“Hello, Marco. I heard you were home.” Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Epilogue Copyright

“Hello, Marco. I heard you were home.”

He didn’t want to take his eyes off her, as his gaze took in the woman he’d never forgotten.

“You look fantastic,” he said, and she smiled.

“Sophie. . .” He hesitated. “About the way things ended between us—”

“It was a long time ago, Marco, and I’ve forgotten it. I still consider you a friend.”

He frowned. That wasn’t the response he’d expected or hoped for.

“Have a nice visit,” she said as she walked back toward her house.

Her voice brought reality crashing down on his head. She had been his once, but he’d left her. And now he would have to do all he could to win her back....

Dear Reader,

The joys of summer are upon us—along with some July fireworks from Silhouette Desire!

The always wonderful Jennifer Greene presents our July MAN OF THE MONTH in Prince Charming’s Child. A contemporary romance version of Sleeping Beauty, this title also launches the author’s new miniseries, HAPPILY EVER AFTER, inspired by those magical fairy tales we loved in childhood. And ever-talented Anne Marie Winston is back with a highly emotional reunion romance in Lovers’ Reunion. The popular miniseries TEXAS BRIDES by Peggy Moreland continues with the provocative story of That McCloud Woman. Sheiks abound in Judith McWilliams’s The Sheik’s Secret, while a plain Jane is wooed by a millionaire in Jan Hudson’s Plain Jane’s Texan. And Barbara McCauley’s new dramatic miniseries, SECRETS!, debuts this month with Blackhawk’s Sweet Revenge.

We’ve got more excitement for you next month—watch for the premiere of the compelling new Desire miniseries THE TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB. Some of the sexiest, most powerful men in the Lone Star State are members of this prestigious club, and they all find love when they least expect it! You’ll learn more about THE TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB in our August Dear Reader letter, along with an update on Silhouette’s new continuity, THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS, debuting next month.

And this month, join in the celebrations by treating yourself to all six passionate Silhouette Desire titles.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

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

Lovers’ Reunion

Anne Marie Winston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANNE MARIE WINSTON has believed in happy endings all her life. Having the opportunity to share them with her readers gives her great joy. Anne Marie enjoys figure skating and working in the gardens of her south-central Pennsylvania home.

For Mary Alice

My roomie

“Few delights can equal the mere presence of one whom we trust utterly.”

—George MacDonald

Prologue

Had he heard voices?

Slowly, Marco Esposito opened his eyes, dreading the sight of the dappled shades of the jungle surrounding him. God, if he got out of here alive, he’d never wear green again.

He held his breath, straining to hear above the warbling, whistling clamor of the creatures in the canopy above his head. Must’ve been wishful thinking. Or hallucinating.

His tongue felt thick and swollen. It took effort to unstick it from the roof of his mouth. He was dying for a drink, but he’d finished the last of the water late yesterday. Kind of ironic, since he was soaked from head to toe by the steamy humidity in the air.

Something was crawling over his hand. He fought back a shudder and hoped it wasn’t one of the brilliantly colored little tree frogs whose poison would finish him off a lot faster than the blood he’d already lost, considerable as he thought it was.

He knew better than to move, and not just because of threatening creatures. The pain was bearable as long as he lay completely still. He wanted to check his watch, but even the movement of his arm sent hot daggers of fire lancing up his right leg, so he didn’t. He squinted up through the leafy veil of the rain forest that soared in a tangled jumble of vines, thick tree trunks and leaves overhead.

Daylight. Unless he’d been dozing a lot longer than he thought, this was the second day, then. Relief swamped him. By day the jaguar he so feared would be lying low, waiting for night, when its sharp predator’s vision was unparalleled in the close, black regions of the terrain through which it passed.

He’d kept the flashlight on last night, shining it at random spots around him until the battery weakened and finally died. If he wasn’t found today, the jaguar would find him tonight.

By rolling his eyes to the left, he could just see the humped outline of what had been a small plane, wingless and shattered among the ferns. The pilot was still inside, dead since the moment of impact. The other body lay on the ground beside the plane. He’d covered it as best he could with a heavy tarp, broken open a couple of capsules of ammonia and prayed that any passing predators would be too afraid of the strange scents to come too close for a while.

Grief tightened his chest. Stu had been a good researcher, a trusted friend and damn good on expeditions like this. He’d died less than an hour after Marco had pulled him from the plane.

Marco hoped he’d get the chance to talk to Stu’s family one day, give them the final few words his colleague had sent to those he was leaving. Dammit! Stu had a wife, two kids, one of whom was still in high school. Life really sucked sometimes.

Family. His own family was going to be devastated if he didn’t make it out of this green hell. He hadn’t been home more than a handful of times in fifteen years. But in his heart, they were always close. His mom, dad, grandparents, four sisters... At least he wouldn’t be leaving a wife or kids to mourn him, to try to get along on their own.

And just like that, she was with him.

Sophie. He’d tried to forget her, to keep her out of his head for nearly six years now.

He hadn’t succeeded.

He could see her clearly: soft bouncy curls, laughing dark eyes, those full, pouty lips he’d so loved to kiss. He’d had no business kissing her, but his willpower hadn’t been up to the task of holding her at bay after the first time he’d tasted her. They’d had only one time together but still he could call up the images, the scents, tastes and touches as if it had been yesterday. And the raw, naked longing that had sprung from nowhere had spooked him.

His only defense had been to stay away. Away from Chicago, away from his own home, away from the girl next door who’d said she loved him.

But she’d been too young to love anybody. He’d told himself that more times than he could count.

Sweet Sophie. Would she miss him if he died? Did she even think of him anymore? She surely was married by now, with a family of her own.

And that might be his biggest regret. He’d never thought he was a family man. But the thought of dying, of leaving nothing of himself behind to carry on his name, his blood, his life....

He hadn’t let himself think of a family in years. It was funny, though, that he’d never been able to envision children of his own unless they were being held in Sophie’s soft arms. She was the only woman who’d ever even tempted him to think “family.”

“Ho-o-o!”

The voice was close. It had to be, to carry so clearly through the sodden, sound-swallowing vegetation.

“Hello! I’m here!” He made the mistake of turning his head, and the movement jarred his body just enough to arouse the beast gnawing on his leg. He gritted his teeth; a guttural sound rose from his throat, and every muscle in his big body went rigid.

“Marco! Keep talking! We’re coming.”

He recognized the voice an instant before a head topped with flaming copper hair appeared from around one of the immense tree trunks. Rescue! Relief, excitement, panic that had been held at bay, all surged forth.

As soon as Jared Adamson saw him, he broke into a jog. “Here,” he called over his shoulder. “Esposito’s over here. The plane’s over here, too.” Jared leaned over him, shining a horribly bright light in his eyes, and Marco knew he was checking his pupils. “Hey, buddy. You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

“Wanna bet?” He was shocked to hear how hoarse and weak he sounded, but he tried to smile.

Jared dropped to his knees beside him, his face grim as he ripped an enormous backpack off his shoulders and began pawing through it. “What the hell happened? This wasn’t in the plan.”

Marco wanted to say something flippant, but suddenly he was on the verge of tears and he swallowed several times before he could trust his voice. Over his friend’s broad shoulder, he saw several other rescuers moving toward the plane, unrolling body bags and transport stretchers.

“Engine failure. The pilot couldn’t do a thing.” He was able to speak again. “The others are dead. My leg...is bad.”

Jared nodded, his hazel eyes sober. “I can see that. How did Stu manage to get out of the plane?”

“I pulled him out. He died after that.”

Jared gave a low whistle. “You pulled him out? With this leg?” He shook his head. “Only you could manage a feat like that,” he muttered as he bent to examine the injury. “You bandage this yourself?” he asked as he put one hand behind Marco’s head and held a metal cup of water to his lips.

Pain threatened again, and he gritted his teeth. When it passed, he drained the cup before he answered. “Had to. Losing a lot of blood.”

Jared grimaced, and his face contorted for an instant as he fiddled with gauze and antiseptic. “You did a good job.” He took a deep breath, blew it out. “I’m going to have to stabilize your leg before I move you. Brace yourself, bud. This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

His friend’s eyes met Marco’s, and Jared went silent for a moment, looking away, struggling for composure. Finally he said, “It looks ugly. I wouldn’t be surprised if the doctors want to amputate.”

Marco froze. Deep inside, he’d known it was bad. He just hadn’t let himself think about the mangled flesh and bits of bone he’d dragged together and bandaged the day before. “Save it,” he whispered. His whole life was centered around the reputation he’d built exploring, researching and documenting geological environs. He’d suffocate in a sedentary job, a single location. “Please tell them to save it if there’s any chance....”

“Will do.” His friend’s big hand came down over his and squeezed once. “I’m going to have to touch your leg now.”

“S’okay—” His voice rose to a scream as pain’s teeth bit deep, and then the world spun in a red cyclone of agony that sucked consciousness from him.

One

Marco pulled the dark blue rental car to the curb a few yards from his parents’ house in Elmwood Park, Illinois. He’d grown up in the Chicago suburb in this same house, and the familiar sight of his mother’s red geraniums cascading from the window box above the single-car garage brought back a cascade of warm memories. The memories lightened the dark despair with which he had grappled since a doctor had told him his right leg would never regain more than a bare minimum of flexibility.

He reached for the manual shift, and then remembered he couldn’t drive a clutch yet. Shoving the automatic gear into park with more force than necessary, he opened the door and swung his legs out of the car, being careful not to bang his stiff knee. It was pretty good most of the time now, as long as he wasn’t reckless.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the mild air. Early May in Chicago wasn’t usually this pleasant. Better enjoy it while it lasted. As a geologist who frequently traveled the globe on scientific expeditions, he’d spent far more time in tropical climates than any other, and he much preferred the warmth.

His mood darkened again as he took his cane and walked slowly around the car. He hated using the crutch and rarely needed it for short distances anymore, but the flight from Buenos Aires had been long and tiring, and when he was tired, the leg was apt to give way without any warning. Slinging his bag over one shoulder, he started up the walk toward his house.

“Marco!” A screech of delight warned him a moment before the door banged open. Dora Esposito rushed through the screen door and off the small stoop with a speed that gave no hint that she was the mother of five grown children.

Her arms were around him before he could respond, and he put his free arm around his mother, hugging fiercely as he looked down at her ebony curls that had yet to see a strand of gray. “Still coloring your hair, Ma?”

His mother drew back, squeezing his shoulders and laughing. “Still as disrespectful as ever, I see.” She wiped her eyes as she smiled at him. “I’ll have to work on that while you’re home. How long can you stay?”

He hesitated. “I’m not really sure.”

Dora’s face fell. “Don’t tell me you’re rushing off tomorrow like you always do,” she scolded. “Sometimes I think you only stop by because it’s cheaper than a hotel room when you’re passing through Chicago.”

He laughed, keeping his arm around her shoulders affectionately as they turned toward the door. “I’m not stopping off this time, Ma. I’m staying.”

Dora Esposito was rarely at a loss for words, but his news struck her dumb—for a moment “You’re teasing your old mama.”

“Never.” He removed his arm from around her as they reached the stoop and juggled his cane into position. He’d learned the hard way that he needed all his concentration for stuff like steps, however small. “I have a temporary position at Purdue for the summer and fall semesters. I’ll be around so much you’ll be sick of seeing me in a few months.”

His mother pressed a hand to her breast. “I can’t believe it!” Then she realized what he was doing. “Oh, here, bambino, let me help you.” She put an arm under his elbow and he stopped, forcing a smile. “It’s okay. Ma, I can do it. It just takes a little time. Besides—” he forced himself to grin “—there’s well over two hundred pounds of me and less than a hundred of you, so I’m not sure what you’d do if I started to fall.”

His mother smiled back, although her eyes were shadowed. “I’ll just go ahead and get your room ready.”

“Thanks.” Reaching the top of the steps, he grabbed the door before she could, holding it open for her. “I’m going to start looking for apartments tomorrow, so I shouldn’t be under your feet past the end of the month.”

“Under my feet?” His mother flapped a hand at him as she started up the stairs. “Since Teresa moved out, it’s been too quiet around here. It’s wonderful to have you home.”

As Dora bustled up the steps, he set down his bag in the front entry and moved through the tiny house he’d shared with his parents and four sisters. The living room, on the left, was dominated by the large television he’d bought his father a few years ago, the better to view the Chicago Bulls during basketball season. The furniture was homey and practical, and his mother’s needlework peeped out of a basket beside the sofa. Pretty crocheted doilies still covered the pie-crust tables.

In the dining room a lacy cloth lay over the table. One wall was covered with familiar framed photos: himself and his sisters, Camilla, Elisabetta, Luisa and Teresa as babies, at First Communion, graduating from high school; his grandparents and his aunts and uncles; his parents on their wedding day. A vase of tulips from his mother’s flower beds brightened the room, and a crucifix hung above a small table that served as an altar.

It was strangely reassuring to see that nothing had changed.

The kitchen, too, was much as he remembered, except that his father had installed the dishwasher all the kids had given them for Christmas ... two years ago? Had it really been two years since he’d been home?

Yes, he realized with chagrin. It really had been. Last Christmas he’d been in a hospital in Paraguay, fighting an infection that threatened to undermine any chance of saving his damaged leg. There probably had been ten tons of bacteria, at least, running around in the damned rain forest—it was a miracle he hadn’t gotten anything worse.

He wandered to the window over the sink and pulled aside the lacy curtain, idly scanning the block of quiet, well-tended backyards. All the neighborhood kids had grown up and moved away—the once-lively street was now a sedate community of grandparents who talked incessantly about selling their little brick or locally mined lannenstone homes and moving to sunny Florida.

As far as he knew, not one house had changed hands in well over twenty years.

A movement in the next yard caught his eye.

My, oh, my. His male instincts snapped to attention. A slender girl with shoulderlength dark curls was standing on the little patio, her back to him, face raised to the early spring sun, while a black and white cocker spaniel ran mad circles around the perimeters of the yard. The woman had a gorgeous figure, petite and full, long-legged and curving in all the right places. She must be one of the Domenico boys’ wives. Though why a gorgeous package like that would tie herself to Stef, Tommie, Vincente or Geordie was beyond him. Grinning at his own wit, he treated himself to another leisurely perusal of the woman as more memories from his childhood swam through his head.

The Domenicos had lived next door his whole life. Their parents had bought the houses in the same year, and the next, each family had their first baby. He and the Domenico boys had been an unbeatable informal basketball team when they’d played pickup games with other guys on the block. He and his sisters had played and fought with the seven young Domenicos like one big family.

But they hadn’t been one big family. And there hadn’t been anything the least bit sisterly about his feelings for the youngest member of the Domenico clan.

Sophie.

Exhaling heavily, he leaned against the sink as pleasure faded. He still felt bad about the way he’d ended things with Sophie. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing her at the surprise anniversary party his sisters were planning for his folks in two weeks. It was bound to be awkward.

Part of him hoped she’d married and had babies with some guy who loved her like she deserved. The other part...well, it didn’t matter. If he’d dreamed of Sophie more times than he cared to admit over the past six years, it was nobody’s fault but his own. He never should have allowed things to get so hot and heavy between them, and he never should have let her harbor any silly dreams about marriage. He’d known even then that the world’s seductive call was stronger than any woman’s allure. He was a traveler, loved nothing better than—

Sophie! He stood straight up and all but pressed his nose to the glass above the sink. The woman on the patio had lowered her face and turned his way, and he’d seen what he’d missed before. It was Sophie!

Blood rushed to his head, and his pulse sped up. God, she looked wonderful. She’d been a plump little dove as a teen and young woman, pretty enough but hardly a stunner like this. He’d always wondered at the irresistible attraction she held for him, the strong reaction of his body to her nearness, to even the thought of her. She was nothing like most of the girls he had dated before her, the homecoming queens and cheerleaders who’d been happy to be on his arm.

Sophie, shy and quiet, was not like them.

But he’d discovered he rather liked his sweet little secret. Sophie, with her silky skin, little love handles and the abundance of soft curves she’d possessed, turned into a shameless wildcat in his arms. After he’d discovered her charms, the other women might as well not even have existed.

He stared through the window at her again. She had stuck her hands in the back pockets of the slim jeans she wore, and her body thrust forward in a way that outlined the plane of slender hips and flat belly and breasts that still looked lush and full. She was thin, much thinner than he remembered, but thank God she still had those beautiful—

Hey, buddy. What’s it to you?

Sophie called to the cocker spaniel, who came bounding up the steps. As she turned and opened the door, the little dog disappeared into the house. A moment later Sophie followed.

His whole body sagged. He’d told her flat-out that marriage wasn’t in his plans, had hurt her deeply and left her to deal with her hurt alone. He’d be the last person she’d welcome home with open arms.

A sound behind him alerted him to his mother’s entry into the kitchen.

“Marco. Sit. I’ll feed you.” She paused, taking in his proximity to the window. “See something out there you like?” Her tone was sly, and her eyebrows arched.

“Very funny, Ma.” He limped to the little table and parked himself in one of her cushioned chairs. “I’m thirty-six years old, not eighteen. I doubt there are too many teenage girls around for me to drool over these days.”

“So who said anything about teenagers?” His mother’s tone was all innocence. “A man needs a woman, not a teenager. You should settle down, Marco. Especially now that you—”

“Ma.” His tone was flat enough to stop her in mid-ramble. “We’ve had variations on this chat too many times already.”

She smiled, coming over to pinch his cheek as she set the table. “All right, all right. I just want to see my boy happy, is all.”

“Hah. You just want to have more grandchildren than any other woman on the block.” He gave her a narrow-eyed stare. “No matchmaking. Promise?”

Dora heaved an exaggerated sigh and sketched the sign of the cross. “Promise.”

But as he dipped into the minestrone soup that no one else could make as well as his mother, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from straying next door. He hadn’t seen a man, and besides, his mother surely would have told him if Sophie had married. He wondered if she worked, if she had a steady beau, if she’d still melt in his arms the way she always had. No doubt about it, Miss Sophie Domenico was just what he needed to keep his mind off the inescapable fact that his days of exploring and roughing it in some of the earth’s most inaccessible spots were over.

Sophie Morrell started when the telephone rang. Darn it, she’d just gotten comfortable after returning from her folks’ home. Rising from the couch in her little condo where she had settled in to read a romance novel by one of her favorite authors, Sophie switched on the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey, kid sister, whatcha doin’?”

“Hi, Vee.” Sophie’s tone reflected her delight. At thirty, her sister, Violetta, was only two years older than Sophie, and she had been Sophie’s best friend since their childhood growing up in Elmwood Park. “I’m doing nothing, if you want the truth. I spent the afternoon with Mama and Daddy, then I decided to come home and prop up my feet and read the evening away.”

“Did you eat?”

“Of course I ate.” She laughed. “You worry too much.”

“As your big sister, it’s the job I take most seriously,” Violetta said. Then the flippancy left her voice. “I don’t mean to bug you, Soph. It’s just a habit, I guess.”

“It’s okay.” Sophie knew exactly what her sister meant During her husband’s illness, she’d spent all her time attending to him, pushing aside her own grief. Many days, she’d simply forgotten to eat, or been too tired to worry about food. By the time he died, she’d lost twenty pounds. She’d lost more weight after Kirk’s death and only slowly had gained back enough that she didn’t look like a walking skeleton.

While the method of weight loss wasn’t one she’d recommend to anyone, she rather liked the end result. In the two years since she’d been widowed, she’d acquired eating and exercising habits that had kept her trim. She was proud that she hadn’t strayed more than three pounds from her desired weight in those years.

Actually, it wasn’t much of an effort. The clinic where she worked, in a poor Hispanic neighborhood down in the city, kept her so busy that she often didn’t get home until six or seven. And half the time, the workday ended before she remembered that she hadn’t eaten lunch.

She liked the busy-ness of the clinic, though. Her work teaching young mothers how to care for their babies and be successful in the job market gave her many moments of joy. There was little she loved more than handling wide-eyed babies with mops of black curls.

And if she occasionally shed tears of anger at the unfairness of the life that had left her a widow with no babies of her own, she never, ever let anyone see them.

Of course, her work had its sad moments, too. But she’d lived through sorrows of her own, and, though she still missed Kirk, she felt that her life was richer for the experiences she’d had. She knew grief and rage and despair intimately, so she could offer the comfort of a kindred soul to others when those emotions came knocking at their doors.

“I have big news,” Violetta said, breaking into her silent thoughts.

“What?”

“You have to guess.”

Sophie rolled her eyes, though Vee couldn’t see her. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“I’ll give you a hint. Whose anniversary party is coming up?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Esposito’s. But what—”

“And what handsome family black sheep has come home to help them celebrate?”

Marco was home. The bottom dropped out of her stomach and before she thought, she automatically defended him. “He isn’t exactly a black sheep. He just travels a lot.” Sophie wished she could call the words back the minute they hit the air, but too late. The realization that he was already in Chicago was more unsettling than she wanted to admit, even to herself.

“Sophia Elenora, don’t you dare defend that man.” Violetta’s tone was heated. “He led you on and then dumped you for his silly little research trips, remember? You haven’t seen him in close to five years—”

“Almost six.”

“Okay, six, but my point is—”

“I get your point, Vee.” Sophie sighed and raked her long hair away from her face. “I did manage to marry someone else, remember? You don’t have to worry—my feelings for Marco were just a juvenile crush. They disappeared ages ago.” She made herself continue in a light tone. “But it will be nice to see him again. He’s been away a long time. Do you realize that this party might actually get all the Esposito and Domenico kids back together?”

“It’s going to be wonderful.” Violetta’s tone had softened and she accepted the change of topic. “I talked to Camilla yesterday. She asked if we could spare a few hours that Saturday afternoon to help decorate the church hall.”

“Tell her I’ll put it on my calendar.” Camilla was Marco’s older sister, the one who’d done most of the arrangements for the upcoming party.

Violetta changed the subject then, and they chatted for a few more minutes before saying goodbye.

But as Sophie hung up the phone, she knew her peaceful evening was at an end. Most of the time, she deliberately refused to think of Marco. It was the safest way. But knowing that he was home, here in the very same city, had every nerve cell in her body dancing a kick line, and the memories came flooding back fast and hard through the gates that Vee’s words had opened.

Marco.

Her stomach fluttered. She could picture his face as if he were standing before her, dark eyes gleaming with goodnatured amusement at the world, well-sculpted lips and classic Roman nose, his black curls cropped ruthlessly short and dimples winking in his lean cheeks. His sisters had teased him about being a “chick-magnet” years ago—did he still project that same irresistible aura? Did those eyes still promise a woman secret pleasures beyond all imagining? He’d curled her toes every time she so much as looked at him.

And look she had.

She’d longed for him ever since she’d started to notice boys. Marco was seven years older than she was, and at eighteen, he’d already had girls lined up around the block. If he thought of little.Sophie Domenico at all, it was only as the neighbor guys’ kid sister.

But that hadn’t mattered to her adolescent heart. He’d bestowed a casual kiss on her cheek at the party they’d thrown him before he left for college, and at the ripe old age of eleven, she’d been his forever. No teen idol’s face had ever adorned her bedroom walls; Marco was the only man she’d fantasized about. At her Sweet Sixteen party, she’d been on cloud nine all evening simply because Marco had been home. He’d already finished his undergraduate work and had his first assignment as a research assistant under his belt.

That time, he’d kissed her lips before he left. Just a friendly, brotherly peck, to be sure, but to her it had been as good as a proposal of marriage. Though she’d dated through high school, she’d never gotten serious with anyone. Compared to Marco, all the boys she’d gone out with seemed like . . . well, like boys. Marco was all man, and her breath grew short and her heart beat faster every time she thought about him.

It had been the silliest thing, she thought, looking back. He’d gotten home maybe four times a year and most of the time, he’d barely noticed her. If he had, it was to tug on her hair and tease her. She’d watched through her curtains jealously when he brought girls home to family picnics, and she’d cried after she saw him kissing stupid Ella Pescke at the Espositos’ annual New Year’s party, a rowdy neighborhood event complete with dancing and enough wine to float a boat.

Then she’d turned nineteen. Her birthday was July nineteenth, right in the middle of the summer. Her parents had taken the family out to eat to celebrate. Everyone came, even her second oldest sister Arabella, Vincente’s twin, who was overdue with her first baby. Some of the Espositos had come along as well, and Sophie had nearly melted into a little puddle on the floor when Marco walked in with Stefano and Tomaso, her big brothers. He’d just gotten into town and was leaving again in the morning, he said.

He’d winked at her and wished her a happy birthday, and her evening had been complete. She could have sat and looked at him all night. But right in the middle of the meal, Arabella’s water had broken. While Belle’s husband Lionel ran for the car, the rest of the family had gotten their food in doggie bags to take to the hospital and once there, they’d simply taken over the waiting room.

Marco had come along. “So I can give Ma a personal report in the morning,” he’d said, white teeth flashing in a grin.

Sophie could still remember the stunned look on the nurse’s face when she’d opened the door to tell them Arabella had had a girl. “You can’t all be family,” she’d said, falling back a pace.

And then, her prayers had been answered....

It was nearly dawn, and everyone headed home for some sleep. To Sophie’s delight, Marco slung a friendly arm across her shoulders as they all trooped down the corridor. “You can ride with me,” he said. “Keep me company so I don’t fall asleep on the way home.”

She was too breathless, too thrilled, to reply. Marco had parked in the lot at the opposite end of the hospital and they left the others at the doors. He talked, drew her out until she relaxed, and they spoke of little things during the drive home: her college plans, his recent work with environmental geophysics in western Australia, their various siblings, most of whom were in the early years of marriage and parenting. They’d stopped at an all-night grocery and gotten sodas and talked some more. The sky was growing light and everyone else had beaten them home, from the look of all the parked cars on the street when they pulled up in front of their side-by-side homes.

He got out of the car and came around to open her door.

“Thanks for riding with me,” Marco said “Happy birthday.” Then he put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his, pressing his lips lightly to hers.

It had been intended only as a familiar, brotherly caress, she thought, with the wisdom of hindsight.

But at the first touch of his mouth on hers, she lifted her arms to his wide shoulders and gave herself to the kiss, making a small whimpering sound of delight deep in her throat. Marco froze for an instant, and a part of her registered his shock. Then his arms came around her and he pulled her hard against him, fusing their bodies together in a breath-stealing fit that made her moan again.

He caught the sound with his mouth, tracing her lips with his tongue, then opening them for the masterful invasion of his tongue. Kissing her deeply, repeatedly, he stroked his palms over the soft flesh of her back down to the upper swell of her buttocks and back up to her shoulders until she was hanging limp in his arms, surrender a foregone conclusion.

When he finally lifted his head, there was a look of utter bemusement on his face. “Whoa,” he’d said, breathing hard, and she thrilled to the feel of his hard body against hers. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

She blushed to the roots of her hair as she realized how forward she’d been, and struggled to free herself from his arms. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It wasn’t—”

But he shut her up in mid-sentence simply by kissing her again, and as before, every cell in her body had recognized him, and she responded with everything in her. When he lifted his head the second time, he said, “I didn’t say I didn’t like it, I just wasn’t expecting it. ”

He paused, and an odd look crossed his face. She got the impression he was weighing something in his mind, and then he said, “Tomorrow night. Dinner? And a movie?”

Sophie put down her book and paced to the window of her apartment, looking out into the night as if she might see him there. Altogether he’d taken her out less than two dozen times, flying in for a quick visit in between assignments.

In between times, she’d waited impatiently. He never called, never wrote. She never knew when he was coming until she heard one of her siblings mention that he’d arrived, or until she answered the door to find him standing on the other side.

It had been an unsatisfactory arrangement at best, and she’d longed for the day when he’d be ready to settle down.

But that day had never come. One evening during her senior year of college, Marco had come home. He’d taken her out and told her gently that he wouldn’t be coming to see her again, that he was too old for her, that she needed to forget him and get on with her own life.

She’d cried.

He’d comforted her.

And when he left the next day, she knew what it meant to be a woman. He’d been a wonderful lover, and she’d hoped to change his mind with the passion they shared, but in the end he’d gone just as he’d said he would.

And she’d been left behind for good.

Two

She had a horribly busy week at the clinic for indigent mothers in the Latino section of the city where she worked. And as if it needed a proper ending, in the middle of the night on Friday, Sophie received a call from a crisis management center that served the clinic’s area. One of her clients had been beaten up by her boyfriend and was in the hospital. The young woman had no family, so foster care arrangements had to be made for her two-month-old infant.

She was at the hospital until dawn completing paperwork. The infant had been checked out by a doctor and declared unharmed, but all of the usual temporary foster homes were either full to overflowing, or she couldn’t reach them.

Finally, around eight on Saturday morning, she got hold of a foster mother who worked with short-term emergency cases The woman agreed to take the baby, but she wasn’t available until Sunday morning. After a brief telephone consultation with her supervisor, Sophie received permission to keep the child overnight and take her to her foster home in the morning.

Fortunately she was prepared for such an event. This wasn’t the first time she’d kept a foster child with her for a night or two.

She got home near 10:00 a.m. and when the baby slept, so did she. Unfortunately little Ana got hungry a lot sooner than Sophie did, and the nap didn’t last nearly long enough. It was amazing how much time it took to accomplish even simple tasks with a baby around. She had to stop constantly to change a diaper, warm and feed a bottle, entertain when Ana fussed and rock her to sleep again in late afternoon.

Not that it was a hardship. She loved babies, always enjoyed helping with her numerous nieces and nephews. Especially now that there would be no babies of her own.

Then she remembered she’d promised her mother she’d come for dinner, so she called to warn her that a baby would be coming along. Edie Domenico, with thirteen grandchildren already, wasn’t fazed by the prospect. So Sophie grabbed a quick shower while the baby girl still slept and stuffed a diaper bag with all the paraphernalia an infant required. Settling Ana in the car seat she always kept for such emergencies, she made the ten-minute drive to her mother’s.

“Hi, everybody,” she called out as she entered her parents’ home, juggling the diaper bag, the baby and an extra bag of disposable diapers. She stopped to give her father’s cocker spaniel a scratch behind his long, silky ears and when he promptly dropped and rolled over, she rubbed his belly with the sole of her sneaker.

“Hello, Sophia,” her mother called. “I’m in the kitchen. Give that baby to your father and come help me roll out the pasta.”

Sophie grinned. She suspected that her assistance wasn’t as necessary as was her presence for a small gabfest. Her father was settled into his easy chair, and from the way he was fumbling around with the newspaper, she suspected he’d been napping behind it. “Hi, Papa,” she said. “You don’t have to take her.”

But Renaldo Domenico shook his finger at her. “Are you trying to deny me a chance to snuggle that baby? And where’s your kiss for your poor old overworked papa? Hmm?”

She laughed as she crossed the room and bussed her father’s cheek. “How can you be overworked? You’re retired.”

“That’s right,” he replied, “And your mother thinks up more chores for me to do than I had when I did work.” He took Ana from Sophie’s arm with the ease of one who’d handled many infants. “So who’s this pretty one?”

She explained Ana’s situation to him and left them getting acquainted in the living room. When she entered the kitchen, she discovered that her sister Arabella was there already. “Hi,” she said as she hugged first her mother and then Belle. “Where are the girls?”

Arabella and her husband had three daughters now. “Elissa had a softball game,” she explained. “Lionel and her sisters are cheering her on. I begged off on the grounds that I needed a few childless moments at least once a week.”

Sophie chuckled. “Do I detect a hint of exhaustion? Frustration? Mild insanity?”

“D—all of the above.” Belle’s voice was dry. “With the girls squabbling nonstop these days, moments of peace are few and far between.” Belle’s oldest two daughters were only seventeen months apart, and at ten and nine, they no longer played like little angels.

“This will pass,” predicted her mother. “And then they’ll be each other’s dearest friends, just like all my girls.”

Belle stuck a finger down her throat in an exaggerated gagging gesture. “Yes, Mama.”

“Sophie, did you hear Marco’s home?” Her mother pounded on the pasta board and muttered at her pasta in Italian.

“Yes. Vee told me.” She steeled herself for the inevitable discussion.

Belle and Edie both looked up from their work. “And...?” said her mother.

Sophie met their avidly curious eyes with a bland smile. “And what?”

“Oh, come on,” Belle said. “Did your heart go pitty-pat? Just the least little bit?”

“Of course.” If she denied it, they’d know she was lying through her teeth. “He was my First Great Love. But I didn’t swoon, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Humph.” Her sister muffled a skeptical sound behind her glass on the pretext of taking a drink.

“I saw him the other night,” her mother said. “He’s still gorgeous. But oh, so sad, what happened. He’ll never be right again.”

“What happened?” Sophie repeated cautiously. This was probably one of her mother’s little jokes. A ploy to get her to talk about Marco.

Belle looked up. “You know ... the accident, his leg.”

“What accident?” The sincere sympathy in her sister’s voice was alarming and her voice rose slightly.

Belle’s eyes grew round with concern. “Mama, didn’t you tell her?”

Her mother was looking equally distressed. “No. I thought you or Vee told her.”

“No,” said Belle. “I didn’t tell her. I assumed you—”

“Tell me what?” Sophie’s sharp tone of voice cut through their twitter, and silence descended on the kitchen.

“Well,” said Edie, “you know how Marco’s always traveling into jungles and rain forests and deserts and—”

“Mama.” Sophie crossed her arms.

“He was in a plane crash,” Belle said hastily. “Everyone else on board was killed. He was rescued but his leg was torn up badly and they thought it might have to be amputated. But it wasn’t.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Sophie sat down abruptly at the table. “You’re not kidding.”

“No,” said her mother. “I wish I was. Cesare and Dorotea were frantic. He was in a hospital somewhere in South America. He didn’t even call them until a month after it happened, and he refused to let them fly down. Dora sat here in this kitchen and cried her eyes out.”

“Why didn’t I know this?” Sophie shook her head blindly. “Where was I?”

There was a silence in the kitchen. “You were on vacation,” said Belle. “It was at the beginning of October. I guess it just got overlooked after you got back.”

“Yes, and you know how busy you are, cara mia,” her mother put in. “I’m sorry. We just got our wires crossed, I suppose.”

Sophie rose from the table. “It’s all right,” she said quietly. But it wasn’t. She walked to the back door and stepped out onto the small porch, needing the fresh spring air and a moment alone.

At the beginning of October. The month was a difficult one for her. Kirk had died in October, and for the past two years she’d gone to a friend’s cabin beside a lake in Wisconsin to grieve alone. It would suit her just fine if the month of October were erased from the calendar.

Then the shock of what she’d just been told set in. Images of Marco rose. Playing basketball, dancing a wild swing with one of his sisters on New Year’s Eve, climbing the oak tree to bring down her stranded kitten—Marco was such an active, vital man. His whole life had been built around his physical capabilities.

He would be like a wild animal in a cage.

Her breath caught and she forced down the sob that threatened. It was ridiculous to cry for Marco now. His accident had been seven months ago. He’d survived, and if he’d come home for the anniversary party under his own steam, he must be doing fine.

A door slammed and the sound jarred her into looking around. A man stood on the back porch of the Espositos’ house. A tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair—

And a cane.

He’d been waiting for the excuse to talk to her for days.

Now that she was actually standing mere yards from him, the breezy greeting Marco had practiced flew right out of his head. God, she was beautiful. He stood there, staring like an idiot as she turned her head and met his eyes.

The impact slammed into his gut so hard he had to take a deep breath. Clearing his throat, he raised his voice to carry over the fence between them. “Hello, Sophie.”

She simply stared at him for a long moment. Then she smiled gently. “Hello, Marco. I heard you were home.”

He didn’t want to take his eyes off her, even for a minute, but he wanted less to humiliate himself with a tumble down his parents’ porch steps, so he tore his gaze away and concentrated on getting down the steps and over to the white picket fence as fast as possible. The whole time, he was conscious of her watching his labored progress, and the slow burn of helpless rage at his uncooperative limb gnawed at the lining of his masculine pride. If only—

No, he wasn’t going to go there. He had a burn leg, a knee that had forgotten it was supposed to bend, flex and bear weight. That was reality.

It would get better than it was right now, he’d been assured, but he could never join his former colleagues in the field again because he couldn’t hike over rough terrain and he couldn’t carry a heavy pack of equipment for more than a hundred yards. He knew, because he’d tried.

That was reality. And thinking about the way his life should be would destroy him as surely as that damned plane crash had destroyed his leg.

He stopped when he reached the fence and leaned one arm casually atop one of the posts, forcing his inner turmoil back into submission as his gaze took in the woman he’d never forgotten. He hadn’t asked about her once in the years since he’d held her last, because he didn’t want anyone to think she was anything more to him than a good family friend.

It was for her own good. If she’d thought there was hope, he knew she’d have waited for him forever.

Still, he’d listened avidly whenever his sisters got to talking about the neighbors on his infrequent visits home. For a while, Liz and Luisa had gleefully brought up her name, rubbing his nose in the dates she’d had, but after the first year had passed, they’d stopped mentioning Sophie at all. He’d nearly broken down and asked them about her several times, and only the knowledge that he’d be leaving again in another day had kept him from inquiring.

Now, he wouldn’t be leaving anymore. There was no reason to deny himself the pleasure that once had been his for the taking.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, his eyes wandering over her slender body with intense interest. “You look... fantastic.”

“Thank you.” She slowly stepped down from the stoop and came across the small lawn to her side of the fence. “It’s nice to see you again. Are you home for the you-know-what?” Her voice was hushed, in case his mother was close enough to overhear any discussion of the anniversary party.

“Yes, that and some other things.” What was different about her? She seemed reserved and wary, not simply shy as she’d been before, and though her words were pleasant, they were impersonally uttered as if she were speaking to an acquaintance. It was probably simply that she was remembering how they’d parted.

He couldn’t blame her for being mad. But still, here she was, and he was pretty sure he could charm her into forgiving him. After all, she’d said she loved him.

“I just heard about your accident.” Her voice was still subdued. “It must be frustrating for you.”

“It has its moments.” He gave her his best unconcerned shrug. “How have you been?”

She appeared to consider the question. “I’m doing well.”

“Sophie...” He hesitated. “About the way things ended between us—”

She passed a hand in front of her in a gesture intended to erase his words. “That was a long time ago, Marco, and I’ve forgotten it. I still consider you a friend.”

He frowned. That wasn’t the response he’d expected—or hoped for. This quiet, reserved woman was a marked contrast to the girl who once had hung on his every word. “I’d like to take you out for dinner, get to know you again. Are you free tonight?”

Her eyes widened, the brown completely eclipsed by a blank look of shock, and he realized it was the first time he’d been able to discern any emotion other than generic friendliness in her eyes. “That’s very nice of you, but—”

The back door opened behind her and they both stopped and looked at her mother, framed in the doorway. She was holding a very young infant cradled in one arm. “Sophie, this baby’s starting to fuss. Shall I warm a bottle?”

She nodded her head, shoving away the hair that flew around her shoulders. “Thanks, Mama, that would be great. She ate almost four hours ago and she’s probably starved.”

Shock rolled through him like a fireball ripping through a munitions plant. Sophie had a baby? As he gaped, she swung back to face him.

“Thank you for the invitation.” She shook her head. “But I have to get that wailing little one to bed. I was up half the night last night, and I’m hoping she’ll sleep soundly.” She smiled wryly. “So I can.”

He nodded, unable to trust his voice. He was paralyzed by a fierce wave of rage that made his reaction to his injury seem mild in comparison. Who had dared to touch her? She was his!

“Have a nice visit,” she said. “See you in a few weeks.”

Her voice brought reality crashing down on his head. She had been his once, and she’d wanted to keep it that way. But he’d left her. Hell, he’d even told her to go find somebody else! He continued to stand, gripping the fence so hard his fingers hurt, and he could see her dismiss him from her mind as she hurried back across the yard and disappeared into her parents’ house.

Slowly he made his way back to his own house, cursing the uneven ground. His mother came to the door as he mounted the steps, and she held the door wide. “Come inside and I’ll fix you some lemonade. Is your leg bothering you?”

He wanted to snarl. Not at all. Just Because I hobble around like an old man, why should you think that bothers me? But instead, he made his voice light and amused. “Knock it off, Ma. I promise I’ll tell you if it needs a kiss.”

She swatted his shoulder as he sat down at the table. “I see you talked to Sophie. She’s still a sweet girl, isn’t she?”

“Who’s a sweet girl?” His sister Elisabetta came into the kitchen with a half-eaten banana in one hand and her toddler son sleeping on her shoulder. “Hi, Ma. Thanks for watching him today.”

“Sophie is. And you’re welcome.” Dora plunked a glass of lemonade in front of Marco and picked up some more lemons for a second glass.

“Ah-h-h.” Liz drew the sound out knowingly. “Still drooling over our Sophie, big brother?”

“A man can look,” he said, forcing the turmoil that scrambled through him into hiding. But he couldn’t resist probing. “Although I guess looking’s all that’s allowed now. I don’t hit on married women.”

Liz threw him a surprised glance. “Sophie isn’t married anymore. Didn’t you know?”

“I didn’t know she’d gotten married at all. Who’d she marry?” He worked to project a mild neighborly interest. He was still reeling from the sight of that baby, and the implications at which its existence hinted. The thought of another man touching Sophie, kissing her, receiving the full pleasure of the hot, sweet response that always had been his threw a dark shadow over his thoughts, though he knew he had no right, no reason, to object He’d been the one to walk away.

So why didn’t that matter?

“His name was Kirk Morrell. They met in college,” his sister said.

“It must not have lasted long,” he commented. “Is Sophie the only one of the kids to have been divorced?”

“She’s not divorced,” Liz corrected. She threw a troubled glance at her mother, and Marco looked at his mother, too.

Dora’s hands stilled over the lemons. “Kirk was a lovely boy,” she said slowly. “He died.”

He was shocked, and he let it show. “How?”

“Cancer.” His mother made the word a curse.

Good Lord. Her baby couldn’t be more than a few months old, so she must have been widowed fairly recently—

“Marco?” Liz still looked troubled. “Please...don’t do anything else to hurt Sophie. She’s had some rough years.”

“I’m not planning on hurting her,” he said, striving for a reasonable tone, though his sister’s admonition stung.

“I’m sure you never planned to before, either, but you did,” Liz said. “And all I’m saying’s that Sophie’s had enough hurt in her life. She’s fragile.”

“Thanks for the warning,” he said, smiling. “I’ll ‘Handle with Care.’”

“I think we’d rather you didn’t handle at all,” Liz said under her breath.

Little sisters could be so annoying.

Later he was watching from his bedroom window when Sophie came out of her parents’ house. He wasn’t watching for her, of course—he wasn’t that desperate. It was coincidental that the easy chair near his bed was beside the front-facing window. He’d been sitting there for over an hour, working on the syllabus for the course on glaciology he’d be teaching in September, when movement on the street had caught his eye.

She had a diaper bag over her shoulder, the baby in one arm and with the other hand she carried a big bag that he suspected was full of Mrs. Domenico’s fabulous cooking. She set down the bags beside a little white compact car, then opened the back door and bent to strap the baby into a car seat. Her action gave him a clear view of the way she filled out her dark blue jeans as they stretched over her slender buttocks, and he swallowed, feeling his heart speed up.

So she wasn’t married after all.

The thought of some other man touching her, teaching her about the pleasures a man and a woman could share, bothered the hell out of him, even though he knew how irrational that was. He was the one who’d left.

He’d wanted her worse than any other woman he’d met before or since. But she was the daughter of his parents’ best friends and he’d felt guilty as hell when he’d finally let her push him into making love to her. And he’d known he couldn’t offer her anything lasting. Leaving had been the right thing to do.

The thought gave him little satisfaction. What it did give him was a damned uncomfortable hard-on that forced him to shift uncomfortably in the chair. He could recall with vivid clarity the way her soft body had writhed beneath his hands, the way she’d clutched at him and held his head to her breast, the way her eyes had widened in surprise as sensations ripped through her and she dissolved in his arms.

Each time they’d been together, he’d struggled to remember that it couldn’t be permanent. He’d known he was leaving, and he’d known he shouldn’t encourage her any more than he already had. And really, it wasn’t as if they’d had a long or exclusive relationship. No words of commitment ever had been exchanged.

But as she straightened and closed the back door, then walked around the little car and climbed into her own seat, the only thought that kept running through his head was that he and Sophie had unfinished business between them. When he’d first come home, he’d harbored the stupid belief that Sophie would be waiting for him, just as she’d waited before, that nothing had changed between them.

Well, maybe she hadn’t put her life on hold, and certainly he shouldn’t have expected that she would. But she was single now, and so was he.

And he knew, without putting a finger on her, that together they still could generate enough heat to put the Great Chicago Fire to shame.

The following day was Sunday. His parents went to early mass at St. Vincent’s, and for the first time since the accident, Marco decided to go to church. He hadn’t been a regular worshiper in years, and if he ever went to confession again, he’d have enough penance to keep him talking for a month.

It felt strange to enter the church where he’d grown up, served as an altar boy and made his First Communion, strange to take a seat in the pew where his family had sat since before he was born. Now his four sisters were married or engaged, and sprinkled among the adults was a raft of his nieces and nephews. His older sister, Camilla, came with her family and as he watched, several of the Domenico clan slipped into the pew ahead of him where they’d always sat.

His interest picked up, but Sophie wasn’t with them. Instead, the Domenico pew steadily expanded to two full rows, filled with a new generation ranging from a preteen boy that had to be Stefano’s son down to a fussing infant in pink carried in by a man he assumed was Violetta’s husband.

Sophie’s sister Arabella smiled and blew him a kiss as she took the last empty seat on the far end. He noticed she turned and looked toward the rear of the church several tunes, and when she smiled and beckoned, he glanced back to see Sophie coming down the aisle. It was an opportunity too good to miss. Before Belle could shove everyone in her pew together to squeeze her sister in, he stood and caught Sophie’s hand as she stopped at the pews.

“You can sit here,” he murmured. “I won’t bite.”

He’d forgotten how small she was. She barely came up to his chin, even in the heels she’d worn to Mass. She tilted her head up to look him in the eye, and he felt her subtly trying to withdraw her hand, but he only tightened his clasp. Her eyes were wide—the deep, rich chocolaty velvet that he remembered so clearly—and she hesitated for a moment.

But just as he’d expected, Sophie was too well-bred to make a scene in church, and after that first long, searching glance, her face relaxed into a small, cool smile. “Thank you,” she said, and this time he let her have her hand back after he drew her into the pew.

When she sat, he followed suit, brushing just close enough that his arm grazed hers. It didn’t escape him that she was quick to draw back, though they were both wearing jackets and it was as innocuous as a touch two strangers might exchange.

She didn’t look at him again, simply linked her fingers in her lap, and he heard the rustle of silk sliding over silk as she crossed her legs. His gaze dropped and he studied the shape of her slim thighs in the pretty royal-blue skirt that matched her jacket. She probably hadn’t lost very much weight, but what she had lost had enhanced the natural beauty that she’d always possessed and trimmed her womanly curves to hourglass proportions.

Then the service began, and guilt tore his gaze away from her. He might have gotten away from the church too much to suit his folks, but he had the superstitious feeling that a lightning bolt might just seek him out for thinking lecherous thoughts in a house of worship.

Sophie managed to ignore him during the exchanging of peace between members of the congregation by darting up to the pews ahead of them to greet members of her family. It was, to his mind, a telling sign that she wasn’t as indifferent to him as she’d appeared on her mother’s back porch the other day.

As he spoke the familiar responses, something inside him relaxed. His mother’s soft voice on his right side and Sophie’s on his left, the shuffle and hush that accompanied the rituals of worship...it felt right in a strange way, a way he’d never realized he missed, but needed now that he’d found it again.

When he finally limped back to the pew, he couldn’t kneel. Instead, he had to sit like the little old ladies who were too feeble to get on and off their knees any more, shifted to the edge of the seat with his back bent forward and his right leg stiffly stuck out before him. His prayers consisted mainly of a single desperate plea: Lord, please get this over with.

And his prayers were answered. The service was concluded swiftly. Sophie was out of the pew like a shot when the postlude began to play. She immediately immersed herself in the crowd made by her large family, moving as far from him as she could get.

He wasn’t a particularly patient man, but he knew she couldn’t avoid him forever, so he allowed her to move ahead of him down the aisle and out of the church. He suffered through the welcomes of other members of the congregation, watching her to be sure she didn’t sneak away, and when he saw her break off and head across the parking lot toward her little car, he went after her.

He was slow. He had refused to bring the cane along this morning because he was well rested, he reasoned, and getting stronger every day, and the doctor had told him to start doing without it from time to time. It was frustrating as hell not to be able to stride across the macadam and catch her at her car door. Instead, he forced himself to move carefully, and by the time he reached her car, she was buckled in and had started the engine.

She saw him coming. But until he walked around to her driver’s door and tapped on the glass, she simply sat there with the windows rolled up. He put a hand on the door latch and then she punched a button, rolling down her window and smiling at him, though it didn’t reach her eyes and he suspected it was only for the benefit of others around them.

“Hello again,” she said. “Thank you for the seat this morning.”

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” he said, ignoring her casual words. “How about dinner tomorrow night?”

But she shook her head. “No, thank you.”

It was a bald, simple response, delivered in a calm, almost flat tone of voice, and he lifted an eyebrow. “Okay, we can make it Tuesday if tomorrow night doesn’t suit.”

Sophie made an impatient sound, lifting her hand to rest on the open windowsill. “Marco, tomorrow night would suit just fine—if I wanted to go out with you. I don’t.”

“Is it because of the baby?”

Her eyebrows rose, and he thought he detected a hint of shock. “Excuse me?”

“We could take it along if you like.” He’d never minded kids, enjoyed them, in fact, and though he didn’t want to think about his Sophie in the arms of another man, he was intensely curious about her child.

She was frowning slightly, not looking at him. Her thumbs were rubbing back and forth along the edges of her steering wheel, and when he glanced at the small motion, he realized she was gripping the wheel hard enough to make the tips of her fingers white. “I didn’t realize you had a child,” she said.

Now it was his turn to frown. “I don’t.”

She looked at him then, and her gaze was cool and clear again. “Whose baby, exactly, are we discussing, then?”

Marco drummed his fingers against the side of his thigh. “Yours. I don’t mind—”

“I don’t have any children,” she said. Silence lay like a wet towel for a long pause, and he thought she seemed upset. “I don’t know where you got that idea.”

“Your mother,” he said shortly, not particularly liking the feeling of relief that coursed through him. He wanted her, badly, but it wasn’t as if he couldn’t live without her. “She came out the door the other day and asked you about feeding the baby. If it wasn’t yours, then whose was it?”

“Oh, that baby.” Her eyes momentarily softened and he caught a glimpse of something sad in her eyes before she stifled it. “That was a foster child who was waiting for a temporary placement. I’d picked her up the night before and couldn’t place her until later Saturday, so she was stuck with me for a night.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me.” At her questioning frown, he added, “Being stuck with you for a night.” He leaned down until their faces were only a foot apart, trying to ignore the relief that had flowed through him when he’d realized she wasn’t a mother. “Have dinner with me, Sophie.”

Her eyes were wide and her full, lush lips slightly parted. She ran her tongue around the edges of them, and her breasts rose and fell with the rhythm of her quickened breathing. The air between them seemed to hum with a powerful current of attraction, and he let his gaze drop to her mouth, lifting a finger to lightly press against her bottom lip.

She quivered for a moment, and he felt a small gasp escape her. Then, just as he was about to lean forward and seal his position with a kiss, she took his hand by the wrist and drew it firmly away from her mouth, all but flinging it out the window. “Thank you for the invitation but I’m not interested.”

Though a lick of something—anger, mixed with a scary dose of panic—shot through him, he forced himself to smile lazily. “You used to be interested,” he said softly. He reached in again and picked up her hand and brushed his thumb back and forth across her palm, trying to read her eyes.

But now she wasn’t giving anything away. Her eyes remained cool, hiding any hint of what she was thinking. “That was a long time ago,” she said. “I’ve grown up since then.”

“Ah, c’mon, Sophie. Just dinner.” He ran his eyes down the length of her body, chuckling when she pulled her hand away. “A little conversation, a little reminiscing...”

“No.” She dropped her guard and shot him a look of such bitterness that he mentally staggered back from the heat, singed by the anger in her eyes. “I’m not interested in being your entertainment when you come to town anymore.”

“It wasn’t like that.” He didn’t care for the way she made his actions sound so ... callous. He’d done it for her, dammit! “You were a lot more to me than just—”

“It’s not important now,” she told him, and the chilly finality in her tone infuriated him even more. “I have a life of my own now, and it doesn’t include you. That was your choice, remember?” And before he could come up with a response, she slipped the car into gear and started forward, forcing him to remove his hand or lose his balance and be dragged along with the vehicle as she drove away from the church without a backward glance.

His youngest sister Teresa was calling his name, and slowly, taking deep, calming breaths, he turned toward her, reaching for a smile though what he really wanted to do was punch something. Hard.

Okay, fine. Sophie didn’t want to go out with him. He could work around that, and he would. He’d figure out another way to get her to accept his presence in her life. She didn’t remember much about him if she thought he was going to give up and go away so easily.

Three

The knock on the door of her apartment startled Sophie.

She was sitting on the floor of her extra bedroom with a year’s worth of photographs spread around her. She always had taken lots of photographs, too many, really, because then she felt compelled to organize them in albums. So she’d spent the evening sorting them into piles of family, friends and work photos, and she was just about to begin the unenviable task of sliding them into sleeves in the appropriate albums when a hard rap at her door had her jerking her head up and pressing a hand to her heart.

Hastily, she rose to her feet and tiptoed through the piles of pictures. It was eight o’clock at night. Who could it be?

She’d had Sunday lunch with her family after church and spent a pleasant hour with the members of her big clan that were present, but around two she’d made her excuses and slipped out, feeling the need for some breathing room.

Maybe she’d forgotten something, she thought, as she put her hand on the knob and pulled the door the small distance it would open with the chain on. Or more likely, Mama had dispatched someone to drop off more food. Like she hadn’t already sent enough—

“Hello, Sophie.”

Marco was standing on her doormat. He was smiling, a crooked grin that reminded her of a little boy who’d been caught red-handed in an act of orneriness. But this was no little boy. He wore a light blue jean shirt tucked into a darker pair of jeans. The shirt emphasized the width of his shoulders, and at its open neck, dark, silky hairs curled out of the vee where the buttons weren’t fastened.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach and landed with a jarring thud deep in her abdomen. Speech deserted her, and she simply stood there staring, trying desperately to keep her eyes on his face and not examine the rest of him the way she had longed to since she’d heard he was home.

“Are you going to invite me in?” His voice was low and amused, and she felt herself flush. He probably knew exactly the effect he had on her. He certainly had at one time.

That thought stiffened her spine, and she cleared her throat. She unbolted the door and pulled it open, but she didn’t move aside to invite him in. “Marco. What are you doing here?”

He smiled again, easily, dimples creasing his cheeks, and a tiny fanwork of lines crinkled the corners of his dark eyes. “Visiting you.”

“I don’t want a visitor,” she said, too shaken to be diplomatic. “Go away.”

But before she could close the door in his face, he’d wedged his broad shoulders against it and pushed inside.

Her pulse sped up and she told herself the only reason she was breathing faster was because she was annoyed. But that didn’t explain the heat building in her belly and radiating down to warm the apex of her thighs.

If only he didn’t look so good, she thought, he’d be easier to resist. The fabric of his shirt looked soft and often washed; it clung to his heavily muscled chest and arms as intimately as she once had. At his lean waist, the jeans were buttoned beneath a dark leather belt. They fit him through the hips, snug and molded to the contours of his body in a manner that reminded her he was all man, and she swallowed as she hastily averted her eyes.

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