moment. “I can drop Stace off on my way to work. There’s no need for you to go to the trouble.”

“As you wish.”

With a nod to each of them, she sailed into her side of the mansion and closed the door.

“Do you think Sara is mad?” Stacy asked.

“I suspect she’s tired. Come on, you can keep me company while I eat. Then it’s bath time for you.”

They went inside. By the time Stacy was in bed and sleeping like the angel children are purported to be, Cade was chomping at the bit to go next door and see what the hell was happening.

Sara thought of staying in her bedroom and not answering the door when she heard Cade’s knock at the back of the house later that night. Reviewing her feelings as she went downstairs, she decided she was fine, all emotion bottled up and locked away.

“Come in,” she said, standing back from the door after opening it at his impatient second knock.

She noticed he had the receiver for the monitor he kept in Stacy’s room hooked to his belt. A thoughtful father, she scoffed. He looked after his own.

She sat in one of the chairs. He took the other.

The space between them, where the coffee table resided, was as wide as a canyon.

“What’s happened?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing.” At his ominous frown, she shrugged. “I was fired this morning. My services are no longer needed was the way it was put to me.”

He regarded her with narrow-eyed scrutiny, then a light dawned in his eyes. “You think I had something to do with it.”

She ignored the disbelief in his voice. “I’m positive of it.” She wrapped her arms tightly across her middle as a shield from the tremors that had invaded her.

“Sara—”

“Was it your idea or your father’s?” she asked, letting the glacier that had formed inside her penetrate her entire being, allowing icicles to coat each word.

Cade observed her without answering.

“It doesn’t matter. I know where we stand now. I was distracted over the weekend,” she admitted, the bitterness of the previous winter entering her soul. “But that won’t happen again.”

He rose. She did, too.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“The mighty Parks family,” she said scathingly. “You can have me fired, but nothing will stop Tyler and me from finding out the truth. We’re not helpless children anymore, and we have friends in the city. You had better not try the same tactics on my brother.”

The pleasant room filled with raging silence as they studied each other like opponents in a boxing ring. It would be a bare-knuckle battle to the finish, and only one of them would be standing at its end. That survivor would be her.

“What truth are you searching for?” he asked with a deadly calm that might have frightened her had she not been sure of her ground.

“The one involving my father, Jeremy Carlton, and your father, Walter Parks…the honorable Walter Parks,” she mocked softly, “who was a liar, a thief, a seducer of other men’s wives, a diamond smuggler…”

“Don’t leave anything out,” Cade invited when she paused, his voice as expressionless as his face.

She inhaled carefully, sensing his cold fury, then said, “Walter Parks, my father’s partner. And his murderer.”

Chapter Eight

Cade walked unannounced into Walter Parks’s office at nine o’clock the following morning. The secretary followed uneasily behind him. “Mr. Parks is on a conference call,” she repeated. “He isn’t to be disturbed.”

“It’s all right, Connie,” Walter said, placing the receiver on the hook. “I’m through with the call. Please close the door.” It was an order, not a request.

She did so.

“Did I forget an appointment?” Walter asked.

Cade shook his head. “I have one question. Did you have Sara Carlton fired?” He knew the answer by the way his father’s eyes darted away from him. “You did.”

Walter shrugged. “I suggested to one of the directors that her services weren’t needed.”

“What else?” Cade demanded.

“Nothing.”

The older man was lying. Cade knew it in his gut. The blood pounded through his temples at a furious pace. “What else?” he asked again.

“I suggested she might have an unsavory background, which she does,” his father insisted at his snort of fury. “Her mother was an unstable person.”

“Unstable,” Cade repeated. “The way my mother was unstable and had to be sent away?”

“Not like that,” Walter hedged. “Not exactly. Marla was given to depression and hysteria. She, uh, took things more seriously than warranted.”

Cade digested the statement. “Such as the affair you had with her?” he asked softly, icy coldness joining the white-hot anger in his blood as he observed the familiar signs of anger in his father.

“I was not involved with her. Anyone who says so is a liar.” A pulse pounded out of control in Walter’s temple as his face suffused with color. “I suppose you’ve been listening to Marla’s daughter.”

Cade shoved his hands in his pockets and sat on the corner of the desk in a casual manner. “Yeah. We had an interesting conversation last night. She thought I’d gotten her dismissed and wanted to know if it had been my idea or yours.”

Walter frowned. “What did you tell her?”

“Since I knew nothing of it, I didn’t tell her anything.”

“Good. Keep your mouth shut and this will all blow over in a day or two.” He looked pleased.

“The way her father’s death did twenty-five years ago?” Cade asked, keeping his tone neutral, his voice low.

There was a slight jerk to his father’s hand before he waved it in dismissal. “That’s ancient history. The police investigated thoroughly and concluded it was an accident.”

“A convenient one,” Cade murmured.

The flush spread from Walter’s neck to his face. “What the hell are you suggesting?”

“You tell me.”

The older man planted both hands on his desk and viewed Cade with narrow-eyed scrutiny. “Don’t let the fact that you’ve got the hots for the girl get in the way of your thinking,” he warned.

“So you had nothing to do with Jeremy Carlton’s death?”

“No. It was like I told the police. We’d all had too much to drink while celebrating the new enterprise. I went to sleep. When I woke up, adrift on the tide, I barely got the yacht cranked up in time to avoid breaking up on some rocks. Jeremy was a fool to take the boat out on his own. We could have both drowned.”

Cade considered the scenario painted by his father. It jibed with the police reports. But then, those reports used Walter’s story to describe what happened. He shook his head slightly, not liking the way his thoughts were going or the faint shadow of doubt that nibbled at the edges of his mind.

“I can’t believe my own son would ask me such a question,” his father said, his voice rough with pain. “That was a horrible year, first with Jeremy’s death and all the questions about it, then your mother’s illness coming on top of that. With four children to raise, I was at my wit’s end.”

Cade felt a jab of guilt at bringing up old memories. “It was lucky we had Mrs. Wheeler by then,” he said, recalling it had been the motherly widow who’d tucked them into bed at night and listened to their prayers.

“It was,” Walter agreed. “With the business tangle to sort out after Jeremy’s death, I had all I could do to keep the company solvent. Some of the diamonds we’d purchased were missing. We never found them.”

“Sara and her brother think you kept the ones their father had bought.”

Walter shrugged. “They would only see things from Marla’s point of view. She even accused me of smuggling gems. Why would I do that when I had a perfectly legitimate business in diamond trading? The woman was crazy.”

Cade mulled over the odds of there being two crazy women involved in the same scandal.

His father came around the desk and threw an arm around his shoulders. “I don’t know what Marla’s kids think they hope to prove by stirring up the past, but I don’t have anything to be ashamed of. I can assure you of that. You got time for lunch today?”

“Uh, not today,” Cade said. “I’m swamped.”

“Catch you another time, then,” Walter said, jovial now that he considered their problem resolved.

Cade left the building and headed for his law office, aware of the cloud that sat over his head, its presence not quite letting him totally rely on his father’s vow of innocence.

But why would he lie? What did he have to gain?

More importantly, what did he have to lose?

Three hours later, Cade replaced the phone, noted the time used for the conference call on the charge sheet for that client, then stared out the window at the Golden Gate Bridge.

He had a corner office in the TransAmerica building in downtown San Francisco, so the view was impressive. As well as the bridge, he could see Alcatraz Island and the ferries plying the bay, carrying tourists to the prison so they could see where America’s most notorious criminals were once housed. The Birdman of Alcatraz had been nothing like the movie version depicting him.

Neither, apparently, was Walter Parks.

An uneasiness rippled through Cade as he replayed that morning’s visit with his father. A man was supposed to be considered innocent until proven guilty. He certainly had no proof to the contrary on his father.

The conversation, argument, whatever, with Sara last night sloshed around in his brain like bile, bitter and burning in its intensity. The revelation of her true reason for moving to the city had haunted his sleep…which had been in moments, not hours, after he’d left her place and returned to his own town house.

His eyes felt like sand pits this morning, and his spirits weren’t much better. Live and learn.

Sara wasn’t the first woman who’d fooled him into thinking they had something special. His wife had done the same. He should have gained something from that first experience of betrayal.

He exhaled heavily, still not wanting to believe that the woman next door, the woman who had shared the sweetest moments in his arms, had done so only because she wanted information…and revenge on his father.

Sara had been sad at times. She’d seemed vulnerable and fragile, but there had been a core of honesty and openness about her. Stacy had trusted her at once, and he had trusted his daughter’s instincts.

There had also been the connection between him and Sara as children—the shared kindergarten class, the disruption of their lives through no fault of their own by her father’s mysterious death and his mother’s equally mysterious departure. Those experiences had been life-altering for both of them and represented the same thing to the children they were at the time—abandonment by those they loved.

Over the weekend, they had shared more than childhood memories. Certainly she hadn’t faked her response to their lovemaking. Or had she?

Hell, he couldn’t tell truth from fiction anymore. He rubbed a hand over his face as if to shut out the pictures that rampaged through his mind. Sara smiling. Sara holding the saddle horn for dear life. Sara coming to him, meeting him eagerly as a lover—

“Hey, Cade, how about lunch?” a friendly male voice interrupted just as his thoughts were becoming uncomfortably steamy and his blood hot.

A distraction, that’s what he needed to escape the morass his mind had fallen into. He nodded to Steve Knoles, fellow attorney and good friend at the law firm.

Like him, Steve had started with Clauson, Mason, Barnett and Raines, the senior partners of the company, right out of law school five years ago. Being the newest members of the prestigious group had bonded them from their first day. Their friendship had held fast from then on.

The two men walked to a nearby restaurant. Once they were seated and had gotten water and iced tea, Steve leaned close. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

Cade smiled wearily and crossed his heart. “To the grave.”

Steve grinned, reminding Cade of Rowan when his younger brother was in a devilish mood. Both men had blue eyes and dimples that melted the females of the species when they smiled. Steve wasn’t quite as hotheaded, though.

“Something tells me this means trouble,” Cade muttered to his friend.

“Nah.” Steve waved aside the statement with feigned nonchalance. “I’m going out on my own. Want to be a partner in a new law firm?”

Cade blinked in surprise. “Run that by me again.”

“I’m never going to make partner,” Steve told him. “Old man Raines has hated me from day one. I’ve found a suite of offices in a good location. With the dot-com bust, rents are affordable, if I have a partner to share expenses. You, naturally, are my first choice.”

“Hell’s bells,” Cade murmured. “Warn a guy before you hit him with something like this.”

“Sorry. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, but the cost was too high.” He shot Cade a serious glance over the edge of his iced tea glass. “You’ll make partner in a year or two, so it would be a greater risk for you to go out on your own than for me. That said, I hope you’ll consider it seriously.”

“Do I have time to think about it, or is this a do-or-die deal that has to be decided today?”

“Take all the time you need,” Steve said airily, “but remember this—we would be our own bosses, determine our own hours, choose our own cases. Ah, the list is endless.”

“Freedom,” Cade said.

The word filled his head, luring him with a force stronger than any siren’s call. In going out on his own, he would be free of his father’s influence, his subtle threats and the demand for family loyalty.

Cade surveyed the proposal from every angle. His friend had certainly provided the distraction he’d needed from his own gloomy thoughts. Freedom. The temptation of it.

He admitted it had daunted his ego when the old man had made it clear Cade’s position came through the Parks name rather than his own record of achievement.

Which was excellent, he grimly reminded himself. He’d been an honor student and had graduated third in his class. At the law office, he’d done well and earned a reputation as an able attorney. Bringing the Parks account to the firm had been a plus for him, but he’d never considered it worth more than his own merit—

“Earth to Cade,” his friend intoned. “Are you envisioning us on our own, arguing cases like Perry Mason and supplying the damning evidence at the last moment?”

“Right,” he said dryly. “Who’s going to be Paul and Della to our combined Perry?”

“I know a private detective,” Steve said. “He did some work for a client of mine last year. Mark Banning. You ever hear of him?”

Cade shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

“If he came in with us, we could move to a bigger place. I’m thinking of specializing in insurance and medical fraud. A detective in-house would be just the thing.”

Cade studied the other attorney. “Why do I get the impression you’ve thought this through, and all the detective and I need to do is sign the lease papers?”

Steve flashed a supremely satisfied smile. “You’re really going to consider it?” he asked. At Cade’s nod, he muttered, “Hot damn!”

“I’m not signing on the dotted line yet, but yes, it’s something to think about. In fact, I may have use for your friend’s services.”

The waiter stopped by to take their order. After he left, Steve gave Cade a quizzical glance.

“I want information on something that happened a long time ago. Twenty-five years, in fact.” He leveled a serious stare at his friend. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

Steve nodded. “To the grave,” he vowed, repeating Cade’s earlier promise.

“Things seem to be getting serious,” Tyler muttered to Sara while dipping sushi in hot wasabi sauce.

She nodded in agreement. He’d called last night and asked her to meet him for lunch today after she’d told him about her dismissal and her accusation toward Cade and/or his father for it.

“Have you decided when you’re going to confront Walter Parks about yours and Conrad’s paternity?”

“Not yet. I want to find out more on his dealings with Jeremy. Ah, there’s Robert.”

Sara followed her brother’s line of sight and saw a man in a conservative suit speak to the hostess, then head their way. “Who is he?” she asked.

“Robert Jackson, from the D.A.’s office. He prosecuted the murder case I investigated back during the spring. I thought we should ask his advice and invited him to lunch if he had time.”

Before she could voice any opinion about this, the man arrived at their table. Tyler made the introductions and invited the attorney to be seated.

“Glad you could join us,” Tyler said. “Anything new on the Shrimpton case?”

The assistant D.A. shook his head. “The trial has been delayed for the third time while the defense is searching for a witness. They’ve hired Mark Banning to help. I think you know him, don’t you?”

“Sure, he’s my partner’s brother.”

While the men talked, Sara estimated the new-comer’s age to be in the mid-to-late thirties. He had a permanent crease across his forehead and a few strands of gray in his black hair. His manner was intensely serious. She found that reassuring, as if he meant business and would let nothing stand in his way while getting at the truth of a situation.

“What’s happening with you?” Robert asked after snagging the waiter and placing his order.

“We need your advice,” Tyler admitted, lowering his voice. “It’s about a paternity case, for one thing, and about murder, for another.”

“An interesting combination,” the assistant D.A. murmured. “Murder I can help you with. Paternity is a civil suit ordinarily. Unless it’s directly involved in the murder.”

While the trio ate, Sara and Tyler put forth all the information they had gleaned from their mother and added in the details of their research since moving to San Francisco.

“Mark and Nick Banning are helping us find this long-lost uncle,” Sara told the assistant D.A.

“Derek Ross, or Moss or whatever he calls himself, witnessed the crime,” Tyler finished the tale.

“You have to locate him, or else there’s no case,” Robert said, echoing their conclusions. “You need some kind of evidence to show a motive. Usually greed is a good one. What would Walter have gained by eliminating Jeremy?”

“The rare diamonds Jeremy had already invested most of his assets in?” Tyler suggested. “They were never recovered that we know of.”

“You have any kind of proof that these diamonds actually existed and that your father bought them?”

“No. We think Walter kept them and used them to start his jewelry stores,” Sara told the attorney. “That was why Jeremy’s business was in serious debt and went under when he died. Everything had to be sold to pay for merchandise that apparently never existed or was never found, at any rate.”

“A bum deal,” Robert said sympathetically.

“That’s what we think, too,” Tyler said, his expression grim and much older than his years.

Sara forced back the anger that threatened to erupt as she gazed at her brother. It had been a long time since she’d seen him carefree and happy as a young man his age should be. He should be thinking of falling in love and getting married and having a family, but because of Walter Parks, that life had been denied all of them.

She and Tyler had established themselves in San Francisco while riding high on a wave of righteous indignation, but life was so much more complex than one emotion, she’d discovered. She suspected her brother had found out the same thing.

While he’d had a rather serious relationship with one woman, they had broken up because of his vow never to marry and have children. Their mother’s unhappiness had touched all the Carlton children in various ways, none of them leading to a trusting relationship with another human.

She sighed quietly and gazed out the window while Tyler and the attorney discussed how to handle a paternity suit and whether to go ahead with it before finishing the murder investigation. Suddenly, down the street, she recognized a tall, lithe masculine form.

Cade and his companion were deep in serious discussion as they hurried along the sun-filled avenue.

Her heart lurched so hard, she put a hand to her chest to hold back the pain. Not for the first time, she was sorry she’d ever moved to this city. And sorry that she’d met Cade Parks and discovered the man of her dreams.

Yes. She regretted that most of all.

Later that afternoon, Sara sat at a computer in the local library. Noting the date that came up on the screen, she realized that tomorrow she would have been in San Francisco for three weeks.

Three weeks. So short, yet she felt she’d compressed a lifetime into those twenty-one days.

Forcing her attention to the job at hand, she typed in the names she wanted to review. The computer searched the archives of the local newspaper and came up with a surprisingly large list of selections.

She read of Walter Parks’s marriage to Anna Lindsay, daughter of a gem-mining, trade and exploration tycoon. Walter had been thirty, the bride, beautiful and glowing with happiness, only twenty.

Staring at the picture of Walter in his wedding tux, Sara’s heart tightened into a painful ball. Cade looked very much like his father.

That didn’t mean he was like his father in personality, some part of her argued.

She shut out the quarreling halves of her heart and concentrated on the articles. Arthur Lindsay had died two years after the marriage. By then the twins, Cade and Emily, had been born. Next had come Rowan, then Jessica, in quick succession. After the final birth announcement and a few charity functions, Anna Lindsay Parks apparently disappeared from the face of the earth.

Sara closed her eyes and replayed her mother’s dying accusations and agitated murmuring. Yes, Anna had been at the celebration party Walter had thrown aboard his yacht. Walter, Anna, Marla and Jeremy were present, along with Marla’s younger brother, Derek Ross, and a few other staff people involved in the diamond-trading business with Walter and Jeremy. Before the joint enterprise, Carlton’s company had been the biggest rival of Parks Mining and Exploration.

That was one way to get rid of the competition, Sara mused. Join forces, then make sure the other man faded from the scene. The ink had hardly dried on the contract of the joint endeavor when Jeremy conveniently drowned, leaving Walter in charge of everything.

The newspaper article stated that after the celebration party was over, Walter and Jeremy had stayed on board to drink a final toast to the success of their joint effort. Someone from a neighboring berth in the marina saw the yacht leave its moorings and head out for another cruise.

Later, in a statement to the police, Walter reported that he’d had too much to drink and had fallen asleep. When he awoke, the boat was drifting aimlessly at sea near the dangerous currents by the Golden Gate Bridge. Perplexed, he brought the yacht back into the harbor.

When he later discovered his new partner was missing, Walter could only surmise that Jeremy, equally intoxicated over their potential success, had taken the boat out, then fell overboard at some point during the night. There had been no one to dispute Walter’s word, so the tragedy had been marked up as an unfortunate accident.

Sara shook her head in anger and frustration. Derek had also been aboard the yacht when it went out the second time, according to her mother’s story. He’d gone to sleep in a cabin and was awakened by the quarrel between the two men. He heard Walter admit he was smuggling diamonds into the country. Opening the door to the main salon a crack, he saw Jeremy apparently pass out, then Walter had started up the yacht and headed out to sea.

Not sure what was going on, Derek had stayed in the dark cabin. When the engine slowed to an idle, he had witnessed Walter drag Jeremy onto the deck, then had heard a splash. Walter had returned to the salon, washed the used highball glasses, then returned to the wheel.

After they’d arrived at the marina and Derek was sure Walter had left, he sneaked out and went home. Later he told Marla what he’d seen. Marla had told him to keep his mouth shut if he didn’t want the same thing to happen to him.

Sara rested her forehead on her clasped hands as the bitterness surged and burned in her. Greed begat violence. Maybe her family had been better off without wealth.

“Are you all right?” a soft voice asked.

Raising her head, Sara stared at the young woman seated at the next computer. She managed a smile and nodded. “Just thinking,” she said.

“Well, that can be difficult,” the other woman admitted in a rueful tone.

Sara laughed with her, then quickly read all the other articles on Walter Parks and his family up to the present day. There wasn’t much information. The family had maintained a low profile with the press, it seemed, since that fatal incident. The yacht, according to Mark Banning, had been sold once the investigation had closed.

Interesting.

Sara closed the files and signed off. Any doubts that had lingered over her mother’s story were now laid to rest. Walter’s story didn’t hold water, one might say.

An hour later, Sara met Tai on the front walk to the school. “Hi,” the medical student said, looking embarrassed. “Uh, I came by to pick up Stace. My mom is doing fine, so I’m back on the job.”

“That’s good news,” Sara said warmly. “I’m no longer teaching here, but I’ve been picking up Stacy in the afternoons.”

“Yeah, Cade called and explained…sort of.” The student gave Sara a questioning glance.

The bell rang. Sara backed up a step. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said and hurried along the street, heading home before the youngster spied her and insisted she join her and Tai. Sara didn’t feel up to cheerful chatter.

At the house, she stayed inside with the doors closed, like a criminal hiding out after a robbery. It wasn’t until well after dark that she ventured onto the back deck, needing fresh air and freedom from her own company and the thoughts that went round and round in her head.

She stiffened when the door opened behind her. The lights had been off next door, so she’d assumed Cade was in bed. It was almost eleven o’clock. Huddling deeper in the afghan she draped over her shoulders, she hoped he wouldn’t notice her.

“Hello, Sara,” he said quietly. “Are you in hiding?”

“Yes.”

His chuckle wasn’t one of amusement. There was anger in it, and a cool detachment she hadn’t heard before.

He sat in one of the deck chairs. She sensed him gazing her way. Reluctantly she turned her face to him.

“Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Nowhere, I guess.”

“No,” he said, disagreeing. “Things have gone too far for that. I talked to Mark Banning this afternoon.”

“Mark,” she repeated, trying to decide what this meant.

“I want him to check on certain things for me. It seems he’s already been doing that.”

Sara was pretty sure she knew what was coming, but she kept her mouth shut.

“He knew a lot about my family,” Cade concluded, still in that same quiet, coolly controlled tone.

His very air of calm made her nervous. He should have been openly furious or something. Instead he seemed remote and above it all. However, she’d grown up with her mother’s unpredictable moods, so she wasn’t sure.

“His brother works with mine,” she finally murmured after the silence lasted too long.

“So he said.”

“Then…you know everything.”

“I think so,” he admitted. “Like you, I think it’s time we laid these old ghosts to rest.”

She wasn’t taking anything for granted. “What do you mean?”

“I want to help you and Tyler with your investigation.”

She shook her head. In the dim glow of the city lights, she saw him nod affirmatively. “We don’t need help.”

“I think you do. Who would be better at researching family history than the family attorney?”

Clutching the afghan in shaking hands, she shook her head again. “Walter Parks is your father.”

The pause was brief. “I know.”

“I never wanted to hurt you.” She realized how lame that sounded. “I didn’t think about it like that,” she said, “in terms of pain and loss to others. Tyler and I wanted justice for our family. That was all.”

“Justice,” he echoed, a wealth of irony in the word. “I’ll help you find it. This shadow has been hanging over our lives for twenty-five years. I agree with you and your brother. It’s time we dispelled it.”

Questions raced through her mind, but she didn’t ask any of them. They sat there in tense silence. Traffic noises came to them at intervals as an occasional vehicle drove down the neighborhood street.

“Mark didn’t tell me much,” Cade continued. “He said it wasn’t his story to tell. Will you fill me in? I need to know what evidence you have or what you’re trying to find out, in order to help.”

“I can’t tell you, not without speaking to Tyler first. It’s his story even more than mine.” She couldn’t tell him why—that her half brother was also his half brother.

The tension became unbearable before Cade nodded. “I understand.”

“I don’t think so.” Her heart hurt, physically hurt, as she thought of him and his siblings and her own. He wouldn’t believe the duplicity of their parents—his father’s crime and her mother’s silence.

“Do you have a witness?”

She was so startled by the question, she could only stare at him. That action was enough to give her away.

“There was,” he concluded. “Or you think there was. Who was it?”

Sara’s heart pounded like a runaway train. She pressed her lips tightly together as if the answer might escape before she could stop it. She had her own questions about the past and its strange connections.

Why hadn’t Marla brought her brother forward all those years ago and had Walter convicted for his crime?

Even though Marla had expressed her fears of the man, obviously for good reason, her silence was something Sara would never understand. Of course, there had been the pregnancy and the twins that belonged to the murderer. That added to the tangle.

“You’re afraid to tell me. Do you think I’ll tell my father and that he’ll murder him, too?” Cade asked with more than a tinge of sardonic amusement in his voice.

“No,” she denied, but her voice quivered, betraying her doubts. “It’s so complicated, so unbelievably complicated,” she murmured, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms and the afghan over her legs as if to hold the tide of misery at bay. She sighed despondently.

He observed her huddled form before speaking. “We’ll sort one thread out at a time.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll see.”

“I hate it when children are involved,” she told him.

He hesitated. “I heard Stacy tell you she didn’t like visiting her grandfather. She said he didn’t like people.”

“I didn’t encourage her to talk about him,” Sara quickly said.

Cade waved aside her remark. “I don’t think she’ll be surprised or particularly upset by anything that happens to him. He hasn’t earned her affection.”

That struck Sara as the saddest thing of all. Children should have loving grandparents that thought they hung the moon. Her own had died before she was born or before she’d been old enough to remember them. She’d always felt she and Kathleen and the twins had been cheated out of something important because of that.

“I think you should stay out of it,” she said to Cade.

“I can’t. We’re too deeply involved.”

She lifted her head and stared at him. He returned it, his face grim and determined.

“Will you set up a meeting with your brother?” he asked. “And Mark Banning and his brother. Is there anyone else in on this?”

“Rachel knows some of it,” Sara admitted. “She helped me get the town house…” Realizing she might have said too much, Sara let the words trail off.

“Yes, I’d already figured a bit of collusion there.”

“I didn’t plan the rest,” she said in a low voice. “What happened between us, the visit to the ranch and…and everything.”

He stood and paced the deck like a caged beast. “That’s good to know. For a while, I thought maybe you’d faked your response, then I decided you hadn’t. It was too compelling for either of us to pretend.”

“I didn’t expect it. The passion, the terrible need, like lightning inside me.” With an effort, she stopped the futile confession. “It was unwise.”

“But good,” he murmured, so quietly she could hardly hear. “So very, very good.”

They observed each other without speaking for a full minute. Torrents of hunger surged between them like a storm tide caused by an angry god, bent on vengeance.

Sara stood it as long as she could, then she fled inside and locked the door behind her, not to keep him out but to remind herself that she must stay in. His arms were not the safe haven she sought.

There was no safe place, she realized, until the past could be exposed, then decently buried for all time.

Chapter Nine

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Sara assured Tyler when he returned her call, an hour after she’d fled from Cade and her conscience and left a message on his phone. “Except that we think Walter killed Jeremy. And that we want to see justice done. He volunteered to help us get the truth.”

“Huh,” Tyler said in a skeptical voice.

“He wanted to know what evidence we had. He, uh, seemed to think we had a witness.”

That brought a more forceful response. “The hell he did! What did you say? You didn’t tell him about our search for Mom’s brother, did you?”

“No, I didn’t mention the lost uncle. I told him it was more your story to tell than mine. He wants a meeting with everyone who’s working on the case. You, Nick, Mark—oh, Cade apparently spoke to Mark earlier today.”

“What for?” Tyler demanded. “I don’t like the sounds of this. Too many people are getting involved. We may as well hire a sandwich-board guy to walk around town and advertise what we’re doing.”

“I think he wanted Mark to investigate something.” She paused to consider. “Us, most likely.”

“Great,” Tyler muttered in disgust. “I’ll call Mark…No, it’s after eleven. I’ll call him and Nick first thing in the morning. Can you set up a meeting at your place for tomorrow night? Nick and I can get there by eight.”

“Make it nine,” she told him. “Cade is busy getting his daughter to bed before then.”

“Okay, nine it is.”

“Should I include Rachel?”

There was a brief silence. “Why?”

“Well, she basically knows everything and wants to help. I don’t know if she can contribute anything, but she and Nick worked together to get me into the duplex.”

“Hell, the more, the merrier,” her brother said. “I’ll call the mayor and see if he can join us, too.”

“Maybe we ought to ask Walter Parks.”

“Sure. Why not? We can just ask him point-blank if he did the dastardly deed.”

Sara smiled at Tyler’s snort of sarcastic laughter. Their quest had taken on the air of old-fashioned melodrama. On this note, they said goodnight and hung up. She called Rachel. Her friend was still up. Sara brought the other woman up-to-date.

“Darn, I have parent consultations tomorrow night,” Rachel complained. “It’ll be well after nine before I wrap that up, so I won’t be able to make it. Keep me informed, will you?”

Sara promised she would.

After turning off the bedside lamp, she stared at the dark ceiling until her eyes felt like sandpaper. Last winter, time had ticked by slowly while she’d waited at her mother’s bedside for the inevitable end. Now it seemed to be rushing forward way too fast, the hours whipping by until she wanted to ask for a reprieve and have the moment stand still while she sorted things out—how she felt, how she thought she should feel, what she wanted to happen.

One thing for sure—she wanted all of this scheming and searching to be over. She wanted a future without questions or doubts plaguing every decision she made. She did not want to live in “interesting” times.

Serenity. Was there such a thing?

Cade stood at the rear door of his town house. It was twenty minutes before he was due next door. Stacy had fallen asleep before the end of the story, so he had the time to himself, as unusual as that was. Every minute of every day seemed to be taken up with obligations.

Restless, he went out on the deck and sat on the railing. The breeze off the ocean brought the tang of salt to him. He thought of sailing off into the unknown and not coming back. A life without complications was tempting.

Hearing movement in the other town house, he turned so he could see inside. Sara came into the den and placed a tray loaded with egg rolls, pot stickers and lots of veggies on the coffee table, then returned to the kitchen without glancing outside.

She was dressed in black slacks with a pink silk shirt. A black-and-pink scarf held her hair from her face. He observed the movement of her slender form until she disappeared from sight. Unbidden memories flooded his mind.

He’d explored and caressed every inch of her lissome body during their weekend at the ranch. She’d done the same to him. They’d discovered each passionate nook and cranny of the other in those stolen hours. They’d shared the quiet, contented afterglow of making love.

Had it all been a lie? Or was she as frustrated by their conflicting relationship as he was?

Heat spiraled low in his body. Whatever else lay between them, that part hadn’t changed. He wanted her with a hunger that surprised and annoyed him. With every thought of her, the familiar longing blazed through him like lightning striking a dry forest. Passion had been the downfall of many men, he reflected. Going to the door, he knocked softly.

“Come in. The door’s unlocked,” she called, returning to the den with another tray stocked with fruit, several kinds of cheese and an assortment of crackers.

She wore a worried expression, and tension was evident in the line of her shoulders. He could identify with that.

“Is this a meeting or a party?” he asked with a certain rueful edginess to the tone.

“Tyler is always hungry,” she explained.

She glanced at him, then checked the trays, her manner so serious, he felt a quixotic urge to take on her burdens and ease the load she carried. He silently laughed at the ridiculous notion. He wouldn’t be a fool for a woman again.

“Looks good, young Sara,” he said, forcing a smile.

Pausing, she studied him as if puzzled. “Why do you call me that?”

He shrugged. “I think the young girl I once knew is still there, hidden behind the turmoil and grief and injustice of a grown-up world.”

She shook her head. “She’s gone, Cade. She disappeared a long time ago.”

“Perhaps.” He knew he should leave well enough alone, but something prodded him to add, “She lives in my heart if nowhere else.”

The golden flecks in her green eyes flashed in the lamplight. She blinked tears back with visible effort.

“She lives in a boy’s dreams,” she corrected, giving him a defiant glance. “Not in the real world.”

“Last weekend seemed pretty real to me.”

A blush crept up her neck. “That was wrong—”

He wasn’t going to let her brush the weekend aside that easily. “No, it was the one thing that was right. Everything else may be wrong, but that wasn’t.”

“If only life were that simple.”

“Yeah. If only,” he agreed, forcing himself to ignore the forlorn sadness in her eyes. He shrugged. “Maybe it can be, once we resolve the past and its problems.”

“If we can,” she said.

The three simple words expressed all the doubts she didn’t voice. He wanted to argue with her, but what was the point? She was right.

The ring of the doorbell stopped the conversation. Sara rushed from the room to answer it. Cade heard more than one male voice. Her brother and his friends had arrived.

He moved so that he could see down the hallway. Sara turned from hugging her brother and hugged the other two. He felt a strong stab of jealousy at her ease with the Banning brothers and reprimanded himself for it.

Perhaps in another life in another time, he and Sara would have met and loved in the natural order of things, but not in this lifetime. Too much stood between them.

The gods must be laughing.

“Cade,” Sara said, leading the way to the den, “you’ve met Tyler and Nick. This is Mark Banning. You said you’d spoken to him earlier. Have you two met?”

“Only by phone,” Cade said, stepping forward to shake hands with each of the men. The older Banning had a pretty serious scar under his right eye. Cade wondered if that was why he’d left police work and opened his own agency.

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Sara invited. “Tyler, there’s an assortment of drinks on the island. Do you mind playing host?”

“Not at all, sis.” The brother followed her to the island and called out choices to the men, then prepared wine, beer, iced tea or coffee, as they preferred.

Watching brother and sister work together, Cade was reminded of his idealistic version of marriage before his eye-opening experience with wedded bliss and the reality he’d discovered after the ceremony.

His wife had expected maids and caterers to do all the work. She’d been furious that he’d expected them to live on what he made. A law student’s earnings, then a newly fledged attorney’s salary didn’t match her aspirations at all. Neither did his idea of living in an apartment while they saved to buy their own place.

Interestingly, she and his dad had gotten along quite well. She’d wanted to live in the ornate mansion in Pacific Heights. Cade had refused.

Being around Sara brought back old dreams of having a warm, loving family. At four, that’s what he’d thought his own family had been. It was only after his mother was gone that he’d realized it had been Anna who’d made the children feel loved and wanted, not his father.

Glancing at the four pairs of eyes on him, he realized Sara and the men expected him to start this meeting, or whatever one called it.

“I suppose we should begin with what we know,” he said. “Sara and Tyler are trying to solve a twenty-five-year-old mystery regarding their father’s death.” He paused as Sara and Tyler glanced at each other. Neither spoke, so he continued, “Since the event, whether an accident or something more sinister took place on my father’s boat, that quest involves my family. I, too, want to know the truth about the drowning.”

“Why?” Tyler challenged.

Cade met the brother’s hard gaze, then glanced at Sara. “Because it hangs over our heads like a cloud that never goes away. I think the questions from the past must be cleared up so we can all go forward with our lives.”

Tyler looked skeptical. “Even if we prove your father was the perp?”

Cade nodded. He’d read the newspaper reports and had reconciled himself to the worst possible scenario. “I assume you have some kind of evidence, or else you wouldn’t have uprooted and moved here.”

“We’re working on it,” Tyler affirmed.

“With the help of your friends.” Cade gestured to the Banning brothers.

“Maybe,” Tyler said.

“I can help.”

The brother looked skeptical. “How?”

“I probably know more about my father’s business than anyone else.”

“You know about Parks Fine Jewelry. Your father has another attorney for his personal business.”

Cade returned Tyler’s challenging stare. “As he should, since I am an heir to his fortune.”

“His ill-gotten fortune,” Sara said, anger darting through her expressive eyes.

“So that’s what it comes down to,” Cade murmured. “Money, always money.”

“That’s usually the problem,” Mark Banning agreed. “But in this case, a man lost his life. We want to understand how and why.”

“So do I,” Cade said coolly. “It looks as if we’re all on the same wavelength here.”

“Yeah? We don’t intend to deal you in just yet,” Tyler told him.

Cade wasn’t surprised at the younger man’s suspicions. His being involved was rather like inviting the fox to guard the chicken house. “It would speed things along if I knew what we were looking for.”

“When we find some solid evidence, we’ll let you know,” Tyler said.

“In the arrest warrant, I presume?” Cade hadn’t really expected the group to confide all to him, but he had hoped for some cooperation. “My father has gotten wind of questions being asked about him and his business. He knows you two are in town.” Cade gave Sara and Tyler a pointed glance. “I think he’s prepared for trouble.”

His eyes were drawn to Sara, sitting so silent and looking so remote. Whatever happened, there wasn’t a future for them. So what else was new?

Sara listened to the men’s conversation and observed the interactions between them. Her brother wasn’t about to confide in Cade. Tyler stopped just short of being openly hostile about the other man’s motives.

Nick and Mark Banning were noncommittal. Mark shared the information he’d found on the case. It was gleaned from the same newspaper reports that she’d read in the library and contained nothing new. The detective didn’t mention the missing uncle to Cade, she noted.

At ten o’clock, Cade left, going out the back door as usual.

Tyler studied her as he filled his plate with second helpings of everything. “Do you trust him?”

She thought it over before answering. “In the dealings I’ve had with him since moving here, and in watching him with Stacy, he seems to be honest and sincere.”

“But it’s his father we’re talking about putting behind bars,” Mark said, voicing everyone’s concern.

“I don’t think they’re close.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples, where a dull headache had formed. “I can’t say I was close to my father, either. He worked long hours, so we rarely saw him, other than brief periods on the weekend. But I loved him.”

She looked at Tyler. Her brother had never known a father’s love and never would. No matter what DNA tests showed, Walter Parks wouldn’t want his unknown sons.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Tyler told her, correctly reading her thoughts. “With Walter Parks for a father, I haven’t missed anything. I don’t think Cade has, either.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I suspect Walter is only interested in his children as a means to his own ends. From what I’ve learned about the man, no one gets in his way, not even his own flesh and blood.”

“He must be a horrible person,” Sara murmured, thinking of Cade and his relationship to the elder Parks. “I want to see him locked up so he can’t hurt anyone else.”

“Well, until we find your uncle, we don’t have anything to go on,” Mark reminded them. “I’ve widened the search for him, but with all the separate towns, each with its own records, surrounding the San Francisco area, it’s going to take time to get through all the deeds and tax records.”

“I can help,” Sara volunteered. “I need something to fill my time since I’m no longer gainfully employed.”

“Tyler and I can adjust our work schedules and pitch in, too,” Nick spoke up. “With four of us searching for Derek Ross, we’ll find him if he’s anywhere in the city or the outlying areas.”

“Right,” Tyler said grimly. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Sara joined the men in plotting the search. Each of them agreed to inspect the records of the various suburbs around the city, looking first at the owners of bookstores for clues to the missing relative.

“I wonder what he’s like,” Sara said when the men were leaving. “He was twenty-two when it happened, according to Mother. That would make him around forty-seven now. I wonder if he ever married and had a family.” She looked at Tyler. “His children would be our first cousins. We may never meet them.”

“We will,” Tyler vowed, looking stubborn. “We’ll find Derek. This time he won’t slip away before we can question him. We’ll make him tell us the truth.”

The Thursday-afternoon traffic was heavy when Cade and Stacy started for home after taking care of their shopping. He took the coast road, a much more pleasant drive than going directly through the city.

Even here, the street was more congested than usual. However, maintaining an even thirty-five miles an hour, he got through the traffic lights without having to stop after passing the Cliff House.

At the duplex, he parked in the driveway and noted that Sara’s car was in the other one. A tightness invaded his chest, while hunger and a yearning he couldn’t name clamored inside him. He hadn’t expected a lot from the meeting with her brother and friends last night, and he hadn’t gotten a lot. Given the circumstances, he could hardly blame them.

For himself, while he knew his father was ambitious and competitive, those traits were far from the calculated ruthlessness it would take to murder someone.

On the other hand, the circumstances surrounding Jeremy Carlton’s death were too strange to be ignored. He, too, felt a need to delve into the past and sort truth from fiction and supposition.

If they did prove Walter had murmured his partner, then what? Cade saw only a black hole where the future should be.

“Sara’s home,” Stacy announced. “I’ve got to show her my kitten. She can help me name her.”

Cade started to tell his daughter to leave their neighbor alone, but thought better of it. Stacy considered Sara her friend. There was no sense in expecting a child to understand adult complications. He would let the girls work it out between them.

Stacy carried the basket that contained the eight-week-old black-and-white kitten while he opened doors for her. She rushed through the town house to the deck.

“Sara, look what I have,” Stacy called as she exited and left the door open behind her. “A kitten. What shall we name her?”

“Let me see her, then maybe we can think of something really good,” Sara said. “Oh, how pretty. Look at those blue eyes, Stace. What’s something that goes with them?”

Cade left the kitten’s food in the kitchen and set up a litter box in the guest powder room. Wheelie had assured him the kitten knew how to use it. He and Stacy had bought kitty supplies, including the basket to sleep in, and toys at a pet store after the housekeeper had called and said the kitten was ready to come home with them.

“I don’t know,” he heard his daughter say. “What’s something blue?”

“Violets are blue-purple. Periwinkles are blue,” Sara told the child. “So are blue-eyed marys.”

Stacy giggled. “Mary Blue-eyes. That’s what I’m going to call her. Daddy, we named the kitten Mary Blue-eyes.”

Cade went to the door. “An excellent name.”

His heart went into overdrive. Sara was dressed in red shorts and a red-and-white top that left about six inches of her midriff bare. She had a little mole next to her navel. He remembered kissing it tenderly that weekend at the ranch.

Her eyes met his and the smile disappeared.

“I ordered a pizza,” he said, pulling his tie off and freeing the upper button on his white shirt. “Would you like to join us while we get acquainted with Mary Blue-eyes?”

She shook her head. “Thanks, but I had a very late lunch.”

“What did you do today?” he asked, not sure he would like the answer.

“Researched records in Marin County.”

She stopped as if she’d said more than she meant to. He nodded and refrained from cross-examining her about the search. He knew it involved his father in some way, although he didn’t know the details.

“Ah,” he said, making a connection. “The mysterious witness, perhaps?”

Her hands, holding the kitten securely in her lap, visibly jerked. The kitten gave a little meow. Stacy lifted it into her arms and nuzzled her face against its fur.

“I think Mary is hungry, Daddy,” Stacy told him. “Can I feed her now?”

“Yes. I left her stuff in the kitchen.” After Stacy went inside with her new pet, Cade slung the tie over his shoulder and sat on the railing. “What were you looking for in Marin County?” he asked Sara.

“A bookstore.”

Her steady stare was defiant, which reminded him of his sister Jessica. If the two women joined forces, they would be a formidable pair.

“A bookstore.” He mulled that over, but no clue about her reasons came to mind. “I can help.”

She shook her head. “I’m not busy.”

“You don’t want my help?” he goaded her a bit. “I’m hurt. You and your fellow conspirators may not find what you’re looking for.”

“We will.” She lifted her chin and dared him to deny it.

Instead of becoming angry, he found himself staring at her lips and thinking of more intimate things.

“Don’t,” she said in a low voice.

“Don’t think of kissing you? Or last weekend? Sorry, but I can’t stop. You fill my head with the wildest images,” he admitted. “I touch a flower and I’m reminded of your skin. Its softness. The silky smoothness of it.”

“Shh,” she hissed at him and glanced toward the door where Stacy had gone as if wishing the youngster would appear and save her from him.

He wanted to break through the shield she’d built between them. “I get a whiff of perfume and I remember all the fragrances of you. I can’t forget the way you felt in my arms. I awake from a sound sleep because I think I’ve heard your laughter. Or your sigh. Tell me, teacher, how do I forget all that?”

“I don’t know how we could have been so foolish,” she whispered, desperation in her eyes.

He touched a finger to her temple. “At least you remember, too. I’m not suffering alone.”

She turned her head to the side. “No, you’re not alone, but Cade, we can’t be lovers.”

“Why not?” he demanded, wanting acquiescence, not arguments on what could never be. He wanted her soft and yielding in his arms, unable to resist the passion between them. He wanted the past, the future and all else to disappear so he could have her and this moment without worrying about consequences.

“Because,” she said.

He looked into her eyes then, really looked, and saw the regret as well as the hunger. Triumph flickered within him, then was still.

“You’re right. As long as the shadow of your father’s death hangs over us, there’s no place for other things.”

“You don’t think your father could have done it,” she accused. “I saw it in your eyes last night.”

“No, I don’t. An accident, maybe, but murder, no.”

“Before she died, my mother said he did. She said Walter had planned it and gave Jeremy something to make him pass out, then he threw him overboard.”

Whatever the truth, Cade realized Sara believed her mother’s story with all her heart. “Did you ever think that your mother may have been speaking from years of grief and resentment?”

“She was dying,” Sara reminded him. “She had nothing to gain by then.”

“Except to pass on her need for revenge for whatever wrongs she thought my father had committed against her children,” he said softly. “You called him a seducer. Did you ever think it could be the other way—that your mother tried to seduce him and he rejected her?”

Like a door slamming, Sara hid all thoughts and feelings behind a solid mask. “It wasn’t that way. One thing I can say with certainty—Walter Parks didn’t reject her.”

Cade studied her closed face. “What do you know that I don’t?” he asked.

“Why don’t you ask your father?” she suggested, her voice an accusing thread of sound against the traffic noises of the city.

He didn’t tell her he already had and that Walter had denied any relationship. She went into her side of the duplex, her back stiff and forbidding, and closed the door.

Cade wondered exactly what her mother had told Sara and her siblings about his father. It was obvious Sara thought there had been an affair. He considered the situation. If Walter had been as attracted to his partner’s wife as his son was to the daughter, then he felt damned sorry for his father. In either case, it was a no-win situation.

Chapter Ten

Sara noticed the Help Wanted sign in the window of the ice-cream shop when she went inside Friday afternoon. She was tired and discouraged. Since getting relieved of her job on Monday, she’d spent the week looking up business licenses in various towns and calling bookstores to see if anyone had ever heard of Derek Ross.

So far, no luck.

Mrs. Ling looked up from behind the counter where she was preparing an ice-cream soda. “Good afternoon,” she said, smiling and nodding in her polite fashion. “Sara, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I came in with Stacy the other day.”

“How is she doing in school?”

“Fine.” Sara glanced around. The usually pristine shop was messy. Tables needed busing and wiping clean. One family waited impatiently to place their order while Mrs. Ling served the couple ahead of them.

“It looks as if you’ve been busy,” Sara commented. “Where’s your help?”

“Yes, several people came in at once. Cyndi didn’t show up. She called and said she couldn’t work anymore. She stayed out late and her father is angry.”

Sara made sympathetic noises, both for the teenager and the shop owner. “I’m free for the rest of the afternoon. Would you like a bit of help in getting caught up?”

Mrs. Ling gave her a relieved smile. “If you would be so good to do so, I would be pleased.”

Sara went behind the counter and stashed her purse. “I used to work in a restaurant after school. This will be like old times.”

Hard times, she thought to herself. The Carlton kids had always worked hard for spending money and new clothes.

She grabbed a towel from a sink filled with soapy bleach water, wrung it out and picked up a tray. In a few minutes, she had the tables clear and clean. She quickly washed and rinsed the dishes and put them in the drain rack to air dry. Mrs. Ling finished serving the family of four who’d been waiting behind the couple.

Mrs. Chong, the cat, snoozed on the windowsill in the sun. She had no worries.

For a second, Sara envied the easy life of the pet. “I noticed the Help Wanted sign. Had any takers?”

Mrs. Ling was obviously surprised. “Not yet. It’s part-time, from two until six. Do you know someone?”

“Me. My class was canceled, so I’m at loose ends. A part-time job would fit my schedule just fine.” Sara smiled brightly and waited for the store owner to decide. Feeling warmth around her ankles, she leaned down and scratched the cat’s ears. “Hey, Mrs. Chong, how are you?”

“Mrs. Chong and I would love to have you in the shop,” Mrs. Ling said. “Can you start Monday? I have a high-school girl who comes in on weekends.”

“Great. I’ll see you then. In the meantime, I’ll take two scoops of the mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

“An excellent choice,” the shopkeeper told her.

At her feet, Mrs. Chong purred loudly and wove her body around Sara’s ankles. At least someone wanted her, Sara thought, trying not to feel sorry for herself.

By the time she reached the town house, she’d finished the treat. It was early afternoon, so she sat on the deck and tried to read, but magazine articles didn’t hold her attention. They seemed superficial and falsely cheerful.

Just the way she felt.

She tried to smile, but her lips wouldn’t cooperate. She hadn’t been this dispirited since the cold, dark days of last winter. It was still winter in her heart, she mused.

When Tyler called and asked her to meet him on his dinner break, she agreed at once. At six o’clock, she walked to their favorite Chinese restaurant. Her brother was waiting for her, looking very handsome in a new summer suit.

“Why aren’t girls falling all over you?” she demanded. “Or are they and you aren’t talking?”

He flashed her a grin. “I don’t have time to mess with girls.” He became serious once they were seated. “How did you do today?”

She recounted her research efforts. “I called every bookstore from San Leandro to Richmond and asked if they knew Derek Ross or something like that.”

“No luck?”

“None.” She sighed.

“Mark is checking each neighborhood he goes to while on other jobs, so it isn’t costing us anything.”

“He’s nice.”

“Yeah. Too bad you didn’t fall for him instead of Cade Parks.”

Sara’s insides felt like taffy being pulled slowly apart. “I didn’t fall for Cade.”

“You can fool yourself,” Tyler said, “but don’t try to fool your big brother.”

“You’re my little brother.”

“I’m bigger than you are,” he reminded her. “I’m sorry, sis, that I brought you into this.”

“I came here with my eyes open. I knew what I was doing.” She shrugged and rubbed the moisture off the side of the water glass. “Has Cade spoken to you?”

“No, but I’m sure he’s determined to get involved. He said he wants to know the truth as much as we do. Huh,” Tyler said with a snort to express his doubts.

She nodded. “That’s what he told me. He thinks we’re wrong, though, about his father’s guilt. He wants to be involved in order to prove Walter’s innocence.”

Tyler shrugged. “I suppose I would, too, if it were my father—” He stopped abruptly, his gaze locking with hers. “Hell, his father is my father. It’s too awful to think about,” he ended in disgust.

“A very tangled web,” Sara said, thinking of Cade and his daughter. “Stacy is so young, only a year older than I was when we left California.”

Tyler’s expression softened a bit. “She’s a bright kid. Really cute.”

“And loving,” Sara added. “She’s very trusting of those she loves.”

“Yeah. If only it was as simple for adults,” he said with an undercurrent of bitterness in the words.

Sara wondered if he was thinking of the woman, the “one-night stand” who had intrigued him so. She thought of the future, which seemed dismal for each of them, then murmured, “It’s ironic, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That we had to come to San Francisco to discover our true loves? It’s like we had to return to the place of our origins in order to find what we really wanted.”

“I was born in Denver,” Tyler reminded her.

“But you were conceived here,” she said softly. “You and Conrad were the two good things that came from that tragic period. I adored you both the moment you were born.” Her smile was nostalgic.

Tyler squeezed her hand. “Poor sis,” he mocked, but in a gentle tone. “Your loves have all been a disappointment.”

“Not you,” she immediately assured him. She summoned a smile. “You’re the best of the bunch.”

He shook his head. “Maybe Cade is,” he suggested. “Of all Walter Parks’s children, including me and Conrad, I think perhaps Cade is the most idealistic. I have a gut feeling we can trust him.”

Sara stared into her brother’s eyes. He returned her gaze levelly. “He thinks Walter is innocent,” she murmured. “He won’t help us prove otherwise.”

“But he’ll accept the truth if we can find it. I don’t think he’ll let his father sweep anything under the carpet.” Tyler hesitated, then said, “I’m going for a DNA test in a couple of weeks. We need a sample from Walter. Maybe Cade could get it for us.”

Sara was horrified. “We can’t ask him to do that. It would be a…a betrayal of his family.”

“Okay, it was just a thought.”

“Well, don’t think like that.” Looking into her brother’s knowing eyes, Sara realized the impact of her heated reprimand. “I won’t involve him in the downfall of his father,” she said. “He already has reason enough to despise us.”

Tyler nodded, his gaze sympathetic, as if he could see into her heart and knew of the turmoil there.

Cade paused beside his car and warily studied the man who was studying him. He’d already had a full day at the office. He didn’t need more things to think about at the present, thanks just the same.

However, it looked as if his day wasn’t over yet.

“Got time for a cup of coffee?” Tyler Carlton asked.

Cade shrugged. “Am I under arrest or is this merely a friendly inquisition?”

“I’m on my own time right now,” the younger man said.

Cade looked at the coffee shop across the street. For a Friday evening, the place wasn’t all that busy. “That okay?”

“Yeah.”

He and the detective waited for the light on the corner, then crossed the noisy street and went into the comparatively quiet restaurant. The waiter brought them water and menus as soon as they were seated. A couple of minutes later, he was back, pen in hand. Both ordered coffee.

“This is the best service I’ve ever gotten here,” Cade remarked sardonically. “You come here often?”

“Yeah.”

Again Cade was aware of the other man’s keen perusal. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“Sara.”

A quick jolt flew along Cade’s nerves. “What about her?” he asked, guarding against any telltale emotion.

“I think she’s in love with you. What do you think?”

“That she’s trying to prove my father guilty of murder,” Cade spoke quietly, so his voice didn’t carry to an arguing couple three tables from them.

“Right,” the brother agreed. “That’s why we moved back here. Meeting you has complicated things for her in a way I didn’t expect.” He heaved a sigh. “Life has a way of playing mean tricks on a person.”

“Tell me about it,” Cade muttered.

“The question I need answered is, how do you feel about her?”

Cade decided not to tell Sara’s kin where to get off, but he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to confess. “I have a question.” When Tyler nodded, Cade continued, “Why did she go to the ranch with me?”

“I told her to,” Tyler said promptly. “I thought she could maybe pry some information out of you about your family’s finances, where the money came from and that sort of thing.”

Cade felt a sinking inside, sort of like stepping into an elevator, then discovering it wasn’t there. “Yeah, she asked questions.”

“I think it went further than talk,” Tyler told him, his eyes—green like Sara’s—boring holes through him.

“Ask your sister,” Cade advised.

“I’m asking you.”

Cade met the hard stare with one of his own. Between the Carltons and his father, he’d spent the week questioning every aspect of his life. It didn’t look as if the weekend was going to be an improvement.

“There are feelings,” he said candidly, “but as long as she thinks my father killed hers, I don’t see a future.”

“Do you really want to find out the truth?”

“Yes.” Cade didn’t blink while the lawman gave him another once-over. He waited it out.

“Okay,” Tyler said. “Here’s our side of the story.”

Cade listened without interrupting as the tale of greed and diamond-smuggling and murder unfolded. “That’s a pretty sordid story,” he said at the end.

Tyler nodded. “There’s plenty of sin to spread around.”

“None as great as my father’s. If what you say is true. You’ll have to find this uncle to prove it.” Cade frowned. “Even then it’ll be his word against my father’s. Having kept silent all these years, your uncle will be under as much suspicion as the old man.”

“Does your mother know the truth?”

Cade couldn’t hide his surprise at the question. “I don’t think so. I read the police reports. The housekeeper said my mother had already returned home when the yacht went back out to sea that night.”

“Yeah, I read the reports, too.”

“I don’t think she had reason to lie.” Cade paused and considered. Mrs. Wheeler, newly widowed at the time, had just started her job with his family. He couldn’t imagine her lying for anyone for any reason.

“There are other…difficulties,” Tyler said after a brief silence. “I can’t tell you about them now, but I can assure you all will come to light soon.”

A chill raced along his neck. Cade rubbed the spot, then heaved a deep breath. “I’m angry with Sara. She used me and Stace for her own purposes, but I don’t want her hurt.”

“If it’s any comfort, it was troublesome to her. She doesn’t like for children to be involved. You still willing to help with the investigation?”

Cade considered what he owed his father, himself and the woman who’d breached his defenses. “I’m willing to discover the truth.”

“But are you willing to disclose it once it’s found?”

“Yes,” Cade said grimly. “What do you know of this uncle?”

Sara opened the back door like a thief in the night. She’d stayed hidden inside since returning home from the meeting with Tyler, ignoring Stacy’s call to “come play with me and Mary Blue-eyes” earlier in the evening. With Tai back on the job, Sara thought it best to avoid the family next door as much as possible.

Night had fallen, so she should be safe out on the deck at this hour. It was after ten o’clock. Glancing up, she saw a light on in Cade’s bedroom. He was probably reading some legal documents or something.

She sank into the cushions of a deck chair and propped her bare feet on the railing. The night was unusually warm, and she could see thousands of stars in the sky. Not as many as she’d seen at the ranch last weekend, but…

Images immediately danced across her inner vision. Riding a horse. Washing a cow’s teats. Making love so passionately it had stolen her breath away. The contentment afterward and a sense of rightness had been a gift.

A door opened behind her. Tension invaded every cell of her body. It could only be one person.

“Enjoying the night air?” Cade asked. He pulled a chair away from the table, took a seat and, like her, propped his sock-clad feet on the deck railing.

“Yes.”

“Would you rather be alone?”

No. Yes.

The answers warred within her. She shrugged, unable to decide between them.

“I saw Tyler this evening.”

She was startled. “When?”

“When I left the office, he was waiting for me. We had a long talk over coffee. I know about the missing uncle.”

“Oh.” Her thoughts went every which way. Tyler must have gone directly to Cade after leaving her. Had he mentioned the paternity issue?

Glancing at Cade’s relaxed pose, she decided her brother was keeping that little secret to himself for the time being. It certainly wasn’t her news to confide.

“I also had a talk with my father this morning.”

She tensed, waiting for an accusation, a denial, something out of the ordinary.

“He admitted he spoke to one of the other directors about you. I’m sorry for that.”

Relief washed over her. “Then it wasn’t you.”

“No.” He paused. “I would never willingly do anything to hurt you. I think you’ve had enough of that in your life.”

“Sometimes I think it will never be over.”

“I hope that isn’t true.”

They sat there in silence, but it suddenly wasn’t uncomfortable to her. A warm foot touched hers. Cade angled his toes to fit under hers and stroked the underside of her foot. Tingles ran from the spot all the way up her leg.

Her insides, which seemed made of gelatin, quivered deliciously. She wanted him. In spite of everything, including common sense, she wanted him more than she wanted her next breath.

“Let’s forget everything and pretend we just met for the first time a few minutes ago,” he said.

“Ha,” she said softly.

“I didn’t say it wouldn’t be hard. Would it be impossible?” he asked.

She had only to recall the weekend at his ranch to know it would be all too easy to let herself be tugged into the sweet tide of bliss with him. “No,” she whispered. “Not impossible, but—”

“Shhh,” he said. “My name is Cade. What’s yours?”

“Sara,” she replied after a moment.

“Hello, Sara,” he murmured in a voice that was husky and intimate and sexy. “Nice night, huh?”

“I can’t do this,” she protested, pressing her hands to her eyes. “I can’t pretend.”

Before she knew what was happening, she was lifted from the chair. Cade carried her inside her town house and gently laid her on the leather sofa. “You can. Whatever problems the week holds, let’s keep the weekend to ourselves.”

He sat beside her and smoothed the hair from her temples, then massaged her there. “Do you have a headache?”

“Not now. I did earlier.”

“You think too much.”

His chuckle did things to her insides. “There’s so much to think about.”

“This?” he suggested, rubbing a finger over her lips and making them tingle with anticipation. “This?”

Cupping her breasts, he traced circles over them with his thumbs. His eyes never left hers. In the dim light, she felt they were isolated from all else, two people alone in their own world for these precious moments.

“I can’t think at all when you do that,” she admitted on a breathless gasp.

“Good.” He bent forward and kissed her very, very tenderly. “We don’t need to think to enjoy this.”

She discovered that was true. As long as they kissed, as long as their hands busily caressed each other in pleasure, there was no need to think about tomorrow.

Somehow clothing slipped out of the way, taking problems and inhibitions with it. His long warm body covered hers, and for an eternity known only to them, they existed as one heart, one soul.

“So beautiful,” he murmured. “Each time I hold you, it gets better and better.”

“Yes, oh, yes.” She pressed frantic kisses along his throat, little bites of ecstasy on his shoulder.

He licked her breasts, laid a trail of hot kisses down the middle of her body, explored all her erotic spots until she writhed and twisted under him, wanting more and more and more…

“Cade,” she whispered. “Oh, love, come to me.”

He took care of protection, then followed her bidding, unable to resist the hunger that rode them both. He brought her to fulfillment once, let her rest, then started the journey all over again, never wanting it to end.

At last the need became too great. Bliss exploded inside him, sending shattering sensation to every nerve until the world disappeared. There was only the two of them. He thrust deeply, wanting time to stand still, wanting the moment to last forever.

Only later, lying in heated contentment while still pressed tightly together, did reality return.

Cade stiffened at a slight snuffling sound, then Stacy’s voice penetrated the dark. “Mary Blue-eyes,” his daughter sang out.

Beside him, Sara went rigid.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “She talks in her sleep.”

They listened, but no more sounds came from the monitor he’d left on, tucked into his jeans pocket.

“She’s such a darling,” Sara said, relaxing against him once more. “I wish…”

“What?”

“I wish she were mine.”

She opened her eyes and gazed at him. His heart did a flip. “So do I. I wish she were ours.”

He kissed away the tears she couldn’t hide and felt a spark of hope. There had to be a way for this to work. Worry returned. It all depended on the past, he thought, and how it was finally resolved.

Chapter Eleven

Sara sat on the deck after breakfast and read the Saturday morning paper. Cade was there, too. They’d spent the night on the sofa, then awakened early. After each had showered and dressed in their own town house, Sara had prepared eggs and toast. They’d eaten outside while waiting for Stacy to wake.

“Well, look who’s up,” Cade said when the child made her appearance, still in her pajamas. She carried the kitten tucked up against her shoulder. “Did you and Mary Blue-eyes have a good night?”

“Yes,” Stacy told him. “We’re hungry.”

Sara said hello to Stacy and petted the kitten, while Cade went inside to prepare cereal for the girl and kitty food for Mary.

“Let’s go to the ranch and ride today,” Stacy said after eating. She sat on the deck and rolled a ball for Mary, who chased it zealously.

“Good idea,” Cade said.

“You two go,” Sara told them. “You need some family time together.”

“But we want you,” Stacy immediately stated her opinion. “Don’t we, Daddy?”

“We certainly do.”

Cade gave her a lazy grin, looking so handsome, Sara’s heart went all soft. “I should do some work,” she said, but not very convincingly.

“It’s Saturday. The courthouses and city records offices are closed. All work and no play will make Sara a dull girl,” he warned.

“So you have to go with us,” Stacy said.

Looking at their smiling faces, Sara found she really had no choice. For the first time in her life, she felt truly wanted for herself, for the simple pleasure of her company, with no other designs or demands on her. It was, quite simply, wonderful.

“Will we spend the night?” she asked.

“Yes,” Cade answered. “We’ll return early tomorrow afternoon. Stace and I will have dinner with my father.”

Stacy wrinkled her nose. “We went there last time. Grandpa’s not much fun.”

“Stace,” Cade said in a warning tone.

“Well, he’s not. But I won’t tell him,” she promised her father, her expression one of great earnestness. “We don’t want to hurt his feelings,” she explained to Sara.

Sara was touched by the girl’s sincerity and concern for others. Stacy was successfully making the journey from a young child’s subjective view of the world to one that included others and their feelings. The girl could be hurt by her and Cade if they weren’t careful.

“Let’s go,” Cade said, breaking into her worried thoughts. “Meet us at the front door in, um, fifteen minutes?”

“Yea-a-a,” Stacy shouted. “Last one ready is a really, really rotten egg.”

Sara nodded and hurried inside to grab a change of clothing and a toothbrush, feeling as excited as a kid playing hooky. She laughed as she packed her few items, picked up her purse and jacket and rushed to be the first one at the door.

Stacy was already there, her pink pull-along case beside her. “I beat you and Daddy.”

“Did you pack your toothbrush?” Sara asked with a mock ferocious frown. “Pajamas? A change of clothes?”

“I did everything,” the child declared.

“Let’s get out of Dodge,” Cade said, coming out on the stoop and locking the door. They raced to the car and soon joined the line of traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge, each vehicle heading out of town, the occupants on their own adventures.

Cade reluctantly entered his father’s house Sunday evening. He headed for the library while Stacy ran to the kitchen to report on the kitten’s progress to Mrs. Wheeler.

“Good evening, Father,” he said, finding the older man striding up and down the space between the window and the rich simplicity of the mahogany desk.

Walter stopped pacing and gave Cade a calculating perusal. Cade was startled at his appearance. The old man looked as if he hadn’t slept during the intervening week. “You okay?” Cade asked.

Walter dismissed the question with a jerk of his hand. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a device hardly larger than a hearing-aid battery and thrust it toward Cade.

Cade took the item and studied it. “What is it?”

“A wiretapping device,” Walter informed him, a definite snarl on his lips. “Someone tapped my office phone.”

“How? I thought your secretary guarded the inner sanctum more closely than the guards at Buckingham Palace guard the queen.”

“I don’t know how, but I know who.”

Cade observed his father’s anger dispassionately. He’d been through scenes with the old man so often, it no longer fazed him, although Rowan was usually the brunt of the fury.

“Who?” Cade asked.

“Your new friends. Sara Carlton and her brother. Their friends, the Banning brothers.”

A cold hand reached inside Cade and sent icicles deep into his gut. “What makes you think that?”

“More than one can play this game,” Walter said, his eyes narrowed craftily. “I decided to investigate them and hired my own detective. They’re snooping into my business. That’s an invasion of privacy, if nothing else.”

“Did you report this to the police?” Cade asked, nodding toward the tiny snooping device. “It should have been checked for fingerprints before anyone handled it.”

“Not yet. I need more evidence.” Walter lifted the transmitter from Cade’s hand, put it in an envelope and placed it in the top drawer of the desk. His eyes gleamed as if already witnessing a victory over Sara and her group of comrades-in-arms. “When I get it, they’ll be sorry.”

Cade had never seen his father look so sinister. But then, the man had a right to be furious. Listening to a person’s private conversations was against the law. Even the FBI couldn’t ordinarily do it without a judge’s okay.

Some part of him didn’t want to believe Sara had anything to do with it, but standing back and studying the situation objectively, he admitted she and her brother were the prime suspects, even though Mark Banning might have done the actual deed.

“There’s one other thing,” Cade said, recalling his own anger with his father. “I want you to call the chairman of the board for Stacy’s school and have Sara reinstated.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I’ll do anything for a Carlton.”

“Your action was unfair and unfounded,” Cade continued.

“What about the wiretap?” Walter demanded.

“Like you said, you need more evidence. You don’t really know who planted it. Whatever case Sara and her brother think they have against you, it has nothing to do with their careers. Sara, by all accounts, is an excellent teacher. She doesn’t deserve to have her professional reputation sullied by lies and innuendo.”

“I didn’t lie,” Walter said, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he stared at Cade as if daring him to pursue the topic.

Cade took a deep breath and ignored the warning in his father’s harsh expression. “If you don’t, I’ll call and tell him you got Sara confused with a family you knew long ago and that you were mistaken about her.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Walter said in a savage tone.

“I can promise you I will. First thing in the morning,” he added, carefully maintaining an even tone.

His brother had called their father a spider, weaving people into his web until he controlled every aspect of their lives. Cade thought of his position at the law firm, the ranch that he and Stacy loved, the family loyalty that he’d accepted as natural.

He sensed the silky strands wrapping around him, luring him into a lifetime of captivity so that each decision he dared make on his own would be more and more of a struggle. In such a situation, when did a person give in and give up?

“Call him,” Cade said again, harder this time.

The telltale vein that acted as a gauge to his father’s temper throbbed violently. “A mistake,” Walter murmured. “I can admit to a mistake.”

“First thing in the morning.”

His father smiled. Alarm bells went off in Cade’s mind, but he couldn’t tell what the old man was thinking.

“Yes. All right. Here’re the girls,” Walter said, hearing their voices in the hallway. “This discussion is between you and me.”

Cade nodded. He saw no need to involve his sisters in the mess.

Emily and Jessica entered the library, each wearing identical worried expressions. “Rowan is gone,” Jessica said, her accusing eyes going to their father.

“What do you mean gone?” Walter snapped at her.

Emily stepped between the other two. “He apparently hasn’t been at his house all week. He doesn’t answer the phone or return messages. The mail hasn’t been taken in. Jessica and I went over today. His neighbors haven’t seen him since last Sunday. He briefly returned home after the dinner over here, then left ‘in a cloud of smoke’ was the way the old man across the street put it.”

Cade wasn’t surprised. His younger brother had been furious with their father when he’d left. He felt his own anger as a cold, churning sea within him. The question was, who deserved it—his father for disillusioning him, or Sara for using him?

Logic forced him to agree with Walter’s conclusion. The Carltons were the most likely ones to have his father’s office bugged. Recalling the questions she’d asked him about his family, he felt like a fool for thinking there was an innocence and fragility about her.

But fair was fair, his conscience prodded. Her quest for revenge against his family had nothing to do with her abilities as a teacher.

The meal was long and boring, in Cade’s estimation. He steeled himself to patience and got through it and the undercurrents of hostility that undercut the carefully polite conversation around the dinner table. At last he collected Stacy and left.

After the bath-and-story ritual, Cade rubbed his daughter’s back while she drifted easily into sleep. For her, the world centered on her new kitten and her friends at kindergarten. If only life were that simple.

A little after nine o’clock, he stepped out onto the back deck. The wind was too cool to be outside, and he found the chairs empty. He knocked softly on Sara’s door.

She answered at once. “Hello. I heard you and Stacy come home earlier.”

Her smile was open and friendly. She seemed so damned sincere. He shook his head, denying his own need to believe she was as innocent as she appeared.

“Cade, what is it?” she asked, picking up on the angry vibes that strummed through him.

“I’ll ask the questions,” he told her, hardening himself to the task.

“What questions?” She blinked her cat-green eyes and stared up at him.

“Did you and your brother have a wiretap planted in my father’s office?”

Her mouth dropped open. If it was an act of complete surprise, it was a good one. She shook her head.

“Someone evidently did. My father found the bug. Should I check my phone at the law office and see if it’s been tapped, too?”

Her expression closed like a curtain coming down on the last act of a bad play. “I don’t know about your family, but mine doesn’t operate that way.”

“Perhaps you should check with your brother and his friends,” Cade suggested.

She picked up the phone and punched in a number, her eyes never leaving him. “Tyler? Did you have Walter Parks’s telephone bugged?”

Cade heard the brother’s expletive, then denial. The anger lessened fractionally.

“Did Nick or Mark do it?” Sara asked. Another denial. “Good. That’s all I wanted to know.”

The brother talked some more, but Cade couldn’t hear the words since he’d lowered his voice considerably.

“Cade is here. He seems to think we had his father’s phone tapped. Also his at his office. Thanks. I’ll talk to you later. No, don’t come over. It isn’t necessary. Bye for now.” She hung up, then looked his way. “We’re in the clear. Perhaps your father should check out the people he has business dealings with. He apparently has more than one set of enemies.”

A battle raged inside Cade as he studied the woman who gazed back at him with ice in her eyes, her chin tilted at an indignant angle. “I want to believe you,” he said. He gave a snort of laughter. “Even now, I want to believe you.”

A hint of hopelessness surrounded her as she shrugged. “That’s a decision I can’t help you with.”

He locked his gaze with hers. “Who else should I suspect, Sara?” he demanded softly, knowing the question was futile. “No one else has accused my father of murder.”

She didn’t turn away from the probing stare he sent her way. He’d known another woman who could look him straight in the eye and lie without a qualm. His wife had perfected the picture of injured innocence long ago. Sara wasn’t nearly as good at appearing the fragile heroine.

“We’ll prove it,” she said, her voice low. “It may be the last thing Tyler and I do, but we’ll prove it. And we’ll stay within the law while we do, Cade.”

“Unlike my family,” he added, finishing her unspoken thought.

“You said it, not me.”

He pressed the fingers of one hand to his forehead where a pounding ache had settled just above his eyes. He wanted to believe Sara, but that would mean he had to disbelieve the family patriarch.

Why would his father lie?

To discredit the Carltons, the answer came to him.

Yes, but would he pretend the bug had been planted in his office? The old man had produced the device as evidence. Cade doubted his father knew where to get such things.

There were ways to find out…such as from a private detective, that insidious part of him answered.

“Please leave,” Sara said, interrupting the internal argument. “Don’t…don’t come back. Not ever.”

“I have to. I have to get to the bottom of this, otherwise we have no future—”

“I think we can safely rule that out.”

The finality of her statement was obvious. “Think what you want,” he told her, “but until the past is resolved, we are involved.” He walked to the door and paused. “In more ways than one.”

Because, God help him, he still wanted her and all that they had shared over the weekend, he admitted, going to his own place and grimly locking the door behind him as if by doing so he could lock her out of his mind.

And his heart?

Next time, he vowed, he would know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth before he let himself be a fool for a woman again.

Sara stared at the calendar the next morning. It was Monday, the last week of July. She’d been in town for nearly a month. Nothing was going the way she’d planned.

Such as falling in love?

She certainly hadn’t planned on doing anything as foolish as that. She still couldn’t believe Cade had accused her and Tyler of bugging his father’s office.

But maybe they should have. Maybe then they could find out what the conniving Parks family was up to.

At the ring of the doorbell, she stopped the tortured thoughts and went to answer. Tyler stood there looking handsome and older than his years in a conservative suit.

“Was I expecting you?” she asked. “I didn’t prepare breakfast. I’m out of eggs.”

“Borrow some from your neighbor.” He came inside, bringing the freshness of the morning with him. The sun was already breaking through the low clouds, promising a hot day to come.

“I don’t think so.” She managed a tongue-in-cheek amusement that he didn’t fall for.

He patted her shoulder and asked if she had any coffee. They served themselves and went into the den. “Where are you going this morning?” he asked.

“Oakland. I’m checking the bookstores there today.” She paused to consider. “I’ve been calling independent bookstores, but what if Derek Ross sold out and works for a chain now? Maybe he’s a manager at Barnes & Noble or Waldenbooks or someplace like that.”

“Let’s stick with the independents for now. Tell me everything that Cade said to you last night about this phone-tapping episode.”

Sara recounted the brief conversation.

“So he actually saw the transmitter?” Tyler asked.

“I think so. That’s what I assumed.”

Tyler frowned mightily. “This could get complicated if someone else is investigating Parks. I need to talk to Cade.”

Sara stared at her brother. “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

Tyler studied her for a few seconds. “I think he wants to get at the truth. He’ll help us find out what we need to know.”

“You’re wrong. He’s furious about the wiretap. His first thought was that we did the dirty deed.”

“That’s what I would think, too,” Tyler agreed. He gave her a wry grin. “If he’s investigating us and we’re investigating him, then we may as well work together.”

“You’re insane.”

“Yeah, but trust me on this one. The son isn’t privy to the father’s sins. Cade is probably going through hell right now. I can identify with that.”

“Great,” she snapped. “You and he can commiserate together, but leave me out of it.”

“It smarts when the person you love doesn’t trust you, doesn’t it?” he asked on a philosophical note.

Emotion flashed through his eyes and was gone, hidden behind his usual devil-may-care attitude. Sara was at once sympathetic. “Is that the way you feel, Tyler?”

His smile was insouciant. “Nah, no love lost here. It’s you I’m talking about.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m not in love, either.”

Her brother headed for the front of the duplex. “I’ve got to get to the station.” He stopped before opening the door. “Don’t let our mother’s bitterness blind you to the good things in life when they come along.”

Sara nodded, bid him goodbye, then lingered at the open door until he’d driven out of sight. His manner surprised her. He seemed to be on Cade’s side in this argument. He apparently trusted her handsome neighbor.

She didn’t. During the long hours of the night, she’d thought about her mother’s affair with Cade’s father. Before meeting Cade she’d found that difficult to comprehend, but now, well, she could understand Marla’s fascination with Walter Parks. As a young man, he’d probably been as handsome and beguiling as his son.

Crossing her arms tightly over her middle, Sara returned to the den and picked up the map of Oakland. She had work to do this morning.

“Good afternoon, Sara,” Mrs. Ling greeted her at two o’clock when she arrived for work.

“Hello. You’re busy. I’d better get to work.”

The tiny ice-cream parlor was crowded. Sara donned an apron to protect her red pantsuit and started busing tables right away. Once those were clean, she went behind the counter and scooped ice cream onto waffle or plain cones while Mrs. Ling handled drinks and the cash register. They didn’t have a breather until almost six o’clock.

“I didn’t realize so many people liked ice cream,” she said, wiggling her toes in her loafers. “My feet are so tired, they’re numb.”

Mrs. Ling pointed to her own footgear. “I wear jogging shoes. You should, too.”

The shop mascot jumped daintily down from the window sill and came over to rub around Sara’s ankles. “Do you feel sorry for me, Mrs. Chong?” she asked, stooping to give the cat a scratch behind the ears.

Mrs. Chong purred loudly.

“She does,” Sara said with a smile.

The door opened. “Hi, Sara,” Stacy called out. “Hi, Mrs. Ling and Mrs. Chong.”

The girl’s father followed her into the shop. His glance took in her apron and the cleaning cloth in her hand. “You’re working here?” he asked, a frown gathering in his eyes.

“Neat,” Stacy said in approval at Sara’s nod. “You can eat all the ice cream you want, huh?”

Sara managed to compose her face into a serene smile, although she could do nothing about her heart and its frantic beating. “What can I get for you?”

“We have strawberries and little round cakes for dessert,” Stacy informed her, “so we want vanilla ice cream to go with it. Do you want to eat with us?”

“Uh, thanks, but not tonight,” Sara replied. She glanced at Cade. “A pint of vanilla?” she asked.

He nodded.

She was acutely aware of him as she scooped ice cream into a pint box. He’d swapped his work suit for khakis, T-shirt, sneakers and a baseball cap. The casual attire made him look much more approachable, as if he belonged to her world rather than that of Parks Fine Jewelry. And she was crazy to be thinking like that.

After putting the ice-cream container in a plastic bag, she handed it to Stacy, then took his money, counted out the change and handed it to him.

“What time do you get off?” he asked.

For some reason, she was reluctant to tell him. “Six,” she finally said. Her eyes went to the wall clock when his did. She had five more minutes.

“We’ll wait and walk you home,” he said.

She shook her head. “I’m going to stop at the noodle shop and eat first.”

Stacy straightened up from rubbing Mrs. Chong. “Eat with us, Sara. We’re fixing chicken and we made enough for you, too.”

Before she could politely refuse, Cade spoke up. “Stace is right. We’ll have plenty. I need to talk to you.”

Seeing no graceful way out, Sara nodded.

“Go,” Mrs. Ling said, making sweeping motions with her hands. “You’ve worked hard today. My son will come by and help me until closing.”

Sara removed her apron, folded it and placed it under the counter where she’d left her purse. Putting the purse strap over her shoulder, she said goodnight to the shop owner and left with Cade and Stacy. Fortunately, the girl kept up a steady stream of chatter all the way home.

At the house, Sara insisted on making a salad to contribute to the meal and heated crunchy sourdough rolls while Cade grilled chicken kabobs with chunks of pineapple, onions and mushrooms on the back deck. Shortly before seven o’clock, they sat at the patio table and ate while Mary Blue-eyes chased a butterfly in the tiny backyard.

“Now we get to watch a video,” Stacy announced. “It’s the Muppets.”

“You can watch it,” Cade interceded. “Sara and I are going to sit out here and watch the sunset. Take the kitten inside with you.”

“Okay.” The girl bounced inside with her pet after her father nodded.

“More iced tea, or would you prefer wine? I have a Chablis in the refrigerator.”

“Iced tea, please,” Sara requested. She wanted to keep an absolutely clear head in any discussion with Cade.

He carried their dishes into the town house and returned in a few minutes with tea for her and a glass of white wine for himself.

Sara observed him in quick, surreptitious glances while sipping her drink. He still made her heart pound, she admitted. He had a clean-cut openness that made her want to trust him. She wanted to confide all the secrets about her family and his and ask his advice.

But she didn’t dare let herself trust him that much. He obviously felt the same about her. She sighed. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“I spoke to my father about your position at Lakeside,” he said, taking his seat, his eyes dark and moody as he gazed at her. “He called the chairman of the board and explained he’d mixed you up with a family he knew a long time ago. You can return to the teaching position tomorrow.”

“I told Mrs. Ling I would work from two until six during the week,” Sara told him.

He shrugged. “It’s up to you. Personally, I wouldn’t blame you for not going back to Lakeside. You were dismissed without just cause.”

She tried to read his thoughts, but his face disclosed nothing. “I don’t know how you did it, but thank you for…for straightening this out.”

He nodded without saying anything, giving her the impression that he’d said all he intended about the subject.

“Did you have words with your father about this?” she asked.

A cynical smile brushed his lips briefly. “What do you think?” Before she could reply, he continued, “What does it matter? You’re reinstated, so that’s the end of it.”

Not quite, she wanted to tell him. More than ever, she wanted to show the world what kind of scoundrel Walter Parks really was. The more she knew of him, the more she thought him capable of instigating evil.

Looking at the son, who shared so many of his father’s physical characteristics, she wished Cade wasn’t related to her enemy. “I don’t think you’re like your father,” she said. “I don’t blame you for his sins.”

“Such as murder?” Cade inquired. “Thanks. That’s a real comfort to know.”

She stood. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Does that mean you’ll back off on investigating my father for your father’s death?”

Sara shook her head. “No. I can’t. My mother loved my father. She was unhappy and confused at the time of the…the incident, but she never thought of losing him. It hurt her so.”

Cade listened, his eyes never leaving her. When she finished, he nodded as if he understood. “Well, then, as they say, I’ll see you in court…when you prove your case. If you do.”

“We will.”

She went inside and closed the door. Cade continued to sit on the deck, his eyes turned toward the far horizon as if he sought some truth or ancient wisdom there.

Following his gaze, she noticed the sun had almost disappeared. Only a sliver was visible. She waited, her whole being suspended in the moment, then the sun slipped below the sea.

There was no green flash.

Chapter Twelve

“Don’t look so worried,” a feminine voice advised. “It can’t be that bad.”

Cade, lost in introspection, turned to his sister. “Hey, Em,” he greeted her. “It’s too lovely a day to be worried about anything. You look like a million bucks.”

She was dressed in a summer suit of soft pink with touches of green that enhanced her golden-brown hair and green eyes. Her dimples flashed when she smiled at him.

The hostess summoned them at that moment, and they followed her to a table. After they were seated and had given their orders for drinks, he studied his twin.

“What? Do I have a smudge on my nose?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I was thinking about time and how it slips away on a person. Do you realize we’re going to be thirty, come November?”

“It’s too awful to contemplate.” Her grin belied the complaint in the words.

Like the sunrise, his twin had been one of the constants in his life. Em and Wheelie. Affection for the two women eased the gloom that had sat on his shoulders for the past two days.

“What is it?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes as she returned his perusal.

She’d always been good at grasping his moods, he realized. Of the four Parks kids, she was the most sensitive and concerned for others. “Why hasn’t some man eloped with you yet?”

Her smile faltered and emotion flickered through her eyes for a second before she clasped her hands to her breast and gazed into the distance with a dreamy expression. “I’m waiting for my prince to come.”

“Huh. I’m not sure there are any of those around anymore, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Then I’ll be what I am—a spinster who plans other people’s weddings while secretly pining for my own.” She tilted her head slightly. “What about you? Stacy needs a brother or sister, and you’re not getting any younger.”

“Don’t remind me.”

They placed their luncheon order, then observed the flow of diners in and out of the busy bistro.

“What’s with our dear father these days?” Emily asked after a bit. “He usually ignores me and Jessica. Now all of a sudden he’s realized we’re alive. Two Sunday dinner invitations in a row. He’s worried about something.” She frowned as she lifted a glass of raspberry tea and took a sip. “Something serious,” she added.

“It appears he thinks someone is out to get him or something like that.”

“Mmm, makes one wonder what he’s got to hide.”

Looking into her candid gaze, Cade knew Em didn’t have a clue how serious the situation actually was. A murderer could still be brought to trial twenty-five years after the deed. Appalled, he realized he was beginning to think like Sara.

As usual, his body reacted to the merest thought of her. No matter what his mind dictated, physically he was attuned to her. Odder still was the fact that something in him insisted on trusting her and her brother. He couldn’t quite discount their story and their drive to discover the truth behind it. He exhaled in frustration.

“Cade, are you in love?” Emily asked, breaking into his introspection.

He found he couldn’t answer the question. “Why do you ask that?”

“Stacy mentioned that your neighbor had gone to the ranch with you. I’ve never known you to take any woman to your secret hideaway.”

“So you think it has to mean something?”

“Yes.”

She smiled when he glared at her, giving him a glimpse of the young happy person she used to be. The way they both had been once upon a time.

“Damn,” he said.

Emily burst into laughter. “You are. Cade’s in love, Cade’s in love,” she said in a singsong, but softly so the nearby diners couldn’t hear.

It was almost a relief to bring it out into the open, he found. “Father will disown me if I join forces with the Carltons,” he said ruefully.

“Do you care? You’re an adult, a successful attorney. Do what you want, what your heart tells you is right.”

“You sound like Jessica. Or Rowan.”

Her teasing manner disappeared. “I’m worried about him. He’s totally disappeared. Jessica and I call everyday. No answer. I stopped by and collected his mail this morning. I hope no burglars have noticed the house is empty. This is so like him,” she concluded in annoyance.

“He can take care of himself. It’s Jessica I’m worried about. She and Rowan never knew much of a family life. She was, what, a year old when Mother was sent away?”

Emily nodded. “We had Wheelie. And you. You were always a wonderful brother. You deserve someone who loves you with all her heart.”

“So do you, Em. The men in this town must be stupid.”

She looked troubled. “I have a…a doomsday sense of time passing. If we don’t grab happiness when it sails by, we may never have another chance. Don’t let that happen to you. If this Sara Carlton is the one, grab her.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“Life never is.”

“How many weddings have you planned for this month?” he asked to distract her.

For the rest of the meal, they spoke of their work, then the unusual heat from a Santa Ana wind blowing in from the south. The humidity was about ten percent, and the trees planted along the streets had a tired, droopy appearance.

Just the way he felt, Cade reflected as he saw Emily to her car and headed for his office. A block down the street, he slowed his step. His father entered a store a couple of doors down. Cade approached the window and looked inside.

He saw Walter open a postal box and remove some mail. Most of it he tossed in a trash can. One letter he opened, read, then stuck in his jacket pocket.

For some reason, when his father exited, Cade turned to a coin-operated newspaper bin and pretended to read the headlines. After Walter proceeded down the street, clearly not returning to his office, Cade fell into step behind him.

To his surprise, Walter met a man Cade recog-nized—a bounty hunter who usually worked for bail bond firms to trace those who skipped out on their bail. Although the bounty hunters had some leeway under the law, this particular one was known to frequently stretch those boundaries.

The man handed Walter a small bag. Walter pulled a tape cassette from it, nodded to something the man said, then retraced his steps. Cade just managed to duck inside a dry-cleaning establishment before he was spotted. After making sure his father was past the place, he again followed.

This time Walter returned to his office over the jewelry store, which was two buildings up from the postal service place. Questions buzzed through Cade’s head. His father was keeping unusual company these days, and he wondered why.

The private life of Walter Parks might prove interesting, he mused. Recalling he had an appointment to plan an estate trust, he hurried to his own office.

Sara vacuumed up her late dinner—a bowl of cereal she’d spilled all over the kitchen floor—then decided to vacuum the rest of the first-floor rooms since she’d done that only once since arriving in town.

Pushing the vacuum cleaner back and forth over the Oriental carpet in the elegant living room, she found it hard to believe that she’d arrived in San Francisco on Wednesday, exactly four weeks ago that day.

During that time, a person could move a thousand miles from home, teach two weeks, get fired, take a part-time job, investigate a murder and stupidly fall in love with the wrong person—all in twenty-eight days.

She summoned the anger that had carried her through the long winter. Love, she’d decided, was a trap for the unwary, especially for women. She wouldn’t—

Her furious thoughts were interrupted by a noise at the back of the duplex. She flicked off the vacuum cleaner and listened. Hmm, must have been her imagination.

Just as she started to continue with the cleaning, she heard another knocking sound on the back door. She’d deliberately kept the door closed and the blinds drawn that week in order to avoid Stacy and her father. Since it was late, she knew it could only be one person.

Summoning anger around her like a cloak, she went to the den and opened the door. Cade, as she’d expected, stood there. “What is it?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

“I need to check on something,” he said, sweeping by her before she could protest.

“What?” This time the question was belligerent. She didn’t appreciate his high-handed ways. Besides, she had nothing to say to him. Nothing good, at any rate.

“I want to check your phone.”

Without a by-your-leave, he unplugged the phone from the wall jack, lifted the receiver and unscrewed the ends.

“Why?” she demanded, moving closer so she could see exactly what he was up to.

“In case it’s bugged.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Since someone had tapped his father’s phone, maybe the senior Parks had decided to reciprocate. Sitting on the coffee table, she peered at the phone parts in Cade’s hands. “Do you see anything?”

He gave her a sardonic glance. “Yeah, but I wouldn’t recognize a bug if it spit in my eye.”

Meeting his candid gaze, she couldn’t help but smile. He grinned at her. Her smile widened.

So they sat there, their knees almost touching, their heads only inches apart, and smiled at each other until she recalled she was angry. She changed her smile to the proper serious frown.

“Who would bug my phone?” she asked. “Walter Parks,” she answered the question, then peered at the son to see how he took this accusation.

He nodded, his handsome face solemn as he studied her.

“I’ll call Tyler.” She retrieved the cell phone from her purse, called her brother and told him of Cade’s suspicions.

“Be right there,” her brother said. “I’ll call Nick.”

“Right. And thanks.” She replaced the phone in her purse and returned to the den. “He’ll be over soon.”

Cade nodded while putting the receiver together. He plugged in the phone again, checked the dial tone, hung up, then settled back on the sofa.

Sara took a chair, and there they sat in total silence.

“Stacy misses you,” he said after an eon had passed. “Don’t hurt her because of the situation between us.”

“I wouldn’t,” she protested. “I’ve been busy the last two days—”

“I’ve missed you, too,” he interrupted.

She stared at him, then shrugged. “Sounds like a personal problem to me.”

“You’re stubborn, young Sara,” he murmured. “I didn’t remember that about you.”

Crossing her arms as a barrier between them, she sat and glared at the wall behind him and refused to meet his gaze, which moved from one point to another as he continued his perusal of her.

When he focused on her mouth, hot tingles ran over her lips. When his gaze dropped lower, electric currents dashed helter-skelter through her body. If he didn’t stop looking at her, she was going to explode—

The ring of the doorbell was a relief.

She sprinted down the hall and welcomed her brother and Nick Banning. “Hi, Nick. Oh, and Mark, too.”

The three men entered and followed her to the den. “You think Sara’s place is bugged?” Tyler asked.

“I think it’s a good idea to check it out,” Cade said.

“Why?”

Sara noticed her brother sounded as belligerent as she had earlier. She waited for Cade’s answer.

“I saw my father with someone today.” Cade glanced at Mark Banning when he mentioned the name and circumstances.

“I know him,” Mark said. He stood. “I’ll get to work.”

“Let him do it,” Nick advised when Tyler stood. “He knows the latest devices better than we do.”

In the manner of a TV detective, Mark pulled on latex gloves, then removed a flashlight from his jacket pocket and went outside after a quick check inside. Fifteen minutes ticked by. Sara prepared iced tea and brought the glasses into the den on a tray.

When he returned, he looked pleased. “Bingo,” he said and laid a tiny electronic snooping device on the coffee table. He stripped off the latex gloves and returned them to his pocket. “That was on Sara’s line.” He laid an identical one beside the other and looked at Cade. “This was on yours.”

Sara’s gaze flew to Cade.

He didn’t look surprised as he gave her a slight smile before speaking to Mark. “Good work.”

“How did you know?” Tyler asked.

“A hunch,” Cade said. “If my father thought you guys had tapped his telephone, it followed that he would return the favor. I didn’t expect a second one, though.”

“So what do we do now?” Tyler gestured to the bugs.

“I’ll take them.” Cade reached for the devices, then looked at Mark. “Do I need to worry about fingerprints?”

“Probably not. The person who installed them is a pro. I don’t imagine he was careless.”

Cade nodded. “You got a plastic bag I can use?” he asked Sara.

She got one from the kitchen. They all observed as Cade securely closed the bag, with the transmitters inside, and put it in his pocket. He lifted his iced tea glass in a mock toast. “To the three musketeers and D’Artagnan.” He glanced at the other three men, then at Sara.

“All for one and one for all,” Tyler intoned and held his glass over the coffee table.

Sara, Tyler, Nick and Mark clinked glasses. She noticed that Cade hadn’t joined them.

“Four musketeers,” Tyler said, picking up on her thought.

“I’m just the messenger,” Cade told them. “Or the traitor, according to which side one is on.”

Mark checked his watch. “I have to be in court early in the morning. A guy was embezzling from the family business. His wife got suspicious about some invoices. Turns out they were from bogus companies.”

Sara saw her brother and their friends out. The den was empty when she returned. She turned off the lamps, leaving a night-light on, then went out on the deck.

Cade was there, a hip propped on the rail as he gazed at the cityscape.

“You’re going to confront your father about the wiretapping,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Is that wise?”

He shrugged.

“Maybe he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Then he can deny any knowledge of it.”

“But you think he arranged it,” she persisted.

“Yes.”

She hesitated, then said, “Cade, this isn’t your fight. Don’t alienate your family because of…” She couldn’t decide how to say it.

“Because of us, Sara?” He turned so they faced each other. “Because of what you and I have shared? We’ve slept together. What does that mean nowadays?”

The cynical tone lashed her heart. “I wish we hadn’t come here,” she said in a low voice. “Maybe my mother was wrong about what occurred. Maybe your father told the truth and my father’s death was one of those freak accidents that happen to people.”

He studied her for a long moment before replying. “Maybe. Or maybe it wasn’t. At any rate, twenty-five years is long enough to wonder about it. Whatever the truth, it’s time it surfaced. Then and only then can the past be laid to rest.” He turned back to viewing the night.

Sara wanted to go to him, but she couldn’t. His manner was too closed, too remote. She didn’t blame him for wanting nothing more to do with her. If they proved his father guilty of murder, it would be a serious blow to his family.

There seemed to be nothing more to discuss. She went inside and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. A simple wall divided the two town houses, but it may as well have been a thousand-mile rift.

Cade stood at the window of his office well before nine o’clock the next morning. He had the place to himself since the secretaries, clerks and law associates wouldn’t be in until nine and most of the senior partners didn’t arrive until ten o’clock or later.

It was a time for thinking, but his mind was curiously blank. He’d left word at his father’s office that he wanted a meeting and would be there at noon. Too bad his morning was filled with appointments. He wanted this day behind him.

He heard Steve in the next office. He needed to talk to him, too. He went next door. “Hey,” he said.

Steve hung his suit coat on a rack. “Good morning. You’re in early.” He picked up a container of coffee and blew across the surface before taking a sip.

Cade leaned against the door frame. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about your proposition.”

“And?”

“Let’s go for it.”

Steve looked comically surprised. “Damn, you mean it? You really will do it?”

Cade nodded and returned his friend’s grin. “How soon can we move on it?”

Steve clicked on his computer. “I’m printing out my resignation right now.”

“You’ve written it?” Cade asked.

“Yeah. You want a copy?”

Cade shook his head. “I’ll manage. What date are you making it effective?”

“The end of August. That’ll give me time to wrap up most of the crap, uh, I mean cases, that I have. What about you?”

“I’ll use the same. Have you spoken to Mark Banning?”

“Not yet. Let’s set up a lunch date, no, better make it dinner. This may take some planning.”

“Okay, then.”

Steve rose and held out his hand. “We may starve, but we’ll do it on our own.”

Cade nodded and shook his new partner’s hand. A few hours later, he left the law firm and walked to his father’s place of business. It was a day for change, he thought, going inside and up the stairs to the second floor.

The secretary’s office was empty. She’d probably gone to lunch. Cade tapped on his father’s door.

“Come in,” Walter said.

He was smiling when Cade entered. Cade crossed the expensive carpet and stopped before his father’s desk. He removed the plastic bag from his pocket and shook the contents out on the leather pad that protected the wood surface. “Let’s compare transmitters,” he said. “Are either of these like the one you said you found on your phone?”

He observed the mask that slid over his father’s face and the fact that his eyes darted to the wall of cabinets that housed a television and other electronic gear.

“Where did you get these?” Walter asked.

“Sara’s home line. And mine.” Cade crossed to the built-in cabinets and opened a door. Upon checking, he found a tape cassette in the player. He hit the play button.

Sara’s voice wafted into the room. She was talking to her friend, Rachel. The discussion was innocuous, girl talk about shopping, complaints about the school where Rachel still taught and plans to meet at lunch on Friday.

Cade turned the machine off when the women said goodbye. He removed the cassette and put it in the plastic bag. “Illegal wiretapping,” Cade murmured, counting up the charges that would ensue if his father was caught. “Invasion of privacy. Conspiracy—”

“Conspiracy to do what?” Walter snapped.

“To prevent the truth from coming out about what happened to Jeremy Carlton?” Cade returned to the front of the desk. He met his father’s glare. “Why, exactly, did you feel it necessary to bug my line, too?”

Walter’s lip curled in a sneer. “You’ve lost your head over the girl, that’s why. I needed to know what you were saying to her. You had a meeting at her place with her brother and his friends last week.”

“We had another one last night. That’s when Mark found the transmitters on our phone lines.”

Cade noted the hardening of his father’s features, the harshness of his expression and the coldly calculating gleam in his eyes. He wondered if, thirty years from now, he would look the same. He hoped not.

When Walter reached for the two transmitters, Cade scooped them up and replaced them in the bag, then stored the evidence in his pocket. “I’ll keep these in a safe place,” he said.

“You’re getting a little too big for your britches, boy,” Walter told him, his manner now threatening. “That can have serious consequences.”

“Such as?” Cade challenged. “You’ll get me fired? Too late. I turned in my resignation before I came over here.”

Walter exploded. “You young fool, you don’t know what you’re doing. Or who you’re dealing with. I can see that you don’t get another job in this city.”

Cade watched the pulse pound in his father’s temple for a couple of seconds before answering. “And I can see that you don’t do business with any reputable company in the state in the future. I know how to play that game. I’ve seen you do it often enough over the years when you wanted to get rid of a competitor.”

“That was business,” his father defended his actions.

“Yeah, but this is a felony.” Cade patted his pocket. “I saw you with the bounty hunter. Lie down with dogs and you get up with fleas. Isn’t that the way the saying goes?”

“Get out,” Walter snarled. “You’re no son of mine. I’m writing you out of my will. I never thought I would see the day when you, of all my children, would betray the family.”

Cade thought of his mother, of his missing brother, of Sara and her family. “No,” he said. “I guess you didn’t.”

He headed for the door.

“Just a minute,” Walter said in a different tone. “We need to talk this over. Let’s not go off halfcocked.”

Cade shook his head and kept walking, out of the office, out of the building. He’d canceled his afternoon appointments, so he was free for the day. On the street, he walked aimlessly until he stood at Pier 39, crowded with tourists and street mimes, shops and restaurants.

A lot of the things he’d done in his life had been for his father’s approval, Cade realized. Good grades, a position with a prestigious law firm, marriage to the daughter of a prominent family. Children wanted to please the most important people in their world.

An utter weariness seeped into his soul. He and Em had known the happier days in their family’s history. They’d tried to uphold the illusion that that family still existed.

Rowan and Jessica had never been fooled into thinking all was well in their household. At nearly thirty, it was time he, too, recognized their father for the ruthless, ambitious man he was, one who would destroy others who got in the way of his plans.

Murder?

Cade didn’t know about that. He was getting off the merry-go-round of his father’s schemes for his own reasons. He and Stacy were going to have a life separate and different from the usual Parks family strife.

His daughter had good instincts when it came to people. Stacy had never been comfortable around her grandfather. While he wouldn’t deny all contact, he would see to it that his child wasn’t subjected to Walter’s vitriol or verbal attacks on the people he didn’t like. Otherwise, he would make it clear there would be no visits at all.

At last his anger ebbed. Noting it was nearly three o’clock, he returned to his car and drove home. Tai and Stacy were surprised by his appearance. He told Tai she could take the rest of the day off. He and Stacy were going to the zoo.

“Let’s go,” Stacy said enthusiastically after she’d put on shoes and washed her face and hands. When they were on their way, she sighed loudly.

“What?” he asked.

“I wish Sara could go with us,” she said. “The zoo is her abs’lutely favorite thing.”

His insides clenched as if preparing for a sucker punch to the gut. “She’s at work.”

“I know, but it would be nice if she could be with us, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It would be nice.”

That was the one thing he hadn’t faced yet—his feelings about Sara. What was real between them, and what was simply her using him and Stacy for her own ends? Were she and his father two of a kind?

Good question, he admitted with a cynicism that was new to him. Too bad there wasn’t an answer.

Chapter Thirteen

Sara set up her easel on the deck Saturday morning and began sketching the view of the ocean from there. After seeing Cade and Stacy leave, probably for the ranch, she’d decided to do a watercolor of the scene. Anything to keep busy so she wouldn’t have to think.

Yesterday the principal at Lakeside had called and asked her to return to her teaching post. Since it was the one thing she loved without reservation, she decided it was foolish to let pride prevent her from continuing her chosen profession. She’d told Mrs. Ling later that afternoon.

The ice-cream shop owner had approved the decision wholeheartedly. She informed Sara that her grandson missed Miss Carlton and wanted her back as his teacher.

It was nice to be wanted, Sara mused, putting a bright face on the situation. The false cheer lasted but a moment, then she was in the doldrums again.

She missed Cade and his daughter. She wanted to go to the ranch with them. She also wanted to show the world what Walter Parks had done to her father. She couldn’t have it both ways. They were mutually exclusive actions.

Choices. Did she have any?

Not really. Her loyalty lay with her family just as Cade’s belonged to his. This path, the one seeking justice, had been chosen when she and Tyler had decided to leave Denver and come to San Francisco. She couldn’t hate Walter Parks and love the son. It didn’t make sense.

A sigh escaped her. She was angry with herself, with Cade and with the fate that had put her in this position.

When was life going to smooth out and be easy for the children of Marla Carlton?

“Yoo-hoo,” a voice called from the side of the mansion.

Sara recognized Rachel’s voice and went to open the gate. “Come in. I’m glad to see you. I need a distraction from my own thoughts, which are driving me insane.”

“I rang the doorbell but got no answer. Since your car was here, I wasn’t sure if you were being reclusive or were out on the deck,” Rachel told her. “Oh, you’re painting. I’ve never seen any of your stuff. That’s very good.”

Her friend stood on the deck and gazed at the drawing, then at the scene it depicted.

“Thanks,” Sara said. “I needed something to do today.”

Rachel studied her. “I understand you’re coming back to school and your job there.”

“Yes. Cade got it straightened out.”

“How?”

Sara told her as much as she knew.

“He must have put it rather strongly to his father,” Rachel said. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at Sara.

“What?” Sara demanded, brushing a pale blue wash on the sky portion of the canvas.

“I think he must care for you a lot.”

“I think he convinced his father that putting a bug on my phone line wasn’t the wisest thing to do.”

Rachel’s eyes went wide. “Are you kidding?”

“I wish,” Sara said. “First, Cade accused me and Tyler of doing the same to his father’s telephone, then he decided his father may have reciprocated. Mark Banning found the transmitters on my line…and on Cade’s.”

“His father listened in on Cade’s conversations?” Rachel was astounded. “What is going on in that family?”

Sara swished the brush in a glass of water, wiped it on a towel and stuck it in another glass, bristles up to dry. “I don’t know. Cade and I haven’t spoken in a couple of days.”

“Is it all off between you two?”

Sara shrugged. “When was it ever on?” she asked sardonically. “I was a fool to get mixed up with him.”

Rachel nodded. “It’s hard, but you get over it.”

Sara wondered if her friend was thinking of her former husband and his behavior, bringing her to a strange city, then leaving one day without a word. Luckily Rachel had her teaching credentials and the job at Lakeside.

Life went on.

Putting on a cheerful front, Sara spent the rest of the day with the other teacher. Rachel told her all the gossip from school and Sara related all that had happened on the search for the missing uncle.

“So far, no luck,” she finished the tale. “But I have great faith in Mark after seeing him in action when he found the transmitters.”

“Until your investigation is finished, there’s not much hope for you and Cade, is there?”

Sara didn’t speak for a second, then she said, “There’s no hope at all.” She even managed a smile.

Cade hit the garage door opener, then pulled into the narrow space and cut off the engine. He’d planned to stay at the ranch until the next day as usual, but a restlessness he couldn’t control had seized him after dinner that evening and wouldn’t let go.

Stacy had fallen asleep while watching her favorite video. He’d decided to return to town. She was now asleep in the child safety seat behind him. He unbuckled and climbed out, then carried his daughter up to her bedroom.

After changing her into pajamas over her objections, he put her to bed and started to leave. “Wait, Daddy,” Stacy said, then gave a big yawn. “I haven’t said my prayers.”

He recognized the delaying tactic for what it was. Schooling himself to patience, he sat on the side of the bed. “Okay, I’m listening.”

She went through the usual list of “God bless Daddy and Mary Blue-eyes and Grandpa Parks and Grandpa and Grandma Limbini and Aunt Emily and Aunt Jessica and Uncle Rowan—”

“Wrap it up,” he murmured.

She nodded and spoke faster. “And Wheelie and Sara,” she finished.

He started to rise.

“And please, God, give me and my daddy a fam’bly—”

“Family,” he corrected, frowning as the prayer grew unexpectedly longer.

“A fam’ly that plays and has fun like we did with Sara and Teddy and Rufus at the lighthouse and beach, and a baby brother we can teach to ride like we did Sara, and we’ll all be nice and always do the right thing because we love each other. And please, please make Sara like us again. Amen.”

Cade felt as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer as the prayer ended and Stacy turned over on her back so he could rub her.

“Are you going to rub my back?” she asked when he didn’t move.

“Yes,” he managed to say past the mangled lump of pain and longing and a lot of other emotions that had gathered in his throat.

After tucking the sheet around her shoulders, he rubbed up and down her back in gentle strokes. His daughter seemed suddenly tiny and fragile to him. She was still a very young child with a child’s dreams and hopes.

Stacy had never complained to him about a lack of family. She’d never cried because she didn’t have a mother like the other kids in her class. She seemed happy and confident, so he’d thought having him and Tai was enough.

He’d thought wrong.

The quiet earnestness in her voice during the prayer caused an ache inside him that he couldn’t explain. Her request for a baby brother had touched him deeply, as had her promise that they would all be nice and love one another.

He wondered how much she remembered of the quarrels between him and her mother, how much she knew of the tension between him and her grandfather.

“Ah, Stace,” he said on a low groan of sorrow.

His child had never had the loving home she’d prayed for. Neither had he, not after his mother had been sent away. He realized he still missed her. Her laughter. Her gentleness and kindness, her kisses when he’d scraped his knees. Stacy had missed those things, too.

He’d provided them as best he could, but it hadn’t been enough. That was evident by the request to have Sara in their lives once more. Sara had supplied the one thing he couldn’t—a woman’s touch. A girl needed a woman as a role model as much as a boy needed a father to teach him to be an honorable man.

A family. Another child. Love. Sara.

The words flowed over him, through him. He closed his eyes as light dawned inside him, as warm and real as the rising of the sun. He and Stacy wanted the same things, and he could give them to her…and to any other children he might have, that Sara might give him.

Sara.

All he had to do was convince her to marry the son of her family’s sworn enemy. Could any marriage work based on that premise? It was a chance he was willing to take.

After he was sure Stacy was asleep, Cade quietly left the room, went downstairs and out on the deck. A night-light was on in the den at Sara’s place, but she wasn’t visible in the room.

He couldn’t recall if her car had been in its usual spot. Was she out for the evening? Or was she gone for good?

A jolt of fear went right down his spine and lodged in the innermost part of his body. If she’d left, he could find her. He knew where her brother worked.

At that moment, the foyer light came on in her side of the house as she entered the front door. He saw her lock the dead bolt, place her purse on the hall table, flick the light off, then come toward him.

She stopped in the kitchen. When she appeared again, she carried a cup and was dunking a tea bag up and down in it as she settled on the sofa, then kicked off her shoes.

Emotion erupted in his chest. Joy, relief and apprehension jostled for position. Taking a calming breath, he knocked on her door and tried to compose an opening line that would make sense.

Sara was startled at the tap on the back door and sloshed a few drops of hot tea on her jeans. She and Rachel had been out to dinner, then had taken in a movie of murder and dark deeds in a small town where everyone thought they knew everyone else. They’d been in for a shock.

Which was the way she felt as she rose and unlocked the door. She cleared her throat and ordered her heart to slow down and beat steadily. “Yes?”

“May I come in?”

“Why?” she asked, unable to think of a thing they needed to talk about.

His smile did things to her insides. “Because,” he said.

He gazed into her eyes with an expression she couldn’t read, but it confused her nevertheless. She moved aside.

When he entered, the room seemed to fill with life and energy and music…yes, music, although she couldn’t tell where it came from. She closed the door against the cool breeze that flowed inside.

Gesturing toward one of the chairs, she resumed her position on the sofa and tucked her feet under her. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked politely.

He shook his head and sat on the sofa, then placed a monitor on the coffee table so they could hear Stacy in case she awoke. “Sara,” he said, then was silent.

“Yes?” His stare was making her so nervous she was afraid she might drop the cup. She realized she had to take charge of the situation, or else she might melt into a puddle on the carpet. “Yes?” she said more strongly.

Cade didn’t blame her for watching him warily. He wanted to dispense with explanations and take her into his arms. He wanted to kiss her until neither of them could breathe. “Tonight I had a life-changing experience.”

The delicate arch of her eyebrows rose in question when he paused and smiled at the dramatic opening. The beautiful green eyes didn’t waver from his face as she waited for him to continue. No smile appeared on her alluring mouth.

“I listened to my daughter say her prayers,” he continued, solemn again. “She asked for a family, a baby brother and our friend Sara to like us again.”

He saw the soft pink lips tremble slightly. He observed as she raised the cup and took a sip, hiding behind its steamy surface until she had her emotions under control. He knew this woman. He knew her well.

“I’ve never stopped liking Stacy,” she said. “I’ll make a point of telling her tomorrow, also that I’m returning to the classroom Monday. I’ve decided to resume teaching. Although working in the ice-cream shop has been fun,” she added as if worried he might think she hadn’t liked it.

“Good.” It felt like a step in the right direction, but there was more he had to say. “I realized tonight that I wanted the same things as my five-year-old daughter—a family, perhaps more children…and for my friend Sara to like me again.”

Sara was completely taken by surprise. “I—I—well, of course I like you. That is…” She faded into silence.

“What I really want,” he continued, “is for you to love me. As I love you. I want to give Stacy that little brother she mentioned, but only if you’re the other part of the package. I want us to be a family.”

She started shaking her head before he finished.

“Why not?” he demanded, but gently.

“It wouldn’t work, Cade. Even if my mother was wrong, I could never like your father. I don’t think I could stand being in his house. It would be a constant source of discord between us, and it wouldn’t be fair to Stacy or the children we might have. You’ll have to find someone else.”

She clasped the cup tightly as she delivered this last bit of hurtful advice. Heaven help her, she did love him, but a life with him was impossible. Impossible!

“I’ve severed ties with my father.”

While she digested this, he removed the cup from her hands and set it aside, then he moved closer so she felt his presence as warmth that permeated her whole being. She’d missed him, she realized.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

For a second, she was afraid she’d said the words aloud. “Please, don’t.”

“Don’t miss you? I can’t help it. Don’t love you? I can’t stop. I don’t want to, not ever.”

She put her hands over her eyes. They felt hot and achy as pressure built behind them. “It wouldn’t work.”

“Why not, Sara? If we work really, really hard at it, I think we can do it. A friend and I are going to open our own law office, so there’ll be a lot of changes in our lives,” he murmured. “We can handle it. I have great faith in you and Stacy. You two will know how to head off problems.”

A thousand fragments of scattered thoughts roiled around in Sara’s brain. She couldn’t make them settle into any order at all. “Cade…”

“Yes?”

He leaned closer, crowding her into the corner, then he cupped her face and kissed her tenderly.

“I can’t breathe when you do that,” she whispered as he continued to kiss each corner of her mouth, then her eyes, her temple, ear, throat, chin, and back to her lips.

“Marry me, Sara. Make all my dreams come true.”

His voice was the south wind, warm and fragrant with the promise of flowers and spring buds, of life and growing things…babies…

“How can we?” she asked. “Your father—”

“My loyalty is to my wife,” he told her, lifting his head and looking earnestly into her eyes. “Trust me, Sara. That’s the one thing I have to have from you. Besides your love. Give me those, and I’ll give you everything that a man can give to the woman he loves. That’s my pledge to you.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so she did a bit of both. He kissed the few tears that spilled over her lashes and pulled her into his arms by the simple expedient of lifting her slender body into his lap.

“Sara, Sara,” he said in a low, heartfelt growl, “I’ve waited for years for you to come back to me. Don’t leave me now.”

In the battle between love and war that raged inside her, the outcome was assured. Love won.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his throat. She smelled the intoxicating aroma of his soap and talc and skin, the essence that was his alone, and knew she couldn’t deny her heart its hunger for a home.

“I can’t,” she said.

“Can’t love me?” he asked, his eyes dark as he gazed into her eyes.

She shook her head. “I can’t leave you. I love you, too.” She smoothed her hands over his lean cheeks and gazed her fill of his beloved face. “You always lived in my heart. You were my first love. My only love.”

He stopped breathing for a few seconds, then exhaled in relief as her words penetrated all the way to the center of his soul. “As you are mine, young Sara.”

They kissed for long, slow, mind-dazzling minutes, then snuggled together on the comfortable sofa, hunger growing as they gave free rein to their feelings.

Cade fitted his body carefully over hers, their arms and legs entwined like the strongest love vine. “When can we be married?” he asked. “I don’t want to wait.”

“I don’t, either,” she admitted.

“Next weekend we could drive to Tahoe and be married on the Nevada side. I want some time alone with you. Em won’t mind having Stacy—”

“No, Stacy should be with us. She’ll want to take part,” Sara told him. “Or plan the whole ceremony.”

They smiled at each other in understanding.

“I know. Your twin sister can be your best woman and my brother can be my man of honor. After the wedding lunch, they can bring Stace back with them and we can have a night to ourselves for a honeymoon.”

His grin was wicked. “A one-night stand for a honeymoon, huh? I like the sounds of that.”

Sara poked him in the ribs, then kissed him in mad delight until they both went a little crazy. “I came here seeking vengeance. I found something wonderful.” She laid a hand in the middle of his chest. “You. Your love. It’s like getting a gift for being alive, a reward for surviving. How does one give thanks for such bounty?”

“By sticking it out together,” he said, laying his hand over hers. “By being the parents our children need. By loving each other all our lives.”

She took a deep breath. “My word of honor,” she said.

“And mine.”

They sealed it with a kiss.

“So when is Stacy going to get that baby brother she wants?” Sara asked. “She told me last week she thought it was time. Her best friend has two little brothers. She feels she’s getting behind.”

Cade laughed. Sara loved the carefree sound of it and the happiness that inspired it. He nuzzled her ear.

“We can start right away,” he suggested in the sexiest voice.

“A man after my own heart.” Closing her eyes as they melded together, she realized she had found the one eternal truth—home is where the heart is.

Hers was here, in the arms of her beloved.

DIAMONDS AND DECEPTIONS

BY
MARIE FERRARELLA

Marie Ferrarella, a RITA®Award-winning author, has written over one hundred and twenty books, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide.

To Charlie with love, forever and always

Chapter One

“Ow.”

The exclamation of pain, entirely involuntary, was followed by a darker curse. The edge of his razor, on its final pass over the sensitive area of his throat, had nicked him. A small, red blotch appeared.

He had to be more careful, he admonished himself.

Swallowing another curse, he splashed water over the nick, then waited for the wound to dry.

His hands braced on either side of the small, utilitarian bathroom sink, Mark Banning stared into the small, oval mirror that hung directly above it. The glass was still slightly hazy from the shower he’d just taken, but not hazy enough to obliterate the scar that his eyes instantly gravitated toward. The scar that was his anchor to his own reality.

It vaguely occurred to Mark that he’d had the scar for five years now. Five years as of last month. Oh, there were plenty of plastic surgeons around who could readily relieve him of that, who could smooth and tug and resurface the area just below his right eye until their pockets were full and the scar was all but a jagged memory. Nick had even gone so far as to give him several brochures that he’d gathered from a few of the various plastic surgeons who made San Francisco their home.

Mark wasn’t even sure if he’d thanked his younger brother for his concern. Probably not. A great deal that went between them went unspoken.

In any case, it was a futile exercise on Nick’s part. He didn’t want to get rid of the scar. The ugly welt set him apart. It kept the world at arm’s length and from growing too friendly. From trying to draw him into a realm where he knew he had no business being. A realm that, if he even ventured into, held only disappointment for him at the end.

Besides, the scar was a symbol of more than just the knife fight he’d been involved in back in New York. It stood for all the scars that he’d sustained within. The scars that no amount of surgery could ever remove or cover up.

The last blow had been the final one. When he’d come home to find that Dana, in a fit of overwhelming depression, had taken her own life, he knew that he was not one of those people destined for happiness. Holding his wife’s nude, lifeless body in his arms, willing her back into an existence that Dana had found fruitless and pointless despite all the love he’d tried to show her, he’d felt his own tenuous grasp on happiness irretrievably slipping from his fingers.

Shutting off the water, Mark continued to stare at the scar, at the face of the man who had become little more than an empty shell.

He’d had a hell of a life up to the day it had finally dawned on him that he wasn’t meant to be happy, to ever be happy. One of the other guys on the force had kidded him the day he’d made detective, saying that seeing his own parents gunned down in front of him at a downtown restaurant when he was little more than ten years old gave him something in common with Batman. Or at least his alter ego Bruce Wayne. And maybe it did.

It’d stolen his childhood away from him, made him old and somber before his time. Filled him with a sense of responsibility that should have, by all rights, come to him years later. But he was the older one, never mind that it was just by a year. His brother, Nick, needed someone to have faith in, even as they were separated, time and again, and sent to different foster homes.

So he had to be strong even when there was no strength left inside.

And throughout it all, he’d always managed to keep track of Nick, never losing sight of his brother no matter what. There were times that Nick had been his sole focus in life, the only reason he kept on going. The reason he made something of himself. Because Nick needed him. In a way, Nick had been his salvation, just as he had been Nick’s. And then things had changed. For the better, he’d thought. And for a precious time, it had been.

While he was still in college, he’d met Dana Dean. Beautiful, adventurous, ambitious, wonderful Dana, who actually made him believe that there really was such a thing as happiness in the world and that maybe, just maybe, he was as entitled to it as the next person.

So he’d married her.

That’s what you did when you thought you’d found your soul mate, your main reason for living. Married her and moved, with Nick in tow, to New York because Dana had dreams, huge, boundless dreams of seeing her name up in lights. Of someday—and soon—being the biggest star on Broadway.

That was when the doubts began to appear. They hovered about like giant enemy fighterjets, searching for a place to land. Doubts that everything would work itself out after all.

Dana irrationally insisted that the process from aspiring actress to world-famous icon was going to be a short one, at least for her. She believed in overnight successes. When she was handed rejections instead of accolades, she began to withdraw into herself. Time and again she would come home and alternately rant and sob over her lack of achievement, her lack of progress. The light that had drawn him to her was very quickly extinguished no matter how hard he tried to keep it going, no matter how much support he gave her.

When she quit the part-time job she was holding down, he took on more shifts, determined that money worries were not to be added to Dana’s burdens. He wanted her free to pursue her goals.

She became angrier and more depressed. He thought it was all part of the process. Actors were supposed to be a moody lot, there were all those untapped emotions running through them. In his heart, he’d felt sure that once things began going her way, she’d snap out of it and become the Dana he’d fallen in love with. The Dana he still loved with all his heart.

Some detective he was.

He never saw it coming.

Never had a clue that Dana had become so enormously despondent that she could actually end her own life, end it while he was part of her life. He dealt with the rawer side of life every day, but it had never dawned on him that Dana could be sucked down to those kinds of dark depths.

He’d learned. Learned that having him there, loving her, wasn’t enough for Dana. That he wasn’t enough. It was something he wasn’t about to get over.

Ever.

Because when he came home after working a longer shift than usual and found her in the tub, her wrists slashed, the water a cold, red, transparent shroud around her body, he blamed himself. Blamed himself for working an extra shift and not finding her in time. If he had seen the signs, he could have saved her. If he had come home at his usual time, he could have saved her.

If.

If.

If.

After a while, there were no more ifs, there was only blame. It began to feel as if Death followed him wherever he went. At least, the death of those he loved. So he decided not to love anymore. There was only Nick left in his world to remind him that he had once been something other than the walking wounded.

He’d wanted to kill himself then. Nick had seen him through the first night and several of the ones that followed, acting as his anchor. Keeping him in this world instead of letting him follow Dana and his parents into the next.

So, unable to take his own life, he’d tried the next best thing. He tried to lose himself in his work.

The mouth on the face in the mirror curved ever so slightly. No, that wasn’t strictly true. He didn’t try to lose himself in his work, he’d tried to find a way to have his work conduct the execution he couldn’t, in all good conscience, carry out himself. If he couldn’t hold the gun barrel to his head and pull the trigger himself, then he’d volunteer for the roughest assignments, forge recklessly ahead when common sense had others hanging back. And he did.

He felt he had nothing to lose.

But he was wrong.

He still had Nick to lose. And in the end, he supposed, in an offbeat way, Nick once again wound up being his salvation, saving him from self-extermination or death in the line of duty.

But not before the knife fight in the alley almost became the answer to his unspoken prayers. Foiling a robbery, he’d run after the so-called suspect, only to have the latter ambush him in the alley with a hunting knife. He’d had only his wits, his hands and a discarded trash lid to fight back with. When the suspect had drawn blood, his innate will to live had mysteriously kicked in, making him fight back.

It was a fight he nearly lost. It left him with the jagged scar and had almost ended his life. Twice he’d closed his eyes in that hospital bed and hoped that he’d die.

It was Nick, showing up at the hospital E.R., Nick, who looked at him with such sadness in his eyes, who had managed to catch his soul before it spiraled down, to be sucked into an endless black hole. Nick, who begged him to get well.

So he got better, at least physically. And when he was well enough, he quit the force, took Nick and himself and moved as far away from New York, from the constant reminder of who and what he had lost, as he could. He’d picked San Francisco because the city was anonymous enough for him to get lost in.

It was on the impersonal streets of San Francisco that Mark finally began to pick up the strands of his life, moving forward because he had no other choice. Death was no longer an option.

But neither was living, not really. He made his way as a private investigator, observing others, watching others have lives while he had an existence, nothing more. But then, he figured he wasn’t entitled to anything more.

Eventually, over the course of the last five years, he built a reputation. Now, at thirty, he was sought after, able to pick and choose his assignments. He needed little money, just enough to pay the rent, nothing more. Personal indulgences didn’t factor into anything, and Nick was independent, pursuing his own career on the San Francisco police force.

Mark was on a case now, one he’d taken on as a personal favor to Nick, actually. Nick’s best friend on the force, Tyler Carlton, needed help locating a man by the name of Derek Ross. It seemed that the forty-seven-year-old man was Tyler’s long-lost uncle.

The trail was twenty-five years cold, but if Derek was still alive, Mark had no doubt that he would be able to pick it up, be able to find Derek and bring him safely back to the man who had hired him. Tyler was rather vague about certain details, but from what he could piece together, Derek Ross held the key to the secrets Tyler needed to be made privy to.

Secrets that could well bring down Parks Mining and Exploration, currently one of the largest, most powerful gem empires in the country.

He’d been on Derek’s trail for the past two weeks and there wasn’t the slightest doubt in Mark’s mind that he could find the man, because there was nothing else he had to do, nothing else in his life to draw his attention away. Nick was a grown man, leading his own life, and he—he was just marking time.

The ironic term almost made him smile.

Almost.

With a sigh he straightened up and took a towel from the rack to dry his face. There was no telltale smear. The blood had dried.

Mark walked out of the tiny bathroom. It was almost six in the morning. He had a fresh lead to follow. And a man to find.

The shivers were still zipping along up and down her spine, even though the reading was now half an hour in the past.

She loved good poetry, she always had. Loved the sound of it, the endless meanings behind it, the layers that begged to be peeled away, a little at a time, like a big, silver-foil-wrapped Christmas present that promised something wonderful once the wrapping paper was finally dispensed with.

Poetry nurtured the spirit, enriched the soul.

At twenty-three, Brooke Moss was still young enough to dream, to believe in white knights and hap-pily-ever-after endings that metamorphosed into new beginnings filled with promise and wonder.

She hugged the books she’d picked up so far to her soft breast, knowing that her friends sometimes called her naive behind her back. And maybe she was, but she enjoyed being naive if that meant believing in all the things that life had to offer and believing that life was, in the end, good.

Her philosophy hadn’t evolved because she was a child of privilege. Quite the opposite was true. She worked in her father’s bookstore, a quaint little San Francisco shop that went by the name of Buy the Book and specialized in not just current books, but rare first editions, as well. Over the past few months she had found herself taking on more and more of the burdens of running the business. During that time she watched with a saddened heart as her father slowly faded before her eyes.

Derek Moss had never been what she would have called a vital man, but ever since he’d returned from the funeral, that funeral he’d attended for a woman she had no recollection of ever having met or even hearing about, it seemed to Brooke that her father was losing his hold on life.

He should have been here, to preside over the reading. Instead he was home. She stifled a sigh.

Setting the first stack of books down, she went back to pick up more. They’d been left on the seats of the forty or so folding chairs she and her father had put out earlier. She was going to have to clear those away, too, she thought. Otherwise the customers who came in tomorrow would find themselves sashaying in between rows of metal chairs as they tried to find books.

Maybe she should talk to her father about hiring part-time help. There’d be no need if he took an active interest in the shop again, but that didn’t look as if it was in the cards. At least, not anytime soon.

She had to find a way to make him come around again, she told herself as she deposited a second pile next to the first on the side of the table.

They’d had a poetry reading at the bookstore tonight. It was a biweekly tradition her father had instituted years ago. Sometimes more frequently if a famous writer was passing through and they managed to prevail upon him or her for a reading. Then advertising would go into high gear and she’d cover the local stores around their shop, as well as all the ones where they lived in Mill Valley with flyers announcing the event. They always had a healthy turnout.

Readings brought in the diehard fans of whoever they chose for the reading, not to mention the curious and those who were seeking something novel to do. Brooke smiled to herself. No pun intended.

Books had always been her life—books and daydreams. And her father, she silently added on. Her father had been her first hero, her first knight in shining armor. It killed her to see him like this.

The moment she’d become aware of his waning interest, she’d tried to get him involved in the store again, in making the decisions. But even the simplest of questions, such as who they should have for their next reading, had gotten nothing but the vaguest of responses from him, coupled with an empty stare, as if he was looking right through her.

He’d shrugged his thin shoulders when she’d asked and said, “Whoever you want, honey,” before turning back to the window.

Since he’d returned from the funeral, he’d spent end less hours just staring through the window, completely lost in thought. Certainly lost to her. Who was that woman? she wondered. What had she meant to him?

He hadn’t wanted her to go to the funeral with him, almost hadn’t allowed her to know that he was going himself. But she’d wheedled the information out of him, saying she needed to know where to reach him in case there was something about the shop she needed to ask. He’d told her that she was capable of running the store completely without him.

His willingness to relinquish all claim had been her first sign that something was wrong. The shop had always been as much his child as she was.

Just thinking about it now aroused the fear she’d been struggling to bank down. Because her mother had died of leukemia shortly after she was born, Derek Moss was the only parent she had, the only one she’d ever known. And maybe it was childish and selfish of her, but she wasn’t ready to let him go. She needed him and loved him and wanted him to be happy.

Happiness was everyone’s birthright. Brooke sincerely believed that and she meant to make a believer out of her father.

God knew he’d had little to be happy about over these years. The man had done nothing but work and devote himself to her over the past twenty-three years, and now he was drawing away from even that.

Brooke thought back to the funeral. The changes had gone into high gear then. Had the woman been someone he’d once known, before her mother? Someone he’d once loved? Was that why he seemed so deeply affected, like a man who saw the best that life had to offer behind him instead of in front of him?

She’d be the first to admit that her father had no social life. To her recollection, he had never dated, never even seen women in any other capacity than as a bookstore owner.

What he needed, she decided firmly, was a life. And somehow, it was up to her to give him one.

Somehow.

Maybe that nice Mrs. Sammet, she thought suddenly. The woman came to most of the readings, and she knew that her father was just as much an attraction for the widow as anyone they invited into the store to give a reading.

Maybe she should extend an invitation to Mrs. Sammet to come to dinner….

Brooke set the last pile of books down on the desk, her eyes suddenly drawn to the corner of an envelope that was hiding beneath the blotter. Pulling it out, she saw that it was addressed to her father. There were several forwarding addresses stamped on it.

It was also opened. Had he put it here intentionally, or had it just slipped his mind? Lately he’d allowed things to slip away from him. He’d forgotten to pay the rent on the shop, and there was that shipment of books whose billing had somehow gotten mixed up in the recycled newspapers….

She frowned, taking the letter out of the envelope. She’d made the transition into her father’s keeper without knowing it. Temporary, she promised herself, it was only temporary.

As Brooke read, her frown deepened. The letter was from a Tyler Carlton. She gathered by reading it that the man didn’t know her father, but was asking him to come forward about something. Some sort of secret that would bring Walter Parks to his knees.

She was familiar with the name. Walter Parks was a gem czar. It was his diamonds that graced the hands of half the engaged women in the country. Who was this Tyler and what did he want with her father, anyway? Was this the reason her father had become so reticent, so removed?

She flipped the envelope, looking at the address again. That was when she realized that the letter had come here by mistake. It was addressed to a Derek Ross, not Moss. This Tyler Carlton had to have confused her father with someone else whose name was almost the same.

Still, maybe reading this letter had upset her father for some reason, triggered something in his mind.

She had no answers, but she knew that if she left this lying around, her father would see it again and maybe it would send him deeper into his depression. She folded it and slipped it into her pocket. Maybe hiding it wouldn’t accomplish anything, but there was that old saying—out of sight, out of mind, and right now she was desperate to try anything to jar her father out of his mental malaise. At least it was worth a try.

Brooke stopped, listening. Was there someone still in the store?

There it was again, a noise at the far end of the store, she was sure of it. She heard it above the wheezing airconditioning system they had. It needed to be fixed. Something else to look into, she told herself, tacking the task onto the endless list in her head.

Brooke raised her voice. “I’m sorry, the store’s closing. It’s closed, really,” she amended.

The reading had ended at nine and the hangers-on had lingered for another half hour, asking Jericho Hazley questions about his motivation, his vision and, very possibly, his exercise regimen, the one that left his frame filled out with delicious muscles that were not the usual part and parcel of a dramatic poet. But even the hangers-on had all cleared out ten minutes ago.

Or so she thought.

Maybe this was some kind of groupie, hoping to get Jericho’s personal address or his phone number. They were going to be sorely disappointed if that was the case. She firmly believed that private meant private.

Brooke made her way to the rear of the shop. Maybe her father had decided to come down after all. Maybe he’d changed his mind about going to bed, she thought, hurrying around a row of folding chairs. Usually her father never went to bed before eleven, but lately that had changed, too, another sign that things were very, very wrong.

“Dad, is that you?”

Circumventing another row of chairs, she came around the corner of the last row of books, the ones reserved for romances, both the tried-and-true and the new, and came to an abrupt halt.

Her gasp hung in the air as she all but walked into a tall, dark-haired stranger standing by the window. Her heart pounded with surprise as her eyes locked on the angry scar that was just below his right eye. A second gasp followed the first.

For one terrifying moment, although he was handsome, the man looked like someone out of Dickens’s Great Expectations.

She was acutely aware that they were the only two people in the whole store.

It was times like this she wished for a dog. Or, at the very least, an attack cat.

Chapter Two

Damn it, he’d scared her.

Terrified her, if that expression on her face was any indication of what she was feeling. And small wonder, Mark silently upbraided himself. He probably looked like something only several degrees short of Dr. Frank-enstein’s experiment to her.

He turned slightly, so that the scar was hidden from her.

People always saw the scar first, the man second, and although Mark told himself that it didn’t bother him and that the starkness of the scar helped reinforce the separation he wanted to maintain between himself and the world, he didn’t particularly relish the idea of frightening small children or fragile women.

His eyes swept over her. And the young woman did look fragile, despite the fact that he judged she was close to five-ten in those three-inch heels she was wearing.

Mark shifted slightly, moving out from behind the cover of the last row of books and into the main area of the bookstore, careful to keep her on his left side.

He’d spent the better part of the day sitting in his car across the street, scouting this bookstore and its occupants, watching the comings and goings of the various customers from a distance with the aid of his telephoto lens. The woman before him was the owner’s daughter. His only child.

Yesterday had been spent checking out their neighborhood in Mill Valley, as well as going through some county records.

He was fairly certain he was on the right trail. She looked like the photograph of Marla Carlton he had tucked away in his car. Tyler had given him the photograph of his late mother as a young girl. It was taken of her and a young man. She’d told Tyler that was his uncle. Tyler had handed it over to him, along with everything else the man had thought might be remotely useful in tracking down his quarry.

Quickly, efficiently, Mark took advantage of his close proximity and studied the young woman’s face. The family resemblance was there, in the structure of her heart-shaped face, her high cheekbones, her black hair, her green eyes.

She was a Ross, all right.

Derek Ross’s love of rare, old books had brought him to this quaint, thriving bookstore in the first place. As Mark had pursued his line of work, he’d discovered that while people might change their names, move to a different location, dye their hair a different color, they didn’t take as meticulous care about changing who they were inside. Hobbies, interests, preferences, those were far less likely to be abandoned or changed than hair color or names.

So he’d followed a paper trail, so to speak, and discovered that a man fitting Derek Ross’s age and general description often made the rounds of estate auctions and old curio shops, always on the lookout for rare old books. The man called himself Derek Moss, not much of a stretch, really, Mark had mused, and for the past twenty-four years he’d owned a bookstore, Buy the Book, in the heart of the more touristy region of San Francisco.

Looking back, Mark judged that this was probably going to be one of his easier assignments. He’d only been at it for a little more than two weeks. It hadn’t really been that difficult finding the man. Initially Mark had expected to have to widen his net, stretching it at the very least just outside the state. Instead he’d discovered that, for whatever reason, Moss had decided to remain fairly close to his place of origin. In a city the size of San Francisco, it was relatively easy to get lost among the faces.

Hide in plain sight, the best device of all.

Sight.

The word brought him jarringly back to the expression on Brooke’s face.

He must have been a real sight, a real shock for the girl just now, although she appeared to be doing her best to gather herself together, to look as if he hadn’t just managed to scare about ten years off her life and probably give her nightmares for the next five.

“Sorry,” he apologized with a vague shrug of his shoulders. “I guess I should have called out or said something.” A smattering of contrition entered his voice. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

The poor man.

Instantly Brooke’s heart went out to him, creating all kinds of romantic scenarios revolving around a longsuffering, misunderstood, hauntingly handsome hero. The man before her transformed from a Dickensian character into Emily Brontë’s Heathcliff, the hero who had brooded across the pages of Wuthering Heights.

“You didn’t frighten me. I mean, you did, but you didn’t.” She was tripping over her own tongue. Backing up, Brooke started again. For all the time she spent reading books, communication was not always her best subject. “I mean, there’s not supposed to be anyone here.” She pressed her lips together, offering him an apologetic smile. “I thought you were a rat.”

Faced with such innocent honesty, Mark could feel his mouth curving. He was probably more surprised than she was at the smile that was trying to get a toehold. “I’m a little tall for that.”

Brooke’s eyes widened as, just for a second, she thought of a vermin vaguely approaching the man’s proportions. That would have made the rat about six feet tall.

“I’ll say.” Realizing that he might think it strange that she mistook the noise he made for the movements of a rodent, she made a stab at explaining. “We had a vermin problem several months ago. It was nothing major,” she added quickly in case the man, a potential customer after all, was turned off by the idea of thumbing through pages of a book while some rodent hovered about, looking over his shoulder. “Just one wayward rodent.” She held up an index finger to underscore the number. “A mouse, really. Not even a large one.”

His smile widened just a fraction of an inch. “And you exterminated it.”

“Not really.” She’d never had the heart to kill anything, outside of mosquitoes, but that was a battle of nature that fell into a “them vs. me” arrangement. “I caught it in one of those safe traps, then took it out to where I live and let it go. There’s a field not too far from the house.”

She was talking too much, Brooke thought. She did that when she was nervous. She debated telling him that, then abandoned the idea as being a tad too honest. He might misunderstand and to protest might just make things worse. But it wasn’t the man’s scar that made her nervous, it was stumbling across him in a shop she’d thought with a fair amount of certainty was empty.

“I don’t like killing things,” Brooke finally explained.

He looked into her eyes for a moment. Green, like the first shoots of spring. And soft. “You have a kind heart.”

The observation made her smile. She took his words as a compliment, and because it was a compliment, she was compelled to frame a denial.

“Maybe I’m just squeamish.”

Despite the fact that she still looked fragile, she didn’t strike him as the squeamish type. “If you were squeamish, you would have had the exterminator come in and kill it, not carried it off in a little wire cage to an open field.”

His voice was deep, low. Romantic, she thought, although she’d been willing to bet he probably didn’t think so. And now that she looked, aside from being soft and brown, his eyes were sad. Incredibly sad. He was a man who’d been through a great deal. Maybe even a tragedy. He had been a star-crossed lover, she guessed, her mind leaping to the topic that was never far from her thoughts. Romance was what made the world go around and someday, she was going to have one of her own.

Someday.

Abruptly Brooke stopped herself before her mind slipped into high gear. She still had a lot to do before she went home herself.

“Um, we are closed, Mr.—” Pausing, she looked at him expectantly.

He thought of giving her an alias. It was a simple enough thing to do. He certainly had enough identification on him to back him up if he gave her another name. But then he decided there was no need for the extra deception. He sincerely doubted that she had any idea who he was or what he did for a living.

From what he’d managed to gather about her, Brooke Moss had led a very sheltered life. Young, sheltered women had no need to concern themselves with people who made their living as private investigators.

And keeping the lies down to a minimum made them easier to keep track of.

“Banning,” he finally told her. “Mark Banning.”

“Banning,” she repeated, wrapping her tongue around the name. She liked it. It was strong, uncomplicated. Uncompromising. Like him. “Were you here for the poetry reading?”

She didn’t remember seeing him, but then, there’d been a lot of people here tonight, she might have not noticed him—although a man like Mr. Banning was hard to miss.

He shook his head. “I just missed it. I slipped in afterward.” On purpose. He wanted to mill around the store when it was filled to capacity so that he wouldn’t attract too much attention. “During the autographing period.”

“Are you interested in collecting autographs?” Even as she asked, Brooke knew the answer had to be no. The man she was talking to didn’t look like someone who cared about collecting other people’s names scribbled on pieces of paper.

“No, but I am interested in San Francisco.” It was the cover story he’d prepared for himself. Ross owned a bookstore that specialized in the unique, the books that didn’t turn up on the shelves at local chains, as well as a sampling of the usual current fare. Going out of his way to seek out Moss’s establishment because of the kind of books it carried seemed to be a good excuse for him to be there.

“Well, we are in San Francisco.” She laughed as she stated the obvious, then sobered just a little. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Banning—”

He realized he was staring at her smile and forced himself to focus.

“Mark,” he corrected.

He’d also found that people tended to talk more easily to people they were on a first-name basis with, although now that he had met her, he had a feeling that talking was the one thing Brooke Moss or Ross had absolutely no trouble with.

“Mark,” she echoed, punctuating his name with a smile before taking another stab at evicting him. She’d let people linger after hours before, but she was tired tonight, and besides, she wanted to go home to her father to make sure he was all right. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mark, but we are closed.”

He nodded. There was nothing to be gained by pushing. And he did want to verify that he was right about Moss. Besides, his job wasn’t over once he was sure the man was who he’d been sent to find. There was more to the assignment than that. “What time do you open in the morning?”

Brooke looked up at him. Apart from the scar, he had nice features. Strong features. He was a very nice-looking man, actually. Handsome in a dark, brooding sort of way. She felt contrite over her initial reaction. The man probably thought she was some kind of empty-headed idiot.

“Officially we open at ten, but the door’s usually unlocked by nine, if not before.” Her father always liked to come in early to spend time with his books. If a customer wandered in and joined him, that was fine, too. The tomes that lined the shelves of the store were so much more than just books to him. They were his friends, his link with the past as well as his portal to the future. He’d tried to instill the same sort of feelings within her and to a great extent, he’d succeeded. “This is kind of my home away from home.”

He pretended to look confused. “Then you don’t work here?”

She hadn’t meant to mislead him. “I do. I mean—never mind.” The more she talked, the more tangled her tongue seemed to become. Maybe she should quit while she wasn’t too far behind. “It’s late and I’m afraid I’m beginning to sound as if I’m babbling.”

That wasn’t exactly the word he would have applied to it. “Actually, I find your voice very pleasant to listen to.”

Having done what he’d set out to do, which was just to lay a tiny bit of groundwork for future visits, Mark slowly began to make his way to the door.

“I’ll be here at ten tomorrow,” he promised.

She really wanted him to come back. Maybe tomorrow she could make up for being such a dolt tonight. Walking with him toward the door, she stopped by the front desk. “Nine if you like. It’s my turn to open the store and I’ll be here at nine.”

Were there other clerks here he hadn’t taken into account? “You take turns?”

“With my father.”

But that wasn’t strictly true, at least, not anymore. For the past two weeks, she had been the one to open every day. Even so, that didn’t mean she had to give up hope that her father would come around and pick up his routine again. The one that had always given his life such structure, such purpose. With all her heart she longed to see the man who had been her very first hero restored to his former self. She wished he’d confide in her, tell her what was wrong.

“This is his store,” she explained, not bothering to hide the pride that came into her voice.

Glancing at the chair beside her, she sighed inwardly. She’d forgotten about those. They still had to be put back in the storeroom and they weren’t about to walk themselves in there.

Holding the back of the chair with one hand, she lifted the seat, folding it into place. “He’s had it ever since I could remember.”

There were at least forty chairs in the small bookstore, five rows of tightly lined-up chairs all but rubbing against one another. Stacking them was going to take her a while.

Mark always believed that opportunities were there to be made use of. This would give him more time to talk to her, to draw more information out of her while putting her at her ease.

Abandoning the door, he picked up the chair closest to him and folded it. He leaned it against the one she’d just put against the wall.

She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she protested.

But even as the words left her mouth, Brooke was pleased by the gesture. She knew that he was a kindhearted man.

He was already folding his third chair. “It’ll go quicker if you have help.”

She could feel her heart warming toward him. As far as heroic deeds went, this wasn’t exactly slaying a dragon for her, but it was a good start.

“Well,” Brooke allowed cheerfully, “there’s no arguing with that, but I was just chasing you out of the store.”

He passed very close to her as he leaned another chair against the vertical stack. The tiniest sliver of guilt went through him as he saw what appeared to be a slightly dreamy look enter her eyes before it faded again. He was just doing his job, nothing more, he reminded himself.

“You can chase me out once we’re finished.”

She smiled at him as, again, she amended her image of him. Still Heathcliff, but a softer version now.

Heathcliff on a good day, she decided.

She shook her head, starting on the next row of chairs. “It wouldn’t seem right, then.”

He slapped together another chair. Metal clanged against metal. “All right, you can walk me out of the store when we’re finished.”

She tilted her head, as if that would help her absorb the nuances of his speech better. There’d been something in his pattern that had caught her attention right after her initial shock had vanished.

Alarms went off in his head. Was something wrong? Had she recognized him from somewhere? “What?”

She smiled, embarrassed that she’d been so obvious. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Relief descended over him. He folded another chair and forced a smile to his lips. “Why, do I have an accent?”

She grinned. “New York, right?”

Her grin was dazzling, he realized. Like sunshine caught in a prism, shooting out shafts of rainbows everywhere. He forced himself back into his role and to focus on what she’d just said.

Mark frowned ever so slightly. It had been five years since he and Nick had moved out here, leaving New York and all the dark memories behind. He thought he’d shed everything about that life.

Apparently not.

He’d never thought of himself as having an accent to begin with, but if he had, five years should have been enough time to at least mute it if not disintegrate it altogether.

She was still looking at him, waiting to see if she was correct.

“Right,” he told her, picking up another chair. “Does it show?”

Brooke picked up on the trace of annoyance in his voice. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything. Was he ashamed of where he came from? Or was he trying to live something down?

“It’s not as pronounced as some I’ve heard,” she told him quickly, then, because honesty demanded it, softly added, “but no one would mistake you for a native Californian.”

He didn’t want the focus on him, on anything about him. He wanted it on her. And so he turned the conversation 180 degrees.

“Are you? A native?” he added when she didn’t respond immediately.

He knew the answer to that, just as he knew the answer to a lot of other questions about her. She would have been surprised, he thought, at the amount of things he did know about her. And that he was going to know more. But that was his job, to find things out. To pull the pieces of puzzles together until some grand whole emerged.

Besides, he’d learned long ago that the more information you had at your disposal, the less likely you were going to be caught off-guard.

“Born and bred,” she told him with a laugh.

He saw her struggling with the chair she’d picked up. It groaned slightly, resisting being folded. He crossed to her and took the chair out of her hands. With a little effort, he folded it.

He liked her laugh. It sounded like a light spring rain, falling on thirsty flowers. She was, he thought, everything he once thought life could be, if only the right things happened. Happy, optimistic, hopeful.

All the things he was not and hadn’t been for a very long time. Almost forever, except for that short period of time with Dana, he thought.

But that was so far in the past now, it was as if it had happened to someone else. All but for the very last part.

Brooke picked up another chair and started to fold it when she looked at him. The expression on his face had her stopping. “Where are you?”

Her softly voiced question broke through the haze forming around his brain. “Hmm?” Quickly he stacked the chair and picked up another. “Here, in your shop.”

She wasn’t talking about his body. “No, I meant just now. In your head. You looked as if you were a million miles away.”

He fell back on his cover story. “Just thinking about the book I’m working on.”

Brooke’s eyes suddenly became as huge as proverbial saucers and he found himself fascinated despite efforts not to be.

“You’re working on a book?” Of all the things he could have said to her, this was the one thing that was guaranteed to rivet her interest. She adored writers and thought of them as being several degrees above mortal men and women. “What kind of a book?”

He started on the last row. “A history of San Francisco.”

She cocked her head, contemplating his answer. “Odd subject for a New Yorker.”

“I’ve always been interested in the city.” The lie, practiced, came easily to his lips. “First time I heard the term earthquake, it was about the 1906 one they had here.”

She stopped working. “And that’s what attracted you? Our earthquakes?”

He didn’t want her thinking he was some kind of a ghoul. God knew the scar underscored that aspect of him enough.

“No, the many layers within the city, the rich history.” He forced enthusiasm into his voice. “San Francisco is a great deal like New York, you know, in many ways. You’ve got a melting pot here, too. There’re different pockets of culture and—” Choosing the right place, Mark deliberately stopped abruptly. “I’m talking too much.”

“No, you’re not,” she encouraged. “Keep talking. I’ll keep listening.”

Just then she heard the front door opening behind her. Hadn’t she locked it?

Reproaching herself for being careless, Brooke turned around just in time to see her father walking in. There was a troubled expression on his face.

“So, you are here.”

Bingo, Mark congratulated himself as he looked at the man crossing the threshold. If this wasn’t his quarry, then the man had a doppelgänger running around somewhere in the city.

Chapter Three

The man standing in the doorway had the wiry body of a runner, another hobby Mark knew Derek Ross had once pursued. In his youth Derek had been into track and field. He still maintained a strong interest in running, although his routine had been cut back somewhat over the years.

An easier way to strike up an acquaintance would have been to observe him jogging along a customary route and then fall into place and run with him. Joggers welcomed others experiencing the same punishing regimen they were enduring.

But for one reason or another, Derek Ross wasn’t jogging these days. Mark knew, because he’d sat outside his house, both early in the morning and early evening, and waited for the man to emerge for a run. He’d waited in vain.

Still, it couldn’t have been that long since he’d given up the hobby. His body was still lean, still very trim. His thin state made him look taller than the five feet, eleven inches Mark had been given as a description. The eyes were the right color, green, and his hair was black, like his daughter’s, with only flecks of gray beginning at the temples.

He bore a strong resemblance to his daughter, Mark thought. And to the young man in the photograph of Marla Carlton and her brother that he’d been given.

Any lingering doubts he had that he was on the wrong trail all but vanished entirely. Granted, there was still a small margin for possible error, but by and large, Mark was as sure that this was the man he’d been asked to find as he had ever been of anything.

However, he was nothing if not thorough. The job had taught him to check and then double-check and then check one more time before allowing a sense of accomplishment to enter into the picture. Not that there was ever any triumph attached to it. He’d stopped feeling positive things like triumph a long time ago. That side of him, that part that could feel anything except anger, had faded out of existence that evening in the small bathroom of his barely post-World-War-II Queens apartment.

A sliver of remorse jabbed at Brooke and she flashed her father an apologetic look.

“I didn’t mean to make you worry, Dad.” He looked so wan, so pale these days she thought, like a ghost of his former self. But at least this was a good sign, that he’d come to look in on her. It meant that he wasn’t completely detached and oblivious to things and that gave her a smattering of hope. “The reading ran over and then Mr. Hazley stayed to sign autographs and talk to some of his fans….”

Brooke saw the way her father was looking at the other man. There was just a hint of suspicion in his eyes. It was the same glimmer of wariness that seemed to arise every time someone new would walk into the store. It never remained for long, but it was always there, as if her father didn’t really trust anyone beyond her in this world.

She was tired and she was letting her imagination run away with her again. What was in her father’s eyes was the natural kind of suspicion that every father exhibited about his only daughter’s life. He probably thought she was meeting someone after hours.

As if her life wasn’t an open book to him.

An open, rather boring book, she thought with just a touch of despair. But that could change. That would change, she promised herself. Just as soon as she got a chance to do something about it. Just as soon as she was sure her father was all right and she got a few things squared away.

Just as soon as. The very words silently mocked her.

Derek Moss turned his attention to the man in his bookstore, a small hint of a frown forming as he studied him. The man he’d found talking to his daughter certainly didn’t look like the usual sort of patron who came through Buy the Book’s doors. If asked, Derek would have ventured a guess that the only thing the man read was the newspaper. And only the headlines at that.

There was an edgy air about him. He looked as if he might be more at home on Fisherman’s Wharf than a shop known for its rare books. If this had been a hundred years ago or so, he would have placed the man at the helm of a pirate ship, or a blockade runner at the very least.

But then, Derek mused, you really couldn’t tell a book by its cover, could you? Look at him, after all.

Closing the door behind himself, Derek crossed to his daughter and the man. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I’m Derek Moss. This is my shop. Mine and Brooke’s,” he amended.

He’d almost said Derek Ross. He’d hidden beneath the name Moss for almost as many years as he’d once used his own surname. By now, the names should have all been one and the same to him, yet ever since the funeral, there’d been this yearning within him. A yearning to go back, to reclaim his name. To return to his roots, his youth.

To maybe somehow do it all again, just differently this time.

But then, if things had been different, if they had arranged themselves according to a different plan, he might have missed out on being Brooke’s father. And Brooke represented the greatest triumph of his life. She was his most precious treasure.

If he hadn’t gone into hiding, he would never have met Brooke’s mother, and although he’d never loved her the way he had Anna, Jenna had brought a peacefulness to his life that had long been missing.

Brooke quickly took the lead. “This is Mr. Banning, Dad. Mark.”

Derek noted that his daughter said the name as if she already liked it. As if she already liked the man even though he was fairly certain that Banning was a stranger to her. But then, Brooke liked everyone. She was such an innocent that way. He supposed that was his fault. He’d gone out of his way to shelter her, to allow her to continue believing that the world was a place where the just and the good triumphed over the bad and the corrupt. Instead of the other way around.

She would learn that all too soon, and it was a lesson destined to remain with her all of her natural life.

Reclaiming the role of the friendly proprietor, Derek put his hand out to the younger man. Banning appeared to hesitate for just a beat before he took it. The man had a firm grip. You could tell a lot about a man by his grip. Derek smiled. “Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Banning.”

“Mark,” Mark prompted. “And I’m the one who’s happy.” As he said the words, he forced a smile to his lips, slipping into the role he’d cast for himself. It occurred to Mark that ever since Dana had died, he’d been playing one part after another, deliberately losing sight of himself. It was as if one way or another, acting had to remain in the family.

“Oh?” Derek raised an inquisitive eyebrow, glancing toward his daughter for an explanation. When none was volunteered, he looked back at Mark. “And why would that be?”

Mark’s natural inclination was to hang back, to observe, to lose himself in the background of life. But that wouldn’t give him the answers he needed, wouldn’t ultimately allow him to find a way to prevail upon the bookstore owner to come forward.

So he pushed ahead. “I was hoping that you could help me.”

“Help you do what?” Derek asked.

“He’s writing a book, Dad,” Brooke informed him with no small measure of enthusiasm and excitement.

It made Derek smile. Brooke was far more impressed with writers than he was. To Brooke every person who put pen to paper or, these days, glided their fingers across a computer keyboard, creating something out of nothing, was godlike.

Although he loved books—good books—experience had taught him otherwise. Most people spent far more time talking about writing than they actually spent writing, and even those who did apply them-selves…well, few were worth the trouble of reading. But those who proved to be worth the effort, they were a world apart.

He couldn’t help wondering which category this young man with the dark scar fell into.

Derek studied him with real interest now. “Are you, now?”

Mark nodded. This was not a man who was easily hoodwinked, but he already knew that after preparing himself by reading extensively about his background. “Yes.”

Derek leaned his hip against his desk, half perching on it. “Would you mind if I asked what it was about?”

“Not at all. It’s a—”

“History of San Francisco,” Brooke finished for Mark when the exchange felt as if it was moving too slowly.

Derek continued looking at the other man. “Why would a New Yorker want to do that? I would think that you would have more than enough to write about in New York about New York.”

“San Francisco’s history is richer.” Mark figured that would be what a native would want to hear. One glance at the smile on Brooke’s face told him he was right. And then he paused, shaking his head, making this more personal. “Your daughter already commented on my accent. I guess I’m going to have to work hard on getting rid of it.”

Brooke’s eyes widened. There was an eager, hopeful look there that was hard to miss. “Why would you want to do that? Are you planning on making San Francisco your home?”

He was tempted to say yes because that was what she appeared to want to hear and it would keep things simple. But he had always found it best to keep things without confining parameters. “At least while I’m working on my book.”

Brooke looked from Mark to her father. Wheels began to move in her head. This was the most amount of interest she had seen him display in anything since he’d come home from that funeral. Slipping her hand into her pocket, her fingers came in contact with the letter she’d shoved in there. The letter that might or might not have been meant for her father. The letter whose contents she knew had to have upset him, at least a little. He needed to be distracted, and this tall, dark, mysterious stranger with his lofty goal seemed to fit the bill perfectly. He’d come into their lives just in time and appeared to be nothing short of a godsend.

“Do you know anyone here, Mark?”

He’d never quite heard his name said that melodiously before. It almost sounded as if she was singing his name instead of saying it. The question wasn’t one that he’d expected, not so soon, but nonetheless he was prepared for it.

“I know the two of you.” It wasn’t what he would have normally said, not by any stretch of the imagination. But then he wasn’t being himself now, he was being whoever he had to be in order to bring his case to a successful close.

“And no one else?” She could feel her father looking at her in confusion, probably trying to guess where she was going with this. She wasn’t usually this brazen. This is for you, Dad, not for me.

These days Mark made sure that his mind was always several steps ahead of any square he found himself in. He’d learned the hard way. Had his mind worked like that five years ago, maybe he would have realized that Dana wasn’t just being moody, but that she had slipped into a full-fledged, raging depression that only got worse and worse with each rejection she sustained.

No time to dwell on what might or might not have been now, he admonished himself. There was nothing he could do about the past. He had the present to worry about, and to be successful there meant that he had to be sure there were no slipups in this charade he was being paid to play.

“Well—” he hedged a moment “—technically there is one other person.”

“Technically?” Her mind given to romance, Brooke immediately assumed that Mark was referring to an ex-girlfriend or worse, perhaps an ex-wife. Was that why his eyes looked so sad? Had the woman broken his heart and moved away and now he was here, trying to work up his courage to see her?

She struggled to control her thoughts before they completely ran away with her.

“A friend of mine has an apartment here,” Mark explained, “but he’s out of the country right now. On location,” he added, seeing that there was a question hovering on Brooke’s full lips and guessing at what she’d want to ask. “He’s letting me stay there while I get my bearings.”

It was a plausible enough story based on a kernel of truth from the past. When he and Nick had originally moved out here, it was Nick who had looked up someone he’d known back in New York, a struggling actor who had since moved on to a more stable way of making a living. He and Nick had stayed with Stan until they could find a place of their own. And from there Nick had eventually moved on to his own place.

He’d set up the excuse in case, for some unforeseeable reason, he needed to give her an address where she could reach him. From what he had gathered about her, Brooke Moss seemed like the kind who could spring that kind of question on him without warning. All bases had to be covered for this to work.

“How fortunate for you,” Derek commented.

Mark looked at him sharply, expecting to see either doubt or a sarcastic expression on the man’s thin face. But there was nothing. Apparently, despite his background, the father seemed to be almost as trusting as the daughter. Good, that would make things easier for him. He needed to gain their confidence so that asking the right questions wouldn’t be a problem.

“Sometimes I get lucky,” Mark allowed.

But most of the time, a small, bitter voice echoed inside of him, you don’t.

“Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow night?”

The question that had been forming, waiting to escape, popped out of her mouth the second there was a moment without conversation in it.

Both men turned to look at her, surprise written on both their faces.

Mark wondered if he was dreaming. He’d hoped that getting close to these two people, to Derek, wouldn’t take too much time or prove to be too difficult, but this was going along at a speed he would never have predicted. His eyes shifted toward Derek, who looked as surprised as he felt.

He decided to downplay the invitation, in case the older man became defensive over this sudden invasion of his privacy. “That’s very kind of you, Ms. Moss, but I don’t want to impose—”

He expected Brooke to be the one to shoot down his protest. Instead, it was Derek. The man smiled warmly at him.

“You wouldn’t be imposing, Mark, trust me. It’s been a while since we had anyone to dinner, and I think that maybe Brooke is getting a little tired of the stilted conversation.”

“There isn’t any stilted conversation,” Brooke protested, more out of a sense of protectiveness than anything else. The truth was she’d spent a lot of time trying to get her father to talk to her about anything these days.

“No, you’re right,” her father agreed. “There’s hardly any conversation at all. There’s been a death in the—”

Derek abruptly stopped. He’d almost said “family” but had caught himself just in time. He couldn’t very well just drop this bombshell on Brooke, not like this. She deserved to hear this the right way. As far as his daughter knew, there were no other family members, just her and him. She hadn’t a clue that there was actually an extended family she knew nothing about. That there were cousins and that she was related, by marriage, to the affluent Walter Parks, perhaps one of the most manipulative, odious men to have walked the earth.

Someday, Derek thought, he’d sit her down and tell her who her father really was and where he had come from. As it stood right now, she knew very little about him. And wouldn’t it surprise Brooke to discover that she was related to Kathleen Carlton, the mystery author she held in such high regard? He could almost see her face.

But not tonight. He didn’t feel up to telling her the long story that led up to his being here in this small bookstore with her tonight. Maybe he wouldn’t feel up to telling her about it for a long time.

“A death in my circle of acquaintances,” Derek concluded.

Sorry, Marla, he silently apologized to his late sister, sorry to have to shove you aside like this one last time, but this is for Brooke, you understand.

Twenty-five years had gone by since he’d actually spoken to his older sister. Twenty-five years, and in all that time he’d always believed that someday he would attempt to bridge that gap with her, attempt to regain the ground they’d once shared as siblings when life had been so much less complicated. He would come to her and they’d patch things up and things could, for a little while, be the way they had once been.

But now there was no time. Death had seen to that, and the gap that had been created so long ago by that horrid man who had ruined so many of their lives yawned before him, deep and dark and bottomless.

If it wasn’t that he had accidentally stumbled across her obituary, which he’d discovered that her son had printed in all the major newspapers in the country per her request, he wouldn’t have even known she was dead. Because of his own reticence, there would be no reunions, no forgiveness, no restitutions. There would be, and was, only guilt—guilt and a deep, all-pervad-ing sadness for the time that had somehow managed to slip by without contact.

Sorry, Marla, he apologized again.

It was what he had been doing ever since he’d learned of his sister’s untimely death, apologizing to her spirit since he could no longer apologize to her person, apologize for dropping out of sight, for allowing his fear to get the better of him. For allowing his fear to make him abandon her to the life she had wound up living.

It was all Walter Parks’s fault. Walter Parks had killed her as surely as if he’d put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger.

But then, one way or another, the diamond czar was no stranger when it came to killing people, Derek thought. He’d witnessed it firsthand.

Derek became vaguely aware that Brooke was tugging on his arm. “Dad?”

Banning was looking at him curiously. Embarrassed, Derek forced himself to focus on the present before he totally slipped away into the quagmire that had become his thoughts.

He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Mark, I’ve been rather poor company for my daughter lately and you would be doing me a great favor if you would agree to join us for dinner tomorrow night. It won’t be anything fancy, but it will be home-cooked, something I suspect you don’t get very much of.”

Mark wondered if the man was just making idle conversation, or if Ross sensed that the man who was attempting to entrench himself into the perimeter of his life took most of his meals in the form of frozen dinners and take-outs.

Probably just idle conversation, Mark decided. He was getting too paranoid.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “A home-cooked meal would be a really nice change from what I’m used to.” He looked from Brooke to her father. “If you’re sure I wouldn’t be barging in.”

“We’re sure,” Brooke assured him with feeling.

She liked this man fate had brought into their bookstore, she decided. He was thoughtful and polite, two traits that weren’t all that common these days. Romantic traits, she mused.

Brooke wondered if he wrote poetry. Probably wouldn’t admit it even if he did, but thinking that he might gave her thought wings again. She didn’t want Mark leaving just yet.

“Dad, why don’t you take him over to the domestic history section while I finish putting the chairs away in the storeroom?”

“She fancies herself a little dictator,” Derek explained fondly as he looked at his daughter. “I tell you what, you show Mark to the domestic history section and I’ll put the chairs away.”

“I—”

And then she stopped. While she and her father were busy debating who would put the chairs away, the man she hoped would bring some kind of spark back into her father’s life was quietly doing it.

Mark had picked up four of the folding chairs, two in each hand, and was carrying them toward the door that was opened in the rear of the store. Quickly she grabbed two chairs and followed his lead.

“So, you’re a doer,” she said to him as she caught up, “not a talker.”

It amused Mark that for all intents and purposes, the naive young woman had hit the nail on the head. He preferred doing to talking. It seemed rather ironic to him that he was now in a position where he had to use verbal skills to get by.

“Pretty much,” he agreed.

Chapter Four

Walter Parks slowly paced around his spacious office, his small, brown eyes cold and drawn into slits as he chewed on the information he’d just gotten wind of. A rumor, really, but rumors had a nasty way of turning out to be true when they could cause the most trouble.

And that’s what this now meant. Trouble.

The expression on the diamond czar’s face was one that would have sent an enormous chill through the souls of those who worked for him. When the head of Parks Mining and Exploration was displeased, hardened men had been known to break out in a cold sweat and run for cover.

The sixty-year-old owner of the largest diamond import-export firm in the country was several levels above displeased and quickly approaching enraged.

An expensive bust of Hannibal caught his eye and he cleared it off its pedestal with one sweep of his arm. The sculpture by a then up-and-coming, now renowned, artist that he had picked up during his last visit to Florence broke into more than a dozen pieces at his feet. He kicked the largest one aside.

God damn it all to hell, why now?

As each decade of his life went by, bringing with it more and more financial success achieved in an above-board manner, Parks increasingly became more of a force to be reckoned with, and he knew it, prided himself on it. Based all of his fragile self-es-teem on it. He’d gone from being a shrewd, calculating man who knew how to make the best of every opportunity that came his way, to a man who created his own opportunities, then on to someone who didn’t care what he had to do in order to maintain his position at the top of the mountain. And he meant to keep it at all costs.

Along the way he had shed what little conscience he’d possessed to begin with.

There were skeletons in his closet as well as bodies, specifically one that had marked the beginning of his meteoric rise in the diamond field. He had married Anna to gain possession of her father’s firm, but it had been the demise of his chief rival, Jeremy Carlton, that had cleared the playing field for him and placed him on the track to exclusive power.

Thoughts of the late Jeremy Carlton, once his naive, so-called friend, had put that haunted look in his eyes. The look that, when flashed, sent lightning bolts of terror slashing through to his underlings.

And they were all underlings.

As far as he was concerned, everyone in his acquaintance was an underling. And he meant to keep it that way.

Walter fisted his hands, wanting to punch something, knowing that destroying something else wouldn’t remove the problem.

Frustration ate at him.

He refused to be toppled because of some sniveling, gutless man who had run like a frightened jackrabbit more than twenty-five years ago.

That was the rumor. That Derek Ross was still alive, that he had surfaced after all this time, and that somehow the younger brother of Jeremy’s wife, Marla, the woman he’d had an affair with a quarter of a century ago, posed a threat to him.

Damn Marla.

He’d thought that with her death he’d finally be free of the specter of fear that had whispered along the outer fringes of his mind all these years. Instead her funeral must have brought her brother out of the woodwork. It was then that the rumor had taken hold.

Flowering.

Growing.

The rumor that Derek Ross knew something, had seen something. That was the reason the man he’d just finished speaking to had told him that Tyler Carlton had hired a private investigator to find the man.

But what could Ross have seen? There’d been no one on board the yacht when he’d topped off Jeremy’s cognac with something that had more of a kick to it. A fatal kick. He’d set out straight to sea the moment the man had dropped dead and dumped his body into the dark waters. There hadn’t even been a full moon out.

What the hell could Ross have seen?

Parks cursed loudly. He didn’t know what Ross knew, and it could very well be nothing, but it was far too late in the game to take any chances. He was sixty years old, still in his prime with years ahead of him. And he meant to enjoy those years to the fullest. Without the threat of exposure.

His mind racing, he rubbed a hand over his face, over skin that had grown leathery before its time, a testimony to his love of sailing and the sun. There was nothing confining about the ocean. A man could be free there, free to be alone with his thoughts, not a prisoner of the endless details which always required him to be alert, to be forever on his guard.

Because if he let down his guard, even for a little while, it could prove to be the end of him.

Well, he wasn’t about to think about that, because it wouldn’t happen. He was Walter-God-Damn-Parks and he was damn well going to stay that way. He intended to remain a force to be reckoned with. A power. And if that meant having to snuff out yet another useless life, well, so be it.

Jeremy Carlton had been worth two of Derek Ross, maybe even three, and he’d had no trouble killing him. Killed him because Jeremy was the competition, because Jeremy had proof that he was involved in gem smuggling and because Jeremy was the better man. Eventually, if they persisted enough, good men triumphed.

But only if they were alive.

So he’d taken matters into his own hands and become the sole czar of the diamond world.

And he was going to remain that way.

Parks found himself back at his desk. He knew what he had to do.

Sitting down, he drew his telephone closer to him. It was safe to use—for the time being. Because industrial espionage was something he had had to live with on a daily basis, he had his rooms, both here and at home, as well as the telephone lines all checked for bugs first thing every morning. They’d been pronounced clear so he was free to make the call without worrying that someone was listening in. For now.

His mouth curved as he contemplated his solution. There were men who would do anything for a price. Men who lived in the shadows of life and did what they did not only for the money, but for the sheer love of it. For the thrill. For the challenge of the kill. He knew several such men and chose the best to do what needed to be done. Eliminate the source of his concern.

With an annoyed sigh, Parks upbraided himself for not having thought of doing this years earlier. Ross had always been a concern, no matter how minor. He was a loose end that hadn’t been tied or destroyed.

It was time to see to that. To destroy it. Maybe then, when Ross was dead, he would finally be able to get a decent night’s sleep.

Parks didn’t bother looking the number up in the electronic file that resided in his personal Palm Pilot. He knew the number by heart.

This wasn’t the first time he’d used the man’s services.

And it probably wouldn’t be the last.

“So, how are you doing?”

As Nick Banning walked into his brother’s small, austere apartment, he instantly made himself at home. And why not? They’d once shared this place together. He’d moved on to get one of his own, a bigger place, thinking that eventually Mark would do the same.

But his brother remained where he had first planted his roots, despite the fact that he knew Mark was doing very well in his P.I. business these days. Mark Banning’s name was well known among the police officers he worked with and mentioned with the kind of respect that wasn’t often given to private eyes. It was a tribute to Mark’s integrity and his ability, and Nick was more than a little proud of his older brother.

And more than a little concerned. Which was what had brought him here rather than going home after putting in a full day patrolling the streets with some of San Francisco’s finest.

Nick stopped by the refrigerator and took out a beer, then walked into the living room. Mark wasn’t there. Nick kept walking, reaching the main bedroom. It was the larger of two by about six inches.

Mark was in the closet, shifting hangers around, obviously looking for something.

At least he looked fairly all right, Nick thought, taking a drag from the amber bottle he held. Maybe things were getting better.

Last month had marked five years since it had happened. Five years since his brother had found his wife’s lifeless body in their small apartment. He’d come as soon as Mark had called him. When Mark had opened the door, he’d never seen anyone looking so shattered.

Even now Nick doubted if all the pieces had been glued together.

“It’s going,” Mark finally replied noncommittally. “I’m fine,” he added, knowing that was probably what his brother wanted to hear. He wasn’t fine, but that was beside the point.

Shoving another hanger aside, he frowned. All his shirts looked as if they could stand to be ironed. But he didn’t have time for that now. He was going to be running late if he spent any more time in his closet, and he still needed to get some wine to take to dinner.

With a half shrug, he made his selection. A long-sleeved light-blue shirt that looked less wrinkled than the others. Pulling it off the hanger, he shoved his arms through it as he came out of the closet.

Curious, watching Mark put on the new shirt, Nick sat down on the corner of the double bed.

“I tried calling you a couple of times today, but you weren’t answering.”

Mark finished buttoning his shirt, then tucked it into his pants. “I wasn’t home.”

“I tried your cell, too.”

“I shut it off.” He felt a wave of impatience. He’d only been here about five minutes before Nick had knocked on his door. He looked down at his shirt. Maybe he should start sending his shirts out. God knew he wasn’t any good at ironing them. Rather than get wrinkles out, he tended to get scorch marks in. “I was in a bookstore, seemed like the thing to do,” he explained about the cell.

His fingers about the bottle’s neck, Nick rolled the bottle back and forth as he looked at his brother thoughtfully. “The whole day?”

“Most of it.”

Looking into the mirror that hung over his bureau, Mark spread his hands over the front of the shirt, trying to press the wrinkles out of existence. After a few passes, it looked marginally better.

“Research?” Nick asked.

Mark thought of the lie he’d fed Ross and his daughter. “In a manner of speaking.”

Nick laughed, shaking his head. Nothing had changed. It was like trying to get information out of an echo chamber.

“You know, conversations with you were never marked with an overabundance of words flowing around.” Nick paused to take a drag of the bottle of beer he’d purloined from the refrigerator. “You on a case?”

“Yeah.” That was it, a case, a simple by-the-numbers case. Except that something in his gut told him that it wasn’t by the numbers at all. Something had told him that the moment he’d met Brooke Ross/Moss up close and personal.

Nick frowned, trying to pull the pieces together. “In a bookstore.”

“In a bookstore.” He yanked open the top drawer, looking for a tie. He vaguely remembered shoving in a few when he first came here. Which drawer was it? He let out an impatient breath. “It’s the one Tyler wanted me to take.” That was safe enough to say, considering it was Nick who had brought Tyler to him. “You know I can’t say anything more about it than that.”

“Not asking you to,” Nick reminded him. “Asking you how you are.”

He shoved one drawer closed and pulled open another. He knew he had ties somewhere, the question was where. “I already said fine.”

Nick moved a little closer to the edge of the bed. “Yeah, and that’s a preprogrammed response. People say ‘fine’ automatically, even if they’ve just been shot five times.”

Mark gave him an annoyed look over his shoulder. “I promise, if I’m ever shot five times, I won’t say fine if you ask me how I am.”

Nick knew what Mark was doing, he was throwing up a smoke screen, the way he always did. Mark never talked about how he’d felt about that day, not once. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” And he did. He knew Nick was worried about him and that he was thinking of the recent anniversary of Dana’s suicide, of the anniversary of his neglect.

He and Nick had always had a way of communicating that transcended words, a way of honing in on each other’s thoughts. Whether it was something that could be termed inherently genetic or something that had developed perforce because of all the separations they’d had to endure as children, he didn’t know. What he did know was that he and Nick had a very special, very real bond, and he’d been able to feel what Nick was feeling more than once. He figured the same was true in reverse.

Nick studied him as his brother moved from one drawer to the next, searching for something. He tried again, feeding his brother a line to build on. “It’s been five years.”

Mark’s tone was guarded. He didn’t want to talk about this and he was doing his very best to try to hold on to his temper. “Bound to happen. One month piles on top of another, eventually, five years has to come. Six should be next.”

Nick lost his temper first. “Damn it, Mark, you need to talk about it.”

Finally finding the nest of ties he’d tossed years ago into the bottom drawer, Mark pulled out the first one on the heap. Holding it aloft, its end moved in the air like a newly freed snake as he swung around to face Nick. Why couldn’t he take a hint?

“Talk about what? That I was blind? That I didn’t see it coming? That I was so into being the best damn cop I could be, so into going after that gold shield that I didn’t realize my own wife was going down for the third time?” Each sentence was punctuated with an abrupt movement as he went through the motions he only vaguely remembered of tying a tie, or a noose, around his neck.

Glaring at Nick, he turned back to the mirror and saw that he’d gotten it wrong. With a huff, he began the process again.

Nick talked to the back of his head. “She had problems, Mark, problems that had nothing to do with you,” he insisted.

His eyes met Nick’s in the mirror. “I was her husband, damn it, they had everything to do with me. Look, talking about it isn’t going to change a damn thing, so why don’t you just drop it? I don’t get to see you enough to waste time like this.”

Nick blew out a breath. “Okay.” He paused and then his eyes widened as the image he was looking at in the mirror sank in. “Is that a tie?”

Finished, Mark dowerly examined his handiwork. This time he’d gotten it right. He glanced toward Nick. “You the sharpest they got on the force? Because if so, I’d say the city was in big trouble.”

“Very funny, I know it’s a tie, what I mean is what’s it doing on you?”

Mark looked into the small mirror hanging over his equally small bureau one last time to make sure the ends of the odious appendage were where they were supposed to be. “Hanging.”

More teeth pulling, Nick thought with a shake of his head. “You hate ties.”

Yes, he did. Ties were the most useless articles of clothing in the world as far as he was concerned. Even worse than vests. “Part of the uniform.”

And then it hit him. Nick was off the bed and beside Mark as if someone had just set the comforter on fire. “You got a date?”

His brother looked so happy, so hopeful, as he blurted out the question that Mark was sorely tempted to say yes, he did. But that would have been a lie, and he had never lied to Nick, not when it mattered. The white lies of their childhood didn’t count.

He knew that Nick worried about him, that his brother wanted to see him socializing again, but dating had never been a really big priority for him, not even in high school. Maybe that was why, when Dana came along, he’d fallen for her like a ton of bricks. And that was why, since her death, he hadn’t gone out, not once. He’d staunchly resisted all the attempts of the other men on the NYPD force to set him up with someone. Resisted, too, all of Nick’s efforts to the same end.

He didn’t need to date. He was fine just the way he was. Unattached. A loner. At least he’d finally managed to find a kind of purpose for his life again. Which was a great deal better than looking for an end with every breath he took, the way he had when he’d come to the end of his police detective career back in NewYork City.

Nick was still looking at him hopefully, the half-empty bottle all but dangling from his fingertips.

No, Mark thought, no lies. “No, this is work related.”

Nick looked at him doubtfully. “They asked you to wear a tie?”

Mark tightened the knot. “Seemed like the occasion called for it.” He glanced at his watch. Now he was late. Time to hustle. “Look, I gotta go pick up a bottle of wine.” He grabbed a sports jacket. Outside the humidity was doing terrible things to the city at large, but he didn’t think he could very well turn up in shirtsleeves. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

Nick followed him to the door, surprise building on surprise. He knew about the case Mark was on. Tyler had filled him in as much as possible. But this didn’t sound like any case Mark had ever worked before. Mark was hiding something.

“Wine? You getting clients drunk these days?”

Mark checked his pockets for his keys. “Loosening their tongues,” Mark corrected. With that, he walked out, feeling his brother’s eyes boring into the back of his head.

There was a liquor store on the next block that seemed a little classier than the norm. Maybe he could find something there, he thought as he hurried away.

Half an hour later he was standing before a quaint, Tudor-styled two-story house in the center of Mill Valley, a bottle of some fancy-named red wine tucked under his arm. It occurred to him, as he reached for the doorbell, that he hadn’t asked if she was serving meat or fish. Somehow, he had a feeling she wasn’t the type to be strict about things like that. The door flew open before his fingers had a chance to make contact with the bell.

The next instant Brooke was standing in the doorway, her eyes warmly greeting him even before her lips did. Her hair, dark as midnight, was brushed away from her face and held in place by two tiny clips with white daisies on them. She looked younger than springtime and as sensual as a temptress all at the same time.

He’d spent the entire day in her company, or at least with her being somewhere in the immediate vicinity. There was a table and chairs in the back of the bookstore for people who wanted to browse through the books they were deciding whether or not to purchase. It was there that she had planted him—him and the more than a dozen books she thought he might find helpful.

When he’d made a comment that she was going to have him buying up half the store, she’d looked stunned. Brooke had been quick to tell him that he was welcome to glean everything he needed from the books and then return them to the shelves.

He’d almost laughed at her expression. She’d appeared so clearly distressed that he would take offense. “Then, how are you and your father ever going to make any money?”

“Oh, it’s not about making money,” she’d told him with no small amount of sincerity. “It’s about making friends. Money’s only a distant second.”

He’d thought that she really was very, very innocent and idealistic. “Try telling that to the electric company when it calls about an overdue bill.”

It was then that he had seen compassion enter her eyes. She’d sat down beside him, lowering her voice to a level he found unnervingly sensual even though he knew she meant nothing by it.

“Mark,” she began hesitantly, taking his hand, “if you need a loan—”

His mouth had dropped open then, astounded by the generosity she was displaying to someone who was a virtual stranger to her. Someone who, if he was right about her father, might very well be responsible for ultimately turning her world on its ear.

Someone who, at the very least, was lying to her.

Her offer, her generosity of spirit, made him feel guilty, and he didn’t like it.

“No,” he’d assured her very firmly. “I was just talking figuratively. Thinking about you and your father,” he emphasized.

It was then that she’d surprised the hell out of him. She’d leaned over and brushed a quick butterfly kiss against his cheek. The entire episode was so fleeting that it might have not happened at all.

Except that it had.

And the imprint was still there now, softly throbbing against his skin, as he stood on the doorstep, looking at her.

If her smile was any wider, it would take over her entire face. “You came.”

She looked so happy to see him that someone might have thought he was a long-lost lover. It seemed ridiculous, and yet he knew she was being genuine. She didn’t belong in this century, he thought. She belonged back with knights and poets, in an era where a man’s word was his bond.

“I said I would.”

“Yes.” Ignoring the bottle he was holding, she hooked her arm through his and drew him into the house, subtly closing the door behind him. “You did.”

Chapter Five

Seated at the small dining-room table, Mark was listening to Derek Ross talk about his store. It had taken a little coaxing, mostly on the part of the man’s daughter, but Derek now seemed to be warming to his subject and even more so, Mark noted, to his guest.

Anyone privy to the scene would have thought that he was an old family friend instead of someone they’d only met yesterday.

These people were much too open, Mark thought. That made his job a lot easier, yet he couldn’t help feeling somewhat protective and a little annoyed that they were so incredibly trusting. He would have thought that at his age, Ross would have known better. Trusting people were eaten up alive.

Glancing toward the doorway that led between the kitchen and the dining room, Mark saw Brooke walking in, holding a large platter before her. Mark quickly rose to his feet. Rounding the table, he went to take the platter from her.

Or attempted to, but she stopped him with a smile. “I’m stronger than I look.” He scanned her slender frame. Her height only added to her look of frailty.

“You’d have to be,” Mark heard himself saying, though not quite loud enough that he thought anyone else would hear him.

But she did.

Rather than take offense at some imagined slight, she just smiled more warmly. Brooke placed the platter down in the center of the table. The pot roast was surrounded by tiny, perfect potatoes she’d painstakingly peeled. “Why, do I look like I’ll break?”

He sat down again, aware that her father was studying him. More aware of the look in Brooke’s eyes. He doubted he’d ever met anyone quite so guileless and yet quiet so captivating.

Mark nodded at the platter she’d just set down. “You don’t look as if you weigh much more than that serving of meat you’re carrying.”

At the mention of dinner, Brooke’s attention was drawn back to the meal she’d been working on so diligently. For the first time in weeks she’d left her father to close up the shop and come home to start cooking.

Still, she didn’t want Mark to know just how much effort she’d put into it, in case the meal wasn’t to his liking. “It’s only pot roast.”

Listening to her inflection, Mark detected a note of apology in her voice. She needn’t have. It had been more years than he could count since he’d eaten anything from the supermarket that didn’t have microwave instructions slapped across the side of the container. Focusing on the career that never came her way, his late wife hadn’t been much of a homebody. When Dana cooked at all, her preferred setting was usually “broil” which inevitably escalated to “burn” because she’d always become distracted and forget to take whatever she was preparing out in time. As a result, they’d lived predominantly on takeout of the pizza and Chinese food variety.

The last meal of any import he remembered had been served to him by his mother. An odd twist of fate had made that pot roast, too.

“I’m partial to pot roast,” he told her, negating her undeclared apology.

“Well then, I guess you are in luck, Mark,” Derek told him as he helped himself to the bowl of peas and carrots that Brooke had put out earlier, “because nobody I know makes a better pot roast than Brooke.”

“Dad.” She tried not to look as pleased as she felt. Or as embarrassed. She passed a small basket of rolls to Mark. “You don’t have to brag.”

“Sure I do.” Derek chuckled, feeling better than he had in a long while. Life was beginning to regain some of its shape. He realized just how much he needed to live in the present, not the past or the future, just in the moment. He was glad Brooke had extended the invitation to this man. “It’s one of the few pleasures I have left in life.”

Taking a roll, Mark noticed that it was still warm from the oven. Strange how such small pleasures could seem so important. “Odd thing to say for a man who couldn’t be more than, what, forty-seven?”

Standing up to carve several slices of the pot roast for the others, Derek looked mildly surprised at the accuracy of the guess. He made an observation of his own. “That seems like an odd number to pick.” He offered the first slices to Mark. “Most people would have said forty-five or fifty.”

Mark moved his plate forward as he looked up at the man. “Well, you don’t look fifty, but you don’t sound forty-five. I thought I’d split the difference, in a manner of speaking, then shave it closer to the younger than the older.”

Satisfied at the reasoning, Derek smiled. “You’re being kind.” Finished serving his guest, he took his seat again, then gave himself several slices after first coaxing his daughter to take a few.

“I’d rather think it was insightful.” For form’s sake, Mark took the smallest sip he could of the wine he’d brought, his eyes on his quarry.

“Well, you are,” Brooke told him with a laugh that sounded like one of the tiny silver bells that had once hung on his family Christmas tree.

The memory startled him, and he looked at her, for one solitary moment completely captivated.

“Because he is,” Brooke continued, utterly unaware of the effect she’d just had on her guest. She was looking at her father. “Forty-seven. A very young forty-seven,” she insisted when she saw the protest rising on her father’s lips.

Enjoying the game, Derek nodded. “All right, since you seemed to be so insightful,” he allowed, “how old is Brooke?”

“Dad.”

Brooke pressed her lips together. Whether out of embarrassment or because that seemed like the proper response, Mark couldn’t tell. He only knew that the sight of her looking like that did something to him that he hadn’t expected and didn’t welcome.

There was a tolerant, reproving expression on her father’s face. These were two people who really loved each other, Mark thought. His own family life was so far in the past that it seemed to have happened to someone else.

And yet, being here, amid these people who were supposed to be strangers to him, he could feel faint rumblings of a connection he hadn’t felt in years.

“You’re much too young to take offense at age, Brooke,” Derek was saying.

She loved her father dearly, but he had a habit of treating her as if she were a child. “You make me sound as if I’m twelve.”

“Twice that, minus one,” Mark corrected, feeling mildly guilty over the so-called game.

The week he’d spent scouting out the store and its owner, he had also used every means at his disposal to learn everything he could about them. That way he could casually claim to have the same likes and dislikes, the same interests they did. In his experience, people had a tendency to be more open with those whom they felt had something in common with them.

During that time he’d kept himself separated from his subjects, the way he always did. As always, it had been easy for him.

It wasn’t quite so easy now.

Watching Brooke’s eyes widen with surprise was almost hypnotic. “That’s amazing. Have you always been this intuitive?”

“More observant that intuitive,” he corrected. He didn’t want her getting the wrong idea. If he strayed too far from the truth, he might not find his way back. “For instance, looking at you someone might say that you were older, but you’re very exuberant—”

Derek leaned forward, intrigued. “And in your experience, Mark, have you found that older people are less exuberant?”

Mark suddenly realized that the man he’d been sent to find reminded him of his father in a way. They had the same earnest way of talking, of creating a small haven within a world of turmoil.

He shook himself free of the feeling. “Older people tend to realize that life weighs more heavily than they’d first believed it might.”

“So, you’re a philosopher as well as a historian,” Derek concluded genially. He paused to take a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving his guest.

“Neither, really. Like I said, just an observer.” Mark looked down at his plate. He wasn’t here to focus attention on himself. He was trying to get as much information about Ross as subtly as he could. “You were right, Mr. Moss. This is very good.”

The laugh was surprisingly hearty for a man as wirily built as Derek. “Derek, please, and yes,” he looked toward his daughter, “I know.”

When Mark looked at her, as well, Brooke could feel a blush rising to her cheeks. Damn, now he was going to think she was a child instead of a fully-grown woman. It was very important to her that he not think of her as a child. That he see the woman she was.

She felt herself wanting to lower her gaze, but she managed not to. “I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t sure what to make for someone like you.”

He wasn’t sure how to take that. Did she somehow suspect…? “Someone like me?”

“A New Yorker.” Seeing that he had finished what was on his plate, she rose to cut several more slices of the quickly shrinking pot roast. Not waiting to offer it to him, she placed the three slices on his plate instead, then placed the remaining two on her father’s. “You’re probably used to fine restaurants—”

Mark made no effort to hide the small smile that came to his lips. In her own way she really was a little dictator, just like her father had claimed. “The finest restaurant food can’t compare with a home-cooked meal.”

“You don’t get very many of those?” she heard herself prodding. Was there a woman in his life, someone back in New York who he would be returning to before long? Who he might, even now, miss? As she waited for some kind of answer to her silent question, Brooke held her breath.

“None, really,” he freely admitted. “I never really learned how to cook very well myself. Somehow it always seemed like too much trouble to go through for just one person.”

Rays of hope began to dance through Brooke as she looked at the dark, handsome, mysterious stranger fate had brought to her doorstep. There was no point in trying not to smile.

“Well, while you’re here,” she heard her father saying, “feel free to drop by after the store’s closed. Nothing Brooke likes better than to cook for someone with a healthy appetite.”

Looking down at his plate, he realized that he’d finished not only the first serving, but the second, as well. The meat had all but melted like butter in his mouth, and he hadn’t paid attention to how quickly he was eating. Which was unusual for him because he always paid attention to all the details, small and large. “I guess I am digging in a little too much.”

“No, no,” Derek protested quickly and with feeling, “that wasn’t meant as a criticism, that was meant to encourage you.” He glanced toward his daughter. Very little of what she thought eluded him. “She’s been worried about me because I’ve been picking at my food. Picking at life, too, I suppose,” he admitted. He saw the surprised look on Brooke’s face. “Didn’t think I noticed you noticing? I did and I’m sorry, Brooke. I have a great deal to be grateful for. I just forgot about it for a while.”

Because the moment seemed to call for it and because he’d kept so much bottled up inside of him all these years, Derek went on to say in terms as veiled as he could manage, “I recently attended a funeral for someone I used to know a long time ago.” An ironic smile twisted his lips, much the way the same feeling had twisted his gut. “I always thought there would be time to get back in touch.”

He sighed, defeated for a moment and struggling not to be, “But obviously, time comes in limited supplies. I think I allowed that to get in the way of my making the most of the present.” He looked at his daughter, trying to convey his heartfelt apologies for putting her through all this. She shouldn’t have to spend her days worried about him. “Like enjoying good food. And good company.” Looking from Brooke to Mark, he raised his glass in a toast. “To good company.”

“To good company,” Brook echoed, turning her eyes toward Mark.

From the shadows, a full measure of guilt skewered into him, entirely unannounced. Mark had no choice but to lift his glass to join them.

“To good company.”

He watched Brooke sip from her glass and found himself staring. It took him a moment before he brought the rim of his own to his lips. Somewhere deep inside of him something stirred insistently. It was so foreign to him that at first he wasn’t even aware of it happening, and then, once he was, he wasn’t certain just what it was that was happening.

But this wasn’t a time for any self-exploration. He was here to do a job, to lay groundwork. To continue laying groundwork until he was certain he was right, that this was Derek Ross. And then, if this was Derek Ross, to get the man to meet with Tyler Carlton. His nephew.

What was more, not only was Tyler the late Marla Carlton’s son, but he and his twin brother, Tyler had told him in the strictest of confidence, were actually the illegitimate sons of Walter Parks. They’d been conceived that summer when Marla’s husband, Jeremy, once a friend of Walter’s and then his major competitor, mysteriously vanished from the face of the earth.

Mark’s eyes remained on the young woman. That would make Brooke, by marriage, the niece of one of the most rich and powerful men in the country.

It didn’t seem possible. With her flashing green eyes and quick, ready smile, she was such an innocent. And Parks, from everything that he had heard, was the epitome of corruption and evil.

But even evil could be overcome, destroyed. In this case it would just take a few courageous men to bring him down.

Men like Derek Ross.

If he was Derek Ross.

And if he could be convinced.

“You really don’t have to do this.” Brooke raised her voice above the sound of running water. It was her third protest, born of guilt. You didn’t make your guests help clean up. But it seemed to come naturally to him. She’d known the man for a little more than twenty-four hours and already he’d helped her twice, last night at the shop and now again here. Her father had conveniently faded away into the living room, sharing the company of a glass of the wine Mark had brought and one of his favorite books while he waited for them to return.

The dish washing was going slowly, and she was secretly happy that it was.

Mark turned away from the counter and the dishes he’d just brought in from the dining room.

“And you didn’t have to invite me over,” he pointed out, hoping that was the end the argument. It was all part of the image he was trying to spin, part of getting close to her father. She seemed the most direct route, and if his conscience was grumbling, well, he’d just have to turn a deaf ear to it. A greater good than just his fee was at stake here. “It really was a delicious meal.”

She started to protest, then bit down on her tongue. She had to learn how to accept compliments without trying to bury them beneath a pile of disclaimers. So instead, she smiled at him and murmured, “Thank you.”

Her whole being seemed to be smiling, he observed. Sparkling. It took effort not to let himself be drawn in. “I’m very partial to pot roast,” he heard himself saying, and realized that he’d already told her that. He tacked on, “My mother used to make it a lot.”

Brooke slipped the three dinner plates and utensils into the sink first. An army of suds moved to close over the temporary space. She glanced over her shoulder at Mark.

“She doesn’t anymore?” The moment she said it, she upbraided herself. The trace of a smile that had been on his lips vanished.

“My mother died when I was ten.” Even after all this time, the words still had a sharp, prickly taste to them as they came out of his mouth.

She wanted to hug him, to tell him she knew how it felt to lose a parent.

“How awful for you. And for your father,” she added, thinking of how lonely her own had been all these years without her mother.

“Yes and no,” he confessed before he could give any thought to it. He was usually guarded when it came to what he said. But for some reason, in the presence of her compassionate eyes, the words seemed to be coming a little faster and far more freely than he had intended. “My father died along with her.”

Then he was an orphan, she thought. “Car accident?” It was the first thing that occurred to her.

“No, a shooting.”

He had every intention of cutting it off right here. Nowhere was it written that he needed to bare any of his soul in the pursuit of his quarry. Yet he couldn’t find it in himself to just shut down. Not when Brooke was looking at him that way. As if she was right there, sharing it all.

“We’d just finished eating at a restaurant for my mother’s birthday.” A small bittersweet smile played on his lips as he remembered. “My dad didn’t think she should have to cook on her birthday, so he took us all out to this new, fancy French restaurant that she’d been wanting to go to.” His face sobered as the events rose up before him. The noises, the smells, the screams—he remembered them all. And always would. “The police were chasing this robber, and he swung around to fire at them. Ran right past us as we were coming out. My parents were in the way, trying to protect my brother and me and—” He couldn’t continue the narrative. It was far too painful for him.

“They died,” he concluded roughly. Though it had happened so long ago, his throat still felt scratchy as he talked about it. Still felt as if it was going to close off, taking away all his air with it.

Her hands flew up to her mouth and her heart pounded hard as she relived the moments with him. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

Deeply moved, Brooke dropped her hands from her face, her eyes riveted on his face, on the extreme pain she saw there. This was a man who’d loved his parents, a man who still grieved for them after all this time. She understood, because there were times she still ached for the mother she’d never known, the one who existed in the stories her father had told her over the years.

The one who existed in his eyes whenever he mentioned her name.

Without thinking, she took a step closer to him, inclined her head, brushing her lips against his cheek.

She’d meant the contact to be only one kindred spirit—because she did feel so close to him right now—offering comfort to another. There was nothing sexual intended, nothing more.

But the moment her lips touched his cheek, something more came into existence.

She blinked and drew her head back, looking at him. The next moment, she moved forward again and submerged herself once again in the kiss, but this time on his lips.

He caught hold of her shoulders, meaning to push her away. Gently but firmly.

But the intention somehow never came to fruition.

Instead, he found himself holding her to him. Holding his breath as well. And trying very hard to keep his head, his senses, from spinning out of control.

She tasted of innocence, of sweetness and of everything he’d felt he lost all those years ago, standing before that restaurant, holding on to Nick who was crying, doing his very best to be brave while everything inside of him was screaming No!

Any noble inclination Mark might have had of drawing away from this woman was aborted in the face of the sustenance she, wittingly or unwittingly, offered him. Like someone hovering above the scene he was watching, Mark cupped her face with his hands and kissed her as if the very act could somehow unaccountably save his soul.

He knew it wasn’t possible. His soul had been lost a long time ago.

He couldn’t stop kissing her anyway.

Chapter Six

The next moment, as he felt Brooke lean into him, Mark felt his restraints breaking apart one by one like so many brittle slats of a sun-bleached fence. Desire came out of nowhere, assaulting his senses, taking them completely by surprise. He hadn’t felt anything remotely like this since he’d first held Dana in his arms.

It was like coming out of a coma to discover that he hadn’t died, that he was still alive. That he could feel things that normal men felt.

And then he caught sight of his reflection in the window above the sink. Caught sight of the scar, livid and disfiguring, that zigzagged just beneath his eye.

He was a monster.

What the hell was he thinking, allowing this to happen? Was he trying to create his own version of Beauty and the Beast? If nothing else, this was unprofessional. Worse than that, it was morally wrong. Brooke was a young woman who had all of life before her, he was a jaded thirty-year-old man who, for all intents and purposes when it came to love, to home, hearth, family, had left all of that far behind him.

He had nothing to give her and she had every right to everything that life had to offer.

The sweetness of her mouth had seduced him for a moment, but only for a moment. His common sense had returned to keep him from compounding what was a grave mistake.

This time, when Mark took hold of Brooke’s shoulders, he gently pushed her away. Her eyes looked dazed at the sudden feel of air against her face. The soft lines of her lips were blurred from the imprint of his. Mark felt something tighten within his gut, but he held his ground. He had to.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

She blinked, as if to clear her head. A smile slowly curved her lips. He found it incredibly sensual. “You didn’t. At least, not to begin with. I did.” And then a look that was a little akin to embarrassment touched her features. “Didn’t I do it right?”

“What?”

How could she possibly ask that question? The kiss had been so perfect, it had left him dazzled. If she had been older, or he younger, and not who he was…But he was who he was and too much of life had left its mark on him. There was no excuse for his allowing this to have happened. Her tongue darted along her lips, moistening them. Making something inside of him ache.

“I mean,” she began again, “I realize that you must be accustomed to women who are sophisticated and experienced—”

Mark stared at her. Was she apologizing? For perfection? How insane was that?

“That has nothing to do with it. And I’m not.” There were no women, sophisticated or otherwise, in his life and there hadn’t been, not since Dana. He made an effort to begin again. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you kiss.”

Confusion creased the brow beneath her jet-black bangs. “Then why did you stop? Why did you push me away?”

“Because—” The words wouldn’t come, wouldn’t arrange themselves into neat, precise sentences that explained everything. He fell back on the visual. That should have been enough, anyway. “Look at me, Brooke.”

She turned her face up to his, her gaze unwavering. “I am looking at you.” Unable to take it, he turned the offending part of his face from her. “Doesn’t my scar frighten you?”

“Not particularly.” She thought of their first meeting, but this time the color didn’t rise to her cheeks. This wasn’t about her reaction to him; this was, she had a feeling, about his reaction to himself. Brooke did her best to downplay the whole incident. “I admit that you did make me jump last night in the shop, but that was only because I didn’t think there was anyone else there.” Her eyes twinkled as she made an admission. “Sometimes when it’s late and I’m alone in the shop, I hear things.”

He didn’t follow her. “Things?”

She nodded. “Things that aren’t there. That go ‘bump in the night,’” she elaborated. She quickly finished washing the rest of the utensils, leaving them on the rack to dry. “I’m afraid that I have a very vivid imagination. I always have.” Turning toward him again, she took a towel and wiped her hands. “When I first saw you, I thought you were one of those people come to life.”

He tried not to notice how the light was playing across her face. How the soft wisps of her hair framed her face. How much he wanted to kiss her again and break all of his own rules.

“Those people?”

“You know the ones.” She leaned her hip against the side of the sink, her expression becoming a shade dreamy. “The romantic heroes in the classics. Like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights.”

“I know who Heathcliff is,” he told her. It had been required reading in some high school English class he’d taken more than a decade ago. He couldn’t remember the teacher’s name, but he remembered relating to Heathcliff because the protagonist had been an introverted orphan, like him. “He didn’t have a scar.”

“Not on his face,” she allowed. “But his soul was scarred. That’s what made him do the things he did.” She looked up into his eyes. “I’ve always believed that it’s what’s inside, not outside, that counts.” She drew her courage to her, resisting the temptation to place her hand on his chest. She was a toucher by nature, but she sensed that he was just the opposite. That touching made him back away. “Is your soul scarred, Mark?”

If the words had come from anyone else, he would have said they were empty platitudes said for form’s sake. But he felt Brooke genuinely believed what she was saying to him. She was still young enough to believe in things like hope and goodness. She had yet to learn that they were myths, like Santa Claus and elves.

Mark looked at her for a long moment, weighing his answer.

Then finally he said “No,” because to say yes, to say that any human being over the age of fifteen had some kind of scarring of his soul unless he—or she—was very, very sheltered, would have led her to launch another volley of questions at him, none of which he wanted to answer. He’d already shared far too much of himself tonight.

“Brooke, are you interrogating our guest?” Mark turned to see that Derek was standing in the doorway. Had he been there long?

“No, Dad.” She lifted her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “Just making polite conversation.” The nod Derek sent his way told Mark the man knew better. And then he laughed as well.

“I apologize if she’s been asking things she shouldn’t. Brooke has an insatiable thirst to know everything.” There was no missing the affection that came into the man’s eyes as he looked toward his daughter. “I always told her that she would make a great private investigator, delving completely without shame into places she had no right to be.”

“She was just making conversation,” Mark echoed her response.

It earned him a wink and a smile from Brooke, both of which astonished him as they homed in on and hit him right where he lived.

It was time to leave.

He didn’t want to overstay his welcome. And more than that, he needed time to pull himself together and do a little damage control. He’d committed a breach tonight, a serious breach of protocol during which he’d allowed the lines between his professional and personal life to blur. That was so wrong, he didn’t know where to begin. Because he hadn’t kissed her as the temporarily transplanted New York City would-be writer, but as himself. As Mark Banning, lost soul, veteran of the tragedies that life sometimes carelessly throws in your path, not once but as many times as it felt like it.

He was going to have to get that under control before he ventured on with this investigation. If he didn’t, there would only be trouble ahead.

Mark pretended to look at his watch. “Well, it’s getting late and I’d better get going.”

Brooke bit her lower lip. She’d frightened him off. Damn, she hadn’t meant to do that. She was going to have to work on not letting her impulses get the better of her. Still, she didn’t want to see him leave. She looked toward her father to say something, but it was obvious that to him, part of being a good host meant allowing your guest to leave when he wanted to.

So it was up to her. “But it’s not even ten o’clock yet.”

There was just a hint of a pout to her protest. Mark had a sudden urge to kiss the pout out of existence. He was leaving just in time.

“I want to get an early start in the morning.” He addressed his words to both Derek and Brooke. “I came across several sections in a couple of the books I bought that I want to digest a little more fully.” He took Der-ek’s hand, shaking it. “Mr. Moss, Brooke, thank you for your generous hospitality.”

“It’s I who should be thanking you,” Derek told him, returning his handshake. “It was a wonderful evening. You made me remember why I love this city so much.”

Brooke hooked her arm through Mark’s and began to walk him to the living room and the front door beyond. “Will you be stopping by the shop anymore?”

She was saying exactly what he wanted her to say. He felt no triumph. It was a little like the sensation he imagined fisherman felt about shooting fish in a barrel. The quota was guaranteed to be met but the feeling was far from satisfying.

“You’ve already been more than generous with your time.”

Was that a no, she wondered. Oh God, she hoped not. Brooke mentally scrambled for a way to make him return to the store.

“If you feel that way, you can dedicate the book to me,” she told him suddenly. “To me and to my father.”

The moment she uttered the words, she liked that idea even better. Her father deserved to have a book dedicated to him. He deserved to have a library’s worth of books dedicated to him. Over the years he’d done more than his share to help one struggling poet or short-story writer after another and had yet to gain any recognition for it. And he did love books so much.

Brooke opened the front door, then stopped and looked up at the somber man before her. She had a feeling that Mark Banning was not about to forget a promise he might make.

“A dedication,” he repeated. “I hadn’t thought about that. Sure, why not?” Another lie to add to the others, he thought.

Overjoyed, she had to restrain herself to keep from kissing him again.

“I really hope you decide to come back. To the bookstore,” she qualified, although if he came there, she meant to have him come to the house again, too. “I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful this has been for my father.”

The declaration surprised him. He hadn’t expected her to say that. “Your father?”

He watched as her brow furrowed ever so slightly beneath the silky black bangs. “Yes, he’s been so withdrawn lately. This evening has been wonderful for him. He’s so much more like his old self.” Taking Mark’s hands in hers, she literally beamed at him. He could all but feel the rays seeping into his being. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Gratitude always made him feel uncomfortable. And misplaced gratitude did the job that much more so. “There’s no need.”

“Oh, but there is,” she insisted.

She couldn’t remember when she’d last met a man as humble as this one. The flesh-and-blood heroes of her world were the poets and writers who came to give readings at the store, and, to a man, they were all full of themselves. This man was an incredible breath of fresh air.

“I believe that everyone should know when they’ve done something exceptional.” Afraid of being overheard, she slipped outside with Mark and pulled the door closed behind her. “Until you came along, my father had transformed from a sweet, brilliant, outgoing man to someone who spent hours just staring out the window. It was as if his soul had been stolen from him. As if he was waiting for something to return to him.”

That would be in keeping with the profile he’d mentally sketched out of his quarry. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Every time I tried to talk to him about it, to get him to tell me what was wrong, he would just put me off or say that I was imagining things again. But I wasn’t,” she insisted. “I know what I saw, and I didn’t see my father, just an empty shell he’d left behind.” And then she smiled again, her serious moment passing. He found the transformation almost hypnotic. “But you brought him back. You got him talking about what he loves. Thanks to you, he looks alive again.”

“It would have happened anyway,” he told her. And then he paused, his eyes on hers, another salvo of guilt threatening to hit him. This was his job, he reminded himself. There were a great many questions left that needed to be answered. He’d played roles before, taking on the guise of a friend, a confessor. This was no different, he insisted silently. “Any idea what might have made him change like that?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I know it has something to do with the funeral he went to.”

How much did she know, he wondered. She seemed too open to keep anything back if he asked. “Do you know whose?”

Brooke shook her head. Again that helpless, frustrated look came into her eyes. “He wouldn’t tell me. Said he would someday, when he could talk about it, but that I should give him a little time.” It seemed as if she was silently appealing to him for help. He grew more uncomfortable. “My father’s never talked like that before, either. I was always the first one he turned to, the first one to know whatever he knew. He shared everything with me.”

Brooke paused. She saw the hint of a grin on Mark’s lips. It had a way of blotting out all traces of the scar he was so self-conscious about. Had she said something funny? “What?”

Maybe it was the language of families, Mark thought. “You sound like someone I met recently.”

He’d almost said client. It had been a runaway case. A sixteen-year-old boy had asserted his independence, as well as his shortsightedness, and run away from home. It had taken Mark over three weeks of nonstop tracking to finally corner the boy in Dearborn, Michigan, more than a thousand miles from home. Broke, hungry and lost, the boy was ready to admit that independence on its own wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“She was saying the exact same things,” he told Brooke, “except that she was saying them about her teenage son.”

She supposed it did sound a little like that. Brooke lifted a shoulder, letting it drop carelessly.

“Maybe this is my father’s second childhood,” she allowed, then thought better of it, “but I really don’t think so. Something has him upset, very upset. He’s even letting the business slide, and he’s never done that before.”

“Maybe he thinks you’re old enough to handle it for him now.”

Maybe, but that wasn’t the point. “But tonight, dinner here with you was like old times.” She made an appeal to him, not like a dreamy-eyed woman smitten with a handsome, mysterious stranger, but a daughter who loved her father and wanted him back again. “I don’t want to lose that, Mark.”

She was holding his hand, as if trying to seal him to a bargain. There was no way he could have refused her, even if the plan hadn’t been to turn up at the bookstore tomorrow to leech more information out of them, out of Derek, as he pretended to have more questions about this city of the seven hills that Brooke and her father were so passionate about.

That was another connection between Derek Ross and Derek Moss, Mark mused. Ross had been born here. He’d had family here. Granted there had been a twenty-five-year mysterious rift, but it would stand to reason that he would want to remain close by, in case there was ever an opportunity to mend that rift.

Mark eased into his own opportunity. He was beginning to think he should reduce the fee he was charging Tyler. Brooke was making it almost too easy for him. “Then you won’t mind if I come by the bookstore tomorrow and continue to browse around some more?”

“Mind?” she laughed. “I’ll even bring the coffee and cake.” It was a tradition her father had begun at Buy the Book long before the book chains had decided to incorporate small, trendy coffee shops beneath the roofs of their stores.

“I don’t need coffee and cake,” he told her. “Just make sure the books are there.” And then, because the look in her eyes required it, he added, “And you,” hating himself for doing it.

Because while it was true, while he did look forward to seeing her, he shouldn’t. He was leading her on. Once this case was solidly locked up, once he was certain that Derek Moss was Derek Ross and delivered him to Tyler, most likely he would never see Brooke again.

And she would be a little less innocent for it, discovering that men could lie for their own ends. Even to a face as pure, as compellingly beautiful and fresh as hers.

“I’ll be there,” she promised.

She slid the tip of her tongue along her lips, an unabashedly hopeful look in her eyes. He knew what she wanted. What he wanted, as well. But because he wanted it, he kept a tight rein on himself. So he leaned forward and brushed a fleeting kiss to her lips, then forced himself to walk away before anything more could come of the moment.

There was a very special seat in the hottest corner of hell reserved for him, Mark decided as he quickly walked away from the warm, inviting glow of Brooke and her house and toward his car. If there hadn’t been already, there was one now.

Telling himself that he was only working a case, that he was trying to further the cause of a very good man—a man who was being denied his birthright due to circumstances beyond his control—hardly did anything to assuage his conscience.

There was no way to sugarcoat the fact that he was deliberately using Brooke. Not ruthlessly, but still, for his own ends, not hers.

The fact that he meant her no harm didn’t alter the fact that he was kissing her under false pretenses. She thought he was some romantic knight in rusty armor while he was actually behaving like someone far less noble. He knew exactly how someone as impressionable, as innocent as Brooke Ross would see it. Once she discovered his true identity and his real purpose in being here, she would be crushed by the deception.

That settled it, he promised himself as he got into his vehicle. His lips were not going to touch hers again. Never mind that she tasted of sweet, ripened strawberries with the first kiss of the summer sun on their skin. He had no need of strawberries. A man who had nothing to offer had no right sampling strawberries.

From now on he was going to conduct this investigation by the book, the way he always had before. And no one was going to be hurt.

That meant keeping her at a proper distance.

Easier said than done, he thought the following morning as he walked into Buy the Book.

He had purposely waited until after the store was officially open for business before coming in. He wanted Brooke to be busy so that he could seek out her father and see if he could learn anything more, perhaps see if the man was willing to admit to ever “meeting” Walter Parks. All it took was properly manipulating the conversation in the right directions. He figured he could accomplish that better without Brooke around as a distraction.

But the moment he walked into the store, he saw her. It was as if he had his own built-in radar and it was tuned to her.

Brooke’s long, shiny black hair was loose about her shoulders, and for all her innocence and young age, she looked like a temptress. He found himself wanting her the moment her eyes turned in his direction. The moment her lips peeled back into a smile that could rival the sun that was shining so brightly just outside the store’s front door.

Murmuring something to the customer she was with, Brooke apparently excused herself and made her way over to him. The wattage from her smile increased. He could almost feel the rays.

Or was that just a precursor to the fires of hell he’d thought about last night?

“Hi,” she said brightly. “So, what’ll it be today?”

He realized he was staring at her and forced himself to focus. “Excuse me?”

“What’ll it be?” she repeated. “Are you interested in exploring San Francisco’s past history or its current one? Because we just received a book this morning that my father got in an estate sale. It was a diary of someone written in the first half of the twentieth century. It might be just the thing you need to look over if you’re really interested in San Francisco’s history.”

He’d already done a little boning up on the subject before he’d ever approached Brooke and her father in his present guise as a writer. And yesterday had contained a great deal of reading material he’d had to go through the motions of perusing. As far as he was concerned, he was full up on history, but he knew that the person he was pretending to be would have been fairly enthusiastic about the find she was describing.

“I’d like to see it, if your father wouldn’t mind.”

She liked that he was so mindful of her father’s feelings. Liked a lot about him, she thought.

“We haven’t had a chance to unwrap it yet.” She nodded toward the rear of the shop. “It’s in the storeroom.” With that, she turned on her heel and started to walk back.

He tried not to notice the way her hips swayed as she led the way.

Chapter Seven

Music softly playing in the background was the only sound that Tyler Carlton heard within the small San Francisco apartment he now called home. That and the occasional shuffling of papers as he turned a page. He wasn’t even sure what kind of music it was. It didn’t matter. He’d flipped on the radio as a block against an all-pervading silence as he did what he did every night after he came home from work. He waded through a mountain of old papers. Searching.

Tyler’s frown made him appear far older than his twenty-four years. He felt far older, at least, he had these past few weeks.

It wasn’t that he’d exactly had a life of hardship up to this point, but dealing with the emotional issues that had swept over him recently without warning like a mile-high tidal wave had definitely taken their toll on him. In a way he was still reeling, even as he desperately tried to tread water.

He and his twin brother, Conrad, were the younger two in a family of four siblings. From the day he was born, he’d grown up fatherless, but with a mother he adored. Marla Carlton had been the best mother he could have asked for. But he’d always felt that she was harboring some sort of secret. A secret that made her eyes look so sad in unguarded moments, even when she was laughing and playing with her children.

Up until the week before her death, he’d always felt that the sadness had been due to his father’s untimely death. Marla Carlton had been widowed early in her life. Her husband, Jeremy, the man Tyler had always believed to be his father, a solid, hardworking man in the up-and-coming diamond import company he had founded, had just begun to see the true measure of success when he had suddenly died under extremely mysterious circumstances. His father had left her widowed and pregnant with twins at the age of thirty.

Rallying, his mother had moved her tiny family to Colorado and made a life for them all as best she could. Granted, while he was growing up, they hadn’t been what could be termed well off, but they’d been happy and had never lacked for love.

It wasn’t until his mother was on her deathbed nearly eight months ago that she’d told them all something that completely rocked his world and tore out the carefully laid foundations from beneath him.

Looking pale and worn, her beautiful green eyes silently asking for forgiveness for the lie she had allowed them to believe all these years, she’d told his brother and him that the sisters they’d grown up playing with were only their half sisters. That she’d had a brief affair with Walter Parks and that Tyler and his twin were the result of that affair.

It had been a bitter pill to swallow, and at first he’d thought that maybe it was the illness playing with her mind, making her believe things that weren’t true. But it wasn’t. His mother had been very lucid that afternoon. And very determined to tell them everything before there was no more time left.

He’d held her hand in his and let her talk. And let her shatter his world.

He’d grown up loving a father whom he’d thought had been taken from him. Now, sitting here at his kitchen table, old correspondences and papers spread out in all directions, he was looking for proof that his father wasn’t dead, and if not noble or kind the way he’d always believed, at least alive.

He had mixed feelings about that. Mixed feelings about giving up his hold on Jeremy Carlton and admitting to the world that he was actually the product of an illicit affair between his impressionable mother and a man who was feared by many and well thought of by none.

Tyler didn’t like the idea of being Walter Parks’s son.

If it were up to him, he would have let the matter slide, the way Conrad had after their mother’s funeral. But his conscience wouldn’t let him. His mother had begged him to find proof that would allow his brother and him to claim their heritage from a man who had destroyed their lives. She made it clear to them that in her heart she felt that Walter Parks, the man who had pretended to love her, to be mesmerized by her, had done it all with an ulterior plan.

He’d done it to gain her help in preventing Jeremy from exposing him as a thief and a smuggler. He’d done it to get hold of Jeremy’s thriving business. She was convinced that the man she’d taken to her bed was responsible for her husband’s death. And, she had whispered, there was proof.

She’d begged him on her death bed, and he had given her his word to do everything possible to bring all the hidden facts to light.

No matter how much he ached to continue believing that the kind, upstanding, honest man whose picture was on the mantel was really his father, he knew he had to follow his mother’s wishes. And, in so doing, to claim what would have been his mother’s due.

With any luck, once that was accomplished, he could also bring the man who had given Conrad and him life to justice.

The frown on his lips softened into an ironic smile. A smile that held no humor behind it. Life was very strange and twisted sometimes.

Tired, Tyler leaned back and took a moment to sip from the can of beer he’d taken from the refrigerator. Dinner. According to his mother, he had an uncle he knew nothing about. An uncle who could help him prove what she had told him and his brother and sisters. Uncle Derek Ross, her younger brother.

It was hard picturing his mother as an older sister, he thought. She’d probably been more like Sara than Kathleen, he mused. Bossy, with a heart of gold.

His mother had long since lost track of Uncle Derek and had only a photograph taken of the two of them some twenty-five years ago to offer him.

When he’d looked at it for the first time, he’d experienced a strange feeling undulating through him. The man looked like his mother.

She’d died less than a week after extracting her promise from him. The pain hadn’t lessened any. Pulling strings, he’d seen to it that his mother’s obituary had been printed in all the major newspapers in the country, citing where and when the funeral would be held. He’d done it hoping to flush out Parks and perhaps this mysterious uncle.

Parks had been a no-show. No real surprise there, Tyler thought. But there had been someone at the funeral who’d looked a great deal like the computer-aged photo he’d generated of Derek Ross. He’d only noticed the man at the back of the crowd at the cemetery right after the service was over.

But just as he’d started to approach him, the man he thought was his uncle had abruptly walked away. By the time he’d caught up to where he’d been, the man had pulled away in a taxicab.

Not about to give up this slim lead, Tyler had managed to track down the cab driver who had brought the mysterious mourner to the funeral and then driven him away. The cabby had told him he had no idea who his fare was, only that he had taken the man straight to the airport after the funeral and that he’d said something about catching a plane for San Francisco. The cabby said the man made it sound as if he lived there.

Since San Francisco was also where his alleged father lived, it seemed like the place to go. Tyler had called a family meeting, proposing that they pool their resources and move to San Francisco. But Kathleen and Conrad hadn’t wanted to pursue this, hadn’t wanted to possibly drag their mother’s name through the mud. They preferred leaving things just as they were. With their mother gone, who would be the wiser?

But all he could do was remember that he’d held his mother’s hand in his and given her his word. So he and Sara were left to continue this crusade on their own. Together they’d moved to San Francisco, to do what needed to be done.

But somewhere along the line, Sara had dropped out, too. In an attempt to get close to the family, she’d wound up falling for Parks’s son, Cade. That left only Tyler to bring Parks to justice and avenge the wrong done to his mother.

He didn’t intend to get sidetracked.

He joined the police force shortly after arriving in San Francisco. That was where he met and struck up a friendship with Nick Banning, who told him about his brother, Mark, a former NYPD detective who now earned his living as a private investigator. Tyler knew that he couldn’t do this all on his own, that he needed help. One meeting with Mark Banning told him he had the right man for the job.

So he had hired Mark to find Derek, telling him as much as he could about the case, hoping that between the two of them he could fulfill his mother’s dying wish, if not resolve matters to his own satisfaction.

And if they did find Derek—even if the man couldn’t be convinced to tell all he knew about Parks in a court of law—when this was over he would have at least gained an uncle.

Gaining a notorious, much-disliked father was another matter.

He sighed as he continued going through the box of correspondence he’d discovered in a strongbox amid his mother’s things. It was a hunt he took no pleasure in, but then, revenge was a dish best served cold.

And, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time, he was doing this for his mother, not himself.

He took another sip of beer and then settled in to get back to work.

Hearing her laugh, Mark glanced up from the book he’d been leafing through for the past hour.

Brooke was at the far end of the store, talking to a customer, charming them without even knowing it. He doubted she was aware of the kind of effect that she had on people. That’s what made her even more charming.

Five days had passed.

Five days in which he had steadily gotten himself more and more entrenched in the lives of these two unsuspecting people who were ultimately going to be deeply—and, no doubt, harshly—affected by his discovery.

There was almost no doubt in his mind that Derek Moss was the man he’d been sent to find. Even so, he felt he needed a little more evidence to back up what his gut already knew to be fact.

Gut instincts were not admissible in court.

And circumstantial evidence was the first to fall prey to an able attorney.

He wanted more. According to the story that Tyler Carlton had told him, twenty-five years had gone by, so a few more days wouldn’t hurt. After all, it wasn’t as if they were involved in some kind of race against time. Walter Parks wasn’t going anywhere.

Mark gave himself a myriad of reasons for his need for more evidence, not once admitting that perhaps the true reason he was taking such painstaking time with this case was because he was enjoying Brooke’s company. Enjoying the company of a woman when he had ceased to believe that pleasures like that were possible for him.

He didn’t want it to end.

And once he told Derek that he knew who he really was, once he made the attempt to convince Marla Carl-ton’s brother not only to allow his nephew to get in contact with him, but to talk to the D.A. about what he knew, the charade would be over. And Brooke would be out of his life.

Permanently.

It was like asking a prisoner who had recently been released from a cave to willingly give up the sunshine he’d discovered and return to darkness. Mark knew he had to, that it was inevitable, but he wanted just a little more time in the light. So that when the prison of darkness was a reality again, he could look back and remember what it was like to sit in the sun, to feel its warmth along his skin. To pretend that he was able to enjoy life’s innocent pleasures just like everyone else.

He didn’t think it was too much to ask.

Sending the customer on his way, Brooke turned on her heel and began to walk toward him. She nodded at another customer who said goodbye and then left the store. She seemed to be sweeping the place clear.

Mark closed the book he hadn’t been reading and moved it aside on the table. As he stood up, she picked the book up. “Not to your liking?”

“Some of the others are more in keeping with what I’m looking for,” he lied.

She nodded, accepting his excuse and went to put the book back on the shelf. He followed in her wake. It occurred to him that there were only a couple of customers left in the shop and that they were now in the checkout line.

“Are you closing up early?” he asked.

She knew Mark was referring to the reading they were holding tonight. It was scheduled for six-thirty. A great many of their regulars were expected, people whose fancies were still stimulated by the power of the spoken word. People who needed no visual aides to help their imaginations take flight. She’d always looked forward to readings, but now she was looking forward to the one tonight for a different reason.

Always before, the authors who came to read here would captivate her so that by evening’s end, she would be more than half in love with them. But tonight all she wanted to do was share the experience of a dramatic reading with Mark.

She wanted to watch his face, to hopefully see something stirring within him the way it did within her every time she attended a reading. She supposed that what she wanted so desperately was proof to substantiate her belief—her hope—that they were kindred spirits.

“Just a little earlier.” She picked up another book that had been left behind and placed it in the right order on a shelf. Looking around, she satisfied herself that the store was neat. Behind her, the front door opened and closed as another customer left. “I need to set up the chairs.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder, stopped her before she could run off. “Why don’t you take care of whatever else needs doing? I’ll set up the chairs.”

“That’s very nice of you,” she murmured, pleased. She didn’t particularly like having to drag out all the chairs. “If you wouldn’t mind doing it—”

“Consider it done,” he told her.

She watched him walk back to the storeroom, a smile spreading on her lips.

So this was what it felt like, she thought. This was what it felt like to have someone you cared about doing things for you. And she cared about Mark, maybe had even fallen for him. Not in the same fanciful way she always found herself falling for whatever struggling poet or writer her father would invite for a reading, but for a flesh-and-blood real man.

She realized now that the authors who came here looked upon her as an empty vessel they could infuse with their rhetoric, allowing them to bask in their own self-perceived glory.

Mark hadn’t allowed her to read a single word of what he was writing. He’d told her that it wasn’t ready for anyone’s eyes, but that she would be the first one he’d show it to once it was.

The first.

She liked the sound of that. Liked the promise of that.

“That last sigh sounded big enough for you to float away on.”

Brooke turned around to find that her father was standing right beside her, an indulgent smile on his lips. She flushed slightly. “Sorry, I wasn’t even aware that I was sighing.”

“You were.” He nodded toward where Mark had begun setting up chairs. “Does it have anything to do with our young writer friend over there?”

She’d never managed to hide things from her father and, frankly, she never really attempted to. He wasn’t just her father, but because of all the things they had in common, all the interests they shared, he was her best friend. “Maybe.”

“Brooke, I like him, but I don’t want you getting carried away.” He knew she had a tendency to let her heart rule her head and to fall in love far too quickly, only to be disappointed.

“No carrying,” she promised with a wink before she went off to join Mark.

There was a fond smile on Derek’s lips as he shook his head. Brooke seemed so young, so impressionable to him. But then, he recalled, he had been even younger than Brooke when he had lost his heart for the first time.

Lost it to another man’s wife.

His memory traversed the years, melting them into mists. Anna Parks had been so beautiful that day he’d first met her on the yacht and so happy to be allowed out among Parks’s friends. Normally, Parks saw to it that the mother of his four children remained home while he entertained. But the man must have been feeling magnanimous that day, and Derek had been the richer for it. Because up until that moment he hadn’t believed that angels could walk the earth.

He’d quickly witnessed that Parks treated his wife as if she were a pet monkey who existed solely for his entertainment. Derek’s sister, Marla, who had invited him along for the outing, had told him that Parks confided to her that he had married Anna for her father’s considerable fortune and for the ownership of the man’s gem company.

Even back then Walter Parks had been the personification of pure ambition, looking only to further his own end. And even then he used people, especially women, to get what he wanted. Anna for her money and Marla as a way of undermining Jeremy. Derek doubted that there was an ounce of real love within the man.

Poor Jeremy.

Derek hadn’t thought of his late brother-in-law in years. He suppressed a sigh as he watched his daughter with Mark. He’d been the last one to see Jeremy Carlton on this earth, he thought. He and Parks. But then, if it hadn’t been for Parks, Jeremy might still be alive today.

Damn it, where had all these dark thoughts come crowding in from?

He was too young to feel this old, Derek thought. But he did, he realized the next moment. He did feel old. Worse, he felt as if all of life had somehow just managed to go on, leaving him standing behind.

Leaving him with a lovely daughter who depended on him, Derek reminded himself. He had to stop thinking as if he already had two feet in the grave. He was only forty-seven, for God sakes. Medicine being what it was these days, he could have another forty-seven years left ahead of him.

But Marla had had only fifty-five. And for Jeremy there had only been thirty-five.

The thought was sobering. He had to make the most of what there was, he told himself, which meant being there for his daughter. Like a father, not like some specter about to cross over to the other side.

He’d watched his sister being buried. That didn’t mean he had to bury himself, as well.

Derek heard the door being opened behind him and he turned to see who was coming in. Several people entered the shop, all clustered around James Holden, this evening’s guest reader. The author was obviously basking in all the attention he was receiving.

“Looks like our author is here,” Derek called out to his daughter.

He saw her look up, smile and then go back to what she was doing. She seemed completely unaffected by the man’s arrival. The last time the writer was here, he’d spent some time after the reading talking to her. Turning her head. She’d floated around for several days, until she had seen a photograph of Holden with a supermodel he was taking to some Hollywood party.

Holden was closer to his daughter’s age than Mark was, but in Derek’s opinion, the author was far less suitable. The serious man who had entered their lives such a short time ago seemed a far more decent sort. A man who had lived hard and still managed to come out of the fray standing up, ready to take whatever else life had to throw at him.

Mark Banning was the kind of man who could keep his daughter safe, just in case he wasn’t around for the next forty-seven years. It never hurt, Derek thought, to have a plan, to be prepared.

If he’d had a plan all those years ago, things might have turned out differently. For everyone.

There was no use thinking about what might have been, he thought. There was only the present and the future to work with.

And tonight’s reading, he thought as he walked over to greet Holden.

He’d watched her. All through the reading, he’d studied her, watched her react to the words the man at the podium was reciting with such passion. Brooke seemed to be transported to another place.

If he tried, he could almost visualize her as someone from the last century. She had a timelessness about her, an innocence that was sorely lacking in girls even half her age.

Damn it, now he was the one waxing poetic, Mark noticed. But it was hard not to, given the circumstances. In an effort to create an atmosphere, Derek had lowered the lights, so that all they could focus on was the author’s hypnotic, deep voice as it took them on a journey into another world.

It had seemed endless, but finally the author had stopped reading. He’d thought that was the end of it, but it wasn’t. There was a question-and-answer period, conducted solely, in his opinion, to further inflate the author’s already overinflated ego.

He’d noticed that James Holden had attempted to make eye contact with Brooke several times during the question-and-answer period. But the dreamy expression on her face had vanished and she seemed to be Brooke again.

And her attention, he’d noted with no small satisfaction, even though he knew it shouldn’t have mattered to him, had been directed toward him.

Chapter Eight

Derek paused as he came away from the front door. For a moment he watched as Mark went methodically down the rows, collapsing chairs and stacking them against the far wall.

He smiled to himself.

“You know,” Derek commented, crossing to the young man and his daughter, “you help out any more around here and I might have to give serious thought to putting you on the payroll.”

He had just ushered the last of the people who had attended the reading out the door. At nine-thirty the bookstore was finally closed for the night.

It had been a profitable evening for everyone. The people who had come to listen to James Holden had been given an extra bonus. The author had been in rare form tonight, offering his audience not only words from his previously published tome, but a taste of the next book, as well. The latter wasn’t slated to appear on the stands for almost another three months.

It had whetted everyone’s appetite. Not only had there been healthy sales of the book Holden had been scheduled to read from, but many of the people who’d attended the reading had preordered the next book, as well. Holden had been properly grateful, with just enough studied humbleness to set the hearts of his female listeners fluttering.

The only time the dark, good-looking writer hadn’t been the last word in gracious smugness was when he had failed to draw Brooke’s attention away from Mark. Derek noted it had put the author off, though he tried to hide it. The last time James Holden had conducted a reading here, Brooke had hung on his every word and they had gone out afterward for coffee.

His daughter had been completely taken with the man, a condition Derek knew lasted for weeks. She’d spent her days and nights waiting for the telephone to ring. It never did. His heart ached for Brooke.

That the man, who was always a promising draw at Buy the Book, had failed in his attempt to reel Brooke in tonight gave Derek a great deal of pleasure.

He knew it was due in no small part to this new writer who had happened on their horizon. So far Mark seemed like a fine, upstanding, if somewhat quiet, young man. He sincerely hoped Mark wouldn’t wind up breaking Brooke’s heart.

Setting the chair he was holding down against the others he’d previously stacked, Mark glanced over his shoulder at Derek. “If I don’t find any publishers for this book when I’m finished working on it, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Why not now?” Brooke suggested suddenly. Both men turned to look at her. “I mean, you have to eat. Unless you’ve got an independent source of income,” she added as the thought struck her.

“Brooke.” There were times when he thought his daughter was a bit too honest, a bit too uncomplicated. “You can’t ask Mark something like that.” A man’s business was his own. He above all people knew that. God knew he couldn’t risk having someone pry into his life.

Brooke didn’t see that she’d said anything really wrong. She believed in being open. Her own life was an open book and she didn’t see why everyone else’s couldn’t be. Especially, she thought, her father’s.

She secretly hoped that if she conducted herself this way, that if she got Mark to open up, as well, it might coax her father to be more open with her. She wanted him to tell her who that woman whose funeral he’d attended really was. And, more important, what that woman had meant to him and why he’d been so unlike himself since he’d received the news of her death.

Brooke flashed a smile bright enough to spread itself across both men, drawing them in, and informed her father, “I just did.”

Mark shook his head. There it was again, that innocence. That innocence and honesty that made him feel so damn guilty about doing his job.

“I don’t think your father’s really serious,” he confided to her in what was meant to be taken as a stage whisper.

Brooke raised a single slim eyebrow and looked at her father expectantly. “Dad?”

Because it meant something to her, Derek gave the comment he’d uttered in jest some serious thought now. “Well, I suppose that we could use an occasional hand with the Monday shipments.”

It was their heaviest day. Monday was the day when boxes of mass-market books would arrive and he’d always have to stop Brooke from taking it upon herself to see that they were all placed on the shelves as quickly as possible.

She worked harder than any three people, putting him to shame. What was more, she seemed to thrive on constant activity.

“All right.” He nodded, looking at Mark. “Maybe something could be arranged on a part-time basis—if it didn’t interfere with your research.”

Mark wished they’d both stop being so kind to him. He thought about the line about stealing candy from a baby. “Sounds like an offer I’m not supposed to refuse. I’ll keep that in mind,” he repeated evasively.

It gave him another excuse to hang around in case the one he had grew too thin. Sooner or later they were going to catch on to the fact that he wasn’t a writer. Or even a lover of San Francisco the way he claimed. Something was bound to trip him up.

The next moment Mark upbraided himself. He was thinking as if this was going to take a long time. He knew that it wasn’t. He’d already satisfied himself sufficiently that this was the man Tyler had asked him to locate. What he needed now was the right moment, the right opening, to let Derek know that he knew and that someone needed him to go public.

Which meant, in turn, hurting Brooke because she would think he’d used her, the way he’d already gleaned that Holden and a few of the other authors who’d been here giving readings had used her.

They had done it to enhance their own egos. He’d done it to help him get close to her father. He sincerely doubted that she would find his reason any better than theirs. No matter how you looked at it, a wounded heart was still a wounded heart.

“But right now,” Mark continued as he picked up another chair, collapsing it, “let’s just keep this arrangement informal.”

Brooke stepped forward, placing her hand on the same chair that he reached for. “Then you don’t have to do this.” She tried to take the chair away from him.

He deftly pulled the chair back, out of her reach. “You don’t understand, after spending all day thinking and reading, I need to do something physical. It’s a healthy counterbalance.”

Brooke raised both hands up in surrender. “Wouldn’t want to stand in the way of your counterbalance,” she murmured. And then she glanced toward her father. He was definitely looking better these last few days, but right now she judged that bed would be the best place for him. “Why don’t you go on home, Dad? I’ll do the register and then lock up.”

Derek made no attempt to hide his smile. She always could read him like a book. “I guess I am a little tired.” He looked toward Mark. “Thank you again.”

A chair beneath each arm, Mark merely nodded as he headed toward the back and the storeroom.

The door closed, ushering in a wave of silence and a far more intimate atmosphere than had existed just a few moments ago. As she stood there alone for a moment, it reminded her a little of the first night she’d stumbled across Mark.

Picking up a chair, Brooke followed him to the storeroom.

The area was small and, except for one small window that looked out onto a dark alley, it appeared as if it was almost completely sealed off from the world. The bulb that hung overhead should have been a higher wattage, she thought, not for the first time.

But right now she was glad that it wasn’t. It made her think of the cellar of a castle. And Mark was her reluctant knight.

Setting down the chair beside the others, she caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I guess I can be a little outspoken. I’m sorry.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. She was standing too close. He looked away again, trying to sound casual and not like a man who wanted to kiss her.

“About what?”

He was just being polite now. Something else to like about him, she thought. “I shouldn’t go prying into your personal affairs.”

Fighting off urges that had no business being there, it took him a second to figure out what she was talking about.

“Oh, you mean my monetary situation?” He shrugged the incident aside carelessly as he went to bring in more chairs. She followed in his wake like a sensual shadow he couldn’t shake. “You meant no harm.” He was beginning to doubt if she could mean anyone harm if her own life depended on it. She was the kind of woman you wanted to protect and keep safe. “And the image of the starving artist is part of so-ciety’s folklore. You were just being thoughtful.”

More than polite, she thought. Picking up another chair to his two, she went back into the storeroom again. “How is it that you can turn all my faults into virtues with a phrase?”

He put the chairs aside, then turned. Again, she was a hair’s breadth away from him. The urge to take her into his arms grew stronger.

Mark focused on the chairs and nothing else. “Maybe because, from where I’m standing, you don’t have any faults.”

“Everyone has faults.”

He laughed softly to himself. If she only knew.

“Believe me, anything you might consider a fault pales in comparison to what I’ve seen.” Depositing the chairs, he went back out into the store again. She cocked her head as she looked up at his face. Somehow she managed to lengthen her stride and get ahead of him.

“What have you seen, Mark? Tell me about yourself. Give me details,” she coaxed softly. “I don’t know very much, except that you’re from New York and that you like San Francisco. And to be helpful.” Tactfully she omitted the fact that she also knew he was an orphan.

He’d already told her more than he ought to have. “Maybe we should leave it at that.”

Ordinarily, she would have backed away. But there was something about this man, something that had been hurt and that made her want to help him heal, that wouldn’t allow her to back away.

“What are you afraid of, Mark?” Her eyes were wide, innocent, as she asked to be allowed to look into his dark soul.

Feelings moved through him. She was too young and innocent for him. And his soul was decades too old for her. His life had seen to that.

“That if you knew more, you’d like me less.”

She moved her head slowly from side to side, her eyes never leaving his as her silky hair softly moved against her cheeks. “Not possible.”

“Why? Because you like me so little, you couldn’t like me less?”

She began to protest vehemently, then realized he was teasing her. “You’re playing with words.”

Turning his back on her, he went out to gather more chairs. “It’s what I do.”

Brooke doggedly followed him. “You’re a good man, Mark.”

He thought of the life he’d led, the times he had come face-to-face with despair and it had almost conquered him. There’d been a time, right after Dana had terminated her life, that he had contemplated taking his own. Unable to, he’d attempted the next best thing, to be killed by some lowlife while executing the duties of his job. But he’d been disappointed even then.

Those were not the actions of the hero she was looking for. “Don’t be so sure of that.” “Why?” she wanted to know, refusing to retreat. “Are you a hit man?”

“No.”

Popping up like toast in front of him, she had another one for him. “A bigamist?” The suggestion was so far from the truth, it almost made him laugh. “No.”

When he turned to bring the last grouping of chairs in, she got in front of him for a third time. “Cruel to small children and medium-size animals?”

This time he did laugh. Depositing the last bunch of chairs against the wall, he looked at Brooke. “No.” Her point was made. “Okay, that qualifies you as a good man.”

She was so far from right. A good man would have somehow been able to see the signs and kept Dana from taking her own life. A good man wouldn’t be pretending to be something he wasn’t in order to get close to a trusting man and his daughter.

His face was very, very somber as he reiterated, “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Then tell me,” she urged again, adding quickly, “It won’t change my opinion of you, but it’ll satisfy my curiosity.”

“Your curiosity,” Mark echoed. He was accustomed to thinking of himself as a nonentity, as something that blended into the background. It seemed odd to him to have someone actually wonder about him. It gave his life depth and dimension, and he wasn’t altogether sure how to feel about that. “You’re curious about me.”

She looked into his eyes for a long moment. “Immensely.”

He supposed there was an argument for telling her things about himself. For letting her into his life, not all the way, but just enough to make her feel as if she did know him.

In a way it was manipulative of him, but she was asking and if he put her off, it might raise her suspicions. He didn’t want that.

And if he told her lies, if he fabricated things about himself, there was a chance one of them might trip him up.

He had already told her enough lies to try to keep straight.

So he made his decision. “You want to go somewhere and get some coffee after we finish up in here?”

Happiness went through her like a rubber ball set off inside of a rubber room.

“We can get coffee here after I finish with the register,” she told him, already walking to the front counter. “I can brew a fresh pot.” She’d turned the coffeemaker off for the night and had cleaned it out, but it would take nothing to start it again. “We don’t have to go anywhere else if you don’t feel like it.”

“No sense in wasting a whole pot,” he told her. He closed the door to the storeroom, locking it with the key she’d given him earlier. He crossed to her and handed the key back to her. “We’ll go out.”

She was hardly aware of putting the key back in the drawer. Their first date, she thought. Unofficial and last minute, but it was still a date. She’d always loved spontaneity.

On automatic pilot, Brooke went about the business of shutting down the register. Her mind was elsewhere.

There was something very romantic about being swept away by the moment. Just as she had been when she’d kissed him, she thought. It would have been nice to have had him make the first move, but she didn’t regret what she did for one second.

It felt as if she’d been born in that small instance. As if everything else she’d experienced had just been marking time until that moment.

Looking back, it had been a little like Sleeping Beauty or Snow White, she mused, writing down the total sales for the day, waiting for true love’s first kiss. She was too old to believe in fairy tales, but not too old, she thought, slanting a glance toward Mark, to believe in the existence of Prince Charming.

That described Mark Banning to a T. A little scarred, a little world weary, but Prince Charming nonetheless.

And for the moment he was hers.

The small coffee shop he took her to was doing brisk business, despite the hour and the fact that it was a weekday and the next morning stood waiting in the wings with all that that entailed. It took a while before they finally got their order.

Brooke didn’t mind standing in line with Mark, didn’t mind waiting on the side until the order was filled. She wouldn’t have minded standing anywhere, as long as it was with him.

The day had been hot. Evening brought with it a slight lessening in the sticky humidity, but the air still moved as if it had been soaked in warm molasses.

She thrilled to the feel of his hand against the small of her back as he guided her to a table for two just outside the coffee shop’s front doors.

“I’d have thought there wouldn’t be so many people drinking coffee this time of night.” She could feel her heart all but jumping at his touch and tried very hard to keep her voice steady. “I guess it’s never too late for trendy coffee.”

He nodded his head in response, and she wondered if perhaps he was regretting agreeing to come out like this. She should have gone with her first instincts and just made coffee at the shop.

Sitting down, she looked at him, waiting until he took his seat. She didn’t want to lose the moment, didn’t care what he talked about, as long as he talked. “So,” she began, leaning forward, “what did you think of Holden?”

The hazy air had shifted, moving in his direction. He could just detect a whiff of her perfume. Didn’t things like that have a time limit? Weren’t they supposed to fade after a few hours? He could swear that he’d been breathing in the light scent all day, and at this point, he was dangerously on overload.

Dangerously at the point where reason was slipping into the shadows, deserting him.

He picked up his cup with both hands and concentrated on her questions, not on what he wanted to do. “It was entertaining.”

She laughed and he looked at her. “You hated him, didn’t you?” For an innocent she could be very intuitive. “Hate is a little strong.”

She cocked her head, her hair sweeping along her shoulder. He held on to his cup a little tighter. “Disliked a lot?”

He shrugged and took a sip. Bypassing the trendy coffee, he’d ordered espresso. As if sitting beside her wasn’t enough of an adrenaline kick. “He wasn’t worth the effort for emotion.”

She liked the sound of that. Liked what it said. In a way he’d succeeded in neatly putting the author in his place.

“I guess you’re right. Although I’m sure he thinks so.”

He had a hunch that she knew that for a firsthand fact, but said nothing on the subject. Instead he took another sip of his coffee, then said, “And he seems to have a lot of the audience buying into it, as well.”

Almost all of the audience had been comprised of women, a good many over the age of forty. She supposed that was one of the reasons Holden had played up to her in the beginning. She was always the youngest in the room. That made her a clean slate, as he liked to say, for him to write on.

But not anymore, Brooke thought with the kind of triumph one felt at finally getting rid of a bad habit.

“But not you.” It wasn’t a guess. Brooke was sure of it.

She was waiting for an answer. He tried to think of one that was suitable for the man he was pretending to be. Reading had not been a priority for him for a very long time, but he tried to recall the kind of thing that had once held his interest.

“I like my prose grittier. More real and less introspective.”

“Why?” The question surprised him. And the look in her eyes as she leaned her chin against her hand held him captive. “What are you afraid you’ll see if you look inside?”

“Everything I’ve lived through so far.” He could see the eager look that came into her eyes. She was a romantic, through and through. He didn’t want her romanticizing him. It just made things worse. “It’s not poetic or particularly tragic.” He had a feeling that was the way her mind worked. “It’s just my life.”

Like someone diving into icy water, she held her breath and plunged in.

“And you were going to open a tiny window into it tonight.” Pressing her lips together, she started him off. “You already told me that you were an orphan by the time you were ten. Was it terrible, living in foster homes all that time?”

Yes, it was terrible, he thought. He’d spent the next eight years living out of a suitcase, ready to leave at a moment’s notice if there was the slightest change in the situation. He learned early on that his own behavior didn’t affect things greatly. Trying hard didn’t help, so he’d stopped trying.

But he didn’t want to get into that. Still, she was waiting for something, so he gave her a small piece. “I never got over the feeling that I didn’t belong.”

She drew her own conclusions. “So no one adopted you.”

There’d been one couple, a couple he’d liked, and they had been close to putting through the paperwork. They’d been childless for ten years and had all but given up. He’d thought he’d found a home, but then the woman had gotten pregnant and he was once again sent to another foster home, to begin the process of going from stranger to stranger all over again.

He shook his head and said simply, “No.” That covered it, he thought.

“And what did you do after you turned eighteen?”

What had he done, he thought, turning her question over in his mind. He’d gone to work, started attending CCNY and kept his eye out on his brother, waiting for Nick to turn eighteen so that his brother could come and live with him.

“I started my life,” he told her.

Chapter Nine

He’d started his life.

She knew Mark’s pronouncement was meant to cut her off, to put an end to that line of conversation. But she was nothing if not persistent.

The noise around them, as customers entered and left the café, grew in volume. Brooke found she either had to raise her voice or lean in, in order to be heard. She leaned in.

“By doing what?” she prodded. “Did you start writing right away? Or was that something you started slowly, after you tried other things?”

He stuck with the truth. “It’s a relatively new calling.”

She judged him to be in his late twenties, maybe even thirty. That left a lot of time unaccounted for. “What did you do before then?”

“I was a cop.”

She’d all but had to read his lips. The information, delivered quietly and without ceremony, caught her totally by surprise. But only for an instant. The moment she thought about it, being a policeman was the kind of thing she could easily visualize him doing. It went with her image of him: a protector. After all, a knight had been the policeman of his day.

The noise from the street and the shop directly behind them increased. Brooke moved her chair in closer to him. Their knees were now touching. The contact sent a small, delicious shiver through her.

“Is that how you got your scar?”

She saw him stiffen slightly. “Yes.” It was dark enough that she couldn’t read his eyes. “You’re just full of questions, aren’t you?”

Rather than take offense, she smiled at him brightly. “That’s how you learn things.”

In response, she saw him drain his coffee and set the cup down. It was a signal to leave. But she wasn’t ready to go just yet.

Stubbornly Brooke dug in. “You know,” she told him softly, “it’s really not as bad as you think it is.”

To prove her point, her eyes on his, she lightly glided her fingertips just beneath the scar.

He jerked his head back as if she’d touched him with a hot poker. The look in his eyes warned her off, but she refused to listen. He was a soul in pain and she wanted to help him.

“Actually,” she went on, “it transforms you into a rather romantic figure.”

He didn’t know if she was just being incredibly naive or incredibly kind. In either case, if she’d chosen him to have romantic fantasies about, she’d chosen poorly.

When she reached for him again, he closed his hand around hers, pushing it back down to the table. Mark’s voice was dark, low.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Brooke, but this is the real world. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.” His eyes told her to back off. “You don’t know who I am.”

And he wasn’t about to tell her, she thought. All right, so be it. That wasn’t the point anymore. He needed to be reached more than she needed details. “I know you’re a good man.”

Mark laughed shortly. She just didn’t give up, did she? “And how do you know that?”

Her expression was completely guileless. So guileless he found himself struggling against the temptation of leaning across the tiny table and kissing her. “Instincts.”

“Instincts.” What kind of instincts could a sheltered twenty-three-year-old have? It took effort to keep the mocking tone from his voice. “And these instincts, they’ve been infallible up to now?”

She knew what he was saying to her. That she really hadn’t lived yet, not the way he had. That she had no experiences to draw on. But you didn’t have to take up residence in hell to know you didn’t want to be there. And now, looking back at the other men who had captured her fancy, she realized that they had all been shallow. Not like Mark.

What she felt about him, for him, was different. He was different. “They’re getting better all the time.”

He needed to get her to back away before his own resolve crumbled. Before he gave in and allowed himself to get lost in the look in her eyes. Without preamble, he said, “I was married.”

She’d thought of him as a free spirit. Free spirits remained unattached. Brooke picked up on the key word. “Was?”

Mark studied his hands, trying to divorce himself from what he was saying. “She died.”

Brooke felt a lump growing in her throat. The romantic way she perceived him only became more enhanced. “Oh, Mark, I’m so sorry.”

He saw the sympathy in her eyes. And something more. He realized he’d only succeeded in bringing her closer to him, not further away.

She needed to hear the full story.

Mark braced himself. Dana’s death wasn’t something he talked about, wasn’t even something he allowed himself to think about. But maybe if Brooke heard, she’d stop thinking of him as some kind of romantic hero and see him for what he was: a man she should want no part of.

“I met Dana in college. She was everything I wasn’t. Bright, outgoing, stunningly beautiful.” As he said the words, he could almost see Dana, the way she had once been. He found it difficult to continue. “And she wanted to be an actress. After graduation, we got married.

“I joined the police force and she set about making her dream come true. Except that it didn’t.” He set his mouth grimly. “When she’d started out, Dana had been so incredibly full of hope. She was so sure she was going to make it. At first, she got a couple of jobs, but then nothing.” He sighed. Looking back, the signs had all been there. But he’d been blind to them. Blind to everything except the vision of life the way he’d hoped it would someday be. “With each rejection, she withdrew a little more.”

His voice became bitter. “I was so busy trying to make a difference out on the street, trying to make detective, putting in overtime so that she could have those new clothes for those auditions that didn’t pan out, I never saw it.”

Something cold and sharp slithered across her heart. Her eyes never left his face. “It?”

Mark barely nodded in response. “The way Dana was deteriorating. The way it became harder and harder to reach her, to communicate. There were crying jags. When she wouldn’t talk, I left her alone and didn’t think anything of it. Nobody likes being rejected, I thought she was just being moody.” His expression grew dark, unreadable. “And then one night, I came home to find her. She was in the bathtub.”

He realized that Brooke had taken his hand, her fingers curling around his. The slight pressure was meant to somehow give him the strength to get through his narrative. Something nudged at his heart, but he refused to acknowledge it. Not while he was talking about Dana’s suicide.

“The water was red.” If he closed his eyes, he could still see it, that horrible off-color red permeating everything within the tub. Leaving a thin layer on Dana. “She’d slashed her wrists.” Mark paused, trying to work his way through the pain he felt. He looked up at her. “There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t bring her around. She was already dead.”

Words seemed so inadequate. Brooke tried, anyway. “Oh, Mark, I am so, so sorry.”

An ironic smile twisted his lips. “That’s what she said.” He saw the confused look on Brooke’s face. “In the note she left. Just that—‘Mark, I’m sorry.’” The sigh caught in his raw throat. He shook his head. “I was the one who had to be sorry. I never saw it coming. I should have paid more attention.”

She realized what he was saying. He blamed himself. That was so like the man she was coming to know. “It’s not your fault.” She said the words so firmly, he looked at her. “You can’t blame yourself.”

Who else could he blame? The producers who hadn’t wanted her? The directors who always wanted someone else? No, he knew where the blame could squarely be placed. On the doorstep of the man who should have been looking out for her. Who should have taken care of her. “I was her husband.”

“Right, her husband, not her keeper,” Brooke insisted. He couldn’t do this to himself, she thought. If he didn’t let go of the guilt, it would eventually destroy him. Suddenly her mission in life gained a new focus, to save him. “Every person is responsible for themselves.” As he looked at her in silence, she crawled out further on the shaky limb. “I’m sorry, maybe this sounds cruel, but she let herself get that way. She was the one who gave up. You had nothing to do with it. You didn’t beat her, didn’t imprison her, didn’t demand that she remain at your side, barefoot and pregnant—”

She was making a hell of a lot of assumptions. “How do you know that?”

For a second he’d taken some of the wind out of her sails. She rallied, looking at him unabashedly.

“Because I just do. You’re not that kind of person.” She saw him start to protest. She had no idea how she knew what she knew, but she did. She was that sure of him. “You’re not the kind of person who would force his will on someone else.”

Mark didn’t think he’d ever been as innocent as Brooke, not even when he was a young boy and had thought himself invincible. “You’re romanticizing again. You’ve known me for less than a month—”

She knew what was coming and cut him off. “For some people, an entire lifetime isn’t enough, for others it only takes a few days, hours, maybe even moments.”

He laughed and shook his head. There was almost something endearing about how she saw the world. If only it were that way.

“Now you really are romanticizing.”

Crossing her arms before her, she looked at him, completely convinced of her stand. “You haven’t told me anything to make me change my mind.”

He had a feeling that she could probably argue until Gabriel sounded his horn, signaling the end of the world. He didn’t have that much time. “You finished?” He nodded at her cup.

It was empty. She hadn’t even realized that she’d drained the last drop. All of her attention had been focused on him. And she had a feeling that he wasn’t asking strictly about the coffee. But for now she relented.

“I guess I am.”

He rose, then leaned over the small table and helped her with her chair. “Then I’ll take you home.”

Standing beside him just before they made their way out to the street proper, she turned her face up to his. “Take me to your home.”

The softly spoken entreaty moved along his skin like early-morning mist. If only things were that simple, he thought again.

He took her arm and guided her around the scattered tables, beyond the two-foot wrought-iron fencing, out onto the sidewalk. When she turned to look at him, his smile was small, tolerant and genuine. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Yes, I do. I want to see how you live.” She knew what he was thinking. “We’re adults, Mark.”

The car was parked more than a block away. Finding a spot that close to the coffee shop had been nothing short of a miracle. He began to escort her toward it. “Some of us have been there longer than others.”

She laughed. “Residency doesn’t count.” She felt comfortable with him. Safe. Yet very excited. “I know you’re not going to jump me the minute we walk into the apartment.”

“Maybe not,” he allowed. Then the barest hint of a twinkle entered his eyes as he looked down at her face. “But you might jump me.”

“Only if you play your cards right,” Brooke teased. And then she added a tad more seriously, “Please? After that coffee, I feel completely wired, and I don’t want to go home yet.”

The last place he wanted to take her was his apartment. Out here he couldn’t act on what he was feeling. If they were alone together…well, he just didn’t want to put himself in that kind of a situation. “Then, we’ll go for a drive.”

They were approaching his car. She had a feeling a drive would quickly turn into a drive to her house. Holding on to his arm, she turned her face up to his. “I’d rather go for a walk.”

He felt himself weakening. “I had no idea you were this contrary.”

“Surprise.”

He paused beside his car, debating. He supposed it wouldn’t do any harm to indulge her a little. And there was no denying that he liked being with her. These were the best of circumstances.

“All right, a walk then. But a short one.” He saw her opening her mouth to protest. He cut her off. “Take it or leave it.”

She knew when she was outmaneuvered. With a surrendering shrug, she said, “I’ll take it.”

Her arm tucked through his, they walked along one of the city’s busier streets. As a concession, she searched for a neutral topic and talked about the new rare first edition of Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court her father had uncovered several months ago at an estate sale in Maryland.

“You just never know where the next treasure might turn up,” she told him.

No, he thought, looking at her, you just never did.

He found that he was having difficulty drawing in a lungful of air. Rather than cooling off, the night seemed to be getting balmier. He felt he could almost touch the air around them.

They’d gone about three blocks when a sudden shower came from nowhere, falling hard, the drops sizzling against the hot pavement. Brooke squealed. When he looked at her, he expected her to be annoyed. Dana had hated it when her hair was mussed, but Brooke was laughing.

Looking around for shelter, he almost hurried her into the first store front he saw, but then he spotted something better three doors down. It was a bakery. The store itself was closed, but whoever had locked up had forgotten to retract the green-and-white awning. It provided the perfect shelter.

Mark grabbed her hand and made a run for it.

Once beneath the awning, Brooke all but collapsed, laughing. She huddled against him, drenched even though the shower had only begun minutes ago.

“Nothing like a little hot rain to perk you up,” she told him.

Her hair was plastered against her face, even her eyelashes were wet. Mark tried to remember when he’d seen something so beautiful and couldn’t. Feeling clumsy, unable to help himself, he pushed her hair away from her cheeks.

“See, I told you I should have taken you home.”

But she shook her head. She didn’t regret begging to stay. “This is more fun.”

He raised an eyebrow. She certainly was different from his late wife. “Getting drenched?”

“No, running through the summer rain.” The street lamp illuminated the laughter in her eyes as she looked up at him. “It’s all in how you look at things.”

He supposed it was.

And right now he was looking at her the way he knew he shouldn’t. The way he hadn’t looked at another woman since Dana.

He’d never thought that he would ever feel anything again, except rage. Even things like hunger, exhaustion were reactions that he was only vaguely aware of, like a distant itch felt along skin whose nerve endings had been severed. There was only the mildest of sensations.

But being with this woman, who was everything he was not, everything he had never been, made him aware that he was still breathing, still alive.

Still a man.

Without thinking, Mark stopped brushing back her hair with his fingertips and framed her face instead. His heart pounding in his chest, his common sense struggling to regain its lost control over him, he brought his mouth down to hers and kissed her.

The moment he did, everything else faded away.

There was only her, only Brooke. Only the life-affirming reality of her. If she was surprised by the kiss, she gave him no indication. Instead she leaned her body into his, igniting flames through all of him.

He kissed her because he had no choice in the matter. He kissed her because to not do so meant the last tiny spark within him was going to be forever extinguished, taking all that he was along with it.

Her soft curves yielded against him, hardening him. Making him want her the way he knew he couldn’t have her. It was a line in the deception he just couldn’t afford to cross.

No matter how much his body begged him to.

Brooke knew he wanted her. Knew it! He wanted her. But no more than she wanted him.

This felt so right, so wonderful.

The hot wind drove the rain beneath the awning, wetting them further. She didn’t notice. Pushing herself up on her toes, Brooke pressed her mouth harder against his. Fell deeper into the kiss. She dug her fingers into his hair, glorying in the way it felt.

This was the man.

The thought throbbed in her brain. This was the man she wanted to spend forever with. Never mind that she was young and inexperienced. Never mind that some people spent a lifetime looking for their soul mate, never to find them. She had found hers.

She knew her heart, knew that this was no mistake. Everything else that had come before had been just a dry run, a rehearsal, for this. To prepare her for this. Because she knew that it wasn’t going to be easy. Mark Banning wasn’t a romantic extension of her daydreams, he was a real man and real men never made life easy. She didn’t care. She was ready.

From this moment forward, she belonged to him. The hard part was going to be in getting him to want to belong to her.

Mark felt urges plunging through him, demanding attention. With the inner strength that arose from diligent self-discipline and denial, he pulled himself away from the situation. As gently as he could, he pushed her away from him.

The air he tried to draw into his lungs felt heavy. It did nothing to help him gain his bearings. Neither did holding her, so he stopped.

It wasn’t easy.

It didn’t help.

Neither did looking down into her smile. He struggled against the urge to seal its imprint into his soul.

She blew out a breath, waiting for her pulse to settle down. “I think we just dried our clothes.”

“I’m surprised we didn’t set the bakery on fire.” He glanced back at the store as if to make sure they hadn’t. Even with Dana, he’d never felt this kind of mindnumbing reaction.

That was because Brooke represented forbidden fruit, he told himself. If this moment wasn’t wrapped up in lies, then perhaps he would have reacted differently to her.

The excuse he gave himself was just another lie that joined the others.

Just as abruptly as the shower had begun, it stopped. Mark put his hand out, but no drops fell to meet his upturned palm. He took hold of her arm. The sooner he got her beneath her father’s roof, the better.

“We’d better take advantage of the break and get back to the car. I need to take you home.”

She nodded her head solemnly, knowing that there was no room for wordplay this time. He was taking her to her home. She would have been lying if she hadn’t admitted, at least to herself, that what had just happened had shaken her up a bit. But it had also made her aware that the next time—and there was going to be a next time—it would end differently. They were going to be together.

“Progress,” she murmured as she linked her arm through his.

Venturing out from beneath the awning, he spared her a glance. He wasn’t sure if he had heard her correctly. “What?”

“Progress,” she repeated. When the confusion didn’t leave his features, she explained, “This time you didn’t apologize.”

There was a reason for that. “You would only talk me out of it.”

Her eyes crinkled into her smile. “See, you’re getting to know me, too.”

This couldn’t be allowed to continue. Not when there was a very real and present danger of his forgetting every single professional ethic he had ever taught himself. He had no right to do that to her. Abruptly, he stopped walking and took hold of her shoulders, his expression deadly serious.

“Brooke, listen to me. There are things about me I can’t tell you.” At least, he added silently, not yet. “I’m not some romantic figure in a two-hundred-year-old book. I’m not one of those authors your father has at the shop.”

Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him, innocent and yet somehow oddly knowing. “I know.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Nothing can happen between us.”

Her smile was unnervingly serene. “But it already has.”

He had no way of arguing that. Because, in his heart, whether he willingly admitted it to himself or not, he knew she was right.

Chapter Ten

He felt like a family friend.

He felt like a traitor.

He’d been a private investigator for five years now and in all that time, Mark could not remember ever being this ambivalent about a case before.

Of course, always before he’d either dealt with out-and-out criminals, like the time he’d gone undercover within a client’s company to discover which of the man’s employees was embezzling funds from him, or he was just tracking down missing persons. In the latter scenario, he’d never had to get under a so-called missing person’s skin before. Never tried to gain that person’s complete confidence. In every instance, once the party was located, that was that. He would hand over the information and leave it to his client to approach the person in whatever manner they felt was right.

But this was different. This meant at least pretending to get involved. And somewhere along the line the pretense had become real. He’d gotten involved. Too involved. Mark stood in front of the mirror over the bureau, wearing the jacket he put on when the situation required something more formal than just the workshirts and jeans he favored.

He didn’t see the navy sports jacket, or the light-blue shirt, or the crisply pressed—thanks to the dry-cleaning shop down the block—light-gray pair of pants. He saw the scar. For a while as he grew used to it, the angry red welt had begun to fade. Over time it had almost seemed to become smaller to him until he barely noticed it at all.

But now he felt as if the scar was taking over his entire face.

Like the portrait hidden in Dorian Gray’s attic, he thought, that wound up taking on the outward signs of the evil that its namesake was committing over the years.

To the casual observer, it didn’t appear as if he was doing anything “evil,” he told himself. He was getting paid to help Tyler Carlton claim his birthright and avenge his mother’s honor in the bargain. He opened a drawer and took out his tie, the same tie he’d worn to dinner that first night.

He knew where Tyler was coming from. God knew if there’d been a way he could have avenged his own parents’ death, especially his mother’s, he would have gladly done it.

But when he’d taken on this case, he hadn’t thought about the fact that there might be trusts that would have to be forged and then broken. That was what he was faced with now; that was what was chafing so badly at his conscience. Within a relatively short amount of time, Derek Ross had taken to him as if he were some long-lost son.

And Brooke—well, Brooke looked at him as if he were her knight in shining armor, come to rescue her from the tower so that they could live happily ever after.

Mark stopped trying to knot his tie and stared into the mirror.

If only.

But he knew there was no happily ever after in the offing. There was no happily now, either. Except for the few moments when he forgot who and what he was, what he was about, and focused only on the way she laughed. On the way the light in every room she entered seemed to gather around her and make love to her. The way it lightly slid along her skin, the way it got caught up in her hair, adding highlights to the rich blue-black color.

Mark stopped abruptly. He wasn’t helping his case any.

Or this stupid tie.

With an impatient tug, he pulled off the tie he was vainly attempting to knot, then just said the hell with it. Balling it up, he shoved it back into the drawer and slammed it shut.

He blew out a long breath and reined his emotions in. He couldn’t afford to go off like this. The second she saw him, Brooke would know there was something wrong and then he’d be subjected to endless questions. The woman would have made one hell of an interrogator, he thought.

What would she have said if she knew that when he’d slipped out of the shop today at one, he hadn’t been going to some mysterious appointment, but to her house? To let himself stealthily in through the back door and methodically go through Derek’s things, looking for that one last bit of proof that would seal things as to his identity?

He’d found it, too. After going through the man’s things, he’d found the photograph hidden in one of the man’s beloved old first editions. The same photograph that Tyler had given him. It was of Derek and his sister taken a quarter of a century ago.

He’d put it back, but seeing it was enough. Now there was no room for doubt. He hadn’t told Tyler about it, but he would have to. Soon.

The guilt didn’t go, but at least he felt a little calmer. Squaring his shoulders, he walked out of his apartment. He was supposed to be picking up Derek and Brooke within the hour. There was a gallery opening he’d promised to attend with them.

But when he arrived, only one of the two was ready. Derek greeted him at the door, wearing a comfortable-looking old sweater whose hem had come unraveled on one side and slacks that looked more appropriate to puttering around in his garden, coaxing flowers to blossom than for a gallery opening.

“Am I too early?” Mark asked. He could have sworn the man said to come at seven-thirty. He’d pulled up in front of the house at seven-twenty-five, then waited five minutes.

“No, you’re right on time,” Derek assured him. “But I’m afraid I won’t be going with you.”

Mark’s next question faded into oblivion because Brooke came down the stairs just then. She was wearing a black cocktail dress that trailed after her in the back, but was cut high in the front, displaying legs that would have made a dancer envious. Her hair was artfully piled up on her head, making her look hopelessly sexy and far older than her years.

He was a dead man, Mark thought.

The next moment he forced his attention back to Derek. The last thing he wanted to do was be alone with Brooke, especially when she looked like every man’s fantasy come true. “Are you sure you can’t go?”

“You look lovely, Brooke.” Derek turned from his daughter and shook his head as he looked at him. “I’m afraid that I’m really not feeling very well.”

Just a hint of concern entered Brooke’s eyes, doing battle with indecision. “Maybe I should stay home, too, then, Dad. Take care of you.” She started to shed the shawl she’d thrown about her shoulders.

Derek was quick to move the shawl back into place. “No, no, I’ll be fine, really. This passes,” he assured her. “I’d feel worse if I knew I was responsible for the two of you missing out on Waller’s show. Go, have a good time. For all three of us.”A hand firmly on each of their elbows, Derek ushered the younger people across the threshold.

Brooke pressed her lips together. Mark had the vague impression that she was trying to stifle a laugh.

“If you’re sure…” she was saying.

“I’m positive,” Derek told her. “Now go.”

With that, the door was suddenly closed, leaving them standing on the doorstep.

Not trusting himself to touch her, Mark shoved his hands into his pockets and led the way to the car he’d parked in the driveway.

“I’m sorry about that,” Brooke apologized as she fell into step beside him.

Mark nodded his head. “Yeah, it’s a shame your father can’t come with us.”

He was surprised to hear a laugh escape her lips. “I mean about the setup.”

He opened the passenger door for her, but was careful not to take her hand. “Setup?”

“Yes, my father thinks he’s playing Cupid. He’s not sick.” Wrapping the shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders, she got into the car. “He just wants us to go out together, and I’m afraid he’s being very, very obvious.”

“Not that obvious,” Mark admitted, closing her door for her. “I bought it.”

To which Brooke could only shake her head. Men could be so dense sometimes. “Like I said the other day, you’re very sweet.”

He really didn’t know about that.

Champagne was not his drink of choice, but he’d been nursing the contents of the flute for the past hour or so. Mark looked around the small, packed gallery with its illusion of space and intellect.

It seemed longer.

He touched the rim to his lips, pretending to take a sip. There was no doubt about it. He felt out of his element here, the way he had whenever Dana had made him attend one of those gatherings of “creative people” as she liked to refer to them, where everyone else was talking about technique and motivation and things that he couldn’t begin to fathom.

It was a little like being in a completely foreign country.

They’d come to a new showing of someone named Waller Kerr, an artist of some renown if he was to believe the flyers put out by the gallery owner. It could have been an exhibition put on by a plumber for all he knew. But for Brooke’s sake he made the appropriate noises and, for the most part, faded into the background. It was what he was good at. Observing.

Brooke, on the other hand, was very good at being, if not center stage, then stage left or stage right. She seemed to know half the people at the gallery. At least, it appeared that half the people there extended greetings her way.

Or maybe they just wanted to know her, he thought, allowing himself to once again take in the way she looked in her dress.

When she turned her head in his direction, he pretended to be studying the painting directly in front of him.

He had no idea what he was looking at.

Excusing herself from the man who was talking to her, Brooke crossed the small distance to Mark. She stood beside him for a moment, watching him take in the painting, then inclined her head toward him, her voice low so that only he could hear.

“You don’t like this very much, do you?”

It was a large, rectangular canvas that seemed angry at the metallic dots that were spread over it like a horde of incoming warrior ants. “I might if I could understand what it was supposed to be.”

“What do you think it is?”

He said the first thing that had come to mind when he’d seen it. “Someone drying off their paint brush by flicking it across the canvas.”

She hid her mouth behind her hands, but he could tell she was laughing. Holding on to his shoulder, she rose on her toes and whispered, “Me, too,” in his ear. Then, withdrawing her hand slowly, she said, “I’ve had enough, how about you?”

“Don’t have to ask me twice.” And then he stopped. Everything he’d learned about her told him she loved these kind of things. “You’re doing this because you think I’m bored, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m doing this because I know you’re bored. But that’s all right,” she assured him, “it’s not like this is my very first gallery opening.” She took his hand and began to thread her way to the front entrance. It wasn’t easy. “I’ve been to dozens. Dad likes to make sure I have a steady exposure to culture, and between the gallery shows and the readings at the store, I say I’m probably set through the next decade.”

He was reluctant to take her away. “So you don’t mind leaving?”

“I’d mind staying, knowing you were counting the moments to your escape.”

For a moment she stopped and looked around for the gallery owner. It would be polite to bid the woman goodnight, but at the moment she was unavailable. The owner of the trendy gallery appeared to be deeply embroiled in a conversation with one of the more affluent patrons. Diamonds were winking on both hands as gestures were being exchanged.

“Wanda’s probably trying to haggle up the price,” Brooke mused. Making up her mind, she forged ahead. “Let’s go.”

Leaving the shelter of the air-conditioned gallery was a shock to the system, but their successfully executed getaway was a relief to the soul as far as he was concerned.

For San Francisco, the streets appeared to be fairly empty. He placed his hand against the small of her back, guiding Brooke into the parking structure where he’d left his car.

“Your father might be disappointed if I take you home this early.”

Her heels clicked rapidly along the concrete as she hurried beside him to the vehicle. “There’s a solution for that.” Stopping beside his car, she waited for him to unlock it. “Don’t take me home. Not yet,” she tagged on.

Mark said nothing in response.

Buckling up, Brooke waited until he had rounded the hood and gotten in on his side before making another stab at conversation. She changed topics. “So, how’s the book coming along?”

This topic made him no more comfortable than the last one did. “It still has a long way to go,” he told her evasively.

It was exciting to her to be there at what seemed like the beginning of the process. “Have you found a focus for it yet?”

Mark slowly began to inch his way out of the bowels of the structure.

“I thought I did, but…”

He let his voice trail off as he shook his head. He figured the less he talked about his excuse for being at the shop, the less there was to trip him up. This would all be over with soon. He had his proof, what he was still looking for was his opening.

She settled back in her seat, hoping she didn’t appear as nervous to him as she was. She was still hoping that he would take her to his apartment.

“I’m sure it’ll come to you,” she told him with confidence. “And, if you need a fresh pair of eyes, I’ve got two at your disposal.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He eased the car out of the half-filled parking structure and up onto the street level. He’d come out on the side that gave him the option of going left or right. Back to Mill Valley. Or his place.

The latter shouldn’t have even been a consideration, he told himself. And yet he couldn’t quite get himself to bank down the desire. “So, where do you want to go?”

She looked at him, the answer in her eyes if not on her lips. “I’ll let you choose.”

If he had half a brain in his head, he’d take her to another coffee shop, or for a long stroll. Anything but to where he was thinking. “When do these things normally end?”

She glanced at her watch. “We’ve got at least two hours before we would be labeled one of the early departees. Three, four hours if we want to seem decadently carefree.” This time the smile she gave him was slow as it filtered its way to her lips and into his soul.

For a second, as his breath caught in his throat, it felt as if the world stood still. It wasn’t until he heard someone beep a horn behind him that he realized he’d allowed his mind to wander. In fields he had no business trespassing.

Making a quick decision, he turned right. “And why,” he asked, playing along for the moment, “would we want to be decadent?”

She shrugged, her shawl slipping from her shoulder. She left it there. “I don’t know. You’re a writer, we just came from a gallery opening, it seemed like the word to use.”

She was letting her imagination run away with her, he thought. “I’m a nonfiction writer,” he reminded her. Decadence didn’t enter into that world.

Brooke seemed to weigh his protest. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need a little fiction in your life.”

She’d lost him. “Come again?”

She dug into her subject with enthusiasm. “Maybe you need to pretend that you’re this gay—”

His mouth dropped opened. “What?”

“Sorry, I’m old-fashioned, I meant happy. You need to pretend you’re this happy-go-lucky guy without a care in the world. Someone who lives just for the day. The moment,” she amended. She twisted in her seat, hampered somewhat by the seat belt that insisted on executing a death grip on her. “If you could be that guy, what would you do? Right at this moment, what would you do? Where would you go?”

All right, what was the harm? He supposed he could indulge her and pretend. As long as it was only for the moment. “I’d take the most beautiful girl at the opening to my apartment.”

Her mouth suddenly felt dry. Beautiful. He’d called her beautiful. “Fine. Except there’s one thing wrong with that.”

Well, at least one of them had sense, he thought, relieved. “What?”

“You said girl. You meant woman. The most beautiful woman at the opening.”

The smile he gave her was indulgent. She could feel herself balking. She wanted him to think of her as a woman, not a child.

“You’re twenty-three.”

“And at the turn of the last century,” she said, “I would have been thought of as some lamentably poor spinster. At twenty-three I wouldn’t be a woman, I’d be an old woman, over the hill, someone the other women would talk about behind their fans and pity.” She smiled at him brightly as they came to a stop at a light. “Which means that for this century, I’m just right.”

He laughed softly as he shook his head. By now he should have learned. “Anyone ever win an argument with you?”

“Not that I recall.” She looked at him for a long moment, her heart suddenly climbing up into her throat. “Play your cards right and you might be the first,” she whispered.

Again he found himself a prisoner of her eyes, of the moment. And again someone leaned on their horn behind him, breaking the spell.

Coming to, he drove through the intersection just as the yellow light turned red again. He could almost hear the man in the car behind him cursing.

“You know, this keeps up, I’m going to wind up with a ticket tonight because of you.”

He glanced at her as he heard her laugh. “I’m not sure, but I think that’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever gotten.”

Against what he would have, until recently, termed his better judgment, he took Brooke to his apartment. After he parked the car in the street, he led her into the venerable old brick structure and then pointed out the stairs to his second-floor apartment. The building had no elevator. Until just now, he hadn’t given that much thought.

Following her up, watching the way her hips swayed with each step, he began to rethink the wisdom of bringing her here.

He told himself he did it so that he couldn’t arouse her suspicions by repeatedly putting her off. A part of him had even been prepared for this. He’d gone through his apartment and hidden everything that might have given away his true purpose for being at her father’s bookstore.

“It’s not much,” he warned her, unlocking the door.

Brooke walked in ahead of him. She moved about the small living room slowly, like a detective absorbing the scene of the crime, he thought, watching her.

And then, as if she’d made her decision about the apartment, she turned toward him. “Your friend, you said he’s an actor?”

“Yes. He’s been cast in a television pilot shooting in Canada.” He’d read a story in the Sunday entertainment section about a new series that was about to begin filming in Canada because of the reduced production costs. It sounded plausible enough.

“He’s very self-contained for an actor.”

He felt as if he was treading on shaky ground, trying to avoid quicksand. “What do you mean?”

Glancing around the corner, she saw a small kitchenette. “Well, outside of the appliances, there doesn’t seem to be anything that shows he lives here.” She indicated the near-empty shelves and the nude walls. “No books on the theater. No photographs of productions he’s been in.”

That was a mistake, but since there really was no friend, there was nothing he could have done about it—other than have given this phantom a different occupation to begin with. “He’s a minimalist.”

She seemed perfectly willing to accept the excuse. “Oh. Like you.” She crossed back to him. “Is that why the two of you hit it off?”

“I don’t know about ‘hit it off.’” He didn’t want to have to go into any elaborate fabrications about a friendship. This was already beginning to trip him up. “I met him in New York. He knew my wife.”

Something tightened within her when she heard him refer to the woman. Jealousy? She wasn’t sure. If it was, it wasn’t the kind of green-eyed monster she’d heard about, merely envy that someone had won his heart and now he kept it on ice. Out of reach.

“I see.” She turned around. “And you ran into him out here?”

“Yes. No.” He should have had a story more securely in place. Another oversight. But as he tried to think, nothing came to mind. Why was he blanking out like this? Why did the room seem smaller, more intimate, now than it did when he was in it by himself? “Look, I really don’t want to talk about him or the past.”

“Fine.”

She turned so that she was before him, her body a whisper away. Her dress brushed against his arm. He could feel his body heating as he just stood there, looking at her, letting his mind entertain thoughts it shouldn’t have.

When had he turned down this road? When had desires suddenly risen up and seized him by the throat, demanding release?

Her eyes rose to meet his. Her breath felt like seduction along her skin. “What do you want to do?” she asked softly.

Chapter Eleven

Mark didn’t remember taking her into his arms.

One moment he was envisioning holding Brooke, the next, she was there. Giving, supple, breaking down his walls of defense faster than if it had been created completely out of ice and she was a tropical heat wave sweeping over him.

The walls buckled, melting in her path until they evaporated, leaving only puddles behind to give testimony to ever having existed at all.

She felt fragile in his arms, and yet she held his entire life in the palm of her hand.

He felt as if he would disintegrate, fade completely out of view, if he couldn’t have her. If he couldn’t keep on kissing her, holding her, feeling her body mold against his.

He was stealthily slipping into her life under false pretenses, deliberately burrowing into it so that someone would pay him money for a job well done.

That was the bottom line.

He was using her for money.

Guilt chewed chunks out of him, leaving the rest to be ravaged by desire.

How had it gotten this complicated? He wasn’t supposed to have turned down this road. He wasn’t supposed to allow his attraction to take the governing seat and rule him like this.

But he couldn’t push her away. She was making it too difficult.

She was too warm, too giving, too eager. Even as he tried to draw his head back, to somehow find the strength to break away before this got completely out of hand, Brooke didn’t allow him to gain the space he needed. He moved, she moved and he couldn’t find it in his heart to push her away.

Not when he wanted her this much.

She was purity and light and everything he had once believed he could attain if he just tried hard enough.

Before he knew better.

Dana’s suicide had robbed him of his dreams, his beliefs, his future, but Brooke, with her bright eyes and quick smile, made him think that, just for one night, all that and more could be within his grasp.

He could hold his dreams in his hand for just a few timeless moments.

She was on fire.

Everywhere he touched her went up like a torch until she felt as if she was standing in the middle of an inferno and only he could put it out.

And yet he was the source of it all.

It made her head spin.

Brooke didn’t want to think, didn’t want to untangle anything except this dress that was holding her back from him.

Her mouth still sealed to his, she reached behind to get at the zipper. His fingers were there a heartbeat before hers. She shivered in anticipation as she felt the long line of soft nylon teeth part, exposing her flesh to the air.

To his touch.

Her breath caught in her throat as she felt him slip the straps from her shoulders, as she felt the material sigh away from her body, momentarily pausing at the swell of her breasts before slipping down further.

Bypassing her hips, the dress sank in a pool around her feet.

She moaned as he kissed her.

The very sound echoed in his brain, driving him crazy, fueling the hunger that was growing almost too large to contain.

He had to look at her. Just for a second he needed to see her, here in his home.

With him.

The knot in his belly tightened, threatening to cut off his air supply.

She wasn’t wearing a bra, just tiny black lace underwear that revealed more than it hid.

Very slowly he slid the tips of his fingers along her torso, pausing at the rim of her panties. He heard her sharp, inviting intake of breath.

He felt as if his gut was going to snap in two.

What the hell was he doing? Struggling with the fragments of a conscience already frayed, Mark told himself to back off, issuing ultimatums that burned away in the heat of his desire.

Pulling her to him, he sealed his fate. And hers.

Mark couldn’t stop caressing her, couldn’t stop touching her as his lips slanted over and over again against her mouth, her throat, her tender part along her neck.

And with each sigh he heard, with each sharp intake of breath that escaped her lips, his own excitement grew to proportions he hadn’t known were humanly possible.

He felt like a man possessed.

And throughout it all, he knew he was doomed. A man whose soul had been plunged in darkness and would be again, once this was over.

Anticipation sank iron teeth into him, jetting up a hundred more notches as he felt Brooke stripping away his jacket, tugging out his shirttails. Urgently working away his belt.

She was undressing him, and he didn’t know which excited him more, unwrapping her or having her do away with his clothes.

Every moment brought with it something more, something new. Something he wasn’t prepared for. It was like finally being resigned to a fate of dying of thirst, only to be thrown headfirst into a life-affirming pool of water.

She was his pool of water, his salvation.

And he had done nothing but lie to her from the very beginning.

But that was logic and sense, and right now all he knew was that he wanted her, here, now, before sanity and reason rushed back at any moment on winged feet, to take hold of him again.

There’d been less than a handful of women in the last five years. Faceless women just passing through his life. Women he’d slept with to fill a void that couldn’t be filled, to blot out a pain that refused to be made any smaller. He couldn’t remember their names, their faces, or anything else about them.

Brooke’s face was burned into his brain and always would be, no matter what happened.

And no matter what happened he was grateful to her. Would always be grateful to her for making him feel again, however briefly.

He knew that she would look back at this night and curse him, but he was determined that in the quiet moments of the night, when her anger had burned away, Brooke would look back on this and secretly smile.

It was about her pleasure, not his temporary salvation.

He made love with her, not as if this was their first time but their last.

Brooke felt arrows of heat and sunshine shoot through her, ushering in the brightest lights she’d ever seen.

This was beyond anything she had ever imagined. Her wildest fantasy couldn’t begin to hold a candle to what she was feeling right at this moment.

Anticipation came from nowhere, with no basis from which to draw, yet it scrambled her senses and whisked them up to heights Brooke had never conceived were possible.

Her body was vibrating like a struck tuning fork, its beat rushing along with her pulse and heartbeat. It seemed as if her entire body was singing a melody she’d never heard before as it rushed off to somewhere she had never been before.

She had no idea what was waiting for her at the end, only that if she didn’t reach it, she was going to die right here, right now, despite the wondrous journey he had already taken her on.

She felt as if all of her body was singing madly. She didn’t know the words, only that she had been waiting to hear them, to feel them all of her life.

Each time he moved from her, she cleaved to him, unwilling to let him pull away. Unwilling to bear the burden of separation.

Her body pulsed and craved something it had never had before.

Fulfillment.

He was laying her down on the sofa, anointing her body with hot kisses that sizzled along her skin a beat before they even arrived. She twisted and turned, arching into him, trying to absorb the sensation, wishing she knew what to do to make him feel just a little of what she was feeling.

She reached for him, but even as she did, she was surprised by the firmness that met her touch. For a moment she was almost frightened, but the next moment she left the child she’d been behind and raced across this new threshold that shimmered before her.

It was time. And he was her choice.

Her fingers wrapped themselves around him as she stroked him. The sound he made against her ear filled her with power. With excitement.

With hunger.

She raised her hips against his invitingly, her breath rushing away from her as she felt his mouth taking possession of her breast. She could feel his tongue teasing, suckling her nipple, and she moaned in ecstasy as waves of wild sensations danced through her. Her breathing became more and more labored as she grasped at ecstasy with both hands.

And then he was above her, parting her legs with his knee.

Her heart was hammering so hard she was afraid it was going to burst out of her chest.

An urgency seized her.

Raising her hips higher, Brooke gave herself up to him willingly. The first wave of pain came as a surprise and made her wince, just for a moment.

Brooke felt him hesitating, saw the surprised look in his eyes.

He was going to stop, she knew it. Panicked, not wanting it to end, not now, not so abruptly, Brooke pushed herself up against him.

Whether Mark drove himself into her or she pulled him in by pushing her hips against his wasn’t clear to her. But as the rhythm began, the questions, the order, none of it mattered. All that mattered was that this race that she was suddenly so wrapped up in be taken all the way across the finish line.

That it be won.

She moved with him, her own urgency almost out-stripping his. An explosion racked her loins, filtering out to all parts of her. And then a wild burst of colors and heat danced through her that she couldn’t begin to describe.

He’d erased every word from her head, and all she could do was gasp for air and hold on him.

If she could have picked her moment to die, this would have been it. Die in his arms, with a smile on her face. And her body singing.

He’d suspected.

Known.

In his soul he’d known, somehow known that Brooke was a virgin despite her age. There was something virginal about the look in her eyes. About her. And yet he’d completely disregarded that in pursuit of his own needs. How reprehensible was that?

But she’d given him no choice.

He’d always had a choice, he argued.

He had a will, damn it, a will that had been forged out of steel and coated with iron over these years. Why had he abandoned it, allowing himself to crumple just because the very sight of her, the very feel of her brought him to his knees, literally and figuratively?

What was he going to say? How could he make this up to her? Ever?

Drawing back, Mark slid off her warm, heaving body. He would have gotten up from the sofa entirely, except that there was this look in her eyes that forbid him to leave her.

So, clumsily now, he tucked his arm around her and held her to him.

If his guilt had weighed any more heavily on his chest, it would have suffocated him completely. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

A cold chill descended over her body.

The words felt as if they had been sealed with some kind of paste to the roof of her mouth and she had to peel them off one by one.

“Tell you what?”

Mark raised himself up on his elbow, furious with himself. He’d gone too far, and there was no way to make this right. You couldn’t unring a bell. “That you were a virgin.”

Her heart froze within her breast. She felt naked, exposed, and struggled not to allow the tears she felt forming to fall. He looked so angry. Had she been that much of a disappointment to him? Did he feel that cheated, wasting time with her?

She told him the truth. “Because I didn’t want you to stop.” Her eyes, bright with unshed tears, met his. “Because I didn’t want to be a virgin anymore.”

He dragged his hand through his hair, hating what he’d just done. Hating himself because he still wanted her. Again.

“Then why didn’t you pick someone else?” For lack of a name, he chose the first that came to him. “Why didn’t you go with that Holden character?”

“Because I didn’t want ‘that Holden character,’” She knew that now, knew that any daydreams she might have had were just that, daydreams. They didn’t involve a real person. Not like Mark. He wasn’t all about pretenses and ego, he was real. “I wanted you. I wanted you to be the first.” Unable to stare at the anger on his face any longer, she looked away. “I’m sorry if I disappointed you, but—”

“Disappointed me?” he echoed the words as if he was repeating something in a foreign language, something that made no sense to him. “Is that what you think this is about?”

“Isn’t it?” She licked lips that were suddenly incredibly dry. “I mean, a man has a right to expect a good time if he—”

“No.” He cut her short, not wanting to hear any more. Not wanting to have her berate herself. “No, this isn’t about disappointment, at least, not mine,” he looked at her pointedly, “and this isn’t about a man’s expectations. If it was, then you more than surpassed anything I could have thought up.”

A half smile played across her lips. She wanted to take his face between her hands and kiss it. He was being incredibly sweet. “You’re a nonfiction writer, you don’t think up things.”

He would have been arrested for what he was thinking now, Mark told himself. “I’m a man and men have fantasies.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. Her eyes never left his face. “And?”

Unable to help himself, he slid the back of his hand along her cheek. She was so sweet, so innocent. And he had changed all that, damn it. But at the same time, he couldn’t help being touched by the import of her gift to him. No one had ever offered themselves to him, body and soul, this way.

It made him infinitely humble.

And infinitely guilty. He doubted if that weight was ever going to be lifted from his shoulders.

“And,” he went on to tell her, “I’ve never had a fantasy to match this.” His smile faded as he became serious. “But you have a right to have the first time be with someone who matters—”

She put her finger to his lips to silence him. “It was.”

His heart swelled. If he lived to be a tortured hundred, he was never going to forget the way she’d felt in his arms or the way she was right now. “Brooke, you don’t know me.”

He was beginning to feel as if he sounded like a broken record, but it was true. She didn’t know him. The real him. If she had, they would never have been here like this.

Brooke held her ground. “I know all I need to know.” She saw he needed more convincing. “Look, there’ve been others who tried. But I didn’t want them. You,” she laughed softly, “you didn’t even try. But I knew I wanted you. To be the first,” she tagged on, afraid that he would see through her, that he would suddenly realize that what she meant was that she wanted it to be him forever. Nothing made a man run faster than knowing his future had been settled without his consent.

She wanted him forever, but she was bright enough to settle for just a night.

But Mark remained unconvinced. It was just the moment talking. She was feeling euphoric. He was being sensible. And hating it.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes, I do,” she insisted. Her voice became sterner than he would have thought. She took his attention hostage. “Don’t treat me as if I were some addle-brained teenager, Mark. I might not be experienced, but I already told you, that was by choice. I had other…opportunities—” a smile played on her lips “—if you will, but I didn’t want them. I’ve even thought I was in love, but it still didn’t seem right. No one ever made me feel safe before. Not the way you do.”

Brooke took a deep breath, trying to fortify herself. “Now, if you’re disappointed, I am very sorry, but I’m not sorry this happened.” The tears she’d been fighting insisted on breaking through. She blinked them back as furiously as she could. It didn’t help. She began to rise off the sofa. “If you’ll excuse me, I have clothes to get into.”

But before she could move, he caught her by the wrist, stopping her. She looked at him quizzically, but he didn’t release his hold.

The deed had been done, there was nothing he could do to change that, to undo it. But he could change the way she felt right at this moment.

Slowly he began to brush his thumb along the inside of her wrist. He could feel her pulse begin to jump.

A shaft of guilt went through him, but he knew he had to do this. This wasn’t about his own needs, which seemed to be multiplying again at a phenomenal rate. This was about her.

It had always been about her.

He pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder and felt her shiver in response. “How long did you say it would be before your father starts to worry that you’re not home?”

Brooke felt her pulse quickening, beating erratically. Could feel her inner core moistening again. Monitoring her heart was out of the question. It was doing things she hadn’t thought possible.

Her body was beginning to turn fluid again. She relaxed…and tensed with anticipation at the same time. She was no longer sure what was up, what was down—and didn’t care.

“Not for another few hours or so.”

Damn it, just looking at her made him feel happy. He knew it wasn’t right, and yet he couldn’t help himself. Very slowly he ran his fingertips along her lips. Lips that had already sealed his fate once. “How would you like to kill that time?”

“How do you think?”

The words were scarcely out of her mouth before her breathing became labored. Mark was pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat, short-circuiting all her nerve endings within her.

Knowing what to anticipate, she felt as if her body burst into flame almost instantly.

But this time, she promised herself, she was going to show him. This time, he wasn’t going to feel as if he was making love with a dewy-eyed novice.

She wrapped her legs around his torso, locking them together and then rocked so that their positions suddenly became reversed before he knew what was happening.

The unconscious anticipation of pleasure had him smiling as he looked at her in surprise.

“Brooke?”

She grinned from ear to ear just before she brought her mouth down to his. “I’m not a virgin anymore,” she whispered against his lips.

The next moment, her body splayed across his, she began to make love with him as if they had always done this, as if they had always been two halves of a whole.

His pulse began to throb, alert, ready.

A very special corner of hell, Mark thought again, that was the place reserved for him. He was going to burn for all eternity for this.

But if that was so, he was going to need memories to last him for all eternity.

He started gathering them.

Chapter Twelve

The phone had been ringing off the hook all morning. Which was good for her business but bad for the headache that was beginning to grow right behind Emily Parks’s eyes. What’s more, she felt as if her face had frozen in place. She’d been perky, smiling and sharp since she’d sailed into work at eight.

Because of the preponderance of couples who had decided that they just had to make August their wedding month, there hadn’t even been time for lunch today. Six straight hours was an awfully long time to be perky.

The wedding planner, Emily decided, is taking a break.

And with that goal in mind, she closed the door of her office, shut off the phone and poured herself a much-deserved cup of coffee.

Maybe the extrastrong shot of caffeine would do something to make her headache go into hiding. It was worth a try.

Pretending for a moment that she wasn’t addicted to the fast-paced life she was living and that she would actually want to have it any other way than it was, Emily sat down at her desk and spread open today’s copy of the as-yet-unread San Francisco Tribune.

Miscalculating, she hit her coffee cup with the California section. Within less than a horrified heartbeat, a black river was suddenly running down her desk.

Not bothering to swallow the curse that rose swiftly to her lips, Emily grabbed the tissue box off her desk and proceeded to stem the tide, dabbing madly at the desk and the newspaper. She offered up a silent thanks that none of her disks had been haphazardly left there to meet the flowing liquid.

Emily Parks’s green eyes widened as the words beneath the soaked tissue in her hand came into focus. The article, no more than two inches in height, was buried on the last page of the California section.

Appropriately enough, it was an engagement announcement. One of Rowan’s old girlfriends was getting married. Not to him.

She smiled to herself. Probably knew that if she waited for Rowan to pop the question, she was fated to wait forever. Rowan wasn’t the marrying kind.

Rowan also wasn’t the orthodox kind. Rules, proper behavior, thoughtfulness, all that was completely foreign to her motorcycle-loving sibling. The last time she’d seen him, he was riding that bike off to parts unknown. Right after he’d told them at the family gathering their father had called together that he wanted no part of being Walter Parks’s son. Moreover, that he was ashamed of her, Cade and Jessica if they were going to continue to knuckle under to the old man.

Her younger brother by only a year, Rowan had always been the black sheep of the family. Or maybe the white sheep, she amended, thinking of the reputation their father had earned over the years.

But she hadn’t heard from him since then. Not that he made a habit of clocking in. Still, she’d called a couple of times and not gotten a call back.

She glanced at the paper. This was as good an excuse as any to call him again. Pulling the telephone over to her, she hit the familiar number on the keypad. This time, as she listened to the answering machine, she struggled to hold on to her patience.

“Rowan, it’s Emily, I—” A shrill sound met her ear. It meant his machine was too full for another message. Which meant he hadn’t listened to any of his messages so far.

Which meant he hadn’t been home in days.

The tips of her fingers suddenly felt icy. Something was wrong.

Ordinarily levelheaded and driven, able to multitask in her sleep, twenty-eight-year-old Emily suddenly felt a chill passing over her spine as she struggled with a premonition. Something had happened to Rowan, she just knew it.

The first thing she needed to do was to call her twin brother, Cade, and see if maybe he’d heard from Rowan. But even as she dialed, she knew what the answer would be. Cade would have mentioned something, if only to voice his displeasure with Rowan’s actions.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that Rowan was missing. And that he was in trouble.

“You know, you still haven’t shown me any of your work.”

Every word out of Brooke’s mouth sounded like a siren’s song.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her, Mark looked at Brooke over his shoulder. She made him think of that picture he’d once seen. Venus Rising out of the Sea. Except she wasn’t rising, she was lying on her stomach on his bed. Looking like every young red-blooded male’s biggest fantasy come true.

Looking like the reality he wished with all his heart was actually his instead of just borrowed under false pretenses.

Mark struggled to get his mind back on the subject and not on what he wanted to spend the rest of eternity doing with her.

She’d been subtly asking about his book in progress for several days now and he’d been evasive. The inquiry had finally become blunt.

“That’s because there’s nothing to show yet,” he told her. “Just notes.”

Knowing he should be getting dressed, he paused anyway, drinking in the sight of her as if he hadn’t already done it countless times.

They’d just made love. Again. The way they had every day for the past week. He could still feel the imprint of her body against his. Feel the heat, the fire. Unable to do without it, he allowed himself to absorb it.

He’d tried to stay clear of her. Heaven knew, he’d tried to keep her at arm’s length that very first day after he’d taken her virginity from her. But she’d looked so surprised, so hurt when he’d cut her off the second time and retreated, all he could think of was Dana and how her deplorably low self-esteem had made her take her own life.

He was to blame for that. Somehow, some way, he was to blame for that.

He couldn’t allow anything to happen to Brooke because of him. Couldn’t let her think that he was one of those men who was consumed with only the conquest and lost interest once that was achieved. That had never been his way and never less than right now.

He wanted Brooke more than ever after their first time.

So he stopped trying to hold her at bay for her own good and allowed her to move in closer. That having her there pleased him was something he knew he was going to have to pay for later. But he was far more interested in now.

So he gave himself excuses and allowed her to come to his apartment. More than once she’d commented on how his “friend” seemed to leave no traces of himself.

If she had been anyone else, he would have been certain that her suspicions had been aroused and that they were trying to draw him out. Trip him up.

But not Brooke. She was an innocent in more ways than one.

His heart ached because he knew she actually didn’t believe someone would lie to her. She believed in things like honesty and integrity, and it ate him up alive that he was going to be the one responsible for stealing that from her, too.

First her virginity, then her faith. He could easily grow to hate himself.

But trying to do the noble thing and keep away from her was impossible. He had to go to the bookstore, and she was there every day, appearing at his side with books, with suggestions. Or just to tug on his arm and drag him off to view a piece of history, restored or otherwise, somewhere in the city. And through it all, she’d be leaning into him, wearing that scent that drove him crazy, that expression that reduced his resolve to the consistency of ice cream left out on the counter.

They played tourists.

They played lovers.

Whatever good intentions he had, they amounted to just so much rumble in the face of her sensual enthusiasm. A part of him hoped that if he gave in to his desire enough, his appetite for her would fade. Nothing could be further from the truth. The more he had Brooke, the more he wanted her, until he was completely consumed with the thought, the feel, the reality of her.

Lying on her stomach, her ankles crossed, nude as the moment she was born, Brooke seemed completely oblivious to the effect the sight of her was having on him. You’d think that after making love with her for the past hour, he would be completely spent, and yet there was still more left in the account. And the interest was accruing with each moment that passed.

He’d left the shop early today, telling Brooke he had something to do. He had an appointment to meet with Tyler and give him a progress report. But there were no readings scheduled at the shop for this evening, no special events of any kind and much to her joy, her father was regaining his former interest in running the store. That meant, she’d told him, that she was free to “tag along.” He knew he couldn’t tell her not to without either hurting her feelings or arousing her suspicions. He wanted to do neither.

So he’d stopped at his apartment on the pretext of picking something up and made a quick call to Tyler, rescheduling. When he’d come out of his bedroom, she was waiting for him. Looking so damn delectable that he lost track of his own thoughts.

Rather than coming up with an excuse, he resorted to distracting her. And himself. He began separating her from her clothing and reunited her with him.

And all the while, as he made love with her, he felt like the kid he’d never been.

“You have to have something,” she insisted. “A paragraph, snatches of brilliant thoughts.”

A smile playing on her lips, Brooke raised her eyes to his face as if she didn’t have a clue what she was doing to him. He reached for his jeans, telling himself he’d stand a better chance resisting her if he were dressed.

It was a lie.

“Nothing intelligible,” he muttered.

Behind him she scrambled to her knees, placing her hand on his shoulder. Holding the sheet to her only as an afterthought.

If it was meant to cool his ardor, it wasn’t very effective. He found the sight of her like that impossibly arousing.

“Let me be the judge of that. Please,” she coaxed. “I want to read something you wrote.”

This part of the plan had fallen by the wayside. He didn’t have anything to show her. “It’s not ready to have anyone read it.”

She put her own interpretation on his reluctance. She’d been around enough writers to know that they always had something they’d written down, bursts of inspiration that came to them out of the blue and which they felt were brilliant.

“You think I’ll be disappointed.” Grateful for the lifeline, he grabbed at the excuse. “Something like that.”

Brooke sat back on her heels, her eyes intent on his face. And they were laughing. “Oh, Mark, don’t you know that there’s nothing you could do that would disappoint me.”

Wrong. Guess again, he thought.

But she was already drawing closer to him again, nuzzling against him. He could feel her breasts moving against him beneath the thin cotton. He wondered if she had any idea what her body was doing to him? If she had a clue just how much he wanted her?

And then he saw the smile on her lips, the look in her eyes.

She knew.

He gave up the pretense of getting dressed. Letting his jeans drop to the floor, Mark cupped her chin in his hand.

“Have you always been such a temptress?”

“I’ve never been anything until you came along,” she whispered to him.

And it was true. She felt as if she’d been asleep all this time, waiting for him to come into her life. Waiting for him to wake her up with a kiss. He was her Prince Charming, even if he did appear to be more on the brooding side. She liked that about him, too. Liked everything about him.

There it was again, guilt, standing in the middle of his soul like some kind of steel edifice being constructed, girder by girder. Cutting off his air. Crushing him.

He had to tell her.

Somehow, some way, he needed to tell her who he really was, that he’d been hired by Tyler Carlton and, indirectly, by the D.A., Robert Jackson, to find her father. That falling for her hadn’t been part of the plan.

She wasn’t going to believe him. Why should she? He’d lied to her about everything else.

She was by far the best thing that had ever happened to him. And he was going to lose her the moment she found out, because she valued truth above all else and he had done nothing but lie to her from the first moment they had met.

Brooke’s cool fingers smoothed out the furrow forming on his brow. Pulling himself back from the quagmire of his thoughts, he raised his eyes to hers.

“You’re thinking too much again,” she told him softly. “And every time you do, you start having doubts.”

It had become her personal mission, her goal, to show him that he couldn’t live without her. To that end, she intended to use everything she had at her disposal. That included making love with him as often and as much as she could.

He had to stay.

Because life without him had become unthinkable. Without meaning to, he had stolen her heart and she had to go where it went.

Rising on her knees again, Brooke laced her arms around his neck, her sheet falling seductively away from her body. Murmuring his name, she lightly pressed her lips against his. When he began to deepen the kiss, she abruptly pulled back.

He looked at her, confused.

There was a teasing expression on her face. A laugh echoed in her throat.

He laughed as he shook his head. “You are such a temptress,” he said again.

Her eyes slowly slid down his torso, and a satisfied smile took hold of her features. Triumph pumped through her veins. She was affecting him again.

The next moment the laughter was gone. Only the desire remained.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be,” she told him a moment before she brought her mouth back to his.

His arms tightened around Brooke, holding her hard against him. Wanting her so much that it scared the hell out of him.

He hardly knew himself.

Even after being with her, he still wasn’t accustomed to the level of desire that repeatedly took hold of his body. Until he’d met her, his had been a life devoid of emotion. Yes, he was close to Nick, but even there, things went unsaid, undemonstrated. He’d been as open with Dana as he thought was possible for him. But it was nothing compared to how he felt around Brooke.

He wanted to be with her all the time, make love with her all the time. She had become his obsession as well as his salvation. Being with her kept him back from the brink of despair.

It was as if he became someone else in her presence. Someone for whom there were still possibilities left in life instead of only a barren desert. When he was with her, there was hope and light.

And most of all, there was her.

For the short duration that this would last, he felt blessed.

Locked in an embrace and each other, they fell onto the bed again. Time, schedules, responsibilities, everything was forgotten.

The only thing that existed was the bed they were on and each other.

He was strumming her like a guitar, Brooke thought. Making every part of her vibrate, creating music out of thin air. He used his hands, he used his mouth, caressing, branding, making her moist. Creating small tidal waves throughout her being.

The tempo increased, snatching away the very air out of her lungs.

Mark showed her the way to paradise, to places that she hadn’t even suspected existed. She lost control over her own body. It became entirely his, an instrument of pleasure for him to play however he chose.

When she felt the heat of his mouth at her inner core, she couldn’t keep the sounds from escaping her lips. Guttural sounds born of ecstasy, surrounding her and fading into the very walls.

His ardor branded her.

Forever and always.

In her heart, she knew this. Even if Mark left her, she would always, always be his. No matter what happened after today.

Exhausted, panting, she looked up at him as he slid himself over her. She felt every nuance of his body against hers.

“Just when I thought I knew everything, you surprise me,” she whispered.

Mark looked down into her eyes, a sadness all but overwhelming him.

If you only knew.

She blinked and looked at him. There was something in his eyes, something she couldn’t fathom but that frightened her all the same. Everything within her went on the alert.

“Mark, what is it?”

Mark placed his finger to her lips. “Shh,” he cautioned.

He would tell her. By and by he’d tell her. He had to. But not now. Not tonight.

He wanted just one more night with her. Just one more time to make love with her until they were both completely senseless. If that made him a terrible human being, well, he was already slated to burn in hell, what difference did one more offense make?

And it meant so much to him.

The look in his eyes was really scaring her. She tried desperately to interpret it.

Was he growing tired of her? Was he searching for some way to tell her that he was going to be leaving soon? Maybe back to New York or somewhere else?

Didn’t he know that she’d go anywhere with him? All he had to do was ask.

But maybe he didn’t want to ask.

No, she wasn’t going to think about that. That was for tomorrow, not now. She wanted now. More than that, she wanted forever, but she had to have now. Because, if she was very, very lucky, forever would be created out of the building blocks of now.

With renewed energy and purpose, Brooke raised her head, bringing her mouth to his, kissing him over and over again with ardor. Surprising him.

She felt Mark giving way under her assault, and she made her move, shifting their positions until she was the one on top.

With a wicked laugh she straddled him, then slipped him inside of her.

The surprised look on his face empowered her. Fused against his body, she began to move, at first slowly, then faster and faster until she had gotten completely caught up and entangled in her own trap. In the end, it was difficult to say whose breath was whose. Two streams mingled, becoming one.

Just the way they had.

An exhilaration filled him. He felt as if he was freefalling through space. Mark held on to her hips, moving her against him, trying to control the uncontrollable. And then he gave up.

Surrendering himself to the feeling.

To her.

She was like some kind of wild force of nature, and she was the most magnificent thing he had ever beheld.

And just for the moment she was his.

He couldn’t lie to himself, even in the throes of the climax that was seizing him. She wouldn’t be his much longer. But, for this one moment, this one eternity, she was his, and that was all any of them ever really had.

Only now.

When it was over, when the climax had come and gone, slowly taking euphoria along with it in its wake, he held Brooke in his arms a long time. And pretended that he really was nothing more than a hopeful would-be nonfiction writer.

And the luckiest man on the face of the earth. Because he had found her, and with her, a corner of heaven.

Chapter Thirteen

Walter Parks was not a patient man. He never had been. He had always wanted things to be done yesterday. As far as he was concerned—and he firmly believed that his was the only opinion that mattered—this hunt for Marla’s brother, Derek, that spineless weasel, was taking far too long.

He frowned as he absently swirled his snifter of cognac, sending the dark liquid to and fro in the glass like a drunken tidal wave. He shouldn’t have to worry. A man in his position should have been able to coast for the rest of his life instead of still looking over his shoulder, still wondering if the empire he had put all of his energy into creating was in jeopardy.

It wasn’t fair.

This was his legacy, and the vultures were after it, damn them.

The small, annoying pain began again. The one just beneath his breastbone.

Rubbing his chest in small, concentric circles, he watched the rain as it slid down in sheets against the pane of his study window.

It was late but he felt wide awake. Wired, even though he was tired. Sleep, as always, was not his friend. Ever since he could remember, it had eluded him, playing an elaborate game of hide-and-seek with a mind that knew no peace, that always felt as if it had to be alert, waiting for some kind of subversive attack.

Even when things were going well he couldn’t sleep, and things were not going well.

The telephone beside him rang, disturbing the silence. Putting down his glass, Parks snatched up the receiver before the sound faded. “Yes?”

The voice against his ear was deep, low. “I’ve located him, Mr. Parks.”

Parks jolted to attention. There was no need for the voice to say who “him” was. The fewer details revealed over the telephone, the better. Some bugs defied the electronics expert’s sweep.

His hand tightened on the receiver. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“About time,” he snapped. Maybe now it could finally be ended. “You know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me when it’s over.”

With that, Parks let the receiver fall back into its cradle. He smiled to himself for the first time in days. Even the pain in his chest abated.

Hands on either side of the easy chair, he pushed himself up to his feet.

Maybe now he could finally get some sleep.

Today. He would tell her today, Mark silently promised the reflection in his bathroom mirror.

He washed the last of the shaving lather from his face, trying to lay out a plan. Trying to pretend that he didn’t feel as if his life, the life he’d so recently attained, hung in the balance.

Leaving the bathroom, he went to his closet to get dressed. Outside, the wind howled and pelted the window with rain. He hardly heard it. His mind was elsewhere. On a street seven miles away, in front of a bookstore.

He’d go to Buy the Book and tell Brooke who he really was. And then he would approach her father and ask him to come forth and talk to Tyler and the D.A. It was the right thing to do.

As he quickly got dressed, his mouth curved in a mirthless smile. He shook his head.

The right thing.

Like he was the one who should be telling people what the right thing to do was. That he hadn’t meant for any of this to happen this way was no excuse. It had, and a wonderful woman was probably going to be irreversibly scarred because of it.

Buttoning his shirt, he tucked it in. He wondered if she would ever find it in her heart to forgive him. No, he suspected not. In her place, he didn’t know if he would have been able to handle a deception of this magnitude. He would have felt used. Just as she undoubtedly would, once she knew.

If Brooke let him, he knew he would be willing to spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to her. But in his heart, he had a feeling that really wasn’t a possibility.

The rain that was lashing against his windows added to the pall that he felt closing around him.

If he could, he would gladly have held all this at bay just a little longer, resisting the inevitable. But it wasn’t up to him. He’d called Tyler Carlton late last night, after he’d taken Brooke home. He’d told him about the matching photograph. The man had been eager for details and happy that his long-lost uncle had finally been found.

Tyler wanted to approach Derek himself, but Mark felt that there was protocol to follow. These things had to be done a certain way. He needed to prepare Derek for the fact that his cover had been blown. By a man he’d taken into his home. A man who had made love to his daughter.

Mark blew out a breath as he finished getting ready. Right now it felt as if his conscience weighed about a thousand pounds. And it was getting heavier with every passing minute.

She’d woken up smiling. Smiling despite the less than spectacular weather outside. The rain had begun just before Mark had brought her home. She’d felt like dancing between the raindrops. And had. He’d laughed at her.

God, but she loved the sound of his laugh. Loved everything about him, even the way his mouth turned down when he was deep in thought.

She’d hurried through her shower and gotten dressed in record time, sailing down the stairs and beating her father to the kitchen by a good twenty minutes.

Breakfast was waiting for him by the time he came down.

Brooke had watched her father eat, too keyed up, too happy to eat. She toyed with the cup of coffee she’d poured for herself. When her father sneezed and then coughed, she expressed the proper amount of sympathy, offering to go and open up the store in his place. After all, until just recently, she’d been doing it for him for the past couple of months.

“You stay home, Dad,” she urged when he demurred. “Take it easy for a while.”

But he shook his head. “Don’t baby me, Brooke. As it is, I’ve been taking it easy for too long, letting you carry more than your load.” She began to protest, but he cut her off. “I’m not a sack of sugar, I won’t disappear if a little rain hits me.”

He ended his statement with a sneeze. She pushed the box of tissues closer to him.

“It’s more than a little rain. If it was raining any harder, there’d be a man with a long beard out there, collecting two of everything and loading them onto an ark.”

She was given to exaggeration, and it amused him. “Then you shouldn’t go out, either.”

Brooke tossed her head, sending a curtain of black hair flying over her shoulder. “But I’m young, invincible—”

He homed in on the real reason she wanted to get to the bookstore. “And in love.”

There was no point in denying it, even if she was given to being secretive, which she wasn’t.

“Yeah, that, too.” She leaned her chin on her upturned hand and looked at her father, grinning. “Does it show?”

He laughed. “Only in a lighthouse-beacon kind of way. Does he know?”

She spread a healthy dose of marmalade over the English muffin she’d toasted for him, then pushed the serving in front of him.

“Probably. Oh, Dad, I’ve never felt this way before. There’s this glow, this happiness just shining all over the place inside of me.” She looked at him hopefully. “Does it last?”

Does it last? Derek thought of Anna rather than his wife. Anna Parks, the first woman he’d given his heart to on what was to be the most fateful day of his life, the one that changed it forever. He’d heard that Parks had sent her off somewhere, but he’d never managed to discover just where.

He felt that old familiar ache in his heart.

After all these years, he still thought of Anna, even before he thought of the woman who had given him his precious daughter. He knew he always would. What was it that his mother had once said? You never forget your first one. And he never had.

He felt Brooke watching him. “If it’s the right one, yes, it lasts.”

“Like you and Mom?”

In all the years that followed her mother’s death, her father had never once had anything that even remotely came close to a female companion. He’d centered his world on her and the store, nothing else. She supposed that she was looking for that kind of love, the kind that hit you squarely between the eyes and burrowed its way into your heart forever. And she thought she’d found it with Mark.

“Is that why you never dated after she died?” she pressed.

A sliver of guilt went through him. Brooke’s mother had been a fine, good woman, but she’d never made him forget about Anna, even when he tried. But that was something he wasn’t about to get into right now.

“Something like that.” When Brooke looked at him, a puzzled expression slipping over her features, he added, “It’s complicated, honey. Someday I’ll explain it all to you, but not right now.” Finished with his breakfast, he began to rise. “I’ve got a store to open.”

Having poured another cup of coffee, Brooke moved that in front of him, then pressed her hand on his shoulder, making him take his seat again.

“I’ve got a store to open,” she corrected. “You come in later. I don’t want you getting sick on me. It’s supposed to stop raining by eleven.” Brooke took her empty cup to the sink and quickly rinsed it out. She wanted to get going. “I’ll open up.”

He didn’t bother hiding the knowing smile that came to his lips. “Mark coming in early?”

“Maybe,” she said with a mysterious smile on her lips as she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel.

Brooke started for the front door, pausing to pick up her purse and the black, slouch hat she favored whenever it rained. She hated wrestling with an umbrella.

He had a clear view of her as she crossed to the door. “Don’t forget your raincoat.”

Brooke paused by the coat rack. “It’s at the cleaners.”

“Then take mine.”

She looked at what amounted to a black rain slicker. It looked like a minor pup tent. “It’s too big.”

“Not that much,” he protested. For a man, he was built thin and wiry. “Besides, you’re trying to stay dry, not make a fashion statement.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, thinking. If she took the raincoat, then he wouldn’t have one. He’d be forced to wait out the storm.

“Okay, if it keeps you home.” Slipping the slicker on, she laughed as she pushed the sleeves back enough to have her hands emerge. Doubling back, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, too happy for words. “I’ll see you later.”

Brooke left the house singing, her mood in direct contrast to the weather outside.

The man pulled up the collar of his jacket.

Miserable weather.

He’d been standing in this alley for forty minutes, waiting, getting wet. More opportune times might present themselves later, but Parks had been firm. And you didn’t get anywhere in life getting on the wrong side of Walter Parks.

Parks had said he wanted the man eliminated now. Now meant now. It didn’t get any clearer than that.

He sneezed. His mood, already foul, darkened. He was going to come down with goddamn pneumonia if his target didn’t show up soon.

And then he saw his target approaching. Every nerve ending on heightened alert, he slipped his hand over the hilt of his gun.

His index finger tightened on the trigger.

Brooke felt water splashing on the back of her ankles. The puddle had been deeper than she’d anticipated.

Wouldn’t you just know that on a day like today, the street in front of her store would be lined with cars? She’d had to park in the lot across the street.

The rain seemed to get worse with every step she took. Every step of the short distance between the lot and the store had been marked with a struggle with the oversize umbrella her father, at the last minute, had insisted she take with her. Fighting the wind for possession got her wetter than if she’d just made a dash for it.

But she didn’t care if she got wet. She felt too happy.

She was going to see Mark today and all was right with the world.

Mark brought his car to a screeching halt in the tight spot, leaving it between a BMW SUV and a sports car, vintage unknown. He made his way out of the parking structure, his eyes on the front of Derek’s store.

Brooke’s store.

He’d planned to be earlier. But traffic had been really bad. It always was whenever it rained. Maniacs wove in and out of lanes like deranged hummingbirds while the cautious types slowed down to a crawl, completely impeding his progress, making him stop at every light between his apartment and the bookstore.

As he waited for the light to change, allowing him to cross, Mark saw a figure in a black raincoat standing before the door of the bookstore, fumbling with a set of keys.

He recognized the coat. He’d seen it hanging on the rack the last time he’d been over for dinner. Was Derek alone this morning? Where was Brooke?

Disappointed, he decided that maybe this was for the better after all. Maybe if he told Derek first who he was, the rest of it would somehow work itself out. Maybe Derek would even be willing to act as a buffer between him and Brooke.

Right, and maybe Santa would come down his chimney this Christmas.

Mark squared his shoulders resolutely. One way or another, this had to be done. He might as well get it over with. The light turned green. He began to cross the street.

Everything happened so fast that at first, Mark thought he was imagining it. And then, when the events began to penetrate his brain, they seemed like something he might have seen on a newsreel or in a movie. In less than a heartbeat, he was kicked back to his days on the force in New York.

A man jumped out of the shadows behind Derek. Despite the rain, Mark saw the gun.

Instantly he pulled his own weapon out. The irony of the fact that this was the first time he’d worn it since he began perpetrating the charade didn’t occur to him until later. He’d taken it because he meant to use it as a backup for his story.

Instead, he found himself employing it in defense of the man he’d been sent to find.

“Derek, duck!” he cried out.

And then it happened. He saw the person he’d taken to be Derek turn and look straight at him. Brooke! It was Brooke in the raincoat, not her father. The same moment the realization hit him, he heard the shot.

And then he saw Brooke go down.

He felt as if the bullet had penetrated his gut. Air stopped flowing in his lungs even as he raced across the street. A car making a turn careened sharply to avoid hitting him. The driver leaned on his horn, the sound adding to the cacophony of noise throbbing in his head.

Mark never hesitated. His weapon was in his hand and he used it. Shooting at the man who’d shot at Brooke. The other man crumpled, screaming.

And then there was silence, deafening silence, except for the sound of sobs that wouldn’t come.

Mark wasn’t sure just how he got through it. How everything fell into place. The events moved through his head like broken shards of colored glass forming macabre pictures. He felt like a man trapped in a nightmare as he rushed to Brooke’s side.

She looked up at him with wide, dazed eyes.

“Oh, thank God,” he cried. “You’re alive. Hang on, baby, hang on,” he pleaded.

He wanted to cradle her, to shield her from the rain and hold her against him, but he was afraid to move her, afraid that if he did, life would seep away from her just as the blood was doing now.

There was blood, so much blood.

He’d never, ever been so afraid in his life.

White with rage, with fear, he wanted to empty his magazine into the slime who had done this. Instead he kept his weapon trained on the unconscious man on the sidewalk.

Struggling to keep from falling apart, Mark pulled out his cell phone with his other hand and called 911, demanding police backup and paramedics. For a split second he blanked out on the address. And then it came to him.

His heart tightened in his chest as he looked at Brooke. The color had left her face.

He saw her lips move, forming a word. Forming no sound. He leaned closer, his ear to her lips. “What, baby, what?”

“Mark?” Brooke felt as though everything was spinning, and she had a horrible, fiery pain in her shoulder. The pain was spreading, burning into her. Breathing hurt, made it worse. “What…what’s happening?” she finally managed to gasp.

“Shhh, don’t try to talk, baby.” He smoothed away the hair from her face. “Some lowlife tried to mug you, but he can’t hurt you anymore.” He wasn’t sure if the vermin was dead or alive and he didn’t care. All he cared about was her. “Hang on, the paramedics are on their way. Just hang on, all right?”

She tried to say “All right,” but there was no strength with which to move her lips.

His voice was getting further and further away, melting into the rain and the darkness. Her eyelids felt as if they each weighed fifty pounds, and she gave up trying to hold them up.

She slipped into the darkness.

When the police first arrived, they thought he was the perpetrator. In their defense, Mark supposed he was acting like a deranged man. But he was completely overcome with grief and guilt and terrified that Brooke was going to die. After identifying himself, he managed to regain a little of his control. As quickly, as succinctly as possible, he gave the two patrolmen the details, also giving them Nick’s name.

Once they knew he was Nick Banning’s brother, the tone of the inquiry changed. His brother was called, arriving almost immediately. Nick dashed out of the car, concern etched on his handsome face.

“You all right?”

“He shot her.” Mark looked at his brother, his eyes hollow, reflecting the condition of his soul. “The son of a bitch shot her.”

Nick looked at the paramedic. “How is she?”

“The bullet’s still inside. One inch closer…” The man didn’t have to finish the sentence. Moving swiftly, the paramedics had temporarily stopped the bleeding, but Brooke hadn’t regained consciousness. “We need to take her to the hospital,” he told Mark.

“Not without me.” He started to climb into the ambulance behind the gurney.

When the two patrolmen moved forward to detain Mark, Nick waved them back. “You need to come down to the station to give a statement.”

The younger of the two paramedics was closing the rear doors. “Count on it,” Mark told his brother.

No one would tell him how she was doing.

He’d accompanied her into the hospital, running alongside the gurney until one of the nurses gently but firmly held him back. He was cut off from her as Brooke was whisked away into a trauma room and then into emergency surgery.

Mark felt as if his legs had been cut off at the knees. In an attempt to keep his mind occupied, he called Derek, telling the man in as precise details as possible that there had been a mugging.

“Oh my God, is Brooke all right?”

Mark dragged his hand through his hair. He wished to God he knew. It took supreme effort to keep his voice calm as he said, “They have her in surgery right now.” And then, for the man’s benefit, he added, “The doctor says there’s every chance she’ll be fine.”

It was a lie. No doctor had said anything to him. They hadn’t taken the time because every second had been precious. But Mark felt he owed the man at least a tiny bit of hope.

“I’ll be right there.” The line went dead, leaving Mark to pace and to pray to a deity he hadn’t spoken a word to or acknowledged in five years.

Derek arrived less than twenty minutes later, looking like a man who had come face-to-face with mortality. He seemed to have aged ten years from the day before.

Mark did what he could to comfort him, but the effort was futile. At the core of Derek’s pain was guilt. He blamed himself for what had happened to his daughter.

“I shouldn’t have let her go. I shouldn’t have let her go,” he repeated numbly. His eyes were wild as he looked at Mark. “That should be me lying on that operating room table, not her.”

Mark knew all the right words to say, even if he couldn’t convince himself of them. Because at bottom he felt that this was all because of the search he’d initiated. Somehow, without knowing how, he’d led this vermin to Brooke’s door.

“You can’t blame yourself. These things happen. San Francisco is a big city. People get mugged. It’s not your fault.”

“Actually, technically, it is.”

Both men turned to see Nick coming toward them. He’d ridden to the hospital in the second ambulance, the one that had brought the supposed mugger to the hospital. It had been an informative trip.

It was time for the charade to be over, Mark thought. He took the first step to ending it. “Derek, this is my brother. Detective Nick Banning.”

Derek looked a little uncertain as he nodded at the other man. “What do you mean, ‘technically’?”

Nick told him what he knew. “The guy who shot your daughter was out of his head in the ambulance. He kept saying he didn’t know it was a girl, that he thought he was getting Ross, not a girl. Derek Ross,” Nick repeated as he looked at Derek. “Is that you?”

The question was a formality. Derek could tell by the way the police detective looked at him as he asked it. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to come out of hiding. There was no point in hiding anymore, not if they could find him. Not if they could threaten the only thing in his life that meant anything to him.

Derek took a deep breath. A measure of relief came with his decision. He looked at Mark’s brother. “Yes, it’s me.”

Chapter Fourteen

Mark saw his chance.

It was obvious to him that Derek thought his past had caught up to him. The man had no idea about his involvement in any of this. Glancing at Nick, Mark knew that his brother wouldn’t implicate him, not without his saying something to that effect first.

It would be so easy.

It was so tempting.

He could let everything slide, pretend to be just an innocent bystander in this drama that was unfolding, and neither Derek nor Brooke—especially not Brooke—needed to know that he’d actually been recruited by Nick and hired by Tyler to locate him.

That was the coward’s way out, though, and for a moment, Mark seriously entertained the thought of going that route. But because he was afraid of risking Brooke’s anger, her loathing and, most of all, her absence from his life, he knew that he couldn’t continue with the lie.

Because somehow, some way, the truth would surface, and he couldn’t live the kind of life that Derek had endured for the past twenty-five years. He couldn’t live with looking over his shoulder, wondering when the truth would accidentally come out and what the consequences of that, of keeping a lie going, would be.

Frustrated, edgy, Mark shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

The longer the lie lived, the larger it became. The harder it would be to make amends. If she even let him make amends. If her father let him.

Making up his mind, he interrupted Derek before the man could get started telling his story to Nick.

“I was sent to find you.”

Wrapped up in the jumble of events that had just transpired, worried about Brooke, anxious to make his confession, Derek looked at the man he considered his daughter’s savior with complete confusion.

“What?”

“Tyler Carlton hired me to find you,” Mark said slowly. He was aware that his brother was looking at him, but he didn’t bother to see if the expression was surprise or something else. He needed to get this out. “To find his mother’s brother.”

At a loss as to what to think about this newest piece of information, Derek could only stare at him, dumbfounded. “Why?”

Mark glanced at Nick before explaining. His brother looked a little surprised that he’d chosen this setting to make the facts evident, but he didn’t want to wait any longer. “Because before she died, his mother told him that you had been a witness to what happened back then. That you’d seen his father—his real father—kill her husband, Jeremy. That you could help finally bring Walter Parks to justice and allow Jeremy to finally have the justice he deserved.”

Derek felt as if he was reeling. “Marla had a child by that monster?”

“Two,” Nick put in. “Tyler and Conrad. Twins.”

“I never knew, never suspected,” Derek whispered. So much time had been lost. He should have made the attempt to find her, to be there for her. And now it was too late. His heart ached.

“No one did,” Mark told him. “She only told her children when she was on her deathbed. I guess she was tired of living a lie. And so am I.”

Derek looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Then you’re not a writer from New York.”

Feeling guilty, Mark offered the man a half smile. “I’m from New York all right, but I’m a private investigator. I’m sorry, it was the only way I could think of to get close to you.”

Derek shook his head. The attack on Brooke, his own identity outed, the true parentage of his nephews, this was all so much to absorb. His ordered life had been sent reeling on its ear. For the second time in his life, he realized that nothing would be as it was before.

But he’d run from doing what was right all these years. It was time to stop running.

“Don’t be sorry,” he told Mark. “If you hadn’t been there, Brooke would have died. And saving her life means everything to me.” And then his eyes darkened. “Walter Parks was behind this, wasn’t he?”

It was Nick who answered his question. “The man we’ve got in custody didn’t say as much when he was ranting, but we’ve got a pretty good idea that Parks is the responsible party.”

Derek’s mouth hardened as he remembered that day over a quarter of a century ago. The day that had been both the happiest and the worst day of his life. The day he had both found and lost Anna.

“He’s an evil, evil man,” Derek pronounced. He straightened his shoulders, and it looked to Mark as if Derek had suddenly shed a very heavy weight from them. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Good, I’ll set up a meeting for you with Tyler and the D.A. as soon as possible,” Nick promised him.

He looked back over his shoulder to where the would-be hit man had been left. The man had been handcuffed to his hospital bed with a guard watching over him, but Nick didn’t want to take any chances.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a prisoner to see to.” He looked at Mark. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” He didn’t want his brother fussing over him. “Go do what you have to do.”

“I’ll call you later,” Nick told him.

He left the two men standing in the hall, keeping vigil, sharing unspoken, fearful thoughts.

Derek was the first to finally break the silence. “Tell me the truth, Mark,” he said suddenly, then stopped. “It is Mark, isn’t it?”

He didn’t blame the man for having doubts. “Yes, it’s Mark.”

Derek nodded, accepting the assurance. He struggled to keep the fear at bay. “How bad was she when they took her in?”

For a moment they were just two men sharing the same fear, loving the same person. “Brooke was unconscious. But I heard the doctor say that the bullet had missed her heart.” He’d had to restrain himself from shaking the physician, trying to get answers, to get assurances when he knew there were none.

“Thank God.” Struggling against caving in emotionally, Derek searched for something to distract him. He looked at the man with him. “You really do care about her, don’t you? That wasn’t an act.”

He couldn’t explain why, when other people’s opinions never meant anything to him, that he was relieved that Derek understood. But he was.

“No, that wasn’t an act. I care about your daughter more than I can possibly say.” A rueful smile came to his lips. “I’m not very good with words. I guess I should have said I was something other than an writer.”

There was a sadness in Derek’s eyes as he said, “Brooke always had a soft spot in her heart for writers.”

Which made what he’d done even that much more manipulative, Mark thought. “Yes, I know.”

Derek sighed wearily as he shook his head again. “She’s going to be devastated when she finds out about all this. About you. About me.”

Mark looked at Brooke’s father in surprise. He hadn’t even thought about that part of it. He’d been so wrapped up in his own dilemma, in how to make a clean breast of it to Brooke, that he hadn’t even considered what this other revelation might do to her. It hadn’t crossed his mind that she was ignorant of the facts.

“Then she doesn’t know.”

“Nothing.” Derek looked at the stricken man beside him, taking pity on him. “I can break it to her if you like.” When Mark raised an eyebrow in a silent question, he added, “All of it.”

Another easy way out. But how reprehensible would she find it to have her father as the messenger and not him? No, there was no easy way out, Mark told himself. No way around it. Not if he ever hoped to win her.

And even if he didn’t, he owed this to her, owed it to her to tell her the truth himself, not by proxy. “No, I need to tell her myself.”

Derek solemnly nodded his head. “I understand.”

Mark only hoped that Brooke would.

Easing the door open, Mark tiptoed into the room. The nurse had told him Brooke was awake and asking for him, but he still thought she might be asleep when he entered.

Her eyes were closed.

Holding his breath, Mark moved in a little closer. He stood by the bed for a moment just looking at her, his heart aching. She was alive, but she looked so frail, so delicate, as pale as the sheet she was lying on.

The doctor had told Derek and him that the surgery had gone exceptionally well and he had every confidence that she would recover. They’d gotten the bullet, and Brooke had lost very little blood, considering the circumstances.

But he needed to see for himself. Needed to assure himself that she was still alive, still breathing.

He stood by her bed for a long time.

Her eyes fluttered open just as he began to back away. She looked right at him, spearing his soul. Holding him fast.

“Don’t go.”

Her voice was small, barely penetrating the air around her. Barely audible.

He moved back to her side immediately, taking her hand in both of his. Acutely aware that this might be the last time he could be with her like this. The last time he might be with her at all.

She tried to smile. Only one corner of her mouth rose. “My hero,” she whispered.

The word pierced his heart, bringing with it a fresh assault of guilt. “Don’t.”

“You’ve…got to…get…over this…modesty…Mark,” she said with effort. “You were my…hero. You saved…me. Always there…watching…over…me.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. The even breathing told him that she’d fallen asleep again.

He didn’t let go of her hand.

They took turns, Derek and he, sitting by her bed, keeping vigil, waiting for her to wake up again.

Waiting to tell her what he didn’t want to tell her, Mark felt as if his very life was on hold. He knew how prisoners on death row felt, waiting for that fateful call from the governor.

The call that might not come. The forgiveness that might not be there.

Brooke woke up again six hours later, during his portion of the vigil.

Stirring, she murmured in her sleep, calling his name. When he answered, she opened her eyes. And then smiled. It came slowly, unfurling like a sleeping flower in the morning sun.

“I was dreaming about you, and here you are. My hero.”

He couldn’t have her calling him that, believing that, not until she knew everything.

For a moment, because of her condition, he thought of waiting. But that was the fear talking. He had waited too long already.

Maybe, he realized, if he’d told her last night, the way he was going to before changing his mind at the last minute, she might not be lying here like this.

There were a thousand different ways to play the scenario through his head. It didn’t matter. It had happened, and thank God she had survived it.

He had to do what needed to be done.

Though her head felt as if it was in danger of spinning again, she tried to focus on Mark’s face. He looked so solemn, so bereft. Was that because of her? She was sorry she’d put him through this.

“Is the mugger dead?”

“No.”

Nick had told him that the man had regained consciousness and shown every sign of pulling through. He had also made a partial confession, admitting he was paid to kill Derek Ross, but refusing to give them the name of the man who’d hired him. Nick said the hardened man said something about not living out the night if he gave the man up.

“He wasn’t a mugger,” Mark told her. Brooke looked at him with eyes that didn’t understand. “He was a hit man.”

“A hit man?” she echoed incredulously. How was that possible? They didn’t move in those kinds of circles. “Did he get lost? Why would a hit man want to kill me?”

“He didn’t.” Mark measured out his words slowly, giving each one weight. Waiting for each to sink in. “He wanted to kill your father. He thought you were Derek. You were wearing his raincoat, opening up the shop…”

His voice trailed off for a moment along with his courage.

It still didn’t make any sense to her. “I don’t understand. Why would someone want to kill my father? He’s just a bookstore owner.”

“No, he’s not.” Standing over her, Mark looked down into her eyes. Hoping he could find forgiveness there as he began to approach the truth of his part in all this. “He’s Derek Ross.”

In her mind’s eye, she suddenly saw the letter. The letter she’d found in his desk drawer and had thought was misaddressed. The letter written by a Tyler Carlton, urging her father to come forward.

It had to be a mistake. Stubbornly she said, “Moss, our name is Moss.”

“No,” he told her quietly, taking her hand in his, “it’s Ross. Your father is Derek Ross, Marla Carlton’s younger brother.”

“Marla Carlton?” She wrinkled her brow. “Who’s Marla—the woman whose funeral Dad went to?”

Mark nodded.

“And someone wants to kill him because he’s her brother?” Why? Who was this Marla Carlton? For that matter, who was her father?

He knew this was hard for her, hard to comprehend, but there was no turning back now. “No, because he witnessed Walter Parks kill her husband, Jeremy Carlton.”

Her head was aching and spinning at the same time. Was she really hearing all this, or was this just part of a bad dream, induced by the anesthesia?

“How do you know all this?” she asked him. “Did my father tell you?” Why would her father confide in Mark and not her? Why had he kept all this from her all these years?

Mark braced himself. This was it. “No, I was sent to find him.”

This was getting more and more confusing. “They sent a writer?”

“No.” He took a deep breath. “They sent a private investigator.”

She stared at him. What was he saying to her? That her father was someone else? That he was someone else?

“You?” she finally asked, her voice shaking. She felt as if the very walls of her life were being systematically shattered.

“Me.”

She stared at him as she tried desperately to align the information she’d just received with what she’d thought, until two minutes ago, was true. None of the jagged edges fit together. Everything felt all jumbled. The only thing she knew was that she knew nothing. Everything she’d believed to be true was a lie.

Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the man she loved. The man who didn’t exist. “You lied to me.”

The words rang like a condemnation. “About some things.”

Hairs, he was splitting hairs. She knew better. “About everything.”

“No.” He couldn’t have her believing that. But when he started to take her hand, she pulled it away, nearly yanking the needle out of her vein.

The expression on her face cut him dead.

“How do I know that?” she demanded hotly. “You could be lying now.”

There was no way he could prove that he wasn’t. He could only give her his word. “I’m not.”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.” How could she have been so stupid, so blind? She’d literally thrown herself at him. And he’d been there to catch her. Humiliated, she hated him. “Boy, what an assignment you got. Find a missing person and, oh, yes, make love to his stupid twit of a daughter while you’re at it. And you got paid for this?”

It sounded disgusting. He couldn’t blame her for being angry. But it hadn’t been like that, and he had to make her believe that it wasn’t.

“You’re not a stupid twit, and it wasn’t supposed to happen that way.”

“Right, regrets.” She nodded, remembering the look on his face when he’d discovered that she was a virgin. “Sorry I wasn’t more experienced for you.”

“Stop it.” There was a dangerous edge to the warning. For a second, she was silent, looking at him. Daring him to prove her wrong. He felt as helpless as he had when he’d seen the hit man aiming his gun at her. More, because he had no weapon of his own to use. “That wasn’t part of it.”

And then Brooke laughed shortly, anger entering her eyes. “Well, you can’t exactly call it a bonus now, can you?”

How did he make her understand that he hadn’t used her, not that way.

Hadn’t he? a small voice echoed in his brain. Hadn’t he used her to bring him back among the living? He could have kept her at arm’s length; it wouldn’t have cost him the investigation. But it had been easier for him not to. And in the final analysis, that was using her.

He came as close to pleading as he ever had in his life. “Brooke, you have to believe me when I say that what happened between you and me was beside the point.”

But her eyes were flat, unapproachable. “Was anything you told me true? Are you even from New York, or was that an act, too?” Sarcasm twisted her mouth. “You know, you really should be in the movies, you’re very convincing.”

“I am from New York.” His voice was tight as he fought to rein in his emotions. Losing his temper wasn’t going to further his case. Nothing, he knew, was going to further his case. “And I told you as much of the truth as I could. My brother’s best friend hired me to find your father—”

“Your brother?” she echoed. “You have a brother?” She knew nothing about him. The thought hit her right between the eyes. She’d given herself to a stranger, a lie, a fabrication. For all she knew he was married with three children.

He nodded. “His name is Nick and he’s with the police department—”

But she was shaking her head, her one good hand to her ear. The IV bottle tottered dangerously, then settled again. “I don’t want to hear it,” she cried. “You’ll just tell me more lies.”

He stood his ground, feeling as if he was fighting for his life. “Brooke, I—”

“Get out,” she cried. Tears sprang to her eyes. Tears of anger, of hurt and humiliation.

It couldn’t end like this. She hated him; he could see it in her eyes. And he couldn’t stand to see her crying like this.

“Brooke, please—”

“Get out,” she repeated, struggling not to scream. Her emotions were all over the map. “I want you to get out of here.”

He wanted to stay and fight for her, to make her understand that he’d done what he had to do but that making love with her hadn’t been part of it. That was in a separate place all its own. And above all, he wanted her to believe that she was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him.

And that he loved her.

But he could see by the expression on Brooke’s face that she wouldn’t believe him, wouldn’t believe anything that came out of his mouth now. And he couldn’t blame her. In her place, he knew he would feel the same way. Violated.

He backed away from her. Just before he opened the door, he said, “I’ll send in your father.”

“No,” she ordered with so much feeling that the single word all but drained her. Her father had lied to her, too, had lied to her her entire life. “I don’t want to see him, either.” She pushed the button on the side of her bed that made the upper portion rise until her eyes were all but level with his. “I don’t want to see anyone, do you understand? I want to be left alone.”

He thought of the man waiting outside the room. Brooke was her father’s whole world. Mark deserved her censure, her father didn’t. He’d kept the truth from her to protect her.

“Brooke.” He tried again.

She drew herself up as much as she could, tethered the way she was to an IV on one side, a monitor on the other. “I said get out! Now!”

Afraid of what this was doing to her physically, Mark had no choice but to do what she said. With a nod of his head, he withdrew, closing the door behind him.

He didn’t hear her as she began to cry in the room. All he heard was the sound of his own heart, breaking.

Chapter Fifteen

“Mr. Walter Parks?”

Looking up from his desk, Walter Parks scowled. His secretary had selfishly taken the day off, leaving another woman to fill her place. Obviously, this woman didn’t understand the ramifications of her job, since she had allowed some stranger to breach his inner office and annoy him. He hated incompetence.

“Yes?” he barked. In response, the young man stepped forward and thrust a thick envelope into his hand. Parks stared at it. There was only his name on the outside, nothing more. “What the hell is this?”

“A subpoena,” the man said cheerfully, already retreating. “Consider yourself served, sir. Have a nice day.”

Enraged, Parks threw the envelope after the man, who was swift enough to make his exit and close the door behind him. The envelope landed with a loud thud against the door, then fell to the floor.

Cursing the stupidity of inept secretaries in particular and the universe in general, Parks walked over to where the envelope lay and picked it up. When he tore it open, he found the subpoena inside. A subpoena ordering him to show up at a local hospital in order to have his DNA tested.

This was that bastard’s work, he thought. Tyler Carlton. Marla’s young whelp had already been here once, claiming that he was his father, asking for recognition. As if that would ever happen. He’d thrown the moneygrubber out, had security “escort” him out of the building. He’d screened his calls, making sure he had no contact with the pretender. If Carlton thought he was going to show up for testing, he was just as naive as his silly mother had been.

About to throw the subpoena in the trash, Parks saw that it had been issued with the backing of the D.A.’s office. Damn Jackson. The man had been looking for a way to come after him for years.

Furious, crumpling the offending document and throwing it to the floor, Parks stormed out of his office to go and fire his secretary’s substitute.

Brooke smiled as her father gently helped ease her into the passenger side of his dark sedan. After three days in the hospital, she was more than ready to go home. The surgery to remove the bullet had gone well, and the surgeon who’d operated on her said that he’d never had a patient recover so rapidly. It was music to her ears.

“I won’t break, Dad.”

He’d almost lost her. He was taking nothing for granted again. Derek closed her door. “I don’t know about that.”

Brooke winced a little as she buckled up, but the pain was outweighed by the triumph of regaining her independence. “The doctor said I’d be good as new with a little rest. Better.”

“Let me pamper you for a while,” Derek said, getting behind the wheel. Starting up the car, he glanced at his daughter. Her color had returned, but there was a sadness to her now. A sadness that he knew had nothing to do with the terrible incident that could have cost Brooke her life and cost him everything. “You should forgive him, you know.”

Brooke stared straight ahead at the road. She wasn’t going to go there anymore, wasn’t going to think about him, ache for him, silently rail at him. It was over, in the past, and she needed to move on. Her voice was hollow as she asked, “Who?”

Derek sighed quietly. She was stubborn, just like Marla had been. In so many ways, Brooke reminded him of his late sister. “You know who I’m talking about, Brooke. Mark.”

There was no point in talking about Mark. He hadn’t been to the hospital since she’d sent him away. If he’d cared, he would have tried again. In his place, she would have. Over and over. That he didn’t just meant she was right. He was probably relieved to be out of the charade he was forced to play. “How do we even know that’s his real name?”

“It is.” Derek took a left turn at the light. “Brooke, he was just doing his job.”

Her voice rose, emotion threatening to overwhelm her, but she managed to bank it down. “Don’t defend him to me, Dad. He could have been up-front with you, told you who he was.”

Derek shook his head. “Not the way I was in the beginning. I would have just denied everything and sent him away.”

Sent him away. Then none of this would have happened. And her heart wouldn’t be aching like this. “Would that have been so bad?”

“Yes.” Surprised by his firm tone, Brooke turned to look quizzically at her father. “For one thing, he wouldn’t have been there to save your life.”

“He wouldn’t have been there to mess it up, either.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

He hated seeing her like this, hated seeing his daughter in pain. “Love can only mess up your life if you turn your back on it.”

Her defenses immediately snapped into place. “Who’s talking about love?”

“I am. You are.” He glanced at her before looking back on the road. “You’re in love with him.”

“No, I’m not,” she declared vehemently. Then, because she knew her father could see right through her, she relented. She’d never lied to him and she wasn’t going to allow Mark-whoever-he-was make her start now. “All right, but it’ll pass. Like the flu.”

“No, it won’t.” His tone told her that he knew better. “Not your first one. Not if it’s real.”

“You’re talking about Mom again, aren’t you?” Right now she just wasn’t in the mood for the old story. “Well, Dad—”

The time for secrecy was over. All secrecy. “No, I’m not. Jenna was a wonderful woman who tried to make me forget the pain I felt.”

“Pain?”

He made up his mind. “What I’m going to tell you, I’ve never told anyone before. Not even your mother. But she knew without asking that there had been someone before her. Someone I could never forget. She accepted that and she was a remarkable woman.” He spared Brooke a glance, trying to gauge how to tell her. “But she’s not who I want to tell you about right now.”

“More secrets?” Brooke felt her stomach quiver uneasily. How much more was there that she didn’t know about her father? It seemed as if ever since Mark had come into her life, nothing was what it had been before.

“No, no more secrets,” he promised. “I want to get everything out in the open.” He took a breath, knowing this was going to shock her. “I fell in love with Walter Parks’s wife.”

She could only stare at him. Her father and another man’s wife? Especially Walter Parks? It seemed too incredible to believe.

“What?”

“Yes, Anna Parks. She was a beautiful woman, full of life, full of energy. Walter sapped all that away.” He could hardly keep the animosity out of his voice. “He treated her as if she was some lowly servant to be ordered around and then ignored. It was clear that he’d just married her for her father’s money and connections. Once he had that, he stopped pretending that he had any interest in her whatsoever. He all but locked her up in that big house he insisted on buying.”

She was trying to follow this. “If she was locked up, how did you—?”

“Twenty-five years ago, Walter threw an elaborate party on his yacht.” He shivered as he recalled the events. But then, how was he to know that they would change his life so drastically? “He invited a lot of his so-called friends and business associates, among them my brother-in-law and his family. I was included. Walter had to be feeling particularly good about himself that day because he allowed Anna to come, too.”

His voice grew soft as he recalled seeing the woman for the first time. “That’s when I met her. That’s when I fell in love with her. She didn’t have to tell me how unhappy she was, I could see it in her eyes.” Just as he could when he looked into Brooke’s, he thought. The light turned red and he turned to look at his daughter. “You know how there are some people you can just look at and know everything about them instantly?”

Brooke sighed as she shook her head. “I would say yes, except that in my case, it turned out that I didn’t know anything.”

He patted Brooke’s hand. The light turned green again. “You knew the right things, honey. Mark’s a decent man who loves you.”

She didn’t want to talk about Mark. Not now, perhaps not ever. “What about Anna?” she pressed. “What happened between you and her?”

He knew she was avoiding the subject, but he didn’t mind. It had been years since he allowed himself to relive the events of that night, and he needed to. Needed to if he was going to be able to be of use to the D.A.

“Things got a little involved. The party went on for hours. Anna had a little too much to drink and was afraid that her husband would cause a scene if he saw her, so I took her downstairs to one of the cabins and sat with her. She fell asleep for a little while.

“I left her alone and came back on deck. That’s when I found we’d gone back to the dock and everyone had left the party. Everyone except for Walter and Jeremy. They were topside, toasting something. I didn’t hear what was said, but I saw Walter slip something into my brother-in-law’s drink.” His mouth became grim. “It had to be poison. Jeremy collapsed almost immediately, gasping and thrashing. Walter had this smug look on his face as he stood over him. When Jeremy finally stopped, Walter took his pulse. Then he put out to sea again. When we were out far enough, I saw Walter dispose of the body by throwing it overboard. He never saw me.

“I went back downstairs and hid with Anna. The second Walter turned the boat around and put into the harbor, Anna and I waited for our opportunity. We slipped out the first chance we got. Not knowing what else to do, I brought her to my house. We wound up spending the night together.” He paused significantly, as if to relive those moments. “She was worried about her children, so in the morning, I took her home. Walter wasn’t there. It was the last time I ever saw her,” he concluded heavily.

Brooke’s eyes were wide as she was reeled in. “Did he kill her, too?”

“Not literally, but he killed her spirit.” And for that, more than any of the other offenses on Walter’s’ extensive list, he would always hate the man. “I heard that he sent her off to a sanitarium, convinced everyone that she’d had a nervous breakdown. No one contested it. I should have. But I didn’t. I went to Marla and told her what I saw.

“She was afraid Walter would kill me if he knew what I had witnessed, so she told me to go as far away as I could. She did the same after the police told her the official verdict for Jeremy’s death was drowning. She figured Walter had found someone to bribe. I wandered around for a little bit, but I discovered that I couldn’t stay away from San Francisco.”

He smiled ruefully at his daughter. “I guess I kept hoping Anna would come back. Then I met your mother and, well, you know the rest.” Gripping the steering wheel, he made a sharp right before resuming his narrative. “My point is, I missed my chance because I allowed myself to get overwhelmed. Don’t you do the same.”

In this department, Brooke thought, she and her father were worlds apart. She didn’t need that lying son of a gun, Mark, in her life. She would never know when he wasn’t lying. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Dad, but this is different.”

“Every situation is different,” he said, though he didn’t see her point, “but he loves you.”

Despite everything, she could feel her heart quickening inside her chest. “Did he tell you that?”

Derek would have liked to give her that added assurance, but there were to be no more lies between them, not even little white ones. “Some things don’t need words.”

And some things, she thought, shifting forward in her seat again and staring straight ahead, do.

“Hey, Maddy, hear the latest?”

Maddy Jones glanced up from her cluttered desk at the Chronicle. The as-yet-to-be-taken-seriously journalist looked at the man, Colin Woods, peering into her cubicle. As she did so, she eased a folder closed. Her desk was littered with things she had yet to get to. It was a display of chaos, in direct contrast to her mind, which kept a thousand things in their proper order.

“Which latest?”

The man moved in closer, lowering his voice, enjoying his moment. “My source at the D.A.’s says that it looks like there’re more apples on the Walter Parks tree than the old man’d like us to know about.”

“Oh?” She didn’t even pretend to be above this kind of gossip. It was what got her blood moving. “Tell me more.” And then a question struck her. “What’s the D.A.’s office got to do with it?”

“They’re the ones backing a subpoena. Robert Jackson handled it personally.” The current D.A. was thought to be the darling of the tabloids because he made no secret of the fact that he was systematically bedding every attractive woman within a hundred-mile radius. “Seems he subpoenaed Old Man Parks to give a DNA sample to prove that this claim is legitimate.”

She laughed shortly, picturing the uptight, condescending gem emperor. “Bet that makes Parks mad as hell.”

“No bet.”

“Thank you, Colin.” She flashed a grin at him. “You just made my day.”

Everything else in Maddy’s well-organized head was pushed back. She could smell a media sensation in the offing.

He sat in his car, watching the house. Mark carefully rotated his neck and shoulders, trying to get rid of a nagging kink. He’d followed Derek and Brooke from the hospital. When they arrived home without incident, he’d positioned himself across the street, a silent, freelancing guardian angel.

There was no way he was going to take a chance on Parks sending out a second hit man to do the job right. Especially not after Tyler had convinced the D.A. to issue that subpoena asking for a sample of Parks’s DNA.

The old bastard had to know the end was within sight. That the things he’d tried to keep buried all these years were finally beginning to surface. That had to make him desperate. Parks knew that once Derek talked, he would be facing a murder charge. They couldn’t kill him twice. He had nothing to lose by killing Derek.

Unlike him, who had everything to lose.

Who was he kidding? He’d already lost it, Mark silently taunted himself. But lost it or not, there was no way he was going to take a chance on anything happening to Brooke or to her father. Not while he was alive.

He reached for the sandwich that was already growing stale on the seat next to him. It was going to be a long night.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Brooke’s voice seemed to echo up and down the long corridor as she looked at her father anxiously. “I mean, if you wanted to sell the store, pull up stakes and just move away, I’d go with you. There’s no need to put yourself through this.”

She knew it was the right thing to do, but after the incident with the gunman, she knew where her priorities were. She would never forgive herself if anything ever happened to her father because of this.

“I’m sure,” he assured her. “Besides, there’s not a box big enough to pack my conscience away in, Brooke.” He patted her hand that rested on the wooden bench. “I’ve put this off for too long. Maybe if I’d come forward right away, a lot of people’s lives would be different.”

So now she knew what the pervading sadness in her father’s eyes was all about. “You’re thinking of Anna again, aren’t you?”

“Among others.” Anna might not have been shipped off to God only knew where, and Marla wouldn’t have packed up the kids and disappeared. He looked now at his daughter, running a hand affectionately along her cheek. “About the only good thing that did come out of it, besides you, is that you met Mark.”

She folded her hands primly before her. “Dad, let’s not go through that again.”

“I’ll go through it as many times as it takes to make you come around.” He felt he owed that to Mark. “He’s been protecting us, you know.”

Brooke blinked. She hadn’t a clue what her father was talking about. “Who?”

“Mark.” He was surprised she’d remained oblivious to it. Brooke was usually sharper than that. “I saw his car outside the house. He followed me to and from the bookstore while you were in the hospital. His car was two lengths back when we left for court this morning.” He saw the frown forming on Brooke’s face. “Whether you like it or not, the man’s become our guardian angel. That says a great deal about a man when he doesn’t think he stands a chance in hell of getting the woman he loves to ever forgive him.”

Brooke pressed her lips together. But before she had a chance to say anything, the assistant D.A. was opening the outer office door. He stepped back as far as he could in order not to take up any room. “The D.A. is ready for you, Mr. Ross.”

Mr. Ross.

That, Brooke thought as she rose to her feet, was going to take some getting used to.

Giving her father an encouraging smile, she hooked her arm through his. “Okay then, let’s go, Dad. ‘Second star to the right, straight on until morning.’”

Derek smiled. “I always did favor Peter Pan.”

Robert Jackson, the tall imposing D.A., dominated the small office the same way he did a courtroom, but Brooke’s eyes were immediately drawn to the six-foot, dark-haired man sitting beside him.

The latter had the exact same coloring as she did, the same black hair, the same green eyes. He could have easily been her brother.

Or her cousin.

Which was exactly what he was, she quickly learned once the introductions were made.

Nothing could have pleased her more.

“You know,” she confided as she shook his hand with her free one, “until this moment, I thought there was just my father and me. I always wanted to be part of a large family.”

“Then,” Tyler told her with a smile, “are you in for a treat.” He glanced toward Jackson. “Okay if I show the others in?”

“Others?” Brooke asked as the D.A. nodded.

Rather than answer her, Tyler opened the door to an adjoining room. “Come on in,” he said to his siblings, “it’s time to let Brooke and Uncle Derek know what they’re in for.”

Stunned, Brooke exchanged looks with her father as four people entered the room, three in the front and one lagging slightly behind. The one male in the group looked like an exact carbon copy of the man she’d just been told was her cousin.

Tyler put his arm around the other man’s shoulders. “This is Conrad, my twin brother. And these two lovely ladies—” he nodded at the two who had entered first “—are my sisters, Sara and Kathleen.”

Brooke’s attention was completely riveted to the latter. She instantly recognized the woman’s face from the dust jacket of the book that was lying on her nightstand. “Kathleen,” she echoed.

Kathleen, the oldest of the four, was the only one whose hair was blond and whose eyes were blue. It set her apart from the others as did, she felt, her talent. She couldn’t help the slightly superior smile that nudged at her lips. “Yes.”

“Kathleen Carlton,” Brooke repeated, still unable to believe what her eyes were telling her. “Like the mystery writer.”

It was obvious to everyone that this was one of the things Kathleen loved best about what she did—the recognition. “I am the mystery writer.”

Brooke’s eyes were wide and sparkling. “I love your work.”

Kathleen’s smile grew larger. “I like her already,” she told the woman at her side, the one who had yet to be introduced. Realizing the oversight, Kathleen magnanimously did the honors. She moved the tall, willowy redhead forward. “Oh, this is my friend, Carla Baker, librarian by day, scholar par excellence by night,” she teased with uncustomary affection.

In deference to the moment, and to what he hoped to gain in the immediate future—fodder for his case—Jackson had stood by quietly much longer than usual. But it was obviously time to move things along.

He put one arm around Kathleen’s waist and one around Sara’s, ushering them toward the open door. “Why don’t you all get to know each other while Mr. Ross tells me exactly how I can finally further my case against Walter Parks?” he suggested. He glanced over his shoulder at Derek. “You wouldn’t know anything about this rumor about gem smuggling, would you?”

“Actually, yes, I do.”

Derek saw the D.A.’s face light up. The smuggling had been something Marla had once confided to him. Something she’d said that Jeremy had on Walter. The same something that had brought about his brother-in-law’s death. It was time to get this off his chest and finally begin living his life again, Derek thought. Perhaps, when all this came to its conclusion and was wrapped up, he could even discover what had really happened to Anna.

It gave him hope.

He watched his daughter disappear into the next room with the other young people, then settled back to tell Robert Jackson and Tyler Carlton his story. From the beginning.

Chapter Sixteen

“I’m afraid I made a mess of it,” Brooke concluded, finishing up an abbreviated version of her aborted romance with Mark.

It had hit her with the speed of a lightning bolt when her father had told her that Mark was watching over them, to keep them safe from possibly another one of Walter Parks’s hit men. Mark really did care about her. And, no matter what she’d tried to tell herself, she still loved him. Would always love him.

As for her pouring out her heart to Carla Baker in the room adjoining the D.A.’s office, there had been no incubation period. She had taken to these people—her cousins—immediately, especially to Kathleen and her friend, Carla.

She had always been crazy about the writer’s books and was more than a little in awe of the woman.

Her reaction to Carla was more of a case of finding a kindred soul. Carla was the same age as she was and embodied a combination of eagerness and shyness that Brooke felt defined her own approach to life. With very little encouragement, she found herself pouring out her heart to Carla, telling her all about Mark and the way she’d treated him once she’d discovered his deception.

She was having second thoughts, now that she had finally calmed down and started to think things through. Second thoughts about her reaction and second thoughts about what that reaction had cost her. When she’d discovered what he’d done, she’d honestly thought that Mark didn’t care, that it had all been an act, because he hadn’t attempted to make her change her mind.

But now that her father had told her Mark was keeping to the shadows, watching over them after the way she’d treated him, well, didn’t that indicate something? Didn’t that mean that maybe he really did have feelings for her? At least a little? She could go very far on just a little—but she’d destroyed everything by refusing to listen to him, by telling him to go away.

She didn’t know how to make amends for that.

She looked at Carla, suddenly fighting back tears. “I was such an idiot. I’ve lost the one man I was meant to be with.”

Granted, the words did come off a little dramatic, but Carla suspected that was because, as Brooke had confided in her, books had always been her best friends, always on call whenever she needed them, twenty-four/seven.

The pert redhead glanced around Brooke’s head toward the other room, an idea beginning to form. “Don’t be so sure.”

Hope sprang up in the middle of a field of widening despair. Brooke placed her hand over Carla’s, as if to tap into the other woman’s idea. “Why?”

Carla grinned. “Because I think I might have an idea—offbeat for some, perfect for you—that I think just might do the trick.”

Brooke knew she was willing to do practically anything to get another chance with Mark. “Don’t just leave me hanging…”

Carla rose to her feet. By the expression on her face, the plan was clearly taking shape and gaining substance. “We’re going to need help,” Carla tossed over her shoulder as she went to see about recruiting Tyler to help his newfound cousin.

“This should cover it.” Tyler tore the check out of his checkbook, holding it out to Mark. It was the fee they had agreed upon, plus a little more because Mark had done his job so swiftly. “Best money I ever spent.”

Taking it, Mark didn’t bother looking at the amount. He felt certain that Tyler had written down what they had agreed to. Tyler wasn’t the kind of man to renege or cut corners. But what Mark didn’t quite get was why Tyler had insisted on his coming to the D.A.’s house in order to give him the money when they could have just as easily met anywhere.

He folded the check and placed it in his pocket. The restlessness that had been part of his life for so long, that had only abated those short periods of time when he had been with Brooke, was urging him to move on. “Well, I’d better get going.”

But as he turned to leave, Tyler hooked his arm through Mark’s, stopping him.

“What’s your hurry? Have a drink with us to celebrate.” Tyler nodded toward the small bar that Robert kept behind his desk. Robert was already on his feet, getting three glasses and a bottle of champagne he’d kept on ice. Tyler grinned as the other man poured. “After the testimony my newfound uncle gave our illustrious D.A. here, I’d say we’re well on our way to taking down the man who destroyed my mother’s life.”

Mark really didn’t feel like celebrating, but he couldn’t very well walk away, not when it was put that way. Not when he had been instrumental, in his own small way, in bringing this all about.

So he nodded at Tyler and accepted the glass that Jackson handed him.

“To the future,” Jackson held his flute aloft. Tyler and then Mark raised theirs to form a small, bubbling circle. “And to the end of Walter Parks’s rein as gem czar and smuggler.”

“Amen to that,” Tyler agreed. Taking a sip, he slid a covert glance at Mark. “Good company, good wine, but I have this feeling that something’s still missing.” He struggled to keep his expression innocent. Especially when Jackson had just rolled his eyes before turning away. “Oh, yes, good music. Or, in lieu of that, poetry.” Setting down his glass on Jackson’s desk, he looked at Mark. “How do you feel about poetry, Mark?” he asked as he stepped to the closed doors on the opposite side of the room.

The champagne he’d just swallowed went down the wrong pipe. Mark coughed, holding his hand up to temporarily pause the conversation. Clearing his throat, he could only ask, “What?”

“Poetry,” Tyler repeated throwing open the doors to the next room.

The room was a library, with shelves lining three of the four walls. It reminded Mark a little of Brooke’s bookstore.

Then, before he could ask his brother’s best friend what the hell had come over him, he heard her.

Heard just her voice.

His heart quickened.

Brooke.

Looking around, he didn’t see her. There were other people in the adjoining room. Tyler’s brother and sisters and some woman he didn’t recognize.

And her voice floating to him.

There was a wing chair facing a window on the far wall. Her voice was coming from there. He moved toward it.

“He has blue eyes,

This man who’s won my heart.

I said some cruel words

That tore us both apart.

If he could forgive them,

I promise that I would be

Everything he ever hoped for

If he would only return to me.”

Her heart pounding in her throat, Brooke finished the small peace offering she had composed. She was almost afraid to look up, afraid that the presence she sensed wasn’t his.

But when she did look up, she saw him standing there. Looking at her. Her eyes stung. She wanted to throw herself into his arms. Wanted to cry.

Like someone in a dream, Brooke slowly rose to her feet. Suddenly her mind was filled with words, words that all rushed together, trying to charge out of her mouth. She selected the only ones that were truly pertinent.

“I’m sorry.”

Unable to believe that she was real, Mark cupped her face between his hands. He never thought he’d be this close to her again. “No, I’m sorry.”

Carla came forward, relieved that her plan had worked. “Okay, you’re each one sorrier than the other. Now kiss and make up so we can move on with this.”

Tyler decided that a measure of privacy was called for, and he came to the couple’s rescue. “Moving on sounds like a good idea.” With a wide wave of his arms, he ushered everyone else toward the open double doors. “Why don’t we all move back into the study and let these two have some privacy?”

Brooke smiled her gratitude, but her eyes remained on Mark. “That’s my cousin.”

His hands still framing her face, Mark laughed softly. “Yes, I know.”

She needed to apologize, really apologize before they could move on in what was hopefully still a relationship. “But I wouldn’t know, if it hadn’t been for you.” She placed her hands on his shirt, absorbing the warmth she felt from his chest. So very happy to be here with him like this. She was never going to be able to repay Carla and Tyler. “I didn’t mean what I said to you.”

He didn’t need her apology. Having her here like this was all he’d ever needed.

“You had every right to be angry.” He looked into her eyes. “I never meant to hurt you or your father.”

“I know.” And she did. There wasn’t a mean-spirited bone in the man’s body. “This is a good thing you did.” She wanted him to know that, know what a difference he’d made in her father’s life in such a short time. “My father seems happier, freer, lighter than he has in years. And now we’ve found this big family—it means the world to him.” And to her, but this wasn’t about her, it was about her father. And Mark. “And it’s all because of you. I’ll always be grateful.”

Mark shrugged off the thanks. Unlike Dana, he had never been comfortable assuming center stage. “I was just the middle man, Brooke. It was Tyler who initiated the search.”

She laughed, shaking her head. She’d never known anyone like him. The man was unbelievably modest. All the other men she’d fancied herself in love with had egos higher than Mt. Everest, but Mark was entirely without one. Maybe that was why she loved him the way she did. He was real and he didn’t need to feed on any outside reinforcements.

She touched his cheek. “Stop it, I’m trying to thank you.”

He placed his hand over hers, bringing the palm of her hand to his lips. He pressed a kiss to the center. “There’s no need.”

Brooke caught her breath as a thrill undulated through her. “There’s every need. I haven’t been the same since you left.”

“I know what you mean,” he confessed. “I feel the same way.” Afraid she might misunderstand, he quickly explained, “I mean, I haven’t been the same, either.”

He sounded about as suave as a chunk of cheese, he thought ruefully. This was his moment to make everything right and he was stumbling over his own tongue, having a hell of a hard time forming sentences. Nothing new there. But he needed to, needed to let her know exactly how he felt. And what he wanted.

He tried again, looking into her eyes, hoping she could see into his soul—which belonged to her exclusively. “Did you mean what you said, in the poem? About my having your heart?”

Brooke smiled, blinking back tears again. As if he had to ask. “Yes.”

“That’s good. Because you have mine.” He knew his voice didn’t carry enough inflection and that he probably sounded as if he was reading a laundry list. “Damn it, Brooke, I’m not any good at this.” He took her hand in his. “I won’t be writing poems for you, or even reading them. That’s not my style.”

“Okay,” she uttered breathlessly, every fiber in her being coaxing him on.

“But I do love you.”

Her heart was hammering so hard in her throat, she was surprised she could still squeeze out a word without having it squeak. “You do?”

“Yes,” he told her solemnly. “You make me feel complete.” As he spoke, he explored the sensation for the first time, thinking out loud. “I never felt whole before. I always felt as if there was something not right, something missing. I didn’t think I was really capable of loving.” His parents’ violent death and the life that followed thereafter had left him feeling hollow. Even finding Dana hadn’t done anything to plug the hole. “Because, a person who’s really in love can sense when there’s something wrong, and I didn’t pick up on any of those vibrations with Dana.

“But with you, it’s different.” And he meant that from the bottom of his heart. “It’s like there’s a single soul that’s both yours and mine.” He paused, wondering if she thought he was some kind of babbling lunatic. “Is any of this making any sense to you?”

“Yes, oh, yes.” It made sense, it made beautiful sense.

“Ask her to marry you, already, or do I have to put it on a teleprompter?” Carla prodded impatiently from the other side of the door.

Unable to help herself, an incurable romantic, Carla wanted to be sure everything had gone well. The others pretended not to be listening, but with the exception of Jackson, who had more than his fill of romance according to the tabloids, they were all milling around close to the vicinity of the double doors.

Mark frowned at the doors. Taking her hand, he drew Brooke further to the other side of the room, away from prying ears.

His courage flagging, he looked down at her. “Would you?” The very air had stopped moving. It took the rest of the room with it. “Would I what?” “You know.” Helpless, Mark nodded back toward the double doors.

She wanted to jump to conclusions, wanted to shout “Yes,” but this time she was taking it slow. If only for a minute. “No, I don’t. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.”

Mark took a breath. “All right, here goes. W-i-l-l y-o-u—”

Laughing, she placed her fingertips against his lips. “What are you doing?”

His eyes danced. “Spelling it out for you, like you asked.”

Still laughing, Brooke punched his arm with her good fist. “I had no idea you had a sense of humor.”

The blow surprised him. Admiration entered his eyes. “And I had no idea you had such a left hook. For a little thing, you do pack a wallop. But then, I guess I kind of suspected that.” He stopped rubbing where the blow had landed and took her in his arms, smiling into her eyes. Smiling with his whole soul. “All right, now the right way. Will you marry me?”

She released the breath she was holding. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to marry you.”

He didn’t want her entering into this with false illusions. “I’m no Prince Charming.”

“That’s what you think.” She wrapped her one good arm around his neck, rising up on her toes. “You’ll always be my Prince Charming. Even if you don’t write me poetry.”

His heart full, Mark brought his mouth down on hers to seal their bargain and their fate.

In the next room Carla looked at Tyler in frustration. “I don’t hear anything.”

Tyler laughed, drawing her away from the double doors. “I think this time that’s a good sign.”

And it was.

THE RICH MAN’S SON

BY
JUDY DUARTE

Judy Duarte, an avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, always wanted to write books of her own. One day, she decided to make that dream come true. Five years and six manuscripts later, she sold her first book to Special Edition.

Her unpublished stories have won awards, and in 2001 she became a double Golden Heart finalist. Judy credits her success to Romance Writers of America and two wonderful critique partners, Sheri WhiteFeather and Crystal Green.

At times, when a stubborn hero and a headstrong heroine claim her undivided attention, she and her family are thankful for fast food, pizza delivery and video games. When she’s not at the keyboard or in a Walter Mitty-type world, she enjoys travelling, spending romantic evenings with her personal hero and playing board games with her kids.

Judy lives in Southern California and loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: PO Box 498, San Luis rey, CA 92068-0498, USA. You can also visit her website at www.judyduarte.com.

To Crystal Green and Sheri WhiteFeather, who always
go above and beyond the call of critique partner duty.

Your dedication, support and friendship mean the
world to me. Without you, I might still be labouring
over Chapter Twelve. Thank you, ladies, from the
bottom of my heart. And to my daughter, Christy
Freetly, who took time to look over this book in
manuscript form. thanks for the thumbs-up.
I love you, T.

Chapter One

“Want some company?”

Rowan Parks looked up from his long-necked bottle of beer and caught the appreciative smile of a bleached-blond cowgirl in a red, low-cut blouse that threatened to pop a button if she took a deep breath.

“Afraid not.” He motioned for the waitress, indicating he wanted to close out his tab and get on his way to nowhere in particular.

The blonde took a seat across from him anyway, put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “My name’s Charlene.”

Rowan didn’t respond. Women often sidled up to him in a bar with the intention of warming his bed. But sex was the furthest thing from his mind this evening.

And so was company.

“What’s your name?” she asked, not at all put off by his silence.

Rowan wasn’t up for this. He’d been stewing in his anger and his grief for days. And he wasn’t ready for a change of mood. Nor was he willing to knock off the chip that weighed heavily upon his shoulder.

It felt too damn good to be miserable. Especially in a seedy little hole-in-the-wall like this.

Brenda Wheeler, his father’s housekeeper and the woman who’d raised him and his siblings, had always made a big deal about being courteous. Polite.

But Rowan couldn’t see any point in being honest. He glanced at the wood-paneled room, caught a whiff of stale beer and tobacco. Listened as an old country western song boomed from a red-and-chrome jukebox—Hank Williams at his best.

The tune wafted through the air like a curl of cigarette smoke, giving Rowan a quick and easy pseudonym. “My name is Hank.”

Her blue eyes lit up, and she smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth. “Hank? No kidding? Just like the singer?”

He nodded, wishing the waitress would hurry up. The Watering Hole had been nearly empty when he’d first parked his Harley outside, trudged up the graveled walk and took a seat in the far corner, hoping to quench his thirst and wash the dust from his throat. But as more and more locals began to fill the wooden tables and red-vinyl corner booths, their laughter and Southern twangs played havoc with his sullen mood.

The blonde, Charlene, glanced at the diamond stud he wore in one ear, the platinum Rolex on his wrist, then studied his face with a good deal more interest than he wanted to cultivate.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

She had that right.

Rowan was as out of place in this Texas honky-tonk as he’d always been in the San Francisco mansion in which he’d grown up. But he didn’t see any reason to comment. He wasn’t into chitchat. Or revelations of his hell-bent flight to anonymity and peace.

When the waitress brought his check, he reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a roll of cash wrapped in a rubber band, withdrew a twenty-dollar bill and set it on the brown Formica tabletop.

“Things really get hoppin’ around here on Friday nights,” Charlene said, offering him a friendly grin. “And the band will be settin’ up pretty soon.”

Rowan wasn’t interested in boot scootin’ or twosteppin’, and the only mood music he felt like listening to was the blues. But something told him he wouldn’t find a darkened jazz club out in the sticks.

“The band is really good. In fact, they’ve even had gigs in Austin. I know, ’cause my brother plays steel guitar.” She tried to urge a smile from him, but it didn’t work. “You’re not going to up and walk away, are you?”

That’s exactly what he was going to do. And it was exactly what he’d done a couple of days ago—he’d walked away for good. And right now he only wanted to be left alone.

“Has anyone ever said that you look like Antonio Banderas?” she asked, apparently not giving up. Not used to being ignored.

Blessed with black hair, deep-set dimples and blue eyes, Rowan was the only one in the whole family to inherit his mother’s ability to stop people in their tracks because of his good looks.

It had been a double-edged sword, though, since he’d had a feeling it was his physical resemblance to his mother that caused his father to shun him.

“I like the look of a five o’clock shadow on a man,” Charlene said. “It makes y’all look kind of dangerous and sexy.”

And rebellious, Rowan supposed. His refusal to shave every day had really irritated his old man. So had his troublemaking. But at least his rebellion had finally finagled a reaction out of his father.

You ungrateful bastard. Why can’t you be more like your brother, Cade?

And less like your mother, Rowan had always internally supplied.

Was that what made his dad ignore him? The fact that Rowan looked like the woman his father had committed to a sanitarium in Switzerland?

Or had the jewelry baron merely found Rowan lacking?

Either way, as the black sheep of the family, Rowan had done everything he could to rebel against his father, a man who’d shown his ruthless side one time too many.

And now Rowan was out to shed his roots and prove himself. He’d never been one to pretend to be something he wasn’t, to follow the crowd or to blend into the woodwork. But the problem was, he’d been keeping his pain and his dreams a secret for so long, that even he wasn’t sure who he really was.

“Cat got your tongue?” Charlene asked.

“I’m just passing through. And as pretty as you are, Charlene, I’m not in the mood for conversation.” He slid her a half smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks for the company.”

Then he sauntered out of the bar with his helmet under his arm. But instead of wearing it, he strapped it to the side of the bike, revved the engine and sped away, letting the wind blow through his hair and hoping it would clear his mind, his heart. His soul.

The Harley kicked up dust as Rowan raced down a country road. He had no idea where he was heading, other than as far away from the mighty Parks Empire as he could get. He’d been riding aimlessly for days, hoping to find some peace—away from the spider of a man who tried to keep his family and everyone else within his web of control.

Having made only brief, overnight stops from his trek, Rowan had grown tired of the reckless pace and decided to find a decent place to spend the night.

Where the hell was the interstate? He would need to head toward Austin to find something more than a run-down motel with a surging neon light that advertised Vacancy.

As the bike picked up speed, a jackrabbit dashed across the road, a coyote on its tail. Rowan swerved to avoid the mangy dog-like critter, and the Harley skidded into a deep gully that ran along an expansive string of worn-out barbwire fence.

When the bike hit the ditch, it bucked like a mechanical bull, throwing Rowan into the air.

He expected the raw pain upon impact, as flesh and bone met dirt, rocks and fencing. Even getting the wind knocked out of his chest hadn’t really surprised him.

But he hadn’t anticipated a fade to black.

Louanne Brown hated the Lazy B Ranch—always had and always would. But as fate would have it, the place she’d always been ashamed of had become a miracle when she’d needed it most.

Still, the never-ending chores began before dawn and continued nonstop until after supper. And at night, when she finally slipped between the clean but worn sheets of the hundred-year-old bed that had once belonged to her parents, she collapsed into an exhausted, bone-weary slumber.

Yet in spite of the calluses, the chapped hands and reddened knuckles, she whispered a prayer of thanks-giving that she and her sister hadn’t put the ranch on the market after her folks died. And that Pete and Aggie Robertson had agreed to stay on, even though they’d reached retirement age.

The older couple had lived on the ranch for nearly as long as Louanne could remember and had become more than the foreman and his wife. They were surrogate grandparents to her son and friends to her. Friends who didn’t pry. They’d noticed that she’d cloistered herself on the property, but hadn’t said too much about it.

As the white, beat-up Ford pickup bounced along the potholes in the country road that surrounded the cattle ranch, she squinted in the late morning sunlight, her arm resting along the window of the passenger side. She’d been up since before daybreak, fixed a hearty breakfast for herself and given Noah a morning bottle before taking him to Aggie, who would care for the baby until Louanne came in for the noon meal.

“Here’s that stretch of fence that needs mending,” Pete said, from behind the wheel. “We really need to replace the whole blasted thing.”

Imagine that. Every time Louanne turned around, she was met with one expense or another. “It’s an ongoing battle to stay on top, isn’t it?”

Pete nodded and clicked his tongue. “Sure seems that way.”

Louanne didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Money had always been tight, more so now than ever. And there was no way they could splurge on something that major, no matter how sound the investment.

“Well, I’ll be go-to-hell.” Pete pointed to the northwest. “Look over there.”

Louanne, following his direction, spotted a dark-haired man wandering along the road, dazed and battered. “He’s hurt, Pete. Pull over.”

When the pickup stopped, Louanne opened the door and slid out the passenger side. But before either of them could reach the wounded stranger, he crumpled to the ground.

His hair was caked in dried blood, probably coming from the gash near his temple. A dirty, white T-shirt bore blood spatters, and faded jeans sported a frayed rip in the knee.

A single diamond earring and a heavily bristled beard made him look like a rock musician or maybe an artist—just the kind of guy her sister Lula would date.

“Mister?” Louanne asked. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t respond.

Was he unconscious? Or just drifting in and out?

She knelt and checked for a pulse, found it beating strong and steady.

Pete stood to the side, blocking the sun and casting a shadow on the man. “Maybe we ought to take him back to the ranch, then call an ambulance.”

The stranger opened his eyes—blue as the summer sky—and shook his head. “No ambulance…no hospital. I’m…okay.”

Louanne didn’t believe him. He was obviously hurt. So why didn’t he want medical treatment?

Was he running from someone? Hiding out?

Like she was?

She decided to honor his request—if possible.

“Are you able to climb in the back of the truck?” Pete asked him.

The man nodded, then slowly got to his feet. His knees seemed to buckle, so Pete and Louanne stood at his side to offer their support.

She supposed she ought to be worried about taking the battered stranger back to the house, but for some reason, she wasn’t. Maybe because he appeared to be such an interesting contradiction. The kind of character who would fit nicely into the novel she’d been writing.

A handsome but rugged stranger.

Dangerous and vulnerable.

A hellion with angel eyes.

Even the clothes and accessories he wore mocked one another—the expensive platinum Rolex, faded denim jeans torn at the knee and dusty, leather boots that must have cost a pretty penny.

Of course, looks could be deceiving. Louanne had learned that the hard way. Still, she couldn’t very well leave the injured stranger to the elements.

“Be careful,” she told Pete, as they helped him into the back of the pickup. Once he was sprawled out on the dirty, work-worn, metal bed, Louanne climbed in beside him.

On the bumpy ride back to the house, the man opened his eyes and searched her face. “What happened?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” She mustered a smile, trying hard not to lose herself in his deep blue gaze. She had a feeling many women found it hard not to stare when he was clean and freshly shaven. In fact, she had a hard time keeping her eyes from settling on the angular jaw, the bristled cheeks. The spike of thick, black lashes seen only in a mascara commercial.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“At a ranch in Pebble Creek.”

He grimaced, furrowing his brow—a near perfect brow, except for an old scar that tweaked his left eyebrow. He’d have another scar now. Higher. Near the temple. “Pebble Creek? Where the hell is that?”

“About an hour or two from Austin.”

“Texas?”

She nodded.

He snagged her gaze with those baby blues, then reached out his hand and caught her wrist. “I’m glad you found me.”

The warmth of his touch stirred up a flutter in her stomach, a reaction she hadn’t had in nearly two years and hadn’t expected to ever have again. “I’m glad, too. This road isn’t very well traveled, so you might have had a long wait.”

He searched her hair, her eyes, her face, as though looking for something. “I’m sorry. But I don’t remember your name.”

She wanted to say Lanay Landers, the name she’d created as a teenager and used while in college, but the name had died, along with her dreams. Instead, she told him the simple, unadorned truth. “Louanne Brown.”

He nodded, as though it suited her. And the fact that he thought it had twisted inside her heart.

Hadn’t her sister been the one to initiate the dream by insisting the key to a new life was in finding a new identity? Lula created a stage name, calling herself Tallulah Brown. And it had worked. She was now an up-and-coming starlet in Hollywood.

But fate hadn’t been as kind to Louanne. And the pen name she’d planned to use now hid in a darkened corner of the closet, along with the manuscript that would never again see the light of day.

“You look familiar,” the wounded man said. “Like I should know you.”

She wished she could say the same. The handsome, raven-haired stranger didn’t look like anyone she’d ever known. Or anyone she’d ever meet in Pebble Creek—better known as Nowhere, Texas.

Back east, when she was a graduate student in English, people used to think she looked familiar. But she’d dressed differently then, worn her hair in a loose, shoulder-length style.

Richard Keith, the college professor who had fathered Noah, always said Louanne looked a bit like Cindy Crawford, only not quite as glamorous. She also resembled her sister, who was becoming more and more well-known. But with each step Tallulah Brown inched toward superstardom, Louanne seemed to slip backward.

Her once promising literary career was over before it even had a chance to begin.

Mr. Enigma closed his eyes before she could ask him his name. But there was plenty of time for that, she supposed.

Pete parked near the house, then climbed from the truck and peered at the injured man, assessing him. Louanne couldn’t be sure whether he was trying to make a judgment on his character or his wounds. Both, she supposed.

“His injuries could be serious,” Pete told her. “We probably ought to take him to the city.”

Louanne had been avoiding Austin because Richard would focus his search for her there. For that reason, she’d remained low-key, not leaving the ranch, not even going into Pebble Creek for groceries. Instead, she allowed Aggie to do the shopping.

Call her paranoid, but she wasn’t eager to draw attention to herself by calling for an ambulance or filing a police report.

“Why don’t we let Doc Haines come out and take a look at him?” she asked Pete.

The foreman nodded. “Sounds like a good idea. Doc might be getting on in years, but he knows his stuff.”

Thank God for that. The country physician who still made house calls had not only delivered Noah, he’d provided her son’s pediatric checkups and immunizations, too.

Once Doc had suggested Louanne go to a younger doctor in the city, but she refused, explaining that she wanted her son to have the same quality care she’d had as a child.

There was more to it, of course. Much more.

But the nightmare she’d experienced at the small eastern college was a secret she would keep to herself.

Before either Louanne or Pete could ponder how to get the injured man from the truck into the house, he stirred again. “Where am I?”

“You’re at the Lazy B Ranch.”

“Where’s that?”

“Texas,” she repeated.

He’d already asked that question. Had he forgotten? Or was he confused and suffering from a concussion?

Head injuries could be very serious. Maybe she ought to reconsider and have Pete drive him to the hospital. God forbid the man up and die on her. “Maybe we can transport you to an ER in Austin.”

The man shook his head. “No hospital. Just let me get some rest, and I’ll be okay.”

“Can you walk into the house?” she asked, hoping that she and Pete, who had a bum knee, wouldn’t have to carry him up the porch steps and down the hall.

He nodded, then slowly sat up and climbed from the truck. Louanne and Pete helped him into the house, but by the time they reached the spare room, he wobbled on his feet.

“I don’t know about this, Louanne.” Pete scrunched his craggy face and adjusted the weathered Stetson he rarely removed. “You better go call Doc Haines and let him decide what to do with this feller.”

Pete was probably right. What was she going to do with a stranger in her spare room?

She hoped Doc would take over from here. Maybe he could have the man airlifted to the hospital, which would leave Louanne out of the limelight.

The stranger glanced at the crocheted coverlet on the bed that had once been Lula’s and sighed heavily. “I’ll get it dirty.”

Louanne pulled back the bedding, revealing white cotton sheets that had been bleached by the sun while hanging on the clothesline to dry. “Sit here so Pete and I can take off your boots.”

“We better take off more than that,” Pete said, looking at the dirty jeans and bloody shirt.

Undress him? Louanne froze in her tracks. The man’s devilish good looks stirred the feminine feelings she’d long since buried—after her baby’s father made her fear for her life.

“I need a shower,” he said.

Well, Pete with his bum knee wouldn’t be able to support him.

“Maybe we ought to wait until the doctor gets here,” Louanne said. If Doc decided to take him to the city, undressing the man would be someone else’s responsibility.

Yet for some crazy reason, she felt a bit disappointed handing the chore over to someone else.

His head hurt like hell. And each time he opened his eyes, the ache seemed to grow worse. But he didn’t complain. In fact, he didn’t do anything but try not to be stiff and unyielding while the woman—Louanne—removed his shirt. Her hands were roughened from work, yet gentle.

She looked familiar, like he really ought to know her. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out who she was. Maybe it was those golden-brown eyes that seemed to peer deep inside of him.

As she wiped his face, the wet, warm cloth scratched against the bristles of his beard, making him wish he’d shaved this morning.

Her scent was something earthy and floral, something he hadn’t ever smelled before. Something kind of nice.

Unable to help himself, he opened his eyes again, trying to catch another glimpse of her, giving himself a chance to remember where he’d seen her before—if he actually had.

Her brows, delicate arches of brown, furrowed as she ministered to him. And when she glanced up and spotted him looking at her, her breath caught. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.”

“Good.” Their gazes held a bit longer than necessary, then she dipped the washcloth into the warm water and wrung it out. “Can you sit up? I’d like to remove your shirt.”

He nodded, then pushed himself forward. Slipping a T-shirt over his head was an easy chore, but he wasn’t sure he could have managed without her help.

“You make a great nurse,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. Trying to stay on an even keel.

“Thank you.” She continued wiping him down, and he found himself enjoying it a bit more than he should.

She was attractive, in a down-to-earth sort of way. And he was hard-pressed not to watch her work over him.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

His name?

She expected a response, and he meant to give her one. But his brain went dead. And his mind went blank.

Her hands slowed. “You do remember your name, don’t you?”

He wondered if his expression looked as dumbstruck as he felt.

Probably so, because she merely stared at him with the damp rag hanging limp in her still hand.

She was waiting for an answer, but he couldn’t give her one.

He didn’t have any idea who the hell he was.

Chapter Two

Where was he?

Louanne had placed the call over an hour ago, and it wasn’t like Doc to tarry.

The early afternoon sun poured through the bay window, but that still didn’t seem to light the walnut-paneled living room. And even though a gentle breeze filtered through the screen of the open front door, Louanne was reminded of how dark and musty the house had become.

But with finances what they were, she wasn’t sure when she’d be able to budget a gallon of paint, let alone a remodel.

She paced the living room floor, feeling as though she was beating down a path in the worn, pea-green carpeting, while waiting for medical reinforcements to arrive.

A small voice suggested that she should have called 9-1-1, that she should have set aside her concerns about anyone knowing she was back in town. But she reminded herself the country doctor had an abundance of experience under his belt. And that he would be able to determine the extent of the man’s injuries.

More folks than Louanne could count said that there was no better diagnostician than Dr. Archibald Haines. Of course, they did tend to be the older folks in the community who were resistant to change. But Louanne’s parents had also believed it to be true. And she had no reason to doubt the claim.

Aggie and Pete, who were among the chorus of Pebble Creek citizens singing Doc’s praises, said they found comfort in seeing the grandfatherly man standing at their sickbed, the worn leather satchel that once belonged to his dad clutched in his capable hands.

Doc was a big man, with a full head of white hair, broad shoulders and a ready smile. A widower in his early eighties, he still stood fairly straight and tall, lived a full life and maintained a small, private practice.

The country physician talked about retirement like it was on the horizon, but he’d become a part of Pebble Creek, and most of the citizens who clung to his counsel and skill wouldn’t let him take more than an occasional weekend fishing trip.

The drone of a heavy-duty engine sounded out front, and Louanne hurried to peer out the large picture window that bore dusty smudges from a year or more of neglect. It was Doc, thank goodness. But what was he doing in that brand-new, family-size Winnebago?

It didn’t matter, she supposed, just as long as he’d arrived.

She met him on the front porch. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Glad I could. I was on my way to Norman, Oklahoma, for the Haines family reunion, and if you would have called me thirty minutes later, I would have been too far along to turn around.”

“Then I’m glad I caught you in time.” Louanne led him through the small entry and down the hall to the guest room. There, the wounded man lay without his shirt and boots. He still wore his dusty, frayed jeans, but he was cleaner than when she and Pete had found him wandering in a daze.

Those eyes, just as mesmerizing as when she first saw him, snagged her gaze, touching not only her sympathy, but also jogging an awareness of herself as a woman.

The man was just as enigmatic, just as attractive as she remembered. Maybe more so.

Always the romantic and a writer at heart, Louanne imagined him standing on the moors—Heathcliff as Emily Brontë had surely imagined him.

Doc introduced himself, then began a thorough exam. For some reason, Louanne stood in the doorway, unmoving—as though she had every right to hear the diagnosis.

Finally, after probing around the gash near the man’s temple, the white-haired country doctor took a seat beside the bed. “What happened to you, son?”

The stranger looked at Doc with those stunning eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You have any idea what day it is?” the physician asked.

The dark-haired man blew out a sigh, then shook his head.

“You have a name?”

The stranger furrowed his brow, appearing perplexed, then felt for the pockets of his jeans. He reached into the front, right-hand side and withdrew a fold of bills held by a red rubber band.

Unlike men who liked to keep the largest denomination on the outside of a gold money clip to flash impressively, the stranger kept quite a few hundred-dollar bills on the inside, tucked around a silver credit card and a driver’s license.

If Louanne had to wager a guess, she would estimate he had close to a thousand dollars on him. Maybe more.

For that reason, she suspected his injuries hadn’t been the result of a mugging. Unless he’d come out on top. Still, her gut instinct told her he wasn’t a thief.

When he withdrew the driver’s license, he studied it momentarily, then glanced at the doctor. “I guess my name is Rowan Parks. And I’m from California.”

Doc nodded slowly, then crossed his arms, resting them on an ample belly. “Does that trigger any other recollections?”

The man—Rowan—slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid not. And the motor vehicle mug shot doesn’t look familiar, either.”

“Well, let’s not worry about it just yet. I think, with some rest and quiet, things will come back to you.” Doc withdrew a light from his bag, then proceeded to shine it in Rowan’s eyes.

“Is he going to be all right?” she asked, realizing she should have kept the question to herself. Or asked the doctor in private.

“I don’t see anything worrisome.” Doc clicked off the light, took a seat in the chair next to the bed, then turned to Louanne. “He may have a slight concussion, and he’ll need a couple of stitches. But the rest of the injuries appear to be minor abrasions and bruises. I’ve got to go back to the motor home. I’ve got some supplies that I can’t carry in my bag packed away, including what I’ll need to flush out that wound.”

Louanne followed the white-haired doctor to the door. “What do you think happened to him?”

“Who knows? Car accident, maybe. Or a barroom brawl. He’s hurt, but I don’t think it’s serious. No internal bleeding or broken bones. The biggest concern is the head, but his pupils are responsive, and I don’t see any indication of a skull fracture. I think he’ll be all right.”

Thirty minutes later, after flushing out the wound and washing it with an orangy-brown soap, Doc applied a local anesthetic and carefully placed about five or six stitches to close the gash. Then he took off his rubber gloves and asked Louanne to step outside the guest room.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“He’s strong, young and healthy, so I expect him to be back to fighting weight in the next couple of days.”

“Do you think he needs to go to the hospital?” she asked.

“Not unless his wound gets infected. But I’ve got some sample packets of an antibiotic I’ll leave with you.”

“And what about his memory?” she asked.

“I suspect once he lets his mind rest, things will slowly start making sense to him again. The brain doesn’t like getting jostled around like that, so that might account for some confusion.”

“And what if his memory doesn’t return?” What was she supposed to do with him then?

“Then take him to one of the bigger medical centers in Austin.” Doc placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Unless you’d rather get rid of him.”

Get rid of him?

It would probably be a smart move. But Louanne—crazy as it may seem—actually welcomed the unexpected interruption to her dull routine, especially since she hadn’t left the ranch in nearly a year and a half. “I don’t mind if he stays a day or two.”

“Good. I’d rather not move him. In fact, I’m going to give him a mild sedative to help him rest.”

“And what should I do when he wakes up?” she asked, knowing she had a ton of chores left on her daily list and an infant son to look after.

“Offer him something mild, like broth. And keep him quiet, if you can. Bed rest ought to do wonders.”

As Louanne followed Doc to the door, she wondered what she’d gotten herself into.

God knew she no longer craved the drama she and her sister had always wanted in their lives. And she didn’t need the additional work or worry.

Still, that wasn’t her biggest concern.

For a woman who’d sworn off men for life, the raven-haired hunk had a way of stirring a feminine interest she’d once thought dead.

A curiosity that had once gotten her in a slew of trouble.

The injection Dr. Haines had given the stranger, or rather Rowan, had knocked him out for most of the afternoon, which allowed Louanne to get to some of the household chores she never seemed to have time for.

She washed the windows, mopped the yellowed linoleum in the kitchen and polished the furniture. If anything, her efforts only made her realize how run-down the house had become since her mother’s death. Not that it had been a decorator’s dream before, but her mother had a way of making the best out of a sorry situation—a trait Louanne was trying hard to acquire as of late.

Maybe that’s why her mom had been content—happy, even—with a mason jar full of wildflowers, while Louanne and Lula had wanted crystal vases and long-stemmed red roses.

But those days of youthful discontent were long gone.

Noah’s father had seen to that.

A light rap sounded at the screen door, and Louanne looked up from her dusting to see Aggie and Noah on the front porch.

“Hey, there.” She set down the bottle of lemon oil and the dirty rag, then wiped her hands on the cotton apron she wore and invited the older woman inside.

Louanne brushed a kiss across Noah’s chubby cheek. “Have you been a good boy for Aggie?”

“He’s always good for me.” The woman, who hadn’t been able to have children of her own, adored the baby and never complained. “Of course, he didn’t nap very well. I think he’s cutting another tooth.”

Louanne tugged at her son’s little foot and smiled. “We’re going to be feeding you corn on the cob in no time at all.”

As Aggie handed the squirmy infant to Louanne, she asked, “How’s that fellow doing?”

“He’s been sleeping all afternoon, which I think was Doc’s intent.”

“Mind if I look in on him?” Aggie asked. “You know how Pete is always teasing me about those romance books I read? Well, he said the guy you found looks like one of the cover models.”

Rowan Parks was definitely attractive, with a roguish appeal, although Louanne doubted he was a model. But then again, she didn’t know who he really was, or what he did for a living. “I put him in Lula’s room.”

Aggie chuckled. “Bet he thinks he’s in Hollywood, with all those old movie posters Lula left on the walls.”

“I doubt whether he took much stock in the decor. And, if he did, he didn’t say anything.”

“Did his memory come back?” Aggie asked.

“Not yet. After Doc left and while he was sleeping, I tried to get his phone number by calling information in the San Francisco area. But it must be unlisted.” Louanne blew out a weary sigh. “I’d like to help, to get in touch with his family. They’re probably worried about him.”

“Why don’t you give it a day or so? Maybe he’ll be able to remember who he is and call his family himself.”

Louanne hoped so. She’d hate to have to contact the sheriff and ask about people reported missing in the area. She suspected Richard had filed a report on her.

Of course, she’d call the sheriff, if she had to. “You’re probably right, Aggie. Maybe he’ll wake up after a good sleep and remember who he is.”

The gray-haired woman grinned. “Then I’d better take that quick peek now.”

“Maybe you should.” Louanne watched as Aggie tiptoed down the hall and headed toward the room that was available for the guests Louanne would never have, since this old ranch house wasn’t the kind of place Lula, or rather Tallulah, would be likely to visit.

It would be nice to see her older sister again, but a trip to California in the near future didn’t seem any more likely than a coat of new paint for the inside of the house. Or new carpeting.

And even if Louanne struck black gold or stumbled upon a buried treasure chest in the south pasture, she wasn’t going anywhere. Not until she knew Richard Keith was no longer a threat.

As Aggie peered at the sleeping stranger in the guest room, a slow smile tugged at her lips. “Pete was right. That’s one good-looking man, even all beat up like that.”

Louanne had come to a similar assessment. And she couldn’t help wondering what Rowan Parks would look like all decked out for a night on the town.

“Are you sure about him staying here?” the older woman asked. “We don’t know anything about him.”

Louanne appreciated her friend’s concern. But something inside told her the man could be trusted. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”

Aggie pressed a kiss upon Noah’s cheek. “You call me and Pete if there’s a problem, and we’ll come lickety-split.”

“I will.”

Having Aggie and Pete nearby was truly a comfort, although, on occasion, Louanne still woke in a cold sweat, heart pounding from a nocturnal race to flee the man who threatened to kill her if she ever left him. It had become a familiar nightmare, and one she prayed would never come true.

When Aggie left, Louanne placed Noah in his playpen in the kitchen while she prepared a pot of chicken broth, noodles and vegetables.

There were a ton of things she ought to be doing, but she never had enough quality time to spend with the baby boy who was fast becoming a toddler. And she relished what little time they had together.

Louanne fed Noah his supper, then gave him small chunks of banana to feed himself, while she sat at the table and dined on a bowl of soup.

When her son squished the last few pieces of ’nana into a gooey mess and smeared them across the tray of his secondhand high chair, she cleaned him up then removed him from his cracked, red vinyl seat.

“Time for this little piggy to get ready for bed,” she said, as she carried him to the master bathroom.

Noah squealed in delight and anticipation. He loved his bath, just as much as Louanne loved watching him splash and play.

While the old, claw-foot tub filled, Louanne knelt upon the floor and rested her bottom on her feet. She couldn’t help her silly grin, as she watched him suck on a wet washcloth.

He smiled back at her, then dropped the cloth and slapped both chubby hands upon the water. A burst of droplets splattered into his face, and he sucked in a breath and blinked.

Louanne laughed, then turned off the spigot. She didn’t know how long she sat there, entranced by the child’s antics, but before he turned into a shriveled prune, she snatched him from the tub and wrapped him in a towel.

Noah shrieked in protest, until she handed him a rubber ducky to chew on.

Moments later, she had him slicked down with lotion and double diapered for the night. Then she dressed him in the brand-new cowboy jammies that Aggie had bought him for his first birthday.

His powdery, baby scent was a comfort to her, and she brushed a kiss across the downy soft hair on his head. “Sleep tight, little one. Mommy loves you.”

He fussed for just a moment, then slipped a thumb into his mouth.

In spite of the regret she felt at having become involved with his father, Louanne loved her son with all her heart. And she counted him as a precious gift and a heavenly blessing.

She whispered a crib-side prayer, before returning to the kitchen to wash the few dishes from their evening meal. She glanced at the pot of homemade chicken noodle soup on the stove.

Should she leave it out for Rowan or put it away?

Before she could decide, the pipes groaned and grumbled through the walls of the hundred-year-old ranch house. Someone—Rowan—had turned on the hot water.

Doc said the man needed bed rest, so she dropped the dish towel on the countertop and hurried down the hall to reprimand her patient.

When she knocked on the bathroom door, he opened it, wearing only a pair of faded jeans with the top button unsnapped. That’s how she’d left him, so she shouldn’t be taken aback, but he’d been lying down then. Weak and defenseless.

Now he stood more than six feet tall. And when he peered at her through the open door, those angel eyes nearly took her breath away.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Yes. No. Corded muscles, a golden brown tan. A sprinkle of dark hair on his chest that trailed down to his belly and beyond.

And she was gawking, for heaven’s sake.

But why not? She hadn’t seen a man without his shirt in what seemed like ages. And even then, the vision she remembered fell short of the benchmark Rowan Parks set.

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” she said, “taking it easy and resting.”

“I’m dirty. And I don’t like the way I smell. So I thought a shower would be a good idea.”

“Do you need any help?” The moment she blurted out the question, she wanted to reel it back in, but it was too late. “I mean…can I get you something?”

“I don’t suppose you have a razor or a change of clothes?”

Actually, she did. Her father’s shaving gear still rested in the master bathroom, and his clothing still hung in the closet.

“I’ll get them for you,” she said, before padding down the hall.

Moments later, she returned with a washrag and towel, a razor, shaving cream, boxer shorts, an undershirt and a pair of jeans she hoped would fit. When she handed them to him, their hands touched. She pulled away, but not before something warm and magnetic jolted her with sexual awareness.

Had he felt it, too?

She hoped not, but his gaze seemed to linger on her eyes, her face.

“You look familiar,” he said.

Her older sister’s picture had graced the cover of People magazine last month. Had he spotted the resemblance she had to Tallulah—minus the makeup and snazzy clothes, of course? Or was he just trying hard to recognize someone, something?

It would be sad to have amnesia—if one wasn’t striving for anonymity, like Louanne was.

“I’m sure your memory will return,” she said.

They stood rooted in the moment, caught up in something tangible. Something vibrant and stirring.

And Louanne, who’d felt like a hollow shell for so long, couldn’t seem to ignore the feeling of being alive again. She was aware of each heady breath she sucked into her lungs, each zippity-do-da beat of her heart.

He reached out and gently stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles, sending her pulse skidding throughout her bloodstream.

She didn’t pull away, although she should have. What business did she have fantasizing again?

But as she studied the battered man with hair as black as a winter night and eyes as blue as the summer sky, she found it hard not to dream. To imagine.

Her tongue seemed to wallow in her throat, as she struggled not to speak, not to reveal her hope that Rowan would believe she was something more worldly, more exciting than she really was. She wanted to cling to the old fantasy, to imagine she wasn’t a woman with sun-dried skin and chapped hands. To pretend she was once again a graduate student in literature who enjoyed the arts and culture.

“What did you say your name was?” he asked.

It seemed as though his short-term memory had been affected, too, since she’d already told him the country-girl truth.

“You don’t remember?” she asked.

Rowan shook his head. No, he didn’t remember, damn it. Should he?

She’d asked him his name when she first brought him home, as though she didn’t know him. But had that been her way of assessing his injury?

Lord, she looked familiar to him. As though he’d known her for years. Was she someone special to him? A wife? A lover?

“My name is Louanne.”

It was a Southern name, one that should be enunciated with the charm of a twang or drawl. But she’d shed her accent, if she’d ever had one. And the melodic lilt of her voice lingered on his ears like the sound of a classical harp.

Yet the name didn’t mean anything. And for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to jump-start the part in his brain that would remind him who she was and what she meant to him.

Tall and lean, she was physically fit, but not from the gym or newfangled diets. The golden-brown tan and solid stance suggested she’d spent long days working in the sun. And she was dressed simply, in denim jeans and a blue plaid blouse. Nothing fancy or alluring.

Yet she had a womanly appeal that drew a man’s attention. His appreciation.

Rowan didn’t know why he suspected they’d meant something to each other.

The way she looked at him, he supposed. The way he felt drawn to her, her voice. Those golden brown eyes. The attraction they both felt.

The fact she hadn’t backed away when he touched her in a familiar way.

What kind of relationship did they have?

He could ask, he supposed. But the fact he hadn’t remembered her name seemed to bother her. So he let it ride, hoping the answer would surface—somehow—either in conversation or in the dark and empty abyss of his mind.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I have a pot of chicken noodle soup on the stove. It’s not as good as my mother used to make, but it’s tasty. And it’ll fill you up.”

“Thank you. I’d like a bowl, if you don’t mind.” He gripped the doorjamb and nodded toward the shower. “After I clean up.”

She nodded, then turned on her heel and padded down the hallway, the long, brown braid swishing down her back, keeping time with the gentle sway of her hips.

A wave of dizziness settled over him, but he didn’t call her back. Instead, he closed his eyes and willed the room to stop spinning.

And when he felt as though his legs wouldn’t give out on him, he slipped out of his pants and climbed under the hot, steaming spray.

The old doctor had said not to get his wound wet, but Rowan didn’t much care.

For some reason, he didn’t think he was a man who adhered to the rules—only those he’d made for himself.

When he climbed from the shower and dried off, he glanced into the steamed-up mirror, then wiped the fog away with the frayed, yellow towel.

The dark-haired, blue-eyed image staring back at him didn’t look familiar.

Oh, God. He swore under his breath and willed himself to remember.

Who the hell was he?

His driver’s license said he lived in California. But if that were the case, what was he doing in Texas?

He didn’t have a clue.

But for some reason, he had a feeling the tall, attractive brunette seemed to hold the answer in the depths of those golden-brown eyes.

Chapter Three

“No!”

Heart pounding, pulse racing, Louanne jerked up in bed and scanned the darkened bedroom lit only by a child’s night-light in the hall.

It took a moment for her mind to clear, for her to realize Richard hadn’t found her, hadn’t slipped into her bedroom to carry out his threat in the dark of night.

“No,” the voice cried again. A sleep-graveled male voice. The wounded stranger in Lula’s room.

Rowan.

She threw off the covers, slipped out of bed and hurried past the Mother Goose night-light in the hall, pausing in the doorway of the guest room.

Rowan tossed his dark head from one side of the pillow to the other, but Louanne didn’t think he was awake.

Was he caught in the throes of a nightmare? Haunted by memories, as she sometimes was?

Or did the sedative he’d been given continue to linger in his subconscious?

She wasn’t sure, but she made her way to his bedside and reached for his arm. “Rowan?”

“Emily,” he muttered.

Emily? Was that his wife? Or maybe his lover?

She suspected so. There was no way a man like Rowan was wandering around unattached.

Yet, that’s exactly how she’d found him, wandering and lost. Again, his plight tweaked her sympathy. She lifted her hand, placed it softly upon his brow, upon the dark, rebellious locks of his hair. Felt the dampness of his nocturnal struggle for peace.

He was in need of a haircut, she supposed. But the style seemed to suit the vagabond image she held of him. The storyteller inside her soul longed to make sense of his plight, his journey, while the woman in her longed to touch him, to comfort him. To hold him to her breast.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

He seemed to settle, or at least the tension in his body eased. He’d shaved this afternoon, but he still bore a rugged, bad-boy aura. Even in sleep.

The romantic in her wanted to wake him, to stir a smile. A heated gaze. Maybe even a kiss.

Foolish woman. Thoughts of romance and candlelight had been her downfall, her Achilles’ heel. That and her naïveté, she supposed.

Still, she didn’t move away. Didn’t retreat back to her room where she belonged. She stayed at his bedside, uninvited but drawn to him.

She supposed there was no reason for her to sit here, like a motherly woman comforting a lost child. Any vulnerability and helplessness Rowan might have was only momentary and fleeting. A man like him didn’t need a woman like her, like who she’d become.

Yet there was something about the devilishly handsome man with the angelic eyes that stirred her soul the way literary works of fiction used to. The way movies on the silver screen had always enchanted her sister.

Louanne glanced at the posters that still graced the walls of Lula’s room. Gone with the Wind. Roman Holiday. Top Gun. The Breakfast Club. The ageless classics, as well as those starring the Brat Pack. Lula loved them all.

Now, Tallulah Brown was making her mark on Hollywood. And Louanne was happy for her.

As children, both girls had longed to escape what they’d thought was a boring life. Lula wanted to become a movie star, to wear evening gowns and see her name in marquee lights.

And Louanne, too, had dreamed of becoming one of the rich and famous, of being a New York Times bestselling author. She’d once hoped to morph into one of the vibrant, worldly characters she’d only read about.

“Hey.”

She glanced down at the man in Lula’s bed, saw him watching her. Felt his gaze study her. Saw a flicker of masculine interest in his eyes.

“You’re awake,” she said, her nerve endings alive and responsive. Her hormones soaring.

He nodded. “Yeah. What time is it?”

“I don’t know.” She glanced at the alarm clock on the scarred oak dresser. “About two o’clock, a little after. I…uh…heard you call out.”

“I’m sorry for waking you.”

She couldn’t actually see the vivid blue of his eyes, but the color was ingrained in her mind. She didn’t think she’d ever look at the summer sky again and not think of Rowan Parks. “It’s okay. I wanted to check on you anyway. Did you have a nightmare?”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through the tousled, black locks, then grimaced when a finger hit the mended gash on his temple.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really. I was running. In the dark.”

“You called for someone named Emily,” she supplied, hoping it might give his mind a clue to work with.

His brow furrowed, then he shook his head. “I don’t know why.”

“Maybe she means something to you.”

A woman named Emily?

Nothing came to mind, no light in the middle of the darkness.

Rowan shrugged, then sat up in bed. Interestingly enough, the only thing that felt the least bit familiar was the brown-haired woman who sat beside his bed. And she appeared troubled.

Her eyes darted around the room, looking at everything but him.

Why? Did it hurt her to think he’d forgotten about her? About whatever they had together? Or that he’d called out another woman’s name?

He was afraid to ask, afraid to try and defend himself or explain without having any knowledge of his past.

She continued to avoid his gaze, so he glanced around the room lit by muted light, saw the old movie posters on the wall. Most of the flicks he’d seen somewhere. Sometime. But he didn’t know when or with whom.

“This room used to belong to my sister,” Louanne said.

Had he ever met the sister? He didn’t have a clue. In fact, the nothingness in his mind was beginning to bother him, more than he cared to admit. And the urge to cling to what felt right, stable and familiar grew steady and strong.

He reached out, took the work-roughened hand of the woman who cared enough to sit up with him. To worry about him. His thumb made a slow circle on her skin. Her lips parted, as though his touch affected her. As though she felt the same bond he felt.

She gave his hand a faint squeeze. Or was that only his imagination? Wishful thinking, maybe.

For some reason, he found the woman attractive, even wearing a worn, pink flannel gown. She had a simple beauty, a loveliness that drew him to her.

A man would look forward to coming home to a woman like her.

To come home?

Had he felt that way, prior to his injury? Had he been eager to see her?

He tried to tell himself that she was a stranger and no more familiar than this old house. That he’d never met her before. But for some reason, he felt on the verge of recognition each time he looked at her.

But in spite of the familiarity, the feeling of home and hearth, the earthly beauty, he also saw vulnerability in her eyes. Sadness. And he hoped he hadn’t been the cause of it.

He wanted to learn more about their relationship, whatever it might be, but didn’t want to admit his curiosity. So he skated around the question he really wanted to ask. “Tell me about you, Louanne.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

He had to have met her somewhere. If he was from California, what was he doing in Texas? Had he chased after her? “Have you always lived here?”

Another wave of sadness darkened her eyes. “I left home after high school and went to college.”

Is that where they’d met? He’d gone to college, or at least it felt as though he had. But that’s as far as his mind would stretch.

So he asked, “Where’d you go to school?”

“Back east. A small liberal arts college.”

Nothing. Back to square one.

But he continued along the same path, the same line of questioning. “What was your major?”

“English.”

Still nothing.

“I’m really sorry.” And he was. How could he have forgotten her?

“Why are you sorry?” she asked.

“You look so familiar. But I can’t remember how we met, what we’ve been to each other.”

Before she could answer, an infant cried out. “Ma. Ma—ma.”

A baby? The woman had a child?

Another blank, but this one was more unsettling than the others. How in the hell could Rowan have forgotten something like that?

She must have read curiosity and remorse in his expression. “Excuse me. I have to go see about him.”

“Him?”

“Noah. My son.”

Her son?

“Is the baby mine?” he asked, unable to hold back the haunting question.

Her mouth parted, but then she recovered. “No, you’re not the father.”

As Rowan watched her disappear from sight, he wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or not.

As soon as Louanne was sure Noah had fallen back to sleep, she slowly lifted her hand from his small, pajama-clad back and tiptoed from his bedside.

She probably ought to return to Rowan’s room and address the awkward question he’d asked her, the question that had come out of the blue and set her imagination soaring.

He’d looked at her as though she’d been an old lover he’d run into unexpectedly.

Is the baby mine?

She’d answered him, of course, but she hadn’t taken time to explain to the poor, confused man that they’d just met, that they didn’t have a past together. That she and he…well, that they hadn’t been involved sexually.

But the fact that he’d so easily assumed they’d once been—or still might be—lovers had flattered her. And, in a way, excited her.

To be honest, she was attracted to the mysterious vagabond who’d wandered into her life. But nothing would become of the growing attraction, because Louanne wouldn’t allow herself to become involved with him—for more reasons than one.

As she started down the hall, she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to find Rowan awake or asleep. But the moment she reached his doorway, their eyes met and her pulse quickened.

She placed a hand on the doorjamb, but didn’t enter the room; she didn’t trust herself to get too close to the gorgeous man lying in bed.

Before she could catch her breath and broach the subject, he slid her a shy, half smile. “You look really familiar to me. And I’m not sure why. But I’m sorry for assuming that we’d…you know.”

Yeah. She knew. And, in a way, she was sorry that they hadn’t.

She offered what she hoped was a sincere smile. “That’s all right. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you. And I intend to do whatever I can to help you find your past.”

Their gazes locked. And for a still, heated moment, his prior assumption and her attraction swirled around them like the first stirring of a Texas twister.

“Well,” she said, trying to end the awkward moment. “I’d better get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night.”

She went back to her room and climbed into bed, but sleep evaded her until just before the break of dawn, when she gave up hope of a run-in with the sandman and quietly started her day.

About an hour or so later, Noah cried out, and she managed to reach him before he woke Rowan. Then, after changing his diapers, she took her son into the kitchen, where he sat happily in his high chair, drinking milk from his little cup, while she prepared bacon and hotcakes.

The morning sunlight filtered through the age-yellowed lace curtain, dappling the chipped tile countertop. And the aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the house, as the old percolator sputtered and gurgled on the stove, blending with the savory scent of breakfast meat.

A rap sounded at the back door, and Pete let himself in. He took off his hat and hung it on the rack in the service porch, where her daddy used to always leave his. “How’d it go last night?”

“All right,” she said, deciding not the mention the nocturnal chat, the caress of her hand. The self-conscious way she’d withdrawn from Rowan’s touch as she’d remembered when her skin hadn’t been so leathery.

Pete held a purse-like, zippered bag in his hand. “Is he awake?”

“No. Not yet.” Louanne cracked an egg into the white ceramic bowl of pancake flour, then tossed the shell into the trash.

“Well, I found out how he got hurt.” Pete poured himself a mug of coffee. “While I was going out to mend that stretch of fence, I found a busted up motorcycle lying in a ditch.”

“So he must have crashed.”

“Yep. And it was a damn nice bike at that. He was riding one of them fancy Harley-Davidsons. ’Course it don’t look so fancy anymore.”

It didn’t surprise her. Rowan had wealth written all over him, in spite of the worn jeans. “I heard those bikes were expensive.”

“At one time,” Pete said, “Hells Angels and other biker gangs used to favor those big bikes. But now, they’ve become popular with those yuppie fellows.”

Was Rowan a young professional-type?

The wrecked Harley ought to answer a few questions, like how he’d gotten hurt. But it merely provided more questions about the enigmatic Rowan Parks.

“Anyway, I didn’t bring that durn bike back here. It must weigh a ton. But I found this in a saddlebag near the seat.” He placed his discovery on the countertop.

Louanne wiped her hands upon the apron, then picked up the leather pouch. Curiosity begged her to unzip it, to look inside. To learn more about the hellion who’d touched something hidden in her soul.

“You gonna open it up?” Pete asked.

A smile teased Louanne’s lips. Pete was as curious as an old woman, according to Aggie. And she’d seen his nosy side. “Why don’t you tell me what’s inside, since you probably already peeked.”

He chuckled. “You’re as bad as my wife.”

Before she could apologize, he said, “I found a California vehicle registration, listing Rowan Parks as the owner. And a few personal items, like breath mints and a checkbook. Plus a cell phone.”

Louanne wasn’t normally a snoop. Had Rowan been unconscious, she would have had every right to sift through his belongings to notify the next of kin. But he was certainly able to go through his belongings himself. Of course, if the cell phone battery went dead before he got a chance to look at any missed calls, he might never learn who he was. Or be able to alert his friends and family members that he was alive and safe.

“You want me to take this little feller to Aggie?” Pete asked, as he poked a callused finger at Noah’s belly and received a squeal and a smile for his efforts.

“Sure. But he hasn’t had his breakfast yet.”

“Aggie loves feeding him.”

“I know.” Louanne smiled warmly and gave the man a hug. “In case you’ve forgotten, I appreciate how much you and Aggie do for us. And how much you love Noah.”

“We love you, too, honey. You’ve been like the daughter we never had.” Pete removed the happy child from the high chair. “Come on, li’l pardner. Let’s go say hello to Aggie.”

When Louanne was alone in the kitchen, she picked up Rowan’s cell phone. It looked like a top-of-the-line model. Fancy and expensive, like his Harley. Like his Rolex. It suited him, she supposed. Or at least the picture of him she was forming.

As soon as she’d figured out how the bells and whistles worked, she pulled up a list of phone numbers. The one on top belonged to “Sam.” She jotted down the number, just in case the battery died.

“What are you doing?”

Louanne jumped at the sound of the masculine voice, turning to see Rowan standing in the kitchen doorway, looking like a sleep-tousled dream-come-true.

She held up his cell phone. “Good news—I think. Pete found a wrecked Harley-Davidson not far from where we found you. This leather pouch and a cell phone were in the saddlebag. You’ve programmed numbers in here, so we have a way of accessing your past.”

He just leaned against the doorjamb, unsmiling.

She would have thought he’d be eager to find out who his friends and family were. Who Emily was. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.” He raked a hand through the tumble of dark, rebellious locks, not making the strands look any better or worse. “Maybe it’s the dream I had last night.”

She didn’t doubt he’d found it disturbing. “What about the dream?”

“I was running from something.”

Like she was running and hiding? “From whom?”

“No one in particular. It was more of a force, a presence. From feelings like grief and anger.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to explain, but I don’t feel a pressing need to go home, wherever that is.”

“Maybe it’s the amnesia that has you uneasy.”

Not knowing who he was and how he fit into the scheme of life had to be confusing and unsettling, to say the least. And she suspected it could cause a person to become a bit paranoid.

How would she feel if her memory suddenly vanished? If those frightening images of Richard no longer surfaced, no longer haunted her days and nights?

She might sleep better, but would her fear remain as a faceless, unidentifiable threat?

“Maybe you’re right.” Rowan took a deep breath, then blew out a ragged sigh. “The amnesia—not being able to remember who I am—has left me a bit unbalanced.”

“Aren’t you curious about the past, the people in your life?”

“Yeah. But I can’t explain the discontent, the uneasiness I feel.”

“People might be worried about you.”

“And they might not give a rat’s hind end about me.” He raked a hand through his hair again. “See what I mean? I keep getting these weird feelings, and I don’t know where in the hell they come from.”

“Calling up your past can wait,” she said, understanding, at least to some extent, his reluctance. “If that’s what you want.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know what I want. Or what those people mean to me.” He nodded toward the cell phone she held, then shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. He looked so tough, so vulnerable.

“The call can wait. You can make it whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks.” His heavenly eyes lingered on hers and revealed sincerity and appreciation. But that wasn’t all. When he looked at her, the room seemed to come alive with sexual awareness, something she didn’t want to consider and didn’t dare question or pursue.

Several hours later, while Noah was napping at Aggie’s and Louanne was hanging a batch of wet sheets on the clothesline, Rowan joined her outside.

The afternoon sun glistened on the black strands of his hair, like a kiss of sunlight on a raven’s wing in flight. And she found it difficult not to stare. Not to let romantic notions kidnap her thoughts and ride off in the sunset.

“Maybe it would be a good idea if you made that call,” he said. “But keep things generic and brief. You can say I need some time to myself. Then you can gauge their reactions.”

“All right. I’m nearly done here.” She hung the last sheet on the line, but before she could pick up the empty wicker laundry basket, he snatched the handle at one end and carried it into the house. She followed behind, watching the swagger of his walk, the way he filled out her father’s shirt and jeans in a way the tall, lanky, older man never had.

Once inside, Louanne glanced at the phone number she’d written on the notepad by the phone. “The first one belongs to someone named Sam. Does that name sound familiar?”

“No.”

She picked up the receiver of the wall-mounted kitchen phone and dialed. A moment later, a recorded message answered.

That was odd. She looked at Rowan, caught his gaze. “The number is no longer in service, and there’s no new number. How up-to-date is your phone list?”

“You’re asking me?” Rowan rolled his eyes and blew out a ragged sigh.

“Sorry.” She picked up the cell phone and glanced at the display. The second entry was a bit disturbing. “I brought this up last night, but I’d better ask again. Does the name Emily ring a bell?”

“No. It still doesn’t.”

Well, nevertheless, there was a woman in his life named Emily, a woman he’d called for last night in his dream. And for some reason, that fact was a little unsettling.

But she brushed her discomfort aside. No doubt Emily missed her man. Louanne certainly would, if her husband or lover turned up missing.

She picked up the kitchen phone and gave it another shot. After four rings, an answering machine kicked on, and a female voice said, “You’ve reached 555-4349. There’s no one to take your call right now, but if you leave your name and number after the tone, we’ll get back to you.”

We’ll get back to you?

Was that a single woman’s ploy to make it appear she didn’t live alone? Or were Emily and Rowan live-in lovers? Or maybe even married?

Last night, Rowan had looked at Louanne and touched her in such a loving, gentle way—the way a man touched a woman he wanted sexually. Not that Louanne was an expert at that sort of thing, but she knew the look, the touch.

She’d pulled away, of course, for a variety of reasons that had nothing to do with the way his fingertips had sent a shimmy of heat pulsing through her veins.

Now she was even more glad that she hadn’t let things go any further. What if she would’ve let their attraction build?

Rowan might be spoken for—by a woman named Emily. A woman whose recorded voice sounded young, nice and pretty—if a person could gather that kind of information from an answering machine.

At the beep, Louanne left her name and number, mentioning Rowan and asking Emily to call her back. Then she hung up.

The third entry in line was someone named Brenda. Another woman? Was Rowan playing the field?

She glanced at him. “How about Brenda?”

He shrugged. “Why don’t I go take another shower? I’m not used to the Texas humidity. Besides, I don’t feel up to an awkward conversation with people I can’t remember.”

When he left her alone in the kitchen, she gave it one more try—just for the heck of it. And this time, her call was rewarded.

“Parks residence. May I help you?”

For a moment, her tongue deserted her. She’d been halfway prepared to talk to Sam or Emily, but they hadn’t answered. This time someone had.

Louanne was well aware of the fact that Rowan had a past, a history. People in his life. But those people were strangers to her—to both of them, right now.

Did Rowan have a loving home? A shady past? Friends and family who cared about him?

Or demons to outrun, like Louanne did.

Suddenly, she understood his apprehension, his fear. At least to some extent. She took a breath and forced herself to speak. “My name is Louanne Brown, and Rowan Parks asked me to call.”

“You’re calling for Rowan?” The woman’s voice wobbled. “Where is he?”

“In Texas.”

“But is he all right?”

“He wrecked his motorcycle and received a few bumps, bruises and cuts in the process. But a doctor looked him over and said that he was fine.”

“Oh, dear God,” the woman said, before blurting out a loud, drawn-out “Emily! Come quick.”

A sob sounded on the other end of the line, and Louanne suspected the woman who’d answered had broken down and cried.

Moments later, another female voice came on the line. “This is Emily Parks. What seems to be the problem?”

Emily Parks? The lump that had formed in Louanne’s throat merely grew larger, and she found it nearly impossible to speak, to respond. To think.

Was he…were they…married? It would seem so. But it really didn’t matter. Louanne and Rowan were merely strangers, ships passing in the night.

But if that was the case, why did she feel as though someone had let the wind out of her sails and left her adrift on a lonely sea?

Chapter Four

Louanne gripped the receiver until her knuckles whitened, as she tried to gather her thoughts, her words. “Rowan asked me to call and let you know that he’s safe.”

“Thank goodness. Where is he?”

“On my ranch in Texas.”

Emily paused momentarily, probably trying to make sense of it all. “Who is this?”

“My name is Louanne Brown.”

“I appreciate your call,” Emily said. “Rowan stormed out of here like a bat out of hell the other night, and I was afraid he’d have an accident. Then a man from the police department called about an hour ago and reported that they’d found his motorcycle in a ditch in Texas. Needless to say, we’ve been worried.”

It sounded as though Rowan had left in anger. Isn’t that what Emily had meant by saying he’d stormed out of the house?

Louanne looked to the empty doorway, wishing that Rowan were standing there, so that he could advise her on what or how much to say. But what good would that have done? Rowan couldn’t even remember Emily, let alone leaving home like that.

It was hard to second-guess what had happened, but maybe Rowan had a good reason for the grief and anger that had haunted his dream last night.

Had Emily upset him? Caused him to end their relationship? Maybe she’d been the one to put the kibosh on things.

Had Rowan wanted to forget something? Had his amnesia been a bit self-serving?

Louanne had always enjoyed her psych classes in college, but she really wasn’t qualified to analyze what was going on in Rowan’s relationships, even if she couldn’t help herself from doing so.

Besides, speculating wouldn’t do any good at this point.

“Was Rowan hurt in the accident?” Emily asked.

“Five stitches was the worst of it.” Louanne ignored the amnesia that still plagued him. “But he’ll be all right. He just wanted me to call so you wouldn’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Emily said. “Can I please speak to my brother?”

Her brother? Emily was Rowan’s sister? For some reason Louanne refused to dwell upon, she felt a sense of relief. “He’s not available right now, but I can have him call you back?”

“Did he tell you about the…blowup?” Emily asked.

“He vented a little bit,” Louanne lied, wondering if that would free Rowan’s sister to reveal any of the details. “I figure there’s always two sides to every story.”

“Rowan was furious with our father, but that, of course, was nothing new. His anger has been steadily brewing for years.” Emily blew out a heavy sigh. “Rowan’s probably better off with you in Texas, at least until he cools off. They’ve never seen eye to eye. And quite frankly, I’m worried one of them will do or say something foolish, something that can’t be undone or forgotten.”

“I understand,” Louanne said, although she didn’t. Still, she was glad she’d made the call, that she’d been able to ease the minds of those in the Parks family, of Emily in particular. “I left a message at your house with my number, but if you have a pen and paper, I’ll give it to you again.”

The muffled sound of a drawer opening and closing came over the line. “Go ahead.”

After Louanne recited her telephone number, Emily said, “Thanks again for the call. And for looking out for my brother. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” Louanne tried to dig for a bit more information. “By the way, who is Brenda?”

“Brenda Wheeler is my father’s housekeeper. She more or less raised us, after my mother…left home. So, when she learned about the accident, she was beside herself.”

“And Sam?” Louanne asked.

“I don’t know anyone by that name. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Louanne twirled the phone cord around her finger. “Rowan mentioned something about him, that’s all. And I was curious, but hated to pry.”

“Well, I can understand that. My brother isn’t one to open up to anyone, especially his family. So, you’ll have to ask Rowan about the man.”

“I will,” Louanne said, realizing she’d learned very little to help trigger the return of Rowan’s memories.

“Listen,” Emily added, “If Rowan feels like discussing what happened the other night, have him give me a call at home. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to call back here until our father settles down. He’s used to having things go his way and can be pretty unreasonable sometimes.”

“I’ll give Rowan the message,” Louanne said, before ending the call.

After the line disconnected, Emily hung up the telephone receiver in the library, the same room in which Rowan had locked horns—again—with their father, just two weeks ago. The night their father had accused Rowan of being a family traitor, of revealing secrets and discussing old gossip with strangers.

Knowing Rowan, the accusation couldn’t have been any further from the truth. But then, Walter Parks didn’t particularly like or trust his youngest son, let alone know him.

Emily had always tried hard to keep peace between her siblings and the patriarch, but it was getting more and more difficult to do so.

It was odd that Rowan hadn’t placed the call himself, but he’d always been private and evasive. Besides, she suspected that he’d wanted to avoid the risk of having to talk to their father, if he would have answered the phone.

And it was just as well that he hadn’t called. Their father was a difficult man, one who didn’t find much value in reaching a compromise—with anyone.

Walter Parks had commandeered a jewelry business into an empire over the past thirty years, but he’d never been a loving father, unless one counted providing a silver-spoon existence.

All things considered, growing up had been tough on each of the four Parks children. They’d been abandoned by their mother—intentionally or not—and neglected by their father. But things had been even more difficult for Rowan, whose rebellious nature had always riled the patriarch in one way or another.

Maybe her little brother would find the peace he’d always wanted in Texas.

“Rowan’s all right?” Brenda asked, clearly concerned about the man she’d raised.

“He’s safe and sound.” Emily gave the loving, gray-haired housekeeper a hug goodbye. “I’ve got to go, Brenda. I’ll see you later.” Then she grabbed her purse from the sofa.

On the way to the front door, she passed her father’s home office, where Linda Mailer was digging through a box of files. The accountant’s shoulder-length red hair hid her face like a veil.

Linda looked up and caught her breath. “You startled me.”

Why? What had Linda been searching for? Something that didn’t concern her?

Oh, for goodness sake. Was Walter’s growing paranoia contagious and snaking its way into the minds of the entire family?

The shy, thirty-year-old CPA was a bit young for the trusted position, but she was bright, efficient and devoted to her boss—something a man like Walter Parks undoubtedly appreciated.

Emily shook off the crazy suspicion. “I’m sorry, Linda. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was just leaving.”

“That’s all right. I was so engrossed and caught up in my own world, that I didn’t expect to see anyone.”

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your work.” Emily gave a partial wave. “Goodbye.”

Linda, with her hands still on the files she’d been perusing, continued her search. She didn’t usually work out of the home office, but today she was reconciling Walter’s personal accounts and needed to gather some information he kept at the house. And so far, she’d only uncovered a handful of what was needed.

She wasn’t sure why she was digging through this box. Curiosity, she supposed. Earlier, Walter had been searching for something in here. He’d run his fingers though his hair and mumbled to himself. Appearing agitated and distressed, he’d suddenly grabbed a file from this box and left the room, which hadn’t seemed to relieve his anxiety.

Walter kept a safe in his den, so Linda assumed that’s where he’d been going. But he hadn’t come back. And about fifteen minutes later, she’d heard his car start up and drive away.

Over the course of an hour, her curiosity had grown. And the old file box had steadily drawn her attention. As she flipped through the contents, not looking for anything in particular, she spotted a yellowed paper—a memo of some kind—resting between two unrelated files. She withdrew the page, intent on filing it properly, but scanned it first so she could determine where it belonged.

She furrowed her brow. That was strange. It was written twenty-five years ago and mentioned raw diamonds and a cargo drop-off location.

It also bore a name that sounded familiar. Van Damon. Wasn’t that also the name of the infamous Dutch warlord in Africa?

What a weird coincidence. Walter Parks couldn’t possibly be involved in gem smuggling.

Of course, the media had been coming down hard on him, lately. And there were rumors—although Linda didn’t believe them.

But as she placed the paper in her briefcase with the intention of taking it back to the main office, something niggled at her.

Back in Texas, Rowan walked into the living room, refreshed from his shower. Through the open screen door, he spotted Louanne standing on the porch and gazing into the horizon.

“Did you get hold of anyone?” he asked.

She turned slowly and rested against the wooden railing. “You and your father had a falling out a couple of nights ago, and it wasn’t the first time. For some reason, you charged out of the house in California. And you ended up in Texas.”

A falling out with his father? Maybe that’s where his sense of anger came from. But what about the grief? Had he been sorry about leaving? Sorry about the rift?

The revelation of his flight to Texas only brought on more questions. “Do you know what we fought about?”

Louanne shrugged. “I don’t know, but it sounds as though you and your dad haven’t gotten along for years.”

Assuming her suspicion was right, Rowan couldn’t help wondering why. But, since the answer was nowhere to be found, he let that question drop and asked another. “Did you find out who Emily is?”

“She’s your sister. And she was worried about you. It was a good thing we called, because she’d just received word that your motorcycle was found in a ditch, and no one had any idea what had happened to you.”

Maybe Rowan shouldn’t work so hard at trying to remember. He’d gotten mad and taken off with the intention of putting a lot of crap behind him. So why not let well enough alone?

Because not being able to remember, to understand, put him at a disadvantage. So, hoping to unleash a flood of memories—or maybe just a trickle—he asked, “Did you find out who Sam is?”

Rowan assumed the man listed at the top of his telephone list had the number one spot for a reason.

“Your sister doesn’t know a man named Sam. Could it be a woman? Maybe a nickname for Samantha?”

“You’re asking me?”

She slid him a crooked smile, one that made a single dimple in her cheek. “Sorry.”

Yeah. He was sorry too. The dark hole that used to be his memory was still just as large, just as empty.

He studied the tall, willowy woman who’d taken him in. The familiar face that drew him to her, those golden-brown eyes that tugged at him. There was a sadness about her, and he wasn’t sure why.

“And what about you,” Rowan asked. “Where is your family?”

She seemed to ponder his question, and for a moment, he wondered whether she’d answer. “There’s not much to tell. For the most part, it’s just Noah and me. My parents died in a small plane crash on their way to a cattle auction last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. More so now that I don’t have a chance to tell them how much I loved them, how much I appreciated what they’d provided for my sister and me.”

A frown marred her brow, and he had the urge to console her. To step close and take her in his arms. Breathe in her earthy, flowery scent.

He jammed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans instead.

She appeared to be a strong woman. Independent. And not afraid of hard work.

Too much work, he suspected. Did she get any help on the ranch, other than what the old man named Pete could provide?

“Where’s your sister?” he asked.

“She’s in Australia right now, shooting a movie.”

“Your sister is an actress?” He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice, his expression.

Louanne smiled, this one kind of wistful, but revealing a matching set of dimples. “It was always a dream of hers. And I’m proud of her. She made that dream come true.”

Would he recognize the name of the actress? He hadn’t seen many movies lately.

He hadn’t seen many movies lately.

Rowan blinked, sobering as he realized he’d just dug up something from his past—albeit nothing important. But it was a start.

“What’s your sister’s name?”

“Tallulah Brown.”

The tall, glamorous brunette with bronze skin and a body made for a skimpy bikini had starred in the newest James Bond flick.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He knew who the shapely actress was. And he began to wonder if that’s what he’d recognized in Louanne. A resemblance to her movie-star sister.

“You look like her.” He realized that was another thing his mind had processed without revealing something he might actually find useful.

“Thanks. I guess.” Louanne chuckled. “I’m afraid Tallulah’s far more eye-catching and memorable than I am.”

Maybe so, but Louanne had a wholesome beauty that didn’t need makeup or fancy clothes. And his gut instinct suggested she would look pretty damn good in a bikini, too.

He wondered whether she chose to wear worn, bleached-out jeans and plain, button-down shirts because she couldn’t afford anything different, anything new. He scanned the porch of the run-down ranch house. Chipped white paint. A bent window screen. A warped front door. Most things needed to be repaired, refurbished or replaced.

Money was tight, he suspected. And it had been for a very long time. The upkeep on this place had to be an uphill battle, one the single mother appeared to be losing.

Tallulah Brown, on the other hand, had to be doing pretty well. “Doesn’t your sister help with any of the expenses?”

Louanne tightened her grip on the wooden porch railing, then released as a splinter poked at her palm.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, clearly unaware of how his question had prickled her, how it had triggered thoughts of the past. Thoughts of the secret she kept.

He waited for an answer, but she didn’t know how much to tell, how much to reveal. She’d been keeping quiet, protecting her identity as well as her secret for so long, that she felt awkward talking about something that was simple. Easy to understand, at least for her.

It probably seemed reasonable, to an outsider, that the girls share in the ever-constant monthly expenses, both expected and not.

“I can’t ask for my sister’s help. Or rather, I won’t.”

“Why not?”

Pride, she supposed, although it went much deeper than that. “When my parents died, Lula begged me to sell the Lazy B. She couldn’t see pouring money into a hundred acres that, over the years, wrung out every dream our parents ever had, along with each drop of their blood, sweat and tears.”

“And you refused to sell?”

He probably suspected she held an emotional attachment to the time-battered house, to her parents’ memories. But that wasn’t the case. Louanne had actually agreed with her sister about putting it on the market. Lord knew they needed the money.

Last spring she and Pete had sold off half the cattle to pay the taxes and make ends meet. Several times, their neighbor to the east, Jim Simmons, had offered to buy the property and the remaining cattle, but Louanne desperately needed a place to hide, a place to bear and raise her baby where Richard would never find her. And since she’d followed Lula’s lead and created a more cosmopolitan past than growing up on a small, struggling cattle ranch, she felt relatively safe here.

And not in Austin, where he was likely to focus his search.

“Yes, I refused to sell.”

“Because of the memories?”

“Yes,” she said, the lie resting in the midst of the truth. “I came home because of the memories.”

But not the ones he imagined. She returned because of the black, heart-pounding ones provoked by Dr. Richard Keith, the father of her baby. And because of a haunting threat he’d made. A threat that held enough promise to make her flee from college just months before she could finish her graduate work in English.

I’ll see you back in my bed…or in a casket, six feet underground.

Louanne had covered her tracks and returned home, where the Lazy B provided refuge and safety for herself and her son—unless Richard took time to unravel her lies and carefully laid plans.

“It looks as though you could use a little financial help.” Rowan perused the old house and the yard.

“We’re okay. Noah and I don’t need anything fancy.” Just a roof over our heads, warm beds to sleep in and enough food to eat.

“Fancy isn’t what I meant.” Rowan scanned the outside of the weathered, clapboard house. “Maybe your sister would contribute to a new paint job.”

“I don’t need her help.” Okay, so that wasn’t true, but Louanne didn’t have the nerve to ask for a loan or for any financial assistance from Lula, particularly when her sister had been so adamant about selling the place.

Life wasn’t easy. But it was safe.

She crossed her arms, hoping Rowan would sense how stubborn she could be when necessary. But before he could respond, Noah cried out from his crib, alerting Louanne that he wanted his mommy and her comfort.

Relief settled around her. She was more than ready to escape the questions, the reminders. More than ready to put the memory behind her for a while. Rowan seemed as interested in digging up her past as he was in uncovering his own.

And Louanne was determined to keep her tracks covered and her secret safe.

Later that afternoon, after Aggie had taken Noah for a walk, Louanne put on a ham hock and a pot of beans to cook. She’d become pretty adept at creating nourishing and tasty dishes that didn’t cost very much to prepare.

While dinner simmered on the stove, she reached into the cupboard, where her mom and dad used to hide the candy treats they kept for special occasions. She’d continued the practice for Noah, even though he wasn’t old enough to eat hard candy.

She popped a lemon drop into her mouth, savored the tart, citrusy taste and suspected an ulterior motive. Maybe the treats were for herself, so she could enjoy a sweet memory every now and again.

After setting the dining room table, she wandered into the living room, where Rowan had stretched out on the tweed sofa that had been in the same spot for as long as she could remember. Her dad used to nap there, too, on Sunday afternoons. After the church service and a hearty dinner with his wife and daughters.

It was a bit odd to have a man in the house again, even though Rowan’s stay would be brief. But it was kind of nice, too. She liked the way her heart beat a bit faster whenever she looked at him, whenever he looked at her. Maybe because it made her feel alive again.

When she’d given up graduate school and come home, she was thankful to find refuge. But she also struggled with the realization that she’d come home to wither and die.

It helped that she no longer lost herself in a fictional world behind the covers of a book, or that she no longer worked on the next great American novel. Exercising her imagination would only make her sorry life more miserable. Make her long for something she couldn’t allow herself to have.

Louanne eased closer to the sofa, drawn to the man who was still very much a stranger. Yet for some reason, she felt the need to protect him, to help him heal in body and spirit.

She studied Rowan as he slept. A lock of black hair flopped onto his forehead, and his lips parted in slumber. Her eyes traced the faint white line of the old scar that cut into his eyebrow, as well as the new gash Doc had stitched. But neither imperfection was enough to hamper his looks.

He was a handsome man, almost pretty. And she wondered whether he wore his hair unkempt to harden his appearance.

Devil or angel?

Maybe a little of both.

His wound seemed to be mending. There wasn’t any sign of swelling or redness. She had a feeling Doc would call to check on his patient. He always did.

While she stooped to check Rowan’s stitches, he moved. And she froze, not wanting to disturb him. Not wanting him to see her fuss over him.

Rowan woke to the scent of wildflowers, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Louanne standing over him. Her gaze locked on his, and she chewed her bottom lip. Feeling guilty for being so close?

“I…uh.” Her lips parted, and her sweet, lemontinged breath nearly made him sit up and beg for a taste. “I thought I’d look at those sutures and make sure they’re all right. I don’t think you were supposed to get them wet.”

“Go ahead and check them,” he said, liking the way she hovered over him. The way she wrinkled her brow. The way that golden-brown gaze clung to his.

She didn’t move away. And she didn’t appear overly interested in his wound. She remained close enough to touch, caught up in something, just like he was.

He wanted to kiss her, to hold her. To feel something other than the nothingness that held him captive. His hand seemed to have a mind of its own, as it slipped under the single braid she wore, finding the back of her neck and drawing her lips to his.

It wouldn’t have surprised him in the least if she would’ve pulled way. Objected. Given him hell for being so forward. But there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to avoid the overwhelming urge to taste her.

When his lips brushed her mouth, she didn’t fight. Didn’t protest. Didn’t stiffen.

He took pleasure in the softness that promised to envelop him and relished the intoxicating scent of wildflowers in a green meadow.

Her lips parted, allowing him entrance, and he savored the sweet, lemon-drop taste.

As his tongue sought hers, a jolt of heat jump-started his pulse, causing his blood to race, to pound. She must have felt it, too, because she whimpered in response, and her fingers snaked into his hair.

He wanted to draw her body to his, to pull her on top of him. To press her hips against him. And he would have, if the baby hadn’t shrieked. And footsteps and a “yoo-hoo” hadn’t sounded from the front porch.

Her breath caught, and she slowly pulled away, breaking the kiss. Her hand slipped from his jaw.

But she couldn’t hide the desire blazing in those golden eyes. Couldn’t hide the effect he’d had on her.

And he knew in that moment, that he would kiss her again and again.

Longer. And deeper.

If he ever got another chance.

Chapter Five

Louanne didn’t know what had gotten in to her. She had no business kissing Rowan. In fact, she had no business kissing anyone. Not now, maybe not ever.

And she’d been caught red-handed, or rather red-faced. What would Aggie say?

“We’re home,” the older woman called from the screen door. “And you’ll never guess what we saw.”

The warmth in Louanne’s cheeks suddenly blazed, her embarrassment flashing like a fire truck on its way to a three-alarm fire.

What had Aggie seen?

An aura of guilt hovered over her, as she faced the consequences of the thoughtless urge to kiss the man with more than his fair share of pheromones.

She should have balked, should have pulled away when Rowan drew her mouth to his. But when his the-sky-is-the-limit gaze promised a toe-curling encounter, a slow and steady flame began to warm her blood and thaw her heart. For a moment, she felt a stir in the imaginative spirit she’d thought had died behind the ivy-covered walls of Cedar Glen College.

And for that reason, she hadn’t given the bay window or the open front door a second thought.

Get a grip, she told herself. It was bad enough that she’d lost her head and kissed Rowan like there was no tomorrow—or rather, like there’d been no yesterday, no impeccably-dressed college professor who’d morphed into a monster. No threat that still lingered in her ears. No reason to stay hidden and locked away from the world.

Would Aggie assume Louanne wanted to jump the bones of the first man she’d come into contact with in a year and a half? That’s probably what the kiss looked like, especially since Rowan was a stranger. Even to himself.

Louanne drew on what little acting skill Lula had taught her while growing up, and tried to pretend nothing had happened.

Rowan hadn’t kissed her. And Aggie hadn’t arrived to witness it.

“Hey, Pumpkin.” Louanne opened the front door, brushed a kiss across her son’s chubby cheek and smiled brightly. “Did you have a good time?”

“Mah!” Noah smiled, revealing four front teeth and dribbling a tiny drop of drool to his chin.

“Tell Mama what we saw,” Aggie prompted.

Louanne’s heart burst into her throat, and she tried to come up with some kind of excuse, an explanation for what Aggie had witnessed, since it didn’t appear as though a denial would work.

Noah lurched in excitement. “Duh.”

“Duckies,” Aggie interpreted. “We saw a whole passel of them swimming in the fishing hole.”

Oh, thank goodness. Louanne felt Rowan’s eyes on her back, even though she couldn’t see them. What had he been thinking? That they’d been caught? That they shouldn’t have kissed in the first place? That it had been too hot and too good not to kiss one more time?

Noah reached out his pudgy little hands, and Louanne swept him into her arms, glad to have something to hold on to. Something to shield her from the realization that she was still a red-blooded woman with sexual needs.

“Thanks for taking him on your walk, Aggie. The simplest things are such a thrill for him.”

“For me, too,” the older woman said, as she scanned the living room and spotted Rowan. “Oh, hello there.”

Thank goodness. Aggie hadn’t seen anything, nor had she picked up any vibes about a kiss that shouldn’t have taken place. And apparently her dear friend wasn’t aware of the desire that ricocheted throughout the living room.

Louanne softly blew out the breath she’d been holding. “Aggie, this is Rowan Parks.”

The plump, gray-haired woman stuck out her hand, then smiled sheepishly. “I took a little peek at you yesterday. While you were sleeping. But it’s nice to meet you. In person, I mean.”

“Same here.” Rowan stood, accepted the customary greeting and smiled. He didn’t appear to be ruffled or flustered, not even on the inside, like Louanne was.

“Well,” Aggie said, clapping her hands together. “Looks like we’ve got a foursome for cards. Are you guys interested in a game tonight?”

Louanne figured Aggie was hoping to get to know Rowan better, to size him up.

After all, just last week, the older woman had invited Louanne to attend the marathon bingo tournament at St. Mark’s Church. “You need to make friends,” Aggie had explained.

“You’re my friend,” Louanne had countered.

“I mean friends your own age. Besides, you’ll never find a man if you don’t leave the ranch. And there are a lot of women with unmarried sons and nephews who are dying to see them with a nice girl who’d make a good wife. And they won’t give a hoot about you having a baby.”

Having a child out of wedlock and the resulting small-town community whispers had been Louanne’s reason for asking Pete and Aggie to keep her return and Noah’s birth a secret. And as far as Louanne knew, no one in Pebble Creek—other than Doc and their quiet-spoken neighbor, Jim Simmons—knew she was back in town with a baby. Doc had promised not to tell, and Jim, who lived alone, hardly spoke more than ten words a year—and those had to be pried out of him.

“This is a new century,” Aggie had added. “Unwed mothers aren’t looked down upon like they once were.”

When Louanne had told the well-intentioned woman that she didn’t like crowds, that she preferred staying home, Aggie must have assumed Louanne suffered from a case of agoraphobia, because she’d said, “Why don’t you call Doc Haines and tell him how you feel? I hear they’ve got medicine for that now.”

Rather than go into detail, Louanne had decided to let the assumption of an anxiety disorder stand—unchallenged.

“So what do you say?” Aggie asked, drawing Louanne back to the present. “Playing cards will be fun.”

Louanne glanced at Rowan and tried to gauge his reaction to the suggestion.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “Louanne?”

She smiled, first at Rowan, then at her friend. “All right. I’ll put Noah down about 7:00. Why don’t you and Pete come over after that?”

“Good. And I’ll bring some goodies to eat.”

No one made goodies like Aggie. She always had a couple of treats to choose from—cookies, brownies, a lemon meringue pie. It was a wonder Pete stayed so lean, especially when his wife hadn’t.

“I’ll put on a pot of coffee,” Louanne said, as she walked her friend to the door. Under normal circumstances, she might’ve thought having company tonight would make things awkward, especially since Pete and Aggie had become such close friends and were so protective of her and Noah. But since having someone else in the house this evening might actually defuse whatever was going on between her and the stranger who’d turned her senses on edge, she felt a vague sense of relief.

After that kiss they’d shared, Louanne wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with the inevitable question that would follow.

Now what?

But when Aggie went home, Louanne was left to face Rowan. There was no point in averting her gaze and avoiding the subject. Because, try as she might, she couldn’t ignore his presence.

Their eyes met, and the kiss stretched between them, connecting them long after it had ended and binding them in a way she wasn’t ready for. In a way she might never be ready for.

What should she do? Ignore the fact that it had happened? Broach the subject, getting it over with? Then put it to bed?

Oops. Wrong choice of words.

Maybe she ought to let Rowan bring up the touchy subject.

But when he didn’t mention a word, she wasn’t sure whether she should be relieved or disappointed.

Rowan stood on the front porch and watched the sun sink low in the West Texas sky. He’d found it a bit weird that Louanne had never mentioned the kiss. He could have done so, he supposed, but he hadn’t.

He’d never been one to analyze a sexual relationship; it either worked or it didn’t.

He didn’t analyze sexual relationships.

Another revelation. Was his memory going to come back one little piece at a time?

The screen door squeaked open, and Louanne joined him on the porch, the baby boy riding on her hip. The little tyke was kind of cute, even though he didn’t have much hair. But his eyes were the same golden-brown hue as his mother’s, and just as captivating.

“Can you watch Noah while I put dinner on the table?” she asked.

Him? Baby-sit? Rowan hated to tell Louanne no, not after she’d been so good to him. But what the hell did he know about babies or small kids?

He didn’t know anything about infants or children.

Great. He’d just remembered another piece of information, which didn’t seem particularly useful. He didn’t have kids and felt awkward around them.

“Maybe I should set the table instead,” he said, hoping for a reprieve. What if he dropped the little guy?

“You’re not afraid of a baby, are you?” Her rich, whiskey-hued eyes held a taunt, a tease. A challenge.

“Afraid? No. But I’ve got to admit, the idea of taking care of one makes me uneasy.”

“You don’t have to hold him,” Louanne said, “if you’re not comfortable doing that. But can you make sure he doesn’t climb onto the sofa and fall down? Make sure he doesn’t eat a handful of potting soil or munch on one of the leaves of the houseplant on the table?”

“Yeah, I can probably handle that.” He reached out, and surprisingly, the baby went right to him.

The kid felt kind of weird in his arms. Not heavy, but solid and warm. A little wiggly. His diaper-clad butt was thick and pudgy. Thank goodness she hadn’t asked him to change his pants. Rowan wouldn’t do that—ever. What a nasty job.

He looked at the baby boy and found the little guy watching him intently. “What’s up, kid?”

Noah grinned, then pointed toward the horizon and grunted.

“You want to go for a walk?”

The kid lurched in his arms, indicating Rowan had understood what “umphd” meant.

“Okay, but we’re not going far. I have to stay close to your mom. Just in case we both got more than we bargained for in this baby-sitting arrangement.”

The baby grinned from ear to ear as though he thought they’d struck a hell of a deal.

A couple moments later, as Rowan stood under a sycamore tree and Noah reached for a leaf, Louanne called them to dinner. Rowan was glad to pass the baton, but holding the little guy hadn’t been so bad. Not really.

“Come on, buddy. It’s chow time.” He carried Noah into the dining room, where Louanne had their dinner waiting.

She lifted the tray on the high chair, then, after Rowan put Noah on the torn vinyl seat, she secured the baby and replaced the chrome tray.

After putting a ladle of beans and a chunk of ham into a small plastic bowl, she took a fork and made mush out of the contents. “Let Mama mash the air out of these beans for you.”

Rowan laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. You think smashing beans to a paste will get rid of whatever causes gas?”

Louanne cast him a bright-eyed smile that surpassed any he’d seen her sister flash on magazine covers. “No, of course not. But my mom used to say that when we were kids. And I’m finding myself doing and saying a lot of the same things.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Like ‘skin-a-rabbit’ when I lift his shirt over his head.” She shrugged. “Just silly little things like that.”

Rowan didn’t remember his mother. Only that she’d had dark hair, like his. He paused, his fork in midair.

“What’s the matter?” Louanne asked.

He wasn’t sure. But an uneasy feeling settled around him. His mother had been young and pretty. But she hadn’t been a part of his life. He looked at Louanne, saw the concern on her face. “I lost my mom. I don’t know how. But she wasn’t there for me when I was a kid.”

Her lips parted, and compassion flared in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too. I guess.” Remorse settled in his gut. Was this what he could expect as his memory came back—bits and pieces of stuff he’d rather forget?

Not ready to dig up more about his mother or her loss, Rowan turned the conversation back on something safe. “Where’s Noah’s dad?”

All signs of the happy face he’d seen earlier vanished, and Louanne sat up straight in her chair like a well-versed princess. “He’s dead.”

Rowan didn’t know what he’d expected her to say. That the guy ran off, but sent a child support check on a monthly basis. That Noah had the benefit of a father, even if the man didn’t live in the same house. Kids needed a dad who took part in their lives, who loved them.

Still, even though children might need a father, not all of them were fortunate enough to have one. Rowan knew that for a fact. And not just because his sister had mentioned it to Louanne, who had, in turn, passed that tidbit of information along to him.

His dad hadn’t ever been there for him, either.

The realization gripped his heart, squeezing out a surge of resentment. Had his father ever loved him? Appreciated him? Been proud of him? It didn’t seem like it.

He had an overwhelming suspicion that his father never had cared about him.

But not all men were like that, were they? Didn’t some guys love their kids? Look forward to being with them and asking about their day?

He glanced at the baby who’d smeared beans all over his face. In spite of the mess, Rowan found himself smiling at the little guy. “Did Noah’s dad get a chance to see his son?”

“No.” She glanced down at her bowl, stirred the beans rather than scoop them up with her spoon.

Louanne didn’t know how the conversation had switched so quickly to her memories. And she wasn’t sure how to change the subject back to one that was easier to talk about—safer.

Lying didn’t come easy to her. Of course, that hadn’t stopped her from fabricating an exciting past, like she’d done when she first stepped foot on the small but prestigious campus of Cedar Glen.

At the time, she’d been determined to shed her backwoods image. And Louanne Brown had seemed like such a plain, going-nowhere name. So, following her sister’s lead, she legally changed her name. Lanay Landers was far more fitting and held the promise of an exciting, new life.

It hadn’t seemed like that big of a deal, but her father had been hurt. She’d promised to change it back, but hadn’t gotten around to it before she received news of the plane crash.

“How did he die?”

Her dad? Rowan’s question caught her off guard, and it took a moment to realize he was talking about Noah’s father.

Why wouldn’t he let this subject die? She hated to perpetuate the tales she’d told. And she hadn’t had to lie very often, since she avoided going into Austin, where Richard would probably focus his search for her.

She’d been ashamed of the small, hick town in which she’d grown up. So she’d told everyone at Cedar Glen that she was from Austin and implied that she was a sophisticated city girl.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she told Rowan, fighting the urge to concoct yet another lie she would then have to remember.

He nodded, then dug into his bowl. Moments later, he looked up. “Did your parents get a chance to see the baby?”

“No. They died before he was born.” She wasn’t sure how honest she wanted to be, since she’d kept things so close to the vest for so long. Not even Aggie and Pete knew everything. And bless them, they’d been kind enough not to pry, especially since she’d let them think she was embarrassed to be an unwed mother.

“It must be lonely out here for you.”

She nodded. It was. And not a day went by that she didn’t wish her parents were still here, that they could enjoy their grandson and watch him grow. That she could apologize for hurting them, even though that had never been her intent. Regret and remorse muscled to the forefront, stealing her appetite.

Memories of her parents, of her boring childhood lingered in this house, which in some ways had been good. She’d come to grips with her past, with her roots.

But she still felt guilty for not being happy with whom she’d been, for being ashamed of her humble childhood. For not being more appreciative. And especially for not being a better daughter.

Guilt, she supposed, was a penance she’d pay for the rest of her life.

It was too late to apologize to her parents, now that they were gone. Too late to admit how badly she felt about not appreciating their dream, even though it was so different from her own that, once upon a time, she’d thought her parents didn’t dream at all.

She’d been wrong, though. Wrong about so many things.

But maybe by encouraging Rowan to return home and make peace with his dad—something she would never have the chance to do—she could find vindication.

Of course, Rowan would have to remember who he was and where he came from first.

For a moment, she didn’t like the idea of him leaving, of her having to face her own sorry life alone. But it was for the best. At least, it would be better for him.

She looked at Rowan and tried to conjure sincerity to mask her lie. “Am I lonely? Not really. I like the tranquility and simplicity that the Lazy B provides. And I can’t think of living anywhere else.” In a way, she supposed it was true.

But the reality of her desolate future seemed to suck the breath right out of her.

Louanne kissed Noah, then placed him into his crib. “Good night, sweet baby.”

He fussed momentarily, not ready to end his day, but within moments, he’d popped his thumb in his mouth and laid his head upon the mattress.

As she made her way back to the living room, where Rowan waited, she looked forward to having company. There wasn’t much to do in the evenings, especially since Louanne had given up reading. Watching television, of course, had become a comfortable routine, but at this time of the year, there were mainly reruns airing. So, in a way, playing cards with Pete and Aggie was actually something to look forward to, particularly since her days were long, the work endless.

For a woman who’d been geared for a life of academia until her novel scored big, running a cattle ranch had been a daunting task. Thank goodness she had Pete and Aggie to help. She didn’t know how she would have made it without the aging ranch foreman and his wife.

“Is Noah asleep?” Rowan asked, from his seat on the edge of the beige vinyl recliner.

“Not yet. But he will be in a minute or two. He’s had a big day today. Those afternoon walks always wear him down.”

“I can understand why. He got pretty wound up, just pointing at things.” Rowan chuckled. “He would lurch and move in my arms, kind of like a kid in a swing set pumping for momentum, to show me where he wanted to go.”

Louanne smiled. “He’s trying so hard to communicate.”

“I noticed.” The man who’d once been uneasy with babies grinned like an old hand. “He’ll probably be talking up a storm in no time at all.”

She placed her hands on her hips and arched, trying to stretch out the ache in her back that never seemed to go away. Her body had gone through a lot of changes in the past year or so, first with pregnancy and childbirth, then with the physical demands of life on a working cattle ranch.

They didn’t have as many cattle as before, which was just as well. They couldn’t afford another hired hand, other than Pete. The ranch was dying; they both knew it. And she suspected the only reason Pete hadn’t retired was out of concern and loyalty to her.

“Is there something I can do to help?” Rowan stood, letting her know he was willing to set up or whatever.

Louanne smiled. “Knowing Aggie, she’ll bring everything we need, other than a pot of coffee.”

“You mean the goodies she talked about?”

“Let me put it this way. Pete’s the one who will need some help lugging things over here.”

Just then a light rap sounded at the screen door, and they both turned to see Pete carrying a card table and a platter of cookies. “Is the baby asleep?”

“If not, he’s close to it.” Louanne swung open the door and took the plate from his steady but craggy hands. “Where’s Aggie?”

“She’s packing Noah’s wagon with the rest of the stuff and should be here shortly.”

Thirty minutes later, the four of them sat around the card table, as Rowan learned the intricacies and strategies of Schazam, a game played with kitchen spoons, three dice and matchsticks.

When the older woman had mentioned playing cards, Rowan’s first thought was poker. But when she’d arrived pulling a child’s red wagon packed full of home-baked sweets, he’d been surprised to see her whip out three decks of cards, dice and a box of matches.

“Schazam!” Pete shouted, as he threw down four tens and snatched a teaspoon from the middle of the table.

Aggie clapped her hands, then gave her husband a high five. Rowan couldn’t help but laugh. Playing cards with Pete and Aggie wasn’t at all what he’d expected.

Rowan’s idea of cards was a group of guys, the curl of cigar smoke and a warm swig of bourbon as it slid down the throat. Coarse language that always seemed to hit the heart of a matter. Big belly laughs. Friendly bickering and banter. And not to mention, the wealth of knowledge a young man learned from men nearly twice his age.

Rowan played cards with older men.

And he’d always looked forward to it. Looked forward to the priceless words of wisdom people didn’t find in books.

A man don’t need friends when he’s got the world by the balls and his pockets full of cash. He needs ’em when he’s down and out. That’s when you find out who your real friends are, son.

Son.

Grief surged in his chest, although he wasn’t exactly sure why.

“Son, it’s your deal.” Pete passed the triple-deck of cards to Rowan.

Upon the transfer of the stack, Rowan felt the warmth of Pete’s touch. Felt the years of wear on the cards. Sensed the camaraderie between the others at the table.

It seemed obvious that the older couple and the mother and child had become a family of sorts. And it was touching. Is that what Rowan grieved? Not having a closeness like that? Or was it just the blasted amnesia that made him feel as though no one gave a damn about him?

He hated not knowing. Not understanding.

“You sure you’ll be okay while we’re gone?” Aggie asked Louanne. “We can cancel our plans.”

“I wouldn’t hear of it.” The young woman reached across the table with work-roughened hands. Gentle hands that deserved the luxury of a weekly manicure.

“Where are you going?” Rowan asked the older couple.

“We’re gonna take a trip to Amarillo to see Aggie’s sister. Then on up to Colorado.” Pete leaned back in his chair and looked at Rowan. “You ever see that part of the country?”

“No.” The answer just seemed to pop out, so Rowan assumed it was true. But hell, he really didn’t know for sure where he’d traveled.

“I haven’t been to visit my sister in close to ten years,” Aggie said. “We do a lot of writing and talking on the telephone. But it’s not the same.”

Pete took a swig from a chipped, blue coffee mug. “We bought us a used RV from a widow woman east of Austin. But I sure wish we had a fancy Winnebago like Doc Haines just bought.”

“The one we have is just fine. We don’t need anything fancy.” Aggie patted the top of Louanne’s hand. “You’ll have to come see what I’ve done to that ol’ motor home. I’ve got it all cleaned up. And I made new curtains and a couple of throw pillows for the sofa.”

“Did you get a chance to see Doc’s Winnebago?” Pete asked Louanne. “Before he took off, he gave me a tour.”

“No, I didn’t look inside.”

“It’s a nice one. And it’s got all the modern conveniences.” Pete glanced at Aggie and slid her a smile. “But you’re right, Sugar. The one we’ve got will work just fine.”

Aggie reached for one of the peanut butter squares Rowan favored, a rich chewy cookie bar that melted in the mouth. “I’m really looking forward to getting away, but I’m sure going to miss Noah. I don’t suppose you’d let us take him with us? We’ll just be gone a week.”

The attractive young mother smiled, “He’s a handful, and if I wouldn’t miss him something fierce, I’d let him go. I know he’d be in good hands with you.”

“The only thing holding us back is you,” Pete told Louanne. “We hate leaving you out here to fend for yourself.”

“I’ll be all right. Besides, you two need a vacation.”

“Don’t worry,” Rowan said, as he handed Pete the stack of cards to cut. “I’ll stick around and help out until you get back—if Louanne will tell me what to do.”

“That does make us feel a lot better.” The older man separated the cards in three groups, making the cut. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“No, not at all.” In fact, Rowan would look forward to feeling useful, to feeling as though he had some kind of purpose. Especially since he had no place to go.

Each time he tried to access his memory, he found himself fumbling in the dark. Except for the bits that flashed like lightning here and there.

Thirty minutes and three bellows of “Schazam!” later, Pete and Aggie took the empty wagon back home. They’d left behind nearly a dozen chocolate chip cookies, a quarter of an apple pie and several peanut butter squares, much to Rowan’s delight.

He popped another one into his mouth, then picked up the empty mugs and carried them into the kitchen.

Louanne followed behind with the plates of leftover sweets. “I can get the dishes, Rowan. You don’t need to help.”

“It’s time I started pulling my own weight.” He plugged the sink and turned on the hot water.

Louanne reached for a plastic bottle of dish soap. “If I had to face the remains of Thanksgiving dinner, I could understand. But it’s only four mugs, a coffeepot and a few pieces of flatware.”

“Maybe I like being with you,” he said, watching her eyes light up and a little color warm her cheeks.

She turned away, quickly washing the few dishes, rinsing them and placing them on the rack.

Rowan used a clean but frayed dishtowel to dry them, yet all the while, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, couldn’t keep from studying her classic profile, her turned-up nose. The dark spikes of her lashes.

Was it her down-home, earthy beauty that drew him to her? Or was it merely the fact that she lit up one dark corner in his world?

“That’s it.” She turned off the water and dried her hands, then walked toward the kitchen door.

He merely stood there, watching her.

This woman didn’t belong on a run-down cattle ranch. Didn’t belong in worn jeans and faded cowboy shirts. She belonged in linen and pearls. And he longed to see her in classy clothes, in a different setting.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, eyes still bright, cheeks still flushed.

“Nothing.” He approached her.

A whiff of her wildflower scent triggered a hunger. A need. And his longing took on a different slant. He wanted to touch her again, to pull her into his arms. To feel her flush against him.

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, and her lips parted.

To stop him? To reprimand him for wanting to kiss her again? Or had it been a natural response to what she surely knew he intended to do?

He placed a finger on her chin, tilting her face to his. When she didn’t step back, didn’t pull away, he kissed her—slow and easy at first, brushing his lips against hers.

As her mouth opened, he deepened the kiss until their tongues mated, until he knew every nook and cranny of her warm, silky mouth and suspected she knew his as well.

Had he ever enjoyed a kiss so much? He doubted it, cursing the darkness that wouldn’t allow his memories to surface.

As his hands roamed her back and slipped to the soft contour of her hips, she pulled away. “That wasn’t a very good idea.”

It had seemed like an awfully good idea to him. It still did. And he suspected she liked it every bit as much as he did. “What’s so bad about kissing?”

She seemed to struggle with the answer. Or maybe with the reason. “Kissing leads to other things. And I’m not ready for that.”

“Are you missing Noah’s father?” he asked, assuming she still grieved for the man who’d last made love to her.

“No. Believe it or not, I’m not missing him at all.”

Was that bad? Is that what bothered her? That she no longer grieved for the loss of her son’s father?

Then she flipped off the light switch, leaving Rowan in the dark.

Chapter Six

The next morning, Rowan and Louanne sat at the kitchen table, eating scrambled eggs and ham.

From the time they’d awakened and ran into each other in the hall, their conversation had been bland and generic, like “Did you sleep well?” and “Yes, thank you.”

On the outside, everything appeared friendly and normal. But inside, Rowan felt as awkward as a 49er linebacker in a tutu. And he suspected Louanne wasn’t any more comfortable than that.

Several times, he’d thought about mentioning the kiss they’d shared last night. But he hadn’t.

For some reason, Louanne hadn’t wanted to go into detail about her reservations. Or about her past.

And he needed to respect that. After all, who better than Rowan understood a person’s right to privacy?

His memory sputtered again, releasing another revelation that didn’t open any big doors in his mind.

Rowan kept his feelings to himself.

He jabbed his fork at a chunk of ham, wishing he could do something to still the clumsy silence. But as long as he and Louanne were the only two sitting here, the kiss would linger between them.

“When do you expect Noah to wake up?” he asked.

“He’s sleeping later than usual because he was so fretful last night.”

The poor kid had been fussy? Rowan must have slept through it all, and for some reason, it made him feel like a jerk for not being aware of the child’s discomfort or the nocturnal activity. But hell, what kind of help would he have been able to offer? He didn’t know jack squat about babies.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Rowan said.

“Good. I tried to get to him before he woke you. His twelve-month molars have been bothering him, especially at night, so I took him outside on the porch. That seemed to help, especially since the rocking chair is on the blink.”

Before Rowan could respond, Noah cried out. “Ma! Ma! Me!”

Louanne smiled, probably as eager as Rowan was to have a diversion, stood and carried her plate to the sink.

“Sounds like he’s awake and raring to go.”

“You’ve got that right,” she said. “I’d better get him. Will you excuse me?”

“Sure.” Rowan was glad Noah would be joining them, since their conversation wouldn’t be as stilted.

They both continued to tap dance around the blood-stirring kisses they’d shared, as well as their secrets—the memories amnesia had locked away from him and the thoughts Louanne kept under wraps.

He didn’t know whether his poker playing skills had made him good at reading people or not, but there was far more to Louanne Brown than met the eye. And he’d bet the farm on that.

A few moments later, Louanne returned with the pudgy, pajama-clad baby boy. Noah brightened at the sight of Rowan and squealed in delight.

Imagine that. The kid actually liked him. Had anyone ever seemed that happy to see him before? He doubted it.

A gush of warmth swelled in Rowan’s chest, and he shot the kid a sappy smile. “Hey, pal. Did those nasty chompers give you fits last night?”

Noah grinned in response, then lurched toward the high chair and grunted.

Without needing to be asked, Rowan lifted the chrome tray and waited for Louanne to secure the child in his seat before locking the tray back into place.

“How about some milk?” Louanne asked her son.

Noah smiled, revealing four little teeth, and plopped his pudgy hands on his reflection in the chrome. “Muh.”

Rowan took another sip of coffee and watched Louanne pour milk into a yellow plastic cup with two handles on the side.

A sharp rap sounded at the back door, then Pete entered the house through the service porch. “I could smell that coffee brewing clear out in the south pasture, so I decided to take a little break.”

“Good morning,” Louanne told the aging foreman. “Come on in and help yourself.”

“Thanks.” Pete took an olive-green mug from the cupboard and filled it with the rich brew. Then he turned and leaned against the pink tile countertop. “Aggie and I had a good time last night.”

“So did we.” Louanne glanced at Rowan, as if looking for confirmation.

He nodded, since he’d enjoyed himself, too. And not just because of the camaraderie. He found Pete and Aggie entertaining—in a television sitcom sort of way. He’d been reminded of an affectionate Fred and Ethel Mertz. And more than once, he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at their antics.

Yet at the same time, there was something special about the couple. Something down-to-earth and real. And Rowan suspected Pete and Aggie were the kind of people a man could count on in a pinch.

Of course, he’d never been one to share sentiments like that. Doing so left him too vulnerable.

Another little tidbit of his past busted free. Why did he want to protect himself and his feelings? Was that a result of the amnesia that plagued him? Or of something in his past?

“Schazam is a great game,” Pete said. “But I’m partial to poker.”

“Do you play very often?” Rowan wondered whether he’d be invited to join in and hoped he would.

“Nope. I’m afraid not.” Pete took another sip of coffee. “It’s not easy rustling up enough guys around here to make the stakes interesting.”

Again, Rowan tried to conjure a memory of his poker-playing past, but didn’t have much luck. He did suspect that Pete would fit right in with his old buddies—especially if he liked interesting stakes.

Pete would fit right in with his old poker cronies—men with more common sense than wealth, class or education.

Great. If that were the case, why couldn’t Rowan remember who those old cronies were? Not even one name or face came to mind.

Pete furrowed his bushy, gray brow and stepped closer to Rowan. “That wound seems to be mending pretty good. When is Doc going to take the stitches out?”

Louanne wiped a dribble of milk from Noah’s chin. “Doc said he’d stop by on his way home this weekend.”

The discussion of Rowan’s wound reminded him of the accident and the motorcycle that had landed in a ditch. And since his family had already been notified, he suspected it was probably locked up in some impound yard by now.

“By the way, Pete. I need to get my bike and bring it back to the ranch. I’m sure you’re pretty busy, but I could use some help, if you can spare some time.”

“I’ll be glad to go with you.” The craggy-faced cowboy took a last swig of coffee, then set the mug on the countertop. “Maybe together we can get it into the back of the truck and bring it here.”

“How bad did it look?” Rowan asked.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to get her running, but it’ll probably cost a bundle to get her looking good as new. From what I’ve heard, those Harleys are expensive to buy and to fix.”

Awareness nudged Rowan. He hadn’t given the motorcycle much thought before, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t. But the bike was a Harley. And it had cost him a near fortune to buy before he added all the extras.

He sure hoped the accident hadn’t caused too much damage, because the Harley Fat Boy had become a part of him. Almost like a friend.

His only friend?

A fresh surge of grief settled around him, and a vision fluttered in his mind. A grave on the hillside of a cemetery. A twenty-one gun salute. A flag being folded and handed to him. A lump in his throat the size of Mt. Whitney.

But the image vanished as quickly as it had formed.

“Your sister said someone notified them that the bike had been found,” Louanne said. “So it may not be lying in that ditch any longer.”

“Well, let’s go take a look-see,” Pete suggested. “And if it’s gone, we can talk to Sheriff McDonald. I’ll take time to help you out this morning.”

“I appreciate it.” Rowan watched as Louanne stood from her seat at the table, walked to the sink and poured out the rest of her coffee. He studied the way the worn denim stretched across her rounded hips and wondered why she didn’t wear something more feminine. Something more likely to show off the womanly curves she hid.

“Do you and Noah want to ride with us?” Rowan figured the baby would probably enjoy getting out and seeing some scenery.

“We’ll pass. Aggie and I are going to can string beans today.” She placed her mug on the countertop, then used a spatula to remove a small scoop of scrambled eggs from the cast iron skillet on the stove and place it in Noah’s plastic bowl. “But thanks for thinking of us.”

Moments later, as the men made their way to the dirty, white Ford pickup, Pete opened the driver’s door, but didn’t climb inside. Instead, he peered across the seat at Rowan. “Louanne doesn’t like leaving the ranch. Aggie and I have tried to get her to go into town with us, but she won’t.”

That didn’t seem natural. The women Rowan knew loved to go places, to shop. To get dressed up and go to parties. Not waste away on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.

Of course, Louanne wasn’t like any of the women he knew. He wasn’t sure how he’d come to that conclusion, but for some reason, it just seemed to be true.

“Aggie thinks Louanne has that fear of leaving the house,” Pete added. “You ever hear about folks who suffer from that?”

Rowan nodded. He’d heard about that kind of anxiety. But he wasn’t so sure that was Louanne’s problem, although he didn’t know why he felt that way. Maybe because she seemed to be such a complex woman—a woman who held back what she was really thinking and feeling.

They drove to the place where Pete had spotted Rowan’s motorcycle. But the bike was no longer in the ditch that separated the long stretch of county road from the barbwire boundary of the Lazy B.

“Louanne was right,” Pete said. “Someone hauled it off. Let’s head into town. We can talk to the sheriff and ask where it is.”

“Are you sure that you have the time? I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

“Hell, I’ll make time.” Pete chuckled to himself. “Then I’ll put you to work so you can help me catch up.”

“That sounds like a great deal to me.” Rowan actually relished the idea of physical labor, of a good, hard workout—but for more reasons than the exercise. Helping out on the ranch would make him feel like a contributor, rather than a taker. “I’ll be happy to work for my room and board.”

For some reason, Rowan liked the idea of settling in Pebble Creek. And even though he wanted to get his memory back, he had no intention of returning to California.

But he’d be damned if he knew why.

In the kitchen, Aggie and Louanne sat across the antique oak table from each other, snapping green beans and preparing them for canning.

Noah entertained himself in the secondhand playpen that Aggie had found at a garage sale. He gummed a pacifier like it was an old stogie and grunted or squealed periodically, entertaining the two women with his baby-sweet antics.

“Sharing the workload makes canning a whole lot easier,” Aggie said.

“It sure does.” Louanne cast a smile at the older woman. In the last eighteen months, Aggie had become a dear friend. And having her around made a tough, lonely life bearable.

Aggie grabbed another handful of beans from the strainer and began to snap them. “When is Doc coming back from his vacation?”

“He hoped to come back on Saturday afternoon and mentioned coming by here to check on Rowan.”

“Good.” Aggie tossed a handful of snapped beans into the bowl. “I hope you plan to talk to Doc about your feelings.”

Her feelings? For Rowan? Was her attraction to the man that obvious?

Aggie added, “I was hoping Doc would give you a prescription that will make you feel better about leaving the house.”

Louanne was at a crossroads. She had to either perpetuate the false assumption or confess.

Did she dare tell Aggie the truth? Admit that her fear and anxiety couldn’t be helped by medication?

Louanne believed the fewer people who knew she’d come home to the Lazy B, the better. But the reason for her return had been a heavy burden to carry alone.

“Pete and I kept your secret,” Aggie said. “No one in Pebble Creek knows you’ve come home with a baby. But I think you’re afraid of more than gossip.”

Louanne stared at the green beans in her hand.

Undaunted by the silence, Aggie continued to drive home her point. “It’s not healthy for a pretty, young woman like you to hole up here at the ranch.”

Maybe not, but Louanne felt safer here than anywhere. “I appreciate your concern, Aggie, but I’m getting some much-needed rest. College life became very stressful for me, and I like the slower pace.”

“College was too stressful?” Aggie lifted a silvergray brow. “For a smart bookworm like you?”

Okay, so Louanne would have to come up with another, more plausible excuse. But since Louanne wasn’t particularly keen on feigning an anxiety she didn’t have, maybe she ought to level with her friend.

After all, Aggie had proved to be trustworthy on more than one occasion. And after nearly a year and a half, Richard hadn’t found her yet. If she were lucky, another graduate student might have caught his eye—although that was a disturbing thought. She wouldn’t wish Richard Keith on her worst enemy.

“I haven’t been truthful with you,” Louanne confessed. “There’s a whole lot more to the story.”

“You don’t feel as though you can confide in me?” Both the tone of Aggie’s voice and her cocker spaniel eyes revealed the depth of her disappointment.

“When I explain, maybe you’ll understand why I kept things a secret. But you’ll need to promise not to tell anyone. Not even Pete.”

Aggie paused momentarily, as though weighing what the agreement might cost her. The older couple loved each other, and Louanne doubted there was much they didn’t share.

“All right.” Aggie placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “I’ll keep your secret, even from Pete.”

Now what? Louanne had opened the door to the basement of her fears. Did she have the courage to step into the dark? To confront what frightened her the most?

She took a deep breath, then started at the beginning. Or pretty close to the beginning. “Two years ago, I began dating one of my professors at college. He was an older man and the epitome of class and charm. I found myself falling for him, and when he asked me out, I agreed.”

“Is that ethical?” Aggie reached for a handful of green beans. “You know, a teacher dating a student?”

“No. I suppose it isn’t. But I was very close to finishing my doctorate coursework and ready to start my dissertation in English. We were both adults. And we were very discreet.”

“I assume that man was Noah’s father.”

Louanne nodded, finding it hard to voice the truth out loud.

“How did he die? I’ve been curious, but you always changed the subject whenever I brought it up.”

“He didn’t die. Unfortunately, the man is very much alive.”

Aggie’s hands froze, and she dropped the green beans she’d been holding. “What do you mean, ‘unfortunately’?”

“Over time, Richard became increasingly possessive. He began to follow me. And whenever I wasn’t someplace he thought I should be, he would accuse me of seeing someone else. Someone younger.”

“I assume you weren’t,” Aggie said.

“Of course not. But he’d been masking a serious drinking problem, and as it became more and more apparent, I realized my mistake and naïveté in getting involved with him. But I knew I had to be careful how I ended things.” Louanne took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. “One day, he broke into my apartment while I was at the library doing research. When I returned home, he accused me of cheating on him. I tried to deny it, but he threw me against the wall. Then he struck me.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I probably should have, but he began to cry. And he told me he was sorry. That he loved me so much, it made him crazy.”

“All those wife beaters say they’re sorry,” Aggie said. “But the abuse just gets worse.”

“I’m aware of that. But I was just months away from completing work on my doctorate, and I planned to stick it out.”

“Things got worse, didn’t they?”

Louanne blew out a ragged sigh. “Richard was twenty years older than me and had never had a child. I’m not sure he’d ever wanted one, but he got this weird idea about a baby of ours having a genetic predisposition to intelligence and perfection. A wonder kid.”

“That’s almost scary,” Aggie said. “Planning like that takes the miracle out of birth.”

“I agree. But having a child with me became an obsession. He began checking into private nursery schools for gifted children. And the more he pushed for a child, the more I insisted he use condoms.” Louanne glanced at her friend, hoping she understood the dilemma she faced.

“I guess God had other ideas.” Aggie glanced at Noah, her eyes beaming with love and admiration. “Look at what a precious little boy you have.”

“You’re right.” Noah was precious. And he was a blessing Louanne had never anticipated in those early months while Richard haunted her waking hours, and not just her sleep.

For the hundredth time, Louanne whispered a prayer, asking God to forgive her for not wanting the baby and wishing she’d miscarry. She’d actually contemplated an abortion, although just for a moment. But she couldn’t go through with it.

Still, the fact she’d never wanted Noah tormented her each time she looked into her son’s sweet little face.

Louanne took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “One night, after Richard had been drinking more than usual, he confessed to having poked holes in the condoms we’d been using. To make matters worse, I then found out I was pregnant. And that’s when I began to plot a careful escape that couldn’t wait until I finished school.”

“How did you do that?”

“I covered my tracks, or at least I hope I did. Several weeks before running away, I changed my address so that the entire college computer system reflected a bogus home residence in Austin, which is where I’d told everyone I was from.” Louanne stood and moved aimlessly about the kitchen, restless. Uneasy. “I also took the paper files from the English department, just in case Richard thought to look there. And I destroyed them.”

“Then you ran away?”

“That was the plan. Richard had a night class, but for some reason, he canceled it and came to my place unexpectedly. He found a suitcase on the bed.” Louanne closed her eyes, remembering that night. “His eyes grew wild, and I thought he was going to go into another rage. I told him that I had to go home, that my grandmother was seriously ill. I must have been convincing, because he let me go.”

“Does the man know he has a son?”

“No.” Louanne swallowed hard, remembering Richard’s threat, as he watched her go.

I’ll see you back in my bed, willing to have my baby, or in a casket, six feet under.

“And so you came home in secret,” Aggie said. “That’s why you won’t go into town.”

Louanne nodded. She’d done everything she could think of to protect herself and Noah from the professor. She told Doc Haines that she wanted to have her baby at home, just like her mother had done. She’d also made Doc promise not to tell anyone in town that she’d come back or had a baby. And she’d refused to put the father’s name on Noah’s birth certificate.

Richard had said he’d follow her to the ends of the earth, which is exactly where she always believed the Lazy B had been located. And so she’d come home with her tail between her legs, pregnant and licking her wounds.

Aggie stood, and when she reached out her arms, Louanne eased into her embrace and absorbed every ounce of comfort her friend offered.

“I’ll keep your secret,” Aggie said. “And Pete and I won’t let anything happen to you or to Noah. You’ll be safe here.”

Louanne certainly hoped so. But she could never be sure. The more people who knew her secret made the risk of Richard finding her all that more real.

And even though she told herself that she’d given Richard the slip, she walked on eggshells every day of her life, fearing that someday he would find her.

And, even worse, find his son.

There wasn’t much in the small town of Pebble Creek, just a couple of shops on the main drag. Mabel’s Diner. Farley’s Fine Clothing. The Creekside General Store.

Rowan didn’t suppose the community had much to offer, so maybe that’s why Louanne didn’t venture off the ranch. But for some reason, he didn’t believe that was the case.

Pete parked the truck in front of the sheriff’s office, and they both went inside. It didn’t take long to find out the bike had, indeed, been hauled away.

After Sheriff McDonald explained the impound fees, which needed to be paid in cash or with a cashier’s check, he gave them directions to the lot where they could find the Harley.

The men headed for the pickup. As Rowan reached the passenger door, something caught his eye. “Just a minute, Pete.”

He bypassed the pickup, crossed the street and headed toward Farley’s Fine Clothing.

“What you got in mind to do?” Pete asked, tagging along behind him.

“I want to get something for Louanne. Something to show my appreciation for her taking me in and tending my wounds.”

“That’d be nice. My woman loves surprises.” Pete lifted his worn, black cowboy hat and adjusted it on his head. “It might be hard for you to believe, seeing as how Louanne doesn’t do much primping anymore, but she and her sister used to get all gussied up when they were young girls.”

Apparently, Tallulah still liked to wear stylish clothes. But he wondered what had triggered the change in Louanne’s wardrobe. Lack of money? The death of her parents? Childbirth?

The death of her old lover?

She’d told Rowan she didn’t miss the man at all. Had that been a lie? Or had she never loved the man who’d fathered her baby?

It was hard to say. But Rowan was determined to see the tall, attractive brunette “all gussied up” again.

He went straight for a rack of dresses and began to sort through the various colors and styles. When he pulled out a lime-green sundress in a slinky fabric, he whipped it around for Pete to see. “What do you think about this?”

Pete let out a slow whistle. “It’s pretty. And it ought to look real nice on Louanne. ’Course, she doesn’t go anywhere and probably won’t wear it.”

“She can wear it around the house.” A smile crept onto Rowan’s face. She could wear it for him.

And he would make her feel good about herself. Good enough to go out in public again. Then he would take her into town for a night of dinner and dancing.

It would be a piece of cake, a walk in the park. A slam dunk.

Rowan was a charmer. And he’d never had a lady he was interested in turn down one of his offers. No matter what it happened to be.

Now that was a revelation that would prove to be useful.

His smile deepened. He would charm Louanne Brown into another blood-pumping, mind-spin-ning kiss.

And this time, instead of regret, he would see those golden-brown eyes light up with a smile.

Chapter Seven

Louanne stood before the white, sturdy, hulk of a stove and carefully removed mason jars filled with green beans from a pot of boiling water.

At the sound of the pickup returning home, Aggie peered out the kitchen window. “It’s Pete and Rowan. And they must have found the motorcycle. I see something black in the back of the truck.”

Louanne stepped away from the heat and joined Aggie at the window. A smile tugged at her lips, as she watched the men scratch their heads, then try to maneuver the bike out of the truck and into the barn.

“Pete’s always loved tinkering with engines and things. So I have a feeling, he’ll want to help get that motorcycle running again. I sure hope that contraption doesn’t give my fool husband any wild ideas. Years ago, he wanted to buy a big old Yamaha and put me on the back.” Aggie chuckled. “Now, do I look like one of those biker chicks?”

Louanne smiled at the thought of lanky Pete and his heavyset wife riding down the road, the wind whipping their gray hair. Letting themselves go, feeling free and young again.

It sounded like great fun to Louanne. And she could certainly see herself perched on the Harley behind Rowan, her arms wrapped around his waist, her breasts pressed against his broad back, her legs straddling a powerful motorcycle. Just the thought was exhilarating, liberating.

But daydreaming like that was a complete waste of time. Especially with her experience.

Her one and only relationship had been with a man she hadn’t really known. A man with secrets he didn’t initially reveal—like his excessive drinking, his need for domination and control. His penchant for violence and threats.

Louanne certainly didn’t need to repeat that foolish mistake. Especially since Rowan was as much a stranger to himself as he was to her.

She just wished she didn’t find him so darn handsome, his eyes so mesmerizing. His kiss so stimulating.

But no matter how attractive the man was, no matter how much she enjoyed his kiss, she couldn’t let herself go.

She wouldn’t.

Ten minutes later, the men entered the house through the service porch, chuckling about something, and joined Aggie and Luanne in the kitchen.

Pete scanned the room. “Where’s Noah? Taking a nap?”

Aggie shushed her husband. “Keep your voice down. We don’t want him waking up yet.”

That was true. As precious and entertaining as Noah could be under normal situations, he woke up like a little grizzly bear if he didn’t get enough sleep.

But it wasn’t Pete who caught Louanne’s eye, who drew her attention. Who caused her blood to warm.

Louanne’s gaze settled on Rowan, on his vibrant eyes, on the boyish smile that lit the room. On the way he filled out her father’s shirt and jeans. He balanced a grocery bag in one arm and a smaller one in his free hand.

“What’s that?” she asked, her eyes focusing on the cream-colored bag with a red Farley’s logo in his hands. Apparently, he’d gone shopping, which shouldn’t surprise her. He’d probably gotten tired of wearing her father’s hand-me-downs.

Rowan smiled a bit sheepishly, while Pete grinned from ear to ear.

“What’s so funny?” Louanne asked.

“Nothing.” Pete looked at Rowan and nodded toward the smaller bag. “You gonna give it to her?”

“In front of a crowd? I was going to wait until we were alone, but I guess it won’t hurt to let her have it now.” Rowan set the grocery bag on the counter, then handed the beige bag to Louanne.

She furrowed her brow, then looked at Rowan for an explanation. When he didn’t give her one, she asked, “What’s this?”

“It’s a gift.” He tossed her a crooked grin. “For you.”

Aggie edged closer, her curiosity apparent. “What’s in it?”

There was only one way to find out. The crisp paper crinkled as Louanne opened the bag and peeked inside. A pretty lime-green fabric caught her eye. Curiosity mounting, she withdrew a slinky sundress.

It was the kind of garment she might have worn years ago—back when she’d actually hoped to make her mark on the world, when she’d wanted to turn a man’s head. When she’d wanted to be noticed and appreciated.

“I don’t understand.” She looked at the gorgeous man who was proving to be unpredictable. Would he explain?

He merely stood there, watching her every move. “What’s this for?” she asked.

“I wanted to thank you for taking me in.” Rowan slipped his thumbs into the front pockets of his worn jeans, looking as gorgeous and devilish as ever. “Do you like it?”

Like it? Of course, she did. It was lovely. But what in the world was she going to do with a fancy garment like that on a cattle ranch? Her days of dressing up were over.

Apparently, her silence implied she hadn’t appreciated his thoughtfulness or the gift, because he sobered and took the bag from her hands, leaving her to hold the dress. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. “I kept the receipt. So you can exchange it for something else, if you want to.”

“No. I mean yes.” Louanne fingered the cloth, the chafed skin of her hands snagging on the silky material. Then she looked at Rowan. “It’s pretty. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“But?” he asked, picking up on her reservations.

“I’m not sure where I’d wear it.”

“Why don’t you wear it while you hang out the wash? Or—” he nodded at the countertop where a dozen jars cooled “—or while you can green beans?”

“That seems frivolous. Don’t you think?”

“Not at all.” Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the walls of the room closed in, leaving only the two of them to deal with a blood-rushing attraction.

As crazy as the idea seemed, Louanne was sorely tempted to slip into the stylish dress. To do her hair and apply some lipstick and a bit of mascara. Maybe even give herself a manicure and a pedicure. And even more tempting was the thought of Rowan’s reaction if she put some effort into it.

Because truthfully speaking and humility aside, Louanne could look every bit as glamorous as her sister, Tallulah, when she wanted to.

Lanay Landers, the stylish, sophisticated identity she’d banished to the far corner of her memory, reared her head, daring her to dress up for Rowan. To feel like a sexually attractive lady one more time.

But she brushed aside the irrational suggestion. “It seems silly to keep a dress I’ll only wear to can beans and hang out the wash.”

Rowan’s smile returned, and his gaze pierced hers. “How about wearing it tonight? For dinner? We can feed Noah, then dine on the front porch.”

Dine? He made it sound fancy, special. Appealing. And the idea held more merit than Louanne cared to admit.

Especially since she wondered what Rowan would think of the woman she no longer was.

That evening, Louanne wiped the colorful remnants of Noah’s chicken-and-rice dinner from his little face and hands, then removed him from his high chair.

She wasn’t sure how Rowan had managed to talk her into eating with him on the front porch. But he had. And she’d agreed to wear the dress he’d bought, too.

“Can I help?” Rowan asked from the kitchen doorway. He appeared to have showered, his face freshly-shaven, his dark curls damp. He leaned against the doorjamb, half cocky, half rebellious. And completely sexy.

Louanne found it difficult not to stare, not to notice the male interest that flared in his eyes. Sexual awareness made her painfully aware of the smudge of strained peas on her white shirt and the perspiration that dampened her brow.

Was this dinner supposed to be some kind of makeshift date? Or was he just trying to be a nice guy?

It was hard to say, especially since that nice guy was making her pulse soar and her imagination spark.

He’d asked her a question, but she couldn’t seem to recall what it was. Had he asked whether she needed his help?

“I’ve got everything under control. And I…uh…just need to get Noah ready for bed.”

“I’ll take him for you.” Rowan slid her that bad-boy smile that sent her heart spinning like an out of control top on a hardwood floor. “So you can get dressed for dinner.”

“You’ll put pajamas on Noah?” Her mouth had surely dropped. Was this the same guy who balked at keeping an eye on the baby last night? “Are you sure you want to tackle something like that?”

Rowan tore his gaze from hers, settling on her son. “Do you want me to give it a shot, pal?”

Noah lurched toward Rowan, and the man took him in his arms.

“Diapering him is kind of tough,” Louanne said, feeling as though she should be honest. “He squirms around quite a bit. It’s like a game to him.”

Rowan froze. “You want me to put on his diaper?”

The frightened look in his eyes was priceless, and she grinned. “Well, you’ll have to take the old one off first.”

“Change his pants?” The guy appeared to be taken aback.

Louanne couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Maybe you ought to let me change his diaper, then you can lasso him and get his pajamas on.”

“Good idea,” Rowan said with a grin. Then he followed her into Noah’s room.

Making a point of showing him how to fold a diaper, Louanne managed to get the job done in record time, in part because Noah seemed mesmerized by Rowan standing over him. She slipped a pair of rubber pants over his double diaper, noting her rapidly growing son would need a larger size soon.

Disposable diapers would probably make life a whole lot easier, but she couldn’t warrant the additional expense.

She pulled a pair of summer pajamas out of Noah’s bureau drawer and handed them to Rowan. “Do you think you can dress him for bed?”

“How hard can it be?”

Pretty difficult, at times, but she didn’t forewarn him. In fact, a part of her wanted to stand back, so she could watch what might prove to be an entertaining show.

“I can handle this little guy,” Rowan said. “Why don’t you go change your clothes?”

“It might take a while,” Louanne said. “I’m not slipping into that new outfit without a shower and a shampoo.”

Rowan liked the idea of her putting some effort into dressing for dinner—dressing for him. He slid her a slow, easy smile. “Take all the time you need.”

She seemed to ponder the idea, then smiled and walked away, leaving Rowan alone with the baby.

He blew out a sigh, then held up the blue-and-yellow pajamas. Two pieces—top and bottom. Snaps all over the place. Why the hell did they put fasteners along the waist?

Rowan had been sleeping in the raw so long, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d worn anything to bed. Another revelation.

Why the hell couldn’t he remember something solid—something that would help him make sense of things?

He slipped the little shirt on the baby. That was easy enough. But before he could snap the last button, Noah rolled over and crawled to the far side of the crib at a speedy pace.

“Come back here,” Rowan said with a smile. “We’re not done, yet.”

Noah grinned, his eyes—the same golden-brown hue as his mother’s—glistened in challenge.

“So that’s how it is. I’ve got to catch you?”

Noah shrieked.

Three minutes later, Rowan managed to corral the kid and get his pajamas on, but he didn’t mess with the snaps in the waistband.

Now what?

Noah popped a thumb into his mouth, watching Rowan carefully, as if to see how much the bedtime routine had actually changed.

What was the next item on the nighty-night list? “Now I lay me down to sleep?” A story?

He wasn’t sure, but he had half a notion to give the kid a hug and a kiss goodnight, although he wasn’t sure where that idea came from.

Instead, he gently brushed a hand across the light brown wisps of downy-soft hair. “Sleep tight, pal.”

As Rowan turned toward the door, Noah blurted out a cry of protest, and Rowan wasn’t sure what to do. Did he stay and try to coax the kid to sleep? Did he go and let the little guy fuss for a while?

Taking a chance, he flipped off the light switch. “It’s time for bed, Noah.”

Silence followed him out of the room, so he figured he’d lucked out.

Now all he had to do was get the table set up on the porch. He’d contemplated buying flowers and a candle for ambiance, while he and Pete were in town. But when Pete had poked fun at him for picking up a bottle of chardonnay at the liquor store, he decided not to let the old man know he meant to treat Louanne to a little romance.

The flowers would have to wait until another time, but the darkened porch made candles a logical choice. He wondered whether Louanne had any stashed someplace. He supposed he’d have to look.

A couple of minutes later, he spotted a set of candlesticks on the fireplace mantel.

Had he always set a romantic mood when dining with a lady at home? It sure came easy for him. And the process had triggered some other memories, albeit nothing he’d call crucial or important. But as he’d perused the shelves at the liquor store, he’d realized he possessed a respectable knowledge of California wines. Where and how that information developed, he couldn’t be sure, but there hadn’t seemed to be any reason to hang a star on it.

He’d chosen a bottle of Stag’s Leap chardonnay, which was now chilling in the refrigerator.

And as he prepared dinner, he wondered where he’d learned to make chicken piccata, but the proper ingredients had seemed to magically pop into his grocery cart earlier today. And his hands knew exactly what to do.

At times, he felt as though his memory was within reach, but he couldn’t find the key that would open the floodgates.

Remembering things one piece at a time was frustrating.

He fumbled his way through the kitchen, discovering a knife to slice the French bread, a bowl for the salad and two goblets that didn’t match. And when he’d almost given up, he found a corkscrew for the wine.

He removed the cork and carried the chilled bottle and two glasses out to the front porch.

Louanne wasn’t lying when she said it would take a while, but Rowan didn’t mind waiting. In fact, the anticipation of seeing her in the new dress grew steadily.

And by the time he had set the table and lit the candles, she still hadn’t come out of her bedroom.

Okay, so the table and setting was a bit rustic, but he’d set a romantic mood. And even the heavens had done their part to create a star-twinkling backdrop. He hoped Louanne would appreciate his efforts, and that this evening would make her feel special.

Maybe she’d loosen up about leaving the ranch—no matter what her reasons were for remaining on the property.

Footsteps sounded down the hall, and Rowan peered through the screen door, into the living room, and spotted Louanne. She looked radiant. Stunning.

He stood on the porch like a befuddled high school freshman who’d been approached by the prom queen in full homecoming regalia.

Hell, he’d figured Louanne would look good in green, and the dress had looked great on the hanger. But he’d never imagined how damn hot it would look on the tall, leggy brunette. In fact, if he didn’t know better, he would have thought the dress had been designed for her body alone.

He shook off the initial adolescent reaction and opened the screen door to get a better view, to close the distance between them.

Wow. A scooped neckline revealed the swell of her breasts, and narrow shoulder straps adorned her shoulders and chest, showing just enough skin to make a man wonder what lay beyond the green garment. The slinky material complemented every curve of her body. And Rowan had to make a conscious effort not to gape and gawk.

A man with a pretty woman like that on his arm would want to hold her close all evening, with his hand possessively riding along the gentle contour of her hip.

“You look lovely,” he said. “And whoever designed that dress would be amazed at what you’ve done for it.”

“Thank you.” A blush only made her look prettier. She’d let her long brown hair hang loose, over her shoulders. And she wore makeup—not too much, just a splash of lipstick and a dab of mascara—just enough to draw a man’s attention to her eyes, the perfect cheekbones and the classic heart shape of her face.

Just enough to make a man want to draw close. To mark his territory with a hug and a kiss.

“Why don’t you come outside?” he suggested. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”

She seemed to flounder a moment, as though uncomfortable with the compliment. Or maybe with the way he was looking at her. Hell, she’d have to be a fool not to see the interest in his eyes or sense his desire to kiss her again.

Rowan wasn’t sure what was in the cards tonight. But he intended to let this hand play itself out.

Candlelight flickered on the patio table, competing with a silvery half-moon and a splatter of twinkling stars. The air was laden with the chirps of crickets and the songs of bullfrogs near the creek.

Dinner had been perfect. Special. Delicious. Louanne couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent such a lovely evening—on the ranch or anywhere.

Rowan refilled her glass of wine, and although she wasn’t really inclined to drink alcohol, the romantic ambiance made it difficult to resist.

“It’s nice outside tonight,” he said.

“I used to read out here on the porch. And even as darkness settled, I found it hard to drag myself out of a story long enough to go inside or turn on the porch light.” Louanne fingered the stem of her wine glass and smiled at the memory. “Someone would always take pity on me, though, and flip the switch.”

“You like to read?”

“I used to. When I was younger, I loved books, particularly literature.” She wasn’t sure why she’d opened up. The wine maybe? Or was she becoming more comfortable with Rowan?

“Used to?” His eyes flickered in the candlelight. “You don’t like to read anymore?”

“I started writing a book a couple years ago and spent my free time in front of my laptop computer. And I suppose I just haven’t renewed my old reading habits.”

“Did you finish the book?”

She didn’t answer right away. And when she did, she told the truth. “No. I stopped writing before Noah was born.”

“Why?”

What could she say? That her literary efforts, as well as her dreams and the promise of an exciting future had been dashed by a crazed man who wanted to own her body, heart and soul? A man who’d threatened to kill her if he couldn’t have her to himself?

Rowan continued to stare at her, to slowly uncover every lie she’d ever told. Or at least, that’s the way it felt.

“Things were different while I was in college. It was easy to dream. But I wasn’t living in the real world. And when I moved home to the ranch and became a mother, reality settled in.” She tried to shake off the morose millstone that her spirit lugged around and forced a smile. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll find time to read again.”

“And time to dream?” he asked.

How had he known that she’d given up her dreams? Did he suspect that the nightmares had taken their place?

Yet each time she caught Rowan’s eye, each time she felt that spark of desire heat her blood, she felt her imagination stirring. And it seemed foolish. A complete waste of time and energy. After all, with Richard waiting to pounce on her, she couldn’t very well think of love and romance or fame and fortune.

So she shrugged off his question with another. “What good does it do to dream?”

Rowan didn’t know who or what had hurt Louanne. He suspected Noah’s father had done a real number on her. And the loss of her parents had to have been tough. He hated the idea that her hopes—and possibly her spirit—had been squelched.

A response came to mind, a piece of advice. And like some of the other things that had leaked out of his black box of memories, he had no idea where it had come from or why it had meant something to him.

Still, he shared it with her. “Someone once told me that God didn’t put a dream in one’s heart without giving a person the ability to make that dream come true.”

“Do you believe that?” she asked.

Yes, he did. But he wasn’t sure why. He slowly nodded. “Yeah. I do believe it.”

A kindred feeling settled around them, as did awareness. And attraction.

Louanne must have felt it, too, because she tore her gaze away from his, pushed her chair back, got to her feet and began to pick up the dishes. “It’s getting late.”

Yeah. Too late to ignore what was going on between them. Rowan stood and took the plates from her hands, replacing them on the table. Then he cupped her jaw to draw her gaze back to his, back where he wanted it.

His thumb drew slow circles on her cheek, but she didn’t pull away. Didn’t blink an eye. She just stood there, caught up in the heat of the moment—or so it seemed. Maybe he was the one who was lost in a battle of hormones and pheromones and lust.

But when he opened his arms, she fell into his embrace and lifted her mouth to his.

Obviously, he wasn’t fighting the battle alone.

Chapter Eight

The kiss began slow and easy, like the first one they’d shared, but it quickly grew fast and reckless.

Rowan’s tongue sought every moist inch of Louanne’s warm, velvety mouth, as his hands slid along the slinky fabric of the dress he’d bought her. The texture heightened the sensitivity of his touch, as he caressed the slope of her back and the curve of her hips.

Passion flared, testosterone surged, and he couldn’t get enough of the willing woman in his arms.

It had been ages since he’d wanted a woman this badly—if he ever had.

He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he did. And for some reason, he suspected that realization ought to scare the hell out of him, although he didn’t know why.

Maybe because his blood was pumping out of control, and the kiss seemed full of promises Rowan wasn’t sure either of them were ready to make. But that didn’t mean he wanted to slow things down or that he wanted the woman in his arms any less.

And there was no question about it. She wanted him, too. Badly. He could tell by the way she whimpered when his hands sought her breasts, when his fingers skimmed her hardened nipples. He could tell by the way her hands stroked his body, claiming him as he claimed her.

The breath-stealing kiss intensified, stoking a fire in his blood and a hunger in his soul.

Rowan cupped her derriere and pulled her flush against the blood-pounding ache only she could relieve. Instead of balking at the strength of his arousal, she nestled against him—providing both ecstasy and agony at the same time.

A coyote howled in the distance, reminding him where they were and where they ought to be—in the comfort and privacy of a candlelit bedroom.

Should he lead her into the house and let passion carry them both away? Or stay here for a while longer, letting the magical moment build under a canopy of stars?

Before he had a chance to make a decision, Louanne gently pushed against his chest, slowing the rush and cooling the heat.

“I’m sorry.” She ran a hand through the strands of her hair. “That was a crazy thing for us to do.”

He wanted to argue, but what was the use? With no memories to help him wage either a defense or an agreement, he was left with lust and hormones dictating his actions, as well as his fate.

Somehow, his conscience managed to break free.

What did he have to offer her—other than a night of lovemaking that promised to be hot and fulfilling?

It certainly would be enough for him, but as a single mother trying hard to keep a ranch in the red and to raise her son, she needed more than a man who didn’t know where he’d been or where he was going.

No wonder she had reservations about letting the magic play out.

Rowan wanted to be noble and understanding, yet his desire hadn’t abated. If anything, he wanted her more than when their lips had been locked and their hands had sought the mysteries that lay beyond their clothing.

But taking things to a deeper level was more than a physical craving. There was a lot more hanging in the balance than sexual fulfillment. As the devil and angel on his shoulder battled it out, his words, like his memories failed him when he needed them most.

He blew out a ragged breath and raked a hand through his hair. Damn the amnesia that kept him from being whole. And damn the pull this woman had on him.

He’d had sexual relationships before—many times, it seemed. But they’d never touched him on an emotional level, never stirred his conscience. At least, he didn’t think any of them had.

And right now, his emotions were running amok.

Maybe it was the amnesia causing everything to blur and tumble. That had to be it. Maybe he was on the verge of remembering things, and all the bottled up feelings were trying to bust free.

He had half a notion to kiss her again, to see if things would begin to make sense. But this was no time to play around. Louanne deserved a guy who could commit—a man with both feet on the ground and a solid game plan.

Fighting the urge to take her back into his arms, Rowan shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m the one who should be sorry for kissing you like that. Hell, I don’t even know who I am.”

Louanne understood exactly how he felt. Because, when they’d kissed, when she’d lost herself in his embrace, she’d completely forgotten who she was. And, more importantly, why she shouldn’t get involved with another man.

What if she made another mistake? Trusted another man who would threaten and hurt her?

More than two years ago, she’d fallen for Richard’s charm, then watched him evolve into a stalker and a sociopath. He’d tried to control every aspect of their relationship, every part of her—body, heart and mind.

Rowan, of course, seemed completely different than Richard.

But he, as well as his past, were a mystery.

Did that past involve violence?

For some reason—wishful thinking, maybe—it didn’t seem likely.

When she’d come to her senses in the midst of a star-spinning, knee-weakening kiss and changed her mind, Rowan had respected her decision. He hadn’t seemed particularly happy about it. But he’d stopped. Stepped away.

Richard wouldn’t have been that understanding. He would have grown angry. Demanding.

And she had the scars to prove it.

The black-and-blue marks he’d left on her body had faded with time. But not the bruise he’d left on her heart. And his accusations and threats still rang in her mind.

Oh, dear God. What if Richard showed up? He’d always flown into a rage when he suspected she was seeing someone else. What would happen if he actually found her romantically or sexually involved with another man—with Rowan?

The fear she’d wanted to leave behind at Cedar Glen eased back, but she forced it aside. Richard didn’t know where she was. She’d hidden her tracks well. And as long as she drew no attention to herself or her whereabouts, she and Noah were safe.

She looked in Rowan’s eyes, saw him waiting for a response. Her lips were still warm and tingling from his kiss, her pulse still surging, but she forced herself to be rational.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” she told him, before gathering the plates he’d taken from her earlier. “I made a mistake once, and I’m not ready to jump into another relationship right now.”

“I understand,” he said, although she doubted whether he had any idea how big a mistake her relationship with Richard had been.

Then he picked up the empty bottle of wine and, before snatching the pair of tarnished silver candlesticks that had belonged to her grandmother, he blew against the flickering flames.

Like the fiery kiss and the romantic ambiance they’d once shared, the candlelight faded to black.

For just one, brief, regret-filled moment, Louanne watched the curling wisps of smoke disappear into the night.

The Harley was more beat-up than anything. And with a little effort and a mechanical knowledge that seemed to spring from nowhere, Rowan managed to get the bike running the next afternoon.

There was, he supposed, no reason to remain on the ranch. But he had nowhere else to go at the moment. Nowhere he wanted to be. And until his memory returned, providing him options, it felt like this was a nice place to wait.

As he rolled the scraped and dented Fat Boy out of the barn and into the bright afternoon light, he spotted Louanne on her knees in the garden. From the playpen, Noah watched over his mother, as she plucked zucchini squash from a bushy vine.

They hadn’t spoken about the kiss they’d shared, about the desire that brewed just under the surface—not while Rowan helped with the dishes last night, and not this morning over breakfast.

The summer breeze blew a wisp of hair from the single braid she wore. Even in a pair of faded denim overalls, she was a sight to behold.

She paused for a moment, looking over the dark green squash she’d picked, then arched and stretched her back.

The woman worked hard. Too hard, it seemed. And other than Noah and pride in a hearty garden, she didn’t seem to find much pleasure in life. Just a little television in the evening and an occasional card game with Aggie and Pete.

What kind of life was that?

He glanced down at the Harley, wondering if she’d like to take a ride with him. Maybe become a carefree kid again and leave her worries behind—if only for a short while.

There was only one way to find out.

As Rowan approached the garden that lined the side of the house, Noah spotted him and let out a happy squeal.

Had anyone ever been delighted to see Rowan before? He didn’t know, but it felt damn good to know the little baby liked him.

Louanne looked up and shielded her eyes from the afternoon sun with a dirt-smudged hand. “Did you get the motorcycle running?”

Rowan nodded. “I was going to take it out on a test run. Would you like to ride along?”

Interest sparked a light in her eyes, then she glanced at her son, at the garden, at her hands. “I’d better pass.”

“Why?” he asked. “I’m sure Aggie can watch Noah. Besides, it will do you good to have some fun. Other than an evening playing cards, I can’t think of anything you’ve done for pleasure.”

For a moment, he considered the kiss they’d shared, the sexual pleasure it had promised. But he tossed the thought aside.

Louanne wasn’t ready for their relationship to take a turn like that. And neither was he—not until his memory returned. Of course, whenever he was close enough to touch her, his libido put up a hell of an argument.

She glanced toward the small clapboard house where Aggie and Pete lived. Then she bit her bottom lip and returned her gaze to his. “If Aggie can look after Noah, maybe I’ll join you for a ride.”

Rowan didn’t try to mask the smile that stole across his face or still the sense of excitement.

Ten minutes later, after Noah had been welcomed into Aggie’s loving arms and Louanne had gone inside, washed her hands and freshened up, she climbed on the back of the Harley. She placed her hands loosely upon his waist. “You’re not going to drive too fast, are you?”

He looked over his shoulder and grinned. “I’ll keep it under a hundred. Are you ready?”

She nodded, then gripped him tighter.

Rowan felt a surge of pride to have Louanne behind him, holding on. And it felt damn good to rev the engine, to accelerate and take off down the dirt drive.

Riding the Harley, he realized, had been something he’d done often. An escape he’d relished.

When they reached the county road, Rowan opened up the accelerator.

A thrill shot through Louanne, as the engine roared and the bike raced down the road, kicking up dust, racing the wind. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, her worries couldn’t seem to keep up.

She didn’t know how long they’d ridden, how long she’d clung to Rowan, leaving her cares behind. Not long enough, she suspected. But when they reached the fork in the road that led to Cottonwood Creek, she raised her arm and pointed out the route she wanted him to take.

He nodded, then drove to the lake that fed the meandering stream Louanne and Lula had always hiked along. He must have been impressed with the tranquil spot, too, because he eased the Harley to a halt near a field of wildflowers and cut the engine.

A lonely whippoorwill called in the trees, where dappled sunlight spotted the ground. Louanne climbed from the bike, and Rowan followed her lead. She paused along the shady shoreline, enjoying the natural beauty, the warmth of the sun, the earthy scent, the twitter of birds in the trees.

A sense of expectation settled around her as Rowan took her hand in his. She ought to pull away, but she threaded her fingers through his instead, wanting this moment to last.

Whether it was the lingering endorphins from the exhilarating ride that had momentarily freed her soul, the natural beauty of the Texas countryside, the attractive man who set her heart on end or a powerful combination of all three, she couldn’t be sure.

But either way, when Rowan turned and caught her eye, desire flared and her common sense bit the dust. As though having a mind of its own, her hand wrapped around his neck, and she pulled his mouth to hers.

Their hands and lips seemed to know exactly where they’d left off, and the kiss grew hungry, but controlled—as though they were lovers who had all the time in the world to explore, to caress, to pleasure each other over and over again.

The kiss was magical, as well as arousing. And Louanne lost herself in Rowan’s embrace, in his musky scent, in his tantalizing taste.

Had she ever wanted to throw caution to the wind before? Let her passion rule her mind and her heart? Make love in the grass with a devilishly good-looking man who had the eyes of an angel and an arousing touch that drove her wild?

But all good things came to an end, or at least they did in Louanne’s life.

This time, Rowan was the one to break the connection. He caught her jaw in his hand, circled a thumb on her cheek, snagged her attention with a sky-blue gaze that was clouded with heat and desire.

There was nothing Rowan wanted more than to lay Louanne down in a field of grass and make love to her in the light of day. He knew where the kiss had been heading, where their thoughts had drifted. Where their shared desire would lead. And he remembered what she’d said last night.

Had she changed her mind? Was she now willing to complicate their relationship? Risk taking things to a deeper, more committed level?

It wasn’t just her own life she had to think about. She was a mother. And every decision she made would affect the life of her child.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, giving her an out, yet hoping she wouldn’t take it.

“I’m sure about wanting to make love with you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone before.” Her eyes sought his, conveying a silent reluctance, as she bit down on her bottom lip. “But it still isn’t right. And I’m afraid it might never be.”

Rowan nodded, then drew away. His arms hung loosely at his sides. Empty. But what else was new? His mind had been empty for days.

“Thank you for understanding.”

He supposed that called for a “you’re welcome,” but the words wouldn’t form. He didn’t feel particularly gracious, so he didn’t deserve her thanks. Instead, he smiled wryly. “My memory is still out of my reach, but I have a feeling being noble and understanding isn’t in my nature.”

“Maybe not, but you have no idea how much I appreciate the fact that you’re honoring my reluctance.” She brushed a light kiss upon his cheek. “Are you ready to go?”

No, he wasn’t. He wanted to stay out here in the Texas countryside, making love until the sun set. But he nodded in acquiescence.

Then she turned toward the parked motorcycle, putting an end to their wild escape from reality.

A baby cried, filling the darkened bedroom and jerking Rowan from a sound sleep.

Noah.

Was something wrong? Where was Louanne? Hadn’t she heard the little guy?

Rowan threw off the covers, climbed from bed and slipped into a pair of pants. Then he followed the cries to the living room, where Louanne, her hair tousled from sleep, held the fussing baby in her arms, rocking back and forth on the sofa.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, feeling helpless.

“His tooth is bothering him.” Louanne continued her movements. “I’m sorry we woke you.”

“Don’t be.” He raked a hand through his hair and studied the pretty mother in a worn cotton gown, finding himself even more drawn to her, more attracted. And interestingly enough, seeing her maternal side only seemed to deepen her appeal.

How did she know what was bothering Noah? The kid couldn’t talk. Maybe his stomach hurt. Or he’d had a bad dream.

“What makes you think that he has a toothache?” Rowan asked.

Louanne smiled as though she’d gotten the punch line of a joke and he hadn’t. “That’s not it. He’s teething. And I can tell it hurts because the gums are red and puffy on the bottom left side.”

That made sense. He realized there was a lot he didn’t know about babies. What kind of a dad would he make, if he couldn’t figure out what end of a baby was up?

But then again, maybe Noah’s own father wouldn’t have been any better at this stuff than Rowan was.

The baby nestled against his mother’s breast, his cries easing some. At times like this, Louanne must miss not having a man around to share the parental load.

“Do you ever wish Noah’s dad was around to help out?” Rowan asked.

The motherly expression froze, and she lifted her gaze from the baby boy in her arms. “No. I don’t. He’s not a nice man. And he wouldn’t have made a good husband or a father.”

Then why had she slept with him? Why had she risked having a child with a man like that? “You must have seen something decent in him.”

“At first, yes.” She placed a comforting hand lightly against the child’s head, against his ear, as though shielding him from her words. “But it wasn’t long before he let me see the real man behind the facade.”

Rowan was unwilling to let the subject die, although he wasn’t entirely sure why. “And you got pregnant before you could end things?”

“To make a long story short, that’s about the size of it.” She tore her gaze from his, focusing on the fretful child. But he sensed it was her way of ending an uncomfortable conversation.

A minute or two later, as Louanne rocked back and forth, Noah grew quiet, his head still resting against his mother’s heart. His eyes fluttered momentarily, then closed.

It had to be uncomfortable for her to sway like that, her back not supported.

Rowan lowered his voice, so as not to disturb the child. “You need a rocking chair.”

“I had one,” she whispered softly. “But the darned old thing is so ancient, it gave out one evening, and I nearly fell on the floor.”

“Is it an antique?”

“I was told my great-great-grandmother brought it to Texas by covered wagon in the late 1800s, and it was a family heirloom then. So, I guess it just wore out from overuse.”

Rowan couldn’t quell a mounting curiosity. “Where is it?”

She nodded toward the hall. “In Noah’s closet. I was going to haul it out to the barn, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

An overwhelming urge to see the antique and study the workmanship caused Rowan to excuse himself and go in search of the rocker. He entered Noah’s bedroom, opened the closet door and pulled out the broken chair.

He could see why Louanne thought it was useless, but looking beyond the varnish that had been darkened and cracked by age, Rowan marveled at the handcrafted spindles, the solid mahogany wood.

The rocker needed to be repaired, but the quality of the wood and the skill of the craftsman couldn’t be replicated today, other than by another master carpenter who loved his work.

And Rowan was that master carpenter. He wasn’t exactly sure how he knew. But he did.

He could repair the antique rocking chair. And properly, too.

As he stroked the wood, the carved headrest, his memory reeled and a hodgepodge of images flashed before him. They shuffled like a deck of cards, as his mind tried to sort through the jumbled mess.

A bar fight. A chair slammed against the wall. A fist to the jaw. Another drunk dragging him out the door. Sirens blaring. A midnight run to safety.

Poker games that lasted until dawn. Afternoons in a carpentry shop built over a garage.

A sense of grief settled around Rowan, the same grief that had been haunting him since he regained consciousness. It blindsided him with a solemn graveside service, a military chaplain with a worn leather bible in hand, a recorded twenty-one-gun-salute.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there like that, his mind going a hundred miles an hour and producing only bits and pieces of memory to grab hold of. He felt like a drowning man reaching for debris rushing along in the rage of a flooded river.

There was so much to remember, so much still hidden. He didn’t have a grasp of everything, but something useful had finally dawned.

Rowan was a master carpenter. And he’d just buried the only friend he’d ever had—a fifty-year-old alcoholic with a pragmatic view of life. His best friend, his mentor.

At a cemetery, he’d stared at the flag-draped, solid mahogany casket with gold-plated handles and listened to a uniformed chaplain recite scripture meant to make him feel better. It hadn’t.

Neither had a dark-suited, doleful representative of the funeral home, or the color guard or the tape-recorded twenty-one-gun salute. With tears blurring his vision, Rowan had stood alone at the graveside. Or at least it felt that way.

He’d lost the only thing in the world that mattered to him. The only one who really cared a damn about him.

The coroner had called it an accident caused by driving while intoxicated. But Rowan hadn’t believed it. A drunken Sam Vargas hadn’t lost control of his pickup and driven off the mountain road to his death. He’d stepped on the gas and turned off intentionally.

Rowan had always feared the old man’s pain would grow too strong, that Rowan’s friendship wouldn’t be enough to keep Sam from ending the misery of a broken heart that refused to mend.

“Are you okay?” Louanne asked from the doorway, a sleeping Noah in her arms.

No, he wasn’t okay. Things were a jumbled up mess. But the darkness had cleared, leaving him a clutter of memories to clean up and sort through.

Somehow, he managed to nod, while he scooped up the two pieces of the rocker and carried them into the living room.

He had a feeling Louanne would follow him, after she put Noah back to bed. She’d looked at him with knowing eyes, as though aware of his struggle to remember and willing to help him sort through his thoughts.

But sharing his feelings wasn’t something that came easy to Rowan.

And now that Sam had died, he wasn’t sure whether he would ever open up again.

Chapter Nine

“What happened in there?” Louanne, no longer holding the sleeping baby, joined Rowan in the living room, where he stood over the rocking chair that had triggered his memory.

He didn’t respond, in part because he was just beginning to grasp what had happened himself. But there was another reason he held his tongue. Rowan wasn’t used to putting his feelings into words.

“You appeared to be deep in thought.” She eased closer. “I hope that means you’re beginning to remember things.”

A tear welled in Rowan’s eye, and he swiped it aside with the back of his hand in a desperate attempt to hide his emotion. He turned his head, avoiding her gaze.

But she didn’t take the hint. “Do you want to talk about it?”

No. Yes. Hell, he didn’t know. But maybe if he voiced his scattered thoughts, the pictures would fall into place and revelations of Sam would unleash the rest of his memories. He just hoped the other images locked away in his mind weren’t as unsettling as this one.

Louanne took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I can sit with you, or leave you alone—whichever will make you feel better.”

He gripped her hand tightly, not wanting her to leave, yet reluctant to share the mishmash of feelings with anyone, especially her.

Yet maybe she was right. Talking it out might help. But where did he start? Which memory did he call up?

The funeral was the most recent.

The bar fight came first.

He closed his eyes and tried to clear a vision of the night he’d first met Sam.

It had been late—a hot, dry and windy Saturday night in late September. A Santa Ana condition, Southern Californians called it.

A frat house party was just beginning to pick up steam, but Rowan had grown restless; he didn’t know why. The heat? A fight with his old man? Maybe both.

So he’d thumbed his way from Westwood to the Sunset Strip, where he found the nightlife more interesting. More entertaining.

Being underage had never stopped Rowan from drinking or bellying up to a bar. He’d matured earlier than most teenage boys. As long as he was being served by a woman, he’d merely had to flash a smile rather than the fake ID he kept in his pocket. And that night at Wild Willie’s had been no different.

“I met Sam Vargas in a bar. He was a fifty-year-old drunk who was getting his butt kicked by a couple of beefy bouncers.” Rowan shrugged. “Things are still a little disjointed. But for some reason, I have an idea I’d been warned to stay out of nightclubs and keep my nose clean, but I wasn’t much for heeding rules.”

“Sam must have been pretty special,” she said. “You had his number programmed in the top position of your cell phone directory.”

Rowan nodded. “He was. I didn’t know it at the time, but that surly old alcoholic would become the best friend I ever had.”

She smiled, as though understanding something that was just making sense to him. “What did you do? Help Sam find his way home and tend his wounds?”

Rowan slid her a cocky grin. “No, actually, he took me home and tended mine.”

She lifted a brow. “I thought Sam was getting the butt-kicking.”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch.” Rowan shrugged. “I’ve always been pretty scrappy, I guess. And two big, sober thugs beating on a skinny old drunk didn’t seem fair to me. So I figured I’d even the match.”

“Did you?”

“In a way.” An odd sense of pride settled over him. “The bartender called the police, and I knew I’d be in a ton of trouble if they figured out the ID I carried was fake. And Sam would probably get hauled to jail. So we took off like two drunks in a three-legged gunnysack race, staggering, falling down, helping each other get up again and laughing like hell.”

“This is getting more interesting than a good novel. What happened next?”

“Sam took me home to his house in Hollywood Hills, and after celebrating our bravery, washing the blood from our faces and our scraped knuckles, I crashed on his sofa. And the next morning, he showed me his workshop.” Rowan relived the moment, the bond that the late-night brawl had forged. And he thanked his lucky stars that he’d gotten to know the older man, because the two barroom buddies developed a friendship that gave Rowan a purpose in life—even if that purpose hadn’t been enough to give Sam a reason to keep living.

“What kind of workshop did Sam have?” she asked.

“He was a master carpenter. And he’d made a fortune at his craft, but his wife died four years ago, leaving him wasted by grief. The nights were the hardest for him, so each evening he did his best to drown his sorrow in 90 proof.”

Rowan found more than a friend and a father figure in Sam. He found a mentor, as well as a craft he loved. So he overlooked Sam’s fondness for Jack Daniel’s whiskey—straight up—and soaked up every woodworking lesson and each piece of advice the pragmatic old carpenter shared.

In hindsight, Rowan probably should have directed Sam to an AA meeting, but at the time, he was drowning a few of his own sorrows. He wasn’t sure why, though. That part of his memory was still locked away.

“Sam’s phone number had been disconnected,” Louanne said, her voice soft and gentle, as though trying to nudge his memory.

But it wasn’t necessary. “Sam died a couple of weeks ago, after he missed a turn on a winding mountain grade, crashed through a guardrail and went over the edge.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. Sam was the father I never really had.” Rowan furrowed his brow and closed his eyes, trying to block out the memory he’d temporarily forgotten. But it wasn’t any use. His grief wouldn’t let the truth slip away. “The police report said he’d been drinking, which was true. And they chalked it up as another drunk driving statistic. But I don’t think that’s exactly what happened.”

“You don’t think alcohol played a part in the accident?”

“Oh, it contributed to a degree. Sometimes drinking helped Sam forget. But other times, it made him more melancholy. More depressed.” Rowan looked up and caught her sympathetic gaze. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think he wanted to end it all and join his wife.”

She nodded, as though understanding. But what he didn’t tell her, what he would keep inside until his dying day, was that he hadn’t been there for his friend that night.

Another tear escaped, slipping down Rowan’s face, and he quickly swiped it away. But not before Louanne spotted it.

He wanted to hide his pain, retreat into a world of his own, which he suspected was his natural reaction to painful emotions.

But she wouldn’t let him. She slipped her arms around him, offering the same loving embrace she’d recently offered her teary-eyed son.

He should have waved her off, sucked it up. Told her he wasn’t a baby. Insisted it was only one little tear, and that he had everything under control.

Instead, he rested his head against her cheek, closed his eyes, lost himself in her breezy, wildflower scent and accepted whatever she had to offer.

It helped, he supposed. The comfort. The understanding. But it also stirred something else—something much bigger than a growing arousal and an overwhelming desire to take her to bed.

It stirred the kind of things that were best left alone—soft and sappy things that made a guy weak and vulnerable. Made him want to say all kinds of things he couldn’t possibly mean.

Rowan wasn’t sure where all the emotional stuff was coming from.

The lust he could deal with—the urge to make love with Louanne, then go on his way. But what he found more unsettling was the desire to stay wrapped in her arms for as long as she would hold him.

And that scared the hell out of him.

He slowly pulled away, then dragged a hand through his hair. “I…umm…I’m sorry for running off at the mouth like that. And for being such a wussy.”

“Hurting from the loss of a friend isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

No. But letting someone know how torn up he was inside didn’t sit well with him. “Yeah, well, thanks for listening.”

“Anytime.”

He nodded, then walked away, down the hall and into his bedroom. Once inside, he closed the door—but only on Louanne. Not on the feelings and urges she’d aroused. He slipped off his pants and climbed back into bed. But he couldn’t sleep. Way too much had happened tonight.

Yet there was still a lot more to deal with—his anger and resentment for one, especially since he didn’t seem to have a target for it.

Something told him the painful memory of Sam was only the tip of the iceberg.

And he doubted whether Louanne’s soothing embrace would help defuse the raw emotions that still simmered somewhere in the murky depths of his mind.

The night passed slowly and fretfully, as Louanne tossed and turned. In spite of her exhaustion, her mind and heart refused to rest.

She’d tried to comfort Rowan in his grief, but couldn’t have been much help. The man had pulled away and returned to his room, broad shoulders carrying a load she couldn’t share.

According to Rowan, Sam became the dad he never really had. And his sister Emily said Rowan had never gotten along with their father.

Did Louanne dare call Emily again? Dig into Rowan’s past so she could shed some light on things?

Not without Rowan’s okay. It wouldn’t be right, no matter how badly she wanted to help, no matter how much she wanted him to find peace and renew a relationship with his father—something she’d never be able to do with hers.

She’d tried to tell herself that Rowan’s problems weren’t her own. That she had plenty to keep her mind active, alert, on edge. And she certainly didn’t need to borrow more worries. But it didn’t seem to help.

Finally, an hour of so before dawn, her eyes grew heavy, and she eventually dozed off. When she woke, feeling tired and sluggish, she climbed from bed, peered through the blinds and realized morning had begun without her.

Louanne padded down the hall to check on Noah, who was still sound asleep, thank goodness. The poor baby boy wasn’t likely to get a full night’s sleep until that pesky tooth broke free.

Glad to have a bit of time to herself, in spite of it being nearly eight o’clock, she quickly showered and dressed. On her way to start breakfast, she glanced into Rowan’s bedroom. Funny, how it no longer seemed like Lula’s room, even with those old movie posters she’d left adorning the walls.

The door was open, the bed made.

Obviously, Rowan was awake. She expected to see him in the kitchen, but found it empty, with everything just as she’d left it the night before.

Where had he gone?

She wandered into the living room.

No Rowan.

And no rocking chair. Had he carried it out to the barn, as a favor to her?

She took another quick peek at Noah, found him still asleep and went outside to look for Rowan. The summer sun had made a good start on its westerly trek across the Texas sky, having already burned off the morning dew and warmed the summer breeze.

When Louanne reached the barn, she swung open the door. The whiny creak and groan of the rusty hinge reminded her it needed oil. As she stepped inside, the familiar scent of leather and hay accosted her, as tiny specks of dust and straw danced in the light of day. In the far corner near the back door, the rocking chair rested in two pieces on the worktable.

But that wasn’t what caused her heart to thump or what made her catch her breath.

The Harley was gone, which meant Rowan had left. And he hadn’t even said goodbye.

She knew the time was coming, that Rowan would leave someday, but she wasn’t prepared for it today.

Nor was she ready for the fist of disappointment that slammed into her chest.

The Harley ran a little sluggish, but it felt good to open the throttle and race down the road. Rowan hadn’t been able to sleep last night—not after opening up and dumping his grief on Louanne. So he’d risen at dawn and taken the rocking chair out to the barn, a dilapidated old building that could use some refurbishing itself.

Four dirty windows, one at each side of the structure, had provided light for his search for tools he could use. Apparently, Louanne’s dad hadn’t done much carpentry, so Rowan had made a mental list of what he’d need to not only fix the rocker, but restore it to mint condition.

He loved working with wood, cutting and sanding and carefully joining the pieces together in such a way that it brought out the beauty of the grain.

At one time, before Sam died, Rowan had dreamed of going into business with his mentor. But widowed and in his fifties, Sam no longer had the drive he once did, before his wife passed away.

“I lost the magic when I buried my Jenny,” he’d said on several occasions.

Rowan had never fully understood the depth of his old friend’s grief. Not until Sam died, leaving Rowan to suffer his own heart-wrenching loss.

The blow of Sam’s death had been staggering. At first, Rowan had believed the phone call had been a mistake, that it had been someone else driving Sam’s truck, another body that lay crumpled and bloody in the twisted wreckage. Then he’d gotten mad—at God, at himself. At Sam. But as reality set in, Rowan broke down and cried like a baby, something he hadn’t done since second grade.

With only a bottle of Jack Daniel’s—Sam’s escape of choice—to keep him company, Rowan grieved that first afternoon and evening alone. But the next morning, when he’d rolled out of bed with a brutal headache and bloodshot eyes, the grief returned full throttle, threatening to take the wind out of his sails and the magic out of his dreams—just as it had done to Sam. So he’d steered clear of whiskey from that day on and tried to live with the godawful ache in his chest.

One of those hotdog celebrity shrinks on TV said grieving was a process and suggested it would run its course. Rowan just hoped to hell it would hurry up.

He slowed the Harley near the copse of cottonwoods and searched the road ahead, looking for the turn that would take him to town. There it was.

Once on the main drag, Rowan stopped at the Bluebonnet Café, where he sat at the counter and ordered biscuits and gravy, biding his time until the hardware store opened for business.

“More coffee?” A pleasant-faced, heavyset waitress in a pink-and-white dress asked.

Rowan looked at his wristwatch, then offered the middle-aged woman a smile. “Sure, why not?”

“You’re new around here,” she said, as she refilled his white mug. “My name is Carol Ann Dressler. What’s yours?”

“Rowan Parks.” The name came easy now. Yet the early years and the family ties were still a blur—clearing, he supposed, but still obscure.

“You just passing through?” the waitress asked.

He supposed so; he just hadn’t felt like leaving town yet. “I’m staying out at the Lazy B Ranch.”

“With Pete and Aggie?” Carol Ann slid him a broad smile and leaned a well-rounded hip against the counter. “I’ve lived in Pebble Creek my whole life. And I know everyone.”

Rowan had a feeling the talkative waitress made it a habit of knowing everyone’s personal business, too. But what the heck. Small towns and country folk were like that, he supposed, just looking out for everyone. “Yes, I’m staying with Pete and Aggie. Louanne and the baby, too.”

“Louanne Brown?” the waitress lifted a makeup-enhanced brow. “I didn’t know she’d come back home. Or that she’d had a baby.”

That was odd. Rowan could have sworn Louanne had been working the ranch since Noah’s birth. Maybe even longer than that. Her return was obviously a surprise to people in Pebble Creek. So he held his tongue. Louanne probably valued privacy as much as he did.

“Did she have a little boy or girl?” the waitress asked.

He didn’t want to answer, but couldn’t figure out how to get around it. “A little boy.”

“That’s so nice. I’ll bet the Browns would have loved having a grandbaby. It’s a shame they’ll never get to see him.” Carol Ann set the coffeepot back on the warmer. “I was hoping one of the girls would come home. But they both had such mind-boggling dreams, wanting bright lights and fame, which was certainly more than a small town like Pebble Creek could give them.”

An uneasy feeling settled over Rowan, as though he’d shared a big family secret with a stranger.

Pete and Aggie mentioned that Louanne wouldn’t leave the ranch.

Was she too busy? Not interested in small town life? Hiding out for a reason? Or was she, as Aggie suspected, plagued by anxiety?

Rowan didn’t know, but he thought it best to let the conversation drop. He took a sip of coffee, then glanced at his watch. Not quite nine o’clock. But close enough.

“Looks like the hardware store should be open.” He placed a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Thanks, Carol Ann.”

“You’re more than welcome. Be sure and give Louanne my best.”

He nodded. “I’ll do that.”

As Rowan headed toward the door, Carol Ann called out, “And tell Louanne to come into town. Folks would love to see her. The baby, too.”

Twenty minutes later, after purchasing what he needed to fix the rocking chair, Rowan climbed on his Harley and rode home.

Well, not home, but back to the ranch.

God only knew where his home was. The address on his driver’s license was a post office box in Napa—in the wine country.

When he pulled into the yard and shut off the engine, everything was quiet. He figured Louanne had taken Noah to Aggie’s house, then joined Pete at work. So he got busy and repaired the rocker. Of course, refurbishing the well-made antique would take a while. But he’d do that after Noah’s tooth quit bothering him, after Louanne no longer needed to rock the little guy to sleep.

He carried the rocking chair into the house, but wasn’t sure where it belonged. The living room looked kind of full.

Noah’s bedroom maybe?

As he headed for the baby’s room, footsteps sounded on the porch, and the front door squeaked open. Damn, but the hinges in the place needed a good oiling. In fact, the run-down ranch could keep a hyperactive handyman busy for years.

“Rowan?” Louanne called from the living room.

“I’m in Noah’s room.”

What was he doing in there? Louanne followed his voice, unable to still the rapid beat of her heart. When she’d spotted that battered Harley parked in the yard, a huge sense of relief washed over her. Just knowing Rowan was back brought on a rush of excitement.

She’d thought he left for good.

As she entered Noah’s room, Rowan stood over the rocker. It was all in one piece.

He smiled, his face lighting up when she entered the room. As he nodded toward the chair, his summer-sky eyes danced with pride. “Almost good as new.”

“You fixed it?”

“Well, you can’t sit in it yet. But give it a day or two and it should work as good as new.”

“Thanks.” His gaze lingered on her, and she lifted a hand and touched her hair in a nervous gesture, hoping he wasn’t aware of how self-conscious she felt. How vulnerable.

“As soon as Noah’s tooth quits bothering him, and you don’t need to rock him in the middle of the night, I’d like to refurbish the chair for you. If that’s okay.”

“Sure. That’s fine.” She tried to hide her wide-eyed surprise, her relief that he meant to stay a while longer. That he’d taken time to fix the chair and wanted to actually refurbish the antique.

“I didn’t know where to put it.” He scanned Noah’s room, then nodded toward the open closet door. “You’d stored it in there, so I figured you might want it in this room.”

She nodded, amazed by his thoughtfulness. And more than just a bit swept away by the boyish look on such a devilishly handsome face. The single diamond in his ear entranced her, as did the scruffy black locks of his hair.

It didn’t appear as though he found much use for a comb. Yet it didn’t seem to matter. A rebellious hairstyle suited him and nearly hid the stitches Doc would remove tomorrow.

“Hey,” he said, nodding toward the top shelf of the closet. “Is that a laptop?”

Her gaze followed his to the spot where she’d placed the portable computer at the top of Noah’s closet so she wouldn’t have to look at it every day, wouldn’t have to remember the dream she once had. “Yes, that’s what it is.”

“What’s it doing up there?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t have much use for it anymore.”

“Not even for writing your novel?”

The story she was creating? For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she’d left off or what conflict faced her protagonist. “I don’t have time to write.”

A look of skepticism settled on his face, suggesting he wasn’t buying her explanation. “What if I watch Noah for you in the evenings? Or in the mornings?”

She didn’t respond right away. His offer and his suggestion had triggered something deep in her heart.

Did she dare dream again?

Rowan removed the laptop from the shelf, then flashed her a smile. “Maybe, if it’s out in the open for a while, you’ll feel the magic again.”

“The magic?” she asked.

“That’s what Sam used to say. There’s magic in a dream, especially when you’re making it come true. I felt it when I was working with that rocking chair. And I suspect you felt it when you were writing.”

She had. Would the magic return? Could a person will it to appear? Or had Louanne wasted the small portion that had been granted her?

Her skeptical side wanted to disregard what he’d said, but something powerful urged her to take hold of his words and believe again.

“Do you think we’re each given just so much magic in a lifetime?” she asked, daring him to tell her the supply was unlimited.

“I don’t know. But there’s just one way to find out.”

She knew what he meant. The source might be infinite, but she had to dig for the magic again.

Rowan took her by the hand. “Come on, let’s get this thing set up.”

“You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

He merely blessed her with a rebellious grin.

Rowan had repaired the rocker. And now he was touching her heart. Encouraging her to reach for the magic, whatever was left.

The biker with unruly dark hair, heavenly eyes and a bad-boy grin apparently had a knack with antique rockers.

Did he have the power to refurbish her heart and set her dreams in motion again?

Chapter Ten

The laptop sat on the scarred maple table in the dining room for nearly a week, just exactly where Rowan had left it.

But that didn’t mean Louanne didn’t look at it often and think about trying her hand at writing again. Especially when the compact computer sat across from her at dinner, like an uninvited guest.

When she stood to gather the used plates and flatware, Rowan stopped her. “Noah and I will do the dishes, if you feel like puttering around in here for a while.”

Louanne knew what he meant. And she appreciated his offer. But sitting in front of the computer seemed fruitless.

Before, when she’d been elbow-deep in the manuscript and caught up in the story, she could have sat down at any time of the day or night and slipped right into whatever scene she’d been writing. The characters had constantly called to her. But she no longer heard them, no longer felt that same compulsion, that same drive.

Would her muse return if she booted up the computer and stared at the screen?

She looked at Rowan, spotted the crooked, boyish grin, the glimmer in his sky-blue eyes. How could she tell him no? “It will probably be a waste of time, but if you want to do the dishes and watch Noah for a while, I’ll give it a try.”

“Hey, buddy,” Rowan said to the baby in the high chair. “You and I have KP duty. And if you’re a good helper, we can hang out in the living room and play ball.”

Noah grinned, his eyes lighting up as though he’d actually understood the deal.

As Rowan started to remove the baby from the high chair, he scrunched his face and looked at Louanne. “Noah sure gets messy when he eats.”

“Do you want me to give him his bath first?”

Rowan paused, as though considering her offer, as though wanting to hand off the baton. But he gave a tough-guy shrug. “Heck, how hard can it be?”

Pretty hard for a man not used to babies, but she decided to let him give it his best shot. The idea of sitting in front of the keyboard didn’t seem nearly as daunting as it had before.

So, while Rowan and Noah disappeared into the bathroom down the hall, Louanne pulled up a chair and sat down, her posture straight and formal, her fingers stiff and awkward. She opened the file of the work she’d saved, reading from the screen.

A while later—she didn’t have any idea how long—Rowan’s voice called out from the living room, “Atta boy, Noah. Gimme five. You scored a field goal! That’s three points.”

The baby shrieked in delight, and Rowan laughed. It was a soothing sound, a heartwarming sound.

Louanne wasn’t sure what was going on in there, but it sounded like a game of baby football, which wasn’t the way she played with her son. She and Noah usually looked at picture books and played peekaboo. Was rough-and-tumble activity a father’s contribution to a son’s childhood? Male bonding and an introduction to sports?

The smile on her face came naturally, as her heart fluttered and soared. Is that what life would be like, if Noah had a daddy living in the house?

Don’t even go there, she admonished herself. Your life—and Rowans’s, too—are shadowed by uncertainty of the past, as well as the future.

She tried to focus on the manuscript that had once been a work in progress, willing herself to concentrate, to read, to be drawn into the plot, to fall into that subconscious flow. To sit back and let the magic take wing.

The antique clock on the maple hutch tick-tock-ticked a steady cadence, but time gradually suspended, reality drifted away and Louanne returned to the fictitious world only she could see.

She had no idea how long she’d sat there, how much time had passed before she began to peck out the first awkward words. But slowly, the characters came back to life, playing out on the stage in her mind. And amazingly, during the long intermission, they hadn’t forgotten their lines. Her fingers grew nimble, dancing upon the keyboard, picking up the story and taking it forward.

Before, while Richard was still a very real and frightening part of her life, her writing had taken on a dark tone until the words failed to come at all. But now the black veil slowly lifted, revealing the magic, as well as the dream she’d once thought had died.

If she used a pen name—not Lanay Landers, but something different, something Richard wouldn’t recognize—she’d be free to submit her manuscripts for publication and not fear him finding her through some online bookstore or the computerized card catalog system in the college library.

Noah’s pain-filled cry sounded from the living room, jerking Louanne back to reality. She nearly knocked over her chair as she rushed to her baby. Had the football game become too rough?

When she entered the room, Rowan held a screaming Noah to his chest, rocking in comfort. His eyes begged her forgiveness. “I’m sorry. It was all my fault.”

Louanne took Noah into her arms, spotting a bruised knot that had quickly formed on his little forehead. She headed to the kitchen for ice. Surely Rowan hadn’t tackled the baby. “What happened?”

Rowan followed behind. “I couldn’t get to him in time. He tottered when he walked to the chair, then he fell against the coffee table.”

Louanne reached into the freezer, snagged an ice cube, then prepared a compress to place against the knot. Noah cried more at the administering of first aid, than he had at the bump on his noggin.

She thought about what Rowan had said. “Noah walked?”

He nodded. “Yeah. His all-time record is eleven steps without falling. And he was getting braver, too. But that last time, he took off when I wasn’t looking.”

Many babies walked before their first birthdays, but for some reason, Noah had been more cautious, taking only one or two steps away from whatever he held on to.

Was his caution due to having an overly protective mother? Or his containment in the playpen Louanne had to rely on while she worked around the house and in the yard?

Either way, she was glad to see her small son trying, even if Rowan was the first to witness his efforts.

“Accidents happen,” she said. “This isn’t the first bump Noah’s had, and it certainly won’t be the last.”

Rowan looked at her as though he’d done something dastardly. “I feel awful.”

While Louanne balanced Noah on her hip, she placed a hand on Rowan’s cheek, felt the light bristle of his beard, the tingle of warmth upon contact, the invisible connection. The outpouring of thoughts and emotions she didn’t understand.

He gripped her wrist, holding her palm against his face, as if he meant to hang on to the connection for fear they’d lose it.

When Noah’s cries stopped, Rowan released his hold, allowing Louanne to withdraw her hand. But the connection remained. Their feelings for each other—lust, attraction or whatever—were just as powerful as they’d ever been. Maybe more so.

But the baby stood between them.

Or more likely, the child’s father stood between them.

She studied Noah carefully, then looked at Rowan. “He’s going to be fine.”

Louanne just hoped she would fare as well.

Denying what she felt for Rowan, the desire and attraction she couldn’t let progress naturally, was difficult to deal with, impossible to ignore.

They’d fallen into pseudo-marital roles, like mommy and daddy. But it wasn’t enough. Not when sexual desire hovered around them, letting them both know exactly what their relationship was missing.

She carried Noah back into the living room, and the baby lurched forward, wanting to be placed upon the floor. When she set him down near the coffee table, he used it to pull himself up and walk around the edge as though he’d never fallen down.

Brave little guy. And determined, too. He wouldn’t let fear of a tumble hold him back.

Louanne glanced at Rowan, only to find him staring at the coffee table, his eyes drilling right through the wood.

He was drifting away, like he had in Noah’s bedroom, when he found the broken rocker.

She watched him, suspecting he was sorting through the memories again.

The memory struck hard and without warning, slapping against Rowan’s head, throwing his six-year-old body against the glass-topped table in his father’s home office.

Get the hell out of here. Can’t you see I’m busy?

Rowan hadn’t meant to anger his father, only to show him a picture he’d drawn.

Damn it. Walter Parks jumped up from the desk and grabbed Rowan by the arm. Brenda, hurry up and get in here! This kid is getting blood on the carpet.

Brenda Wheeler, the housekeeper and nanny, came running. She lifted the edge of her apron and pressed it against the side of Rowan’s head. Oh, dear. Sweetheart, what happened?

Rowan had looked at his dad, waiting for Walter to explain that he’d batted him away—hard—without thought of the consequences.

Walter stiffened. Can’t you see I’m busy, boy? I don’t have time to look at crayon chicken scratches. Then he handed Rowan the colorful picture, the gift a small boy had offered his daddy in hopes of being accepted, appreciated. Loved.

Rowan pulled away from Brenda’s embrace, crumpled up the picture and dropped it on the office floor. Then he turned his back on his father and walked away.

It was the very last time he’d cried in front of his old man—in front of anyone, for that matter. And it had been the very last time he’d tried to approach his father like a son.

Walter may have left a red, giant-sized handprint on the side of Rowan’s face, as well as a scar over his left eye. But he’d left a bigger, more painful and longer lasting mark on his son’s heart that rainy afternoon.

Rowan supposed his surly attitude had developed that day, as well. Or maybe that’s when it had reared its head. More than likely, his badass, who-gives-a-damn attitude had been developing ever since his father had his mother locked away.

Louanne placed a gentle hand on his forearm. “Are you okay?”

Yeah, he was okay, even though he was drowning in memories that had come flooding back, memories he wished had never returned. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”

And he would be.

Rowan no longer gave a squat about being loved or accepted by his old man. He didn’t need Walter Parks, the jewelry empire the man had built or the damn fortune he’d accumulated.

In fact, Rowan didn’t need anyone or anything.

After watching Noah for a while and deciding he hadn’t suffered any more than a black-and-blue knot on his head, Louanne put the baby to bed. Then she returned to the living room, only to find Rowan on the porch.

He stood against the railing, looking into the night. He’d told her he was okay. But she didn’t believe him.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked.

He turned slowly and shrugged. “I don’t see any point in stirring up stuff I’ve been trying to forget for years.”

Louanne sensed Rowan’s anger had to do with the man he’d never gotten along with. And she suspected he’d feel better if he talked about it. “It’s your father, isn’t it?”

Rowan nodded. “Yeah. That’s what’s bothering me. That’s where the anger comes from. My dad never gave a damn about me. He was too caught up in his jewelry mining business to care about any of the kids, particularly one who looked like the wife he had committed to a hospital in Switzerland.”

A thousand thoughts swirled in Louanne’s mind. The first being Rowan’s mention of jewelry. Rowan was part of that Parks family? They had to be worth a king’s fortune and certainly way out of her league. But the second and more unsettling thought was the fact that he’d grown up without a mother.

“I’m sorry to hear about your mom.”

His tortured soul peered out of his gaze, touching something in her heart. “My older brother and sister—the twins, Cade and Emily—remember her. But I don’t. So I can’t say that I missed her.”

She supposed he meant to downplay his loss. But she didn’t buy it. “It must have been tough for you anyway.”

He nodded. “I guess so. For the most part, we were raised by the housekeeper, Brenda. She was good to us. And she was loving. So I didn’t miss out on much.”

Louanne had a feeling that being raised in luxury and affluence couldn’t make up for what Rowan perceived as the loss of both his parents.

“Your dad was a very busy man who worked hard to provide for his family,” she said, in an attempt to defuse some of his anger, his pain.

Rowan clicked his tongue. “Walter Parks worked hard to commandeer an empire for himself to rule over. The man is a spider, keeping his employees and his family within his web of control.”

“Do Emily and Cade feel the same way?”

“I have a younger sister, too. Jessica.” Rowan blew out a ragged breath. “I’m not entirely sure how the others feel. As I grew up, it became obvious that when my father did come around, he favored my brother.”

Louanne held her tongue, letting Rowan bare his soul. His pain. His resentment.

“For as long as I can remember, I was shoved aside to make room for Cade. And by the time I’d reached adolescence, I’d grown to hate my dad. So I rebelled, doing everything I could to make headlines that would embarrass the man.”

“What kind of things?” she asked.

“Nothing serious enough to be a felony, if that’s what you mean.”

That was what she meant. She’d already gotten involved with one man who had a criminal bent, even if Richard appeared to be a pillar of the academic community and hadn’t ever stepped foot in a jail or prison. And she wasn’t ready to involve herself with another one. Not that she and Rowan were involved, but they sure seemed to be leaning in that direction.

“I had my share of high school suspensions,” Rowan said. “The last one came when I borrowed a buddy’s motorcycle and raced around the football field. The janitor had already lined the lanes with lime for an upcoming track meet, and I drove over the top of them, screwing them up.”

Why did she find his rebellion so intriguing? She blamed her curiosity on the renewal of her dreams, or being a budding novelist who studied the workings of character development and internal conflict. But, she suspected, deep inside, she very much wanted to know what made Rowan Parks tick for personal reasons. “Did you make it through high school?”

He nodded. “My grades were pretty decent, in spite of the trouble I got into.”

“What about college?”

“My old man was determined I go to UCLA, but I kept forgetting to send in my application.” Rowan tossed her a wry grin. “I procrastinated a lot, particularly when my dad told me to do something. But I did want an education.”

“So you went to UCLA?”

“Yeah. My application arrived late, so in order to get me admitted, dear old dad had to pull strings and call in some favors—something he thrives on.”

Louanne hadn’t dealt with emotional issues with her parents, not like that. But she’d been champing at the bit to get out of Pebble Creek and spread her wings. “I’d think you would have liked moving away and going to college.”

“I wasn’t home much anyway. But it was good to get away from the high-society digs in San Francisco, where I was considered a black sheep. I think that my dad was glad to see me go, too. But I continued to infuriate him by getting into whatever trouble I could.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I was involved in a couple of pranks that some people might consider petty theft. And then there were a few panty raids.”

“Did you graduate?”

“Nope. I wasn’t looking for that kind of education. Besides, my dad quit paying my tuition, after one of my bigger scandals.”

“Don’t stop now.” She slid him a tolerant smile, wanting to prod him on. “What kind of scandal?”

Rowan took a deep breath and blew it out. “Older women have always found me attractive.”

Louanne didn’t find that surprising. Rowan was drop-dead gorgeous, and she would have been sorely tempted to have an affair with him, if she would have known him back then. In fact, she was sorely tempted now.

“I’m not proud of this, but I was…” He paused for a moment, as though choosing his words. “Let’s just say I became romantically involved with a politician’s wife. And it resulted in a photograph of us in a compromising position. I’d be surprised if you didn’t remember reading about the whole sordid affair. Some rather interesting versions of it made all the major supermarket tabloids. People in my dad’s circle still whisper about it, especially since the politician lost his bid for reelection.”

“I take it your dad was upset.”

“He was furious. Especially since he’d been the man’s top political supporter and had made a hefty contribution to the reelection campaign.” Rowan glanced at Louanne to see how she had taken his admission.

She studied the hands she held clasped in her lap.

Had he shocked her? Disappointed her? He hoped not, but for some reason, it felt good to come clean, to admit all that stuff he’d bottled up for years.

But he didn’t want to feel better if it meant losing Louanne’s respect.

During that half-assed stint in college, pretty coeds had flocked around him. And even now, he had his choice of relationships. But he’d never spilled his guts in front of any of them. Not like this.

Louanne was different than the others, yet he still hated to reveal his vulnerability. The shame he felt when other people talked about their childhoods, their parents.

She glanced up from her musing. “Is that when you met Sam?”

Rowan nodded. “I already told you about how the guy gave me a purpose in life and encouraged me to set some goals and to dream. When Sam dragged his feet about starting a business with me, I bought a small place in Napa, where I built my own carpentry shop over the garage. And it wasn’t long before I earned enough to tell my father what he could do with the damned trust fund he kept threatening to revoke.”

“I’d think your dad would be proud of your carpentry skills.” She offered him a smile, but it didn’t warm the cold knot in Rowan’s gut.

“I’ve become a master carpenter and have my own shop. I’ve got a business that’s become lucrative. But that’s always been my secret. Emily and Jessica know that I love working with wood, that I make toys for the kids at the homeless shelter and used to, before I left, help with carpentry on the family estate. But that’s about it.”

“Are you close to your sisters?” she asked.

“Yeah. But that’s not a good enough reason for me to go back to California. The night I left my family, I got so angry with my old man, I couldn’t see straight.” Rowan pressed his eyes shut, wishing he could block out the painful scene and shove it back into his subconscious.

But it remained, just as clear as the night it had happened.

Walter Parks had called a family meeting and accused someone of talking about family business to outsiders. The accusation had been voiced to all of them. But the patriarch had been looking at Rowan. I’ve hired a private detective. If I find any of you have talked about the family or the business, I’ll see that you’re cut off without a penny.

It had been the last straw. Afraid we’ll let the world know our mother is in a lunatic asylum in a foreign land? Rowan asked. Afraid someone will find out your diamond dealing isn’t as up-and-up as you would have everyone believe?

Walter surged to his feet. Shut your mouth, boy, or I’ll shut it for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were stirring up trouble just for the hell of it.

Rowan looked at Louanne, wondering how much more he should tell her. Should he reveal family secrets? Should he tell her of his suspicion regarding his father’s business practices?

He chose to keep quiet about that—but not because of his father’s threat. Walter Parks and the whole damn empire he’d created shamed him. “When I stormed out of my old man’s house and took off on my bike, I wanted to escape my family indefinitely and find my own way in the world—a place where no one knew me. And that’s how I ended up in Texas.”

Louanne took his hand, and he caressed her roughened red skin with his thumb. He wished she wouldn’t work so hard, that she could enjoy simple luxuries like a weekly manicure.

As he continued to stroke her warm flesh, he felt that familiar pull. The growing desire to take her in his arms and kiss her thoroughly, to make love until dawn. To make everything right in her world, even if he hadn’t ever been able to make it right in his own.

He placed a kiss on the underside of her wrist, where he could feel her steady heartbeat escalate. She was a good woman and deserved so much better than this ranch, so much better than him. “I’ll leave, if you’d like me to.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why would I want you to leave?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve got a kid to raise and I’ve been a hellion my whole life. And a lost soul.”

“Do lost souls seek each other out?” She gave his hand a squeeze, then pulled her grip from his. “Don’t answer that. I’m not even sure why I asked.”

Louanne excused herself and left Rowan sitting in the living room. He picked up a gaudy, tarnished-silver picture frame and looked at a photograph of an older couple he didn’t know. He smiled back at them, then replaced the heavy frame where he found it.

He leaned back in the tweed sofa and contemplated his options, his future.

Could he rebuild his life in Pebble Creek? With Louanne and Noah?

The thought didn’t scare him nearly as much as he expected it to.

The days passed, with Rowan going out and helping Pete on the ranch, doing lots of odds and ends, but mostly mending something. The place was falling apart before their very eyes.

In the evening, after dinner, Louanne would boot up her laptop and write, while Rowan and Noah did dishes and played around until bedtime. The baby was getting steadier on his feet by the minute. And it seemed as though Noah was growing more and more attached to Rowan.

It warmed Rowan’s rebel heart to see the kid light up like a casino on the Vegas strip each time he entered the room.

Rowan and Louanne had fallen easily into the roles of man and woman, mother and father. Even husband and wife—minus the sex, of course, but not the attraction.

They steered clear of touching each other, but a heated charge electrified the atmosphere whenever they moved within arm’s length of each other. Hell, it sparked and flashed whenever their eyes met.

And quite frankly, Rowan was getting tired of avoiding the issue. He wanted Louanne something fierce, and if his instincts were any good—and they were—she wanted him, too.

This morning, after passing her in the hall on his way from the shower, after seeing her hair loose and free of the braid, after brushing against her denimclad hip, catching a whiff of the peppermint toothpaste she’d used, he damn near grabbed hold of her and kissed her senseless.

He hadn’t, though—mostly because Noah had started fussing from his crib and Rowan didn’t have the time to kiss her as thoroughly as he’d wanted.

But he didn’t plan to fight the urge much longer.

While working out in the south pasture with Pete, the sun beating down on his back, and the fresh air taunting his senses, Rowan decided to do something about the passion brewing between him and Louanne.

“Do you and Aggie have plans for this evening?” he asked the older man.

Pete lifted the worn Stetson from his head, then swiped an arm across his sweaty brow. “Nothing out of the ordinary. What’s on your mind?”

“I’d like you to keep Noah for a while.” Rowan wasn’t sure if the older man knew exactly what was on his mind, but to be on the safe side, he added, “I’d like to take Louanne into town for dinner.”

“She won’t go,” Pete said. “But it’s a nice thought, and I guess it won’t hurt to ask her.”

If Louanne said no, Rowan had another plan in the works. He’d make a romantic dinner for two—under the stars and away from the run-down ranch house that had become a prison of her own making.

It had been a long time since Rowan had seduced a woman. And even then, the idea hadn’t been half as arousing as the thought of making love with Louanne.

“Aggie and I are taking off tomorrow on our road trip,” Pete said, “so it’ll be nice to spend some time with Noah this evening. In fact, he goes to sleep pretty early. Why don’t we keep him overnight so you don’t have to haul him back to Louanne’s place? Aggie has a crib for him in our spare room.”

“Sounds like a great idea to me.” Rowan went back to work, eager for the sun to set.

He had plans for the evening.

And if all went well, he hoped his dinner plans would last until breakfast.

Chapter Eleven

After working all day in the sun, mending fences with Pete and building up an honest, feel-good sweat, Rowan entered the house through the service porch door and found Louanne in the kitchen. She’d just pulled a cast-iron skillet from the cupboard. A butcher-wrapped package sat on the counter.

She looked up when he walked in, her eyes lingering on him, just as his remained on her. A wisp of honey-brown hair had escaped the braid she always wore and rested along her cheek. She opened her mouth, as though she wanted to say something, but didn’t speak.

And neither did he. He was content to bask in the sensual, pheromone-spiked aura that surrounded them, to study her simple, down-home beauty.

Her eyes lit up and her lips curled, setting off something warm and fluttery in his chest.

How could a woman dressed in faded jeans and worn cotton turn him inside out with a smile?

Rowan wouldn’t say that Louanne was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but she was by far the most attractive, the most intriguing. And she was the only one who’d reached deep inside of him, touching something soft and hidden.

He wanted to sweep her into his arms, give her a Baby-I’m-home kiss, then ask how her day was and tell her all about his. He wanted to place his hand possessively upon the curve of her hip, pull her close and let her know he planned to make love all night long.

Sheesh. Could he get any sappier than that?

He broke eye contact and scanned the kitchen, trying to put his thoughts in perspective. “Where’s Noah?”

“Aggie took him for a walk. So I thought I’d fix dinner. I hope quesadillas and a taco salad sound all right with you.”

“Actually,” he began, “Pete said he and Aggie would baby-sit for us this evening. So I was wondering if you’d like to go into town and have dinner with me.”

His question must have surprised her, because her lips parted and her eyes widened before she responded. “Thanks for asking. But I’m not up for dinner in a restaurant.”

He could certainly see where Pete and Aggie had gotten the idea that Louanne didn’t like going into town. But Rowan didn’t want to take no for an answer. “Then would you mind if I borrowed the truck and brought dinner to you?”

She paused, as though taken aback by his question, then glanced down at the empty skillet and the butcher-wrapped package. “Sure, if you want to. I can put the hamburger back in the fridge and fix it tomorrow night.”

“Great. How about we have dinner somewhere away from the house? We’ll stay on the Lazy B property, if that makes you feel better.”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you have in mind?”

“A nighttime picnic.”

She cocked her head to the side and, although the hint of a grin surfaced, she eyed him suspiciously. “In the dark?”

He figured a little starlight and candles ought to offer enough visibility. And if not? “We can always use the headlamps of the pickup, if necessary.”

Her face scrunched in an adorable little girl ex-pression—like the one his younger sister Jessica had worn whenever Rowan teased her while they were growing up. “Are you serious about this?”

He nodded, unable to keep his lips from quirking in a silly, uncontrollable grin or his hormones from kicking into overdrive. “I figured we could both use a change of scenery.” Not to mention a night alone.

She seemed to ponder his words, but not for very long. “All right. I have to admit, I don’t have much opportunity for adventure anymore.”

Well, he hoped she was up for a romantic adventure, because that’s what he had in mind.

“There’s one more thing,” he said. “Let’s get dressed up for the evening.”

She crossed her arms, the yellow-and-green material of her blouse stretching snug, revealing the swell of her breasts, something he missed seeing when she wore loose-fitting work shirts. Would she choose the green slinky dress he’d bought her? Would she let her hair down?

It didn’t matter, he supposed. As long as she agreed to the out-of-the-ordinary date, she could wear what she had on now.

“You want me to get all dressed up for a picnic?” she asked.

“Nighttime picnics are pretty formal.” He tossed a smile her way. “So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a shower first. Then I’ll head into town.”

She placed her hands on her denim-clad hips and studied him carefully. Those golden-brown eyes glimmered with what looked like excitement.

Good. He was excited, too.

She opened a cupboard by the refrigerator, pulled a leather-fobbed key ring from a hook on the inside of the door and handed it to him. “Here are the keys to the truck, just in case I’m not out of the bath when you’re ready to leave.”

It took all Rowan had not to sweep her into his arms and give her a hot, star-spinning, knee-weakening kiss as a prelude to what he had planned. But he would wait until the time was right. If they made love tonight, and he hoped they would, the suggestion would come from her.

He lifted the keys to the truck. “Thanks, Louanne. You won’t be disappointed.”

And he wasn’t just talking about tonight’s menu or the romantic setting.

Louanne sat on the quilted blanket Rowan had placed on a grassy knoll not far from the creek. The sun had long since dropped out of sight. And they’d eaten the last morsel of the roast beef dinner from the Bluebonnet Café, but she was in no hurry to go home.

Rowan Parks was amazing. Not just because of his devilish good looks and witty conversation, but because he’d gone out of his way to make the evening more than special.

His efforts might be a bit rustic, but they were very romantic. He’d taken an old wooden crate out of the truck and turned it over to use as a table. He’d gathered the paper plates they’d used and put them in a trash bag, but the makeshift dining table still held a half-empty bottle of merlot, three paper cups—one sporting a single red rose—and a candle that cast an enchanting aura on the evening.

The flickering candlelight merely added to the ambiance already cast by the magical glimmer of a star-studded sky.

Crickets chirped, and a barn owl hooted. Down by the creek, bullfrogs croaked in lure of a mate, harmonizing in what surely was God’s idea of a lover’s concerto.

Lovers?

She and Rowan weren’t lovers.

But it felt as though they were. And the night Rowan had created for her, or rather for them, was more romantic than Louanne had ever imagined, setting a warm glow in her heart and arousing more than a little sexual interest.

“Would you like to dance?” Rowan asked.

She lifted a brow and slid him an easy smile. “To the sounds of Mother Nature?”

He rose from the quilt, then pulled the keys from his pocket as he strode for the truck. He opened the door, reached for the ignition and the radio, fiddling with the dial until he found a station out of Austin that played soft rock. A sultry love song soon filled the night air, and Rowan returned to where she sat and extended a hand.

This was crazy. Silly. But too darn tempting to resist. Louanne took his hand and got to her feet. His arms slipped around her, and she leaned into his embrace, laid her head against his cheek, inhaled his musky scent. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the moment.

They swayed like that for the longest time, letting the words and melody take them to a special place—a place she’d never been. A place she didn’t want to leave.

“Rowan?”

His steps slowed, and he loosened his hold long enough to look her in the eye, to listen to what she had to say.

He’d been so gentlemanly, so considerate, so darn attractive and appealing, that the heat brewing in his eyes came as a welcome surprise and set off a surge of desire and need.

For reasons she wouldn’t ponder now, she pulled his mouth to hers.

Rowan had wondered whether Louanne would ever make the first move, but he’d been determined to let her call the shots. After all, she had the most to lose if things didn’t work out between them. But this was more than a date, more than a seduction. And he hoped she wanted to make love as badly as he did.

Without any conscious effort on his part, their kiss deepened, breaths mingled and hands caressed. Blood pumped in all the right places, causing more than a growing arousal. It stirred a desperate need that ought to scare the heck out of him. But it didn’t.

The only thing he feared was having her pull away, having her put a stop to their foreplay, because he didn’t want to let her go, didn’t want things to remain platonic between them.

But he refused to think about anything other than this kiss, this evening and pleasuring the lady in his arms.

Their tongues danced in a slow, primal mating ritual, taking and giving, in a rhythm set by beating hearts and surging hormones.

He couldn’t imagine anything he wanted more than to make love with Louanne, out here under the watchful eye of the moon and stars. Alone with nature and free of constraints.

But he wanted their lovemaking to be her idea.

And heaven help him if she didn’t want him as badly as he wanted her.

Louanne threaded her fingers through Rowan’s hair, drawing closer to him, deepening the kiss and stoking the fire that blazed between them. She leaned into his arousal, felt the hard evidence of his need for her, while increasing her own need for him.

She hadn’t meant to kiss Rowan again, to let things take a sexual turn. But in spite of her reservations and her fears, she wanted to take all he had to offer and give everything she had to share.

Whether it was the romantic spell of a Texas summer night or the dark-haired rebel whose kiss drove her wild, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she wanted him. Wanted this.

Louanne yearned to feel his skin against hers, to explore his body with her hands and her mouth, while he explored hers. And she yearned to feel him slip deep inside of her.

She broke the kiss and caught his gaze. “Do you want this as badly as I do?”

He nodded. “Probably more so.”

“Here?” she asked, nodding toward the blanket that awaited them.

He smiled, sending a flush of warm shivers through her veins, then took her hand and led her back to the quilt.

He didn’t kiss her again, didn’t lay her down. He merely watched her, appreciation burning in his eyes. The stars seemed brighter than they had only moments ago, the night more alive. Her senses were more alert, her desire more intense.

She kicked off her shoes and dropped to her knees on the blanket. He joined her, eyes locked, hearts undoubtedly beating in unison.

If it were possible, now that she’d set things in motion, she wanted him all the more.

He took her hand and kissed it as if she were a princess and not a ranch hand with chapped hands. But she couldn’t fall into the Lord and Lady roles as easily as that. She made a fist, trying to hide the red, roughened skin, and pulled her hand free.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She glanced at the blanket, then back at him. “Self-conscious, I guess.”

“Why?”

“My hands used to be soft. And my nails were longer, filed evenly. And now?” She shook her head.

He took her hand again and slowly unfurled the fingers, kissing each one. “You’re beautiful to me. Inside and out.”

The sincerity of his gaze validated his words, touching something deep in her heart. She reached for him, and they came together in a lover’s quest, searching, seeking. Prolonging each touch, each taste.

He reached for the hem of her cotton sundress, and she moved with him to help lift it over her head, leaving her wearing only a pair of white panties and a bra. He brushed his mouth against hers, then kissed her throat, leaving hot, breathy kisses along her skin.

Her nipples hardened, and she unhooked her bra, letting it drop to the ground.

“Ah, honey.” His voice was low and husky, laden with desire and filled with appreciation. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs taunting her responsive nipples and nearly sending her over the edge.

“I’m not sure how long I can wait,” she told him. “I want you inside me.”

He must have heard her, but he lowered his head, kissing her breasts, laving one nipple and then the other until she whimpered with need.

When he looked up and caught her eye, desire flashed between them.

She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, until he began to help, then she reached for the top metal button of his pants. Moments later, they were both naked, lying on the quilt, caught up in a fire that raged out of control.

Rowan rolled to the side, reached into the pocket of his discarded jeans and withdrew a foil packet. He put on a condom, then hovered over her, eyes glazed with passion.

Louanne didn’t think she could wait a moment longer before feeling him inside her. “I’m aching for you.”

As he entered her, she rose to meet each thrust until the stars spun out of control. She cried out with her climax, a primal response she’d never had before.

Her cry merely drove him on, sending him over the same peak. He shuddered with the strength of his own release, and she pulled him close, content to bask in the afterglow of an incredibly sweet joining.

As they lay on the blanket, wrapped in each others’ arms, harmonious waves of pleasure soothed them both.

Sated for the time being and feeling more fulfilled than ever before, Louanne lay still, afraid to blink, to speak, to break the magic of what they’d shared.

Rowan rolled slowly to the side, taking her with him. When their eyes met, something passed between them. Something that filled her heart and nearly took her breath away.

She didn’t mention it though. Didn’t dare throw the heady thought of love into the newness of a mind-swirling mix of emotions. She placed her hand upon his cheek, felt the light bristle of his beard.

He smiled, sending her heart topsy-turvy again. But rather than let go and roll with the feeling, she struggled with the intimacy, with trusting someone enough to let him into a heart that had once been betrayed.

Or was it too late?

Had she already fallen head over heels for a hellbent rebel who’d just taken her to heaven and back?

When Rowan and Louanne returned to the house, neither of them mentioned sleeping in the same bed, but that’s what Rowan had in mind. He wanted to hold Louanne all night long, loving her again and again.

They hadn’t talked about tomorrow. About what the future held for either of them when morning dawned. And Rowan wasn’t sure he wanted to. Not yet. Not while his body was still resonating from the best sex he’d ever had.

But it was just as well. He was still tiptoeing around his feelings, trying to figure out what kind of hold Louanne had on him.

She excused herself and went into the bathroom, while he took a seat in the living room. He supposed they would talk about sleeping arrangements when she returned.

The telephone rang, and he glanced at his watch. It was nearly eleven.

“Can you please answer that for me?” Louanne called out. “It might be Aggie.”

“Sure.” He snatched the receiver. “Hello.”

No answer.

“Hello?”

Still no answer. A heavy click sounded on the other end, disconnecting the line. A wrong number, he supposed.

Moments later, the phone rang again.

This time, Rowan answered in a clipped voice. “Hello.”

Still no response. Was the caller’s telephone on the blink? Or was this a prank call?

Breathing sounded on the other end. Damn. He hated when that happened. Speak up or hang up.

Fed up and not willing to mess around with a jerk, Rowan plopped the receiver down on the cradle. In his haste, he bumped the heavy, ornate picture frame of that smiling older couple—Louanne’s parents, he assumed—and nearly knocked it to the floor.

Five minutes later, the telephone rang again. He had half a notion to ignore the damn thing, but it wasn’t his house, his phone. Or his decision. So, in no mood for games, he grabbed the receiver again. “Who the hell is this?”

“Rowan?” his older sister’s voice asked.

“Emily?”

“Yes, it’s me. What’s going on?”

“Sorry, Em. We’ve had a couple of prank calls. I thought yours might be another one.”

“How are you doing?” Her voice sounded strained. Tentative. Awkward.

“I’m okay.”

“Louanne said you had an accident.”

“My bike was banged up.” He didn’t tell her that he’d been banged up, too. Emily always did worry about him. Sometimes too much. “I’m doing all right.”

“Good. I…uh…called to check on you.”

“I appreciate your concern.” And he did. His problem was with his father, not his brother and sisters. But returning to the family fold wasn’t an option.

“Dad shouldn’t have made that accusation. And I understand why you were angry.”

He didn’t respond. Emily knew as well as he did that the final accusation had merely been the last straw.

“I wish there was something I could do to make things right.”

“You can’t, Emily. No one can.” No one but Walter Parks, and it was too late for that.

“I also called to tell you some news.”

“What kind of news?”

“Conrad and Tyler Carlton claim that our father had an affair with their mother.”

So what? It didn’t surprise Rowan to hear something like that. He’d never thought of his father as an honorable man. And when Walter Parks wanted something, he went after it. If the wife of a business associate had caught Walter’s eye, Rowan suspected the jewelry baron wouldn’t have let something like a marriage vow stand in his way. “Are the Carltons asking for money?”

“They’re demanding DNA testing.”

From what Rowan remembered, Marla Carlton had given birth to the twins months after her husband’s accidental drowning twenty-five years ago. Had Walter fathered her babies?

Rowan didn’t doubt it. Was the extramarital affair the secret Walter had accused Rowan of revealing? Probably so, although who knew what kind of skeletons Walter had in his closet.

A wry grin tugged at his lips. He actually relished the problems a paternity suit and the resulting publicity would cause his father. “If Conrad and Tyler try to claim a portion of the Parks Empire, good ol’ dad isn’t going to be too happy.”

“He’s upset,” Emily said. “But there’s not much he can do about it. He received a subpoena for a blood test and complied. If the results prove he’s their father, it will be common knowledge soon.”

“Well, for their sake,” Rowan said, “I hope the test comes back negative. I wouldn’t wish a father like Walter Parks on anyone.”

The garbage from the past clogged the telephone line. But they didn’t discuss the wealth-and-power-driven patriarch any further than that.

What was there to say? Emily knew how Rowan felt about the man. And there wasn’t much she could do to hold the family together now.

If Rowan actually gave a rat’s ass about his standing in the family, he might wonder what a paternity revelation like that would do. But he didn’t give a damn anymore. He was beyond caring about anything that affected those caught up in the mighty Parks dynasty.

Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t glad his sister had called. But he wanted nothing more to do with his family. He planned to rebuild his life, to succeed on his own. And Pebble Creek seemed like a good place to start over.

“How long will you be in Texas?” Emily asked.

Rowan supposed that was her way of skirting the real questions she had. Are you coming back home? Have you gotten over the blowup this time? Or did the old man finally drive you away for good?

“I’m going to return to San Francisco,” he answered, “but only long enough to pack up and put my house on the market.”

His sister didn’t respond. And he knew why. The ongoing rift had become too deep, and she knew how stubborn and adamant Rowan could be when prodded. And she knew better than to push him on the issue.

“Well, I’ll let you go,” Emily said. “Please give me a call now and then, just to let me know how you’re doing.”

“I will.” Rowan didn’t mean to shut out his siblings entirely, but he wasn’t going to live within Walter’s web of control any longer.

“I’ll keep you posted,” Emily said. “You know. About how things are going around here. And about the paternity issue.”

The line grew silent and heavy. Rowan wanted to tell her not to bother. To just leave him the hell out of any family concerns or issues—good or bad. But Emily didn’t deserve his anger. Nor did she deserve to listen to him vent about things that would never change. “Thanks for the call, Em.”

He meant what he said, but that didn’t allay the pent-up anger. The urge to slam his fist into a wall.

Grief was a process, the TV shrink had said. It passed with time. Did anger and resentment pass as well?

The line had disconnected long before Rowan hung up the telephone.

Louanne cleared her throat, and he spotted her in the doorway. A white cotton nightgown reflected her innocence and made him want to reach for her, to bury himself in her sweet goodness and put the ugly past behind him.

“Who was on the telephone?” she asked.

“My sister, Emily.”

“Is something wrong?”

Wrong? Other than the fact Rowan’s life had never felt right, even as a kid. Or the fact that he might have two illegitimate half brothers who didn’t have any idea what they might be setting themselves up for?

No. There was nothing wrong—other than the fact Rowan felt ready to explode, to burst out in foul language or pain-induced tears.

But that wasn’t Louanne’s fault, so he tried to put it all behind him. “Emily asked how long I planned to stay here. But I think she wanted to know whether I planned to go back home.”

“What did you tell her?” Louanne lifted a hand to the front of her gown, her fingers fiddling with a button and a satin ribbon.

Did she want him to stay? Here on the ranch with her? Or at least nearby in Pebble Creek?

Or did the thought of him setting down roots worry her?

They hadn’t taken time to discuss the future yet. And Louanne certainly didn’t know enough about his past to understand why he would never step foot on the Parks estate again.

So he merely answered her question as simply and truthfully as he could. “I have no intention of ever going home. Not to the family estate.”

Louanne’s heart ached for Rowan and his father, as well as their entire family. As badly as she wanted him to stay and make a life with her on the ranch, to dream and pretend everything was right in her world—in their world—she couldn’t.

There was no way she could stand by as Rowan severed all ties with his father.

There were so many things she wished she would have told her parents, so many things she could have done for them and with them, if she still had a chance to do so.

“Sometimes things are said in the heat of the moment,” she told him, “things that are cruel and hurtful. Maybe you should give your father a call and try to talk to him and set things right.”

“I did set things right when I left. I cut all the skimpy ties we might have had. And I don’t plan to ever speak to that bastard again.” Rowan’s eyes narrowed and his lips tensed.

Louanne hated to prod him, so she let him ponder her words while she locked all the doors in the house, something her parents never had to do at night, but something that had become her habit since moving home.

When she returned to the living room, she found Rowan staring out the window and into the night.

He might want her to believe the serious rift with his father was none of her business. But she wasn’t so sure.

And she could no longer take a passive stance.

She made her way across the floor and slipped her arms around his waist, rested her cheek against his back and savored his musky scent. “I don’t mean to interfere.”

He didn’t turn around, didn’t speak.

“But I’m afraid you’ll be sorry some day, if you don’t try and rectify things now.”

Rowan took a deep breath and turned around. His eyes caught hers, but they weren’t filled with vulnerability. They sparked in anger. “I appreciate you trying to help, to understand. But you can’t. That man is dead to me, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I wish you’d reconsider. He’s the only father you have.”

The luck of a bad draw, if you asked Rowan. He crossed his arms, unwilling to go into his reasons any further. Why wouldn’t she just let it drop?

“Back off, Louanne. This is none of your business.” His words sounded harsh, even to him. But so were his memories of the painful relationship he’d had with his father.

She stiffened and stood taller.

He ought to backpedal, say something to appease her, but angry and hurt from years of emotional neglect and abuse, he reverted to his natural way of dealing with conflict—clamming up and walking away.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, trying to be more considerate than he would have been to anyone else who’d dared to stir up his pain. “I’m going to bed.”

Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps clicking on the hardwood flooring in the hall.

When he got to his room, or rather the guest room that had once belonged to Louanne’s sister, he closed the door.

But this time the barrier didn’t work.

Instead of steeling himself against the pain, he felt it all the more.

Chapter Twelve

Rowan had slept like hell.

In the past, once he’d shut someone or something out, he hadn’t stewed about the decision. And he’d damn sure never lost any sleep over it.

Heck, turning his back and walking away was what he did best; he closed doors and burned bridges—a defensive response that had always worked.

But not last night.

Shutting out Louanne hadn’t helped at all. And in fact, it had made him feel worse, leaving his emotions ragged and frayed.

But she’d asked too much of him. She wanted him to salvage a bridge he planned to burn. And by refusing, Rowan was burning the bridge he and Louanne were building to connect their own lives. And that wasn’t something he wanted to destroy. Not before he had a chance to see where it led.

So what were his options?

He could give in and beg his father for forgiveness, just as Louanne had prodded him to do, but Rowan didn’t have anything to apologize for. And even if he did, Walter Parks thrived on having the upper hand. For that reason, Rowan would rather jump a barbed wire fence naked than bow down before his old man.

Maybe he should level with Louanne, open up and spill his guts, tell her how damn much it had hurt to grow up under Walter Parks’s roof and completely out of the man’s favor.

And while he was at it, he could bare his heart and soul to her.

Oh, yeah? And tell her what? That he felt something for her? That he might even love her? That he was sorry for turning his back on her and responding in a manner that was natural for him?

Rowan kicked off the covers and climbed out of bed. What he needed was a shower. Maybe the pounding spray of water would free his mind and trigger a few options he hadn’t thought of. He grabbed a clean pair of jeans from the closet and headed for the bathroom.

But a shower hadn’t helped, either.

As he stood before the fogged mirror with a damp towel around his waist and a razor in his hand, he hadn’t come up with anything—other than apologizing to Louanne.

That would certainly be a first. Rowan wasn’t one to offer explanations or say “I’m sorry.” And he wasn’t sure where an admission like that would leave him.

Or them.

After he dressed, he went in search of the woman who’d turned his life on end—even before their disagreement. He found her in the kitchen, standing over a pot of oatmeal on the stove. She turned when he entered, dark circles under her eyes bearing testimony to the fretful night she’d spent.

A sense of guilt hovered over him. He didn’t like being the cause of her restless sleep. Or the reason for her sadness. “I’m sorry, Louanne.”

There was so much more left to say, to explain. And he wondered if she knew how difficult this sort of thing was for him.

Maybe so, because she turned down the flame, placed the wooden spoon she held on the countertop and joined him in the doorway—meeting him halfway, he supposed. Another first, as far as he was concerned.

Without a conscious thought, his arms opened for her, and she leaned into his embrace. He pulled her close, trying to find comfort and balance, as he inhaled the citrus scent of her shampoo and savored her gentle touch. “I don’t want this thing with my family to come between us.”

She brushed a kiss against his cheek. “I’m sorry, for dredging up those old hurts.”

He took her hand and led her into the living room, then sat beside her on the sofa. “I’ve never been one to talk about stuff that bothers me. Not to anyone.”

“I wish you’d share those feelings with me.”

Yeah. He did, too. But how did he start? At the beginning? Did he dare voice the crux of his pain?

He took a breath, then slowly blew it out. “My father never loved me. Not ever.”

Never? As a parent, Louanne found that hard to believe. Perhaps Rowan and his father had been estranged for so long, that Rowan couldn’t remember the love they’d once shared. Wanting to help without pushing him, like she’d done last night, she kept quiet and let him continue.

Rowan cleared his throat, as though needing to dislodge the words. “I don’t know. Maybe I remind my father of my mother. Or maybe my old man never wanted children.”

It was possible, she supposed. But it was just as likely that things had become so strained between father and son during Rowan’s adolescent years that they’d both forgotten the good times. Surely, there’d been some happy memories.

Rowan fingered the scar over his left brow, as though it still bothered him. “Kids need more than an estate to live in. More than fancy toys and gadgets to keep a rich child entertained.”

True. But life in a run-down ranch house left a bit to be desired, too. Again, she held her tongue.

“I like to think that my mother loved me. But I can’t actually remember her. And Brenda, our nanny, loved me. But it wasn’t enough. My father was too busy building an empire to be bothered with his kids. And on those rare occasions when he came home before bedtime, he used to shove me aside—something he never seemed to do with Cade.”

“I’m sure your teenage rebellion didn’t help the relationship any.”

“Probably not. But at the time, I dealt with it the only way I knew how.” Rowan turned toward her. His knee brushed hers, connecting them, but not nearly enough. “Whenever there was a problem at home, my father always blamed me. And I’m still his scapegoat. The night I left the estate in anger, he’d accused me of revealing family secrets, of being a traitor.”

Louanne reached out and took his hand. “I think you need to settle things with your father, even if that means confronting him and finding some closure. Otherwise, you’ll never truly be happy.”

Was she right? Did he need to make some kind of peace with the past so he could face the future without the burden of an anger and resentment he couldn’t shake?

Sam had once suggested Rowan sit down with his dad and have a man-to-man conversation, telling his father that they should agree to disagree, that they could end their cold war by trying to coexist without making each other’s life miserable.

Rowan hadn’t given that piece of advice any consideration. But the two people he cared about the most in this world had said nearly the same thing.

“I’m not sure whether I can make amends with my father. And I don’t know if I really want to. But you’re right. I need to have some closure.” Rowan stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, afraid to assume his and Louanne’s budding relationship would last while he faced his dad and tried to put the past behind him.

He was even more afraid to ask Louanne whether they had a chance of making some kind of life together. But this seemed to be a good time to face his fears and apprehensions.

“I’m not making any promises,” he said, “but my resentment toward my father has affected my relationship with my brother and sisters. I left that night, not planning to have anything to do with any of them again.”

“The resentment you hold toward your father will probably affect every relationship you ever have.”

He knew what she meant. His relationship with Louanne didn’t stand a chance if he didn’t put his past to rest. “In that case, I’m going to catch a flight to San Francisco today. But when I come back, I want to talk about the future, not the past.”

“Your future?” she asked.

“Our future. If you and Noah would like to build one with me.”

A grin burst forth, lighting her eyes. “We’ll have to talk about that, after you’ve taken care of old business.” Then she stood and offered him a hug.

It didn’t seem like enough fortification for the trip ahead. But he wouldn’t ask her for more. Not yet. But the sooner he left, the sooner he’d get back.

He gave her a long, lingering kiss, one filled with memories of their last joining and hope for the future. A kiss that promised he’d be back.

She took a pad and pen from the drawer in the lamp stand, then wrote down her telephone number.

“I’ll give you a call,” he said. “Later.”

“Thanks. I’ll be here. Waiting.” She slid him a doe-eyed smile that made him wonder if he ought to postpone his trip until after Pete and Aggie returned. But Louanne had made her point.

He nodded, then left the house and headed for the barn, where he found his Harley. As he pushed the bike into the yard, he spotted Pete walking toward the porch with Noah in his arms. The baby boy squealed when he saw Rowan, something that never failed to touch Rowan’s rebel heart.

“Where are you off to?” the old man asked.

“I need to go back to California for a while.”

“How long are you going to be gone?”

“Just a couple of days.” Rowan hoped it wouldn’t be longer than that. “Or do you think I should stay until you get back?”

“Jim Collier, the man who owns the ranch to the east of us, said he’d watch over things. I did the same for him last year.” Pete smiled, then nodded toward the house, toward Louanne. “You two have a nice evening?”

“Yeah.” At least Rowan had thought so. Their lovemaking had been great. And promising—until they’d argued. Until she urged him to confront his father, and Rowan shut her out. But their reconciliation had set his life back on track. And he couldn’t wait to get this trip to San Francisco behind him.

“Good. We were glad to have Noah last night. Aggie and I are leaving around noon.” Pete chuckled and looked at the baby in his arms. “But I’m not sure Aggie will be able to stand being away from Noah very long.”

Rowan could understand that. He was going to miss the little guy, too. Not to mention his pretty mom.

“You’re coming back, aren’t you?” Pete asked.

“Yeah. I have some things to clear up and work out. But I’ll be back. And I plan to stick around for a while.” Rowan slapped a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “You and Aggie have a great time on that road trip. Be safe and take care.”

Pete grinned and shifted Noah in his arms. “We plan to. You take care, too, son.”

Son. It felt kind of nice coming from Pete. It would have been even nicer had his old man ever referred to him as anything other than boy.

“Thanks. I’ll do that.” Rowan climbed on the bike. And after one last glance at the house, he revved the engine and sped off.

It was time to confront his past, he supposed.

Whether he wanted to or not.

Rowan hadn’t been gone a full day, and already Louanne missed him something fierce. And to make matters worse, she’d had a teary-eyed farewell when Pete and Aggie had climbed into their motor home and driven away.

As the day wore on and nighttime settled on the ranch, Louanne’s loneliness deepened.

Had Rowan arrived in San Francisco safely? Was everything all right? Would things between him and his dad grow worse? Had she been wrong to encourage him to try to make peace?

Several times throughout the evening, she’d reached for the notepad that held contact information for Emily and Brenda. But she fought the urge to call. Besides, if Rowan wanted to talk to her, he had her number. But that didn’t make waiting any easier.

Their future together seemed to hinge on what was happening in San Francisco, but Louanne didn’t want to interfere any more than she had already.

In spite of herself, she’d grown to love the dark-haired rebel. More than she’d imagined possible. And there was still so much they had to talk about, so much to decide. Hope and renewed dreams kept her awake.

She rolled over, taking the sheet and lightweight blanket with her, as she tried to find a comfortable spot. Her bed seemed bigger and emptier than she remembered. Lonelier.

The telephone on the nightstand rang, and her heart leaped. It must be Rowan. She grabbed the receiver quickly, so Noah wouldn’t wake. A catch in her voice betrayed her hope. “Hello?”

Heavy breathing sounded over the line.

Was Rowan finding it difficult to talk? To tell her what had happened? Was he struggling with his feelings? Or had he been hurt in an accident of some kind?

“Rowan? Is that you?”

No response. Just the same eerie, breath-filled silence.

A random, obscene phone call?

Uneasy, she hung up. Surely, the call had been just a prank. A typical case of some sicko getting a thrill from calling a stranger late at night and stirring up fear.

But she couldn’t discount the other possibility.

Had Richard found her? Was this his way of harassing her?

No, she told herself. She’d been careful. She’d covered her tracks.

Still, apprehension settled over her.

She needed to talk to someone, to hear a comforting voice on the line. Her first instinct was to call Rowan. But she didn’t want to bother him. Besides, her imagination was probably doing a number on her. And her fear would probably prove to be unfounded.

Another option came to mind.

Louanne had confided in her sister earlier—sort of. She’d told Lula that a guy she’d been dating at college had become too attached, and that she’d gone home without giving him any idea of how to reach her.

“Just in case he tries to find me through you,” Louanne had said, “I don’t want you giving any information out about me or the ranch.”

“Good grief, Lou. I’ve held on to a glamorous childhood for so long, I doubt that I could even find my way back home.” Her sister had laughed in that bubbly way that made Louanne believe Lula had everything figured out and under control. “Why don’t you and Noah come live with me in California?”

Louanne had declined because the limelight was something she’d wanted to avoid. Living in Beverly Hills, within the range of a bursting flashbulb, wasn’t a good idea. Not when she needed to keep her whereabouts and Noah’s existence a secret.

She fumbled through the nightstand drawer in search of her sister’s number at the hotel in which she was staying. What chance did she have of finding Lula in her room?

There was only one way to find out.

When a man answered, Louanne introduced herself, and he passed the phone to her sister.

“Hey, Lou. How’s my nephew?”

“He’s walking now. And saying a few words.” Louanne twirled the telephone cord around her finger. “You know, I’ve been thinking about your invitation to come and visit.”

“Great.”

“And if it’s all right,” Louanne added, “I might bring a friend.”

“A friend?”

A smile tugged at Louanne’s lips. “Just a man I’ve met.”

Lula, who’d been paired with some of Hollywood’s biggest male stars, laughed. “Well, I’m looking forward to meeting him. Tell me about him.”

Louanne gave her sister a brief description, lingering more on the way Rowan made her feel than his appearance. “His name is Rowan Parks, and he’s from San Francisco.”

“San Francisco?” Lula asked. “He isn’t part of the Parks jewelry empire, is he?”

“His family is in the jewelry business. He’s a carpenter.”

“You never have been attracted to glitz and glamour, not like me. But good job, honey.” Lula let out a long, slow whistle. “Parks is the west coast equivalent of Tiffany’s and makes other jewelry stores look like the five-and-dime.”

“That wasn’t what turned my head,” Louanne said, her voice firm.

“No one knows that better than me. You’ve always been the romantic one.” Lula laughed again. “Listen, sis, I have to go. We’ll have to finish the conversation soon.”

“I’ll keep you posted on that visit.”

“Good. I can’t wait to see you again. Or to hug and kiss my nephew. And I’d like to check out that new man in your life.”

After saying goodbye and ending the call, Louanne didn’t feel much better. But to ensure a good night’s sleep, she turned down the ringer on the telephone.

Rowan paused before the Poseidon fountain in the front courtyard of the opulent two-story mansion in which he’d grown up, remembering the day he’d put a bottle of dishwashing detergent in the water. The bubbles had swelled to a mountainous froth, running over the sides and into the drive. It had been a pretty cool sight, until his father roared his disapproval. Rowan had gotten a backhand that day, as well as a punishment. But he could still recall a ten-year-old boy’s pride at getting to the old man.

But his days of pranks and scandals were over.

He walked toward the front steps, the soles of his leather boots clicking upon the flagstone. But just as he reached the outdoor staircase that led to the house, the door swung open.

His father and a young man Rowan didn’t recognize stood in the doorway, bodies tense, eyes glaring, expressions hard.

The black-haired man who appeared to be in his twenties didn’t seem to be the least bit intimidated by the formidable Walter Parks. And Rowan couldn’t help admiring him for it.

“This isn’t the end of my search,” the younger man said.

Walter bristled, but didn’t speak. He just stared at the man, as Rowan did.

The guy stood about six feet tall and had a muscular build and a cocky, don’t-mess-with-me stance that Rowan liked.

As the man turned to go, his gaze met Rowan’s. He didn’t smile, but extended a hand in greeting. “I’m Tyler Carlton.”

Rowan didn’t have any beefs with the man who claimed to be his half brother, so he introduced himself and shook hands. He hadn’t been trying to rebel or be disloyal. He was just being polite. But Walter didn’t appear pleased with the courteous gesture.

When Tyler proceeded down the steps and to a car parked in the drive, Rowan continued his approach to the house. Walter must have been caught off guard by the younger man’s visit, because he stepped aside and let Rowan enter without the usual click of the tongue or snap of a criticism.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Rowan said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Join the club,” Walter muttered. “Let’s go into the library. I’m going to fix a stiff drink. Maybe two.”

Rowan tried not to analyze what may or may not have happened before his arrival. His dog wasn’t in that fight.

“You want something to drink?” his father asked, as they entered the massive room with a built-in bar.

“I’ll have a beer.” Rowan took a seat on the plush, leather sofa and watched as his father first poured a glass of Scotch, straight up, and reached for a beer in the refrigerator behind the bar.

“I thought the doctor told you to drink wine, instead of hard liquor.”

“This is a special occasion,” he said, a scowl belying his words. “And a good stiff drink seems more apropos than passing out cigars, don’t you think?”

Had the test results come back? Is that what Tyler came by to talk to him about? Rowan would have had a snappy comment in the past, but he kept it to himself.

Walter handed Rowan his drink, then sank into a wingback chair. “What’s on your mind?”

Rowan pondered his thoughts, as well as the best way to broach them. He wasn’t looking for love any longer, just an end to the problems they’d had in the past. “Our relationship hasn’t been good for years. And I thought we ought to clear up a few things.”

Walter took a slow sip from his glass. “What kind of ‘things?’”

“First of all, in case you haven’t noticed, I keep to myself. And I’m secretive by nature. I don’t open up easily. And I don’t divulge anything that pertains to me personally or to this family. If someone has been telling tales out of school, it wasn’t me.”

Walter lifted his glass, watched the lamplight glimmer through the caramel-colored liquor, then looked at Rowan. “You’ve done your best to stir things up and create one problem after another for me. I’m sure you understand why I would suspect you first.”

“That brings me to the second point. I’m not sure when our problems began. And I’m not about to rehash them. But I’d like to put the past anger and resentment behind us.”

“You’ve behaved like a hellion all through your teenage years and well into college.”

“And you were never a father to me,” Rowan countered, before taking a thirst-quenching swig from the longneck bottle. “So if we want to start throwing the rocks we’ve stored up over the years, we’ve both got an endless supply.”

“That’s for damn sure.” Walter set his glass on a teakwood coaster that sat on the lamp table at his side, then, as if having second thoughts, picked it back up again and took a drink. “You know, I didn’t set out to fail you. Or the others.”

It was the first admission or hint of wrongdoing Rowan had ever remembered his father uttering. And quite frankly, it took him aback.

“Like everyone on this earth,” Walter said. “I made mistakes.”

“What kind of mistakes?”

“Just things I wish I’d done differently.”

It was, Rowan realized, the first time he and his father had a conversation that wasn’t loaded with hostility and accusations. They would probably never be close, but maybe Louanne had been right. Maybe he and his father could at least be cordial to one another.

“By the way,” Walter said. “You have two brothers to acknowledge, Tyler and Conrad Carlton. According to the paternity test the court ordered, I fathered them.”

Fathered? That was a stretch. Walter had merely been a sperm donor. But true to his decision to offer an olive branch, Rowan kept the thought to himself. If he felt any compassion over the test results, it was for the two men who had to claim Walter as a father.

Since Jeremy Carlton, their mother’s husband, had died before the twins’ birth, they’d grown up without a father’s love, just as Rowan had.

Just as Noah would.

Unless, of course, Rowan stepped up to the plate and adopted him. The thought put the first bit of warmth in Rowan’s heart since he’d left Pebble Creek. And he actually liked the idea. Would Louanne want Rowan to be a father to her son?

Unlike the women he’d dated in the past, Louanne was different. And so was Rowan—when he was with her. He’d softened, opened up. And being with Noah had touched something in Rowan, too. He actually enjoyed the family-like feelings that had settled around him since staying at the ranch.

In the past, he would have run from something like that. But not this time. He didn’t even want to walk away from Louanne and Noah.

The family he’d always wanted was in Pebble Creek.

Rowan finished his beer, then looked at his father. At sixty years of age, Walter’s dark hair was more salt than pepper. And the brown eyes that could grow so cold and ruthless seemed haunted and troubled now. In a way, it made Rowan feel a bit sorry for his father—but just a tad. “Like I said, we’ll probably never be close. But I want you to know that my days of stirring up trouble to set your life on end are over.”

Walter nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Rowan had never shared much of anything with his father, not since the day Walter had caused him to split his head open on the glass-top table. But things were changing. Rowan was changing.

“To what do I owe your new attitude?” Walter asked.

“The love of a good woman. And if she’ll have me, I’d like to marry her.”

“Then I wish you the best of luck,” Walter said. “The constant fights with you have been exasperating, to say the least. And quite frankly, I have enough to worry about.”

It wasn’t exactly what Rowan wanted to hear, but it was a start.

“I never have liked drinking alone,” his father said. “Why don’t you have another beer? I know you’ve got a long ride back to your place, but you can stay the night in the guest room.”

“I just might take you up on that offer.” Rowan stood and glanced at the door. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I want to make a phone call.”

“Sure.”

Rowan wanted to tell Louanne that he was ready to face the future, that he’d tied up all those loose ends. And that even if the past couldn’t be altered, a person’s perception and attitude could be. Of course, he wouldn’t discuss all that now. Not here. But he could hint at it.

And he could also hear the soft lilt of her voice.

He picked up the phone in the hall and dialed her number. As the line continued to ring with no answer, he grew concerned.

Where was she? Louanne never left the ranch.

He returned to the library, where he and his father continued to have a cautious, yet generic conversation. But off and on that evening, he kept trying to call Louanne.

And there hadn’t been an answer, even long after she should’ve been home and in bed.

Was the phone off the hook?

An uneasiness settled over him. And he wasn’t at all sure why.

Chapter Thirteen

Rowan woke before dawn and tried to call Louanne again.

There was still no answer.

He didn’t know where his uneasiness came from. Was that what happened when a guy fell in love? He grew more concerned about his lover than himself?

Maybe so.

When Rowan went downstairs, he found Brenda bustling about the kitchen. She hadn’t noticed him yet, so he watched her, a smile forming on his face, a warm glow in his heart. After her husband died, the Parks children became Brenda’s life. And she was the only mother Rowan had ever really known.

At sixty-five, Brenda looked the same as she always had, although he suspected she’d shrunk a tad in height, if she’d ever actually reached the five foot mark, as she’d always claimed.

The scent of yeast and spice wafted through the room, as Brenda prepared a homemade cinnamon twist Rowan had always favored. She was a darn good cook, which contributed to her ample girth. But neither her age nor her weight stopped her from kicking up the heels of her sensible shoes, once the Parks kids moved out of the house and didn’t need her anymore.

Rowan heard she was taking an aerobics class, answering personal ads for companionship and enjoying her golden years by traveling, taking cruises and seeing the world.

But when she was home, the Parks house was still her castle.

“Breakfast ready?” he asked.

Brenda turned and grinned, her pleasure at seeing him hard to ignore. “Rowan! You get over here and give me a hug, you little rapscallion.”

Rowan chuckled and gave her a hug, her familiar embrace wrapping him in warmth, her lavender scent bringing back memories of her maternal love.

She patted his back affectionately. “It’s so good to have you home.”

“Wheelie,” he said, using the nickname he and Cade had come up with years ago, “I love you.”

She gasped, stepped back from the hug and grabbed his forearm. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted. “You’ve never told me that before.”

No, he hadn’t. He’d kept a lot of his feelings under wraps. And when he’d come home to make things right, this was one of them. “I should have told you how much you meant to me years ago.”

“I always knew, but it feels so good to hear you say it.” Her eyes grew watery, and she swiped at them with the back of a plump hand. “I love you, too, Rowan. And in spite of your penchant for mischief, you’ve always held a special place in my heart.”

Okay, so he’d said the words he should have voiced years ago and was glad he’d finally leveled with her, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable with sappy stuff like that. He slid her a boyish grin. “Like I said, what’s for breakfast?”

Her familiar laugh, loud enough to be heard throughout every estate in Pacific Heights, rang throughout the kitchen, making him feel more at home here than he had in years. “You sit right down and have a cup of coffee and a cinnamon twist while I fix you a hearty breakfast. Your dad left the morning paper on the table.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rowan picked up the newspaper, glanced at the headlines, then scanned the front page. A picture of his father drew his attention.

Well, what do you know? The press was quick to report the news about the paternity results of the DNA test. They hadn’t included a photo of the twins, which was too bad. Rowan knew what Tyler looked like, but he was curious about Conrad.

“Did you read this?” he asked Brenda.

She nodded. “And so did your father before he left for the office. The papers don’t take long to print what they consider sensational stories.”

“You know anything about Tyler Carlton?”

“Not much. He’s a detective.”

Before Rowan could respond, the telephone rang.

“Will you answer that for me?” Brenda asked, as she whisked scrambled eggs in a glass mixing bowl.

“Sure.” Rowan picked up the receiver off the wall-mounted kitchen telephone. “Hello.”

The caller introduced himself as Tyler Carlton and asked, “Is Walter in?”

“This is Rowan. Can I give him a message?”

“I called to tell him that I’m sorry about the media coverage. I don’t know how in the hell the press got wind of the paternity results. That wasn’t my intent.”

“The press loves a good story about this family.” Rowan remembered his own scandal while in college and all the national coverage it had received.

“I’m not the kind of guy who likes to be frontpage news,” Tyler said.

“Neither is our father. By the way, I guess a ‘Welcome to the family’ is in order.”

“I didn’t expect any kind of welcome. Your dad will probably never get used to the idea.”

“Hell, he’s still getting used to the idea of having me in the family,” Rowan said.

The men spoke for a while, then agreed to meet for drinks sometime.

“My best friend’s brother, Mark Banning, is getting married this weekend,” Tyler said. “So I’ll be busy with that.”

“And I’ll be going back to Texas soon. We can talk about it more when I get back.”

After they said goodbye and the line disconnected, Rowan held the receiver in his hand. He ought to call Louanne one more time. Something wasn’t sitting well with him.

But when he dialed the number, the phone continued to ring and his uneasiness mounted. He couldn’t put his finger on what had him on edge. It was more than missing her, more than just knowing that she and Noah were alone on the ranch.

His discomfort had begun with that phone call he’d received the evening before he left the ranch. Had it been a wrong number? A random call?

Or had hearing a man’s voice surprised the caller? Had the man expected Louanne to answer?

Rowan’s imagination kicked into high gear. Had it been Noah’s dad calling to check up on his kid? To check up on Louanne?

No, the guy was dead. Louanne had told Rowan so. Of course, when he’d asked her how the man had died, she’d refused to talk about it.

Thinking the subject had been too painful he’d asked if she missed the man. And she’d said, “I don’t miss him at all.”

When Rowan had asked whether Noah’s dad had seen his son, she’d told him no. And she’d admitted to not being sorry that the guy wasn’t around to be a part of Noah’s life.

He’s not a nice man and wouldn’t have made a good husband or father.

He’s not? Present tense?

Okay, now Rowan’s imagination was really going wild, and for no reason at all. Not really. He didn’t have anything solid to go on. Just this rock-hard knot in his gut.

He’d half accepted the idea of Louanne having a form of agoraphobia. And he’d assumed she steered clear of the people in town because she didn’t want them to know she’d had a child out of wedlock. But Louanne loved Noah. And he doubted she’d be ashamed of him.

Oh, God. Was she hiding out from Noah’s father? Is that why she’d given up her dreams and become a recluse?

Rowan picked up the phone one last time and still got no answer.

Louanne might not be in danger. But he wasn’t going to sit in San Francisco and ponder the idea while she and Noah were alone on the ranch.

Problem was, it was going to take him hours to get to Pebble Creek.

While Noah napped, Louanne took a basket of laundry outside to the clothesline, where Rowan’s pants and shirts hung on the line, drying in the warm, summer breeze.

Rowan hadn’t called yet. But then again, he couldn’t have reached her. She’d forgotten to turn up the sound of the ringer until lunchtime.

The old adage said, “No news is good news.” Still, if she didn’t hear from him by this evening, she might give him a call. Curiosity and a growing need to hear the sound of his voice was making her stir-crazy.

A car sounded in the distance, and she turned to see who it might be. There wasn’t anyone in the yard, so maybe the driver had merely used the Lazy B driveway to turn around.

An old crow landed upon a tree stump near the copse of trees that bordered the house and cawed. She turned again, glancing over her shoulder. An uneasiness settled around her, although she wasn’t sure why. Just lonely and jumpy, she supposed.

As she hung the last of the diapers on the line, she snatched up the basket and headed for the house. Noah would be waking soon.

She wiped her feet on the mat in front of the service porch door, then entered. The house was quiet, which meant Noah continued to sleep. She had half a notion to check on him, to watch his peaceful slumber—something she always found comforting. But instead, she busied herself in the kitchen.

The screen door squeaked, although she didn’t hear the door open or shut, nor did she hear the sound of footsteps. A cold shudder shimmied down her spine.

“Rowan?” she asked. Had he come home? Maybe he changed his mind and hadn’t gone to San Francisco after all.

No answer.

And her baby was just down the hall. She picked up the cast-iron skillet that rested on the stovetop, hoping it would work as a weapon, if need be, and proceeded into the living room with caution.

No one.

Had the squeaking door been her imagination? Or had the house settled? Maybe the wind had kicked up and blew it open, but that didn’t seem likely.

She continued her slow, mindful search and headed down the hall, toward Noah’s room. She needed to know her child was safe.

When she reached Noah’s open doorway, she gasped at the sight of a man hovering over the crib.

A tall man in a tweed sports jacket and rumpled khaki slacks turned and faced her.

Richard had found her. And Noah.

Her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach.

For a man who prided himself on being neat and well dressed, he’d let himself go. His ash blond hair hadn’t seen a comb in a while. And he needed a shave.

His blue-gray eyes narrowed. “Well, hello, Lanay. Or should I call you Louanne?”

She gripped the handle of the skillet, willing to use it as a weapon, if she had to.

Her first impulse was to ask what he was doing here, her second was to cry for help. But she did neither. She knew why he’d come, just as surely as she knew that no one would hear her scream.

Richard pulled back the edge of his jacket, allowing her to see the gun tucked in the waistband of his slacks. “If I didn’t know better, Lanay, I’d think you meant to harm me. Why don’t you put that thing down?”

The skillet wouldn’t protect her from his bullet, if he meant to kill her. So she set the cast-iron pan on the top of Noah’s dresser. Trying to add a touch of normalcy to the conversation, she asked, “Can I get you a glass of iced tea?”

He stepped away from the crib, away from her sleeping son, his hand on the butt of the pistol, his eyes aimed at her.

“It took some time to find you, since you apparently put a phony address through the entire college system. In Austin, I finally found someone who claimed to have known Tallulah Brown before she made it big.” Richard smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “He still had her number, if you can believe that.”

She didn’t respond.

“The first time I called, a man answered. I’d thought it was a wrong number. But just last night, I heard your voice.”

Her eerie intuition had been right. Richard had been the one who called.

“I had breakfast in Pebble Creek,” Richard said, continuing the normal charade, “at a nice little place called the Bluebonnet Café. Folks in small towns are so much friendlier than those in the cities. And they’re much more talkative than you.”

She glanced at Noah, saw him stir.

“While seated at the counter, I chatted with a pleasant fellow who actually dated your sister in high school. He called her a tease.” Richard’s lips tensed, his gray eyes narrowed. “Like you.”

Her heart threatened to burst free of her chest.

“I’m disappointed in you, Lanay. I thought we had something special.” He tore his gaze from hers, then focused on the napping child. “How old is he?”

A wad of fear settled in Louanne’s throat. She didn’t want Richard to know the baby was his, although he surely suspected it.

Did she dare lie? Let him think she’d slept with someone else, adding validity to his accusations, and really set off his fury?

But she was afraid to lend fuel to his warped need to possess her and their son.

“How old is the baby?” he asked again.

When she didn’t answer, he was across the room in an instant. He grabbed her by the arm, fingers pressing hard into her flesh, and twisted. “How could you have done this to me?”

She winced. “Done what?”

“I loved you, needed you. And you threw that back in my face. You left me. And for what reason?”

“My grandma died,” she said, reiterating the lie she’d told him when she left. “And I had to come home.”

“That’s a lie. You ran away and tried to hide, but you underestimated me.” His grip relaxed, yet she didn’t feel safe. “And you weren’t as clever as you thought.”

She tried to pull away, and he jerked her. Hard. “You lied to me, time and again. And if that child isn’t mine, I’ll have proof of your infidelity.”

When she didn’t answer, he asked, “Who is that kid’s father?”

“The man you accused me of seeing,” she said, making a decision that might be her last. But Richard had never been a man’s man. Had never confronted anyone who might prove to be a physical match. And her only hope to protect herself and Noah was to convince Richard he’d have an imminent fight on his hands. “And he’ll be home any minute. You saw his clothes hanging on the line.”

“People who love each other don’t do that to one another, Lanay. They don’t lie, they don’t cheat and they don’t leave.”

Then he jerked her from Noah’s room. When they reached the living room, his nails dug deep into the tender underside of her arm. There was no one to hear her, no one to come to her aid.

Unwilling to quietly submit and be his victim any longer, she grabbed the heavy, ornate picture frame from the lamp table and struck him in the head. Hard.

But not hard enough.

His eyes widened, rage brewing, as a trickle of blood slipped down his cheek. “You bitch.” He doubled his fist and slammed it into her face.

The pilot of the jet Rowan had chartered out of San Francisco offered to land him at one of the smaller, executive airports in the Austin area, rather than have him face the hubbub at Austin Bergstrom International. But since Rowan had flown commercially to Frisco and left his Harley at a Park and Ride, that’s where he wanted to return.

He wasn’t looking for comfort or special treatment. He just wanted to get home.

Home.

Funny, how that run-down ranch felt like home. But it wasn’t the house, the property or the rural atmosphere. It was Louanne and Noah who drew him to the Lazy B.

Rowan hadn’t shaken the uneasiness he’d felt earlier, and in fact, it had merely increased.

Of course, there were a hundred reasons why Louanne might not have answered. The phone line, like everything else on the ranch might have just worn out. Or maybe she’d decided to go with Pete and Aggie. Heck, maybe she’d left him a note.

Still, he gunned the engine of his Harley and sped faster. When he turned off the country road and onto the drive that led to the ranch house, he noticed an unfamiliar car parked along the side of the graveled road. A blue sedan. Pennsylvania plates.

Had someone run out of gas? Gotten lost? Or had someone from her past wanted to make a surprise arrival?

Rowan’s apprehension doubled, and to be on the safe side, he parked the Harley near the car, then hurried up the drive on foot. When he reached the yard, he heard voices coming from the barn.

“He’s not yours,” Louanne cried out. “Can’t you get it through your head?”

A thud sounded. And then silence.

Rowan slipped around to the side of the barn and peered into the nearest window, his gaze hampered by years of dirt and grime. He caught a glimpse of Louanne, who’d been tied to a post in the barn. Her face had been battered, her nose bloodied, her lip split.

A man dressed in khaki slacks and a sports jacket stood near her, a gun in his hand. Noah was nowhere to be seen.

Desperate to save the woman he loved, Rowan slipped around to the back of the barn. He hoped the hinges on the back door weren’t as loud as the ones on the front.

The back wall bore another window, just as dirty as the rest—maybe more so. He could make out a male form.

“You deserve to be punished for your deceit,” the man told Louanne. “I had plans for my son. That baby should be mine. In fact, I’m not at all sure that he’s not.”

“Richard, please, try and be reasonable. Untie me so we can talk.”

Rowan picked up a rock near the doorway with his right hand, then grabbed the worn, wrought-iron handle with his left. His muscles tensed, ready to spring into action in the biggest fight of his life.

Not willing to waste any more time, he chucked the rock diagonally through the window as hard as he could.

When the man turned to the sound of broken glass and the thud of the rock that hit the barn wall, Rowan rushed inside and leveled him to the floor.

A scuffle broke out, and he knocked the weapon from the man’s hands. The gun skidded across the floor, as arms flailed, fists pummeled. But Rowan was no stranger to bar fights turned free-for-alls. It didn’t take him long to silence the man with a blow to the head, knocking the fight out of him.

Rowan picked up the gun from the straw-littered ground, wanting to send the cowardly bastard on a bullet train to hell.

Instead, he untied Louanne and slipped an arm around her, the gun still aimed at the prostrate man on the floor. “Are you all right?”

“I am now that you’re here.” She touched a swollen eye and winced. “Oh, Rowan. I was so scared. I’ve got to go to Noah.”

“Where is he?”

“Sleeping, I hope.”

“Call the sheriff while you’re in there.”

She nodded, then limped into the house.

Thirty minutes later, Richard Keith was handcuffed and arrested for stalking, kidnapping and attempted murder. As he was led to a patrol car out front, he glared at Louanne, who held Noah in her arms. “Who is that kid’s father?”

“I am,” Rowan said. “I protect what belongs to me. And don’t you forget it.”

Rowan drove Louanne to the emergency room of a nearby hospital, not only to make sure her injuries weren’t serious, but to document what Richard had done to her. He carried Noah in his arms and took charge—just like a devoted father and husband.

They still hadn’t discussed the future, but Louanne was certain of one thing. She loved Rowan with all her heart, and she couldn’t imagine raising Noah without him at her side, couldn’t imagine spending another night without him lying next to her, his arms wrapped protectively around her.

She’d showered and shampooed her hair earlier, but that evening, after Noah had eaten dinner, Rowan insisted she soak in a warm bath. “To make you sleep better.”

He’d been right. She did feel better.

She carefully dried herself, then put on her white cotton nightgown. As she stood before the mirror, she ran a brush through her hair, making it shine. But there wasn’t much she could do about the black eye, the bruised and swollen cheek, the cut on her puffy lower lip. She looked like hell, probably because she’d been there earlier today. But something positive had come out of the frightening and painful experience.

Richard wouldn’t be getting out of jail for a very long time. And he wouldn’t be able to bother her again, to rob her of things like peace of mind and happiness.

As she entered the living room, she spotted Rowan on the front porch swing and joined him outside.

“Feeling any better?” His voice was soft yet husky, comforting, and he made room for her to sit beside him.

“Yes and no.” The swing creaked and swayed when she sat. “I’m glad you came when you did.”

“If I would have known about that bastard and his threat, I wouldn’t have left you alone.” He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “You’ve got to promise me something.”

“What’s that?”

“There won’t be any more secrets between us.”

“You’ve got my word.” She had no problem making a vow like that. She wanted him to be honest with her, too. “I’ve never really had anyone in my corner before.”

“Neither have I.”

“I’m sorry for not trusting you,” she said. “I should have told you about Noah’s father when you asked.”

“Just wait one darn minute.” Rowan released her hand and caught her chin with the tip of his finger, turning her gaze to his. “Let’s get something straight, honey. I have every intention of being Noah’s father—whether you’ll have me as your husband or not.”

Her heart swelled to the bursting point, and tears blurred her sight. “I love you, Rowan. More than I’d ever thought possible. And I can’t imagine anyone else being a father to my son.”

Rowan slipped his arms around her, gently but firmly. “I love you, too. So what do you think we ought to do about that?”

“I’m not sure.” She had a suggestion, but she thought he should propose the solution.

“It’s taken me a long time to find love and a family of my own, and I’d like you and Noah to be a permanent part of my life.” He brushed a gentle kiss across the tip of her nose. “I’d like to make things legal as soon as possible. How does a wedding in Las Vegas sound?”

“It sounds wonderful to me.” She smiled, ignoring the sting of the cut on her lip. “Where would you like us to make our home?”

“As long as we’re together, I don’t care. If you’d like to live on the ranch, I’ll set up my tools in the barn until I can build a permanent carpentry shop.”

“The Lazy B has never held any real appeal to me,” she said. “I don’t need to stay here. In fact, I don’t even want to.”

“Then let’s start fresh. We’ll buy a little place in the country. I’ll make furniture, and you can finish that novel.”

A grin tickled her lip, causing the cut Richard had inflicted to sting, but she didn’t let it bother her. The man she loved had just proposed, and the future lay before them, bright and promising. “Do you mind if we celebrate?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I’d love to sleep with you tonight. In a bed.”

Rowan smiled broadly. “There’s nothing I’d like more than lying beside you all night long. And I’ll try to keep my hands to myself.”

“Why in the world would you want to do that?” she asked.

“Because you’re hurt. And sore.”

“I’ll bet you’d be gentle.” She stood and reached for his hand. “Come on, Rowan. Take me to bed.”

Louanne led him into her bedroom, where they celebrated their love for each other. Rowan took her in his arms and tenderly brushed his lips across her brow, kissing each bruise that Richard had left on her—the ones on her body as well as her heart. And she pressed healing kisses on his heart and soul, as well.

Their joining was slow and easy, the passion building into the fire that blazed inside them. And as he entered her, she arched to meet him, giving as well as taking.

They reached the same mountainous peak, one that reached the heavens, and as the waves of pleasure encompassed them both, they took the first step toward a shared and promising future.

Man and woman, father and mother. Lovers who’d found forever and locked it deep in their hearts.

Don’t miss the next book in the thrilling continuity
THE PARKS EMPIRE,
coming in October 2009.
Available wherever Mills & Boon® books are sold!

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. they are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

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THE PARKS EMPIRE: SECRETS, LIES & LOVES
© Harlequin Books S.A. 2009.

First published in Great Britain 2009
Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works, which have already been published in the UK in single separate voulmues as follows:

Romancing the Enemy © Harlequin Books S.A. 2004
Diamonds and Deceptions © Harlequin Books S.A. 2004
The Rich Man’s Son © Harlequin Books S.A. 2004

Special thanks and acknowledgement are given to Laurie Paige, Marie Ferrarella and Judy Duarte for their contributions to The Parks Empire series.

ISBN: 978-1-408-91396-3