“You Show Me Yours,
I’ll Show You Mine.”

Sydney laid her cards on the table without even looking at them. Without any expression at all, Reese laid his hand down, too. She slowly lowered her gaze.

Three tens. And a one-eyed jack. Four of a kind.

She’d lost. Dear Lord. Two weeks. She had to work for Reese Sinclair for two entire weeks. Under his “personal supervision,” as he’d put it.

Reese shook his head and chuckled. “You don’t think I’m serious about this bet, do you? I was just having some fun.”

She lifted her chin and narrowed a cold look at him. “I said I’d be here at eight, and I will.”

A muscle jumped in Reese’s jaw, and she watched as his eyes darkened. “Just remember, if it gets too rough for you, that I gave you an out.”

“I can handle whatever you dish out,” she said in a voice so serene it surprised even her. “What remains to be seen is if you can handle me.”

Dear Reader,

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

Popular author Cait London offers you Gabriel’s Gift, this April’s MAN OF THE MONTH. We’re sure you’ll love this tale of lovers once separated who reunite eighteen years later and must overcome the past before they can begin their future together.

The riveting Desire miniseries TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: LONE STAR JEWELS continues with Her Ardent Sheikh by Kristi Gold, in which a dashing sheikh must protect a free-spirited American woman from danger.

In Wife with Amnesia by Metsy Hingle, the estranged husband of an amnesiac woman seeks to win back her love…and to save her from a mysterious assailant. Watch for Metsy Hingle’s debut MIRA title, The Wager, in August 2001. Barbara McCauley’s hero “wins” a woman in a poker game in Reese’s Wild Wager, another tantalizing addition to her SECRETS! miniseries. Enjoy a contemporary “beauty and the beast” story with Amy J. Fetzer’s Taming the Beast. And Ryanne Corey brings you a runaway heiress who takes a walk on the wild side with the bodyguard who’s fallen head over heels for her in The Heiress & the Bodyguard.

Be sure to treat yourself this month, and read all six of these exhilarating Desire novels!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Reese’s Wild Wager
Barbara McCauley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BARBARA MCCAULEY

was born and raised in California and has spent a good portion of her life exploring the mountains, beaches and deserts so abundant there. The youngest of five children, she grew up in a small house, and her only chance for a moment alone was to sneak into the backyard with a book and quietly hide away.

With two children of her own now and a busy household, she still finds herself slipping away to enjoy a good novel. A daydreamer and incurable romantic, she says writing has fulfilled her most incredible dream of all—breathing life into the people in her mind and making them real. She has one loud and demanding Amazon parrot named Fred and a German shepherd named Max. When she can manage the time, she loves to sink her hands into freshly turned soil and make things grow.

To Cris Grace, the Queen of Cuisine—

this one’s for you!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

One

Cigar smoke lay like a heavy hand in the small back office of Squire’s Tavern and Inn. Four men, brothers, sat around the table, cards in hand, their dark gazes intent on the current deal. Gabe Sinclair, the eldest of the four, frowned at his luck while Callan, brother number two in order of birth, considered the possibility of drawing another king for a pair. Beside him, Lucian, brother number three, smiled inwardly at a pair of jacks and deuce wild, while Reese, the proprietor of the inn and the youngest Sinclair at thirty-two, all but did mental backflips over the three queens in his hand.

They were a handsome lot, the Sinclair men. Each of them, with their thick, dark hair and rugged good looks, had broken more than their share of hearts in Bloomfield County.

Some said that Reese held the record, though. He had eyes that made women forget to breathe. Deep green, like a forest, and curtained with heavy, dark lashes. And his smile. Lord, that smile of his could charm the stripes off a zebra.

It also didn’t hurt that he was six foot three, solid muscle and had won the honorary award of “Best Butt in a Pair of Blue Jeans” three years running by the females in Bloomfield. Reese proudly displayed his silver-framed certificate on the wall right beside his plaque from the Bloomfield County Chamber of Commerce for “Top Restaurant of the Year.”

How sweet life is, Reese thought as he clamped his cigar between his teeth. Three queens, a ten-dollar stogie and two fingers of Patron Gold tequila. He grabbed a handful of chips from his winnings stack and tossed them onto the table. He was on a date with Lady Luck and about to score.

“Five dollars says that pot is mine.” Reese grinned at his brothers. “Again.”

Lucian glanced up from his hand of cards and bit down on his own cigar. “You close that mouth of yours long enough and you won’t have to put your foot in it. I’ll see your five and double it.”

“Too steep for me.” Gabe threw his cards down and pushed away from the table. “Gotta go, kids. Kevin and I have a fishing date at the crack of dawn.”

“I’m out, too. Abby’s waiting up for me.” Callan stood, and wiggled his brow. “Far be it from me to keep a lady waiting.”

Reese stared at his brothers and shook his head. The Saturday night games were getting shorter and fewer since Callan had married Abby six months earlier and then Gabe got engaged to Melanie a few weeks ago. When they’d all been unattached, these games had lasted until three or four in the morning. Abby and Melanie were great, Reese thought, and he knew he couldn’t ask for better sisters-in-law. He was happy for his brothers, but now the Sinclair reputation of devout bachelor-hood lay in the hands of himself and Lucian.

And speaking for himself, Reese thought, it was a reputation he was proud to uphold.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, Bro.” Reese tipped his chair back on two legs while Gabe and Callan pulled on their jackets. “I see you…” he tossed a few more chips into the pile “…and I—”

The door to the office flew open.

“Reese Sinclair, this has got to stop immediately!”

Reese swiveled to look at the woman standing in the doorway.

Sydney Taylor.

Uh-oh.

Sydney’s pale blond hair tumbled around her flushed face and fell in wild waves over the shoulders of the red-plaid cotton bathrobe she wore. She brought the crisp early November night air in with her, and the earthy scent of autumn leaves. In her arms she held Boomer, Reese’s Border collie-terrier-Lab. Boomer was covered with mud. So was Sydney. All the way down to her fluffy brown slippers.

Mud on Sydney Taylor? Definitely a Kodak moment, Reese thought. He wanted to laugh, desperately, but the look of ice-cold fury on Sydney’s face stopped him. She’d murder him if he so much as smiled. Everyone knew that Sydney Taylor could cut a man off at the knees with just a glance. She might be pretty, but she was so damn bossy everyone called her Sydney the Hun. Not to her face, of course. After all, she was the granddaughter of the Honorable Judge Randolph Howland, and that did deserve a certain amount of respect.

Reese glanced at his brothers. Based on their slack jaws, they were obviously just as shocked as he was to see the impeccable Sydney Taylor in her bathrobe, covered with mud, holding a dog in her arms. Somehow, even in her disheveled state, she had an air of royalty.

“Well, if it bothers you that much, Syd—” Reese brought his chair back down on four legs “—the game’s just about over.”

Narrowing eyes the color of blue ice at Reese, Sydney lifted one finely arched eyebrow and pressed her lips tightly together. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Your dog was in my flower bed again.”

Sydney had recently moved into the upstairs apartment of the historic brick building directly across the street from Squire’s Tavern. She’d also rented the store downstairs and had been renovating to open a restaurant. She’d installed a deep-blue awning over beveled glass French doors and created a garden-like entrance. Hence the flowers which Boomer had become so attracted to.

“Are you sure it was my dog?” Reese asked innocently. “I could have sworn I saw Madge Evans’s poodle out earlier.”

“Madge is a responsible pet owner,” Sydney said irritably. “You, on the other hand, are not. This is the fourth time in three weeks I’ve caught Boomer in my flowers. He’s all but ruined my pansies, dug up my bulbs twice and chewed up my chrysanthemums.”

Boomer barked, his guilt sealed when bright yellow petals fell from his jaw. Sydney stalked across the room and dumped the dog on top of the table. Boomer danced excitedly; chips and cards flew. Then Boomer gave a fierce shake of his long black-and-white coat and mud flew, as well. With an oath, Lucian jumped up, wiping at the splattered mud on the front of his white shirt.

Miss Lady Luck had suddenly been replaced by Miss Fortune, alias Sydney Taylor. Reese glanced forlornly at the queens in his hand, sighed, then threw his cards down and swiped at the dirt on his face. Boomer jumped off the table, sat at Reese’s feet and looked up at his master expectantly. The dog’s nose was covered with damp mud.

Reese knew he should be repentant, he really did. But there was just something about Sydney. Something about that haughty, patronizing air of hers that made him want to puff up his chest and bring that cute little chin of hers down a notch or two. Reese glanced at his brothers for a little moral support, but based on the gleam of amusement in their eyes, he was obviously on his own.

Reese stood and looked down at Sydney, considered telling her that she had a slash of dirt across her temple, then thought better of it. “I’ll buy you some more flowers and bulbs.”

Folding her arms tightly, she met his gaze. “What good will it do if your dog keeps digging them up? Need I remind you that my grand opening for Le Petit Bistro is in four weeks?”

Hardly. There was very little in Bloomfield County that everybody didn’t know about everybody else, some of which was even true. Since Sydney had returned three months ago from culinary school in France, the whole town had been talking. Not about the restaurant she was planning to open as much as the reason why she’d left town over a year ago: Sydney had been left high and dry at the altar by Bobby Williams, Head Coach at Bloomfield High School. Bobby had been offered a position at NYU, only he’d neglected to mention the job to Sydney, along with the fact that he’d decided not to get married. At least, not to her. Bobby and Lorna Green, a cocktail waitress from Reese’s tavern, had eloped on their way to New York.

No one had seen Bobby or Lorna since, but there had been talk that Lorna had been looking rather plump around the middle at the time she and Bobby had taken off together.

Reese had certainly never missed Bobby; he’d never liked the egotistical jerk, anyway. But Lorna, though a little dim-witted, had been a good employee, a rare commodity these days. Especially at the moment. With one waitress out on maternity leave, another on vacation, and a new girl who was sweet but couldn’t remember what time to show up for work, the tavern had been in chaos for the past two weeks.

And now Hurricane Sydney had blown in.

Nothing I can’t handle, Reese told himself and gave her his best smile. “I’m really sorry, Syd. It won’t happen again.”

“Spare me the charm.” Sydney rolled her eyes. “I realize that works on most of the women in this town, but it’s wasted on me.”

From any other woman, Reese would have wholeheartedly risen to the challenge. But this was Sydney, for Heaven’s sake. Sydney was starched stiff as a nun’s habit. Going up against Sydney would be sort of like the Titanic taking on the iceberg. And those were icy waters he’d rather not swim in.

Except, at the moment, with her hair all rumpled, dressed in her robe and slippers, Sydney didn’t look quite so starched or quite so stiff. She looked kind of…soft. Soft and cute.

Startled by his thoughts, he looked at her again, saw the rigid lift of her shoulders and tight press of her lips. Geez, what had he been thinking? Sydney Taylor might be an attractive woman, but soft and cute? And those frumpy robe and slippers she had on were not exactly Victoria’s Secret.

“Reese Sinclair, are you listening to me?” Sydney narrowed her eyes. “I’m not leaving here until we settle this once and for all.”

“You could have him destroyed,” Callan offered from the sidelines.

Boomer jumped up and barked shrilly.

With a gasp, Sydney whirled. “I would never harm an animal.”

“Not the dog.” Callan looked offended that Sydney would think such a thing. “I meant Reese.”

The look Sydney gave Callan could have wiped out spring crops. Reese glared at his brothers. He knew they were having a good laugh at his expense. He didn’t even blame them. If the situation were reversed, he’d want a front row seat. With popcorn. But if he was going to go one-on-one with Sydney Taylor, he sure as hell didn’t want an audience. “Weren’t you all just leaving?”

“Not me.” Lucian glanced at the cards still in his hand.

“No hurry.” Gabe started to take his coat back off and Callan followed suit. “We could squeeze in a couple more rounds.”

“Game’s over.” And so’s the show. Reese snatched the cards out of Lucian’s hands, helped Gabe put his coat back on, then shoved all three of his brothers out the door and closed it behind them.

“Okay.” Reese turned and faced Sydney. “Now, where were we?”

“You were about to tell me how you intend to keep your dog inside your own yard and out of my flowers.”

“Oh. Right. Well, here’s the thing.” Reese glanced at the dog, then moved beside Sydney, lowering his voice as he bent his head close to hers. The scent of lavender mixed with something else he couldn’t identify drifted from her skin. He hesitated, not only to appreciate the smell, but because he was surprised. He’d never thought about Sydney smelling so…nice.

Brow furrowed, she frowned at him. “What thing?”

“What? Oh, well, you see, Boomer’s sensitive about being locked up. Ever since I found him out on the highway and brought him home with me, he gets depressed if I try to keep him in.”

Boomer, who heard his name and seemed to understand he was the topic of conversation, lifted his head and thumped his tail on the floor.

“Depressed?” The tilt of Sydney’s head signified her skepticism. “Maybe he requires more attention than you can give him.”

“Shoot, Boomer gets more attention than a baby with a bonnet. He just can’t stand to be fenced in. He needs to…stretch his legs a little.”

“Gabe just bought the Witherspoon house,” Sydney said matter-of-factly. “That’s five acres of farmland, surrounded by several more acres. Plenty of room for a dog to ‘stretch his legs.’ I’m sure Boomer would be extremely happy there. He can dig to his heart’s content.”

“I couldn’t do that to Boomer. He was already abandoned once when he was a pup. If I just gave him away like that, he wouldn’t understand. He’d think I deserted him.”

She stiffened, then took a step back from him and lifted cool blue eyes to his. “Like Bobby deserted me? Left me standing in my wedding dress to face a crowded church on my own, is that what you’re trying to say?”

Dammit, dammit. That wasn’t what he’d meant at all. “No, Syd, really, I—”

“Forget it, Sinclair. You think you can soften me up with that killer smile of yours and make me feel sorry for your dog, and I’ll just go away. Well, I’m not going away.” She folded her arms. “Life is just one big lark to you, isn’t it, including this bar you run.”

“Hey, now, this is a tavern, not a bar. There’s a big—”

“Maybe you think I’m being petty, or that a few chewed up flowers are irrelevant, but your lack of respect for my property is irresponsible and insensitive.”

“Hey, I’m as sensitive as the next guy,” Reese protested.

“If that next guy happens to be Bobby Williams,” Sydney said, and pointed her chin at him.

That did it. Reese clenched his jaw. He wasn’t anything like Bobby Williams. He’d had enough of Sydney’s insults for one night. He glanced at Boomer. This is the thanks I get for saving your sorry butt. He looked at the table where cards and chips were scattered.

Irresponsible, was he? Life was one big lark, huh?

Well, fine, then.

“Tell you what, Syd,” he said slowly, turning back to her. “What say we let a friendly card game settle this for us?”

Her head came up, and her brow came down. “What?”

“A card game. Go Fish, Crazy Eights. Maybe a couple hands of Old Maid?”

His jab struck home. She straightened; her eyes shot blue daggers at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“A game of chance to settle this once and for all. If you win, I’ll keep Boomer fenced in, and if I win…” What did he need? Something to not only shut Sydney up, but put her in her place. Think, Sinclair, what do you need?

He grinned suddenly. She’d never go for it. He knew she wouldn’t. He just wanted to see the expression on her face, wanted to see her back down from a challenge.

“…if I win,” he continued, “you have to come work at the tavern for a week. I’m short two servers right now. Wages included, of course, plus tips.”

Sydney’s jaw went slack; she was silent for all of fifteen seconds. “You expect us to settle this with a card game? That’s preposterous!”

He grinned at her. “That’s my middle name.”

“You’re serious. You’re really serious.”

“Yep.” She’d back out now, Reese thought with smug satisfaction. No way she’d go through with anything as foolhardy as this. And since he had her attention, he’d up the ante till she squeaked. “Under my direct supervision, of course. You have to do what I say.”

“What!”

“Don’t go looking so hopeful, Sydney,” Reese said, thoroughly enjoying the flush on her face. “I’m only referring to business here, though we could certainly discuss job perks and options, if you like.”

“Let me get this straight.” She blew a wisp of hair from her cheek. “If I win, you promise to take care of Boomer and keep him out of my flowers. If I lose, I have to work for you, here, for a week.”

“Just three hours a day. Someone as tidy and organized as you could surely work three hours into your schedule.”

Sydney’s laugh was dry and short. “Even coming from Reese Sinclair, this is the most absurd proposal I’ve ever heard.”

He knew she wouldn’t go for it, but it had been fun, anyway. Still, he couldn’t resist giving her pride one more tug. “If you’re afraid to lose…”

“Afraid?” Her eyes narrowed sharply, and she stepped closer to him. “I’m not afraid.”

“Okay.” He shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Syd.”

“All right, Sinclair.” That chin of hers went up again. “What do you say we make it more interesting? If I lose, Boomer’s not only free as a bird, I’ll come work for you for two weeks. If I win, though, Boomer not only gets kept in…” she leaned in close “…you have to come work for me for two weeks after my restaurant opens.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Afraid you’ll lose?” she asked sweetly.

“You mean it.” He stared at her incredulously. “You’ll actually go through with it?”

“I’ll not only go through with it, I’ll honor my bet, win or lose. Will you, Sinclair?”

A muscle jumped in Reese’s jaw. “You’re on.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

They marched to the table and sat down opposite one another. Reese scooped up the scattered cards and started to shuffle them. It had been a long time since he’d played Go Fish or Crazy Eights. He hoped like hell he could remember.

“So what’s it gonna be, Syd?”

She sat straight in her chair, her hands laced primly on the table. “How ’bout five card stud, one-eyed jacks wild?”

Reese nearly dropped the deck of cards in his hand. “You want to play poker?”

“What did you think we’d play? Gin rummy?” She lifted one brow. “My father taught me to count with a deck of cards when I was two. When the other kids were playing Chutes and Ladders, I learned how to double down with an eleven in blackjack.” She smiled, held her cool eyes steady with his. “Now deal the cards, Sinclair. I’m about to kick your behind.”

One hour and ten hands later, to Sydney’s delight—and Reese’s annoyance—her stack of chips was twice the size of his. It was a glorious sight, Sydney thought. Each tall, neat column of red, white and blue signifying her victory.

And Reese’s defeat.

Of course, she hadn’t officially won yet, but it was just a matter of time—a short matter of time, based on the past three hands. At the rate he was losing, she should be able to put him out of his misery in the next hand or two.

She still couldn’t believe she’d let him goad her into this. At twenty-six, she liked to pride herself on being a mature woman, in control at all times, one who had a solid handle on her emotions. A woman who used logic and practicality to make decisions, not childish grammar-school antics of one-upmanship.

But he’d looked at her with such arrogance, such smug amusement, she’d simply accepted the challenge, as much to her surprise as his.

Glancing over the cards she held, she watched him study the hand she’d dealt him. Those incredible eyes of his were narrowed with concentration, and one shock of thick, dark hair tumbled over his furrowed forehead. Absently, he brushed his thumb back and forth over the strong line of his chiseled jaw; the quiet rasp of thumbnail against the shadow of his beard was the only sound in the office.

She’d never had the opportunity to stare so openly at a man before. It was not only rude, it was extremely forward. In this situation, though, she considered it a necessity. After all, this was poker. The most important rule of the game, her father had taught her when she was a child, was to closely assess an opponent. Every movement, every blink, every twitch, was to be noted, then analyzed. If her father had taught her nothing else before he’d left when she was twelve, she had learned to be observant. If she ever saw him again, she just might have to thank him for that one thing. But seeing her father again was one bet she’d never take. He’d called a few times, sent a couple of birthday cards, but he’d never come back once to see her after he’d walked out fourteen years ago.

Knowing what an extremely difficult woman her mother had been to live with, Sydney could understand the lack of visits. What she couldn’t understand, what she couldn’t forgive, was him leaving her alone with her mother, who had no one else to take out her bitterness on except her daughter.

But that was water under the bridge, Sydney thought with a sigh. She was twenty-six now and in a few short weeks she’d have the business she’d dreamed of for so many years. The past would be behind her, including the humiliation of Bobby and Lorna.

Sydney Taylor was going to be a new woman. She was going to be the woman everyone thought she was: confident, self-assured, poised. A woman who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought or said about her.

All the things she wasn’t, but desperately wanted to be.

Realizing that she’d lost focus of the game while her mind wandered, Sydney snapped her attention back to Reese. She’d learned that when he touched his finger to the cleft in his chin he had at least a pair, when he scratched his neck just under his left ear, he probably had three of a kind or better. When he brushed his jaw with his thumb, as he was doing now, odds were he was bluffing.

And so she watched him. Closely. Strictly for the game, of course.

She’d never noticed the scar just under that firm mouth of his, or the slight bump at the bridge of what she would consider an otherwise perfect nose. He wore his hair combed back, and the ends just brushed the collar of his blue flannel shirt. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his forearms muscled and sprinkled lightly with the same dark hair that peeked from the vee of his shirt.

No question about it, he was an amazing specimen of masculinity. He wasn’t her type, of course. After Bobby, she’d sworn off smooth-talking, shallow playboys who had more muscle than brain. While she could certainly appreciate Reese Sinclair’s blatant maleness, she had no intention of being a victim of it, as were most of the women in town.

But then, Sydney knew she wasn’t Reese’s type, either. He went for the bubbleheads, the women who giggled at every joke and endlessly batted their eyelashes. She’d seen Heather Wilkins hanging on his arm last month at the pumpkin festival in town, then Laurie Bomgarden had been snuggling with him a week ago at the Women’s Auxiliary’s annual fall charity drive. Sydney doubted that Heather and Laurie’s IQs combined was equal to the current outside temperature. And considering it was only the beginning of November, she was being generous.

But who Reese Sinclair spent his free time with was of no concern to her. Her only concern was beating the pants off that arrogant butt of his that the women of Bloomfield were so crazy about.

She glanced at the “Best Butt in a Pair of Blue Jeans” award he’d hung on the wall in his office. The conceit of the man, she thought with a sniff. Maybe they’d give her an award when she kicked that butt in poker.

“You vote for me, Syd?”

“What?” Realizing that she’d been caught staring at the award, Sydney snapped her gaze back to the table. Reese was watching her, and the amusement she saw in his eyes made her stiffen.

With a grin, he nodded toward the wall. “Did you vote for me?”

“Certainly not.”

It was a bald-faced lie. She’d considered it her civic duty to vote when the ballot box went around for the annual “best butt” election. The contest had been close this year, between Lucian and Reese and the sheriff, Matt Stoker. It had been a difficult choice, but in the end—she almost smiled at her own pun—she’d voted for Reese.

And she’d die before she told him that.

“Who’d you vote for, then?”

She straightened the cards in her hand, lining them up perfectly. “What makes you think I voted for anyone?”

“Sydney Taylor miss an opportunity to express her opinion on something?” He settled back in his chair and regarded her with a curious gaze. “So why didn’t you vote for me? Don’t you think I deserved it?”

She was becoming increasingly flustered by this rather personal topic of conversation. “I wouldn’t know if you deserved it or not. I’ve never noticed.”

“You’ve never noticed?” He looked slightly wounded. “You come over to the tavern every Wednesday night for the book review club. How could you not notice?”

“Reese Sinclair!” She slammed her cards down on the table. “In spite of your high opinion of yourself, I do not go to the book review meeting to stare at your butt!”

He looked at her for a long moment, then blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said, I do not—”

“I heard what you said, I just don’t under— Oh.” He glanced at the wall, then back at her. “I was talking about the restaurant award. You are a member of the Chamber of Commerce, aren’t you? And you did vote for the top restaurant in Bloomfield County, didn’t you?”

The restaurant award. She felt her cheeks burn. He was talking about the restaurant award.

He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Sydney Taylor, shame on you. Where is your mind tonight?”

Her entire face was on fire now, the heat spreading down her neck. “I…well…I—”

“I’ve never seen you stutter and blush, Syd.” Reese gave her a lopsided grin. “You were thinking about my—”

“I was not!” She scooped up her cards again and stared at them. “The sun will be up in a few hours and you can crow all you want, Sinclair. Right now, this game is gathering moss. Could we get on with it, or do you need some ice for that swelling in your head?”

“You know, darlin’—” Reese picked up the cigar he’d put out an hour ago and bit on it “—that mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble one of these days. You need to learn to lighten up and have some fun.”

“I am having fun.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I have twice as many chips as you do. Bet’s to you, darlin’.”

Reese grabbed a large handful of chips and tossed them on the table, then grinned at her. “Five dollars.”

It was a steep bet, the largest he’d made since they started playing. He was bluffing, she thought. She’d seen him brush his thumb over his jaw a few moments ago. Sydney matched the bet, then slid another column across the table. “And I raise you.”

And then he scratched his neck under his left ear.

Oh, dear.

Now she wasn’t sure.

She stared at her own cards. She had three jacks, ace high. A good hand, but not great.

His thumb brushed his jaw again. She chewed on her bottom lip.

“Let’s have some real fun,” Reese said casually and glanced up from his cards. “Let’s bet it all.”

Bet it all? Her throat went dry. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He shifted the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and leveled his gaze at her. “Winner take all.”

She knew enough not to look away, not to so much as glance at her cards. Confidence was everything in this game. Never sweat, never falter. Absolute self-assurance.

“Do you know how to make quiche, Sinclair? With a splash of goat cheese and a kiss of basil? It’s a little more complicated than flipping burgers and pouring beer, but you’ll get the hang of it.” Without so much as a blink, she pushed her stack to the middle of the table. “Or maybe I’ll have you put on a tux and wait on tables. There are plenty of people who’d pay to see that.”

“Not as many who would pay to see you wearing a wench outfit toting a load of drinks.” Reese shoved his chips across the table. “Hell, I’d give a month’s salary for that, myself.”

They stared at each other, neither one flinching.

“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” Reese raised one corner of his mouth.

Sydney laid her cards on the table without even looking at them. Reese glanced down. Without any expression at all, he laid his hand down, too.

Breath held, she slowly lowered her gaze.

Three tens.

And a one-eyed jack.

Four of a kind.

Her breath shuddered out of her. She felt a pounding in her head, as if her skull were a tin drum and someone was beating on it. Boomer, who’d started this whole business in the first place, lay under the table, softly snoring.

But she could hardly blame the dog for her own stupidity.

“We don’t open until ten tomorrow,” Reese said cheerfully. “But show up at eight to get ready for Sunday breakfast. The Philadelphia Gazette ran an article about the tavern winning the Chamber of Commerce award, so I’m expecting a crowd.”

Numbly, she rose from the table, every limb stiff and cold. She’d lost. Dear Lord. Two weeks. She had to work for Reese Sinclair for two entire weeks. Under his “personal supervision” as he’d put it.

She couldn’t think right now. Couldn’t let Reese see how completely humiliated she was.

She’d never let anyone see her like that again.

“All right, then.” Drawing in a deep breath, she tightened the belt of her robe. “Eight o’clock it is.”

“Sydney.” Reese shook his head and chuckled. “You don’t think I was serious about this, do you? I was just having some fun.”

She lifted her chin and narrowed a cold look at him, praying he wouldn’t see how badly her hands were shaking. “That’s just one difference between you and me, Reese. Everything’s a big lark to you, a game. You don’t take anything seriously, where as I intend to honor my bet and the deal we made. I said I’d be here at eight, and I will.”

A muscle jumped in Reese’s jaw, and she watched as his eyes darkened. “Have it your way, Syd,” he said with a shrug. “Just remember if it gets too rough for you, that I gave you an out.”

“I can handle whatever you dish out,” she said in a voice so serene it surprised even her. “What remains to be seen is if you can handle me.”

His brow shot up at that, and she simply smiled, turned on her muddy, slippered feet and walked calmly out the door.

She intended to give Reese Sinclair two weeks in his life that he’d never forget.

Two

Sunday was the only morning that Reese allowed himself to sleep in. He cherished that day, was grateful that he had a manager like Corky to come in early, start the coffee brewing, the grills heating, and the cinnamon rolls baking. Squire’s Tavern and Inn was well-known not only for their hamburgers and pizza, but also for their breakfasts—plump sausages, country potatoes, biscuits that melted in your mouth and eggs so fresh they were still warm from the nest. He loved the smells and the sounds of his business: the food grilling, people laughing, having a good time while they ate and talked.

It reminded him of meals in his house when he was a kid. With five kids at the table—four of them boys—you had to yell to be heard over dinner in the Sinclair house. His father had always joined in with his children’s antics, while his mother frowned and made a convincing effort to keep order. But as strict and rigid as she’d tried to be, they’d have her laughing and acting silly right along with the rest of them before the meal was over.

He missed those meals almost as much as he missed his parents. Twelve years had passed since the car accident that had taken them both. Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday, other times it seemed like an eternity.

Yawning, he rolled into the softness of the mattress and his pillow, cracked one eye open to glance at the bedside clock. Eight o’clock. He frowned and slammed his eye closed again, shutting out the early-morning light that poured through the open slats of his wooden blinds. He was up every other morning by six, but he never woke up before nine-thirty on Sunday. He still had an hour and a half to go, and he intended to savor every minute of it. The cottage he lived in was directly behind the tavern, a redbrick carriage house he’d converted into living quarters after he’d bought the abandoned tavern and completely renovated it four years ago. He was close enough to his business to handle whatever problems might arise, but it offered enough privacy for him to have alone time when he needed it. Or to entertain company.

Specifically, female company.

He was a man who fully appreciated women. The female gender, with their exotic smells and delicious curves, fascinated him almost as much as they intrigued him. They were complicated and mysterious; sweet and coy one minute, difficult and confusing the next. An absolute enigma that completely enchanted him.

Fortunately for him, women enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed theirs. He understood the game well enough to know that, as an unattached male, he was open season for all the single women. But he was honest and up front with every woman he dated: he wasn’t looking for marriage. Still, they had a way of pausing at jewelry-store windows, dragging him to movies that included at least one wedding, and somehow ending up in the department store housewares section, specifically china and silver.

But he was content with his life exactly as it was. He loved his business and his freedom. No one telling him what to do or when to do it. He never had to answer to anyone. No complications, no problems—

He buried his head in his pillow and groaned.

Except for Sydney Taylor.

Damn.

Sydney was one big problem.

He’d really never expected her to take him seriously when he’d made that bet with her, and he’d certainly never expected her to know how to play poker, let alone be so good at the game. But if there was one thing predictable about Sydney, it was the fact that she was unpredictable. He knew he never should have challenged her like that, but once he had, and she’d refused to back down, he couldn’t just walk away. A guy had his pride, after all, and Sydney had tweaked his.

Knowing the woman, she was probably in the kitchen with Corky right now, telling him what to do and how to do it. Corky would have a fit about that, Reese knew. The man had been in the New York restaurant business for twenty-five years before he’d given up the fast pace of the big city and moved to Bloomfield. He’d applied for the position of chief cook and bottle washer one week before Squire’s Tavern and Inn had opened its doors. For the past four years, Corky had been more like a partner to Reese than an employee, and even more, he’d been a good friend.

But Corky was particular about his kitchen. He had his own way of doing things. He wouldn’t like Sydney messing with his pots and pans. Reese could see her now, with that stubborn little chin of hers pointed at Corky while she informed him of the proper method of cracking an egg or peeling a potato. That long, slender neck stretched high as she swished him out of her way. That sassy mouth giving orders.

Reese had known Sydney most of his life, but had never noticed before last night what a perfect mouth she had. Her lips were wide and full, rosy pink. She didn’t know she did it, but every time she’d have a mediocre hand, she’d catch that lush bottom lip of hers between her perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth and nibble. More than once, that little action had distracted him. Then he’d remind himself he was thinking lustful thoughts about Sydney, of all people, and force his mind back to the game.

But he’d never seen her with that blond hair all mussed up like that, or streaks of mud on that smooth, porcelain skin. And he’d certainly never seen her in a bathrobe. As plain as the garment had been, there’d been something appealing about that red-plaid robe. Something strangely…sexy. Something that made him curious about what she wore under that robe.

And further still, what was under that.

Good Lord. He flipped onto his back and snorted. His brothers would have a good laugh if they could hear his thoughts about Sydney. Reese decided he needed to start dating more. He hadn’t had much time for female companionship the past several weeks, and even Sydney was starting to look good to him. And that was ridiculous. Sydney Taylor was not even close to the type of woman he was interested in. Sydney was too uptight, too bossy, too—

“Are you going to sleep all day, Sinclair, or do you think we can get started?”

“What the—” On an oath, his eyes popped open. Arms folded, Sydney stood in his open bedroom door, a smile on those lips he’d been so foolishly fantasizing about and a gleam in her baby-blue eyes.

He was going to strangle her.

Eyes narrowed, he sat slowly. This was the Sydney he knew. Dressed in tailored black slacks, a pale blue, high-necked turtleneck that made her eyes shine, her hair pulled up tight in a smooth, golden knot on top of her head.

While, he, on the other hand, was buck naked under his sheets.

“Have you ever heard of knocking?”

“I did knock.” Diamond studs sparkled on her ear-lobes as she tipped her head. “Twice, as a matter of fact. Corky told me to come on in if you didn’t answer.”

He decided he’d strangle Corky right after he finished with Sydney.

“This is my bedroom. You want to be specific about what it is you’d like to get started?”

“My duties, of course. What else would I possibly be talking about?”

He slipped down between the sheets and his white down comforter, plumped his pillow with his fist as he turned his back to her. “I sleep in on Sundays. Corky will show you what to do.”

“Not a chance, Sinclair. Our bet was that I was to work under your supervision.”

“Well, Syd, since I’m in my bed, what work under me would you suggest?”

“Why, Reese Sinclair.” Sydney’s voice dripped Southern debutante. “Sweet words like that do make a girl’s heart flutter.”

“If the girl had a heart,” he muttered.

He heard her soft laughter and couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder to watch as she strolled around his bedroom, first inspecting a baseball trophy from the year his college team had won the state championship—he’d been pitcher—then squinting as she bent over his dresser and closely examined an oak-framed photograph of his sister Cara and her husband Ian that had been taken at their wedding last year, then another picture of his brother Callan and his wife Abby taken at their wedding six months ago.

She straightened, not even pretending to hide her curiosity as she continued to inspect his bedroom.

The woman was unbelievable.

“Tours don’t begin until ten.” Reese glared at her. “You can purchase tickets at the front desk.”

Sydney smiled. “I’m sorry. It’s just so overwhelming to be in the legendary Sinclair den of carnal delights. I expected to be stepping over the writhing bodies of scantily clad women.”

“The maid cleaned up already this morning,” he said dryly. “But there might still be a couple in the closet if you’d care to look.”

She was actually heading for his closet when she stopped suddenly at the floor-to-ceiling bookcase he’d built beside an existing brick fireplace.

“Books!” she exclaimed. “You actually have books in here. Grisham, King, Follett—oh!” Her eyes lit up. “Dickens and Shakespeare, too. Were they all left here by the previous owner?”

The sarcasm under that sweet smile of hers had Reese bristling. It wasn’t bad enough she’d invaded his bedroom, now she was insulting his intellect. He’d read every one of those books, even had a signed copy of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby and Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. His most recent purchase, though, and his most prized, was a first edition, leather-bound Alexandre Dumas The Three Musketeers. It had cost him a bundle, but it was worth every penny.

Still, he did have an image to maintain.

“Yeah, well, my comic books didn’t take up much room and I needed something on the shelves.” He sat, bent one knee while he stretched his arms wide. The comforter slipped down to his stomach. Sydney looked in his direction, and to his smug satisfaction, her eyes widened and she gasped.

Ha. That ought to send her running.

“Reese,” she whispered, her voice filled with reverence. “How magnificent!”

Good Lord. Reese felt his face warm. He pulled the comforter back up as she hurried across the room toward him. Geez. He’d heard a lot of compliments, but never had a woman been quite so…exuberant.

“It’s Louis XV, isn’t it?” She stopped at the foot of his bed, touched one corner of his four-poster bed and ran her fingers over the dark grain. “Black walnut, right?”

“Ah, yeah.” She was enthralled with his bed, for God’s sake. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or annoyed. He watched as she stroked her fingertips over the round top of the smooth wood and made a small O with those pretty lips of hers.

His throat went dry.

“These rose carvings are amazing.” Her fingers glided over the intricate petals and leaves. “Has it been refinished or is this the original stain?”

He dragged his gaze from those slender hands of hers and swallowed hard. What had she asked him? If the bed had been refinished? He had no idea. He’d just bought it last month at the Witherspoon estate auction after Cara had insisted it would be perfect for the inn. On a whim, he’d kept the bed for himself instead. Sydney was the first woman who had been in his bedroom since he’d set it up, but if it had this effect on all females, he would have to give his sister his undying gratitude.

Somehow, though, he couldn’t imagine any of the women he’d invited here—and there weren’t nearly as many as the gossipmongers proclaimed—noticing the grain of wood on his bed. He did know, however, that not one woman had ever commented on his book collection before.

He frowned as he remembered that Sydney’s comment had been less than complimentary. And he certainly hadn’t invited her here, either.

She bent on her knees and leaned closer still to inspect the carving, her hands moving over the post. Stroking. Up, down. Reese felt an arrow of liquid heat shoot straight to his groin.

Good God, as ridiculous as it was, the woman was turning him on!

“Gee, Syd—” Reese feigned a lightness to his voice, even though his entire body was wound up tighter than a steel spring “—now that you’re such good friends, maybe you’d like me to leave so you can be alone here with Louis.”

Sydney’s head shot up as she obviously realized how…intimate her inspection of his bedpost had been. Her blue eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then she quickly dropped her hands and turned her lips up in what Reese could only call a smirk.

“Why, Reese Sinclair, you’re upset because I got more excited over an old bed than you.” She tilted her head to the side and touched her chin with her finger. “Don’t take it personal, but you’re just not my type, that’s all.”

Oh, was that right? Not her type, huh? She was just so damn pompous, Reese couldn’t resist messing with her. Resting an arm on his bent knee, he lifted one dark brow and grinned at her. “You sure about that, Syd?” he said huskily. “If you’d let yourself loosen up just a little bit, I bet I could tip your tiara.”

“Not a chance, Sinclair. But thanks for the offer, anyway. I’m sure you considered it quite generous on your part.” With that, she turned on her heels and headed for the door. “By the way, I have some great ideas on improving the efficiency of your kitchen. Shouldn’t take me more than a couple of days, then we can talk about developing a new menu. You really could use a little more variety.”

She waltzed through the bedroom door in that regal manner of hers and Reese almost felt as if he’d been dismissed. The woman was enough to make a man chew nails and spit rust.

He frowned. What the hell did she mean, develop a new menu? He had a terrific menu, with plenty of variety, if he did say so himself. Why fix it if it ain’t broke? And besides, she was supposed to be doing what he said, not messing with his menu or improving the efficiency of his kitchen.

Oh, no. The kitchen. If Sydney started rearranging things in the kitchen, Corky would kill him. He had to get down there before the woman caused too much trouble or any blood was shed, though that blood was probably going to be his own, Reese knew.

Whatever Corky did to him—and it was probably going to be painful—Reese figured he’d earned it. It was his own stupidity that had started this ridiculous bet. He’d made his own bed, so the saying went, and he’d have to sleep in it.

But the thought of beds brought his mind back around to the look in Sydney’s eyes as she’d admired his. Those lips of hers that had gone soft, those long, slender fingers moving on the bedpost….

Dammit! He bet she’d done that on purpose, just to get to him. Well, he refused to let Sydney Taylor get the better of him. He wasn’t interested in her like that, anymore than she was interested in him.

But now that he thought about it, when she’d told him that he wasn’t her type, she’d tilted her head and touched her chin. Exactly what she’d done last night every time she’d bluffed.

Nah. Reese laughed at the possibility of anything more than an adversarial relationship with Sydney. Besides, as annoying as it was, it was also great fun sparring with her. Why spoil a good thing?

Boomer chose that moment to come bounding through the open bedroom door. With a shrill bark, he jumped on the bed and slipped his head under Reese’s hand.

“Thanks a lot, pal.” Reese rubbed the dog’s ear. “This is all your fault I’ve got Sydney the Hun driving me insane.”

Boomer slapped his tail on the blanket.

Shaking his head, Reese chuckled as he slipped out of bed. If there was one thing he could be certain of, the next two weeks were certainly going to be interesting.

War had been declared, and there was no question in Reese’s mind who the victor would be.

Outside Reese’s small carriage house, Sydney leaned back against the closed front door. Beside a black wrought-iron porch column, one large pot of rose-pink bouvardia sweetly scented the cool morning air, and a family of sparrows chattered excitedly in a nearby maple. Weathered clay pots of flowering cabbage dotted the moss-lined brick walkway that led back to the tavern, and a rusted metal tub nestled beside a concrete bench spilled the fading blooms of purple crocus.

Any other time, Sydney would have stopped to admire the beauty of the English-style garden with its double-tiered fountain and rose arbor. She’d had no idea such a lovely spot existed behind the tavern. But then, she’d never been in Reese Sinclair’s bedroom before, either.

Her senses still reeled from the experience.

Closing her eyes, she drew in a slow, calming breath. Even now, outside in the fresh morning air, she could still see him as vividly as when she’d stood in his bedroom. The blush she’d managed to hold back inside now bloomed on her cheeks. Her skin felt warm and tingly. Heavens, but the man was something incredible to look at. Long and lean, with broad shoulders and a wide chest sprinkled with coarse, dark hair. His arms were muscled, his stomach tapered, without an ounce of fat.

When the blanket had slipped down, her heart had skipped rope. He’d been naked under those covers, she was certain of that, and standing in his bedroom, surrounded by that masculine scent of him, staring into his sleepy, sexy eyes, she’d found it difficult to breathe.

And then she’d wondered what it would be like between those warm, rumpled sheets with him. What those sculpted muscles would feel like under her hands, how his tall, hard body would fit against her own.

She’d distracted those wayward thoughts by fawning over his bed. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, but the only reason she’d known specifics was because she’d actually been at the auction and she’d admired it then, as well. She’d picked up a French Victorian buffet herself that she intended to use in the entry of her restaurant.

But that buffet had definitely not been on her mind when she’d been kneeling beside Reese’s bed. In spite of her yammering on about carvings and stains, she’d had more lascivious thoughts in mind. And she’d walk naked through a blizzard before she’d let Reese know that.

Honestly. If the man’s empty head got any bigger, he’d have to wear lead shoes on a warm day to keep from floating away. The last thing Reese Sinclair needed was another female admirer. And the last thing she needed was to have her head turned by a superficial, immature rake whose single most recurring thought was about sex.

Tip her tiara, indeed.

Not likely.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched back to the tavern, determined not only to honor her end of this ridiculous bargain, but to put all prurient thoughts about Reese Sinclair out of her mind.

She hadn’t spent nine months in culinary school and restaurant training for nothing. Squire’s Tavern was distinctly eighteenth-century English: Tudor design with dark woods, rough-hewn oak beams, peg and groove floors, and a massive stone fireplace. There was a warmth to the tavern that welcomed its customers, and the food was very good. She was particular to the hamburgers and French fries herself.

Still, that didn’t mean there weren’t areas that could stand a little improvement. A tweak here, a nip there. Why not pass along a few of the ideas that had popped into her head as she’d walked through the main restaurant area this morning?

And anyway, Sydney thought as she let herself in the back door of the tavern, no matter what she did, Reese probably wouldn’t notice at all.

Three

“Who the hell put tablecloths on these tables?”

Fists on his hips, Reese stood in the center of the tavern and glanced around the room. Crisp, white linen tablecloths covered the black oak plank tables. In the center of every table, small crystal vases each held one single pink rose. Though he kept the tablecloths and vases in his back storage room, he’d only used them a few times for private parties.

“Sydney!”

He’d left her alone too long, dammit. He’d showered in record time, threw on a white shirt, his Sunday blue jeans and black bullhide boots, then hightailed it over here. And still that wasn’t fast enough to keep the blasted woman from causing trouble.

Tablecloths and flowers, for God’s sake.

“Sydney!” He turned and stalked toward the kitchen door. “Where the devil—”

He was going in as she was coming out. The door slammed into his nose with a loud thwack. An arrow of hot pain shot straight through his skull, then exploded into thousands of tiny, blinding white stars. His oath was loud and raw.

“Reese Sinclair, what kind of talk is that?” Shaking her head, she moved past him, a small blackboard and easel in her hand, oblivious to the fact she’d just rearranged his septum. “Are you always this cranky in the morning?”

“Cranky?” Holding his nose, he followed her to the front door. “You haven’t even begun to see cranky.” His growl was nasally. “But I guarantee you, Syd, it’s coming in on a fast-moving train.”

She clucked as she slid open the heavy wrought-iron latch on the front door. “Maybe you should have slept in. Lord knows you shouldn’t be around people if this is how you behave in the morning.”

“If you recall, I was sleeping until you barged into my bedroom. And what do you mean, I shouldn’t be around people?” He winced as he gently touched the tender bridge of his nose, then pulled his hand away and checked for blood. Thank goodness there wasn’t any. “You’re a walking menace to society and I’m the one who shouldn’t be around people?”

“What in the world are you so excited about?” She set the blackboard on the easel by the hostess podium, then turned to face him. “Why are you holding your nose like that?”

“Tablecloths,” he snapped.

“Excuse me?”

“This is a tavern, not a teahouse. We don’t use tablecloths.”

She frowned at him. “That’s why you’re holding your nose? Because you don’t like the tablecloths? Heaven’s, Reese, even for you, isn’t that a bit childish?”

He counted to ten, drew in a slow breath. “No,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “You slammed the kitchen door into my nose.”

“Oh, dear.” She stepped closer and looked up at him. “Let me see.”

Protecting his nose with his hand, he backed away. “You’ve done enough, thank you very much. I’ll take my chances with a hematoma.”

“Stop being such a baby.” She came after him. “I just want to look at it, for Heaven’s sake. I won’t even touch.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say.” He held up a hand to warn her off, but she just rolled her eyes at his nonsense and kept coming.

She backed him against the wooden bench for waiting guests, then laid her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down on the seat.

“Now, be still.” With her lips pressed firmly together, she placed her hands gently on each side of his jaw and lifted his face. “Hmm. It does look a little red.”

“Of course it’s red,” he complained, but the soft touch of her fingers on his cheeks made the pulsing pain subside. “You clobbered me with the door.”

“I’d hardly use the word clobbered.” She turned his head to the side, stared at him thoughtfully. “It does look a little crooked, though.”

“It was already crooked. Lucian broke it when we were teenagers.” Damn, but her fingers felt nice on his face. Her palms were smooth and warm, and she smelled good, too. Like last night. Lavender and something else. He breathed in deeply, concentrated on the familiar scent….

Vanilla. That was it. Sydney smelled like lavender and vanilla. It suited her, he decided.

“Your own brother broke your nose?” She gently touched the sides of his nose with her fingertips, raised her brows when he flinched. “That sounds a little barbaric.”

She wore a gold, narrow-band wristwatch and the tick-tick-tick echoed in his ears and matched the thump-thump-thump in his temple. He couldn’t remember a woman’s fingers ever being so soft. “He didn’t mean to do it. At least, not to me. He was swinging at Callan, who managed to duck the blow. I, unfortunately, was standing directly behind Callan.”

Shaking her head with exasperation, she turned his head the other way and stepped between his knees as she leaned in for a closer inspection. “So all those stories I heard about the wild, reckless Sinclairs were true, huh?”

“Bad to the bone, sweetheart. Don’t you forget it.”

Her lips turned up at that, and he could see the laughter in her eyes. His gaze settled on that sassy mouth of hers and without his approval, his pulse jumped. Damn, but those lips were enticing, turned up slightly at the corners and the upper lip shaped like a cupid’s bow. The kind of lips that would be a perfect fit for a man’s mouth. And in spite of her sass, he knew she’d taste sweet. Somehow, just knowing that didn’t seem to be enough. He had the craziest desire to experience that sweetness.

Something shifted in the air around them. As if an electrical storm were coming; a heaviness that made it hard to breathe. And with him sitting and her standing so close, directly in front of him, between his legs, no less, he became increasingly aware of Sydney as a woman. A woman with curves, very nice curves. He was certain she wasn’t aware of it, but her breasts were no more than a handsbreadth from his face. From his mouth.

His heart started slamming around inside his chest like a punching bag. He couldn’t be thinking this…feeling this way about Sydney. Sydney and sex simply didn’t compute. The blow to his nose must have rattled his brain. Except for the fact that he’d already had a fleeting, mildly sexual thought about her earlier in his bedroom. Okay, so maybe the thought was a little more than mild, but it had been fleeting.

And now it was back. With nuclear force.

She moved in closer as she gently touched the bridge of his nose, and his blood began to boil. God help him, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to slip his fingers under her sweater, feel the warmth of her skin and fill his palms with her soft flesh.

He fisted his hands at his sides and pressed his lips tightly together.

“We should probably put some ice on it,” she suggested. There was hesitation in her voice. Uncertainty.

“Probably.” But he didn’t move, and neither did she. “Does it still hurt?” she asked softly, a little breathlessly.

“Yes.” Only it wasn’t his nose he was talking about. There was another part of his anatomy that was now throbbing.

“I’m sorry.” Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted, and her hands had moved back to tenderly cup his face. “It does look a little swollen.”

He started to choke at her choice of words and she quickly pulled her hands away and slapped him on the back. “Reese! Are you all right?”

Certain he couldn’t speak, he simply nodded, then stood so fast that their bodies collided. Sydney started to fall back, but he grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her.

His hands tightened on her arms as he stared down at her.

Blue eyes wide and soft, she stared up at him.

Damn that mouth of hers.

Damn the torpedoes….

He started to lower his head—

The tavern door swung open wide; Gabe and Melanie came in first, with five-year-old Kevin, Melanie’s son, Callan and Abby came next, then Cara and Ian. The noise level in the tavern increased tenfold as his family spilled like a burst dam into the room.

“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!” Gabe scooped a laughing Kevin up in his arms, and Reese saw the lift of Gabe’s brows as his gaze landed on the sight of Reese holding Sydney’s arms. Reese quickly dropped his hands. Terrific, just terrific. He could only imagine how this must look to everyone. Exactly like what it was, he realized with a silent groan. Good Lord, he’d almost kissed Sydney!

Thank God his family had rescued him from making a mistake like that. Reese knew he’d take some ribbing for it, but that was a small price to pay to be saved from insanity.

“My mom won’t let me say hell,” Kevin announced to everyone in the way only a five-year-old can. “She gets mad if I even say heck.”

“Hail—” Melanie carefully enunciated the word as she pulled a black felt hat from her head, spilling her thick auburn hair around her shoulders “—means hello,” she explained. “It also means hail as in pellets of ice, but we can talk about that later. Sydney, how nice to see you.”

“Hello, Sydney.” Abby smiled sweetly, ran an unconscious hand through the layered golden curls of a new hairdo she wasn’t quite used to yet but her husband seemed to love.

“You here for Sunday brunch?” Cara asked, shrugging out of her navy peacoat. Though she had barely begun to show in her pregnancy, her hand instinctively moved to her stomach. Ian, her husband, slipped an arm around her from behind and covered her hand while he pressed his lips to the top of his wife’s blond head.

“Sort of.” Sydney folded her arms and looked up at Reese with a smug why-don’t-you-tell-them expression on her face.

The room was once again quiet, all eyes on him.

Dammit, dammit. He’d never intended for that silly card game to go this far, let alone be standing here trying to explain to his family.

And based on that smirk on Sydney’s face, she sure as hell had no intention of making it any easier on him, either.

“Well, it’s kind of funny, actually…” He cleared his throat. “See, Sydney and I were playing poker last night—”

That certainly lifted a few eyebrows, but still, no one said anything. “Well, we sort of had a bet, and, uh, I, well, I won.” He paused, blurted it out in one quick breath. “So Sydney’s going to work here for me for a couple of weeks.”

How absolutely ridiculous it sounded to say it out loud. Eight sets of eyes bored into him.

Then all hell broke loose.

“You did what?” Cara narrowed her eyes disapprovingly.

“A couple of weeks?” Ian’s jaw went slack.

“This is a joke, right?” Gabe frowned.

“Sydney work here?” Callan started to laugh, but Abby elbowed him and shook her head in disbelief.

A pounding started in Reese’s head. “I told her I’d waive the deal and cancel all debts. In fact, I even insisted. She refused my offer.”

“A deal is a deal,” Sydney concurred. “I lost, Reese won. I’m here for two weeks, three hours a day.”

“With full pay and tips,” Reese added quickly, hoping to redeem himself even a little. It was obvious his brothers thought it was hilarious, while the women all looked at him as if he’d kicked a puppy.

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