Clint Whitfield Was The Most
Dangerous Man She’d Ever Met,
The Kind Of Man Who Touched
Every Instinct Known To
Womankind.

Although she enjoyed the sensual art of flirtation, she’d become wary of deeper involvement. So she’d decided she didn’t need romance in her life. Friendship would do.

But this man had stirred something deep inside her, something innocent of prior experience. And he’d done it without the usual social exchanges, with little verbal or physical communication, and without using an ounce of masculine charm.

Baffled by his effect on her, Regina studied the sculpted features now softened by slumber, the challenging, provocative scar. “Yep, dangerous,” she murmured, a smile touching her mouth. “Wonderfully dangerous.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the world of Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with romances that can only be described as passionate, powerful and provocative!

Silhouette’s beloved author Annette Broadrick returns to Desire with a MAN OF THE MONTH who is Hard To Forget. Love rings true when former high school sweethearts reunite while both are on separate undercover missions to their hometown. Bestselling writer Cait London offers you A Loving Man, when a big-city businessman meets a country girl and learns the true meaning of love.

The Desire theme promotion THE BABY BANK, about sperm-bank client heroines who find love unexpectedly, returns with Amy J. Fetzer’s Having His Child, part of her WIFE, INC. miniseries. The tantalizing Desire miniseries THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS: THE LOST HEIRS continues with Baby of Fortune by Shirley Rogers. In Undercover Sultan, the second book of Alexandra Sellers’s SONS OF THE DESERT: THE SULTANS trilogy, a handsome prince is forced to go on the run with a sexy mystery woman—who may be the enemy. And Ashley Summers writes of a Texas tycoon who comes home to find a beautiful stranger living in his mansion in Beauty in His Bedroom.

This month see inside for details about our exciting new contest “Silhouette Makes You a Star.” You’ll feel like a star when you delve into all six fantasies created in Desire books this August!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Beauty in His Bedroom
Ashley Summers

To Rita Gallagher,

mentor, companion and best friend.

Thank you for being in my life.

ASHLEY SUMMERS

is an incurable romantic who lives in Texas, in a house that overflows with family and friends. Her busy life revolves around the man she married thirty years ago, her three children and her handsome grandson, Eric. Formerly the owner and operator of a landscaping firm, she also enjoys biking, aerobics, reading and traveling.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

One

Regina Flynn stepped into the elegant, two-story foyer with a wariness bordering on the absurd. As an employee of Lamar’s Home Maintenance and Security Agency, she had a perfect right to enter this uninhabited home. Yet the sound of her heels on the black-and-white marble floor was shockingly loud, and her heart beat so fast she felt dizzy.

Regina stopped just inside the door, her little blue pot of African violets clutched to her chest like a talisman. Even the August heat did not warm her inner chill. Closing the door, she leaned against its hard surface with a gusty sigh.

“I’ve done it,” she whispered. “I’ve stolen a house.”

A sharp shake of head immediately rejected this preposterous notion; the assistant to Lamar’s regional manager did not steal houses! Her position with the agency placed her in charge of the North Houston area, and this handsome estate, owned by a man named Clint Whitfield, was merely part of her portfolio of managed properties.

“All you’ve done is assign him a house sitter, Regina,” she corrected herself crisply. “You do have that authority, you know. The house sitter just happens to be you.”

Annoyed with herself—and an overly active conscience she could never quite master—Regina felt for the light switch. In the growing dusk, the boxes holding her belongings looked pitifully few; when a chandelier flooded the area with light, they appeared even more misplaced.

Sadness tightened her throat. Everything she owned fit easily into six cardboard boxes. Not much of a legacy for twenty-nine years of living, she thought dispiritedly.

Catching sight of herself in an ornate wall mirror, Regina pushed at the red-gold curls swirling around her face in riotous disarray. “Flynn, you’re a mess,” she snapped at her green-eyed image. Her voice seemed to rebound off the walls.

Edging around boxes, she walked down the hall. White-shrouded furniture haunted darkened rooms. Chilled air blew through concealed vents, a necessity in Houston’s humid climate despite the absence of people. Air-conditioning, not ghosts, caused her goose bumps, she chided her quick shiver.

She paused in the sculptural arch of another doorway. Beyond lay the great room, a huge, airy space that encompassed the kitchen, breakfast nook and dining room wing, the family room, and glass-roofed conservatory forming the rear wall. She felt a little foolish bringing this modest violet into such opulence. With exaggerated care she centered it on the kitchen windowsill. Almost magically it meshed with its setting.

“As if to the manor born,” she quipped, patting a velvety leaf. “You’re just what this house needed.”

Flipping another light switch, she caught her breath at the beauty its mellow glow revealed. Clint Whitfield had built something really special, she thought softly.

So why had he left it vacant for so long?

As usual, her thorny question went unanswered. She didn’t know Clint Whitfield; she’d been in another department when he contracted with the agency. Later, a promotion had put her in charge of his file, and she’d been inside his gracious, white-columned abode several times on routine inspections of the lawn-and-maid services included in his contract.

As months stretched into years, she strongly disagreed with his decision to leave it empty while he was out of the country. But she kept her opinions to herself and did not overstep her authority.

Until the fire.

Regina tensed as painful memories deluged her heart. She no longer had a home. In June, a fire had destroyed her frame dwelling and all its contents. The only silver lining was that her adored young sister had been spared the ordeal; Katie, fifteen, was away at her special school.

Still, it had been a heart-wrenching experience. Although mentally handicapped, Katie’s emotions were unimpaired, and when told of the loss of her childhood home, she’d cried like the devastated child she was. Regina cried with her. Then, resolute, she began putting her life back together.

Despite her good salary, she found it tough; Katie’s school was very expensive. Regina had rented a cheap kitchenette apartment and hated it. And there sat Clint Whitfield’s beautiful, fully furnished house going to waste while he roamed Africa.

Regina sighed. Before the fire, such indifference had been an irritant. Afterwards, it had outraged her. To own such a treasure and not care about it!

She’d made allowances for him. Then he’d renewed his contract for yet another year. After brief but intense thought, Regina made a decision; given his continuing absence he needed a house sitter. Volunteering herself for the task would resolve both their problems.

As required, she’d fired off a letter to him stating her intent, but after two weeks he still hadn’t answered, which wasn’t unusual; except for that prompt, annual check for services rendered there’d been little correspondence from him. So you shrugged off your doubts and just moved in, Regina ended wryly.

Musingly she studied her new abode. Although beautifully furnished, there was no art on the walls, no family pictures. Strange. Why no personal items? She didn’t know much about the man beyond his vital statistics. She hadn’t checked him out—why should she? To her he was just another rich guy who considered beautiful houses as interchangeable as bedsheets.

Beautiful women, too, most likely, she thought tartly. She knew he was unmarried because he’d checked that box on his application form.

Regina shrugged. She didn’t give a hoot about her client’s marital status, or his character, either, for that matter. She only cared about his schedule. Renewing his contract meant Clint Whitfield wouldn’t be home for another year.

Relaxing for the first time since she’d entered his house, Regina pulled the pins from her hair and ran her fingers through the curly, shoulder-length mane. She was through worrying about her actions. When he would notify the agency of his expected return, she’d be out of the house in a flash. Until then, she was…

“Home,” Regina whispered with a trace of defiance, then raised her voice assertively. “I’m home.”

It was half past six on a fine September day when Clint Whitfield came home again. An unsettling impulse, he acknowledged, but hell, he was only in town for one night; common sense dictated that he sleep in his own bed rather than in a hotel.

Entering the circular driveway, Clint parked in front of the house, but made no move to get out. Houston was having one of its rare, exquisitely tender sunsets and the velvety lawn was awash with golden light.

Its loveliness hurt rather than pleased. His broad shoulders stiffened; tension flowed down his taut body. This used to be his favorite time of day. He hated it now. Hated September, for that matter. He’d lost the only thing worth living for on one dark September night.

For a moment longer Clint sat in his car, his gaze fixed on the manor-style dwelling silhouetted against the vast Texas sky. The house he had built for his beloved.

His stomach knotted at all there was to face here. Anger thinned his mouth—dammit, coming home shouldn’t be this difficult! It had been nearly three years since he’d left. Ran, he amended with a twisted smile. But you couldn’t run fast enough or far enough to outrace memory. The nightmarish image prowling the edges of his mind like some caged beast was proof of that.

Clint’s blue eyes narrowed as he gazed at the rose bed to the right of the house. Barbara’s roses. They almost flaunted their vibrant blooms. He felt a gust of outrage that they had outlived the woman who planted them.

Of course she hadn’t done the actual planting; those delicate hands couldn’t risk physical labor. His wife had been a skilled pediatric surgeon. Someone the world needed, he thought bleakly. He was a veterinarian. But she had died and he still lived, and of what real use to the world was one vet more or less?

Clint’s caustic question reflected his inner landscape like a mirror. Wearily he maneuvered his six-foot-plus frame out of the rental car. “This damn thing!” he muttered, pulling himself erect. He needed his old pickup truck, big and roomy enough for a man to sit comfortably, he thought, slamming the door.

An instant later he opened it again, and reached across the seat for his treasured Stetson. The battered hat, once tan, now faded to a soft cream by fierce jungle suns, had traveled the world with him. He set it on his dark head and angled the brim, a gesture of bravado, for the strong legs that had carried him around for thirty-five years felt ridiculously unsteady.

Clint closed the door with unnecessary force. Why the hell had he come back? There was nothing here for him. Certainly not this blasted house—he didn’t care if he ever saw it again. Tight-mouthed, he strode up the wide brick walk, his decision solidifying as he mounted the steps. Sell the place. Get rid of everything. Be free of it. He didn’t expect to ever feel happy again, but maybe he could at least find peace of mind.

His footsteps echoed in the still air. The house would echo, too, he thought, unlocking the door. Doubtless it would be as well kept as the grounds, thanks to the maintenance agency. But he dreaded stepping inside those empty, musty rooms.

They’d be filled with shrouded furniture, of course. But the house would still be empty. As empty as his heart, he reflected without a trace of pathos. Opening the door, he walked into the foyer and stopped dead.

For a moment Clint thought his heart would stop, too. He had a blurred image of fresh flowers and handsome plants where none should be, for he’d told no one of his homecoming. But what stunned him were the aromas wafting on the cool, decidedly unmusty air. Someone was cooking!

Italian, he thought, sniffing. Spicy, tomatoey, garlicky—the kind of food he loved. The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming. For the briefest instant he slipped from the present into the past, when just such delicious odors welcomed him home from work.

A sound from the kitchen jolted him back to reality. There was no one to welcome him home from work—there never would be again. Giving himself a savage shake, he took off his hat, then stood there crushing the brim in his fingers. He wasn’t imagining things—someone really was cooking!

His eyes slitted; anger ticked a muscle in his jaw. Was this somebody’s idea of a joke? Treading quietly on the gleaming wood floor, he entered the great room.

Surprise stopped him again. Plants filled the sweeping curve of tall, Palladian windows. In the den, a lamp burned beside his leather chair, and a book lay facedown on the cushion. Pink satin house slippers lay nearby, as if lazily kicked off.

“What the hell!” he muttered, mauling his hair.

Depositing his hat on the built-in desk, he looked around for the source of sound he’d heard. Only a half wall separated the kitchen proper from the breakfast nook, and at first he thought it empty. Then a young woman emerged from the pantry carrying a pewter bowl.

Clint experienced a swirl of vivid impressions. She wore jeans, a pink T-shirt and big, round glasses with purple frames. Her face was a valentine, her nose, small and sassy. Unpolished nails tipped her bare feet, and a bouquet of red-gold curls bloomed wildly atop her head. He hadn’t the faintest idea who she was.

That topknot of hair swayed precariously as she caught sight of him. Eyes as green as springtime flew wide behind those absurd glasses. She screamed and dropped the bowl, which hit the tiled floor with a resounding clang.

“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you!” Clint said. Hoping to prevent another outburst, he flung out his hands reassuringly.

She backed against the counter, her eyes enormous.

His heart contracted. “Please, don’t be scared. I’m Clint Whitfield. I own this house.” He stepped closer. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to scare you. I just let myself in and then I heard…” His eyebrows shot together as the situation hit home. “Wait a minute—who are you, anyway? And what are you doing in my house?”

“R-Regina. Regina Flynn. Gina.” Collecting herself, she pressed a hand to her throat. “My goodness!” she exclaimed with a tremulous laugh. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Whitfield. Obviously you caught me by surprise.”

“Obviously.”

“Uh, yes. And I’m here because…” She bent down to pick up the bowl, and with precise movements, placed it on the counter.

Stalling, he thought, eyes narrowing again as she straightened. “Because?” he prompted.

Her eyes flinted and that pointed chin came up. Deliberately she removed her glasses. “Because I’m supposed to be here. I’m with the Lamar Home Maintenance Agency, and among other things I’m a house sitter. House-sitting your house,” she added. “It’s just part of the agency’s service.” Her gaze collided with his. “Wait a minute—you’re not supposed to be here. You didn’t notify me that you were returning!”

“I didn’t know I had to notify you that I was returning,” Clint replied with cutting sarcasm. Twice in as many minutes, he’d literally had the wind knocked out of him. “And I don’t recall asking the agency,” he mocked, “for this particular service.”

“Well, then your recall is wrong,” she retorted with a little more spirit.

“Is it now! I don’t think so, lady.” Clint’s nostrils flared as a wisp of fragrant steam rose from the kettle simmering on the stove. His kettle, his stove. It was spaghetti sauce. His irritation swelled into a roar that he swatted down with sheer willpower. Be damned if he was going to lose his temper!

“No,” he continued, his voice soft and steely. “I think what’s wrong is your presence on my property. In fact, I doubt you’re even with the agency, I think you just found an empty house, moved in and made yourself at home. Maybe even sold off a few things when you needed pocket money,” he added, looking around. Nothing appeared to be missing, but then he’d been gone so long, who remembered? “Maybe I should call the police.”

“The police! But that’s crazy, I’m not a thief—there isn’t a thing missing from your house!” she replied, her bosom heaving with indignation.

It really did heave, Clint thought, startled at his interest. The T-shirt displayed her small breasts to perfection. His willful gaze traveled down her slim waist to the soft denim hugging her thighs and long legs. She was tall for a woman—five foot nine, he estimated. And although trim and fit, she was no clotheshorse. She had hips, thighs and buttocks, he noted in that fleeting but quite intense scrutiny.

When he brought his gaze back to her face, she squared her shoulders and firmed up her mouth.

“If you’ll stop making these asinine accusations and let me explain, I’m sure we can clear this up,” she said. “I am with the agency and I am your house sitter—not some squatter staking a claim on your property!” she added with emerald-eyed disdain. “Personally I think you’re very fortunate to have me here looking after your interests. I’ve taken very good care of your home, Mr. Whitfield, really, I have.”

She waved a slim, rose-tipped hand, encompassing the immaculate kitchen and den. “You can see that for yourself if you’ll just look around. But now that you’re back,” she said hastily, “I’ll be quick to pack up my stuff and leave without further ado. I’ll tell the agency that you’re back—you needn’t bother yourself, I’ll be glad to do it for you.”

She gave him a piercingly sweet smile.

Clint’s head suddenly reeled. He stepped back from her. “I bet you will,” he drawled, his annoyance almost too hot to handle. “But why don’t I just tell them myself?” He reached for the telephone.

“You go right ahead and do that!” she snapped, then bit her lip. “Except it would do you no good. In the end you’d only get me. I mean, I’m in charge of you. Your file, that is.” Her head lowered a fraction, but she still met his gaze. “It says in your contract that you did want this service.”

He leaned against the counter, studying her. He didn’t want to listen to her, he wanted to—needed to—vent this unreasoning anger. Besides, she was nervous about something. Not exactly lying—with those eyes, how could she lie? They had such depth and clarity. Moss green now, with little gold specks, tiny islands in a dusky sea that threatened to engulf him.

Startled anew, Clint jerked his gaze away. “Now why would my contract say a thing like that? I certainly don’t remember putting it in there. In fact, when I left here I didn’t give a damn about this house. I handed it over to Lamar’s because it was the practical thing to do. And God knows I’ve always been practical,” he said with gritty irony. “Protect your investment, Whitfield, I told myself.”

Clint shook his head. “Some bloody investment,” he added, looking around the lovely room. God, the bitter fights over this fine, Italian-tile floor and hand-carved cabinetry, those soaring windows… Catching himself in an iron grip, he shut down the sudden flow of memory. “Well?” he prodded, glaring at the aggravating Flynn woman. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

His forceful demand seemed to fire rather than quell her defiance. Her eyes flashed. She threw back her head and that chin came up like an arrow aimed straight for his Adam’s apple.

“I’ll tell you what I have to say! People like you make me sick, Clint Whitfield!”

Clint reared back. “People like me?”

“Yes, people like you! You have the money to build beautiful homes like this one, surround yourself with fine furniture, a fancy swimming pool and a big backyard, all the lovely things other people can only dream of. And then you walk off and leave it sitting empty! For years, Mr. Whitfield, just sitting here, lonely and devoid of life, not even a skeletal staff to tend it. You just abandoned it!” she accused with a passion that quite astonished Clint.

“Abandoned?” he echoed, his own anger rising to match the blaze in those green eyes. “This house was hardly abandoned, Miss Flynn!”

“All right, I concede that—but it felt abandoned!” She snatched a breath. “And don’t give me that look!” she warned fiercely. “It’s a home, Mr. Whitfield, and homes can feel abandoned just like people can! But you don’t care, do you? Like you said, you don’t give a damn for this house—it means nothing to you. You just take off on a some selfish whim and leave it behind like a cast-off garment!”

She stepped closer, a stiff finger poking his chest for emphasis. “You’re a careless man, Mr. Whitfield, and there’s nothing worse in my opinion.”

Furiously confused, Clint removed himself from her punishing finger. “I couldn’t care less about your opinion, Miss Flynn,” he roared with his own quite astonishing passion. “But I can get you fired, lady! So you’d damn well better care about mine!”

Wheeling, he strode through the room and slammed out the front door.

Regina Flynn stayed frozen to the spot, the fury of his exit still ringing in her ears. “Dear God, what have I done?” she whispered. She flung her hands to her cheeks. “Lost your temper, speared him with a fingernail, called him names, that’s all! You idiot!” she berated her fiery loss of control.

Breathing in and out, something she actually had to think about in order to do it correctly, she found her way to the couch. Her knees were weak, her insides quivering. From what, the threat he’d implied? Or the immediate and powerful attraction he had exerted on her flurried senses?

Closing her eyes, Regina pictured his face, hard, dangerous, tough as leather—he’d scared the wits out of her at first! Until that quick, sudden smile. It had touched something within her, a chord that had never been played before…

A grin etched her mouth. There was something strangely wonderful about being near Clint Whitfield. Even when he was roaring at her. Lord, she marveled, who would have guessed he’d be so attractive?

“Stop thinking below the waist, Flynn. He really could cause trouble. That’s the important thing here— I can get you fired, lady.” She mimicked his voice.

And he just might. Chilled, Regina hugged a pillow to her chest. Indignation still sputtered inside her—she hadn’t done anything wrong! Not really. “It’s not my fault if he doesn’t bother reading his mail,” she fumed, mangling the pillow.

Tears wet her cheeks. An emotional woman, she cried easily. Too easily. I shouldn’t have blown up like that. I should have explained, tried reasoning with him. Softly, sensibly. Instead I yelled like a fishwife. He’s probably on his way to the agency right now, boiling mad, demanding my head. Or job.

Was he the kind of man who’d do a thing like that?

Regina chewed her lip as she pondered her question. “But I didn’t do anything! He needed house-sitter services and I provided them,” she hissed into the accusing silence.

Nothing wrong with that, she continued her self-argument; hadn’t she made other decisions on his behalf with just a follow-up letter? He hadn’t responded to her message, but he had been duly informed. Or so she told herself when conscience pricked pinholes in logic. Like now.

Drying her eyes, Regina got up and went to stir her spaghetti sauce before it, too, was ruined. Okay, so maybe she had overstepped a bit, she conceded, nibbling her lip. But it had seemed so sensible and harmless at the time! Who could have guessed he’d come home without telling anyone?

And who could have guessed he’d have blue, blue eyes framed by thick, dusky lashes? And a scar—wasn’t there a scar on his face? And his voice, so deep. His callused hands and long, hard fingers…

Blankly Regina stared at the wooden spoon in her hand, too distracted to remember what she meant to do with it. Shaking off her beguiled trance, she stirred the contents of the pot, round and round. Granted, her irate client didn’t have much of a case, but he could sure raise some dust. Sighing, she turned off the fire under her sauce. She wasn’t hungry. The prospect of being fired played havoc with a person’s appetite.

“Oh, nonsense, Flynn, you’re not going to be fired,” she scoffed. Clint Whitfield might have a temper, but he wouldn’t carry things that far.

Would he?

Two

Several miles away, Clint Whitfield sat at a stoplight, wrapped in baffled wonder. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t think straight—he couldn’t even see straight. For an instant the newly risen moon seemed to dance in its nest of fleecy clouds. He hadn’t even noticed that night had fallen. Apparently he’d been driving aimlessly and for quite a while.

He rubbed his eyes and blew out a long breath. He was just tired, that’s all. Bone tired. He’d been traveling for the better part of two days now, in and out of airports, on and off planes. “And still haven’t arrived at a destination,” he muttered, his irritation ballooning as he remembered he still had to find somewhere to sleep tonight.

At least he knew where the bafflement stemmed from. That Flynn woman. His run-in with her certainly hadn’t eased his fatigue. What the hell was he going to do about her?

A silly question. “Kick her out, of course,” he answered. “You know damn good and well she’s in your house illegally. Without your authorization, anyway,” he amended, adverse to using such a strong word. Maybe she really had told him about a house sitter. When you’re out in the bush or hopping from continent to continent, mail has a hard time catching up.

His disinterest in the house—his almost paranoid dislike of the house, he admitted—could have been a factor. Despite his rationalizing, he still felt something was off-kilter. But he didn’t really care. Let the agency handle the matter. Then he wouldn’t have to see her again.

That’s a relief, Clint thought, driving on. Regina Flynn was a peculiarly bothersome woman. Downright unsettling in some respects. Just as well that their paths wouldn’t cross again. He was a rolling stone, with little time for a relationship, however brief.

And it would have to be a relationship, he thought sardonically; one look into those green eyes and any man would know that. Not that he was interested. Nor could he be, even if he had wanted it. When it came to feelings, he was as arid as the desert.

So let the agency earn their money. They’d force her out; the Realtors would move in; end of story. He’d be out of here in no time. With a decided air of relief, he drove under the porte cochere of a fine hotel and reached for his Stetson.

Oh hell! Clint hit the steering wheel with his fist. His hat was still on a desk, in the house he’d slammed out of in a fit of righteous wrath.

Now what? Returning to the house would be absurdly anticlimatic. Yet he needed the hat. It was his lucky hat, a link with home that kept him focused regardless of where he laid his head. But if he did return, he’d have to face his pretty intruder again, and that thought raised hell with his ego, for he was astonishingly conflicted.

Regina. He tasted her name. A soft, dulcet name. A bit regal, like her. Gina. Even sweeter. All that gorgeous hair. Those absurd glasses perched on that aristocratic nose. Incredibly sexy. Which was neither here nor there, he reminded himself, making a U-turn. He had to have his hat.

As he retraced his route, another prickly question presented itself; what was he going to do when he reached the house? Just unlock the door and walk in? After all, it was his house.

“And give her another heart attack?” he muttered, recalling her fright.

Ring the doorbell, then. Request your hat, thank her and leave. Above all, don’t be drawn inside.

With a start, Regina realized she was sitting in the shadowy haze of dusk. Light from a tall, automatic pool lamp streamed through the Palladian windows, glossing even the most ordinary object with silvered radiance. Obstinately blind to its beauty, she snapped on a table lamp and tried to pull herself together. She hated feeling like this; she’d done no harm to Clint Whitfield. But there was no reasoning with herself. Giving up, she searched for absolution in physical activity.

Sweeping the floor, while satisfying in one respect, did not stop the thoughts surging through her mind much like the flames had surged through her house. She shivered, remembering that traumatic day.

The disaster had felt so overwhelming. Afterward, still in shock, she’d lain in her rented sofa bed at night and had little panic attacks trying to formulate a workable plan for the future…

Regina’s skin goose bumped as the image of flinty blue eyes pierced her mind. Would Clint Whitfield sympathize with her fearful anxiety? Or would he scorn it as a weak attempt to justify her decision to move into his home?

Suddenly swamped with misgivings, she dropped the broom and began pacing. When she found herself standing outside the master bedroom, she opened the door and snapped on the light. Ordinarily this was forbidden territory; she would not invade private space, although she’d peeked, of course. But tonight she felt a perverse need to do more than just peek.

Bottom lip held firmly between her teeth, Regina stepped inside his bedroom. She didn’t much like it. It was too dark, too ornate. An antique mahogany armoire dominated an entire wall. A large roll top desk held a cluster of ancestral pictures in heavy silver frames. Positioned on a somber Oriental rug, two tall, straight-back chairs upholstered in shadow-striped silk flanked a round, claw-footed table. All family heirlooms, she suspected; probably cost the earth. But she’d have nightmares sleeping in that bed. The towering four-poster with its heavy velvet canopy was straight out of a Gothic novel.

Shivering, Regina stepped back into the hall and pulled the door shut. Going into his bedroom was a mistake. What was the matter with her? She had to think about her problem, not the cause of it! But the image of a tall, rugged stranger filled her mind. Sable hair, tousled as if by yearning feminine fingers. Sky-blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled…

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Regina, when did you actually see him smile?” she hissed, exasperated at her silly musings. “Just a stretch of facial muscles, that’s all it was. Because you yelled like a banshee and he was scared to death you’d do it again.”

Still muttering to herself, Regina swept into the kitchen and turned on the stove. She needed to eat, and to heck with Clint Whitfield!

After putting on a pot of salted water, she unpinned her hair and let it swirl around her face in a rambunctious blaze of defiance. Then she slumped down on a bar stool. “Don’t be a goose, Flynn,” she admonished. “You can’t afford pride—there’s Katie’s expenses to think of.” Her school was supported by private donations, plus steep fees from parents. But Regina was well paid, and with careful planning, was managing fine. Until her home and possessions became ashes in that ravenous blaze…

Regina’s sigh reflected her inner conflict. Right or wrong, there was no denying that living in Clint Whitfield’s home had cut her expenses to the bone. But he’d gotten a break, too, she contended; regular house sitters were paid a substantial fee. And come to think of it, why did he dislike this beautiful house so much? She’d sensed his negative feelings several times during their confrontation.

“Dang!” she swore, jumping as the doorbell sent its three-toned peal through the house. Switching on the intercom, she inquired curtly, “Who is it?”

“Clint Whitfield.”

“Oh, Jeez!” Regina whispered, clutching her chest. The husky male voice had sent her heart into a stunning somersault. She cleared her throat. “Just a minute!” After hurriedly smoothing her hair, she sped to the darkened foyer. The porch lights were on and she could see him through the door’s etched-glass insets; tall, bare-headed, forbiddingly stern. Snatching a fortifying breath, she lifted her chin and opened the door to face him.

“Ah, Mr. Whitfield,” she drawled, her puckish sense of humor surfacing like a saving grace. “Returning to the scene of the crime?”

His dark brows shot together. “This is not a laughing matter, Ms. Flynn.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed with a wry smile. “But I learned long ago that if you can’t laugh at your problems, you’re in big trouble.”

He didn’t smile back.

Regina sighed. “So why are you here?”

“To get my hat.”

She blinked. “Your hat?”

“Yes. When I left here, I…left in a hurry.” He frowned as her mouth quirked. “It’s on the desk,” he ended tersely.

“Oh.” She stepped back. “Please, come in. After all, it is your house.” Turning, she proceeded him to the great room.

At the desk, she paused to pick up the battered Stetson. It felt good to her fingers, heavy, masculine. When he took it, his hand brushed hers. The contact created an electrifying sensation.

He jerked his hand back. “Sorry. Static electricity. This dry weather. Thanks,” he said, taking the hat.

“You’re welcome. You know, if you hadn’t slammed out of here so fast, you wouldn’t have had to come back.” Regina met his gaze with a rueful smile. “Then again, if I hadn’t lost my temper, maybe you’d have kept yours and we could have talked this out.”

She glanced at the hat he turned round and round in long, tanned fingers. Something loosened inside her. “You think we could try again? Like calm, rational adults this time?”

Clint shoved back a lock of hair from his brow. “Look, I’m bushed, beat, wiped out from travel fatigue, certainly in no position to bandy clever words with you. The best I can do is apologize for my hot-headed exit. I don’t really think you’re a squatter and I doubt you’re a thief. But truth to tell, I don’t give a damn if you are or not. All I want is my hat, and in due time, your absence from my house.”

“No explanation?”

His eyes narrowed. “I said I didn’t—”

“Give a damn,” she finished for him. “Yes, I heard. Something of a character flaw there,” she murmured just loud enough for him to overhear.

He frowned.

Regretting her barb, Regina tipped her head and gave his rugged face a keen, probing look. A highly sensitive woman, she saw beyond his flinty blue eyes to the profound weariness of heart and mind. His spirit was deeply troubled. And you have an incorrigibly soft heart, Flynn, she acknowledged with droll self-amusement.

He turned his head, bringing into focus the scar slanting along one angular cheekbone. She’d noticed it as soon as he stepped into the brightly lit foyer, and wondered at the where, when, and how of it. Intriguing, she admitted, mentally tracing it with a fingertip.

Responsive to the sudden warmth blossoming in her chest, Regina reached out to rescue the Stetson from his nervous fingers. “Here, let that rest a minute. You sit down, make yourself comfortable. If you’ve been subsisting on airline food all day, you’re bound to be ravenous, and it’s an indisputable fact that I make the best spaghetti sauce in the world—in the universe, actually. The freshest ingredients, herbs I grow myself, gourmet garlic, my Italian plum tomatoes…” She kissed her fingertips. “You’ll love it.”

Without waiting for agreement, she replaced his hat on the desk and headed for the kitchen.

Clint stood awkwardly in place. Dammit, he should get out of here! He didn’t want her spaghetti, didn’t want her chatter or warm smiles. Well, part of him did. And that part acted for him, drawing him along behind her as if on a leash.

Surprisingly he really was hungry. In fact, the aromatic smells wafting from her kitchen were driving him crazy. My kitchen, he amended. He ran a rough hand over his face. “This isn’t necessary, you know.”

“I know.” She pushed a button and a low, slumberous beat of music flowed through the room. “If you’d like to freshen up, the powder room is just down the hall….” She laughed, a chiming sound that brought a sliver of peace to his troubled mind. “I guess you know where it is,” she finished, eyes twinkling.

In the bathroom, he found towels and washcloths neatly laid out, hand soap in a pump bottle, a tiny perfume sample, Lili, a toothbrush and toothpaste—and red, sling-back pumps, one lying on its side as if kicked off enroute. Feminine things. To his chagrin, he found the bathroom’s contents fascinating. Common, ordinary things, fascinating! Confounded, he shook his head at this atypical interest.

When he returned to the kitchen, Regina handed him a corkscrew. “Would you mind opening that wine? On the sideboard. It’s a bold Texas red…or so the salesman told me!”

Her chiming laugh broke out again. To his muddled astonishment, Clint soon found himself sitting on a bar stool, opening wine, watching her pleasingly competent movements. She added pasta and a bit of olive oil to the pot of boiling water. A knife swished through head lettuce, juicy wedges that she dressed with more oil, tarragon vinegar, garlic salt and ground pink peppercorns. She sliced a crusty round loaf, poured a little saucer of virgin olive oil, sprinkled in cracked black pepper. Her long, slender fingers and oval nails captured his gaze and held it prisoner.

At her request, he poured the wine. She laid place mats and napkins on the bar and they ate sitting side by side.

Rain suddenly spattered the windows, creating a disturbingly cozy atmosphere. Through the sauce’s heady fragrance he caught a whiff of some faint, flowery scent. Lilies? It tightened every muscle in his body. He concentrated on his meal.

Regina was aware of his need for silence. He was caught in a situation that perplexed and confused him. Maybe because he was actually enjoying it, she mused. As if enjoyment was forbidden, or at least foreign to him. What had caused him to close himself up to such a degree? Touching the wineglass to her lips, she gave him a sidelong glance as she wracked her brain for details about this fascinating man. There weren’t many. Mid-thirties, childless, obviously well traveled. Divorced, she decided; a man this attractive didn’t run around free for long.

“Are you a native Texan?” she asked.

He nodded, his gaze slipping back to the coral-tipped fingers holding an equally elegant wineglass. “Born and raised on a ranch in the Panhandle.”

A cowboy. Regina smiled at her instant conclusion. Quiet-spoken, tall and lean, with crinkly blue eyes and a battered Stetson, he epitomized the world’s image of a Texan. She was even certain he sat easy on a horse. Well, so did she.

“A cowboy?” she murmured, flashing him a smile.

“A veterinarian.” His plate empty, Clint wiped his mouth and expelled a long sigh. “That was delicious. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. There’s more if you’d like….”

“Thanks, but I’ve had plenty. Whose picture is that?” he asked abruptly.

Regina’s gaze followed his to an alcove furnished with built-in shelves and a small writing desk. “That’s my darling Katie,” she answered with a soft smile.

Clint looked startled. “Your daughter?”

“No, my sister,” Regina answered, chuckling. “She’s fifteen. I know she looks much younger, but she’s a tiny thing, very petite, barely five feet tall. She’s away at school right now.”

His eyebrows rose. “Private school?”

“Yes.” Regina began clearing the counter. “I’ll be through here in just a minute. You finish your wine in the den—we need to talk.”

Hard blue eyes collided with hers but made no headway against her imperious regard. A smile flickered around his mouth. Inclining his dark head, Clint picked up his glass and removed himself to the den.

Music still whispered, more imagination than reality. Rain played on the windowpanes as if in counterpoint. He felt angry, perplexed. Being here should be harder than this, shouldn’t it? But his wife hadn’t lived long enough to occupy their new home.

He sat down on the couch, then impulsively stretched out his legs full length on the soft, cushiony surface. It’s my couch, he thought irritably. If I want to put my feet up, I’ll damn well do it. He set aside his wine. A moment later his head fell back against the stack of jewel-colored cushions. Slowly his thick lashes fanned down….

“Oh, dear,” Regina murmured as she entered the room and stopped beside him. He was asleep. The tremor that started in her heart coursed through her legs as she looked down at him.

Decision time. A simple decision, really, she thought; wake him, and be through with it, or just let him sleep and ride whatever horse the morning brings.

Regina sighed, knowing her flippancy was just a cover for an awareness she’d rather not probe too deeply. Her friends all considered her to be a warm, giving, loving person, often to a fault. She didn’t agree with this last assessment; the world was in such desperate need of love, how could one possibly give too much? This part of her character she attributed to, and honored for, her Italian mother. Still, while it might be admirable to have a big heart, she thought with gentle self-mockery, it wasn’t all that smart.

Because it left her terribly vulnerable.

And because Clint Whitfield was the most dangerous man she’d ever met, the kind of man who touched every instinct known to womankind.

Regina pressed a hand against her breasts. She was nearly thirty and never married. She’d come close once. But when her fiancé learned that she’d assumed responsibility for Katie after their mother’s death, he’d bailed out.

“He dumped you,” she corrected with brutal self-honesty.

Although she still enjoyed the sensual art of flirtation, she’d become wary of deeper involvement. She doubted any man would willingly take on such a burden. A burden she could never lay down. So she’d decided she didn’t need romance in her life. Friendship would do.

But this man had stirred something deep inside her, something innocent of prior experience. And he’d done it without the usual social exchanges, with little verbal or physical communication, and without using an ounce of masculine charm.

Baffled by his effect on her, Regina studied the sculpted features now softened by slumber, the challenging, provocative scar. “Yep, dangerous,” she murmured, a smile touching her mouth. “Wonderfully dangerous.”

Her decision having made itself, she unfolded a cashmere afghan and spread it over his long body. Vulnerable she might be, and sensibly cautious, but she was also Irish as well as Italian, which made her courageous as well as warmhearted. She wasn’t afraid to take chances—as long as it didn’t hurt Katie.

Regina turned off the lamp. Only the moonlight illumined his dark face, glossing it with mystery and sadness. “Good night, Mr. Whitfield, sleep well,” she whispered, and tiptoed from the room.

Three

Clint Whitfield brushed at his face as if clearing away the sunlight teasing him to wakefulness. In his years of roaming the globe, rarely did he awake confused as to his whereabouts. But this wasn’t the veld, the jungle or the dun-colored plains with animals flowing across its soft folds like streams of dark water. He was in his own house—and for a fraction of a second, he expected his wife to come in….

No, no. She was gone and he was alone.

Still confused, he gazed around the sunlit room, noting plants and flowers, a snowy knit shawl flung over a chair, framed snapshots on the mantel, none of them his. The center picture, a small girl riding a hand-guided pony, pricked his memory, rousing him to his new reality despite an intense desire to avoid it.

Even worse, once confusion vanished, he was left with a sense of stupidity that made him groan aloud.

Regina Flynn. Clint groaned again as her sweet face formed in his mind. He had meant to sit down, exchange a few sensible words with the woman and leave none the worse for the encounter. Instead, he’d fallen asleep. How could he have let that happen?

I’ve got to get out of here! Reacting to an urgency he didn’t fully understand, he threw off the afghan, bounded to his feet and grabbed his hat off the desk—

“Good morning.”

The low, musical greeting affected Clint like a shout. He froze, then whirled, eyes narrowing as he noted the tiny smile sweetening her lips. Yeah, just as he thought—amusement, so faint he’d have missed it had he not been immediately suspicious!

She sat at the bar, coffee cup in hand, head still tilted in humorous regard. “Sleep okay?” she asked.

Clint grunted. She wore something long and pink and looked absurdly delicious with all those messy curls streaming around her face and down her neck.

“I slept fine,” he said. “I didn’t intend to,” he added tersely when she gifted him with another smile. “Falling asleep here was definitely not in my plans.”

“You were exhausted,” she said easily. “There’s hot coffee—pour yourself a cup. Then go shower if you’d like. Meantime I’ll get dressed. We can talk over breakfast. Nothing fancy, just bagels. Frozen, unfortunately.” She dimpled. “But there’s homemade strawberry jam to even things out.”

She stood up. “Coffee’s there, cups over here, sugar and cream by the sink,” she said, and left him standing there still forming a polite but tellingly curt refusal.

Clint couldn’t resist the appeal of a hot shower. After downing a cup of black coffee, he fetched his bag from the rental car and headed for his bedroom.

Opening the door was good for one of those gut-kicking pangs that life gifted him with whenever he dared think he was finally immune. Once inside, he paused for a quick look around. He’d never cared for the plush decor. But Barbara had liked it. So he’d put up with all this red velvet and carved mahogany.

But that bed… He’d never sleep in it again. Well, there were plenty of other bedrooms in the-house-that-Clint-built. Grimacing, he made a mental note to return this heirloom furniture to her family. “Should have done that a long time ago,” he berated himself. Tight-lipped, he walked on to his personal bathroom, an uncluttered expanse of white tile, forest-green porcelain and sparkling glass.

The shower felt as wonderful as anticipated. After a satisfying interval, he turned it off and grabbed a towel. Wrapping it around his hips, he wiped the fogged mirror and studied himself with a crooked smile. He looked dark, dangerous, tough as nails, a well-fitting mask that had gradually formed around his features as the darkness squeezed all joy and humor out of him.

He’d lived behind the mask so long and it had served him so well, that he doubted he’d ever be free of its cynical benefits.

“Just as well,” he muttered, lathering on shaving cream. He had no use for romantic illusions. Any dreams he might have had were dead, crushed by the weight of gritty reality.

Such massive destruction left a man achingly vulnerable, and cynicism, with its razor-sharp edges, made a good shield. Avoiding his own gaze, Clint finished shaving and hurriedly dressed in khaki slacks and a white knit pullover.

When he returned to the den, breakfast was laid out on the bar. Regina, clad in a smart navy suit and low-heeled pumps, motioned him to sit. Impassively he obeyed. He accepted a cup of coffee, but ignored breakfast. He’d rather look at her than eat, an unsettling discovery. He swallowed a big gulp of coffee, burning his tongue grievously. He swore, but kept it under his breath.

“Help yourself, I’ve already eaten,” she said with another wave of her slim, elegant hand. Absently she smoothed her hair. “Mr. Whitfield, I’m sorry if I’ve caused you distress. I did notify you about a house sitter,” she went on in a rush of words, “but I admit I might have jumped the gun a little—”

“Jumped the gun a little?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“All right, I did notify you, but I didn’t wait for your response. So you do have cause to be irate. In fact, you have cause to lodge a complaint with Lamar himself,” she added.

With just enough irony in her smile to make that much too harsh a punishment, he thought. “But you hope I won’t.”

“Yes, of course. I value my job.”

“But not enough to keep from risking it. Why? What prodded you into doing this?”

Her gaze dropped. “That’s not important. I don’t want to play on your sympathy. Not to that extent, anyway. But I can promise that I’ll be out of here by tonight, with no harm done that I can see. I really have taken good care of your home during this time—”

“During what time? How long have you been here?”

Regina stuck a bagel in the toaster. “A little over a month. I moved in the last week of August.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone at the office?”

“No. Oh, I told Lamar I was appointing myself your house sitter, but he assumed—and I let him assume—that you’d agreed to the arrangement. I hoped, of course, that you would do so before he discovered that I’d acted prematurely,” she said stiffly. Refilling their coffee cups, she picked up hers and cautiously sipped. “Again, I’m sorry.”

“Why? Because you got caught?”

“No,” she replied indignantly. “Well, yes. But also because you were upset by it. I apologize, and I will get out at once. It won’t take any time, I only have my clothes and my garden—”

“Your garden?” His eyebrows shot up again. “You can move a garden?”

“Well, if it’s in big pots, you can. Just some herbs I use often, and a few pepper and tomato plants I’ve coaxed through the summer heat. Not an easy job, believe me!” she said with a sudden smile. It faded, and the room inexplicably darkened.

“I suppose not.” The bagel popped up. He took half, then reached for the cream cheese. “What caused you to sneak in here in the first place? There must have been some good reason to risk your job.”

“There was. And I didn’t sneak,” Regina added with another snap of indignance. Passing him the strawberry preserves, she continued quietly, “Obviously I needed a place to stay. And here was yours, just wasting away.”

“And?” he prompted. “What happened to your home? Assuming you had one.”

“Of course I had one!” Regina modified her tone again. “My home burnt to the ground, Mr. Whitfield. I lost everything I owned.” She shrugged. “End of story.”

“I see.” Clint spread preserves on his bagel. “Is that why you lit into me about ‘abandoning’ my house?”

“I suppose that played a part in it.” She sighed. “A big part. I’m sorry about that, too. It was uncalled for,” she admitted. “But your house did seem unloved. How long did you live here before you flew off to answer the call of the wild?”

Amused by her droll tone, Clint replied, “I moved in right after it was finished, stayed two months, then left for Kenya.”

“Why?” she asked, driven by an unruly need to know. “A love affair gone bad—or something like that?” she ended lamely. Meeting his opaque blue gaze, she flushed. Oh, Gina! Shut up, for godsakes!

“No, nothing like that. I’m a widower, Miss Flynn.”

“Oh!” Regina’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mr. Whitfield, I’m sorry—”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Clint said brusquely. “Since we’re getting into personal stuff, didn’t you have insurance on your house?”

“Yes, enough to pay off the second mortgage. The contents weren’t insured, however. Living here gave me a month’s breathing space and I thank you for that. Anyway, I’ll be gone by this evening.”

“No. You don’t have to leave.”

Startled green eyes stared at him. “I don’t? But you—last night you were so angry at finding me here, I thought…” A smile suddenly wreathed her puzzled features. “Well, never mind what I thought. Do you really mean it? You’re not mad about…well, you know.”

Clint shook his head, bemused by the effect she was having on him. Something on the order of a deer mesmerized by headlights, he thought, daring another glance into her dark-lashed eyes. Maybe that’s why I’m being such a sweetheart, he mocked his undisciplined responses. But she had a point. The service was free and no damage had been done that he could see. He didn’t give a damn about the house anyway. Why should he care if she stayed in it? Besides, he had a hunch the agency would take a different view if they learned she’d supplanted a client’s wishes. He had no desire to get anyone fired. Especially not someone who’d lost everything in a fire.

“Yeah, I mean it,” he said gruffly. “I’m putting the house on the market and I figure your being here will help sell it faster than if it’s vacant,” he added, resorting to hard-nosed practicality. “So you can stay on…provided you cooperate with the Realtor in showing it, of course.”

“Yes, of course.” She nibbled her lip. “I’ll have to think about it some.”

“My presence won’t be a bother, if that’s what’s bugging you,” he said dryly. “I’m leaving town today to visit friends, then I’ll be in and out on business.”

“I see,” Regina said, cool and crisp, even though curiosity was eating her alive. What kind of business? Where was he going? More important, when was he coming back? And would he be coming back here?

Clint watched her closely, intrigued by the expressions flitting across her vivid face. Catching his regard, she blushed. “Okay, I’ll try it, but I don’t know,” she ended dubiously. “But I do thank you. You’ve been very kind.” She stood up and extended her hand. “Well, today is Friday, a workday for some of us. Goodbye, Mr. Whitfield. Nice meeting you.”

“Yeah.” Clint gave a quick, hard laugh. “Same here, Miss Flynn. See you around.”

Regina nodded, picked up her briefcase and hurried out to her car. Questions about Clint divided her attention as she drove to the office. How long had he been widowed? Although the subject had aroused no overt emotion, she’d sensed something beneath that hard mask, a sadness that went beyond grief.

Was he still mired in the bitterness of his loss? If so, his wife must have been the love of his life, Regina thought wistfully. “None of which is your business, Gina,” she chided. But her heart still yearned for answers.

Five days passed without any sign of a Realtor. Puzzled, Regina questioned that, too. Clint had seemed impatient to get it over with, close this part of his life. At least that’s how she’d read him.

He really doesn’t care about this house, she concluded, hurrying in from work Wednesday evening. He hadn’t even walked through it before he left. “Sad, really sad,” she murmured.

Hearing the phone ring, she ran down the hall to the den and grabbed the receiver. It was Katie, wanting to talk. Regina relaxed and enjoyed the half-hour chat with her sister. Katie found astonishment and delight in everything. This time it was a whole flock of baby toad-frogs no bigger than her little fingernail hopping in the grass.

Regina hung up with a soft laugh. “Toad-frogs!” she chuckled. She’d started to walk away when the phone rang again. “Yes, Katie, what did you forget?” she asked indulgently.

Silence.

“Hello?” Her voice sharpened. “Who is this?”

“Clint Whitfield.”

Regina’s heart fluttered. “Mr. Whitfield! I’m sorry, I… How are you?” Idiotic, Gina! “Did you want something?” she asked, making it worse.

“Yes, I want to know why you told Lamar about this…situation between us. I wasn’t going to mention it,” he said roughly. “I called the agency a few minutes ago about something else, and much to my surprise, your boss got on the line and apologized all over the place.”

“Yes, well, I—I confessed what I’d done.”

“Why would you do a dumb thing like that?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.” She sighed. “Also because I wanted to tell him myself before he found out from someone else. Being found out by you was bad enough. He wasn’t too happy about it, either, raked me over the coals pretty good. But I figure I deserved it. And, too, I have a job review next week with potential for a promotion, so I’m glad to get this behind me.” Silence. “Are you back in town?”

“Back in town.”

“Oh. Are you still selling the house? I mean, I haven’t heard from any Realtors yet.”

“That’s because I haven’t gotten around to any yet. I’ve been busy, Ms. Flynn,” he replied irritably. “I’m just passing through town, so it’ll be a few days before it gets done. This Lamar seemed more a personal friend than a boss.”

The abrupt change of subject threw Regina. “Yes, he’s a friend. But also very much a boss,” she responded coolly. “Look, if you want to spend the night here—I mean, this is your house, so if you’d rather not go to a hotel…” She let it hang.

“Thank you, but a hotel’s fine. Well, they’re calling my flight,” Clint said.

He was relieved to find an excuse to end this disturbing contact. Pocketing his cell phone, he grabbed his bag and strode to the gate. Why had he made that remark about this Lamar person? Who cared if he was boss or friend?

Sinking into the roomy, first-class seat, Clint closed his eyes. He was on his way to Los Angeles for a fund-raiser. Big White Hunter pulls ’em in, he thought sardonically; he’d never harmed anything in his life. The scar didn’t hurt his image, either. Well, he was using his looks and imaginary reputation for a good cause, garnering money for the preservation of animals, which he liked a damn sight more than people.

Regina Flynn. Green eyes, a lush, full mouth, saucy little nose. He accepted a magazine, determined to put her image from his mind. Odd how persistent it was. Giving up, he stared out the window, wondering if he should just call a Realtor, save a trip back there again. That would probably be a smart move, given his annoying interest in his new tenant.

Clint relaxed, relieved by his decision. He’d call first thing in the morning, ask the agency to recommend a reliable Realtor. Maybe even ask good ole Lamar himself, he thought with biting humor.

Sunday afternoon Clint Whitfield came home again. He’d had a grueling weekend and was looking forward to some rest and relaxation. “So why am I back here?” he muttered, ringing the doorbell. Irritably he stopped his questing mind. It was his house.

“Yes? Who is it?” came a sweet voice through the intercom.

“Clint Whitfield.” Hearing her surprised little “Oh!” touched something in him. “May I come in?” he asked testily.

“Yes, of course. I’m out by the pool. Come on in,” she answered so breathlessly, he smiled.

Unlocking the door, he strode through the house and out to the raised deck, where he stopped to grab a breath. She was all legs. Bare, shapely legs. She wore some sort of garment that fell to midpoint on her thighs. He wondered if she wore anything beneath. His chest tightened. He made his way down the steps more slowly than intended.

“Hello!” she called, waving one slender arm.

“Hello,” he replied, pausing on the last step. He didn’t think she wore a bra, either, and that played hell with his libido. His throat felt inordinately dry. Clearing it, he continued, “Isn’t the water cold this late in the year?”

She laughed. “A little. But it’s ninety degrees today, so that helps keep me warm. Come on down, I’m having a little picnic, and there’s enough for two.” Turning, she walked to a small, wrought-iron dining set.

He followed behind her, looking for some line or strap against her back that might indicate a bra. Damn, Whitfield! You’d think you’d never seen a seminude woman before! Annoyed at himself, he sat down opposite her and accepted a beer. She’d placed a tray of fruit, cheese and crackers on the glass-topped table. Wondering why he was so ravenous when he was with her, he filled a paper plate.

“I just got in a few minutes ago,” she was saying. “Katie was here for the weekend, but I had to take her back early, because her very best friend in all the world is having a birthday party. You can’t miss an important occasion like that!” she declared, laughing.

Her face glowed, a breeze played in her loose hair, and those eyes were luminous emeralds. Clint felt something entirely unwelcome stir in his chest. It was a shifting sort of feeling, like a tiny earthquake opening up to expose something soft and vulnerable to the glare of sunlight.

“No, I guess you can’t.” He swigged the icy beer. “What kind of school does she attend? A boarding school?”

“No. Well, yes, I guess you could call it that. She lives there full-time. Katie’s mentally handicapped, Mr. Whitfield—”

“Clint.”

Regina swallowed. “Clint. We were lucky to be accepted by this school,” she continued.

“Why is that?”

Delighted by his seemingly real interest, Regina described the school, a huge, sprawling complex boasting living quarters, fully staffed greenhouses, ceramic studios and a shop that showcased student handicrafts. “Leaving Katie was a wrench—I’ve always been so protective of her, and I miss her, her impish laughter and ever-ready hugs….”

Clint, watching her closely, noted the sparkle of tears on her lashes. “How does Katie feel about it?”

“Happy. She loves the staff and considers them simply an extension of family. Since we don’t have much family left…” Regina shook her head. “Our parents died when she was quite young, so there’s just Katie and me.”

Clint frowned. “And you were how old when you assumed full responsibility for a handicapped child?”

“Twenty-two. Thank goodness I already had my BA in business. Her school is supported by private donations, plus steep tuition fees paid by parents. But I have a good job, so we’re managing just fine.”

Rising, Clint walked to the edge of the outsize pool, where a waterfall rushed down artfully placed stones. Magnificent boulders created nooks for lacy ferns and scarlet impatiens. “Why don’t you have someone sharing the load? Like a husband.”

“I haven’t found men all that eager to share the load,” she answered wryly. “Almost got one to the altar once, but he developed cold feet at the last minute.”

Suddenly aware of how personal they were getting, Regina sat down and opened a cola, sipped it, glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes. His thick, dark hair curled at his nape, ruining his stony image, she thought with secret amusement.

“That’s a rotten deal you’ve been handed, caring for a handicapped child alone,” he mused. “Must have been tough.”

“Oh, no, you misunderstood me. My darling Katie is the sweetest, most lovable person I’ve ever met. Caring for her has made me what I am today. And I happen to like who and what I am,” Regina asserted. “I really don’t need a man to help me do what I enjoy most in life.”

Clint’s mouth twisted. “Bully for you, Ms. Flynn.”

“Regina,” she corrected softly. “And I wasn’t boasting, I was merely stating a fact.” Ignoring his skeptical glance, she walked up beside him, her shoulder almost touching his. “So pretty,” she murmured, gazing at the waterfall. “You’d think you were in the tropics. You did a fine job, Clint. I’ve never seen a lovelier pool.”

“Thanks.” It was almost a grunt. Clint couldn’t help it—the irony of her remark had sliced like a knife. This elaborate pool had been one of several negative issues in his marriage. His wife had kept making costly changes to the original plans. With her income and trust fund, she could afford it. But he couldn’t, and he’d wanted to build her the house himself.

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