“You Know What I Missed All These Years I Was Away From You?” Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Epilogue Copyright

“You Know What I Missed All These Years I Was Away From You?”

Dax asked Jillian, his expression strangely intense.

She looked at him sharply. “What?”

“Memories and someone to share them with.”

Her eyes, wide and blue as a summer sky, were luminous as she nodded.

“I feel alone, too,” Jillian said with an odd tone in her voice. Abruptly she turned away. “Let’s just forget it, Dax.”

He stepped closer, standing directly behind her without touching her. “I’ve discovered that I like remembering.”

“I don’t. It’s better just to forget things.” There was such sadness in her voice that he turned her to face him. Slowly he drew her to him. She didn’t resist, and gently Dax pressed her head against his shoulder.

And for the first time since he’d set foot in town again, Dax felt as if he had truly come home....

Dear Reader,

Spring is in the air—and all thoughts turn toward love. With six provocative romances from Silhouette Desire, you too can enjoy a season of new beginnings...and happy endings!

Our March MAN OF THE MONTH is Lass Small’s The Best Husband in Texas. This sexy rancher is determined to win over the beautiful widow he’s loved for years! Next, Joan Elliott Pickart returns with a wonderful love story—Just My Joe. Watch sparks fly between handsome, wealthy Joe Dillon and the woman he loves.

Don’t miss Beverly Barton’s new miniseries, 3 BABIES FOR 3 BROTHERS, which begins with His Secret Child. The town golden boy is reunited with a former flame—and their child. Popular Anne Marie Winston offers the third title in her BUTLER COUNTY BRIDES series, as a sexy heroine forms a partnership with her lost love in The Bride Means Business. Then an expectant mom matches wits with a brooding rancher in Carol Grace’s Expecting.... And Virginia Dove debuts explosively with The Bridal Promise, when star-crossed lovers marry for convenience.

This spring, please write and tell us why you read Silhouette Desire books. As part of our 20th anniversary celebration in the year 2000, we’d like to publish some of this fan mail in the books—so drop us a line, tell us how long you’ve been reading Desire books and what you love about the series. And enjoy our March titles!

Regards,

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to:

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The Bride Means Business

Anne Marie Winston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANNE MARIE WINSTON has believed in happy endings all her life. Having the opportunity to share them with her readers gives her great joy. Anne Marie enjoys figure skating and working in the gardens of her south-central Pennsylvania home.

For Foxy

1979-1998

It still seems as if you just left me yesterday.

Purr in peace, my Old Girl.

One

A drop of sweat slipped between her shoulder blades, caught for a moment on the barrier of her bra, and then slithered on down the very middle of her back. As Jillian Kerr negotiated the uneven ground in her very high heels, her black summer suit felt as if it had turned to heavy wool. The sun was bright, and beneath her fingertips, the dark jacket of her escort felt hot.

After a week of rain, Baltimore had enjoyed three gorgeous days of nice weather, the wonderful Indian-summer weather for which mid-Atlantic Septembers were famous. The ground had dried, the grass was thick and green, summer birds still spread their song on the air.

Jillian didn’t notice any of it.

The twin graves were a freshly slashed scar in the expanse of mown lawn as she walked around them to the canopy where the graveside service would be conducted. She released the arm of the friend at her side, and he dropped back to stand behind her with other friends from the stores near hers as she took a seat, alone, on the folding chairs reserved for family.

Only there was no family. Other than her, and she didn’t really count. She and Charles had grown up together, were practically sister and brother, but in the most accurate sense of the word, they hadn’t been related. And Alma, Charles’s wife, was an only child of deceased parents, so there was no one there to represent her, either. Jillian was the only family there was left to mourn either of her two dear friends.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true; there was other family. She had sent a very correct and courteous facsimile to share the sad news. But in her heart she was sure that she was the only one who would care enough to show up here today.

Carefully, she sidestepped the land mines in that train of thought and came out on the other side of sorrow as the minister began the service and the hushed voices in the crowd quieted. Her eyes stung, and she blinked once, shaking back her mane of blond hair and staring fixedly past the identical white caskets at the trees on the far side of the hill. She didn’t cry. Ever. She repeated the words over and over as the clergyman eulogized Alma Bender Piersall and Charles Edward Piersall, local businessman, tireless community volunteer, active church member, generous contributor to many charities and her dearest childhood friend.

Charles Edward Piersall also had been responsible for the devastating sequence of events that had taken her only chance at love and made her who she was today. And still, even though she probably should have hated his sorry butt, her memories of Charles were warm and filled with love.

They’d ridden tricycles and bicycles together, played kick-ball and climbed trees. They’d gone skinny-dipping in the creek as teens until his father found out and tanned their fannies, criticized each other’s dates and walked arm-inarm to their high school graduation ceremony. They’d been there for each other during the darkest periods in each of their lives. And although she hadn’t seen as much of him in recent years, the knowledge that Charles had been just across the city had been a sort of lifeline, an anchor when the loneliness threatened to overwhelm her.

A ripple of whispering in the crowd behind her caught her attention and she glanced around, annoyed at the commotion. preparing to quell the chatterers with one of her best freezing stares. Honestly, people today had no sense of propriety. Or plain good manners.

Movement caught her eye. It was—it couldn’t be! As she recognized the dark head surging toward the front of the crowd, for one strange moment the ground rose up at her, tilted crazily, and settled back down only when she took a deep breath. She whipped her head back and faced front again, just as Charles’s older brother Dax—Travers Daxon Piersall the Fourth, if you please—stepped from the crowd and walked to her side, folding himself into the chair on her right.

Oh, God. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Panic rose. She nearly bolted from her chair before she remembered where she was, and she forced her quivering muscles to stillness. Flight was not an option. Besides, she told herself grimly, you aren’t the one who makes a habit of running away. That thought brought forth such a surge of unexpected rage that she clenched her hands into fists, fighting the resentment and hurt that had hardened into pure hatred years ago. She’d be damned if she’d let Dax’s unexpected, unwanted arrival chase her away.

The buzz of conversation grew fiercer, and in her peripheral vision, she saw his head turn. And the crowd grew quiet.

Why, oh, why hadn’t he gotten flabby around the middle or worn bottle-thick glasses? Walked with a cane. Been follically challenged? Any little flaw would have done.

She hadn’t taken more than that one horrible glance of identification, but it had been enough to show her that Dax hadn’t lost one iota of his looks. If anything, his dark masculine presence had only intensified in his years away, and his shoulders looked as broad and strong as ever. The long thigh resting just to the right of her own, mere inches away, stretched taut over lean, muscled flesh hidden beneath the sober dark suit pants. A memory of that thigh, and the ecstasy it had brought pushing between her own, tried to roll across the mental screen in her head, and she ruthlessly chopped it into a million pieces.

Thank God she hadn’t let her own figure go. Thank God. She looked damn good and she knew it. Her body was in great shape, courtesy of her never-ending calorie-counting, the stair machine, the free weights and legions of expensive skin lotions and hair appointments. Her nails were flawlessly lacquered in an appropriate, understated pale peach, her hair perfectly styled, and her black summer suit, bought during a terrific sale at a cute little boutique at Owings Mills Mall, fit every slender, sculpted, hard-earned curve perfectly.

Damn him. If only he’d wilted a little around the edges of his youth and good health. It would have been wonderful if she could have looked at him, this man she’d loved and had planned to marry, and wondered what she’d ever seen in him in the first place. Instead, she could barely breathe, and her heart was galloping away, leaving the rest of her to be dragged along behind by a stirrup.

The crowd behind her murmured, “Amen,” and she realized they’d come to the conclusion of Charles’s and Alma’s funeral service. The minister stepped aside and she rose to do her part.

Beside her, Dax also stood. As she moved forward with two yellow roses, a last token of her friendship, he slipped his hand beneath her elbow, wrapping long fingers around her upper arm and holding her firmly against his side.

She cast him a furious glance, tugging her elbow away, but he didn’t let her go. For the first time, their eyes met, and the cynical amusement she read in his black eyes made her grit her teeth so hard she heard them grinding together. If he thought he was going to force her into making a scene here, he was sadly mistaken. She’d come to pay her last respects to his younger brother—

Charles. Oh, God, Charles and Alma. The fight went out of her and she had to lock her knees against the sudden weakness that threatened.

The reason for Dax’s presence exploded in her mind again. Charles couldn’t be dead, couldn’t be lying in cold abandoned silence in that white box. He was the only person in the whole world who knew everything there was to know about Jillian Elizabeth Kerr, and she needed him. She needed his undemanding friendship, the total support he’d always offered, the shoulder for her tears.

And Alma. Sweet, gentle Alma. Charles hadn’t expected to love her, but she’d been the best thing that could have happened to him, and she’d accepted Jillian’s place in his life as easily as she would have a real sister. Alma’s shoulder also had been dampened by tears, though Jillian had stopped shedding them years ago.

But those tears were trying desperately to get out today. She pressed her lips together to still their quivering, standing silently for a moment before leaning forward to lay down her offering atop each casket, then moving aside so others could pay their respects.

Dax’s fingers touching her arm burned through the suit cloth and as soon as she wasn’t the focus of attention any more, she did yank her arm away. “Get your hands off me, Dax, unless you want to lose those fingers.”

They had moved out into the sunlight, and his perfectlycut black hair gleamed, so deep a midnight hue that not the slightest trace of copper or indigo highlight would dare show itself. He looked every inch the successful American male. He chuckled at her words, though there was no humor in the sound, and his deep voice raked over exposed nerve endings like sugar on a bad tooth. “I’m glad to see you’re as charming as ever, honey-bunch. I just got into town. Aren’t you going to fall all over me and welcome me home?”

“You’re about seven years too late.” She could have cut out her tongue as soon as the words came out—the last thing she wanted was for him to think his leaving had bothered her so much she still remembered it. But the old endearment had rattled her, brought memory nudging again at the door closed and locked on that chapter of her life.

His eyes narrowed, and something dark and scary moved beneath the polished charm for a moment, making her almost—almost—step back. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

His eyes cut toward the coffins behind them. “Shame about old Charlie. And his wife. I never met her but she really must have been some hot number, for him to drop you like a hot potato.”

Monster. How could he talk so callously about his own brother? The fist around her heart squeezed painfully, but all she said was, “Alma was very special. Charles cherished her.”

The inverted Vs of his dark eyebrows lifted. “I bet that really ticked you off. Or did he keep you around for a little side action when things got dull?”

Her brain ingested the words, rolled them around and tried several times to connect them before she realized what he meant. “You bastard. Don’t make assumptions about my life. You don’t have a clue what Charles and I felt for each other. Oh, excuse me—” she nodded graciously as if something had just occurred to her “—I forgot. You’re better at assumptions than you are at commitments.”

She was standing almost toe-to-toe with him now, although it was hard to look him in the eye without tilting her head backward since he was so much taller than she. The dark thing in his eyes flickered and flared to life, and she recognized contempt, and a rage as deep as her own.

“Jill?” The husky feminine voice carried a note of worry. “What’s wrong?”

Jillian turned. Her sister Marina was rushing toward her, practically dragging her husband Ben along in her wake.

Jillian moved toward her, taking her hands and slowing her to a halt. “Nothing’s wrong.” She made an effort to focus. “Except that we’re standing at a funeral for two people who never should have died so young.” She heaved a sigh, aware that Dax was still behind her, but planning to ignore him. Permanently.

“Marina. Have I changed that much?” She should have known Dax wouldn’t slink away quietly. No such luck. He came up beside them and took Marina’s hands from Jillian’s, a smile so much warmer than the hateful greeting Jillian had received sliding across his tanned features that she blinked and stared.

Then she realized her sister was looking at her for help, her pretty face clouded by the knowledge that this was someone she should know.

“Um, Marina, this is Dax Piersall, Charles’s brother.”

Dax was already opening his mouth to ask a question when she turned to him. “Marina was in an accident a few years ago that caused her to forget some things. She doesn’t remember much of her childhood.”

“Charles’s brother?” Marina’s wide blue eyes filled with tears as she gripped Dax’s hands. “I didn’t know Charles had any family. I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be.” Dax’s words were a whip that halted the flow of words midstream. “We hadn’t seen each other in years. We weren’t close.” He shot a glance at Jillian and an expression very near a sneer distorted his face. “Not like Charles and Jillian were close.”

“Stop it, Dax,” she said coolly. “You can snipe at me all you like, but at least try not to be a bore to the rest of the world.”

There was a flat, dead silence. Then Dax drew a breath and looked at Marina again, and again, Jillian noticed his expression softened. “I’m sorry you don’t remember me. We had some good times together when we were kids.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said softly. Turning, she drew her husband forward. “This is my husband, Ben Bradford. Ben, Dax Piersall, who apparently is one of my childhood friends.”

Jillian’s brother-in-law thrust out his hand and gripped Dax’s, but she noticed Ben wasn’t smiling. Neither was Dax, and the similarities between the two men struck her suddenly. Both were quite tall, strong without being bulky, dark-eyed and black-haired—although Ben’s hair was a warmer shade, and there were traces of silver at his temples that Dax hadn’t acquired yet. Unless he colored them, she thought nastily.

Both men also exuded an aura of raw power, a force field of some kind of personality energy that other people recognized and deferred to instantly. Except for those who happened to be named Jillian Kerr.

Ben stepped back from the handshake, clearly dismissing Dax. “You’ll have to excuse us,” he said to Jillian. “I have to get Marina home. She needs to get out of this heat and rest.”

Marina rolled her eyes. “‘Rest,’ he says. The baby will be screaming for another feeding by the time I get home. Oh, yeah, I’ll get plenty of rest.”

Ben took her hand, grinning now. “We’ll see you later,” he said to Jill.

“I’m leaving now,” she said, seizing the chance to get away from Dax’s presence. “I’ll walk with you.”

But Dax snagged her hand before she could get away, tightening his fingers around hers until it hurt when she tried to pull free. “You can’t leave yet. We have some reminiscing to do.”

“Let her go,” said Ben, stepping forward, his jaw jutting aggressively.

“It’s okay, Ben,” Jillian said hastily. “Dax and I do have some things to discuss.” Her heart had done a back flip at the first touch of his firm, warm skin against hers, and her body quickened in anticipation. She might hate him, but he still had the power to move her physically.

Trying not to show it, she tested his grip, but he still didn’t let her go. She didn’t want to be touching him, and he knew it. But she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. She might as well show him right off that she was capable of giving as good as she got, she decided with perverse satisfaction.

Stepping close, she pressed her body against him, sliding her free hand up his chest to toy with his tie. Even though she had braced herself for the contact, she had to close her eyes to hide the impact of awareness his hard body provoked.

His eyes widened fractionally. Then they narrowed and his hand loosened around hers. He slipped one arm around her in a familiar manner, his hand resting on the swell of her hip, fingers spread wide to hold her firmly against him. The electric sizzle that surged through her at the contact nearly wiped her mind clean.

Concentrating, she forced herself to ignore the small explosions of arousal going off in her system, gathering her words and her wits. “Among the things we need to talk about is Piersall Industries—now that we’re the primary stockholders in the company. You two go on.”

She never took her gaze from Dax’s as she spoke, and though he hid any trace of surprise, she noted the shock in his eyes when she mentioned the business. So he hadn’t known Charles had willed her all of his stock in Piersall. But then, she’d only learned about it this morning, so she’d hoped he hadn’t heard yet.

She sensed the hesitation in her sister, knew Ben was reluctant to leave her alone with Dax. She also knew Ben’s temper. And the protective streak that was a mile wide. If she didn’t get rid of him, there were liable to be two men throwing punches in a minute. So she kept the frozen smile in place, waiting until, from the corner of her vision, she saw them turn and start away again.

As soon as they did, she stepped away from Dax, and to her surprise, he let her go. It was a good thing, too. Every inch of her that had been plastered against him was throbbing and she could barely think.

“You leave my sister out of this,” she said to him in a fierce tone.

“She really doesn’t remember me, does she?”

“She doesn’t remember anything from before her accident,” Jillian said. “Lucky girl. I’d trade places with her in a heartbeat.” Before he could speak again, she went on. “Really, Dax, you should have let me know you were coming. I’d have arranged a little party if I’d known. Invited every other loser in town.”

“You’ve changed,” he said. “The old Jillian was a sweetheart, not a sidewinder.”

She hated the way he was looking her over, like she was one of the Arabian mares his family had owned when they were growing up. “Of course I’ve changed,” she said briskly, impersonally. She’d die before she’d acknowledge the zing of hurt that verbal arrow produced. “I’m a grown woman with a business and a life to manage.”

“Kids’ Place.”

Her shock had to show, and the uneasiness telling her there was trouble ahead flared even higher. “How do you know about my store? I thought you said you just came to town.”

He smiled, and the deadly anger in his eyes did make her step back this time. “I made it my business to know everything there is to know about you, honey-bunch.”

“Not everything, since you apparently didn’t know about the stock.”

“Jill!” A man’s voice called to her and she turned, concentrating on forcing a warm smile into place.

“How are you, honey?” Roger Wingerd came toward her and briefly embraced her before drawing back. “I’m going to miss Charles. The Lion’s Club’s fund-raising committee was his baby. Nobody else can come close to following in his footsteps.”

She nodded, her throat tight as an image of Charles, wearing an apron and flipping pancakes at the annual breakfast, popped up. “I know.”

Beside her, Dax stirred restively, then thrust his hand forward. “Dax Piersall.”

Roger’s eyes widened as he returned the handshake. “Roger Wingerd.”

“Roger is the Chief Financial Officer at Piersall,” Jillian told Dax. “He and Charles have worked together for almost seven years. Roger probably knew him better than anyone but Alma.” Better than you, was the unspoken message.

Roger appeared oblivious to the tension in the air. “Sorry about your loss. Charles was one of a kind.”

“He certainly was,” Dax muttered under his breath.

Jillian ignored him, keeping her gaze fixed on Roger. “Are we still on for Thursday night?”

Roger nodded. “I was hoping so, but I’ll understand if you don’t feel like going out.”

“By then, I’ll be all right,” she assured him, delighting in the chance to throw her life-style in Dax’s face. “Pick me up—”

“She’s not free Thursday night. Or any other night.” The deep voice was clearly audible now, cutting off her words.

Rage rose, practically choking her as she spun to face Dax. “You have no right to interfere in my life. No right at all.”

But he was looking over her head at Roger and his eyes were telegraphing a primitive message of aggression that belied his sophisticated exterior. If he’d even heard what she’d said, he gave no sign of it. “You can spread the news. Jillian’s permanently out of circulation while I’m in town.”

Roger cast her one swift, questioning glance and she shook her head emphatically. “He’s hallucinating. Again. I’ll call you—” she threw Dax a murderous look “—once I straighten out Cro-Magnon Man here on a couple of issues.”

As Roger beat a hasty retreat, she turned on Dax again. “Don’t you ever do that again. As far as I’m concerned, our engagement never existed. I don’t appreciate you intimidating my friends and antagonizing my family.”

Dax shrugged, his eyes unreadable. “It was kind of fun.”

“Get out of my life,” she said furiously. “You’ve done it before. You shouldn’t have any trouble remembering how to slink out of town.”

His jaw tightened as if he was clenching his teeth together, but he glanced at his watch, again as if he hadn’t even heard her, and she had to resist the impulse to ball her fist and deck him. Then he lifted his gaze to hers again. “I’m going to be back in your life for quite a while, honey-bunch. So you’d better get used to it.”

And before she could respond, he stepped past her and strode away.

Four hours later, the last of Charles’s and Alma’s mourning friends had left the reception hall at the church. Jillian had urged platters of food on their friends, insisting that she would never be able to use it all. She’d comforted more tearful people than she could count, gone through the equivalent of ten boxes of tissues, and shed her high-heeled shoes under a table somewhere.

She’d had five offers to get stinking drunk, two concerned friends who offered to stay the night, and one proposition from a slimy guy who’d said he was a friend of Charles’s. The first group was the only one that remotely tempted her.

Leaving the cleanup effort to the bereavement committee from the church, she drove the few miles home and parked in the driveway of her condo. God, she was tired. Every single cell in her body felt bruised; she winced at the effort it took to push open the door and get out. In contrast to her aching body, her mind was numb. It was as though she were wrapped in a thick layer of blankets, the heavy fabric insulating her from reality.

Whatever that was. Reality had taken a vacation the day she got that first frantic phone call from the hysterical housekeeper who had been contacted by the police. There’d been no one else to identify Charles and Alma, and so she’d done it.

They’d died instantly when a drunken driver had slammed into them head-on. There weren’t many things in her life that could compare to the horrible reality of examining the mangled remains of two people she loved. No, compared to that, even being dumped by a fiancé seemed more bearable somehow.

Fumbling for her keys in the dark, she stubbed her toe on the step up to her porch and swore. All she wanted to do was to fall into bed and let the world go by for about ten days—

“Wha—?” She gasped as a shadowed figured rose from the single rocking chair. Her heart roared into double-time, and when she recognized the large shape, it only sped up. “Damn it, Dax, you scared me silly.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry; only amused.

“Go away.” She skirted him, careful not to get too close as she inserted her key in the lock. “I’m tired. You weren’t invited.”

“I’m inviting myself. We have a lot to discuss.” He stepped nearer, and she could see his eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Have dinner with me. Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Only in your dreams, big boy.” She shook her head and tried to hide the quivering in her voice. If he just wouldn’t stand so darn close! “I have plans for tomorrow night. And I’m sure my calendar is full up until, oh, about the year twenty-fifty. Sorry, no time for you.”

She turned the key and turned her back on him.

“Your lease for Kids’ Place is up next month.”

The calm, confident words halted her in mid-motion and she paused. “You did your homework.”

“Sugar’s is up in November. So is The Cotton Gin’s.”

So much for trying to be clever. “And that means what, exactly, to me?” she demanded. Sugar’s and The Cotton Gin were two of the other stores in the shopping center where Kids’ Place was located.

“It means,” said Dax, “that you’re talking to the new owner of the Downington Plaza. The owner who can refuse to renew certain leases if he so chooses.”

It was too much, coming on the heels of the horrendous day she’d endured, and her battered brain refused to comprehend his meaning. Weakly, she sank into the rocker he’d vacated as the implications of his words sank into her head. He owned her building. And he would refuse to renew her lease. “Why?” she asked quietly, swallowing the note of pain. “Why are you doing this to me? You’ve done enough already—”

“I’ve done enough?” The words were a volcanic explosion and she shrank back at the rage spewing forth. “What about what you did? How do you think I felt, discovering my fiancée and my only brother were screwing around behind my back? How do you think I felt, coming face to face with the two of you sharing declarations of love in the same bed I’d been in a few hours before?” He leaned down and put both hands on the rocker’s arms, trapping her against the chair back. “Too damn bad for you I came home early that evening, and pretty damn lucky for me. At least I discovered what a little bitch you are before you got a wedding ring on your finger.”

The silence that crept into the void left behind his words crackled with the remains of his anger. Their faces were inches apart, and she hoped her expression was as hostile as his was. She was too busy controlling her shaking limbs to be sure.

With a sound of disgust, Dax pushed away from the rocker. Turning his back to her, he leaned an arm against the brick wall, resting his bent head against it.

And, despite the fear and fury warring inside her, a part of her longed to go to him and rub the tension from his shoulders, smooth the vertical lines that had formed between his brows, rock him until the sorrow in his heart subsided.

She needed to have her head examined.

Reaching for the most disdainful voice she could muster, she said, “So let me be sure I have this straight. I go to dinner with you tomorrow night or you throw my business and those of several other innocent people out of their stores?”

His shoulders straightened. “If that’s what it takes.” He turned to face her, but she couldn’t see his expression in the darkness. “I met with the family attorney after the funeral. He told me Charles did indeed leave you his shares.” There was bitterness in his tone. “Payment for services rendered?”

She hissed in a breath, grabbed her temper before it got away, and counted to ten. “I have no earthly idea why Charles left that stock to me. It would have gone to Alma if she’d survived him, you know.” Her voice shook unexpectedly as an image of Charles’s practical, soft and gentle little wife appeared in her head.

There was a tense silence. She could practically feel the rage emanating from him. But all he said was, “Since you’re now a company stockholder, you need to know that Piersall Industries is in trouble.”

“What do you mean, ‘in trouble’?” She was cautious, wondering what kind of trap this was.

“In trouble,” he repeated. He stepped out of the deepest shadows and his eyes were deadly serious. “That stock you hold won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on if something isn’t done to turn Piersall around.”

“Something like what?” She didn’t care about the stock, nor the profits from it; she’d succeeded in making her life comfortable without it so far. But as a businesswoman, the idea of a company closing, putting who knew how many people out of work, was anathema to her. And this was the only link she had now with Charles; she wasn’t ready to toss it aside, even to spite Dax.

Without answering her question, he said, “Tomorrow night. Seven. Dress is casual.” He stepped over to her door and twisted the key, opening the door before withdrawing the keys and tossing them into her lap. “Go to bed. You look like hell.”

She couldn’t just sit there and take more of his insults; it had been a long time since she’d allowed any man to get the better of her. “If I look like hell, it’s from having the misfortune to be in the same city with you again.”

She was still sitting in the rocker when he turned the corner and vanished into the parking lot.

Two

She can still wrap you up in more knots than a sailor could, Dax thought. He leaned his head against the back of his seat, putting off the moment of ringing Jillian’s doorbell and seeing the ice in those blue eyes.

He’d been well-prepared for their first meeting yesterday ...he’d thought. Until she’d sprung her little coup on him. He still couldn’t believe she controlled twenty-three per cent of the company’s voting stock now.

Ever since he’d received the brief, stilted facsimile telling him Charles was dead, he’d imagined that first meeting with her. Dax had been shocked to his shoes when he’d seen Jillian’s name on the letterhead; he’d almost conditioned himself to stop thinking of home, and of anyone connected to his past.

Especially her. God, how he’d hated her. It had taken years for him to stop thinking of her every minute, years, and with one damned piece of paper, she was back in his head as if she’d never left. When he’d flown up here from Atlanta, the man he’d hired to investigate her met him at the airport with everything he’d dug up. And as he scanned the doings of Jillian Kerr through the past seven years or so, he’d known he wasn’t going to walk away this time without wringing some answers out of her. Maybe once he knew why she’d agreed to marry him when she’d obviously wanted Charles, maybe then he could finally forget.

A few more phone calls had put him in exactly the position he wanted, and he’d strolled off to the funeral yesterday feeling pretty pleased with himself and primed for a fight. When he’d made his way through the crowd, he’d been ready to rip her to shreds, exactly the way she’d ripped his heart out once.

Only he hadn’t bargained for the compelling reaction his body and his emotions had experienced when he sat down beside her at the service. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her face right away, and it was just as well. He’d been so fixated on the sight of her slender thighs beneath the short black skirt, and the way she’d kept her legs pasted together, with her long, narrow feet in their elegant, unsuitable shoes cuddled side by side on the ground, that he couldn’t have spoken if he’d had to. Memories had swamped him. He could still see her long, slender body, feel the way she’d yielded beneath him, hear the sweet little whimpers she made when he was touching her.

It had taken him every minute of the rest of that eulogy to battle the need back into submission, to keep his hands from reaching out and yanking her against him. And then, when she’d stood and he’d looked directly at her for the first time, he’d been poleaxed by her glowing, youthful appearance. The woman was thirty-two years old, for God’s sake. He knew she’d been around the block more times than a kid on a new bike, and yet she still looked fresh as a flower on a dewy morning.

She’d barely seemed to notice him; he had felt her grief and the determined way she was clinging to control. It only served to enrage him all over again. Apparently, she’d stayed close to Charles all these years; Dax doubted she’d be so emotional if he were the one in that coffin.

That coffin. Regret halted his tumbling thoughts. Somehow, he’d always assumed he and Charles would speak again some day. Dax could never forgive Jillian, but Charles was another story.

He, Dax, knew firsthand just how seductive and irresistible she could be. As a hormone-laden kid, he’d been deeply, profoundly jealous of Charles and the special connections his brother had shared with her. Charles and Jillian were thick as thieves, had been since they were old enough to ride their bikes up and down the hill from one house to the other. They touched each other casually, easily, and even though she’d belonged to Dax since their first kiss, she and Charles had some unspoken relationship that didn’t include him. Their closeness had bothered him more than he’d wanted to admit, even to himself.

Still, he wished he had taken the time to contact Charles during these recent years, when his brother had popped into his mind more and more frequently. He hadn’t even come home for their mother’s funeral four years ago, a move he still regretted. And he’d fully intended to get back in touch with Charles. He’d considered it a dozen times, had told himself tomorrow would be time enough. Now tomorrow had arrived, but time had run out.

Charles...his baby brother. Gone. In his mind’s eye, Dax watched Jillian lay a yellow rose atop the white coffin. A numbing regret swept over him. He’d missed Charles these past few years.

And he’d have liked to have met his brother’s wife. He would have applauded anyone who could steal Charles out from under Jillian’s nose.

He unfolded himself from the sleek little Beamer that had been left at the house since his mother’s death and walked to her door. She opened it after the first ring, as if she’d been standing on the other side waiting on him. Good. He hoped she’d stood there a while.

The punch of awareness slammed into him again at the sight of that angelic face and even though he’d been expecting it, he still could only stare for a moment, drinking in the porcelain beauty that had once been his. She was wearing a fairly sedate, un-Jillian-like twin set and stylish trousers. She’d always dressed to entice, to arouse...before. Of course, that could have changed over the years.

He recalled the curve-hugging black suit she’d worn to the funeral, the suit with the tight skirt that had shown off her slender little butt and lots of long, slim leg. He’d been watching from his car when she’d been helped out of the hearse by two exceedingly attentive men, and he’d endured the painful twist in his gut when she’d clung to one of them as she started across the cemetery. And he’d been mildly surprised to note that her figure had looked every bit as good as he remembered...though “surprise” hadn’t been the primary feeling he’d experienced.

And afterwards, when he’d introduced himself to her family, he’d been shocked as hell when she’d deliberately closed the space between them and pressed herself against his side as if they were intimate companions who touched each other every day. Even though he knew she’d done it to head off more hard words between him and her overbearing brother-in-law, he hadn’t been able to prevent himself from touching her once he’d recovered his wits. He’d slid a hand around her still-slender waist and checked out the firm curve of her hip, and it had been all he could do to stand there when all he wanted was to pull her against him and fill his hands with her.

He suspected that this sudden switch to conservative clothing was for his benefit. She’d probably had to run out and buy it today.

The idea made him smile as he started forward—but she blocked his way. “I’m ready.”

That was it. No greeting, no civil conversation. The imp of perversity that she brought out in him popped up, and he merely stood there, blocking her way, now. “Invite me in.”

“No. You asked me to dinner. Let’s go.”

“Come on, honey-bunch.” He used the endearment deliberately, and her eyelids fluttered once, a subtle flinch that he might have missed if he hadn’t been looking for it. He’d noticed yesterday that the expression he’d once used with tenderness got her back up like a threatened cat’s. “It’s only natural that I want to see how my former fiancée is living. After all, if we’d married, I’d have been saddled with your taste in furnishings for life.” He put his hands on her waist and set her aside, striding into the foyer of her condo, where he made a show of looking around. But his body was doing its Jillian-thing again, and he had to take a few deep breaths to calm the shaky feeling that touching her had produced in his gut. His fingers tingled and his blood felt as if it was racing through his veins. And unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot he could do about the heavy stirring in the part of his body that hadn’t listened when he told himself it was over with her.

This really sucked. He’d met dozens—no, hundreds of beautiful, sexy women over the years. And not one of them could arouse even a fraction of the desire that rode him when he so much as thought about Jillian.

“I’d really like to get this over with. I have to work tomorrow.”

“At your store.” Leisurely, he strolled through a stark, white kitchen that looked as if it didn’t get much use. The only personal touches were a couple of pictures of children—Manna’s? —held on the refrigerator with magnets, and a clumsily painted clay bowl that looked like it had been made by a child. The other items on display looked like they’d been placed there by a decorator for effect. He ran a finger over a blue glazed bowl with apples in it, mildly surprised when he realized the apples were real.

He inspected the dining room, with its smoked glass table and chrome-and-leather chairs. The room was dominated by a huge painting of... “What is that?”

She’d been trailing after him, looking distinctly pouty and disgruntled. At his words, a small smile curled the edges of her lips up in amusement. “It’s a painting.”

He gave her a narrow-eyed look.

She raised both palms and shrugged. “I don’t know what it is. Some days, it looks like a tiger wearing green socks, other days it resembles a garden of orange lilies. Vaguely. It was a gift from an artist and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“His?” He mentally kicked himself the moment the word came out. It certainly wasn’t what he’d intended to say. What had he intended to say, anyway?

Jillian crossed her arms and leaned back against the door frame. “Yes, his, as in male, man, masculine gender. Believe it or not, Dax, I’ve had a life of my own since your exit, complete with a few—gasp!—relationships along the way.”

He ignored the sarcasm, heading into the next room, which must be her formal living room. An enormous baby grand occupied the alcove in the corner, and sheet music for a complicated arrangement of the love theme from Titanic was open above the keys. Jillian had loved to play, he remembered. Apparently, at least that hadn’t changed. He wandered past the piano to where a tasteful grouping of white love seats and chairs were set before a brassscreened fireplace with white marble columns.

Who did she share that love seat with now? Rationally, he knew she had had no reason to suspend her life after he’d left, but when he thought about Jillian with another man, his irrational side wanted to smash a few pieces of her Lladro collection against the far wall.

A group of brass-framed photos displayed on the mantel caught his eye, and he went closer. Her sister’s family smiled contentedly into the camera in the first one. There was a dark-haired little girl cradled in Ben Bradshaw’s arm and an obviously pregnant Marina glowed with happiness. Regret rose at the cozy family scene, and he swallowed it, moving on to the next image. Slightly behind the first, a second photo showed Marina snuggled against a big blond guy.

Before he could voice a question, Jillian said, “That was her first husband. He was killed in the accident.” There was a soft, sad note in her voice that made him want to reach out and cuddle her, comfort her, but he resisted such a stupid impulse.

The third photo arrested his attention, as did two others following it. The photographer apparently had been waiting for the shot, because the three photos were a sequence. In the first, taken near someone’s pool on a bright, sunny day, an enormous hulk of a guy in nothing but a pair of blue denim cutoffs that bared bulging biceps and thighs like tree trunks was sneaking up behind Jillian. Meanwhile, another broad-shouldered dark-haired man in swim trunks stood with his arm around her naked waist. She was wearing what had to be the skimpiest bikini on the East Coast and even though the man’s hand was only splayed against her back, Dax’s blood pressure rose.

In the second photo, the Hulk had snatched her off her feet and was holding her cradled against his chest as he stood on the edge of the pool. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. Jillian had his ears in her hands, tugging, her head thrown back and her mouth open in a scream. The third was a marvelous action shot of the pair in midair, free-falling into the pool as sprays of water froze forever for the camera’s lens.

Jillian had moved up beside him. She reached up to trace a delicate finger over the glass, sliding around the outline of the big man. She heaved an exaggerated sigh.

He couldn’t take it, even though he knew she was baiting him. “Someone special?”

“Two someones,” she corrected, smiling fondly at the photo. “Other than my brother-in-law, Jack and Ronan are the men I love most in the world. Even when they conspire to throw me into the pool.”

He gritted his teeth, aware that if he moved right now, it only would be far enough to get his hands around her unfaithful throat. “You never were satisfied with just one of anything.” He hadn’t meant the words in an intimate sense, but as he glanced at her, he suddenly realized they applied to their shared past in another way.

And in the sudden aura of awareness that the words dropped over them, he saw in her eyes that she was thinking the same thing he was. Their lovemaking had always been intense and primitive, and they’d both been young, healthy, in love with lust when they’d been together. A single episode of sex had never been enough for her. As if she were speaking, he could hear her husky voice urging him on and on, begging him for more and more, and protesting that she really couldn’t without meaning it when he moved over her, giving her a second satisfaction only moments after the first.

He looked at her lips. They were slightly parted, the edges of her perfect teeth—courtesy of the braces he still remembered—showing. She was breathing in quick, shallow gulps. He could practically smell the scent of her arousal, and the erection that had been teasing him since she opened the door roared to full, throbbing life. His hand reached for hers, their gazes locking in a desperate, wordless exchange. Taking her small hand in his, he carried it to his chest.

She sucked in a strangled breath, her eyes darting to their hands—

And the tidal wave of sudden, rigid-muscled, bodyshaking rage that possessed him when he thought about her running straight from his arms into those of his brother blasted through him without warning, knocking down any fragile barriers he’d sandbagged against it.

“How many men have those hands touched?” he demanded, as he flung her hand from him.

For an instant, he thought he saw anguish pass over her features. Then, if it had ever been there at all, the desperate emotion in her eyes vanished. Tossing her head to throw back her hair, she smiled. “Dozens. And every single one of them tells me I’m the best thing he’s ever known.”

He could kill her. He really could kill her.

Reading his eyes correctly, she hastily stepped back. But she just couldn’t shut that smart mouth of hers. “You asked for that, Dax. You know you did.” She paused, and weariness drew at her pretty face; again, for a moment, she looked so sad that a little part of his heart almost reached out for her before he shoved it back into hiding. “If I told you the truth, you’d think I was lying, anyway.”

“You aren’t capable of telling the truth,” he snarled. Truth? What truth?

In self-preservation, he transferred his attention to the last photo.

And was shocked speechless for a moment. It was a close-up of Jillian. She was cradling an infant in her arms, a newborn whose blond fuzz barely dusted the tiny head. She was holding the child up close to her, looking into its face, and the tenderness in her expression dug into him like a sharp blade. His hands were shaking and he shoved them into his pockets. Was it hers? Where was it? The sight sent sharp arrows of pain through him again.

That should have been my child.

But she hadn’t loved him enough to have his babies.

As if she’d followed his thoughts, she said quietly, “That’s my friend Deirdre’s first child. He’s a whole lot bigger and a whole lot livelier now, but he sure was precious then.”

His shoulders slumped as the tension leached out of him, and with a small shake of his head for what should have been and never would be, he gave up the inspection and escorted her out the door.

As Dax drove up the hill and pulled into the circular driveway fronting Charles and Alma’s house—or was it Dax’s now?—Jillian steeled herself. The last time she’d been here had been the day after they’d died, when the funeral director had asked her to pick out clothing in which the couple could be buried. God save her from ever having to choose another loved one’s final attire.

“Why are we stopping here?”

Dax gave her an unreadable glance as he killed the engine. “We’re dining here.”

She stared at him a minute. “I hope you’re joking.”

He looked puzzled. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

She couldn’t eat here. No. Absolutely no way. “Dax...the past few times I’ve been in this house haven’t exactly been easy moments for me. I thought you meant we were eating out or I’d never have agreed to come with you.”

He uncoiled himself from the driver’s seat and came around the car to open her door. “Get out.” His voice was clipped.

He was determined to make her life a living hell, she thought in resentment. She never should have told him coming to the house bothered her; he was far to quick to seize on things and rub them into her skin.

“Get out or I’ll get you out.” The menace in his voice convinced her he meant it.

Slowly, she swung her legs out of the car and stood, ignoring the hand he extended, and walked up the wide, shallow flagstone steps before he could touch her.

Following her up, he reached around her to open the door. As he turned the knob, he hesitated and looked down at her.

She averted her eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the pain she was feeling, and after a moment, he pushed the door inward and she preceded him into the spacious foyer. Mrs. Bowley, the housekeeper who’d been there since they were small, bustled through the swinging door from the kitchen and hurried down the hall, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Jillian!” The older woman enfolded her in a warm, cinnamon-y smelling embrace that catapulted her back in time. Funny how some smells always made you remember certain things. Mrs. Bowley’s scent always relaxed her and gave her the warm, secure feelings she’d known in childhood. When the housekeeper stepped back, her faded blue eyes were swimming with tears. “How are you, honey?”

“I’m fine.” She gripped Mrs. Bowley’s hands. “I’ve been worried about you. Have you been all right?”

The housekeeper gave her a watery smile. “It’s been hard. I keep expecting Miss Alma to come flying down the steps, or Charles to come out of his study with his nose buried in the paper.”

“I’m sure.” Jillian draped an arm around her sloping shoulders. “I can’t quite accept it yet, either.”

“Having Dax come home has been wonderful. And of course, there’s—”

“Mrs. Bowley.” Dax’s voice was warm but firm. “Could you please bring us the hors d’oeuvres?”

“Right away, dear.” The older woman gave Jillian one last fond smile as she turned away.

Dax crossed the hall and opened the door of Charles’s study. Only she supposed it was his study now. She looked at him, uncomprehending, before she realized he wanted her to go into that room, rather than into the parlor opposite it, where guests were usually entertained. Or at least, where Charles, and Dax’s parents before him, had entertained. It was difficult to remember that this was Dax’s home now.

As she passed him and entered the room, he asked, “Would you like a drink?”

“A glass of sherry would be nice,” she said. He disappeared again, and she dropped her purse in a wing chair as she idly walked to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes. She couldn’t stand to sit in here in the dark, and it was still light outside. Perching on the wide ledge, she stared at the familiar scene without really seeing it.

Crossing her arms, she lifted each of her hands to the opposite shoulder and massaged her neck for a moment. If she spent much more time in Dax’s company, she was going to need a massage therapist on a permanent basis.

He returned with her drink, and one of his own, and walked across the rug to hand it to her. At the same moment, Mrs. Bowley bustled in with a small tray. She deposited it on the table beside Jillian and left again.

As he switched on the floor lamp behind the desk, Dax said, “Come sit down. There are some things I want to ask you about.”

She frowned as she settled into the wing chair, trying to ignore the way his casual olive pants pulled across his thighs when he propped one hip on the edge of the massive cherry desk. Across his definitely-all-man thighs. She swallowed. She should have smacked his face when he’d taken her hand in her condo.

Why hadn’t she? She couldn’t explain it, even to herself. It was as if she’d lost all willpower, all independent thought, when he’d looked at her with those lazy, sexy eyes of his. They’d told her, without words, that he was remembering how wild and incredible their lovemaking had been. And she’d felt her body softening, yearning for him even though she knew he despised her.

And she despised him, of course.

But it stung her pride that he’d been the one to move away. He’d been quick to spoil the magic in the moment, too, and old hurt rose in her throat. Why was he so determined to think the worst of her? It struck her that he’d been just as determined to condemn her seven years ago. It was almost as if he wanted to believe she was a woman with fewer morals than the owner of the infamous Chicken Ranch.

“What do you know about Piersall Industries?” The curt question scattered her whirling thoughts, and she had to consider it for a minute.

“Other than the fact that it’s your family’s business that manufactures steel beams for construction?” She shrugged. “Not much. If you’re hoping I’ll walk you through the family finances, you’re out of luck.” And she couldn’t resist adding, “Charles and I didn’t talk much about business when we were together.”

“Don’t be childish,” he told her. “You don’t need to prove anything to me. I already know about your affection for my brother. What I want to know is whether or not you can explain to me how Charles dug this company into a hole so deep I may not be able to get it out.”

She had been staring at him angrily until his last words penetrated, and she sat up straighter, unable to believe her ears. “What? You must have misread something. The company should be in great shape. Charles was always looking for charitable causes that would help offset the chunk of change the IRS demands. He’s been one of Baltimore’s most generous patrons of a number of community projects.”

Dax smiled grimly. “Yeah? Well, it looks like he’s been a little too magnanimous. Although it’ll be a while before I know for sure. He seems to have been the world’s worst record-keeper.”

“He hated that end of it,” she admitted. “Charles was a people person, remember? But he had employees to manage the finances. Have you talked with Roger Wingerd about this?”

“Not yet. I wanted to get familiar with the current setup before I started questioning people.” Dax rubbed the back of his neck as he picked up a thick sheaf of papers and handed them to her. “You probably won’t understand this, but it’s a copy of the quarterly financial report. It’s not good.”

“I studied accounting, remember?” she said examining the numbers with growing dread. “I’ve kept my C.P.A. certification even though I don’t practice any more.”

“Any more?”

She looked up, shooting him a grim smile. “I worked for Arthur Andersen for almost five years before Marina and I opened our store.”

One black eyebrow rose. “I’m impressed.” But his tone was mocking.

Refusing to respond in kind, she said, “Thank you.” Then she waved the report at him, concern mounting. “I’d have to see a lot more than this to get the whole picture, but it does look as if Piersall is in trouble.”

“In trouble?” Dax snorted. “If something isn’t done, this company will have to declare bankruptcy by the end of the year.”

She was shocked and for a minute she simply gaped at him. “My God, Dax. Do you realize how many people will lose their jobs if Piersall sinks?”

He pivoted and picked up another piece of paper from the desk top. “Four hundred, more or less, with about ninety per cent of them full-timers who would lose benefits.”

“I had no idea,” she whispered.

“Apparently, neither did Charles.” For once, Dax appeared unconcerned about continuing their verbal battles. “I was hoping you could shed some light on this.”

She started to shake her head, and then the light dawned. “No, you weren’t.” She drained her glass of sherry and set it on the table beside her with a snap. “You didn’t see my name on the list of employees, and you wanted to know if I’d been helping Charles to mismanage his funds. You jerk.”

Springing out of the chair, she stalked toward the door, but she’d forgotten how fast he could move. He was laughing as he took her elbow and steered her toward the dining room. “Caught by a master of deception. What can I say?” He barely twisted out of the way when she rammed her elbow backward toward his ribs. “Calm down, honey-bunch. I don’t recall making any accusations.”

“Then you had a memory lapse.”

“Anyway,” he said, staying out of range, “You can relax. I don’t think you had anything to do with the company’s problems.”

“How generous of you,” she said bitterly. “You’ll have to excuse me for thinking that you assessed my reaction before rendering such a magnanimous opinion.”

“But I need you to help me solve them.” He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “There’s been a little movement of the company’s stock in the week since Charles died. Probably normal reaction, but it bears watching. In the meantime, I’ve been looking over the minutes from recent board meetings and I can’t say I’m impressed with the general direction they’ve been going.”

“And naturally, you have a solution.” She couldn’t resist.

“I do.” He picked up his drink and took a slow sip, watching her over the rim of the glass before he spoke again. “But it may not be one that the current board will embrace unless I can force them to yield by outvoting them at the table.”

Comprehension began to glimmer in the back of her mind. “Just how much stock do you own, Dax?”

“Together, the family held fifty-one percent,” he said. “Now that Charles has left his shares to you, I still control twenty-eight percent.”

“So...” She made a show of crossing her legs and settling back in her chair. “Without my votes, you can’t be sure of enough support to control the board.”

Dax’s mouth was a grim line. “No. I can’t.”

She raised one brow in a mocking manner as she made a production out of recrossing her legs the other way. “Ah. How...interesting.”

“‘Interesting’ isn’t quite the word I’d use,” he grated. “God, I could kill you. And I could kill Charles for creating this mess if he weren’t dead already.”

Abruptly, any satisfaction she’d found in the verbal sparring drained away. Sorrow and a profound depression filled her. She’d worked so hard to make a life for herself after Dax had left, and now she felt as if she had moved no farther in time than mere hours from the day he’d gone.

She almost demanded that he take her home then, but she knew it would only give him pleasure to refuse. So when he set his glass on the desk and motioned for her to precede him, she moved ahead of him into the dining room without a protest. There were three places set, and despite her irritation with him, she was touched. She knew Charles and Alma had taken most of their meals in the kitchen with Mrs. Bowley. It was thoughtful of Dax to include her.

As they cleared the doorway, she moved to the far end of the room and through the open French doors. Being so close to him was torture. Half of her wanted to kill him, but the other half ... the other half wished in vain that she could walk into his arms and let him touch her with those long magic fingers that wreaked havoc on her system.

A gentle evening breeze wandered across the pretty stone patio. Beyond a green carpet of lawn, the pool reflected evening’s approach on its smooth face. The sight of that pool brought memories flooding back...more of the uncomplicated happy moments from childhood, anxious yearnings from adolescence as she wished Dax would notice her in her newest bathing suit, and other memories—giddy, heady, heart-pounding recollections that were better left forgotten.

Would this evening ever end? she thought in despair. They hadn’t even eaten yet and already she felt like someone had flayed every inch of her skin with a cat-o’-nine-tails. She turned to move from the view, desperately seeking some innocuous subject that wouldn’t carry any more bits of her past.

Dax was standing directly behind her.

She barreled into him with a muffled exclamation of surprise; his hands gripped her upper arms to steady her. But when she automatically tried to step back, he held her against him. His big body, where hers was pressed into it, was achingly familiar and enticingly strange. Her breasts knew the planes of his torso, his hips found their old familiar pillow just below her navel. She sucked in a breath of dismay and delight, her body arrested in motion, quivering with the wondrous feel of his form against hers again.

This was what they’d had between them. Since the first time he’d taken her into his arms to dance on her seventeenth birthday, they’d had this. She could still remember the look on his face that night, the stunned need that accompanied his body’s unmistakable response. And she could remember the helpless, melting feeling she’d known, along with the heady sense of power she’d felt when his lips had descended on hers right there on the dance floor.

“You’re too young,” he’d growled against her skin. And despite her protests, he’d stayed away, even going to Europe to do his graduate work at a university there. He had never even asked her out until the summer he’d turned twenty-four.

He’d come to her house the day he’d returned from Europe, and they’d dated steadily from that point on. It had been two months before he’d made love to her for the first time. Two long months, when the only thing that had saved her virgin state was Dax’s self-control. She’d had none. And it was a not-quite-pleasant realization to recognize that she still didn’t.

She could have stood there all day. She barely resisted her body’s pleas to rub herself against him in surrender. Dignity had no place here. Elemental recognition flowed between them. Rib of my rib, bone of my bone—she was his missing half, he was the answer to the unfinished equation in her life.

Above her head, Dax muttered something, and she lifted dazed eyes to his. “What?”

“I said, ‘Damn.’” His thumbs lightly rubbed over the soft flesh he had seized to steady her, flesh he had yet to release. His eyes searched hers. “My life would be easier without this.”

When he spoke, her gaze moved to watch the fascinating motions of his lips as he formed his words. She knew, with no explanation, exactly what he meant. “A lot easier.” She sighed. “Of all the men in the world, why are you the only one?”

“Because you were made for me.” His voice was a guttural acknowledgment as his head slowly lowered.

She lifted her face the barest increment, knowing it wasn’t smart, unable to resist.

Their lips met. Shivers of wild excitement connected that point of contact with a dozen others, all descending to the junction where her legs met.

In one instant, she forgot every hurtful lesson she’d learned from this man. Her arms came up to his shoulders as he pulled her against him. One big hand swept across her back and the other splayed wide just above the swell of her buttocks. She sank against him in total surrender, a surrender he recognized and accepted without a word passing between them. He couldn’t get her any closer to him; her fingers speared into his short hair and cradled his scalp as his tongue renewed every intimate motion, explored every silken corner of her mouth.

She was a twig, carried away in the raging winds of a hurricane; a hapless pebble in the path of an avalanche. When he dragged his mouth down her neck, her head dropped back helplessly, though her hands pressed him to her.

“Do you remember our first time?”

The low words were punctuated with kisses that strayed down over her sweater to the tip of her breast. His hand left her back and came around, sliding surely onto the slight mound that already begged for his attention.

She moaned. “Down by the pool.”

A chuckle of breath huffed over her. When he pulled the thin sweater away from her waistband and put his hand beneath it, against her skin, she jumped and moaned. His palm left a trail of heat behind, and as it traveled inexorably upward, she pressed her lips to the black silk of his hair.

“Daddy?”

Dax jerked away from her in one shocking movement, yanking his hands from beneath her clothing and holding her arms in an iron grip. He pivoted, placing his body between Jillian and the doors behind them, and pressed her head into his chest with one strong hand.

Ordinarily, she might have protested. But speech was beyond her.

“Just a minute, Christine.” His voice was a deep growl, and she could still feel the hard strength of his desire pressing into her. Tremors began to shudder through her.

But the childish voice came again. “Who is that, Daddy?”

Dax sighed and released her. Jillian straightened her clothing with trembling hands. Slowly, she forced herself to turn around.

Dax stepped aside, and if she’d been shocked before, every thought fled now. Shock dribbled ice down her neck, sending goose bumps up her arms, leaving a cold ball of lead in the pit of her stomach. The world swam and she instinctively put out a hand, then snatched it away again when it landed on his forearm.

Distantly, she saw him turn, heard him say, “Christine, this is my friend Jillian.”

The child was fair, the straight, shaggy strands as blond as Jillian’s own. There was no mistaking her parentage, though. Dax’s dark eyes under identical brows, drawn now into a suspicious scowl, studied her resentfully. She had his lean frame as well, though on his child it was going to translate into a killer pair of legs one of these days.

How could it hurt so much? She’d put Dax behind her, buried all her imaginings of a family of her own with the remnants of her love for a man who hadn’t trusted her enough to believe in her. Now she realized that in holding herself aloof from the possibilities of another love, she’d been punishing herself, not Dax, all these years. She was the one who’d been alone for the past seven years, while Dax clearly hadn’t spent his life in misery over her.

Her breast heaved; a sob burst out without warning and she only kept another from erupting by clamping one hand over her mouth. Abruptly turning from his daughter, Dax reached for her.

But she reared back as if he were a poisonous snake, continuing to inch her way backward until the cold marble of the low railing around the patio kept her from going farther. He stopped and raised his hands as if to reassure her that he wasn’t coming any closer, and she stared at him, futilely battling an agony as deep as she’d known the day he’d stared at her with hot rage and hatred burning in his eyes before he’d walked away forever.

She bowed her head and closed her eyes, taking the deep breaths that had gotten her through Charles’s and Alma’s funeral and a thousand other moments of despondency over the years.

A self-protective wall slammed down. Blessed numbness descended, and she was grateful. Emotion, feeling, was gone. Nothing could hurt her now. Later, maybe, she’d think of this, but right now all she prayed for was the fortitude to deflect this shattering blow that threatened to break her into a thousand shards of desolation.

Summoning what she hoped looked remotely like a smile, she walked toward the little girl. As she extended her hand like an automaton, she gave Dax a wide berth. “I’m Jillian Kerr.”

The child stared at the hand as if she wasn’t sure what to do with it. Finally, she put out her own and dutifully shook Jillian’s hand. “I’m Christine.”

It was slightly sullen, but Jillian barely registered the tone. “I knew your father when we were kids, even younger than you are. And despite what you just saw, we aren’t really friends at all. We had some business to discuss and I’m going now.”

Slipping past the child—Christine—she made her way out of the dining room with its three place settings and walked directly to the hall table. She picked up the phone and called a cab, telling them she’d pay double fare for immediate pickup.

As she opened the heavy front door, she heard Dax call her name. She closed the door gently and kept going. She was almost at the end of the circular driveway when he caught up to her. Walking beside her, he said, “Jillian?”

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Tears beat at the backs of her eyes; every ounce of her willpower was directed at holding them back. Silently, she concentrated on the meaningless task of counting her measured steps. As she turned left, she started down the street in the direction she knew the cab would be coming.

“Jillian, we have to talk.”

She walked on, putting a hand to her mouth when her breath hitched and another sob threatened.

“You can’t walk home, honey. Let me drive you home.” His voice was surprisingly gentle, but she supposed he could afford to be gentle now.

The cab turned the corner at the bottom of the hill. She stopped to wait for it.

Dax stopped, too, stepping in front of her. “I meant to tell you about Christine. I wanted you to meet her this evening but not—”

“And I’ve met her.” Her eyes focused on him, and she reached for the imaginary wall she envisioned between them. “If you came back here to punish me, Dax, consider the job done.” Even she could hear the distress she couldn’t quite control in her shaking voice. “If I had one wish, I’d wish that you were the Piersall who’d been in that car last week.”

His features went from concern to stone-solid stoicism. The cab slowed to a stop at her hail and she opened the door and slid into the back seat while he watched with clenched fists. As she lay her head against the seat back, she gave the driver her address and concentrated anew on forcing back the tears.

Three

Dax sat on the edge of the pool, staring down into the water without really seeing it. It was long past nightfall and his butt was getting tired of the concrete, and still he sat. Trying to make some sense of his life.

He was still shaken by Jillian’s reaction to his daughter earlier in the evening. And as the water rippled and beckoned around his calves, he wondered how everything could have gone so wrong. They’d been happy once.

From the first time he’d kissed her to the day he’d caught her in bed with his own brother, they’d been happy. At least, he thought they had been. And damn her eyes, he’d never met another woman who could take her place. Not in his heart, because he wasn’t stupid—one lesson had been enough. But even someone he could enjoy enough to share his life with. It wasn’t as if he’d had a choice with Libby. They’d married to give Christine legitimacy, but they’d hardly enjoyed their life together.

But in all honesty, he couldn’t blame his ex-wife. She’d never had a chance against his memories. He sighed, a bitter sound on the mild night air. It would be nice, really nice, if just once, when he was in bed with a woman, he didn’t wish it were Jillian beneath him, around him. He might have been able to block her out of his waking thoughts, but she’d haunted his dreams for years.

Memories of her laughing eyes, the flash of her teasing smile, taunted his aching mind. He’d thought of her as a little sister, albeit a rather annoying one, when he was a kid. Marina had been closer to his age and they’d hung out together a lot until high school, when they’d begun to date different people. He’d always marveled at the differences between the two girls. Physically, they could have been twins if they were the same size. Marina was several inches taller than Jillian, but they’d both had that face that stopped boys in their tracks and the long, slim body that knocked them to their knees.

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