Sultry Escapes
Waking Up To You
Leslie Kelly
No Strings…
Janelle Denison
Midnight Special
Tawny Weber

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Waking Up To You

About the Author

Dedication

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

Epilogue

No Strings…

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Midnight Special

About the Author

Dedication

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

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Copyright

Waking Up To You

LESLIE KELLY has written dozens of books and novellas for Mills & Boon® Blaze® and other lines. Known for her sparkling dialogue, fun characters and steamy sensuality, she has been honoured with numerous awards, including the National Reader’s choice award, the colorado award of Excellence, the Golden Quill, and the Romantic Times Magazine career achievement award in Series Romance. Leslie has also been nominated four times for the highest award in romance fiction, the RWA RITA® award. Leslie lives in Maryland with her own romantic hero, Bruce, and their daughters. Visit her online at www.lesliekelly.com or at her blog www.plotmonkeys.com.

To Julie Thank you so much for helping me figure out how to make this story work.

You really pulled me out of the fire.

Prologue

The Hollywood Tattler- Superstar No Longer A Bachelor?

Pay attention, ladies, it looks like Thomas Shane, hottest young leading man to come out of Sundance, might be ready to trade in his bachelor digs for a cozy cottage for two. The handsome actor, who set female hearts throbbing in his very first picture, is reportedly in the market for a home in the Laguna Beach area.

Shane, who is rumored to be starring in the next big superhero reboot, has been notoriously picky about his lady friends. But he was recently seen house shopping with a hot brunette who, sources say, was the costume designer on his last film.

If it’s true that Thomas Shane is leaving the realm of available men, hearts are breaking all over the world.

Don’t go, Shane! Don’t go!

1

“WAIT, YOU’RE ASKING me to marry you?”

Her mouth open, Candace Reid stared into the beautiful, sky-blue eyes that were the dominant feature of the most perfect male face she had ever seen. Thomas Shane, handsomest man on the planet, hottest young up-and-comer in Hollywood, subject of fantasies and object of obsessions, had just said the words every other woman in America would kill to hear from his lips. And he didn’t appear to be joking.

“Yes, I am. Marry me, Candace. Say yes.”

“But…but…you’re a movie star.”

“So what? You’re a movie costumer.”

She grunted. That so didn’t count. Her check on their last film was smaller than his by at least four zeroes.

“We’ve known each other since kindergarten.”

“Nursery school. Say yes and I will at last forgive you for stealing my Fruit Roll-Ups during nap time the day we met.”

She growled. She hadn’t taken the damn Fruit Roll-Ups. “That was Joey Winpigler…don’t you remember his green teeth?”

“That kid’s teeth were always green.”

She groaned, realizing they were getting off topic—off this insane topic. “I can’t marry you…you’re my best friend.”

“And you’re mine. That’s why it’s so perfect.”

Throwing her arms up in frustration, she exclaimed, “But, Tommy, you’re gay!”

He waved an unconcerned hand. “Oh, that.”

“Yeah. That.”

“It’s really no big deal.”

“I disagree. I don’t have a penis, and they’re right up there with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens for you.”

“Well, I’ll admit they are among my fav-o-rite things.”

Of course Tommy would get the show-tune quip—he’d starred in every musical in their high school and could tapdance his way around a chorus line of Rockettes. Not that anyone who had seen him in his last film, taking out an entire terrorist camp single-handedly, would believe that.

“But really, penises schmenises, most men are jerks,” he insisted. “I adore women.”

“Not sexually.”

He plopped down beside her on the buttery-soft leather sofa in the living room of his Malibu condo. “Sex isn’t everything.”

“Yeah, right.” For him maybe it wasn’t, since his career was his entire focus right now. But for Candace, who liked sex a lot, even if she seldom got it, it was kind of a biggie.

“I think maybe I’ll just be asexual from now on.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes.

“What? I can love from afar. It’ll be all tragic and shit.”

“Like the mad crush you had on that guy who played your grandfather in your second film?”

He pursed his lips, looking prim. “Every serious actor has a crush on Sir Anthony Hopkins. He’s a God.”

“But not every serious actor goes trolling for a little strange cock when he’s out of town, away from the cameras.”

“Big strange cock,” he retorted. “And that’s a secret.”

“This is nuts. Stop playing around.”

“Babe, I’ve got to keep my personal life on the down-low for now,” he said, growing serious. “If I don’t, my superhero action-movie days are over. It sucks, but you know it’s true.”

Part of her wanted to urge him to be true to himself and stop hiding the man he was. She’d known about his sexual orientation for as long as he had, having realized it in middle school when Tommy had gotten pissy about her landing a date with the hottest guy in their class. It hadn’t been hard to figure out who, exactly, he was jealous of. The two of them had talked about it, acknowledged Tommy was gay and that was that.

Her sister, Madison, the only person in the world to whom she was closer than Tommy, hadn’t figured it out quite as quickly. But once she had, the three of them had become like the Three Musketeers, fighting for Tommy’s right to be himself.

And now he wanted to hide who he was for good.

“There have been rumors,” he said, not meeting her eye.

She shrugged. “There are always those kinds of rumors about movie stars.” Tommy wasn’t the first Holly-wood celebrity to worry about in-the-closet stories, and he wouldn’t be the last.

He rested his head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve also gotten a few veiled threats.”

Oh, hell. “What do you mean? Threats from who?”

“Just somebody I had a fling with last year.”

“Blackmail?” she said, indignant on his behalf.

“Not yet. But it could get there. He’s making rumbles about supposedly having some kind of proof.”

Candace glowered at him for being careless. “Tell me you didn’t let some dude take pictures.”

“Do I look mentally challenged?” He sounded indignant.

“Sorry.”

“And before you ask if I left DNA on a Gap dress, let me explain. It was just some text messages.”

“They can be faked,” she said, waving an airy hand.

“Yeah, but look at what happened to Tiger.”

True. Text messages could definitely come back to bite you. She made a mental note. Next time you’re about to break up with someone, borrow his phone to destroy the evidence first.

He turned to face her. “So you see why this is so important? With that tabloid article hinting I was going to settle down with you, I think I can put out the fires for a while. Once I nail this franchise, I can get haughty and walk away to do high-minded indie films.”

Haughty wasn’t hard for Tommy, although she knew it was a pretense. He was almost always in character. Right now it suited him to act the part of spoiled Hollywood star. But playing the role of her husband? That would take some Oscar-worthy skills.

“Please, Candy, I’m begging you,” he said. “Just give me a few years—five max. You and I both know it wouldn’t be the first five-years-to-hide-the-fact-that-I’m-gay marriage in Hollywood.”

Five years. Could she really give up five years of her life? Okay, so she was only twenty-six, she wasn’t seeing anyone and had no interest in settling down and having babies until she was in her thirties. Still…it was quite a commitment.

“And there’ll be no prenup. You’ll get half of whatever I earn.”

Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

He saw her reaction and pounced. “You know you could use the money, since you won’t let me lend it to you. You can help out your parents and your sister, give your grandfather the money to get that broken-down winery he bought last year up and running.”

That was all true. Curse him for understanding her well enough to know exactly which buttons to push.

“And it’ll be fun. We’ll walk the red carpet together.” He dropped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. “I’ll be all romantic when I give my Oscar acceptance speech and thank the wildly sexy woman who made it all possible.”

Hmm. That sounded like fun.

“There is still one big problem,” she finally said. “I like sex. Five years is a long time to go without it.”

“You don’t have to,” he insisted.

“Eww,” she said, shoving his arm off her. “That’d be like having sex with my brother. My gay brother.”

“I wasn’t talking about me! You can have affairs.”

“Tacky. Besides, that’d really cause some gossip. I’m already on the radar of those leeches.”

She hated that, truly. Being the subject of gossip was infuriating, and she doubly hated the idea that some people might have decided she got her start in Hollywood because of Tommy. If anything, he’d gotten his first break through her. He’d come to visit her at work at one of the studios one day, met a casting director and the rest was history.

“Look,” he said, “we both know you’ve got a gazillion gigabytes of internal memory when it comes to sex. You’ve already stored up experiences that helped you through dry spells in the past.”

She couldn’t argue that, but did stick out her tongue at him. It wasn’t nice of him to point out all those dry spells, usually caused because Candace had a bad habit of going out with guys who were far more focused on material things and their own ambitions than they were on her. “Your point?”

“My point is, I’ll send you on a trip to France for two weeks. You can boink your way from Bordeaux to Paris, free from the paparazzi. Once you back up some orgasms on your libido’s hard drive, you can come home and we’ll announce our engagement.”

He always managed to make her laugh. “And what if my vaginal computer crashes? Am I supposed to zip off to a bordello to do an emergency dump onto my flash drive?”

“I bet you’d make it two years. Then, when you’re crawling out of your skin, I’ll pay for you to go to Australia and you can throw a few shrimp on your barbie.”

He said the words in a cheesy down-under accent, and she couldn’t help laughing. The whole thing was absurd, ridiculous.

But, craziest of all, she was seriously thinking about it.

Not just because she loved Tommy, or because it might be fun playing Hollywood wife. No, because she could really use the money. Her parents were happy in the Florida home where she’d grown up. But since her dad’s heart attack two months ago, they’d been stretched thin financially.

Her sister had just finished grad school and had a mountain of debt. And her wonderful, willful grandfather had, indeed, been struck by some wild notion and bought an old run-down winery in Northern California a year ago. The place had nary a grape in sight, and Grandpa had no clue how to grow them, much less turn them into wine. But he was determined to make a go of it.

So, yeah, the money would come in handy. Tommy had offered to help out, but she wouldn’t accept charity. She always earned what she got. And frankly, if she had to give up sex for five years, she would earn every penny. Because, no matter what he said, she’d never risk having an affair after their engagement was announced, a time when she’d be more under the paparazzi spotlight than ever. This sowing-her-wild-oats-in-France thing would be it, the full extent of her sexual activity for five long, lonely, vibrator-filled years.

Could she do it? For Tommy? For her family? For the money?

“So what do you say? Pretty please?” he asked, flashing those baby blues and his amazing smile. That grin, that wicked sense of humor and his innate kind streak always made her give in. He deserved the brilliant career within his grasp. No creepy blackmailer should have the right to take it away from him.

“Oh, hell.” Farewell penises of the world. “I guess I’m in.”

“Yes! You are the best friend ever.” He pumped both fists in the air, then dropped to one knee. Taking her hand, he stared at her adoringly, playing the man-in-love character. Put him in a Nick Sparks film opposite Emily Blunt and nobody would ever guess he’d once seduced the star football player of their high school.

“Candace Eliza Reid, will you be my bride?”

“Yes, I will. Now get up, idiot. And get your travel agent on the phone because I am so taking you up on that Paris thing.”

“Or maybe Italy for some spicy pepperoni?”

“Dork,” she said as he wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

“Wait…Ireland! I know you’ve always dug Irish guys.”

“Nope, French will do. I don’t want my sex toy to speak English. I don’t need him for conversation, and I definitely don’t want him talking to any reporters who come around.”

She doubted she’d come across an absolutely amazing superhunk who would give her five years’ worth of orgasms in two weeks, but it was worth a shot. She’d do her damndest, anyway, and nobody was going to stop her from gorging herself on one last sexual feast before settling in for five hungry years of celibacy.

Before Tommy could make the call, however, her own cell phone rang. She answered, listened and realized that she’d been wrong. Somebody could stop her. Something could happen that would totally change her mind and her plans. Because, when it came right down to it, her need to stockpile some sexual memories couldn’t even begin to compete with family, especially when somebody she loved was hurt and needed her. And her grandfather—whom she adored—was hurt and needed her.

So, within a few hours, Candace was at the airport, waiting to board a plane, not for France and orgasms, but for San Francisco and family. She’d be by her grandfather’s side for as long as it took…even if she had to sacrifice any chance she had of meeting a man who might make her most wicked dreams come true.

LYING IN BED in the small groundskeeper’s cottage that he now called home, Oliver McKean suddenly found himself wide-awake, wondering what had roused him from his slumber. He was exhausted, his body aching after a long day of hard work, followed by an evening in a hospital. After twenty hours on his feet, he’d been totally wiped. When he’d gotten home, he’d showered, hit the mattress and been sound asleep in minutes.

Until now.

He lay there in the stillness, blinking, looking up at the ceiling that still didn’t look familiar, though he’d slept beneath it for four months now. A long silent moment stretched out, broken only by the faint far-off howl of a coyote. Coming from L.A., he still hadn’t grown used to the silence up here in Northern California. Sonoma was known for its famous wines, but its landscape was pretty spectacular, with thousands of acres of untamed wilderness. The estate on which he lived sometimes felt like it was in the middle of a deserted island.

Which was exactly the reason he’d come here, chucking his old life and heading north, choosing the wine country both because of his family’s ties to the area and his own love of the region. Being away from the seething mass of humanity in L.A. had sounded like a good way to regroup, regain his sense of self. He also wanted to regain his sense of right and wrong, which had started to slip away as he’d fallen further into the trap of career and ambition. He needed to take a year or so, to drop out of the world, do penance for the wrongs he’d done and to figure out what he was going to do next. One thing was for sure—it wasn’t returning to the Los Angeles County D.A.’s office.

“Been there, done that, never going back,” he whispered. his job as a prosecutor had demoralized him, savaged his optimistic streak and left him with a strong distaste for his chosen profession.

Glancing at his clock and seeing it was almost three, he settled back into his small, lumpy bed, which had come with the furnished cottage. But right before he closed his eyes again, he noted the shadows playing across the ceiling. That’s what had awakened him. Not a noise, a light.

When he’d gone to bed at 1:00 a.m., it had been pitch-black outside. The sky had been overcast for a couple of days, leaving the stars and moon—usually brilliant up here away from the city lights—hidden behind a bank of clouds. He could hear the soft fall of rain now. But there was light coming from somewhere. It was noticeable against the utter blackness, and sifted in through the uncurtained window.

He got up, walked over and looked toward the main house. A warm, golden beacon shone from within, shattering the darkness.

Strange. He didn’t think he’d left a light on, and the house was supposed to be empty. The owner, Buddy Frye, was lying in a hospital waiting to have surgery for his broken hip. Frye lived alone, with Oliver occupying the groundskeeper’s cottage nearby. Nobody else was within a few miles. Oliver had talked to his boss’s daughter earlier, and she’d said she would try to catch a flight from Florida in the next few days. But no way could she have made it this soon. So who was skulking around in the house?

He hadn’t been away from L.A., and his job prosecuting some of the most violent criminals in the country, long enough to assume the visitor was simply a friendly, concerned neighbor. Huh-uh. Buddy was pretty new to the area. He didn’t socialize a lot; much of the community thought he had to be crazy to buy an old ruin of a vineyard estate that had been on the market for three years.

There had been reports in the news lately about breakins in some of the outlying areas, even some squatters taking advantage of the abandoned foreclosures. And while Buddy didn’t have a lot worth stealing in that glorious old ruin he called a home, no way was Oliver about to let the man get victimized while he was lying helpless in a hospital.

He reached for the jeans he’d taken off a few hours ago. They were crusted with dirt from the long day he’d put in yesterday. He hadn’t even had time to change into something else before racing after the ambulance that had taken his kindly old boss to the emergency room. But hell, if they were good enough for the doctors and nurses at the Sonoma Valley Hospital, they were good enough for Mr. Prowler.

He left his small house, following the illumination. His bare feet slipped in the wet grass, and the cold rain jabbed his chest since he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. Passing the toolshed, which stood between his place and the main house, he reached out and snagged a rake. He didn’t want to have to protect himself, but better safe than sorry.

Strange that anybody would choose this house to rob. The place might once have been a showplace—Oliver had seen pictures of it from its glory days, when it had been owned by his own family. It had been passed down from a great-grandfather who’d been a silent movie star. His uncle had sold it a decade ago, and that owner had gone bankrupt. Now Buddy Frye, its current owner, was trying to restore it. Oliver hoped he succeeded—the bones of a beautiful mansion were still there. As for right now, though, it was a falling-down heap, held up as much by the layers of paint on the walls as by any remnants of a foundation.

The porch creaked—the third floorboard being the loudest—so he avoided it as he approached the door. He reached for the knob, which twisted easily in his hand. That wasn’t a good sign. He remembered locking it tonight before heading to his place. Buddy often didn’t, feeling safe out here in the country, but Oliver hadn’t lost that big-city need for security.

Stepping inside, he almost tripped over a small carry-on type suitcase, and was immediately curious about this burglar who carried Louis Vuitton.

Clanging emerged from the kitchen. So the prowler had decided to make himself a sandwich? A little ham and Swiss to go with the breaking and entering?

Nothing about this added up.

The kitchen was at the back of the house. Edging toward it, clueless about what to expect, Oliver paused at the doorway. When he peeked in, he froze in uncertainty.

It wasn’t a prowler. At least, it wasn’t the sort of prowler he’d ever seen or envisioned, unless prowlers now came disguised as tall young women with thick masses of honeybrown hair that hung in a wave of damp curls halfway down a slender back. She stood at the sink, filling two things: a glass with water, and a pair of jeans with the most amazingly perfect ass he’d ever seen.

His breath caught, his heart lurched and all parts south woke up, too. As he watched, she lifted a shaking hand and swept it through that long hair, weariness underscoring every movement. Her slumped shoulders reinforced that.

He ran down a list of possibilities and lit on the most likely. A granddaughter. Buddy had mentioned that one lived in L.A. She must have come up when she heard about her grandfather’s accident.

Welcome to Northern California, sweetheart. And thanks for improving the view by bringing that gorgeous ass with you.

He blinked, trying to clear his mind. He’d done enough staring for one night, especially at the posterior of a woman whose grandfather was one of the few men Oliver truly respected.

“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat.

She dropped the glass. It fell from her hand onto the floor, exploding into a volcano of tiny slivers, splashing water on her pants. Spinning around, her eyes wide and her mouth falling open, she saw him standing there and let out a strangled cry of alarm.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, realizing what he must look like, shirtless, wearing dirty jeans and, he suddenly realized, still holding a sharp, threatening-looking rake. The woman, who was beyond sexy, with a pair of blazing green eyes and a beautiful face surrounded by that thick, honeycolored tangle of hair, was eyeing him like he’d popped up in front of her in a back alley.

“I’m not going to…”

He was going to say hurt you. But before he could say a word, a pot flew toward his head. He threw up an arm to deflect it, groaning as the metal thunked his elbow, sending him stumbling back into the hallway. He barely managed to stay upright. If not for the rake on which he suddenly leaned, he might have fallen flat on the floor.

But the rake couldn’t help him when the frying pan followed the pot.

One second later, he was flat on the floor, rubbing the middle of his chest. He focused on trying to catch his breath, which had been knocked out of him as if he’d been KO’d by the love child of Ali and Tyson. That skillet must have been made of cast iron, and she’d flung it like a discus wielded by an Olympic champion.

He held his hands up in surrender, trying to form words, though his body had forgotten how to breathe and his ribs were screaming for her head on a platter. Meanwhile, the rake, which he’d been clutching as he fell, toppled forward. Just to add a little insult to the injury, it landed on his shoulder, then clanged to the floor beside him.

Pain, meet agony, pull up a chair why don’t you?

“Get out, I’m calling the police!” she ordered as she scrambled to grab another pot out of the sink.

“Whoa, lady, cool it,” he finally gasped. “I’m not…going to…hurt you.”

“That’s what any sick, raping, ax-murdering psycho would say.”

If his chest didn’t hurt so damned much, and if he wasn’t afraid she would reach for the knife block next, he would have mulled that one over, wondering which she thought him to be: sick, raping, ax-murderer or psycho. All of the above?

Active imagination on that one.

“I’m the…groundskeeper,” he said with a groan as the ache in his chest receded, only to remind him of the ache in his elbow. Funny bone, my ass. “I work here.”

She froze, another pot in one hand, a cell phone in the other, and stared at him from a few feet away. “You work here?”

“Yeah, for Buddy. My name’s Oliver McKean. I saw the lights and was afraid somebody had broken in.”

She eyed him, her stare zoning in on the blood he could feel trickling down the side of his arm. Obviously she’d broken skin, if not bone, with her mad pot-slinging skills.

Nibbling on the corner of a succulent lip, she whispered, “Oh, dear.”

“Yeah. Oh, dear. That’s some swing you’ve got there.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m Candace Reid.”

“Oliver McKean.”

“You said that.”

“I know,” he mumbled, realizing he wasn’t making any sense. The one place she hadn’t hit him was his head, but his thoughts were still a whirl as he tried to figure out why on earth he was reacting so strongly to a woman who’d just tried to kill him.

“Are you Irish?” she asked with a deep frown, sounding more concerned than when she’d thought him a maniacal ax-killing rapist.

“My father is. We lived in Cork for a few years when I was a kid,” he admitted, wondering if his voice still held a hint of an accent. Also wondering why it mattered.

Not seeing the need to discuss his ethnicity, he staggered to his feet. He was none too steady on them, and his lungs still burned. She’d practically knocked him senseless. Dizzy or not, he was incredibly lucky neither of those flying missiles had hit him in the head. They really could have done some damage. But worries about what might have happened dissipated as he stared at her from across the room. Now that he wasn’t afraid for his life, he found himself struck into silence by the beauty of her gently curved face. Dark brows arched over expressive jewelgreen eyes that were still widened with fear and surprise. Beneath a pair of high cheekbones were soft hollows that invited tender exploration. Her amazing lips were made for lots of deep kisses. Her chin was up, determined and strong, as if she wasn’t about to let down her guard completely. He liked that…he especially liked that she remained firm even though her long slender throat quivered and worked as she swallowed down her instinctive anxiety and mistrust.

She wore a delicate, filmy blouse, all cloud and color. It clung to the edge of her slim shoulders, revealing a soft expanse of chest and collarbone. Her skin was creamy, smooth, and his fingers curled together as he imagined touching that softness. The scooped neck of the blouse fell to the tops of her full breasts, revealing a hint of cleavage that left him more breathless than he’d felt after taking a frying pan to the chest.

He continued his perusal, seeing those curvy hips from the front—just as delightful—and the thighs clad in tight denim, on down to the high-heeled boots. Hell, she should have used those things for a weapon; the spiked heels could have carved out a hole in his heart.

Hmm. He suspected this woman could carve her name on any man’s heart. If, of course, he had one still capable of opening up and being carved.

“You’re Buddy’s granddaughter, I presume?” he finally asked, once his brain started working again.

His words snapped her out of her long moment of decompression. Apparently realizing she wasn’t about to be raped, ravaged by a maniac or ax-murdered, she nodded quickly. “Yes. I’m such an idiot. My mother told me that Grandpa’s groundskeeper had been the one to call with the news that he was in the hospital. I can’t believe I took you for a home invader.” She spun around and grabbed a handful of paper towels, striding toward him, her eyes glued on his bleeding arm. “I really am sorry. Let me help you.”

When he saw that she was still armed, he took a step back. “Drop the lethal weapon first, would you?”

Looking down at the pot, she nibbled her lip sheepishly and did as he asked, opening her fingers and dropping the pot to the floor.

Well, not quite to the floor. It had his bare foot to land on first.

The pot fell to the floor with a bang, crushing his toes, then rolling onto the linoleum. “Ow, Jesus,” he yelled, grabbing his flattened foot and hopping on the other.

Her beautiful green eyes saucered as she realized what she’d done. With a strangled sound, she reached for him, but he leaped out of striking range and leaned back against the wall.

“Stay back. Please. Just stay away from me.” His entire body throbbing, he added, “Jeez, lady, you ought to come with a warning label.”

She threw her hand over her mouth in dismay, and bent over at the waist. Sounds like tiny sobs were bursting from her lips and her body trembled.

Great. Just great. Tears.

He quickly shoved away his instinctive reaction, realizing she’d had a hell of a night. Obviously she’d raced up here from Southern California to be with her injured grandfather. She’d been high on fear and adrenaline even before she’d thought she was about to be attacked by a shirtless stranger wielding a rake. Anyone would be a little overwrought.

Realizing she was really mortified, Oliver dropped his foot, praying there were no broken bones, and tried not to wince as he tested his weight on it. “It’s okay…I’m all right. Accidents happen.”

She straightened and peered at him, those green eyes assessing. But she didn’t lower her hand, and her shoulders were now shaking as she made muffled sounds. Funny, her eyes weren’t glossy, as if filled with tears. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d say they were almost twinkling instead.

A sneaking suspicion entered his mind. He reached out, yanked her hand away from her mouth and realized the truth.

She wasn’t crying. She was giggling almost uncontrollably.

2

“WAIT, YOU’RE LAUGHING?”

Oliver couldn’t contain his indignation, not sure whether to retaliate by dropping a pan on her foot or shaking the laughter off her oh-so-kissable lips. She was damned lucky he was not the violent sort, because the shaking thing was definitely winning the internal battle in his mind.

She was also lucky he wasn’t the ax-murdering-maniac sort because wringing her neck was a close second.

Then his gaze landed on those kissable lips, and he thought of something else he’d like to do with them. A few somethings, in fact.

She sucked them into her mouth, obviously trying to control herself. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her laughter deepening and sounding a little frenzied. “That was just so…so Three Stooges!”

“You break my arm, smash a few ribs, crush my shoulder, pulverize my toes and you think it’s hilarious?” His voice was tight with anger. Maybe tomorrow he’d look back and think the situation was funny, but right now he was too concerned about a punctured lung to join in the hilarity.

“I really am sorry,” she murmured.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Her laughter fading to the occasional little snort, she explained. “I laugh when I’m stressed. It’s awful, I know.”

“Awfully strange, anyway,” he snapped.

“It’s just been such a long day. I was in the middle of a surreal moment even before I got the call about my grandfather. I have been so afraid for him.” She swept a shaking hand through her hair, which looked like it had been swept through a lot recently. “The flight up here was a jam-packed nightmare. The kid beside me spent an hour flinging Cheerios and boogers at my head.”

Eww.

“The cab ride to the house was an exercise in nausea. I needed a drink, but Grandpa appears to have hidden his stash the way he did when I was a kid. And to top it all off, you skulked into the kitchen, looking all big and bad and scared the shit out of me.”

Okay. At some point in that litany of woes, between the boogers, the liquor and the big-n-bad, he got the picture.

She was hysterical.

He understood the reaction. He’d worked with witnesses whose terror had revealed itself via uncontrollable laughter and knew that deep inside, she was churning with anxiety. The laughter had held a tinge of frenzy, her fear and reaction to his presence had been a bit extreme, and now she looked like she was going to…“Oh, hell, please don’t,” he muttered.

But she did. She segued from snickers to sobs in the drawing of a breath. Before he could even take a second to remind himself how utterly useless he felt around crying women, he saw big fat tears roll from her eyes and drip down those soft cheeks.

“Is my grandfather okay?” Sniff. “And are you?” Sniff sniff. “Do I need to take you to the hospital? I can’t believe I attacked you. Believe me, it was my first assault and battery.”

She literally wrung her hands in front of her, clenching and gripping them, as if needing something to hold on to. He had to imagine she was running on empty emotionally and was imagining the worst.

He knew of only two ways to calm her down, to make her stop trying to maim him with kitchen utensils, snort herself to death laughing or sob until she had no tears left.

He started with option one. Reason.

“Buddy is going to be fine, I promise. His doctor said he’ll need surgery and then rehab, but when I left the hospital he was high as a kite on pain meds and pinching the nurses.”

Her lips twitched, and she managed to lift them a tiny bit at the corners.

“And I’ll be fine, too.” He eyed the kitchen sink and tried for humor, hoping to coax another laugh, or even a tiny snort out of her. “Just don’t ever flash a pot at me or I’ll go into post-traumatic shock and instinctively dive for the floor.”

The lips curled a wee bit more. But he didn’t get his hopes up yet.

“How did it happen? My mother didn’t give me any details, just that he’d broken his hip.”

He hesitated, before admitting, “He fell down the front steps off the porch.”

Another sniff. “Such a short fall and so much damage.”

“It happens,” he said, knowing brittle bones could easily be broken. “But he’s going to get a brand-new hip and come home better than ever. Before you know it, he’ll be running marathons.”

“Oh, great, then it’ll be his other hip or his knees.”

He wished he’d quit while he was ahead. She was obviously now picturing her grandfather’s much-loved arms and skull being shattered. Sure enough, to prove it, the bottom lip began to stick out the tiniest bit and she welled up again. Those churning emotions just weren’t going to let her go without a fight.

“C’mere,” he said with a sigh, knowing he had to move on to option two.

Not giving her a warning or a chance to get away, he gently took hold of her shoulders and pulled her closer. She resisted for the briefest moment, as if unsure of his motives.

He reassured her, sighing deeply as he wondered what on earth he’d done to deserve this. Having to act like a wailing wall for a gorgeous woman who was totally offlimits, considering she was his employer’s beloved granddaughter, simply wasn’t fair.

“Just let it out, darlin’. You’ve already maimed and injured me, so you might as well use my one good shoulder to cry on.”

That elicited a sob that verged on a giggle and she gave in to the invitation. The tall, soft woman melted against him. Burying her face in his neck, she wrapped her arms around his waist, as if it was the most natural thing in the world that she should snuggle up against a half-naked stranger in her moment of need.

He stroked the small of her back, felt the wetness of her tears against his neck and murmured consoling words in her ear. She calmed—her slow shudders growing further apart as she took what he was offering. They swayed a little, as if dancing, and he mentally acknowledged that needing a shoulder to cry on wasn’t just an expression. Sometimes that was just exactly the right solution to a problem. Not for nothing was he known as the best brother in the world to his two sisters.

Only this woman was not one of his sisters. Oh, no. She was a beautiful, vulnerable stranger, who, he soon realized, felt incredibly good in his arms. Soft and pliant, warm, all curves and skin and heat and sex appeal. He could feel her gentle exhalations against his bare skin, feel the faint brush of her lips on his nape and was slowly going crazy at the scrape of her nipples through her silky blouse against his chest. He had never been more aware of being shirtless in his life.

He stiffened. Some parts more than others.

He should never have let his mind wander from her mood. Because, while the embrace had started as a comforting offer to a stranger, now he was much too aware that he hadn’t had sex in months and a woman shaped like a centerfold had curled up against him like a vine around a trellis.

Shifting back a little, he hoped like hell she wouldn’t realize he was getting hard while she wept. But she didn’t let him make a gentlemanly getaway. Instead she edged close again, pressing even harder against him. He could feel the warmth at the apex of her thighs, which, with her deliciously long legs, was lined up just perfectly with his groin.

She noticed. She had to notice. Because suddenly, she lifted her head and stared at him. Her soft face was tearstained, but her eyes were wide with shock, confusion and awareness.

Her lips trembled. She licked them, and he held his breath, wondering what on earth she was going to say. Was she about to snap at him and slap his face or issue an invitation? What?

In the end, his wild guesses didn’t even come close. Instead, with a soft, regretful sigh, she drew away and whispered, “Why, oh, God, why did I not meet you in Paris?”

A SHORT TIME later, after Candace had asked the sexy stranger a dozen questions about her grandfather’s condition, she finally allowed herself to think about something else. She now knew for sure that Buddy would be all right. She’d see him tomorrow, but for tonight, she could do nothing else.

Slowly, her fear and worry began to ease away and she let her thoughts drift in another direction. Enough so that, as she sat at the kitchen table and slowly sipped sweet, hot tea with the sexiest man she’d ever seen, she found time to wish two things: that she’d left the pots in the sink, and that she’d never even thought about him in connection with her canceled trip to France.

If she hadn’t seen him, reacted like a high school virgin defending her hymen from a horny football team and attacked him to the point of bloodshed, she wouldn’t have gotten all giggly, weepy and hysterical. If she hadn’t gotten giggly, weepy and hysterical, he wouldn’t have taken her into his big strong arms. If he hadn’t taken her into his big strong arms, he wouldn’t have drawn her against that rock-hard, rippling, sweat-tinged, powerful male body. if he hadn’t drawn her against his body, she might not have felt the rigid proof of his virility pressing deliciously against her sex.

And if he hadn’t gotten hard, she wouldn’t be sitting here vacillating between worrying about her grandfather and wondering when this hot stranger would wake up and smell the estrogen, and realize she was sitting in damp panties.

She shifted in the hard chair. Seriously damp.

Of course, fair was fair. He’d been seriously hard.

Yum.

No. Not yum. You can’t have him.

Sighing, she inhaled the fragrant tea and murmured, “If you give a mouse a cookie…”

“I don’t think your grandfather has any milk,” he replied, hearing her. “He’s lactose intolerant.”

She had to smile that this strong, rugged-looking man understood the reference to a popular children’s book. Especially since his voice was all deep and gravelly, sultry and alluring, and completely inappropriate for uttering rhymes to a little kid.

Uttering sexy, needful growls to an adult woman would be much more up his alley.

“I have a niece. She’s four,” he explained with a shrug. “You?”

Are you asking if I’m single?

She curled her left hand around the cup. The bare left hand. The left hand that was not yet weighed down with the five-carat diamond she suspected Tommy would put on it the minute she got back to L.A.

Remembering Tommy, and everything that ring would entail, she gave a guilty start and dropped her hand into her lap, reaching for the cup with her right one.

“Younger cousins,” she finally replied.

There was no point in letting this man know she was single. No possible reason to want him to realize she had gotten all gooey inside the moment he’d pulled her into his arms to offer her some warmth and human comfort. And it would be pure insanity to hope he’d figure out that the goo had boiled into lava once she’d felt the volcanic rock in his pants.

She didn’t allow herself to feel terribly flattered. Any bare-chested, slick, hard, virile—stop with the adjectives —man would probably stir at the feel of a woman pressing herself against him like she wanted to climb into his skin. That’s what she had done, she realized with embarrassment. She might as well have asked him if he could prettyplease comfort her on top of the hard, broad table, or up against the refrigerator. And wouldn’t it be nice if the comforting didn’t include clothes?

You’re engaged, remember?

Right. Engaged. Which meant the Candace Volcano was going to be all Mt. St. Helens from here on out—i.e., dormant. There might be rumbles, but there would be no eruptions for a hell of a long time. Five years, at least. Oy.

She would be staying here to help her grandfather for as long as he needed her, which meant there would be no time for a trip to Paris. No chance for a wild fling. Tommy wouldn’t want to wait too long to announce their engagement, and she couldn’t blame him. She’d have no time to sow any wild oats and bank some sexy memories. But she couldn’t truly be upset about it. She adored Grandpa and would do anything for him. Including missing out on her one-and-only chance to be a sex tourist.

So go for the gardener.

She flicked the thought out of her head, not for the first time. That wasn’t going to happen. A spring fling in Paris had sounded ideal, but there was no way she was hooking up with someone who worked for her grandfather. She’d wanted someone from out of the country, preferably a stud who didn’t speak English. Gorgeous, hung, with a penchant for oral sex and dumb as a rock would have suited her just fine.

This man—as far as she knew right now—had only two of those qualities. He was gorgeous. And oh, had he felt hung.

As for the rest? Well, that mouth looked like it could give a woman incredible pleasure. But he certainly didn’t appear dumb. He spoke the language. And, worst of all, lived in her own state. Once she became fodder for the paparazzi, they could easily track him down. They would be very interested to hear that Tommy Shane’s beloved fiancée had been having a wild, outrageously sexual affair with a man right before she’d said, “I will.”

Mmm. Wild. Outrageously sexual. Oh, did she suspect it would be.

Just her luck that she’d met a man who appealed to her on such a deep, powerful level on the very night she’d agreed to give up sex for five years and marry her best friend.

“Warming up a little?” he asked.

She had been, sip by sip. Grandfather’s house was old, damp and chilly, and she hoped her suitcase got here soon with her warmer clothes. “Yes, thanks.”

“The nights’ll get warmer soon,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“You’re not from around here?”

“No.” He hesitated, then added, “I moved up from L.A. a few months ago.”

Ahh! The plot thickened. Had he been some kind of gardener to the Hollywood elite? She suspected any number of starlets would have been happy to have him trim their hedges and do some deep planting in their gardens.

“Why?”

“It was just time,” he explained, his expression and tone telling her that was all he was going to say.

Talk about cryptic.

The silence between them resumed, though it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. They both merely sipped their tea, as they had been for the past few minutes. Oliver—that was his name, Oliver, and what a strong, solid, sexy, old-fashioned name it was—had gently pushed her into a chair and insisted on making her some tea. He obviously did know her grandfather well. A cup of Earl Grey was Buddy Frye’s solution to soothe all the ills of the world. Tea had cured Candace’s scraped knees and hurt feelings, broken hearts and hangovers. And now, it had made her finally relax and brought her tension down a few notches.

She wondered if Oliver had adopted the habit from his employer, of if he was a similar type of man—a calm, deliberate man who always seemed to know how to offer comfort in exactly the right way at the right moment. Whatever the reason, like the hug that had gone from sweet to smokin’, it was a nice gesture, one she appreciated.

Of course, she would appreciate it more if the man would put a damn shirt on so she wouldn’t have to keep shoving her eyeballs back in their sockets every time he moved.

Deltoids and pectorals and biceps, oh, my!

The last thing she had expected to find when she’d let herself into her grandfather’s house, which she’d only ever visited once before, was a hunk of masculine sex appeal showing up in the kitchen. Her mother had, indeed, mentioned a groundskeeper when she’d called earlier today. But she hadn’t said anything about a groundskeeper with nearly jet-black hair, thick and wavy and hanging a little long around his stubbled, two-days-past-needing-a-shave jaw. Nothing could have prepared Candace for the dark dreamy eyes, the strong brow, the slashing cheekbones or the powerful body. Absolutely nothing.

She’d met a lot of handsome men in Hollywood. Probably some who were more handsome than Oliver—Tommy among them. But in terms of raw, masculine sex appeal, she’d seen nobody better.

“Better?”

“Not a single one,” she mumbled.

“What?”

Realizing she’d spoken aloud, she quickly backtracked. “Sorry, I mean, I am better. Much. Just tired, that’s all.”

“So, you said you came up from L.A.?”

“Yes. I headed for the airport right after I got my mother’s call. I figured I should come and see how Grandpa was doing myself. I’m really hoping I can handle things so Mom won’t have to fly out here.”

His brow shot up. Knowing he’d been on the receiving end of her mother’s telephone panic, he had to be wondering about that.

“My father had a heart attack two months ago,” she explained. “He needs Mom there with him in Florida. So if I can be here for Buddy and set my mom’s mind at ease about my grandfather, that’s what I’ll do.”

He frowned, encircling his teacup in his hand. “Buddy might be in rehab for weeks.”

Weeks. Well, that wasn’t great, but it was doable. She was an independent contractor and was in between movie projects right now. She’d been asked to submit some preliminary sketches for a depression-era drama that could be a major motion picture in a few years, but that was still in the early stages. She didn’t have the assignment yet, and she could work on the prelims here. Besides, Leo DiCaprio, who was supposed to be starring in the film, was the easiest guy in Hollywood to dress. The only thing that might call her back to Southern California earlier would be her famous—infamous?—engagement.

“I’ll work something out,” she mumbled, wondering how long Tommy would be willing to hold off. She wouldn’t want to announce anything while she was taking care of her grandfather. The last thing the elderly man would need once he got home was reporters and photographers knocking at the door. “I don’t have to be in L.A. right away.”

“What do you do?”

Oh, I’m in the movie business. Costume design. Did you see the last Cameron film? That was me.

That was the standard reply, often said with a slightly superior tone, just because that’s how everybody in L.A. rolled. But she just didn’t feel like playing that game. Not here, in the middle of the night, with a stranger. Not after the day she’d had. “I’m involved with fashion design.”

His eyes didn’t immediately glaze, the way most men’s would. “My sisters would probably love to meet you. I think they were each born holding a copy of Vogue.”

She ran the tip of her finger across the rim of her cup. “Not that kind of fashion. I work for some of the production companies doing costuming.”

He grunted. “Movies, huh?”

Her back stiffened as he reacted just as she’d expected him to. Most people were awed by her connection to Tinseltown. This one, this earthy, swaggering man, just didn’t seem the type. He looked like he could live out some macho, shoot-em-up action film rather than having to sit through one. Of course, what such a man was doing working as a groundskeeper, she had no idea.

“What’s wrong with the movies?”

He shrugged.

“You don’t like films?”

“Sure I do. I just don’t have much respect for the people who make them.”

The vision of him being at the beck and call of some spoiled, rich-bitch movie star popped into her head. She had a hard time envisioning this man taking orders from anyone and wondered if he’d gotten tired of being propositioned by his clients. “Interact with a lot of Hollywood types, do you?”

He eyed her then shifted his gaze away, muttering a cryptic, “Not anymore.”

Meaning, he had once upon a time?

Something suddenly occurred to her, which could explain why he seemed like such a fish out of water. “Wait. Tell me you’re not a method actor up here in the wilds of Northern California getting ready to audition for some back-to-nature film,” she said, horrified at the very idea.

He barked a harsh laugh. “Not likely.” His lips twitching as he lifted his glass, he added, “What about you? Did you come out here all starry-eyed, looking for your big break, and end up shifting gears into costuming when the acting thing didn’t work out?”

“I couldn’t act my way out of a speeding ticket if my car was on fire and the cop who pulled me over was my uncle.”

His brow scrunched. “Why would you drive a burning car?”

“I…what?”

“If the car’s on fire, why would you keep driving it? Why wouldn’t you pull over and get out?”

“Are you always so literal?”

“Do you really have an uncle who’s a cop?”

She growled, low in her throat. Seeing the twinkle in his eye made the growl louder, so she continued the game of Answer a Question with a Question with a question. “Do you always bait strange women?”

“Only women who specialize in death-by-kitchenware.” His tone was deadpan. “And those I make tea for in the middle of the night.”

The faintest hint of his smile made her spine relax a bit. He might not look like he had much of a sense of humor, and his gruff voice sure didn’t sound like it was used much for laughing, but she suspected there lurked a good-humored man beneath the superhot, strongand-silent exterior.

She lifted her cup. “Speaking of which, you make a very good cup of tea. It was just what I needed. Thanks again.”

“Tea was a staple in our house. It’s one thing I have in common with your grandfather—he does like his cuppa.”

“So he does.”

The way he said cuppa warmed her up inside. She did love an Irish accent, and while his was buried under a couple of decades of blunt Americanism, she still heard the lilt every now and again.

Another sip. The tea was cooling now, her cup nearly drained, and she knew it had to be close to 4:00 a.m. By all rights, she should be tucked in bed in one of the drafty upstairs guest rooms. But something made her stay. She just didn’t want to be alone in this big house. Especially because she still couldn’t quite reconcile it as being Grandpa’s. He’d lived in a condo in St. Petersburg when she’d been growing up, for crying out loud, about as far from this wild, untamed landscape as one could get.

“What’s he doing here, anyway?” she grumbled.

“Who, Buddy?”

“Yes. What on earth possessed him to come out here and buy this place?”

“He’s living the dream, from the sound of it. He told me he’s always loved wine.”

“I don’t ever remember him drinking anything but Riunite Lombrusco when I was a kid,” she retorted.

“I think his tastes have matured a bit.”

“Are there even any grapes growing around here?”

“Not yet. That’s my department.”

“When’s that going to happen?”

“It’s a long way off. Probably next summer.”

“Seriously? You aren’t even going to plant for a year?”

His shrug was decidedly rueful. “It takes time to prepare the soil, especially since it’s been ignored for so long.”

“Have you worked at a winery before? Are grapes your specialty?”

“Not exactly.”

“So what did you do before you came here?”

He had tensed during her questioning, and she figured she was being pushy. But asking him about his past was better than asking him how on earth he managed to find shirts that fit over all those muscles.

“Let’s just say I’ve been digging in the dirt a lot in recent years. This job makes me feel a whole lot cleaner.”

That was mysterious, but his clipped tone said it was as much as she was going to get.

“Now, your grandfather’s surgery is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. Why don’t you grab a few hours’ sleep and we’ll try to get to the hospital at around eight?”

“All right.”

Rising, she picked up her cup, and his, carrying them over to the sink. She noted that, while brewing the tea, Oliver had stuck the pots and pans in the dishwasher, as if to get them out of throwing range. Candace still couldn’t believe she’d thought a few kitchen items would stop him if he’d really been some kind of villain. With that body—those strong arms and the table-wide chest—he could pick her up and break her in half.

Or, a wicked part of her realized, just split her in half with that amazing power tool in his pants. Not having had sex in a while, she couldn’t be entirely sure her memory wasn’t faulty, but if she had to guess, she’d say that had been a good eight inches of jackhammer straining against his zipper.

“Need a hand?”

She started, not having realized he’d left the table and walked up behind her. It was bad enough to be caught thinking he had an amazing body, but even worse to be standing here wondering about the size of the man’s johnson.

“No, thank you,” she said, hearing the breathiness in her voice. He was just so close, so big and warm. All she could think about was how it had felt to be pressed against him, his hands on her hips, his salt-tinged skin against her mouth.

It had been a long time since she’d been close to anyone. Honestly, the thought of not being held in a man’s strong arms for five years was almost as upsetting to her as knowing she would not be filled and possessed by one in the most raw, sexual way.

Almost.

“Okay, meet you outside at seven-thirty?”

She nodded, turning to face him, hoping her cheeks weren’t pink. She was not the blushing type. Still, she feared the heat in her face hadn’t been caused by the steam rising off the hot water in the sink.

“Thank you. And again, I’m sorry I attacked you.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t the first time.”

She quirked a brow. “Incite a lot of women to violence, do you?”

“Not recently.”

But he didn’t say anything else. He merely nodded good-night and left the kitchen, leaving her wondering what the real story was behind Oliver McKean.

3

CANDACE REID WAS as good as her word. Despite having probably only gotten the same few hours of sleep he had the night before, she was waiting on her grandfather’s front steps when he walked out of his cottage at 7:30 a.m.

She looked like crap.

Bloodshot eyes, pale cheeks sans makeup, sopping wet hair slung up in a ponytail—definitely not the Candace he’d met at 3:00 a.m. She wore a shapeless, heavy hoodie that would be much too warm in a few hours when the day shifted into typical Northern California mode, with its wildly swinging night-to-day temperature changes. The jeans weren’t designer; in fact, they looked worn and scruffy. And the functional sneakers in no way resembled the spike-heeled do-me shoes of the night before.

He knew he wasn’t seeing her at her sexy best, but couldn’t help thinking he liked this not-so-put-together version of the Hollywood costume designer. In her real life, with all the feminine trappings women relied on, she probably would have blended into the stylish crowd to which he had become so accustomed when living in L.A. Hell, he’d even been a part of it on occasion. But here, out of her element, obviously uncomfortable and not making any pretentious efforts to impress anyone—including him—he found her vulnerability refreshing.

Huh. Part of him should be a little disappointed that she wasn’t making any effort to impress him, considering how thick the sexual tension between them had been the night before. It had filled that kitchen like an invisible fog. He’d definitely thought about her long after he’d gone back to his bed.

But he hadn’t come to Sonoma to get caught up with a woman. He’d chosen this area because it was his favorite place to vacation—he loved the scenery, the pace and the people. He’d needed to reevaluate, to recover a sense of peace and tranquility that had been lost during his years running in the rat race with some huge rats. This period of solitude was about regrouping, finding his focus and doing penance for the shitty things he’d done to get ahead in the Orange County D.A.’s office.

Taking a sabbatical from the spotlight hadn’t been a bad side benefit, either. The press had had a field day with him when he’d blown the lid off some of the shenanigans taking place in the courthouse. Rising young stars in the prosecutor’s office weren’t supposed to refuse to railroad an innocent man in order to close a big case, and they definitely weren’t supposed to blow the whistle on the misconduct of others. Oh, yeah, he had definitely been front-page fodder, which made him persona non grata with the legal types in L.A., and would for quite some time. Frankly, that was fine with him. He wanted to forget about that period of his life, and wanted everyone there to forget about him.

So, no, having a hot affair just didn’t fit in with his plan of atonement. It was just as well Candace had dialed her sex appeal down a notch, even if nothing could really eradicate the beauty of her face or the curviness of her body.

If her appearance today was meant to send him a message, he’d gotten it. Loud and clear. She wasn’t interested.

“You sleep okay?” he asked as he walked over, already knowing the answer to his question.

“Sleep? What’s that? I feel like the princess from the fairy tale, only there wasn’t a pea under the mattress, there were cantaloupes the size of my head.”

“I don’t think your grandfather has had a chance to redecorate. A lot of the furniture came with the house, so it’s probably pretty old.”

“Who owned it before? Fred Flintstone?”

He couldn’t contain a chuckle. “The house was built by an old silent movie star, and it remained in his family for several decades until it fell into ruin. He supposedly threw some wild parties with his Hollywood buddies.”

“Huh…my kingdom for a Westin heavenly bed. I’d rather be comfortable than sleep on the mattress that once held Charlie Chaplin.” She winced and rubbed her shoulder. “And still might, given the bony lumps inside it.”

The old Oliver, the one who’d once been young and carefree and had done killer impressions that cracked up his sisters, might have tottered side to side and swung an invisible cane.

The new Oliver—hardened by the things he’d seen, the things he’d done—barely even remembered that idealistic guy.

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

She stepped into the passenger seat of the beat-up old truck as he got in behind the wheel and together, they headed toward the hospital. He could feel her tension and her anticipation. She sat forward on her seat, as if urging the old bucket of rust to go faster.

“Would you sit still?” he grumbled. “Visiting hours don’t even start until eight.”

“If we keep going negative-two miles an hour, we won’t be there until it’s time for Grandpa to go in for his surgery.”

“If we were going negative-two miles an hour, we’d be going backward.”

She smirked. “Now you’re just being silly.”

Unaccustomed to being called anything of the sort, he tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

“So how did you end up working for my grandfather?”

His grip grew even tighter. “I was just wandering. We ran into each other and he told me he was looking for help to get the old place up and running. Lucky for me, I had some time and experience.”

His experience with grounds keeping had been limited to his lawn-cutting business during high school. But that had been enough for Buddy, who, he suspected, had hired him because he wanted the company as much as Oliver’s strong back. And it had helped that Oliver was connected to the estate. He also suspected Buddy had sensed Oliver needed to be there, to work hard, not think and stay away from most of the world.

The old man had asked him if he was a criminal hiding out from the law. When Oliver had sworn he was not, they’d shaken hands and that had been that. Four months later, after studying everything he could find on the wine business, Oliver had calluses on his blisters, muscles in places he’d never known he’d needed them and the beginnings of a clear head.

“Sorry, but you just don’t look much like a gardener,” she said, obviously realizing he was prevaricating.

He cast her a sideways glance and let a faint smile lift the corner of his mouth. “You don’t look much like a fashion designer, either.”

Instead of taking offense, she barked a laugh and lifted a hand to her sopping ponytail. “Touché. I know I’m a mess. Aside from the horrible bed, a cricket kept chirping somewhere inside the house. And the water in the shower ranged from cold to frigid.”

“Devastating,” he murmured.

She continued, “There’s not a hair dryer in sight, because, of course, Grandpa doesn’t need one. I almost stuck my head over the stove but figured that might be pushing it.”

“Knowing how dangerous things tend to happen when you’re in a kitchen, that was probably a good call. And we don’t want to tax rescue services with a call about a fire. They were already out here once this week.”

“Did I mention that the airline misplaced my big suitcase? I only had my carry-on, which is why I’m wearing the old clothes that my sister left here when she came to visit a year ago.”

Judging by the clothes, the sister was a different type of dresser altogether.

“We can run by a store later if you need to shop,” he said.

“If the airline doesn’t show up with my things within a couple of days, I might have to take you up on that. I had the basic necessities in my carry-on, but I’ll be out of stuff pretty soon.”

“Are you really going to stick around for a while?” he asked, wondering if she truly intended to stay for weeks. Man, he hoped not. He was supposed to be enjoying a retreat from the real world. But this talkative, beautiful woman had brought it crashing in on him like the winds of a hurricane.

“Maybe. I’m between projects and was supposed to be going out of town for a couple of weeks anyway,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning against her window to look out at the passing scenery. “This isn’t exactly France, though.”

“You were going to France?”

She nodded but didn’t look over.

“Why would it have been better if you’d met me there?”

She jerked and swung around to stare at him. “What?”

“You said that last night.”

She bit that succulent bottom lip.

He prodded her. “Your exact words were, I believe, ‘Why, oh, God, why, didn’t I meet you in Paris?’”

She huffed. “Jeez, what are you, a transcriptionist?”

“I have a very good memory.”

“Obviously.”

“So?”

“So what?”

She was obviously trying to deflect, and he considered letting her get away with it. But something about that sad face and those slumped shoulders made him want to rile her up a little. He’d been raised with sisters, so he knew that nothing worked better to get them out of a sad slump than giving them something to be mad about.

“So, why would it have been better if you’d met me in Paris?”

“I was hysterical. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“Not that hysterical. As I recall, you were pretty damned calm at that point. Sedate even.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Shall we talk about how you were at that point?”

Hell, if she thought he was going to apologize for getting a hard-on when he’d had a gorgeous woman in his arms, she had another think coming. “I have a Y chromosome. And you’re beautiful.”

Her bluff having been called, she looked away.

“Paris,” he reminded her.

Crossing her arms over her chest and harrumphing, she said, “I just meant if I was going to end up in some hot guy’s arms this week, it should have been in the city of light, not in my grandfather’s kitchen.”

He made a mental note of the hot, wondering if she even realized she’d just revealed a little more about her thoughts of last night.

Casting him an arch look, she added, “By the way, it could have been any guy’s arms.”

“Hot.”

“What?”

“You said any hot guy’s arms.”

“It’s like I’m riding with a digital voice recorder.”

“Like I said. Good memory.”

“The point is, I was just speaking in general terms about how a run-down old kitchen can’t compare to the most romantic city in the world. That’s all.”

He wasn’t buying it. “Didn’t sound that way.”

“Would you stop interrogating me?”

There was fire in her eyes now, and color in her cheeks. Indignation wafted from her, and he congratulated himself on getting her mind off her troubles. Let her be annoyed at him, and engage in a little verbal sparring. At least it would be a few minutes less she spent worrying about her obviously deeply loved grandfather.

“Why were you going to France?”

“Did you miss the part about not interrogating me?”

“It’s just a simple question.”

“One that’s really none of your business.”

“So, not for work, then.”

She just huffed.

He speculated aloud. “If there was a possibility you’d end up in some random guy’s arms, you obviously weren’t meeting up with a boyfriend.”

“Did you also miss the part where I said it was about kitchen vs. Paris and not about a stupid man?”

“Your boyfriend’s stupid?”

“Argh!”

Defense attorneys hadn’t called him the Honey Badger of Hollywood for no reason. Oliver had been born with a persistent gene. “Was that an answer?”

“I don’t have a stupid boyfriend.”

“Well he can’t be very smart if he lets you come alone up to Sonoma to be stalked by a potential ax-murdering maniac in your grandfather’s kitchen.”

“There’s no boyfriend, okay? Stupid or otherwise!”

He’d known that’s what she was saying but was glad for the confirmation, anyway. He couldn’t say why that certainty sent a hint of relief gushing through his veins, but it did. “Well, that’s good. I’m afraid I’d lose a little respect for you if you liked stupid guys.”

“Right now, they’re sounding very appealing,” she mumbled.

“Low standards, huh?”

“No, I just wouldn’t have to be couching every word I say so it couldn’t be used against me in a court of law.”

That was striking a little close to home. “Because a stupid guy would understand you better?”

“No, because I wouldn’t give a damn if he didn’t!”

“You calling me smart, and saying you give a damn?” He wondered if she could see his half smirk. “Gee, hot and smart in one conversation. Better watch it, Miss Reid, or you’ll make my head swell.”

“Shut up, all right? Just. Stop. Talking.”

He finally started to laugh. The sound felt a little rusty; he didn’t make it very often anymore. And after a few seconds, she slowly joined in.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

“Women must threaten your life on a regular basis.”

“I guess.”

They were silent for a moment, then she sighed softly and said, “Thank you.”

She didn’t have to elaborate. He knew what she meant. So he merely replied, “You’re welcome.”

A few minutes later, they arrived at the hospital. Seeing it ratcheted up her tension again, and she was yanking the handle and hopping out of the truck the second he parked. He caught up with her at the hospital entrance and escorted her to Buddy’s room.

After a soft knock, they entered to find the old man dozing. He was still hooked up to machines and a morphine drip and probably looked pretty bad to his granddaughter. But compared to how he’d looked after he’d fallen yesterday, this was quite an improvement. Oliver wasn’t sure he’d ever get over the terror he’d felt when he’d heard the loud cry of pain and he’d run around the house to see Buddy lying on the ground, looking like a fragile, broken porcelain doll.

“Grandpa?”

The eyes shot open and the old man turned to stare at her, his blue eyes shining with vitality and affection. “Candy-cane, what are you doing here?” He cast a glance at Oliver. “I told you not to worry anybody.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, bending to kiss his forehead. She tenderly brushed away a long strand of silvery hair—used in the ultimate old-man comb-over to cover the sizable bald spot on his pate. “Mom was going to come herself…”

“Ridiculous! She needs to stay in Florida and take care of your stodgy old fart of a father.”

Seeing the smile on Candace’s face, and the matching one on Buddy’s, Oliver could only think theirs was a closeknit family and the joke was an old one. Buddy had to be at least eighty, but he was usually as peppy and energetic as a much-younger man.

“Well, that’s why I came, to scope out the situation and see if she needed to visit.”

“She doesn’t!”

“You certainly seem peppy.”

“I’m feeling no pain,” he admitted. “You really don’t have to stay.”

“Of course I’m staying. I’ll be here when you get out of surgery, and I’ll be at your house waiting for you when you come home.”

He didn’t argue anymore, looking visibly touched and showing just the faintest hint of vulnerability. Buddy might not want to be a bother, but when it came to being in the hospital, nothing beat having family nearby. The old man hadn’t said anything about being nervous about his operation, but considering he hadn’t been expecting any such thing twenty-four hours ago, he had to be worried about it.

“I think I’ll give you two some time alone,” Oliver said. “Buddy, I just wanted to say I’m here and hope everything goes well with the surgery. I have no doubt you’ll be kicking up clods of dirt and rocks in no time.”

His boss nodded. “Thank you for bringing my grandbaby to see me.”

“Not a problem.”

“You’ll make sure she’s okay out there at the house? It’s awfully lonely and desolate for a helpless young girl on her own.”

He saw Candace roll her eyes at the description. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “I certainly don’t need a babysitter.”

“Humor an old man. Promise me you’ll let Oliver look after you.”

She glanced back and forth between them, her mouth opening and snapping closed. Obviously she didn’t want to promise any such thing. However, she didn’t want to upset her elderly relative, either. Finally, she hedged. “If I need anything, I’ll be sure to ask him.”

That could range from needing a roll of toilet paper to needing a spider killed. What it wasn’t was an agreement to let him watch over her.

“Promise?”

She obviously didn’t like being pressed, and mumbled, “If there’s a dire emergency, Oliver is the first one I’ll call.”

Buddy didn’t appear thrilled by the concession, but apparently knew he’d pushed hard enough. “All right.” Then he extended his hand. “Thank you again, Oliver.”

Oliver walked over for a handshake, but when he tried to end it, the old man didn’t let go. Instead, Buddy clutched his hand, while also holding his granddaughter’s.

“So, you two are getting along okay?”

If Cupid had ever suffered from a broken hip, he’d probably have taken a day off. Not so for Buddy Frye.

“Grandpa,” she said warningly.

“She’s already tried to kill me,” Oliver said, caught off guard.

Buddy snickered. Obviously the pain meds were still in fine working order. Eyeing Candace, he said, “Did I ever tell you about what your grandma did to me once, back when we were dating? She shoved me in front of a moving car.”

“No, you didn’t tell me, and I don’t believe it,” she replied a little primly. Then she gave Oliver a look that said, Don’t you dare make fun of me about this.

“Yep. She said I was smiling too much at a waitress, so she pushed me into the street. My, that woman loved me.”

“She had a funny way of showing it,” Oliver couldn’t help mumbling. “Imagine if you’d ever really flirted with someone. You’d have been nose-to-nose with a freight train.”

Candace obviously heard and her lips quirked.

“I just want you two to get along,” Buddy said, settling deeper into his bed and arranging his covers over himself. He wasn’t looking at either of them. “I think you probably have a lot in common.”

“I doubt it,” Candace said, her tone saying the subject was at an end.

Oliver didn’t back her up, or offer her a reassuring glance. He couldn’t deny he found the idea of her grandfather playing matchmaker pretty cute, even if the very idea that she’d need him to was ridiculous. The woman was smart, beautiful, funny…she wouldn’t need an elderly relative fixing her up. He suspected she could have just about any man she wanted.

She wants a stupid, foreign one, he reminded himself. Not you.

Which was just as well. He’d already decided he was not getting personally involved with Candace Reid. So the less time he spent in her company, the better.

She could take care of herself, of that he had no doubt. He would remember Buddy’s request and help her in the case of a major emergency, like if the pipes burst or a robber turned up. But as far as spiders and toilet paper went, she was on her own, and he was steering clear.

It was better that way…for both of them.

4

IT WAS THE size of a Volkswagen.

Big, hairy, with a million eyes and fuzzy spiked legs and probably a sac full of poison hidden on its bulbous body.

Spiders. God, she hated spiders. Especially spiders who were blocking the only exit from the kitchen, where she stood, wearing a filmy, short little bathrobe, freezing her butt off because she’d come down to put coffee on right after she’d gotten out of the cold-as-ice shower.

“Go away,” she ordered in a quivery voice.

The spider ignored her and remained planted right in her path. Beady little pinpoint eyes stared up at her, red and angry—or maybe not, but they looked that way to her—and she knew if he had a mouth, it was smirking.

She edged backward toward the stove, thankful she’d glanced down before walking out of the kitchen, because if she’d placed her bare foot on that furry little beast, she would have screamed loud enough for Tommy to hear her back in L.A. Besides, the little creature looked big enough to have flung her off rather than being smashed flat.

Candace wasn’t scared by much. Snakes didn’t bother her; she had been skydiving so she wasn’t afraid of heights. She’d even bungee jumped off a bridge in Mexico once. She’d stared down more than her fair share of grubby dudes with cheesy come-on lines on the street.

But bugs? Spiders in particular?

The little bastards terrified her.

“Candace?” a voice called. A voice that was familiar, even though she hadn’t talked to him much in the past few days.

She and Oliver, as if by unspoken agreement, had spent little time together since the morning her grandfather had tried to fix them up. When they’d left late that day, after visiting with Grandpa in the recovery room, Oliver had brought her to a car rental place so she could get her own vehicle. She didn’t want to have to rely on him to run her back and forth to the hospital, which was where she spent most of her time. They ran into each other there on occasion, had grabbed coffee or a quick lunch and engaged in a little small talk. But as if they both realized they probably shouldn’t spend too much time together out at the house, where they were entirely alone, they’d avoided interaction. They exchanged mostly waves as they were coming or going, or when he was working out on the grounds, and she was watching him while pretending she wasn’t at all interested.

Any woman would be interested. It was bad enough seeing him inside at the hospital, clothed and respectable. When he worked, when he stripped off his shirt to wipe his sweaty, dirty face, and those muscles rippled and gleamed, he was male beauty in motion. The few times they had talked at home, she’d done everything she could to keep from revealing how incredibly attracted she was to him. Sometimes, though, she caught him staring at her, and suspected she wasn’t doing a very good job.

She only wished he would do something to reveal whether or not he felt the same way. So far, he hadn’t. He’d been cordial and polite, never more than that, as if she’d suddenly become his employer now that Grandpa was out of commission.

Got a task for you there, Mr. Groundskeeper. How about doing a little plowing for me?

She scrunched her eyes shut, muttering, “Not French, not stupid, off-limits.”

“Candace? Are you here?”

“In the kitchen,” she said, not sure whether she was hoping he would turn right back around and leave, or that he’d stride in and accidentally squish Mr. Spider so she wouldn’t have to (A) deal with the arachnid herself, or (B) technically ask for Oliver’s help.

“I just wanted to let you know your suitcase has finally made it. The delivery service just left it on the porch. I signed for it.”

Oh, thank goodness. She’d been fighting with the airline about it all week, fearing she would have to put in a claim to replace everything she’d packed for the trip. She’d run out of her sister Madison’s left-behind clothes and had had to wash and rewash the few items she’d had in her small carry-on bag. Especially the panties. Hmm. Funny how she’d gone through panties at a record rate since she’d met Oliver. That man ought to buy stock in Victoria’s Secret.

“I’ll bring it in. Do you want me to haul it up to your room?”

She nibbled her lip, wanting no such thing. Oliver in her bedroom, near her messed bed with the silky nightie tossed carelessly on top? Him filling her private space with that delectable, intoxicating man smell?

Hell, no. She was already having the most intense, erotic dreams about the guy without ever having to picture him near her bed. No way was she going to invite even hotter ones.

“No, it’s okay. You can just leave it in the hall.”

She waited to hear him bring in the bag and leave. Waited for an acknowledgment—something. But there was nothing but silence. Frowning, she risked edging a tiny bit closer to the doorway, never taking her eyes off her fuzzy enemy, who showed no signs of moving out of the way. She briefly considered jumping over him, but had the most horrible vision of him launching up while she was split-legged above him. For all she knew, he could be the bug world-record holder at the high jump. Considering she wore nothing but the short robe, she wasn’t prepared to even think about where he might land if he leaped. Her vajayjay might have grown cobwebs from disuse, but that was taking things a step too far.

She desperately wanted to go out and make sure Oliver was gone, then dash up the stairs and put some clothes on before he could come back, but it looked like she was going to be involved in a spider standoff for hours. Thinking, she finally grabbed the broom and tried waving it in his general direction. But it wasn’t until she got the bristles to within six inches or so that the thing began to move.

Straight toward her.

“No—get away from me!”

A hard pounding emerged from the hallway. She recognized it as running footsteps just as Oliver burst into the kitchen. He didn’t hold a rake this time, but the look on his face said he expected trouble.

“What is it?” he snapped as he scanned the room. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh, nothing,” she said, forcing a smile. Though, when she saw where he stood, she didn’t have to force it any further. Because unless the creepy crawly had moved really fast, he was right now stuck to the bottom of a man’s thicksoled work boot. Although she loved most creatures, she wasn’t about to start playing a dirge for that one, who’d looked like a mad scientist’s experimental cross between a bug and a dinosaur.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Nobody. I thought you’d left.”

“I was bringing in your suitcase,” he explained, walking closer, studying her face to see if she was lying, perhaps covering for a bad guy hiding in the pantry. He obviously wasn’t going to go away without an explanation.

Knowing she had to, she admitted in a voice a little above a whisper, “There was a spider.”

His frown disappeared. A twinkle might have appeared in those dark bedroom eyes, but he had the courtesy not to smile. “One that speaks English and follows orders?”

“Ha-ha, very funny. That thing was huge. I mean, it could have been wearing a mask, swinging from webs and looking for the Green Goblin!”

“Comic book fan, huh?”

“Movie biz, remember?”

And considering Tommy was hoping to be cast as the latest comic hero, he’d made her watch a bunch of them recently. She wasn’t a huge fan of the genre, but had to admit, some of those guys did an awesome job filling out their clingy costumes. She’d become a huge Jeremy Renner fan in the past year and fantasized about getting to dress him. Undressing him would be a mighty fine experience, too.

“So where is this huge mutant creature?”

“Gone.”

“Where’d he go?”

“I think onto the bottom of your shoe.”

“You sure? I didn’t hear anything that sounded like the crushing of a colossus.”

“Well, he’s not…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes rounded as she saw a black leg disappearing behind the table leg. She squeaked, grabbed his arm and ducked behind him. “Oh, God.”

“What?”

Keeping her voice low, as if they were facing a ravaging tiger, she replied, “He’s right over there.”

He followed her gaze and snorted. “That’s your monster spider? He’s tiny.”

“That thing’s as big as my hand!” Closing her eyes, she begged, “Please take it away, Oliver. I’ll pay you…. I’ll bake you a cake, cook you dinner. Just please get it out of here.”

“Are you a good cook?”

“The best. Excellent. Cordon Bleu. Restaurants vie for my services.”

“Are you lying?”

“Oh, hell, yes. Right through my teeth. Now would you please help me?”

“I thought you didn’t need any help except in the most dire emergency.”

“This is dire.”

“Are you an arachnophobe?”

“If that means I am utterly terrified to my bones and feel like I’m going to throw up if I so much as glimpse a spider, then yes, that’s me.”

“Gotcha.”

He didn’t tease her anymore, as if knowing she wasn’t playing the weak girlie-girl in some effort to entice him. Not, she hoped, that he would ever expect her to. Turning, he grabbed the dustpan, then unhooked her death grip from the broom. Drawing on his primal, caveman-hunter genes, he stalked the monster, deftly swept it into the pan and carried it toward the front door.

“Are you just going to let it go?” she asked, following him. “What if it gets back in?”

“I’m sure he’d be too afraid to risk it. You’re pretty intimidating.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t squish it?”

“Bloodthirsty, aren’t you?”

She thought about it. She wasn’t, really. Still, some things were just beyond the bounds of humanity, and sharing a house with a big honking spider was one of them.

“You’ll be glad for him during mosquito season.”

“Maybe if they’re killer mosquitoes carrying the ebola virus. Otherwise, I’ll invest in calamine lotion and take my chances.”

He opened the door, walked outside and was back with the broom and dustpan a moment later. Leaning them both against the wall, he said, “All gone.”

Relieved, she drew in a deep breath and whispered, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You okay now?”

She nodded slowly. “Oh, sure. Fine.”

Her pulse finally stopped racing and her muscles loosened. The nausea receded, as did the panic. Not for the first time in her life, she found herself wondering if an older cousin had dangled a spider in her face when she was a baby or something. Because her phobia about them had been lifelong and was, even she could admit it, a little obsessive. Now that her heart wasn’t thumping hard enough to beat out of her chest, she could acknowledge she might have overacted just a teeny, tiny bit.

Feeling almost normal, she waited for Oliver to turn and walk out the door. Considering he usually avoided her, that’s what she expected him to do. But for some reason, he didn’t leave. He just stood there, two feet away, drawing in slow, even breaths as he studied her.

Finally, he murmured, “Cold in here.”

Her spider terror having receded, she paused to remember just what she was wearing—not much.

Her skimpy robe hung to the tops of her thighs, leaving her legs completely bared. The robe also gaped over her breasts, revealing a deep V of cleavage. The whole thing was held together only by a loosely knotted sash.

“Yes, I guess it is,” she replied slowly, wondering if he had been making small talk or offering a sideways comment on the fact that her nipples were hard, poking visibly against the silk sliding so sinuously over them.

He continued to stare, falling silent. She knew the answer to that question. He’d finally noticed her apparel—or lack thereof. Oliver was definitely reacting to it. Looking at her. Staring at her.

Visually devouring her.

Her lips parted on a tiny helpless sigh. He didn’t acknowledge the sound, instead merely swept that dark-eyed attention over her, from damp-haired top to bare-toed bottom. The gaze was like a touch, lingering here, skimming over there, and she reacted to it instinctively. Here went soft, there went hard, and her most vulnerable places went all hot and wet.

She knew she should yank her robe more tightly around her body and glare him into stopping, or else turn and flounce up the stairs, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d been looked at by men before, of course. By lovers, by potential lovers, by strangers, but she had never felt as thoroughly studied as she did now. It was as if he was examining her, tucking away every detail of her into his prodigious internal memory bank. His dark eyes gleamed, and he made absolutely no effort to disguise his focus or make her think he was doing anything other than memorizing all the things he could see, and imagining all those he could not.

He wanted her. It was stunningly obvious. He was imagining what wild, wicked things they could do together, of that she had no doubt. She knew because she’d been thinking the same thing since the night she’d arrived. So how could she blame him?

A mental voice shouted a warning. But another part of her—the part that had been trying to figure out if he had been avoiding her for the past few days because he wasn’t attracted to her, or because he was—appeared to be calling the shots.

She couldn’t walk away from him now. Not just yet.

“This is a really bad idea,” he muttered.

She knew what he meant but still replied, “What is?”

He swept a hand through his dark hair. The movement made his arms bulge against the white T-shirt he wore, and drew the thin fabric tight against his shoulders. “You standing there, looking like that. Me standing here, looking at you looking like that.”

Her mouth went dry.

Turn around, Candace. Go upstairs. Pray your vibrator is still safely tucked in your suitcase and wasn’t pawed over by some luggage guys, dig it out and remember you don’t technically need a man to give you orgasms.

But she remained still, as if her feet were glued to the floor. Her vibrator couldn’t fill her the way she so desperately wanted to be filled. It couldn’t hold her, stroke her, touch her, lick her. It couldn’t make her feel as utterly jittery with excitement as she felt just standing here, knowing he wanted her.

Besides, she suddenly realized she couldn’t run away up to her room. Not while he was standing at the bottom of the steps. Her robe was short and tiny, which was why she’d stuffed it in her carry-on bag, and she had never been more conscious of the fact that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Although she and her sister had done their share of mooning during her younger, wilder days, the only way she wanted to wiggle her bare bottom at this man was if she got on all fours and invited him to make her howl.

Unfortunately, it seemed a bit early in their relationship for that kind of invitation.

No relationship. There’s not going to be any relationship. Remember?

“Go upstairs,” he ordered, his voice strangled. That was pretty far from an admission of lust.

She instinctively shook her head.

He stepped closer, scowling, almost threatening, as if he could intimidate her into going. “Walk away, Candace. Please.”

“No. You walk away. The door’s right there.”

“I can’t.” His hand rose and he stroked the sleeve of her robe, fingering the silk. He didn’t look down, never took his attention off her face, and she wondered if he even realized he’d moved so close. So incredibly close.

“It has to be you,” he insisted.

“Why?”

“I need you to turn your back on me, to make it clear that you want me to leave.”

He waited. She didn’t turn.

“All right, at least say it,” he ordered. “Make it clear.”

She knew what he was asking, but she couldn’t give him what he wanted—a verbal command to go. Not when she suddenly wanted, with every fiber of her being, for him to stay.

“Tell me to go,” he pleaded.

She wordlessly shook her head.

He muttered a curse. Reaching for her, as if unable to control himself, he caught hold of the silky bathrobe tie at her waist. He tightened it a little, maybe not even realizing he was doing it, as if he was fighting an inner battle between pushing her away and pulling her close.

But she realized it. her nerve endings were roaring now, her heart thudding in her chest. There was something almost predatory in his expression, and the tightening of the sash around her waist made her feel somehow claimed.

If he pushed her away, she would be devastated.

If he pulled her close, she’d be lost.

“Go upstairs,” he insisted.

“I don’t have to.”

“God, you’re stubborn.” He leaned in closer, until his pant legs brushed her bare calves. The fabric was deliciously rough and warm from his body and she couldn’t help stepping closer, sucking up that warmth. The early morning air was still chilly but heat wafted from him, like he’d absorbed the first sunbeams of the new day and could now reflect them back.

He inhaled deeply, as if he needed her scent in his lungs. she knew she smelled fresh, soapy and clean, not perfumed or lotioned, but the man looked intoxicated all the same.

“This is not why I came in here.” His face was so close to hers, she could feel the gentle fall of his exhalations on her skin. A slight shift and there was the most delicate rasp of his stubble upon her cheek.

“You came to bring my suitcase,” she murmured, not really thinking about the words they exchanged, able to focus only on his closeness. His power. The scent of his body, the roughness of his strong jaw. She wanted that roughness scraping all over her, knowing his soft, delicious mouth could kiss away any soreness.

“Right. And now I have.” He moved his body even closer. Their thighs came together.

“So you can go.” She arched against him, sighing as her hard, aching nipples met that masculine chest.

“You want me to?” One of his hands dropped to her hip and he squeezed lightly, again making her feel claimed.

“The choice is yours.” She tilted her head to the side, offering him the bare expanse of her neck.

“I’ll go then.” He moved his face to her throat, not kissing, not tasting, just breathing in and out, a millimeter from her skin, increasing the tension, heightening her senses.

So close. So incredibly close.

“If you say so.” She closed her eyes, swaying slightly on her feet, willing him not to go, and, for heaven’s sake, to just stop talking about it and kiss her.

“I’m going.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

“Damn it,” he muttered as if he’d finally realized she wasn’t going to order him to leave, and had finally snapped himself out of the sensual spell. But he still couldn’t back away completely, and brushed his cheek against her hair. “Do you always have to get your way?”

“Ask me in an hour.”

And she gave up, stopped playing coy and took what she’d been wanting since the night they’d met. Not giving him a chance to fight it anymore, she twined her fingers in his hair and pulled him to her. His eyes flared and he tensed. Then, with a deep groan, he gave in to her and lowered his mouth to hers.

Their lips parted, the kiss hot, sensuous and wet. There was nothing tentative about it, no hesitation, no regret. He simply devoured her and she let him, tilting her head, loving the feel of his tongue in her mouth. Their bodies were pressed together, his hands at her waist, hers tangled in his thick hair, and the kiss went on and on, deep and hungry. She had sensed this man’s mouth had been made for kissing, and now she knew. He dined on her, sipped from her, swallowed her exhalations as if he needed her breaths to expand his lungs and fuel his cells.

Against her groin, she again felt the rigid heat that proclaimed his desire for her more than words ever could. Clad only in the robe, with his body slammed against hers, she couldn’t help but notice the rock-hard strength of him. She moaned, low in her throat, and rocked toward it, so filled with need she thought her legs would give out.

He suddenly tensed, as if realizing they were one step away from too-far-to-stop. Dropping his hands, he ended the kiss and pulled away, staggering back a step to punctuate the end of their embrace.

The sound of their ragged breaths filled the silent air. Candace felt certain every ounce of blood in her body had pooled in her most intimate places, which now throbbed and boiled with demand. Her breasts hurt, the nipples so sensitive that the scrape of the silk robe was almost unbearable, and she knew nothing would make them feel better but his hands, his tongue, his lips.

But the look on his face said she wasn’t going to get any of those things. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his tongue was back in his mouth, his lips were sealed tight and turned down in a frown.

He was trying to pretend he regretted the kiss.

She knew he didn’t.

“That was…unexpected,” she admitted, hearing the weakness of her voice.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“Oh, of course you meant to. Just as I meant to.”

“Maybe you’re right. But that doesn’t mean it can happen again, or go any further.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

“You’re only here for a short time, you’re my boss’s granddaughter and he trusted me to look after you.”

“I think he was sort of hoping you would romance me,” she said, her tone dry.

“Yeah, but not bang you up against the front door.”

“Is that where we would have ended up? Gee, and the sofa is right in the next room.”

“Damn it, Candace.”

She held a hand up, palm out, stopping him from saying anything more. “Forget it. I know you’re right. I have reasons of my own for not insisting you rip off your clothes and do me until I can’t remember my own name.”

He coughed and laughed, both at the same time. Then, as if the laughter—and her saucy words—had snapped some kind of spell, he reached out, put his hands on her shoulders and spun her around so she faced the staircase. Gently pushing her, he ordered, “Go.”

She spun back around. “I can’t.”

His jaw turned into granite. “You’re being ridiculous.”

All because he needed her to be the one who walked away and ended this before it really began? As if he had no free will? As if he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from doing to her exactly what she’d practically dared him to do unless she removed herself from his presence?

You don’t want him to do it, either, remember? You know you can’t do this.

Her grandfather was being moved to a rehab facility today. He’d be there for about a week, and then he would be coming home. But coming home to what? Her having an affair with his groundskeeper, then the descent of the paparazzi once her engagement was announced? Did he really need that while he recovered? Did Oliver, who was obviously here for reasons he hadn’t yet revealed to her? Did she need the scandal? Did Tommy?

No. She might want Oliver, and having sex with him might even be worth what she would go through afterward if people found out. But nobody else deserved it. She needed to cool this, here and now. She had to be the one who walked away.

Which still wasn’t going to be easy.

“I’m telling you, you really don’t want to watch me walking up those stairs.”

“Yes. I really do.”

“And you’re honestly not going to get out of here until I do?”

“No.”

“You’ll regret it.”

“Hell, I already regret it,” he said, tunneling both his hands through his hair this time, leaving it more tousled than before.

“Not as much as you’re about to.”

A helping of anger had been heaped upon her sexual frustration. Yes, she’d decided she couldn’t have him, but did he have to be so damned insistent about it?

She hadn’t been kidding that he was going to regret it. Because she was ready to give him what he was asking for…and wondered if he was ready for what came along with it.

Without another word, she spun around again, squared her shoulders, stiffened her spine and ascended the stairs. He stood below, watching her, and when she reached the fourth one, she couldn’t help pausing to glance over her shoulder at him.

“Oh, Oliver, do you want to know why I didn’t want to walk up the stairs until you left?”

He didn’t reply, just gave her an inscrutable look.

She told him anyway. “Because of this.”

Candace took another step, knowing she’d reached the point of no return. Knowing full well he could now see what she was not wearing beneath her robe.

She wished she could say his strangled, guttural cry of helpless frustration made her feel better about walking away from what she sensed could be the best sex of her life.

But she just couldn’t.

5

EVER SINCE HE’D started getting involved with females, Oliver had known how to handle them. Maybe it was because he’d had sisters, lots of girl cousins and parents with an honest, loving marriage in which nobody held the upper hand. Maybe because he’d had girls after him since he hit puberty. Maybe he’d just been born with the gene.

The point was, he’d always been sure of himself when it came to women. He’d always known when one was interested and when she wasn’t, been able to gauge how soon was too soon, or when it was too late and he’d missed his shot. He’d set the pace, led the dance, taken the right steps at the right time.

Until now. Until her. Until Candace.

She had him twisted inside out and upside down, not knowing what to do or say next. He didn’t know whether to resist or keep on fighting. Part of him wished she’d never shown up at Buddy’s house, and another part dreaded the day she would leave.

“God, what a mess,” he muttered that evening as he finished taking inventory in the wine cellar. He hadn’t even realized there was one in the house until today, when he’d gone to visit Buddy in the rehab center. He’d watched for Candace to leave the room, heading to the cafeteria for lunch, and then stopped by, not wanting to run into her after what had happened this morning. Coming face-to-face with her would have been more than his heart could have taken, even a couple of hours after she’d marched her bare little fanny up the stairs.

No, not little. Round, supple, perfect.

Just right for cupping in his hands, or pounding against as he took her from behind, the way he’d been dying to as he’d watched her sashay back to her room.

He swallowed hard, wishing he hadn’t allowed himself to go back there in his mind. He’d managed to avoid thinking about her most of the day, but now the images came washing in. He was again overwhelmed by the memory of the gorgeous, naked ass she’d flashed at him as she’d ascended the stairs. He suspected he would keep seeing that vision for a long while, every time he closed his eyes. “You’re a complete idiot,” he muttered to himself. “You’re the one who insisted she walk up the stairs while you stood there like Pavlov’s dog, drowning in your own drool.”

To give her credit, she had tried to warn him. No, she hadn’t come right out and told him what would happen—that he was about to be given a free peep show that would drive a grown man to his knees. and he suspected his own stubbornness had inspired hers. Still, he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive her for showing him what he could have had, if not for his own foul temper and his need to keep punishing himself by not taking anything he truly wanted. Being noble was all well and good, but if it came with blue balls, he’d far prefer being selfish.

“Enough,” he reminded himself, trying to return his focus to the task at hand. The wine cellar. He still couldn’t believe it was here, or that it held so much.

Buddy had found a treasure trove in the basement right before his accident, one he hadn’t even realized was there until he’d started trying out keys to locked rooms. That’s what had sent him hurrying down the porch steps to find Oliver. He’d intended to show it to Oliver and ask him to help inventory it.

Now that it looked like Buddy wouldn’t be doing any stair-climbing for a while, Oliver had promised he’d get started. Buddy had agreed gratefully, telling him to help himself to anything he found…unless it was worth a king’s ransom, in which case he would need it for his medical bills.

He hadn’t even thought about that, but now that his employer had brought it up, Oliver couldn’t help worrying about it. Buddy had sunk his life savings into this place. God, he hoped this accident didn’t bankrupt the man.

Caught up in the old man’s excitement, he’d stopped by the store to pick up reference books with grades, rankings and values of old wine. Once he’d found the room and gotten started, he’d been shocked by the sheer quantity of bottles. Obviously, his own great-uncle, who’d bought out his siblings, including Oliver’s grandmother, hadn’t even realized what he had in his possession. He’d been from back East and never done a proper inventory on the place. The group that had bought the estate from him had intended to get investors to renovate it into some corporate retreat, but had never fully investigated, either.

Buddy had bought the whole place—and its contents—out of bankruptcy and was legally entitled to everything here. Including this treasure trove. If the previous owners had realized what they’d had, this stuff would have been on auction blocks around the world, not still stored in this secure room, created solely for keeping wines in pristine condition.

Okay, there was dust. A few cobwebs—Candace would hate the spiders. But for the most part, the setup was ideal and the bottles—more than one hundred of them, possibly close to two—looked sealed and correctly colored. It was very likely many of them were aged to perfection.

This collection could be the answer to Buddy’s financial problems. Some of the bottles weren’t easily cataloged and an appraiser would have to do it. Many, though, had been listed in the books he’d brought with him as being worth thousands of dollars. There was a small fortune within these walls, and, frankly, Oliver couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more.

They weren’t all gems. He had found a few broken ones, dry corks or just plain duds according to the books. Some that were good wines still weren’t worth much, even if in mint condition. Those included vintages that had been bottled during a surplus production year and just weren’t collectible.

It was one of those he was eyeing now. A 1971 burgundy from one of his favorite vintners that was still around today. Buddy had told him to feel free to help himself to anything that wasn’t too valuable, and this one wasn’t worth more than about a hundred bucks.

He deserved a hundred bucks worth of wine, especially after putting up with Buddy’s sexy, infuriating granddaughter.

“How’s it going?”

Said sexy, infuriating granddaughter who almost startled him into dropping the bottle. He spun around, seeing her eyeing him from the doorway. “Oh. You’re back.”

Obviously he had lost track of time down here. It was probably a good thing she’d come looking for him—fully, if sexily, dressed in a pair of slim-fitting jeans and a lightweight pink sweater. With his luck, he’d have consumed the bottle of wine and headed upstairs after she was home and ready for bed, wearing that flimsy little bathrobe and nothing else.

His horny-man brain quickly rebelled at the idea that that would have been bad luck. But he shut that part of his brain down.

“Visiting hours are over. It’s after eight. I saw the lights were on upstairs and thought you might still be here. Grandpa told me where to look for you.”

She looked like she wanted to come in, but was carefully eyeing the cobwebs and shadowy corners.

“All clear,” he told her with a smile, knowing what she was looking for. “I think the mutant spider from outer space is still trying to find his way home.”

That was a lie—there were enough webs down here to house the spiders from Harry Potter’s Dark Forest. But he wasn’t about to tell her that.

She managed a weak smile and slowly entered, her attention focused on shelf after shelf of bottles. She whistled as she walked around the twelve-by-twelve chamber. “Wow. He wasn’t exaggerating, was he?”

“Definitely not.”

“Amazing!”

“You have no idea.”

He quickly filled her in on what he’d discovered, and saw her eyes light up with hope as she realized her grandfather might have actually stumbled into a treasure to help him make this old house into the showplace he envisioned.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m no expert,” he told her. “I can only judge by what the books say. Buddy will have to get an appraiser out here. And of course it depends on whether the wine is any good, or if it’s gone over.” Then he lifted the bottle, holding it up against the milky light coming from the overhead bulb. “I was just about to crack open a bottle of the cheaper stuff and check it out.”

She nodded anxiously, looking like a kid agreeing to a dare. “Oh, yes, let’s!”

“Are you a wine fan?”

“I’m a woman. Of course I’m a wine fan.”

Reaching into his pocket, Oliver drew out a multifunction tool that had a wine opener on it and almost held his breath as he uncorked the bottle. He was careful not to shake it in case of sediment and immediately smelled the air for any scent of vinegar.

Nothing. So far, so good.

Testing the cork and finding it completely moist and not at all crumbly, he began to hope they weren’t about to drink a bottle of salad dressing in the making. “This really should be decanted so it can breathe.”

Her face fell.

“But there’s no point in going upstairs to find a decanter and glasses until we know whether it’s worth drinking.” He lifted the bottle and extended it to her. “Ladies first.”

She didn’t put on any fussy airs or complain about drinking out of an old, dusty bottle. Wiping the rim with her hand, she lifted it to her mouth and took a tiny sip.

Her eyes closed. She remained very still. Then she sipped again.

When she opened her eyes, they were sparkling with delight. “Unbelievable. That is the best wine I have tasted in my life! If that’s the cheap stuff, I think the really good wine would bring on an instant orgasm.”

She immediately caught her bottom lip between her teeth, obviously regretting making that remark.

He regretted it, too. Mainly because, as he took the bottle from her extended hand, and lifted it to his mouth, all he could think about was giving her that instant orgasm.

He could. Of that he had no doubt.

Trouble was, he knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t have that right. He was in no place to offer her anything and in no condition to take anything. Having sex with her would be about one thing and one thing only—instant gratification. And she just didn’t seem like the one-night-stand type. Nor was that what he suspected his matchmaking boss had in mind for them.

He placed his lips right where hers had been, tasting her lipstick, wishing it wasn’t via second degree of separation. Then he sipped, and felt the most delightful burst of flavor in his mouth. He caught smoky undertones, but the tannins were light, unobtrusive. There was also a hint of cherry, or plum. Not sweet, just rich and full-bodied. It went down smooth, the finish just as perfect as the opening, and he couldn’t resist taking another healthy sip.

“Fantastic,” he said when he lowered the bottle. “Should we go for the decanter?”

“Absolutely!”

She spun around and hurried out the door, leading him up the stairs to Buddy’s living room. They were like a pair of kids who’d been given their favorite candy and could hardly wait to dig in.

And they definitely dug.

An hour later, they’d finished off the first bottle, and most of a second one he’d gone down to grab. The second hadn’t been quite as perfect as the first, even after a fifteen-minute decant, but it beat anything he’d ever ordered at a fancy California restaurant, hands down. And the book only valued it at forty bucks. Something about age definitely made all the difference.

Dividing what was left between their two glasses, he listened as she went over a list of things they needed to check and do tomorrow. That included finding the closest expert who could come out and do an appraisal. By their own unscientific research, Buddy should come out of this at least two hundred thousand dollars richer. One bottle in particular, a 1945 Château Mouton Rothschild, could very well bring in fifty thousand on its own.

Fifty. Thousand. Dollars. For a freaking bottle of wine.

Damn, he was glad he’d bought the reference books and hadn’t dared to just grab a bottle and open it!

Candace sat beside him on the couch. She’d been bouncing with excitement every time he flipped a page and spied a familiar name, pointing to its corresponding mention on his list of Buddy’s wine cellar. Her excitement had been infectious. It had also been so spontaneous that, once, she grabbed his thigh and squeezed.

He’d managed to hide a groan, wondering if she was really clueless about the effect she was having on him. And it wasn’t just a wine-inspired reaction. Oh, no. Everything about her simply called to something inside him. Her soft scent filled his every breath; her long hair brushed his bare forearm. Their legs touched, hips, too. She filled his every sense, and if he’d thought the attraction was dangerous when they’d first met, he knew he was really in trouble now that he liked her so much.

She was delightful, smart, funny and so sexy it hurt to look at her. Their nearness—and, okay, maybe the wine—made the idea of never having this woman seem not only a shame but a crime against humanity.

“I am thrilled for Grandpa,” she said when they’d finally reached the end of the list. She tucked one bent leg beneath her and turned toward him on the couch. “This is going to help him make all his dreams come true.”

He nodded, unable to take his eyes off her burgundydrenched lips, feeling the thrum of excitement that reverberated from her. She was relaxed and happy and he’d never seen her looking so beautiful.

“Thank you,” she said, reaching out to grab his hand and squeeze it.

He couldn’t resist. Twining his fingers in hers, he lifted her hand to brush a kiss on her palm.

She sucked in an audible breath and edged closer. He continued to kiss his way across her palm, until he reached her wrist. Pressing his lips there, he noted the frantic thumping of her pulse and realized her heart was racing.

He dropped her hand. “I didn’t mean to go there.”

“Don’t stop.”

“It’s a bad idea, Candace.”

“What is? You kissing my hand?” She licked her lips and lowered her voice to a sultry whisper. “Or my mouth?”

Or any other part of her? Every other part of her?

“Kiss me, Oliver,” she dared. “One real kiss to celebrate. What do you say?”

Intriguing. “Only one?”

“Yes. Just one. I promise I won’t ask for more.”

He stared into her deep green eyes, wondering whether she was telling him that one would really be enough, or that it would do for a start. Nor could he be sure what he wanted her answer to be.

Not until he spied the list on the table, with Buddy’s name scrawled across the top. He was in his friend’s home, a little high on his prized wine, contemplating kissing his granddaughter. That alone was enough to convince him he couldn’t take any more than the single kiss she’d asked for.

“All right, Candace. Just one.”

“You’re sure that will be enough?”

Hell, no, it wouldn’t be enough. But it was all he was going to allow himself. Period. At least until he didn’t feel like the biggest heel in the world for taking advantage of his boss’s granddaughter…and for letting himself get close to a woman when he knew he had absolutely nothing to offer her.

He didn’t just mean financially. It wasn’t just his lack of a career or a house or even his own car, all of which he’d left behind in L.A. He meant himself. He didn’t have any emotions to offer any woman. He’d felt adrift for months, and it would take more than a hot flirtation with a beautiful brunette to change that. So he wasn’t about to allow himself any more than one small glimpse of the physical pleasure he knew he wasn’t entitled to and didn’t deserve.

“I’m sure,” he finally told her. “One. And then we say good-night.”

“If you’re sure. I mean, remember what we talked about the other night, if you give a mouse a cookie…”

“He’s going to say thank-you and walk out the door.”

She studied him, gauging his seriousness, and nodded. “All right, Oliver. One kiss, and then we say good-night.”

They might have shaken hands given the serious way they made their deal. And a deal was all it was.

One kiss. One and done.

God help him.

ONE KISS? Yeah. Sure. Right.

She couldn’t believe he’d really be able to do that, but just in case, Candace was determined to make it a kiss for the ages. She knew from this morning that the man’s mouth was ambrosia, and knowing she was going to taste it again was enough to make her whole body shiver and quake in anticipation.

He noticed, and let go of her hand. “Are you cold?”

She shook her head slowly, inching closer to him on the sofa. Untucking one leg, she didn’t hesitate to make sure he couldn’t change his mind and get up. Giving him a look that was half demand, half plea, she rose onto her knees and slid one leg over his thighs, straddling him.

“Candace…”

“I want my kiss,” she insisted as she hovered over his lap. Maybe the wine was making her bold, but she suspected it was pure physical attraction. If she’d been stonecold sober, she still would have wanted this kiss. This wicked, stolen moment.

“This is a little more than I bargained for,” he admitted.

“You’re not a very good bargainer,” she replied, licking her lips. “You didn’t even try to negotiate any ground rules.”

“Should I have?”

She smiled wickedly. “Probably.”

“I’m guessing it’s too late for that?”

“Much too late.”

He sighed deeply, but she’d swear his eyes gleamed with excitement and amusement.

“Just one,” he reminded her.

“Oh, all right.”

She moved down, lowering herself onto him. Her knees rested on the couch on either side of him, the position very intimate. She could feel the heat and power between her thighs and knew he was already aroused. He probably had been for quite a while, judging by the undeniable hardness straining against his zipper.

Yet he wanted only one kiss? The man obviously had an iron will to go along with that iron shaft.

Her blood pulsed and pooled in her groin. She was unable to resist rubbing against him, just a little, taking the heat, the strength and that hardness, and pleasing herself with it. Their clothes were in the way, of course, but she still felt waves of delight pulsing through her as they ground together.

His flexing jaw indicated he was gritting his teeth, as if striving for control, and she made a promise to herself: someday, she’d make him lose it. That control would be long gone before the day they said goodbye. Maybe it wouldn’t be tonight. Maybe they would just have one single kiss, as he insisted. But someday, she’d have the rest of him, even if she had to wait five years.

He lifted his hands and twined them in her hair, fingering the strands as he pulled her face down toward his. A quick inhalation, two thudding hearts finding a common rhythm, a last glance of certainty and their mouths finally came together.

It was soft, slow and easy at first, a gentle exploration of lips. Giving, taking, molding, sliding, not a hint of demand in it, just a tender, sexy build.

This wasn’t like the kiss they’d shared this morning. It was far more lazy, as if knowing that since one kiss was all they’d agreed on, they both intended to make it not merely the journey but also the destination. It might only be one, but as far as Candace was concerned, this kiss could go on for half an hour and they’d still technically be following the rules.

His warm tongue began to test the corners of her mouth, and she opened for him, sliding hers out in welcome. The kiss deepened, their tongues thrusting together in a deliberate, sultry tango. He tasted warm and spicy, with wine adding even more flavor to his already-delicious mouth. She lifted her arms around his neck, and he dropped his hands to her hips. Digging his fingers into her bottom, he pulled her even more tightly against his erection.

She groaned in the back of her throat, resisting the urge to toss her head back and grind herself into a climax. The kiss deepened as the frenzy increased, and she noticed he was thrusting up slightly, as if making love to her.

Damn their clothes. Damn his conditions.

They might only have one kiss, but he hadn’t said anything about what they could and could not touch during that kiss. So without pulling away she reached for his waist, tugging his shirt up so she could touch and stroke that flat, muscled stomach. He sighed against her lips, but didn’t resist, merely followed her lead. When his hands tugged her blouse free from her jeans and he encircled her waist with his big hands, she wanted to jump for joy.

She settled for continuing to kiss him, turning her head, going deep then shallow, hard then soft.

His strong hands caressed her, moving up to stroke her midriff, then higher, until his thumbs were resting at the edge of her bra. Whimpering and arching toward his touch, she shuddered with relief when he finally scraped those thumbs over her taut nipples, teasing them through the lace. Sparks erupted as he tweaked and toyed with her.

Her cries of satisfaction seemed to urge him on. Without her asking, he pulled the material down, out of the way, so he could pleasure her more, until she was writhing on his lap, almost desperate with need.

But still the kiss didn’t end. It was as if they were both determined to remain true to their terms and see just how far they could go without ever letting their mouths separate.

Pretty damn far, she soon realized as he slid his hands back down her body and unfastened the button of her jeans.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered into his mouth.

She suspected he hadn’t been waiting for permission.

As he slowly lowered her zipper, she lifted herself up a little, giving him access. He pushed her jeans down just enough to allow him to slip his hand into the steamy crevice between her thighs. When those knuckles brushed against her most sensitive spot, she let out a cry, needing so much more.

He seemed to realize she was right on the edge. Thrusting one hand into her hair to cup her head, he deepened the kiss, making love to her mouth with hungry determination. His other hand remained still, but just as she was ready to pound on his shoulders to demand more, he reached under the elastic edge of her panties. Tangling his fingers in the soft thatch of hair, he moved deeper, until the rough pad of one found her clit and began to work it.

Heaven.

Not being able to pull back and look down was painful. But she didn’t want to end the kiss, didn’t want to break the spell, for fear everything would stop. All her senses were on overload as she smelled his musky scent, tasted every inch of his mouth, felt his body pressed against hers, saw his handsome face and heard the small groans of pleasure he didn’t try to disguise.

Just as she was on the verge of coming, he moved his hand away. This time, she did pound on his shoulder, but he responded with an evil chuckle that she tasted as well as heard. When she realized he was moving deeper into her panties, so that he could slide a long, warm finger into her, she forgave him his every sin.

God, it had been so long since she’d taken anyone into her body. Her muscles clenched him, squeezing, drawing him deeper. He thrust in, drew out, mimicking what he would do when he really made love to her, until she was squirming on his lap.

As if knowing she was desperate for more, he gave her another finger, plunging both deep, stroking her way up inside until she began to shake. And when his thumb moved back up to cover her clit, a warm pulse of pleasure burst out and rushed through her. Every cell in her body felt on fire, from the bottoms of her feet to the tips of her hair, and she could no longer control herself. She threw her head back, gave a long, utterly satisfied cry, and rode out the orgasm that left her quaking and weak.

When she finally came back down to earth, she felt completely spent and collapsed onto him, her head on his shoulders, her arms around his neck. Oliver was kissing her temple, stroking her stomach and then her lower back.

But their mouths had fallen apart. The kiss had ended.

She held her breath, wondering if he was going to say to hell with their deal and make love to her the way his rigid, throbbing cock said he was dying to.

When he gently lifted her off his lap and sat her back down beside him on the couch, she had her answer.

“Seriously?”

She didn’t have to say another word. He knew what she was asking; she could tell by the look on his face.

He rose to his feet and tucked his shirt back in.

“Thank you, Candace. Good night.”

She gritted her teeth and zipped her jeans, reminding herself that this was entirely her fault. She’d promised one kiss and no more. No, she hadn’t exactly invited him to stick his hand down her pants and finger her into oblivion, but it had seemed within reason as long as they were sharing that one kiss.

He was just playing by the rules. Damn the man.

She rose, tucking her blouse back in, and lifting her head, as if she was totally fine about how this whole thing had played out. “Good night, Oliver.”

She turned her back to him and began to pick up the bottles and glasses, tidying up the room. He stood there for a moment, watching her, as if waiting for her to throw a fit, call him a jerk or beg him to stay. But she didn’t. If he wanted to play this straight, that’s what she would do. If he wanted to change the rules of the game, he needed to be the one to say so.

In the end, he didn’t say anything. He just nodded, headed to the door and walked out into the night.

6

OLIVER SPENT THE next day wishing he hadn’t consumed so much wine the night before, and steering clear of Candace.

He took care of the wine with some aspirin.

Her decision to visit her grandfather for almost the entire day took care of Candace.

That was good. He wasn’t ready to run into her again. Not when every time he closed his eyes, he saw her beautiful face, suffused with pleasure, so wanton and gorgeous, he knew she would haunt his dreams forever.

Sometimes, doing the right thing just sucked.

He had thought it was the right thing at the time. Unfortunately, right now, he couldn’t remember the reason why.

He’d tried to work out the frustration, spending the day laboring in the storehouse, which still held a number of antique vats. Buddy was hoping to restore and use them. Having tasted the amazing wines aged in antique wood last night, he had to agree that they were worth salvaging. And fortunately, the work was hard enough that he was able to put Candace, and the amazing moments they’d shared on that couch, out of his thoughts. At least, for the most part.

Finally, though, when he glanced at his watch and saw it was after six, he knew he had to call it quits. She would probably be heading back to the estate soon. He intended to go down to the rehab center to visit Buddy. Hopefully, their cars would pass in the night and they wouldn’t run into each other, there or here. He just couldn’t take another evening of sexual tension with the woman. Not when he knew how sweet she tasted, and how those feminine cries of pleasure sounded when she came apart in his arms. Not when he was dying to slam his cock into her and forget the rest of the world even existed.

As he toweled his hair dry and eyed his jaw in the mirror, he realized he ought to shave. Not because he intended to rub his face on someone sinfully soft and wanted to prepare, but because he was beginning to look a little scruffy. Buddy had made a point of mentioning it yesterday.

“It’s not about that soft skin,” he told his reflection. “Not about that stomach. Not about those breasts.” God, had he been dying to end the kiss if only so he could look down at the perfect breasts he’d held in his hands. He swallowed, seeing the condensation he left on the mirror as he breathed ever harder. “It’s not about wanting to bury your face between her thighs and see if she tastes as good as she feels.”

Somehow, though, as he finished shaving and stared at his smooth-cheeked reflection, he knew he was fooling himself.

No, he didn’t deserve her. No, he had no business taking up with her. But oh, hell, yes, did he ever want her.

Yesterday, when she’d walked up those stairs, giving him a glimpse of heaven between two limbs, it had taken every ounce of his strength not to follow her. He’d pictured it, a flash of erotic images storming through his brain. He’d seen himself pounding up after her, three steps at a time. Stopping her before she got to the top. Guiding her down onto her knees. Gently pushing her forward until she was on all fours and he could take his place a few steps below. He’d instinctively known how perfect it would be to position her sweet, wet sex above him, to bury his face in it, lick into her until she bucked and cried, then to drive into her before she’d even stopped screaming over the multiple orgasms he’d give her.

Oliver closed his eyes, willing the images to leave his head. But they wouldn’t. They were imprinted there, the vision so real it was almost memory.

Then came the images from last night. He could still taste her lips, still feel the softness of her skin, still remember how it had felt to slide a finger into that slick, tight channel and play with that pearly little clit until she whimpered.

He groaned, reached down and found his cock hard and erect.

“Damn it, Candace,” he muttered, grabbing himself, squeezing, pumping. His hand was in no way as good—wet, hot—as she would be, but it was all he had. All he would allow himself.

It didn’t take long. No longer than it had taken the previous night when he’d gone to bed and let himself replay the moments he’d spent with her on the couch. He came in a hot gush, spewing his essence over his hand, knowing he’d give a year off his life if he could do it in her instead.

“But you can’t,” he told himself, feeling even more sexually frustrated than he had before his second jacking-off session of the past twenty-four hours.

His hand just didn’t cut it. He wanted her hand. Her body. Her mouth. More than he’d ever wanted anything.

He tried to forget his sexual needs as he drove down to the rehab center. He definitely tried to disguise his desire as he visited with Buddy and gauged how the elderly man was doing with his new hip. Fortunately, he’d been right about guessing Candace wouldn’t be there. She’d apparently stayed until dinnertime, leaving shortly before he’d arrived, so he wouldn’t have to pretend he hadn’t spent the past twenty hours fucking her senseless in his mind. Hopefully he would get home late, find her rental car in the driveway, see all the lights were out and go to bed, having managed one more day of resisting her.

To make sure of that, he intended to go out for a bite to eat and maybe have a few beers at a local watering hole before heading back. He’d even picked the place.

After they’d spent a half hour talking about the amazing find in the wine cellar, Buddy said something that made him wonder if fate was conspiring to bring him and Candace together.

“You ought to see if you can catch up with Candace at Wilhelm’s. I told her they have the best burgers in town and she said she was going to stop there for dinner.”

So she could avoid arriving home in time to see him? That was funny, considering she was dining at the very bar at which he’d intended to stop. Now, though, he figured drive-through fast food would do him just fine.

“I should probably get home and make an early night of it. I’m going to get back to work on the old vats tomorrow, see what else we can salvage.”

Buddy frowned. “I’d feel better if you swung by and checked on her. Tonight’s Monday. Adult softball league night.”

“So?”

“So we both know the teams all converge on Wilhelm’s for brewskis and wings after their games. It can get a little raucous. I’d hate to think of my girl having to fend off some guy who downs a little too much liquid courage.”

Oliver tensed at the very thought of it. No, he didn’t have any claim on her, and had told her he didn’t want any. But damned if he wanted another man making a move, welcomed by her or otherwise. That was probably pretty selfish, but, frankly, he didn’t give a shit.

Since he met her, Candace had been putting off some strong signals. Her body was dying for some action, she needed sex and she needed it badly. And last night, when they’d kissed and he’d stroked her into an orgasm, she had been like a cat in heat, so obviously ripe and ready that he had smelled her arousal—hence his drooling hunger to bury his face in her sex and eat her like a kid ate an icecream cone.

He’d be damned if any guy with less-pure motives and less self-control was going to take her up on what she was silently offering.

“Will you at least go by and check on her, make sure she’s okay?” Buddy prompted. He wore a slight frown, but Oliver saw the tiniest hint of a smile on his face, as well. The old man was matchmaking again. Under normal circumstances, that would have sent Oliver running in the other direction, away from the local pub where Candace might now be putting off those vibes he’d been picking up on since the night they’d met.

But because of those vibes, he just couldn’t.

“Okay, Buddy. I’ll go by and make sure she’s all right.”

And make sure she wasn’t entering into negotiations with any other guy for one tiny innocent little kiss. After giving her that orgasm, he’d left her high and dry last night. Over his dead body would any other man get her low and wet.

HER GRANDFATHER HAD been right. Wilhelm’s had great burgers. After Candace swallowed the last bite of hers, she wiped her mouth, reached for her tea and thought about dessert.

Not that she was still hungry. Honestly, the burger had been huge. She never ate like that, and could almost hear her arteries screaming in protest. But she was not ready to call for her check, get up, leave and drive back to Grandpa’s place. Not while it was only eight o’clock. Not when there was a good chance Oliver would be up, the lights on in his small cottage, tempting her to find some excuse to wander over to see him.

He’d avoided her all day today. As if his rejection last night and the finality of his goodbye hadn’t been enough, he’d made it a point to avoid coming outside at all until she’d left the house this morning.

He had the will of a monk. Or a eunuch. The flash of her cootchie as she’d walked up the stairs hadn’t elicited more than a frustrated groan from the man. She couldn’t deny she’d slammed the door to her room because he hadn’t stormed up after her, overtaken by lust. Then, last night after their wild, erotic kiss that had involved a whole lot more than lips and tongues, he’d still stuck to his terms and walked out on her.

She’d gone to bed full of need and hunger, dying to be filled. Thinking about it later, however, she forced herself to concede she’d been lucky. She’d already listed the million-and-one reasons why she couldn’t get involved with Oliver right now. A little wine and the offer of a kiss had made her forget them, but there was no harm done. He’d ended it, and she was glad.

Maybe if she told herself that often enough, she would begin to believe it. “This sucks,” she mumbled.

“What’s that sweetheart?” a voice asked.

She looked around to see a bunch of guys in dusty gym clothes and ball caps, who had just sat down in the booth directly behind hers. One of them was leaning over the back of his seat, invading her space, and her contemplation.

“Nothing, sorry,” she insisted, her tone polite but cool.

“Hey, we won our game, how about joining us for a celebration?” said another of the men.

Good grief. Did men really think single women eating alone in restaurants were just praying a table full of sweaty dudes would invite her to join their six-some? The guys looked harmless—stockbroker, businessman types, in matching gym shorts and shirts and pricey sneakers. She didn’t feel threatened. Nor, however, was she at all interested. “No, thanks.”

Before she had to elaborate, she heard a ringing from her purse. Coming from L.A., where people’s cell phones were connected to their heads by magnetic beams or something, she’d developed a loathing for anyone who yakked on one in public. Especially in a restaurant. But now, the excuse to cut short a conversation with some overly friendly jocks was most welcome.

When she saw the name on the caller ID, she was even more grateful. She’d talked to Tommy a few times since leaving home and he always managed to distract her from her troubles…usually by talking about his own.

His were always more interesting, anyway. Hmm, this sexy rock star or that studly NBA player? Decisions, decisions.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said, her voice louder than technically necessary, just to underscore the point with the on-the-make guys. One of them continued to hover over the back of her booth, so she upped the lovey-dovey factor. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Missed you, too, sugar lips,” Tommy said with a laugh. “Who’s listening? Grandpa? Biker gang? Jealous she-hag?”

“Nothing of the sort. I’m at a pub, where I just finished dinner. It looks like it’s a popular hangout for the local athletes.”

“Any delicious athletes?”

“I honestly wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, come on, girlfriend, you losing your vision?”

Maybe for some things. She hadn’t really been able to see any man since meeting the only one she wanted.

“Maybe just my enthusiasm.”

Not to mention her opportunities.

“Any idea when you’re going to be able to leave there yet?”

“I suspect I’m going to be here until the day you need me to come back,” she admitted.

He grew serious. “Is your grandfather doing that badly?”

“No, he’s doing very well. But I want to be around to cheer him on during rehab—it’s tedious and painful. Plus I want to be at the house for him when he first comes home.”

“When will that be? Will it leave you enough time for a trip? Maybe you could go to Montreal? They speak French. Or hey, there are lots of hunky Spanish-speaking dudes in Mexico. Doesn’t Cancun sound awesome?”

“I don’t think so. But I won’t stay too long after he gets home. He’ll have home health aides come in, and Madison said she could fly in from back East to relieve me in ten days or so.”

“How is Mad, bad and dangerous to know?”

She chuckled. “Same old, same old. Ready to dive into her career playing hotshot reporter, fighting city hall, exposing corruption and never letting a man get the upper hand.”

“The Reid sisters—toughest girls of Blue Lake Elementary.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

“How could I? You two both acted as my beards at one time or another in high school. I couldn’t have made it without you.”

“Aww, you’re such a romantic. How could we resist? You know Madison and I have both always been totally hot for you.”

The eyeballs were probably popping out of the heads of the guys behind her now. They were likely envisioning wild threesomes and naughty hook-ups. Huh. Other than the threesome part, she was right there with them. Two would be quite enough for the hook-up that had been on her mind all week.

“Ooh, kinky. Gonna be that kind of wife, huh?”

“Don’t push it,” she muttered under her breath.

She settled into the corner, feeling her tension drift away. Talking to Tommy was like talking to a therapist. But she didn’t want to talk to him about Oliver. Mainly because she knew her friend—he’d encourage her to jump the other man’s bones or live to regret it later.

She already knew she was going to regret it later. That didn’t mean she could do it now. First, because he wasn’t the bone-jumping type; he was the type you lost your heart, body and soul to and lived the rest of your days pining for.

He also wasn’t interested. Well, he was interested; he just wasn’t going to act on that interest. So she couldn’t, either.

“Sounds like you’re really not going to have much time for booty calling your way across North America, much less Europe.”

“No. I’m not.” She held her breath, wondering if there had been any change, if the urgency had died down. Not wanting him to think she was backing out on him, she didn’t ask.

Finally, he said, “Did you catch TMZ last night?”

“No, Grandpa only gets basic cable. Why?”

“Let’s just say it’s getting a little more uncomfortable down here. I guess me being seen around town without a woman—namely you—on my arm is making those engagement rumors die down. And others spike back up.”

Was he asking if he could announce their engagement? Oh, she hoped not. She wasn’t ready for that. She hadn’t even had a chance to explain it to her family, though she knew they would understand. Tommy had spent just about every summer in her backyard when they were kids. They knew who he was and loved him almost as much as she did. They wouldn’t necessarily approve, but they would understand she was marrying him out of loyalty, love and friendship. Still, she wanted to tell them herself before any stupid tabloid got hold of it.

“Why don’t you stay home more often then?”

“I’m in demand, hot stuff. Gotta see and be seen.”

God, she was not looking forward to being part of that. Except the red-carpet Oscar stuff. That should be an experience. Of course, it would be better if she were walking that carpet as a nominee, rather than the wife of one, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Considering she still hadn’t nailed down her next project—she’d done the sketches she was asked for and sent them in, but hadn’t heard anything yet—she doubted an Oscar nomination for best costume design would be coming her way very soon.

“Well, gotta go, babe. There’s a party with my name on it.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

Then, again because she sensed the guys in the next booth were listening, she added, “I love you.”

“You know, once you’re wearing my ring, guys won’t be hitting on you all the time.”

“That goes both ways.”

“Bite your tongue!”

“Bye, Tommy.”

“Bye. Love you, sugarplum.”

She disconnected the call, glanced at the time and realized it was now nine. Probably not late enough for Oliver to be in bed, but late enough that she’d look weird and pathetic showing up at his door and thus wouldn’t be tempted to find an excuse to knock on it. So she figured it was safe to call it a night.

She lifted her hand to call for the check, but before she could catch the young waitress’s eye, her vision was blocked by a big jean-and-T-shirt-clad body. A body she’d know anywhere.

Eyeball to crotch with that familiar body, she swallowed hard and slowly lifted her gaze.

“Can I join you?” Oliver’s tone was almost conciliatory, as if he regretted the way he’d ended things last night.

She swallowed hard. Why on earth had he now sought her out when he’d been trying so hard to avoid her?

“Candace?”

“Aren’t you afraid I’m not wearing any underwear, or that I’ll ask you for one little kiss?” she couldn’t help asking.

Behind her, somebody started coughing. She ignored him.

“I guess I deserved that,” he said, not cracking a smile.

There was no way to refuse him, and she gestured toward the empty seat across from her. She heard grumblings from the baseball team and could only imagine what they thought. She’d shot them down, then had a romantic phone conversation and now invited a gorgeous man to take a seat. They probably thought she was a bored housewife on the prowl, cheating on her poor spouse.

“What are You doing here?” she asked after he sat down.

“Your grandfather asked me to check on you.”

Her brow shot up. “You two think I need babysitting?”

His scowl deepened, and he nodded toward the table full of guys behind her. “When I came in and looked over, one of those bozos was right above you, just waiting for you to move enough so he’d have a clear line of sight down your shirt.”

She jerked her head around and looked over her shoulder. The amateur ballplayers all immediately ducked their heads together, as if realizing they’d been caught out.

“So you came storming over to defend my honor?”

That was rich, considering he was the only man who’d come even close to sullying it lately. And oh, had she liked being sullied.

“No. They’re men, they’re out drinking beer and you’re beautiful. Of course they’re gonna look.”

The beautiful part echoed in her ears.

His jaw tensed, and he crossed his arms over his chest and raised his voice slightly. “But if any of them even thinks about touching you, he’ll be drinking his beer through a straw.”

She should resent this he-man protector stuff. But instead, she found herself feeling all warm and soft at the realization that he felt protective of her. Mainly because it meant he somehow felt possessive of her.

He could have possessed you yesterday—twice—and twice he turned you down.

Right. She straightened in her seat, determined not to relax her guard around him, or let him know she was still smarting over what had happened. She was determined to forget all about yesterday, pretend she’d dreamed the whole thing. Well, except the orgasm. She wanted to remember that. She wanted to hug and hold that memory because, as far as she could remember, it was the only time her head had completely blown off her shoulders and then settled back into place.

The waitress sauntered over, lazy and laid-back as she’d been all evening. But when she reached the table, she did a double take and offered Oliver a much bigger smile than she’d offered Candace. “Hey, there, Mr. McKean. Nice to see you again!”

The woman practically simpered. Ugh.

“You want the usual?” the woman asked.

“Sure.”

She was back with his beer in record time. “Can I get you something else? Anything at all?”

Candace gripped her hands together under the table, determined not to react. It wasn’t easy, especially when the woman responded to Oliver’s request for a menu by leaning over him to grab a paper one standing between two condiment bottles on the back of the table. Her ample breasts rubbed his shoulders. He didn’t appear to mind.

Once the waitress had walked away, after telling him to think about what he wanted, Candace said, “Gee, who’s going to defend your honor?”

His jaw may have softened a bit. “You offering?”

“You didn’t look like you needed—or wanted—any help.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound jealous.”

“How fortunate that you know better.”

She reached into her purse, tucking her phone back inside. Before he’d shown up, she’d been planning to pull out some cash, pay her bill and leave. Now that he was here, though, she found herself wanting to stay.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay, let me order, then I’ll walk you to your car.”

And leave him here to be the blue plate special for the big-boobed waitress? Not a chance.

“I’m fine,” she replied sweetly. “I was thinking about ordering dessert.” She grabbed another menu, skimmed over the offerings and decided on her very favorite: a dish of ice cream. Simple, easy, nonsuggestive, delicious vanilla ice cream.

After they’d ordered, they spoke briefly about her grandfather, and his reaction to their find in his wine cellar. The old man had been ecstatic, and had immediately started making plans for what he would do with the money. Most of his ideas had to do with helping out his family—her included—and for a moment, Candace had allowed herself to think she would not have to marry for money. Then she remembered. She wasn’t really marrying for money. She was marrying for friendship. And no amount of money could ever replace Tommy in her life.

However she felt about Oliver as a man—and potential lover—she had to give him credit: he was a conscientious employee, though she suspected the relationship between the two men had moved beyond professional to personal. Grandpa liked him…that was quite obvious, and the feeling appeared to be reciprocated.

She was a little surprised by their conversation. Once they’d turned the focus away from them—the sexual tension that was so thick between them she was surprised she could see him across the table—she found Oliver very easy to talk to.

They chatted about the wine, and the results of the phone calls Candace had made today to an expert in the region. He had given her the number of an auction house in San Francisco, saying if she really did have the bottles she’d mentioned, they’d be begging for the chance to sell them. If not rich, Buddy was at least going to be a lot more comfortable soon.

The waitress returned with Oliver’s hamburger a short time later, and brought Candace’s ice cream. She waited until the woman had left to pick up the spoon and help herself to a small amount. Lifting it to her lips, she almost cooed, seeing the tiny black flecks of vanilla bean. This was her favorite treat. Not terribly decadent or exciting, but she had always had a thing for plain vanilla.

“You gonna marry that stuff or eat it?”

Startled, she almost dropped the spoon. She’d apparently been oohing and aahing over it before she’d even brought a spoonful to her lips. And, for a change, there had been absolutely nothing deliberate about it. She wasn’t trying to tease him, taunt him or make him regret walking away from her yesterday. She just liked ice cream.

“I don’t usually eat dessert.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

She inserted the spoon into her mouth and sighed in pleasure, closing her eyes as the creamy sweetness hit her tongue and made her taste buds burst to life. “How can something so plain and simple taste so incredibly good?”

The question had been a rhetorical one, but Oliver looked like he was giving it serious thought. Very serious. He appeared contemplative and stared at her, hard. Some devil within her made her dip the spoon into the dish and draw more toward her mouth, knowing he was watching, rapt and attentive.

“Mmm.” She licked every drop, loving the tingle as the cold refreshment slid over her tongue and down her throat.

Okay, so now she was being deliberately provocative. But he so totally deserved it.

He grabbed his burger and started to eat it, not looking toward her again. Which made eating the ice cream a little less fun, though no less delicious.

She knew she shouldn’t mess with him, shouldn’t play with fire, but he’d been sending her mixed signals since the moment they’d met.

Takes one to know one.

True.

She scooped more, making another sound of satisfaction.

“You’re such a brat.”

She smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She licked the spoon clean, wiggling with delight.

“Would you stop it?” he asked after she’d swallowed.

“Stop what?”

“Stop licking that spoon like you’re thinking about sex.”

“I am thinking about sex,” she admitted, licking again. She saw no reason to be coy and wasn’t about to let him off the hook. “I’ve been thinking about it since last night. How could I not?”

He leaned over the table, coming closer, making everything around them disappear. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Funny, I don’t feel like I’m getting burned. In fact, it’s quite chilly.”

He took another bite of his burger, chewing the thing like he had to wrangle it into submission. When she began to help herself to another spoonful of her dessert, he cast her a warning look. “Time for either a subject change or a table change. Your choice.”

Meaning he would get up and leave her here alone if she didn’t stop tormenting him? How cute was that? She honestly hadn’t realized he would be that affected by her engaging in a little food foreplay. But she didn’t want him changing tables. Not when the waitress might very well decide to take a break and plop down on his lap.

“Okay, subject change. Grandpa mentioned that you had a connection to the estate. Your great-grandfather was the silent movie star who built it?” That had surprised her, especially given Oliver’s apparent disdain for the movie business.

“Yeah.” He looked relieved she’d done as he asked. “A million years ago. I never knew him.”

“Have you ever seen any of his movies?”

“Sure. My great-grandfather bought a bunch of them when his studio went bankrupt. My father has a box of them. We sometimes had family nights watching them when I was growing up.”

“How very Norma Desmond,” she murmured.

He nodded, getting the Sunset Boulevard reference.

“When he found out I was living here, he mailed me a few so I could show them to Buddy. I haven’t had a chance to do it yet.”

“What a fascinating era it must have been. So much more mysterious and glamorous than today, given the 24/7 coverage of every gruesome detail of a famous person’s life.” She knew her voice contained a hint of bitterness, on Tommy’s behalf, but he didn’t question her on it.

“They sure knew how to party, from the sound of it.”

“I’d love to see one of those films.”

He reached for his beer. “They’re on big reels. A pain to operate, but they certainly make for an authentic experience. Buddy borrowed a projector from somebody, but we never got around to showing them.”

Meaning he couldn’t just give her a disk to pop into her laptop. He’d have to come in and set up a whole viewing room. Stay and operate the machine. Spend time with her, watching it. Like one of his family movie nights growing up, only it would just be the two of them.

“We can watch one some evening if you’re bored.”

This was sounding a little like a movie date, and she suddenly wondered if he would live to regret having her change the subject. She could eat all kinds of ice cream while watching a movie. And if he dared to offer her two kisses, she might finally get that multiple orgasm she’d been craving.

“I’d love that,” she murmured. “It might make you feel like you’re at home. Speaking of which, where does your family live now?”

“San Diego. I was born and raised there.”

“Big family?”

“Parents, two sisters, one brother-in-law, one niece.”

“All in Southern California?”

“Yes.”

“So why aren’t you there with them?”

“I was close, in Orange County, until four months ago.”

Finally she was getting somewhere. “What on earth made you come up here?” she couldn’t help asking. “I’d normally guess one of the three biggies—romance, legal trouble or job. But you appear to be single and don’t look like the law-breaking type.”

“I am. And I’m not.”

She went over the answer in her mind, realizing he was admitting he was single—hallelujah—and an honest guy.

“Okay. So, number three. Job? I don’t mean to offend you, but it seems to me your field isn’t necessarily one that would require you to move so far away.”

He sipped his beer again, not meeting her eye. She didn’t push, sensing he was trying to reach a decision about how much to say. Finally, with a sigh, as if he realized she wasn’t going to back off and would be around long enough to wear him down if she chose to, he admitted, “I was with the district attorney’s office in L.A. until earlier this year.”

“With…wait, you mean you’re a lawyer?”

She shouldn’t have been surprised, considering she’d already seen evidence of his intelligence, his memory and his darned interrogation skills. But it was just so strange to think of a big Los Angeles attorney moving up here to work as a laborer for her grandfather.

“It’s a long story.”

She merely stared.

“I don’t want to get into it.”

“Come on, you’ve got to give me more than, I was a lawyer, quit and came up here to plant grapes.” She suddenly remembered what he’d said the night they met, about feeling cleaner digging in the dirt here than he had in his previous life. Then she thought about the kinds of cases he must have been involved in. Los Angeles was a glitzy haven to starry-eyed actors and actresses. But anyone who actually lived there knew it could be incredibly seedy. Ugly, violent, with crimes and murders happening often enough to immunize its residents to the shock of them, unless they involved a movie star.

“One crappy case too many?” she speculated.

“Yes,” he replied, staring straight into her eyes, looking a little surprised she’d understood so easily.

“I can see why you’d want to come here, then, if you needed a change. Better hard manual labor than a mental breakdown.”

A smile appeared. “I don’t know that I was near that point, but I was definitely feeling on the verge of a moral one.”

“Oh?” Now he had her really curious.

He idly rubbed the tip of his finger on the rim of his beer mug. “You might not believe it, but criminal law is one hell of a competitive place.”

“Well of course I believe it. I read John Grisham.”

“Multiply that by a hundred and you might have an idea of how brutal the atmosphere can be, especially in a place like Hollywood, with the money and the star factor added in. There’s a winner-take-all attitude, a scorepoints-on-the-other-guy mentality. It’s not about guilt or innocence, not about finding the truth, not even always about justice. More than anything it’s about winning.”

That surprised her. She’d always been one of those idealists who believed in the justice system. But it sounded like Oliver no longer did.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, suddenly remembering some of the news coverage she’d seen last winter, about corruption uncovered in the district attorney’s office. She didn’t remember seeing Oliver’s picture, or hearing his name, but she hadn’t really been paying attention, and the timing certainly made sense. “Were you the whistleblower?”

He stared into her eyes, not looking surprised she’d remembered the story. She didn’t recall any of the details; she just knew the media had had a field day with the previous D.A., whose own employee had accused him of judicial misconduct, including hiding evidence of innocence in a high-profile murder case.

“Yeah,” he said, lifting his mug and downing his beer.

“You were involved in that case where the kid in the gang was accused of murdering the pregnant mother?”

“It was my case. I was all set to go to trial when I found proof that he hadn’t done it.”

“And your boss buried it,” she murmured, remembering more.

“Tried to.” He leaned back, dropping his napkin onto his plate. “The kid was a punk, but it was mostly swagger. Maybe the close call will make him clean up his act.” he frowned. “Or he could get worse and end up killing somebody after all.”

“But he didn’t kill that woman?”

“No, he didn’t. I’d let myself go along with some of the crap you have to do to score convictions. Did stuff I’m not proud of. But I couldn’t be a part of convicting an innocent young man of murder, no matter what he might do in the future.”

Stepping forward and doing the right thing had been noble and admirable. But it had also probably cost him his job.

“Were you blackballed?”

“Blackballed, dumped by the woman I’d been seeing, shunned by people I’d thought were friends,” he said with a harsh laugh.

“That’s awful,” she muttered, focused more on the dumping than anything else. How could any woman do that to this gorgeous, amazing man?

He went on. “I can never go back to any D.A.’s office in California, and I’m not ready to switch sides just yet.”

“Defense attorney, you mean?”

“Right. I’m too jaded, too quick to see the bad side of humanity to start defending people I automatically assume are guilty. So for now, I dig, I shovel, I fertilize, I test pH, I till, I haul, I study. And I drink wine.”

“I think that last one’s my favorite.”

This time, his laugh wasn’t angry…it was soft and genuine.

Candace sat there and let the masculine sound wash over her. She’d seen him angry and tense, seen him sexy and aroused, seen him concerned. This was the first moment, though, that she truly believed she was seeing the real man, with his guard completely down. Seeing the Oliver he had been before his world had fallen apart last fall. She liked this man. Liked him a lot.

And oh, God, did she ever wish she had met him before she’d agreed to marry her best friend.

7

OLIVER WASN’T CERTAIN what had caused that warm, tender look to appear in Candace’s lovely eyes, but he figured it was bad news. He liked it better—felt safer—when she was snapping at him, taunting him, even flirting with him. This softness, this sweetness, this emotion he saw in her now, was way outside of his comfort zone.

He should have kept his fat trap shut. He should never have told her anything about himself—his past, his regrets, his shame. Because now, he greatly feared, he’d opened up a window through which she could climb, going around his instinctive defenses.

So let her.

Huh. Maybe he should. He still wasn’t ready for a relationship, still hated the idea of messing around with Buddy’s granddaughter while the old man was laid up. But he had to admit, he found Candace incredibly easy to talk to. She had heart and brains to go with that boatload of sex appeal, which made her a triple threat. He couldn’t deny he was tempted to take what she’d offered yesterday morning and last night. Maybe hooking up with someone who would be leaving in a week or so was exactly the right way to get back in the game of life.

Unfortunately, now that he’d realized he liked her as much as he wanted her, hooking up seemed less appetizing than it had before. He sensed it would satisfy him physically, but would just make the emotional strings that much harder to untangle. And emotions were still not his strong point.

“Will you excuse me a minute? I need to run to the ladies’ room,” she said.

He pushed his plate to the edge of the table so the overly flirtatious waitress, who’d come on to him every single time he walked into this joint, could pick it up. “Sure. I’ll ask for the check.”

She reached into her purse.

He waved a hand. “Forget it. It’s on me.”

“No way. You don’t bring down the big bucks anymore.”

He lifted a brow in challenge, remembering she’d said she was between jobs right now. “At least I’m employed.”

“Good point. But I think I can spring for one hamburger.”

Frankly, it was worth every penny to pay for her meal, if only for the pleasure of watching her eat that cursed ice cream.

He watched her walk away, again noting the changes in her wardrobe since she’d stopped wearing her sister’s more loose, casual ensembles in favor of stylish, extremely colorful and bright stuff. Her jeans were fire-engine red. She wore them with spike-heeled black ankle boots, and a silky blouse that fell off one shoulder. Every guy in the place watched her go, Oliver included.

He would bet every other guy in the place would give his left nut to have kissed her, and touched her the way he’d touched her twenty-four hours ago.

You’re a brainless bastard to have walked out on her like that.

If he had the day to do over again, he sensed yesterday would have ended up very differently. He only wondered if it was too late to change things.

After she’d left, Oliver signaled for the waitress, cutting her off when she tried to engage in small talk. It had been fine that she’d flirted when Candace was around to see and get a little tight-lipped, but now that she was gone, he couldn’t be bothered to play along. He hadn’t been interested in this woman, or any of the others he’d met since coming here four months ago. Only one interested him.

So what are you going to do about it?

He honestly didn’t know. But the more he got to know Candace, the more he wanted to do something.

“Hey, dude, you better watch it. She’s toxic.”

Startled, he looked up to see one of the jocks from the next table leaning over the back of his booth. He gave Oliver a look of manly commiseration that looked a little fake, as if he enjoyed spreading tales. “She’s messing around on you.”

“What?”

“Your girl. I heard her on the phone before you got here. She was all into whoever she was talking to. Just sayin’, you should watch your back, man.”

His muscles contracting, he realized he should tell the guy to go screw himself, that he and Candace weren’t a couple and if she had been on the phone with anyone else, that was her business. Not his.

Instead, he simply ignored the jock, tossed some bills on the table and got up. No, he had no business questioning who Candace talked to. But she’d sure made it sound like she was single, and she’d certainly acted that way yesterday during their erotic encounters.

Could she really have a lover somewhere? Was she the type who got bored easily and was simply killing time with Oliver while she was stuck up here in Sonoma?

The thought bothered him more than he cared to admit. So much so that he couldn’t even force a tight smile when she got back and walked over to him.

She spied the bills on the table. “I told you I’d pay for mine.”

“Forget it,” he insisted, his tone brusque to match his attitude. “Are you ready to go? Because I’m leaving.”

He didn’t plan to walk out and leave her here, not now that he knew just how closely the table full of men had been watching her. But he didn’t need her to know that.

“Sure,” she said, blinking in surprise at his here’s-your-hat-what’s-your-hurry attitude.

He didn’t enlighten her. Telling her what the nosy softball player at the next table had said would only open up a conversation he really didn’t want to have. The only reason he’d need to know if she was available was if he intended to sleep with her.

He didn’t.

Right?

They walked outside to the parking lot. While they’d been inside, the early signs of a storm had blown in. This area didn’t get a whole lot of rain, and what it got usually came in the winter. But sometimes the spring brought wicked storms and it looked like they would have one tonight. The air was wildly alive, with gusts that had the trees bouncing and a whistling sound coming from under the eaves of the building.

Instead of tightening her jacket, ducking against the weather and racing to her car, Candace tilted her head back, smiled and closed her eyes. She apparently liked the feel of the wind battering her body. Liking it, too, he understood. There was something freeing about being in a climate so variable and elemental. L.A. and San Diego were pretty standard all year round—sunny, warm, beautiful. In the winter and spring months he’d been up here, he’d realized you couldn’t really count on anything. You never knew when the winds would change and the air would crackle with electric excitement.

“I love this,” she said, raising her voice to be heard.

“I can tell.”

The gusts kept catching wispy strands of her honeybrown hair, blowing them across her face. She didn’t even try tucking them behind her ears or restraining the long curls. The longer they stood outside, the more primal and tangled it became. She was beautiful, sultry, exotic…he had a sudden image of being back at the estate with her, outside, naked, letting the wind batter them as they came together in an explosion as powerful as a spring storm.

Unable to take it anymore, he looked away, not wanting to be utterly entranced by the wild, erotic picture she presented, all windblown and sexy, with her lips moist and parted in exhilaration as she breathed in the cool night air.

“It’s going to break over us pretty soon,” he said. “And it won’t be a fun drive once it starts pouring. We should go.”

Her shoulders slumped. “All right.”

When they reached her rental car, she said, “It seems like a good night to stay inside. Maybe I could pay you back for dinner by picking up some candy and popcorn for our home movie night?”

He frowned. “It’s late.” It wasn’t that late, maybe ten o’clock. Ten minutes ago he might have leaped at the chance. But the fact that he didn’t know enough about her had been hammered home by the jock inside.

“Tomorrow maybe?”

“I don’t know if I’ll have time for that before you leave.”

Disappointment flashed across her face. “Oh.”

Part of him wanted to take it back, especially seeing the flash of hurt in her eyes. But it was better this way. Better that he put the walls firmly in place again. She’d be gone in a week, returning to her life and her…whoever the guy on the phone had been. Buddy would be home. Oliver would descend back into his self-imposed purgatory. Everything would be as it should. Hell, maybe once he’d gotten his shit together, he’d go back to L.A. and look her up. Find out if she was single or not. But who knew when that would be?

“Well, thanks for dinner,” she said as she got into her car. She wasn’t meeting his eyes. Embarrassed? Angry? He wasn’t sure.

Muttering, “You’re welcome,” he pushed the door shut. He strode to his own truck, not turning around as she revved up her car’s engine, threw it in gear and tore out of the parking lot like she had a dragon on her tail.

Okay, so she was angry.

Hell.

It’s better this way, he reminded himself.

Somehow, though, he didn’t feel better. In fact, he felt like crap. Crappy enough that, rather than heading right for the Sonoma Highway and home, he stopped at a liquor store and bought a six-pack. Not just because he had the feeling he could use a second beer, but because he didn’t want to get back to the estate until he knew she would be safely tucked inside Buddy’s house.

But after his stop, as he began driving home, leaving the highway and hitting some of the twisty back roads, he couldn’t get the image of her standing there, enjoying the wind in her face, out of his mind. Especially because that wind threatened to take the steering wheel out of his hands a couple of times. And now it had started to rain.

“Shit. You should have followed her home.”

Candace wasn’t used to driving in this area, with hilly roads full of dangerous switchbacks and steep drop-offs. The bad weather made it even worse. If he hadn’t been such an ass, he could have made sure she was safe, and he practically held his breath until he got to the estate and saw her rental car in front of the main house.

He parked his truck outside the cottage, breathing a deep sigh of relief that she’d made it, too. Replaying their conversation back at the bar, he knew he’d behaved badly. So much for the smooth gentleman he’d always been praised as being in his old life. He’d been a total dick to Candace half the time. He’d been like a kid who knew he couldn’t play with the toy he most wanted, so he’d pretended he didn’t want it at all.

Tonight, he’d reacted like a prosecutor instead of like a man who was getting to know an honest, refreshing, bright and sexy woman. He hadn’t given her the benefit of the doubt. Was he so jaded, so used to being lied to and manipulated that he no longer had the capacity to give someone a chance?

He owed her an apology. And if all the lights hadn’t been off in the main house—the place utterly pitch-black in the windy night—he would have gone over and offered it up, even though he’d have had to run through the driving rain. But the building was obviously shut down. She’d come home, turned off every light and gone to bed, probably sending him a silent message to stay away from her.

“Message received,” he said as he hurried to the door of his cottage, getting soaked along the way, and pulled out his key.

Buddy always laughed at him for locking the door since they were out in the middle of nowhere, but the big-city habit was too ingrained. He found himself wondering, though, if he’d really been out of it when he’d left earlier this evening for the hospital. Because the knob twisted easily in his hand. He must have forgotten to lock it.

Letting himself in, he reached for the switch on the wall and flipped it up. Nothing.

“Oh, God,” he mumbled, suddenly realizing why the world was so dark. The power was notoriously unreliable in high winds, and his was probably out.

He waited for his eyes to adjust, before making his way across the big room that dominated the main floor of the cottage. It served as both living room and kitchen, the two separated by a stone fireplace that opened on either side. It was a great feature and he’d used it and nothing else to heat the place during the winter. Looked like it was going to come in handy tonight, too, both for heat and for illumination.

Before he moved to light it, he thought about Candace. She was alone in that huge house. That huge drafty house with its spiders, crickets, cracked window casings and frigid tile floors. No lights, no heat, no hot water—which was pretty well par for the course—and he’d bet the phones were out.

“Better go check on her,” he mumbled.

Grabbing the coat he’d just placed on the hook, he began to put it on. But he hadn’t even gotten one arm in a sleeve when he heard a soft, feminine voice coming from the sofa on the other side of the room.

“You don’t have to check on her. She’s right here.”

CANDACE HAD ONLY been waiting for Oliver for a few minutes—since just after she’d gotten back, realized the power was out and decided his cozy cottage with the fireplace would be a better place to ride out the storm. But that had been long enough for her to decide she’d made a mistake.

Sitting here in the dark, in his space, had been more disturbing than comforting. The whole place smelled like him—all musky, spicy and hot. Utterly masculine. Her body reacted to the scent even before her mind could put it together and figure out it wasn’t just the cold making her nipples hard.

She also worried how he would react to finding her there, in the dark, and what he would make of her presence. He was a private person; it had taken him days to even admit to her that he was really an attorney. He probably wouldn’t take kindly to her using Buddy’s keys to let herself in and make herself at home. She suddenly felt a little like Goldilocks. Add a broken chair and a few bowls of porridge and she might come face-to-face with an angry bear.

She’d decided to leave, to brave the cold and the darkness in the main house, when she heard him pull up outside. Her chance to escape was gone. She had to stay and brazen it out.

“Candace?”

“It sure isn’t Goldilocks,” she muttered.

He hung his coat back up and approached, moving carefully in the darkness. She’d been here longer; her eyes had adjusted, so she could easily see him moving toward her. His hair was wet, dark strands sticking to his unsmiling face.

“How did you get in?”

“I’m sorry. I used Buddy’s key. I know it was rude.”

“And illegal.”

Twisting her hands in front of her, she rose from the couch. “I was freaked out. That place is spooky enough when it’s daylight. I kept picturing spiders lurking in every corner.”

“Not the ghost of Fatty Arbuckle stalking you?”

“Oh, great, thanks. That makes me feel tons better!”

“I’m surprised you know who I was referring to.”

“Hello, movie biz, remember? Was he one of your greatgrandpa’s cronies?”

“They did a few films together,” he said.

Very cool.

“Let me brighten things up a little in here.”

He headed for the kitchen. She heard him fumble with something, and a moment later, a soft light spotlighted his handsome face. He came back carrying a thick candle, which he placed on the coffee table.

“So, do you want me to leave?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “It’s coming down in buckets. You’d be soaked to the skin with no way to warm up.”

True. “I can stay?”

“Yes. Sit down. I’ll light a fire.”

“That would be wonderful.”

She curled up on the couch again, watching him. Fortunately he’d had logs and kindling already set in the fireplace, and they sparked quickly. Within minutes, the small space was benefiting from the heat created by the blaze, and the room was enveloped in a lovely golden glow.

She took the opportunity to look around a bit, knowing he’d only been here a few months, but sensing he’d taken steps to make the place his own. There were some nonfiction books on the mantel, along with a few thrillers. No pictures on the walls, but a couple of framed family type snapshots stood on the end table. Some colorful pillows were tossed on the furniture, and the thick rug in front of the hearth looked new and cozy.

She’d definitely seen worse bachelor pads.

“Better?”

“Much, thank you.”

He fell silent again, and she felt that tension between them that had appeared in the restaurant, after she’d gone to the ladies’ room. Compared to his friendliness before she’d left, she couldn’t help thinking something had happened. As she’d driven home, she’d half wondered if he’d made some assignation with the waitress and just wanted to be rid of her. She couldn’t deny she’d held her breath waiting to hear him come home, and was pleased he had, even if it had meant she was trapped and busted as a home invader.

He finally broke the silence. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“Oh?”

He sat on the floor, near the fireplace, on that thick rug. His long jeans-clad legs were stretched in front of him, booted feet casually crossed. The jeans pulled tight on those powerful thighs. She again noted how built he was, obviously not from any L.A. gym lifestyle but from his physically demanding job.

“Yeah. Earlier tonight, at the bar, one of the guys in the next booth told me you’d been on the phone before I arrived, having a very intimate conversation.”

She laughed. “Of course I was—intentionally! My best friend called, and I was trying really hard to make it sound like he was my boyfriend, so they would stop pestering me.”

He dropped his head back, shaking it and mumbling something under his breath. Something that sounded like, idiot.

Well, yeah, he had been. Being all macho-aloof instead of asking her about it had been the typical male reaction.

“Is that why you were such a jerk in the parking lot?” He straightened to look at her. “I’m sorry.”

“Were you angry about it?”

“Not angry. Jealous as hell,” he admitted.

That sent warm shivers of excitement rushing through her. There was no reason for Oliver to have been jealous if he didn’t want her for himself.

“I know it’s none of my business, but you said you didn’t have a boyfriend… .”

“I don’t,” she insisted. “No boyfriend, no husband, no lover.”

Just a fiancé.

The thought stabbed into her head like a brain freeze, shocking and painful. She was so used to not being involved with anyone, it was hard to remember that now, she technically was.

Oh, hell, what a mess.

She knew she should just tell him the situation, be honest and let him know what was happening. But in order to do that, she’d have to tell him why she’d agreed to a sexless marriage, and why it was okay for her to cheat on her fiancé.

She couldn’t out Tommy to somebody he didn’t know. Nobody had that right. Especially because, even if she didn’t reveal the name of her future husband, once the press got hold of her engagement and marriage, Oliver would realize who she’d been talking about. It wasn’t like he was some foreign, overseas stranger who would never give her another thought. He lived right in California, worked for her grandfather. His family lived in San Diego, and he probably still had plenty of work ties to L.A. No, he wasn’t the type who would run tattling to the press the minute he heard the news, but what if he accidentally said something to the wrong person? Tommy could be hurt—badly—because of her. She just couldn’t risk it.

Telling him the truth was out. But lying was just against her nature.

Was there a happy medium? Could she walk the tightrope and take what she wanted more than anything in the world—a wild affair with Oliver—without jeopardizing her best friend’s reputation?

Oliver watched her from the floor, his dark eyes catching glimmers of firelight, reflecting them. He cast a long deliberate stare over her, gazing from her face, down her throat, to the single bare shoulder revealed by her blouse. She’d been wearing a raincoat when she came in, but hadn’t wanted to get his couch wet. At least, that’s what she’d told herself. Actually, the thought of him looking at her, like this, hadn’t been a small part of the reason she’d taken the coat off.

Something was happening between them. Heat—quiet but intense—flared. But the problem bore repeating: what a mess.

“This has been pretty inevitable, hasn’t it?” he asked, his tone simple, to the point. As if he’d given up resisting something they had both known was going to happen.

“Yes, I think so.”

He wanted her. That was obvious. He’d been fighting it, as had she. But it seemed they’d both had enough of playing games. The attraction between them had been thick from the moment they’d met. They were always headed to this moment. Always.

Find the happy medium, an inner voice urged.

She couldn’t let it go that one last step toward becoming this amazing man’s lover until she’d clarified a couple of things. No, she couldn’t reveal Tommy’s secret, but she had to be as honest as she could be. “You need to know something.”

He didn’t seem to be paying attention. Instead he got on his knees, crawling closer to the edge of the couch. His glittering eyes were narrowed, his lips parted, his hair was damp and hanging in his face. He looked earthy, primal and…hungry.

“Oliver…”

“Unless you need to tell me you’re a virgin or a nun, I don’t think there’s anything else I absolutely have to know right now.”

She couldn’t help laughing a little at his vehemence. “What if I needed to tell you I was gay?”

He moved closer, dropping his hand on her calf. “Then I’d tell you you’re a liar.”

She swallowed hard, feeling the heat of his palm through her jeans. He squeezed lightly.

Quivering in reaction, she managed to insist, “I really do need to make something clear.”

He hesitated. Her heart ached as she thought of doing anything to sabotage what she sensed could be one of the most sensual, erotic nights of her life, but she had to at least try to make things as open as possible.

“Whatever happens can’t go beyond this week.”

He smiled a little, looking relieved. Okay, maybe he had just wanted a one-night, or one-week, stand. Which shouldn’t have bothered her, since a week was all she had. But her insides twisted, anyway.

Stop overanalyzing. Maybe he’s just relieved you didn’t say you were transgendered.

She forced herself to go on. “I meant it when I said I don’t have a lover or a boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean I’m free. I have made a serious commitment and I intend to keep my word. Once I leave here next week, when Grandpa gets home, this is completely over.”

He eyed her intently. “You want to tell me what the commitment is?”

“I could try, but it wouldn’t be easy for me to say too much without breaking someone else’s confidence,” she said, hoping that wouldn’t be a deal-breaker.

“Understood,” he said with a nod. She already knew he valued integrity and wasn’t totally surprised he hadn’t insisted she spill everything.

“You’re an adult, you want me and you’re not married. As long as all three of those things are true, then, honestly, right at this moment, I don’t give a damn about anything else.”

He fell silent. So did she. Their stares locked.

Finally she spoke. “All those things are true.”

He moved closer.

“But I do have a request to make. Can we just agree that, if we, uh…” She could feel her cheeks warming. “If we enjoy tonight…”

His spontaneous laugh made her smile. The man did not suffer from any lack of confidence.

“If we do, and we want to spend the rest of the week together, that’s great,” she explained. “After that week though, it’s never mentioned again, never referred to. You don’t contact me…. I don’t contact you?”

“No strings? Absolutely no regrets?”

“Exactly.”

He didn’t jump for joy the way most men probably would have at hearing a woman admit she wanted a nostrings sexual affair with him. “You’re serious?”

“Very.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, considering. Then, at last, he slowly nodded. “My life’s too crazy now to even consider getting tangled in any strings. If that’s really the way you want to play it, that’s the way it’ll be.”

Another long stare. A silent assent.

Then an exchange of slow, sultry smiles.

They’d made a bargain. They would be lovers.

She had a week. And she intended to enjoy every minute of it.

8

ONCE THE WORDS had been said, the deal struck, Candace let all her questions, doubts and worries fade away. She might not have a long-term future with Oliver, and her life might be taking her in directions she could never have imagined, but for now, for tonight at least, she intended to enjoy herself with a man who made her whole body come alive.

“I have a bed upstairs in the loft,” Oliver murmured, sliding his hand down her calf.

“I like it right here,” she said, not willing to waste the time moving, not when she was finally going to get what she’d so desperately wanted.

His approving nod said he agreed. When he reached into his pocket and withdrew a condom, she knew he’d been anticipating this moment. Considering she’d picked up a box at the drug store and had a few tucked into her purse, she couldn’t pretend to take offense. She could only be grateful.

The man was gloriously handsome at any time of day, in any lighting. But when he tugged at his shirt and pulled it up and over his head, tossing it to the floor, she had to admit he did amazing things for firelight.

His body was perfectly shaped. The shoulders so broad, the chest beautifully sculpted. Months of hard, physical labor had obviously eradicated any sign of the L.A. lawyer and turned him into a muscular god, with incredibly defined abs, a lean waist and slim hips. A light swirl of hair encircled his nipples, trailing down into a thin line that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.

She licked her lips, wanting to see where that happy trail led. But after kicking off his shoes, he stopped, leaving his jeans in place.

She pouted. “Keep going. You definitely don’t have to stop on my account.”

“We’ll get there. But fair’s fair. You’re still fully dressed.”

“You can fix that for me.”

“I’d be happy to.”

He tugged the boots off her feet, then gently palmed and massaged her arches. When his fingers slipped up under her pant legs, the brush of skin on skin made her internal temperature soar. An hour ago she’d been freezing. Now she knew a spark had just ignited and she was going up in flames.

Her skinny jeans were tight, and he couldn’t move his hand nearly high enough to satisfy her, so she stretched out and began to wriggle, reaching for her waistband.

“No. Let me,” he insisted.

Still kneeling on the floor, he touched his way up her limbs, slowly, deliberately. By the time those talented fingers reached the tops of her thighs, she was groaning. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like when he finally got her undressed. Fortunately, she knew she wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Please, hurry,” she whispered when he traipsed his knuckles up the strip of fabric covering the zipper.

“You’re not the patient sort, are you?”

“If you go negative-two miles an hour I might just have to kill you,” she admitted, whimpering when he reached for the button and unfastened her jeans.

“We have all night,” he insisted, not sounding the least bit prodded to speed up. “I’ve been thinking about this—dreaming about it—since the minute we met. There’s no way in hell I’m rushing through it.”

“Ditto,” she admitted. Then, being honest, she added, “The thinking and the dreaming part, I mean. I’m all about rushing.”

Fast and hard. Deep and wild. She was dying to be filled by him, possessed, pounded into and taken.

“Sorry, beautiful. It’s not happening.”

He slid the zipper down slowly. She could practically hear the teeth separating, the faint hiss competing with the roar of the wind outside, the crackling of the fire and the pounding of her blood in her veins.

When he’d finished unzipping her, she lifted her hips, shimmying to help him as he pulled the pants down, peeling them off and baring her legs. To her disappointment, he didn’t slide his hands down the front of her groin, didn’t take the skimpy panties with the jeans. But she really hadn’t expected him to. Aside from what he’d just admitted, Oliver had already proven himself to be a very patient man. He was going to take his time, go slow, wring every ounce of pleasure out of each and every experience they shared.

“I will, too,” she told herself, whispering it aloud. “I can do this.”

“You will and can what?”

“I’ll go slow,” she promised. Then he traced the tip of his finger along the elastic edge of her panties and she whimpered. “Oh, God, yes, please, rip them off. Take me!”

His chuckle was pure evil. “That’s not going slow.” He slid his finger below the elastic, scraping it into the soft tuft of curls nesting at the top of her sex, then away again.

“I said slow, not in slow motion,” she groaned, her hips thrusting up as a nameless but very familiar need took over.

“We’re just getting started,” he insisted, moving his hands to the bottom hem of her blouse.

Okay, that detour she could allow. Her breasts were aching, her nipples pointy and so sensitized her own shirt was giving her a thrill. His mouth and hands would likely send her out of her mind.

“God, you’re beautiful. It killed me not to be able to look down at you last night when I touched your breasts,” he whispered as he pushed the blouse up, revealing her tummy and her midriff. “Stay still. Let me explore you.”

Being explored sounded good. Very good. She could be the wilds of undiscovered America and he could go all Lewis and Clark over every hill, valley and stream. She just hoped those hills were her breasts, the valley her pelvis and the stream the flood of creamy desire filling her sex.

He lowered his face so he could press a kiss on her hip bone. She felt the warmth of his breath on her skin, so close to her panty line, and instinctively rose to offer him more, praying he was eschewing the hills and valleys and going for the stream.

He moved in the other direction, though, kissing his way up the indentation of her pelvis, to her belly button.

She let out a groan that was half pleasure, half frustration. Ignoring her, he continued to push her blouse up, moving his mouth after it. Inch by inch, he explored her body, licking into each hollow between every rib, testing her, tasting her, breathing her in. It was wonderful, erotic…and frustrating. She was whimpering and twisting below him, wanting him to hurry up, but not ever wanting this to end.

He reached her bra, which opened with a front clasp. She held her breath, tensing as he touched the fastener with his thumb and finger, and deftly flicked it open, revealing her curves for his most delicious attention. He paused for a moment, staring, as if memorizing every line and dip. Her nipples were tight buds, pink and pointy, obviously begging for some attention.

But when he again began to trace his mouth over her, he focused on her sternum, kissing his way right up between her sensitive breasts, his smooth cheeks brushing against the sides but making no effort to suck away some of her tension. Nor did his teasing hand offer any relief, as he simply continued those light, delicate strokes over her belly, her pelvis and her upper thighs, never giving her what she really needed.

“Oh, God,” she groaned, every inch of her burning. Her senses were so deliciously heightened the pleasure was almost pain. She’d never felt anything like it, never been so totally keyed up and ready.

Shudders coursed through her body, her muscles tensing, every inch of her aware and anxious. But he didn’t give her any relief. He was entirely focused on what he was doing. He seemed to love the curve of her collarbone, which he sampled and scraped his teeth across. He found something delightfully kissable in the hollow of her throat. Here he licked. There he pressed his face and breathed her in. Here and there, there and here.

It was wonderful. Erotic. The anticipation was beyond anything she’d ever experienced.

But she was dying. Just dying. Because every tender caress he placed on one part of her body only sent more currents of hot, electric desire to her core. her clit was so hard it ached, her sex was throbbing, all her nerve endings seemed to have bunched between her thighs.

Maybe because she’d only ever been with guys her own age, and those in the movie business, who were always on a schedule, she’d never had a lover take so much time, be so deliberate in every caress. Oliver seemed to savor every part of her he uncovered. He appeared determined to pay full, glorious attention to every inch of her body, leaving the choicest bits for last.

Her tummy and throat and, oh, the nape of her neck, adored him for it.

Her choicest bits were screaming for his attention.

“Shh,” he ordered.

“I didn’t say anything,” she groaned.

“Your thoughts are very loud, Candace.” He lifted his head to look at her, a smile of pure wickedness on his face. “I know what you want.”

“Well, mind reader, if I’ve been so obvious, why…”

“Oh, you’ve been very obvious,” he insisted with a low, sultry laugh. “And I’m looking forward to meeting your every demand.” He bent to slide his lips over her jaw, moving up until he reached her ear and traced the lobe with the tip of his tongue. “But I’d like to at least kiss you before I slide my tongue into your pussy and lick you until you don’t remember what planet you’re on.”

Bam. Explosion.

“Oh, God!”

She climaxed, just like that, from those words, from the weight of his hand on her thigh and the slide of his mouth on her cheek. Her whole body quaked, hot bolts of pleasure rocketing through her. This wasn’t a slow, pulsing wave; it was a tsunami, hitting her hard in every direction. As he’d insisted he wanted to, Oliver moved his mouth over hers, catching her gasps of pleasure with his lips, taking them in and swallowing them down.

When she finally regained a brain cell, she realized Oliver had somehow managed to tug her tiny panties off her hips and push them out of the way. They were tangled around her legs, and she kicked and bucked to get free of them. He helped, drawing them all the way off her.

His wickedly erotic words still echoed in her ears, and she held her breath, wondering if he would now go back to some of those choice bits for more attention. When he began to kiss his way down her body, she suspected that’s exactly what he intended.

“Oh, yes,” she groaned.

He ignored her, his mouth moving down between her breasts. But this time, thankfully, he detoured and pressed hot, openmouthed kisses on her breast. She was whimpering by the time that wonderful mouth moved to cover her nipple and cried out when he sucked it. He caught her other one in his fingers, teasing and tweaking, plumping her breast in his hand while continuing to suckle her into incoherence.

Not until he’d paid equal attention to her other rock-hard nipple did he continue his downward journey over her body. He licked a line straight down, tasting her inch by inch. He nibbled her belly, nipped at her hip bone, his lips grazing the hollow above her groin. His face brushed against the curls concealing her sex and she couldn’t stop her hips from thrusting up in welcome.

He turned her to face him, then tugged one leg over his shoulder, opening her to his hungry gaze.

“Oliver,” she whimpered as embarrassment warred with utter lust. The look on his face was so covetous, so admiring, she decided to go with the lust.

“You are absolutely mouthwatering.” He traced his fingertip over her clit, then down, separating the lips of her sex, opening her for his most intimate perusal. “So pink and shiny. I love how wet you are.”

She gulped. No lover had ever examined her so frankly, or spoken so bluntly. That thick note of hunger in his voice said he meant every word he said. This man knew how to use language, all right—he seduced her with every word he said. She’d bet he was wicked in the courtroom. And more wicked in the bedroom.

“This is so pretty,” he mused as he thumbed her clit, rolling it around. He slipped a finger into her channel, drawing a low gasp from her. “And so is this. I can’t decide which I want to taste more.”

He was apparently the decisive sort. Because not ten seconds had passed before he moved his head between her thighs and went down.

When he buried his face in her sex and began to devour her, she saw stars. She clutched him, twining her fingers in his hair as he lifted her other leg and draped it over his shoulder. Her limbs were practically wrapped around his neck, but he didn’t seem interested in going anywhere else, so she left them there and focused on the incredible sensation of his mouth against her plump, swollen lips.

He devoured her, licking into her, making love to her with his tongue. She was gasping as he moved up to her clit and gently sucked and stroked. Back and forth he went until she was arching, twisting, helpless against her body’s intense reaction.

This time, when she came in a heated rush, he didn’t stop what he was doing. He went right on pleasuring her, focusing on her clit while he slid his fingers deep into her and worked some magic on a spot high inside. Tears formed in her eyes, and she was whimpering as another orgasm washed over her.

Now he finally seemed satisfied. He gently lowered her legs and kissed his way back up her body. Still dazed, she only regained her senses when she realized he was pulling away to stand up and unfasten his jeans.

This was worth her full, utmost attention.

She caught her lip between her teeth and watched him, feeling like a kid on Christmas morning who was finally going to get to open her biggest present.

“Wow,” she whispered when he peeled away his boxer briefs.

Because big didn’t quite describe him. His cock could be described with three of her favorite adjectives: long, thick and rock-hard. It jutted out, proud and male and hot. That river between her legs threatened to turn into an ocean just at the sight of him.

“I’ve been walking around like this since the night you slammed me with the frying pan.”

“Feel free to get even by slamming me with that,” she whispered.

He chuckled softly, but he soon stopped laughing. Because Candace wasn’t satisfied with just looking. She had to touch him, feel all that silk-encased steel.

She sat up straight. Scooting to the very edge of the couch, she parted her thighs to make room for his legs and leaned close to his naked body. Close enough to cast warm breaths of air over him, her lips hovering an inch from all that luscious maleness. But she didn’t go further, not quite yet. She wanted him as out of his mind with desire as she’d been.

Groaning, he twined his hands in her hair. Candace knew she was tormenting him, but knowing from very recent experience that anticipation was wonderful, she didn’t give him what he wanted. Instead, she reached up and traced her fingers over his cock, from the top down the long back, to the sacs beneath. She cupped them gently, hearing his gasp and feeling his hands tighten in her hair. The position was incredibly intimate. He was as physically vulnerable as a man could make himself, and she was conscious of the trust that must require. Obviously, given how men loved to be blown, the benefits had to outweigh the risk. And this time, she was finding herself truly looking forward to something she’d usually viewed as an item to check off a list during foreplay.

Not with him. Him she wanted to taste. Oliver she wanted to please.

She continued to breathe deeply, evenly, loving the musky scent of man that filled her nostrils. Wrapping her hand around as much of him as she could hold, she stroked him, up and down, squeezing lightly, knowing by the way his pulse pounded in his groin that his heart was racing.

Needing to smooth the glide, she lifted her hand and traced her fingers across the top of his cock, moistening them with the arousal seeping from the tip. Curious, she drew a finger to her mouth and licked the moisture from it.

“Jesus!”

She heard pure desperation in his voice. Casting a look up through her bangs and seeing Oliver’s hungry expression, she knew she’d pushed him to his limits, and finally licked her lips and moved in for a deeper taste. He was definitely too big for her to take him all the way, but she did her best, taking the bulbous tip into her mouth and sucking gently.

“Oh, God, yeah,” he groaned, pumping the tiniest bit, as if a slave to his body’s demands.

She didn’t mind. He tasted delicious—warm, a little salty, ever-so-smooth. The act was incredibly intimate, and she loved hearing his groans of pleasure as she sucked him as far as she could, laving him so he could glide more easily.

He didn’t allow it to go on too long, not nearly as long as he’d pleasured her. Within a few minutes, he’d gently pushed her away.

“I want in.”

The blunt demand made her shiver with excitement. He reached for her, drawing her to her feet, and she wasn’t quite sure where they were going. When he lifted one of her legs so she could rest her foot on the arm of the couch, she got the picture.

He paused to tear open the condom packet and slide it on—it was a wonder the thing fit. When he was sheathed, he drew her into his arms, covering her mouth and kissing her deeply. His erection was a powerful ridge between their bodies, and she arched toward it, needing him desperately.

“Please, Oliver,” she insisted.

He gave her what she wanted, tilting her toward him and nudging into her curls. She was slick with want, her body opening in welcome. He eased into her, bringing ecstasy with him. Candace began to breathe in shallow little gasps as he filled her, inch by delicious inch. He was so thick, hard and hot that she felt every bit of him as he possessed her.

As if he realized that her whole body was melting, he grabbed her by the hips and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, allowing herself to sink fully onto him. As he impaled her, she threw her head back and let out a low, guttural cry of pleasure.

He began to thrust slowly, sinking deep, then drawing away. The man’s strength surprised her. He seemed completely comfortable bearing her weight as they gave and took. She answered every stroke, clenching him deep inside, knowing by his shudders that he felt and enjoyed every squeeze.

Soon, the frenzy built. He drove faster; she cried louder. She clung to his shoulders, and he backed her against the wall. The leverage made things deeper, hotter, and he drove into her again and again, losing himself to the passion.

She was lost to it, too. Lost to everything but this moment, this man, this act, and giving all she had to bring them both to the pinnacle of delight. When she reached that peak, climaxing yet again, she held on tight and let him drive deep to attain his own.

WAKING UP THE next morning and seeing his bedside clock flashing, Oliver realized the power had come back on at some point during the night. Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered if it had remained off. He and Candace had created plenty of heat on their own, both down in front of the fireplace, and again later in this bed.

This small bed.

He had never been more aware of its size until now, when he felt her curled up against him, one slim leg entwined with his, her arm draped across his waist, her head on his shoulder.

He liked small beds, he decided.

He liked them a lot.

And he especially liked waking up to find her in bed with him, twined around him like she needed to touch as much of him as she could while she slept.

The light sifting in through the window said the storm had passed and the day appeared sunny and bright. There were a million things he could work on, but he had the feeling he was going to want to skip them in favor of making love to this beautiful woman again.

He had her for one week and one week only. He had no idea why those had been her terms, or what the secret was that she hadn’t wanted to share. Last night, in the heat of the moment, he hadn’t given a damn. Now though, he couldn’t deny he was curious. But not curious enough to push her and risk losing out on what time he had left with her.

It was going to be a week he would never forget. And one she would never forget. He’d make absolutely certain of that.

“Mmm…good morning,” she murmured.

He glanced down to see her looking up at him, yawning and blinking against the bright sunlight.

“Hi.”

She curled her arm tighter, tucking her leg a little more intimately, and cuddled close. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a man who’d run a marathon,” he admitted. “Something zapped all my strength last night.”

“I think that was me.” She might have been a cat for the satisfied purr in her tone.

“I told you the night we met that you should come with a warning label.”

“What would it say?”

“Caution: combustible female. Approach only when wearing protective gear.”

She giggled against his chest and traced a lazy hand down his stomach. “You wore protective gear last night.”

True, though he wished he hadn’t had to. The very idea of being buried inside her, skin to skin, was incredibly appealing. Unfortunately, he might never get that chance. Their relationship was very new, and short-term, and that kind of trust and intimacy usually didn’t happen right away.

“What are you thinking?”

He had to be honest, so he told her the truth.

She quivered delicately and he saw a warm flush suffuse her cheeks. “Mind reader.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m all for being responsible, but the truth is, I’m on the pill and I thought about throwing those condoms into the fireplace last night.”

“It was probably best for us to talk about it first. I’d never put you at risk—you know that, right? I’m as healthy as a horse.”

“After last night, didn’t I prove I trust you?”

Oh, she definitely had, lowering her guard and surrendering herself to him in every way a woman could. Of course, he’d done the same. It was the most intimate he had ever been with anyone, which made the idea of him only having her for another week all the more untenable.

No strings. No emotions. That was the deal. And really, it was for the best.

Somehow, though, it was getting harder to remember that.

“And for what it’s worth, I haven’t been around the block a whole lot myself. In fact, before last night, it had been over a year since I was with anyone.”

“Have men in Los Angeles gone blind, deaf and lost their sense of smell, taste and touch since I was away?”

She giggled, the sound cute and unusual for her. “Well, I don’t usually go around asking guys to sniff me, and when I tell them to bite me, it’s not a genuine invitation.”

He couldn’t resist sliding down and nibbling her neck.

“So you’re saying?” he asked as he moved lower to kiss her chest, delighting in those perky, pouty nipples that cried out for attention.

She groaned and wrapped her legs around him. “I’m saying I want you inside me. Right now. Unless that’s a problem for you.”

It wasn’t.

He immediately moved between her parted thighs and tested her readiness with his fully engorged cock. She was wet and warm, soft and yielding. So ready.

“Absolutely not a problem,” he muttered as he buried himself to the hilt.

The sensation was blissful, all sweet heat and moisture, and he closed his eyes, giving in to the pleasure. Then they began to rock together, bathed in the morning light, connected in every way possible.

And not for the first time, he began to wonder how on earth he was ever going to let her go.

9

OVER THE NEXT couple of days, Candace found herself falling into a routine. She would get up early, and spend the morning with Grandpa, cheering him on with his rehab. Then she would come back to the house, have lunch with Oliver, have sex with Oliver, have orgasms with Oliver, do a little drawing, then go back to have dinner with Grandpa. Often Oliver accompanied her for dinner, though they left the sex and the orgasms at home.

She couldn’t remember a time when she’d been happier. Oh, she was still very worried about her grandfather, and was now busy dealing with her newest assignment. The studio had called, saying they loved her sketches and wanted her for the project. She knew as well as anyone that this could be the film that got her some major attention. Aside from that, she was also busy talking to appraisers and auctioneers about the wine collection. And surrounding all that business and activity, a happy glow of personal contentment swirled around her just about every minute of the day.

She and Oliver did more than just have the most amazing sex. They cooked together, walked together, laughed together. She’d gotten him to open up a little more about his savaged career, and even got him to admit that, with his change in lifestyle, he probably could afford to put out a shingle and take on only the clients he truly believed were innocent.

Only one thing could pierce her glow of contentment: thinking about what awaited her back in L.A.

“Hey, chickie, whatcha doing?” Tommy asked when she’d answered the phone late one afternoon.

She hadn’t told him about Oliver. The only person she’d even hinted to about her relationship with him was Madison, to whom she talked every other day or so. Her sister had been her other half since birth. They had the kind of bond few people ever experienced with a sibling. Madison knew how to keep a secret, so they usually told each other everything. But even Madison didn’t know the whole story. Candace had kept some things from her, the most intimate things. She’d protected the relationship, wanting to keep it private for as long as it lasted. But the fact that it couldn’t last much longer was crushing her.

“I’m shopping,” she admitted. “I’ve got to buy a new dress.”

“For?”

“There’s a big winery owner’s ball tomorrow night,” she said, still wondering if she’d made the right decision in saying she would attend with Oliver.

Their relationship so far had been mostly about sex. Drinking wine, talking about Grandpa and him teaching her what he’d learned so far about the wine business had taken up some time, too. But other than that one dinner/ dessert they’d shared at Wilhelm’s, they’d never actually gone on a date. So last night, when her grandfather had told them he wanted the two of them to go to the event, since he had already RSVP’d for himself and Oliver, her first instinct was to refuse. Then she’d met Oliver’s eye from across the hospital room and had seen the gleam of interest there.

She couldn’t deny being curious. She’d gotten to know him as a working man. This formal, black-tie event might be her only chance to catch a glimpse of the man Oliver had been before his life imploded. Not that she didn’t adore the man who’d taught her things about her body she’d never even known, but she wanted to learn as much about him as she could, while she could. She wanted to discover all his facets and imprint them on her memory, to tide her over for the long and lonely years that stretched ahead.

It was getting harder to think about those years, harder to envision the life she’d chosen for herself. Even the sound of Tommy’s voice, which usually made her happy, twisted the knife in the wound. For a few days, she’d been able to pretend she was at the start of a relationship that could change her life.

Maybe it still would. Maybe she’d change from a normal, happy woman to a heartbroken, never-able-to-love-again sad case.

Love? What the hell are you thinking, girl?

“Sounds fancy.”

She was still too busy tripping over the word love in her mind to respond.

“Where is it?” he asked.

She finally shook her head, forcing away thoughts she wasn’t ready to deal with, and replied, “At a hotel in San Francisco.”

“Nice. I love that city.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Do you think anyone would notice if I walked in the parade? I could blend in with the crowd.”

“Maybe…if you covered yourself with gold body paint from head to toe and wore a rubber gorilla mask on your face.”

“Party pooper.”

She shrugged as she walked around the square in Sonoma, eyeing the windows of various boutiques. “Have you been behaving?”

“Define behaving.”

“Staying out of the news?”

“Babe, I’m always in the news. I can’t take a piss in a restaurant bathroom without some jackass trying to snap a picture he can sell to the tabs.”

“That really sucks, Tommy,” she said, hearing the note of sad resignation he couldn’t disguise.

“Yeah, poor, poor me,” he said, his dark mood lifting quickly, as always. “Remind me of that next time I get a contract for a ten-mill picture.”

“Will do.”

“Considering half of it will be yours, I’m sure you will!”

Right. His millions would be her millions. Somehow, that had meant something to her once upon a time. It just didn’t now.

“Hey, have you heard from the studio?”

One bit of bright news. “Yes. I got the job.”

“Congrats, girlfriend!”

“Thanks. They sent me the script and I’m starting on some prelims.”

“Excellent. We should celebrate.”

“We will. When I get back.”

“When’s that going to be again?”

She swallowed hard, knowing she had to say the words aloud—not just for his sake, but for hers.

“I’m coming home in a few days. Grandpa gets out of the rehab facility on Sunday. The last time I talked to Mad, she was booking a ticket to come out and spend some time with him. She should be here sometime this weekend.”

“So there’s nothing keeping you there?”

No. Nothing keeping her.

Nothing at all.

She wished she could talk to Tommy. Other than her sister, he was the one to whom she could always spill her darkest secrets and woes. And since her sister lived clear on the other side of the country, and they seldom saw each other, it was Tommy who she usually relied on.

But she couldn’t talk to him about this. Couldn’t admit anything about her amazing relationship with Oliver. It was too personal, too vulnerable, and she had to concede, too heartbreaking. Telling him would mean revealing her feelings—she could never keep those from him. If she revealed how she really felt, she would be putting Tom in a hell of a position.

Would he urge her to follow her heart, tell her he’d deal with the fallout?

Maybe.

Or maybe he’d panic and beg her not to bail on him.

Either way, she’d end up feeling like the worst friend in the world. Because she’d promised. Agreeing to marry him was not the kind of promise she could go back on, not when so much was riding on it for him. If she didn’t follow through, his career could be over, and so could their friendship. So no matter how deeply she feared she was falling for Oliver McKean, her old friend had to come before her new lover.

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