“You Don’t Have To Pay Me Back,” Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Epilogue Copyright

“You Don’t Have To Pay Me Back,”

Boone insisted.

That voice. So low and husky. So slow and sexy. Every time Boone said something, it sent a ripple of delight buzzing through Lucy’s libido.

She ignored him and said, “Here’s what I’m going to do—”

“Lucy...like I keep telling you, it’s not necessary to pay me back for anything. Okay?”

Lucy hurried on. “Here’s the deal. I’m giving you myself for one month.”

When he seemed not to understand, Lucy tried again. “I’m yours to do your bidding, at your beck and call, for four weeks.”

He still seemed mystified.

Finally, in an effort to make it as clear as possible, Lucy told him, “For the next thirty days, Boone Cagney, I’ll do whatever you tell me to do. Because for the next thirty days, I’m going to be your slave.”

THE FAMILY McCORMICK: Three separated siblings find each other—and love along the way!

Dear Reader,

A sexy fire fighter, a crazy cat and a dynamite heroine—that’s what you’ll find in Lucy and the Loner, Elizabeth Bevarly’s wonderful MAN OF THE MONTH. It’s the next in her installment of THE FAMILY McCORMICK series, and it’s also a MAN OF THE MONTH book you’ll never forget—warm, humorous and very sexy!

A story from Lass Small is always a delight, and Chancy’s Cowboy is Lass at her most marvelous. Don’t miss out as Chancy decides to take some lessons in love from a handsome hunk of a cowboy!

Eileen Wilks’s latest, The Wrong Wife, is chock-full with the sizzling tension and compelling reading that you’ve come to expect from this rising Desire star. And so many of you know and love Barbara McCauley that she needs no introduction, but this month’s The Nanny and the Reluctant Rancher is sure to both please her current fans...and win her new readers!

Suzannah Davis is another new author that we’re excited about, and Dr. Holt and the Texan may just be her best book to date! And the month is completed with a delightful. romp from Susan Carroll, Parker and the Gypsy.

There’s something for everyone. So come and relish the romantic variety you’ve come to expect from Silhouette Desire!

Lucia Macro

And the Editors at 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

Lucy and the Loner

Elizabeth Bevarly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELIZABETH BEVARLY

is an honors graduate of the University of Louisville and achieved her dream of writing full-time before she even turned thirty! At heart, she is also an avid voyager who once helped navigate a friend’s thirty-five-foot sailboat across the Bermuda Triangle. “I really love to travel,” says this self-avowed beach bum. “To me, it’s the best education a person can give to herself.” Her dream is to one day have her own sailboat, a beautifully renovated older model forty-two footer, and to enjoy the freedom and tranquillity seafaring can bring. Elizabeth likes to think she has a lot in common with the characters she creates, people who know love and life go hand in hand. And she’s getting some firsthand experience with maternity, as well—she and her husband welcomed their firstborn, a son, two years ago.

For my husband, David, who,

after twenty books, is still supportive,

still indulgent and still cooking.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

Here’s to twenty more.

And with much, much gratitude to

Captain George Meyers (AKA Roscoe) of

Chicago, Illinois, who, happily and with great humor,

answered an exhaustive list of questions about his fire-

fighting profession, and who added more than a little

color to the book as a result. Any inaccuracies that may

appear in the story do so because of my own

erroneously drawn conclusions.

Thanks, George!

One

Lucy Dolan woke slowly to utter darkness and discovered quickly that she was unable to breathe. A huge, heavy weight seemed to have settled on her chest while she was sleeping, and it had pushed the air right out of her lungs. When she tried to inhale, her breath leapt back out of her mouth in the form of a burning cough that seared her throat and coated her tongue with a foul taste. Another cough followed, then another and another, until she began to grow dizzy and rolled right out of bed.

Landing on the floor jarred her fully awake and afforded her some meager ability to catch her breath. But the air that passed through her lips tasted dirty and felt hot. Instead of reviving her, it made her head ache and caused her to feel oddly lethargic. As she reeled awkwardly over onto her back, she wondered why she couldn’t see the hallway light that she always kept lit at night. Only then did she realize that what she was breathing wasn’t air at all—it was smoke. Thick, black smoke that eclipsed the hallway light, burned her eyes and threatened to suffocate her.

Fire. Good God, her house was on fire.

When the recognition of that finally registered, her mind scurried into action. Unfortunately, instead of rehearsing an escape route that she’d never bothered to plan anyway, all Lucy could think about was Mack.

Mack. Oh, God. Where was Mack?

The last time she’d seen him, he’d been stretched out on the couch in the living room, the television still tuned to the Bullets game in its fourth quarter. He’d been sleeping soundly, but she hadn’t had the heart to turn off the TV, knowing he preferred to doze in front of the flickering light. So she’d pulled the edge of the cotton throw over his feet to ward off the autumn chill, and she’d crept up to bed, knowing he’d join her there later when he awoke and realized she’d gone up without him.

She had to find him. She couldn’t leave the house without Mack. If anything happened to him, Lucy would die herself.

In a distant corner of her brain, she recalled something from elementary school about how if your house was on fire, you should crawl along the floor, where there was likely to be more air, and touch any doors to check for heat before you opened them. Most of all, she remembered, you shouldn’t panic. But when she rolled back over, the scratch of the rug against her belly made her remember something else, too. She remembered that she slept in the nude.

So much for not panicking.

She tried to get her bearings and forced all thought from her mind to focus instead on survival—her own and Mack’s. She always discarded her clothes on the chair by the bedroom door before she went to bed, and—gee, what a coincidence—the door was also the best exit from the smoke-filled room. Certainly that was the direction she needed to pursue if she was going to find Mack.

Slowly and deliberately, keeping her breathing as shallow and steady as she could, Lucy clawed at the rag rug beneath her, pulling her body along the floor toward the chair. She fumbled around for a few seconds before her fingers lit on the boxer shorts and T-shirt that lay there in a crumpled ball. When she snatched the garments down to the floor, her hand skimmed against a soft patch of fur, and she remembered the tattered teddy bear who perpetually occupied that chair as if it were a throne.

She couldn’t save much, Lucy thought as she reached up again, but by God, she would take care of the two things that mattered the most to her in the world. She was going to get Mack and Stevie the bear out of there. When all was said and done, they were all she had left in the world anyway.

It took her only a couple of seconds to struggle into her clothes, then, clutching Stevie savagely under one arm, she crawled out into the hall and immediately lost her way. She could tell neither where the fire was coming from, nor where the smoke was thinnest, nor could she detect any heat that might give her a clue.

Yet she knew she had to make her way downstairs. If Mack wasn’t in bed with her, chances were good that he was still sleeping on the couch. If everything worked out the way it was supposed to, she would find him, rouse him, and they could flee through the front door together. Only problem was, by now she was so disoriented that she wasn’t sure in which direction the stairs lay, let alone the front door.

It took her two tries and too many valuable minutes to find her way to the stairs. When she finally managed to locate them, she slithered like a snake, step by step, to the bottom. Toward the end she began to feel woozier and even more confused, and she bumped her chin hard on something when she lost her bearings.

For a moment Lucy simply lay sprawled on the floor at the foot of the steps, dizzy and disoriented, uncertain about exactly where she was. Her head was pounding, her mouth was dry and her chest felt as if it was going to explode. All around her was darkness and heat, and she didn’t know which way to go. Vaguely she heard a strange sound and registered it as the whisper of the fire consuming her house.

Funny how quiet that sound seemed, she thought as a buzzing swelled up from somewhere deep inside her brain. Her mind was reeling now, and her lungs felt as if they, too, were being eaten by hot flames. She’d always thought fire would be louder than this, hotter than this, faster than this. She didn’t realize it would be so...so...so...

Somewhere in the house glass shattered, the odd tinkling sound seeming clearer than anything she had ever heard. Her hand clenched convulsively on the ragged bear she had managed to cling to, and she gripped it as fiercely as Arthur would have seized the Holy Grail, had he ever found it. But Arthur never had. Arthur had gone to his death never knowing the fate of that thing he’d sought so faithfully, so relentlessly, all his life.

Lucy didn’t want that to happen to her. Stevie the bear was the only link she had to her own Grail, and she didn’t want to lose him or the prize he signified to her. In some deep, delirious part of her brain, she vowed to herself that if she managed to get out of this thing alive, she’d go after that prize—her Grail.

Somehow, if she managed to get out of this thing alive, Lucy would find her twin brother.

But her thoughts as she fought off unconsciousness weren’t for Stevie or her missing twin or the odd emptiness in her soul that had accompanied her all her life. Her only thoughts—indistinct and incoherent—were for Mack. Oh, God...she had to find Mack....

Boone Cagney heaved himself out of the cab of the bright red ladder truck, feeling, as always, that faint thrill deep down inside him where the little boy who’d always wanted to be a fireman still lived. Quickly, dispassionately, he surveyed the burning house.

Not as bad as some he’d seen, he noted as he immediately reached for his bunkers, but not much would be salvageable after the fire was out, either. With a competency and ablemindedness that had come with years of fighting fires, he donned roughly fifty pounds of protective gear—pants, coat, helmet and gloves. Finally, when he had his self-contained breathing apparatus in place, he forgot all about the fact that scarcely ten minutes ago, he’d been sound asleep, and he headed into the fray.

A handful of civilians mingled in the yards of neighboring houses, but he had no way of knowing yet if any of them were residents of the one that was on fire. Probably none of them were, because no one was acting hysterical—yet. Because it was just past 3:00 a.m., whoever lived here had more than likely been home when the fire broke out. The chances were good that they might even still be lying in bed overcome by smoke, oblivious to the fact that their house was burning down.

He made a quick survey of the grounds, noting there were no toys to indicate the presence of children, nor fences to indicate the presence of a pet. Which didn’t necessarily mean that there weren’t any, but it was a good sign. A pickup truck was parked in the driveway far enough back to be safe from the flames for now, one of those sporty models that weren’t meant for transporting anything much heavier than a good-sized golden retriever. Even in the dark, Boone could tell the color was one of those weird mixes of pink and purple, so he guessed that at least one of the occupants of the house was female.

Although a good part of the structure had already been engulfed by flame, his practiced eye told him the source of the fire was probably somewhere in the basement, more than likely in the back. The aged garage, which stood independently of and behind the house, was also on fire, probably due to an errant spark from the burning building or stray bits of airborne, smoldering ash. Rolls of opaque black smoke bled from a number of broken windows around the base of the house.

While his colleagues advanced the hose lines, Boone went to work on the ladders. As far as he could see, the flames were confined to the lower level of the house for now, but they would still have to be quick in their search of the second floor above the fire. He noted one window on the side of the house was open, in spite of the cool October night, and, determining it to be the most likely place to find a resident, he called to another firefighter and suggested they enter the house there.

Immediately after crawling through the window, he was surrounded by smoke, but his vision was still clear enough for him to make out a bed. An empty bed. Its covers were rumpled and kicked to the foot, however, as if someone had awakened and left in a hurry.

A quick search of the two other rooms upstairs revealed one to be a home office of sorts, with a personal computer on the desk whose screen saver still danced and glowed eerily through the dark haze of smoke. The other room was evidently a spare bedroom, unused if the still-made bed was any indication. Exiting that one, Boone nodded to his partner in the search, and the two men headed for the stairway at the end of the hall.

At the foot of the stairs, he found a woman. Initially, he thought her unconscious, but when he rolled her over, she groaned, and he could see that she was barely hanging on.

“Morgan!” he called into the radio he carried to alert the firefighters outside of the progress inside. “I got a woman just inside the front door—foot of the steps!”

“No other victims found,” a voice crackled over the radio in response. “No one’s been able to get into the basement—that’s the source of the fire. But the neighbors said she lives by herself. Shouldn’t be anyone else in there.”

“Well, that’s something, anyway,” he said to himself, relieved that this rescue, at least, would be uneventful. The woman on the floor was small and slender, seemingly without weight, so he easily scooped her up into his arms.

He exited through the front door, and carried the semiconscious woman across the front lawn toward the street, then lay her effortlessly on the grass. When she groaned again, a sputtering cough erupted, and she flailed one hand in front of herself as if she were trying to physically grab hold of the fresh air. To help her out, Boone went back to the ladder truck to retrieve the oxygen they carried on all the rigs, returned to the woman and cupped the clear mask over her mouth.

As he monitored her breathing and waited for the ambulance, he noted the brown-and-black teddy bear she held clenched in one hand. It was threadbare in spots, ragged in others, and a fierce, hot fury gripped him at what her possession of the toy might mean. She coughed and sputtered some more, tears spilling freely from her eyes, but unable to wait any longer, Boone snatched the mask off her face and pulled her to a sitting position.

“Lady,” he said, giving her a quick shake to help rouse her. “You’re okay. But I need to know if there’s anyone else inside the house.”

A new series of rough, ragged coughs rocked her for a minute, and more tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving stark, clean streaks in the soot that smudged her face. Then she looked up and gazed at him with wide, panicked eyes, eyes that were so big and so blue, he nearly forgot for a moment where he was. Hastily, he brushed the odd sensation off and reminded himself that he had a job to do.

“Mack,” the woman whispered hoarsely, the single word barely audible. She stared vacantly at the burning building for a moment, then riveted her gaze to Boone’s with an intensity that shook him to his core. “Mack is still inside the house.”

Great, Boone thought. Why was he not surprised? Her rescue had been too easy, too neat. Evidently she didn’t live alone after all. Obviously her neighbors didn’t know her as well as they thought they did. Or maybe she just had a boyfriend they didn’t know about.

“Is Mack your husband?” he barked out, the roar of the flames behind them growing louder, threatening to drown out their voices. “Your boyfriend?”

She started coughing again, then stared at him, obviously still confused and uncertain. “My husband?” she finally repeated, her expression bewildered, those blue, blue eyes gradually sharpening their focus a bit. “No, I—I’m divorced. And I don’t have a...a boyfriend. Mack is my—” She seemed to recall the gravity of the situation then, because she grabbed his coat savagely and cried, “Mack! My God, he’s still in there!”

With one strong hand, she jerked Boone down until his face was within inches of hers, and her eyes filled with tears again. “You’ve got to get him out of there. Mack is all I have left. He’s...he’s...” She began to cry in earnest then. “God, he’s only three years old! Please...you have to help him!”

Boone’s entire body went rigid. “Where was he the last time you saw him?”

“Asleep on the couch in the living room,” she said, crying freely now, her sobs blurring her words. “He was sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake him when I went to bed, so I Just left him alone. I...I... Oh, no...”

Something hot and coarse knotted in Boone’s belly. Once more, he noted the teddy bear the woman clenched in the hand that wasn’t gripping his coat. He hadn’t seen a child’s bedroom, nor any other indication of a child’s occupancy, save the teddy bear in the woman’s death grip.

But they hadn’t made it down to the basement, he reminded himself, a sick feeling gnawing at his belly when he remembered the radio announcement that the other firefighters hadn’t been able to make it down there. That’s where her child’s room must be. Good thing she’d left him sleeping on the couch, Boone thought. Otherwise the kid would have been a goner.

Man, a kid, he thought wildly. There was still a kid in there.

“Where’s your living room?” he demanded. “Where’s the couch he was sleeping on?”

The woman seemed to snap out of her stupor some, because her next directions were offered with some degree of coherency and a great deal of demand. “Turn left when you go through the front door. The couch is on the far side of the room.”

Boone nodded. “Okay, we’ll get him out. You stay put. Thompson!” he shouted out to one of the other firefighters nearest the front door. He heaved himself away from the woman, shoved his helmet visor back down over his face and began to race toward the burning house. “There’s a kid inside! We’re going back in for a kid!”

Boone had fought enough fires that watching his back was second nature. What other people might consider a terrifying situation was just another job for him to do. Usually. But when there was a kid involved, something inside him got anxious. Something inside him got scared. Something inside him got wary.

This time when he entered the house, it was with a single-minded intent to locate a three-year-old boy.

The general rule of thumb in his line of work was that where victims of fires were concerned, adults acted like dogs, and children acted like cats. While the former tended to run, the latter would normally hide. Boone hoped like hell this kid wasn’t an expert at hide-and-seek. Otherwise, they were both going to wind up toast.

Left, he reminded himself as he passed over the threshold and into an incinerator. She told you to turn left.

When he’d entered the house the first time, the flames had been confined pretty much to the back of the house. Now, suddenly, there was fire everywhere. The smoke, too, impeded his progress, blinding him at times. Without wasting a moment, he motioned Thompson toward one side of the room, and Boone moved to the other, looking for a couch against the opposite wall, finding it exactly where she had said it would be.

But there was no child sleeping on it.

Terrific, he thought morosely. Who knew where the kid could have taken off to?

“Check across the hall,” he told his partner. “But don’t go far.”

As Boone moved quickly forward to search the room, he caught a quick movement from the corner of his eye, and, spinning quickly back around, saw that there was someone on the couch, after all. But it wasn’t a child. Instead, a huge, black, malevolent-looking beast reared back on its hind legs, clearly terrified and slashing at the air with its claws.

Helplessly, Boone groaned aloud. A cat. He’d come back into a raging inferno to save a child, only to be obstructed now with the rescue of a cat. He hated cats. He really did. For good reason, too. And this one looked to be a real bruiser. Or flesh-eater, as the case may be.

An ominous creak sang out above him, a sound with which Boone was all too familiar. The upper floor was about to come down on top of him. He had maybe thirty seconds to get out before it did. Without even thinking about what he was doing, he completed his rushed search of the room and, satisfied the boy was elsewhere in the house, crossed to snag the cat, collect Thompson, and head for the front door. They’d have to come back for the boy through another entrance. They had no other choice.

When he was within inches of grabbing the big animal, it backed against the sofa cushion, flattened its ears angrily, and batted wildly at him with claws roughly the size of scimitars. Even with his hands well protected with heavy gloves, Boone halted before seizing the cat.

“You gonna give me a hard time, big guy?” he asked the growling beast, wondering why he was bothering, since he already pretty much knew the answer, and time was slipping by fast.

The cat hissed, spit, growled some more, flailed at the air, reared up on its hind legs as if to strike... then keeled over, quickly losing consciousness. Boone’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Okay, so maybe not the exact answer he was expecting, but it would make his job infinitely easier.

“A fighter to the end, huh?” he muttered as he scooped the animal up as effortlessly as he had its owner only moments ago. “I admire your spirit.”

He tucked the cat into his coat and called out to Thompson, and the two men turned to flee, barely making it out of the house before the floor above the living room crashed down in an explosion of pyrotechnics. The reverberation of the noise and the flash of heat at his back told Boone how close he’d come to being trapped. Wouldn’t have been the first time, he reminded himself. Then again, did he really want to go through an experience like that again?

As he raced from the house into the chaos outside, he saw the woman he had carried to safety earlier being restrained—barely—by one of the other firefighters. Behind her, an ambulance with red lights tumbling through the haze of smoke stood ready to carry her to the hospital. But she’d obviously refused to make the trip until she knew the fate of her child, and Boone wasn’t exactly surprised.

He could see that she had been watching for him to emerge from the house, and when she saw him, she catapulted forward. Her face was still streaked with black from the smoke, her short hair was matted to her forehead with perspiration and the water from the firehoses, her clothes were wet and filthy and clung to her like a second skin. But those eyes...

He had to force himself to look away. He’d never seen anyone with eyes that blue. And the soot on her face only made them appear that much more vivid. Her gaze penetrated him to his soul when he approached her. This was a woman who would never be able to hide her feelings, he thought. Her eyes, huge and round and thickly lashed, were the kind of eyes that a man would lose sleep over. Some men, anyway, he amended. Not him. He never lost sleep over anyone. Not anymore, anyway.

He was overcome with a sense of guilt and failure at having come from the house without her son, and could only watch helplessly as she kept moving forward, her gaze never leaving his, her pace never slowing. Her lips parted, but no words emerged. Which was just as well. He could already hear her accusing, panicked voice demanding to know why he’d come out of the house without her child. As she drew near enough to reach out and touch him, Boone withdrew the still-unconscious cat from his coat, to hand the animal off to one of his colleagues before returning for the boy.

But at the sight of the motionless animal, the woman halted in her tracks and fell to her knees. Then she buried her head in her hands and began to weep as if her heart were broken.

“Mack,” she sobbed without looking up, as if she couldn’t bear the sight of the unconscious beast. “Oh, Mack. You were too late to save him.”

Boone gazed at her for a moment, completely dumfounded. Then, finally, he realized what he had done. He held up the caL “This is Mack?” he asked incredulously.

The woman nodded and finally looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears. Her gaze dropped briefly to the motionless animal in his arms before returning to fix it on Boone’s face. Then she began to cry freely again.

Boone could only stare back at her for a moment, so entranced was he by the piercing intensity of her gaze. Finally, he shook the hypnotic sensation off and managed to ask, “Mack is your cat? I went back into that inferno to save your cat?”

She nodded mutely as she lifted a hand to gingerly stroke one of the cat’s dangling paws. “Oh, God, he’s dead. You couldn’t get him out. Oh, it’s all my fault.” She buried her face in her hands again, and began to cry even more helplessly.

She was terrified that she had lost her cat, Boone realized, the same way a mother feared the loss of her child. Her whole body shuddered with every sob that erupted from inside her, and her dark head moved helplessly back and forth. Before he could stop himself, he threaded his fingers through her short hair, stroking the damp tresses until she looked up at him again. Gently he urged her head backward and pushed her bangs back from her forehead.

“No, lady, don’t cry,” he said softly, swiping at a fat tear that tumbled down her cheek. The cat twitched in his arms when he did so. “It’s okay. Your cat’s still alive. He’s even starting to come around. He just needs oxygen.”

She gazed at him levelly, those blue, blue eyes incredulous. “He’s alive?” she cried. “You got him out okay? He’s not dead?”

Boone shook his head and turned to make his way quickly to the oxygen he had used earlier, with the woman following only inches behind him, scrambling three steps for every one of his. “He was unconscious, but he’s starting to rouse,” he called over his shoulder as he went. “And he does need oxygen.”

He settled the animal gently on the grass beside the teddy bear the woman had left there, picked up the same plastic mask she had worn, and dropped it over the animal’s muzzle. Then he shed his gloves and began to slowly stroke his hand over the cat’s thick, wet fur, rubbing it lightly under the chin and cupping a hand over its rib cage to feel for its heartbeat.

Okay, he conceded as he watched the helpless creature lay still and half-conscious. Maybe cats weren’t so awful after all. This one, at least, had shown some spirit and had a strong will to survive. Boone had to respect that. It was something he identified with greatly. Survival was his reason for living, after all.

“His pulse is strong,” Boone told the woman. “Just give him a minute.”

Stooped down on his haunches, he was more than a little aware of her hovering over him. She stood close behind him, her knees pressing against his back and her hands settled on his shoulders. Obviously, she had no qualms about getting familiar with strangers. Boone had to force himself not to physically shake her off. He did have qualms about getting familiar with strangers. And not just ones with huge, haunting blue eyes, either.

But now that the immediacy and danger of the situation had passed, he was able to consider her a little more fully. Still holding the mask over the cat’s muzzle, he turned around to look at her.

Man, she was a mess. Soot-covered, water-damaged, shivering from the cold and damp, she was bedraggled enough to qualify for urchin status. In spite of her appearance, however, there was something compelling about her. Boone wasn’t sure what, but something in her struck him as being just as spirited, just as much a survivor as her cat was. Had he not gone in after the animal, he was quite certain she would have done so herself, barefoot and unprotected as she was. Even at the risk of killing herself, she would have gone back to retrieve that cat.

He wasn’t sure he could say the same thing about himself. He was a loner, and he couldn’t imagine caring so much for someone that he would place that someone’s well-being above his own. Sure, part of what he did for a living was save lives. But hey, that was his job.

He was still thinking about that when the animal beneath his fingers began to twitch again. Then the cat began to thrash. Then it began to scratch. Before he could stop it from happening, the big black beast bared its claws again and tore a thin red line down the entire length of Boone’s thumb.

“Ow, dammit,” he growled.

Now he remembered why he hated cats. One of the reasons, anyway. He stuck his thumb into his mouth and sucked hard before pulling it out again to inspect the damage. While he was contemplating his wound, the cat disappeared from his grasp.

“Mack!” the woman behind him cried, bending over Boone so quickly and powerfully that she nearly knocked him sprawling to the ground. She yanked the cat up into her arms and buried her face in its fur, then started making kissy noises against its neck and ears. She glanced down at Boone, her expression concerned. “Is it okay to take the mask off now?”

He nodded, still sucking on the side of his thumb. Bastard cat, he thought.

The woman carefully removed the oxygen mask and held her pet aloft. “Oh, Mack,” she said, lowering the cat again to rub her nose playfully against his, the kissy noises becoming more pronounced.

Boone tried not to gag.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” she went on, cuddling the animal in her arms exactly the way one would a newborn baby. She turned to gaze anxiously at Boone again. “He is going to be okay, isn’t he?”

At his nod, she expelled a shaky breath, her eyes filling with tears again. “You’re sure?” she asked anxiously. “I mean, he’s not going to have brain damage or anything, is he?”

“He’ll be fine,” Boone assured the woman, inspecting the damage to his hand again, wondering if he could say the same about himself. He hoped the beast’s shots were all up-to-date.

The woman dropped to her knees beside Boone and threw her free arm around him, to hug him close. Her next word was muffled against his neck, but it seemed to be, “Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.”

Boone peeled her arm from around his neck, more than a little uncomfortable with her gesture. He wasn’t a hugger and never had been. He didn’t like huggers and never would. Hugs were just so...so... An involuntary shudder wound through him. He just wasn’t into that touchy-feely stuff. As quickly and discreetly as he could, he pushed himself away from the hug and moved out of range of any further public displays of affection.

Seemingly oblivious to his rebuff, the woman stood and began to nuzzle and hug the cat again as if it were a child. And oddly, the cat seemed to tolerate her gestures with no problem at all. Boone could only shake his head in wonder at them both. In spite of the cool morning, he was wringing wet with perspiration, thanks to the heat from the flames and the heaviness of his protective gear. So he unsnapped his helmet and removed it for a moment, to wipe the sweat off his face and out of his eyes before returning to fight the fire.

He was still running his hands briskly through his damp, dark blond curls when he heard the woman say, “Everything’s going to be okay, Mack. Just you wait and see.”

Boone was about to replace his helmet on his head when, as if cued by her comment, what was left of the house behind them came crashing in on top of itself. They spun around in shock and surprise to find flames thoroughly consuming her home. Boone eyed the woman warily, uncertain how she was going to take this new development.

Although she’d cried freely when she’d thought her cat was dead, her eyes were dry as she watched her house burn, her expression completely impassive. It was almost as if she didn’t care, he thought, wondering why not. Almost as if—

Her legs buckled beneath her then, and she fell hard onto her bottom beside Boone. She snuggled the cat close to her chest, nuzzling his head with her cheek. Then, still staring at her burning house, and almost as if she wasn’t even thinking about what she was doing, she felt around on the grass with her free hand until she located the teddy bear she’d been carrying with her. And she clutched that to her heart, too.

All Boone could think was that he hoped she had some heavy-duty fire insurance. Because the only thing she was going to have left in the world was the truck parked in her driveway and literally the clothes on her back.

And a recalcitrant tomcat.

And a ragged teddy bear.

“Sorry, lady,” he said softly. “But it looks like you’ve lost everything.”

She shook her head, squeezing the cat and the teddy bear close to her heart. “No, I haven’t,” she told him with a sad smile. “Everything I need, everything that matters most, is right here with me. Thanks to you.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said with a negligent shake of his head. “Just doing my job.”

“You have no idea what you just did.”

Her words were cryptic, but he decided that was a result of her shock at seeing her possessions go up in smoke. He shrugged off the comment and replaced his helmet, ready to rejoin the battle. Of course, he conceded, the battle now was essentially lost—her house was toast. There was nothing more he or his colleagues could do except make sure the fire was confined to the one building until they finally extinguished it.

“What’s your name?” he heard the woman ask as he turned to leave her.

“Boone,” he replied automatically. “Boone Cagney.”

“I owe you, Boone Cagney,” she told him. “I owe you big. And I always pay my debts. Always.”

He turned to look at her and shook his head, shoving his hand into a heavy glove. “You don’t owe me jack, lady. Like I said. Just doing my job.”

“Lucy,” she murmured softly.

He turned to look at her and nearly lost himself in those spectacular blue eyes. “What?”

She was still holding the cat and the bear, and for some reason, Boone was overcome by a massive wave of protectiveness. Which was really crazy. Protecting people was his job. It wasn’t something he wanted to do in his personal life, too.

“My name isn’t ‘Lady,’ ” she told him, her gaze steady and dry-eyed. “It’s Lucy. Lucy Dolan.”

“Well, Lucy Dolan,” he said, forcing himself to look away from her amazing eyes, “you need to get on that ambulance and go to the hospital, just to be on the safe side. And you might want to get your cat to a vet, just to be sure. But you don’t owe me anything.”

“Oh, yes I do,” she countered. “And you can’t imagine how huge the debt is. I don’t know how I’m going to repay you, but I will. Somehow, some way, I’ll settle the debt.” When he turned to look at her again, she nodded sagely and vowed further, “I promise you that, Boone Cagney. I promise you that.”

Two

Lucy nudged a black, sodden, still-smoldering lump with the toe of her borrowed sneaker, and wondered what the sooty blob had been before succumbing to the fire. The teapot her mother had ordered from England and loved so much? The box that had held her father’s fishing lures? The piggy bank full of quarters her grandmother had given her for her twelfth birthday? It was impossible to tell.

She tilted her head to the right to contemplate the object once more, squeezed her eyes shut to fight back the tears that threatened, and inevitably replayed in her mind the events of the night once more.

So much of what had happened was just a blur of unrecalled chaos now, and she guessed there were some things she would never quite fully remember. She supposed she was lucky neither she nor Mack had been hurt beyond a little smoke inhalation and the jerky handling necessary to save their lives. Ultimately, confident she was perfectly all right, Lucy had declined the complementary ride to the hospital that was evidently the consolation prize when one’s house burned to the ground. But she’d made an appointment with the vet for Mack this afternoon.

Perfectly all right, she repeated to herself. Oh, sure. She was perfectly all right. Just fine and dandy. Hey, she wasn’t going to let a little something like losing all her worldly possessions spoil her day. No way. She shivered and tried not to think about how badly this whole episode could have turned out if it hadn’t been for the big blond firefighter.

What was his name again? she wondered. Oh, yeah, Boone Cagney. Boone Cagney who had emerged from smoke and fire to carry her and Mack to safety, then hopped back up on his big red truck to disappear into the night. Without a word, without a trace, without even realizing the magnitude of what he had done.

Lucy sighed deeply and stared at the sparse remains of her house. Gone. Everything. Just like that. The track and field hockey trophies from high school that had lined her bedroom windowsills like soldiers. The airplane models she had built so passionately as a child. Her favorite pair of blue jeans—the ones it had taken four full years to get faded just the way she liked them.

Odd, the things people felt wistful about once those things were gone. And now Lucy had nothing.

Actually, that wasn’t true, she reminded herself. As she had told Boone Cagney, she did still possess the two things that were most important to her in the world—Mack and Stevie. And, of course, there was the truck she’d just bought a few months before and that she’d never been able to fit in the cluttered, cramped garage. But her house, her furniture, her clothes, and everything else she had ever owned—all the physical trappings that made Lucy Dolan Lucy Dolan—all that was gone forever.

She hugged the teddy bear tighter to her, rubbing her chin over the worn spot on top of his head that had become worn by that same gesture for thirty-four years, and wondered how she was going to take care of Mack—not to mention herself—now that she had nothing else left.

“Lucy?”

She turned at the sound of her name to find her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Palatka, wringing her arthritic hands in worry. It was she who had made Lucy put on the sneakers some time ago, but the older woman had been unable to get her young neighbor to do much more in the way of self-preservation. Lucy was still wearing the clothes she’d managed to throw on before making her escape, but she was only now beginning to realize that the T-shirt and boxer shorts were damp and cold and offered no protection from the chill morning air. In spite of that, she scarcely noted the goose bumps mottling her flesh.

“Come to the house and have some breakfast, dear,” Mrs. Palatka said. “You need something to warm you up.”

The white-haired, warm-hearted woman looped a surprisingly sturdy arm around Lucy’s waist and squeezed hard. Mrs. Palatka hadn’t changed out of her night clothes yet, either, and beneath her winter coat fluttered a red flowered muumuu emblazoned here and there with big purple letters that spelled out, Aloha from Waikiki! Coupled with her huge, purple, fuzzy bedroom slippers, limp from the morning dew, she looked almost as much the part of a refugee as Lucy did.

“Come on,” she said again. “You’re going to catch your death out here. You need a hot shower and some hot food. And you can borrow some of my clothes until you get settled.”

Recalling that Mrs. Palatka’s wardrobe consisted almost exclusively of synthetic Capri pants and fluorescent halter tops for the full-figured gal, Lucy battled a smile. “That’s okay, Mrs. P.,” she told her neighbor. “I keep my work clothes in the truck. They’ll do for now.”

Wordlessly, she collected a few things from the cab of her pickup, then allowed herself to be led to the house next door. She listened passively to the soothing words her neighbor offered about thank God no one had been hurt and it was a good thing Lucy had insurance and tomorrow was another day and everything would work out fine, just wait and see.

She put herself on automatic pilot and let Mrs. Palatka ply her with hotcakes and sausages and coffee. Then she mechanically showered, letting the hot cascade pelt her back, watching with an odd melancholy as the black, sooty water swirled down the drain. She pulled a faded green, hooded sweatshirt over her head and stepped into a pair of equally faded, baggy denim overalls, donned her work boots, and felt a little better. Only when Lucy was seated on her neighbor’s couch with nothing more demanding to do than stare out into space did the enormity of her situation finally register.

She had no place to go. No one to turn to.

Except for Mack, Lucy was completely alone in the world. She was an only child, having been adopted as a toddler, and her parents had died within a few years of each other by the time she was thirty-one. With only a handful of cousins she’d met maybe two or three times in her life scattered on the other side of the country, Lucy essentially had no family left. And the Arlington, Virginia, house where she’d grown up, the only house she’d ever really known, was nothing now but a pile of ash.

All she had left was Mack, who had pretty much been her only family for more than three years—ever since he’d shown up as a shivering, soggy handful of skin and bones at her back door, following a monstrous thunderstorm the morning after her mother’s funeral.

Lucy had taken his timely appearance to be a sign. As silly as it might sound to others, she’d always had the feeling that Providence had given her Mack to love and care for, because she’d had no one else left for that after her mother’s death.

That was why she owed such a huge debt to the firefighter who had rescued him. By running back into a blazing house, Boone Cagney had saved the only living creature in the world Lucy needed and loved, the only living creature in the world who needed her and loved her in return. Without Mack, her life would be hollow, joyless and lonely. Boone Cagney had saved Lucy’s family. He had saved her life.

She inhaled a broken, battered sigh and released it in a shudder of breath. From nowhere Mack jumped up onto the couch and bumped his head against her elbow, then nuzzled close before curling up in her lap. Lucy smiled and rubbed her hand along his back and under his throat, and the thrumming of his steady purr reassured her some.

As long as she had Mack, she told herself, everything would be okay. Somehow, some way, she’d put her life back together again. She’d just have to force herself to focus on the future and not dwell on the past. Piece of cake, right?

She sighed furtively and decided not to think about it for now. What consumed her thoughts instead was the huge debt she owed to Boone Cagney. And although Lucy prided herself in the fact that she always paid her debts, the settlement of this one eluded her. Everything she owned was gone. Her financial savings were meager at best. Whatever she received for her house from the insurance settlement was going to have to buy and outfit a new place for her to live.

All she had was a tattered teddy bear whose inherent value would be useless to anyone but her, and Mack, with whom she would never part, no matter how grave the debt. She simply had nothing to offer the big, blond firefighter who’d saved Mack’s life, she realized morosely. Unless, of course, she wanted to give him herself. But why would he want something like that? No one else ever had.

The hand stroking Mack’s back gradually slowed, then stilled altogether as a hazy idea rooted itself in her brain. Actually, she thought, that just might work. There was a way Lucy could repay Boone for everything he had done for her. There was something she could give him that would settle the debt in some small way.

She could give him herself. Sort of.

Now all she had to do was figure out how to wrap herself up all nice and neat and make him accept her small token of gratitude. Unfortunately, Boone Cagney didn’t seem like the kind of man who was open to receiving gifts, whether they were owed him or not.

“So what do you think, Mack?” she asked the cat who had moved into her lap, tucked his legs up under himself, and curled his tail around his body quite contentedly.

Mack opened one eye, clearly disinterested, then closed it again, sighed with much satisfaction and purred louder.

Lucy thought some more as she rubbed Mack behind the ear. “I guess if he’s not the kind of guy who accepts things easily,” she murmured, “then I’ll just have to be a bit more persuasive than usual.”

Mack grunted in his sleep, though whether the sound was one of agreement or dissension, Lucy couldn’t tell.

“That’s okay, Mack,” she said softly to the slumbering animal. “I’ll take care of everything. You just be yourself.”

Boone had finally managed to slip into a restless slumber when a rapid knocking at his front door awakened him with a start. Jerking his head up from the pillow, he squinted at the blurry green numbers on his clock, then swore viciously when he realized he’d only been in bed for a little over an hour. With another muffled curse, he collapsed back onto the mattress and mentally willed the intrepid intruder to go away.

But the pounding only reverberated through his house again—louder this time. So he sighed his resignation and rolled out of bed, then stretched lethargically before scrubbing two hands through his hair. Because he was expecting to send his uninvited caller on their way right quick, he didn’t bother to put on a shirt, and instead padded barefoot across the bedroom, wearing only a pair of faded navy blue sweatpants.

Man, it had been a bitch of a night, he thought, rubbing a knot at the base of his neck. It was a terrible thing to watch a person’s house—a person’s home—go up in flames along with all their worldly possessions. He supposed he’d never get used to that part of the job. The only thing worse than seeing something like that happen was seeing something like that happen to someone you cared about personalty.

The thought stopped him dead in his tracks. Whoa, he instructed himself carefully, rewind. Cared about personally? He couldn’t even remember the name of the woman whose house had burned last night. How the hell could he care about her?

The pounding erupted again, so he shook the thought off and returned to his slow progress down the hall. Prepared for an unwanted solicitation or an unexpected delivery, he jerked the front door open with a growl, only to find that the woman he had been thinking about only seconds ago had materialized from his ruminations and stood on the other side.

Although it was common enough for women to cross the street just so they could walk by a fire station, Boone couldn’t recall a single incident where one had actually come to a firefighter’s house. Although now that he got a better look at her, he decided it might not be such a bad tradition to start.

“Hi,” she greeted him with a bright smile. “Remember me?”

For a moment he couldn’t say a word. He could only stare into those compelling blue eyes that had lingered in his thoughts until sleep had claimed him. No, he suddenly remembered, that wasn’t exactly true. Even in sleep, those eyes had haunted him.

“Yeah, sure I remember. You okay?”

She nodded anxiously but said nothing to confirm her condition for sure.

Boone nodded vaguely in response and forced himself to pull his gaze away from her eyes. Inevitably, though, it roved relentlessly over the rest of her. Cleaned up, he noted, she looked a little sturdier than she had the night before. Cleaned up, she looked a little heartier. She looked older, too, probably near his own thirty-six years, and much less fragile and commanding of care. Last night, she had seemed close to crumpling into a hopeless, helpless heap of despair. But now...

Now, he realized, in spite of the baggy, masculine, obviously borrowed clothing that hung on her body like sackcloth, she actually looked quite...fetching.

Although her bangs were long—nearly down in her eyes— her black hair was cut shorter than his own. The style might have been boyish had it not topped such utterly feminine features. Her lashes seemed even darker than her black hair, a stark contrast to the pale blue of her irises. Her cheekbones were well-defined and stained with pink, though Boone knew without question that the color didn’t result from any manufactured cosmetic. Her full lips, too, were blushed with color, though again, he could see that heightened emotion, and nothing more, caused the flush.

Dropping his gaze lower, he also saw that she bore a nasty bruise on the left side of her chin that reached to her mouth and swelled a small portion of her lower lip. Without even thinking about what he was doing, he curled his forefinger lightly against her mouth and brushed it gently over the injury. Vaguely he noted the warm breath that danced over his fingers. Vaguely he marveled at how soft her skin was. Vaguely he realized how much he wanted to touch her in other places, to see if they were warm and soft, too.

Her lips parted a mere breath, but her pupils expanded to nearly eclipse the blue of her irises. Only when he noted her reaction did Boone fully understand the intimacy inherent in his gesture, and the strangely erotic path his thoughts had suddenly begun to follow. He yanked back his hand with then speed of a viper and shoved it down to his side. Then he tried to meet her troubled gaze with as much indifference as he could fake.

He was about to say something else—although he couldn’t quite remember what—when she seemed to throw off the odd spell that had descended and snatched his hand back up to inspect it. Until then, he had forgotten about the jagged red line that rent his thumb from the cuticle nearly to his wrist.

“Oh, my God, did Mack do that to you?” the woman asked, stroking the pad of her thumb delicately over the wound.

Boone jerked his hand out of her grasp, uncomfortable with the way his skin warmed under her touch. But all he said in response was, “Yeah.”

She reached for his hand again, and when he snaked it back to his side, she looked positively dashed. “I am so sorry about that. Mack would normally never scratch someone. Really. He was just scared last night. He wasn’t himself.”

Boone expelled a dubious sound. “Yeah, I’m sure. Just tell me his shots are all up-to-date.”

“Of course they are,” she assured him. “Honest, he really is the sweetest creature in the world. If you got to know him, you’d realize that.”

Boone tried to keep his voice impassive when he replied, “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”

“I mean it. If you want—”

“You look a little battered yourself,” he interrupted, lifting his chin to indicate the contusion that marred her otherwise flawless complexion. “Did you have that checked out by a doctor?”

She shook her head, then touched the bruise and her lower lip with considerably less care than he had, working her jaw as if testing the damage. “It wasn’t necessary. It’s not as bad as it looks. I think it must have happened when I was coming down the stairs,” she added. “I don’t really remember much of what happened. One minute I was waking up in bed, the next I was standing in the yard holding Mack, watching my house burn to the ground.”

“It’s not unusual for people to experience that kind of thing when they’ve been through something like that,” Boone told her.

She nodded quickly, and he began to understand that the action wasn’t so much born out of her agreement with anything he said as it was her complete uncertainty about the situation.

“The insurance guy has already come by, can you imagine?” she hurried on. “I had no idea they’d be that efficient. Unfortunately they’re not quite as efficient at issuing checks. He could only give me an advance for now. Still, it’s better than nothing, right? And they already found the source of the fire, too,” she added, her obviously forced cheerfulness beginning to fade. “It was my clothes dryer. Of all things...”

She chuckled, but the sound was strangled and uneasy and accompanied by a sparkle of moisture in her eyes that she hastily swiped away with the back of one hand.

Although he couldn’t imagine why he cared, Boone heard himself ask, “Is there anything you need? Do you have someone to stay with? Family in the area?”

She sniffled and shook her head. “No. My folks passed away a few years ago, and I’m an only child.” She hesitated for a moment before amending, “Actually, I do have—”

She physically shook off whatever she was going to say, and as quickly as she’d changed the subject before, she changed it again. “The advance will cover anything I’ll need right away—clothes, food, that kind of thing. I’ve got a room at the Arlington Motor-on-Inn. Don’t know how long I’ll have to stay there, though.”

Boone nodded, his mind reeling at the dizzying wealth of information she’d imparted in that one quick announcement. And for some reason, he felt oddly cheated that there wasn’t some small thing he could offer to do for her. The reaction was more than a little strange. He hadn’t wanted to do something for somebody in a long time. Not since he’d offered himself heart and soul and lock, stock and barrel to his fiancée—or rather, his ex-fiancée—and received a good, swift kick in the teeth for a wedding present.

“Mind if I come in?” the woman asked, squashing the usual bitterness that generally rose with memories of Genevieve before it could rise to the fore. She held up her other hand to display a fast-food-issued cardboard caddy that held a bag of doughnuts and two plastic cups of coffee. “I went by the firehouse to look for you, but the guys there said you got off at eight and had already gone home. They also said you wouldn’t mind if I stopped by, as long as I brought you some coffee and doughnuts when I did.”

She grinned brightly, but it was clear that she was still none too certain about the response she was likely to receive from him.

“They, uh...they told me where you live,” she added, her smile falling somewhat. She seemed to think it was very important that he have that information. “I, um...I didn’t even have to ask for your address. They wrote down directions and everything. One of them even drew me a map.”

Boone gazed at her for a minute, trying to picture the scene at the station as it must have unfolded. Twelve randy firefighters ogling an attractive woman with eyes the color of a tropical sky. Yep. Must have been interesting.

“They told you I like coffee and doughnuts for breakfast?” he finally asked, somewhat mystified about that particular part of the story.

She bit her lip a little anxiously. “Actually, um...what they said was that you’d love to have me this morning, because you always like a little something, uh—” She cleared her throat indelicately, and the pink in her cheeks turned to red. “They said you like something, um, hot and sweet...in the morning. I just naturally assumed what they were talking about was—”

“I see,” he interrupted her before she could finish. Oh, yeah. He was going to have a little chat with his brothers down at the station. Pronto.

Reluctantly Boone stepped aside for her to enter, and she sailed past him on a breeze redolent of Ivory soap. The scent was appropriate for her. She seemed like the clean-cut, eat-all-your-vegetables, go-to-church-every-Sunday kind of woman. In other words, not at all his type. Not anymore, anyway.

“Look, lady—” he began as he closed the door behind himself.

“Lucy,” she corrected him over her shoulder. “Lucy Dolan. Where’s the kitchen?”

“Lucy,” he repeated obediently. “Keep walking. At the end of the hall turn right.”

He hesitated for a moment, then halfheartedly followed her to the room in question and found her making herself way too comfortable way too quickly. Without asking for permission to do so, she searched his cabinets until she located his dishes in the one by the sink, and carried two plates to the small oak table. Then she unpacked two doughnuts—presumably one for him and one for her—and took a seat at one of the chairs. Too tired and bemused to protest, Boone pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down, then removed the plastic lid from the cup of steaming, fragrant coffee and brought it to his lips for a sip.

Fortified by even that small gesture, he lifted his doughnut for consideration before taking a bite. When he swallowed, he said, “This is about that debt you said you owe me last night, right?”

She nodded as she bit into her own doughnut, but was obviously too polite to speak with her mouth full.

“I told you that you don’t owe me anything,” he said. “But it was nice of you to bring me breakfast. Thanks.”

She swiped at a dusting of powdered sugar on her upper lip, then licked a scant dribble of jelly from the corner of her mouth. The gesture, although more than a little stirring—for him, anyway—seemed nervous, but he couldn’t imagine what she might have to feel uneasy about.

“Actually,” she said, decorously hiding her mouth behind her hand as she spoke, obviously embarrassed by his scrutiny, “this is about that debt, but you can’t possibly think that I’d consider a bag of doughnuts sufficient repayment.”

“Why not? All I did last night was my job. And I didn’t even do that well enough to save your house. Or much of anything else, for that matter.”

“You did a lot more than save my house,” she told him. “You saved my family. You saved me.”

“I saved your cat, you mean. You were almost out the door by the time I got there.”

She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. Well, as much of his hand as she could cover with those child-sized fingers of hers. They were good hands, though, he noted. Sturdy with short, blunt nails and seemingly no special care. They were working hands, plain and simple. Boone liked that. Genevieve’s hands had Jooked like something out of a diamond advertisement. He’d never been able to understand women who seemed to make a career out of grooming their hands as if they were thoroughbred horses.

When he looked up at her face again, Lucy was studying him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. And as much as he wanted to look away, he found that he just couldn’t.

“Like I said,” she told him softly, “you saved my family.”

Her cat was her family? he wondered. Her cat? Hell, even he wasn’t that alone in the world. Not really. Not like that.

He pushed the thought away and focused on Lucy instead. His gaze drifted to the angry blue discoloration on her chin again, and he wished he could have arrived at the scene of the fire sooner—before she had taken her spill. Nothing should mar skin that beautiful, he thought, especially something like a bruise.

Then he reminded himself that thinking such things had gotten him into trouble in the past. And he could no more afford that kind of trouble now than he had been able to then. Playing the sucker once was bad enough. No way was he going to get taken in like that a second time.

“I saved your cat,” he reiterated.

“And me, too,” she reminded him. “You carried me to safety.”

“I just happened to be the one on the scene,” he said, explaining away the action before she could interpret it as heroic. “I was just doing my job. Anyone else in my situation would have done the same thing. It was no big deal.”

She shook her head in obvious disappointment, then withdrew her hand from his and wrapped it around her cup again. For a moment she only stared silently down into its dark depths. Then she said softly, “That’s okay. I don’t expect you to understand about me and Mack.”

When she looked up at him again, a stark sadness glittered in her eyes. “But the fact of the matter is that last night you ran into a burning house—a burning house, for Pete’s sake— to save my cat. A cat that means more to me than you can imagine. And for that I owe you. Big.”

Boone wondered if she’d feel the same way if he told her the reason he’d returned to that inferno to retrieve her cat last night was because he’d thought he was going back to save a child. What would she say if he confessed that had he known what he was risking his neck for was a cat, he probably would have just sat out on the lawn and let the damned thing be toasted into a kitty waffle?

Ultimately he decided it was probably better to keep that information to himself. It was one thing to brush off a woman’s concern for a debt that didn’t exist It was another matter entirely to make her want to strangle you with her bare hands.

“And I’m going to pay you back for what you did,” she told him again. “I promise you I am.”

When Boone Cagney said nothing in response to her assurance, Lucy fidgeted a bit in her chair. Hoo boy, she thought. She’d really managed to get herself into it this time. Last night, in the chaos and panic of the moment, she hadn’t bothered to pay much attention to her rescuer’s looks. But now, seated here in the picture of domestic bliss at his kitchen table, sharing doughnuts and coffee as if it were something the two of them did every morning, she realized he was a lot more attractive than she had recalled.

Not handsome, really. His features were too irregular, too unconventional for that. But definitely very attractive. His heavy-lidded eyes gave him a deceptively calm appearance, but there was a fire burning in their green depths that was too vivid, too bright, too hot for her comfort. His thick, dark blond curls might have been considered tousled on another man, but on this man, their dishevelment seemed more the result of anarchy.

His mouth, however, was what drew her attention most. Lush, mellow and evocative weren’t words Lucy would normally use in relation to a man who seemed so hard and unrelenting, but they all sprang immediately to mind when she gazed at Boone Cagney’s mouth. It spoke promises of incomparable sensuality without him ever having to utter a word.

She lowered her gaze when she realized she was staring at him. Then she felt her face heat up at the blatant hunger that hummed in her midsection at the sight of his naked chest and the rich scattering of dark blond curls that swirled from his shoulders to his belly and beyond. Lucy had never much gone for the overdeveloped, muscle-bound type. And although Boone Cagney was clearly a man who worked out and took care of his physique, he was no bulging neckless wonder like so many body builders seemed to be.

His form was solid, but in no way overdone. Swells of well-defined musculature corded his torso, and sculpted curves of sinew whipped around upper arms that were truly things of beauty. His forearms, too, were lean and hard with muscle, and an involuntary tremble shook her when she realized those arms were what had carried her to safety the night before.

Figures she’d only be semiconscious during something like that, Lucy thought wryly. That was the way her luck always seemed to run. Then again she wondered if any woman would remain at all coherent when arms like those pinned her to a body like that.

Had she remembered how attractive he was, she might have reconsidered the proposition she was about to make. But she was resigned now to what she was going to do. Because she simply could think of no other way to repay him for all that he had given her.

“You don’t have to pay me back,” he insisted in response to the promise she scarcely recalled making.

That was another thing about him that made her nervous. That voice. So low and husky, so slow and sexy. He rolled over every word leisurely, thoroughly, as if each one were an erotic vow of the most carnal variety. It was the voice of a man who would be quick to seduce and slow to satisfy. Every time Boone said something, it sent a ripple of hot delight buzzing right through Lucy’s libido.

She ignored his assurance to the contrary and told him, “Here’s what I’m going to do.”

“Lady... Lucy—” he immediately corrected himself when she opened her mouth to do it for him “—like I keep telling you, it’s not necessary to pay me back for anything. Okay?”

Instead of succumbing to his tone of command, Lucy hurried on before she had a chance to change her mind. In a rush of words so quick they almost sounded like one, she told him, “Here’s the deal. I’m giving you myself for one month.”

When the only response she received was a silent stare of complete incomprehension, Lucy tried again. “I’m yours to do your bidding, at your beck and call, for four weeks.”

But still he seemed not to understand.

Finally, in an effort to make it as clear as possible, Lucy took a deep breath, met his gaze as levelly as she could and told him, “For the next thirty days, Boone Cagney, I’ll do whatever you tell me to do. Because for the next thirty days, I’m going to be your slave.”

Three

Not even the slightest flicker of acknowledgment lit his features when she outlined her intentions. Instead, he lifted his cup to his mouth for another idle sip of coffee and continued to gaze at her in that drop-lidded, maddeningly level way that made her want to reach over, take his hand lightly in hers and whisper, “Hey, big boy, why don’t you take me to the Casbah?”

“Did you hear me?” she asked instead, her voice sounding hollow and hesitant, even to her own ears. “I said I’m going to be your slave.” When he still remained silent, she elaborated further, “For one full month, starting today, I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”

He bit his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, his eyes never leaving hers, and gradually her offer seemed to register. “My slave,” he finally repeated blandly.

She nodded, but said nothing more.

“For one month.”

She nodded again.

“Starting today.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I see.”

Then he sipped his coffee negligently, his expression thoroughly bored, as if hers was the kind of offer he received every day. Then again, who was Lucy to say that he didn’t receive offers of enslavement from women everyday? She wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised to discover that there were scores of wemen just begging him to tie them up in his basement. Or wherever. And why did that realization bother her?

“That’s all you’re going to say?” she asked, surprised she could keep her voice steady. “‘I see?’ ”

He sipped his coffee carelessly again. “What am I supposed to say?”

She scrunched up her shoulders for a moment, then let them drop. “You’re supposed to take me up on my offer.”

“Well, since you couldn’t possibly be serious about your offer, why should I give you a serious response?”

“Who says I’m not serious?”

He rose out of his chair and leaned forward, bringing the naked upper half of his body over the table until his face was within inches of hers. His hooded eyes no longer seemed sleepy and disinterested, Lucy noted. On the contrary, they suddenly came alive with something indecent and incandescent.

“You’re offering to be a slave for a month to a man you don’t even know,” he said in that soft, slow voice, “and you consider it a serious offer?”

Well, when he put it like that, she thought, it did kind of sound a little...well...different from what she had originally intended.

“I mean, slave,” he repeated, pushing himself even closer to her, his voice growing quieter, more sinister, as he spoke. “That word just conjures up all kinds of...interesting images, doesn’t it?”

Lucy leaned back in her chair, but the action did nothing to distance her from his interrogation. “Um, now that you mention it, I guess it could, if—”

“Just what kind of woman,” he interrupted her, “would allow herself to be enslaved by a man she barely knows?”

Instead of seating himself in the chair that he’d occupied directly across the table, he plummeted into the one immediately next to Lucy and scooted forward. Then he propped one elbow on the table and settled his chin in his hand, and he leaned in close—very close—to her again.

He smelled of pine soap and wood smoke and something else she couldn’t identify, the combination intoxicating and irresistible. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply of his scent, holding her breath in her lungs for a long moment before releasing it in a ragged whisper of air.

“Hmm, Lucy?” he murmured softly. “What kind of woman makes an offer like the one you’ve just made?”

When she opened her eyes again, she found that he had moved closer to her still. If she’d wanted, she could have tilted her head just the tiniest bit and kissed him without the slightest effort. But of course, she reminded herself absently, he was actually little more than a stranger, and she didn’t want to kiss him. Not really.

Not yet.

The odd realization ruffled her, and she stammered out her reply. “One who...uh...who has a big debt to pay,” she finally managed to get out. “A really, really big debt. Huge, in fact,” she added emphatically, still shaken by her wayward thoughts. “Really...very...um...huge.”

Boone nodded, his gaze still boring into hers with a heat unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. “A huge debt, huh? Wow. I can only imagine what it’s going to take to repay a debt that big.” He paused a deliberate beat before adding, “Boy, can I imagine.”

He seemed to be pondering something that she was pretty sure he had no business pondering. Lucy observed him through narrowed eyes, wondering about the look he threw her as the wheels turned in his brain. Curiosity warred with speculation on his face, both traits inflamed by a kind of murky desire. For one heated, beady moment, she felt herself responding to it. For one heated, heady moment, a curious, speculative, not-so-murky desire wound through her.

Until she stamped it out and extinguished it thoroughly. There was absolutely nothing sexual about her offer, she reminded herself. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Just because a man had the most come-hitherest bedroom eyes she’d ever seen, and just because the thick swirls of hair strewn rampantly across his chest and torso absolutely commanded a woman’s touch, and just because she couldn’t quite dispel the hazy, half-remembered vision of being carried to safety in those incredible arms, and just because it had been a long, long time since any man had made her this jumpy and aroused, and just because his mouth was so...so...wow, so—

Lucy gave herself a good mental shake and reminded herself of the task at hand. Just because of all those other things, it didn’t mean she had to succumb to Boone Cagney. Being his slave for a month was one thing. Being his love slave for a month was a different matter altogether.

Although, now that she thought about it...

Stop it, she chastised herself. Don’t be that stupid. Again.

Lucy had practically enslaved herself to her ex-husband during the six years they’d been married. She’d done everything within her power to please Hank Dolan, only to have him toss her out on her keester, anyway. You couldn’t trust men. She knew that. You could do everything exactly the way they wanted it—whether you wanted it that way or not—and they still weren’t satisfied. She’d be an idiot to put herself through something like that again.

“I, um,” she began. But for some reason the words she needed to say wouldn’t come. “That is... mean...” She sighed unevenly and tried again. “I don’t think you’re...”

She shifted clumsily in her seat and tried to look him in the eye as steadily as she could, then dropped her gaze to the fingers she twisted restlessly together on the table. But when that just made her more nervous, she forced herself to look at his face again.

“You, uh...you don’t seem to be taking this offer in the spirit it’s intended,” she finally told him.

“Oh?” he asked mildly. “And just what kind of spirit is it intended in?”

Lucy knew the only way she was going to get through this was to stop staring at him. As long as Boone Cagney and his chest were in her line of vision, all she could do was wonder if his lower half was as intriguing as his upper half. So she darted her gaze around his kitchen, letting it ricochet off everything but him.

“When I say I’ll be your slave for one month,” she began again, “what I mean is that I’ll do chores for you. Things around the house that need doing that you haven’t had the time or inclination to do yourself.”

“Chores,” he repeated, his voice belying nothing of what might be going on in his brain.

She continued to stare over his shoulder at the calendar on the opposite wall as she spoke, noting that it was running two months late. “Uh-huh. Chores. You know. I’ll wash your car. rake your leaves, do your grocery shopping. Bring you breakfast in the morning on my way to work,” she added lamely, “or fix your dinner on my way home. Things like that.”

When she looked at Boone again, he seemed to have his mind on something other than breakfast. His chin was still settled firmly in one hand, and the curious fire in his eyes continued to blaze wickedly.

“Will you make my bed?” he asked.

She chewed her lip anxiously, unable to tear her gaze away from that odd heat that seemed to grow brighter with every passing moment. “Uh, yeah. Sure. I can do that.”

“Every morning?”

She hesitated for a moment, then told him, “If that’s what you want.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, seemed to reconsider and snapped it shut again. Then he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, his posture displaying better than words ever could, “Game over.”

“It’s not necessary,” he said simply.

For some reason, though, Lucy had the feeling he wanted to say a lot more. “Of course it’s necessary,” she insisted.

He shoved the chair back from the table with a loud scrape and stood, then crossed the small kitchen in a few quick strides. He turned to face her again, leaning back against the counter, gripping its edge with his palms, his long legs extended before him. His posture was casual, but his expression was carefully controlled.

“I appreciate your wanting to do this,” he said, “but I don’t want you to.”

“But I owe you, don’t you understand?”

He started to protest again, but Lucy cut him off by standing abruptly enough to send her own chair toppling over. Ignoring it, she covered the same distance he had just crossed, stopping directly in front of him. She had to tilt her head back significantly to study him face-to-face, but it was imperative that she make him understand.

“I have a debt to pay,” she said simply. “And I always pay my debts.”

Well, all but one, she reminded herself, that old specter of insufficiency jabbing a cold finger at the back of her brain again. She’d never paid her parents back for adopting her. Even after she’d turned out to be in no way what they’d expected or wanted, they’d kept her, anyway.

What they’d wanted was a daughter—a soft, cuddly little creature in pink ruffles and curls, who would take ballet lessons and play the piano and sing in the Sunday school choir. Someone who wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and who would concede daintily when opposed. That’s what her parents had wanted when they set out to adopt a little girl.

What they’d wound up with in Lucy was a fighting little hellion who’d given the neighborhood boys a run for their money. No one at school—male or female—had ever been able to beat her. Not at games, not at sports, not in fights. In spite of her parents’ endless efforts to restrain her, Lucy had refused the mantel of “traditional female.” She’d liked and excelled at athletics, machine arts and all things boyish. And she’d never looked pretty in pink.

And seemingly not a day had gone by when Lucy hadn’t heard about what a disappointment she was. Nor could she recall too many times when her parents missed an opportunity to remind her of how grateful she should be that they’d taken her in—and kept her—in spite of her many shortcomings.

Lucy owed them more than she would ever be able to repay them, they often told her. And they’d been right. She never had managed to become the kind of daughter they really wanted. And now that they were dead, that debt would remain unpaid in full.

But not this one. Lucy wasn’t going to carry around another unsatisfied obligation for the rest of her life. Especially when the debt she owed Boone was one that she had the ability to repay with fairly little effort.

“It’s not a debt,” he insisted, snapping her out of her troubling reminiscence.

“It is a debt,” she countered.

Boone stared down at Lucy, knowing there was a lot more going on here than she was letting on. He didn’t know why she should find it so necessary to free herself from an obligation to a total stranger—an obligation that didn’t even exist, as far as he was concerned—but for some reason, she just couldn’t let it go.

Nevertheless, the last thing he needed or wanted was someone like Lucy Dolan invading his space, invading his house, invading his life. He was a loner, pure and simple, someone who thrived on solitude and cherished his self-induced isolation. He liked his house quiet, and he liked his life undisturbed.

And even in the scant time he’d spent with her, he could see that Lucy was the kind of woman who would never be quiet and who would always disturb, in one way or another. He didn’t need or want such a disruption in his life.

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