“The Journey To Your Heart, And Your Bed, Is A Difficult One.”

“Do you always have to come straight to the point?” Rose asked. Leaning against the front-porch post, his cotton shirt unbuttoned above his crossed arms and wearing jeans like any other Waterville male, Stefan took her breath away.

Rose forced herself back to the garden of reason, picking out the weeds of temptation. She’d known him for only two weeks; he came from a different world. He would be leaving, once boredom hit him—or summer ended.

“Yes, I do always come to the point.”

She stared meaningfully at Stefan. He looked more like lover material than a husband. Rose didn’t want to dip into dreams safely tucked away. “I think you’d better leave.”

“Very well. But I want you to think about this—I have waited too long for a woman like you. The single women of Waterville have started hunting me, and I want you to call them off. I cannot oblige the not-so-subtle invitations to their beds, because I intend to be in yours.”

A Loving Man
Cait London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAIT LONDON

lives in the Missouri Ozarks but loves to travel the Northwest’s gold rush/cattle drive trails every summer. She enjoys research trips, meeting people and going to Native American dances. Ms. London is an avid reader who loves to paint, play with computers and grow herbs (particularly scented geraniums right now). She’s a national bestselling and award-winning author, and she has also written historical romances under another pseudonym. Three is her lucky number; she has three daughters, and the events in her life have always been in threes. “I love writing for Silhouette,” Cait says. “One of the best perks about all this hard work is the thrilling reader response and the warm, snug sense that I have given readers an enjoyable, entertaining gift.”

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

One

“You’re old-fashioned and don’t know what it is to be young.” His daughter’s words raked Stefan Donatien; their argument of the early morning still scalded him. “You can’t keep me as a child forever,” Estelle had said furiously.

Brooding about her temper, a match to his own, Stefan had escaped the farmhouse he had just purchased. His mission into Waterville, a small Midwestern town, provided a time in which to recover and reshape his defenses. His mother, Yvette, often agreed with Estelle. A man alone against a volatile, twenty-year-old daughter, and his French mother, Stefan often had to find “caves” into which to retreat. They loved him, and he returned that love, but his women could be difficult at times, united against him.

Though he was born in the United States, his daughter and French-born mother, Yvette, often accused him of being “old-world.” “Perhaps if you had a lover, you would not be so obsessed with keeping Estelle a child,” his mother had stated. “You may have buried your heart with your wife, Claire, but you did not bury your life. At your age, I was already a grandmère and I did not stop living when your father passed on. You are only forty-two, and yet you are old before your time. See there? A gray hair.”

Stefan inhaled the early May air and tried to settle his raw nerves, raked by the formidable women he loved deeply. They might see him as an overbearing tyrant, but every instinct he possessed told him to protect them.

He listened to the rumbling of the old pickup’s engine as he cruised into Waterville. The ancient farm pickup suited the rural Missouri town much better than the luxury car he’d used in Chicago. The small community, wedged amid the surrounding farms and rolling green mountains, was the perfect place in which to protect his daughter from Louie, alias The Freeloader.

Stefan scowled at the truck’s rearview mirror and at his right temple; his single gray hair gleamed, mocking him. In many ways, he felt as battered as the pickup that came with the Smith’s farm. It was only a matter of time before Louie took Estelle as a lover. To avoid that, Stefan had decided to give his daughter the one thing she’d always wanted—the experience of living in a small, Midwestern American town.

Stefan’s old pickup prowled by Waterville’s vegetable gardens lined with new green plants. Heavy with morning dew, pink and white peonies leaned against the picket fences and shade trees bordered the streets. A yellow school bus stopped to pick up children clustered on the sidewalk. Seated on their porch swings, women with curlers in their gray hair whispered about the new owner of the Smith farm as he passed. A widower with a slight accent, a beautiful twenty-year-old daughter and an enchanting, happy French mother was certain to be noticed.

It was only the third day since Stefan had moved his family to the rural community. With the exception of clashing with him over Estelle’s adult status, they seemed happy. It wasn’t easy uprooting his family and moving them to the safety of the small town. But then Stefan was a powerful businessman who knew how to make decisions, especially when his daughter was endangered. As soon as Estelle’s college finals were over, Stefan had put his plan to protect his daughter into motion. A trusted friend and employee now managed the restaurant line that Stefan’s father had begun, Donatien’s French Cuisine Restaurants.

His father, Guy, would have dealt harshly with Estelle, just as he had with his boy, Stefan, demanding perfection and obedience.

Stefan smiled tightly, remembering his father and better understanding the fear that sometimes ruled a parent. Guy had wanted the best for Stefan, just as Stefan wanted the best for Estelle.

He inhaled abruptly. Though he loved his father, he did not favor Guy’s strict parental control and too high standards. Stefan had promised himself not to be so exacting and controlling with his daughter. He wasn’t happy that his protective-father-mode sometimes erupted into just that—“I forbid you” sounded exactly like his father. His headache started to throb in rhythm to the rumble of the old vehicle’s engine.

A horde of young boys on bicycles soared past him, and Stefan braked slowly. Beneath the ball caps turned backward on their heads, their expressions were wary and curious of the new stranger. Even the dog, running at their side, noted Stefan’s presence with excited barking.

At least Estelle was safe for the moment, her insolent, lazy boyfriend in Chicago.

Stefan’s hands tightened on the old steering wheel as he heard his snarl. With long dirty hair and baggy pants, Louie had already started asking for handouts from Stefan. Louie had made it clear that he would not lower himself to work in the renowned Donatien Restaurants. Estelle was like her mother at that age: innocent and trusting, and she did not notice Louie’s gaze stripping other girls, or his flirtation. Stefan recognized the look of lust, though he had been celibate since the death of his wife ten years ago.

Stefan rolled his taut shoulders as he parked in front of Granger’s Wallpaper and Paint store. He had the summer until his daughter went back to college; Louie was certain to be unfaithful and Estelle would be protected.

He stepped from the pickup, and glanced down at his unfamiliar clothing—jeans, a T-shirt and worn jogging shoes. At this time of day in Chicago, he would be dressed in a suit, busy in his office. Later on, he would dismiss his jacket and vest and roll up his sleeves, put on an apron and enjoy cooking in a Donatien kitchen. He couldn’t wait for the fresh herb starts that he had ordered to arrive; soon only the best fresh farm eggs, milk and butter would go into his omelettes, a dash of chopped chives, a sprinkle of—

Stefan inhaled the fresh morning air, studied the small neat town with its shops opening for customers. His mother and daughter weren’t the only ones looking forward to life in Waterville; he planned to enjoy puttering on the farm. He smiled, enjoying the sunshine. His women were happy, nestling into the farmhouse, decorating it, and in his pocket were the paint samples his mother had chosen on her two-mile bicycle ride to town. Busy with the plumbing, Stefan had enjoyed exploring the tools the Smiths had left behind. A man who had never had a vacation, he intended to relax in this interlude while Estelle came to her senses. Life was good…without Louie.

He entered the busy paint store, prepared to wait his turn as other customers milled around the cash register. A tall woman, wearing a baseball cap with her auburn ponytail thrust through the hole at the back, glanced at him. She hefted a gallon of paint onto the counter, slapped two wooden paint stirrers on it, rang up the bill and chatted with the customer. When the burly farmer, dressed in bib overalls, rambled out of the store, the woman scowled at Stefan. Clearly in charge of the store, the woman behind the counter wore a T-shirt that said Waterville Tigers. She was possibly in her early thirties, with soaring eyebrows, clear blue eyes, a bit of a nose and a generous mouth. Freckles covered every centimeter of her fair skin. She tapped costs into the cash register for more paint and nodded at Stefan, indicating the gallons of paint on the counter. He shook his head, not understanding her needs. With a doomed look up at the ceiling, the woman grabbed one gallon and tucked it under her arm. She eased the other into her free arm and tromped out of the store, following the elderly woman.

Stefan noted and appreciated the length of the younger woman’s legs, the cutoff shorts cupping a trim, swaying bottom. The wooden paint stirrer sticks in her back pocket enhanced the movement. He was surprised that he had tilted his head to better appreciate that little feminine jiggle of flesh at her backside. She walked back into the store, strode to him and shook her head as Stefan noted the slant of her eyes, those strong cheekbones gleaming in the overhead light. The drop of cobalt-blue paint on her cheeks matched the color of her eyes as they burned up at him. The shadows beneath her eyes said she had missed sleep and the area around her mouth was pale, demonstrating her strain.

She reached to tug away the two bits of toilet paper on his jaw. He had been unwise to shave after the furious argument with his daughter; the small cuts marked his broken promise to remain calm. A man who spared little time on women of moods, except his daughter and his mother, Stefan firmed his lips. He was determined not to let this woman ruin his day. Then she said, “I know you can’t talk—you’re the cousin that Ned Whitehouse told me needed work. I told him to have you turn up and work, helping me. Well, that’s what you should be doing—helping. You could have carried out that paint for Mrs. Mariah. Come on. Follow me.”

She moved through the displays of paint and carpeting toward the back room, behind the checkout counter. Unused to taking orders, Stefan stood still and crossed his arms.

The woman continued talking—“I want you to clean up the storeroom and then fix that back door—it’s almost coming off the hinges. One good yank and hell-o—free paint for everyone. Not that anyone in Waterville steals, but a good business should have a good back door, don’t you agree?”

Stefan thought of the alarm systems and locks he’d required on all Donatien restaurant back doors, ones made of sturdy metal, and nodded.

When she noted that he had not followed her, she turned and those arching fine eyebrows drew into a stern frown. She walked back to him, her hands on her hips. Stefan tried not to notice the T-shirt that had tightened across her breasts. They were just the size of medium cooking apples, not too big or too small, but just perfect.

Stefan frowned, unprepared for the turn of his thoughts. He did not usually compare women to his favorite pastimes—choosing fine foods, preparing and enjoying them.

In his mind, he compared her height to his, how she would fit against him. The top of her head would just come to his chin. Those breasts would press against his chest and those long legs would—

She crossed her arms and tapped her running shoe on the floor. “I know you can hear. Ned told me so. He also said that sometimes you can be stubborn as his mules. Well, today isn’t one of them, got that? I haven’t got time for this, so get your butt in gear and start helping me. Saturdays are usually busy, but nothing like spring and fall. I’ve been running shorthanded during the busiest season of the year and everyone wants to paint every room in the kingdom. Not that I’m objecting to the sales, which aren’t good except for spring and fall, but I could use some help,” she stated meaningfully.

Then shaking her head, she said very carefully as if to make him understand better, “Okay. I’ll up the hourly wage and pay overtime. If you don’t help me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

She placed her hands on her ball cap as if holding her head together. Her hands were feminine, yet strong, with short nails spotted with paint. Stefan tried not to smile; if he were in a business argument with power titans, he would have known that he had the upper hand at her concession. On the other hand, he was enjoying the masquerade—no one had ever mistaken him for a laborer. The scenario into which he had dropped amused him. Clearly this woman was under pressure and it appealed to him to rescue her. He decided not to speak, because his slight accent would surely mark him as the newcomer in Waterville. He wondered what it would be like, not to be Stefan Donatien, powerful restaurateur, rather to be an ordinary workman for a day. He had found his “cave” away from the brooding women he loved.

She looked up at him. “My name is Rose and yours is Bruce, and we’ll get along fine, if you just do what I tell you to do. It’s Saturday and the whole town is set to buy paint, wallpaper and carpet and I need you. Not that I don’t appreciate the business. I’ll even buy lunch—hot dogs and potato salad with lemonade from Danny’s Café, and all the coffee you can drink…Just don’t use my cup. Lyle and Joe are out laying carpet, but you can meet them later. Everyone here works part-time, but me. Did you come to work or not?”

Stefan nodded slowly, though her choice of food turned his stomach, and in seconds they were in the back room where she was pointing and ordering like a general. “Sturdy up those shelves, separate the paints—oil and latex based…interior and exterior—fix the back door, and if I call you, come up front. Ned said you had your own pickup and could deliver and you may have to. I’ll draw a map for you, but just don’t go anywhere. Don’t leave me. I’ve got enough problems with Dad.”

He wondered about “Dad” as she turned and hurried into a small cluttered office. The bell over the store’s front door jingled and she hurried to help the customer who had just entered.

Rose plopped into her desk chair, slipped her foot out of her worn running shoe and rubbed it. She was too tired from processing the store invoices until midnight, then going home to heaps of laundry. She’d missed her early-morning run, tossing her pillow over her alarm. But at seven o’clock she was making her father the bacon and egg breakfast he liked and by eight, she had opened the store. Rose frowned slightly; Maury rarely came to work, even on the busiest days. Her father hadn’t stopped mourning his runaway wife and now a whiskey bottle came too readily to his hand. He’d taught Rose the business and lately he almost never asked about it. He was slipping away from her and life, spending long hours staring out from the house porch at the rose garden his wife had loved.

Maxine Granger had not loved her family enough to stay and raise her daughter, or to deny the passing trucker. He offered her excitement and in time, the world, and Maxine hadn’t hesitated.

When she was ten, Rose had come home from school to find her father crying, Maxine’s goodbye note in his hand. For a few years, there were hurried postcards from all over the world and then nothing. It had taken Rose years to understand that she wasn’t the reason why her mother left in that big diesel truck and why her father’s heart remained broken. As a child, she’d sat for hours at her mother’s vanity table, littered with polishes, creams and an expensive brush for her blond hair. Rose had tried to forget the pain, but she couldn’t. Instead she pasted that heartbreak into a locked chest marked The Past and threw herself into helping her father at the store and at home. In her young mind, when the ache came upon her, she raised her arms to the moon and asked for faeries to love and cherish her. It eased Rose-the-child to fantasize she was being held and kissed and loved by the whimsical creatures who would never leave her alone. Then, at times, the pain curled around her and sucked her back, but she fought her way out by keeping busy and thinking of the faeries that waited for her.

She was thirty-seven now, and twelve years ago her mother had passed away in a flaming truck wreck on the Interstate. Her trucker-lover had sent Rose what little was left of Maxine Granger’s life. The shoe box of trinkets included a picture of six-year-old Rose, just missing her front tooth.

Rose had little illusions about her chances for a one-and-only love. Back in the days when she believed in romance and happily-ever-after, Rose had thought her future husband and children would fill her father’s aching heart. But love hadn’t come to her, and she’d settled into the routine of living with her father, tending him, in the house she’d grown up in.

She rubbed the bruise on her thigh, the result of swinging a paint can from the counter to the floor. Ned’s cousin had been working for an hour in the back room, straightening the gallon and pint cans on the floor. Now he was hefting the odd remnants of carpeting to stand along one side of the wall. He’d towered over her five-foot ten, looking all dark and scowling. There was an arrogance she couldn’t place, just that tilt of his head, that black waving hair gleaming and neatly combed. His deep brown eyes were the color of her father’s whiskey, narrowing and darkening as she talked to him. That line between his black brows and the grooves beside his mouth had deepened as if he didn’t like taking orders—or smiling. His jaw had tensed, the muscle running along it contracting.

She frowned, glancing at him as he easily lifted a box of old carpet samples up to his shoulder—a very broad shoulder. Ned was right; his cousin was “strong as an ox and a bit moody.” He seemed to bristle each time she gave him a task, those whiskey-brown eyes narrowing on her, his jaw tensing.

Then Rose saw Henry, who she had held down and kissed when they were both in the fourth grade. When she’d shared her faerie whimsy with him, he’d laughed, later apologized. He understood Rose’s pain and through the years had become a good friend.

She hurried toward the adult Henry, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. In turn, he reached to turn her ball cap around, tugging it down on her head. She grinned up at him, a longtime friend and an ex-fiancé, now married to Shirley MacNeil. Rose could always depend on Henry to make her feel better—good old dependable Henry. “New man?” Henry asked as he handed her Shirley’s paint list.

“Bruce. Ned’s cousin. He’s only helping out during the spring decorating season. He’s got a surly attitude and if that doesn’t stop, he’s out of here.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like bossy women. Try a little patience,” Henry offered with a warm, familiar smile.

“No time. Dad didn’t place the orders or check the invoices and now I’ve got to do it.”

“Is he feeling poorly?” Henry asked in his kind way. Everyone in Waterville knew that Maury Granger’s visits to the liquor store were becoming more frequent.

“Sure,” Rose returned curtly. Instead of the usual truck delivery of paints and orders, she’d had to borrow a truck and drive one hundred miles to a manufacturer, pay over price and drive home, unloading the truck herself last Sunday. This Sunday she intended to pamper herself and firmly deal with Maury. He was a good man, but he was sinking deeper into darkness.

By noon, the new handyman had fixed the back door and was straightening the front of the store. He seemed happy until she called him into the back room for lunch, takeout food from Danny’s Café, hot dogs and potato salad. With her feet propped up on the gallons of uncolored paint, and balancing her food on her stomach, she frowned as he prodded the wiener with his finger and sniffed at the bun. He scowled at the food, which nettled Rose, but then she badly needed his help and couldn’t risk offending him over hot dogs. He frowned when he sipped at the coffee she’d brewed early that morning. Rose inhaled slowly and pushed her temper down; maybe Henry was right, maybe she needed to try a little kindness. “So, Bruce, do you think you might want to move up to mixing paint? It’s a matter of checking the color number chart, measuring the pigment and mixing it into the uncolored gallons.”

He nodded slowly, considering her with those unreadable brown eyes. Just then Larry Hershall strolled into the store, peered over a carpet display and sighted her in the back room. She waved him toward her. “How’s it going, Larry?” she asked her former fiancé.

Larry nodded and grinned. “Mary Lou wants me to see that wallpaper sample she picked out for the nursery.”

“Sure. Meet Bruce. He’s helping me out today. He’s about to move up to mixing paint.”

Larry reached to shake the workman’s hand and nodded. “Glad to meet you.”

Ned’s cousin nodded, his dark eyes following Rose and Larry as they moved to the front of the store. As comfortable with Larry as she would be with the brother she never had, Rose showed him the wallpaper sample. Standing beside him, she placed her arm on his shoulder, leaning slightly against his strength for just one moment in a hectic, tiring day.

When she returned to the back room, Ned’s cousin was pouring the rest of the coffee down the paint-stained sink. His food remained untouched on the rough plank picnic table. Rose was starved, and disliking waste, asked, “Going to eat this?”

When he shook his head, she slathered mustard, relish and ketchup onto the hot dog. Rose had balanced a household budget from an early age and did not waste food. “Yummy,” she said when he watched her devour the hot dog.

She didn’t want to ask about his disdainful expression. He was a good workman and she desperately needed him. If she could manage to establish a basic relationship with him, he might stay to help her. “So, Bruce. Let’s put in a hard day here—I’ll move you up to mixing paint—and then if you’d like, you can come fishing with my dad and me. Crappie start biting at the lake just after supper. You might even catch a bass. What do you say?”

He nodded slowly just as the bell over the front door jingled. The delightful Frenchwoman who had come in the previous day smiled warmly over the displays. Rose, followed closely by her new handyman, went to help the customer.

“Ma chérie,” Yvette Donatien said smoothly with that enticing accent. Her blond-and-gray hair softly framed an exquisite face, shaded by a floppy straw hat. A simple cotton dress swirled around Yvette’s rounded body, emphasizing her femininity just like the spring daisies tucked into her hat ribbon. She carried a shopping basket made of oak strips. The basket had been made locally by Linda Brooks and fit perfectly into the metal one on Yvette’s bicycle. Rose had instantly liked the charming Frenchwoman with her ready smile and humor.

Yvette smiled warmly at the man behind Rose, and then momentarily a puzzled expression crossed her face. Tracing Yvette’s stare, Rose looked up swiftly to see the handyman stroking his index finger across his raised brows. His expression was bland and innocent. “Oh, that’s Bruce,” Rose said. “He’s new. He’s a good worker and he’s about to graduate to paint mixing.”

“I see,” Yvette said, glancing at the man again and then back at Rose. Her blue eyes twinkled as she smiled warmly. “I stopped by to say how much I enjoyed our visit yesterday. My son will be stopping by soon. I hope you like him. He can be very formal and arrogant at times, perhaps a little old-world in his ways—stuffy, if you will. But he is a good boy. He tries very hard to be a good papa, though he sometimes does not understand women. I’ll be going now. I’m so enjoying your delightful community.”

Yvette frowned slightly at the man behind Rose, who sensed the restlessness in him. She hoped that he wouldn’t show his poor manners to a potentially good customer and a woman she liked immediately. After Yvette exited the store, Rose shot an elbow back into her employee’s hard stomach. He grunted and when she turned, his scowl was fierce upon her. “Listen, you,” she said. “You’re going to have to put on a nice face for customers. It may be hard, but try. I could almost feel you bristling behind me. I’ve already heard that Stefan Donatien is a hard case, but his mother is very nice and I like her.”

She ignored the flaring of his nostrils, the tightening of his mouth. A woman who related easily to men, she wasn’t intimidated. Perhaps the handyman had been bruised by life, or had a serious health problem. She was very good at getting men to relate to her; once she understood his problem, perhaps they could develop a smooth working relationship. She decided to push right past his bad mood before she fired a man she badly needed. “Are you going fishing with us tonight, or not?”

He nodded grimly, his big body rigid. Waves of temper poured off him, and she had no time for dealing with that. “Well, let’s start you on paint mixing then. It’s all done by formula. Here’s the chart of the amounts of dry powder that you mix into the basic formula. You use this—” she held up a rubber mallet “—to close it and shake—” She indicated a machine. “Make certain you seal it and clamp it good, because it’s a big mess for you to clean up, if you don’t. Oh, stop sulking and scowling. You’ll scare away my customers. You really need to lighten up, Bruce.”

By three o’clock, Rose craved a refreshing nap that she wasn’t going to get. Business was really good, and her new handyman was efficient at mixing paint. Though he didn’t speak, he seemed to be making an effort to be charming, smiling at the customers. He wasn’t that hard looking when he smiled and the women seemed to like him, discussing their decorator plans with him and considering his pointing finger on the samples. In fact, he had made several good sales, selling the carpet remnants from past years. He carried purchases out for customers and Rose decided to trust him with making a delivery to Ella Parsons. “Hey, Bruce. Here’s the map to Ella Parsons. She lives a distance out in the country, so try to help her with whatever she needs doing and get back here to help me close up, okay?”

He took the map she had drawn, folded it neatly and slid it into his back pocket. He crossed his arms and considered her intently. His dark gaze roamed her face, her throat and slowly moved down her body. That close examination caused Rose to shiver. Ned’s cousin didn’t need words to express a male attraction to her. She flipped over the thought; perhaps he was just shy and looking for a friend. She knew how to be a man’s friend, if not his love.

In the next minute, a rush of customers consumed her. Her new employee efficiently mixed paint and when the rush slowed, loaded Granger’s delivery truck. Alone and tending the customers, Rose worked furiously. During spring and fall seasonal rushes, every minute counted.

Just minutes from closing time, a thin, clean, but poorly dressed young man entered the store. When she went to help him, he signed with his hands. Not understanding his meaning, Rose offered him a pad and pencil.

“I’m Bruce Long, Ned’s cousin,” he wrote. “Woke up feeling bad. Had car trouble. Sorry to be late.”

Rose stood absolutely still, her mind replaying the day’s scenarios. Whoever the stranger was who had worked all day, he wasn’t Bruce. “Come back early Monday, okay?” she asked, hurriedly pushing him out of the door.

She rushed to the telephone beside the cash register and dialed Ella Parsons. The man she had mistaken for Bruce Long could be a murderer, a thief, and she’d sent him directly to a dear elderly woman. Fear tore through Rose as she worried about Ella’s safety. “Ella? Did you get your delivery?”

“I did, dear. Everything is in perfect order, and so is that nice Mr. Donatien. We had the nicest chat. He cooked a lovely dinner for Edward and me, and we dined together. He’s coming back with his mother in the morning for fresh eggs and milk. She wants some good cream cows and my Edward is going to help find someone with cows to spare. I love a man who treats his mother well like Mr. Donatien. He clearly loves her and his daughter. Not every man would give up a fancy business office and a secretary waiting on his every command to give his family the country life they want. He’s on his way back to your store now, I think. Lovely man, Mr. Donatien.”

“Oh, he is, is he?” Rose asked very slowly and gripped the counter until her fingers ached. She had a few things to say to Stefan Donatien, and none of them were sweet.

Two

Stefan parked the delivery truck in the lot beside Granger’s store. He carefully retrieved the two pink plastic flamingos from the passenger side of the truck. He held the yard ornaments carefully, a welcome gift from Ella Parsons, who said that everyone who was anyone in Waterville had pink flamingos in their yards. At five o’clock, the store would soon be closing, and he had had an interesting, stress-relieving day. He’d put the blistering argument with Estelle back into perspective—she was becoming her own person and it was normal girl-to-woman development to test herself against life—and her father. He loved her and she loved him, and once they were through this Louie-phase, life would be much simpler.

His mother was delighted with Waterville. The small town reminded her of her youth in France. The farm was as quaint as the town, the milk cows perfect for the cheese and butter Yvette longed to make. She loved feeding her baby chicks and planning her vegetable garden. In the pasture next to his farm, Estelle was already riding horses with a girl her age.

His women also loved the contents of the old farmhouse. It was filled with ordinary, mismatched furniture, far from that of Stefan’s penthouse. The Smiths were ready to travel full-time in their camper and didn’t want the old furniture that so enchanted Stefan’s mother and daughter.

He smiled, cruising along in the mellow and happy lane, certain the Donatiens’ lives would settle happily.

Sunlight filtered through the trees lining the street and danced along the flower beds resting on the sidewalk in front of the stores. Next door, the barber was just locking his front door. Waterville was quiet and peaceful and perfect, the spit and whittle men’s bench vacated until Monday.

Stefan entered the front of the store with a sense of well-being. Around the towering stack of gallon paint cans, he spotted an angry Rose. She stalked right toward him, and on her way, reached for a softball from the counter and hurled it at him. He caught it in one hand, while protectively cradling the pink flamingos with the other arm. She came to stand in front of him, her hands braced on her waist, her legs apart as if readying for a fight. Her blue eyes lasered at him, and her freckles seemed to shift on her face as if waiting to attack him. In his good mood, Stefan smiled slightly at the thought of a “Rose” freckle attack. He realized instantly that humor had not been a part of his life for some time.

“You’re grinning. Some big joke, huh? You are not Bruce Long,” Rose stated tightly.

Stefan turned the Open sign to Closed. He wanted this conversation to be private. Rose looked as if she might erupt. “I did not say that I was.”

“You cooked for Ella…put wine in her spaghetti sauce. You gave her tips on the presentation of green beans, not snapped, but whole…. Everyone here snaps green beans. They usually cook green beans with bacon, and maybe onion instead of steaming them…sometimes with new potatoes. You’ll have everyone canning their June beans upright in the jars…and every once in a while, I get to sit on someone’s front porch and snap beans. I enjoy that—and you’re messing with Waterville tradition.”

“The presentation of the meal is ultimate. We dined together. The Parsons are quite charming, and I was quite hungry—my stomach could not bear your infamous hot dogs,” Stefan returned, watching in fascination as Rose tore the rubber band confining her ponytail away. A sleek curtain of burnished reddish brown hair fell to her shoulders. He longed to crush it in his hands, to lift it to the sunlight and to study the fascinating color and texture. It would feel like silk, alive with warmth from Rose. He breathed unsteadily as an image flashed through his mind—that of Rose’s hair dragging along his bare skin, the sensual sweep of the rich reddish-brown strands across his cheek.

Stefan held still, shocked by the turn of his thoughts; he had not been so susceptible since he was in his teens. Perhaps it was spring, the flowers, the lack of Louie— “Hello, Rose,” he said gently, loving the sound on his tongue.

She reminded him of a flower, as fresh as dewdrops glistening in the dawn.

“You’ve got an accent. That’s why you didn’t talk. And I fell for it,” Rose-the-flower stated darkly. “Very funny.”

He looked down at the check she’d thrust into his hand. “Get out,” she said tightly. “I know you own a chain of French restaurants and that check isn’t even the price of a meal in one of them. But I owe you for the work and I’m paying up.”

For an instant, Stefan tensed. No one spoke to him in that tone. He focused on Rose and said slowly, “Does that mean that the invitation to go fishing with you at the lake is off?”

“You knew that at the time—” she began hotly.

“So you are a woman who takes back what she has offered,” he said, watching her closely. Ella had briefly informed him of Rose’s unfortunate love life—engaged three times and never married—and of her dedication to a father who was slowly drinking more. Stefan wanted to hold Rose close and protect her, this bit of a woman, all sleek and soft and exciting. His verbal nudge was intended to seal his time with her at the lake. He wanted to know more about her, this woman who fought so valiantly against odds, who loved so deeply. He wanted to see her eat one wholesome meal and relax. He wanted to place his hands on those taut, overworked, feminine muscles and give them ease. He wanted to capture that capable feminine hand, turn it and press a kiss into her palm. He wanted to cup that curved bottom in both hands. He wanted to taste the flavor of her breasts, those perfect, applelike breasts.

She seemed so natural and totally unaware of her appeal, unlike the women in his experience. Women who seemed interested in him usually wanted his checkbook, not himself. He’d watched Rose tend her customers. She did not hide her emotions. She genuinely liked most of them, that brilliant smile flashing at them, or she touched them. Once she’d waited on a customer, her face taut and grim, all her walls were up and Stefan knew she did not like the man.

Now, the sunlight shafted through the store’s windows and tipped her dark brown eyelashes in fire. An answering flame danced in his heart, in his loins.

Ten years of abstinence was far too long, he decided instantly, and wondered if the flush upon her face would be the same after they made love. He longed to see her soft and drowsy beneath him. Somehow, his instincts told him that he had found a woman to enjoy and treasure; with her, he could find peace.

“I don’t like being made a fool of,” Rose shot at him angrily, shredding his vision of peace and pleasure.

“Ah, so then, you retreat from the battle,” he nudged again. “You fear you might like me. You fear that I might catch more fish than you. You fear that your father will like me, too.”

Her lips parted and she blinked up at him, her expression blank. “You haven’t talked all day and now you’re saying too much. Don’t you get it? I’m mad at you.”

He shrugged, determined to have his way. “So you do retreat. I have won.”

Those blue eyes widened and blinked again. “Won what?”

“The game. You are afraid. You retreat. I win. Simple.”

She shook her head and the reddish hues in her hair caught the overhead light. “You wouldn’t like fishing at the lake. Chiggers, mosquitoes, every biting insect possible,” she explained. “When the flies bite here, it hurts. The johnboat isn’t a yacht—it’s a chopped-off metal boat—and the crappie are sporting, but they aren’t swordfish, Mr. Donatien.”

“It sounds delightful,” he said, watching that faint sunlight stroke her cheek and wondering if the freckle pattern continued over her body. He went a little light-headed thinking about those long, athletic limbs, those perfect apple-shaped breasts, the way she took fire. Rose Granger was a passionate woman for certain, and just watching her move provoked an excitement in his body that he hadn’t expected.

She inhaled slowly, balled her fists at her sides, and frowned up at him. “Be at the north end of the lake at six-thirty. You’ll have to find the johnboat tied to the dock. I’ve got to pick up Dad.”

“I must get the paint my mother wishes.”

“Take care of your own order. Just leave the cash on the counter, or leave your check and I’ll send the change to you,” Rose said, moving restlessly behind the counter and avoiding his gaze.

She was sweet and shy of him, Stefan realized as she hurried out the back door. He enjoyed that little jiggle of soft flesh below her shorts’ ragged hem; he traced her long legs down to the back of her knees. He closed his eyes, riveted by the need to kiss her there, where she seemed most vulnerable and virginal.

In a good mood, because he would spend time with an enchanting woman later, Stefan kissed one of the flamingos’ plastic beaks. He frowned into the bird’s vacant yellow eyes. Was he nervous? His first attraction to a woman, since his wife? But, of course, and he was so hungry for the taste of that lush, sassy mouth—

Carrying her tackle box and fishing pole, Rose tromped from her pickup, across the lush grass of the lake’s bank. She’d tried desperately to rouse her sleeping father and had failed. She’d debated leaving Stefan—the wealthy, continental businessman she’d ordered around all day—to the mosquitoes and biting red chiggers. But her competitive streak, which allowed her to be captain of the mixed softball team, was revved. Nothing could have kept her from watching him itch—payback for deceiving her all day.

Her thoughts slapped against her in rhythm to the sound of her plastic thongs. She glanced at the slash of scarlet, a male cardinal bird in the oak trees. If he had only spoken just one word, she would have known who he was—his deep enchanting accent would have marked him as the newcomer…though he didn’t seem as cold as Harry at the gas station had inferred.

She pushed away the memory of Stefan’s smile at the pink flamingos. It was excited, almost as if he were a boy, excited at winning trophies.

Stefan was sitting on the dock, his pole already in the water, the shadows and sunlight flowing over his body, the water sparkling beyond him. At around six-feet four inches he could intimidate with that dark scowl, but not her. Her thongs clumped as she walked out onto the dock, studied the metal johnboat and decided she didn’t want to baby the worn motor into life. She slung her backpack—filled with cola, a peanut butter sandwich and insect repellent—down to the worn boards of the dock. Out in the glimmering still water, a big mouth bass surged up for a juicy water bug, reminding Rose of how she had taken Stefan’s challenge. She glanced at the expert way Stefan cast into the lake’s dead timber, the perfect place for a “crappie bed.” It was her private place. “Dad couldn’t come. We can fish here,” she said. “You stay on your side of the dock, and I’ll stay on mine. You’d better have your fishing license. I like your mother. I don’t like you.”

His hair was damp, curling at his nape and that all-man soap smell curled erotically around her. The clean T-shirt tightened across his shoulders as he patted the billfold in his back pocket. “I have a license…. So you have had a bad day, and you wish to take it out on me, right?” he asked.

Rose slipped off her thongs, plopped down on the dock and dangled her legs over the side as Stefan was doing. She wouldn’t be waylaid by that sexy, intimate accent. She opened her tackle box and selected just the right fishing “jig,” a plastic lure to entice crappie. Only meeting Stefan’s challenge had kept her from falling facedown on her bed and sleeping through Sunday. She was not a woman who offered and then took back her invitation. She cast, propped the handle of her pole into the slot between the boards and took out her insect repellent, rubbing it on her arms and legs. She sniffed lightly and recognized the slight tang of citronella, also an insect deterrent, coming from Stefan. He would not be leaving her dock soon. “Can we just be quiet?” she asked. “I’ve looked forward to this all week.”

For the next half hour, she felt the old dock tremble slightly as Stefan cast into her favorite fishing hole. The crappie responded to his lure, flip-flopping in the water as he reeled them in and released them. She refused to ask what he was using for bait, because nothing was nibbling at her line. He held up one and asked, “How do you prepare crappie?”

She looked over her shoulder and wished she hadn’t. The fish was Old George, a legendary giant of a crappie, who had escaped her hook. “You wait until you get a ‘mess’ and then fillet, score, bread in flour and cornmeal and fry. Or you might dip them in egg or beer batter…serve with wilted lettuce…But I’d throw that one back, he’s too small,” she lied, because she wanted Old George on her dinner table. “Did you enjoy yourself today, your little masquerade?”

He unhooked Old George and tossed him back into the lake. Stefan dipped his hands in the lake and washed them as would an experienced fisherman. He looked over his shoulder at her and grinned. It was a devastating, boyish grin that took her breath away. “I learned so much.”

Rose turned back and promptly missed the dip of her red bobber in the water as a fish nibbled on her lure. It was difficult to concentrate when Stefan spread his blanket, sat upon it and began opening the basket he had brought. “My mother likes you, too. She was excited that I had a date with you and packed this meal for us.”

Rose pivoted to him, temper flashing. “This isn’t a date, Mr. Donatien.” She leveled her words at him, not wanting him to get any flashy, upscale ideas about a country girl.

“But I am with a very fascinating woman and I am enjoying myself. Surely that is a date.” He began unpacking, carefully placing a wine bottle that looked very costly, onto the blanket. He opened the bottle with a flourish and poured the wine into two very expensive-looking stemmed glasses. He unwrapped cheese and studied it. “My mother thinks she will make cheese here. She is happy and reliving her young life on a French farm, I think. My daughter is…happy in one way, not so in another.”

Rose watched as he sliced the cheese and a very-hard looking sausage, placing crusty bread rolls beside it. She couldn’t resist the temptation to ask, “Why isn’t your daughter happy?”

He shrugged a broad shoulder and looked out at the peaceful lake. His features were unreadable. “She is happy to be here. She is not happy with me. It is a hard passage from the girl to the woman. A boy I do not like wants her.”

Rose stared at him; the unlikely, worldly Donatiens moving to Waterville suddenly made sense. “You maneuvered this whole move to Waterville, didn’t you? Just to get her away from—”

Stefan scowled and handed her one filled wineglass. “From Louie The Freeloader. Estelle wished to live in an average, small town and I merely arranged her wishes. Perhaps I was ready for a change, too. My mother had been speaking of her homeland and selfishly, I wished to keep my family—what there is of it—together. Waterville was selected after very thorough research. We will spend the summer here. The farm was a compromise to make them both happy. It had been up on the market since the Smiths decided to see the West in their camper. There is a college some miles away, which might suit Estelle’s needs, if she wishes to transfer.”

“I hate to tell you this, Pops, but there are hot-blooded boys here in Waterville, too.” Rose sipped the wine and studied him. “You left everything to prevent Louie and Estelle from—”

His scowl deepened. “They have not consummated. I would know.”

“Maybe they are in love,” she suggested, fascinated by his absolute confidence. “How would you know?”

“I am her father,” he said roughly with an arrogant tilt to his head, that accent more distinct. “You think I do not know my own daughter? That I have been so absorbed in business that I would not recognize the change?”

Though she’d been angry with him, and had found his tender spot, Rose recognized the troubled road between father and daughter. She sympathized with both of them. “I was engaged about that age,” she said gently.

“But it did not last,” he prompted as another bass rolled in the lake, turning a silver side in the dark, shadowy water. “That is why you and I are here together. A good husband would have kept you happy.”

The crickets and frogs chirped as Rose shook her head. She munched on the crusty bread Stefan had torn apart and handed to her and thought about how romance wasn’t for her.

“What happened?” Stefan asked softly.

A flat-shelled water turtle crawled up onto a log, half sunken in the still water, and looked at the humans. Stefan was just passing through her life; it was a moment in time that meant nothing, she told herself. There was no reason not to share with him something that happened long ago. “It seemed only natural to marry Henry. We were lifetime friends and everyone else was getting married at the time. It’s contagious, you know. He came into the store today and got paint. Henry is like a comfortable old shoe, all broken in and fitting just right. We did the engagement party thing, but as the wedding date came closer, neither one of us wanted to go through with it. Not really. We sort of got caught up in the engagement fun, the party and excitement. But he wasn’t happy and I knew it, because I wasn’t, either. So I pinned him down one night—sat on him—and we had an honest chat. He married my best friend, Shirley MacNeil. They’ve got two great kids…boys. They’re hoping for a girl next time. I am godmother to their children, and others in Waterville. I guess that’s as close as I’m going to get to motherhood.”

Stefan’s dark brows rose. “The man you hugged so intimately? You remain friends with him?”

“Sure. No hard feelings. It just wasn’t right between us. I can always count on Henry to help me in a tight spot.” She shrugged and munched on the cheese and meat he handed her.

“Good old Henry, right?” Stefan said tightly as he refilled the wineglass she had just emptied. “Who was the man you leaned against as if you trusted him?”

She eyed Stefan, considering him. They were strangers sharing a quiet moment on a lovely, peaceful evening. The wine was relaxing her after a hard week of work. “I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell you, everyone else knows. Waterville’s quiet country life will bore you soon enough and you’ll be back to the city’s society set soon. That was Larry. We were engaged for a time. He rented a motel room away from Waterville for our first—” She raised her wineglass, toasting the moment when neither could become aroused enough to make love. “Happening. It didn’t happen. End of story. He and Mary Lou are expecting their first baby. Everything turned out fine.”

Stefan’s dark eyes cruised the body she had just spread full-length upon his blanket. He lay down, sharing the blanket, the food between them. He propped his head in one hand and placed a bit of cheese into her mouth with the other. His eyes darkened as she ate. He asked, “Why didn’t it happen?”

“I laughed when I saw him naked for the first time. And my bony mystique seemed pretty funny to him, too. Our batteries just weren’t charged. We decided we were better suited to be friends than lovers. We used to come here, my friends and I, when we were young. We used to tell ghost stories and—I don’t know why, but the attraction just wasn’t there, not enough to…to do it, or to marry. Then there was Mike. He hadn’t been in town very long when we started dating. He was a super pitcher on the team. He was a good mechanic—could fix anything. We got engaged and then one night, I caught him tuning someone else’s engine and he left town soon after…. I’m sorry about your wife. Your mother said you loved her deeply.”

“I still do. Claire will always be a part of my life. She lives in my daughter. She had the same straight black hair.”

Rose studied Stefan’s broad, blunt cheekbones, that square chin, and wondered about his wife. What kind of woman could take his heart? A gentle woman? Feminine and pretty? A quiet woman, who understood? A fascinating woman, full of life? A corporate wife, all glossy and perfect? Or was she a woman like Rose’s mother—who loved and captivated every man and left them mourning her as she moved on? “Estelle will have to make up her own mind, you know. You can’t protect her from life forever.”

“Who protects you?” he asked softly and ran a finger slowly down her cheek.

Her skin heated at the touch and she shifted away, uneasy with a man who seemed too intimate, too soon, too foreign, too unique, too exciting—and just “too.” She looked at the clouds floating gently across the sky, just as her life seemed to be doing. “I’m way, way past that age.”

“So old.” Humor hovered in Stefan’s deep voice.

“Well, let’s just say I’ve settled in for the long run. No surprises, no problems—”

She stared up at the man leaning over her, looking deeply, intimately into her eyes. “What? Is something wrong?”

“You have given up on life as an appealing, vital woman. You are preparing for your rocking chair and shawl. Are you not aware of how enticing you are?”

She sucked in air when she realized she’d stopped breathing. Men usually thought of her as a good friend. Stefan’s sultry gaze seemed to devour her mouth as if he wanted to kiss her. The quiver passing through her body, the raised hairs on the back of her neck, startled her.

“Are you making a pass at me, bud?” she asked carefully, because men never flirted with her. She’d added the “bud” to keep him at a distance.

His smile was slow and warming and mind-blowing. It was definitely not a good-buddy smile. “So blunt. I will have to adjust to your frank style of conversation. It has been a while, and perhaps I am out of practice at making my intentions known.”

Then he placed his hands on either side of her head, studied the shape of her mouth beneath his and lowered his head. The kiss was that of a man who knew what he wanted and was confident he could obtain it. The kiss felt like a possession, a tantalizing gift and a choice. His lips were firm, yet light against hers, seeking more than demanding, exploring the shape and taste of her as if he had all the time in the world. Rose mentally rummaged for her resistance and failed. She felt herself drift away in the summer evening, tethered only by the temptation of his mouth. The dock shook…or was it her?

When he lifted his head, his eyes were dark and warm and yet tender. Rose slowly pushed away the sensation that she could melt into his arms and forget everything but the steamy pulsing of their bodies— She breathed carefully, studying Stefan’s dark, sultry gaze. “If…if you’re looking to start something, don’t.”

He stroked a strand of her hair, studying the reddish shades in the dying light. “Why not?”

She couldn’t afford to give herself again. While she had explained her love life to him as though it hadn’t affected her, the pain had been terrible. Though the decisions to break the engagements were shared, she’d been left with the sense that others moved on—like her mother—while she was left alone. She did not want to open herself again for a security that wasn’t there. Stefan was only passing through her life, testing her and playing his games. “I’ve never been a one-night stand and I don’t intend to be.”

That warm, intimate look cooled and sizzled with anger. “You think that is what I offer you?”

Rose pushed herself to her feet, gathered her backpack and tackle box and stood looking down at him. Stefan’s arms were behind his head. He took up too much space on the dock, and too much of Rose’s air—she was suddenly finding breathing difficult. She forced her gaze away from that wide chest and flat stomach up to his dark, sultry eyes, locking with them as he said, “You are afraid. You like to be in control of the men you take, and yourself. You fear giving away too much.”

“I do not,” she said harshly. How could he possibly know how she had to be in control, to survive, to take care of her father and herself and the business that supported them? How could he know how much she had loved a mother, who had deserted her?

He slanted her a disbelieving look. “You responded. You are a woman. You are alive.”

“Oh, I hate it when you shoot out those machine-gun sentences, summing up everything to your reasoning. If you need relief, I’m not your girl.” With that she hurried away to safety, to her home. Her hands shook as she shifted her pickup, and the gears protested her careless handling.

Her father continued to sleep and Rose settled in for a restless night. She tossed upon her single bed, the rosebud sheets tangling between her legs. Stefan did not kiss like other men in her experience. He kissed her as if he was imprinting her taste upon his mind, as if he needed the taste of her to carry with him. He spoke very softly, his accent curling intimately around her. She sensed an awakening within herself that wouldn’t be quelled. It was a long time before she slept, the taste of Stefan’s kiss—firm, sensual, tempting, hungry—dancing through her dreams.

She tried to snuggle down in her bed, and into the safety she had created in her life. But dreams of Stefan, stretched out on the dock and looking sexy, wrapped around her.

On the one morning she could sleep in, Rose smelled coffee. If her father—if Maury was tipsy and cooking, the situation could be dangerous. She pushed herself out of bed, and dressed only in briefs and the T-shirt she used for a nightgown, slowly made her way down the stairs. At the kitchen doorway, she yawned and rubbed her eyes and longed to curl up back in bed, regaining the sleep Stefan Donatien had robbed from her. “Dad? Are you okay?”

Sunlight shafted through the kitchen windows and Rose blinked. Seated at the kitchen table, her father waved an airy greeting. His face was wrapped in a towel. A basin was on the table, and Yvette Donatien was rubbing a shaving brush in Maury’s old-fashioned soap mug. She eased off the towel, slathered his jaw with soapy foam and began expertly stroking a straight razor over his jaw. Dressed in another soft flowing, flower-print dress, she looked at home in the kitchen. “’Al-lo, Rose. You look so sleepy, ma chérie,” she said, her voice soft and musical. “Come, sit down. When Maury is shaved, we will eat. Come. Enjoy this beautiful morning. It will only be a moment before Stefan serves his famous Piperade omelet, from the South of France. We have the basket of fresh eggs from the Parsons and a few ingredients from your home, and voila`, my beautiful son’s omelet. I think we will soon have our own cows and mushrooms from the farm’s root cellar. Stefan and I were just passing by and I noticed Maury—looking so alone—in his beautiful rose garden.”

“I invited them in for breakfast. I was going to cook some bacon and eggs,” Maury murmured in nasal tones, because Yvette was holding his nose to shave beneath it. “I said I’d better shave first, and Yvette offered to give me an old-fashioned one with a straight razor. And sure enough I found mine in the medicine cabinet, still sharp as a knife. Couldn’t pass that offer up,” he said cheerfully.

Stefan turned slowly from the kitchen stove to look at Rose. She couldn’t move, pinned by his narrowed gaze, as it roamed her body. Yvette continued to talk while Rose tried to find reality and slow the racing of her heart. Stefan’s look said he wanted to carry her off to bed, to claim her. The stark desire written on his expression terrified Rose…because if his kiss of yesterday was any indication, she didn’t stand a chance to resist him.

“Be right back,” she said and turned, hurrying upstairs to dress in a short, summer shift. After one look in the mirror, she remembered Stefan’s expression as his gaze traced her legs. She quickly changed to jeans and a T-shirt. Instinctively she knew that Stefan was not a man to take a “just friends” attitude with her. He was too intense, and she had to protect herself. She would manage to be civil for their parents’ sake and that would be the end of Mr. Stefan Donatien, she decided firmly.

When she returned, Maury was watching Yvette in the laundry room, located just off the kitchen. Laughing gayly, she was filling the clothes washer, and Maury’s expression caused Rose to stand still and stare. He seemed younger, more intense, and if Rose didn’t know better— She shook her head. Her father couldn’t be flirting. She blinked. Yet he was and there was that hungry male look at Yvette’s hips as she bent over to fill the clothes dryer.

She looked up to see Stefan studying her. “You are worried,” he whispered simply, quietly. “She has a good heart and does not hurt.”

Then he bent to place his cheek beside hers for just that fraction of a heartbeat. “Do not worry, your father is safe. There is no need for you to protect him. It is only friendship she offers. She has never been truly involved with another man since my father, though she likes to dance and laugh and enjoy their company.”

Rose shivered, uncertain of herself, of her suddenly animated father, and of Stefan, who had just turned that slight little bit to brush his lips across hers. That light touch packed a jolt of electricity and she stepped back, frowning at him. She remembered all the times she’d reached for happiness, only to have it slap her in the face. She’d cling to the safety of approaching spinsterhood, no worrying about engagements, weddings or love that just wasn’t there. “I’m just a country girl and I will not be the dessert of the day,” she informed him.

But Stefan was wearing that same hungry expression she had seen on the face of her father. It was a look that said Stefan wasn’t likely to be dismissed easily.

Three

“I thought you would be here,” Stefan said as he walked onto the dock that evening. Rose was sitting in the johnboat, the rope still tied to the dock as she fished. Stefan noted that her line was in the exact place where he had caught the crappie she obviously did not want him to have. He knew the average size of crappie and his catch had been a prize. “If you are not careful, you will catch that small crappie I released last night.”

Dressed in cutoffs, a T-shirt and her ball cap, she ignored him as he sat on the dock. With her legs draped over the side of the boat and her bare feet in the water, she was lovely against the evening shadows. She slowly reeled the line, causing her lure to quiver beneath the water. A bullfrog bellowed, cutting coarsely across the gentle evening sounds. Rose continued to ignore Stefan, and he settled his dinner basket on the dock. “You spoke little at breakfast. You ate little.”

Rose breathed slowly and the setting sun stroked the rise and fall of her breasts. “Breakfast—that whatever you call it—was good. You were uninvited then and you are uninvited now.”

“That was quite by accident. My mother is impulsive and friendly. She also is very soft in her heart. She wanted to stop. When you know her better, you will understand. And your father did look lonely.”

Rose turned to look at him fully. “Well, he’s not lonely now. He’s at your place, painting walls with your mother. It took him an hour to get ready. He pressed a good cotton shirt and asked me how he looked. Dad hasn’t cared about his looks since I don’t know when. Tomorrow he’s coming to work for the first time in months. He said he needed to get back ‘in the flow.’ He hasn’t been ‘in the flow’ since my mother left.”

Stefan shrugged. His mother might appreciate the company and help, but companionship was her limit. His daughter was at the movies with her new girlfriend, swooning over the latest screen hero. It was good for Estelle to be with friends of her own age and for Louie to be far, far away. For the first time in ages, Stefan felt at peace. “This is good,” he said, meaning it as he inhaled the sweet evening air. “And I am not playing a game, by the way.”

“Hey, guy. You’re here for the summer as I understand, and you’re messing in my life. You’re temporary. I’m permanent. There’s a difference. What do you want from me?” Rose asked, her voice carrying huskily across the lake’s distance, her expression shadowed.

Stefan reached to grip the rope tethering her boat and gently pulled her closer until he could see those magnificent blue eyes and those wonderful freckles. He wrapped his hand around her ankle and stroked it with his thumb, enjoying the feel of her flesh. “I find you attractive and enchanting and magnificently delicious.”

“That’s quite the line,” she tossed back at him after a moment’s hesitation in which she was obviously picking her way to safety. She pulled her leg away from his touch.

Stefan smiled, pushing aside the way she could nettle him, dismissing his good intentions. “You just missed a nibble.”

She frowned at him and reeled in her line. Stefan appreciated the graceful cast into the crappie bed, the way her slender arms held power and confidence and beauty. He wished they were holding him tightly, that her skin was damp and soft and sweet against his own. The fading sunlight gleamed on her long, bare legs and he wished those, too, were wrapped around him. It was not easy to wait for her when his body had just awakened to his needs. “How long will it take for you to trust me?”

“You haven’t got that long. I know exactly what you want and then when you have it, you’ll move on. I don’t intend to be one of the local delicacies you choose to sample. And if you knew me better—which you aren’t going to—you’d know that I’m not delicate.”

“I would guess that Mike is the reason for your opinion. You said he came into town and left. The other two fiancés were lifelong friends. Since I am new here, I am to pay for Mike and his defection, is that it?” Despite his intention to gain her trust, his anger was simmering now. He was an honest, honorable man seeking a woman he found desirable. Rose pushed at the dock and her boat floated back out onto the water, a distance away from him. Without weighing her disfavor, Stefan reached to grip the rope mooring her boat to the dock. He pulled it, bringing her back to him. She stuck out her foot, bracing it on the dock and keeping the distance between them.

“Would you care to have dinner with me?” he asked, perhaps a bit too forcefully, nettled that she could draw his anger from him. Only his daughter and his mother were allowed to see beneath the rigid control he had inherited from his father.

“What do I owe you for it?” she asked, watching him. Her tone was too cautious, as if some terrible game had been played on her, and she wasn’t paying that penalty again.

The innuendo that he would expect payment for a meal he had prepared for her slapped him. When he was a child, his father had hammered into him that a man’s honor and pride were everything. Stefan would not humble himself before Rose, telling her how his heart leaped when he saw her, how much he needed her warmth—how much he needed to give her warmth…and safety. Those wary blue eyes told him she had been badly hurt, and every step would be carefully weighed. That she did not trust him—a man who tried his best to be right and good—hurt. “Forget it,” he said, stood and walked off before he said too much.

An hour later, Stefan gripped the farmhouse board and tugged it free, the extra force supplied by his temper. His mother had left a note that Maury had taken her for a private tour of the store, so that she could select her bathroom wallpaper undisturbed. Estelle was still out with her girlfriend. Left alone with his hunger for Rose—to hear her voice, to dream of her—Stefan concentrated on taking down the wall between the kitchen and the back porch. At least that wall was solid and could be dealt with, whereas Rose’s walls were intangible but just as effective.

Stefan shook his head and tore away an old board, discarding it to the growing pile. In business, he knew how to act. But personal relationships had never come easily to him. His lack of experience with flirtation clearly was a disadvantage now.

Headlights lasered through the windows on the back porch and at a glance, Stefan recognized Rose’s pickup. He had been wounded enough for one night, his attempt at friendship with her slapped in his face. He did not like the simmering anger, that of the man placing his honest intentions in front of the woman who enchanted and rejected him. He glanced at the woman coming up the stone walkway to the house, and with a shake of his head, opened the door.

She held up the picnic basket, her face pale in the light shafting from his home. “You forgot this.”

He felt too vulnerable, an emotion denied the young son of steely Guy Donatien and firmly embedded in the man. He reached to take the handle of the basket. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

“You’re lonely, aren’t you?” she asked quietly above the chirp of the crickets. She did not release the basket to him.

Was he to be denied his pride? Did he have to explain the emptiness he felt in the odd hours when work did not fill his life and his family was not near? Who did this woman think she was, to pry so deeply into his life? “Are you?” The question was a reflex, a defense.

She shook her head and that fabulous mane of reddish-brown hair seemed to catch fire in the light. “You could get a carpenter team to help you with the house,” she said, changing the subject.

Stefan did not want to admit how much he was looking forward to his new role away from business and the kitchen. He, too, wanted to enjoy average American rural life, a vacation away from stress and the city. “I do not need them.”

“Larry could help. He and his brother and a few others—”

Stefan breathed deeply. Did she think he was incapable of simple tasks? He had helped remodelers and his father and knew basic carpentry. Did she think him incapable of everything? “I do not wish your ex-fiancé to be of assistance to me.”

“You don’t have to be so rigid about someone helping you. It’s a neighborly thing to do. I’ve got time. We got off to a bad start, but I’ll help you tonight and we’ll be friends. I’ll introduce you to Waterville’s single women looking for a man. Just remember to keep it light, because you’re only here for the summer, and some of them might want to get serious. I don’t want to be held responsible for anyone’s heartache.”

Stefan clamped his lips closed. He refused to debate his choice of women, or to have her select them for him. He tugged the basket from her and turned, walking up the steps into the back porch. He placed the basket on a table, flipped open the top, gripped the Beaujolais wine he had selected especially to go with the poulet en cocote. He poured the wine into a glass, swirled it and downed it quickly. He eyed Rose, who was studying the stack of old boards and broken plasterboard. “You are a frustrating woman. Do you think me incapable of the smallest task? The smallest sense of responsibility? Do you think I ask every woman I see to have dinner with me?”

“Yes,” she answered truthfully. “You’re probably pretty available…I mean, a man who looks like you, who is very smooth and who is obviously wealthy.”

She hadn’t spared him, and Stefan reluctantly admitted that certain women did want him. So far none of them had appealed. “‘Very smooth,”’ he repeated darkly.

“I’ve never trusted men who know how to look sexy and appealing, and how to touch a woman. And you’re one of them.”

Her words were both a compliment and a put-down. “Thank you for your honesty. So, I am not to be trusted.”

“It’s like the major leagues and minor leagues. You probably play in the majors, while I just don’t want to get in the ball game at all.”

He had finally found a woman who aroused and satisfied him intellectually and visually, and she did not want him. Stefan ripped open the zippered thermal pouch containing the chicken and vegetables, then tugged off a drumstick. He ate it without prowling through its taste as he usually did. Rose sniffed delicately, coming to peer down into the basket. “Eat,” Stefan ordered, unconcerned with manners or presentation of the meal at the moment.

Rose studied his expression, then reached to pat his cheek. He gripped her wrist and eased it away from him. He could not bear to have her sympathy. “Don’t.”

She watched him carve the chicken and ladle the vegetables onto the plates, handing one to her. “Do you have to bristle?” she asked as she probed an artichoke heart with her fingertip.

When she reached for the wine, pouring it into a glass, her breast brushed Stefan’s bare arm, electrifying his senses. He tensed and held his breath until the initial sensual jolt passed. “That’s why I ‘bristle,”’ he said coarsely as she suddenly stepped back, a blush rising up her cheeks.

He took the finger she had used to test the food and brought it to his mouth, sucking it. Then his teeth closed around the tip, nipping gently. “I want you.”

Rose stiffened and jerked her hand away. “I don’t know anything about you, except you just may have an evil temper. Your eyes flash and I hear thunder in your voice. I’m not intimidated, of course, but nothing happens this fast. Not in Waterville, Missouri, U.S.A. Life sort of meanders into the right course, without pushing it before its time. You’re a person who likes to arrange things on your schedule.”

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