“Let’s get something on those scratches.”

For the next five minutes, Alex sat in one of Taylor’s kitchen chairs as she swabbed his cuts with antiseptic. His own mother hadn’t fussed over him this gently when he’d skinned his knees as a boy.

What made Taylor’s attentions seem so…different? Maybe the way her hands shook, ever so slightly, as she touched the swabs to his cuts. Maybe it was the way her voice trembled just a little when she asked, “Does that hurt?”

And maybe, just maybe, it was the look in her eyes that said even something as insignificant as cat scratches were important…because he was important.

If only—

LOREE LOUGH

A full-time writer for more than a dozen years, Loree Lough has produced more than 2,000 published articles, dozens of short stories—appearing in magazines here and abroad—and novels for the young (and young at heart). The author of twenty-nine romances (including the award-winning Pocketful of Love, Emma’s Orphans and bestsellers like Reluctant Valentine, Miracle on Kismet Hill and Just One Christmas Wish) Loree also writes as Cara McCormack and Aleesha Carter.

A comedic teacher and conference speaker, Loree loves sharing in classrooms what she’s learned the hard way. She lives in Maryland with her husband of nearly (gasp, sputter, choke!) thirty years.

Suddenly Home
Loree Lough

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Come home with me, and refresh thyself,

and I will give thee a reward.

—I Kings 13:7

To Elice and Valerie, my daughters,

my friends…may the romance of true love

care for you all the days of your lives.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Letter to Reader

Prologue

Date: December 17

Time: 1600

Coordinates: 17º 22.3 minutes north

66º 45.6 minutes west

Altitude 500 feet

Like blue-green tentacles, lightning snaked along the F-16’s wingtips, brightening the Puerto Rican sky and blacking out the entire control panel. Lieutenant Alex Van Buren had mere seconds to decide: Eject…

Or go down with the fighter.

He jerked back on the throttle, but it was no use. He couldn’t bring the aircraft out of its nosedive. If he abandoned the plane, there’d be no time for his chute to open. Not while flying over the choppy waters at an altitude of five hundred feet.

He hoped for a miracle. There’d been times when, under similar conditions, other pilots’ parachutes had released…right…?

Who was he kidding? He’d been a test pilot a long time. More than long enough to know a guy didn’t bullet through the sky at nearly six hundred miles an hour and survive a crash. But even if he didn’t die, he’d be so broken and battered he’d be lucky to see a cockpit again, let alone manipulate its controls.

Death didn’t scare him. Living—if it meant he couldn’t fly—now, that terrified him. As a much younger man he’d entertained the idea of pastoring a little church in the boonies. But every Van Buren before him had been a naval officer. Who was he to break tradition, especially for something as meaningless as a boyhood dream?

So many thoughts, so many questions racing through his mind….

As the sparkling surface of the water hurtled closer, closer, Van Buren held his breath and closed his eyes, steeling himself for the rib-racking effects of ejection, and did something he hadn’t done in ages.

He prayed.

Prayed he’d pass out, so he wouldn’t hear his bones breaking, his muscles tearing. Prayed that God, in His infinite mercy and wisdom, would let him drown quickly in the warm island waters; better that than go home as something other than the man he’d worked so long and hard to become.

Van Buren felt his body catapult from the cockpit.

And as he became one with the sky, he wondered if he’d survive the impact.

Date: December 17

Time: 4:00 p.m.

Supra-Air Flight 550

In the skies above Puerto Rico

If she spoke, even to order coffee, she’d break down. And so when the flight attendant stopped the drink cart beside her seat, Taylor pretended to be asleep…

And remembered the last time she’d talked to her mother.

Back then, Taylor had been working at a small pub in Houston. As usual, her mom ended the telephone conversation with a warning about what becomes of folks who live in the fast lane. In her mother’s opinion, Taylor—who’d traded her physical therapist smock for a microphone—had spent the past five years doing exactly that.

Taylor wasted no time pointing out that, in her opinion, it was the other way around. Because six months before, her mother had taken up with a has-been race-car driver who, frustrated by a dead-end career, had begun hurtling through life at maximum overdrive….

These past twelve hours had been a crazy, hazy blur: the phone call to her uncle Dave, then booking a last-minute flight from Puerto Rico to Baltimore, packing, hailing a taxi…. Through it all, Taylor fought tears, asking herself why she hadn’t called her mom more often, why she hadn’t visited home more frequently. Because if she’d been there, she could have steered her mother around the hazard signs in the road ahead.

It hardly seemed possible that just the night before, Taylor had been sitting on a tall padded stool at San Juan’s Posada Felicidad, strumming her Yamaha and singing “In Your Arms” when her boss had waved an arm to get her attention, then pointed at the phone, letting Taylor know the call was for her.

A slight frown, a small head shake had made clear what she’d mouthed between verses: “Take a message.”

Later, alone in her hotel room, Taylor had returned her uncle’s call. “For a while there,” he’d said, “your mama seemed to be holdin’ her own. That’s when she asked me to get hold of you.” He went on to explain how, despite the best efforts of the emergency-room team, her mother had died of complications suffered in a fiery car crash.

Would there have been time for a final goodbye, one last “I love you” if Taylor had put down her guitar long enough to accept her uncle’s call? She’d never know. Because now, every chance she had at being a better daughter was dead.

And so was her mother.

Looking out the airliner’s thick window, she watched as lightning sliced through the Puerto Rican sky. Shielding her eyes with the palm of one hand, she steeled herself against the if onlys and what ifs, remembering one of her mother’s favorite sayings: “The road to nowhere is paved with regrets.”

Small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

In a few hours, when this overcrowded 747 landed at Baltimore-Washington International Airport, Taylor would head for the funeral home to view her mother’s body.

Would she survive the impact of that?

Chapter One

Eighteen months later

BWI Airport

Baltimore, Maryland

From start to finish, the red-eye flight from Ireland had been a nightmare, complete with keep-your-seat-belts-fastened turbulence, crying babies and a grumpy crew. She’d barely cracked the spine of her novel when an over-weight gent tromped on her foot climbing into his window seat. If Taylor had known his first words would be the kickoff to an eight-hour gabfest, she’d have kept reading the scene that began, “His dark-lashed eyes bored into hers with an alarming intensity….” Something told her she’d have to wait until she got home to find out how the heroine reacted to the hero’s scrutiny.

And she’d been right.

Her seatmate, who’d hogged the armrest and spilled coffee on both of them, now left his boot print on her other white sneaker as he joined the mad race to be first off the plane.

After the aisle cleared, Taylor stood and, looking at the space he’d occupied, bit back a groan. She considered calling out to him, “You’ve forgotten something…” so he’d have to shoulder his way back through the crowd to retrieve the peanut packages, napkins and candy wrappers he’d left behind. The flight crew might appreciate her efforts, but all she really wanted was to pick up Barney at Pampered Pets Kennels, brew herself a soothing cup of tea and settle in at home. Stifling a yawn, she reached into the overhead bin for her carry-on…

And collided with the man across the aisle.

“Ooomph,” he grunted.

A feeble “I’m sorry” sighed from her lips.

Shaking his head, he raised one dark eyebrow, reminding her of the passage from the novel she’d been reading. His dark-lashed eyes bored into hers with an alarming intensity….

“No problem,” he said, his voice deep and gruff. Then he grabbed the straps of her bag and dragged it from the compartment. “This one yours?”

Nodding, Taylor clutched it to her. “Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you.”

Turning, he slid his own bag from the bin above his seat and stepped back. With a grand sweep of his arm, he said, “After you.”

She couldn’t tell if the gesture was sincere or not. But Taylor thanked him, and headed down the aisle.

“Don’t mention it,” he growled. “My pleasure.”

She hurried from the plane, and halfway through the tube connecting the jetliner to the terminal, he passed her, aiming a curt nod and a two-finger salute at her. Taylor couldn’t help but notice his pronounced limp. During the flight, as he’d made his way to the lavatory, she’d blamed turbulence for his halting half step. Now she couldn’t help but wonder if an accident or a birth defect had caused him to favor his left leg.

Accident, she decided, remembering his grumpy demeanor; if he’d been born with the limp, wouldn’t he have adjusted to it by now?

He rounded the corner just as a terrible thought occurred to her—had she caused the injury when she’d backed into him? Had she stepped on his foot harder than she’d realized?

Well, surely she’d see him in baggage claim. And when she did, Taylor would apologize. And make it sound a little more sincere this time.

It shouldn’t have been difficult to find him, tall as he was. But she didn’t see him at the baggage claim. Or the taxi stand, either. Not even when she stood on tiptoe, searching the crowd. Taylor gave up looking for him when a cabbie said, “Where to, lady?”

“Ellicott City,” she said as her driver tossed her suitcase into the trunk.

The taxi driver made small talk as he maneuvered through the traffic on I-95. But Taylor barely heard him, because she couldn’t seem to shift her attention from the man with the limp.

She tried thinking about Barney, and how happy he’d be to see her after spending so many days at the kennel.

She tried thinking about all the gossip Mrs. Dansfield would share when she delivered the mail she’d been picking up for Taylor.

About getting back to work—a job far more satisfying than singing for her supper had ever been.

But it was no use. The image of his dark eyes seemed frozen in her mind. He looked familiar, and for the life of her, she didn’t know why. Had they met? But where? And when?

His expression flashed in her memory again. Was he as sad and forlorn as he seemed? Or had it been fear she’d seen in his big brown orbs? Taylor’s heart ached a bit on his behalf, because she’d learned something about that in the past eighteen months. She said a quick prayer, asking God to help the poor guy cope with whatever had painted such a doleful expression on his handsome face.

The familiar facade of her house came into view and she smiled. Not the Victorian she’d always dreamed of, but close enough for the time being.

She paid the taxi driver, shoved her suitcase through her front door and headed straight for Pampered Pets Kennels. Once she and the fat orange tabby were settled in, Taylor would have a day and a half to recuperate from her trip to Ireland. Thirty-six hours to readjust, pick up where she’d left off.

Maneuvering her car through Ellicott City’s side streets, Taylor sighed. Because where had she left off? Better question, she wondered, What did you leave behind?

Other than Barney, regrets mostly. Regrets that she’d spent those last precious months of her mother’s life “finding herself” instead of being the doting daughter her mother had deserved. Regrets that she hadn’t accepted the phone call that night in Puerto Rico.

The big pink-and-white sign that said Pampered Pets came into view and Taylor heaved a deep sigh. Parking in front of the pink-trimmed brick building, she thought again of her mother’s favorite saying: “The road to nowhere is paved with regrets.”

Her mother, Amanda, also liked to say, “Life goes on!”

It had been eighteen months since the accident. And true to her mother’s witty wisdom, life had indeed gone on. A year and a half had passed since Amanda’s death. Eighteen months without so much as a syllable of motherly advice.

Yet Taylor had gone to work, had attended various church functions and social events, and had even gone out on a date or two.

Like it or not, her mother had been right.

Had he gone to Ireland simply to put an end to his mother’s nagging?

Alex groaned inwardly, knowing even as the thought crossed his mind that it wasn’t fair to call it “nagging.” Badgering was more like it. But her insistence hadn’t been the sole reason he’d taken the trip. He’d known better than anyone that a change of scenery had been in order, that doubt and self-pity had pretty much taken over his whole life since the crash, that if he didn’t get a handle on it pretty quickly, there was no telling how he’d end up, or where.

The so-called “vacation” was his last-ditch effort to get back a semblance of the man he’d been before the accident. And to give his mother her due, the trip had worked. Something about the Emerald Isle touched a long-forgotten…something…inside him, and that something had awakened his desire to fully participate in life again.

Now Alex was glad that before departing for Ireland he’d set certain things in motion, because it meant there was no turning back.

Not without losing face.

Soon his life would be fine and dandy. Right as rain. Good as new…

Keep that up, he told himself, you’ll be eligible for the next Channel 13 TV Jingle King contest.

All things considered, Alex believed he felt about as good as a man who’d survived a near-death experience could feel. He’d prove it when he woke up in his new apartment with its spanking new furniture, climbed into his shiny new car and headed for his brand-new job.

“Yippee,” he grumbled under his breath.

The cabbie met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “What’s that, sir?”

He frowned. “Nothing,” Alex replied. “Just…nothing.”

Alex had found that the best medicine for self-pity was thinking of something besides himself. This time, it surprised him when the new subject occupying his thoughts was the young woman who’d crashed into him on the plane. She was petite and pretty, and he’d been watching her from the corner of his eye during most of the flight.

Well, not watching her, exactly, but he’d noticed that when the man beside her spilled coffee on her jacket, she’d casually blotted up the mess with a paper napkin. “It’s okay,” she’d said, smiling. “Time to take this old thing to the cleaners, anyway.” Amazing thing was, she seemed to mean it.

Her forgiving words seemed to invite her seatmate’s jabbering, which didn’t stop for the rest of the flight. What kept her from yawning from boredom as he droned on about his pedigreed Yorkshire terriers, his job as a tech systems analyst, his tomato garden, Alex didn’t know.

He only knew that, from his side of the aisle, anyway, she appeared to be interested in everything the man had to say.

Before he’d crashed his fighter plane, if he’d met a woman like that under any circumstances, he’d be having lunch with her by now, flirting his socks off, working his way up to inviting her to dinner. Wasn’t that what test pilots were expected to do, after all?

Why he felt he’d lost something meaningful when she disappeared from view, he didn’t know. He only knew that she was gorgeous. Kind. Special in ways he’d probably never understand. That look she’d given him when he took her bag out of the overhead bin kept flashing in his memory, a look that said she’d survived some pretty tough stuff in her life, too.

But since he’d probably never see her again, he wasn’t likely to find out what.

The cabbie stopped in front of Alex’s town house, popped the trunk and tossed an already battered suitcase onto the sidewalk.

Alex peeled a twenty from his money clip. “Keep the change,” he said, grabbing his bag.

The meter read $17.50, and even behind the iridescent wraparound sunglasses, the cabbie’s indignant expression was obvious. Tucking the bill into his shirt pocket, he slid in behind the steering wheel. “Gee, thanks, Mr. Trump,” he muttered as he slammed the door.

The sarcasm was lost on Alex, who stood at the end of his walk, staring at the black numbers above his front door. Shaking his head, he took out his new house key and jammed it into his new bolt, hoping the air conditioner was working, because it was uncharacteristically hot and humid for June in the Baltimore suburbs.

A note taped to the brass door knocker flapped in the sultry breeze. “Welcome home,” said his mother’s delicate script. “Remember: Life is what you make of it!”

Shoving open the front door, he stuffed the message into his jacket pocket. “Thanks, Mom,” he grumbled. “Next time I meet a gorgeous li’l gal, maybe I’ll remember your good advice.”

Taylor dropped her purse on the floor and opened the cat carrier. “Good to be home, isn’t it, Barn?” she asked, gathering him near. The gold-striped tabby nuzzled her cheek and chirruped happily, then leapt from her arms and headed straight for the long-fringed afghan at the foot of Taylor’s bed. As she watched him stretch, sadness cloaked her. Because Barney had been her mother’s cat, and wouldn’t be here at all if…

She straightened her shoulders. No point in dwelling in the past. What’s done is done, she told herself.

Taylor hurried into the kitchen and washed down two white pills with a glass of water. Prescription medication took care of Taylor’s allergy to cats, but who would have taken care of Barney if Taylor hadn’t adopted him? The better question was, who would have taken care of her if Barney hadn’t let her adopt him? By now, the cat was far more than a beloved pet; he was Taylor’s only living connection to her mother.

He rubbed her ankles as she filled his bowls with water and cat food. Once he’d finished nibbling at the kibbles, he headed for Taylor’s bedroom. Taylor followed, and watched as he sashayed toward the down-stuffed pillows at the head of her bed and began batting at the fringed trim.

Barely six months old when he lost his former mistress, Barney had quickly adapted to his new life. Taylor, on the other hand, had struggled with the loss every day since the accident.

Sighing, she tried to focus on the cat’s antics. Forcing a smile, she admitted that the pillows’ plumpness did look inviting, particularly after the long flight home from Ireland.

Ireland…

If not for her mother, Taylor probably wouldn’t have gone overseas at all.

After Taylor’s father died, her mother began traveling…and pestering Taylor to get a passport and see the world with her. Amanda visited dozens of countries in the years after Jake’s heart attack, but her favorite place in all the world had been Ireland. “If you go there,” she’d said, “you’ll find yourself drawn back, again and again.”

And just as Amanda had predicted, Taylor had fallen in love with the land and its people. If her budget allowed it, Taylor would return every June to commemorate her mother’s first trip there.

Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs, she decided Barney was right. Those pillows did look irresistible. And they’d look even better after a hot shower and a soothing cup of herbal tea.

Ten minutes later, wrapped in a white chenille robe, long brown hair tucked under a thick towel, she carried a steaming mug of Lemon Clouds into the living room. “Just look at this,” she complained as Barney snuggled up close. “Do you have any idea how many trees had to die so this junk mail could be printed up?”

The cat gave the stack a slant-eyed stare and emitted an expansive yawn.

Grinning, she ruffled his fur. “Where would the rain forests be if everyone had your attitude?”

His response was a bigger, longer yawn.

Taylor smiled. Being needed, in Taylor’s opinion, didn’t get the notice it deserved. Having Barney to take care of, to look after, had made the difference between wallowing in grief and getting back to the business of living. She gave him a gentle pat. “Thanks, Barn.”

He rolled onto his side, as if to say, “Don’t mention it.”

Which was what the stranger on the airplane had said when she thanked him for getting her bag from the overhead bin….

Taylor shook her head and stuffed the junk mail into the pantry’s recycling bin, then gathered the important mail and headed for the home office she’d fashioned in a corner of her bedroom. Laying the envelopes on the desk, she faced her suitcase and groaned. The only thing she hated more than packing was unpacking.

Barney slunk into the room, stopping to sniff the suitcase. Forepaws resting on the handle, he continued his investigation.

“Oh, don’t be such a nag,” she teased when he meowed at her. “I’ll put things away tomor—”

Frowning, Taylor crossed the room. “Hey, where’s my luggage tag?” she wondered aloud. “And my bungee cord?” Her uncle Dave—self-appointed protector and Taylor’s only living relative—had insisted she secure the suitcase with a sturdy strap. “For extra protection,” he’d said.

Why hadn’t she noticed before that it was missing?

Jet lag, she thought, excusing the oversight.

On her knees now, she laid the suitcase on its side and pulled at the lock. It opened easily. Too easily. Ordinarily, it took several hard tugs to pop it. Unzipping the case, she threw back its lid and stifled a gasp.

Inside, where skirts and blouses should have been…

A jumble of rumpled blue jeans, wrinkled T-shirts and rag-knit socks. “Eee-yooo,” she complained, “just look at this mess.”

In her hurry to get home, she’d obviously grabbed the wrong suitcase. Had someone else picked up hers? Or was it still there, going round and round on the belt, waiting to be claimed?

Taylor glanced at the clock. Nearly six in the evening—far too late to call the airline now.

Attention on the suitcase again, she lifted one well-worn running shoe from the pile, held it at arm’s length. “Look at the size of this thing, Barn. Who would have guessed that the Jolly Green Giant was a jogger?”

In response, Barney hopped into the suitcase, purring as his forepaws kneaded the messy clothes inside.

“Get out of there,” she scolded, gently shooing him away, “before you snag something.” Though she honestly didn’t know how any of it could look any worse.

The cat gave an insulted meow and swaggered from the room, tail pointing indignantly toward the ceiling.

Taylor barely noticed. Pinkies raised and nose wrinkled, she searched for a business card, an address book, anything that would tell her the owner’s name.

She felt like Little Jack Horner as she stuck her hand into a side pocket and pulled out a business card. “‘Alex Van Buren,’” she read. “‘2345 Lancaster Road. Ellicott City, Maryland.’ Good. He’s local.”

A second glance at the clock told her it was early enough to call him.

Perched on the edge of the bed, she dialed Alex Van Buren’s number, and counted the rings.

“Alex’s answering machine is broken,” said a deep male voice. “This is his refrigerator. Leave your name and number, and I’ll put the message under one of the magnets he’s got stuck all over me.”

Giggling, Taylor rolled her eyes and waited for the beep. “Mr. Van Buren? My name is Taylor Griffith. It seems there was a mix-up at the airport, and I picked up your suitcase by mistake. Hopefully, you have mine, which, coincidentally, looks an awful lot like yours….”

She cleared her throat. Why was she rattling on this way?

“Would you give me a call, please, and let me know when it’s convenient for us to get together and, um, make the trade? If you have my suitcase, that is. If not, we can arrange a good time for you to pick up your suitcase.” She recited her phone number and hung up.

Then, stretching, she slid under the covers, remembering his voice. Wholly, soothingly male, it reminded her of someone. Someone she knew.

But who?

The voice continued to echo in her mind until she drifted off to sleep.

“Mr. Van Buren? My name is Taylor Griffith.”

Alex lifted the corners of his pillow and pressed them against his ears. But it was no use. He could still hear her. “I picked up your suitcase by mistake….”

He’d locked up tight and closed the blinds before climbing into bed, intent upon making up for the many nights of sleep he’d lost while in Ireland.

If only he’d remembered to turn off the answering machine.

Groaning, he levered himself up on one elbow and flicked on the light. Eyes shaded by one hand, he squinted across the room. Well, the bag he’d brought home certainly looked like his….

“Would you give me a call, please, and let me know when it’s convenient for us to get together and, um, make the trade?”

Alex turned the volume on the answering machine down, clicked off the light and flopped back onto his pillow. Rolling onto his side, he took a deep breath, hoping to pick up where he’d left off when Taylor Griffith had interrupted his dream.

He’d been strolling along Ireland’s Dingle Coast, staring out at the great expanse of churning gray sea, when a lovely blue-eyed lass had stepped up beside him and offered to share her home-baked brown bread. But it was no use. Instead of accepting a slice, his thoughts returned to the Griffith woman’s message.

Knuckling his eyes, Alex decided the suitcase news wasn’t nearly as interesting as his dream. Punching his pillow, he tried again to return to Ireland and the lovely blue-eyed lass.

But a question popped into his head, disrupting the dream yet again. Its answer was obvious—this Taylor person had gotten his name and number from his luggage tag.

Jaw set with determination, he forced himself to remember Galway Bay. Bunglass Point. The thatched cottage on The Burren where he’d spent his first night abroad, listening to the gentle lowing of Black Angus cows.

But he couldn’t concentrate on Ireland or anything related to it, thanks to one Taylor Griffith.

Alex sat up, threw his bare legs over the edge of the bed and growled under his breath. There seemed to be a conspiracy these past few days to keep him from getting any shut-eye at all.

At a bed-and-breakfast in Ballydehob, the owner’s short-legged dog—named Bruce, of all things—barked the whole night away. In a small hotel in Killorglin, trains that ran like clockwork woke him every hour on the hour. Last night, the darlin’ woman who owned the house near Shannon Airport couldn’t seem to comfort her colicky baby. And now some girl seemed to think she had his suitcase, and he had hers.

He wouldn’t get any sleep until he got to the root of this, so why try?

Heaving a deep sigh, Alex hit the answering machine’s play button and turned the sound up. As the tape rewound, he opened the nightstand drawer, poked around until he found a pen buried under paperback novels and soda straws. Dig as he might, he couldn’t find anything to write on.

He listened to the first part of her message, and when she began reciting her number, Alex scribbled it on the palm of his hand. He’d call Ms. Griffith first thing in the morning, see about straightening out this mix-up she’d referred to.

After tossing the ballpoint back into the drawer, he turned the answering machine’s sound down. For the last time tonight, he hoped.

Then the red, white and blue ID tag on his bag caught his eye. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? He’d lost the original luggage tag soon after buying the suitcase, and had been making do with the paper ones provided by the airlines ever since.

Alex hobbled toward it, rubbing his bad leg and doing his best not to think about how he’d earned the limp. Try as he might, the crash was something he’d never forget, or live down. And why should he be allowed to do either? It wasn’t every day that a test pilot lost a multimillion-dollar aircraft in the middle of the Caribbean.

He grabbed the luggage tag. “Taylor Griffith,” precise black letters spelled out, “142 Old Belle Way, Ellicott City.” Grinning, he thought, She sure didn’t sound like an old belle….

He unfastened the stretchy red-and-yellow band wrapped around the suitcase, then unzipped it. Inside, in neatly folded stacks, lay delicate, feminine articles of clothing in every shade of the rainbow. A tiny, pointy-toed black shoe poked out of a side pocket, and he held it by its long, slender heel. Chuckling, Alex said under his breath, “I guess not all elves live in hollow trees.” Turning it this way and that, he added, “Some of ’em live at 142 Old Belle Way.”

He put the shoe back where he’d found it. At least, he hoped he had. The idea of disturbing the perfection inside bothered him, and he chalked it up to years of rigorous military training.

Training. One more thing to remind him of the man he used to be. It hadn’t been hard, turning deliberately back into the not-so-tidy guy he’d been before enlisting….

Padding barefoot across uncarpeted hardwood, he picked up the telephone receiver. Tucking it between ear and shoulder, Alex punched in the number printed on his palm. Two rings, three, then a melodious “Hello?”

Nope, doesn’t sound a bit like an old belle, he thought again, grinning.

“Hello?” she repeated.

There was something about that melodic voice. Something rich, something vibrant. Where had he heard it before? Clearing his throat, Alex said, “Miss Griffith?”

There was a considerable pause before a soft “Yes?” sighed into his ear.

“This is Alex Van Buren.” She hadn’t corrected his “Miss” to “Mrs.,” and for a reason he couldn’t explain, Alex was relieved. “I, ah, I understand you have my suitcase?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Mr. Van Buren. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. I don’t know what possessed me to grab your bag without checking first to make sure it was mine. If you’ll just tell me where you’d like it delivered, I’ll be happy to—”

He had a feeling she was ending every sentence by accenting the last word out of nervousness, or worse, fear. “Hey,” Alex interrupted, giving in to a need to soothe her, “there’s no way of knowing which of us got to baggage claim first. Maybe it was me who picked up the wrong bag.”

He listened to the silence that prefaced her quiet sigh.

“Oh, thank goodness! You do have my bag. I was beginning to worry I’d have a long uphill battle with the officials at the airline….”

“It’s here,” he assured her, “safe and sound.” Then, remembering that he’d promised to drive his mom to a church brunch the next day, he said, “Tell you what. I’ll be in your neck of the woods tomorrow.” He knew exactly where her street was, and could easily stop by her place on the way to his mother’s. “How ’bout we make the switch then?”

He remembered the delicate perfume that had wafted from her clothing, the soft fabrics, the feminine colors. He very much wanted to meet the woman with feet half the size of his, who packed with such precision, who had the voice of an angel…and the strength to haul his big, heavy suitcase home.

The instant he realized he’d been daydreaming, Alex coughed. Twice. “Well. Now, then. So tell me, Miss Griffith, are you an early riser?”

“An early riser? Well, I—I, um…”

Easy, he warned himself, because if the rest of her was as small as her shoe, she was probably just a little bit of a thing, and easily frightened.

“Do you need directions?” she asked.

Chuckling, he said, “Nah. Ellicott City is my hometown. I used to drive a delivery truck during my college years. I bet if I put my mind to it, I could draw a map of the place.”

Alex shook his head, more confused by his odd behavior than he’d been by anything in quite some time. It wasn’t like him to make small talk, particularly of the humorous kind. At least, he hoped she’d heard the nonsense he’d been spouting as humorous….

“Well, all right,” she said hesitantly. “I’ll see you around ten, then?”

“Right-o. Ten, then.”

Right-o? Where had that come from? Was it her voice or her attitude—or both—that had rattled him so? Alex wouldn’t have been able to explain why if his life had depended on it, but he didn’t want to say goodbye.

“Thank you, Mr. Van Buren, for going to so much trouble.”

“No thanks necessary, Miss Griffith. Like I said, it’s no trouble. No trouble at all.”

When she hung up, Alex felt disconnected from more than her lovely voice. Smiling, he climbed back into bed and snapped off the light. Fingers clasped under his head, he stared at the darkened ceiling. “If she looks even half as good as she sounds,” he said to himself, “you’re in for a real sweet treat, Alex, m’boy.”

But that was the flyboy in him talking, and he knew it. A test pilot was expected to behave like Romeo and Casanova and Valentino rolled into one. Alex had spent his share of compliments on the opposite sex, but unlike his contemporaries, for whom flirtation seemed second nature, he’d had to work hard at it. If flattery didn’t get him a date with a beautiful woman, the flight suit was sure to have a positive effect. If he’d been in civilian clothes, talking plain talk, would the ladies have paid him a moment’s attention?

Alex didn’t think so. And the dishonesty of it all had always bothered him.

Talking with Taylor Griffith hadn’t been like that. Instead, the conversation had been smooth and easy. Maybe for no other reason than the honesty that had prompted her phone call, and his.

He closed his eyes and rolled onto his side, remembering that sweet, lyrical voice.

It didn’t surprise him when he had no desire to conjure up the image of his pretty Irish lass.

The minute she was dressed and ready, Taylor called her uncle. “Ready for the ladies’ auxiliary brunch?” she teased.

“Don’t rub it in,” he complained. “If it wasn’t for the fact that the money they’ll raise is for a good cause—”

“Oh, Unc, you know you enjoy these functions.”

He chuckled. “Says you.”

“Says anybody who sees you.” She giggled. “You certainly look like you’re enjoying yourself, surrounded by ladies all the time.”

“Yeah, well, I’d have a lot better time if they didn’t all have blue hair,” he added, laughing.

“Well, at least you can always depend on great food.”

Taylor heard him smack his lips. “That’s true,” he agreed.

“I’ll be there by noon. That’ll give us plenty of time to get a good seat.”

“Okay. See you then, kid—”

The doorbell rang, interrupting his farewell. “Who’s that so early on a Sunday morning?” he demanded.

“It’s five of ten,” she pointed out. “Hardly early.”

“Well, don’t open that door till you’ve checked first to see who it is. Through the peephole, mind you. We’re not living in the world I grew up in,” he warned.

“I’ll be careful,” she said as the bell rang a second time. “See you at noon.”

After hanging up, she half ran to the foyer, and stood on tiptoe to peer through the peephole.

A man, hands in his pockets, stood on the porch, staring across the street. Taylor opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow and spoke through the crack. “Yes?”

When he turned, the sight of his wide, friendly smile made her wonder if it was possible for a human heart to burst through its rib cage.

Because it was him, the man she’d nearly mowed over in the aisle of the plane.

“Hi,” he said, removing his sunglasses. “Alex Van Buren.” He used the glasses to point at the porch floor. “I’ve got your suitcase?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She closed the door to unlatch the chain, then opened it again, wider this time. “Won’t you come in?”

It was fairly obvious that he hadn’t gotten a clear view of her while the chain lock had been in place. But now, eyes wide and brows high on his forehead, he said, “No way.”

She couldn’t help but smile at the coincidence. Couldn’t help but remember that he’d occupied most of her dreams last night, either.

He lifted the bag as if it weighed no more than a gallon of milk. Taylor had packed the thing. She knew how heavy it was. Well, she told herself, he was tall and good-looking and strong. She grinned inwardly. But what were the chances he was single…and a Christian?

Putting the bag at the bottom of the stairs, he noticed Barney. “Hey, there,” he said, crouching and extending his hand. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

She was about to warn him that Barney did not take well to strangers when the cat rubbed its face against the man’s hand. A tremor of envy coursed through her. It had taken months before she’d earned that kind of affection from the cat.

Blushing, Van Buren stood, pocketed his hands again. “Kids and animals…” he said haltingly, and shrugged. “What can I say?”

Taylor surely didn’t know what to say, and so she said nothing.

She caught him staring, and followed his gaze to see what had so thoroughly captured his attention. On the foyer table lay the church bulletin, where she’d circled the ladies’ auxiliary brunch in red. But why would he be interested in that?

“Is that my suitcase?” he asked, nodding at the bag near the door.

“Oh. Yes.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m afraid I, ah, sort of messed things up inside, looking for some, um, identification. I hope you won’t mind that things aren’t quite as you left them.” Fact of the matter was, the muddled mess had driven her to distraction, and she’d dumped the whole thing out and repacked it, her way.

He shot her a sideways glance, narrowed one brown eye. “You didn’t do my crossword puzzle, did you?”

She grinned. “No. But only because I couldn’t find a red pen to match the one you’d been using.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, winking, “’cause I can’t figure twenty-seven across to save my soul.”

Taylor laughed. She was strangely drawn to this man, and didn’t quite know what to make of it. She glanced nervously at the face of the grandfather clock that stood beside the front door. She’d promised to pick up her uncle at noon. But first she needed to shower and—

“Nice place,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Very homey.”

“Homey” had been precisely the look she’d been going for when Taylor had begun decorating her house. Funny that no one before him had noticed.

“I, ah, have an appointment this morning, or I’d invite you to stay for coffee, to thank you for coming all the way over here.”

He unpocketed his hands, drove the right one through his hair, leaving wide finger tracks in the dark waves. “Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, grabbing his suitcase with one hand and the doorknob with the other. “Nothin’ worse than a guy who overstays his welcome.” He shrugged. “I’ll just be on my way.”

In the doorway, he turned slightly and smiled. “Nice meeting you.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more. “Well, guess I’ll hit the road, then.”

“Drive safely. You know how those Sunday-morning drivers can be.”

Chuckling, he nodded. “Yeah. Crazy.” He clumped down the porch steps and across the flagstone path, then dumped the suitcase unceremoniously into the back of his minipickup. Snapping off a smart salute, he slid in behind the wheel. “See you,” he said, slamming the driver’s door.

“See you,” she returned, waving. But her words were drowned out by the growl of his engine.

Taylor’s professional side kicked in, and again she wondered what might have caused his limp. He’d done quite a job trying to hide it, but it was there, nonetheless. Was he getting regular physical therapy treatments? Or was he beyond that sort of help?

Barney jumped onto the window ledge to watch him back down the drive, continued staring until the pickup was completely out of sight. Then he aimed a golden-eyed stare at Taylor.

“Don’t look at me like that. It isn’t my fault your new best friend is gone, is it?”

He leapt to the floor and pranced off, as if to say, “It most certainly is your fault.”

The phone rang, and Taylor picked it up. “It’s just me,” her uncle said, “calling to—”

“To make sure whoever was at the door hasn’t chopped me into little pieces and stuffed me into the garbage disposal?”

“Miss Rosie’s posies, Taylor. What a thing to say!”

“Sorry, Unc.” And she meant it.

“You can never be too sure these days, y’know.”

“I know.” She’d been hearing the “be careful” lecture since her mother’s death.

“What say we get to the brunch early, put in an appearance, fill our bellies and hotfoot it outta there?”

Laughing, Taylor said, “You’re one of a kind. I just have to shower and dress. See you in about an hour.”

“Remember…Sunday drivers…”

“Yeah. Crazy.”

From nowhere, a picture of Alex Van Buren flashed in her mind. Taylor swallowed a lump of regret. Why hadn’t she invited him to the church social? He’d certainly seemed interested enough when he noticed the bulletin…. “I’ll be careful,” she told her uncle, “so don’t worry.”

“I always worry,” he said.

And she knew it was true.

She hit every green light and didn’t get behind a single slowpoke. Her uncle was sure to think she’d been speeding. Rather than go through the rigmarole of explaining how she’d made the trip in record time, Taylor drove around his block a few times. It was a lovely sunny day, and she took advantage of the extra moments by taking in the summer foliage glowing on both sides of the street.

“Well, let’s get this nonsense over with,” Uncle Dave grumbled when he got into the passenger seat, “so I can go home and turn on the sports channel.”

“Nice to see you, too,” she kidded.

“Don’t get wise with me, young lady,” he teased right back. “You’re not too old to stand in the corner, y’know.” He buckled his seat belt and locked the door. “When was the last time you had your oil changed?” he asked from out of the blue. “And how’s the air pressure in your tires? Have you checked the windshield washer fluid lately?”

Taylor groaned inwardly. He could be such a worrywart. But he meant well, and she loved him like crazy for it. “I took care of everything last week, remember…the guy at the station told me I needed new wiper blades and—”

“Oh, yeah. Little whippersnapper was just tryin’ to rip you off. Good thing you set him straight. He’ll know better’n to mess with you again.”

She gave an affirmative nod. They drove in silence for a few minutes. Taylor’s mind wandered to her morning visitor. She couldn’t imagine what her uncle might be thinking…and didn’t dare ask.

The instant she pulled into a parking slot in the church lot, Uncle Dave got out of the car and tugged at his jacket sleeves. “Good golly, Miss Molly. There’s Mable Jensen over there. Quick! Hide me before I have to listen to another rendition of her hip replacement surgery.”

But it was too late.

“Yoo-hoo,” Mable called, waving a lace-trimmed hankie in the air. “Daaay-veeee! I’ll save you a seat inside….”

Shoulders slumped, he groaned. “I hate it when she calls me that.” Then, forcing a smile, he returned her wave.

“Ratchet it down a notch or two, Unc, or folks will get the impression you’re trying to show off.”

His brows drew together in confusion. “Show off?”

“The fact that you still have your own teeth.” And giggling, she added, “Really, sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re in the same age bracket as these people. I mean, take Mable, for example. She just turned sixty-five. I know ’cause they wrote her up in the church bulletin. But she acts—”

“Ninety.” He stood a little straighter, did a little jig. “Guess I do move pretty good for an old guy, don’t I?”

“At sixty-seven, you’re younger than me!”

Laughing, Uncle Dave stuck out his elbow. “Will you do me the honor, young lady, of accompanying me to the Ladies’ Auxiliary brunch?”

She stuck her nose in the air and feigned a British accent. “Why, thank you, kind suh. Don’t mind if I do.”

Laughing, they walked arm in arm into the church basement. Immediately Taylor spotted Alex, standing across the room, hands in his pockets and smiling at her. Heart hammering, she felt the corners of her mouth automatically lifting as he headed toward her.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked.

“We’re here for the brunch. And you?”

“Same.”

From the corner of her eye Taylor noticed her uncle’s strained expression. She faced him. “Uncle Dave, this is Alex Van Buren, the man whose suitcase got mixed up with mine at the airport.”

“David Griffith,” he said, a thin smile on his face as he grasped the hand of the taller, younger man. “Thanks for saving my girl a trip to BWI.”

Alex shook his hand. “Was my pleasure, sir.”

“So,” David said, “you two were in Ireland at the same time?”

He nodded. “I spent three weeks there, all by my lonesome. One of the best experiences of my life.”

Why did she get the feeling the accent was on lonesome? “Three weeks?” Taylor echoed. “Isn’t that odd? I was there for two….”

“With a tour group?” Alex asked as her uncle’s eyes narrowed.

She shook her head. “Nope. I rented a car and drove the west coast, from the southernmost point to the northernmost, then along the Northern Ireland border, back to the airport in Shannon.”

Alex’s eyebrows rose. “Alone?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“’Cause it’s dangerous for a woman to travel alone.”

Taylor noticed that her uncle’s expression changed from suspicious to admiring. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at both men.

“It’s the only way to travel,” she insisted. “Especially if you don’t like doing typical touristy things.”

From the front of the dining hall Pastor Barnes clapped his hands, interrupting all conversation. “Hello, everybody…everybody?” he hollered. “Let’s take a moment for the word of God, shall we?”

Like everyone else in the room, Uncle Dave lowered his head. “A moment, ha!” he whispered to Taylor. “If there’s anything hot on the food table, it’ll be stone-cold by the time he—”

Taylor wrapped his hand in hers, gave a gentle squeeze. “Uncle Dave…” she said around a grin.

“Well, it’s true,” he insisted.

Alex crouched near Uncle Dave’s ear. “No problem. I hear there’s a new microwave in the kitchen….”

The minister raised his hands just then, and thanked the good women of the parish who’d prepared the food, the youth group for setting up the tables and chairs, the men’s club for volunteering to clean up afterward. He gave thanks to God for a lovely summery day.

“Wonder why preachers never get laryngitis,” Uncle Dave muttered.

“They pray for strong vocal cords?” was Alex’s answer.

“Honestly.” Taylor sighed as their shoulders lurched with laughter. “You two are worse than a couple of rowdy boys. You’re going to get us—”

A red-taloned hand reached from behind and rested on Taylor’s shoulder. “Shh!” came the angry demand. “If you can’t show any respect for the pastor, at least show a little for the Lord!”

Taylor narrowed her eyes at her uncle, then at Alex. “Just wait,” she mouthed as the pastor said his final, booming “Amen!”

“Think I’m gonna get into line,” Uncle Dave said, “before all the potato salad is gone.” Nodding, he grinned at Taylor. “You know it’s always the first thing to go.”

“Maybe this year,” she said quietly, wiggling her eyebrows and grinning, “it’ll be the second thing to go….”

Alex laughed. “Good to meet you, Mr. Griffith.”

“Dave,” he corrected. “Good meeting you, too.” And with that, he was gone.

Alex cleared his throat. “If you can tell me who the red-nailed lady was, I’ll explain, save your good name.”

Shrugging, Taylor waved his offer away. “Mrs. Abernathy is always looking for reasons to scold people. The way I see it, the three of us made her day.” Pausing, she tilted her head. “Say…I didn’t know you were a member of Resurrection parish.”

“I’m not. But my mother is.”

“Really? Who’s your mother? Maybe I know her.”

“If you didn’t know her, I’d be surprised.” He pointed at an attractive white-haired woman across the way. “She’s the president of the ladies’ auxili—”

“Helen Martin? But your name is—”

“My father passed away a long time ago, and Mom remarried.”

“Small world.” Then, tilting her head the other way, she raised one eyebrow, remembering that Mrs. Martin had joined the church just over a year ago. “Why haven’t we seen you at services before?”

He clamped his teeth together, as if suddenly something had made him angry. Very angry. “I’ve been away for a while.” Just as suddenly, the friendly smile returned. “And now I’m back.” He shrugged.

She wondered where he’d been. How long he’d been gone. Why he’d been gone. And what, exactly, had inspired his return home. The questions must have been apparent on her face, because Alex said, “It’s a long, boring story. Suffice it to say my hitch in the navy is over, and I’m grounded now, in more ways than one.”

Grounded? Did that mean he’d been a pilot? He’d been grinning when he said it, but she couldn’t help but notice the smile never quite made it to his eyes. Taylor could almost picture him in a flight suit, standing beside a sleek airplane, helmet under his arm and—

“Why don’t we join your uncle in line. I think he may be right. That potato salad seems to be goin’ mighty fast.”

He offered her his arm, and just as Taylor moved to take it, Mable Jensen grabbed her elbow. “Taylor! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come with me, dear, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Alex’s smile dimmed as Mable whisked her away, and he sent the same two-fingered salute he’d sent her in the airport tunnel. She looked away for only an instant, then turned back to ask him to save her a seat.

But in that instant he’d disappeared.

Chapter Two

Alex waited half an hour for Taylor to come back. He sat at the end of a long table, one arm slung over the back of the folding chair beside his own. “Sorry,” he told anyone who showed interest in the empty seat, “this one’s taken.”

Once it sank in that she wouldn’t be joining him for the meal, he wolfed down his stone-cold food. The level of his disappointment made no sense, especially considering he’d spent, what, ten minutes in her company? Maybe this was the reason he’d always been partial to tall, blue-eyed blondes…because it was less disappointing when they didn’t show up?

Maybe, except, what was this?

This was ridiculous, that’s what. To be fixated on a young woman barely bigger than a minute, well, it just wasn’t Alex’s style. He’d always been so cool, so sophisticated where women were concerned.

He wanted to go home, slump into his easy chair and find an old war movie on TV. So for the life of him, Alex didn’t understand why he stayed, why he chatted with other brunch attendants.

That wasn’t entirely true. He knew, as he nodded and smiled and talked about the weather, that the sole purpose of his participation in the banal conversations was in the hope they might lead to information about Taylor Griffith.

He was about to ask an elderly woman if she’d seen Taylor when his mother, Helen, spotted him. Smiling, she waved. There was no mistaking what that “look” meant. She seemed as happy as a mother could be, believing he’d taken her advice, finally, that he was making an attempt at getting back on track, into “the stream of things.”

Helen had been at him for months, saying he needed to socialize more, get busy building a new life. And that couldn’t start, she’d insisted, until he first started talking about the accident. “You could have died in service to your country. That’s not something to hide—it’s something to be proud of!”

It was a hot button, but out of respect for her, Alex chose not to respond. Besides, he couldn’t imagine admitting the truth aloud, not even to his own mother: The mission had been a failure because he’d taken the coward’s way out.

A thousand times he’d relived those last milliseconds of the flight, searching his mind for the one thing he might have done differently, the decision that might have saved him and the Falcon. It was humiliating, not having a clear memory to help him understand what had gone wrong. That, in itself, Alex believed, was proof of his ineptness as a pilot.

Not an easy thing to admit, when flying had been his life for nearly a decade; when, for generations, all male Van Burens before him had been fliers.

His great-grandfather had tested some of the military’s earliest bombers, his grandfather had flown during World War II, his father had served in Vietnam. And each had earned awards and commendations for their bravery. Based on the evidence, Alex could only conclude that the “good pilot” gene had skipped a generation.

And though the man hadn’t said so, Alex believed his stepfather felt the same way, too.

Rusty Martin had been a good pilot, a good substitute father. He’d never actually vocalized disapproval of how Alex had handled things that fateful day, but then, he hadn’t said he agreed with his stepson, either.

Couldn’t be easy, Alex reasoned, for a guy whose best friends—like himself—had been part of the space program for most of their military careers. Poor guy, Alex had often thought, to have a loser for a stepson.

Even the men in his mother’s family had a long, illustrious military history. Alex didn’t suppose his grandma was any too surprised when her daughter announced her plans to marry a pilot; she’d married one, herself. Nor was it a surprise to anyone, when his mom finally chose to remarry, that she picked another pilot.

Alex hadn’t expected anyone else to understand the root of his shame, his guilt. But his mother… She’d spent her whole childhood with soldiers, most of whom had been pilots. She’d spent nearly a decade married to his father, another quarter of a century with Rusty. If she couldn’t figure out why Alex preferred to keep to himself, why he’d rather not discuss what he believed to be his greatest failure, who could?

He didn’t need some shrink to tell him why he worked so hard to avoid conversations that started with “So what was it like…” Alex knew full well that a beginning like that was sure to be followed by “waiting to be rescued?” or “knowing you could die?” or “realizing it was you or the plane?”

The questions were reminders of that failure. Besides, he had no satisfactory answers for any of the questioners. More important than that, he hated being reminded what a coward he’d been during those hair-raising last seconds before the crash.

The first-ever coward in a long line of Van Buren heroes.

Leave it to me to start a whole new tradition….

He knew as well as anyone that avoiding those questions had been harder than answering them. So why was today so different?

Simply put, because Taylor was different.

She was the sole reason that today, for the first time since the accident, he’d good-naturedly answered the questions put to him by his mother’s church cronies. If talking about what had happened that day would get him close enough to ask if anyone knew where Taylor had gone, it was worth the temporary discomfort.

Turnabout is fair play, he supposed when no one had an answer for him. Not Mable Jensen, not Alex’s mother, not even Taylor’s Uncle Dave knew where she’d disappeared to. She’d been the only reason he’d agreed to stay for the luncheon, rather than just drop his mother off at the church. Now that Taylor had obviously left, there wasn’t much point in hanging around.

After making sure his mom had a safe ride home, Alex aimed himself toward the door.

These days, church activities—church people in particular—made him extremely uncomfortable. One fellow’s well-intended opinion pretty much summed up how Alex believed everyone else felt: “The Lord performed a miracle out there, or you’d have been shark food, for sure.”

What the Lord had to do with it, Alex didn’t know, though he hadn’t said so at the time. Instead, he’d nodded and smiled politely at the sentiment. He’d never admitted it aloud, but it was true nonetheless—the accident had shattered more than his confidence…it had destroyed his faith.

He hadn’t exactly turned into one of those guys who blames God for the bad things that happen in life. But the Almighty had been responsible for letting Alex survive the crash. If He was so all-knowing, wouldn’t He have known that for a man like Alex, life without flying was no life at all?

Alex said his goodbyes and headed for the parking lot, frowning. If not for the limp, he didn’t think anyone would guess what had happened to him eighteen months earlier. Then again, if not for the limp, he wouldn’t be home again, trying to build a new life in his hometown. Rather, he’d be on active duty, waiting his turn to run yet another test on yet another F-16.

As he slid behind his pickup’s steering wheel, Alex thought about how he’d spent the past hour, answering painful questions in the hope he’d get an answer to a question of his own.

Why he wanted to know where Taylor had gone was a puzzle to him.

And then he pictured her, and the mystery began to unravel.

He shook his head. There had been attractive women in his past. Yeah, he preferred blondes, but there had been a brunette and even a redhead or two. He liked ’em tall, but a few of the short ones had been fun. Taylor seemed intelligent enough, but then, he’d dated doctors and attorneys and scientists….

Key in the ignition, Alex frowned, wondering what was so special about this petite brunette. And as the motor roared to a start, he had a feeling the answer had little, if anything, to do with her pale brown eyes or her chestnut-colored hair, her curvy little body or her big bright smile. No, something told him it had more to do with the person who lived behind that big, bright smile.

She’d left him feeling the way he had back when he’d flown to that village in France. No one there had spoken a word of English, and his French began with oui…and ended with oui. The “stranger in a foreign land” impression had been uncomfortable then, so why was it accompanied by such pleasant sensations now?

Alex slid the gearshift into Reverse and backed out of the parking space, shaking his head. Too much fruit punch, he decided, grinning.

Half a dozen times, as they had stood in her foyer, as they had chatted in the church basement, he’d considered asking if she’d mind if maybe he gave her a call some time.

So why hadn’t he asked?

He drove north on Route 40, the image of her fixed in his mind’s eye. She was gorgeous, there was no denying that, but she simply wasn’t his type, he told himself again.

But if that was true, why had her voice seemed so mesmerizing? And why did he find it necessary to blink and clear his throat when he found himself thinking that, depending on how the light caught her long, curly hair, it could look like anything from mink to velvet to satin?

He adjusted the rearview mirror, a subtle reminder that, as he’d nosed into a parking space in the church lot, his mom had tilted it so she could touch up her lipstick.

Taylor didn’t wear lipstick. But then, Taylor didn’t need lipstick.

Alex ran a hand through his hair. You’re losin’ your ever-lovin’ mind, Van Buren.

He searched for a reason, something to blame for his temporary insanity.

The struggle to align himself with a world that was anything but “Navy” was obviously taking a bigger toll than he realized. Why else had he allowed himself to get all smitten by a woman he barely knew? She was everything he didn’t want—or need—especially now. So for the life of him, Alex didn’t know why he’d spent all that energy, there in the church basement, trying to track her down.

He bounced the heel of his fist on the steering wheel. He and Taylor had spent a few minutes in polite conversation, and he’d enjoyed it. Period. Besides, she obviously spent a lot of time at the church; everyone seemed to know her, and they knew her well.

So why hadn’t any of them known where she’d gone?

Makes no difference, Alex told himself. He had neither the time nor the inclination to participate in religious functions, and it was clear as the windshield in front of him that Taylor was a good, devout, church-goin’ girl. And since she seemed to spend all her free time doing good, devout, church-goin’-girl things, the chances he’d ever run into her again were slim to none.

End of discussion.

That fact alone should have given him some relief. Instead, a quiet craving grew inside him.

Put her out of your mind, he thought. He and Taylor had nothing in common. Nothing. And even if they did, he had no desire to get involved right now—romantically or otherwise.

Alex noticed that the truck’s gas gauge read Empty, and he pulled into the first filling station he came to. It was as he selected octane and began pumping that a small voice said, “Hey, mister. What happened to your leg?”

Alex glanced over his shoulder and looked into a cherubic face. Dimpled fists propped up the boy’s chin. Alex guessed him to be four or five.

“Tommy!” the child’s mother gasped. “You know better than to ask a question like that. Now, you apologize to the nice man, this instant!”

Tommy’s chubby cheeks reddened as he shot a sheepish glance Alex’s way. “Sorry,” he said grudgingly.

It wasn’t the first time Alex had been asked a question like that. At least Tommy’s interest was honest. “It’s okay, son,” he said. “I used to be a pilot, hurt my leg when my plane crashed.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Really? Did it explode in the sky, like in the movies?”

Alex grinned. “Sort of. But I was long gone by the time that happened.”

Tommy’s brow crinkled with confusion. “Gone? Where’d you go?”

That day flashed through his mind. Involuntarily, Alex clenched his jaw. “Had to bail—”

Tommy faced his mother. “Mom, did you hear that?”

His mother frowned sternly. “Yes.” She shook a finger at him. “And you heard what I said….”

The boy turned back to Alex. “Did you have a parachute and ever’thing? Did you float down from the sky and get caught in a tree?”

Alex shook his head. “Wasn’t time for the chute to open.”

The boy’s brow crinkled slightly. “Then how’d you—”

“Tommy, not another word. I mean it.” His mother rolled her eyes at Alex. “I don’t know what gets into him sometimes. Please, accept my apologies.”

“No harm done,” he said, meaning it. And winking at Tommy, he added, “Boys will be boys.”

Tommy’s mother shrugged. “I suppose,” she said, then headed into the station to pay for her gas.

“Do you have a little boy?” Tommy asked.

Alex swallowed. He might be a father by now, if he hadn’t always put the navy…and flying…ahead of everything else. “No, ’fraid not.”

“A little girl?”

“No. I don’t have any kids.”

Tommy made an “I don’t believe it” face and held out his fat little hands. “Well, what’s your wife waiting for?”

“Don’t have a wife, either,” he said, chuckling.

“Why not?”

It was a good question. Another one for his “I have no answer for that” list. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; he didn’t have a wife because, to date, Alex hadn’t met a woman he wanted to share his life with.

Not true, his conscience said as the memory of Taylor’s pretty face popped into his mind.

“Why not?” Tommy repeated.

Alex could only shrug and shake his head.

Taylor would have thought Mable Jensen’s nephew seemed like a pleasant enough fellow…if stand-up comedians had been her type.

She didn’t know, exactly, what her type was, but it certainly wasn’t an overaged hippie who thought it was cool to crack knock-knock jokes by the dozen.

Would’ve helped if Pete had been a little taller, with big brown eyes, dark shiny waves; if he’d been lean in a marathon kind of way; if he had a wounded puppy-dog expression that made her want to soothe all his troubles away.

Like Alex Van Buren? she wondered, pretending to enjoy Pete’s “what do you get when you cross a lawyer with a leech?” joke. When he said, “An agent!” Taylor smiled, even though she didn’t get it. Did the punch line miss its intended target because Mable’s nephew had laughed at his own joke? Or because she’d been distracted by images of Alex?

The latter, she decided as Pete launched into another ditty. She liked everything about Alex, from the way his dark eyes sparkled when he smiled—which, in her opinion, wasn’t nearly often enough—to the mellow tones of his vibrant voice. He’d dressed for the brunch like a man unsure what one wears to such an affair, which told Taylor two things: One, he wasn’t a regular churchgoer, and two, he didn’t believe in playing it safe.

“Safe” would have been khaki trousers and a dress shirt, loafers, but no tie. Alex, on the other hand, had worn faded jeans and a polo shirt that had seen better days. So had his sneakers. He smelled of bath soap and the barest hint of manly cologne. And he’d cut himself shaving…recently.

“And did you hear the one about…?”

Taylor was in the middle of wishing for a legitimate excuse to walk away from Pete when Trish O’Connor ran up to her, huffing and puffing. “You need to get home right away,” the church secretary said. “Your neighbor called and said your cat’s on the porch roof, meowing up a storm!”

The woman promised to let Taylor’s uncle know where she’d gone, promised to drive him home to save Taylor a trip back to the church.

Pete, Mable and even Alex were immediately forgotten as Taylor headed for her car. Every nerve end in her twitched with fear and dread, yet she resisted the urge to speed. Fast driving had killed her mother. Besides, if a cop stopped her to issue a ticket, it would only take that much longer to get home.

And the more time it took, the more likely Barney would fall off the roof. If there was any truth to the old wives’ tale about cats having nine lives, he’d be lucky to have one left, clumsy as he’d always been.

Her car came to a jerky stop when she pulled into the driveway. Sure enough, there was Barney, teetering near the roof’s edge, meowing for all he was worth. The sight of his mistress seemed to increase his angst, and he began pacing to and fro, precariously close to the rain gutter.

Taylor raced inside, taking the porch stairs two at a time, then did the same with the stairs leading to the second floor of her house.

There, on the other side of her bedroom window, sat Barney, front paws together, ears twitching, eyes glowing. Tempted by the sunshine on the other side of the window, Taylor reasoned, her curious kitty must have fiddled with the locks that held the window screen in place.

She leaned out the opening and extended her arms. “C’mere, you silly thing,” she crooned. When he stayed put, she added, “Barney…come here. I’ll give you a treat.”

He blinked and meowed…

And flicked his tail. “Come and get me” seemed to be the silent message he sent his mistress.

Pursing her lips, Taylor made kissing sounds and snapped her fingers. “Barrrr-neeeee,” she sang, “come to mah-meeeee….”

But he didn’t budge. If a squirrel or a bird should decide to perch in the branches of the tree just beyond the roof, there was no telling what the cat might do.

All her life Taylor had been afraid of heights. But what choice did she have? It was either climb out there and grab him, right now, or wait and take a chance he’d fall.

She eased her upper body through the window and, trembling, brought up her knee. When it rested on the warm, sandpapery shingles, she swallowed. Hard. “Please, God,” she prayed, “get the both of us back inside safely….”

Alex didn’t know what prompted him to do it, but instead of turning left at St. Johns Lane, he hung a right. At the first intersection he made another right, which put him on Taylor’s street. If he remembered correctly, her house was third from the corner.

If her car was in the driveway, maybe he’d stop by. Just to make sure everything was all right…since she’d disappeared so quickly from the brunch….

The red compact was there, all right. He noted the relief that coursed through him.

Movement on the roof caught his eye.

What on earth did she think she was doing up there!

He parked on the street, in the shade of the big maple in her front yard. Even from this distance he could hear her, making kissing noises. When he got closer, Alex grinned. “What’s up?” he asked as Barney maneuvered nearer the roof’s edge.

Taylor only gasped.

“Cat got your tongue?” he added.

“Funny,” Taylor said. “Real funny.”

But by the look on her face, he reasoned she hadn’t found his comment the least bit humorous. On closer inspection, he could see that she was terrified. Of losing the cat? Or of being up so high?

The latter. No, both, he decided.

“You want I should come up there? See if I can get her to come to me?”

“Him. His name is Barney.”

“Pardon me,” he said, smiling, hoping to ease her tension, “but we were never formally introduced.” Waving one arm above his head, Alex said, “Pleased to meet ya, Barn.”

He was still grinning when the cat launched itself from the roof, legs flailing, tail twitching, claws extended to get a grip on something.

Alex turned out to be that something.

Ignoring the stinging, piercing pain, he wrapped both arms around the cat and held on tight. “Is the front door open?” he asked, wincing and clenching his teeth.

Taylor nodded.

“Good. I’ll meet you inside, then.”

Thirty seconds later she was beside him, relieving him of the cat, who made a beeline for the living-room sofa.

“Oh my goodness,” Taylor gasped. “Just look at you.”

He glanced in the hall mirror. “Mmm, mmm, mmm,” he said. “Looks like I’ve been—”

“In a catfight?”

They shared a moment of nervous laughter, and then she took his hand. “Come with me,” Taylor said. “Let’s get something on those scratches. We don’t want them to get infected.”

Her hand was warm. And despite her size, she had an amazingly strong grip. Alex liked that.

For the next five minutes he sat in one of her kitchen chairs, alternately cringing and sucking air between his teeth as she swabbed his cuts with antiseptic. Taylor leaned in, brow furrowed in concentration, as if she were a skilled surgeon and Alex an unconscious patient.

His own mother hadn’t fussed over him this gently when he’d skinned his knees as a boy. She’d put Mercurochrome here, bandages there, a slap on his behind and a warning to be more careful next time. And he’d had his share of minor accidents over the years—no surprise, considering what he’d chosen as his life’s ambition. A wide variety of nurses had doled out medication, changed the dressings on his wounds. But like his mother, there had been a matter-of-factness to their ministrations.

What made Taylor’s attentions seem so…different? Maybe the way her hands shook, ever so slightly, as she touched the swabs to his cuts. Maybe it was the way her voice trembled, just a little, when she asked, “Does that hurt?” and “Am I being too rough?”

And maybe, just maybe, it was the look in her eyes that said even something as insignificant as cat scratches were important…because he was important.

Right here, right now, Alex thought he could look into her pretty face forever. If only—

“You were the answer to a prayer,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Who? Me?”

She tossed the swab into the trash can and recapped the brown peroxide bottle. And pressing one small hand against her chest, Taylor sighed. “I’d been up there…”

She closed her eyes, and when she did, Alex felt as if someone had turned off the sun.

“I don’t know how long I’d been up there,” she finished, eyes wide again. “Seemed like forever!”

Alex said a silent prayer of thanks heavenward, amazed, because he hadn’t asked God for diddly in who knew how long, yet he’d asked Him to make Taylor open her eyes. He was even more amazed at the rush of warmth he felt swirling around inside his chest when she did.

“If I’d been up there another minute,” she said, laughing, “you’d probably have had two people to rescue.”

He could think of worse things than having a woman like this beholden to him for rescuing her. Because a woman like this—

Barney sauntered through the room just then, stopping only long enough to give both Alex and Taylor a look that said, “Who are you calling people?”

Laughing, Taylor added, “Well, you would’ve had two somethings to rescue.”

He was about to say she was as far from a “thing” as a woman could get when she said, “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

You’re a magnet, he thought, and my innards seem to be made of iron ore. “You left the church brunch just like that—” he snapped his fingers “—without a word.” He was beginning to sound to himself like a guy who’d fallen head over heels. Couldn’t have her thinking that, he decided. And so Alex gave a nonchalant shrug. “Just checking, makin’ sure you’re okay, is all.”

She laid a hand on the shoulder he’d shrugged. “Thanks, Alex.” And her voice was sweeter than honey when she added, “That was really nice of you.” Then, as if she thought maybe she sounded like someone who’d fallen head over heels, she spread her arms wide. “Well, as you can see, I’m fine.”

You can say that again, he thought. But “I’m glad” is what he said.

She clasped both hands in front of her. Small gesture, really, and yet because it seemed sweet and old-fashioned and feminine all rolled into one, it made his heart pound.

One hand on the refrigerator door handle, Taylor said, “Would you like a soda? Coffee? Tea?”

He chuckled, relieved to have something to focus on besides her dainty hands, her gorgeous eyes. “You sound like the stewardess on our flight back from Ireland.”

“Flight attendant,” she chided good-naturedly, her fore-finger moving like a silent metronome. “You don’t want a ticket from the Politically Correct Police, now, do you?”

Alex slapped himself in the forehead. His intended “Wash my mouth out with soap” was replaced by a “Yeee-ouch!” inspired when he hit one of the still-smarting cat scratches.

She was beside him in an instant, hands fluttering around his wounded face, a worried frown on her own. “Oh, no…you’ve got this one bleeding again.” Taylor grabbed the bottle of antiseptic, slid open the box of cotton swabs. “You really ought to be more gentle with yourself,” she scolded softly, daubing the open wound.

She was near enough to kiss, and it took every ounce of self-control he could muster to keep from doing just that. Would her lips feel as soft as they looked? Would those big eyes grow misty, or would she close them and—

“Just because you’re a big burly man,” she continued, “doesn’t mean you have to be so rough with yourself, you know.”

Alex swallowed. He didn’t know why her innocent comment struck a nerve. But it did. No one had ever been so tender with him. Why, if he didn’t know better, he’d have to say Taylor believed he was capable of breaking.

An ugly thought surfaced in his mind.

The accident had all but broken him, physically. But how could she have known that the aftereffects of it had all but shattered his spirit, when they’d spent no more than fifteen minutes, total, in one another’s company?

He needed to get out of this place, away from this woman. He had no business feeling drawn to her, not this soon, maybe not at all, ever. It was a good idea, this plan of his to heal on his own, alone. Because alone, he could think. Could reason things out. No way he could do that with her standing there looking at him like some kind of guardian angel.

Getting to his feet, Alex ran a hand through his hair. “Well, thanks for—”

“No,” she interrupted, “I’m the one who’s supposed to say thanks. You saved Barney, and very likely me, too.” She was smiling prettily when she added, “You’re our hero!”

He felt the heat of a blush creep into his cheeks. Hero? If only you knew, he thought glumly. “Well, guess I’d better get on my way.” He forced a grin. “You stay off rooftops now, y’hear?”

Standing at attention, she formed two fingers of her right hand into the Girl Scout salute. “Promise. Once I get that screen back into place, I won’t be going near any second-story openings any time in the near future.”

“Screen?”

She nodded. “That’s how Barney got onto the roof in the first place. He fiddled with the latches and the screen fell out onto the roof, and…”

Bobbing her head left and right, Taylor clamped her hands together. “I feel ridiculous, being so afraid of high places. Especially since I have no real reason to be afraid of—”

“Why should you feel ridiculous?” He didn’t know why, but Alex felt an overwhelming need to defend her. Careful, he warned himself, careful….

“Oh, I don’t know,” she began softly.

He’d never been afraid of heights. And frankly, he didn’t understand people who were. Wasn’t afraid of much, and never had been, for that matter. Fat lot of good your so-called bravado did you over the Caribbean, came his angry thought.

“I guess,” she continued, “I guess it’s embarrassing because people, well, you know, they tend to think if they aren’t afraid of something, no one else should be, either.”

Alex searched for something to say. Something that would comfort and reassure her. “Lots of people have a fear of heights.”

It was a lame thing to say, and he knew it. He thought she knew it, too. Why else had she sighed and shrugged and looked away?

What business did she have, looking so gorgeous and womanly and…and sad? Didn’t she realize what it was doing to him? How was he supposed to make a quick getaway, keep an arm’s-length emotional distance, with her standing there, in reach, looking like…like that?

He wanted to wrap his arms around her. Promise that nothing would ever scare her again—at least, not while he was around to prevent it. Wanted to kiss her, to prove how much he meant it.

Alex cleared his throat. You’re outta your ever-lovin’ mind, Van Buren. “Which window?”

“The one in my room.”

Great, he thought. Just what he needed. More information to make him want her in his life. Ruffled curtains, probably, and pink stuff sitting on lacy doilies. “Show me. I’ll put the screen back into place for you.” It was the least he could do. And then he’d make tracks, fast.

Taylor led him upstairs and down the hall, then pointed. “You’re a peach to do this.” Her lopsided smile became a full grin. “You don’t know how much I was dreading going out there to fetch the screen.” Laughing, she added, “I was seriously considering closing the window and praying for a strong wind to blow it off the roof.”

Alex realized the moment he poked his head through the opening that she’d never have been able to reach the screen from inside. Tiny as she was, she’d have been forced to climb outside, onto the roof, to get it. Wouldn’t have been easy, considering how she felt about being up so high. But something told him she would have forced herself to do it anyway.

Gritting his teeth, he realized which of the two of them was most brave. He leaned through the opening, stuck his arm out and took hold of the screen. No big deal for someone who didn’t mind heights. But she’d gone out there to save her cat, despite her terror.

Once he’d snapped it into place, Alex said, “Do you have a wrench?”

“Sure. But what do you need with a wrench?”

He wished she wouldn’t stand there like that, looking up at him with those big, long-lashed eyes. Being near her was having a peculiar effect on his nervous system. Alex didn’t remember feeling this fidgety around a woman before. Didn’t remember feeling this fidgety, period.

“Well,” he explained, “if I tighten these wing nuts that’re holding it in place, Barney won’t be able to work them loose next time he has a notion to sunbathe on the roof.”

The luscious pink lips parted, no doubt to ask him how he expected her to take the screen out again, should the need arise. His heartbeat doubled as he remembered that moments ago he’d wanted to kiss her. Remembered that he’d pretty much wanted that from the first moment he set foot in her foyer for the suitcase exchange. But he’d never wanted it more than right now.

Alex swallowed. “If you ever want to remove the screen for any reason,” he answered her unasked question, “you can always loosen the nuts…with the wrench.”

She smiled. “Makes sense to me,” she said, and dashed down the stairs.

“Good. Something around here oughta make sense,” he said when she was out of earshot.

Barney paraded into the room just then, tail twitching left and right as he eyed the open window.

Alex narrowed his eyes and shot him a warning look. “Don’t even think about it, buddy.”

The cat shot him a look that said, “The name’s Barney, buddy.” Then, purring, he twined a figure eight around Alex’s ankles.

Crouching, Alex patted the cat’s head. When he noticed the gouges on the back of his hand, he was reminded of the crisscrossing scratches on his face. “I have a feeling I’ll be thinking of you when I shave tomorrow morning,” he said. “When I shave for the next week.”

He’d be thinking of Barney’s mistress, too. Probably for a whole lot longer than a week. The thought almost made him wish he hadn’t decided to keep a safe distance from this churchgoing little woman.

Taylor burst into the room just then, carrying a pink metal toolbox. “Don’t laugh,” she said, plunking it down on the hardwood floor. “I bought it at a yard sale couple years back. Only cost me fifty cents, but it was all dirty and rusty, and the only spray paint on sale at Clark’s Hardware that day was—” she extended both hands, like one of the models who present the prizes on a game show “—pink!”

It just so happened she was wearing a pink blouse. And pink fingernail polish. The excitement of Barney’s adventure had colored her cheeks a pretty shade of pink, and those luscious lips of hers, well, they were pink, too. Alex had a notion to tell her pink was her color. Instead, he opened the toolbox and poked around inside until he found an adjustable crescent wrench.

As he was busy tightening the screen’s wing nuts, he heard her clear her throat. She was near enough to touch. Again. Right there beside his left elbow. If he turned, just slightly, he could slide an arm around her waist, ease her to him and—

“So, did you enjoy the brunch?” she asked.

Alex had to blink to get his brain back on track. Oh. Right. The brunch. Well, yes, he supposed he’d enjoyed it well enough. At least, he’d enjoyed every moment he’d spent with her…. “Food was good,” he said, hoping to sound noncommittal. But that was all he intended to admit.

She laughed. “The ladies of Resurrection outdo themselves every time there’s an event.” Then, “Did you know there’s going to be another next Wednesday?”

She hesitated, and he knew she intended to invite him to it.

Knew, just as well, that he had every reason to say no.

For one thing, what did they have in common? And even if he could find something the two of them could share, he had way too many “issues” left over from the accident. Wouldn’t be fair to haul her through that mess.

Crouching, Alex put the wrench back into the toolbox and fastened its lid. On his feet again, he decided to tell her that he’d sworn off church. Sworn off everything—and everyone—connected to it. She needed to hear that, because he had a feeling she put the D in devout. Besides, he liked his women tall and lithe and blond and blue-eyed, right? Wouldn’t be fair to mislead her, not in any way. And he had to find a way to get the words out before she asked him to be her guest.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to come,” she asked, as if on cue, “as my guest?”

Sunlight glinted from her hair. Hair he wanted to touch, to find out if it felt as soft, as silky as it looked. And there, in the bright light, it was impossible not to notice the pale freckles that dotted her nose, that sprinkled across her ivory cheeks. He wanted to touch those, too. Each and every one of them…with gentle kisses.

Watch it, he warned himself, this one isn’t like the others, not in any way. And that meant trouble. Reminding himself he had neither the time nor the inclination for romance, Alex straightened, squared his shoulders, lifted his chin a notch. Tell her no, was the thought pinging in his head. Say, Sorry, but I have stuff to do that night.

Hands deep in his pockets, he glanced at slightly parted, kissable pink lips, looked into her eyes. Into her big, long-lashed, brownish-greenish-golden eyes and said, “Only if they’re serving potato salad.”

Chapter Three

Until he’d looked up and seen her there on the roof, Alex had never seen much farther than the end of his own nose. Especially when it came to the needs of others. Especially since the accident.

Oh, he’d done the typical favors for friends and acquaintances, like helping them move from apartments into homes when he wasn’t on assignment, letting them use his pickup when he was. Once, when he was stationed in Florida, his next-door neighbor won a trip to the Bahamas. It was Alex who, twice a day, let himself into her apartment to feed her cat. While living in California, he watered a neighbor’s roses rather than see the elderly gent’s rose club registration fee—and the work he’d put into the roses to that point—go to waste.

He’d never minded doing the favors. Hadn’t felt imposed upon by the neighbors who’d asked them of him. But suddenly there was a nagging question in his mind, one Alex doubted he would have asked himself if he hadn’t met Taylor.

Would he have volunteered his help if that help hadn’t been requested?

He was ashamed to admit the answer was no.

Wouldn’t have been hard to admit if the answer had been the result of a hectic schedule. Truth was, he’d simply never thought to offer. And what kind of person did that make him?

Not the kind who deserved a woman like Taylor Griffith….

He shifted uncomfortably in his easy chair, remote control in hand. As the colorful, musical images of TV chefs and sports figures and rumpled detectives whizzed by on the screen, Alex scowled. Shouldn’t have agreed to that date, he grumbled inwardly. Only thing you have in common with that woman is…

As he gave it a moment’s thought, his thumb relaxed on the up button. A home shopping host held up a glittering half-carat diamond. The glint and glow of the stone reminded him of Taylor, each spark, each glimmer illuminating yet another facet of her character. The longer he knew her, the more she seemed to shine.

Compared to her, he felt like a chunk of wet chalk.

Somehow, that didn’t seem to matter. Whether or not they had anything in common made no difference, either. He liked her. Had, the instant he set eyes on her in that overcrowded plane, liked her more still when they made the suitcase exchange in the tiny foyer of her house. The church brunch, her tender loving care after the cat rescue…every minute in her company was incentive enough to want to spend hours, weeks, months with her.

Alex slumped into his chair, telling himself it was boredom, restlessness, frustration with his life that made him think he was falling for this near stranger. Clapping a hand over his face, he closed his eyes to block the TV’s flickering light.

“Shouldn’t have said yes to the date,” he muttered sleepily. He didn’t fight the drowsiness. Maybe sleep would provide a haven from the unsettling feelings Taylor had aroused in him….

Now that she knew what caused his limp, Taylor had to warn herself to be careful. She’d always been a sucker for someone in pain, whether physical or emotional—it’s how she’d gotten in over her head with Kent—and Alex Van Buren seemed to have suffered his share of pain and agony, especially lately.

She got a mental picture of him, outfitted in a flight suit, standing beside a fast-flying fighter plane, smiling with the knowledge that he did heroic things every time he snapped the bubble canopy shut overhead.

And he was a hero, no doubt about that.

When Taylor heard about his past, she made it her business to learn more about the accident. An article, buried among reams of information she dug up on the Internet, explained how his F-16 Fighting Falcon had been struck by lightning, causing a complete shutdown of the controls. The plane was one of the manufacturer’s latest releases, designed to go farther and faster than any F-16 before it. The test Alex had been performing the day of his crash involved the new agile beam radar and state-of-the-art mission computer. Equipped with bigger fuel tanks to ensure greater range, the fighter was, in Taylor’s layman’s opinion, an explosion waiting to happen. It was a miracle that Alex had survived.

And she thanked God that he had.

Everything about him brought out the protector in her, starting with the limp…and every masculine emotion that made him try so desperately to hide it. The urge to care for him had swelled up as she’d swabbed the cuts and scrapes put there when he caught Barney. But that hadn’t been the first or the only time she’d felt it.

Before she’d even known his name, Taylor had wanted to comfort him as he hobbled past her in the big tube connecting their jetliner to the airport terminal. The feeling had bubbled up again when he left her house that day, limping more because of the weight of his big, bulky suitcase.

One look into his dark, shining eyes was all it took to tell her that something good, something decent lived inside this man. Oh, he did his best to hide it behind a practiced smile and well-timed jokes, but Taylor sensed it all the same. Not such an easy feat when she admitted seeing the same things in the mirror.

Taylor snapped on the light beside her recliner, intent upon reading Sunday’s newspaper, cover to cover. She’d made it to the food section when the phone rang, startling her so badly she nearly overturned her teacup.

“Hello?”

“Taylor. It’s Alex. Calling about the, ah, that church thing you were telling me about?”

Taylor squeezed her eyes shut. Please, God, she prayed, don’t let him back out. It was a foolish prayer that made her feel like a schoolgirl in the throes of a silly crush. That didn’t make it any less heartfelt.

“Don’t tell me you’re calling to cancel,” she blurted out. As if the action might help her stuff the words back into her mouth, Taylor pressed her fingertips to her lips.

After a slight pause, she heard him clear his throat. Already she’d decided it was something he did when uncomfortable, uneasy, uncertain. Oh, fine, she scolded herself. Now you’ve gone and done it!

He’d see her as that silly schoolgirl now. And what did a man like that, who’d risked life and limb for his country, want with a—

“No,” came his calm, masculine voice, “I was actually calling to find out if we’re supposed to meet at Resurrection, or if I should pick you up.”

Taylor blinked. Swallowed. “Well, I hadn’t really—”

“Because if it’s up to me,” he continued, “I’d prefer coming to get you.”

Brows high on her forehead, she felt herself smile. Really? she thought.

“If you have something to do, I’ll understand….”

“Do?”

“I know you’re pretty heavily involved over there at the, uh, at the church. I just thought maybe you had, um, stuff to set up or something.”

She hoped her laughter wouldn’t sound too relieved. “No. In fact, I’m not even on the cleanup committee this time.”

Yet the minute the words were out, Taylor regretted them. Would he take it to mean she expected to be invited out afterward? For ice cream, or a walk in the park? For a glass of lemonade or a stroll along Main Street?

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