Chapter One

Lily Morrisette paudsed with her water glass suspended halfway to her lips as she stared in fascination at the big man letting himself in through the kitchen door. The granite tiles beneath her feet were smooth, and around her, the huge Laguna Beach oceanfront house was silent, the only sound the distant ticking of the antique mission clock in the living room. Cool, salt breezes with an underlying hint of April flowers blew in on the man's wake. But cool wasn't the first word to pop to Lily's mind. He had to be about the hottest thing she'd ever clapped eyes on.

She knew who he was, of course, from the photographs Glynnis Taylor had shown her. But none of those came close to doing him justice, and Lily was caught flatfooted by the sheer impact of his physical presence. He was six feet of dark and dangerous -- you could tell the latter just by the way he held himself.As for the rest -- the midnight-black hair and dark jaw stubble, the long legs, and those wide shoulders straining the navy material of his T-shirt -- well, heck, it was overkill, pure and simple.

Lily considered pouring her glass of water where it would do the most good to cool her down. She didn't, naturally, but holy petunia. She'd finally met her fantasy man in the flesh.

Then he opened his mouth and wrecked the illusion. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, swinging an olive-drab duffle bag off his shoulder and down to the tiled floor. "And what are you doing in my kitchen? Where's Glynnis?"

His eyes were a clear, pale gray, the irises ringed in charcoal. Intense and unflinching, they narrowed between thick, dark lashes to rake over her, taking in her thin cotton, peppermint ice cream–colored drawstring pajama bottoms and tank top. The scrutiny served to remind Lily of every one of the extra ten pounds she could never seem to shed, no matter what. She set her glass down on the countertop with a sharp click, but refrained from responding in kind to his rudeness.

"You must be Zach." She stepped forward, extending her hand to Glynnis's brother. "She's away right now, but I'm Lily -- Lily Morrisette. I've heard a lot about you since I started renting a room here."

"The hell you say," he growled, ignoring her proffered hand. His voice was so deep she could practically feel its vibration through the soles of her feet, the way she always registered the bass thumping from the car of the teenage boy who lived down the block whenever he drove past. It was also nearly as frigid as those iceberg eyes of his when he continued, "Glynnis has always been a sucker for every con artist with a sad story to tell, but I didn't think she'd go so far as to actually install one in our house while I was gone."

"Excuse me?"

"I hope you got whatever you were angling for while the opportunity was ripe, lady." His gaze was so scornful it took all Lily's starch not to recoil. "But don't let that shapely little ass get too comfortable, because the free ride is officially over. Go pack your bags."

He thought her bottom was shapely? And little? Then she gave herself a sharp mental shake. Good God, what was the matter with her? His opinion of her butt was hardly the point. Straightening her shoulders, she tipped up her chin. "No," she said firmly, and crossed her arms over her breasts.

"What?" He went very still, as if no one ever contradicted him.

Perhaps no one ever did, Lily surmised, recalling that he was some hotshot Marine who specialized in reconnaissance missions. Then his mouth went hard, and part of her attention got distracted by the thin white scar that bisected his upper lip.

Funny the difference a few minutes and an...

The wail of country music and the bar's smoky, beery smell hit Veronica Davis like a smack upside the head the moment she pushed through the Baker Street Honky Tonk's door. It immediately took her back, bombarding her with a raft of memories.

None of them wonderful.

Stopping just inside the doorway, she drew a couple of deep, carefully controlled breaths and watched a thin haze of smoke drift by on the current she'd created. It wafted and eddied, taking on the multi-colored hues of the neon liquor signs that passed for decor in the dimly lit bar. Votive candles in what she'd swear were the same smoke-smudged glass containers that had been there twelve years ago flickered in the center of each table.

There was a momentary lull while the jukebox switched to a new song. Voices rose and fell, balls clacked at the pool table in the corner, and glasses clinked as a waitress gathered empties from a recently vacated table and stacked them on a tray. A flash of panic threatened to stop the breath in Veronica's lungs, and she forcibly reminded herself that this was merely a brief visit to introduce herself to the new bartender/manager Marissa had hired and to get a quick overview of how the bar was doing. She hadn't worked here for years and didn't intend to ever again, so there was no earthly reason to feel as if she should turn tail and run.

As the waitress balanced the tray of empties in one hand and leaned across the table to wipe up a spill, Veronica remembered only too well how perpetually sticky the tables seemed to remain, no matter how often you washed them. She remembered, too, as a raucous group of men at another table made lewd remarks about the way the waitress filled out her jeans, the constant nerve-wearing commentary.

Oh God. Considering the circumstances that had brought her back to Fossil, she hadn't thought her stomach could possibly feel more chewed up than it already did. But she'd been wrong. While she'd never forgotten what it was like to dodge the free and easy hands of drunken men, it had been a long time since she'd had to deal with it, and its gut-churning immediacy had long ago faded.

But it all came rushing back as she watched one of the men take advantage of the waitress' occupied hands to grab her bottom. An old, familiar taste of impotent fury flooded Veronica's mouth as he grinned at his friends and gave the rounded cheek beneath his palm a squeeze. Incensed, she started forward.

She stopped dead, however, when the waitress's loaded tray dropped to the tabletop with a horrendous crash. It caught the side of the candle holder, which skittered across the table but luckily stopped before it toppled over the edge."That does it!" The cocktail waitress's furious voice rang clear in the sudden cessation of conversation and, reaching back, she raked crimson inch long fingernails across the man's hand, then whirled to face him as the hand jerked back.

The drunk yelped in outrage and surged to his feet, sending his chair clattering across the floor. "You bitch!" Droplets of blood began to form in the raw scratches across his hand and he stared at them incredulously. Then, making a fist, he drew it back as if to strike her.

A strangled protest slipping up her throat, Veronica tried to get to the woman's side. But before she could push past the patrons who'd climbed to their feet for a better view of the ruckus, a deep male voice roared out.

"Knock it off!"

Like everyone else, she stopped dead, arrested by the sheer authority that had an entire bar freezing in its tracks.

Then she saw the person responsible for it and simply stared....

Chapter One

Catherine MacPherson's first impulse, when the doorbell rang, was to ignore it. She wasn't feeling particularly sociable.

Self-pity, on the other hand, was such an unattractive trait, and one that filled her with guilt-in spite of the permission she'd given herself to take one full day to wallow in her misfortune. The doorbell pealed again, relentlessly, insistently, and in the end, years of self-discipline won out. She went to answer the summons.

The last person she expected to see on her front steps was her identical twin. "Kaylee," she said blankly, and simply stood there for an instant, staring dumbfounded at her sister.

"Surprise!" Kaylee exclaimed in the breathy contralto she'd perfected when they were fifteen years old. With the shoulder strap of her purse sliding down her arm, her suitcase ricocheting off the doorjamb, breasts jiggling, she tripped into the foyer. Dropping luggage and handbag, she flung herself at Catherine, enveloping her in a lush and fragrant embrace.

Catherine's arms automatically closed around her sister to return the hug, but she couldn't suppress the little voice in her brain that whispered, Uh-oh. I smell big trouble in River City. Patting Kaylee's shoulder, she disentangled herself from the embrace and stepped back.

Kaylee's gaze took in the foyer and she peered into the living room, then looked back at Catherine, one eyebrow sardonically quirked. "Ever the Suzy Spotless, I see," she commented with lazy amusement. "A place for everything, and everything in its place."

It was like having a bruise poked with a careless finger, and Catherine replied stiffly, "Actually, it's much neater than usual. I was supposed to leave for Europe last night, but when I arrived at the airport, I discovered my travel agency had gone bankrupt and taken my money with them."

"Ouch," Kaylee sympathized.

"I saved forever for that trip, Kaylee." Catherine's chin wobbled for an instant but she summoned her resolve, biting down hard on her molars until she had herself under control once more.

"Yeah, that's tough luck," Kaylee said. Then she shrugged and added blithely, "But you'll get it straightened out, Sis. You always do." Picking up a fragile sculpture from the little table in the foyer, she studied it dispassionately for a moment, then looked over at her sister. "The thing is, Catherine"—she carefully replaced the sculpture—"I'm in really big trouble, myself."

Oh, hey now, there's a huge surprise. It just popped into Catherine's mind, and yes, she knew such sarcasm spoke ill of her own character, but she just couldn't seem to work up a decent regret. It wasn't an accident that she lived as far away from her sister as it was possible to get in the contiguous United States.

For as long as Catherine could remember, it had fallen to her to take care of family problems. She could never quite recall how the responsibility had come to be hers, but most likely it boiled down to one basic fact. Before anything could be accomplished, someone first had to be willing to do itand no one else in her family ever volunteered. Her father had usually been off chasing one of his getrich-quick schemes, letting the devil-and everyone else take the hindmost. Mama had been deaf and perennially immersed in her fundamentalist church group, only emerging from it long enough to admonish Catherine and Kaylee about the dangers of displaying their sinful bodies. Warnings of that nature had been issued with numbing regularity, but day-to-day problems had somehow been ignored. It had been left to Catherine to see that the...

Chapter One

Juliet Rose Astor Lowell paused in the shade of the marble columns outside the Eighth District Police Station and discreetly blotted her forehead with the back of her wrist. Drawing in a deep breath, she softly expelled it. Lord, it was hot. And so humid. just the short walk from the airconditioned limo left her feeling limp. She peeled a clinging yard of voile away from her thighs and gave her dress a delicate shake to promote air circulation. She'd been in New Orleans less than an hour, and already things were entirely different than she'd envisioned when she left Boston.

But that was mostly due to this unscheduled stop. She had thought to have the tiniest bit more freedom down here; it seemed a small enough thing to wish for. After all, she was away from Grandmother's rigid constraints, in a city whose name was synonymous with enjoyment, and whose inhabitants certainly had no preconceived expectations of her as an Astor Lowell. And it wasn't as if she'd planned a wild spree of dancing naked across tabletops, for heaven's sake—she'd simply wanted to loosen the ever-present restraints a bit. just enough to take a really deep breath.

But even that was to be denied her. Once again Father had arranged matters without bothering to consult her, dropping this little bombshell as a fait accompli over the limo phone. Crown Hotels had received a letter protesting the opening of the New Orleans Garden Crown. He'd read it to her over the phone, and if it had struck her as more an ardent treatise against the bastardization of a historic landmark than a threat, that simply didn't signify. Father wanted police protection for her, so here she was, all choice removed from her control. She pulled open the door and entered the building.

Her ears were still attuned to the crisp accents of New England, so the slow, soft drawls of the officers manning the counter sounded almost foreign. As she turned away from the desk and followed their directions to the captain's office, she inconspicuously—but avidly—observed everything around her. She'd never been in a police station before, and it felt both exotic and fun of energy.

The man who rose from behind his desk when she tapped on his door was neither. He had the prosperous, well-fed look of a politician—Father's kind of person; exactly the sort she was accustomed to dealing with. The man's brown hair was expensively barbered, his ruddy cheeks shone from a close shave, and his suit was cleverly cut to minimize the appearance of a middle that had begun to spread. Police work must pay better than she'd thought.

"Captain Pfeffer? I'm—"

"Ms. Juliet Lowell," he overrode her enthusiastically. His voice, at least, was exotic, dripping elongated, honeyed vowels. He rounded the desk and extended a smooth, manicured hand.

Astor Lowell. She swallowed the impulse to correct him, though the desire to do so was automatic after years of conditioning at Grandmother's knee. Smiling politely, she shook his hand.

"Please," he said, patting her hand avuncularly as he led her into the office. "Do c'mon in and have a seat. Your fawtha and I had a long talk, and I've been expectin' you."

"Yes, I know." Juliet sat. Though it was most likely futile, she insisted quietly, "Father was a bit precipitous, I fear. There's truly no need for me to monopolize the services of an officer whose time could be better employed elsewhere."

"Nonsense. Sergeant Dupree is happy to, be of assistance. Don't you worry your pretty little ... well." He cleared his throat, undoubtedly seeing something in her expression that warned him he was heading down an...

Chapter One

The flight was like no other Tristan MacLaughlin had ever taken. Not that he considered himself a huge world traveler, by any means, but when he did fly, it was usually on the commuter shuttle, packed with businessmen. And regular commuters generally slept or booted their computers to go over work. They were a different breed altogether from the boisterous revelers surrounding him now.

Certainly, on the average public transport, he wasn't accustomed to hearing the sound of cards being shuffled or the rattle of dice. And when the plane hit a wee bit of turbulence approaching the Reno airport and abruptly lost altitude for a stomach-dropping instant, Tristan was not amused to hear more than half the passengers whoop as though they were on an amusement park ride. He felt, in fact, downright grim. It hammered home the frivolous nature of the city to which he had been assigned.

The muscles along his jaw bunched and relaxed rhythmically as he stared out the tiny window at the dusty green and dun landscape below. Why him? There had been at least three detectives who had begged for this assignment -- who had actually considered it the opportunity of a lifetime to set up a task force for a case involving showgirls in a city designed for entertainment. Tristan hadn't been interested at all, and he had been stunned when Captain Weller had called him into his office to discuss the temporary transfer to Reno. He couldn't argue with Weller that his experience on the revived task force for the Green River serial murders in Seattle was exactly what Reno was looking for. But he certainly hadn't agreed when Weller had suggested that this would also be an opportune time for Tristan to be absent from Seattle, in case Palmer, a man he had been instrumental in putting behind bars, decided to make good on his threat to see him planted six feet under. Palmer had just escaped from prison in Denver, and Tristan was certain he had more important matters on his mind right now than trying to exact his promised retribution. He was going to have all he could handle just avoiding recapture. Tristan hadn't bought that particular theory when Weller had first suggested it as an additional reason to head up his Reno case, and he didn't buy it now.

But when it came to departmental politics, it wasn't necessary for him to buy a damn thing, Tristan acknowledged glumly as he waited for the majority of other passengers to finish shuffling past him before he stepped into the center aisle to leave the plane. A captain outranked a lieutenant every time, and it was clear that Weller had already made the decision to send Tristan to Reno. As far as his captain was concerned, Tristan MacLaughlin was the best man for the job. And that was the beginning and the end of it.

Once out on the concourse, Tristan intended to head straight to the baggage claim to retrieve his luggage. But he was sidetracked by his amazement at some of his fellow passengers. They hadn't even waited to leave the bloody airport before they'd begun gambling.

He shook his head as he watched his former seatmate, a talkative little white-haired lady in a red polyester pantsuit, as she plumped herself down on a padded stool in front of a bank of slot machines. She wasn't talking now. She was all business as she began feeding quarters into the machine and pulling the arm at an amazing rate, avidly watching the revolving cherries, oranges, bars, and sevens as they whirred past, finally to clunk one, two, three into a pattern between a set of red lines. Her eyes were in constant motion, darting left and right to keep tabs on the slot machines on either side of her, as well as her own. When she felt his gaze, she...

Chapter One

nine years ago

Daisy Parker gave a sigh of pleasure as the weight of Nick Coltrane's naked body pressed her into the mattress. Sweat bonded their bodies together, while his muscular arms held her tight. She could hardly believe she'd just surrendered her virginity to him-let alone with such enthusiasm. As he pressed kisses into the side of her neck, her body hummed with little aftershocks of satisfaction. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stretched with voluptuous delight.

The wedding at Grace Cathedral had been like something out of a fairy tale to Daisy's nineteen-year-old eyes, and Mo and her handsome groom had looked deliriously happy. But when Daisy arrived at the reception at the Mark Hopkins Hotel a few hours ago, she'd had second thoughts about the wisdom of attending.

She didn't belong with the throng of San Francisco's elite that crowded the Peacock Court she never had. Being thrust into their company again had driven home the fact, and she'd planned to leave as soon as she paid her respects to the bride and groom.

Until Nick had swept her off her feet and blown all rational thought clear out of her mind.

She still couldn't believe he'd greeted her like a long-lost friend and ditched the reception line to squire her around. He'd always done such an excellent job of ignoring her that the sudden attention had been like grabbing hold of the business end of a live wire-hot, terrifying, and excitingly disorienting.

There'd been a look in his eyes that she hadn't been able to define: a sense of displacement maybe, an impression of recklessness, for sure. But he'd charmed her and kept her so off balance with his touch-a guiding hand in the small of her back here, long, warm fingers wrapped around her forearm or brushing her bare shoulder there-that she'd told herself it didn't matter. He was a golden-skinned god with flashing white teeth and streaky brown hair, dancing attendance on her, snapping pictures of her from the camera around his neck, leaving her breathless, exhilarated, dizzy.

And that was before the dancing began and she got a taste of being in his arms.

When the lights went low and the music turned slow and torchy, she'd been a goner. He'd held her so closely she'd felt him from chest to knees, and he'd been warm, hard, and very happy to see her, as the old saw went. The next thing she remembered, they were in the hotel elevator and he was kissing her; then they were in this room, on this bed, and her heart was pounding, pounding, pounding, her pulse throbbing in places she hadn't dreamed had a pulse; and he'd been on top of her, inside of her; and just as the slight sting of her hymen rupturing pierced her consciousness, his slow hands and urgent hips had driven her to a place of screaming release.

And all Mama's talk about love finally made sense...

Chapter One

The gas gauge on J.D. Carver's vintage Ford Mustang read "Empty" when he arrived in Star Lake, Washington, one day ahead of schedule. But then, it never read anything else—the needle had been stuck there since he'd bought the car in '93. The car's trunk held a few of his favorite power tools, a tool chest, and a My loaded carpenter's belt. The backseat held two table saws. He also had an antique gold watch in his pocket, an old canvas army duffel containing everything else he owned in the world, and a raft of emotions he'd give a lot to deny sitting heavy in his gut.

His life back in Seattle had gone to hell. It was his own fault, but knowing that didn't help. His friend Butch he didn't even want to think about right now. And Bob Lankovich, the man who'd given him his start in construction-and through whose company's ranks J.D. had risen to become foreman—was in prison. J.D. didn't want to think about Bob, either. Or his idiot son, Robbie.

He was just tired of the whole freaking mess—the threats, the being a pariah. In Rat City, for chrissake. How could anyone do anything bad enough to be a pariah in a neighborhood known as Rat City? His unexpected inheritance from Edwina Lawrence was nothing if not timely. It was an excellent time to get out of town.

He laughed without humor. Of course, Edwina was just another can of worms. He ought to open a damn bait shop—between her, Butch, and the Lankovich mess, he was ass-deep in worms.

J.D. rubbed at the tension knotting the back of his neck. He was pretty much down to his last option. He'd given up his studio apartment, sold the tools he couldn't fit in the car, and cleaned out his bank account. There was nothing left for him in the city where he'd grown up, and nowhere to go if this didn't work out. So he planned to make it work, come hell or high water.

He pulled up in front of the fieldstone-and-timber lodge that he now had a half interest in, and parked the car. Then he simply sat there for a moment, breathing in the rich scent of evergreens and lake. Reaching into the watch pocket of his jeans, he stroked. a finger over Edwina's father's gold timepiece, which she had left him along with her share of the lodge.

The same watch she'd once accused him of stealing.

More than Robbie Lankovich's threats or J.D.'s disillusionment over Butch's collecting on a debt he'd always known would one day be collected, Edwina's ancient betrayal still had the ability to bother him.

He snorted softly. Bother. There was a nice, understated way of putting it.

It still had the power to twist his gut into a mass of knots, and that wouldn't do. Climbing out of the car, J.D. shouldered his duffel and stared up at the imposing shingle-roofed fieldstone porch that ran across the entire front of the inn.

It was bad enough that he still allowed a childhood injustice to color his life after all these years. But right now, he particularly needed to focus his concentration.

Because five would get you ten that he was about two minutes away from a no-holds-barred dog fight with Edwina's relatives over the share of this lodge that she'd bequeathed him.

Dru thanked the front-desk clerk and hung up the phone. Oh, God, he was here. She straightened in her chair, aware of her heart rate bumping up a notch. J.D. Carver was out in the lobby. He wasn't supposed to be here until tomorrow.

She'd believed she was fully reconciled to the new situation. She'd honestly thought she was prepared to meet Edwina's beneficiary and welcome him into both the business and the Lawrence clan. But if the sudden, apprehensive tripping of...