Excerpt Letter to Reader About the Author Title Page Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Copyright

“Are you trying to prove something by taking care of me?” Charlie asked.

“That’s crazy,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

“Oh? You mean you might turn out to be a good guy after all?”

“I’m no saint,” he warned her.

She surprised him by reaching up to touch his cheek with her finger. “What are you, then?”

She was too close, too tempting. Moving on reflex, he grabbed her by the hair at the back of her head and forced her face an inch from his own. “I’m probably harder and rougher and less refined than any man you’ve ever been with, Charlie,” he told her, his voice a low rumble in his throat. “Don’t take this lightly.”

“I take you very seriously,” she told him softly, her voice pulsing with the excitement he was rousing in her blood. “You are the most serious thing that has happened to me in a long time.”

Dear Reader,

Happy Valentine’s Day! And what better way to celebrate Cupid’s reign than by reading six brand-new Desire novels...?

Putting us in the mood for sensuous love is this February’s MAN OF THE MONTH, with wonderful Dixie Browning offering us the final title in her THE LAWLESS HEIRS miniseries in A Knight in Rusty Armor. This alpha-male hero knows just what to do when faced with a sultry damsel in distress!

Continue to follow the popular Fortune family’s romances in the Desire series FORTUNE’S CHILDREN: THE BRIDES. The newest installment, Society Bride by Elizabeth Bevarly, features a spirited debutante who runs away from a business-deal marriage ..into the arms of the rugged rancher of her dreams.

Ever-talented Anne Mane Winston delivers the second story in her BUTLER COUNTY BRIDES, with a single mom opening her home and heart to a seductive acquaintance, in Dedicated to Deirdre. Then a modern-day cowboy renounces his footloose ways for love in The Outlaw Jesse James, the final title in Cindy Gerard’s OUTLAW HEARTS miniseries; while a child’s heartwarming wish for a father is granted in Raye Morgan’s Secret Dad. And with Little Miss Innocent? Lori Foster proves that opposites do attract.

This Valentine’s Day, Silhouette Desire’s little red books sizzle with compelling romance and make the perfect gift for the contemporary woman—you! So treat yourself to all six!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S 3010 Walden Ave., P.O Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

About the Author

RAYE MORGAN favors settings in the West, which is where she has spent most of her life. She admits to a penchant for Western heroes, believing that whether he’s a rugged outdoorsman or a smooth city sophisticate, he tends to have a streak of wildness that the romantic heroine can’t resist taming. She’s been married to one of those Western men for twenty years and is busy raising four more in her Southern California home.

Secret Dad

Raye Morgan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

Robbie lifted his tousled head and listened. He could hear his mother talking and laughing softly with friends in the next room. The sound of her voice filled his almost-six-year-old heart with satisfaction and he snuggled down into his thick, soft covers, holding his teddy bear. He loved his mom.

“But where’s your dad?” his friend Billy had asked insistently that afternoon when they were playing in the mud at the edge of the lake. “Where is he, huh?”

He, frowned, remembering. It made him feel funny and hollow inside to think about it. Billy had a dad. He was big and loud and he took Billy fishing on Sunday afternoons. You were supposed to have a dad. Where was his dad?

His mother had said just tonight, “Your birthday is coming up, Robbie. Better start thinking about what you’re going to wish for.”

Could you wish for a dad for your birthday? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to say anything to his mom. He hated it when she looked sad and something told him asking for a dad would make her sad. So he would have to ask someone else.

Putting his hands together, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and whispered, “Please, please. Could you bring me a dad? I promise I’ll sweep the porch every day and brush my teeth every night. So could you? Could you make him sort of big? I really, really need him.” He opened his eyes, then quickly closed them again, because he’d almost forgotten. “Thank you,” he added quickly. “Thank you very much. And God bless Mom.”

One

Denver McCaine winced as he climbed the trail to the cabin he’d rented for the month. His bruised, broken and thirty-eight-year-old body was rebelling, and he didn’t blame it. He’d wanted something remote, but if he’d known the cabin was going to be this hard to get to, he would have opted for something closer to the edge of the water.

“Go stay at Big Tree Lakes,” his coordinator, Josh Hoya had advised him. “You’ve had three rough assignments in a row. You’re not going to make it through another one without taking some time to heal.”

The casual onlooker might have thought Josh compassionate, but Denver knew better. Josh just wanted him ready for his next mission, and he wanted him in shape, just in case Denver had to pull the usual dangerous stunts he’d become known for during his almost twenty years as a government agent. But for the first time, Denver wasn’t sure he was going to be back when his R and R was over. For the first time, he felt a certain lack of will he’d never experienced before.

“You’re getting old,” he told himself, stopping to rest with his hand jammed against the rough bark of a pine to hold himself up. It might be time to consider changing to a desk job.

But that made him grin. A desk job—that would never happen. It just wasn’t his style. Still, this climb was destroying his right knee. He looked around for a better way to make it up to the cabin and his eye fell on an old streambed. That might give him better footing. He walked gingerly toward the rocky gully, cursing the foreign government soldier who had taken a whack at his leg with the butt of a rifle just three weeks ago—and the sniper who had put a bullet into his backside. All in all, he felt just this side of broken.

But he should have been paying attention to where he was placing his feet rather than cataloguing his pains. One misstep, then another, and he was falling, reaching out to try to catch himself on brush that came away in his hand, sliding down into the streambed on his back, wedged in between two boulders and twisted so that he knew right away it was going to be very difficult for him to get back up on his own.

A wave of pain swept over him and he closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for it to pass so that he could think straight. In the meantime, he uttered every curse word he knew, and some he’d only read in ancient books. This was so stupid, so avoidable. “See,” he muttered darkly to himself. “More evidence you’re losing your edge” He never made mistakes like this. What the hell was the matter with him?

Once he felt his strength coming back, he tried to leverage himself up into a sitting position, but he couldn’t get the traction he needed. His right leg was gone, completely unusable, and without it, he didn’t know how he was going to get up again.

He lay there, unbelieving, stream water soaking his pants. He was helpless. He—Denver McCaine, government agent, adventurer, sometime mercenary rescuer of damsels in distress, defender of the weak, the man who went where wise men feared to tread—here he was, flat on his back like a damn turtle. If he hadn’t felt so completely humiliated, he might have laughed.

“Hold on. I’m coming.”

The voice was female and he groaned. No woman should ever see him like this. This was not the face he usually presented to the world.

She came scrambling over the bank and toward him.

“Are you hurt? Do I dare move you? Or should I run into town and get a doctor?”

At first all he saw was a swirl of blond hair slashing through the sunlight above him, but as she bent over him, her face began to take shape and come into focus.

“I’m not really hurt,” he said gruffly, wondering just how he was going to explain. “I mean, I’m hurt, but it’s from an earlier incident. This isn’t bodily injury. It is, however, a definite wound to the spirit.”

She laughed softly, not taking him at his word as she quickly and gently tested his limbs for broken bones. “You seem to be okay,” she said, taking his hand. “You want to help me pull you up? I think I can do it.”

She set her feet against the rocks and locked her knees, tensing, and he set his jaw and willed her maneuver to work. Though she had to strain beyond what she’d expected, she soon had him back in a sitting position and out from between the two boulders.

“There,” she said, smiling at him and brushing her hands together as though she felt it had been a job well done. “How are you feeling?”

He didn’t answer. If he had been a normal man, his jaw might have dropped. But since he was a well-trained saboteur and warrior, he automatically hid his reaction to seeing her face-to-face. However, hiding was one thing—actually producing friendly chitchat was another. He was silent much too long for comfort, staring at her.

But he needed the time to soak in the vision before him, because she was not a stranger. This was a woman he knew. He remembered her from years before. Hers was not a face that was easy to forget. He placed her immediately, remembering the private boarding school he’d scrimped and saved and put his life on the line to send his little sister to. This woman had been his sister’s roommate, and everything about her had been indelibly branded into his brain.

“Uh...are you sure you’re okay?” she asked him, growing a bit anxious at the silence and searching his face.

He nodded, still struck dumb. She was more beautiful than ever, her hair a floating cloak the color of corn silk, her huge violet eyes soft as velvet, her hands fluttering like small birds. She wore white shorts and a blue halter top and her skin looked like butter, like cream, so smooth he could almost taste it. At first glance, she could still have been a girl, but another look showed a depth of experience in her sultry eyes. The lovely girl he’d admired years ago had turned into a woman.

“My name is Charlie Smith,” she said sunnily.

“The hell it is,” he muttered, surprised. Adrianna Charlyne Chandler was more like it.

“What?” she asked brightly, puzzled by him.

But he shook his head and didn’t repeat it, and she seemed to assume he was in pain from the sympathetic look on her face.

Charlie Smith indeed. That was a good one.

But wait. Suddenly he realized she must have gotten married since he knew her. After all, he told himself savagely, the rest of the world couldn’t sit around waiting for his adolescent dreams to clear up like a bad case of acne. Of course she was married, probably to some handsome stockbroker who wore double-breasted suits and talked on his cell phone all day—some normal but very wealthy man whom she adored and who was as different from Denver as night was from day. That was the way things worked, and he didn’t have to think very hard to know it might work that way for her.

“My name’s Denver,” he told her when he realized it was time to reciprocate. “Denver, uh...Smith.”

She laughed, delighted. “Not really? Isn’t that a scream? You’re a Smith, too?”

He nodded, frowning slightly and wondering if her name was as phony as his He’d rented the cabin under the name of D. Smith, more out of force of habit than anything else. The years had taught him to go incognito whenever possible, because his line of work was one that cultivated enemies and you couldn’t be too careful. And Smith was about as anonymous as you could get.

“What a coincidence,” she said, looking as though that really tickled her.

“Yeah,” he replied, hoping she didn’t catch the sarcasm in his tone. He was going to have to watch that. Sarcasm was all very well in his line of work, but it wouldn’t do around ladies like this.

He rose a little shakily and tried to walk, but the right knee was having none of it. It collapsed under him and she had to reach out quickly to help him regain his balance.

“Bad luck,” she murmured. “You’re not going to get far on that leg, are you?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy experiencing the feel of her hands and taking in her honey scent as she helped him sit back down on a flat rock. He’d never been this close to her before. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever spoken directly to her before. But he had certainly been aware of her existence.

“Where are you staying?” she asked him, standing over him with her hands on her hips.

He gestured in the direction of his cabin up the steep side of the hill.

She looked from the rugged terrain to his leg and shook her head. “You’re not going to make it up there under your own steam, that’s a cinch. We’d better call for a paramedic.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I can handle it by myself.”

She gazed at him frankly. “No, you can’t. Listen, my cabin’s not far, and it’s all downhill from here. You’d better come and rest there until we figure out what to do.”

“Forget it.” Rising, he lurched forward, almost falling again.

She was there in a flash, holding his arm, acting as his support. “Come on, tough guy. You’re coming home with me.”

He looked down into her mass of shiny hair. “Your husband...”

She stiffened. “I don’t have a husband. Only one little five-year-old boy, who is going to be thrilled to see you. Come on.”

He hesitated but she wasn’t taking no for an answer, and he’d lost the will to fight for the moment. His leg felt pretty bad. She was probably right. And for the first time since his mother had died, he meekly did what a woman told him to do.

Two

Charlie’s arm, stabilizing Denver, was sure and steady. She was stronger than she looked. He gritted his teeth and avoided her eyes. He wasn’t used to accepting this sort of help from anyone, and to think that he was dependent on this slender slip of a woman really stuck in his craw. But every time he tried to put any weight on his bad leg, the pain shot through him like the slash of a knife. There was no help for it. He was stuck with the situation, at least for now.

The going was slow at first, but once they got the hang of it, they started to move. His wet slacks slapped against his legs, getting colder and colder in the breeze. He felt very aggrieved. His life wasn’t supposed to go like this.

“Here we go,” she told him brightly, flashing him a smile. “My cabin’s just a little further. There it is, just above the boat ramp by the lake.”

He looked up and saw an austere-looking cabin just ahead. “That one?”

“No, that one belongs to my friend Margo and her husband.” Charlie grinned. “If she’s watching, I’m sure she’s on the phone to everyone we know. This must look quite a sight to her.” She nodded further on. “That’s my cabin, just to the left.”

He could tell right away that she’d lived in the little bungalow for some time. There were flowers on vines twining everywhere, in pots, creeping up porch posts, in beds alongside the path to the front door. Tiny buds of yellow and lavender and pink and white peeked from under leaves in every direction. It looked like a damn fairy-tale cottage or something equally sappy and that didn’t soften his mood. The hand-painted wooden sign over the door didn’t help either. Welcome Home, it said.

Home. Funny how that word resonated, even when you didn’t have a home.

“Aren’t you being a little free with your welcome?” he grumbled, gesturing toward the sign as he hobbled onto her porch. “After all, you never know who might decide to take you up on it.” He glanced at her, noting the way she was biting her lower lip as she struggled to help him through her doorway. “Can’t be too careful these days,” he added to cover up his own embarrassment at his predicament.

She didn’t respond, and once inside, he blinked, adjusting his vision to the interior gloom after the bright light outside. The place looked like more of the same cheerfulness he’d encountered on the porch—a clutter of handmade wall items, quilted throw comforters and copper pots and pans stacked neatly at the end of the breakfast bar. He might have said it looked like a Snow White cottage waiting for the Seven Dwarfs to come whistling in from the mines, except there wasn’t a sign that anyone masculine had ever been in the place. Anyone over five years old, at any rate.

For some reason, that annoyed him even more, and he frowned, leaning against the back of a wooden chair while she got the couch ready for him, fluffing pillows and moving a small stack of magazines. As she leaned down to work, her blond hair swung about her face, catching the light from the window. Her halter top gaped, showing a generous measure of flesh and exposing breasts just the size he liked them. He hadn’t remembered her with that much of a figure, but she certainly had made up for lost time since he’d seen her last.

“Okay, Mr. Smith,” she said brightly, turning toward him. “Give me your arm. We’ll get you settled on the couch.”

“I can handle it,” he said, pulling away from her and hobbling over on his own.

She watched him position himself to drop down on the cushion, and shrugged. “I’m going to call a doctor,” she said, starting for the phone.

“No, you’re not.” There was an element of command in his voice that stopped her in her tracks. He levered himself down onto the couch, wincing. “I don’t need a doctor.” He glanced up and met her gaze. “But I’m going to need you. You’re going to have to help me take my pants off.”

Charlie’s eyes widened and a bubble of laughter rose in her throat, but she managed to hold her composure. It was clear from his tone and from the look he threw in her direction that he thought the suggestion would shock her in some way. “You think I’m too prissy for a job like that, don’t you?” she accused him. “Well, you just watch, mister.” She came forward with no hesitation, her violet eyes challenging him. “Here’s a news flash. I take men’s pants off all the time.”

Her hands were on his belt before his were, and he lay back against the pillows and let her work. She slipped the belt off and undid the button, then yanked the zipper down.

“You going to help at all?” she asked him tartly.

He kept his mouth from curling but he couldn’t keep the grin out of his eyes. “I’ll do my best,” he said, and he braced himself on his elbows and lifted his hips so that she could tug the slacks down over his green plaid boxers and past his knees. Suddenly he wanted to hurry her along to get this over with before the evidence of how this was affecting him became all too obvious.

And it was affecting him. A hot, heavy pulse was beginning to beat in his veins. Feeling like this just wasn’t right—not for her, the woman he’d idolized for years. Oh hell, face it. She was the woman he’d lusted after for years. The woman he’d never thought he would get anywhere near. And now—here he was. And she was taking off his pants.

“How’s your shirt?” she asked, shaking out the pants and laying them near the fireplace.

“Just a little wet around the edges,” he said quickly. “It’s okay.”

She touched it and gave him a scornful look. “Hand it over,” she said cheerfully, turning to stoke her little fire “We might as well try, at least, to keep you from catching pneumonia.”

He pulled the shirt over his head and handed it to her, grabbing a throw that lay along the back of the couch and covering his semi-naked body with it just as she turned back to him.

“Wait a minute,” she said, sliding in to sit on the coffee table where she could have easy access to him. “I want to have a look at that leg.”

“Hey, no—” he began, but her small hands were already pushing back the blanket and beginning to gently probe around the joint.

“I can’t take the place of a doctor,” she told him as she worked. “But I do know something about this.” She glanced up and met his startled gaze. “I volunteer at the local hospital one day a week,” she explained with a quick smile. “That’s where I’ve been getting my practice at disrobing men.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. There she was, her beautiful face clouded with intensity as she tested his leg, her gorgeous breasts moving in that flimsy blue halter top as she worked, her warm hands on his rough skin. A feeling very near despair came over him. He felt like a man drowning in pure gold. Too much of a good thing couldn’t help but bring on disaster. Could it?

“I’ve had a lot of experience with sprains and breaks,” she went on as she probed. “In the winter, we get a lot of skiers. And skiers get a lot of leg injuries.”

He was speechless. He felt almost mesmerized by her touch on his leg, and he stared at her, heart thumping. What had happened? Had his fall taken him through the looking glass? Was this heaven or something? Was this woman an angel?

No. No angel’s touch would have stirred his blood the way her hands did. He moved restlessly, hoping she wouldn’t notice, and forcing himself to keep his mind from straying into forbidden territory. You weren’t supposed to think about angels like that.

“No kidding,” he responded lamely at last. “A candy-striper, huh?”

She nodded, a small frown of concentration puckering her brow as she evaluated his condition. He took a deep breath and tried counting backwards from a hundred, but he kept losing his place. All he could think about was Charlie, volunteer health worker, rescuer of damaged hikers. Angel or no angel, the woman seemed to be trying out for sainthood. Next she was going to tell him that she went around every morning and let wolves and foxes out of traps. Fed the starving. Let the homeless live on her porch. It was a bit much. He wasn’t sure why, but he halfway resented her goodness.

Maybe it was because all this altruism didn’t fit with the image he’d had of her years ago. She’d been lovely and appealing—but just as self-centered and snooty as most of the well-bred and overindulged girls at the private school where he’d seen her. Something had changed her. Either that, or she was putting up a very convincing front.

“I don’t think anything is broken,” she told him, still at work with her strong slender fingers. “But your cartilage is shot, isn’t it? And your patella...”

“Ow,” he muttered, jerking away as her hand found a raw nerve. His movement displaced the blanket and it slipped down off his chest. She reached automatically to straighten it for him, and he reached at the same time. She would have beaten him to it, but something stopped her, shocked her for a moment. He saw the stunned look in her eyes and he knew what it was. The blanket had uncovered the huge, jagged scar on his chest. She’d seen it, and now she was going to draw away in horror. It happened every time.

He pulled the blanket up and then he waited for it, holding his breath, and the tension grew tight as a drum. He forced himself to look into her eyes. If he saw even a hint of pity there...

“I bet you’ll have plenty of stories to tell your grandchildren,” she said lightly, reaching to cover his scarred leg as well. “You certainly seem to carry around a lot of reminders of adventures past.”

He gazed at her in wonder as she rose above him. No one had ever come that close to saying exactly the right thing before.

She leaned over him, tucking in the blanket, and as she did, the halter top gapped again, showing everything but the very tips of her breasts, and her hair slid down like a fragrant veil, brushing his face, and the world seemed to be spinning out of control. Like a man in a dream, he reached out, acting on pure instinct, and grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer. She was so soft, so light, and desire for her swept through him like a surge in the sea. She didn’t try to pull away. She looked startled, but not afraid. She stared into his gaze, her face only inches from his, and he searched her violet eyes, but he couldn’t read her real reaction. Still, he knew he could kiss her easily. It would take only a slight tug to pull her down on top of him and take her mouth with his. The urge to do it choked in his throat.

But he couldn’t. This wasn’t any woman he’d picked up in the forest on an afternoon’s walk. This was Charlyne Chandler, for God’s sake. What the hell did he think he was doing?

He released her without saying a word, and she drew back slowly. Was that regret he caught in her gaze? Or maybe disgust? He couldn’t tell. And maybe he didn’t even want to know.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he told her softly as she sat back on the coffee table.

“Do what?” she asked, brushing the hair back away from her face.

He watched her with narrowed eyes. “When a man’s been out on the desert for a few days, you shouldn’t wave a glass of water in front of him unless you’re going to let him take a drink.” He winced once the words were out of his mouth. It had seemed like a good metaphor when he’d thought of it, but out loud, it sounded very silly. He looked at her, wondering what she thought.

She stared at him for a long moment, and then she burst into laughter, holding her arms in close and rocking with it. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she said.

He shrugged, suppressing a smile himself. “I’m just warning you. A man can only take so much temptation.”

“You’re not a regular man,” she protested, rising from the table. “You’re a wounded man.”

“I’d have to be a dead man not to react to—”

“Okay, okay,” she said quickly, not wanting him to describe what he was looking at. But she began to edge away from him. “Let me just slosh my way to my room and change into something else. Like a raincoat, maybe.” Turning, she left the room.

He lay back and berated himself. Well, that was just great. Now he’d offended her. He hadn’t meant to do that. He swore under his breath. He hadn’t meant to end up on a woman’s couch today, but here he was. And the sooner he got out of here the better.

She was back in a moment, and he noticed she’d changed her clothes. The air had turned chilly, unfortunately, and she’d put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. There would be no more luscious vistas of smooth, clear skin, no more glimpses of cleavage. In a way, it was almost a relief. Maybe now the charged atmosphere would calm down a little.

She dropped to the floor in front of the embers that filled her fireplace and began to shove the glowing coals with a poker. He watched as she put on a log, stirred the ashes, and got a few flames to flicker at the wood. For just a moment he was tempted to give her advice on her technique, but he caught himself just in time.

But then he began to wonder—what was she doing here in these primitive surroundings? The Charlyne he remembered belonged in mansions, with graceful staircases climbing to the sky and gardeners trimming the roses and a woman who took your coat when you came in. This was a whole new side of her and he wondered where it had come from.

She went on talking, chatting about simple things, not expecting a response from him, and to his surprise, he was relaxing, feeling almost comfortable. She had a knack. He was soothed, just beginning to get sleepy, when there was a scratching sound, and a short bark from outside, and she rose with a smile.

“And now you’re about to meet the reason I don’t feel unsafe in this place,” she told him as she went toward the sound. “Here you go.” She threw open the door. “Meet Sabrina.”

Sabrina was a dark husky, big and furry and very, very curious. She knew Denver was there right away and raced to the couch, her nails scratching on the wood floor.

“Hold it, girl,” Charlie cried, coming after her quickly. “Sabrina has been known to take exception to some men who have been in this house,” she added, watching the dog and the man meet. “She’s never actually bitten anyone, but you never know.”

But the big dog didn’t hesitate. Rising up on her hind legs, she placed her paws right on Denver’s chest and began to sniff him all over. Charlie made a move as though to pull her back, but Denver reached up and gave her a rough caress, letting Charlie know he was perfectly willing to put up with Sabrina’s test. The dog let out a sharp bark, wagged her tail twice, and settled back down, almost seeming to give Charlie a nod as she went. Charlie laughed.

“You big old faker,” she told her pet, giving her a rub on the top of her head as she passed.

Denver watched her go. “Nice dog,” he said. “She’s got eyes like an old Indian sage. Like she’s carrying around the wisdom of the ages.”

Charlie shook her head. “Don’t let her fool you. She’s just a puppy at heart.” Moving quickly, she began picking things up, making small talk as she went.

He was hearing the sound of her voice more than the words. It was like music. She went into the kitchen and began fixing something. He assumed it was for dinner, though it was still early. He stared into the fire and listened to her talk. Her voice was quick, just like her hands. The sound she made was light and sunny, like the song a perfect stream sang as it danced over polished stones. He closed his eyes for a moment. He could almost taste her.

There was a clattering of pans and the sound of water running. Now she was humming a lively tune. He had an urge to see her and he hunched himself up higher against the arm of the couch so that he could look across the room and into the kitchen.

“Is it really that much fun to cook?” he asked her as the humming went on and on.

She glanced up, as though astonished he was still there. “You’d be surprised,” she said, laughing, her hair swinging about her shoulders.

“It does smell good,” he admitted.

“Do you like pot roast?”

Pot roast. How many years had it been since he’d had good old homemade pot roast? His diet over the last few years had tended toward hamburgers or a taco grabbed on the fly—that, or the native cuisine of whatever country he was working in. Pot roast took a long time. Mothers made pot roast. It was the sort of dinner that had love cooked right into it—along with Sunday afternoons and going to church with the family.

He twitched. Where the hell had that picture come from? It didn’t sound like any sort of life that he’d ever led. What happened? Were you born with some sort of stereotype in. your head that you tried to live up to your entire life? Tried, and failed. Kind of a great eternal joke on humanity.

“I didn’t realize that was such a hard question,” she commented.

He looked up, at a loss for a moment. Then he remembered what she’d asked. “Uh...sure. I like pot roast.”

“Good. I’m making plenty. You can have all you want.”

It seemed he was expected to stay for dinner. Suddenly the prospect of a homemade meal was overwhelmingly seductive. He sat back and contemplated his luck. He knew he should go. But one good old pot roast dinner wouldn’t hurt. Would it?

“You know,” she said, coming out of the kitchen. “I really think you should go to the hospital.”

He grimaced, shifting his leg. “What for?”

“They’ll fix you right up, put you in a cast, make sure you’re on the road to healing...”

He was shaking his head. “No. I’m not going to the hospital.” He’d already spent too many weeks in the hospital this year. “I’ve had worse than this before. The human body has a capacity to heal all sorts of things on its own. And mine’s had a lot of practice at it.”

She gazed at him curiously, but didn’t respond to what he’d said. “Okay, I guess I can’t force you.” Starting toward the door, she called back, “You’ll have to hold the fort I’ve got to go get Robbie. He gets out of school at three and....”

As though she knew this part by heart, Sabrina came running out of the back of the house to join her mistress. Charlie stopped at the door, her hand on the knob. “You’ll be here when I get back, won’t you?” she asked.

He looked at her. Her lips were curved into a slight smile and her eyes were alight with the question. Tiny wisps of blond hair flew around her lovely face. It was a good thing he’d learned to harden himself over the years. A weaker man wouldn’t have been able to resist the temptingly engaging picture she presented.

“Sure, I’ll be here,” he told her gruffly. “Where the hell would I go?”

Her face changed and she straightened her shoulders, taking a couple of steps back toward where he lay. “Okay, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. When my son is around, I’d appreciate it if you would watch the swearing. You seem to do an awful lot of it, and I don’t like it.” She paused. “On the other hand, it’s a free country. You can swear all you want. Only not around Robbie. That I won’t allow.”

She’d caught him off guard again. He hadn’t realized he’d been getting that careless—like some mountain man who didn’t know how to behave in civilized society. Great. Now he was so far gone he was swearing around a woman. He’d lived a tough life. He’d sworn a lot in his time. But he still had some old-fashioned values. He never used to swear around women and children. He was going to have to relearn that.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’ll watch it.”

Her smile was back, as though she were glad he’d taken criticism so well. “I’d appreciate it,” she said breezily, spinning back toward the exit. “It takes twenty minutes to get to Robbie’s school. Twenty minutes back.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, and he didn’t give one. He only stared after the closing door, wondering how he’d managed to end up here when all he’d come for was rest and relaxation. Something told him rest was going to be hard to find with Charlie around.

Three

Charlie left her cabin and started toward town. Smoke was coming out of the chimney at Margo’s place, so she was home. Charlie had a moment’s unease, of wondering what the neighbors would think about her visitor, but she brushed it away. That was old thinking, from her past. She was a different person now.

She was a little late and she walked quickly, buoyed by some sort of sparkling in her veins. She didn’t know what it was, but she had energy to burn today.

“Could it be because I’ve got a man on my couch?” she muttered to herself, then laughed aloud, making Sabrina run back and dash about her ankles to see what was so funny.

A man—a pretty common item for most women to have around. But not her. She’d avoided men for so many years now, she hardly knew how to handle one now that she had him. She’d had a man in her life once before. He’d fathered her son. For that, she would always be grateful. But he’d also made life even more miserable than it had been before he came along and she’d run as far and as fast as she could to get away from him.

Some women were not meant to have a man. She’d decided that must be the case a long time ago, and that maybe she was one of them. Her experience with marriage had been such a disaster, she knew she would have a hard time risking it again. She’d been lucky to have gotten away, lucky that no one had found her in all these years. She and her son Robbie were together, and that was all she needed. She couldn’t imagine being any happier than she was right now.

So why had she brought the man home, like some wounded puppy who needed ministering to? She wasn’t sure. She’d thought at first, just for a moment or two, that he looked familiar. But that couldn’t be. The life she’d lived before she’d moved here hadn’t included men like Denver. Still, there was something m his face—something slightly familiar and yet not. Something that made her trust him, even though he’d given her no real reason to do anything of the kind.

She knew that if she ever did pick a new man to marry, it wouldn’t be a man like Denver. If she got to that point, she would be looking for a professional man, someone solid and reassuring. Denver was too rough, too... well, dangerous was a good word for it. There was something a bit intimidating about him. She had the feeling that he would do just about anything for someone, if he cared enough.

And those scars on his body! Good grief. She shuddered, thinking about them. She’d seen enough at the hospital to know those weren’t football injuries. The man had been knifed and shot and who knew what else? At some point in his life, he had obviously been involved in something very dangerous.

And then there was that moment when he’d taken hold of her wrist and pulled her close. She’d felt so strange—as though she’d almost been waiting for him to do it. She’d seen the raw hunger in his eyes and her heart had beat so loudly, she could hardly breathe. She’d thought he would kiss her. But it didn’t happen, and she caught her breath now, thinking about it. Did she want that? Did she? Shaking her head, she pushed it away. She couldn’t let herself dwell on that. It brought up too many conflicting emotions.

And the school was just ahead, a little wood frame building nestled in a clearing rimmed with ponderosa pine. The children were just coming out and she waved at Robbie, nodded and called greetings to a few friends, then he came barreling toward her and she reached down and caught her son up in her arms. She held him tightly, smelled his hair, felt the spirit that filled him, and thanked God for him one more time. Sometimes, life was good.

“We had worms,” he told her happily.

“Worms?” She eased him to the ground and gazed at him in trepidation, hoping it wasn’t a meal he was talking about.

He nodded, his eyes sparkling. “Big ones. They wiggled.”

“Oh.” Charlie was laughing again. “They wiggled, did they?”

“Uh-huh.” He began to walk along beside her. “We watched them go into the ground and then we dug them up again.”

“Lovely.”

He scrunched up his face and looked at her from under a stray lock of hair. “Could I have a worm for a-pet? Just a little one?”

Charlie hesitated. Worms as pets. Wonderful. “I’m afraid not, honey,” she told him calmly. “Worms don’t do real well in captivity.” She winced as she saw the disappointment on his round face. “But you know what? I’ll bet we have worms living right in our yard. Later on, maybe we could dig up some dirt and see.”

“Could we?” He was happy again. “Great! When I find one I’m going to name him Cowabunga,” he called as he ran off to chase Sabrina through the trees.

Charlie smiled. Being with Robbie always made her smile. He was the joy in her life—practically the reason she lived at this point. He was the only thing she’d taken with her when she ran away. He would be with her until he was grown and then she would finally be alone. But she didn’t want to think about that. That day was a long way off—and this day was too beautiful for melancholy thoughts. Right now, her heart was light as a breeze.

Some days she picked Robbie up with her little motor scooter, carrying him home clinging to her waist as they roared over the bumps. But she liked best the days when they walked home together and he told her about what he’d learned. They were close in ways she’d never been with her own family, and that was just the way she’d planned it from the beginning. As far as she was concerned, her relationship with her son was a golden gift she would treasure and work to maintain. She would do almost anything to make sure it never got to be the way it had always been with her own mother.

For some reason, that made her think about Denver Smith, and before she could stop herself, she shivered with anticipation, then gasped at her own foolishness. “Wow,” she whispered to herself as a bird cried in the tree above her. “The man really is dangerous, isn’t he?” And that made her shiver again. She had a dangerous man in her living room and she could hardly wait to go be scared of him. What nonsense!

A giggle rose in her throat. What if her mother could see Denver, could know the way Charlie was reacting to him? She could see her mother’s strong, handsome face grimacing in disgust.

“A hooligan!” she would say disapprovingly. “We don’t invite hooligans into our home.”

“No,” Charlie said, laughing in a way she would never have laughed in front of the woman. “No, Mother. You don’t. But I do. And that is one reason why I don’t live with you any longer.”

Brave words, she thought, sobering. Too bad she’d never be able to say them to her mother’s face. Well, there was no question about it. The man was dangerous. She could see it in his eyes and in the evidence that scarred his body. You didn’t end up with a body like that playing tennis at the club. She’d never dealt with a man who’d actually been shot before.

“No more shivering,” she told herself firmly, and then her smile was back.

Robbie came skipping out of the trees and slowed to walk beside her.

“Mom, how come your eyes are sparkling?” he asked.

She looked down at him. “What?”

“Like stars.” He nodded, gazing into them.

She laughed. “Oh, come on.”

He wrinkled his tiny freckled nose, his blue eyes wise. “Do you have a surprise at home for me?” he asked carefully.

She sighed, shaking her head, delighted with him as usual. “How did you guess that?”

He shrugged. “Because of your eyes,” he said sensibly. “Because you look like a surprise.”

Laughing, she pulled him up into her arms and gave him a very loud kiss on his flushed cheek.

“Is it a rifle?” he asked hopefully.

“Robbie!” she cried, dropping him on his feet again. “No, it’s not a rifle. And it never will be, you can count on that. I don’t think you should have a rifle. And I wish you would stop asking for one all the time.”

He took her small lecture patiently, then got back to business right away. “Then what kind of surprise is it?” he asked, pulling further away so that he could skip along beside her.

“It’s not a toy surprise, either,” she warned him. “More of a people-to-people surprise.”

He thought about that for a moment, frowning then shook his head and asked, “What does that mean?”

“You just wait. You’ll see.”

His eyes widened and he started to ask something else, but he quickly thought better of it, and instead put his head down and began to walk on ahead as fast as he could, with Sabrina dancing beside him, watching for something to chase. But Robbie wasn’t interested in the forest any longer. He seemed to be intent on getting home.

Charlie shook her head, watching him. She so often worried that it wasn’t fair to try to raise him all alone, that he really needed a dad in his life. That was something she couldn’t give him. The thought of going out and trying to find a man to take over that role made her cringe. Unfortunately, she was afraid Robbie was going to have to grow up without a father around. Not an ideal situation, but the best she could do.

She hoped he would like having Denver stay for dinner. There hadn’t often been a man in their house lately. Now and then she invited Robbie’s friend Billy to come to a meal and bring his parents. She had noted the way Robbie hung on every word Billy’s father uttered, and followed him with his eyes at all times. It was obvious how much her son longed for a dad of his own. She wasn’t sure what he would make of Denver, but she was pretty sure their visitor was made from the mold every little boy liked to think of his father as being from. That was the best she could do for him, it seemed—occasional and temporary male influences in his life.

Robbie was walking faster and faster and she almost had to run to catch up to him. He pulled her by the hand and she laughed as he forced her to trot, with Sabrina dashing around them and barking. In no time at all, they were home, running up the porch steps and bursting in through the front door.

The house seemed too still and she looked around quickly, her gaze darting from the couch to the kitchen and back again. The blanket lay neatly folded on the table. The fire had just about gone out. There was no sign of him. He was gone.

Something lurched inside her but she didn’t stop to analyze why. He was gone and she was disappointed, but she wasn’t going to let it show

Robbie looked around too, puzzled. “Where is it, Mom? I can’t find the surprise.”

“I’m sorry, honey,” she told him, letting her fingertips trail along the back of the couch where Denver had been when she’d last seen him, remembering how big and rough he’d looked when she’d had him there. “I guess your surprise has sort of... disappeared.”

He was gone. The disappointment welled up in her like a thundercloud pouring over the tips of the mountain range on a summer day. She’d brought home a lost creature, tended to him, grown to rather like him, and now he was gone. That left an empty spot in her soul.

The sound of something outside caught her attention. There was a noise from out back, a thump, the sound of an ax against wood. She stopped, frowning, and suddenly she realized it was made by someone chopping firewood. Her heart leaped up but she didn’t let herself notice that. Instead, she ran to the window and looked out. He wasn’t gone after all. There he was, ax in hand, chopping wood. That thing that had lurched inside her rose again, rose and poured something warm and sweet through her body, and she grinned, feeling suddenly light as air.

“Or maybe not,” she told her son, tousling his hair as she passed him on her way outside. “Let me go see.” She stepped quickly to the back door.

There he was, swinging an ax in a very unbalanced manner, his hair shining in the sun. Throwing open the door, she ran out.

“What are you doing?” she cried out as she neared him. “Will you cut that out?”

He turned and nodded to greet her. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” he told her, setting himself and taking another swing.

“You are in no condition to be doing something like this,” she said, frowning as he staggered back from the momentum of the ax. Reaching out, she put a hand on his arm, and he didn’t pull away, but he stiffened, and she knew he didn’t want her doing that. Quickly, she pulled her hand back.

“Come on in and sit down,” she said quickly. “We’ll be eating soon.”

He was leaning against the sawhorse that held the wood in place and it was obvious he was going to have to take her suggestion, whether he wanted to or not. “I’m actually doing fine,” he protested, though he didn’t look it. “The leg is getting back to normal. Really, I’m okay.”

She frowned, not buying it. “Let’s go have dinner,” she said again.

He shifted his weight and glanced at her, stalling for time. “Dinner already?” he said. “Isn’t it a little early for that?”

“We have to eat early. I have to be at work at five.”

He looked at her as though her entire speech surprised him. “What do you do?”

She liked surprising him. She threw him a sassy grin. “I sling hash.”

The look of shock on his face astonished her, though she had to admit that the thought of working in a greasy spoon would once have sent her reeling as well. And if her mother ever found out, she would probably have her committed to a home for dangerously unbalanced young ladies.

“Actually, it’s in a very nice little restaurant in town. We serve Pacific Rim fusion food, things like mu shu pork in tortillas and Cornish game hens in Thai peanut sauce.”

He was still staring at her as though he didn’t believe a word she said. She waited for a moment, then shrugged, feeling a little wobbly herself.

“It’s not all that extraordinary,” she said with a touch of irritation. “What did you think I was, a lady of leisure or something?”

“No, I sure didn’t think that,” he said quickly. Then he frowned, seeing something behind her. “Is that your kid?” he asked.

She turned and saw Robbie at the door. The moment her gaze caught him, he slipped back into the house, and she shaded her eyes, wondering why he was acting uncharacteristically shy. “Yes, that’s him,” she said, then she gestured toward the house. “Come on,” she told him seriously. “Let’s get you fed and rested and then I’ll figure out where I’m going to put you for the night.”

That brought a quick reaction from him. Something deep in his eyes changed and he straightened, rubbing his chin with the heel of his hand. “No, listen, I’m out of here. I was just trying to split a few of your logs to try to pay you back for all you’ve done. I’ve got to get going, get up to my cabin and...”

His mind on his excuses, he made the mistake of trying to take a step toward her by putting weight on his weak leg and it deserted him entirely. He lurched and she sprang forward to break his fall. Her body caught his and her hand grasped the hard curve of his biceps, and the immediate sense of coming in contact with a man went through her as though she’d been struck by lightning.

“Here, lean on me,” she managed to get out around the catch in her breath. She knew she was quivering with a visceral reaction to his physical strength, she only hoped he didn’t notice. His body was long and hard and her own body was responding to it in a way she hadn’t felt for years—a way she hadn’t expected—a way that made her want to stop and listen to her heart beating like a captured thing in her chest.

Dangerous. The word echoed in her mind. He was danger all right, but that didn’t mean she had to give in to it.

“I don’t think so,” he was saying, pulling away from her so quickly, it was almost a recoil. “I don’t need help. I’ve got to do this on my own.”

He started toward the house and she followed slowly, trying to calm herself. This was wild. She never did things like this. But her body seemed to have a will of its own today. And she had to admit—it was pretty exhilarating.

“I’ll get out of your way,” he muttered, starting to bypass the house.

“No,” she cried, jumping forward and slipping her hand into the crook of his arm. “You come on in the house. I’m going to feed you, at least. Look at you, practically wasting away here.”

He turned his head and met her gaze and she felt as though he saw right through her, knew she’d grabbed his arm because she wanted to feel his muscles again, knew she wanted to keep him around as long as she could—just because. A flush filled her cheeks, but she didn’t care. That sparkling feeling was filling her with a sense of life she hadn’t had in a long time.

“Come on,” she urged, tugging on his arm. “Come eat.”

He came with her, but reluctantly, and he let her lead him. She knew he hated feeling weak this way, but she also had a feeling that wasn’t all there was to his hesitation. The awareness that had sparked between them earlier had come to life again when she’d broken his fall and held him for a split second, and she could tell that he felt it too, and that he wasn’t happy about it. Turning resolutely, she led the way to the house, chattering about the weather.

“Sit down,” she told him as they entered the dining room. “I’ll have the food on the table in no time.”

Denver hesitated as though he were about to argue, but the aroma of pot roast simmering wafted in from the kitchen and his resistance seemed to melt away. He lowered himself carefully to a seat at the table and she pretended not to be watching him out of the corner of her eye to make sure he made it. Turning, she glanced around the room. Robbie was nowhere to be seen and she set off to find out why.

She found him in his bedroom and took him to the bathroom to wash his hands. He came willingly enough, but he seemed worried about something.

“Mom. Who is that man?” he asked her as he soaped up, his eyes wary.

“He’s my friend,” she told him, turning off the water to hurry him along. “Do you want to come and meet him?”

Robbie frowned, taking his time, washing his hands as though it were a heavy responsibility. “Is he the surprise?” he asked, then shot a quick glance at her face.

She smiled as she turned the faucet back on for a rinse. “Yes. He’s the surprise. I thought you’d like having a man come to dinner. We don’t have men around here very often, do we?”

Robbie shook his head, thinking that over. “He’s awful big,” he said at last.

Charlie laughed. “Yes, he is, isn’t he?”

His freckled nose wrinkled. “Are you sure he likes boys?” he asked her.

“Of course.” She answered without thinking, handing him a towel. “Doesn’t everybody?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No. Mrs. Rathworth doesn’t. She always yells when I go by her house. She tells me to stay away from her yard.”

Charlie became serious suddenly, her head to the side as she gazed at him. “Have you ever gone in her yard?” she asked.

He shook his head. “But some of the fifth-graders did,” he told her as though in confidence. “They picked a bunch of her apples right off her tree.”

“Well, there. You see? There’s usually a reason when someone seems too mean. It’s usually because someone has been mean to them. You have to think about that before you get mad.”

“Okay,” he said agreeably. “Look.” He held up his hands for inspection. “All clean.”

“Clean as a whistle,” she agreed, and they left the bathroom behind.

She led him out into the dining area and introduced him to Denver, who nodded to the boy but seemed to look right through him. Robbie followed her into the kitchen rather than stay at the table with him, and she took advantage of his presence and loaded him up with things to carry back out for the dining table. With help from the microwave, she had everything steaming hot in minutes, and soon they were passing serving dishes and getting ready to eat. Charlie looked over the scene and smiled. Something felt good about it.

“Cheers,” she said, raising her glass of milk to toast the other two.

Neither of them said a word, and they raised their glasses reluctantly, but she didn’t let it spoil her mood. She basked in the glow. This was as close to a family meal as this place had ever had.

And darn it all, this was good.

Four

The pot roast was out of this world. Denver had to restrain himself from closing his eyes as he savored every morsel.

“This meat is great,” he told Charlie, though he did so awkwardly. He wasn’t one who was used to complimenting the chef. “Too bad all mothers don’t teach their daughters to cook like this.”

She laughed. “My mother has never cooked a pot roast in her life,” she said happily, wanting to break into giggles at the thought of her formal, dignified mother in an apron with flour on her nose. “She’s probably not even sure what kind of meat you use.” She put a piece of that very same meat on her fork and regarded it kindly. “But she can plan a menu for three hundred at a charity luncheon, which is something I’ll never know how to do,” she added softly, then flushed, wishing she hadn’t said it. People must think it strange to hear her say a thing like that. She glanced at Denver to see what he was thinking.

Denver swallowed another delicious bite and avoided her gaze, wondering how he’d forgotten. Of course, he knew all about her mother and what kind of people she came from. Charlie seemed so different now, it was hard to keep that in mind.

He glanced down the table and looked at her. She was saying something to her son and it gave him a chance to study her without being noticed. She was pretty and quick-witted and her eyes shone with amusement most of the time. Had she always been this way? Not in his memory. He remembered how she’d looked the last time he saw her, years ago.

It was graduation day at the Arcadana Academy. He’d gone to watch his sister, Gail, walk up on the stage and receive her diploma. He’d been bursting with pride. She’d looked just like the others, tall and slim and beautiful, full of laughter, graceful as a bird. You couldn’t tell she was any different, he’d told himself. You couldn’t see that her father had swung a pickax for a living, that her parents hadn’t been made of money, with generations of breeding and privilege behind them, like the others. Gail looked as though she belonged. That was what he’d dreamed of for her, what he’d worked his tail off to provide for her. And now it had all seemed worthwhile.

He’d hung back after the ceremony, watching her being introduced to the families and friends of other girls. He didn’t want to embarrass her. There was no way anyone would ever confuse him with a blue blood, a fact that didn’t usually bother him. His broad shoulders hadn’t been earned by hours on the tennis court, and his tan was a product of the Sahara Desert, not the country club golf course. His hair was a little too long and his clothes looked a little too rumpled. Though he traveled a lot, his style was too plebeian for the jet-setters, and he had no interest in that sort of thing. But he didn’t want to cramp his sister’s style. It made him happy to see her succeed, to see her fit in.

Suddenly, she saw him and her face changed. With a shriek, she ran to meet him, throwing her arms around his neck, not caring who saw her embrace her rough brother. His heart had filled with love for her, but as he looked back to where she’d run from, he saw the others watching. Charlyne—as she’d been called then—was pointing at Gail and laughing, turning to say something to one of the others, and Denver reddened and pushed Gail away, sure the beautiful but obviously spoiled young woman was making fun of Gail’s brother.

“I just came to see you graduate,” he’d told her gruffly, purposely turning away from Charlyne. “I’ve got to get going.”

His sister had seemed to regret that, her huge eyes filling with sorrow. “Oh, but, Denver, we’re having a dinner at the Chez Sateau. You must come.”

His grin was slightly crooked. She even knew how to talk like the others. He shook his head.

“Can’t. Got an assignment and I’m due at the airport. I’ll see you later in the week, at home. You go on back to your friends.”

He’d looked at Charlyne as Gail walked away. She was looking right back at him, but now she wasn’t laughing. Their gazes met and held for a moment. Denver had hoped she couldn’t see how much he resented her. He pulled his gaze away, turned on his heel, and left for the parking lot.

Now he looked at the woman who had once called herself Charlyne. Her body was fuller, softer-looking, and her angular face had filled in with lovely curves. Where he’d once seen snobbery there was nothing but warmth. It hardly seemed possible that this Charlie was the same woman. He wished he knew what had brought on such a change in the weather.

But he frowned as he savored his last bite of meat. Years of undercover work had developed a strong streak of cynicism in him. People didn’t change that much. Maybe she’d just learned to hide what she really was. Maybe that was all there was to it.

He let the current scene come back into his senses again. Charlie was talking seriously to her son, telling him that no, he was not going to get a rifle until he was much, much older.

“Billy has one.”

“Billy can have a hundred. That is not going to make a difference to us. You’re too young. And guns are disgusting anyway.”

The boy looked at Denver as if he were waiting for him to jump in here, but Denver didn’t have an opinion one way or the other, and Robbie looked away again, disappointed. Denver felt his disappointment and shrugged. There was nothing he could do here. He’d had a rifle by the time he was six himself, but his family had lived in the country. Things were different in those days. He couldn’t imagine giving this infant child a rifle to carry around with him. Charlie was right. The kid didn’t need it.

He had to laugh at the irony, though. Here he was, a man who lived a life where a gun was an absolute necessity, and he didn’t want to see the boy use one. Maybe he was losing his edge. Maybe it was time to start thinking about a life after the dangerous one he’d been leading all these years. “You can’t do this forever,” a friend had said to him only a few days ago. “Go out and find yourself a woman and have a family.” He’d laughed at the time. The thought had been ludicrous. But somehow it didn’t seem quite so funny right now.

Looking across the table, he found the boy staring at him as though he were a specimen that might need dissecting. Before he could look away again, the child spoke to him for the first time.

“Hey, mister,” he said softly, looking a little shy but determined. “Did you ever catch a three-pound golden trout?”

Denver blinked. It seemed an odd question. But then, kids were odd. He never had got the hang of dealing with them. “Can’t say that I have,” he answered gruffly, hoping that would satisfy him.

The boy’s stare grew more intense. “Billy’s dad did,” he said, as though that proved something.

Denver wanted to ask who the hell Billy was, but he stopped himself in time, and luckily, Charlie caught his attention.

“More?” she was asking.

He shook his head. “It was great,” he told her, and it was true, but he was definitely full. He couldn’t remember when a woman had last cooked for him like this. Looking at her, he wished he could tell her how much it meant to him. But on second thought, maybe it would be better to let it go.

She cleared away a few dishes, then settled back in her chair and smiled at him as though ready for the next item on her agenda, and he tensed, ready to run.

“So, Mr. Denver Smith,” she said pleasantly. “How long are you planning to stay?”

“About five more minutes,” he drawled, avoiding her gaze.

“No,” she responded with a quick laugh. “I mean here at the lake.”

“A few weeks,” he said, not filling in any details. After-dinner chitchat had never been one of his favorite activities.

“What made you come here to our little two-horse town?” she asked, glancing around the table to see if anyone needed anything. “All we’ve got is the lake and a broken-down ski lift Hal Waters is trying to sell to some gullible flatlander. We don’t get too many...” She stopped and pretended to blot at a spill with her napkin. She was going to say “men like you” but then she realized that might be a little too blatant a compliment. “Anyway, what made you come here?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t looking for a tourist trap. I’m not staying long.”

“And then what will you be going back to?” she asked.

He glanced at her, amused. He knew what she was up to, and he knew she knew he knew. But that didn’t mean she was going to get what she was after. “I suppose I’ll be going back to where I came from,” he told her casually.

She blinked, then leaned forward, her jaw at a determined angle, reminding him suddenly of her child. “And where, exactly, is that?” she insisted, her deep violet eyes pinning him to the wall.

He put off answering long enough to see those eyes flare with indignation before he gave her a tidbit. “I’ve got an apartment,” he admitted at last, suddenly feeling a little silly about being so close-mouthed. Years of training had made him that way. Experience and natural suspicion had intensified the instinct to keep his private life private—even from friends. But it could be he was going a little far here. After all, what would it hurt to tell Charlie a few things about himself? “I’m not there much, but it’s sort of a home base. It’s in San Francisco.”

“San Francisco.” She nodded, and there was a faraway look in her eyes. “I was born there.”

“Really?” Turn about was fair play, wasn’t it? “What brought you out here to the mountains instead?”

Her smile was brief and noncommittal. “I like the mountains,” she said evasively, rising and reaching for his plate. “There’s dessert, and I won’t hear ‘no’ from you. You just sit tight for another minute or two.”

Obediently, he stayed where he was, but he knew she was being as elusive as he was. That was odd, and yet it fit in with everything else she’d said today. She was here under an assumed name and she wanted to leave her past out of it. What was she running from? It would be very interesting to find out. And what would she do if she knew he recognized her? He hadn’t planned to tell her at all, assuming he wouldn’t be around long enough for it to matter. But now that he’d lingered this long, it hardly seemed fair to keep her in the dark. He ought to say something. Maybe he would.

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