“This is not a good idea,” Shannon murmured.

“Feels pretty good to me.” Reece’s thumbs rubbed distracting little circles on the points of her shoulders. His smile was wicked. “Maybe my technique is rusty. You could help me polish it up.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your technique.” With an effort, she planted her hands against his chest. “It’s just…it’s too fast…this isn’t what I want.” Honesty and nerves compelled her to add, “Well, I do want it, but I’m not going to do it.”

Reece opened his mouth but was cut off by the chime of the doorbell. “Saved by the bell,” he murmured.

His hands dropped away from her shoulders as he stepped back, and Shannon told herself that the little pang she felt was relief, not regret.

And if she tried hard enough, she might be able to make herself believe it.

Dallas Schulze
Lovers and Other Strangers

DALLAS SCHULZE

loves books, old movies, her husband and her cat, not necessarily in that order. A sucker for a happy ending, her writing has given her an outlet for her imagination. Dallas hopes that readers have half as much fun with her books as she does! She has more hobbies than there is space to list them, but is currently working on a doll collection. Dallas loves to hear from her readers, and you can write to her at her Web site at www.dallasschulze.com.

For Mary Anne, Kathleen and Denise for all the laughter, the quilting fun and the friendship.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 1

For the first one hundred years or so of its existence, the town of Serenity Falls had managed to live up to its name. It had been founded in the 1870s by a gentleman of uncertain background but considerable charisma. He liked to say he’d been called to California by a force from the stars, though there were those who suggested that the only stars involved had most likely been worn by members of a posse chasing him out of town. Whatever the reason, there was no question but that he’d ended up exactly where he was meant to be. Where else but California could a man adopt the name of Jonathan Everlasting Reconciliation and not find himself incarcerated in the nearest asylum?

Whatever his background, Brother Rec knew what he was doing when it came to laying out a new town, though there were complaints at the time about the amount of open space he insisted be incorporated into the town’s design. What was the point of leaving empty fields sitting cheek by jowl with the houses? Didn’t do anything but encourage mice and coyotes. Brother Rec spoke grandly of the need to retain a connection with nature, a close-up view of the good Lord’s work here on earth. Folks shook their heads over this foolishness, bought mousetraps and took potshots at any coyotes foolish enough to come within rifle range. As time passed, the mice and the coyotes moved on to less hostile environs and the fields became parks, giving the town a rural quality that was considered one of its biggest charms.

In the early 1890s, Brother Rec left Serenity Falls, taking with him five thousand dollars in town funds and the mayor’s sixteen-year-old daughter. The scandal rocked the community, not least of all because the mayor was more upset by the loss of the team of racing mules taken by the eloping couple than he was by the loss of his daughter. Then again, they were the finest mules in the county, if not in the state, and Millie Ann had been a pretty girl but not exceptionally bright so perhaps his reaction was understandable.

The town survived Brother Rec’s betrayal and, over the next ninety years or so, it also survived two world wars, a depression, earthquakes both major and minor and the advent of cars, television and rap music. Through it all, it remained pretty much what it had started out to be—a smallish town with an unusually strong sense of community.

There had, of course, been crises over the years. There was the flood of ’32, when boulders the size of small cars washed down out of the foothills and came to rest in the middle of town. In the midfifties, two lions escaped from a visiting circus, and citizens huddled inside their homes in fear of the ravening beasts. The lions, possibly confused by the lack of an audience, wandered the streets for a couple of hours before allowing themselves to be recaptured.

The sixties had brought the requisite amount of turmoil—long hair, blue jeans, even a sit-in or two. But all in all, Serenity Falls had weathered the years well.

Of course, there was a time, more than twenty years back, when some citizens had thought the town might be brought to rack and ruin through the efforts of a single individual. Reece Morgan had been a newly orphaned ten-year-old when he came to live with his grandfather. For the next eight years, Serenity Falls had been considerably less serene than usual. If there was trouble, he was bound to be in the midst of it, and if he wasn’t actually caught in the act, it was only because he’d just left the scene.

When he left town the day after getting his high school diploma, there was a general sigh of relief. Most folks agreed that he was bound to come to a bad end and they’d just as soon he did it somewhere else. With his departure, Serenity Falls settled back into its usual sleepy contentment.

But, small towns, like elephants, have long memories. When old Joe Morgan died and left his house to his erring grandson, transgressions more than twenty years old were suddenly news again. Those who had known Reece recalled his wild ways and shook their heads over the possibility of his return, but it was generally assumed that he would put the place up for sale as soon as the ink was dry on the title transfer.

Weeks passed. The lawn gradually turned brown under the heat of the summer sun, and the house took on a dusty, unlived-in look, but the expected For Sale sign did not materialize. Neighbors speculated on the possibility that the lawyers hadn’t been able to find Reece.

As summer crept toward autumn, the speculation grew more lurid. Reece was dead. He was in prison. He was an underworld drug lord and the Feds were waiting to nab him if he came forward to claim his grandfather’s house. Level-headed sorts pointed out that, according to the news and made-for-TV movies, drugs were a highly profitable business. If Reece was head of some sort of drug cartel, it didn’t seem likely that he’d risk capture in order to claim a slightly shabby two-bedroom house on a medium-size lot in Serenity Falls. California real estate wasn’t what it had been, after all. Besides, if the DEA or the FBI or any other set of initials was staking out the house, their presence would be known. Edith Hacklemeyer lived directly across from the Morgan place and there wasn’t a secret agent living who could slip past her sharp eyes.

Eventually the speculation began to die down. There were complaints about the way the house was being let go, comments that its unkempt condition might affect property values. Edith commented acidly that it would be just like Reece to let the place go to rack and ruin out of sheer spite. He never did have any respect for property. Hadn’t he once ridden his bicycle right through a bed of her best petunias? No one could tell her that had been an accident! No one tried. And no one offered much argument to her assertion that Reece Morgan was trouble—always had been, always would be.

By October, having the old Morgan house sitting empty had begun to seem almost normal, and most of the speculation had died down due to lack of information. But it revived quickly when Sam Larrabee’s brother, who worked for the electric company, told Sam that the power was being turned on again.

The word spread quickly. Ex-con, drug lord or walking dead, it seemed that Reece Morgan was finally coming home.

Shannon Devereux frowned at the calendars laid out in front of her. She sighed and then shuffled through the stack of index cards that held information on the classes she was supposed to be scheduling and then looked at the calendars again, seeking inspiration. Finding none, she shuffled the cards a little more before resolutely picking one out.

When she bought the quilt shop four years ago, she hadn’t known a thing about running her own business. She’d been looking for a focus in her life, something to fill her days and make the nights seem a little shorter. Patchwork Heaven had proven to be exactly what she needed. She felt a surge of pride as she looked around the shop. Shelves along two walls held bolts of fabric in a rainbow array of colors. Patterns and books were displayed in racks in the center of the shop. The front of the building was almost all glass, letting in sunlight and giving a pleasant view of the tree-lined street outside. At the back of the shop, where Shannon was sitting, were tables for classes, and every spare inch of wall was covered by class samples—a warm, multicolored wallpaper to entice potential students. The arrangement was both efficient and inviting.

She’d done a good job, she thought. Business had increased nicely. For the past two years, the shop had been making a small but steady profit. She wasn’t likely to make it into the Fortune 500, but she was solvent and that was more than most small businesses could say. Even better, she loved her work. Most of it, anyway. She looked down at the calendars and the stack of cards and sighed. Where was a scheduling fairy when you needed one?

“You know, there are easier ways to do that.” Kelly McKinnon paused next to the table, a stack of bolts in her arms.

“If you tell me that a computer would make this easier, I’m going to fire you.” Shannon fingered the edge of an index card, debating whether to slot the hand quilting class on a Saturday morning or Thursday evening. And should it be January or February?

“A computer would make that a lot easier,” Kelly said, ignoring the warning.

“You’re fired,” Shannon said without looking up.

“You can’t fire me.”

“Why not? You’re insubordinate. That’s a good reason to fire someone.”

“Insubordinate?” Kelly considered the accusation for a moment and then shook her head. “I think insubordination applies only to the military.”

“I don’t see why they should get to hog all the best words,” Shannon said, frowning.

“They’re selfish pigs, aren’t they?” Kelly said sympathetically.

Shannon sighed and sat back in her chair, looking up at her friend and employee. At five feet one inch tall—if she stretched a bit—with a mop of pale-blond hair and brown eyes that always seemed to hold a smile, Kelly made her think of the illustrations of pixies in old children’s books. “You’re sure I can’t fire you for insubordination?”

“I think you’d have to court martial me instead.”

“Too much trouble. You’ll have to stay.”

“Thanks, boss.” Her job security confirmed, Kelly nodded toward the calendars. “You want me to do that for you? It’s a lot easier when you can just click and drag the class names from place to place. Saves a lot of wear and tear on erasers. Why did you buy a computer for the office if you’re not going to use it?”

“People have been scheduling classes for centuries without using a computer.”

“You’re afraid of the computer.” Kelly’s tone made it a statement rather than question.

“I am not,” Shannon said defensively. “I just don’t see the point in using it to do something that I’m perfectly capable of doing by hand. People are too dependent on computers these days.”

“Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about that,” Kelly said dryly. She set the bolts she’d been carrying on the edge of the table and lifted the top one—a midnight-blue fabric printed with a scattering of tiny gold stars. “You never even turn it on.”

“I run it at least once a week,” Shannon said. “I figure that will keep its pistons clean.”

Kelly slid the bolt of fabric in amongst the other blues, turning her head to grin at Shannon. “Computers don’t have pistons. I’ll get that,” she added as the phone began to ring.

“Maybe I’d like them more if they did,” Shannon muttered as she walked away.

She could put away the rest of the fabric, she thought, eyeing the bolts on the edge of the table. It wouldn’t really be procrastinating if she was doing something productive, would it? She allowed herself a brief, wistful moment of self-delusion and then resolutely picked up the first index card. If she didn’t get this done soon, the winter class schedule was going to be going out next spring.

She heard Kelly say, “You’re kidding!” in a tone of breathless surprise and then tuned out the rest of the conversation. Kelly McKinnon was one of the kindest, most generous-hearted people you could ever hope to meet. She also happened to be hopelessly addicted to gossip. As near as Shannon could tell, she was the unofficial clearing house for information for the entire town.

It could have been an intolerable character flaw but Kelly’s interest came without a trace of malice. She was genuinely interested in everyone—not just what they were doing and with whom but what they were thinking and feeling. Which was probably why people were so willing to tell her things they wouldn’t even share with their hairdresser. Besides, Kelly was quite capable of keeping a secret. She might know where all the bodies were buried, but she rarely told anyone where to find them.

With an effort Shannon forced her attention back to the schedules. A strand of strawberry-blond hair fell forward and she tucked it absently back behind her ear. She penciled in the beginning quilt-making class on Tuesday night. Esther McIlroy was teaching that. Esther didn’t mind running the cash register to handle any purchases her students made, which meant that Shannon didn’t have to be here.

“You’ll never believe what Rhonda Whittaker just told me!” Kelly said as she hung up the phone.

“Don’t tell me.” Without looking up, Shannon sensed the other woman approaching from the front of the shop.

“Don’t you want to know?” Kelly asked impatiently.

“Know what?” Shannon went over the penciled line a little more heavily. Tuesday was a good night to learn how to make quilts, she decided. She’d double-check with Esther to make sure it was okay.

“What Rhonda just told me,” Kelly said. “Don’t you want to know what she said?”

Shannon set the pencil down and looked up, her blue eyes mock solemn. “You’ve already told me I won’t believe it, so why bother to tell me? If I want to hear things I’m not going to believe, I can watch the news.”

“This is firsthand information.”

“What makes you think Rhonda Whittaker is more trustworthy than Tom Brokaw? Isn’t she the one who says she saw Elvis going into a room at that motel on the edge of town?”

“That was Tricia Porter,” Kelly corrected her. “And it wasn’t Elvis she saw, it was Paul McCartney. And she saw him at the natural foods store, buying organic barley.”

“That’s sooo much more believable than seeing Elvis,” Shannon drawled.

“Well, I think he’s a vegetarian.”

“Elvis?”

“Paul McCartney,” Kelly said impatiently. “I think he’s a vegetarian so I guess it’s not totally beyond the realm of possibility to see him in a health food store.”

“Oh sure.” Shannon nodded agreeably. “I bet he flies over from England on a regular basis to buy barley at Finlay’s Flourishing Foods for Fitness. The name is probably known all over the world. Or maybe it’s that sign out front, the one that says Authentic Foods. I mean, how could Paul resist a chance to get ‘authentic’ food?”

“I never have known what that means,” Kelly admitted, momentarily diverted. “It sort of implies that other stores are selling fake food, doesn’t it?”

“I’m surprised they haven’t sued for defamation of inventory or something.”

“Defamation of inventory?” Kelly’s eyebrows rose in question.

“If it’s not already on the books, I’m sure there’s a lawyer somewhere who could make a case for it,” Shannon assured her.

“Probably. But that’s not the point.”

“What point?”

“Precisely! We’ve gotten away from the point.”

Laughing, Shannon dropped her pencil and leaned back in her chair. “I feel like I’ve fallen into an Abbott and Costello routine. You’re not going to ask me who’s on first, are you?”

“I’m trying to tell you what Rhonda Whittaker told me,” Kelly said sternly. “And you’re not making it easy.”

“Sorry.” Shannon did her best to look meek, but there was a suspicious tuck in her cheek and her eyes were bright with humor. “What did Rhonda tell you?”

“Reece Morgan is here.”

“In the shop?” Shannon’s eyes widened in surprise.

“No, you idiot. In Serenity Falls. Rhonda saw him herself. He stopped at the ’76 gas station on the north end of town. Rhonda was getting gas there when this mean-looking black pickup truck pulled in.”

“How does a truck look mean?” Shannon interrupted. “Did it lift its front bumper in a sneer?”

“Do you want to hear the story or do you want to ask irrelevant questions?” Kelly asked, exasperated.

“I’ll be quiet,” Shannon promised meekly.

“Thank you.” Kelly cleared her throat. “As I was saying, a black pickup pulled in.”

“A mean-looking black pickup,” Shannon reminded her helpfully.

“And a man got out of it.”

“Elvis?”

“Rhonda recognized him right away,” Kelly continued, ignoring the interruptions.

“If he was wearing one of those spangled jumpsuits, I wouldn’t think that would be very hard.”

“It was Reece Morgan.”

“In a spangled jumpsuit?”

“He was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt and black boots.”

“No sequins?” Shannon asked, disappointed.

“Rhonda said he looked mean.”

“She thought his truck looked mean, too.” Shannon reminded her.

“Rhonda does sometimes let her imagination run wild,” Kelly admitted. “But however he looked, we at least know he’s back in town.”

“Unless it’s really Elvis or Paul McCartney,” Shannon murmured wickedly.

Kelly shook her head. “Rhonda wouldn’t have been nearly as interested in one of them. She said it was definitely Reece Morgan. They were in the same class. She said she’d have known him anywhere.”

Shannon shook her head, her soft mouth twisting in a half smile. Until she moved to Serenity Falls, she’d never lived in the same place for more than two or three years. She couldn’t imagine what it felt like to have lived in the same town your whole life, to be able to recognize a classmate from twenty years before.

“I never really thought Reece would come back here,” Kelly said.

“His grandfather left the house to him. It seems reasonable that he’d want to go through everything himself.”

“From what I’ve heard of his relationship with the old man, it doesn’t seem likely that Reece would come back looking for mementos,” Kelly said, shaking her head. “Everyone says they were pretty much oil and water.”

“Is this the same ‘everyone’ who saw Paul McCartney eating oats at the health food store?” Shannon asked dryly.

“It was barley, and even Frank says they didn’t get along.” Frank was Kelly’s husband. “He was a couple of years younger than Reece, but he knew him pretty well since Reece and Frank’s older brother were friends. He says Reece’s grandfather was a flinty old bastard.”

“I can’t argue with that description,” Shannon said, thinking of the old man who’d lived in the house next to hers. Tall and spare with a military bearing that made no concessions to age, he’d offered her a brief, rather formal welcome when she first moved in. For the next four years, their contact had been limited to an exchange of hellos if their paths happened to cross at the mailboxes. In all that time she couldn’t ever remember seeing him smile or even look as if he knew how.

“If Reece has come back to stay, you’re going to be living next door to him,” Kelly said, giving her a speculative look.

Shannon had no trouble reading the expression in her friend’s eyes. She shook her head. “Forget it. I am not going to spy on the man just to satisfy your curiosity.”

“No one said anything about spying,” Kelly said, all injured innocence. “But living next door to him, you’re bound to get to know him.”

“I lived next door to his grandfather for four years and the only thing I know about him was that he put out the neatest piles of trash I’ve ever seen. I think they were color coordinated.”

“Reece doesn’t sound like the type to color coordinate his trash.”

“It’s been twenty years since anyone in this town has seen him. He could have changed.”

“From hellion to neatnik?” Kelly wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t sound likely.”

“Anything’s possible.” Shannon dropped the index cards on top of the calendars, scooped them all into a haphazard stack and thrust them at Kelly. “Here. Make yourself useful. Feed these into your magic machine and give me back a schedule.”

“Aren’t you in the least bit curious about Reece?” Kelly asked as she took the papers. “I mean, what if he’s an escaped felon or something?”

“Right.” Shannon’s tone was dry as dust. “If I were an escaped felon, I’d make it a point to hide out in the one place where everyone knew me, in the one place the police would be sure to look for me, in the one place where I couldn’t possibly hide my presence. And I’d drive into town, in broad daylight, driving a mean-looking truck, wearing a spangled jumpsuit and buying barley at the natural food store.”

“You’re getting your celebrities mixed up,” Kelly pointed out, grinning. “Reece was driving the truck but he wasn’t wearing a jumpsuit and no one has seen him eating barley.”

“It’s only a matter of time.” Shannon waved one hand. “By the end of the day, the rumor mill will probably have him arriving in a spaceship complete with bug-eyed aliens for escort.”

Kelly laughed. “We haven’t had any alien sightings around here since Milt Farmer gave up corn liquor and found religion.”

“With Reece Morgan returning, can aliens be far behind?” Shannon’s smile lingered as she moved toward the front of the shop to wait on the customer who had just entered.

Despite herself, she couldn’t help but wonder about her new neighbor. After everything she’d heard about him, she was more than a little curious to actually meet the man in the flesh. The image in her mind was a cross between a young Marlon Brando and the Terminator. What a disappointment it was going to be if he turned out to be a plump, balding accountant.

Chapter 2

Groaning, Reece rolled over and opened his eyes. This must be what it felt like to spend a night on the rack, he thought, as he inventoried an assortment of aches and pains. The last time he could remember sleeping in a bed this uncomfortable, he’d been an unwilling guest in a South American prison.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he stared up at the water stain on the ceiling directly over the bed. If he squinted a little, it was a dead ringer for the outline of Australia. He contemplated it with some regret, thinking of wide beaches, cold beer and tall, tanned Aussie girls in very small bikinis. Now there was the perfect place for working through a midlife crisis. What on earth had made him decide to come back here—where he’d spent the most miserable years of his childhood?

It was all a matter of timing, he thought as he rolled out of bed and slowly straightened his aching spine. The news of his grandfather’s death had come at a time when he was reevaluating his life. A rainy night, a slick road, and he had regained consciousness in time to hear the paramedics weighing his odds of making it to the hospital alive. With the distance provided by shock, he’d pondered the irony of dying in a car wreck. He’d lived with the possibility of his own death for a long time, but he’d always assumed it would come in a more spectacular form—a bullet, a knife sliding between his ribs, a car bomb maybe. It seemed supremely ironic that death should come in the form of something as mundane as having a tire blow out.

He eventually limped out of the hospital minus a spleen and fifteen pounds, neither of which he’d needed to lose but he wasn’t complaining. As the doctor had told him several times, he should consider himself damned lucky to be alive at all. It wasn’t the first time he’d scraped past death by the skin of his teeth. In his line of work, it was something of an occupational hazard, and he’d lived with the possibility for so long that he didn’t even really think about it anymore. But there was something about nearly waking up dead because of a car wreck that had made him stop and take a long, hard look at his life. Maybe it was the mundanity of it—the reminder that his death could be just as meaningless as anyone else’s. Or maybe it was spending his fortieth birthday alone in the hospital—the sudden realization that half his life was over that made him question what he was going to do with the rest of it.

It wasn’t a real midlife crisis, Reece thought as he pulled clean clothes out of his duffel bag and walked, naked, to the bathroom down the hall. In a real midlife crisis, you did stupid things like quit the job you’d had for the past fifteen years, let go of the apartment where you’d lived for almost as long, and had an affair with a woman half your age. He met the eyes of his reflection in the dingy mirror over the bathroom sink.

Hell. Two out of three and the most boring two, at that. Maybe he should have kept the job and the apartment and just gone for the affair. His mouth twisted in a half smile as he pushed back the shower curtain. Midlife crisis or temporary insanity? Looking at the grudging trickle of tepid water that seemed to be the best the shower had to offer, Reece wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

Shannon knelt on the lawn next to the flower bed and tugged halfheartedly at a scraggly patch of dichondra that was matted around the base of a rosebush. Generally, she gardened on the “survival of the fittest” philosophy. Any plant that couldn’t survive a little competition was welcome to move to someone else’s flower bed. She had neither the time nor the inclination to pamper delicate plants, and she tackled the weeds only when it began to look as if they were going to overwhelm the flowers.

She sat back on her heels and eyed the patch of ground she’d cleared. The weeds weren’t really all that bad but it was such a beautiful day that it seemed a shame to spend it indoors. In early November, summer’s heat was gone and the winter rains had not yet begun. The air was dry and warm and the nights were cool enough to be refreshing. Closing her eyes, she turned her face up to the sun, savoring the warmth of it against her skin. No matter how long she lived in southern California, she didn’t think she’d ever learn to take this kind of weather for granted.

“Good way to end up with skin cancer.”

The tart comment made Shannon jump and she stifled a curse when she realized who had interrupted the peaceful morning. Edith Hacklemeyer lived across the street. A short, thin woman on the far side of sixty, she was a retired English teacher who filled her days with gardening, quilting and offering unwanted advice to anyone who crossed her path. She was an unimaginative gardener, a mediocre quilter and a tireless busy-body. Since she was both a neighbor and a customer at the shop, Shannon felt obligated to remain on amicable terms with her.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” She chose to ignore the remark about skin cancer. One of Edith’s less appealing characteristics was her ability to find the bad in everything and everyone.

“We need rain,” Edith said, frowning at the crystal-clear sky.

“The rain will get here,” Shannon said easily. She leaned forward to smooth the soil around a marigold.

“Ought to pull those up and put in some pansies,” Edith told her, eyeing the marigold with disfavor.

“It’s still blooming, and I like the flowers.”

“Never cared much for marigolds. They always seemed a bit tatty looking to me but, even if I liked them, I’d pull them up. Got to get the winter bloomers in early so they can get established with the first rains.”

“Mmm.” Shannon made a polite, interested noise and tucked a little more soil around the marigold. The bright little blossoms seemed to smile at her and she smiled back.

“I don’t envy you.” Edith’s attention shifted away from the flowers and her pale-blue eyes settled on the dusty black truck parked in the driveway of the house next door.

“Oh, I don’t mind waiting a while to plant winter flowers,” Shannon said, deliberately misunderstanding.

“I was talking about him,” Edith said darkly. “I don’t envy you having to live right next door to him. No telling what sort of trouble he’ll cause.”

“I don’t see why he should cause any trouble at all.” Shannon let her gaze rest on the truck. She’d taught a class at the shop the night before and the truck had been there when she got home around ten o’clock. Obviously, the grapevine had worked with its usual efficiency and Reece Morgan really was home. After all she’d heard about him, she had to admit that she was more than a little curious to see him in the flesh.

“His kind doesn’t need a reason. Trouble comes naturally to that sort.”

“You haven’t seen him in twenty years. He might have changed.”

“A leopard can’t change its spots.” Edith’s tone suggested that this observation was original to her. “Mark my words, things won’t be the same now.”

“Maybe things could use a little shaking up.” Shannon said mildly.

“Not the sort of shaking up he’ll give them. Can’t imagine why he came back here. He wasn’t wanted before, and he’s certainly not wanted now.”

Until that moment Shannon had been reserving her opinion about Reece Morgan. Aside from a mild curiosity, she really hadn’t given much thought to the man. But Edith’s firm pronouncement that he wasn’t welcome set her back up instantly. She had a sudden image of the sort of welcome Edith might have given to a newly orphaned boy twenty years before. And his grandfather—just how welcoming had that stern old man been? She rose to her feet in one smooth movement.

“Actually, I was thinking that it would be neighborly to invite him for breakfast,” she said as she dusted her hands off on the seat of her cutoffs.

“Invite him to breakfast?” Edith couldn’t have looked more horrified if she’d just announced that she was going to tap dance naked through the center of town. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” Shannon’s smile held an edge that would have warned a more observant woman, but Edith was nothing if not unobservant.

“He’s a hoodlum, that’s why not. He rode his bicycle through my petunias.” She offered the last triumphantly, as if no more profound evidence of wickedness could be given.

“I don’t think a man should be judged by a childish prank. If you’ll excuse me, I think I just saw someone moving around in the kitchen,” she lied.

Shannon walked away without waiting for a response. Behind her, she heard Edith’s horrified gasp and then the rapid patter of her sneakers as she scurried back across the street, seeking a protective distance from potential disaster. Shannon knew the other woman would go into her house and immediately go to the front window, which gave her a clear view of the street and everything that went on there. It was that knowledge that kept her walking toward the Morgan house, even as her brief spurt of temper cooled. The last thing she wanted to do was invite a total stranger to breakfast, but she was too stubborn to back down now.

“This is what you get for letting your temper get the best of you,” she muttered as she climbed the steps to the porch. “The man is going to think you’re a total lunatic.”

Shannon jabbed her finger against the doorbell button and heard the faint sound of chimes through the door. She could practically feel Edith’s eyes boring into her back. Briefly she considered turning and waving. Such a breach of protocol would probably be enough to get her classified as a hoodlum, right next to Reece Morgan, petunia killer. The thought of Edith’s horrified reaction made her smile, and the last of her annoyance evaporated.

This wasn’t exactly how she’d planned to spend her morning, but she couldn’t deny that she was more than a bit curious about her new neighbor. After everything she’d heard about him, she was prepared for anything from a tattooed refugee from a motorcycle gang to a Milquetoast accountant, complete with pocket protector and taped glasses.

What she was not prepared for was the six feet four inches of damp, half-naked male who pulled open the door. He must have just gotten out of the shower, she thought, staring at an impressive width of muscled chest. A solid mat of dark hair swirled across his upper body and then tapered down to a narrow line that ran across an admirably flat stomach before disappearing into the waist of his jeans. She was astonished by the effort it took to look away from that intriguing line and lift her eyes to his face.

Oh my. It hardly seemed fair that the rest of him matched the body: thick dark hair, worn slightly shaggy and long enough to brush his collar, if he’d been wearing one; sharply defined cheekbones; a strong blade of a nose; and a chin that hinted at stubbornness. Twenty years ago he might have been almost too good-looking. But age and experience had added an edge to his features, refining and sharpening them to something far more potent than mere handsomeness.

None of her imaginings had prepared her for the man standing in front of her. Nor had they prepared her for the way her stomach clenched sharply in sudden awareness—a deeply feminine response to his masculinity. It had been a long, long time since she’d felt anything like it, and the unexpectedness of it had her staring at him blankly.

Reece’s first thought was that he’d never seen eyes of such a deep clear blue—pure sapphire fringed with long, dark lashes. His second was that he hoped she wasn’t selling anything because he had a feeling that his sales resistance might reach an all-time low under the influence of those eyes.

She didn’t look like someone who was selling something. She was wearing a faded blue T-shirt that clung in all the right places and a pair of denim cutoffs that revealed legs that went on forever. There was a smudge of dirt on one cheek, and her reddish-gold hair was pulled back in a plain, unadorned ponytail. The stark style emphasized the fine-boned beauty of her features. He caught himself straightening his shoulders and tightening his stomach muscles in an instinctive male response. The reaction both amused and irritated him.

“Can I help you?” he asked when it began to look like she wasn’t going to break the silence.

Shannon flushed, suddenly aware that she’d been staring at him like a teenager gawking at a rock star. Completely thrown off balance, she blurted out the first words that came to mind. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Breakfast?” he said, trying to sound as if he was accustomed to having beautiful women show up on his doorstep and offer him a meal. What a shame, he thought. She looked perfectly normal, but she was apparently not rowing with both oars in the water.

“I live next door,” Shannon said, aware that the invitation hadn’t come out as smoothly as she might have liked and trying to salvage the situation. “I didn’t mean to sound abrupt. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting you.”

Reece’s brows rose. She sounded flustered but sane. He leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb, starting to enjoy the situation. “You knocked on my door,” he pointed out gently.

“I know. But I wasn’t expecting…you.” She waved one hand, the gesture encompassing the six feet four inches of male standing in front of her. His brows went higher and she caught the gleam of laughter in his dark eyes. Sighing, she grabbed for the tattered shreds of her dignity. “I bet you’re wondering if you should call for the men with the butterfly nets.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” he admitted, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Can I start over?”

“Go ahead.”

She drew a deep breath. “I’m Shannon Devereux. I live next door.”

“Reece Morgan.” He offered his hand, and she took it automatically, startled by the jolt of awareness that shot up her arm at the light touch.

“I know who you are,” she said as she withdrew her hand. She rubbed her fingertips against her palm. “We were expecting you.”

“We?” Reece threw a questioning look past her shoulder at the empty street and Shannon cursed the easy way the color rose in her cheeks. This was what she got for letting temper and curiosity get the better of her, she thought. If she’d minded her own business instead of listening to Edith Hacklemeyer, she would still be pulling weeds and enjoying the weather. Instead, she was standing in front of the most attractive man she’d seen in a very long time, confirming his initial impression of her as a blithering idiot.

“I meant that everyone knew you were coming,” she said.

“Did they?” Reece frowned uneasily. He’d spent too many years keeping to the shadows to be comfortable with the idea, but he knew there were few secrets in a small town. Besides, it didn’t matter anymore, he reminded himself. It was just that old habits were hard to break. “I didn’t exactly take an ad out in the local paper.”

“You didn’t have to. Sam Larrabee’s brother spread the word.” When Reece gave her a blank look, she clarified. “He works for the electric company. He saw the order to turn on the utilities.”

“And he took out an ad in the paper?”

“No, he told Sam. And Sam told Alice—that’s Sam’s wife. And Alice told Constance Lauderman, who probably called—”

“Okay, I get the picture.” He shook his head as he interrupted her recitation of the local grapevine. “I’d almost forgotten what this place was like,” he said, looking both irritated and reluctantly amused.

“Well, it’s a small town, and news does tend to get around.”

“I guess it does.” Reece slid the fingers of one hand through his still-damp hair.

The movement drew Shannon’s eyes back to the solid width of his bare shoulders and chest, and she felt her stomach clench in helpless awareness. She didn’t know what it was about him that brought on this deeply female response. The sight of a bare male chest had never caused this kind of reaction before. It would be nice to believe it was because she’d spent too much time in the sun this morning. With an effort, she dragged her gaze upward and met his eyes.

“Anyway, that’s how I knew who you were. I thought you might not have taken the time to do any shopping when you got in yesterday and might like to have breakfast at my house.”

Reece rubbed his hand absently across his bare chest. She’d guessed right about the shopping. As far as he knew, the only food in the house was a package of slightly squashed Twinkies he’d bought somewhere in Arizona the day before. On the other hand, he hadn’t come back here to develop a social life. He just wanted to put the house in shape to sell and maybe get himself in shape—mentally and physically—while he was at it. No matter how attractive she was, he didn’t want to—

“Coffee’s already made,” she added, as an afterthought.

“Let me get a shirt.” The promise of caffeine was too great a temptation. He still wasn’t sure his new neighbor was all there, but she was beautiful and she had coffee—the combination was more than he could resist.

He disappeared into the house, and Shannon drew a deep breath and then released it slowly. Wow. What on earth had happened to her? It wasn’t as if Reece Morgan was the first attractive man she’d met. Kelly had made it her life’s work to introduce her to every single, straight, attractive male who came within range—a rapidly shrinking pool, as Kelly reminded her tartly every time Shannon turned down a date. She’d never given any of those men a second thought, had barely noticed them even when they were standing right in front of her. But this man—this one made her very aware of the differences between male and female, something she hadn’t paid much attention to lately.

By the time Reece returned, she’d regained her equilibrium and was able to give him a casually friendly smile. Whatever she’d felt earlier, it was gone now, and if she felt a slight tingle when his arm brushed against hers, it was probably only because she had a touch of sunburn.

“I thought you could go years without meeting your neighbors in California,” he said as he pulled the door shut behind him and checked the knob to be sure the lock had caught.

“In California, maybe, but not in Serenity Falls.” She caught his questioning look. “You see, the town is caught in some sort of space-time-continuum warp. You know, like the ones on Star Trek? I think we’re actually somewhere in the Midwest right now. As near as I can tell, the change occurs just as you pass the town limit sign. If you pay attention, you can actually feel the shift as the very fabric of space folds and deposits you in…oh, Iowa maybe.”

“Really? I didn’t notice,” Reece said politely but she caught the gleam of laughter in his eyes.

She liked the way he could smile with just his eyes, she thought. Of course, so far, there wasn’t much about him that she didn’t like. Tall, dark and handsome. The old cliché popped into her head, and she smiled a little at how perfectly it fit him. At five-eight, she was tall for a woman and was accustomed to looking most men in the eye, but walking next to him, she felt small and almost fragile.

As if sensing her gaze, he glanced at her, and Shannon looked away quickly, half-afraid of what her expression might reveal. Distracted, she tapped her fingers against the tailgate of his truck as they walked past.

“It doesn’t look particularly mean to me.” She immediately wished the words unsaid but it was too late. What was it about him that caused her to blurt out the first thing that popped into her head?

“What?” Reece gave her a look that combined wariness with curiosity, confirming her guess that he had doubts about her mental health. Not that she could blame him, she admitted with an inner sigh. She hadn’t exactly been at her best this morning.

“Reports of your arrival spread around town yesterday afternoon. Someone mentioned that you were driving a mean-looking truck.”

“Mean-looking?” Reece glanced back at his truck and shrugged. “It’s never attacked anyone, that I know of.” He frowned thoughtfully. “There was a woman at the gas station yesterday. Skinny, big teeth and a face sort of like a trout. She looked at me like I was an alien with green skin and antennae sticking out of my head.”

“Or Elvis in a spangled jumpsuit,” Shannon murmured, thinking of her conversation with Kelly.

“No, I think she’d have been less surprised to see him,” Reece said thoughtfully.

Shannon’s laughter was infectious, and Reece found himself smiling with her. He wouldn’t be all that surprised if it turned out that she’d escaped from a mental ward, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him from enjoying her company. Walking beside her, he was conscious of the long-legged ease of her stride, of the way the sunlight caught the red in her hair, drawing fire from it.

“That was Rhonda Whittaker at the gas station,” she told him.

“Whittaker.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he repeated the name. “I think I went to school with her. She looked like a trout then, too.”

Shannon laughed again. His description was wickedly accurate. Rhonda did look a great deal like a trout—a perpetually startled trout.

“Careful. That trout holds a key place on the local grapevine.”

He shook his head. “I’d almost forgotten what this place was like. Everybody always knew everybody else’s business, and what they didn’t know, they made up.”

“According to Edith Hacklemeyer, no one ever had to make up anything about you.”

“Good God, is that old bat still around?” He stopped at the beginning of Shannon’s walkway and looked at the neat white house across the street. A modest expanse of green lawn stretched from the house to the street, perfectly flat, perfectly rectangular, cut exactly in two by an arrow-straight length of concrete sidewalk. The only decorative element was a circular flower bed that sat to the left of the sidewalk. It contained a single rosebush, planted precisely in the center. The rest of the bed was planted in neat, concentric rows of young plants, bright-green leaves standing out against a dark layer of mulch.

“Of course she’s still there,” Reece answered his own question. “The place looked exactly the same twenty years ago. Every spring she planted red petunias, and in the fall, she planted pansies. It never changed.”

“It still hasn’t.” Shannon wondered if it was just her imagination that made her think she could see a shadowy figure through the lace curtains. She had to bite back a smile at the thought of Edith’s reaction to having Reece boldly staring at her house. She touched him lightly on the arm.

“You’re not supposed to do that.”

“Do what?” He looked down at her, one brow cocked in inquiry.

“Look at her house.” Shannon shook her head, pulling her mouth into a somber line.

“There’s some law against looking at her house?” Reece asked, but he turned obediently and followed her up the walkway.

“You’re stepping out of your assigned place in the world order. It’s Edith’s job to watch you. It’s your job to be watched.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” he said, amused by her take on small-town life. “I can’t believe old Cacklemeyer is still around.”

“Cacklemeyer?” Shannon’s gurgle of laughter made him smile. “Is that what you called her?”

“She wasn’t real popular with her students,” he said by way of answer. “She’s not still teaching, is she?”

“No. She retired a few years ago.”

“There are a lot of kids who should be grateful for that,” he said with feeling.

“According to Edith, you committed petuniacide on at least one occasion,” Shannon commented as she stepped around a small shrub that sprawled into the walkway. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “She seemed to think it was a deliberate act of horticultural violence.”

“It was.” His half smile was reminiscent. “She acted like that flower bed was the gardens at Versailles. If she was in the yard when I rode my bike past her place, she’d scuttle out and stand in front of it, glaring at me, like she expected me to whip out a tank of Agent Orange and lay waste to her precious flowers.”

“So you lived up to her expectations?”

“Or down to them.” He shrugged. “Sounds stupid now.”

“Sounds human. Hang on a minute while I move the hose,” she said as she stepped off the path and walked over to where a sprinkler was putting out a fine spray of water.

In an effort to avoid staring at her legs like a randy teenager, Reece focused his gaze on the house instead. It was a style that he thought of as Early Fake Spanish—white stucco walls and a border of red clay tile edging a flat roof, like a middle-aged man with a fringe of hair and a big bald spot. The style was ubiquitous in California, a tribute to the state’s Spanish roots and its citizens’ happy acceptance of facades. In this case, age had lent something approaching dignity to the neat building. The front yard consisted of a lawn that appeared to be composed mostly of mown weeds and edged by two large flower beds that held a jumble of plants of all shapes and sizes in no particular order. Reece was no horticulturist but he was fairly sure that Shannon was growing an astoundingly healthy crop of dandelions, among other things.

“I don’t advise looking at my flower beds if you’re a gardener,” she said, following his glance as she rejoined him. “I’m told that the state of my gardens is enough to bring on palpitations in anyone who actually knows something about plants.”

“What I know about plants can be written on the head of a pin.”

“Good. I may call on you for backup when the garden police come around.” For an instant, in her cutoffs and T-shirt, her hair dragged back from her face, her wide mouth curved in a smile, her eyes bright with laughter, she looked like a mischievous child. But she was definitely all grown up, Reece thought, his eyes skimming her body almost compulsively as she stepped onto the narrow porch and pushed open the front door. It took a conscious effort of will to drag his eyes from the way the worn denim of her shorts molded the soft curves of her bottom.

The last thing he wanted was to get involved with anyone, he reminded himself. He was here to clean out his grandfather’s house and maybe, while he was at it, figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. He didn’t need any complications. Breakfast was one thing, especially when it came with caffeine, but anything else was out of the question.

And if his new neighbor would be willing to start wearing baggy clothes and put a paper sack over her head, he just might be able to remember that.

The interior of the house continued the pseudo-Spanish theme of the exterior. The floor of the small entryway was covered with dark-red tiles, and arch-ways led off in various directions. Through one, he could see a living room, which looked almost as uncoordinated as the flower beds out front. A sofa upholstered in fat pink roses sat at right angles to an over-stuffed chair covered in blue plaid. Both faced a small fireplace. The end table next to the sofa was completely covered in magazines and books. In one corner of the room, there was a sewing machine in a cabinet. Heaped over and around it and trailing onto the floor, there were piles of brightly colored fabric. The comfortable clutter made it obvious that this was a room where someone actually lived, and he couldn’t help but compare it to the painful neatness of his grandfather’s house—everything in its place, everything organized with military precision. The whole place had a sterile feeling that made it hard to believe it had been someone’s home for more than forty years. Pushing the thought aside, Reece followed Shannon through an archway on the left of the entryway.

The kitchen was in a similar state of comfortable disarray. It was not a large room but light colors and plenty of windows made it seem bigger than it was. White cupboards and a black-and-white, checkerboard-patterned floor created a crisp, modern edge, but the yellow floral curtains and brightly colored ceramic cups and canisters added a cheerfully eclectic touch.

“Have a seat,” Shannon said, gesturing to the small maple table that sat under a window looking out onto the backyard.

Reece chose to lean against the counter instead, his eyes following her as she got out a cup and poured coffee into it.

“Cream or sugar?” she asked as she handed him the cup. “I don’t actually have cream, but I think I’ve got milk.”

“Black is fine.” Reece lifted the cup and took a sip, risking a scalded tongue in his eagerness. But it was worth it, he thought as the smooth, rich taste filled his mouth. “This is terrific coffee,” he said, sipping again.

“It’s a blend of beans that I buy at a little coffee shop downtown. They roast it themselves.” She opened a cupboard, stared into it for a moment and then closed the door.

“You do your own grinding?”

“I haven’t figured out yet whether or not it actually makes a difference but the guy who runs the shop sneers if you ask him to grind it for you.”

Shannon opened the refrigerator door, and Reece felt his stomach rumble inquiringly. It had been a long time since dinner last night, and if she cooked half as well as she made coffee, breakfast was bound to be special. Relaxing back against the counter, he sipped his coffee and allowed his eyes to linger on her legs with absentminded appreciation while he entertained fantasies of bacon and eggs or maybe waffles slathered in butter and maple syrup or—

“How do you feel about Froot Loops?”

Chapter 3

“I haven’t really given them much thought,” Reece admitted cautiously.

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in having them for breakfast?” she asked. “I have that and Pepsi.”

“Pepsi?” An image of multicolored, sugar-coated bits of cereal floating in a sea of flat cola flashed through his mind, and his stomach lurched. “On the Froot Loops?” he asked faintly.

“Of course not!” Shannon’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “With it, not poured over it.”

It seemed a marginal improvement. Reece took another swallow of coffee and tried to decide just how polite he should be in turning down her offer. It seemed a pity to offend someone who made coffee this good.

Shannon sighed abruptly and pushed the refrigerator door shut with a thud. She turned to face him, her hands on her hips, her chin tilted upward. “The truth is, I don’t cook.” Her tone mixed apology and defiance. “In fact, I’m a complete disaster in the kitchen. I live on frozen dinners and junk food. Coffee is the only thing I can cook without destroying it, and that’s only because it’s an automatic pot.”

“You invited me to breakfast,” he reminded her mildly.

“I know.” She sighed and spread her hands in a gesture that might have been apology. “It was Edith’s idea.”

“Cacklemeyer suggested you should ask me to breakfast?” His brows rose in disbelief.

Shannon shook her head. “She said I shouldn’t. She came across the street while I was working in the garden.”

Reece took a fortifying swallow of coffee and tried to sort out the conversation. “She walked across the street to tell you not to invite me to breakfast?”

“Not exactly.” She scowled and shoved her hands in the back pockets of her cutoffs. His eyes dropped to the soft curves of her breasts, pure male appreciation momentarily distracting him from both the conversation and the emptiness of his stomach. “She came across the street to tell me to pull my marigolds and that you were sure to cause trouble. So, I told her I liked marigolds and that I was going to invite you to breakfast. I hadn’t planned on it, obviously.”

“The marigolds or breakfast?” he asked, fascinated by her circuitous conversational style.

“Breakfast,” she said, her eyes starting to gleam with laughter. “I knew I liked marigolds but I didn’t know I was going to invite you to breakfast until she annoyed me.”

“So this was all part of a plot to irritate Cacklemeyer?” A more sensitive man would probably be offended, Reece thought.

“I don’t think you could call it a plot.” Shannon’s tone was thoughtful. “If it had been a plot, I would have planned a little better and bought some decent food. Oh, wait!” Her eyes lit up suddenly. “There’s a box of waffles in the freezer, but I don’t think I have any syrup. I have grape jelly, though,” she added hopefully.

Reece barely restrained a shudder. Her idea of “decent” and his were not quite the same. Nothing—not the best coffee he’d had in months, not five feet eight inches of long-legged, blue-eyed, dangerously attractive redhead—could make him eat toaster waffles spread with grape jelly.

Shannon must have read something of his thoughts, because her hopeful expression faded into vague suspicion. “Are you a health food nut? One of those people who only eats roots and berries and never lets a preservative touch their lips?”

Reece thought about the Twinkies lying on the seat of the truck. “No, I’ve got nothing against an occasional preservative.” He finished off his coffee—no sense in letting it go to waste—and set the cup down, trying to think of a tactful way to make his escape.

Seeing his vaguely hunted expression, Shannon felt a twinge of amusement. Not everyone shared her casual attitude toward food. “Not a fan of grape jelly?”

Reece caught the gleam in her eye and relaxed. “Actually, I’m allergic.”

“To grape jelly?” Shannon arched one brow in skeptical question.

“It’s a rare allergy,” he admitted.

“I bet.” She told herself that she wasn’t in the least charmed by the way one corner of his mouth tilted in a half smile. “Fred and Wilma are on the jelly glass,” she tempted.

“The Flintstones?” Reece shook his head, trying to look regretful. “That’s tough to turn down, but my throat swells shut and then I turn blue.”

“Really?” Her bright, interested look startled a smile from Reece.

“I hope you’re not going to make me demonstrate.”

“I guess not.” Her mouth took on a faintly pouty look that turned Reece’s thoughts in directions that had nothing to do with breakfast. He reined them in as he straightened away from the counter.

“Maybe I can take a rain check on breakfast?” he asked politely.

“I’ll get an extra box of Cap’n Crunch next time I go shopping,” she promised, and he tried not to shudder.

“You did what?” Her eyes wide with surprise, Kelly turned away from the pegboard full of sewing notions, a stack of chalk markers forgotten in her hand.

“I invited him to breakfast,” Shannon repeated.

“That’s what I thought you said.” Kelly came over to the cutting table where Shannon was making up color-coordinated packets of fabric and leaned against its edge, her expression a mixture of disbelief and admiration. “You just sauntered up and offered him bacon and eggs?”

“Froot Loops,” Shannon corrected her. She slid a cardboard price tag onto a length of lavender ribbon before tying it around a stack of half a dozen different pink fabrics. “I didn’t have any bacon. Or eggs.”

“Froot Loops? You invited Reece Morgan over for Froot Loops? And you waited until now to tell me?” It was difficult to say what Kelly found most shocking.

“Yesterday was your day off. And there’s nothing wrong with Froot Loops. I eat them all the time.”

“You could have called me at home.” Kelly grumbled. “And Froot Loops aren’t exactly what I’d call company fare.” She shook her head, her dark eyes starting to gleam with laughter. “I’d have given anything to see his face when you put the box on the table.”

“Actually, the box didn’t get that far.” Shannon began folding the next stack of fabric.

It was Tuesday morning, the sky was gray with the promise of rain that probably wouldn’t show up for another month and there were no customers. It was a perfect chance to catch up on a few things around the shop. And to indulge in a little gossip. Glancing at Kelly’s stunned expression, Shannon couldn’t deny that she was enjoying being the one with astonishing news to deliver.

“Apparently, Froot Loops and Pepsi are not among his favorite breakfast combos.”

“Who can blame him?” Kelly pulled her face into a comical grimace. “If he really is a mob boss, he’s probably already put a contract out on your life just for suggesting it.”

“I thought he was supposed to be a vegetarian zombie.”

“That’s Paul McCartney.” Kelly picked up the chalk pencils and carried them over to the notions wall to hang them up.

“Paul is a zombie?” Shannon looked surprised. “He looks so normal.”

“No, he’s a vegetarian.”

“Does that mean he can’t be a zombie?”

“Zombies pretty much have to be carnivores, don’t you think?” Kelly wandered back to the cutting table and reached for the roll of ribbon and began snipping it into eighteen-inch lengths. “I mean, how frightening would it be if a bunch of squash-eating undead were roaming the streets?”

“I guess it would be pretty frightening for the squash.” Shannon tossed another fabric packet into the box.

“I suppose,” Kelly agreed absently. “What’s he like?”

“Who?”

“Reece Morgan.” Kelly’s tone was exasperated. “Who were we talking about? And if you mention Paul McCartney, I’m going to brain you with the nearest blunt object.”

“I wasn’t going to mention him,” Shannon lied meekly.

“Good.” Kelly set the ribbon aside, lifted a bolt of fabric from the stack leaning against the side of the cutting table, clicked open a rotary cutter and began slicing off half-yard chunks. “You’re the first eye witness I’ve talked to, so tell me what the infamous Reece Morgan is really like. Did he send shivers up your spine?” she asked, grinning.

“Not that I noticed.” At least not the kind of shivers Kelly was talking about. If there had been a small—practically infinitesimal—shiver of awareness, she was keeping it to herself. The last thing she needed was for Kelly to turn her matchmaking eye in Reece Morgan’s direction.

“Is he mean looking? Does he have a patch over one eye? Antennae growing out the top of his head? A nose ring? Wear three-inch lifts and a girdle? Tell me all.”

“He doesn’t need a girdle,” Shannon said, remembering the muscled flatness of his stomach. “Or lifts. He’s tall. No eye patch, nose ring or antennae that I noticed. And I didn’t think he was mean looking, though I imagine he could be. He has dark hair, dark eyes.”

“Good-looking?” Kelly asked, folding the end of the fabric and pinning it to the bolt.

“I think most women would say so,” Shannon offered, careful to sound neither too interested or suspiciously indifferent.

“Well, who cares what men think? Unless…” The bolt of fabric hit the table with a thud as a possibility occurred to her. “Do you think he’s gay?”

“No,” Shannon answered without hesitation.

“Are you sure?” Kelly shook her head as she began folding the fabric she’d just cut. “Because it seems like every good-looking, single man in the state of California is these days.”

Shannon could have told her that Reece Morgan was more likely to turn out to be the world’s first squash-eating zombie, but she settled for a half shrug and mild reassurance. “I’m pretty sure.”

Kelly folded in silence for a moment then sighed abruptly. “Well, it’s certainly going to disappoint a lot of people.”

“People are going to be disappointed that he’s not gay?” Shannon asked, startled.

“Not that.” Kelly grinned. “They’re going to be disappointed if he’s normal. I mean, what’s the point of having a bad boy come back to town if he’s not bad anymore?”

“I see what you mean. I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Shannon shook her head sadly. “When you think of it, it was pretty inconsiderate of him. The least he could have done was get his nose pierced or maybe file his teeth.”

“Exactly.” Kelly looked wistful. “I was really hoping for black leather and chains.”

Shannon’s brows rose. “Does Frank know about this?”

“Not for me, silly. For Reece Morgan. He could at least have worn a black leather jacket and maybe an earring. For heaven’s sake, even stockbrokers are wearing earrings these days!” She shook her head at the unfairness of it.

“The man’s an inconsiderate lout.” Shannon looped a ribbon around the next stack of fabric.

“So, what did you do about breakfast?” Kelly asked.

“Well, I offered him toaster waffles and grape jelly but he said he was allergic to grape jelly and took a rain check.” Shannon dropped the fabric packet into the basket and waited for Kelly’s reaction. She wasn’t disappointed.

“Toaster waffles and jelly?” Kelly stared at her in horror. “You actually eat that?”

“Not voluntarily, but there wasn’t anything else in the house.”

“What did he do?”

“Actually, I think he turned a little pale.”

“Who can blame him?” Kelly muttered and then giggled. “I’d love to have seen his face.”

“It was…interesting,” Shannon admitted, grinning at the memory of Reece’s poorly concealed revulsion. “But he managed to remain polite.”

“I’m almost sorry to hear that,” Kelly said.

“I suppose you’d rather he’d threatened me with bodily harm?”

“Well, you have to admit that the man is starting to sound depressingly normal. In fact, he sounds downright dull.”

The bell over the door jangled, saving Shannon the necessity of a response. Dull? she thought as she turned to greet the customer who’d entered. That was just about the last word she could imagine applying to Reece Morgan.

There was nothing like a small town to make you appreciate the joys of living in a city, Reece thought as he rolled his shopping cart into place behind a middle-aged woman wearing a hot-pink jumpsuit and purple sneakers. In the fifteen years he’d lived in D.C., no one had ever gawked at him over a pile of bananas or waylaid him in the dairy aisle to offer condolences on his loss and, in the next breath, ask what he planned to do about the condition of his lawn. He’d been discreetly eyed by a young woman pushing a cart full of baby food and disposable diapers, blatantly stared at by an old man carrying a six-pack of Coors and a bag of pretzels and nearly mowed over by a toddler trying to escape parental supervision.

Obviously, shopping at Jim & Earl’s Super Food Mart had been a mistake. It was just a few blocks from his grandfather’s house, which meant it was convenient, not only for him but for his neighbors, who apparently found his presence a source of endless fascination. He didn’t even have to turn his head to know that the skinny blonde in the next checkout line was studying the contents of his cart as if trying to commit a complete inventory to memory. If only he’d thought of it sooner, he could have thrown in half a dozen boxes of neon-colored, fruit-flavored condoms and a couple cases of tequila so the local grapevine would have something really interesting to talk about. As it was, he doubted they were going to be able to do much with the news that he’d been seen buying boneless chicken breasts and bok choy.

He listened with leashed impatience as the cashier quizzed the woman in the pink jumpsuit about the health of every member of her family, clicking her tongue in sympathy or exclaiming with delight, as necessary. If only her hands moved as fast as her mouth, she could win the grocery-checking Olympics, Reece thought acidly. She paused, a box of bagels in her hand, her mouth forming an O of amazement as the customer detailed the results of her niece’s breast reduction surgery and he bit back a groan. At the rate she was going, he stood in real danger of growing old and dying before he made it up to the register. He turned his head to see if there was a shorter line—or a longer one with a deaf and dumb cashier—and forgot all about his irritation.

His coffee-making, Froot Loop-eating neighbor was walking toward him, though he might not have recognized her if it hadn’t been for the unmistakable reddish-gold gleam of her hair, which was caught up in a soft twist at the back of her head. The T-shirt and shorts had been replaced by a silky-gold blouse and a calf-length skirt in shades of rust and moss green. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret that those incredible legs were covered, but he had to admit that there was something tantalizing about knowing just what that flowing skirt was hiding. She looked older, more sophisticated and just as delicious, he admitted, letting his gaze skim over the soft curves and angles of her.

He hadn’t set eyes on her since their not-quite-breakfast encounter a little more than a week ago, but he’d thought about her more than he liked to admit. More than was smart for a man who wanted no entanglements, because, even on a short acquaintance, he was fairly sure that Shannon Devereux was not the sort of woman to fall into a casual affair with a currently unemployed ex-government agent who just happened to be living next door to her for a few weeks.

Shannon looked up and saw him. Her eyes widened in surprise and then she smiled and Reece found himself thinking that maybe Serenity Falls wasn’t such a bad place after all. She walked over to him, a mesh basket hanging over her arm.

“You know, recent studies indicate that people who eat large quantities of fresh vegetables are twice as likely to develop cauliflower ears.”

“I didn’t know cauliflowers had ears,” he said, responding to the unconventional greeting without missing a beat.

She widened her eyes in surprise. “Of course they have ears. How else could they know what’s being said on the grapevine?”

His smile widened into a quick grin that made Shannon’s breath catch. Over the past week, she’d almost convinced herself that her new neighbor couldn’t possibly be as attractive as she’d thought. Her imagination, fueled by months of whispered speculation about the mysterious Reece Morgan, had exaggerated his looks, created an image to suit his two-decade-old reputation. But the way her pulse stuttered when she looked up and saw him forced her to admit that no exaggeration had been necessary. Not when you had six feet four inches of dark-haired, dark-eyed, solidly muscled male standing right in front of you. Even on its best days, her imagination couldn’t improve on that reality.

With an effort she pulled her eyes away from his face and glanced at the contents of his shopping cart. Clicking her tongue, she shook her head in disapproval. “You don’t plan on buying that stuff, do you?”

Reece’s expression shifted to wary amusement. “You’re not going to tell me that they’ve decided that vegetables are carcinogenic, are you?”

“Not yet, though I’m fairly sure that further research will eventually prove Brussels sprouts were never intended to touch human lips,” she said darkly. “But that’s not the point now.” Shannon flicked her fingers at the bags of vegetables and the package of boneless chicken breasts. “You actually have fresh ginger in there.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Reece wondered if he should worry that her circuitous conversational style was starting to seem almost normal. The skinny blonde in the next line was craning her neck in what she probably thought was a subtle attempt to eavesdrop on their conversation. Reece ignored her.

“It hardly suits your image.” Her soft mouth primmed into a disapproving line. “Think about it. Bad boy returns home and buys vegetables? What kind of a message does that send?”

“Bad boy?” Reece repeated, not entirely pleased. “Is that what I’m supposed to be?”

“Of course.” She seemed surprised that he had to ask. “According to local myth, you were the scourge of Serenity Falls.”

“Scourge?” He was caught between irritation and amusement. “I think that’s overstating things a little. I may have raised a little hell, but I didn’t exactly pillage and burn the town.”

“You’re forgetting the petunias,” she pointed out.

“One flower bed and I’m a scourge?” How did she manage to pull him into these conversations?

Shannon looked regretful. “In a town this size, it doesn’t take much.” She shifted her shopping basket from her right hand to her left, and her voice took on a self-consciously pedantic tone that, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, made Reece wonder if her mouth could possibly be as soft as it looked. And wouldn’t that set the grapevine humming—news that that Morgan boy had kissed his very attractive neighbor right in the middle of the food mart with God and half the town looking on. With an effort, he dragged his attention back to what Shannon was saying.

“Actually, the Bad Boy is a classic figure in Western mythology. An important character in both film and literature. Think of James Dean.”

“James Dean?” Reece’s upper lip curled. “Kind of a skinny little twerp, wasn’t he?”

Shannon’s eyes widened in horror, and she pressed her free hand to her chest as if to protect her heart from the shock. “James Dean? The king of cool? You’re calling him a twerp?”

“Couldn’t have weighed more than one-fifty soaking wet and with his shoes on. Maybe if he’d eaten his vegetables, he’d have bulked up a little.”

Shannon’s mouth twitched and was sternly controlled. “Don’t you think that would have spoiled his lean and hungry look? It’s hard to seem tragically misunderstood when you look like you could eat hay with a fork.”

“So only the scrawny get sympathy?” Reece shook his head. “Doesn’t seem quite fair to me.”

“I’m told that life isn’t always fair.”

“I’ve heard that rumor.”

“Do you have plans for Thursday?” she asked, changing the subject abruptly.

“Thursday?” he repeated blankly.

“Thanksgiving?” Shannon arched her brows. “You know, turkey, dressing, pumpkin pie. Pilgrims shaking hands with the Indians they’re eventually going to wipe out. The fourth Thursday in November when we all get together and eat too much? This coming Thursday? Do you have plans?”

“Not that I know of,” Reece admitted cautiously.

“Well, you’re welcome to join the crowd at my house,” she offered. “It’s nothing formal. People just drop by.”

“Are you cooking?” he asked involuntarily, visions of freeze-dried turkey flashing before his eyes.

Shannon’s quick, throaty laugh made the skinny blonde sidle closer in an attempt to overhear what was being said. “Don’t worry, it’s potluck. Everyone brings something, and I’ve been strictly forbidden to set foot in the kitchen.”

“No Froot Loops?”

“Only in the stuffing,” she promised solemnly. Looking past him, she nodded toward the checkout counter. “Looks like you’re up next.”

Turning, Reece saw that the woman in the pink jumpsuit was paying for her purchases and the cashier was giving him a distinctly ominous look of bright-eyed interest.

“Watch out for Agatha,” Shannon said, confirming his concern. “She can wring information out of granite. If the Inquisition had had her, they wouldn’t have needed the rack.”

“Great, a full-service store,” Reece muttered as he pushed his cart forward. “They bag your groceries while they pump you for information.”

“Just say no,” Shannon advised solemnly but she was grinning as she turned away without waiting for a reply. “See you Thursday, maybe.”

Not likely, Reece thought as he began loading his groceries onto the conveyer belt. He didn’t want any involvement and, while attending a potluck Thanksgiving dinner along with half the town wasn’t exactly a prelude to a passionate love affair, it was too…neighborly. Too friendly. It suggested that he had a place here, which he didn’t—not now, not twenty years ago.

He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Shannon disappear down the frozen food aisle. It was nice of her to invite him, but he was perfectly content with his own company, on Thanksgiving or any other day. Still, he had to admit that it would be interesting to see if she really did manage to slip Froot Loops into the stuffing.

Chapter 4

For the past few years, the fourth Thursday in November had been just another number on the calendar to Reece, and he was perfectly content to keep it that way. So what was he doing standing on Shannon Devereux’s doorstep holding a spinach salad?

The door opened, saving him the necessity of having to come up with a satisfactory answer to his own question. He’d been expecting Shannon and had to adjust his gaze five inches lower and his thinking fifty years older. Suspiciously black hair topped a thin, wrinkled face. Reece had heard of someone applying makeup with a trowel, but he’d never seen anyone who looked as if they might actually have done just that until now. Foundation, blusher, concealer and possibly a bit of spackle coated every inch of skin from forehead to chin. False eyelashes, black eyeliner and royal-purple eyeshadow were balanced, more or less, by stoplight-red lipstick that had bled into the fine lines around her mouth.

Her clothing was no less colorful. A purple sweatshirt with a design of teddy bears at a picnic topped a pair of hot-pink pedal pushers. Her calves were bare and colored a streaky orangey brown that suggested either a severe nutritional problem or a badly applied tan-in-a-bottle. Purple sneakers with pink glitter and black laces completed the ensemble.

“What is that?” Her voice, surprisingly deep for a woman, brought Reece’s dazzled eyes back to her face. She was staring at the bowl in his hands, dark eyes full of suspicion.

“Spinach salad.”

“Does it have meat in it?”

“No.”

Her dark eyes flickered suspiciously from the bowl to his face. Reece half expected her to insist on an inspection, but she must have decided he had an honest face or maybe it just occurred to her that spinach salad was an unlikely place for meat to lurk. Whichever it was, she shuffled back into the entryway, letting the door open wide, spilling laughter and voices out into the warm afternoon.

His first impression was of wall-to-wall people. His second and third impressions pretty much confirmed the first. There were people standing in the entryway, clutching plastic cups holding liquid of assorted colors. There were more people in the living room, sitting on the sofa, the chairs, perched on the hearth, leaning against the wall next to the front windows. Yet more people standing in the hallway, which he assumed led back to the bedrooms. Everywhere he looked, there was someone standing or sitting. Fat people, skinny people, old, young, enough variations of skin tone to make a liberal cheer or a conservative weep. Male, female and…well, he wasn’t willing to hazard a guess about the one wearing the leather pants and a pink Mohawk.

“You can take that out to the patio.”

Reece blinked and focused his attention on the woman who’d let him in. Compared to the Mohawk wearer, she looked downright conservative. “Patio?”

“Go through the kitchen,” she said, reading the question he hadn’t asked.

Reece nodded his thanks and made his way across the entryway. He exchanged greetings with three total strangers and one woman who looked vaguely familiar before ducking through the doorway into the kitchen. More people. Food smells. Voices raised in argument over the correct way to make gravy. He had enough experience in hand-to-hand combat to lay odds on the skinny woman. Her opponent was male and outweighed her by a good forty pounds, but size wasn’t everything, and the way she was gripping the wooden spoon suggested she meant business. He was willing to bet that roux was going to win out over slurry, whatever the hell that meant.

And then he was outside and there were more people but they were scattered across the surprisingly spacious patio and out onto the lawn, still dull and mostly brown from summer drought. The weather was typical of a southern California autumn—clear blue skies and warm enough to qualify as summer in some parts of the country. Not exactly your traditional crisp Thanksgiving weather but nostalgic in its own way. Not so much for the years spent with his grandfather—holidays with the old man had generally been long on tradition, short on feeling—but for the years when his parents were alive. They’d been very short on any recognizable traditions—dinner was as likely to be McDonald’s as it was turkey—but there had always been plenty of love and laughter.

“You did come.”

Reece turned to greet his hostess, feeling that now-familiar little kick of awareness when he saw her. Shannon was wearing a long, soft skirt in some bluey, greeny shade and a simple scoop-necked top that hovered between rust and gold. The color brought out the red in her hair, which was drawn back from her face with a pair of gold clips and left to tumble on her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled, bluer than the sky, sapphire bright and warm. Her mouth was warm coral, and he wondered what she’d do if he kissed her, right here in front of God and half the populace of Serenity Falls.

“How could I resist the possibility of a turkey stuffed with Froot Loops?” he asked, reining in his suddenly raging libido.

Her smile widened into a grin, her eyes laughing at him. “Sorry, I couldn’t get near the stuffing. Sally actually held up a cross when I got too close to the oven.”

“So, it’s safe to eat the stuffing?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Coward. Froot Loops provide an important assortment of vitamins and minerals.”

“Not to mention artificial colorings and preservatives,” he murmured, following her to the long table, set up on one side of the patio and already groaning under a vast array of bowls and platters.

“I think we can wedge this in here,” Shannon said, turning to take the bowl from him. She found a space between a bowl of iceberg lettuce and carrot shreds and an elaborate, layered vegetable aspic. “The turkey came out of the oven a few minutes ago. Sally says it has to rest for half an hour, which seems ridiculous. How much rest can a dead bird need?”

“It’s to let the juices settle back into the meat,” Reece said absently. She really had the most amazingly kissable mouth.

Shannon gave him a look that mixed surprise and faint disapproval. “You know how to cook.”

Reece shrugged. “I’m no Wolfgang Puck, but I’ve lived alone for a long time. I got tired of going out to eat.”

“You can buy a gourmet meal in a box, like any other civilized human being.”

“Depends on your definition of gourmet, I suppose,” he said mildly. She shook her head in apparent despair.

“Be sure and take some of the aspic,” she said, gesturing to it.

“Good?” Reece asked, eyeing it with interest.

“Probably not.” Shannon frowned down at the aspic. “Last year, Vangie brought a coffee cake that was so hard someone suggested selling it to NASA to replace the ceramic tile on the shuttle.”

“And that’s supposed to encourage me to eat the aspic?” Reece asked.

“Oh, I didn’t say you had to eat it. I just said you should take some.” She saw his raised eyebrow and shrugged. “Vangie has sensibilities,” she said, as if that explained everything and it probably did.

Reece cleared his throat and tried to look regretful. “Actually, I’m allergic to aspic.”

“Aspic and grape jelly?” Shannon’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Grape—” He caught himself, remembering that first morning when she’d offered him toaster waffles and grape jelly and he’d claimed allergies. He coughed a little. “Not many people know that one of the primary ingredients of aspic is grape jelly.”

“Really?” Shannon cast a doubting look at the shimmering aspic. “Wouldn’t grape jelly make it purple?”

“The, um, baking soda in the aspic neutralizes the, uh, chemical additives that give grape jelly its characteristic color.”

“Wow.” Shannon shook her head in amazement. “Have you always been such a good liar?”

“Always. It’s a gift.” He said it with such simple pride that it startled a quick, choked laugh from her.

His eyes flickered from her eyes to her mouth. She couldn’t possibly taste as good as she looked. Could she? He couldn’t possibly be thinking about finding out. Could he? Maybe she read something of what he was thinking because her smile faded abruptly and her breath caught a little. Reece dragged his gaze from her mouth, saw the awareness in those clear blue eyes. Did he lean down? Did she sway toward him?

The screen door banged behind him, and Reece straightened, abruptly aware of where he was—standing on a sun-splashed patio with a dozen people in plain sight. Shannon threw him a quick, uncertain smile, a murmured—and unheard—comment and moved past him toward the kitchen door. Reece turned to watch her walk away. The phrase, “Danger, Will Robinson” drifted irresistibly—ridiculously—through his mind.

What the hell had just happened? Nothing. That’s what had happened. Absolutely nothing. And nothing would have happened, even if they hadn’t been interrupted. Right. Nothing would have happened.

Oh, hell. Who was he kidding? If they hadn’t been standing right here in front of God and half of Serenity Falls, he’d probably be trying to give her a tonsillectomy with his tongue right about now. And the fact that he was fairly sure she wouldn’t have objected did nothing to alleviate the sudden snugness of his jeans. Reece shifted uncomfortably, moving away from the table to lean against one of the redwood support posts, one that happened to be in shadow. Forty freaking years old and he was showing all the self-control of a sixteen-year-old. No, come to think of it, he hadn’t made a habit of getting erections in public when he was sixteen.

He wasn’t here to start an affair, he reminded himself. The last thing he wanted was any kind of involvement. He had enough to do with cleaning out his grandfather’s house and figuring out what to do with the rest of his life. Beautiful neighbors with gorgeous red hair and legs that went on forever did not fit into his plans.

The only way the aspic could have tasted worse was if it had actually been made with grape jelly and baking soda. Reece managed to swallow the single bite he’d taken and then pushed the remainder of it to one side of his plate, concealing it under a slightly wilted piece of iceberg lettuce. The unknown Vangie might have sensibilities but she apparently lacked taste buds.

The food was as eclectic as the guests. Tofu and turkey. Couscous and three-bean salad. Pearls and blue jeans. Retired professors and born-again hippies. It was a guest list right out of a hostess’s nightmare or maybe a Marx Brothers movie. Potential disaster lurked around every slice of jellied cranberry sauce and dollop of…what exactly was the brown stuff with the little orange bits in it? Reece poked it cautiously to the side of his plate, hiding it under the lettuce leaf with the aspic.

“Darva Torkelson’s family secret rice pilaf,” someone said, and Reece looked up guiltily. “The secret is that no one knows what the orange things are, and I haven’t found anyone brave enough to actually try tasting it to find out. I’m voting for M&Ms.”

A stocky man with stoplight-red hair was standing just to his left, his blue eyes bright with amusement and…expectation? It only took a moment for the memory to snap into place.

“Frank? Frank McKinnon?”

“You know anyone else who looks like Howdy Doody on steroids?” Frank grinned and held out his hand. Reece felt memories flood over him as he shook it.

“How are you, man?”

“Good. I’m good. Is Rich here?” Reece scanned the crowd around the buffet table, looking for more of that bright-red hair. Rich McKinnon had been his best friend during the years he lived in Serenity Falls. The two of them had gone through football, detention, first dates and first cars together. They’d kept in touch for a while after Reece left town—Christmas cards, a few phone calls, but they’d gradually lost touch.

Frank shook his head. “Rich lives in Montana now. He’s a gen-u-ine cowboy.” He drew out the words with a thick Western drawl. “Got hisself a little ranch with horses and cows and all that good stuff.”

“A ranch, huh?” Reece grinned and shook his head. “What happened to becoming a world-famous wildlife photographer?”

“He found out that wildlife photographers spend a lot of time sitting in huts, freezing their privates off, waiting for a ring-necked wallaby to wander into camera range and hoping a hungry grizzly bear doesn’t wander by first.”

“I can see how that would take some of the fun out of things. How are your parents?”

Ruth and Daryl McKinnon had always treated him as if he were one of their own. They’d had a rambling old house where everything was always covered in a fine layer of plaster dust from the ongoing series of remodeling jobs that were never quite finished. Dogs, cats and kids wandered in and out in an ever-changing parade of fur and faces. It had taken him a while to figure out that only three of the kids actually belonged to the McKinnons, and he never had figured out which of the animals were theirs.

“Dad retired three years ago, and he and Mom bought an RV. They spend most of the year on the road. Kate is married and has a couple of kids. She lives in Boston now, and Rich married a woman with three kids and then they had two more so Mom and Dad divide their time among the grandchildren. They spend a couple of months here in the spring so Mom can catch up on the local gossip and Dad can make sure I’m not running the hardware store into the ground, and then they take off again.”

“Did your dad ever finish remodeling the house?” Reece asked.

Frank laughed and shook his head. “Hell, no. When we moved in, three out of four bathrooms were torn apart and the back hall was halfway through a wall-papering job.”

“And three years later, two bathrooms are still without tile and the wallpaper is up but the floor is only half-refinished,” a new voice said.

“What can I say? It’s genetic,” Frank said, his smile softening as he turned to slide one arm around the woman who’d joined them. She was small, not just short but slim, with the kind of delicate build that made Reece think of pixies. Big brown eyes set in a heart-shaped face and a tousled cap of blond hair reinforced the impression. He had the fanciful thought that if she turned he might see wings on her back. But her bright, interested expression was human and familiar. The first few times he’d seen that particular expression, he’d had the urge to check to make sure his fly was zipped or look in a mirror to see if a third eye had appeared in the middle of his forehead, but it hadn’t taken long to figure out that it wasn’t the possibility of imminent indecent exposure or extra body parts, it was just him. His mere presence was enough to elicit interest.

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