Daniel could almost feel months of scheming crashing around his ears

Not to mention that his life was pretty much flashing in front of his eyes. One significant memory from his past had apparently materialized and was now sitting right next to him on Judson Drake's private jet.

She looked pale, he noted. And no wonder. Her head was probably spinning.

He knew his was.

He had thought himself prepared for any eventuality on this trip. He had not been at all prepared for Brittany Jeanne Samples to walk through that door—and directly into his arms.

Dear Reader,

Well, we're getting into the holiday season full tilt, and what better way to begin the celebrations than with some heartwarming reading? Let's get started with Gina Wilkins's The Borrowed Ring, next up in her FAMILY FOUND series. A woman trying to track down her family's most mysterious and intriguing foster son finds him and a whole lot more—such as a job posing as his wife!

A Montana Homecoming, by popular author Allison Leigh, brings home a woman who's spent her life running from her own secrets. But they're about to be revealed, courtesy of her childhood crush, now the local sheriff.

This month, our class reunion series, MOST LIKELY TO…, brings us Jen Safrey's Secrets of a Good Girl, in which we learn that the girl most likely to…do everything disappeared right after college. Perhaps her secret crush, a former professor, can have some luck tracking her down overseas? We're delighted to have bestselling Blaze author Kristin Hardy visit Special Edition in the first of her HOLIDAY HEARTS books. Where There's Smoke introduces us to the first of the devastating Trask brothers. The featured brother this month is a handsome firefighter in Boston. And speaking of delighted—we are absolutely thrilled to welcome RITA® Award nominee and Red Dress Ink and Intimate Moments star Karen Templeton to Special Edition. Although this is her first Special Edition contribution, it feels as if she's coming home. Especially with Marriage, Interrupted, in which a pregnant widow meets up once again with the man who got away—her first husband—at her second husband's funeral. We know you're going to enjoy this amazing story as much as we did. And we are so happy to welcome brand-new Golden Heart winner Gail Barrett to Special Edition. Where He Belongs, the story of the bad boy who's come back to town to the girl he's never been able to forget, is Gail's first published book.

So enjoy—and remember, next month we continue our celebration….

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor

The Borrowed Ring
Gina Wilkins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For John

GINA WILKINS

is a bestselling and award-winning author who has written more than seventy books for Harlequin and Silhouette. She credits her successful career in romance to her long, happy marriage and her three “extraordinary” children.

A lifelong resident of central Arkansas, Ms. Wilkins sold her first book to Harlequin in 1987 and has been writing full-time since. She has appeared on the Waldenbooks, B. Dalton and USA TODAY bestseller lists. She is a three-time recipient of the Maggie Award for Excellence, sponsored by Georgia Romance Writers, and has won several awards from the reviewers of Romantic Times.

You are invited….

It's Jared and Cassie Walker's

twenty-fifth wedding anniversary

and you are cordially invited

to the biggest bash in Texas!

After decades of caring and support

for their friends and family,

we want to honor these two lovebirds.

So come one, come all to celebrate on the

Walker Ranch, Saturday, October 15!

RSVP with Molly and Shane Walker

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

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

B.J. Samples. Private investigator extraordinaire.

Almost strutting with pride, she climbed out of her rental car and approached the Missouri farmhouse that lay at the end of a long, wide driveway. Actually farmhouse did not do the structure justice. This was practically a mansion. Pillars, dormers, balconies. Fountains and a swimming pool and detached pool house. Landscaping that looked like a photograph from a home-and-garden magazine. There was even a private airstrip behind the house.

Having come from a childhood of poverty and homelessness, Daniel Castillo—now known as Daniel Andreas—had apparently done quite well for himself.

He had not, however, been an easy man to find. She had spent the past week trying to track him down, finally getting a lead that had brought her to this spreading east Missouri farm an hour's drive from St. Louis. It hadn't been effortless, but she had gotten the information. And she couldn't wait to boast about it to her three uncles who owned the private investigation agency that employed her.

Her confident steps slowed as she approached the front door. She had the oddest feeling that she was being watched. She glanced around and saw no one, not even in the many highly polished windows at the front of the house.

Maybe it was just an attack of nerves. After all, she didn't usually do fieldwork. Computer searches were her specialty. The only reason she had been sent on this trip was because it was a low-priority assignment. One that could hardly get her into any trouble.

Maybe it was the place itself that was getting to her. Her hand wasn't quite steady when she reached for the doorbell. Was it any wonder? The only mansion she had ever visited regularly in her middle-class upbringing was her wealthy aunt Michelle's. Yet with Tony and Michelle's four children and assortment of pets, that sprawling estate had always been homey and welcoming.

She glanced down at her olive-green camp shirt and khaki pants. Perhaps she should have dressed more professionally. But it was too late for that now. The front door opened, and a very large, very bald man in a shiny gray jacket, a pale blue shirt and sharply creased jeans growled, “Yes?”

He didn't look like a butler. Nor a farmer, for that matter. He looked more like a bouncer in a low-rent strip joint. Not that she'd ever actually been in a place like that. Drawing herself to her full five feet three inches—still a foot shorter than this man—B.J. tried to speak confidently. “I'm looking for Daniel Andreas. Is he here?”

The man's heavy eyebrows rose toward his shaved pate. “Daniel Andreas?”

Never known as a particularly patient woman, B.J. swallowed a sigh. “That's what I said.”

Comprehension seemed to light in his dull brown eyes. “Oh! You made it. I'm sure he'll be pleased. Come in.”

She didn't have a clue what he was talking about. “I don't—”

“Daniel!” the man bellowed, practically hauling her inside. He glanced toward the staircase. “Oh, there you are. Look who's here. Your missus.”

B.J. glanced in the same direction, then simply stared. She had wondered how Daniel would look in person after thirteen years. Now she knew.

He looked fantastic.

For a moment he stared back at her, no expression at all on his incredibly handsome face. She doubted sincerely that he recognized her. It had been too long, and she was sure she had not made the impression on him back then that he had on her.

Before she could speak, he was coming toward her with swift, graceful movements that were vaguely feline. Just a bit predatory. The smile that lit his face was blinding, but she had a moment to notice that his obsidian eyes were deadly serious before he grabbed her and yanked her toward him. “Darling! I'm so glad you could make it after all.”

A moment later his mouth was on hers in a kiss hot enough to melt the soles of her leather sandals.

When the kiss ended, he didn't give her a chance to speak—even if she had been able to, which certainly wasn't guaranteed just then. Gripping her shoulders hard enough to leave fingerprints, he looked at the bald man, who hovered nearby with an oddly sentimental smile on his broad face. “Bernard, would you give us a minute alone? We have some catching up to do.”

Bernard? B.J. found herself mentally repeating. Was that really that man's name?

The big man nodded. “You and the missus can use that little parlor just behind you. You won't be disturbed. I'll let you know when we have to go. In the meantime, I'll call the boss and tell him your wife will be joining us, after all.”

“Oh, but—”

Daniel's fingers dug more sharply into B.J.'s shoulders, causing her words to end in a gasp. “Yes, do that,” he said to the other man.

Bernard was frowning at B.J. “Something wrong, Mrs. Andreas?”

She glanced up at Daniel in bewilderment. The look he gave her in return had her turning back to Bernard with a strained smile. “I just need to talk to my, er, to Daniel in private for a moment.”

The large man's face cleared, his somewhat scarylooking smile returning. “Right this way, ma'am.”

He ushered them into an elegantly furnished little parlor and closed the door behind him to leave them alone.

B.J. whirled immediately to face Daniel, making no effort now to hide her outrage. “What the hell was that?”

“Please keep your voice down.” He had dropped the smile, and his face was an expressionless mask again as he studied her. “You have no idea how you've complicated everything.”

Her jaw almost dropped. She had complicated everything? Had she just walked into an expensive madhouse?

Because she needed a moment to collect herself or she would end up shrieking at him, she studied the man who stood in front of her, comparing him to the boy she had once briefly known. He had fascinated her when she was fourteen and he was sixteen. Even then he had been striking looking, with his thick black hair, classic features and lazy-lidded dark eyes.

Some of her cousins had been a little afraid of his flash-point temper, but B.J. never had been. There had been something about him that had drawn her into girlish daydreams and amorous fantasies. He had been her first big crush, and she had never forgotten him.

Now he was a man of almost thirty. Still handsome but seemingly more comfortable in his skin now. The jeans, T-shirt and boots of his youth had been traded for a dark jacket that must have cost a small fortune, worn over an open-necked white shirt, charcoal slacks and expensive-looking shoes.

He looked rich, powerful and more than just a little dangerous. Still, she refused to let him see that she was at all intimidated.

Lifting her chin, she placed her hands on her slim hips and spoke firmly. “Obviously there has been some mistake. I don't know who you and Bernard were expecting, but you have the wrong person. My name is—”

“Brittany Samples,” he cut in coolly. “I recognized you as soon as you walked in.”

For the second time since she arrived, he had rendered her speechless. How on earth had he identified her that quickly? It had been more than a dozen years, for crying out loud. The last time he had seen her, she had been a shy fourteen-year-old with braces and no figure at all.

Well, okay, she still didn't have much of a figure. She had long ago given up on naturally growing big breasts or voluptuous hips. But still, she was a grown woman of twenty-seven now. She wore her brown hair layered in a choppy short cut that she'd been told was flattering to her lamentably gamine face and she had applied her makeup in a way that played up her blue eyes.

The fact that she had recognized him so easily didn't lessen her surprise. After all, she had been expecting to find him. She had a fairly recent snapshot of him in her wallet. And she had carried a mental picture at the back of her mind for years. She doubted he could say the same about her.

Finally recovering, she stammered slightly when she said, “I, um, really didn't expect you to know me. How did you—”

He made a silencing movement with his right hand. “We don't have time for this now. We've got to figure out how to get you out of this mess you've created without putting either of us in any more danger.”

“The mess I've created?” she repeated incredulously. And then the rest of his words registered. “Danger?”

Daniel put a hand to the back of his neck and squeezed, his brow creased in concentration. “Maybe we should tell them…”

“The truth?” she suggested when his words faded.

“That's not going to work.”

“Look—” She took a step toward him, bringing her close enough to jab a finger of her left hand into his chest. “I don't know what's going on here, but I've had enough. All I came here to do was—”

He caught her hand in his, absently pulling it away from his chest but not releasing her. “Bernard thinks you're my wife. If he has any reason to suspect either of us is not who we've said, he'll kill us. And, by the way, he's not the only armed guard surrounding us. The house is crawling with them—and every one of them answers to him.”

She felt her stomach clench. “I don't believe you.”

“Believe it, Brittany.”

Focusing on that name rather than the fear that was suddenly trying to overtake her, she scowled. “I answer to B.J. Any husband worth his salt would know that.”

Ignoring her heavily sarcastic remark, he continued, “We don't have much time, so you must listen. How did you get here?”

“I drove from St. Louis. Why?”

“Your own car or a rental?”

“A rental. I don't—”

He seemed to be concentrating on his own thoughts rather than her attempts to turn the questioning back on him. “Do you have any luggage with you?”

“No, I left it all at my hotel. Daniel—”

He studied her left hand, which he still held. “No rings. Not married?”

“No.” She couldn't help noticing the gold band on his left hand. “So where is your real wife?”

“I'll explain later.” Reaching inside the collar of his white shirt, he fished out a thin gold chain, which he swiftly unfastened. A moment later he had her left hand in his again. His eyes locked with hers as he slid a ring onto her finger.

Dazed, she looked down at the simple, aged-looking gold ring. “This is a wedding ring,” she said stupidly.

A sharp rap on the door barely gave warning of Bernard's abrupt entrance. He caught them still standing close together, seemingly holding hands. “Sorry to interrupt the reunion, but we really have to get under way.”

“There has been a problem, Bernard. My wife was just telling me she can't join us.” Daniel's voice held a touch of regret as he slipped an arm around her shoulders.

Bernard's heavy face settled into a frown. “What's the problem?”

“Her luggage has been misplaced by the airline. The only garments she has with her are the ones she's wearing.” He spoke so smoothly B.J. almost believed him herself.

Bernard scanned her casual camp shirt and khakis, nodding as if something had just been explained to him. “That's not a problem. You can buy everything she needs when we get there. We've got several of those fancy boutiques the ladies like.”

After only a momentary pause, Daniel said, “She has some things in her luggage that have sentimental value. She's reluctant to leave without tracking it down.”

His frown deepening, Bernard shifted restlessly. Suspiciously. The movement made his ill-fitting jacket gap just enough for B.J. to catch a glimpse of the shoulder holster beneath. “I'm sure the boss can take care of everything. Why don't we get going and I'll make some calls on the way.”

B.J. thought she detected the slightest hint of apology in the look Daniel gave her then. “There's really no need to go to that much trouble. You have our home address on your luggage tags, don't you, sweetheart?”

Remembering the chilling sight of Bernard's weapon, B.J. nodded mutely.

“Then I'm sure it will all be sent to our home as soon as it turns up. In any event, there's really nothing all that valuable involved, is there?”

She shook her head, as he clearly expected of her.

Daniel gave her an encouraging smile.

Bernard's face cleared. “That's okay, then. You'll see, Mrs. Andreas. Everything's going to work out just fine.”

She wished she could believe that.

Daniel could almost feel months of scheming crashing around his ears. Not to mention that his life was pretty much flashing in front of his eyes. One significant memory from his past had apparently materialized and was now sitting right next to him on Judson Drake's private jet.

She looked pale, he noted. And no wonder. Her head was probably spinning.

He knew his was.

He had thought himself prepared for any eventuality on this trip. He had not been at all prepared for Brittany Jeanne Samples to walk through that door—and directly into his arms.

She hadn't really changed in thirteen years, he mused. Oh, there were definitely signs of maturity. She had worn braces the last time he'd seen her. Now her white teeth were perfectly straight. Her glossy brown hair had fallen almost to her waist back then, and it was now cut into a short, shaggy style that suited her.

Her figure hadn't developed significantly since her teenage years, but rather than the gawkiness of adolescence, she now moved with the lithe grace of womanhood. And her eyes were still an amazingly rich blue, still framed in ridiculously long, lush lashes.

Some might call her cute or even pretty. However one defined it, her look appealed to him as strongly now as it had when he was sixteen.

He had never expected to see her again—certainly not under these conditions. He hadn't had a chance yet to analyze how he felt about having her here, other than fear for her safety and concern about the plans he had spent so long putting together. Still, at the back of his mind was the uncomfortable awareness that Brittany Jeanne Samples was the only living soul who had ever seen him cry.

Thirteen years ago, she was the only one he knew, other than his foster parents, who hadn't been at all afraid of him. She wasn't afraid now. Quietly furious, yes. Healthily cautious, definitely. But not afraid.

Yet he reached out to pat her hand, giving her a bracing smile. “I know how much you hate flying in these small planes. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”

“Don't you worry, Mrs. Andreas,” Bernard said with a heavy-handed attempt at sympathy. “Mr. Drake hires only the best pilots.”

Her strained expression didn't change. “I'm sure he does.”

“Can I get you anything? Soda? Bottled water?”

“No, thank you.”

Daniel trusted that Bernard would attribute B.J.'s terseness to a fear of flying, as he had intended when he had mentioned it. Bernard wasn't the sharpest pencil in the cup, but he wasn't entirely unobservant either. B.J. was hardly acting like a loving wife on her way to a luxurious resort with her husband.

He was going to have to be on his toes every minute to cover for her. He really hadn't needed this complication.

They were in the air for almost four hours. While Bernard played a video game built into a console in the private jet and Daniel read what appeared to be a book about the Spanish-American War, B.J. simply stared out a side window.

She declined the magazines Bernard offered her and had no interest in watching the television he pointed out to her. She was unable to doze. She spent the time wondering where they were going and why and what to expect when they got there.

Had she made a huge mistake going along with this charade? Should she have made it clear that she was not Daniel's wife? Perhaps treated it as a joke? But he had given her little time for that option and he had looked deadly serious when he'd told her that her very life was in danger.

Seeing the gun tucked beneath Bernard's jacket had seemed to illustrate that warning quite clearly.

Still, was she any safer now, flying toward who knew where for who knew what purpose?

Daniel spoke to her occasionally, using a lovingly solicitous tone that made her back teeth set. She had to make a real effort to respond in kind, but apparently her acting skills were better than she had thought, since Bernard didn't seem to notice anything unusual between them. Maybe because Daniel mentioned several times her supposed fear of flying and commented about how brave she was being, even though he knew she must be anxious.

She hadn't been afraid of flying, but this nightmare trip could definitely leave permanent trauma, she decided.

When they finally landed, it was on another private airstrip. From what B.J. could guess from peering out the window, this strip was a part of a luxurious ocean-side resort. She had seen swimming pools and cabanas, sprawling buildings and cozy cabins. Private beaches. Two golf courses.

Florida? South Carolina? She really had no clue.

Maybe the place would have looked more beautiful to her had she been arriving for a voluntary stay. As it was, the only thought on her mind was wondering how soon she could leave.

“See, Mrs. Andreas?” Bernard asked jovially. “Back on the ground, safe and sound.”

She would have liked very much to smack him right in the middle of his condescending smile. Instead she merely nodded.

Once again Daniel spoke for her. “My wife is exhausted from so much traveling today. I hope we can be shown to our suite quickly so she can get some rest.”

B.J. hoped that suite had a back door she could dash out of as soon as no one was looking. At the very least, she would be on the phone at the first opportunity telling her uncles to get busy rescuing her. Well, she would make that call as soon as she figured out where she was.

Bernard ushered them off the plane. A man stepped forward immediately to greet them. In marked contrast to the beefy and belligerent-looking Bernard, this man was handsome, slender and suave. Yet something about his smile made B.J.'s blood run cold.

His heavily moussed hair was sun-streaked blond, and his eyes were a glittering green. He had a perfect profile, a perfect tan, perfect teeth and a perfect physique. She would have bet hard-earned cash that none of those attributes had been bestowed upon him by nature.

As her cowboy uncle Jared would say, this fellow was so slick she could have slid him through a keyhole.

“Daniel,” he said, shaking Daniel's hand. “It's good to see you again. And this—” he turned to B.J. “—must be your lovely wife.”

His voice practically coated with pride, Daniel replied, “Yes, this is B.J. Darling, I'd like you to meet Judson Drake, the man I've told you so much about.”

Judson Drake. If that was his real name, she would eat her shoe.

She nearly flinched when Drake took her hand, holding it more snugly than necessary. “It's my pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Andreas.”

“Mr. Drake,” she murmured. As much as it unnerved her to be called Mrs. Andreas, she didn't encourage him to use her nickname.

“Bernard tells me that you've had a difficult time. I understand that your luggage has been misplaced.”

He was still holding her hand. B.J. gave a slight tug, freeing it, before she replied, “Yes. I suggested that I should stay behind…”

“Nonsense.” He waved a hand dismissively. “We have everything you could need in our shops here. I'll make arrangements for you to select whatever you like. Just give the shopkeepers your name, and anything you need is yours.”

“That's very generous of you, but I can provide for my wife's needs,” Daniel said with a hint of bruised pride. “If you'll make arrangements for her to charge her purchases to our suite, that will be sufficient.”

Drake eyed Daniel with a speculation B.J. couldn't quite analyze. “Consider it done. I'm sure you're both tired and hungry. Perhaps you would like to take advantage of some of my resort's amenities for the remainder of the day. We can talk business tomorrow, Daniel.”

Daniel seemed to give the suggestion some thought, and then he inclined his head. “Thank you. For my wife's sake, I think that would be best.”

If he said “my wife” in that smugly possessive tone one more time, B.J. was going to kick him. Hard. And she didn't care who was watching.

“Let me escort you to your suite. Bernard will see that your bags are delivered to you, Daniel.”

Tucking her canvas tote bag beneath her arm—and thinking wistfully of the cell phone tucked inside it—B.J. allowed herself to be led to the main lodge of the resort. They passed other people, mostly wealthy-looking and highly maintained couples, but other than smiling genially, Drake did not allow himself to be detained.

He led them through an exquisitely decorated lobby, merely nodding to the young woman behind the reception desk. He kept up a congenial-host monologue during a brief elevator ride, listing some of the resort's many attractions.

Drake stood much closer to B.J. than she thought necessary; the elevator car was not so small that it required that proximity. When he escorted them into a luxurious suite, his hand rested casually at the small of her back, just above the very slight curve of her hip.

Drake was so vainly assured of his appeal to women that he seemed to expect her to fall at his feet—even with her “husband” standing right next to them. She wondered how he would react if she informed him that his touch made her want to scrub her skin with bleach.

Telling them he was leaving them to relax, he made a swift exit, pausing only long enough to remind Daniel that they would schedule a meeting for the next morning.

The moment the door closed behind him, B.J. whirled to face Daniel. “If that man touches me one more time, I'm going to punch his capped teeth in.”

Daniel gave her what could only be described as a wryly warning look before saying, “I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it, darling. He's just the friendly sort.”

She watched in disbelief as he pulled a small electronic device from an inside pocket of his jacket and began to walk around the room with it. Having spent the past eighteen months working for her uncles, she figured out immediately what he was doing. Did he really think the rooms were bugged with listening devices?

Just what had she stumbled into here? What exactly had Daniel gotten involved with since he had left the Walker ranch foster home for at-risk teenage boys?

Chapter Two

Daniel motioned for B.J. to keep talking. She figured if Drake was eavesdropping on her, she was going to make it count. “He creeps me out. Obviously thinks he's God's gift to women—but the joke's on him. He's a slug.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. Still speaking in a soothing, placating tone, he said, “Now, sweetheart, you're just tired. It has been a stressful day for you.”

He could say that again. And then again, for emphasis.

She had told her uncles recently that she wanted more exciting and challenging assignments than the computer searches she had been doing for the past months. She had never imagined that this seemingly in nocuous assignment would go so wildly off course.

Speaking of her uncles… “I need to call home.”

Daniel returned from the bedroom, tucking his little spy gadget back into his pocket. Something about the way he walked told her all was clear even before he spoke. “We can talk freely now. At least, we can until we leave and return—at which point I'll sweep the rooms again, just to be on the safe side.”

“I need to call home,” she repeated. “But first… maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on?”

Grimacing in response to her renewed anger, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of the prissy white brocade sofa that matched the rest of the delicately fancy furnishings in the overdone room. Overdone in B.J.'s opinion, anyway. She preferred simpler, less ornate surroundings. Her idea of resort decor would have involved wicker and cotton, thick cushions and inviting ottomans.

Without directly responding to her, Daniel moved to the white-painted-and-gilded wet bar built into one corner of the room. He opened a small refrigerator and scanned the contents. “Would you like something to drink? We have sodas, juice and bottled water. Unless you need something harder—and I wouldn't blame you if you did, considering everything.”

She started to curtly decline anything, but then she realized she really was thirsty. “I'll have a bottled water.”

He carried one around to her, motioning for her to sit down. She chose a chair that sacrificed comfort for style, perching on the edge of the seat with her water bottle clutched tightly in her hand.

She did not take her eyes away from Daniel's unrevealing face as he sat on the sofa opposite her, sipping soda and looking remarkably relaxed. How could he be so calm about this bizarre situation? And what exactly was the situation?

“I'm waiting,” she reminded him. “I'd like to know what I'm doing here. Why you let them believe I'm your wife. I want to know what you're involved in—and why you seem so sure I'll be in danger if I tell the truth. Mostly I want to know when I can leave.”

He took his time answering, and that only annoyed her more, as he seemed to be weighing his words. Deciding exactly what he could—or wanted—to tell her. “Two or three days,” he said finally. “That should be all it will take.”

“All it will take to do what? Damn it, Daniel, talk to me!”

He studied her face for a long moment, then absolutely floored her by chuckling. What on earth was there to laugh about?

“You've changed. You were so sweet-natured and easy to please. The perfect daughter, straight-A student, never caused any trouble, never said a cross word to anyone—except maybe your older brother and sister.”

He remembered all that about her? She had been exactly the way he described her, back when he knew her. It was only within the past three or four years that she had become aware of how tired she was of pleasing everyone but herself. Of living a sheltered, uneventful, unadventurous life that had become increasingly stifling and boring.

She had wished for excitement. She should have remembered that old adage about being careful what one wished for.

“You still haven't answered my questions,” she prodded gruffly.

Another brief hesitation and then he said, “I can't tell you much. Only that you've stumbled into a very complicated situation—as I assume you've figured out for yourself.”

“Go on.”

“Judson Drake thinks I have a wealthy wife back in Texas. He invited me to bring her along on this trip, but I had a convenient excuse to explain her absence. When you showed up at the farm, asking for me by name when no one should have known I was there—and asking with a very obvious Texas twang, by the way—Bernard put two and two together. I admit he isn't the sharpest thorn on the rosebush, but even he can handle that level of mathematics.”

“So why didn't you tell him that I'm not your wife? As clever as you are,” she said, adding an extra helping of sarcasm to her “Texas twang,” “you should have been able to come up with some sort of explanation for my arrival. Say, oh, the truth, for example.”

“Wouldn't have worked. My background, according to what Drake has been told, is one of upper-middleclass comfort. Private schools, public college, fortuitous marriage to a woman with money. Nowhere in that story is a mention of foster care. The truth about how I know you could have blown everything.”

“So the wife is as fictional as your upper-middle-class background?”

His face expressionless again, he nodded.

“Why have you told them these things?”

“I can't go into that right now.”

“You expect me to simply accept what you've told me and go along with this charade for the next two or three days?”

“I wish I could say you have the option of saying no. Unfortunately you don't. These are dangerous people, Brittany—”

“B.J.”

“Sorry. B.J. These men will not accept a change in my story now. One hint that I've tried to deceive them, and you and I will both quietly disappear. That's how they operate.”

“Then why are you here?”

He took a sip of his soda before saying, “There's a great deal of money involved for anyone who is clever enough to get a piece of it.”

“Money?” She stared at him with narrowed eyes. “You're doing this for money?”

He shrugged and drained the remainder of his soda.

B.J. set her water aside. She simply didn't know whether she could believe a word he said.

She had thought he might try to tell her he was an undercover operative for some branch of law enforcement. Would that have been any easier for her to believe? And if so, would it have been because she wanted to think Daniel was on the right side of the law?

“So what you're telling me,” she said slowly, “is that you're running some sort of scam on some very dangerous men. And I'm stuck helping you pull it off because I accidentally arrived at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That pretty well sums it up.”

“If I refuse, I might just 'quietly disappear.' And if I agree, I could end up making some big mistake, and then we'll still end up dead.”

“You won't make a mistake. All you have to do is remember a few details I'll tell you before we go out again.”

“And what do I tell my family when I call them?”

“You can't call them. I don't trust either the land lines or the airwaves here. Either one could be monitored.”

She shook her head. “You're going to have to figure out some way to let me call. Unless you want my uncles arriving in the middle of your big plan, of course.”

Which didn't sound like such a bad idea to her, actually.

“How would they know where to find you? You didn't have time to call anyone when we left.”

“For that matter, I don't know where we are exactly,” she admitted. “But I wouldn't be particularly surprised if my uncles track me down within twenty-four hours. You do remember who they are, don't you?”

He frowned. “I'm well aware that your uncle Jared is a rancher, since I spent nearly a year living with his family.”

“And my uncles Tony, Joe and Ryan are private investigators. Very good ones. And very protective of all their family members—even one who is on their payroll. Me.”

“You work for the D'Alessandro and Walker agency?”

“So you do remember them.”

“Vaguely. It seemed like your family found an excuse nearly every week to have some sort of party at the ranch. I couldn't help but remember a few details about them.”

“Then you should also recall that we're an extremely close family.” Almost suffocatingly close sometimes, she almost added. “They'll start looking.”

“You can send them an e-mail,” he said after a moment. “I have a small computer in my luggage. You can use that. Don't keep a copy.”

“And what should it say?” she asked.

“That you've decided you need a few days of vacation and they don't need to worry about you. You're twenty-seven years old. You don't have to ask permission to take a few days off, do you?”

He remembered an awful lot about her. Of course, she knew he was twenty-nine, because he was two years older than she, almost to the day.

“It's not something I've done before. Take off on impulse, I mean.” Even though she had often wished she could.

“Then it's about time you did, wouldn't you say?”

“Maybe. But this wouldn't exactly be my first choice of vacations.”

“Yeah?” Looking more masculine than he should have against the froufrou fabric, he stretched an arm along the back of the sofa. “So what would be your first choice?”

“Well…I don't know. I haven't really thought about slipping off on my own.”

His beautifully shaped lips curved into a very slight smile. “Liar.”

Okay, so maybe she had indulged in a few daydreams lately about getting away from the usual routines. “I guess I've thought about it once or twice,” she muttered.

“To where?”

“Anywhere. I've hardly been out of Texas. I've always wanted to go someplace really different and exotic—like—like Singapore. Or Hong Kong. Or Bali.”

And then she shook her head impatiently. “Darn it, you're doing it again. Distracting me from the questions you don't want to answer.”

Still wearing that annoyingly inscrutable smile, he merely looked at her.

“Will you at least reassure me that I won't be helping you break the law if I stupidly agree to go along with this ridiculous charade?”

He never changed expression. Nor did he bother to say anything.

She scowled fiercely-not that she figured it would affect him. “So my choices are to cooperate with everything you say even though you won't tell me why or refuse to go along and risk having Bernard make me disappear.”

“The options haven't changed since I first outlined them to you.”

“Maybe it has taken me this long to make myself believe this is really happening,” she grumbled.

“Since I assume you're choosing the option that keeps us both alive, we need to go over a few things.”

Though B.J. couldn't help but resent Daniel's assumption that she would make the choice he wanted her to make, she couldn't really argue with him either. She had no wish to face the business end of Bernard's weapon. “I suppose you're right. If I'm to play a part, it would be helpful if I have a script.”

A sudden thought occurred to her. “Wait a minute. Did you never mention your wife's name? You introduced me to Creepy Guy as B.J.”

“That's not a problem.”

Something in his voice struck her as odd, but he was speaking again before she could define it. “There's very little that you have to remember. We've been married for two years. You are a homemaker and community volunteer who leaves all business and financial matters to her husband.”

“Oh, gee, thanks for making me such a progressive, modern woman.”

He ignored her—something he did entirely too easily, she thought. “Last fall you suffered a miscarriage and you've been somewhat despondent since. You've had even less interest in my business dealings with your money, which means I'm free to speculate with it at my own discretion.”

The more he told her, the less enthused she became with her role. A mopey housewife. Terrific. “I suppose I adore the ground you walk on?”

That seemed to fit in with the chauvinistic tale he had concocted.

He looked almost amused by her resigned question. “Of course. I've been the loving and solicitous husband since your loss. Which, of course, makes you less inclined to question my actions away from you.”

“So you don't love me?” It felt foolish to ask that of a man who was a virtual stranger—but it was only a charade, after all, she reminded herself.

A tiny shiver slipped down her spine when his dark eyes held hers for a heartbeat before he replied. “I've implied to Drake that I love your money more.”

She pulled her gaze from his, glancing down at her hands. “Then I would say you're in sorry shape, considering I don't have any.”

“My wife has plenty of money,” he corrected her.

The gold ring on her left hand glittered. She touched it with her right forefinger. “You just happened to have a woman's wedding ring on a chain around your neck? Just in case someone stumbled into your story?”

“The ring was my mother's. I've worn it for almost a dozen years.”

Despite the utter lack of emotion in his voice, B.J. felt her throat tighten anyway. She knew enough about his mother's fate to understand how much this ring must mean to him. He had carried it with him when he left the Walker ranch and he had worn it since as a reminder of—what? His mother's life? The injustice of her death?

“I'll take very good care of it,” she assured him.

“Thank you.” He stood then, glancing toward the bedroom. “Feel free to rest a while if you like. I'll make sure you aren't disturbed.”

“Actually…” Rising, she put a hand to her midsection. “I'm starving. It's been hours since I've had anything to eat.”

The smile he gave her then was quick and apparently genuine. “We can't have that. Room service or restaurant?”

Dragging her gaze from his amazing smile, she looked ruefully down at her wrinkled and travel-worn clothing. “Maybe room service would be best.”

Following her gaze, he nodded. “What size do you wear?”

“Size two. Why?”

“Shoe size?”

“Seven. Why are you—?”

“You'll need some clothing.”

He picked up a phone from an ornately carved and gilded writing desk. She listened in astonishment as he briskly and efficiently ordered a meal and then requested that an assortment of clothing, shoes and lingerie be sent to their suite for his wife's consideration. Despite what she knew about his impoverished background, he seemed to have adapted very well to a life of privilege.

Hanging up the phone, he moved toward the bedroom. “I'll set up the computer for you. You can send your e-mail while I unpack.”

She followed him into the bedroom. This room, too, was overly formal for her taste. Done in French style, it featured carved woods and lots of chintz and toile on little chairs and benches that looked barely substantial enough to support her weight, much less Daniel's.

Whose idea of a vacation room was this? She couldn't see herself putting her feet up on this furniture or lolling around still damp and sandy from a romp on the beach. Did people who were comfortable in rooms like this even like romping on beaches?

Daniel chuckled again in response to her expression. “You don't care for the decor?”

It irked her that he read her so easily when she could never tell what he was thinking. She waved imperiously toward another French writing desk. “Set up the computer. I have an e-mail to write.”

He reached for a leather computer case. “By the way,” he said casually, “you won't be able to hit send until I've read the message. Sorry, but I have to make sure you stay safe while you're under my protection.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I'll have you know I've been working for the investigation agency for over a year. I can keep myself safe.”

“Since my guess is that you've been working primarily at a desk, doing computer searches and making telephone calls, I doubt that you've learned a great deal of self-defense during your stint at the agency.”

Without giving her a chance to challenge his guess, he opened the computer, turned it on, then stepped back from it. “Let me know when you're ready, and I'll enter my code so you can send the e-mail. After I've read it, of course.”

“Jerk,” she muttered beneath her breath as she sank into the tiny chair in front of the desk.

Again he surprised her by laughing softly. “It's not the first time you've called me that,” he reminded her. “I'm sure it won't be the last.”

His voice grew more serious then. “But you will leave this resort safely. You have my word on that.”

The message had been approved and sent by the time their early dinner arrived. Daniel had read every word carefully, weighing the implications and trying to predict her family's reactions to the e-mail. She had said simply that she had been unable to find Daniel and wanted to take a few days to think about her future. She had sent her love and promised to call soon.

“They all know I've been increasingly dissatisfied with my job lately,” she had rather grudgingly admitted. “Sitting at a computer all day wasn't what I had in mind when I talked my uncles into giving me a job.”

“Most P.I. work these days comes down to just that,” he had observed with a slight shrug. “From what I've heard, anyway.”

“So I've discovered.”

“So what do you want to do?” he asked, discreetly keying in his computer password while he kept her distracted with conversation.

“I don't know,” she answered simply. And rather poignantly. “I only know I haven't found it yet.”

Barely twenty minutes later, he studied her across the small round dining table set against one glass wall in the sitting room. Apparently her confusion about the situation she had found herself in—coupled with a whirlwind day of travel—had not affected her appetite. She ate with a heartiness that amused him, considering her reed-slender figure.

He remembered that she had liked to eat when they were teenagers. She'd always been one of the first in line for helpings of the barbecued meats that had been the main fare of so many Walker family gatherings.

They didn't say much during the meal. He figured she was replaying the things he had said to her, trying to make sense of them and prepare herself for the role she'd been forced into assuming.

They had just dipped into their desserts when there was another knock on the door. Motioning for B.J. to continue to eat the strawberry shortcake she seemed to be enjoying so much, Daniel moved to answer.

A striking young woman in a brief red sarong-style sundress and sandals stood in the hallway next to a covered, wheeled garment rack. “Mr. Andreas?”

He couldn't help noticing the masses of sun-streaked blond hair, glossy, full lips, golden-tanned shoulders, high, firm breasts and long, tanned legs. He was only human, after all. “Yes.”

Her smile glittered, as did her violet-tinted eyes. Young Elizabeth Taylor eyes, he mused. He had no doubt that tinted contact lenses provided the color, but the result was quite nice. “I'm Heather. From the Beach-front Boutique? I understand your poor wife arrived without her luggage.”

“Yes. An unfortunate airline mix-up.” He turned toward the small dining area at the other side of the room. “B.J.?”

She was already up and moving toward them. Her short dark hair was mussed, any makeup she had worn earlier had worn off and her slightly oversize camp shirt and khakis emphasized her slender frame.

Many men, perhaps, would have preferred Heather's more obvious feminine charms. Yet Daniel found himself increasingly fascinated by B.J.'s subtle—and completely natural—attractions.

“Heather, this is my wife,” he said, helping her roll the bulky garment rack inside. “Darling, I'm sure you'll be glad to have some fresh clothing to change into.”

He noticed that Heather was eying B.J. in surprise, as if she had expected her to look different. Heather was accustomed, he imagined, to very wealthy men with sleek, ultragroomed eye-candy wives.

He didn't blame her for that expectation, of course. When he had very briefly considered casting the role of his “wife” for this trip, that was exactly the type of woman he would have selected. Someone who looked rich and pampered and a bit disconnected from the real world.

He had rejected the idea of bringing someone along because he was concerned that the situation would become too complicated. Too distracting.

He'd had no idea, of course, that fate would step in to provide a make-believe wife for him. And that fate's choice would be even more complicated and distracting than anyone else Daniel could possibly have found on his own.

Chapter Three

At Daniel's request, Heather left the clothing for B.J. to examine in private. She promised to return in an hour to collect the rack and invoice the selections.

When Heather departed, Daniel removed the cover from the wheeled rack. He motioned toward the colorful garments hanging from the top bar and neatly folded into clear plastic boxes fitted into the bottom part of the display rack. “There you are. A boutique on wheels, with everything in your size.”

Hands on her hips, she looked from the rack to his decidedly smug expression. “You enjoy snapping your fingers and having people jump to please you, don't you?”

His eyebrows lifted, as if he was surprised that she had even to ask. “Of course.”

“Just what have you been up to for the past thirteen years, Daniel?”

Displaying that annoyingly selective hearing again, he turned toward the clothing rack and plucked a hanger from the rod. “This would look good on you.”

The yellow cotton sundress clipped to the hanger was strapless and short and tailored to fit very snugly. “That's not really my style.”

“Yes, but remember, you're playing a new role here. You're wealthy, stylish and accustomed to designer fashions.”

“According to your backstory, I'm depressed and too self-absorbed to even notice that you're frittering away my money. Would a person like that really wear skimpy, brightly colored dresses?”

“Ah, but you also adore the husband who treats you like delicate and valuable glass. You would certainly want to dress to please him.”

She scowled, wondering if he was always so quick at coming up with counterarguments. Just once she would like to win one of their verbal skirmishes. “I don't like yellow.”

“In that case…” He replaced the sundress and pulled out a similar one in deep fuchsia. “Is this better?”

“Maybe I should just select a couple of things for myself,” she said, moving toward the rack.

“Since it's important that you present the image Drake is expecting, I feel compelled to assist you in your selections.”

“And when did you start talking like that? That isn't the way you used to talk when I knew you before. Back when you were Daniel Castillo,” she couldn't resist adding.

She hadn't been surprised to learn from a reliable source that he was now using his mother's maiden name, but she wanted him to know that this masquerade hadn't erased from her mind the reality of who he had once been.

For just a moment his self-satisfied smile faded. She could almost see a few painful old memories swirl in his dark eyes before he hid again behind the bland mask he donned so easily. “Yes, well, you aren't the only one playing a role.”

Changing the subject then, he pulled several garments from the rack, piling them into B.J.'s arms. “These look as though they would work for you. Why don't you take them into the bedroom and let's see how well they fit.”

She peered at him over the huge pile of clothing. “You expect a fashion show?”

His faint smile back in place, he dropped onto the sofa and draped an arm over its curvy back. “I think I'd enjoy that.”

She was strongly tempted to give him a suggestion he would not enjoy quite so much, but she bit her tongue to hold it back. For one thing, she wasn't one to use such language easily. For another, she had a glum suspicion that Daniel was right.

Given her own tastes in clothing, she would probably never pass for a wealthy socialite. Her poor mother had tried for years to talk her into dressing with more of an eye for fashion than comfort.

She sighed heavily. “When this is over, you are going to owe me big-time for saving your butt.”

“Technically you're saving both our butts,” he pointed out equably. “But when this is over, I will definitely owe you whatever penalty you choose to make me pay.”

“I'm glad you agree. Thinking about that penalty will help me get through this ordeal.”

He grimaced slightly, as though well aware of the punishments her imagination could conjure up. “Try on some clothes,” he said. “You have less than an hour before Heather will be back.”

Turning on one heel, she stamped into the bedroom, which wasn't easy when she could barely see over the pile of clothing she carried. Daniel didn't offer to assist her. He probably knew she would have snarled at him had he tried.

Daniel turned out to be surprisingly difficult to please. While B.J. would have just grabbed the first things that fit, he seemed to have a shrewd eye for what suited her best, rejecting the outfits that hung too loosely on her slender frame or were less than flattering to her skin tone. She was beginning to feel like a mannequin by the time he finally approved a couple of sun-dresses—including the fuchsia one—several summery capri-pants-and-top sets and one classic black sheath.

“This is too much,” she protested. “We aren't going to be here that long.”

“You never know,” he replied with a shrug. “Besides, the clothes look good on you. You should keep them.”

“And who's paying for them?” she asked tartly.

“That needn't concern you.”

“And yet it does.”

“Just try on the bathing suits, B.J.”

“No way am I modeling bathing suits for you.”

He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Then pick a couple for yourself. You can't stay at an oceanside resort without a bathing suit or two. And be sure you keep enough nightclothes and lingerie for several days.”

She started to snap at him that she was perfectly capable of providing herself with lingerie, but she bit the words back. She just couldn't discuss underwear with Daniel, even if it was in defiance. Besides which, she did need some clean undergarments if she was going to stay here even for just two or three days.

Turning silently, she closed herself in the bedroom to complete her shopping without any further input from Daniel.

Heather had just left with the garment rack later when someone else knocked on the sitting room door. Since the dishes from their meal had already been cleared away, B.J. looked curiously at Daniel. “Now what?”

He shrugged and crossed the room to answer. She found herself thinking that he moved like a man braced for trouble, as if he half expected danger to lurk on the other side of the door.

She couldn't help wondering again just what he had been up to for the past thirteen years. She'd been able to find out very little about him through the usual sources.

He glanced through the peephole, relaxed visibly and opened the door. A moment later he closed the door again and turned back to face her. His arms were filled with a gigantic gift basket covered in cellophane and topped with a glittering golden bow. “It's for you.”

“For me?” Frowning, she moved toward him as he set the basket on a table.

Through the clear covering she could see that the basket was filled with beauty products. Body lotions, cleansers, moisturizers, sunscreens. An assortment of cosmetics. Dainty little soaps. Hair products, including a brush and a hand mirror.

She spotted a clear plastic case fitted with a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, a razor and a pink can of shaving gel. Everything a woman on vacation could possibly need. She had never cared much about brand names, but she suspected that the products in this basket were top-of-the-line.

“Did you order this, too?” she asked Daniel.

He shook his head and pulled a tiny card from a fold in the cellophane. The card bore the gold-embossed name of a resort gift shop. He held it so both could see the words as he read aloud, “'Not that you need any enhancement, but perhaps these things will be of use to you during your stay. Please ask for anything else you need. Judson Drake.'”

B.J. wrinkled her nose. “Eew.”

Daniel shook his head. “You're going to have to get past that tendency to shudder every time you hear his name. He's our host, and I'm trying to very hard to take him for a large amount of money. A little kissing up would definitely be in order.”

B.J. shuddered again. “If either of us is expected to kiss Creepy Guy, it had better be you.”

Reaching out to run a fingertip across her pouting lower lip, he murmured, “He's not my type.”

Her mind flooded suddenly with memories of the kiss with which he had greeted her at the farmhouse—had that really been less than eight hours ago?; it seemed longer—and yet she could still almost feel the warmth of his lips against hers.

Dropping his hand, he glanced at the wrinkled clothes she had donned again after trying on the new outfits. “Why don't you put on one of those new dresses and we'll go out for a drink and to listen to some music. We should let ourselves be seen.”

She gave it a moment's thought. She had a choice of going out for a drink or sitting in this suite with him—just the two of them—for the remainder of the evening. “A drink sounds good,” she said—perhaps just a bit too hastily.

He flashed her a smile. “I'll freshen up after you change. It won't take me long.”

Nodding, she turned toward the bedroom, leaving him gazing out the big window toward the darkening beach beyond. It was definitely a good thing she had chosen to go out, considering the way her hands were shaking merely in response to his lethal smile.

The sun had set by the time they went out, though the temperature was still pleasantly warm. Feeling as though she were playing dress-up, B.J. wore the fuchsia dress. The garment was a much brighter color than she would have chosen for herself, the bodice too lowcut, the hem too high. While she supposed it was fairly modest compared to some of the outfits she saw when they entered the rather crowded outdoor lounge, she would have been much more comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt.

Because it had seemed almost obligatory with the dress, she had even worn makeup for the evening, forcing herself to open the gift basket Drake had sent to the suite. She'd assured herself she didn't have to like him to take advantage of his generosity—especially since he probably had ulterior motives in making the gesture—but it still felt wrong somehow.

Daniel had told her she looked very nice. As usual, she hadn't been able to read his expression to judge whether he'd really meant the compliment or if he was only being polite. Glancing from beneath her eyelashes at the sleek, beautiful women occupying the candlelit little tables around them in the outdoor lounge, she couldn't help thinking that she must stand out among them like a plain brown sparrow in an exotic aviary.

Daniel, on the other hand, fit in very well with the glamorous crowd. His black hair still slightly damp from his quick shower, he wore a thin white shirt and loose cream-colored slacks that contrasted intriguingly with his dark skin and emphasized his long, lean body.

She noticed how many of the beautiful women—and a few of the beautiful men—turned to stare at Daniel as they crossed the stone floor to a rather isolated empty table. She wondered if it was only paranoia making her think she saw surprise in their eyes that a man like Daniel was with her.

“What's wrong?” he asked as he held her chair for her.

It bugged her that he sensed her moods so easily. “Nothing.”

He pulled his chair so close to hers that their knees touched beneath the tiny table. “Appearances,” he reminded her when she looked inquiringly at him.

“I'm not sure anything is going to make it appear that I belong at a place like this,” she murmured, waving a hand around the lounge, with its smooth stone floor, low rock walls lined with waving palm trees and huge pots of tropical flowers, colorful overhead lanterns and dozens of flickering candles.

In the center of the circular lounge was a small bandstand on which a five-piece ensemble played sultry dance music. A wooden dance floor surrounded the bandstand, making it easily accessible from any table, and several bronzed, toned, bleached and designer-clad couples took advantage of the chance to show off their dancing skills. The place was a far cry from the beer-and-barbecue joints her solidly middle-class family tended to frequent back home in Texas.

Daniel frowned. “Why wouldn't you look as though you belong here?”

She shrugged self-consciously. “I would never be able to afford to stay at a resort like this on my own.”

“That doesn't make you inferior to anyone here. Don't mistake money for class, Britt—B.J.”

A pretty blonde in a sarong—which seemed to describe nearly every employee at this resort—stopped beside the table. “What would you like?”

“Darling?”

B.J. gave Daniel a look. It would serve him right— not to mention prove her point—if she ordered root beer. “Why don't you order for us, darling?”

His smile flashed, giving her just a fleeting glimpse of the shallow dimple in his left cheek. She remembered having a rather obsessive fascination with that elusive dimple when she was fourteen. “Champagne, then—since it's your favorite.”

He glanced at the server and ordered a brand B.J. didn't recognize. Probably very expensive.

“Champagne is my favorite drink?” she murmured when the server moved away.

“It seemed to fit in character.”

Because it was making her rather nervous to be sit ting so close to him, gazing into his dark eyes, she forced herself to look away, turning her attention toward the bandstand. Reflections of the tiny white lights strung above them glittered like stars on the glossy grand piano and gleaming wind instruments.

Beneath the bluesy music she could just hear the sound of the ocean. The scent of tropical blooms drifted past her on a light breeze. The slow swaying of the dancing couples was almost hypnotic.

The server returned with their champagne. B.J. took an appreciative sip before saying, “One thing I will say about Creepy Guy, he runs a nice place.”

Though the corners of Daniel's mouth twitched, he glanced quickly around, silently reminding her that she had to be careful. “It does look nice,” he murmured. “On the surface.”

Yet another reminder that danger lurked beneath the exotic beauty here. Glancing around, she saw Bernard and another large man sharing a table near the stage. Though the men weren't looking her way, she had little doubt they had been aware of the moment she and Daniel arrived. She shivered.

Daniel slipped an arm around her, his shirt fabric very soft against the skin her dress left bare. “Cold?”

“No.” Definitely not cold. Not now, anyway.

“We can speak freely—as long as we keep our voices low.” He was practically nuzzling her temple as he spoke, so there was little danger of anyone overhearing him, even from the next table. The table he had selected was partially screened by the drooping fronds of a large potted palm, and she doubted that his selection had been made by accident.

She suspected that Daniel's every action was calculated and deliberate. Including the nuzzling.

“You should try to smile at me occasionally. Pretend to be intensely interested in what I have to say.”

“Gaze adoringly into your eyes?” she suggested too sweetly.

He chuckled and brushed a kiss against her cheek. “That would certainly be helpful.”

It was only the thought of Bernard sitting nearby and watching them that kept B.J. from jerking away. She was afraid it would take more acting talent than she possessed to pretend that the touch of Daniel's lips against her skin was an everyday occurrence for her. “I'll, uh, see what I can do.”

“Relax, B.J. I'm not going to bite you. Yet.”

Now he was deliberately trying to rattle her. “You always did have an irritating streak in you.”

“You're still under the impression that I was the one who put the little snake in your bag?”

“I'm quite sure you were. I saw you busting a gut laughing when I screamed and threw that bag about twenty yards into the bushes.”

His smile was a bit nostalgic. “It was amusing.”

“Admit it. You did it.”

When he merely looked at her, she frowned, a longheld belief beginning to waver. “It wasn't you?”

He shook his head.

“Then who…?”

Lifting his champagne flute, he murmured into it, “Far be it from me to squeal—but you might have a chat with your cousin Jason when you return home.”

She narrowed her eyes, picturing her brilliant and unconventional cousin, Jason D'Alessandro. “Practical jokes aren't Jason's style. Now, if you had blamed my cousins Aaron and Andrew Walker, I might have believed you. The twins were always getting into mischief when they were kids. Heck, they're twenty-one now and they're still always up to something.”

“I never figured out how you could keep all that family straight. How many cousins do you have, anyway?”

“My father was an only child with a small extended family. But my mother has five living siblings. Between them, and a brother who died years ago, they have fifteen offspring. Two of my first cousins, Shane and Brynn, have children of their own now.”

“Shane's a father?” Because Shane was the son of the couple who had served as Daniel's foster parents, Daniel obviously remembered him well enough to be surprised.

“Yes. He and Kelly married only a couple of years after you left the ranch. They have two daughters—Annie, who's eight, and Lucy, who's four.”

“Do they all still live at the ranch?”

She nodded. “Shane added on to his house when Lucy was on the way, but other than that, not much has changed since you were there.”

“How are—” He broke off the question, took another sip of his champagne, then set his flute down. “Would you like to dance?”

Apparently he had decided to close that door to his past for now. Was it because he was concerned about being overheard—or was it that he simply didn't like to remember those days?

“I don't dance very well.”

“Not a problem. Besides, Bernard and his friend seem to be waiting for us to do something. We shouldn't disappoint them.”

She glanced involuntarily toward the table near the stage. Bernard was staring right at them now, making no attempt to pretend otherwise. He nodded when she looked his way and lifted his glass in a salute of sorts.

Though there was nothing at all threatening about his actions, she felt her stomach muscles clench anyway. “Actually I'm getting rather tired.”

“Then we'll go back to our suite—after our dance.” Daniel stood and held out his left hand to her, the gold band on his finger gleaming in the reflected light from the candle on their table.

In other words, he wasn't giving her a choice. Apparently he considered it important that Bernard see them dancing together. She laid her hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.

He had been right—as always—when he'd said that it wouldn't be a problem that she wasn't an experienced dancer. He held her so closely and moved so slowly that all she had to do was sway in place along with him. He didn't have to remind her that they were being watched, but he gave her little choice except to cling to him as if there was no one else in the entire resort.

She felt his lips press against her cheek, and it was purely instinct that made her tilt her head to grant him freer access. It was better, she decided, to simply act without thinking for now. Every time she started wondering what Daniel was up to or why she hadn't made more of an effort to get herself out of this situation, her head started to hurt.

She had a nagging suspicion that she should be more anxious, less willing to cooperate with Daniel's instructions. She was still trying to convince herself that he was on the right side of the law. An undercover cop. A private investigator, maybe. She told herself he had been trying too hard to convince her that he was no better than the men he was here to do business with, which must mean the truth was just the opposite, right?

Or was she still operating under the influence of a girlhood infatuation? Unable to believe the worst of the boy she had never forgotten? The man who could make her pulse race with nothing more than a slight smile? Not to mention the way she was reacting to being held so closely against his long, lean, muscular body.

She had never before allowed her hormones to overcome her common sense—and this was a hell of a time to start.

Her cheek rested against his shoulder now. As the song was winding down, he reached up to tilt her face toward him. Before she could say anything, his mouth was on hers. The kiss effectively ended the dance, since it rendered her completely unable to move her feet.

“Now,” he said when he lifted his head several long moments later, “we can go back to our suite.”

Blinking dazedly, she realized that other couples were leaving the dance floor. No one seemed to be paying much attention to them, but if anyone had been, they probably saw a couple eager to be alone to continue where the kiss had left off.

As Daniel led her away with one arm holding her snugly against him, she knew that was exactly the impression he had intended to give.

B.J. looked rather pale as they reentered the suite a few minutes later. Motioning for her to remain quiet while he swept for listening devices, Daniel regretted again that she had been put into this position. She was dead on her feet, and no wonder, considering all she had been through that day.

He probably shouldn't have pressured her to go out for drinks and dancing, but he believed it had been a useful outing. It had definitely reinforced his tale that his “wife” was completely absorbed with him, so enthralled by his skillful wooing that she had no interest in anything else that went on around her.

Reassured that no one had been in to bug their suite while they were gone, he turned back to B.J. “You're exhausted. You need some sleep.”

Nodding wearily, she took a few steps toward the bedroom, then froze when he moved to follow her. “Um…where are you going to sleep? On the sofa?”

Had it only now occurred to her that their charade of marriage included sharing a bedroom?

“It's a king-size bed,” he pointed out, waving a hand in that direction. “We can both sleep in it without even bumping into each other during the night.”

She looked from him to that big bed and back again. “I don't think so.”

Reaching up to squeeze the back of his neck, he spoke with deliberate impatience. “Trust me, Brittany, you are entirely safe with me tonight. We can't risk anyone suspecting that our 'marriage' is anything other than what I've said, so we'll share the bed, but only for sleeping. I plan to crash for a couple of hours and then I have some work to do on my computer before I meet with Drake tomorrow.”

B.J. flushed, and it wasn't hard to see that she had interpreted his tone to mean that he had no interest in taking advantage of sharing a bed with her. His use of the name she had answered to as a teenager had probably reinforced the impression that he saw her only as an inconvenient reminder of his past, still just a girl in whom he had no particular romantic interest.

It hadn't been true then and it wasn't now. But he saw no reason to share that with her. Once she recovered from her embarrassment, she should be much more comfortable sharing this suite with him if she was reassured that she didn't have to worry about him making unwelcome passes.

At least, he assumed they would be unwelcome. And if they weren't—well, that created a whole new set of problems.

She lifted her chin in a proud little gesture he knew very well and pushed a hand through her short hair, making it stand in defiant spikes around her heated face. “You can sleep wherever you like. I'm so tired I won't even notice you're in the same suite. And tomorrow, after we've both rested, I expect for you to find a way to get me out of this intolerable charade and back to my life as quickly as possible.”

He nodded. “I'll wait in the sitting room until you're in bed. I'll try not to disturb you when I come in or when I get back up.”

She nodded curtly and turned toward the bathroom. “By the way,” she said over her shoulder, her voice still icy, “I really prefer to answer to B.J.”

“I'll try to remember.”

“Do that.”

The bathroom door closed with a snap that almost made him wince.

Chapter Four

B.J. hadn't expected to sleep, but her body had other plans. Dressed in the most modest pajamas that had been made available to her, she slept heavily enough that she barely roused when Daniel lay down beside her maybe an hour after she turned in and she never knew when he got back up. Though she woke early—just before seven o'clock—he was already gone, only a slight indentation in his pillow as evidence that he was ever there.

It was hard to believe she had just spent an entire night in bed with Daniel Andreas. And slept through it. Whether from stress, exhaustion or both, she had simply gone unconscious.

She took a lengthy shower in the huge, ornately elegant bathroom. Afterward she applied a minimum of makeup, then dressed in one of the new outfits—a pale green sleeveless top with green-and-white-checked capris and green flip-flops. Studying herself in the mirror, she thought glumly that she looked like a soccer mom on her way to a PTA meeting. This was so not her.

Her gaze slid to the reflection of her left hand and the gold ring on her finger. Daniel's mother's ring.

She sank slowly to the edge of the bed, still looking at that ring. A simple gold band, it bore a few scratches that showed its age. It looked like what it was—a treasured memento.

Jarringly different mental images jockeyed for a moment in her mind.

Daniel at sixteen. Thin, dark, intense. Angry. Thread-bare clothes, shaggy hair, conversation that consisted mostly of monosyllables and curse words.

Daniel at twenty-nine. Sleek, groomed, cultured. His emotions well hidden behind a blandly congenial social mask. In some ways it was hard to believe it was the same person.

And yet…

She remembered a glimpse of rarely seen dimple. A brief flash of amusement at the memory of a long-ago practical joke.

Perhaps he had changed outwardly, but he was still the boy who had broken down in front of her when he had talked about finding his mother's body. Did he remember that powerful moment as clearly as she did? She would bet that he did. Maybe that was the reason he occasionally looked at her as though he would rather be anywhere other than with her now.

He entered the room so quietly that she didn't know he was there until he cleared his throat. She had never even heard the outer door open, which didn't reassure her about her safety in this luxurious suite.

As she rose to her feet, it was unexpectedly hard to meet his eyes. She kept remembering the boredom on his face when he had reassured her that he had no intention of making a pass at her during the night. He had all but told her outright that he wasn't attracted to her and that any evidence otherwise was merely an act he put on for the benefit of observers.

Even if he had only been trying to set her at ease about sleeping in the same room with him, it had been a fairly humiliating moment for her. She couldn't help thinking about the beautiful, busty blondes who seemed to have congregated at this resort. Perhaps they were more to Daniel's taste.

Not that she wanted to get involved with him, she assured herself hastily. He could be a criminal. At the very least, he was trouble.

“Good morning.”

Pride made her force herself to meet his eyes. “Good morning.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, quite well, thank you.”

She didn't have to ask the same of him. She knew he hadn't had more than a few hours of sleep, but he looked completely rested. His hair was neatly combed, his cream-colored shirt and tan pants impeccably pressed. Even though she was freshly showered and dressed and wearing more makeup than she usually favored, he still managed to make her feel slightly grubby in contrast to him.

His dark eyes mocked her stilted tone. “You look very nice.”

She looked down at her neatly matched clothing. “I look like a sitcom mom. All I need to finish off the look is a string of pearls.”

“Or this.” He pulled a thin rectangular box from his right pants pocket and extended it toward her.

Rather than taking it, B.J. eyed it suspiciously. “What is that?”

“You won't know until you open it.”

“I don't—”

He sighed and opened it himself, revealing a glittering diamond tennis bracelet. Each diamond was set in a circle of hammered gold.

B.J. knew little about jewelry, since she usually wore only a functional watch and a pair of diamond-stud earrings—half a carat each—her parents had given her for her college graduation, but she would estimate this bracelet to hold at least three carats of diamonds.

“You don't expect me to wear that?”

Daniel already had the bracelet out of its box. “I certainly do.”

“Why?”

“Because Daniel Andreas was in such a good mood after a night of romance with his wife that he stopped by the resort's jewelry store and picked up a bauble for her. Since certain people are undoubtedly aware of that purchase already, you should be seen wearing the bracelet. Preferably without a look of revulsion on your face.”

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