“Nothing Could Stop Me From Completing This Job, I Promise You,” Cole Said.

Lauren’s face creased into a sudden, brilliant smile. “Good. Thank you.” Then she rose fluidly from the chair and held out a hand.

Cole grinned and wrapped his big palm around her warm fingers. “Congratulations. You just hired the best pair of hands west of the Mississippi.”

“Prove it, Cole. Just prove it.”

His gaze roamed her face, from her famous green eyes down to her famous full lips. “Oh, I will,” he promised, and wondered how long he was going to be able to keep his secret from Lauren—or keep the best pair of hands west of the Mississippi off the most beautiful woman on the planet.

Dear Reader,

In honor of International Women’s Day, March 8, celebrate romance, love and the accomplishments of women all over the world by reading six passionate, powerful and provocative new titles from Silhouette Desire.

New York Times bestselling author Sharon Sala leads the Desire lineup with Amber by Night (#1495). A shy librarian uses her alter ego to win her lover’s heart in a sizzling love story by this beloved MIRA and Intimate Moments author. Next, a pretend affair turns to true passion when a Barone heroine takes on the competition, in Sleeping with Her Rival (#1496) by Sheri WhiteFeather, the third title of the compelling DYNASTIES: THE BARONES saga.

A single mom shares a heated kiss with a stranger on New Year’s Eve and soon after reencounters him at work, in Renegade Millionaire (1497) by Kristi Gold. Mail-Order Prince in Her Bed (#1498) by Kathryn Jensen features an Italian nobleman who teaches an American ingenue the language of love, while a city girl and a rancher get together with the help of her elderly aunt, in The Cowboy Claims His Lady (#1499) by Meagan McKinney, the latest MATCHED IN MONTANA title. And a contractor searching for his secret son finds love in the arms of the boy’s adoptive mother, in Tangled Sheets, Tangled Lies (#1500) by brand-new author Julie Hogan, debuting in the Desire line.

Delight in all six of these sexy Silhouette Desire titles this month…and every month.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Tangled Sheets, Tangled Lies
Julie Hogan

JULIE HOGAN

discovered romance novels at the age of ten and spent her youthful summers tearing through one book after another when she should have been doing chores at her parents’ northern San Diego county avocado orchard. Luckily, in spite of a checkered past that ranged from undercover department store security to “hotwalking” Thoroughbred horses at the Santa Anita racetrack, all that summer reading paid off. After ten years in the rat race, Julie gave up her career as an Internet marketing executive and, with her English degree from UCLA clutched in her fist, finally realized her dream of writing her own romance novels. Julie shares a quiet Southern California home with her true-to-life hero husband, Jud, who inspires both her writing and her life, and two bad-tempered cats who rule the neighborhood with an iron claw. In her writing, Julie loves bringing funny and engaging characters to life, then putting them through the wringer until they realize that love is the only true path to happiness. The only thing Julie enjoys more than reading and writing romances is hearing from readers who share her mania. You can write to her at julie@juliehogan.com.

This is for my parents, who, when I was an impressionable preteen, were far too indulgent and bought me far too many books with far too adult themes. If Jud and I turn out to be a fraction of the parents you are, I will consider us a smashing success. I love you both.

This is for my critique partners past and present. Laura Wright, Julie Ganis, Tami Goveia, Patty Chung—you will never again be able to say you haven’t made a huge difference in someone’s life. And to the new La-La Sisterhood: Beth, Corinne, Doris, Teresa and Chandra—thank you for taking me into your fold. You have put the light and laughter back into this caper for me.

This is for my mentor and steadfast coach, Barbara Ankrum. Your success speaks for itself, but you know I have to say it anyway: Your ability to give is extraordinary, your desire to enrich others is tireless and your talent for writing transcends the exceptional. I am beyond fortunate to be able to call you my friend.

And finally, this is for my husband, Jud, who believed in me, encouraged me, cajoled me, lovingly menaced me and supported me utterly in my journey to becoming a writer. You make me laugh when I don’t want to, let me cry when I should and are the most ardent, die-hard fan. You are the very air that I am privileged to breathe. I love you with my whole heart.

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

One

When Cole Travis first drove into the town of Valle Verde, he felt like he’d taken a step back in time.

There were no sidewalks flanking what appeared to be the main street, just well-traveled dirt paths with weeds and wildflowers growing as best they could in tufts alongside it. A group of young boys walked together, pushing each other and talking and laughing loud enough for Cole to hear them through the open window of his truck. A woman pushed a baby stroller with grocery bags piled in the bottom and a few men sat outside the hardware store.

It was quiet and peaceful and kind of pretty. And it made him feel like he was the only person within a hundred miles who had a problem.

He pulled up beside the gas pumps at an old-fashioned filling station, turned the key and waited for the groaning, wheezing pile of bolts and sheet metal that was posing as a truck to shudder and rattle to a stop. Cole had purchased the truck from one of his contractors just before leaving Seattle two weeks earlier and the man had laughingly called its idiosyncrasies “features.” One very special feature, he’d said, was that the truck didn’t stop until it felt like it.

Cole sighed. Because he intended to be flying home at the end of this journey, he’d wanted a vehicle he could junk when the time came. And he’d certainly gotten what he asked for in this jalopy.

Just then, another image out of the past appeared at Cole’s window. A gas station attendant. “Fill ’er up?” the young man asked.

“Sure.” Cole opened the door with a loud creak and stepped onto the clean pavement. “You know where I can get a local paper?”

The boy jerked his head toward the office. “You can take mine. I’m done with it. It’s on the desk.”

Cole took his time walking to the office. He’d been cramped up in the truck for most of the morning during the long drive from San Clemente to San Diego. Unfortunately, he hadn’t found what he was looking for in San Clemente, nor had he found it in Laguna Beach before that. But it didn’t really matter because regardless of how long it took or what he had to do, he was going to find his son, take him home and try as hard as he could to make up for all the time they’d lost.

As he gathered up the newspaper, he saw a map of Valle Verde thumbtacked to the wall. He pulled a piece of paper out of his back pocket and checked the address of the place he needed to go, located it on the map, then headed back to the truck.

After he paid for the gas, he pulled back out onto the main road. Well, at least now he knew where to find them. Only one small detail remained: how to approach them so they wouldn’t suspect his real motive, so they wouldn’t know that he might change their lives forever.

A small, neat park loomed up on the right side of the road and Cole pulled into it and turned off the truck, then reached into his bag and pulled out five thick file folders that represented his private investigator’s work. They felt heavy in his hands. He’d had five chances to find his child. Three remained.

As he opened the top folder, his gut churned with anger at his ex-wife. In fact, ever since he’d learned that Kelly had been pregnant with his son when she’d left him five years earlier, he’d been swinging wildly between feeling furious and hopeful, anxious and sad.

It was almost a month ago now that Kelly’s brother had called to tell him that Kelly had died—and that she’d confided something terrible to him just before dying. She’d not only been carrying Cole’s child when she’d left him, but she’d abandoned the baby in the hospital’s nursery. Worst of all, Kelly’s brother had no idea what had happened to the boy, nor the name of the hospital.

Cole closed his eyes and pushed his anger into a small, tight corner of himself. He had to stay focused. His first two disappointing dead ends in San Clemente and Laguna had taught him that showing up and laying the facts out on the table didn’t work. Once the people discovered why Cole was there, they treated him with open suspicion and distrust. Now he knew to reveal as little as possible until he could determine the facts for himself.

He reached for the newspaper and flipped to the classified page. Maybe he could get a job here, blend into the community for a week or two. Then when he met the people he was here to find, he would just seem like another newcomer to town rather than a man on a desperate mission.

A sudden gust of wind whispered through the truck’s open windows, rustling the newspaper in Cole’s hands. He flattened the paper against the truck’s steering wheel to steady it, then ran a finger down the Help Wanted column. Halfway down the page, he stopped suddenly, grabbed a pen out of the truck’s ashtray and drew a circle around a large ad.

And then Cole Travis smiled for the first time in weeks.

Lauren Simpson took another sip of the killer coffee they served at Uncle Bill’s Café and smiled across the silver-flecked Formica table at her son who was running on a zillion gigawatts of syrup-induced energy.

“Read it again, Mommy. Read it again!”

Underneath the table, she stretched out her long legs and propped her feet up on the vibrant aqua Naugahyde bench across from her and let out a quiet sigh. At four years old, Jem’s capacity for repetition was truly infinite.

“Pllleeaasssee?” Jem Simpson’s powder-blue eyes danced with mischief as he shot her a “c’mon, Mom” grin.

She had to admit she was a sucker for that look, one that was designed to melt a mother’s heart while getting her to agree to anything. She smiled as she picked up Valle Verde’s local newspaper and read the Help Wanted ad out loud for the dozenth time.

“Wanted—A man who can do it all to remodel our home and barn. Must be a good carpenter, electrician and plumber. If interested, please apply in person at the Simpson’s on Agua Dulce Road.”

Her son grinned up at her. “You think someone’ll come today?”

“Lord, I hope so.” She stuffed the newspaper back into her tote as she sent a quick prayer to the gods of home repair. More than anything in the world, they needed a really handy handyman to help restore their old house and get their big, beautiful barn ready for public use in just six weeks. But the ad had been running for a few days and so far, no nibbles.

Lauren put aside her worries and smiled at her son. “If we don’t, pal, it’s just going to be you, me, a hammer and one of the biggest first-aid kits we can find.”

She put money down on the table to pay for their breakfast and eyeballed the decimated pancakes on Jem’s plate. “You didn’t eat much. Why don’t you go ask Uncle Bill if he’ll box up some new pancakes for you?”

“Okay.” He slid his agile young body along the bench seat and picked up his plate. Lauren watched as he balanced it carefully on the way up to the counter, then saw Bill laugh at the mess Jem had made of the pancakes just like he had every Saturday morning since they’d moved to this little town just two months ago.

Even though it was fairly close to a large city—if you could call San Diego large—Valle Verde really was a warm, friendly place, she thought as she looked out the window at the slow, sweet pace of the main street. Kids rode their bikes down the middle of the road, moms walked to the store, women gossiped outside the beauty parlor and businesses put out simple, carved wood shingles with their names on them. From her vantage point she could see Johnny’s Pump and Tune, the What’s Shakin’ Chicken Pie Shop, Gordy’s U Pic It We Pac It Grocery and the Top of the Valley Hardware. And soon, just a few blocks away, a new shingle would sway in the warm summer wind of northern San Diego County: Simpson’s Gems, the Best Little Antique Store in the Southland.

Lauren put a few more dollars on the table to pay for the boxed-up pancakes, then grabbed her tote and went to fetch her son. She let him finish the longwinded story he was telling the counter full of diners about how they were looking for a handyman and how he was going to help because he was really good with tools—she smiled at that because it had taken her all morning to put the can opener back together after Jem had “fixed” it. Then, when he was done, she grabbed his sticky hand, said her goodbyes and stepped out into the pleasant, early-summer morning.

Jem chattered nonstop as they walked the two blocks home. She wondered to herself if she’d been the same way at his age. Probably not, considering that there hadn’t been a soul around to listen to her. But that was her childhood—a childhood spent in one cold, awful foster home after another, a childhood Lauren wished she didn’t have to remember but couldn’t forget no matter how hard she tried. And this, she thought as they walked down the shady main street lined with eucalyptus trees, this wonderful, peaceful existence was going to be what Jem remembered about his childhood, no matter what she had to do to protect that.

She looked down at his tousled brown curls as he stopped to pick up a particularly grimy rock and stuck it in his pocket. Always gathering things, he was a bit like her in that way, although they shared no blood. But because she’d been his foster mother since he was abandoned as a baby and now she was his official adoptive mother, she realized this particular behavior could have been learned from her.

After all, she’d been collecting things as long as she could remember, long before she took Jem in and made good on the most important of her childhood pledges. And now that she’d retired from her grueling and time-consuming modeling career, she was going to fulfill another of her pledges and trot out all her precious things and open an antique store.

Jem slipped his hand back into hers as their house came into view and tugged to get her attention. “Look, Mommy,” he said in a loud whisper.

Lauren followed the boy’s gaze and automatically slowed her steps. There, standing on the front porch of their grand, gorgeous, dilapidated, falling-down Victorian house was a man, leaning casually against the main beam that held up the ornate overhang. He was staring up at the house’s eaves, his back to them. She took in the long length of him—his broad shoulders encased in a snug black T-shirt, down his sleekly muscled back, to his sculpted behind and his long, denim-clad legs—and swallowed thickly.

Holy cow. If she were looking for a man instead of a handyman, she wouldn’t have had to look any further. But she wasn’t. Two hundred and twenty-one days ago, she’d made herself a promise: no men for one year. It was the only way she’d been able to think of to reset her own personal Jerk-O-Meter and establish some good sense when it came to men. Her sanity—and, more importantly, the happiness of her child—depended on it.

As they approached, the stranger turned his head slightly, just enough for her to see a shock of sandy-colored, wind-tossed hair falling over his forehead and a sharp, confident profile so chiseled it should be etched in bronze and placed in the window of an art gallery. A disconcerting heat rushed through her as she watched him lift one hand to grasp a beam above his head and the muscles in his forearm and bicep bunched and flexed as he tested its strength. Oh, my, she thought, this guy really did have a body that went on for days, maybe even weeks. And for her that was saying something. In her former business she’d seen a lot of beautiful male bodies—not to mention some inflated, appalling male egos to match.

She slowed their steps further and worked to reclaim her composure as she took in the unfamiliar, battered truck with Washington State plates parked alongside the house. Whoever he was, she was sure it would be a mistake to bound up the steps with her face far too flushed for the cool morning temperatures, looking like a cheerleader stalking the captain of the football team.

Jem pulled on her hand. “Mom, do you think it’s him?” he said in a childish, hissing stage whisper.

And apparently it was loud enough for the man to hear because he turned around and smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth and lagoon-blue eyes that contrasted sharply with his wind-and sun-bronzed skin. Lauren’s breath hitched, then released in one long rush.

She tightened her hold on her son’s hand as the stranger reached behind him and pulled a newspaper out of the back pocket of his just-snug-enough Levi’s. Don’t worry, she told herself soothingly, he’s probably new in town and looking for directions. Just because he had the classifieds didn’t mean he was answering their ad. Please don’t be answering our ad. You’re far too distracting to be our handyman.

“Can I help you?” she asked as she and Jem walked up the steps, carefully avoiding the two broken ones near the bottom.

The man looked at Jem with a certain bewilderment, like someone looks at a person they’re sure they’ve met but can’t quite place. Then he turned and fixed his gaze on her. Their eyes locked and held, pulling her into a strange, thrilling vortex that made her feel as if she was still strapped into the Tilt-O-Whirl Jem had made her ride at the county fair last weekend.

“Maybe you can,” he said finally, and the spell was broken. “But I’m sure I can help you.”

“You are the man!” Jem exclaimed.

The stranger cocked his head to the side and the corners of his firm, sensual mouth tipped into the beginnings of a smile.

“He means—” Lauren began.

But the man just smiled at Jem and said, “I think I know what he means,” with a hint of laughter in his voice. Then he unfolded the newspaper and as he did, she saw their ad circled in red ink. “I’m here for the job you advertised.”

Wasn’t that just her luck? She’d been expecting a nice, graying old man with dentures, not some godlike creature who, with a simple smile, was stirring up something inside her that was better left undisturbed. Something that felt like it might be putting her yearlong hiatus from men in peril.

She sighed inwardly and told herself she’d just have to keep that commitment at the top of her To Do list. She was convinced that in just one hundred and forty-four more days, her instinct for men would be refreshed—not that her instinct had ever been all that finely honed to start with, but that wasn’t the point. For now, she’d simply have to get rid of this stranger who had been dropped on her porch by fate to tempt her.

The man in question waved the newspaper with a flick of his wrist. “Unless the position’s already been filled.”

She thought about lying for a half a second, but there was a light in his blue eyes that made it impossible for her to manufacture a fib on the fly. “No, it hasn’t. But—”

“That’s great.” His voice was calm, his gaze steady, his smile sure. “Because I can start immediately.”

Not on your life, she thought, certain that the hordes of very safe and very unattractive grandpa types would be descending on her house any minute. “Actually,” she said, seizing what she hoped would be a successful thanks-but-no-thanks tactic, “I’m really looking for someone local.” She glanced pointedly toward the side yard and his truck. “And I can see you’re from out of state.”

“Yes, ma’am. Seattle area.” His gaze never strayed from hers. “That’s where I’ve been most recently anyway. Did some good work up there.”

“Then I’d be happy to take your resume. But like I said, I’m giving the first crack at the job to someone local.” Sounds good, sounds reasonable, she thought as she watched the giant oak tree that swayed gently in her front yard cast captivating shadows on his handsome, confident face.

“I’ve got to warn you,” he said as he leaned against the post. He crossed his powerful arms in a way that let her know he had no intention of just tucking his tail and slinking away. “You’re not going to find anyone better than me.”

Any red-blooded woman with a good pair of eyes could see that, but Lauren wasn’t the type to acquiesce so quickly. “I guess I won’t really know for sure until I see the rest of the applicants. But I’ll be happy to review your resume and call you for an interview if you’d like.”

The stranger’s smile widened, softening his features and giving the impression that he could be trusted with the contents of Fort Knox. Then he pushed away from the post and walked toward her and Jem with animal grace. “Don’t have a resume.” He leaned on the final word, like a resume was an item required only by mere mortal men. “Or a phone number, either. I’m really just passing through, looking for a few months’ honest work before I get on my way.”

Oh, passing through, Lauren thought. That meant she wasn’t going to be bumping into his charming grin—and all the other troubling attributes that were attached to that grin—around town. She breathed a little sigh of relief. Or was it regret? No, no, no, she chastised herself. It was relief.

As she tried to figure out what it was going to take to get this magnetic man on his way to the next town, Jem, clearly thinking he’d been silent long enough, piped up with, “Can you fix houses?”

The man hunkered down in front of her son, straining the denim that was stretched tight across his legs, and stared into her son’s eager eyes. “What’s your name?”

Jem smiled at the man in the guileless way that only children have the luxury of and said, “I’m Jem Simpson.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jem. I’m Cole Travis, and the fact is, I can fix anything.” His voice was deep and filled with the promise of his words—and something else that had Lauren reaching over instinctively to put her hand on Jem’s slim shoulder. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time a man had tried to get to her through kindness to her son.

The man glanced up at her then, his eyes darkening as he quite openly studied her, but not in the way men usually did when they recognized her as one of the models in the Boudoir Lingerie catalog. No, Cole Travis was looking deeper than that, and it made her feel restless and excited—and a little bit annoyed.

Cole looked back at Jem and jerked his head in her direction. “Is this your mother, Jem?”

The boy nodded and smiled wider. “Her name’s Lauren.” But he pronounced it as he always did which made it sound like “Woe-when.”

“Lauren,” she said. “Lauren Simpson.” She hesitated a moment, then reached out her hand.

Cole Travis straightened, then took her hand in his own. His fingers felt like sandpaper as they slid roughly against hers. Lauren stared down at their intertwined hands and felt her control slipping a tiny notch. Warm, rough and electric, his gentle grip seemed to pour pure energy into her body.

It must be all that coffee she’d had at breakfast, she thought suddenly as she pulled her hand away and took one involuntary step back. “It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Travis,” she said, shoving her tingling hand into the pocket of her jeans and forcing a wobbly smile to her lips. “But as I said, I’ll have to interview some local tradesmen before I decide.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I promise you, you won’t find anyone better.”

“Can you fix the swing?” Jem asked as he ran over to the creaky old wooden swing that was hanging precariously on its chain at the end of the porch.

“Sure could,” Cole said as he walked over and tested the swing’s chains with a gentle tug. He looked back at Lauren. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give you a free sample. What harm is there in that?”

Lauren frowned. She wasn’t sure, but something about that slow, lazy smile was giving her the strangest feeling that he was making the decisions, like he was making the rules.

“And Jem can help,” Cole said and the boy’s face lit up like the night skies on the Fourth of July.

Her son glanced over at her with that same guaranteed-to-work grin, an unspoken plea to let him help beaming at her like a floodlight.

Common sense warred with her need to get Cole Travis as far away as possible. She was uncomfortable around him, and not just because the way he looked at her made her feel like her knees were made of rubber.

On the other hand, she did need a thousand and one things done around here and unless she wanted to miss the beginning of the summer tourist season in just under two months, she couldn’t afford to lose any more time. So what if she was attracted to him? she thought, mentally cracking the whip on her awakening hormones. Getting her business up and running was Priority One, dammit, and she wasn’t going to let her simple attraction to this man stand in her way. In no time at all, he would cease to be a temptation. She was sure of it. Absolutely sure…

Cole Travis leaned his head back and laughed at something Jem had said. Low, deep and heartfelt, the mere sound of it sent a shiver of pure, unalloyed longing careening through her.

She mentally shook it off, then reminded herself that if, for some unlikely reason, his appeal did fail to wane, certainly she could get a grip long enough to find The Old Man of Valle Verde—couldn’t she?

She wrapped her familiar control around her like a superhero’s cape before she spoke. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you an hour. If the swing’s fixed before the hour’s up, I’ll hire you for the weekend.”

Cole Travis hesitated only a moment before that lazy smile appeared and he said, “You’ve got a deal.”

She nodded, then looked back at Jem, who was now grinning from ear to ear, clearly anticipating his own participation in Cole’s work. “As for you, young man, didn’t you promise you’d help me clean that train wreck you call a bedroom?”

Her son’s expression went from sixty to zero in one second. He looked down at his feet and nodded, his voice holding about as much enthusiasm as if he were going to the guillotine. “Uh-huh,” he said.

“When you’ve finished,” she said, softening her tone, “we’ll come and check Mr. Travis’s progress.” She slanted a look at Cole. “Then we’ll see how good he really is.”

Amusement—and something else she couldn’t put her finger on—flickered in the eyes that met her gaze. His voice was soft and almost sensual when he spoke. “I think you’ll like what you see.”

Too late for that, she mused, then checked herself mentally. Lauren gave him a smooth nod, turned the key in the ancient lock on the front door and waited for Jem to precede her inside. Hopefully that gray-haired old man would show up soon, she prayed as she followed her dejected son, and then she could get started on the things that really mattered: making a house and business that would sustain her and Jem for the rest of their lives.

Cole watched as Lauren let the rickety screen door close with a wheezing clatter behind her. He made a mental note to fix the screen door next. He breathed in deeply, noticing how the sweet, citrusy scent of her lingered—as did the vision of her tossing her deep, dark-red mane of hair and sashaying away in a flurry of perfectly shaped behind and long, long legs. She reminded him of a glamorous 1940s-era pinup girl he’d fallen in love with as a boy when he’d seen her on a calendar in his grandfather’s garage.

And Jem—whether it turned out the boy was Cole’s son or not—was an inquisitive, engaging child who obviously adored Lauren, and she him. But while something about the boy might look familiar, it wouldn’t help for Cole to start imagining the boy as his own. If Cole had learned anything while he’d investigated the previous two leads, it was that until he knew for certain, it would be best to avoid any attachment.

To either of them.

But as he walked down to his truck, he still couldn’t help remembering how Lauren had looked a few minutes before. She’d gotten all feisty, crossing her arms, forcing up those amazing breasts that just about every red-blooded male in America had dreamed of at least once.

Lauren Simpson was one of the world’s most beautiful lingerie models, with absurdly full lips and dark green eyes that slanted up at the corners and teased men from the printed page. But that wasn’t what had surprised him. What had surprised him was that she was also smart, confident and incredibly spirited for a woman he’d assumed would be as one-dimensional as she appeared in print.

And that was not to say that he hadn’t noticed her actual dimensions, too.

He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. Why in the hell was he so hot? He looked up at the sky, expecting to see that the reason for the heat pouring through his body was just the sun, blazing overhead. But it was still midmorning, and the feeble, pale sun was still lying low in the eastern sky. He couldn’t deny it. Lauren Simpson was making him sweat. And he didn’t like that fact one bit.

He’d come here with one thing in mind, Cole reminded himself as he grabbed a toolbox and threw the necessary tools into it with a clatter, and he wasn’t going to stray from it. To get what he wanted, he needed this job. And he’d do a lot better work if his mind wasn’t filled with images of her in the silky, flimsy, barely there stuff she wore in that damned catalog.

He cursed under his breath as he grabbed a hacksaw. Knowing just what she looked like under her harmless frayed jeans and blue T-shirt wasn’t going to help him find out what he needed to know. Nor would it help him to stay focused on finding what had been taken from him, prove it was his and head home.

Toolbox filled, he walked back to the house and took the swing down. In less than twenty minutes, he’d filled the damaged holes where the threads had been stripped, drilled new holes for a stronger chain he’d found in his truck, attached the chain with sturdier bolts and hung the swing back up.

He sat down to test the swing’s strength and was surprised by the satisfaction he’d taken in performing the simple task. Obviously it had been too long since he’d put his hands to actual labor. He sized up the front of the house and made a mental list of what needed to be done with an eye trained by over fifteen years in the construction business. The roof leaked, the porch boards were warped, the paint was peeling, the windows needed glazing—and that was just what he could see from where he sat.

He sighed as he got up and pulled a big, flathead screwdriver out of his toolbox. He was seriously over-qualified for this job, he thought as he began to unscrew the screen door’s hinges. But Lauren would never know that. At least not until it was time for her to know.

Suddenly, Jem peeked around the doorsill, his smile shy. “Whatcha doin’?” the boy asked as he inched his small frame outside the house.

An odd turbulence rocked through Cole as he remembered his own fascination with tools and construction when he was a boy. “I’m fixing the screen door,” Cole said as he pulled the wooden frame away from its moorings and leaned it up against the house. “If you’ve finished cleaning your room, why don’t you go get your mom to come check out the swing. It’s fixed.”

Jem spun on his heel and ran back into the house. “Mom! Mom! The swing’s fixed. C’mon!”

The boy’s enthusiasm tugged at Cole’s heart, but he continued working until he saw Lauren appear in the doorway, her son pulling her hand. She was smiling that cool, composed smile he’d seen so many times in print. She’d put an old-fashioned apron on over her jeans and top, but she still managed to look like the picture of a very sexy housewife who was meeting her man at the door.

And he’d be damned if he didn’t want to be that man for one crazy second.

“You’re finished already?” she asked as she stepped out onto the wide porch.

Cole nodded as he moved aside to let her past. But when she squeezed by, she lightly brushed one curvy hip against his thigh, making the heat in his veins spike dangerously. He felt as much as heard her sharp intake of breath, then saw her glance at him from wide, surprised eyes.

“You first, Mom,” the boy said, pulling them from the undertow created from their simple contact.

Lauren moved away from Cole quickly, then lowered herself into the swing gingerly and gracefully, crossed those long, lovely legs, then patted the space next to her for Jem to sit down. The boy plopped down enthusiastically and Cole noticed Lauren wince as she looked above her head to see if it would fall from the rafters at the impact.

“Awesome,” Jem said as he perched at the edge of the swing and dangled his legs.

Lauren looked at Cole and repeated, “Awesome,” then put her arm around her son and smiled down at him. Cole felt like a boulder the size of Cleveland had settled in his stomach as he watched them but he quickly shuttered his expression as she looked up at him, her exotic green eyes troubled.

“Thank you, Mr. Travis,” she said, her voice wrapping itself around his name so sweetly he almost felt like she’d reached out and touched him. “We’ve wanted to use this swing every day since we moved in.” Her smile wavered and she lifted her chin a fraction. “I’ll hire you for the weekend. But I still intend to conduct interviews and I’ll still need to see your references.”

The stubborn tilt of her chin warned him to tread lightly. “You interview everyone you can find,” he said as he turned and began to remove the hinges from the screen door. “I’ll just keep working until you find someone who can do the job as fast and as well as I can.” He paused, then glanced over his shoulder at her. “Or until you don’t.”

Two

By four o’clock the next afternoon, Lauren was so frustrated she wanted to cry. She peered over the top of the dog-eared, grease-stained piece of paper at the two potbellied brothers sitting on her antique settee who were, unfortunately, only the latest marchers in the parade of inexperienced candidates who’d come to apply for her job. But these brothers were different. While the others had been merely amusingly underqualified, these two were downright offensive.

From the moment she’d answered the door fifteen minutes earlier, she’d felt their oily gazes as distinctly as if they were touching her. Luckily, only a few minutes after they’d arrived, Cole had come in to change the lock on her front door. And though it pained her to admit it, having him there was reassuring.

As she pretended to read the Beer Boys’s list of references, she glanced over at Cole. He was entirely too sure of himself—and probably getting a good laugh out of this, she thought, her gaze lingering on him for a moment as he worked with graceful efficiency. Sitting before her was graphic proof that Cole Travis was the best man for the job. And let’s face it, she told herself, when it came to everything she was looking for in a man…er, handyman, these two lumps weren’t even in the same galaxy as Cole.

Suddenly, as if he could hear her thoughts, Cole looked over at the brothers and a deep frown settled in between his brows. Even in profile, his posture and demeanor were intense, ready.

In spite of a little voice inside her that tried to assure her with, “I can take care of myself, I always have!” she felt a warm sense of ease settling over her as she lowered the paper.

“So, ummm…” She looked back down at their “resume.” “Bobby, Johnny.” She looked up at them. “All the people you have listed as references seem to have the same last name as you do.”

They grinned at each other, displaying crooked teeth yellowed, she assumed, by chewing tobacco. “Yeah. We been working around our daddy’s place all our lives.”

“I see,” she said as an image from Deliverance flashed through her mind. She glanced at Cole again before trudging on with the interview. “And what kind of work do you know how to do?”

“We can do anything you want us to do,” Bobby said. Beside him, Johnny wiggled his eyebrows at her and added suggestively, “And then some.”

And even as the meaning behind his words sank into her consciousness, she saw Cole shoot to his feet, a muscle working in his jaw like a two-ton piston. When he spoke, there was a dangerous timbre to his voice. “I think the lady is asking if you understand the most basic things about construction. Like repairing lath and plaster walls?” Their expressions were blank. “Or glazing windows? Replacing tongue-and-groove flooring?” Their faces were as unresponsive as monks in a deep trance. “How about something simple, like hanging and taping drywall?”

After several long moments of silence, Lauren heard Cole make an impatient noise that sounded almost like a snort before going back to work on the lock, now with a little more vigor. Annoyance at Cole’s interference warred with amusement at the idiocy written on the Beer Boys’s faces as they exchanged nervous glances.

“Who’s he?” Bobby asked, looking over one sloped shoulder at Cole.

“I’m the interim handyman,” Cole said in a loud growl.

The brothers went cross-eyed as they struggled with the word “interim.”

“He’s doing the job temporarily,” she interpreted.

“Oh,” they said in unison. “Okay.”

She stood up. “Well, I think I’ve got all the information I’ll need. I’ll call you if you get the job.” Or if you’re the last men on earth, whichever comes first.

Moments later, Lauren watched the two men amble out the front door and wondered how one little town could have so many inept handymen. Her hopes for getting Simpson’s Gems ready on time were beginning to wane.

If she wanted the job done she was going to have to hire Mr. Tempting. She knew it, but it still bothered her—because hell, he still bothered her. But as she turned to face Cole, the words, “you’re hired,” died before they could be uttered. His thunderous expression was enough to stop her cold.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded, his lips drawn into a tight line.

For a moment, Lauren could only stare. What was his problem? “What are you talking about?”

“Those two, that’s what. What were you thinking inviting those two losers into your house?”

Her temper flared up then, and she narrowed her eyes and straightened up to her full five foot nine. “Thinking? I was thinking of hiring a handyman, Mr. Travis.”

“The name’s Cole,” he said, a muscle jumping at his jawline. “And if you were really looking for a handyman, you would have seen that there’s one standing in your living room right now.”

“I think I made it clear that I’d be interviewing before I made a decision. And I don’t require your help with the interviews, by the way.”

Cole’s laugh held not a single ounce of humor. “Well, it sure looked like you needed help with those two.”

Lauren planted her fists on her hips. “I was handling it fine, Cole. Believe me, I’ve been handling that type for a long time.”

“It sure didn’t look that way to me.”

Pure, unmitigated exasperation made her blurt out, “Then maybe you shouldn’t be looking.” She took a deep breath before she spoke again, cooling her voice by at least twenty degrees. “Besides, don’t you have work to do?”

His eyebrow arched up, questioning her. “Are you saying I’ve got the job?”

Cole watched Lauren’s straight white teeth bite softly into her lush lower lip, the mere sight of which sent a streak of heat whooshing through him so fast, he felt like he was a match and she was the striking plate.

Several long tense moments hung between them before she said, “I have several other people coming today.”

“Really?” He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe with an ease that he didn’t come anywhere near feeling. “Another high school boy, like the one this morning? Or,” he said with a twist of his head toward the porch, “more victims of inbreeding like those two?”

She let out a little hiss of annoyance. “I have a very qualified man coming any minute.” She tipped her chin up in a way that he now recognized as a sign of stubbornness. “And I’d appreciate it if you weren’t underfoot when he gets here.”

Underfoot? He’d never been underfoot in his life. Granted, he had stepped over the line with his spontaneous interview of the two liquored up, would-be handymen. But what she didn’t know was that he’d heard them talking about her as they’d gotten out of their truck. And what he’d overheard had been enough to make him grab the first project he could find and head inside.

If he hadn’t been there, how far would those beer-soaked pinheads have taken their drunken ramblings? It didn’t really matter, of course. The fact was that he had been here when they’d undressed her with their eyes and he’d seen her reaction. And that’s when he knew he had to get this job for another reason: whether Lauren liked it or not, he was going to make sure nothing happened to her or to Jem—at least until he found out what he needed to know.

Cole put his own anger on ice, knelt down and began to put his tools away. “How long are you gonna keep this up?”

“Until the pool of applicants is exhausted,” she said, her worn-down voice lacking the conviction of her words.

“They looked pretty exhausted to me.” He tossed her the new keys to the house and she caught them handily. “C’mon, Lauren, you know I’m the best man for you.”

As her eyes darkened and her lips parted in surprise, Cole felt another flash of heat pass between them for the briefest moment. Just a moment, but long enough for him to glimpse a vision of her beneath him, her moan of pleasure, her long legs tangled with his—and then she composed her face into that damned serene expression she’d obviously developed for the cameras long ago and the image was gone.

“You really do have the most awful ego, Cole.” She shook her head in wonder and the action spilled her dark hair around her bare shoulders in a fluid drape.

Although he had a sudden urge to reach out and touch that silky mass of hair, he managed to dredge up a laid-back smile, the one he used when he told one of his subcontractors that their bid was out of line with reality. “Thank you. One of my many strong suits, I assure you.”

She was smiling, but as her chin tipped up again in defiance, he realized just how much he was enjoying their sparring. He was still anticipating her return volley when the doorbell chimed with a sad, mournful clunk. He put the doorbell on his mental list of projects and reached for the crystal knob.

“The next man must be here,” he said, smiling. “I’ll get it.”

“Don’t you dare!” She swept down on him, grabbing his hand where it was wrapped around the doorknob.

And then she froze right there, practically holding his hand. Searing heat bulleted up his arm as he breathed deeply of the sweet scent of her, but he, too, seemed incapable of movement.

Finally, after what seemed like a hundred years of silence stretched out between them, he managed to rally his vocal chords. “Lauren,” he said, “let me be a gentleman.”

“You, Mr. Travis,” she said as she let go, “are no gentleman.” She was smiling again, but he saw her eyes burning with the same fire that continued to rage inside him.

With a Herculean effort, he turned away from her, opened the door—and saw a nervous, pimpled teenager, his baseball cap turned backward, his baggy jeans hanging low on his hips.

Cole smiled widely. “Good afternoon,” he said, relief filling him at the certainty that he was one step closer to the job. He turned to Lauren. “I believe your next applicant is here.” Then he leaned toward her and said in a whisper, “And I think it’s going to be okay to leave you alone with this one.”

By the time the sun had begun to hang low in the mottled-orange western sky, Lauren was at the end of her rope. And it had been a surprisingly short trip.

She stood up and showed her final applicant to the door. “Thank you for coming by,” she said as she shook yet another teenage boy’s slim, soft hand.

“Thank you, Miz Simpson,” and his voice was so uneven she thought it must’ve changed just last week.

As the eminently unqualified boy walked down the driveway, she saw Cole working on shoring up the ram-shackle barn doors in the dim light of dusk. Her pulse sped up as he turned around, and gave her a half smile that had “why on earth are you making this so hard?” written all over it.

Why, indeed, she thought to herself as she watched Cole turn and lift one of the huge doors off its hinges and carry it inside the barn. The references he’d slipped under her door before he’d left the previous night had checked out beautifully. The four people she’d called had been so rhapsodic in their praise, she’d thought perhaps he’d written their scripts himself. But even if that were so, she’d already seen what he could do. He was a good worker, and he was fast. At the rate he was going, he could have the barn and the house fixed up in plenty of time for her grand opening, then he’d fire up his beater of a truck, scoot out of town and her life would return to normal.

Or at least what she imagined was normal, she thought as she turned to go back into the house. After all, she was only just starting to get her life back together after her highly publicized breakup with Miles Landon, the man who’d finally broken her Jerk-O-Meter—not to mention her heart—with his betrayal.

Lauren sat down on the antique sofa she’d bought for a song at a tag sale in Maine and pulled her legs up beneath her. The broken heart was her own fault, of course. Growing up as she had, she’d always been wary of close relationships, but when she’d met Miles, the lure of his personality and magnetism had been undeniable. Like an idiot, she’d let her guard down and taken the chance. And then, predictably, it had all gone to hell.

Miles was a Rock Star—with a capital R and a capital S—and even though he’d been on the road or in the studio much of the time, she’d thought they’d loved each other. Then, two hundred and twenty-two days ago, while standing in line at the grocery store, Lauren had read all about Miles’s infidelity in People. She’d found out in a glossy, two-page spread that Miles, who was supposed to be recording in London, was living right there in Hollywood with a wispy, redheaded A-list actress.

That was Day One of Lauren’s yearlong sabbatical from men. Three hundred and sixty-five days of no distractions, of peace and quiet to spend with her son, building a new life and a thriving business.

Lauren straightened and gazed out at her front yard that lay beyond the living room’s ancient leaded glass windows. Where in heaven’s name had her control gone? Where was that familiar, dependable control that had practically been her shadow since she was about Jem’s age, living a chaotic life in home number five with that hardhearted alcoholic couple? Her experience with them had been awful, but it had taught her to be pleasant, even-tempered and totally in control, no matter what life threw at her.

Don’t get too close and don’t rely on anyone. Those were her rules. Unfortunately, she’d broken them not only for Miles, but also for a few other handpicked jokers—and she’d lived to regret it. Oh, they’d all seemed normal at first but each and every one had turned out to be jerks or philanderers, and one had been struggling with his sexual identity. When she was twenty, it was a photographer; at twenty-one, she’d taken a chance on a much older magazine editor; at twenty-three, it’d been a fashion designer and a professional baseball player; then, at twenty-five, the coup de grâce, Miles.

And now there was Cole Travis. She had to hire him, even though when he smiled at her, or argued with her, or basically stood within ten feet of her, she felt so damned powerless she wanted to run into the streets screaming. He was a man who threatened everything she’d worked so hard to reconstruct—and he was a man who was leaving in six weeks, she reminded herself sternly, and she’d best remember that every time she got her priorities mixed up.

It was time to get some real advice, she thought as she grabbed her car keys, got in her enormous, brand-new SUV and drove to pick Jem up from his playgroup at the Bouchard’s house a few blocks away.

As she strapped the seat belt over him, she asked, “You want to go check the sign with me before we go home, honey?”

“Yeah!” he said, clapping his hands.

She smiled and tousled his unruly mop of hair. Never in her life had anyone supported her eccentricities the way her son did. And this quirk of hers, in particular, was a pretty hard one to swallow.

Lauren looked for signs. Not the mystical, “Ooh, I think that’s a sign!” kind of sign, but actual, real signs that bore messages for the masses. In the course of her life, she’d found them at shopping malls, car dealerships, churches, restaurants, high schools and civic centers. Sometimes they were old-fashioned signs that were changed manually by a human being and sometimes they were electronic signs that were changed every day—which made things so much easier because some of the most important decisions in her life had been resolved by signs.

In fact, the reason she’d known that they had to settle in Valle Verde was that the local ice-cream shop, the Frosty King, had a nice, old-style sign. And the first day they’d driven into town, it had had a message that read, Put Down UR Baggage. Home Is Just Where U R. Underneath it had said, Double Dips, 99 Cents, and she and Jem had taken advantage of both pieces of advice. And when they were done with their ice cream, they’d driven straight to the real estate office.

“Can I have a Rainbow Bar, Mom?”

Lauren signaled and made a left turn onto the main street. “You haven’t even eaten dinner yet, mister.” She looked over at his crestfallen expression and chuckled. What an actor.

As they approached the Frosty King, the familiar fluttering in her stomach revved up. When she went to look for a sign, she usually knew what she wanted it to say. But today, she had no idea. She told herself she wanted it to say, Don’t Give Up, but deep down in her bones she knew it was more like, The Answer Is Right Under UR Nose.

Suddenly the sign came into view and her heart sank and soared simultaneously at its advice. Don’t Waste UR Energy, it read. Take The Path Of Least Resistance.

She stopped the car on the road’s graveled shoulder and gripped the steering wheel so tightly she thought it would snap in two. Was Cole Travis the path of least resistance?

Jem peered out the windshield, then looked over at her for an explanation. “What’s it say, Mommy?”

“It says,” she answered, her eyes still fixed on the huge red-and-white sign, “that we have found our handyman.”

As she prepared dinner that night, Lauren sighed and sliced the three-inch high lump she’d baked in her new bread machine. She was still trying to expand her very small cooking repertoire and the loaf was a bit flat, but she’d improve. The sign had said as much a few weeks back when she was deciding whether to hire a full-time housekeeper. Do It URself, it had said. Pride Is In The Accomplishment.

She smiled as she threw the bread in a basket, then called Jem and her future handyman—who she’d asked to stay for dinner—to come inside. In five minutes, the three of them were gathered around her big, nineteenth-century farmhouse table.

Cole had changed into a clean denim shirt and his collar lay open at the neck, revealing only some of the dark-golden curls that lay beneath it. She tore her gaze away but not before her pulse had kicked up to a hot, salsa rhythm. What was it about this guy? she thought as she continued to fill her son’s plate and her own. A denim shirt and a peek at his chest hair was all it took to raise her blood pressure? Get a grip, Lauren.

As they passed the food around and Jem chattered away, she noticed that Cole asked questions and answered them in language her son could understand—something Miles had never quite mastered—and she wondered with a sudden flash of concern if her son might grow attached to Cole. Jem hadn’t mentioned Miles in ages, so maybe not, but she added it to her growing list of things to worry about anyway. She’d just have to make sure that attachment didn’t happen. And she’d start by making sure she didn’t get too close to Cole herself even though just having the man at her dinner table was making her feel melty in all the wrong places.

Cole hefted a forkful of the very tasty but very lumpy potatoes and, as he chewed, thought about how much his mother would love to pass on a few bits of potato lore to Lauren. But that wouldn’t happen because his mother was never going to meet Lauren, he reminded himself. And he’d do well to remember that before he complicated this thing further.

The dinner passed quickly in a buzz of companionable chatter, mostly stemming from Jem. Cole was amazed by how the smallest things in Jem’s day—catching a pollywog, finding a really nice stick to hit rocks with, rolling lemons from their tree down the street—took on a mythic quality in the boy’s retelling.

But as the narration went on, Cole couldn’t help but reflect on his own life—and what might have been if Kelly hadn’t left him one rainy Seattle morning with nothing but an envelope full of divorce papers to show for their marriage. If things had been different, he thought as the familiar tension tightened inside him, perhaps they, too, could have brought up a child like this.

The possibility that Jem might be his son overwhelmed Cole for a moment but he snapped out of it quickly when the boy’s face lit up in rediscovery of something that he’d forgotten.

“I found a snail shell by that big tree!” He fixed his excited gaze on Cole. “Wanna see it?”

“Sure I would,” Cole said as he laid his napkin beside his plate.

Lauren reached over and touched her son’s arm and her hair, that silky curtain that kept tempting Cole to bury his hands in it, swept forward over her cheek. “Why don’t you bring it downstairs in a few minutes, honey. Cole and I have something to discuss.”

“’Kay,” he said, slipping out of his chair and running up the stairs.

When Cole followed her to the living room, Lauren sat down where she had earlier when she’d interviewed the Brothers Grim, so Cole took a seat on the fancy old couch across from her. His curiosity about what she wanted to discuss pricked at his mind, but an alarming amount of his concentration was caught up with the sinful way her low-slung jeans hugged her curves.

Lauren twisted her slender hands together before folding them in her lap. “I’d like to hire you,” she said in a rush of breath.

The ever-present spring inside him relaxed a bit and a wide grin spread across his face. “No!” he said with mock surprise. “And with so many other qualified candidates?”

She delivered a quelling look, then spoke again. “In addition to the work on the house, the barn must be completely renovated in six weeks, with the fixtures built, display cases installed and security system operational. If I don’t open at the start of the Summer Festival, I’ll miss the biggest influx of tourists for the entire year.” She looked up at him, a tentative smile peeking through her mask of worry. “I’d like for you to take the job, Cole. You’re very talented.”

He almost said, “I’d like to show you just how talented I am,” but instead dipped his chin to hide a smile and waited patiently for the “but” he could hear in her voice.

Her expression took on an earnest hue before she said, “Cole, I need to know right now if you can commit to completing this job. From the little you’ve told me about yourself, it seems that you are the type of man who may wake up one day and, for whatever reason, decide to take off.”

Even though there was no way she could know who he really was, the idea that he, Cole Travis, the Rock of Gibraltar, was having his level of commitment questioned made him more than a little crazy. An awful bitterness he’d thought long since rested in peace began to smolder within him. But since nothing of his current situation was her fault, he buried it and answered her civilly. “Nothing could stop me from completing this job,” he said. “I promise you.”

Her face creased into a sudden, brilliant smile. “Good. Thank you.” She sounded relieved, which made him almost feel bad about what he wasn’t telling her about himself. And what he still had to say.

“Now.” He leaned forward and planted his forearms on his thighs. “About room and board.”

As he’d expected, her smile faded to a faint shadow. What he hadn’t expected was the slight but unmistakable blush that rushed in to stain her smooth cheeks. “Room and board?” she repeated weakly.

“The hotel I stayed in last night is the closest one I can afford. And it’s forty miles of winding country road from here. I’ll be able to start earlier and finish later if I stay here. I’d be willing to take something off my pay, of course, since you’ll be cooking for me.”

Her lips parted as surprise touched every feature on her beautiful face. “You did taste my cooking tonight, didn’t you?”

He tore his gaze from her sweet, bow-shaped mouth, nodded soberly and went on. “I worked out a simple plan while I was in the barn today. I’ll need to use a bathroom in the house for a week or so while I build your customer washroom, but I can fix up the loft as a bedroom right away.”

She kept trying to get a word in, making her look like a cute little guppy.

“Don’t you have a wife at home who might object to this plan?”

He shook his head. “No wife.”

“And you want to sleep in my barn.” It was a statement, but she sounded as if she’d run out of arguments.

Even though he shrugged like he didn’t care one way or the other, the truth was he suddenly realized it felt like his whole life was hinging on this one conversation. “Only if you want me to finish this job on time.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That sounds like blackmail.”

“I call it practical,” he said, shrugging with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “But it’s your choice.”

She looked around the room, from the cracked floor-boards to the broken newel post to the fading paint. He tried not to feel satisfaction in the fact that she really had no choice at all. Finally, she looked at him and said, “Okay,” infusing her voice with none of the word’s meaning. “You can sleep in the barn.” Then she rose fluidly from the chair, held out a hand and smiled at him unsteadily.

He grinned, came to his feet and wrapped his big palm around her warm fingers. “Congratulations, you just hired the best pair of hands west of the Mississippi.”

She rolled her eyes at his cocksure statement. “Prove it, Cole. Just prove it.”

His gaze roamed her face, from her famous green eyes down to her famous full lips, and couldn’t help himself. “Oh, I will,” he promised and wondered how long he was going to be able to keep his secret from Lauren—or keep the best pair of hands west of the Mississippi off the most beautiful woman on the planet.

Three

Lauren sat at her kitchen table, balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear as she stifled a yawn and fiddled with her cup of cooled coffee. Her friend and former agent, Sherry Buchanan, was going into hyper-drive as she told Lauren about the sheer hell that her retirement was putting the Boudoir Lingerie folks through.

Truth be told, Lauren couldn’t have cared less. They’d had her dangling on a string since she was eighteen, standing around in her underwear in bizarre locations, working fifteen-hour days and waking up in the dark for indecently early calls that had made it almost impossible to care for her child. She’d earned a lot of money working as Boudoir’s lead model—enough to sustain her and Jem for a lifetime if she was careful. But she’d done her share by being part of the reason that the catalog could now call itself one of the world’s premiere fashion outlets.

“I told them I’d ask, sweetie,” Sherry was saying over the Monday-morning din of her busy office. “Would you please come back just for the fall season?”

As a cool morning breeze floated in the kitchen window, bringing with it the clean, country scents of the summer morning, Lauren laughed. She wasn’t leaving this small-town paradise for the fall season—or any other season, for that matter. “Jem is loving it here, Sherry. And if you remember, one of the reasons I quit was Boudoir’s habit of making motherhood about as convenient as being an international spy.”

The older woman laughed, making Lauren smile. When Lauren had run away at sixteen, Sherry—who at the time already had two grown children—had discovered her in a shopping mall talent search. And since then, she’d been more of a mother to Lauren than anyone else ever had.

“Okay, honey,” Sherry said. “I’ll tell them you considered it very carefully and that you decline.” The sound of Sherry shuffling through the heaps of head-shots on her desk rustled through the phone before she asked, “Hey, how’s your handyman search going?”

Lauren stared down into the inky-brown liquid in her cup and remembered how Cole had looked last night sitting on her antique settee. With his natural handsomeness and well-muscled frame, he should’ve looked silly there amongst the faded cabbage roses and ornate woodwork. But he hadn’t looked silly at all. He’d been as cool as could be, like he’d spent many an evening chatting in a fancy old parlor.

She pushed the vision out of her mind. “I’ll tell you about it if you stop working and shut your door for two minutes.” She kept her tone deliberately mysterious to tempt her workaholic friend into taking a break.

The rustling stopped abruptly, and then Lauren heard the sound of a door shutting noisily. Sherry, who was a closet devotee of romance novels, sounded breathless when she said, “Do tell.”

Lauren frowned. How could she describe Cole? Gorgeous, charming, good with kids, a drifter? “Well, you’d love him. If he was a model instead of a handyman, you’d have his headshot on your wall in nothing flat. And if he was a few years older, I’m sure you’d be working overtime to get him into your bed.”

“Oh, really? Is he available?”

Lauren realized in that moment that she had no idea if he was available, or even why he’d landed in Valle Verde. The last thing she needed was to get all chummy and personal with him.

“I don’t know if he’s available, Sher. Sounds like he moves around a lot,” she said as she stood and walked across the kitchen and the cool, hard floor under her feet sent a shiver up her bare legs. “I guess he’s available if you don’t mind being a camp follower. Or getting your heart broken.”

“Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I just thought I heard the distinct sound of you emerging from your post-Miles cocoon ahead of schedule.”

Lauren almost dropped her cup. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m saying that it’s high time you ditched your silly rule about avoiding men. And it sounds like your handyman might be just the one to help you celebrate its demise.”

“Not a chance.” And I’ll just keep repeating that mantra every time I see him and those seductive blue eyes of his.

Sherry just laughed. “All right, all right. Have it your way.” She paused for a moment. “And if you do have it your way, don’t spare me the details.”

Lauren laughed. “I miss you, you crazy old broad.”

“Right back atcha, sweetie. Tell Jem his Grandma Sherry misses our Sunday dinners and that I can’t wait to see him. And you, get to work on that handyman!”

“I have no intention of working on my handyman— Hello? Hello?” she said before she realized she was talking to dead air. Shaking her head, she walked to the opposite wall to hang up the phone, then stopped in her tracks. Her heart skipped a few beats, then picked up where it left off in triple time as she stared in utter dismay at her worst nightmare: Cole, standing in the living room not ten feet away from the kitchen door, his big, callused hands easing a pane of glass from her beautiful, rattling old windows. He stopped what he was doing long enough to turn and smile at her, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Lauren’s mind pumped feverishly as she tried to recall exactly what she’d just said. “How long have you been standing there, Cole?”

His smile grew wide. “A long, long time.”

She felt a furious blush rush straight up to the roots of her hair. Dammit. “That was my agent…I mean, my friend on the phone,” she said, flustered, struggling to find a way to get the hell out of this gracefully. Dammit, dammit.

“Agent? Oh, that’s right, you’re a model,” he said, as he returned to his task, placing the loosened panes on a cloth he’d laid at the base of the window. “Didn’t I read somewhere that you’d retired?”

Lauren stared at his back, dumfounded. Until that moment, she hadn’t been sure he knew who she was. And now, even though most of the western world knew what she looked like in her underwear, the knowledge that he did made her feel strangely exposed—naked even though she was fully clothed. She crossed her arms over her chest guardedly before saying, “Somehow, I can’t imagine you reading the tabloids, Cole, but those are the only publications I can think of that report such useless trivia.”

He turned around, one brow arched. “I believe I read that in the Wall Street Journal, actually. The reporter seemed to think your retirement might affect the stock price of Boudoir’s parent company.”

She’d read that load of tripe, too. “In a year,” she said with a shrug, “no one will remember my name, I assure you.”

“Your name, maybe. But you I think they’ll remember.” As he spoke, his gaze never strayed from her face for a second.

The intensity in his blue topaz eyes sent a wild tribal dance into full swing in her stomach, but she couldn’t seem to look away. The good news was that his attention had been effectively diverted from the phone conversation during which she was horrifyingly sure she’d said something about “working on her handyman.” The bad news was she was beginning to think that something about her handyman was working on her.

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