“I want you. I do…”

Her lower lip trembled. “But I don’t think I’m the kind of woman who can do light and easy.”

Gareth’s joy was immediately obscured by suspicion. He was vulnerable when it came to Gracie. And a vulnerable man was a weak man.

“I have no business getting close to you… until I regain my memory. I have this gigantic void that scares me to death. I want to know but I’m afraid of what I’ll find out.”

“How is enjoying sex with me a threat?”

“You have everything, Gareth. Pretty intimidating for a woman who has nothing.”

“You’ve held your own with me every step of the way. And I want to believe you came to my mountain without the intent to do wrong.”

“You want to believe it, but you’re not willing to make that last leap. And you can’t bear the idea that I’ll play you for a fool and cause you to betray your family.”

For Gareth, the moment was lost. Gracie was right. Was she that good an actress?

Dear Reader,

What’s better than a brooding alpha male with a touch of vulnerability? How about two families of them? I’m delighted to be introducing you to THE MEN OF WOLFF MOUNTAIN, my new series for Mills & Boon® Desire™. In this first book, you’ll meet Gareth, the oldest Wolff son. But you’ll catch a glimpse of some of his siblings and cousins, as well.

The extended Wolff family suffered a terrible tragedy many years ago. How each of the children dealt with that blow and moved on has defined who they are as adults. A man who learns to guard his heart from further hurt can be a challenge for a heroine who needs to know if he can fall in love.

The Wolff enclave includes a fabulous castlelike edifice on a remote mountaintop in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Acres of woods surround the wealthy family, providing the utmost privacy and seclusion.

I invite you to come with me as we meet this interesting clan one by one. They are strong, handsome and not easily won over. It will take special women to breach the walls and persuade these cynical men to take a chance on happiness.

Thanks for making the journey to Wolff Mountain.

Happy reading!

Janice Maynard

About the Author

JANICE MAYNARD came to writing early in life. When her short story The Princess and the Robbers won a red ribbon in her third-grade school arts fair, Janice was hooked. She holds a BA from Emory and Henry College and an MA from East Tennessee State University. In 2002 Janice left a fifteen-year career as an elementary teacher to pursue writing full-time. Her first love is creating sexy, character-driven, contemporary romance. She has written for Kensington and NAL, and now is so very happy to also be part of the Harlequin family—a lifelong dream, by the way!

Janice and her husband live in beautiful east Tennessee in the shadow of the Great Smoky Mountains. She loves to travel and enjoys using those experiences as settings for books.

Hearing from readers is one of the best perks of the job! Visit her website at janicemaynard.com or e-mail her at JESM13@aol.com. And of course, don’t forget Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/JaniceMaynardReaderPage). Find her on Twitter at twitter.com/JaniceMaynard and visit all the men of Wolff mountain at wolffmountain.com.

Into His
Private Domain

Janice Maynard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my siblings: Scotty, Kathy and Patti…

I love you all!

One

Gareth stepped out of the shower and stared at himself in the mirror. The frigid water had done little to dampen his restlessness. Still nude, he began to shave, his toes curling reflexively against the cool stone floor beneath his bare feet.

When his chin was smooth, he grimaced at his reflection. His thick, wavy black hair almost touched his shoulders. He had always worn it longer than current fashion dictated, but now it had grown so much it was getting in his way when he worked.

He reached into a drawer and drew out a thin leather cord. When he ruthlessly pulled back the damp shanks of hair, they made no more than a stubby ponytail, but at least it was out of his eyes.

A sudden loud knocking at the front door made him groan. Neither of his brothers nor his father would bother to announce their presence. And Uncle Vincent and his cousins sympathized with Gareth’s grumpiness too much to bother him. Deliveries always went to the main house. So who in the hell could it be?

He’d had his fill of being the brunt of tabloid stories over the years. Later, the communal nature of military life had given him a deep appreciation for solitude. With the exception of family, Gareth had little desire to interact with humanity if he could avoid it.

When a man had money, everyone with access to him had an angle to play. And Gareth was tired of the game. He grabbed a pair of jeans and thrust them on sans underwear. The single item of clothing would have to suffice. He wasn’t in a mood to get dressed just yet. Maybe his dishabille would scare away whoever was demonstrating the temerity to bother a surly Wolff.

He strode through the house, cursing suddenly as the leather thong broke and his hair tumbled free. What in the devil did it matter? Whoever stood on his porch was going to get short shrift from him.

He flung open the door and stared at the diminutive redhead with the wildly corkscrewing, chin-length curls. His stomach plummeted to his feet, but his libido perked up. He inhaled sharply and ground out a few terse words. “Who are you and what do you want?”

The woman caught her breath and backed up half a step. Gareth framed himself in the doorway, bracing his long-fingered hands against the lintel. His barefoot stance deliberately bore no semblance of welcome.

The woman dragged her gaze from Gareth’s chest with an effort that might have flattered him in other circumstances. She looked him straight in the eye, speaking slowly but distinctly as if she feared he was a wild animal in need of soothing. “I need to talk to you.”

Gareth glared at his undeniably sexy intruder. “You’re trespassing.”

She was fair-skinned, slender and had a spine so straight a man could use it as a plumb line… or maybe trace his tongue from one end of it to the other until the woman cried out in—

He sucked in a ragged breath and shoveled his hands through his hair, his heart thumping in his chest. He couldn’t afford to let down his guard for a second. Even if fire-lit curls and delicate cheekbones were his own personal Achilles’ heel. His sex swelled with no more than a whiff of her subtle perfume to give him encouragement.

How long had it been since he’d had a woman? Weeks? Months? He clamped down on the yearning that gripped his body like a fever. “What do you want?”

Her eyelids fluttered nervously over irises that were the clear blue of the sky above. Her small chin was stubborn, her posture defiant. As she wiped her damp brow with her hand, she smiled winningly. “Could we go inside and sit down for a few minutes? I’d love something to drink, and I promise not to take too much of your time.”

Gareth tensed, and rage flashed through him with the ferocity of the furious torrents that arose in these mountains during thunderstorms and decimated the low ground far below. A user. Like all the rest.

He ignored her outstretched hand, crowding her, relying on his size and temper to bully her. “Get the hell off my land.”

The slight woman stumbled backward, her eyes huge, her face paper-white.

He pressed his advantage. “Go on,” he snarled. “You’re not wanted here.”

She opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, but in that instant, one foot slid off the edge of the porch into thin air. She tumbled backward in graceful slow motion, her hip and head striking his steps with audible, dreadful thuds before her small body settled into an ungainly heap on the unforgiving ground.

Mary, Mother of God. He was at her side in the slice of a second, his hands shaking and his brain mush. He was an animal, no better than the coyotes who roamed the hills at night.

She was unconscious. Gently he stroked his palms down her extremities, searching for breaks. Growing up with male brothers and cousins, he had seen his fair share of broken limbs over the years, but he might be sick if he found a sharp bone protruding through her silky, fine-textured skin.

He heaved a sigh of relief when he found none. But the purplish bruise blooming near her temple and the blood trickling down her leg galvanized him into action.

He scooped her negligible weight into his arms and carried her into the house and to his room, his private sanctuary. He deposited her carefully on the unmade bed and went for ice and medical supplies.

The fact that she was still unconscious began to worry him even more than the deep cut on her leg. He grabbed for the phone and dialed his brother Jacob. “I need you. It’s an emergency. Bring your bag.”

Ten minutes later, his sibling joined him at the bedside. Both men looked down at the woman who was dwarfed by the bed’s size and masculinity. Her red-gold hair glowed against the somber gray and navy of the cashmere blankets.

Jacob examined her rapidly from head to toe, his mien serious, his medical training as automatic as it was thorough. “I’ll have to stitch the leg. The knot on her head is bad, but not life-threatening. Pupils seem okay.” He frowned. “Is she a friend of yours?”

Gareth snorted, his gaze never leaving her face. “Hardly. She was here for all of two minutes when she fell. Said she wanted to talk to me about something. I’m guessing she could be a reporter.”

Jacob’s brow creased. “What happened?”

Gareth leaned forward and brushed the hair from her face. “I tried to scare her off and it worked.”

Jacob sighed. “That hermit act you put on is going to bite you in the ass someday. Maybe today. Damn it, Gareth. She could sue the family to hell and back. What were you thinking?”

Gareth winced when Jacob stuck a needle in the woman’s leg, deadening the small area around her cut. She never moved. “I wanted her gone,” he muttered, irritated, brooding as he battled inward demons. He hoped this female was as innocent as the first pristine snows that fell in late autumn.

But she could just as easily be a viper in their midst.

Jacob finished the last stitch and covered the wound with a neat bandage. He checked his patient’s pulse, gave her another shot in the arm for pain and frowned. “We’d better check for ID. Did she have anything with her?”

Gareth nodded. “It’s on the chair over there.” While Jacob rifled in the woman’s long-handled tote, Gareth stared down at the intruder. She looked like an angel in his bed.

Jacob held up a billfold and sheet of paper, a troubled frown on his face. “Take a look at this photo. And her name is Gracie Darlington.”

“Unless the ID is a fake.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions. You wear paranoia like a hair shirt, but this might be nothing sinister at all.”

“And pigs could fly. Don’t expect me to be gullible just because she’s cute and cuddly. I’ve been down that road.”

“Your ex-fiancée was overly ambitious. And cuddly wasn’t in her vocabulary. It happened a long time ago, Gareth. Let it go.”

“Not until I know the truth.”

Jacob shook his head in disgust as he broke an ammonia caplet beneath Gracie’s nose.

She moved restlessly and moaned as reality returned.

Gareth took her small hand in his. “Wake up.”

She opened her eyes, blinking against the light. Her lips trembled. “There are two of you?” Her brow creased in confusion.

Jacob’s chuckle was dry. “As long as you don’t see four, I think we’re okay. You probably have a concussion. You need to rest and drink plenty of fluids. I’ll be nearby if you get worse. In the meantime, don’t make any sudden moves.”

His attempt at humor didn’t register on Gracie’s face. Her nose wrinkled in discomfort. “Where am I?”

Jacob patted her arm. “You’re in my brother’s bedroom. But don’t worry. Gareth doesn’t bite. And I’m Jacob, by the way.” He glanced at Gareth. “Keep ice packs on her leg and the side of her head. I’m leaving a mild painkiller that should give her some relief as the shot wears off. I’ll check back in the morning unless anything changes. Bring her to the clinic and I’ll x-ray her to make sure I haven’t missed something.”

Gareth didn’t bother to see his sibling out.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and winced inwardly when Gracie, damaged as she was, made the effort to move away from him. The simple exertion drained what little color she had left in her face, and she shuddered, leaned past him and emptied the contents of her stomach onto the floor.

Then she burst into tears.

Gareth was momentarily frozen with indecision. He’d never in his life felt such an urgent, desperate need to comfort anyone. Gracie might be a lying, cheating witch. And even worse, a woman who could cause untold trouble for his family.

But he was helpless in the face of her heartfelt misery. No one could fake such distress.

He went to the bathroom for a damp washcloth, handed it to her and proceeded to clean up the mess on the floor in silence. By the time he was done, her sobs had subsided into hiccupping, ragged sighs. Her eyes were closed, her body still as death. Probably because every little movement sent pain shooting through her skull.

Gareth had been thrown from a horse when he was twelve, and the resulting head injury had left him weak as a babe.

He knew how she felt.

He didn’t risk sitting down again. Instead he went to the windows and opened both of them, letting the fresh spring breezes cleanse the room. He pulled the curtains together to dim the light, wanting to make her as comfortable as possible.

Afterward, he stood by the bed and stared down at her, wondering how a day that had begun so normally had rapidly skidded off track. He cleared his throat and gently pulled the bedding to cover her slight frame, tucking it to her chin. “We need to talk. But I’ll wait until you’ve had a chance to rest. It’s almost dinnertime. I’ll fix something simple that won’t aggravate your stomach, and I’ll bring it in when it’s ready.” He hesitated, waiting for a reply.

Gracie tried to gather her composure, sure that any minute now she would get a handle on her scattered wits. This all seemed like such an odd dream. The glowering man tending to her with patent reluctance was huge.

His face was remarkable, wholly masculine, but striking rather than handsome. He had a crooked nose, a jaw carved from granite and cheekbones that drew attention to his deep-set, black-as-midnight eyes—eyes so dark, his pupils were indiscernible.

Equally dark hair framed his face aggressively, suggesting wildness and a lack of concern for polite conventions. The strands were thick and vibrant, and Gracie wanted to bury her hands in them and drag his head down to see if the tousled layers were as soft as they looked.

His broad, bare chest was golden-tan, its sleekly muscled beauty marred by three small scars over his rib cage. She frowned, her fingers itching to trace each imperfection. She refused to acknowledge that she was gob-smacked by his sheer magnificence. He left the room finally, closing the door behind him, and eventually, she dozed, rousing now and again to the awareness of pain and frightening loneliness. Shadows cast the room into near darkness by the time her host returned.

He carried a tray which he set on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. She feared the sudden onslaught of bright light from the fixture overhead, but instead, he turned on a small antique table lamp with a cream silk shade. The diffused glow was bearable.

He stood beside her. “You need to sit up and eat something.”

Questions clogged her throat. The smell wafting from a handmade earthenware container made her stomach growl loudly. He didn’t comment, but helped her into a seated position. His manner was matter-of-fact. Everywhere his skin touched hers, she burned.

His expression was hard to read. When she was ready, he placed the tray across her lap. She sucked in a breath as she moved her leg beneath the covers. She hadn’t even realized until that moment that she had injured more than her head.

He answered her unspoken question. “Jacob put six or seven stitches in your shin. You hit some sharp gravel when you…” His voice trailed off, and she saw discomfiture on his face. He pulled up a straight-back chair and watched her eat. If she hadn’t been starving, his intense scrutiny would have made her nervous. But it must have been hours since she’d had any food, and she was hungry.

He, or someone, had prepared chicken soup, which required far more effort than simply opening a can. Large chunks of white meat mingled with carrots and celery in a fragrant broth. She tore off a hunk of the still-warm wheat bread and consumed it with unladylike haste.

Neither she nor her companion spoke a word until she had cleaned her plate, or in this case, her bowl.

Removing the trappings of the decidedly fine dinner, Gareth—was that his name?—sat back down and folded his arms across his chest.

He was dressed casually in old faded jeans and bare feet. But he had buttoned his top half into a rich burgundy poet’s shirt made of an unusual handwoven fabric. Some men might have appeared ridiculous in such garb. On him, the shirt looked perfectly natural, enhancing his air of confidence and male superiority.

She struggled to conquer panic, postponing the moment of truth. “I need to go to the bathroom.” It galled her that she required his help to stand up. Her injured leg threatened to crumple beneath her, but after a moment, she was able to shuffle to the facilities.

The bathroom was enormous, with a stone-lined, glass-enclosed shower. She caught a sudden mental picture of the mysterious male’s huge body—nude—glistening beneath the spray of water and soap.

Her knees went weak. Despite her distress, she was stingingly aware of her host’s blatant sexuality. She took care of necessities, washed up, and then made the mistake of glancing into the mirror. The image confused her. Good Lord. She was so white her freckles stood out in relief, and her hair was a bird’s nest.

She rummaged without guilt through his drawers until she found a comb. But when she tried to run it through the worst of the tangles, she scraped against her injured skull and cried out at the pain.

He was beside her in an instant, not even making a pretense of knocking. “What is it?” he demanded, his gaze fierce. “Are you sick again?” In an instant he saw what she was trying to do. “Forget your hair,” he muttered, scooping her into his arms and carrying her back to bed.

When she was settled, ice packs back in place, he handed her two pain pills and insisted she wash them down with milk. She felt like a child being soothed by a parent, but everything about her reaction to this strange man was entirely adult. He headed for the door. “Don’t go,” she blurted out, blushing as if he could see her inner turmoil. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He returned to the chair, swinging it around to straddle the seat, and folded his arms across the back. His expression was guarded. “You’re perfectly safe,” he said, his low voice rumbling across her shattered nerves with a tactile stroke. “Jacob says you’ll recover rapidly.”

Any bit of softness she sensed in him moments before had been replaced with almost palpable hostility and suspicion. What in the heck did he have to fear from her?

She picked at the edge of the blanket. “Does your brother live with you?”

He frowned. “Jacob has a house on the property. Why did you come here?”

Her tiny surge of energy abated rapidly, leaving her weak and sick again. She slid down in the bed and turned her head away from him toward the open window. “I don’t know,” she said dully.

“Look at me.”

She did so reluctantly, feeling embarrassed and disoriented.

He frowned. “You’re not making sense.”

She bit her lower lip, feeling the hot sting of tears behind her eyes. “You seem angry. Is it because of me?”

If she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she might have missed it. For the flicker of a second, alarm flashed in his eyes and his white-knuckled fingers gripped the back of the chair. But as quickly as it appeared, the expression went away.

He shrugged. “Not at all. You’ll be on your way soon enough.”

He was lying. She knew it with a certainty that filled her chest with indignation. Her presence in his house was a problem. A big one. She threw back the covers, panicked and agitated. “I’ll go.”

His frown blackened as he straightened the bedding. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re in no shape to go anywhere tonight. Stay in my bed. But tomorrow, you’re history.”

The pain in her head bested her. That and a heart-pounding sense of foreboding. She clenched the edge of the sheet in her hands, fighting hysteria. “Please,” she whispered.

“Please what?” Now his expression was confused.

“Please tell me who I am.”

Two

Gareth narrowed his eyes, trying to disguise his shock. Here it was. The ploy. The act. Part one of whatever scam she was running. She couldn’t be for real… could she?

He kept his expression bland. “Amnesia? Really? We’re going to do the daytime soap opera thing?” He shrugged. “Okay. I’ll play along. I’m Gareth. Your name is Gracie Darlington. You’re from Savannah. Jacob and I checked your driver’s license.”

He watched her bottom lip quiver until she bit down on it… hard. She made an almost palpable effort to gather herself. A gifted actress could do as much. But the look of sheer terror in her painfully transparent gaze would be hard to manufacture. She sucked in a ragged breath. “How did I get here? Do I have a car outside?”

He shook his head. “As near as I can tell, you hiked up the mountain. Which is no small feat, by the way. There are no cleared trails at the bottom. Your arms and legs are all scratched.”

“Do I have a cell phone?”

He cocked his head, studying her face. “I’ll check.” The only item she’d had with her when she arrived was the pink carryall Jacob had examined earlier. Gareth rummaged in it without remorse and, in a zippered pocket, found a Droid phone. He turned it on and handed it to her, tossing the tote on the bed beside Gracie. Fortunately the battery seemed to be fully charged. Gracie pulled up the contact screen.

“Well, at least you remember how to do that.” His thick sarcasm made her wince, but she didn’t look at him. Instead she studied the list of names as if she were cramming for a test. Focused. Intent.

When she finally looked up, her beautiful eyes were shiny with tears. “None of these names mean a thing to me,” she whispered. One drop spilled over. “I don’t understand. Why can’t I remember?”

He took the phone from her, squashing a reluctant sympathy. Gareth Wolff was no pushover. Not anymore. “You whacked your head when you fell off my porch. Jacob’s a doctor. He says you’ll be fine.” But Jacob had left before the whole amnesia thing came to light. Damn it.

Gareth scrolled through the contact list himself, not sure what he was looking for. But then it hit him. There was an “I.C.E.” entry. In case of emergency. Edward Darlington… and the word Daddy.

He hit the call key and waited. A man on the other end answered. Gareth spoke calmly. “This is Gareth Wolff. Your daughter took a fall and has been injured. She’s been checked out by a doctor, and she’s going to be fine. But she’s suffering a temporary memory loss. It would be helpful if you could reassure her. I’ll put her on the line.”

Without waiting for an answer, Gareth handed the phone to Gracie.

She eased up into a half-sitting position, resting her back against the headboard. “Hello?”

Gareth sat down beside her, close enough to hear that the voice on the other end was amused. Close enough to catch snatches of conversation.

“Hot damn, my little Gracie. I didn’t think you had it in you. Faking an accident on Wolff property? Pretending to have amnesia? Good Lord, you’ve got him right where we want him. The whole family will be terrified we’ll sue. Phenomenal idea. Nothing like going after what you want whole hog. Brilliant, my girl. Sheer brilliance.”

Gracie interrupted the man’s euphoria. “Father… I don’t feel well at all. Can you please come pick me up and take me home?”

Darlington chortled. “He’s standing in the room with you, isn’t he? And you’ve got to play this out. Splendid. I’ll do my part. Sorry, Gracie. I’m headed for Europe in half an hour. Won’t be back for a week. And the house is a wreck. I told the contractor to go ahead with the remodel since we were both planning to be out of town. You’d have to stay in a hotel if you came back.”

“This isn’t funny,” she muttered. “I’m serious. I can’t stay here. They don’t want me. I’m a stranger.”

“Dredge up their guilt,” he insisted. “They owe it to you to be hospitable. Flirt with Gareth a little. Play on his sympathies. Damsel in distress and all that. Get him to agree to our proposal. We’ll talk next week. I’ve gotta run.”

“No, wait,” she said desperately. “At least tell me if I have a husband or a boyfriend. Anyone who’s missing me.”

Her father’s cackle of a laugh was so loud she had to hold the phone away from her ear. “Of course not. Lay it on thick. I’m loving this. Wish I could see his face. So long now.”

The line went dead. Gracie stared down at the phone, her composure in shreds. What kind of father did she have? Who could be so callous? So blasé about her injuries? Embarrassment and humiliation washed over her in waves, adding to her feeling of abandonment.

She laid the phone aside and managed a weak grimace. “How much of that did you hear?”

Gareth stood up and crossed to the window, his back to her. “Enough,” he said, disgusted with himself and with her. If he had any sense, he would boot her off the property ASAP.

Gracie’s voice wobbled. “He can’t come pick me up right now, because he’s on his way out of the country for a week. But if you’ll make travel arrangements for me, I’m sure he’ll reimburse you.”

Gareth Wolff turned to stare at her with a mixture of suspicion and pity. “He thinks you’re faking amnesia.”

Her cheeks flamed. “The whole conversation was confusing. I came to see you for a reason. But I don’t know what that is. Though he seems to.”

“And you really don’t have a clue?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

“You’re not going anywhere at the moment.” Gareth’s jaw was clenched. “If you really do have memory loss, then I have to let Jacob know. The Wolff family doesn’t make a habit of throwing the injured out on the street. And believe me, Gracie, we’re not going to give you or your unbelievably unconcerned father any ammunition for a lawsuit.”

“We’re not going to sue you,” she said quietly. Depression depleted her last reserve of spunk. “I don’t believe in frivolous lawsuits.”

“How do you know?” he shot back. “Maybe the woman you can’t remember would do just that.”

Gracie slid back down into the bed, her skull filled with pounding hammers. “Please leave me alone.”

Gareth shook his head, his demeanor more drill sergeant than nurse. “Sorry, Gracie.” His tone didn’t sound sorry at all. “If we’re playing the amnesia game, I have no choice but to let Jacob know. I’ll drive you over there.”

The thought of standing up was dreadful. “Can’t he come back here? It’s not that late, is it?”

“It’s not a question of being late. Jacob has a fully outfitted clinic at his place. He’ll be able to scan your head and x-ray your leg.”

“I’m sure that’s not necessary. All I want to do is rest. Tomorrow you can get rid of me.”

Gareth strode to the door. “You’re in Wolff territory now. And in no position to call the shots.” He paused and glanced back at her, his expression grim. “I’ll grab my keys and shoes. Don’t move.”

Gracie closed her eyes, breathing deeply, half convinced she was in the midst of a dark and disturbing nightmare. Surely she would wake up soon, and all of this would be a surreal fantasy. Gareth Wolff. She whispered the name aloud, searching for meaning. Why had she come to see him? What did her father want? And how did she get from Georgia to Virginia? Did she have luggage somewhere? A hotel room? A vehicle? Maybe even a laptop? Her tote held nothing but the phone, snacks and some tissues.

She froze, her brow furrowed in discomfort. How could she know what a laptop was and not even remember her own name?

Gareth strode back into the room, his feet shod in worn leather boots. Everything about the room she inhabited made Gracie feel at a disadvantage—the expensive bedding, the masculine decor, the large scale furniture… the total lack of anything familiar.

But something about those scarred boots eased the constriction in her chest. They struck her as normal. Human.

Gareth approached the bed, his face closed. “I’ve spoken to Jacob. He’s expecting us. Let’s go.”

Gracie screeched in shock when he gathered her up, blankets and all, in his strong arms.

He froze. “Did I hurt you? Sorry.” The gruff apology was instantaneous.

She shook her head, trembling as they traversed a wide hallway. “You startled me. That’s all.” Not for anything would she admit that being in his arms was exciting and comforting at the same time. His scent and the beat of his heart beneath her cheek aroused her and gave her the illusory sensation of security.

The earlier fleeting impressions she’d formed of wealth and privilege increased tenfold as they passed through the house. Gleaming hardwood floors. Western-themed rugs. Intricate chandeliers of elk horn shedding warm yellow light.

But Gareth walked too quickly for her to carry out any deeper inspection. In minutes they were out the front door and stepping into the scented cool of a late spring evening.

And how did she know it was spring? The little blips of instinctual information that popped into her head gave hope that her memories were simply tucked away in hiding. Not permanently gone… merely obscured by her injury.

Gareth carried her carefully, but impersonally. It wasn’t his fault if her hormones and heartbeat went haywire. He smelled of wood smoke and shampoo, a pleasing mélange of masculine odors. Despite his flashes of animosity, she felt safe in his embrace. He might not want her in his home, but he posed no threat to her well-being… at least not physically. The unseen dangers might prove to be more hazardous.

She liked being held by Gareth Wolff. What did that say about her?

Of course, her instinctive response could be attributed to something akin to Stockholm syndrome—the bonding between kidnapper and victim. Not that Gareth had done anything wrong. Quite the contrary. But at the moment, he was the only reality in her spinning world. He and his brother Jacob.

Most likely, her affinity for the surly Wolff brother was nothing more than an atavistic urge to seek protection from the unknown.

Gareth’s Jeep was parked outside a large garage at the rear of the house. The building, roomy enough to house a fleet of vehicles, had been designed to blend into the landscape, much like the house. A cedar shake roof and rustic, carefully hewn logs seemed to match the edge in her host’s personality. Gareth’s home was enormous and clearly expensive, but it suited his gruff demeanor.

Once he had tucked her into the passenger seat, he loped around the side of the vehicle and slid behind the wheel. Thick fog blanketed their surroundings. Gracie peered into the darkness, shivering slightly, not from the temperature, but from the feeling of being so isolated. She’d seen horror movies that rolled the opening sequence in a similarly creepy fashion.

She clenched her fist in the blanket and pulled it closer to her chest. “Where are we?”

Gareth shot her a quick glance. “Wolff Mountain.”

She cleared her throat. “I hope that’s not as sinister as it sounds.”

His quick snort of laughter ended as quickly as it began. She had a hunch he didn’t want to show any signs of softening toward her.

He wrenched the wheel to avoid a tiny rabbit that scampered in front of them. “This is my home. I grew up here with my two brothers and three cousins. I’m sure all of this will come back to you,” he snarled. “My family has no secrets.”

She wanted to ask for more details, more explanations, anything to fill in the blanks. But her innocent question had clearly hit a nerve. She lapsed into silence, using her free hand to grip the door of the vehicle as Gareth sent them hurtling around the side of the mountain.

The trip was mercifully brief. Without warning, another house loomed out of the eerie fog. This one was more modern than Gareth’s, all steel and glass. Almost antiseptic in design. Though in all fairness she wasn’t getting a first look at it in the best of situations.

Jacob met them at the door and ushered them inside, his eyes sharp with concern as Gareth set her on her feet. “Any change?”

The terse question was aimed more at Gareth than Gracie, so she kept her silence.

Gareth tossed his keys onto a black lacquer credenza. “She doesn’t remember details of her life. But functional knowledge appears to be unaffected. She knows how to use her phone, but the names are a mystery… or so she says.”

Gracie flushed. She was embarrassed and exhausted. The last thing she needed was Gareth’s mockery.

Jacob waved a hand toward a living room that looked like something out of a designer’s catalog. “Make yourself comfortable, bro. The game’s on channel fifty-two. Beer’s in the fridge.”

Gareth frowned. “I should come with you.”

Jacob put a hand on his shoulder. “Not appropriate, Gareth. Trust me. She’s in good hands.”

He turned to Gracie, his smile gentle. “Let’s get you checked out, little lady. I promise not to torture you too badly.”

Unlike Gareth, Jacob trusted her to walk on her own. She abandoned her cocoon of blankets in the foyer and followed him down a hallway to the back of the house. Everything was in black and white—walls, flooring, artwork… A highly sophisticated color scheme, but oddly cold and sterile.

When she stepped through a door into the clinic proper, all became clear. Jacob Wolff had designed his house to mirror his professional domain.

Gracie’s curiosity as she surveyed the state-of-the-art facility had nothing to do with her amnesia. She had never seen such equipment and facilities outside of a hospital. Even with her memory loss, she was sure of that.

As Jacob positioned the CT scanner, she cocked her head. “I may not remember much, but isn’t this setup a little unusual?”

His quick glance reminded her of Gareth. “I have a number of high profile patients who want to be able to get medical attention away from the eyes of the paparazzi.”

She gaped. “Like movie stars?”

He shrugged, adjusting a dial. “Politicians, movie stars… Fortune 500 CEOs.”

Something must have shown on her face, because his expression grew fierce. “Having wealth doesn’t make a person’s right to privacy any less important. I’m fortunate enough to have the means to give them anonymity and quality medical care.”

She held up her hands. “I didn’t say a word.”

“You were thinking it.” He motioned to the machine. “Have a seat. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You won’t be closed in.”

She sat gingerly on the narrow bench and tensed as he slid rubber wedges on either side of her head, immobilizing her skull in a semicircle of metal. The camera thingy rotated around her upper body in several quick passes, and it was all over.

Jacob waved her into a chair. “Now I’ll show you the inside of your head. Hopefully we won’t see anything too alarming.”

She sat down gingerly. “As long as you find a brain… that’s all I ask.”

He chuckled, but didn’t speak as he brought up the 3-D images on the screen. Gracie waited, her heart pumping madly. Jacob examined the results with the occasional unintelligible murmur.

Gracie lost patience. “Well?”

He pushed back his chair and turned to face her. “I don’t see anything alarming… no fractures… nothing to require further medical attention. You have swelling, of course, as a result of the blow to your head, but even that is in the normal range.”

She bit her lip, disappointment roiling in her stomach. If there was nothing to substantiate her amnesia, Gareth would think, more than ever, that she was liar.

Jacob seemed to read her thoughts. “Absence of fractures doesn’t discount your current situation. All jokes aside, temporary amnesia is more common than you might think. And we have every reason to think it will resolve itself naturally.”

“But when?” she cried, springing to her feet. “How can I go to sleep tonight and not know who the hell I am?”

Jacob leaned back and linked his hands behind his head. “You do know who you are,” he said gently. “You’re Gracie Darlington. It may take a little while for your brain to accept that as fact. But it will happen. I promise.”

Gracie stewed inwardly as he finished his exam. As expected, the X-ray of her leg showed no sign of any damage other than the bad cut.

After a quick check of temp, blood pressure and a few other markers, Jacob patted her shoulder. “You’ll live,” he teased.

They walked back through the house and found Gareth sprawled on an ivory leather sofa. The thick, onyx carpet underfoot was a sea of inky, lush luxury.

Gareth bounded to his feet. “Sit here,” he commanded Gracie. “I want to talk to my brother.”

Despite the fact that they lowered their voices, Gracie heard every word.

Gareth grilled her doctor. “Well… could you tell if the amnesia is for real?”

Jacob muttered a curse. “This isn’t an exact science, Gareth. All her symptoms fit the profile. But I can’t give you any hard-and-fast answers. My medical opinion is yes, she’s very likely telling us the truth. That’s the good news. The bad news is that amnesia is a tricky bastard. It might be tomorrow morning or next week before she gets it all back.” He paused and grimaced. “It could be several months. We have no way of knowing.”

“Bloody hell.”

Gareth’s heartfelt disgust lodged like a thorn in Gracie’s heart.

Jacob walked back into the living room, giving Gracie a gentle smile. “Take her home and put her to bed,” he said to his brother. “Things always look better in the morning.”

Three

Put her to bed. Gareth tensed inwardly as images teased his brain. Him. Gracie. Tumbling with abandon between the sheets on his comfortable king-size mattress. He’d never brought a woman into his bedroom on Wolff Mountain. Whenever his physical needs overrode his phenomenal control, he sought out one of a handful of women who were as much loners as he was. Mature women who weren’t interested in relationships.

But the last such encounter had been ages ago. And the Wolff was hungry. Put a red hood on Gracie, and she’d be in big trouble. Or maybe she was in trouble already. Taking advantage of a damsel in distress wasn’t his style, but then again, he had never felt such a visceral and instantaneous response to a woman.

He wanted her desperately, and they had only met. At some anonymous bar in a big city he could have invited her back to his room. But this was Wolff Mountain, and different rules applied. Though he was a reluctant host, he had no business lusting after her.

She stood up, her expression half defiance, half vulnerability. “Couldn’t I stay here, Jacob? You know… in case anything happens.”

“No way.” Gareth blurted it out, uncensored.

Jacob and Gracie stared at him.

He shrugged, refusing to admit he had a proprietary interest in the redhead. “Jacob’s a soft touch.” He directed his remarks to Gracie. “I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”

Jacob frowned at his brother. “Gareth’s bark is worse than his bite, Gracie. He’ll take good care of you. But don’t worry. I’ll be around in the morning to see how you’re doing.” He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Try not to worry. Everything will be fine. I’d stake my license on it.”

Gareth ushered Gracie back out to the Jeep, this time letting her walk on her own. He’d liked holding her too damn much. It was best to keep his distance.

The short ride back was silent. Temperatures had dropped, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gracie pull the blankets to her chin. When they arrived at the house, he realized that he was actually going to have to be hospitable. And since she swayed on her feet from exhaustion, he shouldn’t waste any time.

He motioned for her to follow him. At the insistence of his architect brother Kieran, Gareth had agreed to a five-bedroom home. The square footage had seemed like a useless expenditure during construction… and now, four of the bedrooms sat unoccupied. But at least for tonight, Gracie would have a place to lay her head.

He showed her the suite that would be hers… for a very short time, he promised himself. Too long, and his iron control might snap. “The bathroom is through that door.” Even now his hands trembled with the need to touch her.

He eyed her clothing. She was still wearing the simple cotton blouse and jeans she’d had on when she arrived. “I’ll find something for you to sleep in. Tomorrow we’ll work on getting you some clothes.”

When he returned two minutes later with one of his old T-shirts, Gracie was still in the same spot, her expression stark, haunted. Unwillingly his heart contracted. If she was telling the truth about her amnesia, she must be scared as hell. But sweet and courageous, and so damned appealing in her determination not to break down. The reluctant admiration he felt had to be squashed.

When he brushed her arm, she jumped, as if she had been a million miles away. He offered the substitute sleepwear. “Sorry I can’t do better. You’ll find toiletries in the drawers and on the counter. I let my cousin do the decorating, and she promised me that no bathroom was complete without all sorts of smelly soaps and doodads. Help yourself.”

Gracie took the shirt and held it, white-knuckled. “Will you be in your bedroom?”

God help him. He knew she meant nothing by her artless question, but it shook him. “Yeah. As soon as I lock up and turn out the lights.” He paused, feeling uncustomarily conflicted, since he rarely second-guessed himself. “Remember… I’m just around the corner. Maybe if you leave a light on, things won’t seem so strange.”

She nodded her head slowly. “Okay.”

Something about her posture was heartbreaking. She was doing nothing to deliberately manipulate his sympathies, but the bravery in her narrow shoulders set so straight and the uplifted tilt of her chin touched him in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

He hardened his heart. “Good night, Gracie.”

She heard the door shut quietly behind him and felt tears burn her eyes. It took great effort, but she held them at bay by virtue of biting down on her bottom lip and swallowing hard. She refused to let Gareth see her exhibit weakness. He was a hard, suspicious man, despite his physical appeal.

Even so, she wanted him. And the wanting scared her. She felt like the heroine of a dark, Gothic novel, left all alone with the brooding lord of a sprawling, mysterious house.

A glance at the clock sent her stumbling into the bathroom. No wonder she was so wiped out. It was late. Everything would look better in the morning. Darkness invariably bred bogeymen and unseen monsters. Her lack of memory fueled the fires of apprehension.

Gareth had told the truth about the facilities and accoutrements. The floor was inlaid with cream-colored marble veined in gold. An enormous mirror ran the entire length of one wall, showing Gracie reflection after reflection of a strange woman with unkempt hair and no makeup.

Jacob had covered her stitches with a waterproof bandage. Doggedly she stripped off her clothing and climbed into the enormous polished granite enclosure that boasted three showerheads and a steam valve. The hot water pelted her back and rained over her arms and legs. She bowed her head, braced her hands against the wall and cried.

When the tears finally ran out, she picked up a fluffy sponge and squirted it with herbal soap from a fancy bottle inscribed in French. The aroma was heavenly.

Twenty minutes later she forced herself to get out and dry off. Gareth’s T-shirt hung to her knees, half exposing one of her shoulders. The woman in the mirror appeared waifish and very much alone.

She took a few minutes to wash out her undies and hang them on a brass towel rod to dry before returning to the bedroom. In her absence, Gareth had left several items on the bedside table. A pair of thick woolen socks, a tumbler of water with two pain pills and a copy of Newsweek. She wasn’t sure if the latter was for entertainment or edification.

She put on the socks, and for the first time all day, felt a glimmer of humor at how ridiculous she looked. Even with no memory, she knew that a man like Gareth had his pick of women. He might be surly and prickly, but he exuded a potent masculinity that any female from eighteen to eighty would have to be blind not to notice.

Though her accommodations were worthy of the finest resort, sleep didn’t come easily. She tossed and turned, even when the medication dulled the ache in her leg and her head. Every time she closed her eyes, she remembered waking up in Gareth’s bed and seeing two strange men staring down at her with varying degrees of suspicion.

Why had she come to Wolff Mountain? What did she hope to accomplish? Was her father involved in something dishonest? The questions tumbled in her brain faster and faster, erasing any hope of slumber.

Finally, when the crystal clock on the bedside table read two-thirty, Gracie climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the door. It wouldn’t hurt to explore the house. She’d seen very little of it so far. Maybe there was something out there that would jog her memory.

And besides, she was hungry. With her heart beating like a runaway train, she eased open the door to the hall.

Gareth knew the moment she left her room. He’d always been a light sleeper, at least as an adult, and even the faint whisper of Gracie’s soft footsteps was enough to wake him. His frequent insomnia was the penance he paid for defying his father’s wishes and enlisting in the military. A five-year stint in the army had taught Gareth that deep sleep could be fatal. It served him right for giving his father such grief.

Gareth crept down the hallway, following the muffled trail of sounds. He found his houseguest in the kitchen. At first, her mission was prosaic. She poured a glass of milk and consumed it with a chunk of cheddar cheese and a slice of bread.

When she was finished, she carefully washed her glass and saucer and placed them back in the cabinet. Gareth grinned. Did she think she was erasing any record of her nocturnal wanderings?

His amusement faded when she approached the laptop on the built-in desk. All important files were password protected, but a knowledgeable hacker could cause mischief even still. Gracie sat in the swivel chair, tucked her feet on the rungs and began to hit keys with a sure touch.

He worked his way around the adjoining room until he was able to approach her from behind. Her head was bent. She was focused intently on the computer screen.

Gareth’s temper surged. He stepped into the room, girded for battle. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Her gasp was audible. She whirled to face him, guilt etched on her face. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you decided to poke your nose into my business… is that it?” He glanced down at the laptop and his jaw dropped. Hell. He hated being wrong.

She shrugged, her expression wry. “Apparently I remember how to play Solitaire.”

“So I see.”

She cocked her head and frowned. “Why would I be poking into your business? Do you think that’s the kind of woman I am?”

He refused to apologize for well-founded suspicion. “I don’t know what kind of woman you are. Therein lies the problem.”

She shut down the game and stood up. “I’ll go back to my room,” she said, every syllable drenched in offended dignity.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” he muttered. “Do whatever you want.” She wore his T-shirt like a centerfold model striking a pose, but he was a hundred percent certain her seductive invitation was unintentional.

As he turned to leave, running from temptation if the truth were told, she stopped him with a beseeching look. “Please tell me about your family… this place. Maybe something you say will trigger a memory.”

“That’s a convenient excuse.” He still wasn’t convinced that Gracie wasn’t a reporter looking for a story. His family had suffered terribly at the hands of the press, the Wolff tragedy and grief offered up for public consumption without remorse. Never again.

Dark smudges beneath her eyes emphasized her pallor. “Please,” she said quietly. “Anything. Tell me anything. I’ve combed my cell phone and I did a Google search on myself and my father. But I didn’t find out much except that we own a gallery.”

In spite of himself, compassion surfaced. “You’re on top of a mountain in the Blue Ridge. My family moved here in the eighties. My uncle and my father live in a huge house at the very peak. My siblings and cousins and I are in varying stages of building homes here as well.”

She frowned. “You all live here together? Like a commune?”

“Not a commune,” he grated. “It’s over a thousand acres. We’re hardly in each other’s pockets.”

“So, more like the Kennedys at Hyannis Port.”

“I suppose. But none of us are in politics, thank God.”

“You’re wealthy.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You could say that.” It was damned hard to carry on a conversation when he kept getting distracted by the way her nipples pressed against the soft knit fabric. All he had to do was reach for her arm and pull her against him. The knowledge dried his mouth. He didn’t think she would stop him. Though not any more vain than the next man, he had seen interest in her unguarded gaze earlier in the day.

But he was an honorable man. Damn it.

She frowned. “If I hiked through the woods, how did I know which house was yours?”

“You had an aerial photograph in your bag.” He shrugged. “My place is circled in black marker.”

Now, every last shred of color leached from her face. “So all we know for sure is that I was trespassing and that I wanted something from you.”

“That’s it in a nutshell. And based on the conversation you had with your father, he knows why you came and thinks you’re faking amnesia to get what you want.”

Her lips twisted. “Maybe I don’t want to remember. It sounds like I’m not a very nice person.” She paused. “Why didn’t I simply drive up the road?”

“It’s private. You wouldn’t have gotten past the guard gate without an appointment.”

“Hence my ill-advised hike.”

“Apparently.”

“I’m sorry,” she said simply.

“For what?”

“For whatever I was going to do. I wish I could remember.”

“When you came to my door, you said you needed to talk to me about something.”

“And then what happened?”

He felt his neck redden. “I may have been a trifle unwelcoming.”

Her mouth fell open, and a flicker of emotion akin to fear flashed in her eyes. “You pushed me off your porch?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. No. Of course not. All I did was tell you to leave. Forcefully. You backed away from me, and…”

“I fell.”

“Yes.” He was uncomfortably aware that the family lawyer would be hyperventilating by now if he were here to track the conversation. Gareth had pretty much incriminated himself.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It was an accident. And you were breaking the law. So don’t go getting any ideas about draining us dry. We have a legal team that would chew you to pieces.”

“Why do you need a legal team?”

This conversation had gone on long enough. “Go to bed, Gracie. Get some sleep. Maybe when you wake up, all will be clear.”

She hesitated, looking at him with need that went beyond simple survival. He wondered if she understood the feminine invitation she was unwittingly telegraphing. Deliberate or not, every bit of testosterone in him responded with a hell, yeah.

Groaning inwardly, he turned his back on her and left the room.

When Gracie woke up, the sun was high in the sky, the clock said it was noon and nothing was any clearer than it had been the night before. She leaped from the bed and then staggered when the pounding in her skull threatened to send her to her knees.

A hand to the wall and several long breaths finally steadied her. This time, the woman in mirror looked more familiar. She brushed her teeth, put on her clean undies and her not-so-clean clothes and went in search of food. The house was quiet, too quiet. In the kitchen she found a note scrawled in bold masculine handwriting. Plenty of food in the fridge. Help yourself. I’m working. Will check on you midafternoon.

She crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash. Working? What did that mean? A sandwich and a banana later, the front doorbell rang. Gracie waited a few seconds to see if Gareth would appear. But when the bell rang a second time, she walked quickly toward the front of the house, grimacing when she saw her reflection in a mirror. She was hardly fit for company.

The woman who stood on the porch was a surprise. She gave Gracie a blinding smile and muscled her way through the door, forcing a befuddled Gracie to step back.

“I’m Annalise,” she said, holding out a hand after she dropped an armload of packages on the nearest chair. “Jacob had your height and weight, so we guessed at sizes. I’ve got all the basics, I hope. Enough to see you through at least a week. After that, we’ll see.”

“Well, I…”

Annalise was already pulling things out of packages. “My favorite boutique in Charlottesville couriered over everything I asked for. The manager there is really sweet.”

Gracie quivered with alarm. She had no clue about her own finances. What if she couldn’t afford all this? And heaven knew how much the delivery charges were. “Um, Annalise…” she said as she tried to slow down the mini tornado. “I really only need one change of clothing. I do appreciate all the trouble you’ve gone to, but I can’t stay long. And until I begin to remember things, I don’t know if I can repay you.”

Annalise sat cross-legged on the rug and began removing price tags. “Don’t be silly,” she said happily. “Gareth is paying for all of this. It’s the least he can do after you hurt yourself so badly.”

An arrested look came over her face and she hopped back to her feet. “Speaking of which, Jacob wanted me to take a look at your head. He’s only a phone call away if we need him.”

Before Gracie could move or protest, Annalise was sifting through Gracie’s curls, her fingers delicate as they parted the hair and brushed over the knot near her temple.

“Hmm,” she said. “The swelling’s not terrible, but you’ve got a nasty bruise.” She fluffed Gracie’s curls back into place and returned to her task of sorting through the new clothes. “That small bag over there has antibiotic ointment and more waterproof bandages. Jacob says you can take off the current dressing on your leg after you shower today and replace it.”

“Annalise?”

She looked up with a winsome smile. “What?”

“Who are you?”

The beautiful woman with the waterfall of raven-black hair smacked her head and groaned. “Shoot. I’m always getting ahead of myself. I’m Gareth and Jacob’s cousin, Annalise Wolff. The baby of the crew. Which is no picnic, let me tell you. Especially since I’m the only girl.”

“You live here, too?”

“Well, not yet. But sometime soon. I’m only here for a quick visit with my dad and Uncle Vic. It was a good thing, though. Can you imagine a man trying to supply a woman with a new wardrobe? Lord knows what they would have chosen.”

Gracie bent and picked up an item that still had a price tag attached. “A swimsuit? Really? Not entirely necessary, is it?”

The tall slender woman’s eyes widened. “Gareth hasn’t showed you yet?”

“Showed me what?”

“The indoor pool.”

“Um, no. I haven’t exactly been offered the guided tour. He doesn’t want me here, you know.”

“But you are here,” Annalise said with a grin. “And it’s about time someone bearded the grizzly old bear in his den. Gareth is a wonderful man, but he’s let the past trip him up. His hermit ways aren’t healthy.”

“What about the past?”

Suddenly the other woman looked abashed. “It’s not my place to say. I babble too much. Gareth can tell you what he wants you to know. C’mon,” she said brightly. “Let’s go to your room and try on all this booty.”

Gracie participated more out of curiosity than from any urgent desire to play dress-up. Annalise fascinated her. She could be a runway model or a movie star. Gracie envied her the boundless confidence that radiated from her in almost physical waves.

What was Gracie’s personality like? Here on the mountain, she felt wary, anxious and confused. But amnesia would probably have that effect on anyone. Maybe in real life Gracie was as self-possessed as Annalise. On the other hand, Gracie had a hunch that being wealthy and beautiful was the key. For someone like Annalise, the world was ready for the taking.

Gracie drew the line at modeling the wildly lavish lingerie. Petal-soft silk, handmade lace, confections of mauve, blush-pink and palest cream. It was the stuff of fantasy. But apparently Gracie was fairly modest when it came to exposing herself, even to another female.

At long last, Annalise glanced at her watch and screeched. “Lord have mercy. I’m going to miss my flight if I don’t get crackin’. Daddy always wants me to use the private jet, but it’s so damn pretentious. And do you have any idea how hard it is for a man to see the real you when he finds out about the seven-figure portfolio?”

“I can only imagine.” Gracie’s tone was wry. Annalise’s artless comments weren’t boastful. Her stream of consciousness conversation wasn’t as practiced as that.

At the front door, Gracie put a hand on her benefactor’s slim arm. “Thank you,” she said simply. “I won’t see you again, but I’m very grateful.”

Annalise grabbed her in an enthusiastic embrace and kissed her cheek. “Never say never. Remember… don’t let Gareth bully you. And as for the shopping spree… the pleasure was all mine.”

Four

With Annalise gone, the oppressive quiet settled over the house again. Gracie wanted to explore, but the possibility of being caught snooping deterred her. Instead she escaped outdoors, relishing the spring sunshine. It was a perfect day… the sky robin’s-egg-blue dotted with cotton-ball clouds, the sun warm but mild.

Her fingers itched for a paintbrush, wanting to capture the simplicity and lushness of burgeoning life. She stopped short, caught up in a memory…

I’m competent, Daddy, technically proficient, but I don’t think I have that spark to take me to the next level. That’s why I want so badly to be the gallery manager. I would be good at it, you know I would…

The snippet of conversation faded, and she clenched her fists in frustration. So she was an artist? But maybe not a very good one… and if that was true, what was the connection with her trip to Wolff Mountain?

Nothing. Nothing else materialized, no matter how hard she tried. And without something more concrete to go on, Gareth wasn’t likely to be appeased by her efforts.

With a hiccupped breath, she fought back a sob. Patience. She would have patience if it killed her. She walked down the driveway, away from the copse of trees sheltering the house, and glanced upward. What she saw drew a gasp of admiration. The house at the top of the mountain defied description. It was part palace, part fortress, an amalgam of Cinderella’s castle and George Vanderbilt’s sprawling mansion in Asheville, North Carolina.

She stopped dead, this time seeing a vision of herself during a visit to the Biltmore House. The clarity of the memory sent a surge of hope rushing through her veins. She’d been wearing a red sundress. And she was laughing, happy. Someone stood beside her. Who was it?

Her head ached from the effort to concentrate. Moments later, the scene in her brain shimmered and faded. Tears of frustration wet her cheeks. The knowledge was so close, so damn close.

She took a deep breath and turned around to stare at Gareth’s house. Yesterday she had stood on that porch. Had conversed with him. Why?

What had happened right before she fell? Was her mission in coming here sinister or innocent or somewhere in between?

No answers came her way. As hard as she tried, the earliest memory she was able to conjure up was waking in Gareth’s bed. Now, in the light of day, feeling a hundred times better than she had twenty-four hours before, the knowledge that Gareth had cared for her in the moments after her accident gave her an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She was sexually attracted to him. That much was clear. Even though she knew his Good Samaritan efforts were performed grudgingly. Despite his attitude, she had to be grateful that he hadn’t called the police to cart her off the property.

She had trespassed. Knowingly. And in doing so, had paid a hefty price. A brain that was tabula rasa… the clean slate. Even if Gareth found her at all appealing, he would never act on that connection. Because she had broken the rules of polite society. She had invaded his privacy.

With a sigh, she headed back toward the house. Gareth was working. Where? Why? The man was a freaking millionaire. Joint heir to what appeared to be a sizable fortune. By all rights, he should be cruising on the Riviera. Playing the roulette wheel in Monte Carlo.

The image of taciturn Gareth Wolff as a jet-set playboy didn’t quite come into focus. Some rich men enjoyed spreading their wealth around, flaunting their abundance. She had a hunch that the fiercely private Gareth would just as soon not be around people at all.

She wandered back toward the garage, stopping to stand on tiptoe and peer in the windows. Every pane of glass was spotless. She saw the Jeep, along with four other vehicles—a vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle, a classic black Mercedes sedan, a steel-gray delivery van, and a small electric car.

The odd assortment intrigued her. Nothing about Gareth Wolff was easy to pin down.

She walked around the rear of the garage, and there, at the back of a large clearing, stood a third building. The exterior was fashioned to match the house and the garage. But this structure was smaller. A stone chimney, similar to the three on top of Gareth’s house, emitted a curl of smoke. Feeling more like Goldilocks than she cared to admit, Gracie gave into the temptation to explore.

Instead of a traditional front door, the side of the building closest to Gracie was bisected by double garage doors, one of which was ajar. Feeling like the interloper she was, Gracie peeked inside.

Gareth stood opposite her, his big hands moving a scrap of sandpaper back and forth across an expanse of wood. He worked intently, all his focus on the project at hand.

The interior of the building was comprised of a single large room, partitioned here and there, but fully open to view. One quadrant stored lengths of lumber, another held shelves of small figures that appeared to be birds and animals. A large vat of some kind of liquid-soaked strips of wood. Other tables were laden with myriad hand tools.

The air smelled pleasantly of raw wood and tangy smoke from the open fireplace. An enormous skylight shed golden rays onto the floor below, catching dancing motes of dust along the way. Piled curls of wood shavings littered the floor at Gareth’s feet.

Though she knew it was unwise, she moved forward into his line of sight. His head jerked up, and he stared at her, unsmiling.

She tucked her hands behind her back. “I take it this is your work?”

He put down the sandpaper and wiped his hands on his jeans. As he stepped from behind the workbench, she saw that the old, faded denim had worn in some very interesting places, emphasizing his masculinity in a throat-drying way.

“Did you eat?”

She nodded.

“And Annalise found you?”

A second nod.

“Do you remember anything?”

She swallowed hard. “No.” Nothing concrete.

When he grimaced, she tried to squash an unreasonable feeling of guilt. He couldn’t be any more frustrated than she was about her situation. “Sorry,” she added, wondering why it was that women always seemed to feel the need to apologize and men seldom did.

He leaned against one of the rough-hewn posts that supported the vaulted ceiling, his hands in his pockets. The plain white T-shirt he wore was as sexy as any tux, and she had a gut feeling that he could wear either with ease.

As he surveyed her from head to toe, he frowned. “Why haven’t you changed?”

“Is there a dress code?” Maybe she was a smart-ass in her previous life.

Finally… a small smile from the man with the stone face. “I thought you’d be eager to get out of those clothes.”

Her stomach plunged at his suggestive words, but her brain wrestled with her libido. “I’ll change later. Didn’t seem to make sense to get all cleaned up when I was coming outside to explore. It’s a beautiful day.”

He nodded abruptly. “Glad you feel up to getting around. Does your head still hurt?”

“A little. I only took one pain pill. Didn’t want to sleep the day away.”

The conversation stalled. She worked her way closer. “What are you making?”

He paused, as if considering whether or not to answer. Then he shrugged. “A cradle.”

“For someone in your family?”

“No.”

Sheesh. It was like squeezing a stone to get water. “Then who?”

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, a gesture she was beginning to associate with his response to her. “A member of the British royal family.”

She gaped. “Seriously?”

He cracked a smile, a small one, but definitely a tiny grin. “Seriously.”

“Tell me. Spill the details.”

He shook his head, his eyes dancing with humor. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you. That information is on a strictly need-to-know basis.”

She pursed her lips, wondering why she could remember things she’d read in line at the grocery store while scanning the front page of a gossip rag, but not be able to visualize her own home. Rather than dwell on that unsettling fact, she put two and two together.

“Ohmigosh,” she cried. “Are they pregnant? Is it—”

He put a hand over her mouth. “Uh, uh, uh… No questions. My lips are sealed.”

They were so close together she could smell the soap he’d used in the shower… and the not unpleasant odor of healthy male sweat. For some weird reason, her tongue wanted to slip out and tease his slightly callused fingers. His eyes darkened and she could swear he was reading her mind at that very moment.

She gulped and backed up a step. A more lighthearted Gareth was definitely dangerous. “Does your improved mood mean that you believe me… about not remembering, I mean?”

His hand fell away. “I’ll admit that deliberately falling to substantiate a claim of amnesia seems a bit far-fetched. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. For the moment, at least.” His dark eyes seemed to see inside her soul.

She pretended to examine his workshop in order to give her ragged breathing time to return to a more normal cadence. “You must enjoy all this… the peace, the creativity.” Her voice rasped at the end when she swallowed hard, caught suddenly by a memory of her own hands spreading paint across a canvas. Watercolors, maybe? The image left her.

He nodded, watching her with the intensity of a hawk stalking prey. “It keeps me off the streets,” he deadpanned, seemingly relaxed.

But she had the notion that he was tense beneath his deliberately casual demeanor. She picked up a bottle of linseed oil and rubbed the label. “Why do you do it? Certainly not for the money.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Gracie.”

She turned to face him, frowning. “What? Do you have some weird need to prove yourself and not lean on the family money?”

“You’ve been reading too many novels.” He chuckled. “I’m quite happy to enjoy my share of the Wolff family coffers.”

“And by the way,” she said, “what is the family business?”

“Railroads originally, back in the 1800s. We’ve diversified since then. Most of the Wolff ancestors were good at making money from money.”

“And now?”

“We took a hit, like everyone… when the economy tanked. But my father and my uncle are shrewd businessmen. We have interests in shipping, manufacturing, even agriculture to some extent.”

“But you make furniture.”

He nodded. “Indeed.”

She put a hand on the piece of walnut he’d been sanding. Already, the finish was smooth to the touch. “Indulge me,” she said, wondering if she was being far too nosy. “How much does a cradle for a royal cost?”

He shrugged, an enigmatic smile teasing the corner of his mouth. “Seventy-five thousand dollars… give or take. Depends on the exchange rate on any given day.”

“Seventy-five…” Her mouth hung open. She didn’t know what she, Gracie, did for a living, but it was a good bet she didn’t make half that amount in a year. She didn’t know why she was so sure, but she was. Maybe because hearing him say the number out loud was shocking.

He took pity on her. “I have a charity that I created a long time ago. My furniture pieces are one of a kind… and for whatever reason some people are willing to shell out big bucks for them. So I make the furniture, cash the checks and put all the money to good use.”

“What’s your charity?”

His face closed up. “You wouldn’t have heard of it.” Any good humor he’d exhibited had evaporated. “I need to get back to work.”

“Tell me what else you make,” she coaxed. “And for whom.”

He let out an exaggerated, aggrieved sigh. “An armoire for a Middle Eastern sheikh. Windsor chairs for a Boston heiress. A desk for a former president….”

“That’s amazing,” she said simply. “You must be phenomenally talented. Is this what you studied in school?”

His expression darkened. “I earned a law degree at my father’s urging. But I found out pretty quickly that I wasn’t cut out for litigation. To show my dad what a badass I was, I enlisted in the army and did some time in Afghanistan.”

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