The Engagement Party
Barbara Boswell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAST OF CHARACTERS

The Women:

Hannah Farley: Blue-blooded bad girl.

Emma Wynn: Once burned, twice shy.

Sophie Reynolds: Single mom with secrets.

Lucy Maguire: Not left at the altar for long.

Katie Jones: Always a bridesmaid….

The Men:

Matthew Granger: Stranger in a small town.

Michael Flint: Mr. Wrong has never been so right.

Ford Maguire: Lucy’s lawman brother falls for shady lady?

Max Ryder: Mystery man appears in the nick of time.

Luke Cassidy: Single dad makes impassioned plea.

Why is Matthew really in Clover? Will Hannah ever walk down the aisle? Can Emma forget the man she let get away?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

One

“The party is great, Katie. And Abby and Ben look so happy.”

Hannah Farley smiled with satisfaction as she gazed at Abby Long and her fiancé, Ben Harper, who were standing in the middle of the large living room of Katie’s Clover Street boardinghouse. The newly engaged couple were surrounded by a noisy, laughing group of family and friends who’d gathered for the surprise engagement party.

“I didn’t think we’d be able to keep the party a surprise, but we pulled it off, didn’t we?” Hannah, a longtime friend of Abby’s and one of her bridesmaids, was helping fellow bridesmaid, Katie Jones, replenish the snack dishes on the long, linen-covered table that had been set up to hold the refreshments. “Abby and Ben didn’t suspect a thing.”

“They both did a credible job of acting surprised,” Katie said dryly. “But yesterday at the Beauty Boutique, I overheard Jeannie Potts talking about the party to every customer who sat down to be shampooed. You have to assume if Jeannie knew...” Her voice trailed off, and Katie shrugged, not bothering to state the obvious.

“How did Jeannie find out about the party?” demanded Hannah. “It was supposed to be a secret. Who told?”

“Who knows? When it comes to gossip, Jeannie Potts has more sources than any tabloid or wire service.”

“You’re right. Jeannie doesn’t hear things through the grapevine. She is the grapevine of Clover, South Carolina.”

Katie grinned. “So if Abby and Ben didn’t know about this party, I’ll take a swim in the punch bowl. But who cares if it was a surprise or not? We’re all here celebrating their engagement and they really do look happy.”

Both the bridesmaids-to-be watched Ben reach over to lovingly tuck a loose strand of hair behind Abby’s small diamond-studded ear. Abby smiled at him, her eyes radiating an almost tangible tenderness.

“They’re really in love, aren’t they?” Hannah sighed wistfully. “I wonder what it feels like. To love someone enough to want to spend your whole life with them.”

Katie gave her a measuring look. “You don’t know?”

Hannah laughed, her slate gray eyes suddenly lighting with humor. “You really are tactful, Katie. And so diplomatic! It’s very kind of you not to refer to my three engagements, my three broken engagements. My family certainly does often enough. And to answer your question, no, I never have really been in love.”

“I guess it wouldn’t be tactful or diplomatic of me to ask why you got engaged three times when you weren’t in love,” Katie murmured. It was a question she never would’ve asked anyone else, but Hannah was so frank and open it was easy to respond in kind.

“Ah, The Question. Don’t think I haven’t asked it myself a few thousand times.” Hannah tossed her head and her thick, dark hair fell luxuriantly over her shoulders—a feminine, seductive gesture that she’d perfected back in her early teens. Now she was twenty-six, and her practiced gestures had become so natural they were an integral part of the alluring Hannah Farley charm.

“I was eighteen the first time I got engaged,” she continued, smiling ruefully in reminiscence. “Some of my sorority sisters were getting pinned to Brent’s fraternity brothers, and Brent and I thought it would be cool to get engaged instead. Imagine our shock when his family and mine began making wedding plans! We ended that engagement on a note of mutual panic.”

Her smile dimmed a little. “My second fiancé came along the year both of us were graduating from university. Neither of us knew what we wanted to do with our lives. Getting engaged seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Until faced with those wedding plans again?” Katie guessed.

Hannah nodded, growing pensive. “My third engagement was shortly before my grandmother got sick three years ago. You remember, I was living and working in Charleston back then. So was Carter Moore, who was a virtual clone of my brother and brothers-in-law. He convinced me that it would “serve both our interests to get married.”

“That’s how he proposed?” Katie arched her brows. “Not quite the romantic type, was he?”

“Not quite. Instead of an engagement ring, he presented me with some stock certificates, which he considered far more sensible than a frivolous piece of jewelry.” Even three years later, Hannah’s gray eyes flashed with indignation at that spectacularly unromantic gesture.

Katie couldn’t suppress her amused smile. “And you ended the engagement then and there?”

“I should have, but I didn’t. My family was so thrilled with Carter, I sort of felt I owed it to them to make him an official member of the clan. I swear they liked him better than they liked me. When we got engaged, all the Farleys were ecstatic. I’d finally done something that pleased them, something they understood! It was a heady feeling, for a while.” Hannah rolled her eyes. “But then my grandmother got sick and nearly died and I moved back here. Carter couldn’t understand why I’d give up my job and life in the city to be with what he called ‘a dying old woman whose days are numbered anyway.’ That’s when I told Carter to take back his stock certificates, we were history.”

Katie winced. “Sounds like you had a lucky escape from Bachelor Number Three, Hannah.”

“I agree. And everything worked out for the best. Grandmother recovered, and I have my antique shop here in Clover. I’m very happy,” she added resolutely. The firm line of her jaw was set with a determination underestimated by those who saw only her striking beauty. “In fact, I’ve never been happier. At this point in my life, I’m dedicating myself to buying antiques and collectibles to resell at outrageous prices to tourists and Clover matrons who like to redecorate their houses every other year.” Hannah smiled mischievously. “So who needs men? Who needs a social life? We’re businesswomen, Katie—the backbone of Clover’s economy. Someday we might actually get elected to the board of the chamber of commerce and then look out—we’ll rule this town!”

Katie laughed along with her. Hannah’s exuberance was contagious. “There’s just one thing I have to dispute,” Katie said, her green eyes twinkling. “Your alleged lack of a social life. You haven’t spent a Saturday night dateless since you turned thirteen, Hannah.”

Hannah didn’t deny it. “That doesn’t mean I don’t find dating an insane concept. I’ve had some unsuccessful dates—I specialize in them, actually.” She cast another glance at Abby and Ben. “And even though I am definitely not looking for another fiancé, when I see those two together, I can’t help but wish—”

“Hannah!” Tall, lanky Sean Fitzgerald came up behind her. “You’re looking beautiful as always. Have I ever told you that you’re the unrequited love of my life?”

“You’ve mentioned it on occasion.” Hannah smiled languidly, knowing he was posturing. Sean, whose grandfather had founded the ever-popular Fitzgerald’s Bar and Grill on Clover Street, and Hannah had been friends for years. They playfully flirted with each other without a single thought of deepening their relationship.

“And here is the lovely Lady Kate!” Sean turned his megawatt smile on Katie. “Well, the surprise was probably the worst-kept secret in Clover history but this party is terrific. Even the weather cooperated, huh? A beautiful June evening made to order for the happy couple.”

He laughed as another violent crack of thunder seemed to shake the house to its very foundation. The summer thunderstorm intensified, and the rain, which had been steadily drizzling all day, suddenly began to teem. The heavy drops pelted the windows so hard, the glass rattled.

“When your conversation sinks to bad jokes about the weather, it’s time to move on, Sean.” Hannah gave him a friendly shove, her gray eyes gleaming. “Go chase Ben’s cousin, the blonde in from Charleston. I saw you drooling over her earlier.”

“As always, your wish is my command, Dream Girl.” Sean winked at Hannah as he moved toward the perky blonde dressed in pastel pink from head to toe.

“Heaven help the woman who takes Sean seriously. He breaks new ground in superficiality every day,” Hannah said wryly as she and Katie watched him approach the giggling pink blonde.

Katie nodded, amused. She agreed with Hannah’s assessment, though she never would’ve voiced it aloud. Hannah had no such inhibitions; she said exactly what she thought. Katie, who was reserved by nature and tended to keep her private thoughts just that, found Hannah’s company entertaining, albeit occasionally unnerving.

Undoubtedly the difference in their stations in life affected them as much as their contrasting introvert-extrovert personality types. Though both young people were Clover businesswomen—Katie owning and operating the Clover Street Boardinghouse, Hannah the proprietor of Yesterdays, which featured an eclectic assortment of antiques and collectibles—the two sprang from very different roots.

Katie had been raised by her aunt Peg, the warm, hardworking owner of Peg’s Diner, a Clover Street institution, the past and present town hot spot for down-home cooking, people-watching and good-natured gossip. Despite her own busy schedule at the boardinghouse, Katie still helped out her aging aunt at the diner, dividing her time between the two places.

Hannah was the youngest daughter of Clover’s old-moneyed, blue-blooded Farley family, who traced their genealogy back to the aristocratic antebellum South. Hannah, a cheerful flirt, lively, laughing and teasing, with a gift for mixing with all types and putting anyone at ease, was an enigma to her very proper relatives. With the exception of her beloved grandmother, who doted on her, the rest of the Farleys were still trying to adjust to having “a shop girl” numbered among their kin. They did not understand or wholly approve of her friendships with “tradespersons” such as Katie and her aunt Peg, the Fitzgeralds and Emma Wynn, who managed the bookstore on Clover Street.

At her own insistence, Hannah was the first and only Farley ever to attend the Clover public schools and the state university, and she’d graduated with a degree in marketing despite her relatives’ dire predictions concerning her fate.

Hannah knew nothing would please her family more than for her to marry well, although they lived in horror of yet another disrupted engagement. The thought of a fourth broken engagement alarmed Hannah, as well, one of the very few things she had in common with her kin.

A brilliant bolt of lightning reflected through the rain-streaked windowpanes. It was almost simultaneously accompanied by a boom of thunder. The lights flickered, went out, then almost immediately flashed back on. There were groans and squeals among the party guests, followed by a rowdy burst of cheering when the electricity held its own against the storm.

“Miss Jones!” The voice, deep and peremptory, very annoyed and very male, caused nearly every head to turn to the foot of the stairs, where a very annoyed man stood on the landing, his arms folded across his chest, his dark eyes glowering. He projected the air of an infuriated marine drill sergeant, looking over a group of unsatisfactory recruits, and for a moment, the entire crowd shifted uneasily, as if feeling the apprehension of a hapless young corps.

But the group was too jolly to sustain any mood but a festive one for very long. They quickly resumed their partying, ignoring the imperious intruder. Not Hannah, though. She bristled. The nerve of this stranger. No one used that tone with her, nor would she permit her friends to be verbally accosted in such a manner. Why, poor Katie looked positively stricken!

Hannah started toward the stairs, determined to cut the obnoxious intruder down to size. When she was through, he would be miniaturized, so small that the antique dollhouse featured in her shop window would be too big for him.

Her eyes met the stranger’s when she was only a few feet away from him.

Hannah stopped cold in her tracks. The man’s smoldering dark eyes, so dark they appeared as black as onyx, were making a leisurely perusal, moving over her from head to toe and then back again. Males had been giving Hannah the admiring, assessing once-over since she’d donned her first training bra at age twelve. She knew how to deal with it, knew when to be flattered or insulted, knew how to respond playfully or forbiddingly.

But she wasn’t sure how to respond to this man. For after taking careful, minute inventory of her every feature, her every curve, he merely blinked and dispassionately looked away, totally dismissing her.

Hannah followed his gaze, saw those dark eyes of his fix on Katie, who was crossing the room to him, looking worried and nervous and apologetic. Hannah’s eyes widened. She silently willed the dark stranger to look over at her. She intended to devastate him with her most sultry stare, then reduce him to a quivering pool of nerves with an ego-shriveling insult.

But the man never looked her way again. She might as well have been invisible. It was as if he was unaware she existed, hadn’t seen her at all during those few charged seconds when she’d watched him devour her with his eyes.

“Mr. Granger, is there something wrong?” Katie asked breathlessly.

Hannah was standing near enough to overhear the conversation, and she moved closer, listening shamelessly.

“Yes, Miss Jones, you could say that,” Mr. Granger growled. “I want you to come upstairs to my room immediately.” He turned and headed up the stairs, not looking back, expecting Katie to follow him without question, without protest.

And she did exactly that! Hannah’s jaw dropped as she watched Katie trail after the man, up the steps and away from the party.

“I want you to come upstairs to my room immediately.” The deep, commanding voice seemed to echo in Hannah’s head while her mind’s eye kept flashing his image as visual accompaniment.

She pictured him so clearly he could still be standing in front of her, dressed all in black, his T-shirt, jeans and sneakers nearly the same dark shade as his hair. His complexion was swarthy, his teeth very white. It was as if Dracula had appeared at the summer-night party, a dark, menacing presence among the colorful floral and pastel dresses of the ladies and the light ice-cream suits of the men.

Hannah shivered. She felt edgy. Worst of all, she felt ridiculous! Her imagination, always active—why had she been the only Farley ever to possess one?—had clearly gone into overdrive. Dracula, indeed! The man was obviously a tenant here, seeking out the proprietor, and most rudely, too!

His bare arms flashed to mind, unnerving her further. He was muscular, his forearms covered with a sprinkling of hair, his shoulders broad. His hands were big, his fingers long. He was probably very strong.

Hannah was disconcerted by her detailed observation of the man. After all, she’d only seen him for a few moments. And then he had summoned Katie to his room. The party no longer held Hannah’s interest. Impulsively she climbed the stairs to the second floor of the three-storied house, hurrying through the halls, listening.

“...I’ve been in dumps and dives all over the world, but this place has to be the worst! I have never experienced...”

The irate male voice was coming from the end of the hall, and Hannah rushed into the room. Katie was standing beside the window, looking mortified as the man she called Mr. Granger lambasted the Clover Street Boardinghouse, comparing it unfavorably to accommodations found anywhere in an inner-city slum.

Hannah glanced around and understood why. It looked like it was raining inside the room. Water didn’t simply trickle or drip; it was pouring through several places in the ceiling, as if there were shower heads embedded in the roof directing the water down into this bedroom.

“The roof is leaking,” Hannah blurted out.

“Did you figure that out all by yourself?” The stranger turned from Katie to Hannah, his dark eyes mocking. ”You’re a real genius, aren’t you, little girl?”

“I am not a little girl!” Hannah snapped, instantly incensed. “Of all the sexist remarks to make, that one—”

The man’s eyes swept over her. “I was referring to your height. You’re short. Little. Can’t a man make a truthful observation without being called sexist?”

Hannah was indignant. Her height—or the lack of it—was a sore point with her. She was barely five foot three and considered herself too short. She had never stopped wishing that she were tall and willowy like her two older sisters.

Tonight, the nearly four-inch heels she wore gave her a sense of height and power. “You’re not much taller than I am. Does that make you a little boy?” She squared her shoulders and held her head high. Her power shoes did bring her somewhat closer to his height, which was an inch or two under six feet.

“You’re on stilts and you’re still shorter, honey,” he observed ungallantly.

“Mr. Granger, I am sorry.” Katie jumped into the decidedly confrontational conversation. “I was aware that the roof had a-a couple of small leaky spots but I didn’t realize...I never dreamed...this has never happened before—”

Granger turned back to Katie. “Look at this!” He had been momentarily diverted, but was not ready to be appeased. With a sweep of his hand, he indicated a stream of water splashing onto a case. “That is my laptop computer. If it hadn’t been in its case, it would’ve been soaked.” He picked up the case, moving it out from under the cascade. “Do you have any idea what damage water causes to electronic equipment, Miss Jones? And this—” He pointed to the bed where the indoor deluge was in the process of drenching the pillow. “If I’d been asleep, I would have been shocked awake by a blast of rain on my head!”

“Well, you weren’t asleep so you weren’t shocked awake by a blast of rain on your head,” Hannah said coolly. “And your precious computer was in its case so it wasn’t damaged by water. As far as I can see, there’s no harm done, certainly nothing to warrant this tantrum you’re throwing. What’s a little water anyway? Are you a complainer by nature, Mr. Granger? Would you like some cheese to go along with your whine?”

She had the immense satisfaction of watching his face redden. She knew how very much men hated to be accused of whining! It was the antithesis of the ideal of strong, silent male fortitude.

Katie, however, was aghast. “Oh, no, Hannah!” She gripped her throat, gulping for breath. “Mr. Granger has every reason to be infuriated. I agree with him. These conditions are inexcusable and totally unacceptable! Mr. Granger, I hope you’ll give the boardinghouse another chance to make this up to you. I’ll move you to a new room immediately, and of course, you won’t be charged for today or tonight—or—or tomorrow, either. I am so terribly, terribly sorry.”

“Katie, there is no need to grovel to this man.” Hannah was speaking to Katie, but her eyes were focused on the darkly rugged Mr. Granger. He was staring back at her, his black gaze piercing and intense. “I think he owes you an apology,” Hannah continued gleefully. “He’s behaved rudely, summoning you up here as if he’s some sort of feudal lord taking the servant girl to task.”

Katie choked. “Mr. Granger,” she began placatingly, “please don’t—”

“Who is she and why is she here?” Granger asked Katie, his eyes never leaving Hannah. “If she turns out to be the demented co-owner of this place, I’m checking out immediately.”

Katie ran her hand through her hair in an agitated manner that left it tousled. “Mr. Granger, this is Hannah Kaye Farley who—who owns a shop here in Clover. Hannah, my guest is Matthew Granger. He checked in this morning. And, Hannah, I would greatly appreciate it if you would go back downstairs and make sure the party is running smoothly while I move Mr. Granger to another room.”

Hannah and Matthew Granger continued to stare at each other.

“Since Miss Farley made it a point to stick her elegant little nose into your business, I think it’s only fair that she stay and help you make the room switch.” Matthew arched his dark brows, his expression challenging. Before either Hannah or Katie could say another word, he dumped the wet case containing the laptop computer into Hannah’s arms. “Here, you can carry this.”

Hannah was so startled she nearly dropped it. “It’s all wet!” She felt the bodice of her silver minidress absorb the moisture and knew it would leave a visible damp spot.

“What’s a little water?” Matthew drawled. “Are you a complainer by nature, Miss Farley? Perhaps you’d like some cheese to go with your whine?”

Katie froze, bracing herself for Hannah’s response while mentally reviewing the coverage in her insurance policy.

But instead of flinging the laptop to the floor or on Matthew’s head, Hannah flashed a sudden smile. “Touché, Mr. Granger.”

Matthew was completely disarmed. He studied the sensual perfection of her mouth and had to remind himself to breathe. His heart began to pump faster, making heat surge through him. Her face was exquisite, her complexion smooth and milky white, an intriguing contrast to her raven black hair. Her gray eyes, wide set and framed by dark lashes and brows, shone with intelligence and fire.

He’d been attracted to her the moment he laid eyes on her, when he’d come downstairs to rail at Katie. He’d been too attracted to her. Sensing trouble, he’d looked away, not daring even to glance at her one more time.

But it was happening all over again. The darkly gorgeous Hannah Farley had totally unhinged him. This time he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Her well-shaped, scarlet red lips were made for kissing. For passion. Matthew’s body began to tighten with need.

As a man who prided himself on never losing his head over a woman, on always maintaining control over his emotions in his dealings with the opposite sex, he found it more than a little disturbing that she could command his attention so easily and so completely.

Every primitive male instinct within him urged him toward the shapely, petite raven haired beauty in the eye-popping silver minidress and provocative spike-heeled sandals.

It was the sudden splash of cold water on the top of his head—yet another leak!—that jolted him out of the powerful sensual grip she had on him.

Hannah Farley was dangerous, Matthew decided. She used that smile of hers as a weapon. One flash, and bam! The unsuspecting recipient was disoriented, a willing captive to her sultry Southern charms.

Well, not him. Matthew flicked the raindrops from his hair. The smile she’d almost coaxed out of him rapidly turned into a defiant scowl. He was not here to lust after a teasing little flirt who was oh-so-confident of her appeal. He couldn’t allow anything or anyone to divert him, even temporarily, from the vital mission that had brought him to Clover.

He suspected that Hannah Farley could be far more than a temporary distraction. Becoming absorbed in her might easily become a full-time preoccupation. Matthew steeled himself against her allure. She was tempting but not irresistible. He could and would resist.

“Save it, sweetie,” he growled. “What you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

Hannah heaved an exasperated groan. “Are you one of those vain, tiresome men who thinks that any time a woman smiles at him, she’s coming on to him? Well, let me assure you that I am not, Mr. Granger.”

Matthew watched the warmth fade from her gray eyes as they narrowed to slits under her dark brows, watched her smile turn into a frown as fierce as his own. He was appalled that he felt regret, that he wanted to recall his insult and make her smile at him again. Her spell was potent indeed!

That feminine power of hers refueled his determination to send her on her way. Safely out of his way. She’d made it plain that she resented male condescension; therefore it became his weapon of choice.

“I guess it’s time for me to tell you that you’re beautiful when you’re angry.” He taunted her with his tone, with his expression. “The way you toss your hair, the way your eyes flash—baby, you project the image of glamorous anger as well as any soap-opera queen.”

Only his eyes, hot and intent, belied his cocky attitude.

Katie was right there to catch the laptop case before it hit the ground. She had rightly anticipated Hannah’s next move. “Hannah, please, the party,” she prompted under her breath. “It would be so helpful to me if you would go down and—”

“Throw the unruly mob out into the rain?” Matthew suggested. “I’m surprised none of the other tenants has complained about the noise. When I checked into this place, I thought it would provide the quiet I was seeking. Instead, there is a rowdy party going on downstairs with the Hit Parade from Hell playing in the background. Is this a nightly occurrence, Miss Jones? If so—”

“If you wanted a dark, quiet place, why didn’t you check into the city morgue?” Hannah said crossly. “The accommodations there would be ideal for an icy stiff like you.”

Matthew actually laughed. “Touché to you, too, Miss Farley.”

It was Hannah’s turn to be rendered speechless. Matthew Granger was attractive in a severely masculine way when he was angry and upset but he was absolutely charismatic when his dark eyes sparkled with humor and his face was lit with laughter.

Hannah slid a sidelong glance in Katie’s direction. If Katie had been equally floored by Matthew’s charisma, she was covering her reaction well. Katie appeared more concerned with balancing the dripping-wet computer case than gaping breathlessly at the mercurial Matthew Granger.

Which Hannah found herself doing, much to her own disconcertment. She took inventory of his face—and his body. He was not a classically handsome man but he had interesting features. The sharp blade of a nose and hard slash of a mouth were as compelling as his black eyes, arched by black brows. He was lean and muscular and almost vibrating with a restless energy that she instantly understood because she possessed it herself. A need to make things happen. An edginess combined with a daring need for something that hadn’t been found because it had yet to be identified.

“Mr. Granger, if I may, I’ll set the computer down here.” Katie laid it safely down in a dry spot and wiped her hands on the skirt of her light summer dress. “And I’ll get the key to room 206. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Don’t forget to take your sidekick with you,” Matthew called after her, as Katie fled down the hall.

Hannah folded her arms across her chest. She decided then and there not to do anything to accommodate him. If he wanted her gone, she would stay put. “I won’t conveniently go away, giving you free rein to bully and disparage poor Katie. She obviously needs your business and you’re taking full advantage of that fact.”

“What about you?” taunted Matthew. “According to Katie, you’re a shop owner. Shouldn’t you be patronizing me as a potential customer for your wares—whatever they might be?”

Hannah gave him a dismissive laugh. “I certainly don’t need to cultivate the likes of you.”

“Because you’re a rich girl whose shop is just a diversion until a suitable candidate for your privileged little hand shows up?”

“My shop holds its own, not that it’s any business of yours. And I am definitely not in a rush to marry anyone,” she added, a little too fervently.

“Why not? Every woman I’ve ever known has been burning to find a husband and take that long walk down the aisle, all decked out in white lace and sequins.”

“Good heavens, what kind of women have you been spending time with?”

“Ones with bad taste in wedding attire?”

“Not to mention bad taste in men, if they’re burning to take that long walk down the aisle with you!”

He grinned. “I didn’t say they all wanted to marry me. I said they all wanted to get married. Just like you do, honey. Let me guess. You want some tall, elegant Southern aristocrat who’ll keep you in the grand style you’ve always been accustomed to. Or maybe a good-looking, fun-loving socialite who glides along on his connections and his boyish charm.”

“Been there. Done that.” Hannah feigned boredom, but she was far from bored. There was a current of sexual tension sizzling between them, which energized her, challenged her, too.

“So you’re a lady with a past? I’m intrigued.”

“Don’t be. You’re not my type.”

“You’re saying I don’t stand a chance with you?” He sounded amused, not insulted.

“Not a chance,” Hannah affirmed. She sashayed by him, deeper into the room, taking care to avoid the water dripping steadily from the various leaks in the ceiling.

On top of the bureau lay a big canvas bag, which was half open and crammed full of notebooks, folders and books, both paperback and hardcover. She peered inside, but before she could glimpse any of the titles, Matthew stalked across the room to stand between her and the bureau, blocking both her view and her access to the bag.

“Do you make a habit of barging into people’s rooms and snooping through their things?” His tone was light but his dark eyes were hard and forbidding.

“What do you have in there that you don’t want me to see?” Hannah asked curiously. When she took a step closer, he sidestepped her, continuing to block her view of the bag and its contents.

“Why do you feel the need to know?” he countered.

“I don’t.” Hannah shrugged. “But you’re awfully defensive about it. Are you one of those creepy perverts who travels with his own personal stash of hard-core pornography?”

“You do have an interesting imagination.” Matthew tried but failed to suppress a grin. “But the answer is no. Sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”

Her body reacted to his smile, her heartbeat accelerating as hot little quivers pierced her abdomen. Hannah tried to will them away. “Why are you here in Clover, Mr. Granger?” she demanded sharply.

“I’m a writer.” His eyes held hers. “This bag holds research and reference materials. I’m here to...gather information for the book I plan to write.”

“I checked room 206 and it’s fine.” Katie rushed into the room, panting from exertion. “Shall we get you moved in there, Mr. Granger?”

“I would appreciate that. And please call me Matthew.” He zipped up his canvas tote and grabbed its straps. “Lead the way, Miss Jones.”

“If we’ve moved to a first-name basis, you must use Katie, please.” Katie was relieved that his fury seemed to have abated and that he was willing to be placated. “May I carry something for you, Matthew?”

“The laptop.” Matthew pointed, and Katie scooped it up.

“Katie, did you know he’s a writer?” Hannah eyed him dubiously. “At least he claims he is. He says he’s here to do research for his book.”

“A writer here in Clover?” Katie paused at the threshold. “Are you going to write a book about the town?” she asked him eagerly. “I read a wonderful novel about Savannah a few months ago and—”

“I know the book,” Matthew cut in. “Mine won’t be anything like it. I’m going to describe the insect life of a small Southern coastal town. Clover seemed a likely setting.”

“You’re writing a book about insects in Clover?” Hannah was incredulous.

“I’m sure it will be very interesting,” Katie said diplomatically.

“Will it be like a textbook?” pressed Hannah.

“Like, yes.” Matthew’s eyes mocked her. “I promise to send you both an autographed copy.”

“I don’t believe for one minute that you’re here to write an insect textbook,” Hannah declared boldly. The gleam in his dark eyes was all the proof she needed to know that he was putting them on. Katie was too polite to call him on it, but Hannah had nothing to lose. He wasn’t her tenant. “And I don’t—”

“As long as you’re determined to stick around, you may as well make yourself useful, angel face. Take my shirts from the closet and bring them to 206,” Matthew directed Hannah.

He didn’t wait around to see if she followed his orders. Obviously he expected to be obeyed, just as he had assumed that Katie would follow him upstairs after he’d issued his earlier command. Matthew strode from the room, Katie at his heels.

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.” Hannah gave a mock salute. The man barked out orders like a general on the battlefield. But it was her curiosity, not any sense of obedience, that drove her to open the closet door.

An assortment of shirts was hung neatly on hangers on the rod, and Hannah draped them over her arm. From the number of them, it appeared that Matthew Granger planned to stick around for a while. There were also two lightweight summer suits hanging there. Hannah decided she could carry them, too.

She felt the hard lump in the inside pocket of the jacket as she added the suits to her load. The same innate curiosity that had prompted her to examine the books inside his canvas bag caused her to investigate the bulge in the pocket.

Hannah’s eyes widened in shocked alarm when she pulled out a small, gleamingly polished handgun.

Two

Hannah dropped the gun back into the pocket as if scalded by its touch. Her heart thumped wildly against her ribs. She hadn’t believed Matthew’s lame assertion about being here to research and write about insect life in Clover, and the sight of this gun confirmed her doubts.

Why would he carry a gun? Was he a police officer? She knew Ford Maguire, sheriff of Clover; just yesterday she’d had coffee with him at the diner, and he hadn’t mentioned anything about a new officer coming to town. And it seemed logical that Katie would’ve mentioned that her new tenant was a cop when she’d introduced him.

Unless Katie didn’t know. Perhaps Matthew Granger was doing some sort of undercover investigation that required total secrecy. But what? Clover was not exactly a hotbed of crime. Oh, there were the occasional domestic disputes, petty larceny and disorderly-conduct arrests, but the downtrodden Polk clan usually figured in most of those. Certainly, no secret agent was necessary to deal with the Polks!

That left the other side of the law.

Was Matthew Granger a criminal who’d chosen to hide out here at the boardinghouse? Laying low until the heat is off, as a movie gangster would say. It occurred to Hannah that the only things she knew about gangsters were from the movies because she had never met a bona fide mobster in her life.

But here was Matthew Granger, dressed all in black, projecting an aura of danger, demanding and insolent and secretive. He definitely had not wanted her to see what was in that canvas bag of his, although why a criminal would take pains to hide his reading material escaped her. Unless the titles offered some sort of clues or evidence against him? Perhaps the books were simply decoys, hiding the real secrets in the bottom of the crammed satchel? Drugs?

Hannah shivered. What else did racketeers do? Laundering money, bookmaking, loan-sharking. Murder-for-hire? She flinched. She did not want Matthew Granger to be a criminal! A telling insight that unnerved her as much as the possibility that he was one.

Nervously, Hannah hung the suits back in the closet. She didn’t want Matthew Granger—if that was his real name—to know that she knew he had a gun. She heard his voice and Katie’s outside the room and quickly slammed the closet door.

“I have your shirts,” she sang out, hurrying into the hall, where she came face-to-face with Matthew. “They go to 206, right?”

“You have amazing recall, little girl,” he growled.

She met his eyes—they were dark and hot and challenging—and a sharp thrill tore through her. What she should be feeling was fear, Hannah admonished herself as she fairly ran down the hall to room 206. She would not be attracted to a gangster! Not even Grandmother, the soul of patience and understanding, would condone such lunacy.

She hung his shirts inside the closet in his new room and turned to see the canvas bay lying on the floor beside the bed. A quick peek assured her that there was no one in the hall, so Hannah succumbed to temptation, pulled the zipper half open and reached into the bag.

She examined the hardcover titles first. Inside the Criminal Mind, a textbook written by a psychiatrist. Three other books on the personalities of serial killers by three different criminologists. Was Matthew Granger a criminologist or psychologist himself, taking a vacation in Clover? If he was accustomed to the crime-infested urban scene, Clover would be a welcome change of pace for him. Her anxiety began to dissolve; she preferred this new, favorable theory.

She next turned her attention to the paperbacks, which were all bestselling thrillers. Hannah recognized the names of the authors but hadn’t read any of the books. She preferred historical novels with plenty of romance. There were none of those in the bag.

Delving deeper, she pulled out a beat-up copy of The First Families of South Carolina, a privately published book that also graced the shelves of the Farley family library, although that particular copy was in mint condition. There was a thick piece of folded paper in Matthew’s tattered copy, perhaps marking a page?

Hannah turned to it. The heading at the top of the page read “The Wyndhams.” That family, who was so important, wealthy and influential within the state that they rated two entire chapters in the book, had a major branch in Clover. The collective Wyndham tribe boasted judges and senators, past and present, along with the usual assortment of attorneys and financiers. All the Wyndhams were well educated and cultured, sophisticated and socially prominent, a credit to their glorious name and history.

Hannah knew them, of course. While the Farley family did not possess the enormous wealth and political power of the Wyndham family, the Farleys were well-bred and well connected and therefore considered worthy to socialize with the grand Wyndhams. Hannah’s oldest sister, Sarah, had gone to school with Esme Wyndham Chase; now their young daughters were friends.

The closed and clannish upper-class social scene had never appealed to Hannah. She stared at the book and wondered why on earth Matthew Granger was reading about it.

Her eyes flicked over the thrillers and the behavioral studies of real-life criminals. One thing was certain; he had wildly divergent tastes in books. And there wasn’t a thing in the bag having to do with insects, either. He had been kidding her and Katie, though he teased so seriously, it was difficult to tell.

And then she saw the map. It had been there all along, although it hadn’t registered until right now that the thick folded paper, marking the chapter on the Wyndhams, was a map. She unfolded it. A map of Clover.

Her eyes immediately focused on the red circle drawn near the outskirts of town. Beside it, handwritten in the same red ink were the words “Wyndham estate.”

Hannah drew a sharp breath. Why would he mark the Wyndham estate on this map? It wasn’t as if it was a tourist attraction! Her imagination began to conjure up yet another scenario, supplanting her comfortable criminologist-on-holiday theory.

What if Matthew Granger was a cat burglar who’d come to Clover to rob the Wyndhams? She had been to the family mansion and knew it was a virtual treasure trove filled with priceless antiques and paintings and objets d’art, which had been collected by generations of Wyndhams. It was an antiques dealer’s dream, though Hannah had never, ever approached any Wyndham about selling anything. They would’ve considered any commercial interest crass and ill-bred, and Hannah knew it.

But suppose Matthew Granger had been hired by some fanatical dealer or collector determined to possess what the Wyndhams would never sell? Or perhaps he was acting on his own, hoping to make a killing in the black market, which thrived on stolen treasures? Every cat burglar she’d ever seen in the movies dressed in black, just like Matthew, the better to sneak around on rooftops in the dark, she presumed.

And then there were the Wyndham jewels, a fabulous collection that had graced the throats and wrists and fingers of generations of Wyndham women. Just last month at a charity ball, Hannah had seen the stunning heirloom emerald necklace and matching earrings worn by the incomparable Alexandra Wyndham, that genteel paragon of beauty and class.

She swallowed. That necklace alone could secure a jewel thief a luxurious retirement—if he could remove it from the Wyndham estate. Was Matthew Granger here to try?

Hannah closed her eyes and tried to still the wild pounding of her heart. What should she do? Alert Sheriff Maguire to warn the Wyndhams? But she had no evidence of any wrongdoing or even potential wrongdoing, only her own anxious speculations. She could almost hear Ford Maguire tell her so. It didn’t help that he still thought of her as a flighty little schoolgirl who’d played with his younger sister, Lucy.

Matthew’s and Katie’s voices sounded in the hall. Hannah glanced down at the map and the book in her hand. She couldn’t let him catch her going through his things!

Just as she slipped the map back into the book, she noticed a name written in ink at the bottom of the chapter’s opening page. Alexandra Wyndham. Hannah gasped. She’d envisioned Alexandra in her emeralds, and now her name had turned up in Matthew Granger’s book. As his primary target? The coincidence was creepy enough to make her hair stand on end!

Matthew and Katie were very near, practically outside the door. Hannah had just enough time to rezip the bag and plop down on the edge of the bed. She crossed her legs, affecting a languorous pose while studying her crimson-painted fingernails.

Matthew’s eyes brushed over her, lingering on her lips before lowering to the fullness of her breasts straining against the silver bodice of her dress. Her short shirt had ridden high, exposing her well-shaped silken legs.

Katie glanced uneasily from Hannah’s seductive pose to Matthew’s fixed stare.

“My nail polish is chipped,” Hannah said with a vexed sigh. She hoped she sounded sufficiently insipid, like a self-absorbed idiot who would never bother with a follow-up of that suspicious bag.

Unfortunately, Matthew saw right through her act. “If it really is chipped, which I doubt, you probably did it trying to break into my bag,” he drawled.

Hannah’s head shot up and she met his cool, assessing gaze. He was carrying his suits, and the sight of the light gray coat—the one with the gun in its pocket—shattered her studied composure. “I did not!” she snapped, automatically hiding her hands with ten unchipped nails behind her back. “I don’t care what’s in your stupid bag!”

“What do you think, Katie?” Matthew turned to her. “Doth the lady protest too much?”

Katie opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, choosing not to take sides between her paying guest and her fellow bridesmaid.

Hannah recrossed her legs. Matthew was watching her very closely, reading every nuance in her expression, taking in her edgy, agitated behavior. She was not well skilled when it came to deception, Hannah thought glumly. She would make a terrible criminal and an even worse sleuth.

Katie, who had been pulling on Matthew’s wheeled suitcase by its strap, hoisted the case onto the bed beside Hannah. “Well, we’ll get out of your way and let you get settled here in your new room, Matthew,” Katie said heartily. “Thank you so much for your understanding and your cooperation. I hope the rest of your stay in Clover will be—”

“How long do you intend to stay in Clover, Matthew?” Hannah cut in. She forced herself to rise slowly to her feet and then sauntered toward the door, deliberately making her every movement graceful and sensual. Matthew’s dark gaze never wavered from her. It was as if she was putting on a performance for a private audience of one man only.

“My stay is open-ended. I’ll be here as long as it takes to get the job done.”

“The job being your insect research, of course,” Hannah baited him.

“Of course.” He shot her an arrogant grin, his eyes gleaming with challenge.

He knows I know he’s up to no good, Hannah thought, her nerves tingling. She pictured him casing the Wyndham estate. Pulling off the heist. The scene unfolded in her mind like a movie, with a black-clad Matthew Granger playing the lead. Her own role was more nebulous. Was she the gullible girl seduced into thinking the villain was really some sort of redeemable antihero? Or the sharp lady who set the trap and brought the felon to justice?

There was a loud whoop from the party downstairs. Katie, remembering her tenant’s expressed irritation over the noise level, caught her lower lip between her teeth and took a bolstering breath. “Matthew, I want to invite you downstairs to join the party. If you’re going to be in Clover for a while, you might enjoy meeting some—”

“Why would he need to meet people when he’s here to study bugs?” Hannah interjected scornfully.

“We have plenty of food and drinks. Maybe you would like some refreshments, Matthew?” Katie grated through her teeth. It was difficult playing the gracious hostess when Hannah kept lobbing verbal grenades at her guest. “You’re very welcome to join us if you wish,” she added cordially.

“Thanks for your kind invitation.” Matthew’s smile was genuine when he addressed Katie, but transformed into a sardonic smirk when he turned to Hannah. “But I’m not feeling particularly social. I’ll stay up here and unpack.”

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and find a spider whose web is chock-full of flies,” said Hannah. “That should make an exciting opening chapter for your book.”

Katie winced, caught Hannah’s arm and firmly hustled her out of the room. “If you should change your mind, please feel free to join us downstairs, Matthew,” Katie called over her shoulder. She half dragged Hannah down the hall. “I realize that manhandling a Farley defies social convention, and for that, I apologize,” muttered Katie. “But, Hannah, I’m desperate. I couldn’t let you start in on him again! Matthew Granger is a paying customer. He could probably sue me for that leaky roof fiasco, and last but far from least, I need his business. I have the roof to repair and plenty of vacancies until next month when I’m finally fully booked for the rest of the summer. Please try not to alienate a dependable source of income for this place.”

“Katie, surely you don’t believe that ridiculous story about his being here to write about insect life in Clover?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he is. I’ve never seen an—an insectologist, or whatever they’re called, have you? Why couldn’t he be one?”

“Why would an insectologist have a bag filled with crime books, a map of Clover and a copy of The First Families of South Carolina?”

“Oh, Hannah, you did go snooping in his bag!” Katie was aghast.

“I didn’t have time to get to his notebooks,” Hannah lamented. “Or those files. I wonder what was in them?”

“Hannah, the man is my guest!” Katie cried. “It’s bad enough that the first room I put him in was like being lodged under Niagara Falls, but then you insult him and search his things! I wouldn’t blame him if he checked out—oh, I hope he won’t!”

“Because you consider him a dependable source of income?” Hannah paused on the stairs to scrutinize Katie’s flushed face. “Or because you think he’s—he’s...” Her voice trailed off and she actually blushed.

“Oh, yes, he definitely is, isn’t he?” Katie laughed. An incoherent Hannah was a rare an amusing sight. “And he is obviously attracted to you, Hannah. I thought he was going to pounce when he saw you stretched out on his bed.”

“I didn’t want him to know that I’d looked into his bag. I was trying to distract him. Do you think it worked?”

“I think the contents of his bag were the last thing on his mind when he was looking at you, Hannah. But if you’re so certain he isn’t what he says, why is he here? And why the need for subterfuge?”

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out,” Hannah asserted resolutely.

“Hannah, from what I’ve seen of Matthew Granger so far, I wouldn’t recommend, uh, getting on his bad side.” Katie looked concerned. “We already know he’s quick to anger, and he’s aggressive and demanding, too. He is not the most agreeable guest I’ve ever had, but with the leaky roof to fix and the sump pump in the basement on the verge of giving out, I can’t be choosy. Whoever can pay, stays. But I intend to keep well out of his way, and I’d advise you to do the same.”

“Because you think he’s dangerous?” Hannah whispered, suddenly breathless.

The reckless glitter in her eyes disturbed Katie. “I don’t think he’s threatening in a physically harmful way. But I do detect a sense of danger about him, Hannah.”

“So do I.” Hannah’s face was aglow. “He makes me nervous, Katie. Me! That’s never happened to me before. When I’m around him, I feel jittery, both afraid and excited at the same time. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes.” Katie looked grim. “And those kinds of feelings and the kind of man who inspires them can be very dangerous, Hannah.” She had a haunted, faraway look in her eyes. “Emotionally dangerous,” she added bleakly.

Hannah stared at her, intrigued. Katie was three years her senior, slender and pretty with long, light brown hair and green eyes. Though she was warm and friendly and smiled often, during unguarded moments—like this one—there was a certain sadness about her. Was it inspired by an emotionally dangerous man?

Hannah remembered that some years ago Katie had seriously dated a man named Luke Cassidy, but he’d left town and never come back. Though Katie had never revealed what happened with Luke, the general consensus in Clover was that she’d had her heart broken. But nobody had any real facts, and Katie’s firmly quiet reserve did not invite intimate questions. Not even gossip maven Jeannie Potts dared to pry. This was the most personal conversation Hannah had ever had with Katie and she was tempted to take it further.

But before she could ask any questions about men in general or Luke in particular, Abby Long joined them on the steps. Slightly tipsy, she took Katie and Hannah by their hands. “I was looking for you two,” Abby exclaimed effusively. “Ben and Sean want to have a shag contest. Katie, do you still have those old shag records?”

“As if I would ever get rid of such nostalgic treasures!” Katie grinned, her somber mood evaporating. “I have Carolina Beach Classics, volumes one and two, and all four volumes of Shagger’s Delight. Why, those records are icons of the glorious past, handed down to me for safekeeping.”

“Maybe I should think about carrying them in my shop, along with the Victorian lady’s writing desk and the French Egyptian Empire chest and the Kestner baby dolls,” kidded Hannah.

“Katie, go get the records,” Abby ordered. “Sean, Tommy Clarke and Zack Abernathy are all demanding to have you as a partner, Hannah. You can either choose one or enter the contest with each guy.”

“Suppose I choose none of the above?” Hannah’s eyes danced. “I think I’d rather have that adorable hunk, Ben Harper, as my partner in the contest. Do you think his fiancée will mind?”

“That jealous witch?” Abby grinned, playing along with Hannah’s joke. “Keep away from her. She’ll get revenge by making you wear a hideous bridesmaid’s dress, say, something in puce with three hoopskirts and lots of ruffles.”

“Anything but that!” Hannah feigned a horrified gasp. “I swear I won’t go near the man!”

Laughing, the bride-to-be and her bridesmaids rejoined the party.

* * *

It took Matthew less than ten minutes to unpack, then he unzipped his canvas bag and pulled out his copy of The First Families of South Carolina. He turned to the index, found the name Farley and smiled slightly. It didn’t surprise him that the dark-haired beauty was a member of an affluent, highborn clan. She not only possessed the natural confidence of one blessed by money, brains and looks but also that intangible aura of class and privilege.

But Hannah Farley added sexual magnetism to the package; she had a provocative sparkle that other high-society types he’d met had lacked. That silver dress of hers with its halter top and short, tight skirt and those wickedly high-heeled sandals were unlikely to be seen at any proper country-club affair or society ball.

The jolt of pure desire that hit him caught him off guard, and he had to steel himself against it. He had not come to Clover to have a fling with the sultry little Southern belle with skin as soft and white as the magnolia blossoms that seemed to bloom in every yard in town. He was here to discover who he really was....

Matthew opened the top bureau drawer and removed the framed photograph he’d put there. The photo had been one of his mother’s favorites, always displayed on a small mahogany end table in the living room wherever they had lived. It was a five-by-seven color portrait of Galen and Eden Granger and their dark-haired, dark-eyed five-year-old son, Matthew, who gazed solemnly into the camera lens.

He had always been a serious child, intense and focused from an early age, and had grown into a responsible, hardworking student and athlete who’d made his proud parents even prouder. Matthew thought of the milestones—his graduations from high school, college and law school. His father, a camera buff, had been there to photograph the events, his mother smiling adoringly at her son. They had been there for the smaller everyday things, too—school programs, Little League games, helping with homework, a game of catch in the backyard. No son could have had a more loving, devoted set of parents. Matthew had been the center of their lives, and he knew it.

He had a shelf filled with albums of photos chronicling his life, from the day he’d been carried home from the hospital as a newborn to the family shots beside the gaily decorated Christmas tree snapped six months ago. It was the last Christmas he would ever spend with his mother and father. They had been killed in a car accident just two weeks later.

A spasm of grief, physical in its intensity, radiated through him. He remembered that devastating phone call from Albert Retton, his father’s best friend and fellow retired navy captain, the call that had shattered his life. And then the second shock, which had come only days after the funeral...

“You were adopted, Matthew,” Al Retton had told him. “Your parents knew you should have been told earlier but they couldn’t bring themselves to do it. They wanted you to believe you’d been born to them. I think they came to believe it themselves. But I was instructed to give you this letter if anything ever happened to them.”

The letter confirmed the adoption story and reassured Matthew of their great love for him. There were no references to the woman who had given birth to him or the man who’d fathered him, no mention of where he’d come from.

The news sent him reeling. He hadn’t had a clue. According to the letter, Galen and Eden had tried for years to have a child of their own before considering adoption. Matthew had been three days old when he’d left the hospital maternity ward with his adoptive parents, who had considered him their own from the moment they’d held him in their arms.

And from that moment on, adoption was never mentioned. Since the family had lived on naval bases all over the world and were without close relatives, the fiction had been easy to maintain.

Matthew placed the picture back in the drawer and reached inside his canvas bag. Inside were paperback editions of the books he’d written—page-turning thrillers with lawyers as the protagonists and the villains. He had used the pseudonym Galen Eden, a combination of his parents’ first names, and they had been thrilled with his success. He’d written the first book as a lark in his spare time, because he found the corporate law he was practicing both boring and unfulfilling. When the book turned out to be an unexpected blockbuster with the movie rights optioned, he decided to try again. After all, the first book might’ve been a fluke. It wasn’t. Two bestselling books later, he found himself retired from the corporation to write full-time.

But he hadn’t written a word since he’d learned that his whole life had been based on a lie. Six months later, he was still angry, bitter and disconnected, deeply grieving for his late parents yet hungry for the truth about his identity. A rather shady private investigator in Tampa, who demanded an outrageously expensive per diem, had promised him satisfaction, and finally, weeks later, had delivered his clandestinely obtained original birth certificate.

Carefully, Matthew removed it from the file at the bottom of the canvas bag.

He held it, not needing to read it because he’d studied it so long and so often that he knew it by heart. On the document, his name was listed as Baby Boy. No first name, no surname. Galen and Eden Granger were the ones who had named him Matthew John Granger, which appeared on a subsequent birth certificate, the familiar one he had always believed to be true.

Matthew’s eyes lingered on his birth mother’s name—Alexandra Wyndham, who had been just sixteen years old when her son was born. His father was listed as Jesse Polk, aged eighteen. There was no other information available. According to the detective, the maternity home for unwed mothers in central Florida where his mother had spent her pregnancy no longer existed.

But just last month, more information had turned up. The P.I. had tracked Alexandra Wyndham’s and Jesse Polk’s origins to a small, quiet and quaint city in South Carolina, situated very close to the ocean. Clover.

At first, Matthew had been dead set against coming to Clover. He’d tried to convince himself that the information he now possessed, the names of his birth parents, was enough. But the turmoil that had become his life continued unabated.

He couldn’t write; his concentration and his imagination seemed to have been suspended. He still lay awake night after night, troubled by grief and anger, grappling with the lifelong deception and all that was unknown to him. When he went to the library to research his latest book, he found himself researching South Carolina. Especially the coastal area. And finally, inevitably, Clover itself.

And so here he was, in the town where two lusty teenagers had taken no precautions and conceived him. He wondered if they were still here, although they certainly were not teenagers now. His mother would be forty-eight, his father, fifty. Still, they seemed startlingly young to him because his adoptive parents had been forty years old when he was born. And adopted.

Matthew stared at the battered copy of The First Families of South Carolina. His maternal relations were the upper-class Wyndhams. Their social position, wealth and prestige had come as a shock to him. Of his father, Jesse Polk, he knew nothing. The Polk family was not in the book, which meant they weren’t one of the first families of South Carolina.

But the Farleys were. Matthew turned back to the section on them. They rated only a few pages, as compared to the Wyndhams’ two full chapters. Both families had been given royal land grants in the latter half of the seventeenth century, but the Wyndhams, while keeping their land holdings, had soon moved up into the great wealth of the shipping business, with branches of the family based in Charleston. Through the centuries, the Farleys had remained socially prominent and well-to-do while the Wyndhams had achieved superstatus.

And he was part Wyndham. Part of their illustrious history. Matthew closed the book as confusion enveloped him like a heavy cloud. Matthew Wyndham. Matthew Polk. Matthew Granger. Who was he? It was a shattering blow to reach the age of thirty-two, only to find out that the life you’d been living and the identity you claimed as your own was a lie.

The sounds of music and laughter drifted up to his room, breaking the silence that enshrouded him. He was filled with a terrible loneliness. Since his parents’ death, he had distanced himself from everybody—his friends, his agent, his editor at the publishing house. His love life had been nonexistent. He had no energy or desire to pursue any of the women who wanted him.

Even before the tragedy, he had always been in control, remaining slightly aloof with his lovers because he wasn’t looking for emotional intimacy with all its accompanying entanglements. He’d enjoyed women and sex but steered clear of involvement. That dreaded phrase “serious relationship,” when uttered by a dewy-eyed woman, made him want to run in the opposite direction. He’d had his writing, his parents’ adoration, his friends and his woman of the moment. Who needed anything more?

Now his life seemed singularly empty, without focus, without love.

“Hannah Kaye Farley, you’re not allowed to invent new steps! You have to follow the rules!” A female voice, so loud and shrill that it sounded as if it were in the same room with him, startled him from his gloomy reverie.

Matthew looked around, discerned that the earsplitting voice came from downstairs and felt a flash of sympathy for those in close proximity. It seemed that somebody was scolding Hannah Kaye Farley for breaking the rules.

He smiled grimly. He’d bet that little Miss Farley was a rule breaker extraordinaire whenever it suited her purposes. From their brief acquaintance, he’d pegged her as a headstrong, spoiled beauty who said and did as she pleased. The kind of woman he avoided because he preferred quiet, compliant, worshipful types who let him call all the shots from beginning to end.

But thoughts of Hannah continued to haunt him as he sat on the bed listening to the rain pound on the roof. He had never met a woman who affected him as viscerally as Hannah Kaye Farley. She was vibrant and sexy, provocative and elegant, her face alight with laughter one minute, then stormy with anger the next. It occurred to him that she was the first woman since the accident to capture his interest, to make his body tauten and rise with desire.

He visualized her on his bed, but carried the image a step further, stripping her of that eye-catching silver minidress, picturing her silky, naked body lying open and ready for him. He thought of her mouth, not laughing or pouting, but swollen from his kisses, her gray eyes dreamy with passion.

Matthew stood, sensual heat and urgency coursing through him. Hannah stirred his senses, and while it was a relief to know that he was still a virile, functioning male, an affair with her was out of the question. She was already suspicious of him and with good reason. His imagination must still be in limbo if he couldn’t come up with a better cover story than that insect textbook nonsense. Katie was too tactful—and too interested in keeping him as a paying guest—to question the story, but Hannah had no such reticence.

And why should she? As the beautiful daughter of one of the first families in the state, she undoubtedly played by her own set of rules. And he was accustomed to making and breaking his own. An affair with her would be a disaster. She would expect things of him and from him, demand them even. The last thing he needed right now was a demanding woman who wouldn’t respect his need for boundaries and control.

No, he wasn’t willing or ready to get mixed up with the beautiful Miss Farley, however hot and hard she made him. He had to focus all his thoughts and energy on his secret mission, learning as much as he could about his birth parents. Only then could he make an informed, intelligent decision about whether or not to meet them and, possibly, introduce himself to them.

The surge of sexual energy made him restless, eager to turn the pulsating tension into action. Why not begin his investigation tonight?

It was as good a time as any to start, he decided, placing the canvas bag in the closet and pocketing his room key. He had an invitation from Miss Katie Jones herself to join the party of Clover citizens downstairs. He could ask some subtle questions, perhaps pick up some information about Alexandra and Jesse, as he’d come to think of them. Never mother and father. He preferred to view them distantly, like characters in a novel: interesting to contemplate but having nothing to do with him or his life.

He assured himself that the fact that Hannah Kaye Farley was there had nothing at all to do with his decision to join the party.

The music and the laughter grew louder as he walked downstairs. He stood at the threshold of the crowded living room and watched the couples dancing to some old rhythm-and-blues classics. He recognized some of the songs but not the fast, rather intricate dance steps they were doing. Hannah was one of the best dancers, animated and lithe and vibrant as she moved with her partners, and she seemed to have several.

Matthew tried to turn his eyes to others in the crowd. Invariably his gaze returned to Hannah.

“She’s a knockout, isn’t she?” A smiling blond preppy type joined Matthew and handed him a drink.

Matthew accepted the glass. “Who?” he asked, and the other man laughed.

“Hey, it’s nothing to hide. Every guy in town has been slavering over Hannah Farley for years. Unfortunately, she never slavers back. She likes to play things strictly as friends.”

“Is that so?” Matthew took a gulp of the drink, which was straight bourbon on ice. The liquid burned a fiery path down his throat and seemed to ignite sparks deep within him.

“I’m Blaine Spencer, a friend of Ben Harper’s.” The toothsome preppy introduced himself. “And I know you’re Matthew Granger. I understand you’ll be staying at the boardinghouse while you do some scientific research here in Clover?”

“News travels fast,” murmured Matthew. He found his new acquaintance overbearing and presumptuous. He had not been slavering over Hannah Farley like some slack-jawed dolt!

“Katie filled me in when she sent this drink over to you,” Blaine replied amiably. “She said you seemed more the bourbon on the rocks than the wine-punch type.”

“Wine punch?” Matthew grimaced at the concept.

“I believe the ladies are partial to it.” Blain winked. “So, Matt, I guess Hannah wins your vote as the best shagger here tonight. Am I right, my friend?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Matthew said testily.

Blaine took no offense. “The dance is called the shag. We’re in the midst of a highly competitive contest here tonight. My partner and I have already been eliminated. The shag was a classic fixture in the beach towns during the sixties and we like to keep the spirit alive. Every kid in Clover learns the shag and passes the steps along to future generations.”

Matthew finished his drink in one gulp. “This is a very strange town.”

“We Clover natives like to think of ourselves as colorful. Originals.” Blaine grinned, seemingly impervious to insult. “Clover is a timeless place, where the past is intermingled with today and tomorrow will—”

“Are you a real-estate agent?” Matthew demanded. “You might as well save your spiel because I’m not planning on buying any property here.”

Blaine laughed. “I’m a dentist, Matt. My office is a few blocks farther down on Clover Street, near the Beauty Boutique.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I lose a filling,” Matthew muttered. Since his new friend seemed disinclined to leave—had Katie asked him to baby-sit her new tenant?—he decided to use Blaine’s affable presence to his own ends. “So you’re a Clover native, huh?”

“Born and raised here, like my daddy and his daddy before him,” Blaine said proudly.

“I guess you know the, uh—” Matthew paused. His pulses were pounding in his ears, so loudly they almost drowned out the blare of the shag dance tunes. “The Wyndhams.” For the first time, he dared to use the name of his birth mother’s family—his family—in conversation.

“The Wyndhams!” Blaine looked pleased. “Well, I don’t know them personally, of course. I mean, I’m not in their social orbit. They’re in the stratosphere of society and my family and friends are earthbound, if you get my drift. But occasionally I see members of the Wyndham family when they come into town to shop. Good-looking people. Classy. Upper classy.”

Mention Alexandra Wyndham, Matthew silently urged himself. Say her name. He felt almost sick with anticipation, desperate to hear even the slightest bit of information about the woman who had given birth to him. And had given him up. His mouth was dry. He couldn’t get the words out.

“Hannah knows the Wyndhams,” Blaine continued. “Her family socializes with them. The Farleys are up there, too, you know.”

Matthew scowled at his frustration. He was not here to discuss the Farleys!

“You wouldn’t catch the Wyndhams or the Farleys at a party at the Clover Street Boardinghouse. Of course, Hannah is nothing like the rest of the Farleys.”

“Because she chooses to socialize with you earthbound peasants?”

Blaine laughed good-naturedly. “Hannah can mix with anyone. Say, would you like me to introduce you to her? She’ll probably dance with you if you ask. She’s very gracious.”

“Just a little Carolina belle brimming with Southern hospitality?” Matthew remembered their contentious meeting upstairs when she’d been far from gracious or hospitable. He watched her now, flirting with every guy at the party, and his face hardened. “I think I’ll pass on the privilege of doing the shag with Hannah Farley, but thanks for offering, Biff.”

“Blaine.”

Matthew took a deep breath. “Whatever.”

Three

From the corner of her eye, Hannah watched Matthew Granger talking to Blaine Spencer as the two men stood together watching the dancers. She had known the exact moment that Matthew had set foot in the living room, as if she possessed some kind of psychic radar that attuned her to his presence. She was acutely aware of him every second, knowing when he was watching her—which was almost constantly, except for those moments when he’d turned his eyes on the others.

She’d known the instant he looked at Maureen Fitzgerald, Sean’s cousin, a striking, sexy redhead whom Hannah had always liked. Until she’d watched Matthew Granger smile slightly at Maureen. Then she’d felt a disgraceful urge to dunk the other woman’s head in the punch bowl!

Hannah continued to dance and laugh and flirt, her nerves tingly and taut. She realized that she was overdoing it; her dancing, her flirting, her laughter had an almost desperate edge.

Matthew disapproved of her behavior, Hannah was certain of that. Cold fire burned in his onyx eyes. She pretended to ignore him, taking care not to glance in his direction except very covertly. He would never know that she had seen his every move, gauged his every response. His reaction to the compulsively genial Blaine Spencer almost made her laugh out loud. Matthew stood there, dark and surly and brooding, while Blaine nattered on, his smile never wavering.

“I think it’s time to announce the winners of the contest,” Katie said, lifting the needle from the record player, thus ending the music. “The best shaggers in Clover are—”

“Abby Long and Ben Harper, of course,” Hannah cried, grabbing Abby’s left arm and Ben’s right and holding them high in the air.

Everybody clapped and cheered.

“Well, hey, if you can’t win the shag contest at your own engagement party, when can you?” Blaine exclaimed happily.

He turned to Matthew, who was surveying the scene, his arms folded across his chest, the only person in the room who wasn’t clapping or laughing or even smiling.

“It was generous of Hannah to name Abby and Ben the winners,” Blaine murmured confidentially to Matthew. “Of course, we all know Hannah is really the best dancer of them all.”

“So does she,” Matthew growled. “She is fully aware that she is the most fascinating woman in this room.”

Blaine raised his brows but made no comment.

“As the official contest winners, we’d like our prize to be a slow dance,” Ben announced, pulling Abby close.

“Aren’t you even going to wait for the music?” Hannah teased.

Matthew glowered. The little flirt was irrepressible. She was even batting those long lashes at the prospective groom! And if the pretty bride-to-be didn’t seem to mind, well, Matthew minded for her!

“Hannah!” Blaine called and waved. “Come over here. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. A newcomer to our fair city.”

Blaine kept waving and calling and would not be ignored. Reluctantly, Hannah responded to the summons and joined him and Matthew, who had retreated to a dark corner of the living room. In his black clothes, he blended into the dim recess like some kind of otherworldly shadow prince. Or perhaps a gun-toting cat burglar who read about serial killers for entertainment.

To Matthew and Hannah’s mutual dismay, Blaine proceeded to introduce them to each other.

“I hope I’m not telling tales out of school but Matt was riveted by your shagging talent, Hannah,” Blaine exclaimed merrily. “You didn’t learn to dance that way at Miss Perkins’s ballroom dancing cotillion classes, did you?” he teased.

Hannah smiled weakly. Matthew scowled.

“Now I’m going to make a suggestion.” Blaine forged ahead, clearly enjoying his role as matchmaker. “Hannah, why don’t you do Matt the honor of welcoming him to Clover with a dance?”

At that moment, music sounded through the speakers, this time a romantic ballad, another classic from an earlier era. Couples began to pair up. Abby and Ben were already clinging and swaying in the middle of the floor.

Hannah and Matthew stood facing each other.

“Go on, you two, dance with each other! Don’t be shy!” Blaine insisted jovially.

Matthew caught Hannah’s hand. “Let’s get this over with.” He pulled her against him, close, very close.

Too close. Hannah gasped as he fastened his arms around her, linking them tightly around her waist. She had no choice but to raise her arms and rest them on his shoulders. ”You’re holding me too tight!” she grated.

“You mean this isn’t the way you learned to dance at Miss Pennypacker’s Ballroom Academy for Proper Young Ladies and Gentlemen?” He didn’t loosen his hold.

Hannah’s lips curved into a reluctant smile. “No, we didn’t dance like this in Miss Perkins’s cotillion classes. Poor old Miss Perkins would’ve burst an aneurysm.”

Matthew made no response. He was not in the mood for light banter.

Hannah gulped, her every nerve wired and tingling with sensual electricity. She hadn’t felt this nervous slow dancing with a male since her days at Miss Perkins’s cotillion classes. And not even then, not really. Even as a young girl, she had been socially confident, self-assured in her dealings with the opposite sex.

But being in Matthew Granger’s arms, pressed tightly against his hard body evoked a vulnerability she never dreamed she possessed. She felt intensely feminine in contrast to his unyielding masculinity. She was aware of his superior male strength in a way she’d never been before.

She had never met a man she couldn’t manage; she could charm, cajole, guide or boss every male she’d ever known. But she wasn’t sure how well she’d be able to handle Matthew Granger. He seemed to be the one doing all the handling—of her!

“Relax,” he growled against her ear. “You’re wound tight as a spring.”

“That’s because you’re holding me so close you’re practically suffocating me.” Hannah was flushed and breathless and resented him for it.

He was so close that his heartbeat seemed to echo in her own chest. Against the burgeoning pressure of his thighs, her legs felt supple and boneless, her knees weakening so quickly she wondered if they would support her. Her breasts swelled and her nipples hardened into taut buds. They were excruciatingly sensitive and she knew a wild, wanton urge to rub them against the muscular wall of his chest to seek relief. And to heighten the stimulation.

She could feel his breath against her hair, his big hands moving slowly over her back. His touch was strong and possessive. Her skin felt damp and feverish, and she knew that the warm June night and energetic bout of shagging had nothing to do with it.

Every erogenous zone in her body was on full alert and conspiring against her. As much as she’d protested his too close, too tight hold, she knew that the real problem was that he wasn’t close enough.

Her thoughts disturbed her. She drew back her head and lifted her eyes to his. “I don’t want to dance anymore,” she said in a low, husky voice she scarcely recognized as her own.

“Tough.” He held her gaze. “If I don’t dance with you, Dr. Smiley will take it upon himself to make me feel welcome again. I can’t cope with any more of his unrelenting good cheer. Even your brattiness is preferable to that.”

In the shadowy dimness, she could see the amused gleam in his dark eyes. Hannah was totally disarmed. In her sexually charged panic, the last thing she’d expected from him was humor.

Of its own volition, her body suddenly relaxed, the tautness draining from her muscles, leaving her soft and pliable. She melted against him, her soft curves flowing seamlessly into the hard, masculine planes of his body. A giddy excitement coursed through her, making her feel daring and reckless. She wanted to tease him, to bait him. To challenge him and win.

“I was a little surprised to see you deeply engrossed in conversation with Blaine.” Hannah gazed up at him from under her lashes in tried-and-true vamp style. “You two are an unlikely duo. It was kind of like watching Barney, the jolly purple dinosaur, trying to befriend a carnivorous raptor.”

“Is that how you see me? As a ferocious predator?” Matthew smiled, his even white teeth appearing even whiter in the darkness. “Are you afraid of me, little girl?” He lowered his head and took her earlobe between his teeth, biting gently.

Hannah trembled. But not with fear. Excitement ricocheted through her like a piercing bullet. But she tried to halt it, or at least tame it. “Stop calling me little girl,” she ordered firmly, seeking the upper hand. “My name is Hannah, although you seem to have trouble remembering it. In the short time we’ve known each other, you’ve called me everything but my name.”

“You don’t fit my idea of a Hannah.” He was nuzzling her neck now while rubbing his body against hers, his movements slow and subtle and arousing. “I picture a Hannah out on the prairie in her sturdy pioneer clothes, weaving cloth and drawing water from the well and hitching the oxen to the plow. A hardy frontier type.”

“My parents thought Biblical names would be proper and appropriate for us,” Hannah murmured. “My older sisters are Sarah and Deborah and my brother—”

“Must be Noah?” The tip of his tongue tickled the sensitive skin of her throat.

Hannah shifted against him. “Actually he’s Baylor Carleton Farley IV. When it came to their son, Farley tradition was considered even more proper and appropriate than the Bible.”

Her head was spinning. His lips felt cool and firm yet soft against her skin. How would they feel against her mouth? Her eyes drifted shut and she stifled a moan.

“Your name should conjure up an image that is sensuous and exotic,” Matthew said huskily. “Beautiful, like you are.” His caresses were growing bolder. One big hand slid down to audaciously knead the curve of her thigh. The other slipped under the thick curtain of her hair to curl around the nape of her neck. “If you were my creation, I’d call you Vanessa or Jacqueline, maybe Juliet or—”

“What about Alexandra?” Hannah blurted out.

Matthew went still. Then his fingers sank into her hair and he grasped a handful to pull her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze. He was not gentle. Hannah felt the pressure on the roots of her hair, but even more alarming was the hard, angry glitter in his onyx eyes. “What game to you think you’re playing, little girl?”

Hannah berated herself as a prattling fool. The name had just slipped out in an unguarded moment, and no wonder. She was still burning with curiosity about why Alexandra Wyndham’s name happened to be written in Matthew’s copy of The First Families of South Carolina. During the shag contest, she’d moved as if on automatic pilot, her footwork independent of her mind, which was focused on Matthew Granger and his probable reason for being in Clover. Alexandra’s name seemed to be a major clue.

Hannah stared at Matthew, wide-eyed.

Had she given herself away? Did he now know for sure that she’d been snooping in his things? If he was here for nefarious purposes, he wouldn’t want anyone armed with evidence against him. Would he consider her decidedly sketchy knowledge to be evidence? Her pulse raced into overdrive.

“I want an answer from you,” Matthew demanded, tightening his grip.

Hannah was alarmed, but she’d never been a meekly passive type who allowed anyone to bully her. She wasn’t about to turn into one now, either, not even with Matthew the Possible Mobster holding her by the hair.

“You’re the one playing games,” she said with a bravado she was far from feeling. “Consigning my perfectly respectable name to pioneer drudgery and renaming me Jacqueline or Vanessa. Well, I happen to have an opinion in the matter, too, and if I were to be renamed, I’m partial to the name Alexandra.”

She decided she might as well go for broke. To pretend that she knew nothing of his aspirations concerning the Wyndham estate by initiating the subject of the Wyndhams herself. It was a form of reverse psychology, and at this point she had nothing to lose.

“Alexandra is the name of one of the most attractive, elegant women in town. I think the name exudes class and style, just like she does.” Was this working? Hannah wondered nervously. Or was he planning where to stash her body before he pulled the heist. “I think Alexandra Wyndham must be close to fifty years old but she looks years younger,” she chatted on. “She has dark hair, and not even Jeannie Potts knows if she dyes it, but she must at her age, right? And of course, she has the Wyndham blue eyes. All the Wyndhams have these deep, vivid blue eyes. I don’t think there’s every been a brown-eyed Wyndham.”

Her words swirled around Matthew’s head. She was talking about his mother! A maelstrom of emotion surged through him. His body was already charged and throbbing with unslaked desire for this maddening, enticing woman he held so close, and the unexpected information about the stranger who’d given birth to him unleashed the tight reins of his control. Talking wasn’t enough for him. He had to act.

Hannah felt like a wind-up toy that had just wound down. “Well, I guess we’ve exhausted that subject, haven’t we?” She managed a shaky smile.

Her faced burned under his steady stare, and his silence daunted her more than any threats he might have made. She saw sexual intent and something else, something she couldn’t identify, flaming in his eyes.

Still holding her hair, he suddenly, firmly, cupped her chin with his other hand and took her mouth with his.

It was a rough, wild kiss, his lips demanding, his tongue rapacious as it invaded her mouth, taking possession. Hannah was too shocked to protest, and then it was too late. She didn’t want to protest.

A hot swell of excitement crashed through her, and she trembled from the force of the fast-building urgency. She was only vaguely aware that Matthew’s arms folded her deeply in his embrace, that her own arms had wound around his neck as her body surged against his.

The kiss deepened and grew more intimate, more insistent. Pure raw pleasure flooded her. Her senses were filled with Matthew, with the feel and the scent and the taste of him. His hands stroked and caressed, learning the soft, warm curves of her body, smoothing over her back and then gliding around her ribs, where his fingers stopped maddeningly, tantalizingly just below the underside of her aching breasts.

Hannah’s mind clouded. The music and the voices of the party guests receded into the hazy distance. She was aware only of Matthew and the strong mastery of his hands and his lips, of the intoxicating combination of hunger and pleasure he evoked in her.

Lost in this delicious world of sensation, she obeyed all the sensuous, unspoken commands. When he finally lifted his mouth from hers to kiss the slender white curve of her neck, she tilted her head to give him greater access. As his hands slid slowly, seductively, over her hips to cup her bottom and lift her higher and harder against him, she settled herself, snuggling into the cradle of his thighs. She wanted to be as close as a woman could be to a man. To have him full and hard, deep inside her.

“Hannah!” he groaned. Suddenly it struck him as having all the sexy, exotic appeal of Vanessa or Jacqueline because it was her name.

He opened his mouth over hers again, luring her tongue into an erotic little duel. His whole body was taut and hard with a wild urgency, the force of which he had never before experienced. When was the last time that a flash of sparkling eyes had sent him reeling? When was the last time that a woman’s kiss had shattered his iron control?

Never. This was the first time.

The raging need she evoked drove him higher. Her spicy feminine scent drugged him, and the feel of her rounded softness yielding to his frame obliterated all thought but one. To take her. To make her his own.

Hannah felt that virile power within him and sensed that his control was tentative at best. As was her own. She was dizzy with excitement, drunk on a passion she had never before experienced. She ached, she wanted...

“Wow! When it comes to amour, those two make our guests of honor look like chaste kissin’ cousins!” The loud, rather drunken male voice was followed by some wolf whistles and clapping. It was a shocking intrusion into the private, passionate world where Hannah and Matthew had retreated. Confused, slightly disoriented, they broke apart to find themselves in the spotlight. Literally. Sean Fitzgerald was shining a flashlight on them as he kept up a running commentary. “Say, Abby and Ben, you ought to watch these two and take notes. You might pick up some useful tips for the honeymoon.”

The crowd was laughing. Matthew blinked at the light. He draped his arm around Hannah’s waist and gazed down at her. She looked irresistibly sexy, her cheeks flushed, her raven hair tousled, her lips softly swollen from his kisses.

She also looked mortified, her big gray eyes stricken. Matthew felt possessive and protective and positively enraged that the grinning jokester was embarrassing her.

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