“When your father introduced us, you thought I was coming on to you?”

Well, she had. But Colin looked so insulted, so genuinely appalled by the accusation, now she wasn’t so sure.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said, but she was losing steam, and the excuse sounded hollow. Was she so jaded, so warped from past experiences that she would misinterpret the most innocent of gestures? Could she no longer trust her own instincts? And if she couldn’t trust herself, who could she trust?

“Your father did mention that you’ve had problems in the past with unscrupulous men.”

Rowena’s father didn’t even know the half of it. “I guess it’s made me a little paranoid. Which I know is a terrible excuse.”

“If I came on too strong, I apologize.” He paused. “That happens sometimes when I meet a beautiful woman.”

Dear Reader,

My husband and I have something that we like to call “Mole Stories.” I know that probably sounds a little strange, so let me explain.

After twenty-four years of marriage, you would think that a person would have learned all there is to know about their spouse. So this one day I’m looking at my husband’s chin, and I ask, “Didn’t you used to have a mole there?” Bear in mind that through the course of our marriage he’s usually had either a full beard or goatee, so it’s not too weird that I’m just noticing this now. He explains that yes, he did have a mole. It just appeared out of nowhere when he was a kid—completely freaking out his parents, of course. After thorough examination it was determined to be harmless, and they were told to “keep an eye on it.” Eventually it started to fade, and now it’s gone.

As he’s telling me this story I realize this is something about the man I had spent the past twenty-four-plus years with that I had never known before. Hence the “mole story” was born. Now every time one of us tells the other something we hadn’t heard before, it is automatically referred to as a Mole Story.

Which has nothing to do with the book, but it’s kind of a cool story on its own.

Until next time,

Michelle

About the Author

MICHELLE CELMER is a bestselling author of more than thirty books. When she’s not writing, she likes to spend time with her husband, kids, grandchildren and a menagerie of animals.

Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her website, www.michellecelmer.com, like her on Facebook or write her at PO Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017, USA.

Bedroom Diplomacy

Michelle Celmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Barb, Robbie, Rachel, Andrea and Jen.

It was a pleasure and a privilege working with you on this project.

An enormous thank-you to my friend John for sharing his military and piloting expertise, and for the correspondence that helped to prevent me from coming completely unglued during an especially rigorous revision experience.

And finally to Steve, Josh and Alec, who tolerated without complaint two weeks of fast food and PB&J, and me roaming around in the wee hours like a zombie after eighteen straight hours glued to the computer screen.

One

Rowena Tate clung to what shred of patience she still possessed as her father’s personal assistant, Margaret Wellington, warned her, “He said to tell you that he’s on his way over now.”

“And…?” Rowena said, knowing there was more.

“That’s it,” Margaret said, but Rowena could tell by her voice, the slight rise in pitch, that she was leaving something out.

“You’re a worse liar than I am.”

Margaret sighed, and in that sympathetic tone said, “He wanted me to remind you to be on your best behavior.”

Rowena took a deep, calming breath. Her father had informed her by email this morning that he would be bringing a guest to see the day-care center. He’d demanded—not asked, because the great Senator Tate never asked for anything—that she have things in order. He’d suggested, not for the first time since she’d taken over the management of his pet project, that she was still impulsive, irresponsible and inept—labels that he apparently would never let her live down.

She looked out her office window at the children on the playground. Five straight days of rain had finally turned to sunny skies, and the temperature was a pleasant sixty-five degrees—about the norm for Southern California in February. Dressed in spring jackets, the day-care kids darted around, shaking off a severe case of cabin fever.

She could be in the world’s worst mood, and watching the kids play always made her smile. Until she had her son, Dylan, she’d had little interest in children. Now she couldn’t imagine a more satisfying career choice.

And she knew, if she wasn’t careful, he would take that away from her, too.

“He’s never going to trust me, is he?”

“He put you in charge.”

“Yeah, but after three months he still watches me like a hawk. Sometimes I think he wants me to screw up, so he can say I told you so.”

“He does not. He loves you, Row. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

Having been her father’s assistant for fifteen years, Margaret was like part of the family, and one of the few people who understood the complicated relationship between Rowena and her father. Margaret had been with them since before Rowena’s mother, Amelia, caused an incredible scandal by taking off with the senator’s protégé.

And people wondered why Rowena was so screwed up.

Was, she reminded herself. “Who is it this time?” she asked Margaret.

“A British diplomat. I don’t know much about him, other than that he’s lobbying your father to support a tech treaty with the U.K. And I think he has some sort of royal title.”

The senator probably loved that. “Well, thanks for the heads-up.”

“Good luck, honey.”

The buzzer sounded, announcing her father’s arrival. With a heavy sigh she pushed herself out of her chair, took off the paint-smudged vinyl smock she’d worn for the morning art project and hung it on a hook in the closet, then headed through the activity room and out to the playground to open the gate, which was kept locked at all times. To keep not only the children in, but strangers out. With a man as powerful and influential as the senator, and the day-care center on the grounds of his estate, one could never be too careful.

Her father stood on the other side, dressed for golf and wearing his plastic politician’s smile. Then her eyes settled on the man standing beside him.

Whoa.

When Margaret said British diplomat, Rowena had pictured a stuffy, balding, forty-something elitist with an ego to match his bulging Swiss bank accounts. This man was her age or close to it, and there was nothing stuffy about him. His hair was the color of dried wheat, closely cropped and stylishly spiky. His eyes were a piercing, almost eerie shade of blue that had to be tinted contacts, and were curtained with thick dark lashes that any woman would sell her soul for. And though he might have been a royal in title, the shadow of neatly trimmed blond stubble and a small scar bisecting his left brow gave him an edgy look. He was several inches taller than the senator, which put him somewhere around six-three. As lean as he was, he should have looked lanky; instead, he was perfectly proportioned.

The rebel in her said, Come to mama. But the logical Rowena, the mature adult, knew from experience that powerful, sinfully attractive men were the worst kind of trouble. And unfortunately, the best kind of fun. Until they took what they wanted and moved on to greener pastures. Or, as had happened with her son, Dylan’s, father, knocked her up and abandoned her. She punched in her code, opened the gate and let them in.

“Sweetheart, I’d like you to meet Colin Middlebury,” the senator said—sweetheart being a term he only used when he was milking his family-man image. “Colin, this is my daughter, Rowena.”

The man leveled those remarkable eyes on her and flashed her a grin that was as much smirk as smile, and her heart went pitter-patter.

“Miss Tate,” he said in a silky smooth voice punctuated by a crisp accent that, if she were still the type to swoon, would have had her fanning her face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Oh, the pleasure is all mine, believe me. She glanced over at her father, who was wearing his behave or else look.

“Mr. Middlebury, welcome to L.A.,” she said.

“Please, call me Colin.” His grin, the slight lift of his left brow, made it feel more like a dare. And when he shook her hand, she felt a delightful little tingle.

Wow, it had been a really long time since a man had made her tingle. Most of the men her father brought around were stodgy old politicians with clammy hands, roaming eyes and greedy smiles. The kind whose power in politics made them believe they were irresistible to anything with two legs and a pair of breasts.

“Colin will be staying here at the mansion while we iron out the details of a treaty I’m sponsoring,” her father said. “Two or three weeks.”

This was usually the worst part of being a politician’s daughter—having to play the role of the polite hostess, when on the inside she was grinding her teeth. But when the guest looked like Colin Middlebury? Well, he could be the world’s biggest jerk, but at least the view was nice.

Looking in the direction of the playground, her father asked, “Where is my grandson?”

“He’s upstairs with his speech therapist,” she said. The main floor of the building served as the day-care center, while the upper floor was set up to accommodate a variety of physical, speech and occupational therapy equipment. That way her son, Dylan, could receive all the therapy he needed and she could run the day care without interruption. Her father’s idea, of course. Only the best for his grandson.

“When will he be finished? I’d like Colin to meet him.”

She glanced at her watch. “Not for another thirty minutes. And he shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Another time,” Colin said, and asked Rowena, “Will you be joining us at Estavez for dinner tonight?”

Heck yes. She would love to. But a stern look from her father made the correct answer to that question more than obvious.

“Maybe some other time,” she told Colin.

“Colin,” her father said, “why don’t you and I take a quick tour inside.”

“Fantastic,” Colin said, and maybe it was just the accent, but he sounded genuinely excited.

“I started this project two years ago,” the senator told him proudly as they walked to the building, not mentioning—he never did—that the initial idea had been hers.

“Hey, Row!”

Rowena looked across the playground to where Patricia Adams, the assistant manager—and also her best friend—stood watching the kids on the monkey bars. She fanned her face and mouthed the word wow.

No kidding.

Only a few minutes passed before her father and Colin reemerged from the building, and she could see instantly that the senator was in a huff about something.

“It would seem that someone left paint on the edge of one of the tables and it’s gotten onto Colin’s pants,” he told her, and while his tone was reasonable, his jaw was clenched and his eyes had that if-I-get-any-angrier-I’m-going-to-pop look about them.

Colin, in contrast, seemed unfazed, despite a rather large magenta smudge on his left pant leg. “It’s really no problem,” he said.

“It’s a water-based, washable paint,” Rowena told him. “A little soap and water should take that right out. I’m sure Betty, our housekeeper, can take care of it for you. But if for whatever reason they’re ruined, I’ll replace them.”

“That certainly won’t be necessary,” Colin said.

“Well, we should let you get back to work,” her father said, flashing his plastic smile. “Colin, would you excuse me and my daughter for a moment? I just need a quick word with her.”

Oh boy, here we go.

“Of course. I’ll start back up to the house.”

She followed her father into the building, then, he turned to her and said, “Rowena, all I ask when I bring a guest in is that you have the center clean and presentable. Was it too much trouble to wipe up a paint spill? Colin is royalty, for God’s sake, an earl, not to mention a war hero. What possible reason could you have to be so rude?”

If he was a war hero, he’d probably had a lot worse than paint spill on his pants, she thought, but she didn’t dare say it.

Like so many times before, she swallowed her pride—and even managed not to gag at the bitter aftertaste— saying, “I’m sorry, we must have missed some when we cleaned up. I’ll be more careful next time.”

“If there is a next time. If you can’t manage something as simple as wiping up paint, how can you be expected to adequately care for children?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t know what else to say.

“After all I’ve done for you and Dylan…” He shook his head, as if he had no words to describe her audacity and selfishness. Then for dramatic effect, he stormed out in a huff.

She slumped against the wall, angry and frustrated and yes, hurt. But not defeated. He could keep knocking her down, but she would always get back up again.

“Hey, Row?”

Tricia stood in the doorway, looking concerned. “You okay?”

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and forced what probably looked more like a grimace than a smile. “No big deal.”

“I heard what he said about the paint. That was my fault. I asked April to wipe the tables down and I guess I forget to check if she’d missed anything. I know how picky he is when he brings people in. I should have been more careful. I’m so sorry.”

“Tricia, if it hadn’t been the paint, it would have been something else. You know that he always finds something.”

“It’s not right the way he treats you.”

“I put him through a lot.”

“You’ve changed, Row. You’ve pulled your life together.”

“But I wouldn’t have been able to do it without his help. You can’t deny that he’s done a lot for me and Dylan.”

“That’s what he wants you to think. But that doesn’t make it okay for him to treat you like an indentured servant. You would manage just fine on your own.”

She wanted to believe that, but the last time she’d been on her own she had made a total mess of her life.

“You know the offer still stands. If you and Dylan want to come stay with me for a while…”

And the instant she left, he would cut off not just her but Dylan, as well. And without the money to pay for his medical care, her father would have all the ammunition he needed to take Dylan away from her. She’d been hearing that threat since the day Dylan was born. It was the ultimate punishment, and she didn’t doubt for a second that he would do it.

“I can’t, Tricia, but I love you for offering.”

Her own irresponsibility and carelessness were what had gotten her into this mess, and she was the only one who could get herself out.

Colin had never put much stock in rumors. In a royal family, even on the outermost fringes, gossip spread like a disease. Which was why, when he heard the speculation about the senator’s daughter, out of fairness and respect, he reserved judgment. And maybe he was missing something, but she’d seemed all right to him. Of course, she could have had two heads and hooves for feet and he would have been perfectly gracious.

This assignment was Colin’s first go as a diplomat, and certainly not somewhere he had intended to be at this point in his life—or ever, for that matter—but he was making the best of an unfortunate situation. He had been warned that when dealing with American politicians, especially one as powerful and influential as Senator Tate, he would be wise to watch his back. The senator was a man who got things done. When he put the weight of his office behind legislation, his colleagues naturally fell in line. The royal family was counting on Colin to ensure that the tech treaty, a crucial piece of legislation for both the U.K. and the U.S., became law.

Too many high-profile instances of phone and internet hacking had been occurring in both the U.K. and the U.S. A tech treaty would give international law enforcement the tools to see that the guilty parties were brought to justice.

Due to illegal hacking, President Morrow had been outed as having an illegitimate daughter by the press at his own inaugural ball in front of family, friends and celebrities. Even worse, his supposed illegitimate daughter, Ariella Winthrop, had been standing a few feet away from him when the news broke and was taken by complete surprise herself.

The U.S. was finally willing to negotiate. It was up to Colin to see it through.

He’d made it nearly halfway up the bricked trail to the mansion when Senator Tate caught up to him, saying, “Again, my apologies.”

“As I said, it’s not a problem.”

“It’s no secret that Rowena had problems in the past,” the senator said. “She has worked hard to overcome them.”

Still, the senator seemed to keep her on a very short leash. It was silly to get so upset over something as simple as spilled paint.

“I think we’ve all done things we’re not proud of.”

The senator was quiet for several seconds, then, looking troubled, said, “Can I be direct with you, Colin?”

“Of course.”

“I understand that you have something of a reputation as a womanizer.”

“I do?”

“I don’t mean to imply that I would hold that against you,” the senator said. “How you lead your life is your business.”

Colin wouldn’t deny that he had dated his share of women, but he was no cad. He never dated a woman without first making it absolutely clear that he was in no hurry to settle down, and he never promised exclusivity.

“Sir, this so-called reputation of mine sounds a bit hyperbolic.”

“You’re young, in your prime, and I don’t fault you for playing the field.”

Colin sensed an unspoken “however” at the end of that sentence.

“Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t even bring it up, but I’ve welcomed you into my home for an extended stay, and I should make it clear that there are certain ground rules I expect you to follow.”

Ground rules?

“My daughter can be very… impulsive and in the past has been a target for unscrupulous men who think they can use her to get to me. Or simply just use her.”

“Sir, let me assure you—”

He held up a hand to stop him. “It’s not an accusation.”

It certainly felt like one.

“That said, I must insist that as long as you’re staying in my home, you are to consider my daughter off-limits.”

Well, it didn’t get much more direct than that.

“Can I count on you to do the right thing, son?”

“Of course,” Colin said, unsure if he should feel slighted or amused or if he should pity the senator. “I’m here to work on the treaty.”

“Well, then,” the senator said, “Let’s get to work.”

Two

After a long day of collaboration with the senator that was encouragingly productive, and dinner out with him and several of his friends, Colin found a quiet, dark corner by the pool to relax. It was blessedly out of view of the mansion, and the only place that he felt truly alone on the estate. And he needed his alone time. He stretched out in a lounge chair and gazed up at a clear, star-filled sky while he sipped a glass of the senator’s finest scotch.

When his phone rang he was surprised to see his sister’s number flash across the screen. It was only 5:30 a.m. in London.

“You’re up early,” he said in lieu of a hello.

“Mother’s having a rough night,” she told him, “so I was up watching television. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re enjoying your stay there.”

“It’s been… interesting.”

He told her about the senator’s warning, and at first she was convinced he was joking.

“It’s the God’s honest truth,” he assured her.

“Her father actually told you that she’s off-limits?”

“In those exact words.”

“How unbelievably rude and tactless!”

“Apparently I have a reputation with the ladies.”

With Rowena’s flame-red hair and striking, emerald-green bedroom eyes, he couldn’t deny that under different circumstances he would have been interested. Very interested. But he was more than capable of resisting a beautiful woman.

“Maybe you should come home,” Matty said.

She meant to London, of course, and though he’d spent most of his recovery there, it hadn’t felt like home any more than it had when he was a child. Home to him was boarding school, then later whichever country he’d been stationed in.

“You’ve been through so much, and you’re still healing,” Matilda insisted. Twenty years his senior, she had always been more of a parent than a sibling. But more so after the helicopter crash. Yes, he was lucky to be alive, but dwelling on the past was counterproductive. The worst of his wounds had healed and he needed to get on with his life. Not that he could ever expect to forget completely, nor would he want to. He was proud of his service and honored to defend his country. Deep down he would always be a warrior.

“I know you’re doing this for the family’s sake,” Matilda said, “but, Colin, politics? It’s so… beneath you.”

Having spent most of her life distanced from the royal family and isolated from the real world, Matilda couldn’t truly grasp the need for the treaty. “I need to do this. The family’s privacy has been violated countless times, our reputation damaged. This has to stop. We need the treaty.”

“I’m just worried about you,” she said. “Are you staying warm?”

He laughed. “I’m in Southern California, Matty. It doesn’t get cold here.” Unlike Washington, where he’d made a brief stop before flying to the West Coast. There the bitter wind and subzero temperatures seeped into his bones, reminding him, with aches and twinges, that he had a while to go before he was fully recovered.

They chatted for a few more minutes, and Matilda started to yawn.

“You should try to get some more sleep,” he told her.

“Promise you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I promise. Love you, Matty, and give my best to Mother.”

“Love you, too.”

He disconnected, slid his phone back into his pants pocket and closed his eyes, going over in his head all that they had covered this afternoon, and how much more work they had ahead of them. Thorough as the senator was, he insisted they pick the treaty apart, section by section, line by line. It would be a slow and agonizing process. And it would be given the same scrutiny in the U.K. before anything was set in stone.

At some point he must have drifted off, because he was startled awake by a loud splash. He jerked up in the chair, blinking furiously, briefly disoriented by his surroundings. He’d lived so many places that at times they all blurred together, and when he woke from a deep sleep it took him a moment to get his bearings.

Senator’s mansion. Pool deck. Got it.

Had he actually heard a splash, or had it just been a dream? He noticed movement in the water at the far end of the pool. Backlit by the glow emanating from under the surface, the blurry outline of a figure cut though the water. Then, as the swimmer came up for air, he saw the unmistakable flash of flaming red hair.

Rowena dove back under, then resurfaced when she reached the opposite side, not ten feet from where he sat. She flipped over, arms slicing through the water as she pushed off the side. He sat there, transfixed, hypnotized by the graceful glide of her body, the practiced, even strokes that took her to the opposite end of the pool, then back again. It went on like that for a while, until she finally stopped at the end farthest from him and hung on to the edge, seemingly exhausted and out of breath. But she couldn’t have rested more than a minute before she started the process all over again.

After a few more laps he began to think about the senator, his ridiculous ground rules, and how Colin’s sitting there watching his daughter might be misconstrued. And the more he thought about it, the more it seemed inappropriate. He could sneak away, but if someone were to see him that would definitely make it seem as if he had something to hide. By not leaving the second she dove into the pool, without even realizing it, he had created something of a dilemma for himself. At this point, it seemed that the wise thing to do would be to politely announce his presence, then get the hell out.

Still fuming over the berating she’d received from her father in front of her staff today when he learned that she’d gone thirty dollars over budget on art supplies for the month, Rowena pushed herself harder than usual, working out her frustration, swimming until her arms and legs felt rubbery and her shoulders ached.

Three years, two months and six days sober, and the senator was still waiting for her to fail.

And while she wasn’t denying she’d made a lot of mistakes, they were mistakes that she had since owned up to, and paid her penance for a million times over.

She had done everything her father had asked of her, but it still wasn’t enough. Maybe it would never be enough for him. She would always be the bad seed, always chasing after his love, trying to please him, but never quite making the cut.

It was tough to impress a man who didn’t want to be impressed.

By the time she was finished swimming she was so exhausted she barely had the strength to hoist herself up over the side and out of the water.

“That was quite a workout,” an unfamiliar and sinister-sounding voice said from somewhere behind her in the dark.

Startled, she whipped around, seeing only the shadow of a very large and intimidating figure. Her heart stopped, then picked up triple time, alarm flooding her veins with adrenaline, her automatic first thought being rapist or serial killer. In that split second she imagined José the pool boy finding her bloated, discolored corpse floating in the water the following morning, or some unfortunate jogger finding her in the woods along the jogging path in one of the city parks.

Her brain said run, and she took an instinctive step back—right off the edge of the pool. She felt herself falling backward, thought, Okay, now what? and then a hand shot out of the darkness and locked firmly around her wrist, tugging her upright, to her imminent doom.

She jerked her arm back, expecting him to let go. Instead she managed to knock both herself and her would-be attacker off balance and sent them both careening into the pool.

They landed with a splash, the voice she’d heard suddenly replaying like a tape recorder in her head, only this time it sounded vaguely familiar. This time she heard the crisp accent, the smooth-as-caramel tone that really wasn’t sinister after all. And as he surfaced beside her, sputtering and cursing, all she could think was that her father was going to kill her.

If Colin didn’t get to her first.

“Why in the bloody hell did you do that?” he said, treading water.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

He grabbed the edge of the pool and hoisted himself up. But the fact that she wasn’t about to be murdered left her so weak with relief that when she tried to pull herself up onto the deck, her arms crumpled and she slid back into the water instead.

“Allow me,” he said, reaching down to help her. When she hesitated, he said in an exasperated voice, “Just take my hand, for God’s sake.”

It was either accept his help or swim to the steps at the opposite end, and she honestly wasn’t sure she had the strength.

She grabbed his outstretched hand and with hardly any effort at all he hauled her out of the water. He was strong, which had her questioning how she’d managed to get him into the water in the first place. Maybe the adrenaline had given her superhuman strength. Now she felt weak and trembly and cold.

Colin grabbed her towel from the chair where she’d left it, but instead of using it on himself, he wrapped it around her shoulders. Her modest one-piece could hardly be considered revealing, yet she couldn’t help feeling exposed.

His soggy slacks and sweater were a pretty good indication that he hadn’t been out there to swim. Unless he’d been planning to skinny-dip.

She wouldn’t have minded seeing that.

He pulled an expensive-looking cell phone from the pocket of his soggy slacks. She cringed as he gave it a shake, jabbed the home button a few times and got nothing.

If he told her father about this, she was dead meat.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know anyone else was out here. I usually have the pool all to myself.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, ringing water from the sleeves of his sweater. “I was sitting by the pool and I must have dozed off. I woke up when you dove in.”

“Your phone—can it be salvaged?”

“I doubt it,” he said, and shoved it back into his pocket.

His sweater wasn’t looking too promising, either. Her father was going to have a field day with this one. “I am so sorry, Colin. First your pants, now this.”

He gave up on the sweater, which had gone all saggy and misshapen, and said, “Could you spare me a towel?”

“Of course!” Where were her manners? It was the least she could do, since, in the process of trying not to get herself murdered, she had murdered his phone instead and, from the looks of it, his sweater… and were those leather shoes?

“They’re in the pool house.”

He followed her, his soles squeaking against the ceramic tile. She prayed he wasn’t wearing an expensive and non-waterproof wristwatch.

The door was locked, and she didn’t have her keys, so she dug behind the loose strip of siding beside the door frame and pulled out the spare. Once inside, she switched on the lights, blinking against the sudden brightness.

While it was technically a pool house, it was the size, and had all the amenities, of a studio apartment.

Colin kicked off his shoes and followed her inside. She stepped into the bathroom, which had its own door leading to the pool area, and grabbed a beach towel from the shelf. She walked back out just as Colin was peeling the wet sweater over his head, uncovering a chest and midriff that were a testament to years of dedication to fitness, and an abdomen hard with rippling muscles. Slim hips and lean, strong arms gave proportion to what, under the clingy fabric of his slacks, were clearly long and muscular legs. Then he turned to toss the ruined garment out the door, and she sucked in a quiet breath.

Patchy, pink burn scars that were fully healed, yet somehow still looked painfully fresh, started just below his shoulders and ran down the entire width of his back, disappearing beneath the waist of his pants.

She wiped the surprise from her face as he turned back around. Aside from the scars, his body couldn’t have been more perfect.

He held out his hand and said, “Towel?”

She handed it to him. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven,” he said, sounding exasperated. “Now would you please stop apologizing.”

“Sorr—”

He shot her a look.

She shrugged. “Habit.”

Watching him dry his magnificently toned pecs and thick arms, she felt a shimmery za-zing of awareness, in places that hadn’t za-zinged in a long time. Which was the absolute last thing she should be thinking about right now.

He seemed like a pretty reasonable guy. She went out on a limb and asked, “Is there any way that we could maybe not tell my father about this?”

He flashed her one of those adorable grins. “It’ll be our little secret.”

The idea of having a secret with him, big or little, made her heart skip. Here she was, twenty-six and reacting like a schoolgirl with a crush.

“The senator, he demands perfection?” Colin asked.

That was something of an understatement. “He does have very high standards.”

“For what it’s worth, I was impressed. With the day care, I mean.”

“Thanks.” And for some stupid reason, she heard herself saying, “It was my idea.”

Rather than a brush-off, or a sure it was look, he appeared genuinely interested. “Was it?”

She should quit while she was ahead, but she couldn’t seem to make her mouth stop moving. “My father has always run on an all-American family-man platform.” Ironic, considering what a negligent father he actually was. Work always came first. “Among other things one of his causes has been affordable day care for working families. His own staff was no exception. So opening a day care for them seemed like a logical solution. It would be good for his career, and for the people who work for him. And it has been.”

“So it’s as much your project as his?”

Uh oh. She shook her head, laughed nervously. “No, no, not at all, it’s definitely his project. Although I did have fun helping with the plans, then watching it all come together. I toured day-care centers all over the city and scoured the internet for ideas.”

Looking puzzled, he said, “So how then is it not your project?”

She really needed to stop talking. “It’s not my name on the checks.”

“Writing the checks is the easy part,” he said, as though he knew that from experience. “It sounds as if you did the hard part. All the real work.”

If it got back to the senator that she was taking credit for the day care, he would come unhinged.

“My part of it was nothing, really.”

“For nothing, you seem quite proud of what you’ve done. And it sounds as if you should be.”

But it wasn’t worth the hassle if it meant stepping on her father’s very large toes. Why had she even brought this up in the first place?

“You look nervous,” he said.

“Sometimes my mouth works independently from my brain, and I say things I shouldn’t.”

“Would it help to say that what you and I discuss in private will never reach the senator’s ears?”

She blew out a relieved breath. “I would really appreciate that.”

“Though it’s a shame you feel the need to hide your accomplishments.”

It was a survival instinct. “My father and I, our relationship is… complicated. It’s easier for everyone if I don’t rock the boat.”

“I think I understand.”

Did he? Really?

She looked at the clock. “Wow, I didn’t realize how late it is. I really have to get inside or Betty is going to think I drowned.”

“Betty, the housekeeper?”

She nodded. “She sits with Dylan while I do my laps. I’m usually only gone forty minutes.…” She paused, working the time out in her head. “Did you say that you woke up when I dove into the water?”

“The splash roused me.”

Yet he didn’t say anything to her until after she swam her laps. So what was he doing all that time?

“Yes,” he said, as if he were reading her mind. “I was watching you swim, which I know was a violation of your privacy. My only excuse, flimsy as it is, is that I was mesmerized.” He reached for her hand, drawing it between his, and… talk about tingles. His hands were big and strong and a little rough. “I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

Damn, this guy was good. She made the mistake of looking up into his eyes, and felt herself being sucked into their unearthly blue depths. A woman could drown in eyes like that.

His eyes never leaving hers, he said, “Why is it that when something is forbidden, it makes you want it that much more?”

Come and get me, she wanted to say. Then she reminded herself that he was a politician, and no matter how sincere he may have looked or sounded, he possessed the ability to lie through his royal teeth. And very convincingly.

But a little innocent flirting never hurt anyone. Right?

His eyes searched hers, then dipped lower, settling on her mouth, which of course made her look at his mouth, and all she could think was how kissable his lips looked, and how much she wanted to be the one kissing them.

He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across the back, and the earth pitched under her feet. It had been a long time since a man’s lips had touched any part of her body.

“It was a pleasure talking with you,” he said.

Yes it was. “Maybe we could do it again.”

“Maybe,” he said, letting go of her hand. But he did it slowly, his fingers sliding across hers, pausing as they reached the very tips.

Don’t go, she thought. Only because she didn’t have the guts to say it out loud. But apparently he wasn’t a mind reader after all, because he turned, grabbed his shoes and sweater and walked away.

She watched in silence as he disappeared into the dark, wishing they really could do it again, but knowing that it was better if they didn’t. Not that it hadn’t been fun flirting with him. But it could never be more than that.

When Rowena got to her suite, Betty, their live-in maid, was stretched out on the sofa watching Dynasty reruns on cable.

“That must have been some swim,” she said, sitting up and switching off the television, her tight gray curls pressed flat against the back of her head.

“Betty, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to take so long.”

“As if I have somewhere more exciting to be,” Betty said. She didn’t ask Rowena what had taken so long, and Rowena didn’t indulge.

Betty slowly rose from the couch, stretching her arthritic back. She had been with the family since Rowena was a baby. She taught Rowena to bake cookies, told her about the birds and the bees and took her for her first bra, since her mother couldn’t be bothered. And when Rowena was battling her addictions, Betty was the only person who never lost faith in her. But she was getting older, slowing down physically, and eventually it would be time for her to retire.

“Did Dylan wake up?”

“He didn’t make a peep.”

“Thanks for watching him,” she said, giving Betty a hug.

“No problem, sweetie. Tomorrow night, same time?”

“If you don’t mind.”

As she walked her to the door, Rowena casually asked, “So, what do you think of my father’s guest?”

“Mr. Middlebury? He seems friendly and very polite. A bit of a flirt, I suppose, and boy is he a hottie.” She looked back at Rowena. “Do they still call attractive men hotties?”

“Hottie works.”

“Well, then, he definitely is one. Maybe, if I were thirty years younger…” she said with a grin. “Why do you ask?”

Rowena shrugged. “Just curious.”

“Are you interested?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. You know I don’t date politicians.”

“Oh, he’s not a politician. He’s just here as a favor to his family. They seemed to think that because he’s a war hero, he would have more of an influence in Washington.”

Not a politician? Interesting.

“You seem to know an awful lot about him,” Rowena said.

“We’ve chatted a time or two. You should talk to him.” She didn’t mention that she already had. “I’ll think about it.”

After Betty left, Rowena checked on Dylan, who was sound asleep in his crib, and then she showered, changed into her pajamas and crawled into bed with her computer to check her email, which, as usual, was mostly junk.

She was about to close her laptop, but on a whim, opened her browser instead and typed in Colin’s name.

A page of results popped up on the screen, but instead of social columns about a womanizing earl and his exploits, what she found was news stories about Colin Middlebury the war hero.

An honor he had clearly earned.

During his last tour in the Middle East, a helicopter he was a passenger in crashed. He was thrown from the craft and, with a shattered leg, had crawled back, dragging the pilot, who had been knocked unconscious, away from the wreckage. But before they could reach a safe distance the helicopter burst into flames. Both men suffered severe burns, and Colin spent first a month in the hospital, then another eight weeks in a rehab center.

It sounded as if Colin had been incredibly lucky. Other than the small scar bisecting his brow, he had no obvious marks. Until he took off his clothes, that is. And the last thing she needed to be doing was thinking about Colin with his clothes off. Did she miss dating? Sometimes. But there was nothing Rowena needed that she couldn’t provide herself. In or out of the bedroom.

That didn’t mean it wouldn’t be fun.

Three

The following day seemed to drag by, as if time were moving through a vat of molasses. Rowena tried to keep busy, ordering supplies, working on lesson plans and scouring the internet for craft ideas. Then right in the middle of a task, a vision of Colin, standing in the pool house, his chest bare, his arms thick with sinew, would pop into her head and she’d completely forget what she was doing.

Would he be at the pool again tonight, or when he said maybe, had he just been humoring her? Did he really mean no way lady? Maybe after they talked, he didn’t find her quite so attractive after all.

She felt nervous and distracted all afternoon, and during dinner, while Dylan chattered away about his day, she was only half listening. What if Colin really did show?

What then?

Even if he liked her, and she liked him, he was only here for a few weeks. It’s not as if they could ever have any kind of relationship.

She was a responsible adult. Someone’s mother. Her days of brief affairs and one-night stands had ended the day she found out she was pregnant. It was too… undignified.

It shouldn’t have mattered if Colin was at the pool or not. So why, when she went to take her swim and she found the chairs empty, was she so disappointed?

When she was done, as she was walking back to her suite, she thought about taking a quick detour to Colin’s suite. Only to tell him again that she had enjoyed their talk, and to let him know that if he needed anything, all he had to do was ask.

Rowena, she imagined him saying, all I need is you.

He would be shirtless, of course, and possibly just out of the shower, with droplets of water dotting his pecs. His hair would be wet and spiky. He would hold out his hand, and though she would hesitate for several seconds, she would take it. He would pull her into his room, closing the door behind them.…

At that point she made herself keep walking until she reached her own suite. As unlikely as it was that would ever really happen, it scared her to think what would happen if it did.

The following morning she managed not to think about him much at all, until she was walking up to the mansion and saw Colin and her father’s attorney sitting on the back patio.

“Hello, Colin,” she said with a smile, her heart lifting at the sight of him, only to flop back down and land with a sickening thud when he replied, “Hello, Miss Tate.”

He didn’t even crack a smile.

’Nuff said. She squared her shoulders and kept walking. She had no reason to be upset or feel slighted. They’d talked one time. It wasn’t as if he’d promised they would see each other again. To avoid seeing him again she left through the front door, taking a different route back, walking all the way down the driveway to the road, then up a quarter mile to the day-care center.

“Why did you go the long way?” Tricia asked.

“Good exercise,” Rowena told her, then hid in her office for the rest of the morning, refusing to feel sorry for herself. She was being silly, that’s all. All the time she spent cooped up on the estate must be taking its toll.

In the afternoon a feisty ten-year-old named Davis, whose mother worked for the senator soliciting donations, took a tumble off the monkey bars and Rowena sat with him, holding an ice pack on his bruised and swollen arm, until his mother arrived and rushed him off to the E.R. for X-rays.

She filled out an accident report and all the other appropriate documentation, then sat through a berating from her father—in front of Dylan, no less—because naturally it was her fault.

“Dabis godda owie taday,” Dylan said as she tucked him into bed that night.

She pulled the covers up to his chin. “Yes, Davis got an owie. But his mommy called and said it was just a small owie. Nothing broken.”

There was genuine relief in his big hazel eyes. Having been through so much himself, Dylan was exceptionally empathetic for a boy his age. And though he might have physically disabilities, he was smart as a whip and wise beyond his very short two and a half years.

“Papa mad at you,” he said.

“No, baby, he’s not mad,” she lied. “He was just worried about Davis. But Davis is fine, so everything is okay.” She got so tired of making excuses for her father’s behavior. Dylan adored him. He was the only grandparent Dylan had, but Dylan was exceptionally smart. It wouldn’t be long before he began to understand the kind of man his grandfather really was.

As she leaned down and kissed him good-night, Dylan asked the same question he had every night since he’d learned to talk.

“I gedda big bed?”

She sighed and tousled his curly red mop of hair. “Yes, sweetie, you’ll get a big-boy bed very soon.”

She felt guilty for depriving him of something he wanted so badly, but she just wasn’t ready to take the chance. In his crib she knew he was safe. In a regular bed, if he had a seizure or even just rolled too far to one side, he could fall out and hurt himself.

Accepting her empty promise with a hopeful smile, the way he always did, and with his favorite toy race car clutched in his hand, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. He was so tiny for his age. So small and defenseless. She wasn’t ready for him to grow up.

She leaned down, kissed him one last time and whispered, “I love you.”

“Wuboo, too,” he said sleepily.

She switched off his light, checked that the baby monitor was on, then slipped out of the room. As much as she needed a break by the end of the day, and a little time to herself, she hated leaving him alone. Until a year ago she’d kept him in bed with her, until the pediatrician warned that coddling him might only inhibit his progress. But it was so hard to let go, to relinquish control.

Rowena changed into her swimsuit, but she still had twenty minutes before Betty would be there to babysit, so she switched on the television. It was tuned to the American News Service—the cable network that had broken the presidential paternity scandal—and the anchor, Angelica Pierce, was reporting, as was often the case lately, on recent developments in the story. And Angelica seemed to take a sick sort of satisfaction in relaying the details.

Having been the target of rumors and speculation a time or two herself, Rowena could relate. Although in her case, the rumors usually were true. But she was never outed in front of hundreds of people.

Angelica Pierce was saying something about paternity and blood tests, and how both Ariella, the president’s alleged illegitimate daughter, and Eleanor, his high school sweetheart, were unavailable for comment. The devilish gleam in Angelica’s eyes said she was out for blood and thoroughly enjoying the scandal.

Rowena was about to switch the channel when she was struck by a sense of familiarity so intense it actually gave her goose bumps. Something about Angelica had always annoyed Rowena, but she had always attributed it to ANS’s sleazy reporting. She’d also thought that the woman looked vaguely familiar, and suddenly she realized why.

She reached for the phone and dialed her boarding school buddy Caroline Crenshaw. Until recently a public relations expert at the White House, Cara kept Rowena up to date on all the juicy D.C. gossip—confirming time after time that Rowena had made the right decision leaving Washington permanently. Only when Max, Cara’s fiancé, answered did Rowena remember the time difference and realize that it was nearly eleven-thirty there. “Sorry to be calling so late,” she said. “Is Cara still awake?”

“She’s right here,” Max said. There was a brief pause, and then Cara’s voice came on the line. Sounding worried, she asked, “Hey, Row, is everything okay?”

After receiving countless, random drunken midnight phone calls from Rowena, of course Cara would think the worst. “Everything is fine. I had a quick question for you and I completely forgot about the time difference.”

“That’s a relief. I thought maybe something had happened to Dylan.”

Or did she think that Rowena had backslidden and gotten herself in trouble again? And could Rowena blame her if she had? “Dylan is tucked away safe and sound in bed. Do you by any chance have the television on?”

“Actually, we do. We’re in bed watching the news.”

“NCN?”

“Of course.”

She’d assumed as much, since Max had made a name for himself as a hotshot political anchor and talk show host at National Cable News. “Can you switch on ANS for a minute?”

“Sure, why?”

“You’ve seen Angelica Pierce?”

“Sure. I’ve actually met her a couple of times. Now there’s a woman who knows what she wants and will do anything to get it. I pity the person who tries to stand in her way.”

“Does she look like anyone else to you?”

“I don’t know. There’s always been something about her that bugs me, but I think that has a lot to do with her working for ANS and their sleazy smear campaign against the president.”

“Take a really good look at her, and think back to boarding school.”

“Boarding school?”

“Think Madeline Burch.”

“Oh, my gosh, I forgot all about her. What a loon!”

Madeline had been an unstable, mousy plain Jane who insisted that she had a secret wealthy father and that her mother had been paid big hush-hush money not to talk about him. Which only led the students to believe that she was nuttier than a fruitcake, a label that seemed to push Madeline even further over the edge, until her behavior became so erratic and unpredictable she was eventually expelled. “So, look at Angelica, and think of Madeline.”

“Wow, you’re right. She does sort of look like her, but a hell of a lot prettier and more glamorous.”

“Do you think it could be her?”

“She would have had to change her looks and her name. Why would she do that?”

“That’s the real question, I guess. News anchors are supposed to be objective, but she takes an awful lot of satisfaction in smearing President Morrow. You know she wants to take him down.”

“Maybe she’s just a bitch,” Cara suggested.

“And if she is Madeline Burch?”

“I’m still not sure why she would go through all that trouble, but it couldn’t hurt to look into it. I’ll see what I can dig up from my old contacts.”

“I’ll try the internet.”

“Give me a couple of days and I’ll get back to you.”

After they hung up, Rowena logged on to Google to see what she could find about Madeline, but there was virtually no information about her after the incident at Woodlawn Academy, when she had attacked a student who called her a liar and a freak. When Rowena did a similar search on Angelica Pierce, the woman didn’t seem to exist before her college days.

When Betty knocked on the door at nine, Rowena still hadn’t found anything useful.

She shot a quick email to Cara explaining what she had—or more specifically hadn’t—found, then headed down to the pool. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts, she almost didn’t notice the faint outline of someone sitting in a chaise—Colin’s chaise. It was unlikely that anyone but him would be out there, and even more unlikely that someone else would pick that exact same chair to sit in. And despite his chilly greeting that morning, it would be rude not to go over and say hello.

As she drew closer, she could see that his head had lolled slightly to one side and his eyes were closed, his breathing slow and deep. Cupped in his hands and resting in his lap was a large mug of what looked like brewed tea. Not the smartest place to hold a hot drink. Suppose when she dove in, the splash startled him and it spilled? He could do some serious damage.

“Colin?” she said softly so she wouldn’t alarm him, but he didn’t budge. He looked so peaceful. Maybe she didn’t have to wake him; maybe if she just took the cup and set it on the table…

She reached down, never imagining that she would have her hands quite this close to his crotch tonight. Or any night.

Very gently, using the tips of her fingers, she clutched the cup by the rim and began to gingerly lift it from his lap. She’d lifted about six inches when she glanced up to his face. His eyes were open and looking at her.

As cold tea soaked his trousers, Colin belatedly realized that until Rowena had gotten the cup a safe distance from his crotch, he should have kept his eyes closed. But when a man dreamed he was with a woman, then opened his eyes to find her hand an inch from his fly, it was tough not to watch the action. And for several tense seconds, it wasn’t the cup he thought she was reaching for.

“Oh, my God. I am so sorry,” Rowena said, looking as though she wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. “I can’t believe I just did that. Please tell me that wasn’t hot.”

He set the cup on the ground beside him. “It was rather cold, actually.”

She winced, “I didn’t… damage anything down there, did I?”

He’d managed to catch the cup just in time. “Everything down there is fine.”

She handed him her towel. “I don’t know how much help this will be.”

He pushed himself out of the chair, leaning over to inspect the front of his pants, then handed the towel back. “I think it’s pretty hopeless at this point.”

“For the record, I was moving it because I thought it might spill. And yes, I get the irony.”

What tea hadn’t soaked into the linen went straight through to his Skivvies. “The staff is going to think I’m off my rocker. Walking in one night in dripping-wet clothes, the next looking as if I soiled myself.”

She bit her lip, probably to keep from laughing, then said, “I could run up to your room and get you clean pants. Or you could borrow some swim trunks. There are always extras in the pool house. There’s bound to be something that fits.”

The last thing he needed was her father possibly seeing her walking in or out of his suite. At least here, by the pool, no one could see them. Not without leaving the mansion, which no one seemed to do after dark. “Swim trunks will be fine.”

“Let’s go look.”

She rushed to the pool house, opened the door and switched on the lights. In the dark it had looked as if she was wearing a dress. Now he realized it was a cover-up, and underneath she wore… well, hello there, bikini. He wondered if she had worn that purposely, in case he happened to be at the pool again. Didn’t matter either way. She was off-limits.

“There’s a shelf in the bathroom with extra suits,” she told him. “Take whatever you need.”

Colin found a pair of trunks close to his size and pulled them off the shelf. He peeled off his wet slacks and boxer briefs, noticing, as the cold wet fabric touched the top of his legs, that the tails of his shirt hadn’t been spared, either. He took that off, too, and pulled the suit on. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Rowena was standing in the kitchen, bent over, looking in the refrigerator with her back to him. The cover-up was hiked up to reveal the very smooth curve of her behind and the backs of her creamy thighs.

Bloody hell.

“Found a pair,” he said.

She straightened and turned, a can of soda in her hand. She looked briefly at the trunks, then her eyes drifted upward.

Knowing what she was thinking, he said, “My shirt was wet, too.”

“They’re big,” she said. “The trunks, I mean.”

“Well, it was these or a Speedo.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then shook her head as if she’d decided that whatever it was was probably best left unsaid. “Want to split a soda, or would you like something stronger?”

What he wanted, he couldn’t have. What he needed was a cold shower. And what he had to do was leave.

And he would leave, just as soon as he finished his drink. “Soda is fine.”

She pulled two glasses from the cupboard, poured the soda, then added ice.

She handed him his glass and as their fingertips brushed, he could swear he saw her shiver.

Okay, enough, he told himself. He shouldn’t even be here. He should have stayed in his room and watched television.

Do what you came to do.

“I did a Google search on you,” she said.

“You did?”

“I saw your back and I was curious. When my dad said you’re a war hero, I thought he was exaggerating, but you actually are a hero.”

He shrugged. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

“With a broken leg, you dragged a man from a burning helicopter. That’s pretty brave, Colin.”

“The truth is, I don’t recall much of what happened. I remember getting caught in the sandstorm, the chopper going down. I recall being thrown and then looking back at the wreckage. I knew that William was probably still inside. I wasn’t able to stand but being so jacked up on adrenaline, I didn’t even know my leg was mangled. I dragged myself back to the chopper, felt around until I found him.”

“There was smoke?”

He nodded. “Yeah, thick black smoke. And dust. Couldn’t see a damn thing. I could hardly breathe. The explosion didn’t happen until I had dragged him about twenty feet away. Then I passed out, but luckily William regained consciousness. He put out the fire on my back and then dragged me a safe distance away. When I woke up, I was in the hospital.”

“And if you hadn’t pulled him from the helicopter?”

“He would have burned to death. I was the only chance he had. He would have done the same for me. Easy choice. No choice, really.”

“I read that he walked away with some burns and a broken arm.”

“The burns were mostly on his hands and arms, from putting out the fire on me.”

“He has a wife and four kids.”

Colin nodded, acknowledging the unstated sentiment. “I know that people have labeled me a hero, but I don’t see it that way. What I did for him, any other soldier would have done for me. It’s just part of the job description.”

“That doesn’t make it any less heroic.”

Not in his mind.

“Will you ever go back into active duty?”

“Never. With the damage to my leg I would be useless in combat. They gave me a choice. Take a desk job or retire. But I can’t be an outsider looking in. I’m a warrior. Warriors don’t sit behind desks.”

“So what will you do now?”

“I have a friend in private security who offered me a job. The only thing holding me back is my leg.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Sometimes.” Almost all the time, but not like before. Right after the surgery it was excruciating. He hadn’t taken anything stronger than ibuprofen in a month.

“And your back?” she said.

“It’s sensitive, but not painful.”

“Can I… touch it?”

She was playing with fire. And who was more foolish—the fool who started the fire, or the fool who gave her the matches?

His gaze drifted down to her mouth, her lips full and pink and practically begging to be kissed. Then her tongue darted out to wet them.…

Bloody hell. He had to stop this now.

“Rowena.” He set his glass down. “We need to talk.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I need to apologize for the other night. And this morning.”

“Okay.”

“I was very… forward the other night. I’m afraid I may have given you the wrong impression.”

“Maybe a little,” she admitted.

“And today… well, there’s no excuse for my behavior. I was very rude to you. I’m sorry for that.”

“But?”

“I like you, Rowena, but I can’t like you.”

“Is it my reputation? Are you worried it will tarnish your good name?”

“No! God no. Nothing like that. This is because of your father.”

She frowned. “What about him?”

“After he introduced us, he and I had a talk. About you.

And he warned me, in no uncertain terms, that I am to consider you off-limits.”

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