The Image Of Her Son Placing His Small Hand In Nick’s Would Be Burned In Her Memory Forever. Letter to Reader Title Page 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 Epilogue Copyright

The Image Of Her Son Placing His Small Hand In Nick’s Would Be Burned In Her Memory Forever.

At that moment, Maggie felt as if time had stopped, as if the world had stopped and nothing else existed but the two of them. The two men in her life who had changed her the most, both of them unintentionally altering her life forever. And neither one of them had a clue how important they were to her.

She found a calm in that moment. There’d been no reason for her to be so afraid of them meeting.

In a hundred years, Nick Santos would have no reason to believe that Drew was his son.

How could he, when Nick himself didn’t even realize that he’d made love to her?

Dear Reader,

Silhouette Desire matches August’s steamy heat with six new powerful, passionate and provocative romances.

Popular Elizabeth Bevarly offers That Boss of Mine as August’s MAN OF THE MONTH. In this irresistible romantic comedy, a CEO falls for his less-than-perfect secretary.

And Silhouette Desire proudly presents a compelling new series, TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB. The members of this exclusive club are some of the Lone Star State’s sexiest, most powerful men, who go on a mission to rescue a princess and find true love! Bestselling author Dixie Browning launches the series with Texas Millionaire, in which a fresh-faced country beauty is wooed by an older man.

Cait London’s miniseries THE BLAYLOCKS continues with Rio: Man of Destiny, in which the hero’s love leads the heroine to the truth of her family secrets. The BACHELOR BATTALION miniseries by Maureen Child marches on with Mom in Waiting. An amnesiac woman must rediscover her husband in Lost and Found Bride by Modean Moon. And Barbara McCauley’s SECRETS! miniseries offers another scandalous tale with Secret Baby Santos.

August also marks the debut of Silhouette’s original continuity THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS with Maggie Shayne’s Million Dollar Marriage, available now at your local retail outlet.

So indulge yourself this month with some poolside reading—the first of THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS, and all six Silhouette Desire titles!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Secret Baby Santos

Barbara McCauley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BARBARA McCAULEY was born and raised in California and has spent a good portion of her life exploring the mountains, beaches and deserts so abundant there. The youngest of five children, she grew up in a small house, and her only chance for a moment alone was to sneak into the backyard with a book and quietly hide away.

With two children of her own now and a busy household, she still finds herself slipping away to enjoy a good novel. A daydreamer and incurable romantic, she says writing has fulfilled her most incredible dream of all—breathing life into the people in her mind and making them real. She has one loud and demanding Amazon parrot named Fred and a German shepherd named Max. When she can manage the time, she loves to sink her hands into fresh-turned soil and make things grow.

To Barbara Ankrum,

whom I alternately curse and bless for

making me work so hard.

Thanks, Babs.

One

Nick Santos was the boy whom mothers in Wolf River, Texas, warned their daughters about His smile alone could charm fire from the devil, but his eyes, Lord Almighty, those eyes. Dark, mysterious eyes that all but consumed. Stay away from the likes of that boy, mothers would say with a shake of a finger. Nick Santos was trouble with a capital T.

He was fast, he was bad, and after twelve long, lucrative years on the motorcycle racing circuit, he was back.

No one was more surprised than Nick at his return. He thought he’d only come back to Wolf River to see his best friend, Lucas Blackhawk, get married. There certainly hadn’t been any plans to stick around. Nick Santos never stuck around. Never called any place home.

But now Nick realized that even before he’d returned to Wolf River to be Lucas’s best man, something had been quietly prodding him back here. Nothing he could name, just some invisible nudge, some unexplainable force that wouldn’t let him be. He’d figured that once he came back, the feeling would pass faster than a Ferrari around a ten-wheeler on the open highway.

That was six months ago. He’d not only stuck around, but at the ripe old age of thirty-three, he’d quit the racing circuit and opened up his own business: Santos Custom Cycles. Not for money—he had more of that than he knew what to do with. He didn’t give two whits about the bottom line on his earnings statement. He simply enjoyed making things work, taking them apart, putting them back together again better than before. Machines fascinated him, and his ability to master them gave him a rush that racing once had before he’d burned out.

He might not race anymore, but he still had a way with motorcycles that bordered on the supernatural. There was nothing that Nick couldn’t make a bike do. He had “the touch,” as the old-timers would say with reverence.

Of course, women said that about Nick, too.

With reverence.

He’d had little time for female companionship these past six months. His business had taken off the minute word had gotten out to the motorcycle community that four-time National Championship winner Nick Santos had opened up his own shop. Customers were lining up from all across the country to have Nick customize a bike for them. He barely had time to ride himself, let alone free time for...extracurricular activities.

Standing in front of the frozen food section at Bud and Joe’s Market, Nick sighed at the pathetic state of his romantic life. He considered the invitation for dinner that Sue Ann Finley had extended a few hours ago: red wine, juicy steak, Texas-size baked potato. And dessert, she’d murmured with a throaty whisper, was a surprise. As if he couldn’t guess. He thought about the attractive brunette’s lush body, her big brown eyes. On a whimper, he opened the freezer door and let the blast of cold slither through his jeans and flannel shirt.

But tempting as Sue Ann’s offer was, he had a carburetor to rebuild and four cylinders to bore by nine o’clock tonight if he didn’t want to deal with a screaming customer tomorrow. He hadn’t been able to face one more takeout hamburger or pizza, so he’d decided that a frozen dinner was as close to a home-cooked meal as he was going to get.

And what choices he had. He frowned at the freezer case. Manly Man’s Fried Chicken and Mashed Potatoes. Gideon’s Gourmet Cheesy Chicken Pot Pie. Chef Richard’s Macho Macaroni and Cheese. Frozen was quick and easy, and within his limited realm of cooking abilities, but it was also a far cry from that juicy steak and big steaming baked potato he’d been fantasizing about.

And speaking of fantasies...

He only caught a glimpse of hair the color of fall leaves as she turned the corner, but it was enough to tempt him away from the freezer aisle for a quick peek. He snatched a bag of chocolate chip cookies from the end display, then sauntered casually around the corner.

He’d been right about the hair. Deep red, it glittered with browns and golds and tumbled loosely around the shoulders of her cream silk blouse. Her waist would fit a man’s hands perfectly, but then, so would her slender hips and rounded bottom. The snug coffee-brown slacks she wore more than suggested long, curvy legs.

She stood no more than four feet away, in front of a six-foot-tall, circular display of canned green beans, a bright blue hand basket in the crook of her arm, her back to him as she studied a list in her hands.

Who was she? he wondered, moving closer as he feigned interest in a shelf of dried fruit. She couldn’t live in Wolf River, he definitely would have spotted this woman before if she did.

He grabbed a bag of dried noodles from the end of the shelf so he could move closer, and that’s when he caught her scent. Feminine. Seductive. Incredibly enticing. He reached for a bag of elbow macaroni and inched closer still.

Turn around, he prayed silently, anxious to see if the face matched the body.

And then she did turn around.

He forgot to breathe as he stared at her. The heartshaped face absolutely went with the body. Porcelain skin, upturned rosy lips, large expressive moss-green eyes that slowly lifted and looked at him.

When their eyes met, she went still. Her skin paled as she stared back.

She recognizes me, he thought with smug confidence, then flashed the smile that had graced more than a few celebrity sports pages and conquered even the most resistant female.

“Hi,” he said with smooth charm. She seemed immobilized, and he took that as a positive sign. “I’m Nick Santos.”

Her eyes widened at his introduction, then her lips moved, but no sound came out. Without warning, she whirled and ran smack dab into the tower of green beans.

The tower crumbled with a loud clatter. The woman went down with it; cans spilled over her, then rolled across the aisle in every direction.

Geez, he’d had all kinds of reactions from women, but never one quite like this.

Dismayed, Nick set his groceries down and knelt beside her. “Are you all right?’

She nodded, but refused to look at him, just waved him off. When he took hold of her shoulders to pull her up, she jumped in his hands as if he’d burned her.

“Maggie! Are you all right?”

George Kromby, the store manager and former high school classmate of Nick’s, came running down the aisle, his white apron flapping like wings around his short, round body.

She glanced up sharply, and the look on her flushed face, one of utter despair and complete terror, baffled Nick. Certainly she wasn’t afraid of him, was she? He didn’t even know the woman.

Or did he?

Maggie...Maggie...

There suddenly seemed something vaguely familiar about her, though he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. The scent of her perfume and the feel of warm silk under his hands was making it difficult to concentrate.

“Maggie, are you hurt?” George knelt beside them.

“Fine. I’m fine.” Her words were strained, but there was a soft, husky tone to her voice that seeped into his already heated blood. He realized that he didn’t want to let her go, but she twisted away from him and stood on her own. “I’m sorry, George. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I told Rickie that display was too high.” George fussed over her, gathering up her purse and basket as he criticized the clerk who’d built the skyscraper of green beans. Nick realized that the manager was just as captivated with the redhead as he was. Nick frowned at George, sending mental warnings that he’d seen her first.

“It was my fault completely. Please forgive my clumsiness.” Maggie smoothed the front of her slacks, then flashed George a smile that made him blush to the roots of his thinning brown hair. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get home.”

Without so much as a glance at Nick, she turned and disappeared down the soup aisle.

“Tell Mrs. Smith I said hello,” George called after her.

Mrs. Smith?

Maggie Smith?

That woman, Maggie, was skinny little Margaret Smith, with the ragtop red hair and big glasses?

The last time he’d seen her was twelve years ago, just before he’d left Wolf River. He’d been working at the machine shop, and she’d come in with her father who’d needed the pistons of his 1956 Chevy bored. Nick had been twenty-one at the time, so she must have been about sixteen or seventeen. Margaret was the shyest girl he’d ever met. He’d always said hello to her, and she’d always mumbled a hello back, but never once did she actually look at him.

Obviously she was as shy now as she’d been growing up. She still wouldn’t look at him, he thought to his annoyance, but he’d certainly looked at her. He just couldn’t believe what he’d seen. Little Margaret Smith, with a killer body and gorgeous face. If that didn’t beat all.

Her perfume lingered in the air, and it suddenly dawned on Nick that both he and George were still staring in the direction of the aisle she’d vanished down.

Nick gave the other man a friendly slap on the back. “Hey, George, let me give you a hand here with these cans.”

“What?” George blinked, then looked at Nick. “Oh, ah, that’s all right, Nick. I’ll take care of it.”

“No problem.” Nick bent and reached for a can. “So, how are Mr. and Mrs. Smith?” he asked casually. “They still living over on Belview Avenue?”

Nodding, George scooped up several cans and began to stack them. “Mr. Smith went in for knee surgery last week. Maggie flew in from New York yesterday to give her mom a hand.”

So that’s why he hadn’t seen her before, Nick realized. She’d just got into town. Bad for Mr. Smith’s knee, but good for him, Nick thought. “New York, huh? She work there?”

“Mrs. Smith says she’s a journalist with some big newspaper.” George took pride in his job and meticulously straightened the cans to line up the labels. “Has her own column and everything.”

Nick spotted a credit card lying under a pile of cans and picked it up. “Margaret Hamilton.” Damn. She was married. “That must be her husband I saw waiting out front. Big guy with blond hair?”

“Maggie’s divorced.” George glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “You fishin’, Nick?”

Nick resisted the urge to grin at the good news, then slipped the credit card in his shirt pocket. “Nah, not me, pal. Too busy for females right now.” Nick winked at George. “But you know how that is.”

“Yeah, right.” George rolled his puppy-dog eyes. “Just last night I had to tell Cindy Crawford I’d have to get back to her.”

“Iris Sweeney will be disappointed to hear that,” Nick said, deciding that a little matchmaking for George would not only boost the man’s ego, but keep him from looking in other directions.

“Iris Sweeney?”

Nick nodded. “Just last week I heard her say you have the best-looking produce section she’s ever seen.”

“No kidding?” George said with a quick grin, then cleared his throat and gave a reserved shrug of his shoulders. “I am rather proud of the organic vegetable display.”

“As you should be.” Nick hadn’t seen a vegetable in weeks. Unless you counted tomatoes on pizza or lettuce on hamburgers. He doubted they were organic, though. On an impulse he snatched up two cans of green beans. “Gotta run, George. See you around.”

“Try a can of mushroom soup and cheese with those beans,” George called after him. “They make a great casserole.”

Five minutes later, his shopping done, carburetor and pistons forgotten, Nick roared out of Bud and Joe’s parking lot and headed for Belview Avenue.

Nick Santos was back.

Still in a daze, Maggie had driven back to her parents’ house and squeezed her compact rental into the garage beside her father’s yacht-size 1977 Buick. The radio blasted a loud, heavy-metal song that she never would have listened to under ordinary circumstances, but she’d been too shaken to even notice the earpiercing noise. She shut off the engine, but a loud roar still pounded in her head.

Nick Santos was back.

She wouldn’t have believed it, except for the fact that he’d spoken to her and touched her. My God, she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. He’d actually touched her.

She was still too much in shock to even be embarrassed that she’d dived head first into a display of green beans and landed on her bottom. So much for conquering her childhood awkwardness, she thought dismally. So much for her five years as a confident, assertive journalist. One look at Nick Santos and it all went out the window.

If there was one person Maggie never expected to see again—one person she never wanted to see again—it was Nick Santos.

What was he doing here? She pressed her forehead to the steering wheel and let the wave of panic wash over her. Nick had left Wolf River twelve years ago, two years before she’d gone off to Boston for college. He’d become an overnight success with his racing. The media loved him, not only for his good looks and charm, but for his involvement with charities. She even remembered that several years ago he’d done a magazine spread for a blue jeans company and donated his endorsement to a children’s charity.

Nick Santos, with his heart-stopping smile and his take-your-breath-away eyes. He’d been in countless magazine articles, photographed at celebrity parties, hounded by the tabloids in search of dirt outside the motorcycle racing track.

But there was one article she remembered above all the rest. The paternity suit he’d been involved in five years ago. There’d been pictures of him beside a beautiful blonde and a caption that read: Santos Soon to Be a Daddy? The Courts Will Decide.

He’d eventually won that case, his lawyer proving that the woman had lied and was simply looking for some easy money. But the battle had been nasty, as well as highly publicized, and no stone in Nick’s life had been left unturned: his alcoholic mother who’d abandoned him when he was ten, an abusive stepfather, his year at Wolf River’s County Home for Boys when he was fourteen, and his close, lifelong friendship with Lucas Blackhawk and Killian Shawnessy. Nick’s life had been an open book to the world.

And still he’d smiled through it all, refusing to talk about his past or the court case with reporters, but dazzling them nonetheless with his wit and charm. He was smooth, but rough enough around the edges to make women sigh with pleasure and men grunt with approval.

And he was back. God help her, he was back.

She drew in another long, slow breath and stepped out of the car. Her knees still felt shaky, but she was determined not to let her parents see that anything was wrong. When she let herself in the front door, the smell of roast beef filled the house. If there was one thing her mother loved to do besides talk it was cook.

“Margaret, you’re back so soon.” Her mother came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishrag. In spite of her compulsive need to feed everybody who entered the house, Angela Smith was trim herself, a pretty brunette with warm brown eyes and a flashing smile. “Did you find everything all right? That new stock boy George hired has moved everything around so that my head spins just looking for a loaf of bread. Last week it took me ten minutes to find the prune juice. Which reminds me—” she turned toward the living room “—Boyd, have you had your glass today?”

Maggie’s father grunted from behind the newspaper he was reading. Bandages circled the knee of one swollen white leg, which he’d propped up on the ottoman of his easy chair, but his blue-plaid bathrobe sufficiently covered the rest of him.

Maggie realized she hadn’t bought one thing. How could she have gone grocery shopping after seeing Nick? “I...lost the list you gave me. I’ll have to go back.”

“Never you mind, honey. There’s nothing that won’t keep till tomorrow. Dinner’s almost ready.” Her mother frowned. “You look a little pale, dear. Is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing. Of course not. I’m fine, just fine.”

Not wanting her mother to see the lie, Maggie turned away quickly and set her purse on the entry table. Angela Smith knew everything that went on in Wolf River. Hadn’t her mother told her, in detail, about Helen Burnette’s divorce? About Susan Meyers’s argument with Phyllis White over her poodle’s constant barking? About Ralph Hennesy’s fender bender with Walt Johnson?

How could she tell her all those things and never once mention that Nick Santos was living here again? The man was a celebrity, for God’s sake.

Maybe Nick wasn’t really living here, Maggie reasoned. Maybe he was just visiting Lucas Blackhawk. Maggie knew that Lucas had married Julianna Hadley a few months back and that Nick had been the best man. Her parents had been invited to the wedding reception, almost everyone in town had been. Her mother had talked endlessly about Lucas and Julianna and what a wonderful couple they made. But when she’d made a fuss over how handsome Nick had looked in his suit, how charming he’d been when he’d asked her to dance, Maggie had quickly made an excuse and hung up the phone. She couldn’t talk to her mother about Nick. She couldn’t.

She couldn’t talk to anyone about Nick. Ever.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you’re all right?”

Maggie realized that she’d been staring blankly into the mirror over the entry table, and that her mother was watching her now, her eyes narrowed with concern.

“Just a little jet lag, Mom.” She turned and gave her mother a hug. “I’ll go check on Drew, then put the potatoes on.”

“Drew hasn’t budged from the video you put on before you left, and the potatoes are already boiling. Oh, and that reminds me. Miss Perry, the preschool director from the elementary school called. They have an opening if you’d like to take Drew in on Monday.”

Thank goodness for that, Maggie thought. A fouryear-old with too much time on his hands was like a tornado waiting to touch down. He’d be much happier playing with other children, and she’d be more sane. At least, she’d thought she would be, until she’d run into Nick. Keeping her sanity now was going to be much more difficult.

“You go rest up.” Her mother was already scooting her toward her old bedroom. “I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

Maybe she would rest a little, Maggie thought. A few minutes alone would give her enough time to pull herself together again. Seeing Nick had been a fluke, an unfortunate coincidence. He was probably just passing through town and stopped to say hello to Lucas. And even if he did stick around for a few days, Wolf River wasn’t all that small. The odds of running into him again were practically non-existent.

That thought eased the tightness in her shoulders. She could only imagine what he must think of her after her insane behavior in the market. No doubt he thought she was a crazy lady escaped from the funny farm.

Fine. Let him think she was crazy. As long as she didn’t have to see him again, he could think whatever he wanted.

On her way to the bedroom, Maggie leaned over and brushed her father’s whisker-rough cheek with her lips. He’d retired only six months ago from his foreman construction job and he’d had way too much time on his hands. Even after thirty-six years of marriage, her mother, who had the patience of a saint, was ready to murder the man. And if he’d been a pain-in-the-behind before, since his surgery, he’d been twice as gruff. As far as patients went, he was somewhere between Oscar the Grouch and Attila the Hun. “Can I get you anything, Daddy?”

“Sneak me a shot of whisky and a cigar,” he said in his deep gravelly voice without looking up from his paper. “There’s cash in it for you.”

“Money won’t do me any good if I’m dead. Mom says no alcohol or tobacco while you’re recuperating, and if she so much as catches a whiff of either on your breath, she’ll bruise both our behinds.”

His response was something between a growl and a grunt. He simply snapped his paper and mumbled something about overbearing wives and ungrateful children.

At the sound of the doorbell, she straightened.

“Would you get that for me, Maggie?” her mother called from the kitchen. “Jim Becker’s stopping by with a set of crutches for your father. He’s supposed to be up walking by the end of the week.”

Maggie smiled when her father only buried his head deeper into his paper. Getting a six-foot, two-hundredpound, stubborn man walking was no stroll in the park, but if anyone could do it, Maggie knew her mother could.

Other than running into Nick at the market, it felt good to be home. The scent of a roast baking, the sound of her mother’s humming from the kitchen, even her father with his nose in the paper. She missed all that. Life had gotten too crazy these past few years. She hadn’t even realized it until this minute just how crazy.

She was going to enjoy her time here, she resolved. Enjoy her time with Drew and her parents. She’d put the past behind her a long time ago; it no longer existed. There was only here and now.

The doorbell rang again and when she opened the door the past she’d put behind her stood on her parents’ doorstep, staring back at her with eyes as black and deep as a forest at midnight.

Two

Nick couldn’t remember when he’d ever seen eyes so deep green before. Eyes so big and wide and... nervous?

So she was still shy, he thought, and realized that he found it charming. Most of the women he knew always seemed so sure of themselves, confident almost to the point of intimidating. He liked a little hesitation in a woman, a little uncertainty. He especially liked the fact that he was the cause of it.

Smiling, he pulled her credit card out of his pocket. “You lost this at the market. I thought you wouldn’t mind, so I booked us a Jamaican cruise. We leave next week.”

She stared at him, then blinked and snatched the card out of his hand. “Thank you.”

Then she slammed the door in his face.

This wasn’t going exactly as he’d planned.

Nick raised his brows and stared at the closed door. The Maggie Smith he remembered might have been shy, but she’d also been sweet.

But then, the Maggie Smith he remembered had also been skinny and drab.

Damn if he wasn’t intrigued.

He noticed Mrs. Potts, the Smiths’ next door neighbor, watering the bushes that separated their properties. She’d been the dean’s secretary the six months he’d spent in Wolf River County Home for Boys, and she’d been old then. When he nodded at her, the frail woman quickly looked away, pretended she hadn’t seen that Maggie had just slammed a door in his face.

Maybe Maggie still thought of him as some kind of convict, even though his “visit” at the county boys’ home had been twenty years ago. His “offense,” a short joy ride with Linda Lansky on her older brother’s new scooter, had been harmless, but Bobby Lansky hadn’t been the understanding type. Neither had the judge, unfortunately.

But he really hadn’t minded going to the home. Lucas and Ian had both been there at the same time, and at least he got fed regularly, and no one ever punched him in the stomach for leaving a jacket on a chair or playing the stereo too loud. Hell, it had been more like a vacation.

But that was a long time ago. He couldn’t imagine that was the reason Maggie was so nervous around him.

Frowning, he stared at the front door. Whatever her reason, he should walk away. He had more work than he could handle, and he didn’t have time for a timid, high-strung female, even if she was drop-dead gorgeous.

But then, Nick Santos was not a man to walk away from a challenge. And this Maggie Smith, whoever she was, was definitely a challenge.

Besides, he was certain that incredible smell emanating from inside the Smith house was roast beef.

What the hell. He rang the doorbell again.

The door flew open, this time with Angela Smith on the other side. “Nicholas Santos! What a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in.” She took hold of his arm and tugged him into the entryway. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding. Maggie, sweetheart, look who’s here. It’s Nick!”

From the corner of his eye, behind him, Nick caught a flutter of hands, a waving motion, but when he turned, Maggie stood perfectly still, a tight, thin smile on her lips.

“We ran into each other at the store,” he said with a grin, and watched her cheeks flush at his choice of words.

“Why, Margaret Jane, you didn’t even tell me. Shame on you.” Angela closed the door. “Well, now that you’re here, you’re staying for dinner and I’ll not take no for an answer. I’m sure you like roast beef and mashed potatoes, don’t you, Nick?”

Maggie’s head snapped toward her mother. “I’m sure Nick already has other plans, Mom.”

“I love roast beef.” Nick kept his eyes on Maggie, fascinated by the small twitch of distress at the corner of her jaw. A delicate, enticing jaw, that gave way to a long, slender, enticing neck.

She wanted him gone in the worst way. Which only made him want to stay all the more.

He turned back toward her mother and handed her the grocery bag in his hand. “Bud and Joe’s was having a special on these. I thought maybe you could use some.”

Angela took the bag and looked inside. “Green beans. How thoughtful of you, Nick. I actually sent Maggie to the store for some, but she forgot the list.”

He glanced back at Maggie. The blush that had brightened her cheeks only a moment ago now colored her entire face. “Try them with a can of mushroom soup and cheese,” he said. “They make a great casserole.”

“You cook?” Angela beamed at Maggie. “He cooks, Maggie. Isn’t that wonderful? Boyd—” Angela stuck her head into the living room “—Nicholas Santos stopped by to say hello. He’s going to have dinner with us. Oh, heavens, I’ve got to check on the biscuits. Maggie, sweetheart, take Nick out to say hello to your father.”

Nick watched Maggie squirm when her mother left them alone in the entry hall. She stood stiff as a fence post, and he could see her battle between good manners and tossing him out of the house.

Whatever was going on here with the woman, Nick had the distinct feeling it went beyond shyness.

A challenge and a mystery. Now if only he could get the lady to talk to him, he just might stand a chance. “I heard you got married.”

She glanced over her shoulder toward her father. “Yes, I did.”

Nick frowned. That wasn’t the right answer. She was supposed to tell him she was divorced. “I also heard you got divorced.”

Surprise lit her eyes as she looked back at him. “Did you?”

Not exactly an answer, but Nick never gave up easily. “I also heard you’re a journalist for a New York newspaper. With your own column even.”

That brought a lift of one finely arched eyebrow. “You heard all that.”

“So are you?”

“A journalist?”

“Divorced.”

“Oh. Yes.”

He took a step closer. Damn, but she smelled good. “Maybe we could go out for dinner sometime. Catch up on what we’ve been doing for the past twelve years.”

She took a step back. “I don’t think so, Nick. I’m just here to help take care of my dad for a few weeks. I won’t really have much time.”

“Coffee, then.” He moved in closer again, drew the scent of her deep into his lungs. “Tomorrow night.”

Something caught her ear, the faint sound of laughter, Nick thought. She paled, then grabbed hold of his arm and nearly dragged him into the living room. “Why don’t we go say hello to my father?”

Her abrupt change of behavior surprised him, but since she was actually touching him, he decided they were making progress. “How’s the leg, Mr. Smith?” Nick asked the back of the sports page.

The paper came down. Boyd Smith still looked the same, though he was bald now over a rim of silvergray hair. He still had the same scruffy eyebrows and penetrating stare. “You still riding those motorcycles, Santos?”

“Only for pleasure now, sir.”

“Got any whisky?”

“Not on me.”

‘How ’bout a cigar?’

“’Fraid not.”

“Next time you come over, see that you bring both.”

“Yes, sir.”

The paper went back up, and Nick assumed that their talk was over. Not exactly a long conversation, but a productive one. He’d already been invited back. He grinned at Maggie, but she merely frowned. When she realized that she was still holding his arm, she quickly dropped her hand.

“Excuse me.” She backed away. “I need to...check on something. Why don’t you just have a seat and I’ll be back in a—”

“Mommy, my movie’s over!”

The flying tackle from a pair of small arms caught Maggie around the knees from behind, sending her sprawling forward into Nick’s arms. He caught her smoothly, fully enjoying the feel of her soft body and full breasts against his chest. Much to Nick’s delight, she struggled to disentangle herself, which only increased the friction of their bodies.

Her body still flush with his, Maggie looked up at Nick, a mixture of shock and horror in her eyes. She finally managed to wrench herself free, then turned to face the three-foot-high, dark-haired dynamo who’d knocked her off her feet.

“Drew!” Maggie gasped. “I’ve told you not to do that.”

“I forgot.” The youngster stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans and glanced down contritely. “Sorry. I just wanted to hug you.”

Nick knew a con job when he heard one. This kid was good, he thought with amusement. And cute, too. Nick knew nothing about children, but he’d guess the boy to be around five or so, with dark, almost black hair nearly the same color as his big, thickly lashed eyes. His oversize feet were encased in thick-soled tennis shoes, and Nick could only imagine he’d be tall as a doorway by the time he was sixteen.

So little Maggie Smith had a kid. How ’bout that.

He watched her kneel beside her son, saw the struggle on her face to remain stern. “Hugs shouldn’t hurt, sweetheart. You have to be more careful.”

The child nodded, then glanced up. His dark eyes turned wary at the sight of a stranger, but he didn’t look away or step back.

Maggie stood stiffly behind her son, her hands on his shoulders as she faced Nick. “Drew...” She hesitated, then pulled in a breath and continued, “This is Nick Santos. Nick, this is my son, Drew.”

Nick stuck out his hand, which the child promptly accepted. Nice grip, Nick thought. “How’s it going, Drew?”

“You drive a truck?” the boy asked.

Did everyone in this family answer a question with a question? Nick wondered. “Yes, but mostly I ride a motorcycle.”

“Motorcycles are cool,” Drew said with all the authority of a child, “but I want to drive a truck when I grow up.”

“Maybe we can go for a ride sometime, if your mom says it’s okay.”

“Really?” Drew’s eyes brightened. “On the motorcycle or the truck?”

“Either. Both.”

“Wow. Really? Can I, Mom?”

Maggie had been vigorously shaking her head, but she went still when Drew looked up hopefully at her.

“I don’t think so, honey. You’re not big enough for motorcycles yet.”

“I’m almost five,” Drew complained. “Tommy Fuscoe rides on his daddy’s motorcycle all the time, and he’s littler than me.”

“You’re not Tommy Fuscoe,” Maggie said firmly. “But we’ll see.”

A definite no, Nick realized. But with the two of them working on her, Nick was confident they’d change her mind...one of several things he intended to change her mind on.

“Wanna see my bike?” Drew looked at Nick. “My grandpa got it for me just to have here. Didn’t you, Grandpa?”

“Needs new tires,” Boyd mumbled with a flip of his newspaper.

“C’mon.” The youngster sprinted through the front door. “It’s in the garage.”

“After you.” Nick swept his hand out and Maggie moved past him, though she was careful not to brush against him. But the warmth of her body where she’d been thrust against him only a few moments ago still lingered on him, and he was anxious to feel that warmth again.

And next time she fell into his arms, he intended that they be alone.

He caught her arm on the porch, took it as a good sign when she didn’t immediately pull away. “Cute kid,” he said, wanting a moment alone with her now. “He must look like his father.”

She shrugged, then glanced in the direction her son had run, but not before Nick caught the flicker of pain in her eyes. Damn, he thought. She must still be hung up on the guy.

“You see him much?”

Frowning, she looked back at him. “See who?”

“Drew’s father. Your ex.”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “He lives in Vancouver.”

He thought of his own father, a man he never knew, then thought of the stepfather he wished he’d never known, and felt an instant kinship with Maggie’s son. “That must be hard on Drew.”

“He was only a year old when we divorced. He doesn’t remember him.” She jammed her hands into her pockets and sighed. “Look, Nick, I appreciate you stopping by, but I really would rather—”

Drew’s scream stopped her, and she was off the porch running toward the garage in a space of a heartbeat. Nick took the porch steps in one jump and was rounding the side of the house when he heard the sound of a child’s sobs from inside the garage.

He found mother and son kneeling beside the bumper of a white compact. Crushed under the right front tire was the back wheel of a child’s bicycle.

“You broke it,” Drew cried. “You broke my bike.”

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” Maggie looked up at Nick, her face stricken. “I...I didn’t see it.”

Nick moved around to the passenger door, put the car in neutral and pushed it backward. Metal creaked as the car’s tire rolled off the bike.

Tears streamed down Drew’s face as he reached for the handlebars and attempted to stand the twisted bike up. “I’ll never ride it now,” he railed.

“I’ll get you another bike, sweetie.” Maggie reached out to touch her son’s shoulder, but he shrugged away from her.

“I don’t want another bike. This was the best one, and Grandpa gave it to me.”

Nick studied the bike and without thinking, said, “I’ll fix it.”

Drew stopped crying, and both mother and son looked up at him. Good grief, Nick thought. Where had that come from? He’d never fixed a kid’s bike in his life.

“You will?” Drew swiped at the tears on his cheeks.

The shop was backed up with two weeks of work, he had a mountain of paperwork to do, but what the hell? “Sure. A bicycle’s just a motorcycle without an engine, right? Can’t be much different. You can come to my shop and help me. We’ll make it good as new. Better, even.”

“Better?” Drew’s face lit up. “And I can come help? Really? Did you hear that, Mommy? Nick says I can help. I’m gonna go tell Grandma and Grandpa.”

In a flash of tennis shoes and blue jeans, he was gone. Her mouth open, Maggie stared after her son, then slowly turned to Nick. “This is very embarrassing. You must think I’m some kind of an idiot.”

He smiled, leaned in close enough to see the threads of dark brown in her deep green eyes. “Come out for coffee with me tomorrow, and I’ll tell you what I think of you.” He’d show her, as well, if she’d let him close enough.

She shook her head, but not before he saw the hesitation. And something else, something wistful and sad. “I’m sorry, Nick. I’m just so busy right now. I really can’t.”

He was trying to imagine her busy, exciting schedule. No work, home all day with her parents and an almost-five-year-old. “Can’t,” he asked carefully, “or don’t want to?”

Her gaze was steady as she met his. “I’m sorry,” she said evenly. “I’m just not interested.”

Well, that was certainly to the point, especially coming from such a shy, sweet girl. The words had even been spoken gently, but were still a direct verbal blow to his pride nonetheless. He nodded, backed off from her. “Can I ask why?”

She dragged a hand through her hair, then sighed. “Like I told you, I’m only here for a few weeks to help my parents, that’s all. I didn’t come here for—”

He grinned when she hesitated, lifted one brow. “Wild sex?”

Surprise widened her eyes at his outrageous comment. They both knew he was teasing, but still, something passed between them. Something intense and distinctly sexual.

“You think that’s what I had in mind, Maggie? Coffee, then wild sex?” He put a hand over his chest and gave her his best wounded look. “I might be fast, darlin’, but I’m not easy.”

She blushed rosy-red. Damn if he didn’t itch to touch her heated skin and smooth his fingers over her cheek.

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said softly. “But like I said, I’m just here for my parents.”

For a woman who wasn’t interested, she was awfully nervous, awfully tense. And as curious as that made him, he knew when to back off.

For the time being.

“All right, then.” He flashed her his best smile, then held out his hand. “How ’bout friends?”

She stared at his hand for a long moment before slipping her fingers into his palm. “Sure.” She smiled weakly. “Friends would be great.”

Her skin was smooth against his, soft and warm, and he was certain her fingers shook before she quickly pulled away. There was heat between them, all right, he thought with mild satisfaction. No question about it.

“I’ll explain something to Drew,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll understand how busy you must be at your shop. There’s a bicycle repair in town I can call in the morning.”

“I didn’t offer to fix Drew’s bike to get you in bed, Maggie,” he said tightly. “Whatever it is you think of me, I haven’t sunk that low, yet.”

“I’m sorry.” Distress narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just thought you might have spoken before you realized what you were letting yourself in for. I was offering you an out.”

“I’ll let you know when I need an out.” He bent down to study the bike. “I can straighten the wheel, but I may have to order a couple of new parts. Come by my shop tomorrow with the bike and Drew. I’ll give you both the nickel tour.” He relaxed, gave her a slow, easy grin. “I even promise not to hit on you.”

She smiled back, the first real smile he’d managed to lure from her. Her eyes softened and for the first time since he’d plucked her out of that stack of tumbled green beans, the tension between them eased.

Damn if she wasn’t even more beautiful when she smiled like that, and damn if he hadn’t promised not to do anything about it.

All he had to figure out now was how to get her interested without coming on to her.

This was a first for him, he realized, and brightened at the prospect. It wasn’t going to be easy. Even now, in the face of her rejection, all he could think about was pulling her into his arms and tasting that gorgeous mouth of hers.

In the meantime, he thought with a sigh, since he couldn’t have what he really wanted, roast beef and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy would have to keep him satisfied.

Three

She couldn’t sleep. Hot shower, warm milk, counting sheep, three chapters of a boring book. Nothing had worked. She was wide awake, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about Nick.

Dinner with him tonight had been the longest two hours of her entire life.

She’d sat beside him, said grace, then passed him the potatoes as nonchalantly as if he were any other guest at her parents’ table for any other dinner.

But it was hardly just any other dinner, and Nick was hardly just any other guest.

He certainly had a healthy appetite, Maggie thought. The way he packed food away, she couldn’t believe he wasn’t at least twenty pounds heavier. But there wasn’t an ounce of fat on the man. She’d discovered that firsthand when Drew had tackled her straight into those strong arms and Nick had held her against his broad chest. He was solid muscle, every last inch of his six-foot-four-inch frame.

Exactly as she remembered him five years ago.

How could he just show up here like this now, throwing her entire life into turmoil?

With a groan she sat and turned on the bedside lamp. Running into Nick at the store had been one thing. That she could have handled. But him showing up here, charming everyone in sight, including Drew, was another matter entirely.

The image of her son placing his small hand in Nick’s would be burned in her memory forever.

At that moment she’d felt as if time had stopped, as if the world had stopped and nothing else existed but the two of them. The two men in her life who had changed her the most, both of them unintentionally altering her life forever. And neither one of them had a clue how important they were to her.

When her heart had started beating again, when she’d recovered her ability to breathe, all she could do was watch them, watch them in amazement and disbelief that two such wonderful people had touched her life.

She’d found a calm in that moment. As if she’d been waiting for that moment without even realizing it, and now that it had happened, she felt an incredible relief. She’d also realized she’d been acting like an idiot. There’d been no reason for her to be so afraid of them meeting.

In a hundred years Nick Santos would have no reason to believe that Drew was his son.

How could he, when Nick himself didn’t even realize that he’d made love to her?

Sometimes even she wondered if she’d dreamed that night, if she’d simply lost it completely and confused a fantasy with reality. At those moments all she’d have to do was look into her son’s eyes, watch him smile and she knew the truth: Drew was Nick’s son. Absolutely no doubt about it.

And she’d do everything in her power to be certain that Nick never knew.

The soft light from the table lamp spilled onto the rose wallpaper, and Maggie stared at the delicate patterns of flowers and vines. This had been her bedroom growing up, until the day she’d left ten years ago. Hoping for excitement, she’d chosen a large East Coast university, but had realized soon enough that a plain, painfully shy small-town girl just didn’t fit in with the big city. She stuck it out, though, earned her journalism degree, and through a college placement agency found her first job with the North Carolina Tribune. Never mind she was making coffee and filing, and no one in the office ever gave her a second look, she had a real job with a real newspaper. She’d vowed to prove herself somehow, make them see she could write the best damn article the Tribune had ever seen. All she needed was a chance.

Eight months later, due to a flu epidemic that left two-thirds of the office home in bed, she finally got her chance. A sports assignment. Following the National Motorcycle Championship race that afternoon at the local speedway, she was supposed to interview twotime national champion Nick Santos.

She went straight to the bathroom and threw up.

Of all the assignments, of all the people in the world to interview, fate had given her Nick Santos, the man who’d rescued her from Roger Gerckee when she was thirteen years old. She remembered every wonderful, glorious moment of that day.

She’d been eating lunch alone, as she always did, in the back of the lunch area. Roger had singled her out that day and had been taunting her about her braces, big glasses and curly red hair. She’d managed to ignore him until he snatched her sandwich and threw it in the trash can, but then she hadn’t been able to stop the tears of humiliation and anger.

Like a knight on a white horse, Nick Santos suddenly appeared. Vividly she could still remember the fury in Nick’s dark eyes, hear the deadly calm in his voice, when he’d told Roger that he shouldn’t be wasting food like that, then dumped the bully in the same trash can. The entire school had cheered, and she had fallen hopelessly in love.

She’d never told anyone her feelings for Nick. She would have been the laughingstock of the school if she had. She was different from the other girls. They’d always known what to say, what to wear, how to act. She’d simply never fit in, and falling for a boy like Nick was absurd. Nick was not only older, he was part of the notorious Bad-Boy Trio. A girl had to be fast to hang with Nick, she’d heard in whispered rumors, not to mention gorgeous and ready for a little danger.

Maggie had been none of those things, and the most dangerous thing she’d ever done was sneak in late to algebra class while Mr. Greenbaum, the teacher, had his back turned. She’d resigned herself that bad-boy Nick Santos would never, in a million years, look twice at a girl like her.

So it had just simply been more comfortable, and definitely safer, to immerse herself in books and school projects, and keep her fantasies about Nick to herself. In those fantasies, she was fast, she was gorgeous, a femme fatale that stole his breath and heart and he wanted only her. She was as bad as he was, and damn good at it. Those fantasies had carried her through high school and college.

Until that day five years, six months ago, when she either had to interview him or lose her job.

She’d watched the race from the stands that day, cheered when Nick won his third national championship, driven to his hotel, then sat in her car forty-five minutes before she’d been able to work up the nerve to go up to his suite and actually knock on the door.

The celebration party of Nick’s win was in full swing when she stepped—no, when she was dragged—through the door of the elegant suite by a large dark-haired man sporting a ponytail. People packed the room, laughing and talking, hard-rock music pounded from a stereo system, and a blond man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt circled the room pouring champagne. The women were all beautiful, the men rugged and handsome, and Maggie had never felt more out of place in her entire life.

She couldn’t do this. She still hadn’t seen Nick, and even if he’d seen her, he wouldn’t remember her, anyway. He had a different woman on his arm every time the tabloids took his picture. If she left right now, she wouldn’t have to suffer the humiliation of him having no idea who she was.

She was already turning to leave, already formulating the lie she’d tell her boss, when the Hawaiian man blocked her way and shoved a flute of champagne at her.

“You here from the hotel?” he asked.

Dressed in her tailored navy blue shirt and blazer, she could understand why he’d think she was hotel staff. “Well, actually—”

“It’s in the bedroom bathroom. I thought someone should look at it, but you don’t need to send anyone to fix it until tomorrow.”

She tried to explain she wasn’t with the hotel, but the noise level had risen considerably when two women grabbed Nick and started to dance with him, and the man leading her toward the bedroom couldn’t hear her explanation.

She stumbled at the sight of him dancing with the women. Well, he wasn’t exactly dancing, he was sort of watching more than anything. Her heart pounded furiously. He was as handsome as ever, his hair as thick and dark as she remembered, his smile just as dazzling. She couldn’t find her voice when Hawaiian Man nudged her into the bedroom, then took off.

Grateful for the quiet, Maggie slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She stared at the champagne in her hand, held her breath and took a big gulp. The bubbles lingered in her throat, tickling, and though she never drank much, she realized she liked the taste. She also liked the sudden shot of confidence buzzing through her.

Setting her cotton workbag on the bathroom counter, she recovered her handheld tape recorder, turned it on and cleared her throat. “Testing, testing,” she spoke into the recorder, cleared her throat and said quietly, “Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, a fly can’t bird, but a bird can fly.” She listened to the recording, then flipped it off again and closed her eyes as she took another drink of champagne.

When she opened her eyes again, she looked into the bathroom mirror and stared at herself. She could have at least put some lipstick on, tried to do something with her wild hair. She’d just never known what to do when it came to cosmetics and hairstyles. Or maybe it had just never mattered to her. Suddenly it seemed to matter very much.

But there was nothing that could be done about it now. With a sigh, she removed her glasses and turned the faucet on, intending to splash cold water on her face. A stream of water sprayed up at her, drenching the front of her jacket. Gasping, she fumbled with the faucet handle and shut off the water. Looks like she found out what Hawaiian Man had wanted her to look at.

Groaning, she removed her jacket and slipped it into her bag with her glasses, then mopped up the water on the counter and floor with a hand towel. This cinched it for her. She was leaving.

She downed the remaining champagne, drew in a deep breath and slipped out of the bathroom.

Someone had closed the bedroom door to the outside parlor and the bedroom was cloaked in darkness. Maggie had no idea where the light switch was, so she felt her way across the large bedroom. The corner couch, a desk chair, the edge of the king-size bed.

A man’s chest.

Startled, she stumbled back onto the bed with a strangled cry.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He sat down beside her on the bed. “I thought maybe you were in here.”

It was Nick! Maggie could barely breathe. He’d actually seen her? And recognized her? His thigh nudged hers and her pulse turned erratic as a New York taxi driver.

“You did?” Because she couldn’t draw air into her lungs, her words had a soft, breathless quality to them.

He slipped an arm behind her. “I heard you wanted to see me.”

“Well, I...ah, yes, actually.” How clever she was. How professional. Sophisticated, she thought with disgust.

“I don’t want to keep you from your party,” she said, reaching for her bag that had spilled over somewhere on the floor. Why hadn’t he turned the light on? And why didn’t she suggest that he do so now?

Because she liked it, she realized. Sitting on a bed in the dark with Nick, with champagne buzzing in her head and the masculine scent of his aftershave deep in her lungs.

“They moved the party to the suite across the hall. There’s a football game on and that TV is bigger.”

“Well,” she said, her voice strained, “I guess bigger is better.”

He laughed, and the rich, deep sound of it was like velvet stroking her skin. His finger traced a hot, electric trail up her arm to her shoulders where he threaded his fingers through the ends of her curly hair. “You let your hair grow. I like it.”

He noticed her hair? Nick Santos, who hadn’t seen her in at least seven years, had really noticed her hair? The buzz in her head increased with his nearness, with his touch. When his hand skimmed up her back, she trembled. “Thank you.”

“Relax,” he said softly, and she felt his breath on her ear. “I realize it’s been a while, but you don’t have to be so nervous.”

There was a roughness to his voice, a sensual quality that sent shivers up her spine. “I’m not nervous,” she lied. “But I know how busy you are and I thought that...well, that maybe we should, uh, get started.”

He chuckled quietly, then touched her cheek with his fingertips. “You always did make me laugh.”

She wasn’t sure how to take that. Did he mean, laugh, like laugh at her, or laugh, like she said something funny. But he couldn’t mean that. She’d never said more than hello to him.

And when his lips closed over hers, when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down on the bed, every thought she’d ever had flew out of her head.

She’d been kissed twice in her life before. Once in the tenth grade by Kevin Hatcher, and once by Brian Whitman, who’d sat next to her in an American history course in her second year of college. But neither kiss had tasted like champagne and pure, unadulterated lust, neither kiss had turned her upside down and inside out. Those other kisses would be like comparing a spark to a raging inferno.

His arms tightened around her, and she melted into that inferno, let herself be swept up in the roaring flames, despite the voice from somewhere deep inside her that told her she shouldn’t be doing this.

“Nick,” she gasped softly when he moved over her jaw and blazed kisses down her neck, “I don’t think—”

“Good—” he nipped at the corner of her ear, then found a soft sensitive spot behind her lobe “—don’t think. It feels so much better when you don’t think.”

He was right. So incredibly right. It felt wonderful. Like nothing she’d ever experienced, and was certain she’d never experience again. How many years had this been her fantasy? Why should she deny herself this? She was an adult. Twenty-four. Wasn’t it time she found out what it was really like to be with a man? And this wasn’t just any man. This was Nick.

She heard a soft moan and was startled to realize it came from her. His hands were everywhere now, on her breasts, her leg, pushing her skirt up and sliding up her thigh. Her skin burned everywhere he touched and when he stroked between her legs, caressed her gently, she felt an ache she’d never known before, a desperate need for him to be closer still.

“You’re different,” he murmured between kisses.

He was right. She was different. From the first moment he’d kissed her, she was no longer shy little Maggie Smith. She felt like a woman for the first time in her life—a sexy, sensuous woman. She pulled his mouth back to hers, moaned when he unbuttoned her blouse and slipped his hand inside to cup her breast. When he pushed the cotton fabric aside and teased her hardened nipples with his thumb she moaned again, then cried out a moment later when his mouth replaced his thumb.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sensations that rocked her body. Pleasure shot like an arrow from her breast to the most intimate part of her. She arched upward, touching him, whispering his name over and over, until clothes were gone and he was finally where she wanted him to be, where she needed him to be.

There was no pain that she noticed, only intense, unbearable pleasure when he filled her. A pleasure that built as he moved, coiled and tightened until she shattered from the sheer force of it. And then he shattered, as well, she realized, amazed that she could do that.

Her heart was still beating wildly when he pulled her close and tucked her tightly against him. “Stay with me, Cindy,” he whispered, kissing her softly.

Cindy?

Good God, he thought she was someone else.

Humiliation stiffened her body. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She simply wanted to be swallowed up whole and never seen again. She lay like that, until she heard the soft, regular sound of his breathing, then slipped out from the bed, quietly gathered her clothes and dressed in the dark.

She was at her car before the pain seized hold of her, halfway home before the tears started. She’d had to pull over to the side of the road and let the torrent rip through her. He’d thought she was someone else, thought he’d made love to someone else in the dark.

Someone named Cindy.

He’d be furious when he found out, she thought frantically. Or else he’d laugh his head off. Either way, she could never face him again. Ever.

But if he thought she was Cindy, then he didn’t know whom he had made love to, did he? No one had known who she was. The Hawaiian man thought she was from the hotel. She’d never given her name to anyone, and Nick had never actually seen her. He didn’t know it was poor little Maggie Smith in his bed, a woman at whom he never would have looked twice.

And he would never know, she resolved. Never.

She went home that night and wrote her article. The editor of the newspaper was pleased enough with her work to give her more assignments, and slowly she worked her way into a permanent column in the Health section of the paper.

Two months later, as she stared at the positive tester for pregnancy in one hand and an article about Nick’s paternity suit in the other hand, she knew she couldn’t tell him he was going to be a father. He didn’t even know he’d made love to her. How could she stand the humiliation of actually trying to prove that he had, only to have him reject her and their child, anyway? He’d wanted no part of her, and he certainly wouldn’t want any part of a child.

Nick Santos, whom she’d loved from afar since she was thirteen years old, was the father of her child. She touched her stomach, marveling at the wonder of it all. She’d love this child with every breath, with every beat of her heart. She’d had Nick for only one night, but she’d have his child for the rest of her life. Happiness overflowed, gave her the strength to tell her parents she was pregnant and had no intention of marrying the man, gave her the determination to take control of her life, to gain the confidence she’d never had, and the resolve to let go of the past and forget Nick Santos.

She married Richard, a journalist at the Tribune, when Drew was six months old, but they both realized it was a mistake six months later, and the divorce was friendly. She’d been offered a job in New York shortly after that, and one year later she had her own column at the Times. Her apartment was small but homey, and close to the park. When she wasn’t working and the weather permitted, she and Drew spent most of their time there. She was content with her life, where she’d come from, and where she was going.

She was no longer poor little Maggie Smith. She’d learned more than a few things about life, even learned how to use makeup and what to do with her hair. The glasses had gone in the trash, she wore contacts now, and living in New York had taught her about clothes and style.

She was a new woman, one she liked. A mother and a successful journalist. She didn’t need anything else in her life right now. Not a man, and most certainly not Nick Santos.

“So let me get this straight.” Lucas Blackhawk leaned against the fire-engine-red toolbox and tipped the soda can to his lips. “You’re telling me that Nick Santos, ladies’ man, most dedicated bachelor west of the Mississippi, is actually having woman problems?”

“Did I say I was having woman problems?” The wrench in Nick’s hand slipped off the exhaust bolt he’d been tightening and skidded across the concrete floor. Nick glared at Lucas. “I never said a damn thing about woman problems. Are you here to help, Blackhawk, or just drink my soda and butt into my personal life?”

“Testy this morning, aren’t we?” Lucas took another swallow of root beer and scrubbed at his Saturday-morning beard. “So she said no, huh? Pray tell, who is this woman of such high refinement and intelligence?”

“If you’re not going to help,” Nick growled, “get the hell out of here. I’m busy.”

“I’m helping.” Nick reached into a drawer in the toolbox and handed Nick a half-inch wrench. “Just tell me who she is, Nick. I won’t laugh at you, I promise.”

Nick grabbed the wrench and knelt back down beside the motorcycle. He knew damn well that Lucas wouldn’t leave him alone until he found out the name of the mysterious woman. “Margaret Smith,” he muttered under his breath.

“What’s that you say?” Lucas cupped his ear and leaned closer. “Ingrid Whit?”

“Margaret Smith,” Nick snapped back as he settled the wrench on the bolt again. “Maggie Smith.”

If he hadn’t been so annoyed, Nick would have enjoyed the blank look on Lucas’s face.

“Maggie Smith?” Lucas repeated, wrinkling his brow. “You mean, quiet-as-a-mouse, never-lookedanyone-in-the-eye, big glasses and curly red hair Maggie Smith?”

“The same.” Only definitely not the same, Nick thought.

Lucas gave a snort of laughter. “Well, no wonder she turned you down, Santos. You asked out a woman with an IQ higher than her shoe size.”

The wrench slipped off the bolt again and flew out of his hands. Eyes narrowed, Nick straightened and snatched a rag from his back pocket. “Don’t you have a ranch and a wife to go home to, Blackhawk? A pregnant wife?”

“My foreman has a handle on the ranch and besides, Julianna is cranky this morning. Our boys had a soccer game going on in her belly all night. I thought she needed some time alone.”

“I need some time alone. Get the hell out of here.”

Lucas grinned and settled back comfortably against the toolbox. “So other than her apparent good sense and keen judgment, why’d Maggie turn you down?”

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