Forget the sexy, wind-tossed blond hair, stubble of sandy beard and well-muscled arms. What really had her mouth watering was what he held in his hand.

“Is that coffee?”

He drank deeply before replying, apparently having noted the reverence in her tone. “Yes, it is.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have more of it?”

“An entire pot. Just made it before I came out for my morning walk.” He sipped it again. “Ground the beans myself.”

She couldn’t help it. A soft moan escaped her lips. He raised his eyebrows when he heard it, but he made no comment.

“I don’t suppose you’re feeling neighborly?”

He smiled, and Marnie told herself it was only the promise of caffeine that had her pulse shooting off like a bottle rocket.

Certainly, it wasn’t the more than six feet of gorgeous man standing five yards in front of her.

Jackie Braun began making up stories even before she could write them down, but she followed her dad’s advice and earned a college degree so she could get a “day job.” She worked as a journalist for seventeen years, eleven of those years as an editorial writer at a daily newspaper, before finally quitting to make fiction her full-time career. She is a former RITA® Award and National Readers’ Choice finalist, and past winner of the Rising Star Award in traditional romance. She lives with her husband, Mark, and their son, Daniel, in Flushing, Michigan.

Recent titles by the same author

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3804—HER STAND-IN GROOM

3825—THE GAME SHOW BRIDE

3840—IN THE SHELTER OF HIS ARMS

The Billionaire’s Bride
Jackie Braun

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my sisters Donna, Patty and Loraine

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PROLOGUE

MARNIE STRIKER LARUE covered the mouthpiece of the telephone with one hand and hollered, “Do not put Dorothy in the fridge again, Noah.”

She couldn’t see into the kitchen, but she’d developed a sixth sense where her four-year-old son was concerned and he’d been awfully preoccupied with that goldfish lately.

Sure enough, he hollered back, “Aw, Mom.”

When Marnie saw him dash in the direction of his bedroom, she settled back onto the couch beside the mountain of unfolded laundry and, securing the receiver between her ear and shoulder, said, “So, what were you about to say, Mother?”

“I just wanted to mention that Dad saw an interesting article in the Phoenix Sun the other day about how the number of female-owned businesses is on the rise.”

Apparently her parents, who had retired to Arizona several years before, still had a sixth sense when it came to their youngest child.

This was another not so subtle reminder that Marnie’s plan to start her own business had languished for three years now. With her late husband’s enthusiastic backing, she’d plotted out a strategy for a mail-order business, a frillier version of Land’s End and L.L. Bean. At first, she’d planned to offer clothing and accessories for women like her who lived far from shopping centers and strip malls, but who still wanted to be fashionable. Later, she’d hoped to branch out into men’s and children’s clothing and then finally to include home decor.

It was to be called Marnie’s Closet, a name that had come courtesy of her sister-in-law, Rose, who still borrowed things to wear on occasion, although not as often now since Marnie hadn’t added so much as a new belt to her wardrobe in a few seasons.

The entire typed-out plan was still somewhere in Marnie’s house, gathering dust. It had been hatched PHD—Pre-Hal’s Death. That’s how Marnie thought of everything now, as if her world had been bisected neatly in two by the events of one horrific afternoon three years earlier.

“Your husband is dead.”

Those were the only words she’d heard that day. The remainder of what the kind-faced Michigan State Police officer had said had been lost to the roaring in her ears as she’d sat on the couch in her tidy little home holding tightly to her infant son while the rest of her world had slipped beyond her grasp and shattered into unsalvageable pieces.

Even now it seemed inconceivable. Dead? Not Hal. Not her careful, methodical, safety-conscious husband. It was a mistake. Had to be. Someone else’s husband had died trying to save two inebriated downstate snowmobilers who had ignored thin ice warnings and tumbled sled and all into the unforgiving waters of Lake Superior.

But then as now the truth could not be ignored. Hal was dead. The boy she had loved, the young man she had married, had become the spouse she mourned.

Since his death, she’d forgotten all about the business venture that had so excited her. She’d forgotten about everything but maintaining her tenuous financial footing and seeing to her son’s needs. Every morning for the past three years she’d gotten up tired and every night she had gone to bed bone weary, the monotony of her predictable schedule broken only by the bittersweet joy of watching her son learn to walk and talk and then run and reason.

“You know, they have a lot of programs to help women entrepreneurs succeed,” her mother said.

Marnie closed her eyes and counted to ten before replying blandly, “Really. That’s interesting.”

She was determined not to rise to the bait. But her mother was a master angler and not about to let her daughter off the hook so easily.

“It’s a shame you haven’t given it any more thought. You do a wonderful job running the Lighthouse Tavern for Mason while he’s out of town.”

Marnie’s older brother was a state legislator now. She had taken over his managerial duties at their family-owned pub when he was elected to the state House a few years back. What her mother wasn’t saying in this carefully choreographed conversation was what they all knew: Marnie found running the tavern safe and familiar.

The woman who previously had craved adventure and excitement had not strayed from the beaten path since she’d opened the door that chilly March afternoon to two grim-looking state troopers and become a single mother grappling to make ends meet.

“Why don’t you bring Noah down to see us over Easter break?” her mother suggested. “The change of scenery would do you both good.”

“It’s not a good time, Mom.”

Marnie switched the telephone receiver to her other shoulder and continued to fold laundry. It seemed like one endless, thankless chore to her. From the corner of her eye, she watched the source of much of that laundry streak by, peanut butter and jelly smeared on his shirt as well as his face. Noah was on his second outfit of the day and it wasn’t quite one o’clock.

“Nonsense. It’s the perfect time for you to come. Mason will be back in town over the holidays. The Legislature is out of session.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. But I really can’t afford a vacation right now.”

But her mother persisted. “Dad and I want to see our grandson. And you, too, dear. Come out to Arizona. It’s our treat.”

“I can’t let you pay our airfare.”

Indignation turned her voice crisp. She earned a living, enough to pay her bills on time if she was frugal. She had yet to touch a penny of Hal’s life insurance policy, which she’d invested for Noah, to be used to finance his college education. And she would be damned if she’d accept a handout now simply because her mother thought she needed to put her feet up.

But her indignation was short lived.

“We’re your parents, Marnie Elizabeth, so don’t you dare think of it as charity,” her mother said sternly.

The tone she used had Marnie cringing. She was thousands of miles away and yet her mother could always make Marnie feel just as she had when she was a twelve and had been caught smoking dried corn silk out behind the woodshed. She’d been grounded for two weeks—the fact that she’d turned green and thrown up apparently not punishment enough in Edith Striker’s estimation.

“We either pay your airfare to come here or we pay our airfare to come there. Same amount either way, so which will it be?”

Before she could respond, her mother threw down the trump card.

“Of course, with Dad’s arthritis, Michigan’s cold weather will be hell on his joints, but I’ll leave the choice up to you.”

Some choice.

But after hanging up, Marnie resigned herself to the visit, deciding there were worse things than having to spend time in a warm climate during the last leg of northern Michigan’s harsh winter. Besides, it would be good for Noah. He deserved a little fun and adventure now and then.

She began mentally making plans for a two-week stay at her parents’ home just outside Yuma. She’d have to get someone to pick up her mail, water the houseplants and feed Noah’s goldfish—assuming the poor thing survived until then. Glancing at the piles of folded laundry, she realized she’d also have to sort through her son’s summer clothes to see what still fit.

Maybe she could pick up a few things for him down in Arizona. Maybe she could pick up a few things for herself. Getting more in the spirit of things, she decided the trip might be good for her, an unexpected detour of sorts before she returned to her life’s monotony.

CHAPTER ONE

“HOLA! UM…UH…HMM.

“Donde esta…? Donde esta…? What’s the word?” she muttered. Glancing up at the clearly baffled cafe owner, she asked hopefully, “Bathroom? Um. Toileto? El johno?”

Okay, so it wasn’t actual Spanish, but Marnie really had to use the facilities and it couldn’t wait until after she’d rewound the Berlitz tape she’d listened to in the car on the trip south from Arizona and figured out the word for rest room.

Some detour, Marnie thought, as she thumbed through her Spanish/English dictionary in desperation. She hadn’t planned this side trip to Mexico, but she’d felt so crowded at her parents’ Yuma, Arizona, home. She was a grown woman of thirty-two, a mother herself to a precocious preschooler. But for four days they had hovered over her as if she were a wounded chick in need of nurturing. Finally she ‘d decided to leave Noah in their care—he would appreciate the doting, after all. She’d borrowed their car and driven south with no destination in mind.

Now, here she was a couple of hours or so beyond the United States border on Mexico’s Baja Peninsula. And she really needed to relieve herself.

From behind her, she heard the deep rumble of masculine laughter. When she turned, Marnie wondered how she could have missed the man. He sat at one of the small round tables near the door, his hulking frame in silhouette thanks to the light streaming in from the window behind him. And yet she knew without clearly seeing his features that his expression was one of amusement.

At her expense.

“Do you speak English?” she demanded, squelching the urge to cross her legs and hop in place.

“Si, yo hablo ingles, muchacha,” he replied smoothly.

His pronunciation was so flawless it took her a moment to realize that while he’d said so in Spanish, he could indeed communicate with her.

She pasted on a smile—one that would have had her brother Mason wisely moving well out of her range. This man merely crossed his arms over his broad chest and leaned back until the front legs of his chair left the ground.

“Clever, Mr.—?”

Where her lethal glare hadn’t fazed him, her simple question apparently did. The chair bounced back to the ground with a thud. He hesitated a moment, as if he was reluctant to identify himself.

“Friends call me J.T,” he said at last.

“J.T. Wow, that’s funny.”

He angled his head to one side, again seeming suspicious of her. “What’s funny?”

“Just that we’re barely acquaintances and I already have a pet name for you, too.”

But she bit her tongue on the expletive that came to mind and asked sweetly, “So, J.T., could you tell me where the rest room is?” Her smile was really more a baring of teeth when she added, “Por favor.”

“Donde esta el baño?”

“Yes, yes.” She waved her hand impatiently. “I think we’ve already established that you’re bilingual. And isn’t that a wonderful trait? I know I now deeply regret taking Home Ec as an elective rather than a foreign language while I was in high school. Be that as it may, I’d really appreciate it right now if you could just answer the question. In English. Or maybe French. I did take two semesters of French in middle school.”

He rattled off something that had her exhaling slowly. The man would have to be multilingual.

“Okay, not French. English. Eng-lish!”

“Well, then, by all means.”

He stood and took a few steps toward her, bringing him close enough that she could now fully make out his features. Where she and Hal had been on eye level, this man had several inches on her, despite the thick wedge of her heel. He was blond to her dark hair, with eyes the same shade of blue as the flower of the wild chicory that grew alongside the highway back home. Every inch of him was tanned and toned, and impressively coated with some serious muscle.

Not her type at all, she thought, even as her pulse rate spiked and almost made her forget the fact that her bladder felt as if it were being stretched by the entire contents of the Great Lakes.

It had been a long time since she’d felt this way around a member of the opposite sex. The sensation was unwanted now, and, to Marnie’s way of thinking, its presence was just another reason to dislike the handsome stranger.

“Down that hallway and to the right.”

“Thank you.”

“De nada.”

She smiled and had just taken a step in the direction he’d indicated when he added, “For future reference, Donde esta el baño? is handy phrase should you find yourself in your, uh, current predicament again.”

“Gracias,” she replied with a roll of her eyes and hurriedly took her leave.

The annoying, albeit gorgeous American was nowhere to be found when Marnie returned, a fact for which she was grateful. The exchange made her feel foolish now. And she didn’t care for that instant jolt of attraction. She didn’t like his type, good-looking though he was. She preferred men with brains to men with mere brawn.

The woman wiping up the tables in the cafe smiled broadly when Marnie approached. After a long consultation with the dictionary, she was able to ask about accommodations. The woman pointed to the map Marnie held, her slim finger stopping just north of the small fishermen’s village where they were. Marnie had passed through the resort town the woman indicated. She’d wanted no part of it. Too loud. Too crowded. She wanted peace and quiet and a bit of isolation. This small village place was perfect.

“No, no. No…turista.”

She flipped through the book again. She’d bought it less than twenty-four hours earlier and it was already dog-eared and showing other signs of wear. Well, she was definitely getting her money’s worth.

“I need to get away, be alone,” Marnie said in English, knowing full well the woman’s polite smile meant she didn’t have a clue what she was rattling on about.

“Viuda,” Marnie said finally, pressing a hand to her heart as she uttered the Spanish word for widow.

“Ah,” the woman replied, brown eyes melting with sympathy. It was the last thing Marnie wanted right now. She had enough of that in Chance Harbor. After Hal’s death, it was as if her name had changed from Marnie LaRue to Marnie Poor Thing.

“I need…” She flipped through pages. “Tranquilidad.”

“Si, si,” the woman bobbed her head.

Half an hour later, Marnie was back in her car and trying to follow the crude map the woman’s husband had drawn for her. His English had been only slightly better than Marnie’s Spanish, which obviously wasn’t saying much. But he’d assured her that the small house of his abuela, which Marnie thought meant grandmother, was quiet and secluded and overlooked the Pacific.

It sounded perfect. The homeowner had moved in with family. She was too old to live alone any longer, the man had told Marnie. As the road opened up and her beachfront accommodations for the extended weekend came into view, Marnie thought she understood why.

She no longer felt guilty about the ridiculously low sum she’d paid to rent the place. It was little more than a shack built just back from the large boulders that dotted the beach, with rooms haphazardly tacked on at various angles to the original structure. A hundred yards down the beach, she spied another home. This one was a little more reputable-looking, but any hope she’d held out that it might be the place was dashed when she spied the black Jeep Wrangler parked outside.

It was only four days, she reminded herself. Then she took in the incredible view and decided the panoramic of the Pacific more than made up for any shortcomings in her accommodations. What did it matter where she slept or took her meals as long as she got to wake up to that?

Marnie had always loved the water. Even after Hal’s drowning death in Lake Superior, she’d continued to find being near it peaceful, restorative—essential even. Something about its vast size and rhythm soothed her, even on days when the lake’s surface was puckered with waves.

The ocean, so much bigger than even the greatest of the Great Lakes, had that soothing rhythm as well. She parked the car and walked to where the water churned white at shore. Seabirds swooped and called overhead, and even though it was only about seventy degrees, the air was heavy and seemed warmer thanks to a salty humidity that had her licking her lips to see if she could taste it. She could.

A storm was coming. Farther out, dark clouds were gathering, roiling in hues of purple and gray on the horizon. She should unpack her belongings. At the very least, she should unload the groceries she’d purchased at the market in town. But she tucked the keys in the front pocket of her shorts, tugged off her sandals and walked to where her feet flirted with the surf.

Now, here she was.

La Playa de la Pisada. Footprint Beach. That was the name of the small village she’d stumbled across. As Marnie added her own footprints to the sand, she knew coming here had been a good idea.

An hour later, as the first fat drops of rain turned into a torrent, she revised her opinion. The roof leaked, big time. The electricity was iffy, shutting off with a threatening sizzle with every gust of wind. So far it kept sputtering back on a few moments later, but she wasn’t sure how long her luck would hold. All of this was small potatoes compared to the roommate she’d discovered living in the primitive bathroom. Marnie had shrieked with unholy abandon when she’d spied the small scaly critter and then slammed the door closed. It could stay there. She didn’t need a bathroom.

¿Donde esta el baño?

The phrase came back to her, as did the memory of the man who’d uttered it. What was his story? she wondered, telling herself it was simple curiosity that had her recalling his Brad Pitt jaw line and impossibly blue eyes. He wasn’t a local, at least not originally. American like her and maybe, like her, he’d come seeking peace and quiet.

The electricity sizzled off again, but at least the rain was letting up some. Marnie decided she could do without the quiet part just now. She hopped over mud puddles on the way to her car and cranked up the volume on the stereo. The humble bungalow didn’t have a radio let alone a compact disk player.

As Marvin Gaye sang of sexual healing, Marnie went back inside to unpack her belongings. The knock on the open door a few minutes later startled her as she stacked a few canned goods in the cupboard. When she turned, the man from the café stood just outside in the drizzle. While his lips had twitched with laughter at their last meeting, this time they were drawn into a tight line.

“Just who in the hell are you?” he asked abruptly, stepping over the threshold.

The electricity came back on then, the overhead light in the kitchen flickering to life as if sparked by his mere presence.

At five-ten, Marnie wasn’t what anyone would classify as petite. She was in good enough shape to have tone to her muscles, but she was no body builder. What she was at this moment, she realized as fear pooled in the pit of her stomach, was a lone female in a foreign country with no telephone service and far enough from civilization that no one would hear her scream. So, she picked up the first object she could find—one of her sandals—and, summoning up some bravado, brandished it in the man’s handsome face.

“I suggest you stay away from me.”

He blinked in surprise, raising a hand to shove damp sandy hair back from his eyes.

“You’re threatening me with a shoe?”

“It’s got a heel and I’m not afraid to use it,” she bluffed in a deadly serious tone even though she knew there was nothing lethal about the sandal’s cork wedge.

“Who are you?” he asked again, this time seeming more baffled than angry.

“A woman who doesn’t want to be messed with, amigo.” Fear took a distant second to irritation as she stepped forward, poked a finger into the brick wall of his chest and challenged, “Who are you?”

“I think you know.”

“J.T.,” Marnie replied, repeating the initials the man gave her during their last encounter.

“Yes, J.T.,” he drawled. “Now, who sent you?”

“Sent me?”

“Whom do you work for?”

“I work for myself,” Marnie replied.

It was true, sort of. She was a waitress and sometimes manager at her family’s tavern, and, as her family could attest, no one told her what to do.

But I could be doing more, a little voice hummed. She lifted her chin and ignored it.

“So, you’re a freelancer.”

Blinking slowly, she regarded the man. She had no clue what he was blathering on about, but she lowered the shoe. If he’d planned to assault her, surely he would have done so by now without playing twenty questions first.

“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” she asked in exasperation.

Before he could answer, the critter in the bathroom thumped against the door.

“What the devil?”

J.T. stepped around Marnie in the small kitchen and headed toward the equally miniscule adjoining room that probably served as the home’s main gathering place, although at the moment it had no furnishings. He pointed to the closed door at the far end of the room.

“What do you have in there?”

“No idea. I opened the bathroom door and there it was. I wasn’t going to evict it.”

Marnie smiled at J.T., ready to forgive him for his rudeness now that she had determined he was quite harmless: annoying, arrogant and appallingly short on manners, but harmless nonetheless.

She was still smiling when she asked, “Maybe you could, um, convince it to go outside?”

Then she handed him the shoe.

J.T. couldn’t believe this woman. She had the sultry, sexy look of a lingerie model: long, slender limbs, a well-curved bottom and generous bust, all neatly topped off with a short dark mop of hair, deep brown eyes and lips that looked inviting even when she was snarling at him. She was a study in contrasts, much like the Baja peninsula with its deserts, mountains and gorgeous coastline. One minute she was threatening him with a flimsy sandal and the next she was trying to wheedle a favor out of him.

And she still hadn’t answered his question.

“Tell me who you are and why you’re here, and I’ll consider doing my best imitation of the Crocodile Hunter for you,” he bartered.

She heaved an aggravated sigh that had the thin material of her cotton T-shirt pulling taut across her chest, drawing J.T.’s attention. He tried his best not to think about how long it had been since he’d spent some quality time alone with a woman.

“Fine. I’m Marnie. Marnie LaRue of Chance Harbor, Michigan.”

“The plates on your vehicle say Arizona.”

“My folks live there. I borrowed their car. Satisfied?”

“Hardly. Why are you here?”

Marnie. Was that a real name? he wondered. A pen name? It had a certain exotic quality about it, much like the woman herself.

“Why are you here?” she countered.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Uh-uh-uh. I’ll ask the questions.”

“Control freak,” he thought he heard her mutter before she admitted, “I’m in Mexico for a little R and R.”

“Please. You can lie better than that. Rest and recreation are what they specialize in up the highway from here. Despite its picturesque name and stunning view, La Playa de la Pisada isn’t a mecca for tourists,” he said. And, as if to underscore his point, the creature in the bathroom thumped against the door again.

He pointed toward the door and offered a mocking smile. “Exhibit A.”

“I never said I was a tourist.”

He nodded in satisfaction. “Finally we’re getting somewhere.”

“I’m not here for a vacation. I’m here for some…solitude.”

J.T. exhaled sharply in frustration. “A woman who looks like you doesn’t come to a place like this for solitude or anything else.”

“Where would a woman who looks like me go?” she asked and he got the impression she was trying to figure out if he meant the description as a compliment or an insult.

He pointed to her luggage. It was as bright red as newly spilled blood and about the size of a small car.

“I’ll bet there’s not one pair of sensible shoes or jeans in there. Hell, I’ll bet there’s nothing practical in there, period.”

“Care to put money on that wager?”

“Why not?” J.T. shot back, amused.

He pulled out his wallet and then immediately regretted his impulsiveness when her eyes widened at the thick wad of American bills he carried. He tugged out a twenty and tucked the wallet away.

Motioning with his chin, he said, “Open it.”

She unzipped the overstuffed bag with an aggressive yank of her arm and tossed back the lid. As she rummaged around inside its contents, colorful swatches of silk and satin caught J.T.’s attention. Lingerie model, he thought again. She damn well could be with all the mouthwatering unmentionables she had stowed in her bag. But he reminded himself that the frothy contents only confirmed his suspicions. No one who looked like Marnie came to this tiny little backwater in Mexico with a suitcase full of soft, frilly, feminine things to rent a shack of a house and seek solitude.

She had another motive, and he’d bet his last buck it wasn’t so pure. He’d had his fill of inquisitive women, whether they were reporters seeking an exclusive interview or job applicants eager to skip his company’s personnel department and dazzle him directly with their resumes.

Worst of all, though, were the marriage-minded mercenaries who had hunted him relentlessly since his divorce became final two years earlier. None of them had ever managed to find him here, though. He’d been careful, very careful, to cover his tracks.

Still, J.T. wasn’t sure which category Marnie fit into. She didn’t seem to be trying to impress him with her charm, wit and appealing ass…um…assets.

Maybe she wasn’t a gold digger. A reporter? He’d never met one who hadn’t skewered him with a dozen questions before offering a business card. As for a job applicant, she didn’t seem the sort to dabble in software design. Okay, maybe he was stereotyping here, but not many of the women who worked at Tracker Operating Systems looked like something that stepped out of one of those glossy fashion magazines that sported more advertisements than editorial content.

As he mulled the possibilities, Marnie extracted something from her bag with an exaggerated flourish.

“Tell me this isn’t practical,” she challenged, holding up the item with one hand as she settled the other one on her hip.

J.T. tried to keep a straight face. Really, he tried. He was known for his cool demeanor and unreadable expression, after all. But how could he be expected to maintain a serious facade when faced with this? Sure, the flashlight she’d produced had practical written all over it. Problem was it also had a skimpy little swatch of black lace snagged on its switch.

“Which is intended as the turn-on?” he couldn’t resist asking.

The room was relatively gloomy, illuminated by only one small lamp and the last remnants of evening light that streamed in from the small window that faced the ocean. And yet when she glanced at the flashlight and caught sight of the flirty little thong dangling from it, he swore she blushed scarlet.

His amusement was cut short however. Barely a heartbeat later, lightning flashed outside, followed swiftly by a deafening clap of thunder. The room’s lone lamp sizzled briefly before sputtering out, leaving them in virtual darkness.

Marnie flipped on the flashlight, all but blinding J.T. with its penetrating beam.

“Practical,” she said succinctly. And held out one hand. “Now pay up.”

A couple of hours later, J.T. stretched out on the plush mattress of his king-size bed, but he couldn’t get comfortable. His thoughts had strayed to Marnie LaRue and stayed there.

He’d rousted the harmless lizard from the shack’s bathroom and then had left her in darkness. He still felt guilty about it and as if his mother would pop out of the woodwork at any moment and berate him for his lack of chivalry. But until he knew who Marnie was and what she was after, he planned to keep her at arm’s length.

From the outside, his home looked barely more habitable than the one Marnie was renting. J.T. intended it that way. No one would guess a billionaire vacationed there when he really needed to get away. And he really needed to get away right now, what with the government threatening an antitrust lawsuit.

He heaved a sigh and reached for the remote on the nightstand. With a click of a button, Smokey Robinson was singing about the tears of a clown. Despite the home’s rough exterior, the inside was another story. The furnishings of its six rooms were state-of-the-art, from the stainless steel six-burner oven and wine cooler in the kitchen, to the plush leather upholstery in the living room and the elaborate computer setup in the den.

When he’d returned that evening, he’d booted up his computer—thanks to a backup generator, he never lost power. And thanks to the onward march of technology, even in this small outpost, he had access to the Internet. A Google search had turned up nothing on Ms. LaRue. Chance Harbor, Michigan, had scored a few hits, but nothing that really told J.T. anything useful except that she had at least given him the name of a real city, tiny though it was.

And that only turned up more questions. She said she’d come here for quiet and isolation. Couldn’t she get that without leaving home? Chance Harbor was located about as far north as one could go in Michigan without taking a dip in Lake Superior. And the population of that bustling metropolis: 793.

Something didn’t add up. J.T. wasn’t deterred. His company’s logo was a bloodhound—specifically, Tracker, the beloved dog he’d had as a boy. J.T. would figure it out. He was determined to rework the numbers until they did add up.

Marnie spied the lights at the house just up the beach, the place where she assumed J.T. now sat enjoying his evening. Was he renting it, too? If so, he’d gotten the better deal. It didn’t appear to be much larger than the one she was paying for, and it hardly looked more habitable, but it had electricity at this point, whereas she had nothing but a fire in the primitive hearth to roast hot dogs over.

God, she hated hot dogs. But she’d brought them with her in the small cooler she’d packed because they were easy. The perfect multipurpose food. No one knew better than the mother of a finicky four-year-old how quickly boiling water, a bon fire or a gas grill could turn pressed meat into a meal. And Noah loved them.

Truth be told, she wasn’t much of a cook. Never had been. In fact, Hal had prepared most of the meals during their marriage, for which she was eternally grateful. Still, surviving on her own cooking did have one nice side benefit. At least she never had to watch her weight.

She pulled the blackened dog from the fire and sighed. Nope. No calories to worry about here.

Marnie tossed her dinner into the fire, stood up and stretched. She really wasn’t that hungry anyway. Without bothering to locate the flashlight, she stumbled to the home’s only bedroom and felt her way along in the dark until her knee rapped smartly against the bed’s wooden footboard.

With a sigh of exhaustion, she flopped onto the lumpy, unmade mattress still wearing her clothes, too tired to bother to hunt up her toothbrush or take out her gritty-feeling contact lenses.

Sleep. When she didn’t have any of the disruptions or responsibilities of motherhood to intrude, Marnie Striker LaRue was remarkably good at it.

CHAPTER TWO

BRIGHT beams of light stretched through the unadorned window the following morning, rousing Marnie from sleep. She ignored them, or tried to, rolling over and reaching for the covers only to discover the small bed had none.

“So much for sleeping in,” she muttered.

Her eyelids fluttered opened, dried up contacts making her blink rapidly to clear the film over her vision, and then she glanced around the small, sparsely furnished room, perplexed. She had just two thoughts.

Where was she?

And, was there any coffee?

She stumbled to the window and smiled as her memory returned. Just yards away, the ocean rose up in gentle swells before spilling itself on the beach.

La Playa de la Pisada.

She supposed she should find a pay phone. Her cell didn’t work here. She needed to call her folks, check on her son. She knew he was in good care. Actually, she thought with a smile, it was her parents she worried about. Noah could be quite a handful when he wanted to get his own way, which tended to be all of the time.

Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her of the need for food and the fact that she had not eaten dinner the night before. But more than anything, she wanted a hot shower and that first glorious jolt of caffeine.

It was just her rotten luck, Marnie decided, that the electricity was still off and the water coming out of the faucet in the bathroom was a rusty brown color and cold to boot.

Well, no sense complaining about it, especially since she was alone and doing so wouldn’t accomplish anything. She settled for a glass of lukewarm juice and a slice of buttered bread. Then she pulled on the swimsuit she’d brought to Arizona for her parents’ pool and slathered on sunscreen.

As she passed the car parked just outside, she flipped on its stereo, sliding in a CD of Aretha Franklin’s greatest hits before heading down to the beach. A quick dip would clear the cobwebs, especially since the water was bound to be cool. But she’d grown up on Lake Superior, which was hypothermia-inducing even in August. She was no stranger to cold water, but that really wasn’t the main attraction anyway. Give her a beach, a towel and a block of free time, and she could sunbathe with the best of them. She figured she’d earned a couple hours of lazing around before she went into town. It had been ages since she’d last stretched out on sand with nothing more pressing to do than flip over every so often to keep her tan even.

Besides, hadn’t her own mother said she needed a vacation? Marnie planned to make the most of her break from responsibility.

The morning air was cool on her exposed skin, but the sun’s warmth was already promising. She was just spreading her towel out when J.T. startled her by saying, “If you’re planning to go in, I hope you’re a good swimmer. There can be a nasty undertow around here, and I’m not going to jump in and save you.”

As if she would accept his help anyway, she thought sourly, but when she turned to tell him so, the words died on her lips. Forget the sexy, wind-tossed blond hair, stubble of sandy beard and well-muscled arms. What really had her mouth watering was what he held in his hand.

“Is that coffee?”

He drank deeply before replying, apparently having noted the reverence in her tone.

“Yes it is.”

“Black? No sugar or flavored creamer or anything?”

“Why mess with a good thing?” he replied, and she agreed completely.

“You wouldn’t happen to have more of it?”

“An entire pot. Just made it before I came out for my morning walk.” He sipped it again and she swore her mouth began to water. “Ground the beans myself. Starbucks, French roast.”

She couldn’t help it. A soft moan escaped her lips. He raised his eyebrows when he heard it, but he made no comment.

“I don’t suppose you’re feeling…neighborly?”

He smiled, and Marnie told herself it was only the promise of caffeine that had her pulse shooting off like a bottle rocket. Certainly, it wasn’t the more than six feet of gorgeous man standing five yards in front of her, wearing tan cargo shorts and a wrinkled white T-shirt that appeared to be on inside out, as if it had been pulled on hastily.

“Is that a yes?” She tipped her head to one side and offered a slow, sensual smile in return. Two could play his game, she decided.

His gaze lingered on her lips before dipping lower, lower. She almost felt caressed by his thorough, frank appraisal. And she figured she had him.

Marnie didn’t believe in false modesty, so she would be the first to say she looked damned good in this swimsuit, great even. It hid the small tummy she’d gained since Noah, the little pouch that no amount of sit-ups seemed to eradicate. She’d come to grips with that and had decided to work around it. Accentuate the positive, as the saying went. And so she did. The neckline scooped low to show off her full breasts, and the bottom was cut high at the hip to reveal every inch of her long and slender—if a bit pale at this point—legs.

She’d planned to carry this suit and dozens of other flattering ones in her mail-order business in what she now thought of as her other life. And even though she’d purchased it three years ago, this was the first time she’d actually worn it outside the confines of a fitting room or in her bedroom, where she’d taken pleasure in modeling it for her husband just a month before the accident.

J.T.’s voice snapped her back to the present.

“Sorry, I’m not in a generous mood today.”

He didn’t bother to hide his smile after he took another satisfying gulp.

She scowled at him. All that flirting wasted.

“Just today? I got the feeling that was a permanent state for you,” she snapped.

“Why are you here?”

“Again with the questions,” she groused, sliding her feet out of her sandals and dumping her sunglasses onto the towel.

“I haven’t liked any of the answers so far,” he shot back.

“Your problem.”

The breeze tugged at her hair when she turned away from him and started toward the water.

“I meant it about the undertow,” he called after her.

She was hip deep in the chilly water before she replied, “Yes, but did you mean the part about not coming in to save me?”

J.T. watched her dive under the next wave. Her dark head emerged a few feet away and then went under again. He scanned the surf between large rock formations, anxious for a glimpse of her, but spotted nothing.

“Damn!” he muttered, setting his coffee down on one of the rocks and tugging the shirt he wore over his head.

He was in the water, swimming frantically toward the spot where he’d last spied her, when he heard laughter. Treading water, he turned and saw her standing on the beach.

Holding his coffee cup.

She raised it in mock salute before bringing it to her smiling lips. Afterward, she called, “You make a mean cup of joe, J.T.”

She was still laughing as he swam to shore. By the time he reached her towel, where she sat reclining on her elbows, wet skin glistening in the morning sun, his coffee cup had been drained and J.T. had worked his way past irritated to the upper end of irate.

“That stunt was incredibly low, not to mention stupid. If there had been an undertow, I could have drowned trying to save your sorry butt.”

“I beg to differ.”

“About the undertow?”

“No, about my butt. It is anything but sorry,” she said.

He opened his mouth, then snapped it back shut. He wanted to argue with her. Really, he wanted to. But she had a point. In fact, he’d spent several hours the night before lying in his bed thinking about the very butt in question as well as the rest of the package that, when put together, made up one mouthwatering woman.

Still, he wasn’t letting her off the hook, no matter how fine he found that derriere.

“I’d like an apology.”

She tipped down her sunglasses and regarded him over the top of the dark lenses. Even without a hint of makeup, she had the most incredible eyes. They made him think of molasses. They were that dark and rich, and when she blinked she did so slowly, as if it were an effort to close the lids.

“I’ll admit to being ruthless when it comes to my morning coffee, but you will recall that I asked you very nicely to share before resorting to trickery.”

“Trickery? Try thievery.”

She shrugged as if to concede the point. “Call the cops.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” he demanded.

“No. That’s not all.” She glanced at the hem of his soaking wet shorts. “You’re dripping on my towel.”

She had the audacity to slide the sunglasses up the bridge of her nose and lay back on the towel.

J.T.’s control was the stuff of legends. He never lost his cool, not during the most heated of board meetings, not even during his divorce settlement, when Terri’s team of lawyers had hovered like vultures over his self-made fortune and tried to pick off what they could.

But looking down at the smug raven-haired woman, he lost something. He didn’t think. He didn’t consider the consequences—something his attorney would ream him for were Richard Danton present. No, J.T. acted. Bending down, he scooped Marnie up from her towel and headed toward the ocean, intent on dumping her into the churning surf.

That’ll teach her to mess with me, he thought.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she cried.

Oh, he had her plenty surprised. She squirmed in arms, cool wet flesh sliding against cool wet flesh until the friction generated heat.

Lots and lots of heat.

And now she wasn’t the only one surprised. Beneath his anger, he felt it, that low tug of something he didn’t want to feel at all. But there it was, and there was no denying its existence.

Marnie wasn’t a small woman. Tall, long-limbed, nicely curved in all of the areas that counted. She filled up his arms almost as well as she filled out her bathing suit.

And, she had one hell of a right hook he realized too late.

It connected solidly with his jaw, staggered him so that they both wound up sprawled in the sand. A wave came up, cool water drenching the pair of them, but this was hardly like the scene in From Here to Eternity. Neither of the actors in that movie had taken one on the chin before going down.

“What was that for?”

“As if you need to ask,” she spat, disengaging her legs from his and then rolling to her feet.

She glared down at him, an angry Amazon. God, he’d never seen any woman look half as sexy. And that thought made him more determined to ignore his traitorous libido.

He didn’t have time for this distraction in his life right now. He had enough on his plate with the Justice Department breathing down his neck, interviewing disgruntled former employees of Tracker Operating Systems and subpoenaing records and assorted other company paperwork. That’s why he’d come to Mexico—to get away, to think, to plan. And then Marnie LaRue had sashayed into his life, listening to the same Motown music he preferred and muddling up his brain with her mile-long legs and lush sweep of lashes.

He’d be damned if he could get a bead on her. She was after something, had to be. But he still couldn’t figure out what. A job? An interview? A ring?

Still, he’d give her this: she certainly had a different approach than the others.

He rubbed his sore jaw and, though he berated himself for it, admired the view as she stalked away.

They steered clear of each other for the better part of the day, which was easy to do since Marnie spent most of it in town. She called her parents and talked to her son, who, as she’d suspected, had already renegotiated his bedtime and met his candy quota for the month.

The man from whom Marnie had rented the house apologized for the lack of electricity, but confirmed what she had suspected: it might well stay out for the remainder of her visit. So she purchased bottled water, some wine and more ice for the small cooler she’d brought with her from her parents’ house, determined to make the best of her brief holiday.

This time the man’s niece, who worked at a resort in Los Cabos, was in town to do the translating. She spoke English easily, with the side benefit of a lovely accent that lent a lyrical quality to even the most mundane words.

“My uncle wants to know if you’ve met the other American?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve met J.T.”

A few young women sitting at one of the tables in the café giggled at the mention of his name.

“Ignore them,” Marisa suggested. “All of the women around here have a little—how do you say?—crush on J.T.”

“He’s something, all right. I met him in here first, as a matter of fact, and we’ve run in to each other a couple of times since then. He still has electricity,” Marnie said. “Why is that?”

“Generator,” Marisa replied.

Her curiosity got the better of her. “Does he live here? Year-round, I mean.”

“Not year-round, no. He’s American, like you. He just comes for visits.”

“But does he own that place?”

“Yes. He has been coming to La Playa de la Pisada for a couple of years. Very mysterious.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Some say he is crazy.”

“I can vouch for that,” Marnie muttered.

“Others say he is a drug dealer.”

“Drug dealer?”

Marnie couldn’t picture that. The guy was a royal pain in the fanny, but he didn’t seem like some sort of sleazy lawbreaker despite that wad of bills he carried. He was as suspicious as all get out, but would a drug dealer wade into the ocean intent on saving the life of someone he didn’t even like?

“Si. Me, I do not believe it. I think he is a booty hunter.”

“A wh-what?” Marnie sputtered.

“Booty hunter,” Marisa replied sincerely.

“Lot’s of men are,” Marnie said on a laugh. “But I’m thinking you mean bounty hunter.”

“Ah, that is the word. Si.”

“What makes people think he’s a bounty hunter?” Marnie asked, intrigued.

The other woman shrugged, but leaned in closer.

“He seems to do a lot of watching and driving. And a friend of my cousin has been inside his house. He hires her from time to time to come in and clean. She says he has all sorts of impressive equipment and computers. And last week, just after he arrived, she was there freshening up the sheets when she heard him on the telephone talking to somebody about justice and being a tracker.”

Bounty hunter? Marnie thought it seemed farfetched. But he fit the image she’d always had in her head when it came to the people who went after bail jumpers: Big, brawny, a little on the rogue side. And might that explain why he was so curious about who sent her? Did he think she was up to no good? Or, did he think she was out to collar some criminal before he did?

Marnie LaRue, bail bond agent. The very thought had her smiling. Then she set aside her mirth. The mysterious J.T. was none of her concern, she decided and headed back to her heavenly slice of golden beach, listening to Aretha’s soulful voice all the way.

When evening rolled around again, Marnie still did not have electricity. She glanced down the beach at the light already visible through the windows of J.T.’s abode. She really didn’t want to spend another night in the dark with nothing to eat but charred hotdogs. She didn’t particularly like the man, but she could tolerate him if it meant at some point she could ask to borrow his shower. And, after her conversation in town with Marisa, she had to admit she was even more intrigued by him. She decided she would go over, act nice and see if that got her foot far enough in the door to feel the brisk spray from a showerhead before she had to leave.

In the meantime, she would ignore the fact that J.T. had her hormones on full alert. It was a fluke, pure and simple. It had to be since the last time she’d felt this way, she’d been seventeen and head-over-heels smitten with Hal LaRue.

Marnie smiled absently, thinking about those golden days of the not so distant past when she had shamelessly wheedled and maneuvered in order to get what she most wanted.

And what she had most wanted was Hal.

She’d been the one to actually ask him out for their first date. She’d been a senior in high school at the time and she figured she’d waited long enough for him to get around to it. She’d set her sights on him when they were both juniors. She’d been a cheerleader, the homecoming queen. He’d been captain of the…chess club.

Okay, so most people hadn’t understood the attraction. But Marnie had found his brains as sexy as the way they were packaged: beneath tidy blond hair and behind wire-rimmed glasses that drew attention to a pair of serious, soulful dark eyes.

His physique leaned more wiry than brawny, which made sense since he ran cross country, but he could quote Shakespeare! None of the other boys Marnie dated would have known Hamlet from a ham sandwich, but Hal—Mr. Valedictorian, Mr. Quiz Bowl captain and a member of the debate team—had.

Someone with his brains could have gone anywhere, done anything. But he’d graduated from high school, attended Michigan Technological Institute in nearby Houghton for a while, and then he’d come back to tiny Chance Harbor on Lake Superior’s shore, three semesters shy of obtaining his degree.

“I don’t want to move to some unfamiliar city and work at some impersonal company,” he’d told her in that simple, straightforward manner of his. “Odds are good that’s exactly what I’ll wind up doing. Mechanical engineers aren’t in high demand in Chance Harbor. But this is where I want to live and raise a family.” He’d waited a heartbeat before adding, “With you.”

Marnie sighed now, remembering with bittersweet clarity the way their life had unfolded perfectly according to plan—at first.

Hal had gotten a job with the county and bought a small house within a stone’s throw of the biggest of the Great Lakes. He’d worked his way up to a department head by the time he finally asked her to marry him. Marnie had been twenty-seven by then and she’d said yes without hesitation. Slow, plodding Hal. For a while there, she’d thought she might have to pop the question herself.

In the end, they had only celebrated two wedding anniversaries before he’d died. And now she’d marked three anniversaries without him.

She glanced across the beach again, thinking about J.T. and the inappropriate tingle of attraction she’d felt when she’d first met him. What was it about him that called to her? He had that golden god thing going for him, sure, but even if she were in the market for a man, which she most certainly was not, Marnie wanted someone who was capable of stimulating conversation as well as mind-blowing sex. She’d had both with Hal. She’d never settle for less.

The memories, bittersweet and poignant, almost stopped her from leaving the house. As it was, she stepped back inside, telling herself it was just to get a sweater to pull over her T-shirt and shorts since it had grown chilly out as daylight waned.

A year ago, Marnie would have spent the remainder of the evening wallowing in unhappy thoughts peppered with what-ifs and if-onlys. Tonight, determination had her shrugging into the sweater, grabbing a bag of potato chips she’d brought from Arizona and the bottle of wine she bought earlier that day, and walking out the door. She was alive. She needed to act that way, not only for herself, but also for Noah.

Besides, it was really all about the possibility of a shower and nothing more, she told herself, intent on ignoring that fluky flutter in her belly.

Still, she didn’t miss the irony that as she crossed the stretch of beach she was quite literally walking out of the darkness and toward the light.

CHAPTER THREE

J.T. WAS scowling when he opened his door. He wore a long-sleeved lightweight pullover with a discreet designer insignia embroidered on the front and a pair of faded jeans in deference to the temperature dip. But his feet, tanned and the tops sprinkled with golden hair, were bare.

He leaned against the jamb and crossed his arms. “Come to apologize?”

Marnie had, thinking that might be the best way to wheedle a shower out of him, but she would be damned if she was going to now and have him believe she had somehow been shamed into it.

“Peace offering,” she said instead, holding out the chips and wine.

He didn’t invite her inside. He came out instead and closed the door firmly behind him before she could glimpse much of the interior. Still, she wondered, had those countertops been made of granite or marble? His place definitely was a huge step up from hers and Marisa had said he owned it.

“Are you coming?”

She watched one sandy eyebrow lift, as if he were daring her to comment or ask a question. She swallowed both.

“Lead the way,” she said instead.

A small wicker table and chairs took up most of a small patio on the side of the house that faced the ocean. J.T. accepted her gifts and headed toward it, turning his chair so that he was looking at the water when he sat.

The sun had almost set. It was but an orange glow melting onto the ocean’s relatively calm surface. And if not for the light that spilled from between the blind slats of the window behind him, Marnie might not have been able to make out his expression. But she could. His jaw was firmly clenched, as if her presence irritated him. He didn’t exactly invite her to sit and join him, but she did anyway.

“So, how long are you down here for?” she asked conversationally as she settled into her chair. She could hear her mother’s voice in her ear: A polite host or guest doesn’t monopolize the conversation but tries to get others to talk about themselves.

Clearly J.T.’s mother had made no admonition. At his glare, Marnie sighed.

“Oh, that’s right. You can ask questions, but apparently I’m not allowed to. I’ve got to tell you, J.T., given your attitude, it’s really no wonder that you vacation alone.”

If he was insulted, it didn’t show. “And what’s your reason?”

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