THE TEXAS TATTLER

All the news that’s barely fit to print!

IT’S RAINING MEN…

Ladies, pack your bags and fur-lined parkas. While we’ve always heard that Alaskan men are hungry for a little female companionship to warm up those long, blustery cold nights, it appears that eligible males are now falling from the skies…literally!

At least that’s how Fortune heiress Holly Douglas met bush pilot Guy Blackwolf. Seems he’d been hired by the Fortune family to bring the reluctant heiress back to Red Rock, when his plane encoutered some bad weather and crash-landed in a nearby lake. Fortunately, Holly was on the scene, and, from the looks of Guy, she gave him plenty of tender loving care during his long recovery. Guy claims that all his wounds have healed, but he still seemed to be a bit dazed and reeling from more than a concussion when The Tattler spoke to him.

Has this pilot just met a force greater than even Mother Nature…Cupid?

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with six passionate, powerful and provocative romances! And you can take romance one step further…. Look inside for details about our exciting new contest, “Silhouette Makes You a Star.”

Popular author Mary Lynn Baxter returns to Desire with our MAN OF THE MONTH when The Millionaire Comes Home to Texas to reunite with the woman he could never forget. Rising star Sheri WhiteFeather’s latest story features a Comanche Vow that leads to a marriage of convenience…until passionate love transforms it into the real thing.

It’s our pleasure to present you with a new miniseries entitled 20 AMBER COURT, featuring four twentysomething female friends who share an address…and their discoveries about life and love. Don’t miss the launch title, When Jayne Met Erik, by beloved author Elizabeth Bevarly. The scandalous Desire miniseries FORTUNES OF TEXAS: THE LOST HEIRS continues with Fortune’s Secret Daughter by Barbara McCauley. Alexandra Sellers offers you another sumptuous story in her miniseries SONS OF THE DESERT: THE SULTANS, Sleeping with the Sultan. And the talented Cindy Gerard brings you a touching love story about a man of honor pledged to marry an innocent young woman with a secret, in The Bridal Arrangement.

Treat yourself to all six of these tantalizing tales from Silhouette Desire.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Fortune’s Secret Daughter
Barbara McCauley

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

BARBARA MCCAULEY

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

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

Meet the Fortunes of Texas

Meet the Fortunes of Texas’s Lost Heirs—membership in this Texas family has its privileges and its price. As the family gathers to welcome its newest members, it discovers a murderer in its midst…and passionate new romances that only a true-bred Texas love can bring!

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Holly Douglas: She thought she’d run as far away as she could from the Fortune family and the dusty-dry Texas trailer park where she’d grown up. But fate and the handsome stranger she’d just rescued had their own agendas….

Guy Blackwolf: Built solid as a western red cedar, this pilot had yet to meet a female who could get the better of him. And then he went head-to-head with Mother Nature…and Holly Douglas!

Jonas Goodfellow: The Fortunes had opened their homes to this lost heir, but had he repaid their generosity by poisoning the family patriarch?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

One

The storm came on fast and hard, slapped at the tiny seaplane as if it were a pesky gnat instead of three thousand pounds of metal and man. Thunder boomed and a second assault on the plane tipped the nose dangerously downward. Metal groaned while the man swore, struggling to hold on to the wheel and stay in control.

“Come on, sweetheart, stay with me,” Guy Blackwolf hissed through clenched teeth. “We’ve seen worse than this.”

Thick clouds swallowed machine and man whole. A jagged bolt of lightning exploded not more than twenty feet from the plane’s left wing, momentarily turning Guy’s world a brilliant, blinding white. He blinked furiously, tightened his grip on the throttle and eased the plane’s nose level while the wind rocked the wings like a child’s teeter-totter.

“Steady, steady,” he coaxed with the patience of a lover. “That’s my girl.”

He knew he was close. He could see the tops of the trees thirty feet below and according to his instruments, Twin Pines Lake was two hundred feet ahead. Two more minutes and he’d be safe and sound, gliding smoothly over the water to shore.

He could do it. He would do it. He owed a friend a favor, and he refused to let anything—not even a miserable storm in the wilderness of Alaska—get in his way. Mother Nature might be one tough broad, but Guy Blackwolf had yet to meet a female that he’d let get the better of him.

The storm opened up like the jaws of a giant beast and closed around the plane, then gave a savage shake. The throttle shook fiercely under Guy’s hand, but he held firm, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. Just another hundred feet. Piece of cake, he told himself as he eased the plane down.

He gave a hoot of victory as he broke through the blanket of thick gray and the lake emerged below him. He spotted the dark blue Land Rover parked close to the north bank, knew that the woman was waiting for him. Well, not for him, he thought with a smile. She thought he was merely bringing supplies for her store. He’d let her keep thinking that, until he assessed the situation. She wasn’t going to like it, but when the moment was right, he’d tell her who he really was, and why he’d come.

He caught sight of the woman standing close to the shore, though he couldn’t make out her features or see her hair under the rain slicker she wore. He’d see soon enough, he thought and gently guided the plane lower.

Without warning, an explosion rocked the tail section of his plane and sent the machine into a downward tilt. Smoke filled the cockpit and the scent of burning metal choked the air. Guy swore hotly and frantically struggled with the controls. But it was no good.

He was going down, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Holly Douglas stared hard over the tops of the spruce trees, searching for the plane that she could hear, but couldn’t see. The storm had rolled in expectedly, one of those summer occurrences that were frequent enough to keep the land green and lush and the lake high, but not so frequent as to slow down anyone who lived here. Of all the things that the twelve hundred residents of Twin Pines didn’t need, it was to slow down. Life here moved at its own calm, steady pace.

At the sound of the approaching plane, Holly frowned. The rain had started to come down harder, pelting her slicker and sliding down the shiny yellow fabric. She winced at the flash of lightning from the south, then frowned. Definitely not a day to be out flying. Special order supplies came in on seaplanes every two weeks via Pelican Pilots, a Seattle-based company Holly had been using since she’d bought the general store three years ago. She even knew all the pilots by name.

Suddenly the plane shot out of the clouds in a downward spiral, engine sputtering and tail end smoking. It rose, then swept down again, heading straight for the lake. Horrified, Holly watched as the pilot managed to lift the nose at the last moment, but not enough to avoid a collision. The scream of ripping metal split the air as the plane bounced once off the water, then again before coming to a stop twenty feet from shore.

Heart pounding, Holly had her slicker off in two seconds, then her boots. She dived into the lake, gasped at the slap of frigid water and was at the plane in ten strong strokes. She yanked open the pilot’s door as the plane tipped dangerously on its side, threatening to suck man and machine under.

His hair was coal-black, one thick shock on his forehead matted with blood that streamed from a cut on his temple. Dazed, he grappled with his seat belt, but couldn’t seem to unbuckle himself.

“I’ve got it,” Holly yelled over the still sputtering engine and the boom of rolling thunder.

As she pulled herself up, he glanced at her with eyes as gray as the storm overhead. In one fluid movement, she brushed the man’s hands out of the way and had him unbuckled. None too gently, she grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him out of the smoking plane. He fell with a limp splash into the cold water, sputtered, then flung his arms weakly.

“Be still,” she yelled again and took off for shore, one hand tightly clutching the collar of his navy-blue shirt while she kicked her way back to land. He was tall and lean, built solid as a lumberjack, but in the water he floated behind her like a piece of thick driftwood.

She stumbled onto shore a few seconds later and dragged the pilot up onto the grassy bank. Out of the water he was a good two hundred pounds plus wet clothes and boots and she had to strain to pull him free of the lake. Gasping for breath, Holly fell to her knees beside the man. Rain pelted them, and she knew she had to get him out of the elements and into her Land Rover.

“Are you hurt?” she shouted over the storm.

His eyes were open, but glazed over and she wasn’t sure if he’d heard her. Blood still oozed from the gash on his temple, mixing with the rain as it ran down his face. She quickly ran her hands over his body, checking for broken bones or serious injuries. Lightning ripped through the thick clouds and struck not fifty feet away.

“We’ve got to get you into my car,” she yelled. “Can you walk?”

He nodded weakly, then rose on an elbow and nearly fell back again, but she caught him under the arm and braced her body against his. He stumbled to his knees, then stood on wobbly legs. Looping his arm around her shoulders, they staggered the few feet to the car and she yanked open the back seat door, then eased him onto the seat. They were both shivering from the wet and cold, and she reached for a wool blanket from behind the seat and tossed it over him.

“Hang on.” She tucked the edges of the blanket under him. “I’ll get you to Doc right away.”

“My plane,” he muttered faintly as he struggled to rise.

“Later.” She placed a hand on his arm to ease him back down. “Let’s just worry about you right now.”

He mumbled something unintelligible, then fell back onto the seat. His head rolled to one side and his eyes closed.

Teeth chattering, Holly jumped in the driver’s seat. She prayed the man’s injuries didn’t require a hospital. The closest one was fifty miles away. In this storm, it would take an hour and a half to get there. When the engine roared to life, she gunned it, spraying dirt and mud as she headed for the road back to town.

His first thought when he woke was that he’d kissed one too many shots of Quervo Gold at Manny’s Cantina the night before: the pounding in his skull, the searing pulse in his eyeballs, the lack of cooperation from his arms and legs when he struggled to sit. All indications that he’d had one hell of an evening at the bar where he spent most Friday nights. A fresh bolt of pain sliced his brain in half when he moved his head, and he gritted his teeth on a groan.

He really needed to find something else to do with his Friday nights, Guy thought. Something that didn’t require a bottle of extra-strength aspirin and three pots of coffee when he woke up the next morning.

“Hey—” Guy froze at the sound of the distinctly feminine whisper close to his ear “—you awake?”

Uh-oh. He never mixed Friday night drinking with women. It was important to be clearheaded around the female gender at all times, Guy believed. Words could be misconstrued and twisted, and a night of pleasure could suddenly become extremely complicated. He was always careful when he spent the night with a woman. At least, he had always been careful.

Slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes.

It took a moment for his vision to clear and make out the woman’s features. Delicate brows arched high over eyes the color of wild honey, the irises rimmed with a circle of dark brown. Her lashes were thick and long, the same deep shade of fire-brown as her wavy, shoulder-length hair. His gaze settled on her mouth and in spite of the pounding in his head, he couldn’t help but admire the wide, soft lips only inches from his own. Her skin was smooth and pale, the narrow bridge of her straight nose sprinkled with freckles.

She smelled like…disinfectant?

Disinfectant? He frowned. Strange, but who was he to argue with a woman who liked to clean? If he’d really gotten lucky, maybe she liked to cook, too.

He had no idea who she was or where she’d come from, but he certainly could have done worse. What the hell. He’d always believed in making the best of a situation, hadn’t he? Now all he had to do was make his arm obey his brain and reach for her…

“Mr. Blackwolf,” she said softly, those beautiful eyes of hers narrowing with concern. “How are you feeling?”

Mr. Blackwolf? Somehow he doubted that she’d be so formal if he’d…if they’d…

He glanced around the room. Not his bedroom, he realized. Or anyone’s bedroom for that matter. He wasn’t even in a bed. He was lying on some kind of vinyl-cushioned table. In an office. A doctor’s office.

That’s when he remembered.

His fantasy shattered, he slammed his eyes shut and groaned.

“I’ll get the doctor.”

“No.” He managed the single word through desert-dry lips. “Wait.”

He opened his eyes again, watched her hesitate.

“My plane,” he said hoarsely.

“Quincy towed it out of the lake.” She stepped closer, frowned at him. “Let’s just worry about you right now, shall we?”

“Well, since I seem to be alive and in one piece, there’s not much to worry about, is there?” He rose on one elbow, winced at the movement, then swung his legs around and sat. When the room started to spin, he grabbed the edge of the table.

“Spoken like a real man.” She shook her head at him and smiled. “Just be careful if you beat that chest of yours, Tarzan. With two bruised ribs, it might smart a little.”

Damn. He rubbed at his chest. It did feel as if an elephant had done a tap dance on top of him. When the room finally righted itself again, he narrowed his gaze at the woman. The image of a slender hand unbuckling his seat belt flashed in his mind, the sound of someone yelling at him over the thundering storm, then the press of a feminine body against his, forcing him to walk.

Holly Douglas.

Well, fate certainly did have a strange sense of humor, he thought wryly. He’d come here to change this woman’s life and she’d ended up saving his. He just might laugh if he wasn’t certain it would hurt.

The ends of her hair were still damp, he noted, though her clothes were dry. She’d obviously changed. He glanced down at what he was wearing. Or should he say, what he wasn’t wearing. The thin blue cotton hospital gown he had on barely covered his thighs. And underneath, the only thing he wore was skin. Terrific. He was not only weak as a kitten, he was practically naked. Not exactly the scenario he’d envisioned as their first meeting.

“Well, Miss Douglas, it seems that you have me at a disadvantage. If you could just bring me my—”

“How did you know my name?”

It seemed as though all her senses had gone on alert. Her eyes narrowed sharply, the smile that had played on her lips faded.

Dammit. He wasn’t ready to tell her who he really was or why he was here. Especially now, under these circumstances.

“Who else would be out in a storm waiting for a shipment but the person who placed the order?” He shrugged, did his best to ignore the pain that shot through his shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d really like my clothes.”

Her shoulders relaxed, then she turned and moved toward a chair in the corner of the room. In spite of the throbbing ache that started at his temple and ended with his toes, Guy couldn’t help but admire the snug fit of denim over the woman’s behind and the long stretch of shapely legs. And to say he hadn’t noticed the gentle curve of breasts under her navy turtleneck sweater would be a big lie, too. Hell, he might be hurting, but he wasn’t dead.

“Your shirt had blood on it and your jeans were ripped.” She picked up a brown paper shopping bag off the chair and brought it to him. “I brought some clothes from my store that ought to fit you. But you really should wait until Doc gets back before you try anything too physical.”

He glanced in the bag at the new jeans and blue flannel shirt. “Thanks. I’ll take my chances.”

“I threw in some boxers, too.”

He looked at her, saw a hint of a smile on those gorgeous lips of hers, wondered if she’d guessed he wore boxers, or had found out firsthand. Someone had obviously undressed him, and she had been the one to bring him in…

He decided he didn’t want to know. What he wanted to know, was when he could get the hell out of here.

“Miss Douglas—” He started to stand, determined to get dressed with or without an audience, but the second his feet hit the gray speckled tile floor, his legs buckled. She moved quickly, had her arms around his waist before he went down.

“Holly.” She sucked in a breath, held him steady. “It’s kind of a rule of mine that all the men I pull from burning planes and buy underwear for call me by my first name.”

Her arms felt nice around him. Very nice. Firm, but warm and soft. But her arms weren’t the only thing that felt nice. Her breasts were also pressed against his chest. And like her arms, they were also firm, but warm and soft. His bruised ribs didn’t seem to mind the pressure one little bit. The faint scent of strawberries and something else…mint, he realized, drifted from her damp hair and though he knew it wasn’t wise, he simply let himself enjoy the moment. Holly.

Holly knew that she should let go of the man. He seemed to be standing on his own just fine now and didn’t need her assistance any longer. But she really couldn’t be certain, could she? And besides, if he did fall, she’d have one hell of a time getting him up off the floor by herself. He was a good six-foot-three, at least seven or eight inches taller than she was. Built solid as a Western red cedar. So she held on, just another moment or two, she told herself, until she was sure he was all right.

He still had the scent of the storm on him, she noticed, and his skin radiated heat with the intensity of a wood furnace. It had been a long time since she’d had her arms around a man—a nearly naked man at that—and against her wishes, her body reacted to the touch of male against female with a mind of its own.

“It seems that I owe you a thank you—again,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.” She heard the breathless quality in her voice, felt her cheeks warm at her foolishness. She was just feeling responsible for the man, that was all, she told herself. He’d nearly died, for heaven’s sake. Emotions were running a little high.

And still she didn’t move.

He didn’t move, either.

She heard the thud of his heart under her ear, felt the rock-hard muscle of his chest against her cheek. His large hands were splayed over her back, and suddenly Holly wasn’t certain who was holding who up. “You all right now?”

“Fine.” His breath skimmed the top of her head. “Just fine.”

“Well, okay, then I suppose we should—”

The office door opened at that moment and Dr. Eaton—“Doc” to the people of Twin Pines—walked into the room. He was the only doctor in town, a youthful version of St. Nick without the beard: sparkling blue eyes under round wired spectacles, rosy cheeks, thick white hair he wore pulled back into a ponytail. The man even had a jolly laugh. When he glanced up from the file in his hands and took in the sight of Holly embracing his most recent patient, he raised one bushy eyebrow.

“Well,” Doc said as he moved into the room, “looks like someone’s feeling better.”

Not certain if the doctor was referring to her or his patient, Holly shoved away from Guy. He gave a grunt of pain at the sudden movement, then gripped the edge of the table to steady himself.

“He insists on getting up and dressed,” she explained quickly. A little too quickly. She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Maybe he’ll listen to you, Doc.”

“If you couldn’t convince him, I can’t imagine he’d listen to an old geezer like me.” Doc smiled at Guy. “How’s that head of yours feeling?”

“Like my bungee cord snapped.” Guy scooted back up on the table.

Dr. Eaton chuckled. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Blackwolf. Very few men survive a plane crash with little more than a few stitches in their head and a couple of bruised ribs.” He pulled a slender, silver flashlight out of his white coat pocket and turned it on. “’Course, tomorrow you’re also going to be ten different shades of black and blue. Look at the light here, please, and follow with your eyes only.”

While Dr. Eaton examined Guy, Holly stood back, hands still shoved into her back pockets. She told herself to keep her eyes on the table in the corner where Doc kept clear glass containers of cotton balls and swabs and latex gloves. But her gaze kept drifting to a pair of bare legs that dangled over the edge of the table.

How could a woman ignore such blatant masculinity? She’d seen her share of male legs before; she was hardly a blushing teenager. But Blackwolf’s legs were extraordinary. Long and powerful, thighs and calves defined by well-honed muscles, a lightning bolt-shaped scar that ran upward from his right knee and disappeared under the gown he wore. And while the doctor tested the pilot’s reflexes, Holly found herself wondering just how far up his thigh the scar continued and what sort of injury had caused it.

And as her gaze swept down again, she also wondered—just for a moment—what that light sprinkling of coarse, dark hair might feel like against her own smooth legs. She chided herself at such a thought, but for heaven’s sake, what harm did a little wondering ever do? He had nice feet, too, she noted. Large, with straight, smooth toes and clipped nails.

“Holly?”

“What?” The single word came out as a guilty squeak. Her heart jumped, and she jerked her gaze up at the sound of her name. Both Blackwolf and Doc were staring at her. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

“I asked if you’d mind calling Russ over at the lodge. Mr. Blackwolf will need a room where he can rest a few days before he heads back to Seattle and both rooms here at clinic are already occupied.”

“Oh, sure.”

She closed the door behind her on her way to the outer office, but not before she caught a glimpse of Blackwolf shrugging out of his gown so the doctor could check his ribs. At the brief sight of the pilot’s broad, muscled chest—complete with the same coarse, dark hair as she’d seen on his legs—Holly’s pulse skipped.

No question about it, Holly thought as she picked up the phone and punched buttons. Guy Blackwolf was one fine specimen of a man.

She spoke to Russ at the lodge, Ned at the Hardware Store, Clay at the sheriff’s office, then Quincy at the auto repair shop and Mitch Walker, who owned a small construction company just outside of Twin Pines.

No luck.

With a sigh, Holly stared at the closed examination room door.”

Like it or not, saving Guy Blackwolf had made him her responsibility.

Two

How in the world was a five-foot-eight, one-hundred-twenty-pound woman supposed to get an injured, six-foot-three, two-hundred-pound, solid-muscled man up twenty steps of stairs?

Slowly, Holly decided as she parked her car behind her store. Through the light mist of rain enveloping her windshield, she frowned at the steep redwood planks leading to her apartment.

“Here we are.” She shut off her car’s engine and looked at her passenger. He had a bandage over the stitches on his temple, and his right eye looked as if it had waltzed into an angry logger’s fist. He looked wounded, ruggedly handsome and just a touch dangerous. “Think you can make it up those stairs?”

He glanced at the steps. “Piece of cake.”

“Right.” She slid out of the driver’s seat, thankful that the earlier downpour had settled into a heavy drizzle. She came around the car, frowned when she saw he’d already opened the door and stepped out before she could reach him. She sucked in a breath when his knees started to buckle, watched as he grasped the edge of the door to steady himself.

“Maybe I should go get some help,” she said warily.

He shook his head. “Just give me a second. I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine at all, she thought, though she had to admit he looked extremely fine in the clothes she’d brought him. The jeans were snug around his lean hips, the blue flannel shirt cut across his broad shoulders as if it had been tailor-made for him. She’d brought him boots, as well, but they’d been too small, so he’d had to wear the same ones he’d had on when she’d pulled him out of the plane and into the lake.

And now, with no place else for him to go, she was bringing him home.

Resigned to her fate, she slipped an arm around his waist, felt the heat of his body against hers. “You ready?”

He nodded, draped an arm around her shoulders. “You really don’t have to do this, you know. There’s got to be a bed or sofa somewhere in this town I can crash on for a couple of days.”

“Like I told you back at Doc’s office, the lodge is full of tourists in for the fishing season and the storm stranded a group of backpackers from Anchorage.” She paused at the foot of the stairs, shifted her weight. “At the moment, there isn’t an empty bed in town. Here we go. Let’s take it slow and easy, one step at a time.”

They made it halfway up the steps when she felt him sway slightly. She’d never be able to hold him if he went down. They’d both end up in a pile at the bottom of the stairs. She almost wished she had accepted Doc’s offer to help.

“Don’t you dare quit on me when the going gets tough.” She tightened her hold and shoved him toward the next step. “There’s a warm bed and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s at the top of these stairs. Now move it.”

“Words to heat a man’s blood, darlin’,” he muttered, but the tight set of his strong jaw and the death grip he had on her shoulders told Holly that doing the wild thing was the last thing he had on his mind.

They were both soaked by the time they reached the top of the steps. Holly yanked the door open and they stumbled into her living room, dripping water on her brown tiled entry. She maneuvered Guy to the small sofa in the center of the room and dumped him there. They were both breathing heavy.

“I’m all wet.” He started to rise, but she pushed gently on his shoulders and eased him back.

“It’s leather,” she said. “A little water won’t hurt it. You just stay right there.”

Her apartment was small, a cozy one-bedroom with hardwood floors, knotty pine walls and a floor-to-ceiling river stone fireplace. She’d loved it the moment she’d laid eyes on it, even though the dirt and dust had been a foot thick and the current residents, a family of gray squirrels, had protested angrily at her intrusion. She’d scrubbed the place spotless, learned how to replace broken water pipes and cracked tile, seal a leaky roof, repair cabinet drawers. Over the next several months she’d slowly made it her own: an old pie safe from a local flea market she’d stenciled leaves on, a tiny oak kitchen table and two ladder-back chairs she’d stripped and restained, a pine wooden crate that had once shipped cans of salmon was now an end table for her sofa.

She was as far as she could be from the tiny, dust-dry Texas trailer park where her mother had raised her. And still, she thought, it wasn’t far enough. But she felt more at home here in Twin Pines than she had anywhere else. For the first time in her life, she was happy.

She loved everything about the small, back country town. No one had to prove themselves to anyone here. No one judged or criticized or set impossible standards.

Not that the town was immune to gossip, of course. Gossip was the number one pastime in Twin Pines, and several of the residents had turned it into an art form. When the auxiliary ladies met on Wednesday afternoons at Holly’s general store, the gathering was more of a theater performance than a meeting, each lady attempting to outdo the next with a current little tidbit of hearsay. Stories were embellished and acted out with dramatic enthusiasm, and though the truth might be stretched, the tales were never malicious or hurtful. And Holly knew that in spite of all the talk, there wasn’t a resident in Twin Pines who wouldn’t be there for their neighbor if they were needed.

Three years ago she wouldn’t have believed that such a place existed. Or that she could ever be a part of it. But it did exist and she was a part of it, she thought with a smile. Twin Pines was her life now. The town, the people, her store. The kids at Twin Pines’ Elementary she read stories to every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. She wouldn’t trade or give up one little part of any of that. Not for anything or anyone.

She hurried to her hall cupboard and grabbed a handful of towels, then came back into the living room and tossed one at him as she bent down and reached for his boots. “We’ve got to get your clothes off and get you in bed.”

“So I did die.” Smiling, he laid his head back and closed his eyes. “And this is heaven. Ouch!”

His eyes flew open again when she yanked his wet boot off. “Or maybe not,” he said, frowning. She smiled sweetly and turned her attention to his other foot.

“Dry your hair, Blackwolf.” She pulled on his second boot, but it clung stubbornly. She pulled harder and finally it came free with a sucking pop. “And take off that shirt.”

“I’m kinda shy. Maybe if you took yours off first, I’d feel more comfortable.”

Holly arched a brow at him as she glanced up. The glint in his pale gray eyes was mischievous, but his face was pasty-white, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

“Blackwolf…” she warned.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he muttered and reached for the towel she’d tossed at him.

She was torn between laughing at him or scowling. She doubted he had enough strength to make it to the bed, let alone pursue any lustful fantasies. And it was just about time for the pain medication Doc had given him to kick in, as well. If she didn’t get him to bed soon, he’d be out cold on her sofa.

She watched his feeble attempts to unbutton his shirt, then finally brushed his hands aside. “Let me.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re bossy?” he complained, but settled back on the sofa while her fingers quickly moved down the front of his shirt.

“All the time.” Gently she tugged his shirt from the waistband of his jeans and slid the garment off, resisted the urge to press her fingers to the angry red welt that slashed across his broad chest. She held out a hand to him. “Up you go.”

He took her hand, but instead of rising, he tugged her down next to him. The amusement was gone from his eyes now. “You’ve already gone above and beyond, Holly,” he said quietly. “I’ll just crash here on your couch until the morning.”

“The last time you crashed, Mr. Blackwolf, I had to drag you out of a smoking plane.” His hand was large, his palm callused and rough. The strength that radiated from him surprised her, as did the heat spreading up her arm into her body. She ignored that heat and concentrated instead on the task at hand, which was getting him to bed.

“You have a mild concussion and bruised ribs.” She leveled a stern, schoolteacher’s gaze at him. “By tomorrow you’re going to have aches and pains in places you didn’t know you could have aches and pains. You need a bed to sleep in, with a real mattress and lots of quiet. If you sleep out here, you’ll be in my way. I’m up early for work, and I don’t want to have to worry about waking you up.”

Still holding his hand, she stood. “Now are you going to get in my bed or do I have to get rough?”

“To think I used to fantasize a girl would say that to me,” he said wistfully.

On a grimace he rose and once again she slipped an arm around his waist and guided him to the bedroom. He leaned against her, all hard muscle and warm skin, and in spite of herself, she felt her pulse rush at the contact.

“Sit here.” She pulled the white down comforter covering her bed out of the way and helped him sit on the edge of the mattress.

He glanced from the pink floral pillows on her bed to the square mauve throw rug on the hardwood floor. A white wicker chair in the corner held an assortment of antique porcelain dolls and one overstuffed, battered-looking bear. “Nice teddy.”

Shaking her head, she moved to the window. At this time of year it never really got dark and blinds were necessary to separate day from night. “The bathroom’s at the end of the hall. I’ll put out a razor and toothbrush for you to use when you’re ready. Towels are in the hall cupboard and—”

When she turned back to look at him, she forgot what she was going to say. Even in the semidarkness, the sight of him sitting on the edge of her bed, his chest and feet bare, his dark hair damp and rumpled, was so personal, so…intimate, she quite literally lost her breath.

“And what?”

“And…as soon as you’re feeling strong enough to shower, you can help yourself to shampoo and soap,” she finished, though she didn’t think that was what she’d started to say. She moved to her dresser and busied herself in the top drawer, pulled out clothes she’d need later and in the morning.

“By the way,” he said as he slipped under the covers. “Do I have to worry about some guy named Moose or Bear walking in here and misunderstanding why some strange man is sleeping in your bed?”

“If you’re asking if I have a jealous boyfriend—” she rooted through her underwear drawer “—the answer is no.”

The fact was, she’d never even had a man in her bedroom before, unless she counted Lester, the seventy-year-old carpenter who’d replaced the window opposite the bed with a gothic leaded glass window she’d found from a demolished Orthodox Russian church in Sitka. And Keegan Bodine. He’d delivered and set up the cherrywood headboard she’d bought from Auntie M’s Antiques and Ammunition on Third and Main. Keegan was an outback guide in Twin Pines, thirty-two, single, good-looking. But he was just a friend. A good friend but nothing more.

Alaska was full of men like Keegan. Rugged, healthy, robust men looking for a woman. One day Holly assumed she’d find the right one and settle down, but for now, she preferred to keep her relationships simple and she wasn’t looking for love. Not the one-night kind or the permanent kind. At this moment, she loved her life just as it was: busy and full and no complications.

“What about you?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him. Once again, the sight of his long body stretched out in her bed made her breath catch. She quickly looked away.

“I definitely don’t have a boyfriend,” he said with a yawn. “Or any other entanglements, either.”

She heard the heavy sound of his breathing and quietly crept toward the door. Entanglements. A strange, but appropriate word, she thought, and paused by the doorway to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest. Let herself wonder for just a moment what those honed muscles would feel like under her fingers, what that body would feel like—

“Hey, Holly?”

She jumped at the husky, sleep-heavy sound of his voice. Guilt warmed her cheeks.

“He warned me you were difficult.” His words were slurred, barely intelligible. “He didn’t warn me you were so damn sexy.”

He rolled away from her then and this time she was certain he was out.

He warned me you were difficult?

Who had warned him? Doc? Or maybe Quincy had said that to Guy when he’d called over to the garage and asked about his plane. But that didn’t really make sense, either, she thought, shaking her head. Maybe it was just the drugs and exhaustion talking and his comment was nothing more than gibberish.

That was probably it, she decided as she quietly closed the bedroom door behind her. Difficult, my foot. She frowned. She wasn’t difficult. At least, not unreasonably.

She paused, stared at the closed bedroom door.

He didn’t warn me you were so damn sexy.

Those words made her blood warm. More gibberish? she wondered. Or had he meant it?

More than likely, he said that to all the women. And no doubt, with this man, there was a long line of swooning females.

Sexy? Her?

She looked at her jeans and boots, the turtleneck she wore. He certainly hadn’t been referring to her clothes. Her hair was a mess from her dive in the lake, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. So what could he possibly think was sexy about her?

She laughed at her own foolishness. The man had a head injury, for heaven’s sake. He was delirious. For all he knew, she could be Olive Oyl. And what did it matter anyway? He’d be gone in a few days after he recuperated, and since he wasn’t a regular with the company who normally flew in shipments, she’d probably never see him again.

Shaking her head, she pushed all thoughts of Guy Blackwolf from her mind. She’d already lost nearly an entire day’s work. She was bone-tired, but she still had orders to fill and bills to pay. And if there was one thing she’d learned growing up, money sure as hell didn’t fall out of the sky.

Guy dreamed of double-double hamburgers, hot, greasy French fries and rich, thick chocolate shakes with whipped cream and a big, fat cherry on top. He had the burger in one hand, the shake in the other. On a sigh, he bit into the juicy meat, but suddenly it turned to shredded cardboard in his mouth. He took a gulp of the shake, but that also had the consistency of powdery sawdust.

He woke on a hoarse cough, felt a searing pain in his chest, then blinked hard and remembered where he was. In Holly Douglas’s bedroom.

In her bed.

When she found out who he really was and what he was doing here, no doubt he’d be sleeping on the street.

Rising on an elbow, he reached for the glass of water on the bedstand. For the past two days, every time he’d awakened, there’d been a full glass there. He downed the water, then sank back onto the pillows. His chest burned and his head throbbed, but for the first time in two days, his mind was beginning to clear.

He’d felt, more than actually seen her presence since he’d tumbled into her bed. A soft rustle, a quiet whisper. Once or twice, the cool touch of her fingers on his forehead. And even when she wasn’t in the room, he’d known that she’d been there by the faint smell of strawberries and wild mint, mixed with a scent that belonged to her alone.

He’d slipped in and out of sleep, managed to muster up just enough strength to stumble back and forth to the bathroom on his own, but that was it. He’d given his body the rest that it had needed. But now, ready or not, he was getting out of bed.

And, as the saying went, he was hungry enough to eat a bear.

Since he probably smelled like a bear, though, he thought it best to tackle a shower before food. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then dropped his bare feet onto the cool hardwood floor. When the room stopped moving, he rose, tugged on his jeans, grabbed the blue flannel shirt she’d given him to wear and made his way to the bathroom.

Her blue-tiled shower was small, the nozzle too low for a man his height, but the water was hot and the pressure strong. The familiar scent of strawberries filled the bathroom—her shampoo, he realized, and couldn’t help himself from taking a whiff of the bottle sitting on the shower shelf. As much as he enjoyed the smell, he appreciated the unscented shampoo and fresh bar of green deodorant soap she’d left out for him on the sink countertop. A guy couldn’t very well go around smelling like strawberries, after all.

He brushed his teeth, shaved, and except for the fact that every bone in his body ached, he nearly felt human again. Now the most pressing problem was the empty pit in his stomach.

On his way to the kitchen, though, he spotted the phone on the table beside her sofa. He needed to call Flynn and give the man an update on the situation here, but hadn’t had an opportunity since he’d dumped his plane into the lake. With Holly gone, there was no better time than now.

Guy glanced around the quiet apartment. His brain had been muddled when she’d brought him in here that first day, and he hadn’t gotten a good look at the place. The furnishings were simple, but comfortable, a blend of woodsy and feminine, old and new. There were several books on a shelf beside the fireplace. Mysteries, biographies and romance, plus a new Jonathan Kellerman he’d bought himself last week but hadn’t had time to read. There were also several children’s books, which he found curious. From what Flynn had told him, she’d never been married. Of course, that certainly didn’t preclude her from having a child, but it was obvious that none lived here.

He picked up the phone, used his calling card to dial the Texas number, then sat down on the sofa, ignoring the pain that shot through his right leg when he bent his knee.

A deep, familiar voice answered on the third ring.

“Hey, Dog-Man.” From the day Flynn Sinclair had brought Guy’s older sister, Susan, a black labrador, Guy had used the nickname. “What’s up?”

“Dammit, B.W., where the hell have you been?” Flynn growled, using his own nickname for Guy. “You were supposed to call me when you got to Twin Pines.”

“Small problem.” Guy glanced at a stack of opened mail on the table beside the sofa, let his gaze linger longer than anyone would consider polite. A late notice from an insurance company and a bill from a credit card company with overdue fees lay on top. “I’ve been laid up in bed for a couple of days.”

“Yeah?” Flynn snorted. “Knowing you, there’s a female involved. So what’s her name?”

“Holly Douglas.”

There was a pause, then a blast. “What! Dammit, B.W., I sent you there to bring the woman back to Texas to meet her family, not jump into her bed.”

Guy settled back, decided to let Flynn stew for a bit. “I’m only human, pal. Before I could even think to say no, she had me out of my clothes and between the sheets.”

While Flynn went on to rant at him, Guy sort of peeked at the rest of Holly’s mail. An unopened letter with Ryan Fortune’s return address in one corner and another bill from the electric company, also late.

After a couple of minutes, the other end of the line went quiet. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?” Flynn said with a heavy sigh. “And I fell for it.”

“Hook, line and sinker.” Guy grinned, noticed a small, fat pillow on the sofa that said Home Sweet Home. “But I’m actually the one who fell. Out of the sky, into Twin Pines Lake. Miss Douglas graciously pulled me out of my plane before I became fish bait.”

He went on to give details as best he could, including the twist of fate that now had him sleeping in the bed of the woman who had brought him here. And though Flynn argued, Guy told him that he wasn’t leaving Twin Pines until Holly Douglas agreed to come back to Texas with him.

“You better tell her the truth soon,” Flynn said. “As it is, she might ship you back here in little pieces with a bow on top, just to emphasize the point that she wants nothing to do with the Fortune family.”

“I’ll tell her. I just think it’s something I should ease into, rather than jump with both feet.” Guy heard footsteps coming up the stairs. “Gotta, go, pal.”

He had the phone back on the hook and just managed to make it to the kitchen when she walked in the front door. She’d done something different with her thick chestnut hair, he noted, casually piled it on top of her head and secured it with a large tortoise-shell clip. She wore a light blue denim jacket over a snug white top, jeans that hugged her slender hips and black suede lace-up hiking boots.

There wasn’t one item of clothing that by itself would remotely be considered sexy, and still he felt his pulse jump. He couldn’t help but wonder what he might find under all that smooth denim and cotton. More cotton? Lace?

Silk, he decided, watching her close the door behind her. Something in the way she moved. Smooth as silk.

She caught sight of him in the kitchen and hesitated, then narrowed those golden lady-tiger eyes at him.

“You better talk fast, Blackwolf,” she said tightly and advanced on him.

Guy’s gaze dropped to the black leather sports bag she held in her left hand. His bag. He hadn’t needed it before, but she’d obviously retrieved it from the plane. He struggled to remember what he kept packed in there. A couple of T-shirts, fresh pair of jeans, some toiletries. A paperback, but he couldn’t recall which one. Nothing he could think of that would give him away.

She set the bag on the kitchen table and folded her arms. “You’ve got some explaining to do, mister, and it better be good.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.