Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Copyright

“You May Kiss Your Bride.”

Gayla lifted her gaze to Brett, unsure what to say or do. She was sure Brett would ignore the offer, even prayed he would, but instead he turned to her, gently taking her cheeks between his hands and lowering his head to hers.

Their lips touched briefly, and Gayla nearly cried at the warm taste of him. When he would have deepened the kiss, though, she pulled away, hiding the emotions she feared would give her heart away.

Dear Reader,

Established stars and exciting new names…that’s what’s in store for you this month from Silhouette Desire. Let’s begin with Cait London’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Tallchief s Bride—it’s also the latest in her wonderful series, THE TALLCHIEFS.

The fun continues with Babies by the Busload, the next book in Raye Morgan’s THE BABY SHOWER series, and Michael’s Baby, the first installment of Cathie Linz’s delightful series, THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIFT.

So many of you have indicated how much you love the work of Peggy Moreland, so I know you’ll all be excited about her latest sensuous romp, A Willful Marriage. And Anne Eames, who made her debut earlier in the year in Silhouette Desire’s Celebration 1000, gives us more pleasure with You’re What?! And if you enjoy a little melodrama with your romance, take a peek at Metsy Hingle’s enthralling new book, Backfire.

As always, each and every Silhouette Desire is sensuous, emotional and sure to leave you feeling good at the end of the day!

Happy Reading!

Senior Editor

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

A Willful Marriage
Peggy Moreland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PEGGY MORELAND

published her first romance with Silhouette in 1989. She’s a natural storyteller with a sense of humor that will tickle your fancy, and Peggy’s goal is to write a story that readers will remember long after the last page is turned. Winner of the 1992 National Reader’s Choice Award and a 1994 RITA finalist, Peggy frequently appears on bestseller lists around the country. A native Texan, she and her family live in Round Rock, Texas.

In everyone’s life there is that special teacher they never forget. For me, there are several. To Cheryl Rahmlow, who ruled the hallowed halls of Terrell High School with both discipline and love and who taught me how to type. To Della Jo Burnes, who followed me from elementary school to high school and on to junior college, just to make sure I got it right. And to Eldora Birdsong, who made Shakespeare come alive with her “special effects.” Thanks, ladies, for all the years you devoted to teaching and the difference you made in so many of your students’ lives.

One

It was a miserable day for a funeral.

Gray skies heavy with the threat of rain loomed overhead while a bitterly cold wind blew from the north, rattling the stripped tree branches like the bones of a dancing skeleton.

Considering the man being buried, though, Brett Sinclair figured the weather was more than appropriate. Coldhearted, stingy, unforgiving. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that the old man deserved just such a day.

He sat behind the wheel of his truck at the end of the line of cars forming the funeral procession, working up a strong defense in favor of staying inside the vehicle instead of joining the mourners graveside. No one knew him, he told himself, so his presence certainly wouldn’t be missed.

While he sat debating, the wind caught a corner of the funeral home’s canvas canopy, inflating its gently sloping roof and dumping sheets of icy rain onto the mourners who stood under its edge. A shiver chased down his spine. That was an even better reason to remain inside—it was colder than a well-digger’s butt out there. Besides, he told himself, he’d had his share of funerals. First his father’s, then his mother’s, and now this.

With a muffled growl, he shouldered open the door. He hadn’t traveled this far to sit in the warmth of his truck. He’d come to witness the old man’s burial. The wind caught his duster and billowed it open, sending icy needles of cold to stab at his chest. He quickly did up two buttons, scrunched his shoulders to his ears and headed for the tight cluster of black umbrellas near the fringe of the funeral home’s canopy. He stopped at the rear of the cemetery plot, close enough to hear, but far enough away to avoid being a part of the ceremony. He listened dispassionately as the minister spoke kindly of the man being laid to rest. The fact that every word coming out of the preacher’s mouth was a bald-faced lie didn’t really bother Brett. After all, how much truth was found in any eulogy?

He soon grew bored with the proceedings and let his gaze wander beneath the canopy. Sprays of gladiolus and carnations propped on easels formed a semicircle around the raised casket, their spring colors a strong contrast to the bleak landscape surrounding it. The casket itself bore a blanket of yellow roses. Inside, he knew, lay his grandfather. Brett waited a moment, testing himself to see if he felt anything. A glimmer of recognition. A stab of grief. A sliver of regret. But nothing came. Not one blessed thing.

With a philosophical shrug, he let his gaze move on. A couple of rows of folding chairs beneath the canopy seated those who had arrived early enough not to have to stand out in the cold. None of the chairs’ occupants appeared to be less than seventy years of age.

Except one.

His gaze settled on the woman in the front row—the area usually reserved for family. Although people stood on the perimeter of the tent huddled under dripping umbrellas and shaking from the cold, the seats on either side of her remained empty. She was a striking woman; young, dressed all in black. Her hair was the color of spun gold, a halo of sunshine riding a sea of black.

Even from his distance, he could see that her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but she kept her shoulders straight, her chin high and her eyes on the minister who was now reading from the Bible. Occasionally, her gaze would slip to the casket and her eyes would fill. Quickly she would look away, back to the minister, in an obvious attempt to keep the grief at bay.

Something about the woman pulled at Brett, and he found he couldn’t look away. Although others might be swayed by the fact that she was crying, he knew that wasn’t what held him. He’d had years to become immune to the debilitating power of a woman’s tears.

What was it about her that was so intriguing? he wondered. Maybe it was the way she held herself, he decided, her chin lifted just a fraction higher than, good posture required. As he studied her, he couldn’t help wondering whether it was pride or defiance that kept her chin at that angle.

Being isolated as she was from the other mourners only added to the mystique that surrounded her. Brett knew if he were sitting in a bar or roaming a cocktail party instead of standing on the edge of a cemetery plot, he would already have made his move.

Who was she? he wondered. As far as he knew, Ned Parker had no relatives to grieve over his passing—other than himself, of course, but Brett didn’t consider himself a relative. It took more than blood to make a family, and blood was all they had between them. By his estimation, the old man would have been about eighty-three, and this woman couldn’t be much more than twenty-five, so it would be ridiculous to think she’d been a friend…Or maybe she had been a friend of sorts, he thought, as a new possibility surfaced. Like a mistress, maybe. From what his mother had told him, it would be like the old goat to keep a young woman around to entertain him.

And now, here the woman sat in front of the whole town, grieving for a man old enough to be her grandfather. His suspicions rose a notch higher. Maybe she was crying because with his death, her life of leisure and luxury was at an end. He knew the old man was worth a bundle. His mother had told him that. But she’d also told him how stingy he was. He wondered if that stinginess extended to his mistresses. If so, then maybe she was putting on a show to win the town’s sympathy in hopes that if the true heirs didn’t show up, she could get her hands on his money.

He turned away in disgust. As far as he was concerned, she could have it all.

At the last amen, signaling the end of the service, Gayla lifted her head and stood on rubbery legs numbed by the cold. She took the hand the minister offered and squeezed her gratitude. “Thank you, Reverend Brown. I know Ned would have been pleased with your remarks.”

The reverend patted their joined hands. “I doubt it,” he whispered for her ears only. “But one can always hope.” The comment was so full of the truth, Gayla couldn’t help but smile, for Ned Parker probably wouldn’t have been pleased to hear kind words spoken over his grave. If he’d had his way, he would have been buried in a pine box with no one but the gravediggers on hand for the ceremony. But Gayla had been equally determined that he would receive a proper and Christian burial, and the Reverend Mark Brown had honored her request.

With a last squeeze of her hand, the reverend stepped aside to let the rest of the mourners pass by the casket for one final view. A few offered their hands to Gayla, but most ignored her presence. Their coolness didn’t offend her; she’d had years to grow accustomed to the town’s constant censure.

The sight of the last man in line, though, drew a quivering smile. John Thomas, Ned’s attorney. John had served as Ned’s attorney for more than twelve years, ever since the death of John’s own father who had originally carried the responsibility.

When John reached her, he not only took her hand, but drew her against his chest for a tight hug. The tears that Gayla had fought throughout the service broke through.

She stepped away, dabbing at her eyes and cheeks. She dragged in a shuddery breath, keeping her arm at John’s waist while angling her body so that they both faced the casket. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Neither can I.” Gayla tightened her hold on him, sharing his sorrow and offering silent support. “The old codger put up a good fight, didn’t he?” he said gruffly.

Fresh tears welled and Gayla could only nod her agreement.

John’s chest rose and fell in a deep sigh. “Heaven will never be the same,” he said with a shake of his head. “He’s probably already got a poker game going and is stripping the angels of their golden harps while he calmly smokes one of those damn stinking cigars of his.”

Gayla couldn’t help but laugh, for John was probably right. She looked up at him, grateful to him for giving her a reason to smile when her world seemed to be crashing down around her. “Thanks, John. You’ve been a good friend, to Ned and to me.”

“And I’m still here for you. Don’t forget that,” he warned, shaking a finger beneath her nose.

“I won’t.”

The gravediggers appeared, anxious to finish their work and get out of the cold. Unable to watch this final scene, Gayla turned away. John seemed to understand her need to escape. He took her elbow and they walked in silence to the waiting car. “Have you heard from Ned’s daughter?” she asked, trying her best to keep her tone light and free of the fears that nagged at her.

John frowned. “No, though I’d hoped she’d at least have the decency to come to the funeral.”

“Ned always said she wouldn’t come, even for that. I guess he was right.” At the car door, she paused, not wanting to ask, but needing an answer to the question that still plagued her. “When will I need to move?”

John opened the door for her, a frown furrowing his forehead. “Don’t you worry about that now. Until Ned’s daughter shows up to claim her inheritance, there’s no need to make any changes. When you feel up to it, open Parker House for guests again. We’ll take care of the rest as the need arises. But for now,” he said, urging her into the car, “why don’t you go home and get out of the cold? You’ll feel better once you’ve had some rest.”

Brett had gone to the cemetery on a whim. Why, he wasn’t sure. The old man meant nothing to him. Yet, for some reason the service had left him restless and out of sorts. Eventually hunger drew him to a restaurant where he stopped to grab a bite to eat before finding a place to stay the night.

On the way inside, he plucked a local newspaper from a rack for company during his meal. Once the waitress had seated him and he’d placed his order, he settled back to thumb through the pages. Most of the front-page news was local stuff. On the second page, though, a headline caught his eye. Services Scheduled For Longtime Braesburg Resident. The obituary carried a picture, although anyone’s photograph could have been placed there and Brett wouldn’t have known the difference. He’d never seen his grandfather in person and if his mother had owned a picture of the man, she’d never shown it to Brett.

He read the article more out of boredom than anything else. Member of the Chamber of Commerce, Kiwanis Club. It appears the old man was at least civically, if not family oriented, he thought with no little malice. Preceded in death by his wife, Marjorie Holmes Parker. No mention of any survivors, but then Brett hadn’t expected the old man to mention his daughter. Why would he claim her after his death when he’d refused to acknowledge her while he was alive?

No. 1 Oak Knoll. The address listed as his residence sounded snobbish. Probably was. The one thing his mother had told him about Ned Parker was how proud he was of that property.

And now Brett owned it and everything else the old man had left behind.

As he stared at the paper, seeing nothing but the headaches associated with the unwanted inheritance, the solution to all his problems slowly came to him. Wouldn’t it be the perfect irony if he gave it all away to some charity? The property that the man had valued more than his daughter’s love? That would surely make the old man turn over in his grave! The thought brought the first smile that had creased his face since receiving the news of his grandfather’s death.

His dinner arrived and along with it, his appetite. He mentally laid out a plan of action while he ate. He would go to the attorney’s office first thing the next morning and get all the legal technicalities taken care of. He would simply give it all to—

He dropped his fork to his plate in disgust, as the need to make yet another decision arose. Which charity should he leave it to? he wondered in growing consternation. There were plenty out there to choose from. He glanced at the newspaper beside his plate and noticed that the city council was meeting that night.

The city, he thought with a satisfied smile. He would give it all to the city. They would probably turn it into a day-care center or a parking lot or maybe even tear it down. That would really get the old man’s goat. The house and whatever property the old man had left meant nothing to Brett. He just wanted to be done with this unwanted responsibility and head back home.

He left the restaurant satisfied with his plan and sure that once he checked into a motel, he would sleep like a babysomething he hadn’t been able to do since he’d received the. news of his grandfather’s death.

He was driving down Main Street looking for a place to spend the night, when he saw the street sign indicating Oak Knoll. Curious, he made the turn.

He assumed the street had received its name from the oaks that lined it. They arched across the wide avenue to form a natural canopy overhead. The houses sat way back on lots of an acre or more, and through the bare tree branches he could see that lights shone from a few of the residences. He glanced at the clock on the dash and was surprised to see that it was almost six o’clock. He hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. He would see the house, he told himself, then he was going to find a place to spend the night.

He followed the street to where it ended in a wide cul-desac. At the curb a stone pillar held a mailbox and below it swung a sign. No. 1 Oak Knoll, Parker House Bed-and-Breakfast.

He puckered his forehead in confusion. A bed-and-breakfast? Surely, he’d made a mistake. The newspaper lay on the seat beside him and he flipped it open to verify the address mentioned in the obituary.

A bed-and-breakfast? He couldn’t believe the old man would share his house with strangers when he wasn’t even willing to share it with his daughter.

He didn’t think twice about turning into the drive. It was a business, after all, so who could complain? Floodlights situated around the perimeter of the house made seeing the two-story native stone structure easy through the light fog and drizzling rain.

All of the mental pictures that he’d had of his mother’s former home slowly went up in smoke. He’d expected something dark and menacing, straight out of a gothic novel—nothing at all like this. Even through the rain and gloom that hung over it, the house still managed to look homey, even cheerful.

Wicker furniture was scattered about the wide front porch and the balcony above it. Dark green shutters flanked the windows that stretched from the floor of the porch to its ceiling. Through them, he could just make out the glow of a light coming from the rear of the house.

He’d meant to drive up to the house, take a quick look, then head out. If asked later, he couldn’t have said what made him climb out of his truck and approach the house. He rang the doorbell and waited, hunching his shoulders against the cold, wondering if anyone would respond to the bell and what he would say if they did.

Light from fixtures on either side of the door popped on and the door swung open. A woman stepped into the wedge of light. Although her face was washed free of makeup and her hair pulled up in a disheveled knot, he immediately recognized her as the young woman he’d seen at the cemetery.

The sight of her drew the same knee-jerk response he’d experienced earlier when he’d seen her at the funeral. Rather than the all-black garb she’d worn then, she now wore a shapeless denim dress that hung nearly to her ankles. The toes of her bare feet curled against the cold.

“May I help you?” she asked politely.

“Yes,” he replied. “I’d like a room for the night.”

She seemed startled by the request, then gestured to a white bow adorning the door. “I’m sorry, but we aren’t open for business,” she said in apology. “Mr. Parker passed away and was buried just this afternoon.”

Brett tried his darnedest to look remorseful. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. And I was looking forward to staying here.” He hunched his shoulders closer to his ears as a gust of wind swept across the wide porch. “I don’t know my way around town, so if you would be kind enough to direct me to a hotel or motel where I might get a room for the night, I’d be obliged.”

She hesitated only slightly, then opened the door wider, inviting him in. “It’s a nasty night to be out,” she said and closed the door behind him.

“Yes, ma’am, it is,” he agreed as he took this unexpected opportunity to look around. The entry was wide and welcoming, with a long upholstered bench along one side and a library table on the other. In front of him a staircase stretched upward into the darkness. He looked for some sign that his mother had once lived there—a photograph, anything—but saw nothing.

“We keep a phone here for the convenience of our guests,” she told him as she crossed to a table and pulled open a drawer. She took out a thick directory, flipped to the Yellow Pages, then gestured for him to join her. “Other than Parker House, Braesburg only has a motel, and unfortunately, it’s closed for repair. The closest place will be in Austin and that’s a good hour’s drive.” She frowned and tapped the page of the Austin directory. “But you might have a difficult time driving there tonight. I heard on the news a few minutes ago that they’re predicting an ice storm. Unusual for this part of Texas, but coming our way nonetheless.”

He tried to appear properly crestfallen. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

“Not really,” she said, worrying her lower lip as she stole a glance his way. She must have noticed the weariness of his stance or the dark circles under his eyes, for she closed the book with a decided snap. “I can’t very well send you out on a night like this. You can stay here.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Your staying here wouldn’t be an imposition.” She pushed back a wisp of hair that had escaped her bun, exposing a wan smile shaped by full, moist lips. “In fact, I’d welcome the company.”

“You’re sure?” he asked hesitantly.

“Positive.” With the decision made, she replaced the directory and shut the drawer. She angled the guest book his way. “If you’ll sign in here, Mr.—” She looked up at him inquiringly.

“Sinclair,” he said without thinking. “Brett Sinclair,” he finished more slowly. He extended his hand, watching her face for some sign of recognition.

But her facial expression never changed. She simply accepted his hand, smiled softly and replied, “Gayla Matthews. It’s nice to meet you.”

After he’d entered his name, she closed the register. “If you’d like, you can park under the portico in the back and get your things while I prepare a room for you.”

“No need to go to any trouble.”

“No trouble. Use the kitchen door just off the portico. There’s a pot of coffee on the stove in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

Without further ado, she caught up the fabric of her dress and climbed the stairs. Brett stood at the foot of the staircase and watched, her every step awarding him a more revealing view of her bare legs. Long, graceful, well shaped, he could almost imagine the feel of them wrapped around him. He shook his head, dispelling the image. What in the world had come over him? This woman was his grandfather’s mistress, for God’s sake!

He continued to watch until she reached the landing and disappeared down the dark hall, and wondered at his own sanity.

A night in his grandfather’s house with his grandfather’s mistress. What in the hell had possessed him to ask for a room? He shook his head at his own stupidity and headed out the front door.

Brett poured himself a cup of coffee, nursing its warmth between his hands as he rested a hip against the countertop and stared over his shoulder out the kitchen window. Outside sleet fell, exposed in the glow of the security light above the garage. The weatherman had been right, he acknowledged ruefully. The ice storm had arrived and in a matter of hours, the roads would be closed. Thanks to Gayla’s generosity, though, he wouldn’t be caught out in it.

Gayla? Generous? He sipped his coffee, puzzling over that particular possibility. At least in this instance she was, he amended. She might not be so accommodating when she learned who he was and his plans for Parker House.

He shook his head as he thought about her. It was hard for him to believe that she was his grandfather’s mistress, but he couldn’t think of any other plausible explanation for her presence at Parker House or the extent of her grief. Although he didn’t have much to commend his grandfather for, he could certainly salute his taste in women. Gayla was slender—he had detected that much through the shapeless dress—yet blessed with enough curves to satisfy any man’s tastes.

“I see you found the coffeepot.”

Brett jumped at the sound of her voice, fearful that somehow she’d managed to read his thoughts. He forced himself to take a deep breath before he turned to fully face her. He shifted the small of his back to rest against the countertop and lifted the cup in salute. “I did. And thanks.” He tipped his head in the direction of the window behind him. “It seems the weatherman was right, for a change. It’s already sleeting.” He offered her a grateful smile. “If not for you, I’d probably be stuck on the side of some road out there, freezing.”

She waved away his thanks. “Never turn away a guest,” she said as if quoting some unwritten law. At his puzzled look, she explained, “An innkeeper’s rule for survival.” She crossed to the coffeepot and poured a cup for herself. “Have you eaten? I could prepare something for you, if you like.”

“Thanks, but I grabbed a bite at a café on Main Street before I came here.”

“Dessert, then?” she asked. “I made a pound cake this morning, just in case—” She stopped herself before confessing she’d baked the cake in hopes that Ned’s daughter would show up for the funeral. When Brett continued to look at her, waiting for her to finish the statement, she blushed and turned away.

“In case what?” he pressed.

“In case any of the mourners came by after the funeral,” she finished lamely. She set her cup aside and busied herself gathering plates and silverware.

Brett couldn’t resist asking, “Did anyone come?”

“No,” she replied, her voice carrying a tinge of disappointment. “I’m sure it was the weather that kept them away.” She turned to him and forced a cheerful smile. “But you’re here, so it won’t go to waste. If you’ll have a piece, that is?”

And how could he refuse when she looked at him that way, obviously not wanting to be alone? He nodded his agreement. “Can’t let a good pound cake go to waste, now, can we?”

He pushed away from the sink and followed her to the table. She lifted off the domed top of a crystal cake plate, cut a generous slice of cake and levered it onto a dessert plate. Her movements were graceful and sure as she moved to the refrigerator and removed two bowls. From one she poured a measure of thick strawberry sauce onto the cake and from the other, a dollop of whipped cream. In spite of the fact that he wasn’t one bit hungry, Brett’s mouth watered as she slipped the plate in front of him. She stepped back, folding her hands neatly at her waist. “Would you care for anything else?”

Brett picked up his fork and gestured to the chair opposite his. “Sit down and join me. I hate to eat alone.”

She sat—although he could tell she would rather have fussed around the kitchen—and twisted a napkin she plucked from the table between her fingers. He toyed with his fork and tried like hell to think of something to say to fill the awkward silence. He finally took a bite of the cake. “This is real tasty. Do you do the cooking around here?”

“Thank you and, yes, I’m the cook.” She laughed softly. “And the upstairs maid and the downstairs maid and the concierge and the gardener.”

He lifted his gaze, his jaw slack with surprise. “You mean you do it all? There’s no staff?”

“No one other than myself, but really there’s no need. Business is usually slow in the winter months. In the summer, if we are booked for several weeks, I’ll hire a temporary to help out with the cleaning, but for the most part, I can handle the work.

“That’s what makes a bed-and-breakfast so appealing,” she explained. “People want to feel as if they are staying in a home, not a hotel. And that’s what I try to provide. Home-cooked meals, served in a warm and homey environment.”

Her sincerity and enthusiasm for Parker House and her job surprised him. It also drew a few questions. Like, how did she find the time—or the energy, for that matter—to serve as the old man’s mistress if she had all the responsibilities of running the place? From what he could see, the place was huge. -

“How many guests can you put up at a time?”

“There are six guest rooms, plus, last year we remodeled the carriage house and turned it into a bridal suite for honeymooners. It’s more private and there is a little sitting area off the back with a hot tub. It makes a romantic setting on a summer night.”

He absorbed all this, wondering how he could establish her relationship with Ned without asking outright. “Has the house been in your family long?”

She looked surprised, then quickly shook her head. “The house doesn’t belong to me. I just work here. The house is—” She swallowed and amended, “Was Mr. Parker’s.”

“The man who was buried today?”

“Yes.” She rose, picking up her still-full coffee cup, and carried it to the sink.

“What will happen now that he’s gone?”

Her back to him, she lifted a shoulder. “That’s up to his heirs.”

“Do they live in Braesburg?” Brett asked, wanting to see how much Gayla knew about his family.

“No,” she replied as she ran water into the cup. “I’m not sure where they live. Mr. Parker never spoke much about them. His attorney is handling all that.”

She finished washing out the cup and laid it gently on the drainboard. She stared out the window for a moment, her wrists resting on the sink’s edge, her shoulders slumped as if weighted by an unusually heavy burden. Then she seemed to shake herself from whatever thoughts she’d been focused on, and plucked a dish towel from the drainboard. She slowly dried her hands as she turned. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?” she asked, all signs of the melancholy gone. “I can give you a quick tour, then show you your room.”

Brett shoved back from the table, anxious to see more of the house his mother had grown up in. “Yes, ma’am, I would.” He retrieved his duffel bag from where he’d left it by the back door, then followed her through the kitchen door and out into the hall.

“The house was built in the 1830s,” she told him, as they walked to the front entry, “by Mrs. Parker’s family. They were of German descent, as were most of the town’s residents.” She stopped at the arched doorway that led into the living room and flipped on a light switch. A grand piano dominated one corner, while the rest of the space was sectioned into several cozy sitting areas, each with an antique sofa and a couple of overstuffed chairs.

“The furnishings, for the most part, are all original pieces, some brought to this country from Germany by Mrs. Parker’s family. Our guests are free to gather in here…play the piano, read, or just relax.” She switched off the light and crossed the hall to a large dining room, with Brett following close at her heels.

She flipped another switch and twin chandeliers flickered on above a long mahogany table.

“Most of our more formal meals are served in the dining room, although when the weather is nice, I like to serve breakfasts in the garden room.” She switched off the light and motioned for Brett to follow her. “The garden room is my personal favorite. It’s smaller and more intimate. When we decided to convert Parker House into a bed-and-breakfast,” she explained as she pushed back pocket doors, “I had the back porch enclosed.” She switched on the light.

Brett felt as if he’d stepped into a summer garden. Floorto-ceiling windows dominated three walls. The fourth was painted a pale yellow. Trails of hand-painted ivy framed the windows and crept onto the ceiling, giving the room its garden theme. Three round tables filled the center of the room, each draped with brightly colored floral cloths. The same fabric was swagged above each window, giving the effect of flowers coming into full bloom. An antique buffet stretched the length of the only solid wall, holding place mats, a coffee maker and a wooden basket filled with silverware and napkins.

Brett looked at Gayla and noticed the pride that showed in her eyes. “You did this, didn’t you?”

“The remodeling?” She shook her head. “No, I’m no carpenter by any stretch of the imagination. I just did the painting and sewed the drapes and the tablecloths. We hired a local man to enclose the room.”

She made her contribution sound so slight, but Brett could see that it was her touch that gave the room its ambience.

“Would you like to see the upstairs now?” she asked politely.

Brett shifted his duffel bag to his other hand. “Yes, ma’am, if you don’t mind.”

He followed Gayla back into the hall and then up the stairs.

On the landing, Gayla stopped in front of the door at the top of the stairs. “This will be your room, but I’ll save it for last.” She turned down the hall to her left. “There are three rooms in this wing of the house and four in the other, with your room separating them.”

She stopped in front of the first, chuckling, and tapped a finger on the brass plate attached to the front of the door. “It was Ned’s idea to name each room after Texas politicians. He insisted on putting all the Democrats on the left and the Republicans on the right, to keep them from fighting, he said.”

So he had a sense of humor, Brett thought, unmoved by this new knowledge. He followed Gayla into the right wing, only half listening as she expounded on Parker House’s history. At the end of the hall she stopped, her hand resting on the knob of the last door. Unlike the other rooms, no brass plate marked this door. Brett looked at her inquiringly.

Gayla dropped her hand to her side, her eyes bright with tears. “This was Mr. Parker’s room,” she said in explanation, then turned away.

She quickly moved to the door at the head of the stairs that she had told Brett would be his for the night, appearing anxious now to end the tour. “This room was named for Ned’s wife, Marjorie. Ned always referred to her as ‘the peacemaker,’ thus her placement here between the two parties. From what I’ve learned about her from Ned and others, she was a gentle woman, soft-spoken, but with a knack for handling even the most stubborn individuals. Being married to Ned, I’m sure that came in handy. He was devoted to her.”

A devoted husband? Brett thought, stifling a snort of disgust. Not according to the stories he’d been told by his mother.

Gayla opened the door and quickly crossed to switch on the lamp beside the bed. “I think you’ll be comfortable in this room. You have a private bath, there,” she told him, pointing to a door at her right. “Linens are in the closet behind the door.”

She turned to him, looking suddenly tired and anxious to escape his presence. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said as she twisted her hands at her waist. “I think I’ll go on to bed now. Help yourself to more coffee in the kitchen. There’s a television in the study. Stay up as late as you’d like. We like our guests to feel at home.”

Brett watched her until she closed the door behind her, blocking his view. At home? he thought with a snort. Not in this lifetime, and certainly not in this house.

Two

Although he hadn’t slept in over two days, Brett lay on his back on the feather bed in the room Gayla had prepared for him, wide-awake, his fingers laced beneath his head. He stared at the ceiling, hoping and praying that sleep would come soon. His entire body ached with weariness.

When he’d received the message to call his mother’s attorney, he’d just returned from an exhausting three-state inspection of all the Sinclair department stores. He’d been tempted to ignore the call, at least until he’d gotten some rest, but then had decided not to put it off. Now he wished he had waited.

The attorney was the one who had given him the news of his grandfather’s death. He’d said he’d received a telegram from an attorney in Braesburg, Texas, notifying him of the old man’s death and requesting that Christine, Brett’s mother, come home for the funeral.

Brett had almost laughed at that. So the old man had wanted his daughter to come home. His request had come too late. Christine Sinclair wouldn’t be coming home. Not ever again. Brett had buried her less than six months before.

The attorney had then reminded him that as Christine’s heir, he would inherit his grandfather’s estate.

That was worth a laugh, as well. Brett didn’t want the old man’s money. Why should he? The old man had never bothered to acknowledge his family before.

He would have ended the conversation then and gone to bed, but the attorney had insisted that he attend the funeral, saying that he owed it to his mother to do so. Brett disagreed with that bit of logic, but had finally gotten the attorney off his back by telling him he would give the lawyer in Braesburg a call after he’d had some rest.

But for some reason he’d found he couldn’t sleep. In the end, he’d thrown some clothes into a duffel bag and climbed back into his truck and headed for Braesburg. He’d driven all night and part of the next day, arriving just as the funeral procession was heading for the cemetery.

And now here he was in his grandfather’s house, wide-awake and with his ulcer burning a hole in his stomach. On a weary sigh, he dragged another pillow beneath his head, then leaned to turn on the bedside lamp. He fell back against the pillow and looked around the room. Nice little touches were scattered about, obviously Gayla’s work—a basket of fruit and crackers on the bedside table, a porcelain dish filled with green and pink mints. A pitcher of ice water. A crystal glass. He leaned over and thumbed up the lid on the pitcher, then promptly fell back against the pillows, unconsciously rubbing his hand across his stomach. No, water wasn’t what he needed. He needed milk to ease the burning.

She’d said for him to make himself at home, he remembered. He levered himself from the bed and hoped she’d included raiding the refrigerator in that invitation. He pulled on his jeans, but didn’t bother with his shirt and boots, then headed downstairs.

Careful not to make any noise, he eased down the stairs and across the hall. He was almost to the kitchen door when he heard a noise. He hesitated, listening, and was sure the sound had come from behind the study door. Thinking maybe he’d forgotten to turn off the television, he quickly crossed to the study and pushed open the door but froze when he saw Gayla sitting in an old leather chair by the fireplace, her back to him, bent at the waist, rocking back and forth. White-knuckled fingers clutched the ties of her robe against her mouth, muffling her sobs. He took a cautious step back, meaning to leave her to her grief, but then he stopped, his heart squeezing in time with each rise and fall of her slender shoulders.

She shouldn’t be alone at a time like this, he told himself angrily. She ought to have family or friends here to share her grief.

He took a step closer.

“Ma’am? Is something wrong?”

She whirled at the sound of his voice, then lurched to her feet. “No,” she said, swiping at her tears. “Nothing’s wrong. I couldn’t sleep and I—” She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle the sob that rose.

She looked about ready to collapse. Brett pressed her back into the chair. “You just sit down there and rest a minute. Can I get you something? A glass of warm milk? A shot of whiskey?”

“No—no, really,” she stammered, pulling the folds of her robe across her knees. “I’m sorry I awakened you.”

“You didn’t wake me. I couldn’t sleep, either.” Wearily, he dropped down on the floor beside the chair and pulled his knees against his chest, trying to think what to da. “Is there someone in your family that I can call? You know, to keep you company?”

She squeezed her hands between her knees, unable to meet his gaze. She shook her head. “No. No one.”

A shiver shook Brett clear to his toes at the bleakness in her tone. “It’s cold in here,” he said, blaming his reaction, in case she’d noticed, on the chill in the room.

“I’m sorry,” she said, instantly apologetic. “I turn the heat down on the first floor after I go to bed. But if you’re cold,” she said, rising to her feet, “I can turn it up.”

Brett caught her hand and pulled her back into the chair. He’d never seen a woman so intent to please. “How about if I just light that stack of wood in the fireplace? That ought to take the chill off.”

“I can do it.”

Brett laid a hand on her arm before she could rise. “And so can I,” he said firmly.

Seeing the stubborn glint in his eye, Gayla reluctantly sat. She watched as he carefully prepared the fire. The flame caught, then rose higher. Picking up the poker, Brett punched at the wood, rearranging it on the grate.

The fire’s glow radiated off his bare chest, capturing the gold in a necklace that swung from his neck. From the necklace’s delicate links hung a thin gold band and with each jab of his arm, the necklace swung, the band slapping against first one muscled pec, then the other.

Gayla had never really considered herself sexually deprived, but at the moment she couldn’t take her eyes off the sight of so much raw maleness. His shoulders were broad and muscled, tapering down to a slim waist and hips. A cowboy’s butt, she decided a little breathlessly, noticing the way his jeans cupped his rear end. She’d heard the bawdy phrase at Betty Jo’s Beauty Salon, but had never seen anything that fit the description quite so appropriately.

His skin glowed in the firelight, taking on a coppery hue, and she had the most irresistible urge to lay her hand on his back and feel the play of muscle as he poked and shoved at the dry wood. But thankfully, before she could act on the impulse, he replaced the poker and scooted back to sit beside her chair.

After a few moments, Brett tipped his head up to look at her. “What were you doing down here, anyway?”

His question brought the grief rushing back. “I don’t know,” she replied, swallowing the threat of more tears. “Lonely, I guess.” She dipped her head, embarrassed by the admission. “Ned spent most of his time in this room. Being here just seemed to make him closer.”

Brett turned his gaze back to the fire. “I used to do the same thing,” he replied thoughtfully.

Surprised, she tipped her head to look at him. “Really?”

“Yeah, after my mother passed away, I’d slip into her bedroom, just to get the scent of her. Eased the loneliness a bit.”

She nodded knowingly, a wistful smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “No perfume smells here, though. Ned smoked the most god-awful-smelling cigars. He was supposed to quit, because of his heart and all, but he’d sneak one every now and then.” She laughed softly. “I don’t know who he thought he was fooling. The foul things stunk up the entire house.” Fresh tears welled and she batted her hand in his direction. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I just can’t seem to stop crying.”

“Losing somebody you care for is tough. Sometimes it helps to talk about it,” he offered slowly, thinking that he might learn more about her relationship with his grandfather.

Gayla lifted her head, her cheeks wet with tears, to peer at him in surprise. His offer was as unexpected as his appearance at Parker House earlier that night. She found nothing but sincerity in his blue eyes, and a warmth that pulled at her, teasing her with the promise of much-needed comfort.

Although tempted beyond words to pour out her worries on this man’s shoulders, he was a stranger and a guest. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” she murmured, averting her gaze. She stood and swiped the backs of her hands beneath her cheeks. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I made a fresh pot a little while ago.”

Coffee? Damn, the caffeine would keep him up all night, Brett knew, but he could see by the hopeful look on her face that she wasn’t wanting to be alone just yet. He found himself unwinding his long legs to stand beside her. “No coffee for me, but a glass of milk sounds mighty good.”

“A glass of milk it will be, then, Mr. Sinclair,” she said as she turned for the kitchen.

He caught her before she took a full step. “The name’s Brett,” he said firmly as he guided her back to the chair. “You stay here and keep warm. I’ll get our drinks.”

“But you’re a guest,” she objected, her voice rising in panic. “I can’t ask you to wait on me.”

“You didn’t ask, I offered. Now sit right there until I get back.”

In the kitchen, as she’d promised, a pot of fresh coffee sat on the stove. Brett quickly poured her a cup, then filled a glass with milk for himself and headed back to the study. She sat where he’d left her, staring at the fire. He thrust the coffee mug under her nose.

Startled, she lifted her gaze. In the firelight he could see that her cheeks were wet, her eyes red and swollen from her crying. He’d never felt more useless in his life.

More gently, he nudged the mug against her hand. She accepted it, slipping two fingers through the curved handle and wrapping both hands around its warmth. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“You’re welcome.” He eased back down beside her and lifted the glass of milk to his lips. When he’d drained the glass, he set it aside. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth before leaning back with his elbows braced against the carpet and his legs stretched out in front of him.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her. She sat with the mug cradled in her hands, her gaze fixed on the fire, staring, but seeing…what? he wondered. What did she see in the flames? Memories? Regrets, maybe? The sadness, he could understand. But underneath he swore he glimpsed fear. Fear of what? he wondered. Of being alone? Of losing her home, her job?

A stab of guilt made him frown. He wasn’t responsible, he told himself as he rubbed his hand across the burning sensation in his stomach. Not for Gayla Matthews. She’d made her own decisions that had brought her to this point, decisions that he’d had no part in. No, he wouldn’t feel guilty when Parker House was turned over to the city and she lost her job and her home.

For some reason, telling himself this didn’t ease the burning in his stomach any more than the milk.

Gayla closed her eyes and pressed the coffee mug to her forehead to ease the painful throbbing in her head. Catching the movement out of the corner of his eye, Brett turned to her. “Would you like another cup of coffee?”

For a moment Gayla had forgotten Brett still sat beside her. She lowered the cup to her knee, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Brett noticed the trembling in her hand and eased the cup from her grasp and set it aside. “Can I get you anything? An aspirin or something?”

Again she shook her head, even though that simple action was enough to make her head throb even worse. She sank back against the cushions and closed her eyes, smoothing her palms up and down the chair’s arms, seeking comfort in the worn leather. She could feel Brett’s gaze on her, and even though he was a stranger, she was grateful for his company. “Talk to me,” she requested softly. “Please, just talk to me.”

Brett looked at her in puzzlement. “About what?”

“Anything. Your life. Your job. What brings you to Braesburg. Anything.”

Brett pulled himself from his reclining position and draped his wrists over his knees. “I’m here on business,” he finally said and knew it wasn’t a lie. He was in Braesburg on business—of sorts. “My home is in Kansas City.” He stopped, unsure what else to say that wouldn’t reveal his identity.

“Do you have family there?” she asked, encouraging him to go on.

“No. Both my parents are dead.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“No. I was an only child.”

“I have nine. Four brothers and five sisters.”

Brett whipped his head around to look at her. Her eyes were still closed but a soft, wistful smile curved her lips.

“Nine?” he repeated, unable to believe what she’d said.

“Yes, nine. I haven’t seen them in years. They’re scattered all over the United States. I’m the only one who remained in Texas.”

“Nine,” he repeated again as he turned back to the fire, wondering what it would be like to grow up with brothers and sisters. His friends had always considered him lucky, not having to put up with annoying siblings, not having to share toys or the attention of his parents. Of course, they hadn’t known what a living hell his home life had been. He’d often wished for brothers or sisters, anyone to detract from the hate that filled his parents’ home, but never more than now. If he’d been blessed with siblings, then perhaps he wouldn’t have to carry alone the load of family responsibilities that currently weighed so heavily on him.

“What do you do in Kansas City?”

Her question pulled him from his wishful thoughts. “I’m president of Sinclair Corporation, a chain of department stores that my dad owned.”

“Hmm. Sounds important. I’m impressed.”

Brett scowled at the fire, thinking of the frustrations he dealt with daily. “Don’t be. I’m president in title only. The board of directors of the corporation sees to that.”

“And that frustrates you,” she said knowingly, hearing the level of it in his voice.

“Damn right,” he muttered.

She laughed softly. “If I’d been guessing, I’d have guessed you to be a rancher, not a corporate president.”

“A rancher?” he echoed, finding himself amused by her assumption. “Why?”

“The jeans, the boots, the truck. Those are more the trappings of a rancher than a corporate executive.”

Brett couldn’t help but laugh. “My board of directors would probably agree with you. They’re always harping at me to improve my image. They’d prefer I wore starched shirts and three-piece suits.” He wagged his head regretfully. “Unfortunately, that’s not my style. I’m more comfortable in jeans and boots.”

“Ned was that way,” Gayla replied thoughtfully. “Always thumbing his nose at convention.”

Brett frowned at the comparison.

“He caught a lot of flak from the people of the town when he brought me here. There was quite a bit of gossip.”

And no wonder! Brett agreed silently. An old man taking in a young girl more than half his age? Yeah, there was plenty of room for gossip in that arrangement.

His grandfather’s relationship with Gayla was really no concern of his—or so Brett tried to tell himself. But for some reason, he couldn’t seem to shake the need to know if she was really in fact the old man’s mistress. “Did it bother you?” he asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.

“Some.” She smiled sadly, remembering. “But I was accustomed to being the topic of town gossip. Ned, he didn’t give a darn what they thought. Once a group of concerned citizens came here and lectured him on appearances and his moral responsibilities as a leader in the community. He told them they could all go to hell.”

Good for him, Brett applauded silently, then quickly squelched the traitorous thought. He wouldn’t think kind thoughts of the man who had made his own mother’s life a living hell.

“So you weren’t his mistress?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

Slowly she turned her gaze on him. That he’d insulted her was obvious in the lift of her chin, the ice that chilled her reply. “No, but it certainly didn’t stop the talk.”

Brett felt a stab of regret for the callous question, but knew it was too late to take it back. Hoping to change the subject to a less invasive one, he asked, “How did you end up as innkeeper at Parker House?”

Gayla’s chest rose and fell in a deep, shuddering breath. She turned her gaze back to the fire. “It’s a long story.”

Brett lifted his hands. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She stared at the fire in silence for so long, Brett decided that she wasn’t going to answer his question. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “My family moved around a lot when I was growing up. There were so many of us, and Mother, well, she had a knack for picking the most worthless men for husbands. Each time she married, she promised us that this man would take care of us, that we’d have a home and food and clothes. But they usually ended up taking more than they gave. Wherever we lived, Mother would usually get a job as a waitress or a cook, but with so many of us, what she made was never enough. So we pretty much depended on the kindness and generosity of the townspeople where we lived for our needs. At least we did until we’d worn out our welcome and they ran us out of town.”

Brett heard the embarrassment in her voice, the humiliation, but more, he heard the pride that made accepting charity difficult for Gayla.

“Just before school started, my senior year,” she continued, “we moved to Braesburg and I got a job as a clerk in Ned’s hardware store downtown. Things were going great for us. Mother had married again, husband number six, and we had a little house on the edge of town within walking distance of the schools. But then her husband got laid off and we had to move again. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to finish the school year and graduate from Braesburg High.

“Ned knew how much I hated moving, so he went to my mother and stepfather and asked if they’d make Ned legal guardian for me, and allow me to live in the carriage house here at Parker House until school was out.”

Brett frowned, thinking of his mother. The old man had kicked out his own daughter, but taken in Gayla, a stranger. The irony of that didn’t escape him. “And they agreed?”

“Yes. I was just one less mouth to feed.”

Brett could see that Gayla held no ill feelings about the arrangement. “But that was years ago and you’re still here.”

“Yes, I know. After I finished school, I didn’t want to leave. I loved it here. Mr. Parker offered me a full-time job and I worked for him for about three more years. Then he got sick and had to close the store. I couldn’t leave then-not when he didn’t have anyone to look after him—so I stayed on as his housekeeper and nurse.”

“For the same salary, I hope.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t accept his money. After all, he provided me a home and never asked anything of me in return.”

Brett couldn’t decide if she was that foolish or that kind, but either way he figured Ned had come out ahead. “What about the bed-and-breakfast? How did that come about?”

“Need. Mr. Parker’s business had been on the decline for years before he was forced by his health to close it down. Bills had stacked up and he was having a hard time making ends meet.”

“Why didn’t he just sell the place?”

“Mr. Parker would never sell Parker House,” she said adamantly. “Turning it into a bed-and-breakfast offered us income without sacrificing the house.”

Brett snorted. “Stubborn old cuss, if you ask me. He should have sold the property.”

“Yes, he was stubborn, all right. But Parker House meant more to him than the money it would bring. It was his home. And in a way, mine, too.”

To Brett’s way of thinking, Ned Parker was a fool, and Gayla a bigger one for going along with him. He turned to tell her just that, but stopped when he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. As he watched, the tears brimmed over her eyelids and streaked down her face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, ashamed that he’d made her cry again. He lifted a hand to cover hers. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” Heat from her hand seeped through his fingers, setting every nerve ending in his body to pulsing. Quickly, he snatched his hand back.

Unaware of the effect she had on him, she shook her head. “No. What you said is true. Ned Parker was a stubborn old cuss. But I loved him,” she said, her voice hitching. She turned to face Brett fully, tears streaming down her face. “He offered me what I’d always dreamed of. A home. Family and roots. And now he’s gone.”

Her tears grew in intensity until her shoulders racked with heartbreaking sobs. Brett felt wholly responsible, for he was the one who’d dredged up the memories by delving into her past. He knelt in front of her chair, but he kept his hands glued to his thighs, reluctant to touch her again.

“Gayla, I’m sorry,” he said, for those were the only words of comfort he knew to offer. A wisp of hair blocked his view of her face. Careful not to touch her, he caught it and tucked it behind her ear. “Please, don’t cry,” he begged her.

Brett couldn’t stand the sight of her suffering any longer. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against his chest. His eyes widened in surprise when, on a broken sob, she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his cheek. She clung to him like he was a life raft in a storm-tossed sea. Unsure what to do, he self-consciously rubbed a hand up and down her back, trying to calm her.

“Shh,” he soothed, his cheek moving against her hair. The silky tresses whispered against his unshaven cheek, unleashing the scent of roses. The combination of silk and roses was irresistible. He buried his nose deeper into her hair, filling his senses with the intoxicating fragrance. “Please, don’t cry anymore,” he murmured softly.

But her sobbing continued, growing in depth and intensity. She felt so small in his arms, so fragile. He knew she didn’t deserve this misery, any more than his mother had deserved what she’d suffered at the hand of Ned Parker. An unexpected need to protect Gayla welled within him. He gathered her closer, slowly rocking her back and forth.

She tightened her arms around him, and the swell of her breasts pressed seductively against his chest. His body responded in the most elemental way. Heat curled lazily in his groin, then surged upward to spread through his chest. His breath came in increasingly shorter bursts, stirring her hair.

He turned his lips to her temple. It was only a natural progression to her cheek. Her skin was soft beneath his lips, and flavored with the salt of her tears. Needing to see her, to anchor himself both emotionally and physically, he caught her chin in his hand and tipped her face up to his.

Her gaze met his—brown eyes flooded with tears, appearing like circles of molten chocolate against her pale skin. The utter hopelessness in her expression stabbed at his heart. So young, he thought sadly, to have the weight of the world heaped on her shoulders. All she’d done was care for an old man, and in doing so, had seemingly sacrificed her youth and her future.

She shouldn’t have looked desirable to him at that moment, with her eyes all red and puffy and her cheeks wet with tears, dressed in a tattered blue terry robe. Yet, she did. More desirable than anyone he’d met in a long time.

Full and moist, her lips were slightly parted and a breath away from his own, tempting him to draw closer. Without thinking of anything beyond the moment, he lowered his head.

The warmth of his breath touched Gayla first, followed quickly by the searing heat of his lips on hers. At the initial contact, she stiffened, then slowly she let herself go, melting into him, accepting his kiss, drawing from it.

He offered an easy path from grief to passion, one Gayla navigated without even realizing she’d made the step.

She needed his warmth, his comfort, the distraction from her grief, her worries. She clung to him, desperately absorbing the strength he offered so willingly, needing to feel the thrum of youth and vitality that pumped through his veins and the life that warmed her hands. The touch of his lips on hers was tender and giving. The shared breath, a renewal of life she needed in order to go on.

His arms tightened around her, the muscles in his back bunching and shifting beneath her hands, and their intimacy climbed to another level. She clawed at him, her nails digging into his back, flesh against flesh, heat drawing heat.

Her actions incited Brett, fanning the flames that already heated his blood to near boiling. He drew her closer still, until he’d dragged her from the chair and she lay sprawled across his knees, her face turned up to his, allowing him easier access to her lips. With her crushed against his chest, his lips on hers, he tugged the afghan free of her legs and tossed it in front of the fire. He followed, carrying her with him, gently laying her in front of the fire, then dragging his lips down the smooth column of her neck to the skin exposed in the veed opening formed by her robe’s collar. He soothed her not with words, but with his hands and his mouth, kissing away the salty tears, lighting fires where the chill of grief had threatened before.

Before he realized what was happening, he’d nudged the panels of her robe farther apart, exposing more and more skin for his ministrations until he’d bared a breast. Bathed a rosy hue by the glow of the fire, the delicate translucency of her skin lured him on. He touched a finger to the budded nipple that had taunted him through the thin robe, and felt the shudder of desire course through her. On a groan, he closed his mouth over the pebbled orb, drawing it deep within his mouth. Gayla arched beneath him, framing his face to hold him close.

Desire became something fierce, threatening to consume them if not sated. Moving quickly, Brett caught the tie of her robe and yanked it free, pushing the folds of her robe away. Shucking out of his jeans, he angled himself between her legs. His gaze locked on her face, slowly, rhythmically, he rubbed his groin against the pillowed softness of her femininity, teasing her, taunting her until her chest heaved and her breath came in ragged gasps.

“Oh, God, please,” she whispered, begging for release.

He rose above her, sliding his hands down her back until her buttocks rested in the breadth of his hands. He lifted, his own breath rasping, and guided her to him.

Her breath caught at the joining, and then escaped in a low, guttural moan as he moved inside her, carrying her farther and farther away from the sadness, the grief, the fears.

She slept like an angel.

Brett lay beside Gayla, watching her, his head propped on his bent arm, his elbow buried in the tangled folds of her robe. With a gentleness that was totally uncharacteristic of him, he caught a wisp of blond hair and tucked it behind her ear to better see her face. Her features were well-defined, patrician almost in their design, yet totally and undeniably feminine. He traced the lines, beginning at her forehead, trailing down her nose, across the slash of cheekbone to the delicate curve of her ear.

His chest rose and fell in a deep sigh as he let his palm cradle the elegant contour of her jaw. He’d never felt so…so soft toward a woman before, almost as if his heart had melted in his chest. How had this happened? he wondered again. How had his offer of comfort to this woman turned into the wild play of lovemaking that had resulted?

He brushed a knuckle along the thick curl of lashes that fanned beneath her eyes. At the moment, he didn’t care what had transpired. He was too weak, too sated to care much about anything.

A shiver shook him and he cut a glance at the dying embers in the fireplace. Not knowing where more firewood was stored, he heaved a resigned sigh. If he didn’t get them to a bed and under some covers, they were liable to both catch their death of cold. Pushing to his feet, he pulled on his jeans, then carefully tucked Gayla’s robe around her shoulders.

Kneeling, he gathered her into his arms, then stood. Moaning softly, she nestled against him, seeking the warmth of his chest, but her eyes remained closed, her sleep undisturbed.

His heart swelled at her unconscious seeking of him as her fingers curled into a soft fist against his chest. Smiling tenderly down at Gayla, Brett carried her up the stairs to his room.

Gayla awakened with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. Disoriented, she pushed to her elbows, and the bedcovers slipped to her waist. Mrs. Parker’s room? she wondered in confusion. What was she doing here? Suddenly chilled, she looked down and was shocked to find herself naked. A movement beside her made her whip her head around. Brett lay on the bed at her side, groping for the covers she’d robbed from him when she’d bolted upright.

Although she had no memory of coming to this room, the events of the previous night came rushing back.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered against trembling fingers. “What have I done?”

Inching carefully to the edge of the mattress, she slipped from beneath the covers and grabbed her robe from the foot of the bed where Brett must have draped it after carrying her to his room. Ramming her arms through the sleeves, she yanked the belt tight around her waist and all but ran to the door. Opening it slowly, she slipped through the narrow opening and closed it softly behind her. Once free of the room, she collapsed against the wall and covered her mouth with trembling hands.

How will I ever be able to face him in the morning? she wailed inwardly.

Three

Brett rolled onto his back, stretching his hands to the headboard and his toes to the foot of the bed. With a growl and a shudder, he sank back against the pillow and reached for Gayla. His hands came up with only air. Opening one eye, he lifted his head and cut a glance to the other side of the bed and found it empty. Her absence both angered and saddened him.

He dropped his head back onto the pillow and covered his face with his hands. You fool, you fool, you fool, he cursed himself inwardly, as he dragged his hands roughly down his face. What were you thinking!

He tried to convince himself that she was as guilty as he, for he certainly hadn’t forced her—but he knew that was only half the truth. She couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. He’d taken advantage of her grief-stricken state. He’d played on her vulnerability, taken what she’d so innocently offered, and given her—What? he demanded of himself. What had he given her in return?

Nothing, he told himself, but a momentary escape from her misery. And to add insult to injury, now he was about to strip her of her home.

But he could give her one thing, he told himself as he levered himself from the bed. He would save her the embarrassment of having to face him in the light of day. He would take a quick shower, pack his bag and slip out before she knew he was gone. He could grab some breakfast at the diner he’d eaten at the day before, put in a call to his grandfather’s attorney, take care of the legalities of settling the estate, and get out of town.

He strode to the window and pushed back the drapes. Sun glistened off the trees’ ice-covered branches, already melting away winter’s ravages of the night before. But he knew bad weather wouldn’t have stopped him from doing what he had to do. Nothing could.

Gayla stood in the doorway to the room where Brett had slept, one hand braced against the doorjamb to keep herself from succumbing to the dizzying sensation that dragged at her. The bedcoverings hung crazily from one side of the bed. His duffel bag was gone, as were the clothes and boots she’d stepped over as she’d stolen from his room in the middle of the night. The bathroom door stood ajar, allowing scents of soap and a manly after-shave to mingle with the fragrance of the lavender potpourri she kept in a crystal bowl on the dresser.

That he was gone was obvious.

She’d suspected as much when he hadn’t responded to her call for breakfast, had even prayed he had left so that she wouldn’t have to face him after what had happened the night before. But the proof of his hasty departure saddened her in a way she couldn’t explain.

She entered the room slowly, stooping to pick up a damp towel from the floor. She drew it to her face, inhaling the scent of him as she crossed to the bed. Tears of regret burned her eyes as she accepted the fact that he was gone and she would never see him again. In leaving, he took with him any hope that Gayla might secretly have harbored for a second taste of their passion.

Her fingertips trailed the high, polished footboard, remembering the comfort, the passion she’d experienced in his arms, knowing that in the lonely nights to come, she would resurrect that memory and draw comfort from it again.

With a sigh, she scooped up the bedspread and tangle of blankets and tossed them back across the bed. A flutter of paper on the pillow caught her eye and she froze as she stared at the crisp bills that settled in the dent on the pillow left by Brett’s head. Two one-hundred-dollar bills. More than twice the price she’d named for the room. Humiliation seared her cheeks and burned through her chest as she realized he’d left the money for more than the cost of his lodging.

He was paying for services rendered by the innkeeper of Parker House.

Brett dropped a quarter in the slot and dialed the number he’d scrawled on the back of a business card. “I need to speak with John Thomas, please,” he told the receptionist who answered the phone.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Brett Sinclair.”

“Just a moment, please.”

He didn’t have to wait long before a man’s voice came across the line.

“John Thomas. May I help you?”

“I hope so. My name’s Brett Sinclair. I’m Christine Parker Sinclair’s son.”

There was a pregnant pause, then the lawyer said dryly, “I had hoped to hear from Christine, herself.”

Brett could hear the censure in the man’s voice, and fought down the anger it spawned. “I’m calling on her behalf.”

“She couldn’t trouble herself to make the call personally?”

“Christine Sinclair died six months ago,” Brett replied impatiently. “As her son and only living heir, I’m the executor of her estate.”

“I see.” There was another pause. “So that would make you sole heir to your grandfather’s property, as well?”

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