A small town in Georgia. A family with a past.

A miniseries packed with sensual secrets and elusive scandals.

Bestselling author Gina Wilkins continues her unforgettable family drama,

by bringing you the wildest member of the family yet!

Former cop Mac Cordero is going undercover one last time…to bring his proud Southern family to its knees!

in

Enjoy the sexy, scandalous escapades of the McBride clan, the most notorious family in the South!

Dear Reader,

The Wild McBrides have certainly taken me for a wild ride, through six Harlequin Temptations and now this, my first single title release. It seems fitting that this story should be centered around the “wildest” McBride yet—one who possesses knowledge that could bring down the close-knit McBride clan. They’ve survived scandal before, but this time they will be forced to face truths that will shake their very foundation….

Sharon Henderson finds herself in the middle of this crisis, torn between loyalty to a family that has always been very dear to her, and her love for a man who needs retribution—and doesn’t seem to care who gets hurt along the way. Is her love strong enough to soothe the anger inside this proud man—or will his desire for revenge destroy them both?

Hold on,

Books by Gina Wilkins

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION—THE MCBRIDES

668—SEDUCING SAVANNAH

676—TEMPTING TARA

684—ENTICING EMILY

710—THE REBEL’S RETURN

792—SEDUCTIVELY YOURS

796—SECRETLY YOURS

Yesterday’s Scandal
Gina Wilkins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my friends and colleagues in Novelists, Inc.,

the most supportive group I have ever met.

And for Nora Roberts, my personal hero,

who was there for me when I needed her

during this past year.

My thanks to all of you.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

TAILLIGHTS GLOWED red in the darkness ahead of him as Mac Cordero drove along the rural outskirts of Honoria, Georgia. He wasn’t deliberately following the other vehicle. They just happened to be headed in the same direction on the narrow, hilly road bordered by thick woods on the left and a rain-swollen river on the right.

Mac had no particular destination in mind. He was merely killing time on this Friday evening, delaying his return to the no-frills motel where he would be staying until he made better arrangements for the next few months. He had things to accomplish in this oddball town, and the renovation of the 1920s-era Victorian-style house he’d recently purchased was the excuse he’d use if anyone asked why he was here. The real reason he was here—well, sometimes that even seemed like a mystery to him.

Because it was a warm, early-June evening, his windows were down, letting in the fresh, woodsy air and the sounds of night creatures. Neither lifted his mood, nor eased the frustration that he had accomplished so little since his initial visit to Honoria several weeks earlier. He was no closer now to solving the mystery that had brought him here than he’d been when he’d decided to pursue it.

The small car ahead of him began a steady ascent up a steep, blind hill. Mac shifted in the seat of his truck. All in all, it had been an unproductive day. He was beginning to wonder if boredom was all that awaited him here. He hated being bored.

A squeal of brakes brought him abruptly out of his thoughts. His hands tightened on the steering wheel when the taillights ahead of him swerved suddenly and erratically, then veered off to the right side of the road—straight toward the river. At the same moment, a light-colored van topped the hill in the center of the road, speeding, weaving, making no effort to slow down. Acting on instinct, Mac jerked his wheel to the right, pulling his truck to the side but stopping before it went over the edge. The van sped past, disappearing behind him.

Muttering a curse, Mac didn’t waste time trying to get a license-plate number, but jumped from his truck and ran to the edge of the road. The slow-moving river looked like black ink in the darkness, shimmering with multifaceted reflections of the three-quarter moon overhead. He saw no sign of the car he knew had gone over. Kicking off his shoes, he prepared to dive in.

A head broke the water in front of him as he started to jump. He heard a loud gasp for air, followed by what might have been a broken cry of pain and fear. A moment later, he was in the cold water, reaching the woman just as she went under again.

He grabbed her arms and hauled her to the surface, noting automatically that she was lightweight, slender. His hands easily spanned her waist as he treaded water and supported her until she caught her breath. It was difficult to see her features in the shadows, but he got the impression she was somewhat younger than his own thirty-three years.

Reassured that she was stable, he asked urgently, “Is there anyone else in the car?”

“No. I was alone.” Her voice was a choked whisper. “It…took me a while to get out. I had my windows down, but…”

“It wasn’t as long as it must have seemed to you.” He was aware that she was trembling so hard her teeth were chattering. The water was cool, but not frigid. Sensing that shock was about to set in, he tightened his grip on her. “Can you swim? Are you injured?”

“I…I don’t know,” she managed to say, clinging to him. “I hurt, but I don’t know exactly where yet.”

Because it made sense to him, considering the circumstances, he merely nodded and wrapped an arm around her to help her toward the bank. He would assess her injuries once she was safely out of the water, he decided, beginning to swim with steady, rescue-trained strokes.

The bank was steep, mud crumbling beneath his hands and feet as he helped the woman out of the river. It wasn’t easy to swing her into his arms and carry her up to the side of the road. Hard shivers racked her, and he could hear her teeth chattering. Damning the darkness that kept him from seeing whether she was bleeding anywhere, Mac settled her on the gravel beside the road. “I’ll be right back.”

He dashed to his truck, water streaming off him, his wet socks providing little protection from the rocks on the roadbed. Ignoring his discomfort, he snatched his cellular phone and dialed 911. Grabbing the lightweight jacket he’d tossed into the passenger seat earlier, he gave the emergency dispatcher a clipped summation of his situation, requested an ambulance and then hung up.

The woman was curled into a fetal ball when he returned to her. He suspected that if there was enough light, he would see that her lips were blue. She wore a T-shirt and shorts, and her feet were bare. She’d probably lost her shoes in the river. She lay in a puddle of water, trembling.

“I’ve called for help,” he said, wrapping his jacket snugly around her. The thin fabric seemed to make no difference at all; she seemed hardly to notice it. Shock, he thought again, and shifted her onto her back, pushing her knees upward so that her legs were higher than her head.

Only marginally aware of his own soggy, chilled condition, he smoothed wet, nape-length hair from the woman’s face. His eyes had finally grown accustomed to the darkness and he could make out the woman’s features. Her skin was so pale it looked like porcelain in the milky moonlight. He took another guess at her age—mid- to late twenties, perhaps. Her hair looked dark, but it was hard to tell for certain. “What’s your name?”

“Sharon.” Her voice was faint, but coherent, to his relief. “Sharon Henderson.”

“I’m Mac Cordero.”

She pulled a hand from the folds of his jacket and reached out toward him. “Thank you.”

He cradled her icy fingers in his larger, somewhat warmer ones. Their gazes met and held. Her eyes glittered in the moonlight. He knew his own face was in shadow, but he offered a faint smile of encouragement. “You’re welcome.”

She shivered again and he tightened his hand. He felt as if something passed between them at that point of contact—warmth, emotion…something. Most likely he was overreacting to the dramatic turn the evening had suddenly taken. When he’d complained of boredom earlier, he certainly hadn’t been hoping for anything like this.

A dark Jeep with a flashing light on the dash topped the hill and braked to a stop across the road. The driver stepped out of the vehicle and crossed to them swiftly, kneeling at the woman’s other side. “Sharon?” he said, recognizing her immediately, “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so,” she answered, but didn’t sound quite convinced.

“An ambulance is on the way. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I was leaving Tressie’s house after dinner. There was a van—it came out of the driveway on the other side of the hill without stopping. I swerved, but it ran me off the road—almost as if it was intentional.”

“I saw the van,” Mac added. “It never even slowed down.”

The other man looked at him. “Chief Wade Davenport, Honoria Police Department,” he introduced himself.

“Mac Cordero. I happened to be following behind Ms. Henderson’s car, and I saw the accident.”

“Judging from your appearance, I take it Sharon’s car went into Snake Creek?”

Mac frowned. Snake Creek? Hardly a name to inspire confidence. He hated snakes. Yet he knew that even had the water been crawling with them, he’d have gone in after her. Years of training and practice had kicked in the moment he’d seen someone in trouble. You could take the cop out of his uniform, he thought ruefully, but it was a hell of a lot harder to break those old cop habits.

“My car.” Sharon turned her head to look mournfully toward the edge of the road. “I just made the final payment.”

Davenport patted her shoulder. “Let’s not worry about that right now, okay?”

A siren broke the deceptively peaceful silence of the night. Davenport glanced in its direction, then turned his attention back to the soggy couple in front of him. “You said the van pulled out of the driveway just over the hill?”

Sharon nodded. “Yes. The driver didn’t even pause to see if anyone was coming from either direction.”

“That’s the Porter place. The Porters left for vacation three days ago.”

“You think the van was there to rob them?” She sounded appalled.

The police chief glanced at Mac, who had already leaped to that conclusion, then looked back at Sharon. “I’ll check that out as soon as you’re taken care of. I don’t suppose either of you got the number of the license plate on the van.”

“No.” Mac shook his head, knowing he’d be able to provide little detail. “I thought it was more important to make sure no one was trapped underwater.”

“You made the right call.” Davenport stood as an ambulance pulled up behind the Jeep. “I’ll have more questions for you later, if you don’t mind, Mr. Cordero.”

“I’ll tell you everything I saw—but I’m afraid it wasn’t much. It all happened too quickly.”

Two uniformed paramedics—a man and a woman—approached with swift efficiency. Only then did Mac realize that he was still holding Sharon’s hand. She clung to him when he would have released her, as if he were her only lifeline in frighteningly uncharted waters. He had to gently peel her fingers away so the medics could do their jobs.

He hadn’t been cold when he’d knelt beside her, holding her hand. Now, as he stepped back, he felt a chill penetrate his wet clothing. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and winced when the waterlogged fabric clung to him. Fortunately, his wallet was in the truck, so the only thing he’d ruined was a good leather belt. His shoes were still by the water’s edge. He’d get them as soon as the ambulance left.

Wade Davenport returned from using the radio in his Jeep just as Sharon was being loaded onto the ambulance. “I’ll come to the hospital in a few minutes to see about you,” he promised her.

“All right,” she answered automatically, though she was still looking at Mac. “Mr. Cordero…”

He stepped closer to the gurney. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She had already thanked him. He answered as he had before, “You’re welcome.”

He watched her—and was watched in return—until the ambulance doors closed between them. Only when the ambulance had driven away did he turn back to the chief of police, prepared to answer his questions.

SORE MUSCLES CLENCHED when Sharon shifted in her seat Sunday evening, causing her to wince. She immediately regretted doing so when the man on the other side of the restaurant table frowned and asked, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Since it was at least the tenth time he’d asked in the past couple of hours, Sharon had to force herself to answer patiently. “I’m fine, Jerry. Still a little sore, but the doctor assured me that was to be expected.”

Jerry Whitaker didn’t look satisfied. He seemed convinced that her injuries from Friday night’s mishap were worse than the few scrapes and bruises she had told him about.

He’d been out of town for the weekend, and when he’d returned that afternoon, talk of the accident had been all over town—no surprise in Honoria, where rumors zipped from household to household with the frantic speed of a metal ball in an arcade pinball machine. Having lived here since adolescence, Sharon had learned to discount most of what she heard, but Jerry still tended to take the local gossip much too seriously.

“Tell me more about your business trip,” she encouraged him, trying to change the subject. “How was the weather in Charleston?”

Her attempt at diversion failed. “Fine,” he answered automatically, then returned to his questions about her. “Have you talked to Chief Davenport since I called you this afternoon? Have there been any further developments in the investigation of the Porter robbery—any leads on the van that ran you off the road?”

Resigned to rehashing it all again, Sharon looked down at her plate. “Nothing. It’s as if the van disappeared off the face of the earth. If Mr. Cordero hadn’t seen it, I would have wondered if I had imagined it.”

Jerry’s scowl deepened. “Ah, yes. Cordero-the-hero. That’s what they’re calling him around town, you know.”

Sharon wrinkled her nose. “You’re kidding. That’s so corny.”

“Have you heard some of the stories going around about what happened Friday night? Mildred Scott told me you drowned and Cordero brought you back to life with CPR. Clark Foster said you were trapped in the car and Cordero had to break a window to pull you out, nearly drowning himself. And then there’s the version Gloria Capps is spreading—that you cut yourself on broken glass and almost bled to death before Cordero saved you by using his necktie as a tourniquet.”

“That’s ridiculous. He wasn’t even wearing a necktie.” She shook her head. “It’s all ridiculous. I was already out of the car when Mr. Cordero jumped in to help me. I’m sure I could have made it out of the river on my own.”

She didn’t want to sound ungrateful for Mac’s help, but she didn’t like hearing she’d been cast as the hapless victim in so many improbable scenarios. She’d been taking care of herself—and the rest of her family—for a long time. It wasn’t easy to let anyone else take charge, even briefly.

“Of course you would have made it out on your own.”

Sharon didn’t know whether Jerry’s attitude was due more to his faith in her or his jealousy that Mac Cordero had become such a romanticized figure in Honoria. Jerry had lived in this town all his life. He’d taken over his father’s insurance office a few years ago, but an insurance salesman was rarely regarded as dashing or heroic, terms that had been applied to Cordero in the numerous retellings of Sharon’s accident.

She’d been dating Jerry casually for three or four months. They shared several common interests and had passed many pleasant evenings together. She’d been aware from the start that their relationship owed more to circumstance than chemistry—there weren’t many singles their age in Honoria—but she wasn’t looking for romance, only occasional companionship, which Jerry provided without making too many demands in return.

“I really don’t understand all this fuss over the guy,” he muttered, slicing irritably into his steak. “He’s a contractor, for Pete’s sake. Not even a particularly shrewd one, if he thinks he’s going to make a profit on the Garrett place.”

“I’ve heard he specializes in restoring old houses. He must know from experience whether or not the Garrett house is worth renovating.”

Jerry shook his head stubbornly. “That eyesore is going to require a small fortune just to make it livable again. It should have been condemned years ago. The location’s not bad, even if it isn’t close to the golf course, like all the best new homes. Tear it down and start from scratch, that’s what I would do. Maybe even subdivide—it sits on a three-acre lot. That’s enough land to put in quite a few houses and more than pay for the initial investment.”

Just what Honoria needed, Sharon thought. Another tacky subdivision filled with cheaply built, cookie-cutter houses on undersize lots. “Some people love the old, the historic,” she murmured. “The Garrett place was practically a mansion when it was built in the early part of the twentieth century. It must have been beautiful.”

“Maybe it was then, but now it’s just old.” Jerry shook his head in bafflement. “I’ve never understood what people see in beat-up antiques when they can have shiny new things, instead.”

She wasn’t surprised by Jerry’s attitude. He had a taste for flash. He traded cars nearly every year when the new models debuted, and was always upgrading his computers and electronic equipment. The past held little appeal for him—his eyes were firmly fixed on the future. She saw no need to remind him that she had a soft spot for antiques. It was something he just couldn’t understand.

Jerry’s thoughts were still focused on Mac Cordero. “The guy’s just a contractor. I don’t know why so many people around town want to make him into something else. The rumors about him are absurd. Why can’t they just accept that he’s exactly what he says he is?”

The mildest speculation cast Cordero as an eccentric multimillionaire who fixed up old houses for his own hideaways. Some whispered that he was an agent for a Hollywood superstar who wanted a place to escape the press occasionally. The most incredible story she’d heard suggested he was working for an organized-crime family preparing the Garrett house for a mobster who needed to get out of New York City.

“You know how rumors get started around here,” Sharon reminded Jerry. “Because Mr. Cordero chooses not to share information about his personal life, people entertain themselves by filling in the blanks with colorful details.”

“So what do you know about him?” Jerry’s question proved he wasn’t as averse to gossip as he pretended—something Sharon already knew, of course.

“I don’t know anything more than you do. I didn’t exactly have a lot of time for personal chit-chat when I met him. All I can tell you is he seemed very…capable,” she said for lack of a better description.

As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, she had been in trouble Friday night. Yes, she’d managed to get out of her sunken car on her own, but she’d been shaken and disoriented. She probably would have gotten to the shore on her own—at least, she hoped so—only to find herself stranded on a rarely traveled country road without a car or a phone. As frightened as she had been, there had been something about Mac Cordero that had reassured her. Maybe it was the strength of the rock-hard arms that had supported her until she’d caught her breath. Or the steady way he’d held her gaze when he’d assured her that help was on the way. Or maybe it had been the way her hand had felt cradled so securely in his.

It embarrassed her now to remember the desperation with which she had clung to the stranger who’d pulled her from the water. At the time, she’d simply been grateful to have someone to hold on to.

“Would you mind if we talk about something else now?” she asked, uncomfortable with the feelings those memories evoked. “It seems that all I’ve talked about for the past two days is the accident.”

“Of course. So, what about your car? Have they pulled it out yet? Were you able to salvage anything?”

This time she didn’t bother to hold back her sigh. There appeared to be nothing she could do to distract Jerry. Pushing her unsettling thoughts of Mac Cordero to the back of her mind, she concentrated on her dinner, answering Jerry’s questions with as little detail as possible.

She could only hope something would happen soon to get the town talking about something else.

“I’VE INTERVIEWED everyone I could think of who might’ve seen something suspicious around the Porter place, Wade. We’ve put the word out all over town that we’re looking for the light-colored panel van that was seen leaving the scene of the crime. We’re getting nothing. Apparently, the only two people who saw the vehicle were Sharon Henderson and that Cordero guy.”

Chief Wade Davenport raised his gaze from the accident reports scattered in front of him to the skinny, dejected-looking deputy on the other side of the battered oak desk. “Keep asking, Gilbert. Someone had to see something.”

Ever the pessimist, Gilbert Dodson gave a gloomy sigh. “I’ll keep asking, Wade, but I’ve talked to everyone but the chickens now.”

Wade leaned back in his creaky chair and steepled his fingers in front of him. “Then maybe you should start interviewing chickens.”

Shoulders slumping, Gilbert nodded and turned toward the door. “I’ll get right on that, Chief.”

Wade muttered a curse as his office door clicked shut. He tended to take it personally when anyone broke the law in his town. There’d been a rash of break-ins about a month ago, and the culprits had never been caught. Now there’d been another—the Porter place. They’d been quietly and efficiently cleaned out by whoever had been in the same van that had almost killed Sharon Henderson.

The break-ins were connected. Wade was sure of it, even though he had no evidence to support his hunch. There wasn’t that much crime in Honoria, and there hadn’t been any breaking and entering going on in almost five years. Not since the O’Brien kid and his buddies had thought it would be “fun” to start their own crime ring. Kevin O’Brien was twenty-three years old now and had done his time. The first thing Wade did when the current burglaries began was to check on Kevin’s whereabouts. As far as he could tell, there was no connection this time.

Which meant he had another thief operating in his town, victimizing and endangering his friends and neighbors. And that made Wade mad.

Narrowing his eyes, he picked up the report that had been filed by Mac Cordero, the “mysterious stranger” everyone had been gossiping about. It was interesting that the previous burglaries had taken place while Cordero was in town a few weeks back buying the old Garrett place. Now there’d been another one, only days after Cordero returned to begin the renovation project. Cordero “just happened” to be driving down that back road at the same time the Porter place was being cleaned out. Maybe there was no connection there, but Wade didn’t like coincidences.

Wade’s wife and kids lived in this town. It was his job to keep them—and the other residents—safe. He turned his attention to Cordero’s statement again, looking for anything that resembled a clue.

CHAPTER TWO

IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for Mac to learn a few things about the woman he’d pulled from Snake Creek. Even though he didn’t mingle much with the townspeople, every busybody he encountered in Honoria during the next few days—and there seemed to be many of them—was anxious to tell him all about her. He found some of the information interesting, but two comments, in particular, caught his attention.

Sharon Henderson was an interior decorator and a good friend of the McBride family.

The motel where he was staying was not so coincidentally located within full view of the McBride Law Firm. From the window of his room, Mac could see the firm’s parking lot. He’d heard that the founder, Caleb McBride, a lifelong resident of Honoria now in his early sixties, had very recently left for a month-long Caribbean cruise with his wife, Bobbie. Their older son, Trevor, was running the law office single-handedly until Caleb’s return.

Mac had watched a steady stream of clients and visitors entering and exiting the office building during the last five days he’d spent in Honoria. Some he could already identify, such as Trevor’s striking, red-haired wife and two young children, and Trevor’s younger brother, Trent, whom Mac had met a month ago in that same parking lot.

Late Monday afternoon, Sharon Henderson arrived at the firm.

Watching from his window, Mac recognized her immediately, though he wasn’t sure how. The attractive, well-dressed woman who slid out of a nondescript sedan bore little resemblance to the wet, shivering waif he’d encountered Friday night. Her hair fell in a gleaming brown sweep to just above her shoulders and she carried herself with poised self-confidence. As she disappeared inside the law office, he told himself he could be mistaken. There was no way he could know for sure the visitor was Sharon. Even if he’d gotten a closer look at her that night, he was too far away to see her clearly now.

Drinking coffee from the coffeemaker provided in the room, he was still sitting in the uncomfortable chair watching the other building when the woman emerged again. Though he’d spent the past hour trying to convince himself he couldn’t possibly have identified her, the sense of recognition hit him again the moment she walked out into the parking lot. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was convinced Sharon Henderson had just dropped in on Trevor McBride.

Interesting. He’d heard she was a friend and her visit proved there was a professional relationship, as well. He wondered just how much she knew about the McBride family history…and if she shared the rest of the town’s passion for idle gossip.

Maybe it was time for him to pay a call on her. He’d been thinking about doing that, anyway, for professional reasons. Now that he knew her connection to the McBrides, he had more personal motives for wanting to get better acquainted with Sharon Henderson.

“C’MON, SHARON, why can’t I go? All the other guys will be there.”

Sharon grimaced as her fifteen-year-old brother’s voice edged perilously close to a whine. She tightened her grip on the telephone receiver, trying to get a firmer hold on her patience at the same time. “Brad, you are not going to an unchaperoned party. I know Mike Riordan’s parents are out of town this week, and I don’t at all approve of them allowing him to have a party at their house while they’re away. As far as I’m concerned, that’s just asking for trouble.”

“But Mike’s brother Joe is going to be there to keep an eye on things. He’s a college man.”

Sharon wasn’t impressed. “He just finished his first year of college. That makes him barely nineteen years old. I’m sorry, but that isn’t my idea of a suitable chaperon for a houseful of teenagers. The answer is no. We can go out to eat or to a movie, if you like. Or you can invite a couple of your friends over to eat pizza and play video games.”

“All my friends are going to the party. No one’s going to want to miss it to hang out with me.”

Refusing to be swayed by his plaintive tone, Sharon responded firmly. “I doubt that everyone will be at the party. I’m sure I won’t be the only adult who’ll think this is a bad idea.”

“Just let me go for a little while, okay? If it gets too wild, I’ll call you to come get me.”

“You aren’t going to a party that isn’t adequately supervised, and there’s no use discussing it any further.”

“Fine. Great. Ruin my life.”

She sighed. “I’m not trying to ruin your life. I’m trying to be a responsible guardian.”

“Mom would let me go if she was here.”

The operative word, Sharon thought wearily, was responsible—something their dear, ditzy mother had never been. “Well, Mom’s not here. While she’s away, I’m in charge. You’re just going to have to accept that.”

Sullen silence was his only response.

“Be thinking about what you want for dinner tonight, okay?” she suggested, her tone conciliatory. “We can go to that new Mexican place you like so much. You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

“Might as well sit at home and watch TV,” he muttered.

“If that’s your choice,” she agreed evenly. “I have to get back to work now. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

He hung up without responding.

Sharon rubbed her forehead as she hung up the phone. It was Tuesday afternoon, a slow day in her home-decor shop, and for once she was grateful for the lull. Her full-time assistant was at a doctor’s appointment, and Sharon was alone. Between her confrontations with her rebellious kid brother and the almost incessant calls from acquaintances still wanting to talk about the incident Friday night, she was ready for some time to herself.

With her back to the door of the shop, she slid the phone into its place beneath the counter, then turned to the paperwork she’d been looking over when Brad called. Her elbow bumped a thick wallpaper-sample book, which crashed to the floor at her feet. Muttering a mild curse, she knelt to pick it up, tucking it into the crook of one arm. What else could go wrong today?

She gasped when a man’s hand suddenly appeared in front of her, offering to assist her to her feet. She hadn’t heard anyone enter the shop, so it caught her completely off guard to realize she wasn’t alone. She looked up and swallowed hard when her gaze was captured and held by a pair of eyes as dark and unrevealing as polished onyx.

Sharon had never considered herself a fanciful person, but the image that came immediately to mind was that of a sleek, dangerous black cat. This intriguing man was as out of place in her little shop as he was…well, in this small, sleepy town.

No wonder everyone in Honoria had been speculating about him.

Almost involuntarily, she placed her hand in his. There was an instant shock of familiarity when his fingers closed around hers, bringing back memories of how safe she had felt when he’d pulled her out of Snake Creek.

He helped her to her feet. Her voice was a bit breathless when she said, “Thank you, Mr. Cordero.”

His left eyebrow rose half an inch. His voice was a deep growl that befitted the exotic animal she had envisioned when she saw him—the same voice that had echoed in the back of her mind since the accident Friday night. “I wasn’t sure you would remember me.”

Her smile felt wry. “I’m not likely to forget our meeting anytime soon.”

His answering smile was just a slight shift at the corners of his mouth—and only added to his attractiveness, in Sharon’s opinion. She hadn’t gotten a really good look at him in the shadowy darkness Friday night, but now she could understand why so many women in town had been whispering about him. It wasn’t often they saw a man like this.

“Six feet of sex,” Leslie Anne Cantrell, the town flirt, had called him, eliciting delighted giggles from the women who’d overheard. Sharon could honestly say now that Leslie Anne hadn’t been exaggerating. Any normal woman would appreciate Mac Cordero’s thick black hair, gleaming dark eyes, taut brown skin and sleekly muscular build.

He wasn’t a man any woman was likely to forget, she mused, no matter how they met.

Realizing abruptly that she was standing there gazing up at him, her fingers still clasped in his, she pulled her hand away and stuck it in the pocket of the navy linen blazer she wore with a muted plaid shirt and khaki slacks. Though the expression in his eyes was impossible to read, she had the unnerving sensation that he could see directly into her mind as he searched her face. “You’ve suffered no ill effects from your ordeal?”

“No, I’m fine. A few colorful bruises and sore muscles, but no real injuries, thank goodness.”

“You were fortunate.”

She nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“Any word about the van that ran you off the road?”

“No. Wade—the police chief—said it seems to have disappeared. But if it’s still in the area, he’ll find it.”

“You seem confident about that.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “Wade takes his job very seriously. When someone breaks the law, he doesn’t rest until he catches them.”

“Then I hope he catches them soon.” For the first time since he’d helped her to her feet, he looked away from her face long enough to glance around her shop, Intriguing Interiors. The store was filled with rows of wallpapers and borders, shelves of order books, swatches of designer fabrics, and displays of decorator and gift items. “Nice place.”

“Thank you. I bought it almost two years ago.”

What might have been amusement glimmered for a moment in his eyes. “I know.”

She studied him curiously. “You do?”

His mouth quirked again into that sexy semi-smile, making her pulse race in a manner that both distracted and annoyed her. She made an effort to focus on their conversation rather than the effect he had on her—something she would think about and rationalize later, she promised herself.

“Ever since I helped you out of that water, everyone in this town has wanted to talk to me about the accident—and you,” he said ruefully.

She waved a hand toward the door. “That’s my town. The rumor capital of the world. So what did they tell you about me?”

“That you’re a very talented decorator. Which is one of the reasons I stopped by.”

He had surprised her again. “You need a decorator?”

“Yes. I’ve purchased an old Victorian house at the end of Deer Run Lane—”

“The Garrett place,” she acknowledged with a nod. “People have been talking about you, too.”

The slight twist of his mouth this time might have been a smile or maybe a grimace, but either way, it was as sexy as all get-out. Feeling uncomfortably schoolgirlish, Sharon almost sighed.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I’m completely renovating the place. I need a decorator. I’d like to keep the decor appropriate to the period of the architecture—Victorian, but not overdone. I’ll want to start consultations soon so there will be plenty of time to order wallpaper, light fixtures and any other decorating items I’ll need. Are you interested in the job?”

Though she loved the idea of decorating a restored historic home, Sharon felt compelled to be honest. “I’m not really a trained decorator, Mr. Cordero.”

“Call me Mac. I understand you’ve decorated quite a few homes and offices around town. Trent McBride, who’s doing the cabinetwork for my renovation project, recommended you. He said you’re redecorating his father and brother’s law offices.”

She wondered if she could ever be comfortable using his first name. She found herself rather intimidated by this man, for some reason. It was hard to imagine having a casual relationship with him.

“I do some interior decorating as a sideline for my shop,” she admitted. “It’s always been an interest of mine, and I’ve taken a few decorating classes. I started out helping friends, and then other people began to request my services. But if you want a more experienced, better-known professional decorator, you’ll have to bring someone in from Atlanta.”

He shook his head. “I prefer to patronize local businesses.”

She knew he had hired local carpenters, plumbers, electricians and other subcontractors for the renovation project. She knew, as well, that he hadn’t demanded a lengthy list of credentials from everyone he’d hired. Trent McBride, for example, had only just gone into business as a cabinetmaker.

“I would certainly be interested in discussing this with you,” she said, intrigued by the challenge of such a project, even as she hoped she was up to it.

He leaned a forearm against the sales counter. The casual pose brought him a bit closer to her, just enough to make her self-conscious again. His smile was slightly deeper this time, giving her a glimpse of white teeth. The job he offered was looking better and better, she thought, letting herself drift for just a moment in sheer feminine appreciation.

“Maybe we could talk about it over dinner tonight?” he suggested. “The restaurant on West Charles isn’t bad.”

She was on the verge of accepting—just to discuss the project, of course—when she remembered her brother. There were times when she’d left him home by himself for a couple of hours, but she didn’t think it was a good idea tonight. She wouldn’t put it past him to sneak out and go to the party anyway—and she wasn’t going to give him that opportunity. The boy throwing the party was a notorious troublemaker, and Brad was too easily led into mischief. There had already been one occasion when he’d been escorted home by Officer Dodson; she didn’t intend for it to happen again tonight.

“I’m afraid I can’t tonight,” she said.

If Mac was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “When would be a good time for you to meet?”

“I can spare a couple of hours tomorrow afternoon, if you’re free then.”

He straightened away from the counter. “I’ll be out at the site tomorrow meeting with subcontractors. If you want to join me there, we can do a walk-through. It will give you a chance to look the place over, too.”

Definitely intrigued—and more comfortable with the thought of discussing the job at the site rather than over dinner—she nodded. “What time?”

“Two o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

He was already moving toward the door. “Until tomorrow then.”

“Mr. Cordero—”

“Mac,” he reminded her over his shoulder.

“I want to thank you again for helping me Friday night.”

He gave her a sudden, full smile that nearly melted the soles of her shoes. He didn’t smile often, apparently, but when he did—wow. “Not necessary. See you tomorrow, Sharon.”

She hadn’t given him permission to use her first name, but it would be churlish to remind him of that now. She wasn’t usually one to insist on formality—but with this man, a little distance might not be such a bad idea.

He was just reaching for the doorknob when the door opened and a plump blonde bustled in, nearly crashing into Mac. “Oh, sorry,” she said, catching herself just in time.

His smile fading into a more somber expression, he nodded politely. “No problem.” And then he let himself out, leaving the two women staring bemusedly after him.

“Who,” Tressie Bearden demanded, “was that?”

Dragging her gaze away from the glass door, through which she could see him walking purposefully away, Sharon cleared her throat and turned to her employee. “That was Mac Cordero.”

Tressie’s eyes widened. “Cordero-the-hero? Oh, man, he’s even better-looking than I’ve heard.”

Sharon frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t call him that. It’s such a silly nickname.”

“Hey, you were the damsel in distress he rescued,” Tressie replied with an impish grin. “I would think you’d consider the nickname appropriate.”

Though she was tempted to argue again that Mac had only assisted her, Sharon resisted the impulse. “How did your doctor’s appointment go? Everything check out okay?”

Glancing again toward the door, Tressie answered absently. “She said I’m a healthy, red-blooded woman in my prime. So I guess it must have been Mac Cordero’s gorgeous dark eyes and delectable bod that made my heart rate go crazy, hmm?”

Since Sharon had been experiencing similar symptoms during the past twenty minutes or so, she couldn’t argue with Tressie’s conclusion. Apparently, they were both healthy, red-blooded women. Now that they’d settled that, it was time to put adolescent foolishness aside and get back to work. “About those wall sconces you ordered…”

Tressie waved a hand impatiently. “We can talk sconces later. What was Mac Cordero doing here? What did he say? What did you say? Did you find out anything interesting about him?”

Tressie was an active participant in local gossip circles and her membership in the Honoria Community League gave her an inside track to the most juicy tidbits. Her gift of gab and easy way with people made her an asset to the shop, but Sharon sometimes found her co-worker’s chatter exasperating. If she told Tressie that Mac had offered her the decorating job, the news would be all over town within the hour, and Sharon hadn’t even given him an answer yet. She settled for half the truth. “He said he wanted to make sure I’d recovered from the incident Friday night.”

“Really? That was nice of him.”

“Yes, it was.”

Tressie’s expression turned speculative. “Do you know if he’s married or anything?”

“No, I don’t know. The subject didn’t come up.” For some reason, Sharon would have bet he was unattached. Educated guess—or wishful thinking? she wondered with a slight wince.

Looking disgusted, Tressie shook her head. “I’d have made sure it came up. Why didn’t you ask him?”

“Because it’s none of my business.” Sharon could only hope the hint got through as she moved across the shop to straighten a display of clearance items. “So why don’t you call and check on those sconces? They should have arrived two days ago.”

Tressie hesitated a moment, reluctant to drop the subject, but then she nodded and moved toward the telephone. As much as she loved to gossip, she was efficient and hardworking, and Sharon was still grateful that Tressie had come to work for her.

Feeling a little guilty for not telling Tressie about the decorating offer, Sharon went back to work, herself, her thoughts divided between details of her business, worry about her brother and anticipation of her next meeting with Mac Cordero.

THE MAN in the gutted-out kitchen with Mac was young—no more than twenty-six—golden-blond, blue-eyed with glasses and a little on the thin side. Picturing his own solid build, black hair, dark eyes and brown skin, Mac was well aware that he and Trent McBride could not have looked more different. No one could have guessed from looking at them that they shared a blood relationship—and no one but Mac knew about that relationship. Even he didn’t know exactly how close the connection was.

“So you want a state-of-the-art modern kitchen concealed behind solidly built, period-appropriate woodwork,” Trent summed up with a comprehensive glance around the large, shadowy room. The electricity wasn’t turned on yet, so the only light came through the filthy windows and from the two battery-powered lanterns Mac had brought with him.

The house had been empty for years, and the deterioration was pervasive—so much that there were some who openly doubted the renovation was worth the time and expense. With his experience, Mac knew better. He’d taken on more daunting projects, and the results had been both satisfying and profitable. There were plenty of people who were willing to pay for history and quality. Of course, Mac’s previous jobs had been in areas with a bigger money base and more historical interest—Atlanta, Savannah, Charleston, Birmingham. It might take a bit longer to find a buyer here. But he wasn’t too worried about it. He’d come to Honoria for reasons that were far more personal than professional.

Even if it cost him every dime he’d managed to accumulate in the past few years, he would consider it money well spent if he finally got some answers to the questions that had haunted him all his life.

Because Trent was still waiting for a response, Mac nodded. “I want every modern convenience, but I don’t want it to look like a restaurant kitchen. We’ll use appliance garages and custom cabinetry to camouflage the equipment.”

Trent seemed to approve. Mac could tell the younger man was picturing the end result as he looked around the cavernous room with its big windows and massive stone fireplace at one end. “It’s going to be expensive.”

Mac shrugged. “Quality costs. Of course, I’ll be keeping a close eye on expenses, making sure I’m paying fair prices and spending no more than necessary.”

Trent didn’t seem concerned about the prospect of close supervision. “I’ll work up a detailed cost analysis for you,” he offered. “If anything unexpected comes up, we’ll discuss then how to handle it.”

“That’s the way I prefer to do business. I’m not crazy about surprises.”

Trent smiled a little at that. “I could have guessed that from the few meetings we’ve had.”

Mac wondered how Trent felt about surprises. He could give him a whopper of one right now, if he wanted. But he would wait until the time was right—until he had his answers—before he decided how, or whether, to break his news to the McBrides.

A woman’s voice came from somewhere in the front of the house. “Mr. Cordero?”

Mac swiveled toward the sound, then wondered why his pulse had suddenly quickened in response to Sharon Henderson’s voice. A decorator, he reminded himself. That was all she was to him. All he intended for her to be. And this was his chance to find out just how friendly she was with the McBride family.

CHAPTER THREE

MAC FOUND SHARON waiting just inside the front door, which he had left open. In marked contrast to the dull, colorless surroundings of the run-down entryway, she looked fresh and pretty, dressed in clean, bright colors. She was studying the broken, curved staircase, her expression thoughtful. “I’ve never been in here before,” she said when he joined her. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

He found it annoyingly necessary to remind himself that he was only interested in her because of her interior-decorating skills and her friendship with the McBrides—not because she was the first woman he’d been attracted to in months. Dragging his gaze away from her, he glanced around the entryway. “Most of the damage is cosmetic. This place was built to last, and it has, despite the neglect.”

“It’s really worth saving?”

He rested a hand on an intricately turned newel post. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was.”

Wearing the same contemplative look he’d just seen on Trent, she glanced slowly around the big entryway and then through an arched doorway into a room that had probably served as a front parlor. “It must have been beautiful once.”

“And it will be again. Let me show you around downstairs. I’d rather save the upstairs until the staircase and upper floors have been reinforced.”

She glanced up the stairs, as if she was reluctant to miss anything in the tour he’d promised. But then she turned away from the staircase to follow him along the lower floor.

He led her through the parlor, the single downstairs bedroom, what might have once been a sitting room or music room, and a long, narrow dining room. Without lights, the rooms looked even more shabby and ramshackle than they actually were. The sunlight that managed to penetrate the dirty windows turned gray and dusty inside. But Mac saw the still-intact crown moldings, the repairable plaster-work, the solid-wood paneling and hardwood flooring, and he knew the house could be spectacular again. He wondered if Sharon shared his vision.

She murmured something he didn’t quite catch. “I beg your pardon?”

Looking at him with an air of distraction, she motioned to the long, fanlight-topped window at the end of the dining room. “Beveled leaded glass,” she said. “And look at the detail of that crown molding. You don’t see work like that anymore.”

Her comments pleased him, as did the expression on her face. Oh, yeah, she was seeing what could be, rather than what was. Just as he did when he looked at this place.

She stepped closer to the window to examine the framing. “The woodwork is in good shape all through the house? No dry rot? Termite damage?”

“Some, but minimal. There are a few places where we’ll have to do some reproduction work, but not many.”

She moved close to a wall to peer at the darkened wallpaper that had once been a bright sunflower design, more indicative of the 1970s than the early 1900s. “I bet there are at least a half-dozen layers of wallpaper on these walls. Homeowners often used to paper right on top of existing patterns. If that’s the case, I should be able to re-create original decor by studying the earliest layers.”

“I counted six layers in the master bedroom. Five in the kitchen.” He’d dug through all that in his initial examination of the house’s condition.

“Were the early patterns distinguishable?”

“In places, yes. You’ll probably want to see it, though I’m not interested in an exact reproduction of the original decor. Just a look that’s appropriate for the period.”

“The townspeople have always referred to this place as a Victorian mansion, but it isn’t strictly Victorian, is it? More a combination of Queen Anne, Italianate, and even a little Early American craftsman influence. Sort of a hodgepodge, but it works. It must have been spectacular.”

Despite her disclaimers that she wasn’t a professional decorator, he was satisfied with the observations she’d made thus far. He had seen examples of her work, having learned that she’d decorated several of the businesses he’d visited in town, and he knew she had a flair for color and proportion. Now he was even more confident that he hadn’t made a mistake approaching her about this project.

Her friendship with the McBrides might be useful to him later, but it was her decorating expertise that interested him at the moment. At least, that was what he told himself, though he was all too keenly aware of how nice she looked in her pale blue spring-weight sweater and fluidly tailored gray slacks that emphasized the slender waist his hands had spanned so easily.

He reminded himself again that he didn’t have time for that sort of distraction now. He might notice her blue-green eyes and sweetly curved mouth, the shallow dimple in her left cheek, the graceful line of her throat or the feminine curve of her breasts beneath the soft knit sweater she wore, but that was as far as he intended to take it. He had a job to do—and the Garrett place was only a part of it.

Though his voice was casual, he was watching Sharon closely when he led her into the next room. “This,” he said, “is the kitchen.”

The smile that lit her face when she saw who was waiting there was full, warm and beautiful. Mac couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to be on the receiving end of a smile like that from her. “Trent,” she said, and even her voice was warmer now. “What a nice surprise.”

Though Mac had summed Trent up as a somber, even brooding, type, the smile he gave Sharon held a natural charm with a hint of mischief. Having heard through the local rumor mills that Trent had been involved in a near-fatal plane crash that had left him with both physical and emotional scars, Mac suspected he was seeing an echo of the cocky young ladies’ man Trent was reported to have been before the crash.

“Hi, Sharon. It’s good to see you again.” Trent kissed her cheek with the ease of long acquaintance.

Mac found himself frowning as he watched Trent’s casual touch against Sharon’s smooth cheek. He cleared his expression immediately, forcing himself to study the pair objectively.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Sharon said. “You look great.”

“So do you. I was glad to hear you weren’t seriously injured Friday night.”

“Only a few bruises. I was lucky. So how are the wedding plans coming along?”

A glow of satisfaction warmed Trent’s usually cool blue eyes. “Everything’s on schedule. Annie and I will be married the last Saturday in August.”

“I know your mother is looking forward to having another wedding in the family.”

Trent grimaced. “Oh, yeah. She loves a big fuss—any excuse to get the family all together.”

Mac stuck his hands in his pockets.

Sharon and Trent exchanged a few more pleasantries and then the conversation turned to the project at hand. “What do you think of the house?” Trent asked.

“I have to confess, I’ve always wanted to come inside and look around this place.” Sharon made a slow circle to study the kitchen, her attention lingering on the huge fireplace. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

“It definitely has potential. You’re doing the decorating?”

“Mr. Cordero and I are discussing that possibility.”

It was beginning to irk Mac that she continued to call him Mr. Cordero in that prim, rather prissy way. It couldn’t be more opposite to the warm and informal manner in which she spoke to Trent. “Mac,” he reminded her, deciding it was time for him to do a little fishing. “I take it you two know each other?”

Trent chuckled. “You might say that. Sharon and I went to the prom together.”

Sharon’s smile turned a few watts brighter. “Trent was a senior, I was a junior. He had already been accepted into the Air Force Academy. I was so impressed, I spent the whole evening looking at him and giggling like an idiot.”

“I don’t remember it quite that way,” Trent said gallantly.

Mac told himself he should be pleased to hear this. After all, her connection to the McBrides was one of the reasons he was interested in her. Right? And yet he still found himself changing the subject rather more abruptly than he had intended. “Yes, well, perhaps we should talk about the renovation project now.”

He stepped smoothly between them and opened the briefcase he’d left on a rough-surfaced counter. “I have some blueprints and sketches here…”

Sharon and Trent moved closer on either side of him to study the paperwork in the yellow light of the battery-powered lanterns. It annoyed Mac that he had to make such an effort to concentrate on the job instead of Sharon’s spicy-floral scent.

This wasn’t working out exactly as he had planned.

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Trent left, explaining that he had an appointment with his fiancée. Sharon was touched by the eagerness that glinted in his eyes as he left. For almost a year after his accident, Trent had barricaded himself in his solitary rural home, brooding and alone. He’d held his friends at a distance, seeing no one but family—and Annie Stewart, the housekeeper his mother had hired for him against his will. Now he and Annie were planning their wedding, and Trent was learning how to smile again.

Sharon was delighted for him.

Mac cleared his throat, drawing her gaze away from the back door through which Trent had disappeared. “Prom, hmm?”

She smiled. “Yes. I wore a flame-red satin slip dress and Trent wore a black tux with a red cummerbund and bow tie. I thought we looked sophisticated and glamorous—like movie stars. My mother still keeps our prom picture on the piano with all her other family pictures.”

When Mac didn’t seem particularly amused by her reminiscing, she cleared her throat and turned the conversation back to business. “At what point would you want me to become involved with the renovation?”

“You’re considering taking the job?”

She practically itched to be a part of this project. “Yes.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Something about his expression and the tone of his voice made her wonder why he seemed so pleased that she would be joining the renovation team he was assembling. He didn’t really know her, and he had seen only a few examples of her work. Had the recommendations he’d heard really been so persuasive?

He had said it was his practice to patronize local businesses and workers whenever possible. Granted, there weren’t many professional decorators in Honoria to choose from—none, actually. “You’re sure you don’t want to consult a few other decorators first?” she asked, a sudden attack of nerves making her wonder if she was being wise to get involved with this man. With this job, she corrected herself quickly.

He shook his head. “I want you.”

She really wished he hadn’t worded it quite that way. Something told her those three words would echo in her mind for a disturbingly long time. “I would certainly understand if you want to at least consider—”

“Sharon—do you want the job or not?”

Clasping her hands in front of her, she glanced around the big, old kitchen. “Yes. I want it.”

“And you believe you can do a good job?”

She could already picture the front parlor done in tastefully restrained Victoriana, old Oriental rugs on satiny, refinished hardwood floors, strategically placed mirrors making the small rooms look bigger. “Yes, I do.”

“Then all we have left to discuss is the money,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve written the decorating budget here—” he stabbed a finger on one of the sheets of paper scattered across the counter “—which includes your fee, itemized on the next line. Does that look like a fair estimate to you?”

She glanced at the figure, blinked a couple of times, then read it again. “Yes, that looks fair,” she said, her voice a bit strained.

She couldn’t help remembering all those wild rumors about Mac—that he was a rich eccentric, or on consignment for a celebrity millionaire, or working for a big-money crime family. As improbable as those scenarios had sounded, money didn’t seem to be a problem when it came to this project. She would be compensated very generously for the sheer pleasure of helping this sadly deteriorating building become a beautiful home again.

“I’d like you to be closely involved with the project from the start,” he said. “You’ve probably noticed I have my own way of doing things—it’s not necessarily the way most contractors work, but it suits me. I assemble a team at the beginning and then involve everyone in the decision-making, utilizing their expertise in their areas. Final decisions, of course, are mine, but I’m always open to discussion and suggestions.”

“How long have you been doing this? Buying and restoring old houses, I mean.”

“Full time for almost three years now. Before that, I restored a couple of small houses as a sideline to my day job.”

“And what was your day job?”

She’d considered herself making conversation, not trying to pry, but she got the sudden feeling that Mac wasn’t comfortable with her questions. “I’ve worked in several jobs prior to this one.”

“I see.” She looked at her watch. “I really should get back to the shop. I have an appointment with a sales rep this afternoon.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

She knew the layout of the house this time, so she led the way with Mac following close behind her. As she walked, she looked around again, making dozens of mental notes. She would like to return soon with a camera and sketch pad. She was so involved with her planning, she forgot to concentrate on her steps and she might have tripped over a broken board had Mac not reached out to take her arm before she reached it, guiding her around the plank.

“The floors are pretty rough,” he said without letting go of her. “It’s even worse upstairs. Once the carpenters get started, I’m going to designate the whole house as a hard-hat zone.”

“I should have been watching where I was going. I’m afraid I was too busy mentally decorating.”

He chuckled. “As much as I appreciate your eagerness to get started, I wouldn’t want you to injure yourself because of it.”

“I’ll be more careful from now on,” she promised, trying to keep her tone light despite the ripples of sensation emanating from his hand on her arm.

“Good.”

When he didn’t immediately move away, her smile wavered. His face was only inches from hers. His dark eyes looked straight into hers. She’d never understood more clearly what it meant to be in danger of melting at someone’s feet. When it came to her hormones, this man was downright dangerous.

She cleared her throat so she could speak without squeaking. “Is there something else?”

He hesitated a moment, then dropped his hand and stepped back. Without further comment, he motioned for her to continue through the house. She took care to watch her step as she walked out.

She unlocked the driver’s door of the rental car her insurance company had provided until she could replace the one she’d lost in Snake Creek. Uncertain what to say, she turned hesitantly to Mac before getting in. “I’ll start gathering some pictures and samples before our next meeting. I’d like to come back soon to take some measurements and photographs.”

“The work crew starts tomorrow, so someone will be here pretty much all the time, Monday through Saturday. Come by anytime, but be careful around the construction.”

“Thank you, I will. So, I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Mac,” he said.

She lifted an eyebrow in confusion, wondering why he’d just said his own name. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’d like to hear you say, ‘I’ll see you later, Mac.”’

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I like my team to be on comfortable terms with each other.”

“I’m quite comfortable with you,” she lied briskly.

Wearing a slightly challenging smile, he leaned against her open car door. “Then why can’t you say my name, Sharon?”

He said hers easily enough. And something about the sound of it on his tongue made a funny little shiver go through her. Which was hardly a professional way to react to a business associate, she chided herself.

“I have no problem saying your name, Mac. But I am running late, so if there’s nothing else, I’d better be on my way.”

There was definite satisfaction in his smile when he straightened away from the door. “No, there’s nothing else—for now. Drive carefully.”

He didn’t stay to watch her drive off, but turned on one heel and walked back to the house. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder before disappearing inside. Sharon was left staring after him. She roused herself with a slight shake of her head and reached for the key.

As she drove away, she vowed to herself that this was the last time she would allow him to turn her into a tongue-tied adolescent.

Any further exchanges between her and Mac Cordero were going to be strictly business—even though she was beginning to wonder if Mac had something else in mind.

BRAD WAS on his very best behavior Thursday evening during dinner, which pleased Sharon almost as much as it worried her. She loved her younger brother dearly, but any time he acted sweet and polite, she couldn’t help wondering what he was up to.

“How are you enjoying your summer vacation, Brad?” Jerry Whitaker, who had joined them for dinner, asked encouragingly.

Looking up from the baked pork chops, rice and steamed vegetables Sharon had prepared, the boy tossed a fringe of shaggy brown bangs out of his face to look across the table. “It’s okay. Better than school, anyway.”

“What are you doing to keep yourself busy?”

“Baseball, mostly. Coach Cooper has practice every afternoon. And I go to the Boys and Girls Club a couple of mornings a week for tennis lessons.”

Jerry smiled at Sharon. “Sounds like you’ve got quite an athlete in the family.”

Absently returning the smile, she glanced at her brother. “Yes, Brad’s very good at sports.”

“What else do you have planned for summer, Brad? Hanging out at the pool with your friends? Flirting with the girls? I seem to have a vague memory of doing a lot of that back in the olden days when I was your age.”

Because he knew it was expected of him, Brad chuckled in response to Jerry’s exaggeration, but then his smile faded as he glanced at his sister. “Sharon doesn’t let me hang out with my friends much. She’s afraid I’ll get into trouble.”

Sharon’s defenses went up when Jerry gave her a reproachful look. “That’s not exactly accurate,” she protested. “I certainly don’t forbid Brad to see his friends. I simply ask him to let me know where he’ll be and what time he’ll be home.”

“And I have to tell her who’s going to be there, and what we’ll be doing, and what we’ll be eating, and—” Brad held up a finger for each point he made.

“That’s enough,” Sharon cut in, knowing her brother was still annoyed with her for keeping him from attending the party Monday evening.

She still felt justified in her decision, especially since she’d heard that Officer Dodson had been dispatched to send everyone home when the festivities had gotten too loud. She’d been surprised that he hadn’t reported seeing signs of drinking among the underage guests. At least the kids had been smart enough not to try to get away with that—probably because they’d guessed that Chief Davenport would have someone keeping a close eye on them.

“Your brother is fifteen years old, Sharon,” Jerry murmured. “You have to loosen the apron strings sometime.”

Brad looked smug.

Sharon was annoyed with Jerry for undercutting her in front of Brad. Surely he knew she was doing the best she could while their flighty mother was off vacationing with a group of congenial widows she’d met over the Internet. It wasn’t the first time Lucy Henderson had left Sharon in charge of the house-hold—she’d been doing it since Sharon was a teenager, herself—but it was getting much more difficult as Brad grew older and more rebellious.

She picked up a bowl. “Have some more vegetables, Jerry.”

Fully aware of the message she was really sending him, he chuckled, took the bowl and obligingly changed the subject. “What’s this I hear about you working on the Garrett-house renovation?”

It had taken less than forty-eight hours for the news to get to him. Sharon wasn’t sure why she hadn’t already mentioned it, herself. Maybe because Jerry so rarely showed any real interest in her business, which he tended to refer to as “the little wall-paper shop.” “I’ve been hired as the interior-design consultant. I’ll help choose colors, patterns, fixtures and so on. Mac wants the house completely ready for occupancy when the renovation is completed.”

“Mac?” Jerry murmured, lifting an eyebrow.

Funny how easily the name had slipped from her this time, proving that she’d already begun to think of him that way. “He doesn’t care much for formality.”

“I’m not sure I approve of this arrangement.” Jerry seemed to be only half teasing. “Apparently he’s quite the romantic figure around town. Handsome, mysterious, reportedly wealthy. And he’s the guy who saved your life last weekend. I wouldn’t want you to get swept off your feet.”

Sharon forced a smile. “I’m only working for him, Jerry, not dating him.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Why do you think he chose you as his decorator? Do you suppose his budget is more limited than rumors have implied?”

Aware of Brad listening to the conversation while he ate, Sharon tried to keep her tone humorous. “Are you calling me a cut-rate decorator, Jerry? Hardly flattering.”

He didn’t even have the grace to look sheepish. “Now, Sharon, you know I didn’t mean it like that. But you must admit, you aren’t a licensed decorator. Picking out colors and wallpaper patterns has been a hobby for you.”

A hobby? She thought of the hours she’d spent reading, studying, poring over magazines, journals and sample books. She’d had several paid decorating jobs, including the recent remodeling of the First Bank of Honoria and the upcoming McBride Law Firm project. Needlework was a hobby; decorating was a passion she’d had since adolescence. “He said I came highly recommended,” she said simply, knowing it would be a waste of breath to argue semantics.

“I’m sure he won’t be disappointed.”

Had Jerry always had that slightly condescending tone when he talked about her work, or was she simply being oversensitive this evening? Whatever the cause, this conversation was beginning to annoy her as much as his criticism of the way she was watching out for her brother.

“I’ll make sure he isn’t,” she said, and stood. “Who wants dessert? I baked a strawberry cake.”

Brad and Jerry both eagerly accepted the offer.

As Sharon stood alone in the kitchen slicing cake, she found herself thinking that maybe she shouldn’t see so much of Jerry for a while. She’d gotten into the habit of hanging out with him without really thinking about where the relationship was going. She hadn’t liked the note of possession in his voice when he’d quizzed her about working for Mac. Was he under the impression that they had an exclusive relationship?

As far as she was concerned, she and Jerry were friends. They weren’t lovers. Jerry had broached the possibility a time or two, but Sharon had always put him off. She wasn’t ready to take that step, she’d told him. She didn’t think it set a good example for Brad. Both were legitimate excuses, but the truth was, she simply hadn’t wanted to become that intimately involved with Jerry. Something had always held her back.

Maybe it was because he’d never taken her breath away just by looking into her eyes, a small voice whispered inside her head. He had never caused a jolt of electricity to go through her with a simple brush of his hand. She had never actually reacted to any man’s touch that way—until Mac.

The cake server slipped from her hand, clattering against the tile floor. The noise roused her from her disturbing thoughts, clearing away the image of Mac’s gleaming dark eyes.

“Are you okay in there?” Jerry called out from the other room.

“I’m fine,” she answered, her tone sharper than she had intended. She immediately regretted it. It wasn’t Jerry she was angry with, it was herself. She was simply going to have to get herself under control when it came to Mac Cordero. And she was going to have to take charge of this situation with Jerry. It wasn’t fair of her to lead him on.

Maybe it would be better if she simply concentrated on her brother and her business, at least for the next few weeks.

CHAPTER FOUR

MAC WAS in his motel room early Thursday evening when someone tapped on the door. He took another look at the photograph in his hand—a picture of a woman holding a tiny infant with Mac’s dark hair and eyes—and then slipped it back into its usual place in his wallet before moving toward the door. He had to take a couple of deep breaths to release the pain and anger looking at that photo always roused in him. Only then could he answer the knock.

From long habit, he checked the peephole before releasing the lock. Curious, he opened the door and leaned against it, shoving his disturbing memories to the back of his mind. “Well, hello, Chief. Paying a social call?”

“Partially,” Wade Davenport surprised him by answering. “Mind if I come in?”

Mac stepped out of the doorway and gestured toward the two chairs beside the window. “I would offer you a drink, but all I have is half a can of soda—and it’s probably flat.”

Glancing around the rather spartan motel room, Wade asked, “Are you going to be staying here long?”

Was the police chief just making friendly conversation, or keeping tabs on the stranger in town? Mac shrugged. “I’ve been looking for an apartment to rent for the duration of the renovation job. I talked to the manager of the complex on West Elm this afternoon. I’ll probably move there next week.”

Wade wandered to the window and glanced out. “Not much of a view. The McBride Law Firm’s parking lot. The McBrides are related to my wife, you know. Caleb’s her uncle, Trevor’s her cousin.”

“There usually are a lot of family connections in a small town like this one,” Mac observed, following Wade’s glance. He wondered if the police chief would be so cool if Mac told him about his own family connection to the chief’s wife.

Turning away from the window, Wade sat in one of the chairs. Mac settled in the other. “What can I do for you, Chief?”

“Call me Wade. Seems more appropriate between colleagues, don’t you think?”

“Colleagues?” Mac repeated carefully.

“One cop to another.”

Long experienced at concealing his emotions, Mac kept his posture relaxed. “Cop to ex-cop is more accurate.”

Wade nodded acknowledgment of the distinction.

“Any particular reason you’ve been checking up on me?”

“You’ve come to my town at the same time as what passes for a crime wave in these parts. Seemed appropriate.”

“You always keep this close an eye on things around here?”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

Because Mac knew how little small-town police chiefs typically earned, he chuckled dryly. “Careful. Start talking about big bucks and I’ll suspect you’re on the take.”

“Marvella Tucker slips me a dozen home-baked cookies about once a month. She’s ninety years old, likes to drive her big old car right down the middle of Main Street. She thinks I won’t ticket her if she keeps baking cookies for me.”

“Is she right?”

Wade grinned and patted his stomach. “What do you think?”

“I think I need to figure out a way to get on Mrs. Tucker’s cookie list.”

“So what’s a former vice cop doing remodeling an old house in this burg? How’d you choose the Garrett place?”

“Still checking up on me?”

“Making conversation,” Wade corrected him. “I used to be with Atlanta P.D. Burned out, came to Honoria for the slower pace and better working hours. What brought you here?”

Mac lifted a shoulder. “Mine’s a similar story. Got tired of working vice and decided I needed a change. Old houses have always interested me, so that’s the direction I took. It’s satisfying work.”

“My wife and I live in a house her father built more than forty years ago. There’s always something needing repairs, but I still prefer it to one of those new cut-and-paste houses. Emily says it has character.”

“Most old houses do,” Mac agreed.

“You never told me how you found the Garrett place.”

“I saw a photo in a real estate listing. It looked as if it had potential, so I came here to check it out. You know the rest.” The answer was only partially true, but close enough not to bother Mac’s conscience overly much.

“You’ve got the town all abuzz, you know. Nothing the folks around here like better than having someone new to talk about.”

“So I gather.”

“They’re good people, for the most part. The gossip only occasionally turns vicious.”

Mac thought Wade was being generous, considering how often the gossip had turned against his wife’s family. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out that the McBride name had been synonymous with scandal for several generations.

No one but Mac was aware that there was one scandal yet to be revealed. One in which he was intimately involved. One for which he deserved some sort of revenge—once he found out who to direct it toward.

“So what’s the buzz on me?” Mac asked casually. “What made you think you needed to run a check?”

Wade shrugged. “What would you have done in my position? The only stranger in town just happened in the vicinity of the very isolated Porter place when it was being robbed. No real reason for you to be out there. Last time you were in town, when you were buying the Garrett house, someone broke into Joe Baker’s storage shed and took an RV and some other expensive sporting goods. I make it a practice to be skeptical of coincidences.”

Through narrowed eyes, Mac studied the other man warily, having trouble reading Wade’s affable expression. He wasn’t sure why the chief was telling him all this. If the guy really suspected he was involved, would he be quite so open about it? Was Wade saying Mac’s law enforcement background cleared him of suspicion, or that circumstantial evidence still pointed his way? “I guess I’d have done the same in your position. But I’m not your thief.”

“That’s what my hunch tells me.”

“How accurate do your hunches generally turn out to be?”

Wade grinned lazily. “Oh, about ninety percent.”

“Ten percent margin of error. Not bad. So, who’s your hunch telling you to go after?”

His smile fading, Wade sighed. “Unfortunately, it isn’t leading me anywhere. I literally haven’t got a clue yet. Just a feeling that I’ve got four break-ins that are all related, and that there’s something going on in my town I don’t know about. And that pisses me off.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open. Sometimes an outsider sees or hears something the locals miss.”

“Especially an outsider who worked vice for a number of years, I’d imagine. I’d appreciate your insight if something catches your attention.”

Though he didn’t really expect to be in a position to identify a local crime ring, Mac nodded.

Wade planted his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. “We’ll have to swap shop talk soon. Over lunch at Cora’s Café, maybe. Tasted her pies yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Then you’re in for a treat. She makes the best I’ve ever had—and I’m something of a connoisseur when it comes to desserts.” With a last glance out the window toward the McBride Law Firm, he moved toward the door. “I’ll see you around, Mac.”

Still clueless as to the real purpose behind the chief’s visit, Mac saw him out, then watched from the window as Wade drove away.

He had an itchy feeling that Wade Davenport wasn’t an easy man to mislead.

“YOU SHOULD HAVE INVITED him to dinner,” Emily McBride Davenport chided her husband later that evening when he mentioned his call on Mac Cordero.

Looking up from the block tower he was building with their almost-two-year-old daughter, Claire, Wade lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “Now, why would I do that? We don’t even know the guy.”

Watching from the couch where she’d been reading a book, Emily pushed her mop of golden curls out of her face to frown at him. “He’s new to town, Wade. He’s probably lonely.”

“I’m not so sure about that. He seems like the self-contained sort. Probably prefers his solitude. You know he’s turned down most of the invitations he’s received from well-intentioned townsfolk.”

“Most likely because he could tell most of them just want to pump him for personal information,” Emily retorted.

He smiled as he guided the red block gripped in Claire’s chubby hand to the top of the tower. “And isn’t that what you’d like to do?”

Emily looked offended. “Of course not. I’m not interested in his personal business. I just think it would be neighborly to have him to dinner.”

“I don’t make a habit of bringing strangers home unless I know my family is safe with them.”

Emily rolled her eyes, as she so often did when she felt Wade was being overprotective. “You like him, Wade. I could tell from the way you spoke of him.”

He did sort of like him, actually—even if he wasn’t quite sure he trusted him. Just because Mac Cordero had bravely jumped into a river to save Sharon Henderson’s life, and just because Wade had learned that Mac was a former police officer from Savannah didn’t mean the guy had no ulterior motive for being in Honoria.

He knew Mac had lied to him at least once that afternoon—when he’d said he’d come here after seeing a photograph of the Garrett house in a real estate ad. The Realtor had told Wade that Mac had approached her, asking what old homes were available in this area. He hadn’t seen the house and then come here, as he’d claimed—it had actually been the other way around. So why the lie?

There was a reason Mac had come to Honoria—and Wade had a hunch he hadn’t yet heard the whole story.

MAC DECIDED to have dinner at Cora’s Café Friday evening. He’d been thinking about her pies ever since Wade had mentioned them the day before. Because it was a nice spring afternoon, still sunny and warm at six o’clock, he decided to walk the half mile from his motel to the café.

Honoria’s downtown section had fallen victim to urban sprawl, leaving abandoned buildings and boarded-up storefronts behind. There had been some effort to revitalize the area, but the new development on the west side of town had taken a heavy toll in this neighborhood. Mac studied the shabby old stone storefronts and thought of the history and traditions that had been abandoned here and in so many other small towns.

A group of teenage boys wearing baggy clothes and fashionably surly expressions loitered on the sidewalk in front of a seedy-looking store-turned-arcade. Mac counted seven boys, none of them over seventeen, four holding cigarettes. Tough guys, he summed up swiftly—at least in front of their buddies. Wanna-be rednecks. Trouble waiting to happen. He’d seen boys this age and younger packing guns and pushing drugs on street corners in Savannah.

The boys completely filled the sidewalk, blocking Mac’s path. He could step into the street to go around them, but there were a couple of cars coming and he wasn’t in the mood to play dodge-the-Ford. “Excuse me,” he said, focusing on the boy who looked least likely to be a jerk.

The boy started to move, but two of his pals closed around him, their expressions challenging. They were bored, Mac thought, and hungry for excitement—even the negative kind. If it were up to him, they’d all be put to work, flipping burgers, pushing brooms, picking up trash, if necessary.

Without speaking, the boys watched for his reaction to their defiance. One of them—the tallest and probably the oldest—took a drag from a cigarette and blew the smoke directly into Mac’s face. Mac didn’t react, his narrowed eyes still locked with those of the first boy he had approached. He kept his voice very soft. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I said excuse me.”

The boy swallowed visibly and shifted his weight backward.

“C’mon, Brad, you chicken,” someone muttered. “We were here first. Make him go around.”

Again, Mac kept his voice very quiet, an intimidating trick he had perfected during his years on the force. “Just step aside, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Don’t let him push you around, Brad,” one boy ordered.

“Shut up, Jimbo,” Brad muttered, glancing up at Mac, who stared steadily back at him.

“Better not start anything you don’t want to finish, boy,” Mac advised, never taking his eyes off the teenager’s tense face. The boy looked familiar, he couldn’t help thinking. Something about his wide, blue-green eyes reminded Mac of Sharon Henderson.

His cheeks burning in resentment and embarrassment, Brad moved out of the way. Mac walked on at the same leisurely pace as before, not bothering to glance over his shoulder at the boys. He heard some of the other kids giving Brad a hard time for backing down, and another make an unflattering comment about Mac’s Latino heritage, but he didn’t react and they made no effort to purse further trouble with him.

They weren’t quite as tough as they pretended to be. Which didn’t mean they couldn’t turn dangerous if someone didn’t get them under control soon, he mused as he pushed open the door of Cora’s Café. He was glad he wouldn’t have to deal with them again.

AN OVERSIZE HARD HAT slipping to one side of her head, Sharon peered through the viewfinder of her camera Saturday afternoon. Ignoring the sound of hammering coming from the second floor above her, she framed a shot of the leaded-glass window in the dining room of the old Garrett house. She snapped the picture, then lowered the camera, wondering if she should try another angle.

From behind her, someone straightened her hat. A ripple of electricity ran through her, and she didn’t have to hear his voice to know it was Mac. “This should fit tighter,” he said.

She wasn’t sure what he would see in her expression, so she fussed with her camera as an excuse to avoid turning around for a moment. “I found it sitting in a box in the entryway. It was the only hard hat I could find.”

“Then I’ll have to get you one of your own. This won’t protect you much if something heavy were to fall.”

Almost as if to illustrate his words, a crash came from upstairs, followed by what might have been a muffled curse. Sharon glanced up at the stained ceiling and smiled. “Point taken.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About an hour. I’ve already taken photos of the kitchen and the parlor. I was just finishing up in here.”

“What else do you need?”

“I was going to take a few pictures in the downstairs bedroom. I don’t suppose I can go upstairs yet?”

He shook his head. “Not today. The crew’s up there testing the floors and patching holes. I’m reasonably sure the structure is safe, but I don’t want you wandering around up there until I’m sure.”

“And when will that be?”

He shrugged. “They’ll be finished later this afternoon. They haven’t found any problems so far.”

Although she understood his caution—after all, he was the owner of the house now and therefore liable in the case of accidents—she was still impatient to get upstairs and explore. “I’d be very careful.”

His smile was pleasant but unyielding. “Next time.”

“Has anyone ever mentioned that you can be awfully bossy?” she asked him a little too sweetly.

He chuckled. “Around here, I am the boss.”

“I’ll just finish up downstairs, then—boss.” She turned to snap one more shot of the window, then moved toward the bedroom.

He fell into step beside her. “Getting any great ideas?”

“A few.” Unfortunately, the only ideas that struck her as she entered the bedroom with Mac had nothing to do with decorating. Never mind that the room closely resembled a shadowy cave filled with dust and cobwebs. Or that one windowpane was broken, letting a warm breeze whistle through it. Or that there wasn’t a stick of furniture. It was still obviously a bedroom, and she and Mac were alone in it.

What was it about this man that he could affect her just by looking at her in that smoldering manner? She hadn’t blushed since high school, but she was dangerously close to it when he put a hand at the small of her back to guide her around a nail sticking up from a floorboard. The heat of his skin penetrated the thin, scoop-neck T-shirt she’d worn with jeans and sneakers for her exploratory visit here.

“The architect recommended taking out this fireplace and replacing it with doors leading out to a garden,” Mac said. But even that strictly-business comment sounded oddly intimate because he had murmured it into her ear.

Grateful for an excuse to move away from him, she crossed over to the stone fireplace in question and made a pretense of studying it. “It would bring more light into the room, of course, and easier access to the outside. But I wouldn’t do it.”

“You’d keep the fireplace?”

She turned to look at the center of the room, picturing a big white-painted iron bed there, covered in eyelet and mounded with pillows. A rocking chair in one corner. Fresh flowers on an old chest. A fire burning in this wonderful stone fireplace. Two people cuddled in the bed—she refused to picture faces. “I would definitely keep the fireplace.”

He nodded. “I had already decided to do that. I’ll convert the small window in the west corner to a glass-paned door leading outside. That should provide enough natural light to brighten the room a little during the day, but I didn’t want to sacrifice the fireplace.”

“I’m glad. It’s really lovely.” She rested a hand on the heavy oak mantelpiece. “I’ve always wanted a fireplace in my bedroom,” she mused almost to herself.

“The romantic type, are you?”

She dropped her hand and squared her shoulders. “Not particularly. I’ve always considered myself the practical type. A fire is a nice way to take away a chill on cold winter evenings.”

“Mmm.” He made it clear he didn’t quite accept her self-description. “Will you have dinner with me this evening?”

She swallowed before asking, “Do you want to talk about my ideas for the decorating? I’m afraid I don’t have much to discuss with you yet, since I just—”

“No,” he cut in quietly. “This has nothing to do with business.”

He was asking her for a date. She hadn’t dated anyone but Jerry in months—primarily from lack of interest in going out with anyone else who had asked during that time.

She couldn’t claim a lack of interest in Mac; the opposite was actually her problem. She was, perhaps, too interested in him. She supposed some people—her assistant, for example—would consider that an odd reason to hesitate about accepting his invitation. But Sharon had always considered herself a shrewd judge of people, and something told her Mac wasn’t exactly what he seemed to be.

It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, or even that she didn’t trust him—but she was definitely wary of him. Should she follow through on her undeniable attraction to him, or listen to her instincts and avoid further complicating her life?

His left eyebrow lifted. “I didn’t think it was that difficult a question.”

“You aren’t a member of a crime family, are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“According to local rumor, you’re either an eccentric millionaire, a flunky for an eccentric movie star, or you’re a member of an organized-crime family. The first two possibilities don’t worry me overmuch, but I would definitely be concerned about the latter.”

His chuckle was disarming. He didn’t laugh often, and it was a pleasant sound. “I am not a crook,” he assured her, the cliché making her smile. “I don’t work for anyone except myself. As for the millionaire part—I’m afraid not.”

Remembering Tressie’s question, Sharon asked, “Are you married?”

“No. I’m single, straight and unattached. Are there any other juicy tidbits you want to quiz me about?”

“I probably haven’t even heard all the talk,” she confessed. “Those were just the stories that made it to my shop.”

“Do you always take gossip so seriously?”

She had to smile at that. “Hardly.”

“Is there anyone who would object to you having dinner with me?”

She thought of Jerry, but shook her head. “I’m not seeing anyone special, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“So…?”

It was as good an evening as any to go out. Brad was going on an overnight campout with his baseball team, sponsored by the coach and several team dads. Having made an excuse to Jerry after her recent decision to spend less time with him, Sharon was free for the evening. She had planned to spend a little time to herself for a change perusing decorating journals and making preliminary notes for the renovation project. Instead, she heard herself saying, “All right. What time?”

His only reaction was a brisk nod—as if there had been no real doubt that she would accept, she couldn’t help thinking. “Seven? I’ll pick you up.”

Sharon thought of the inevitable ramifications if she and Mac were seen sharing a cozy dinner-for-two in town. There would certainly be talk. Speculation. Questions. She wasn’t accustomed to being the center of gossip. She’d always been the quiet and responsible type. Everyone knew her mother was a lovable flake, that her father had died of a heart attack thirteen years ago, and that her little brother tended to hang with the wrong crowd, but they had never attracted the sort of interest that the McBrides or some of the other longtime Honoria residents garnered.

“I could cook,” she suggested, wondering whether her alternative was actually more or less reckless than dining in public. “You’re probably tired of restaurant food by now,” she added quickly, not wanting him to take it the wrong way. “Maybe you’d enjoy a home-cooked meal?”

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