Chapter One

“What do you mean she left me the embryos? I’m supposed to get the cat.” Pia O’Brian paused long enough to put her hand on her chest. The shock of hearing the details of Crystal’s will had been enough to stop the strongest of hearts and Pia’s was still bruised from the loss of her friend.

She was relieved to find her heart still beating, although the rhythm qualified more as racing than slow.

“It’s the cat,” she repeated, speaking as clearly as possible so the well-dressed attorney sitting across from her would understand. “His name is Jake. I’m not really a pet person, but we’ve made peace with each other. I think he likes me. It’s hard to tell—he keeps to himself. I guess most cats do.”

Pia thought about offering to bring in the cat so the lawyer could see for herself, but wasn’t sure that would help.

“Crystal would never leave me her babies,” Pia added with a whisper. Mostly because it was true. Pia had never had a maternal or nurturing thought in her life. Taking care of the cat had been a big step for her.

“Ms. O’Brian,” the attorney said with a brief smile. “Crystal was very clear in her will. She and I spoke several times as her illness progressed. She wanted you to have her embryos. Only you.”

“But I...” Pia swallowed.

Embryos. Somewhere in a lab-like facility were frozen test tubes or other containers and inside of them were the potential babies her friend had so longed for.

“I know this is a shock,” the lawyer, a forty-something elegant woman in a tailored suit, said. “Crystal debated telling you what she’d done. Apparently she decided against letting you know in advance.”

“Probably because she knew I’d try to talk her out of it,” Pia muttered.

“For now, you don’t have to do anything. The storage fees are paid for the next three years. There’s some paperwork to be filled out, but we can take care of it later.”

Pia nodded. “Thank you,” she said and rose. A quick glance at her watch told her she was going to have to hurry or she would be late for her ten-thirty appointment back at her office.

“Crystal picked you for a reason,” the attorney said as Pia walked toward the door.

Pia gave the older woman a tight smile and headed for the stairs. Seconds later, she was outside, breathing deeply, wondering when the world was going to stop spinning.

This was not happening, she told herself as she started walking. It couldn’t be. What had Crystal been thinking? There were dozens of other women she could have left the embryos to. Hundreds, probably. Women who were good with kids, who knew how to bake and comfort and test for a fever with the back of their hands.

Pia couldn’t even keep a house plant alive. She was a lousy hugger. Her last boyfriend had complained she always let go first. Probably because being held too long made her feel trapped. Not exactly a sterling quality for a potential parent.

Her stomach felt more than a little queasy. What had Crystal been thinking and why? Why her? That’s what she couldn’t get over. The fact that her friend had made such a crazy decision. And without ever mentioning it.

Fool’s Gold was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone else and secrets were hard to keep. Apparently Crystal had managed to break with convention and keep some huge information to herself.

Pia reached her office building. The first floor of the structure held several retail businesses. A card store, a gift shop with the most amazing fudge, and Morgan’s Bookstore. Her office was upstairs.

She went through the plain wooden door off the side street and climbed to the second story. She could see a tall man standing by her locked office door.

“Hi,” she called. “Sorry I’m late.”

The man turned.

There was a window behind him, so she couldn’t see his face, but she knew her schedule for the morning and the name of the man who was her next appointment. Raoul Moreno was tall, with huge shoulders. Despite the unusually cool September day, he hadn’t bothered with a coat. Instead he wore a vee-neck sweater over dark jeans.

A man’s man, she thought unexpectedly. Which made sense. Raoul Moreno was a former professional football player. He’d been a quarterback with the Dallas Cowboys. After ten years in the game, he’d retired on top and had disappeared from public view. Last year he’d shown up in Fool’s Gold for a Pro-Am charity golf tournament. For reasons she couldn’t figure out, he’d stayed.

As she got closer, she took in the large dark eyes, the handsome face. There was a scar on his cheek—probably from protecting an old lady during a mugging. He had a reputation for being nice. Pia made it a rule never to trust nice people.

“Ms. O’Brian,” he began. “Thanks for seeing me.”

She unlocked her office door and motioned for him to go inside.

“Pia, please. My ‘Ms. O’Brian’ years are looming, but I’m not ready for them yet.”

He was good looking enough that she should have been distracted. Under other circumstances, she probably would have been. But at the moment, she was wondering if the chemo treatments had scrambled Crystal’s brain. Her friend had always seemed so rational. Obviously that had been a façade.

Pia motioned to the visitor chair in front of her desk and hung her coat on the rack by the door.

Her office was small but functional. There was a good sized main room with a custom three year calendar covering most of one wall. The squares were half dry-erase material and half cork board.

Posters for various Fool’s Gold festivals took up the rest of the wall space. She had a storage room and a half bath in the rear, several cabinets and a filing system that bordered on compulsively organized. As a rule she made it a point to visit rather than have people come to her, but scheduling wise, having Raoul stop by had made the most sense.

Of course that had been before she’d found out she’d been left three very frozen potential children.

She crossed to the small refrigerator in the corner. “I have diet soda and water.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You’re not the diet type.”

One dark eyebrow rose. “Are you asking or telling?”

She smiled. “Am I wrong?”

“Water’s fine.”

“I knew it.”

She collected a bottle and a can, then returned to her desk. After handing him the bottle, she took a seat and stared at the yellow pad in front of her. There was writing on it, very possibly in English. She could sort of make out individual letters, but not words and certainly not sentences.

They were supposed to have a meeting about something. That much was clear. She handled the city festivals in town. There were over a dozen civic events that she ran every year. But her mind didn’t go any further than that. When she tried to remember why Raoul was here, she went blank. Her brain was filled with other things.

Babies. Crystal had left her babies. Okay, embryos, but the implication was clear. Crystal wanted her children to be born. Which meant someone was going to have to get them implanted, grow them and later give birth. Although that was terrifying enough, there was also the further horror of raising them.

Children weren’t like cats. She knew that much. They would need more than dry food, a bowl of water and a clean litter box. A lot more.

“Oh, God, I can’t do this,” she whispered.

Raoul frowned. “I don’t understand. Do you want to reschedule the meeting?”

Meeting? Oh, right. He was here for something. His camp and he wanted her to...

Her mind went blank, again. Right after the merciful emptiness, there was panic. Deep to the bone, intestine-wrenching, panic.

She stood and wrapped her arms around her midsection, breathing hard and fast.

“I can’t do this. It’s impossible. What was she thinking? She had to know better.”

“Pia?”

Her visitor rose. She turned to tell him that rescheduling was probably a good idea when the room began to spin. It turned and turned, darkening on the edges.

The next thing she knew, she was in her chair, bent over at the waist, her head between her knees with something pressing down on the back of her neck.

“This is uncomfortable,” she said.

“Keep breathing.”

“Easier said than done. Let go.”

“A couple more breaths.”

The pressure on the back of her neck lessened. Slowly, she straightened and blinked.

Raoul Moreno was crouched next to her, his dark eyes cloudy with concern. She took another breath and realized he smelled really good. Clean, but with a hint of something else.

“You all right?” he asked.

“What happened?”

“You started to faint.”

Pia blinked at him. “I don’t faint. I never faint. I—” Her memory returned. “Oh, crap.” She covered her face with her hands. “I’m so not ready to be a mother.”

Raoul moved with a speed that was a credit to his physical conditioning and nearly comical at the same time.

“Man trouble?” he asked cautiously.

“What?” She lowered her hands. “No. I’m not pregnant. That would require sex. Or not. Actually it wouldn’t, would it? This is so not happening.”

“Okay.” He sounded nervous. “Should I call a doctor?”

“No, but you can go if you want. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows. “Are you commenting on my appearance?”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“That sounded almost critical.”

“You know what I meant.”

She did. “I’m okay. I’ve had a bit of a shock. A friend of mine died recently. She was married to a guy in the army. Before he was shipped off to Iraq, they decided to do in-vitro, just in case something happened to him. So she could have his kids.”

“Sad, but it makes sense.”

She nodded. “He was killed a couple of years ago. She took it really hard, but after a while, she decided she would have the babies. At least a part of him would live on, right?”

Pia rose and paced the length of the office. Moving seemed to help. She took a couple of cautious breaths, to make sure she was going to stay conscious. Fainting? Impossible. Yet the world really had started to blur.

She forced herself back to the topic at hand.

“She went to the doctor for a routine physical,” she continued. “They discovered she had lymphoma. And not the good kind.”

“There’s a good kind?”

She shrugged. “There’s a kind that can usually be cured. She didn’t have that one. And then she was gone. I have her cat. I thought I’d be keeping him. We have a relationship. Sort of. It’s hard to tell with a cat.”

“They keep to themselves.”

There was something about the way he spoke. She glared at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No.”

She saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Don’t mess with me,” she told him. “Or I’ll talk about my feelings.”

“Anything but that.”

She returned to her desk and sank into the chair. “She didn’t leave me the cat. She left me the embryos. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what she was thinking. Babies. God—anyone but me. And I can’t ignore it. Them. That’s what the attorney hinted at. That I could let it go for a while because the ‘fees’ are paid for three years.” She looked at him. “I guess that’s the frozen part. Maybe I should go see them.”

“They’re embryos. What’s there to see?”

“I don’t know. Something. Can’t they put them under a microscope? Maybe if I saw them, I would understand.” She stared at him as if he had the answer. “Why did she think I could raise her children?”

“I’m sorry, Pia. I don’t know.”

He looked uncomfortable. His gaze lingered on the door. Reality returned and with it, a sense of embarrassment.

“Sorry,” she murmured, standing. “We’ll reschedule. I’ll compose myself and be much better next time. Let me look over my calendar and give you a call.”

He reached for the door handle, then paused. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

No, she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything. But that wasn’t Raoul’s problem.

She forced a smile. “I’m great. Seriously, you should go. I’m going to call a couple of girlfriends and let them talk me down.”

“Okay.” He hesitated. “You have my number?”

“Uh huh.” She wasn’t sure if she did, but she was determined to let him escape while she still had a shred of dignity. “The next time you see me, I’ll be professionalism personified. I swear.”

“Thanks. You take care.”

“Bye.”

He left.

When the door closed, she sank back into her chair. After lowering her arms to the desk, she rested her head on them and did her best to keep breathing.

Crystal had left her the embryos. There were only two questions that mattered. Why, and what the hell was Pia supposed to do now?

#

Raoul arrived at Ronan Elementary shortly before two. He parked in the lot by the playground. No surprise—his was the only Ferrari in the parking lot. He was a guy who liked his toys, so sue him.

Before he could climb out of the car, his cell phone rang. He checked his watch—he had a few minutes before he was due inside—then the phone number on the screen. As he pushed the “talk” button, he grinned.

“Hey, Coach.”

“Hey, yourself,” Hawk, his former high school football coach, said. “Nicole hasn’t heard from you in a while and I’m calling to find out why.”

Raoul laughed. “I talked to your beautiful wife last week, so I know that’s not why you’re calling.”

“You got me. I’m checking on you. Making sure you’re moving on with your life.”

That was Hawk, Raoul thought with equal parts frustration and appreciation. Cutting right to the heart of what was wrong.

“You had some bad stuff happen,” the older man continued. “Don’t wallow.”

“I’m not wallowing. I’m busy.”

“You’re in your head too much. I know you. Find a cause. It’ll distract you. You can’t change what happened.”

Raoul’s good humor faded. Hawk was right about that. The past couldn’t be undone. Those who were gone stayed gone. No amount of bargaining, no sum of money, made it better.

“I can’t let it go,” he admitted.

“You’ll have to. Maybe not today, but soon. Believe in the possibility of healing, Raoul. Right now, that’s enough.”

It seemed impossible, but he’d been trusting Hawk for nearly twenty years. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Call Nicole.”

“I will.”

They hung up.

Raoul sat in his car for a few more seconds, thinking about what Hawk had told him. Get involved. Find a cause. What the other man didn’t know was how much Raoul wanted to avoid that. Getting involved is what had caused the problem in the first place. Life was much safer lived at a distance.

He got out of his car and collected the small duffle he’d brought with him. Whenever he visited a school, he brought a few official NFL footballs and player cards. It made the kids happy, and that’s why he was here. To entertain and maybe slip in a little motivation when they weren’t looking.

He glanced at the main school building. It was older but well-kept. He usually spoke to high school aged kids, but the principal and class teacher had both been persistent to the point of stalking. He was new to small town life and figuring out the rules as he went. As he planned to settle in Fool’s Gold permanently, he’d decided to err on the side of cooperation.

He stepped toward the main walkway, then made his way into the building. Unlike the inner city schools he usually visited, there weren’t any metal detectors or even a guard. The double doors stood open, the halls were wide and well-lit, the walls free of graffiti. Like the rest of Fool’s Gold, the school was almost too good to be true.

He followed the signs for the main office and found himself in a big open area, with a long counter. There were the usual bulletin boards with flyers for book drives and after school programs. A dark-haired woman sat at a desk, typing on an ancient looking computer.

“Morning,” he said.

The woman—probably in her mid-thirties—looked up. Her mouth fell open as she stood and waved her hands. “Oh, God. You’re here. You’re really here! I can’t believe it.” She hurried toward him. “Hi. I’m Rachel. My dad is a huge fan. He’s going to die when he finds out I met you.”

“I hope not,” Raoul said easily, pulling a card out of the bag and reaching for a pen.

“What?”

“I hope he doesn’t die.”

Rachel laughed. “He won’t, but he’ll be so jealous. I heard you were coming. And here you are. This is just so exciting. Raoul Moreno in our school.”

“What’s your dad’s name?”

“Norm.”

He signed the card and passed it to her. “Maybe this will help him deal with his disappointment.”

She took the paper reverently and placed a hand on her chest. “Thank you so much. This is wonderful.” She glanced at the clock, then sighed. “I suppose I have to take you to Mrs. Miller’s class now.”

“I should probably get started talking to the kids.”

“Right. That’s why you’re here. It’s been wonderful to meet you.”

“You, too, Rachel.”

She came out from behind the counter, then led him back into the hallway. As they walked, she chatted about the school and the town, all the while glancing at him with a combination of appreciation and flirtatiousness. It came with the territory and he’d learned a long time ago not to take the attention seriously.

Mrs. Miller’s class was at the end of the hall. Rachel held the door open for him.

“Good luck,” she said.

“Thanks.”

He entered the room alone.

There were about twenty young kids, all staring wide-eyed, while their teacher, an attractive woman in her forties, fluttered.

“Oh, Mr. Moreno, I can’t thank you enough for speaking with us today. It’s such a thrill.”

Raoul smiled. “I’m always happy to come talk to kids in school.” He glanced at the class. “Morning.”

A few of the students greeted him. A few more looked too excited to speak. At least the boys did. Most of the girls didn’t seem impressed at all.

“Fourth grade, right?” he asked.

A girl with glasses in the front row nodded. “We’re the accelerated group, reading above grade level.”

“Uh oh,” he said, taking an exaggerated step back. “The smart kids. You going to ask me a math question?”

Her mouth curved into a smile. “Do you like math?”

“Yeah, I do.” He looked up at the class. “Who here really likes school a lot?”

A few kids raised their hands.

“School can change your life,” he said, settling one hip on the teacher’s desk. “When you grow up, you’re going to get jobs and work for a living. Today most of your responsibilities are about doing well in school. Who knows why we need to learn things like reading and math?”

More hands went up.

His usual talk was on staying motivated, finding a mentor, making a better life, but that seemed like a little much for the average nine year-old. So he was going to talk about how important it was to like school and do your best.

Mrs. Miller hovered. “Do you need anything?” she asked in a whisper. “Can I get you something?”

“I’m good.”

He turned his attention back to the students. The girl in the front row stared at him. There was something intense about her gaze. Oddly enough—she reminded him of Pia. Maybe it was her obvious lack of interest in him as a person. Pia hadn’t gushed, either. She’d barely noticed him. Not a real surprise, given how her morning had started. But he’d noticed her. She’d been cute and funny, even without trying.

He returned his attention to the students, drew in a breath and frowned. He inhaled again, smelling something odd.

If this had been a high school, he would have assumed an experiment gone bad in the science lab. Or a batch of forgotten cookies in home ec. But elementary schools didn’t have those facilities.

He turned to Mrs. Miller. “Do you smell that?”

She nodded, her blue eyes concerned. “Maybe something happened in the cafeteria.”

“Is there a fire?” one of the boys asked.

“Everyone stay seated,” Mrs. Miller said firmly, as she walked toward the door.

She placed a hand on it before slowly pulling it open. As she did, the smell of smoke got stronger. Seconds later, the fire alarms went off.

She turned to him. “It’s only the second day of school. We haven’t practiced what to do. I think there really is a fire.”

The kids were already standing up and looking scared. He knew they weren’t very far from panic.

“You know where we’re supposed to go?” he asked. “The way out?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” He turned to the students. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked in a voice loud enough to be heard over the bells.

“Mrs. Miller,” someone yelled.

“Exactly. Everyone get in line and follow Mrs. Miller as we go into the hall. There are going to be a lot of kids out there. Stay calm. I’ll go last and make sure you all get out of the building.”

Mrs. Miller motioned for her students to move toward the door.

“Follow me,” she said. “We’ll go quickly. Everyone hold hands. Don’t let go. Everything is fine. Just stay together.”

Mrs. Miller went out the door. The children began to follow her. Raoul waited to make sure everyone left. One little boy seemed to hesitate before leaving.

“It’s okay,” Raoul told him, his voice deliberately calm. He reached for the boy’s hand, but the child flinched, as if expecting to be hit. The kid—all red hair and freckles—ducked out before Raoul could say anything.

Raoul went into the hall. The smell of smoke was more intense. Several kids were crying. A few stood in the middle of the hallway, their hands over their ears. The bells rang endlessly as teacher called for the students to follow them outside.

“Come on,” he said, scooping the nearest little girl into his arms. “Let’s go.”

“I’m scared,” she said.

“I’m big enough to keep you safe.”

Another little boy grabbed hold of his arm. Tears filled the kid’s eyes. “It’s too loud.”

“Then let’s go outside, where it’s quieter.”

He walked quickly, herding kids as he went. Teachers ran back and forth, counting heads, checking to make sure no one was left behind.

When Raoul and his group of kids reached the main doors leading outside, the children took off at a run. He put down the girl he’d been carrying and she raced toward her teacher. He could see smoke pouring into the sky, a white-gray cloud covering the brilliant blue.

Students flowed out around him. Names were called. Teachers sorted the groups by grades, then classes. Raoul turned and went back into the building.

Now he could do more than smell smoke. He could see it. The air was thick and getting darker, making it hard to breathe. He went room by room, pushing open doors, checking under the large teacher desks in front, scanning to make sure no one was left behind.

He found a tiny little girl in a corner of the third room he entered, her face wet with tears. She was coughing and sobbing. He picked her up, turned and almost ran into a firefighter.

“I’ll take her,” the woman said, looking at him from behind a mask and grabbing the girl. “Get the hell out of here. The building is nearly seventy years old. God knows what cocktail of chemicals is in the air.”

“There might be more kids.”

“I know, and the longer we stand here talking, the more danger they’re in. Now move.”

He followed the firefighter out of the building. It wasn’t until he was outside, that he realized he was coughing and choking. He bent over, trying to catch his breath.

When he could breathe again, he straightened. The scene was controlled chaos. Three fire trucks stood in front of the school. Students huddled together on the lawn, well back from the building. Smoke poured out in all directions.

A few people screamed and pointed. Raoul turned and saw flames licking through the roof at the far end of the school.

He turned to head back in. A firefighter grabbed him by the arm.

“Don’t even think about it,” the woman told him. “Leave this to the professionals.”

He nodded, then started coughing again.

She shook her head. “You went back inside, didn’t you? Civilians. Do you think we wear the masks because they’re pretty? Medic!” She yelled the last word and pointed at him.

“I’m fine,” Raoul managed, his chest tight.

“Let me guess. You’re a doctor, too. Cooperate with the nice lady or I’ll tell her you need an enema.”

England, 1804

"Move your bleedin' arse," Miss Charlotte Spenser's maid, Meggie, said to her.

"Isn't that a little too graphic?" Miss Spenser inquired. "I have visions…"

"Don't think about it. Just say it."

"Move your bleeding arse," Charlotte said in the polite tones of a well-bred female.

"Bleedin'."

"Bleedin'," she repeated dutifully. "So let me get this straight. Bloody hell, move your bleedin' arse, that's a pile of shit, or shite if I happen to be in Ireland, and," she swallowed, "fuck you. Do I really say that?"

"If you want to. You 'ave to be really mad to say it, and you might get backhanded by your man if you do, but sometimes it's worth it."

"Backhanded?"

"Slapped. With the back of the hand, which hurts more, 'cause of knuckles and rings and such like."

Charlotte looked at her maid curiously. "Did your husband ever do that?"

"Oh, that and far worse. Too bad he took a tumble out that window when he was too drunk to know what he was doing," she said, cheerfully callous. "It'll be a cold day in hell before I ever let a man near me again. They're untrustworthy bastards. Try that one."

"Bastards," Charlotte said, liking the taste of it on her tongue. "Bloody bastard. Bleeding bastard arse."

"No, Miss Charlotte. It has to make sense in English. Arses aren't bastards."

"True. Arses and bastards are nouns, bloody and bleeding are adjectives. Do you say fucking as well? "

"Oh, most definitely."

"Splendid," said Miss Charlotte Spenser. "I'll practice." And they continued down the sidewalk, maid and mistress in perfect accord.

They had just attended the weekly meeting of the Richmond Hill Bluestockings and Viragos, a most enlightening afternoon during which Meggie had proceeded to instruct the highborn members how to curse. Charlotte, to her dismay, had been an utter failure, but she was improving with private instruction.

As she climbed the steep marble stairs to Whitmore House, the door was flung open and she was presented with a scarcely controlled chaos. Servants were rushing to and fro, carrying baskets of flowers and gilt chairs and great silver platters. Her cousin Evangelina was throwing a ball, and Charlotte had forgotten about it entirely.

"Drat," she muttered to Meggie. "My cousin is entertaining tonight."

"Try for 'bloody hell,'" Meggie suggested helpfully. "And her's not just entertaining," she added darkly. "Her's got two hundred people coming tonight or I miss my guess."

"She's," Charlotte corrected automatically. "Bloody hell."

Meggie laughed. "Not fierce enough, Miss Charlotte. You need to practice if you want to sound like you mean it." She started toward the side alley that led to the servants' entrance, but Charlotte didn't make any attempt to stop her. She'd learned her democratic ideals were not appreciated by everyone. Charlotte was an egalitarian, and she'd plucked Meggie from the slums, determined to save her. In the beginning Meggie had flatly refused to be saved, but for the last two years she'd become Charlotte's trusted companion. Meggie, fresh from her life as a fallen woman, flat out refused to enter by the front door, even though, as Charlotte's maid, it was perfectly acceptable, and the one time Charlotte tried to join her and the army of servants belowstairs for a cup of tea the atmosphere had been excruciatingly uncomfortable. Charlotte had learned, to her sorrow, that there was no one more snobbish than a British domestic servant, and her lack of welcome was glaringly obvious. She hadn't attempted it again.

She sighed. She would have so much rather have sat and had a cup of tea and a biscuit, her feet up before the fire in the servants' gathering room, than wind her way through the back stairs to the upper floors of Whitmore House, but she had no choice. She nodded as she passed the footmen draping garlands of fresh spring flowers over the massive doorway, handed her hat, pelisse and gloves to the maid who was waiting. Hetty, her name was, and she bobbed a curtsy, eyeing her nervously, as if afraid of an unwelcome gesture of friendship.

But Charlotte had learned her lesson. "Where is Lady Whitmore?" she inquired in a cool, distant voice.

"In her dressing room, Miss Spenser," Hetty said. "She left word that you were to come to her as soon as you returned home."

Charlotte didn't bother to hide her grimace. "Any idea why?"

"I'm sure I couldn't say, miss."

"No, of course you couldn't," Charlotte said with a genteel snort, heading for the stairs. She tried to will a wan expression into her face, wrinkling her forehead in a semblance of pain, opening her eyes wide. She was a terrible liar, and Lina would most likely see through her immediately, but it wouldn't hurt to try.

Evangelina, dowager countess of Whitmore, was sitting at her dressing table, regarding her reflection in the mirror as Louise, her French maid, fussed with her hair. Clearly her countenance failed to please her, a fact which Charlotte could only find extraordinary. Evangelina was widely renowned to be one of the most beautiful women in England, from her glossy black curls to her vivid blue eyes with just the tinge of violet, her creamy skin, delicate nose and smiling, sensuous mouth. She'd never seen a freckle in her life, Charlotte thought dangerously. She was tiny, delicate, exquisite and two years younger than Charlotte's thirty. She was staring at her reflection the way Charlotte usually surveyed her own.

"I am looking positively haggard," she greeted Charlotte in a disconsolate voice. "Why is it, whenever I throw a party I end up looking fagged to death?"

"You look gorgeous," Charlotte said briskly, then remembered her plan. "I only wish I felt well enough to join you," she added in a more plaintive voice.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Lina said, turning to glare at her, much to her hairdresser's distress. "You aren't crying off at the last minute on some trumped-up illness. That only works the first three times. I need you with me."

"You aren't going to even notice whether I'm there or not," Charlotte said, sitting down at the end of her cousin's bed, her reflection appearing beside Lina's in the mirror.

She'd long accepted her very ordinary appearance, but seeing it side by side with Lina's beauty couldn't help but be lowering.

Charlotte had no delusions about her shortcomings. She was too tall—at a good six feet she towered over most men. She had awful ginger hair and freckles, she had an over-abundance of bosom, and to top everything off she was shortsighted enough that she needed to wear glasses when she read.

As if these biological indignities weren't enough, she was also poor, unmarried and too smart for her own good, as most gentlemen, including her father, were wont to tell her. Women were supposed to be short and pretty and never dare contradict a man, even if he was spouting utter nonsense. And if they were troubled by shortsightedness, they could damn well get through the season by recognizing people's voices. Who needed to read? Or so her late father had told her.

It was halfway through the miserable year of her coming out that she had put her gold-rimmed glasses firmly on her nose—another point against her, it tending toward the aquiline rather than the more popular snub—refused the milk treatments that were supposed to make her freckles fade, but which only left her smelling faintly of sour milk, and decided to be an old maid. The glasses weren't necessary, but they went well with her acquired scowl, and she wore them everywhere, even when they gave her a headache.

In truth, becoming an old maid had been decided for her during the first disastrous months out, but her stern father had still harbored hope. Until she put on her glasses and trampled on her dance partners, making her an object to be feared.

There had been no second season.

"Of course I'll notice," Lina said. "At least, for the first half hour," she added with her usual honesty, the honesty she kept for Charlotte and few others. "Besides, if you're not there backing me up how can I possibly indulge in a little discreet flirtation with Viscount Rohan?"

Charlotte ignored the iciness in the pit of her stomach. "You could wait for a better time," she suggested. "For instance, next week, at the gathering at Hensley Court."

"Ah, but by then he'll doubtless have discovered some other sweet thing to entrance him. And I'm quite determined to have him. He's gorgeous, he's delightfully wicked and he's rumored to be the very devil in bed," she added with a convincingly lascivious sigh.

"I'm sure he is," Charlotte said, moving away, not even blinking. "However, the amatory prowess of my lord Rohan is of no possible interest to me."

Lina settled back, letting her dresser once more attack the artful array of curls. "You're such a stick-in-the-mud, Charlotte." She sighed. "You really don't know what you're missing. I'm enjoying my widowhood immensely."

Charlotte had her doubts about that, but she wisely said nothing. When her favorite cousin had begged her to come live with her once her horrendous elderly husband died, she'd accepted gratefully. She'd been an only child of distant parents, and their deaths had left her penniless and, if it weren't for Lina, friendless.

Even if the choices open to a poor relation weren't many, sharing a house with Evangelina had been Charlotte's idea of heaven. The only problem had been Lina's feverish gaiety: about as genuine as Charlotte's professed lack of interest in Viscount Rohan. But she wasn't going to think about that.

"I much prefer it that way," Charlotte said, hoping she didn't sound unbearably prim. "Half an hour, standing quietly in the background while you greet your guests, and then I'm off."

"Make it an hour," Lina pleaded. "Rohan might prove difficult. It's always possible I'll need you to help direct him."

Charlotte froze. Horror was too mild a word for the emotion that suffused her. "I'm not going anywhere near Viscount Rohan."

Lina batted at Louise's hands and turned to look at her. "Why not?" Her voice was sharp. "I wasn't aware that you were even acquainted with him. Has he done something to offend you?"

"Apart from his appalling lack of moral fortitude?" Charlotte said icily. "No. I've only spoken with Viscount Rohan once in my life, and I've never been alone in his presence, thank heavens." This time she allowed her voice to be as prim as possible, filled with disapproval. Because if Lina guessed the truth it would be unbearable.

"Thank heavens," Lina echoed. "Then why won't you…?"

"I'd rather keep my distance."

Lina shrugged, turning back to face her reflection, and Louise returned to her work, muttering French imprecations beneath her breath. "Suit yourself. If you've taken him in aversion then I'm certain one of my friends will help. I just can't be certain they wouldn't take him for themselves." She made a moue of distress.

"From what I've heard of Viscount Rohan, he's probably had them already."

Lina's laugh was low and earthy. "Most probably. If he hadn't spent the last year on the continent he would have had me. Ah, well, if not tonight, then most definitely at the gathering. I absolutely cannot wait! The Heavenly Host, in all their wicked glory!"

The familiar knot in her stomach tightened. "Nor can I," she said, secure in the knowledge that her cousin's dresser wouldn't understand.

Lina looked up at Charlotte for a long moment. "Are you certain this is the wisest choice, darling?" she said finally. "I'm all for broadening your education, but going from sheltered spinsterhood to a gathering of the Heavenly Host is rather like moving from St. James Palace to the stews of London. I do admire your scientific mind and interest in observing the baser instincts of mankind, but perhaps that might be going a bit too far. You might wish to start a little more slowly."

The fact that Charlotte wanted to agree with her made her even more forceful. She wasn't going to turn craven at this late date. "I understand the basics of animal husbandry and fornication, Lina. I've lived in the country for a great part of my life, and there are no mysteries there. But if I'm intending to spend my life in celibate comfort I wish to observe exactly what it is that you tell me I'm missing. Besides, I have a certain scientific curiosity. The practices I've heard mentioned seem either unsanitary or anatomically impossible, and I'm interested to see just how one manages it."

Drawing a breath, Adam Gresham stroked a hand along Mallory’s arm, and met her sorrowful, sea-colored gaze. “I can tell you without hesitation that Michael Hargreaves wouldn’t want you to be sad either. He would want you to live and have a happy life. He’s found his own peace. Give yourself the right to find yours.”

Mallory trembled, something shattering on her face. “But I’m afraid I’ll forget him,” she confessed on a whisper, as more tears slid free. “We had such a short time together before he was sent away to fight. I worry if I go back to my old life that it will be as if he never existed. As if I’ve abandoned him somehow.”

Adam curved an arm around her back and drew her close. “You haven’t abandoned him and you will never forget. You loved him. Real love never fades.” He pressed a handkerchief into her hand and offered what comfort he could, as she buried her face against his chest and cried.

He didn’t speak as he held her, fighting the jealousy that twisted inside him while she sobbed out her love and grief for another man. It was an emotion unworthy of him and one he knew he should not feel. Still, he wasn’t a saint, far from it. He was only human, only a man. And despite his best efforts to be noble and self-sacrificing, a small, selfish part of him couldn’t help but resent the hold Hargreaves had on Mallory––even from beyond the grave.

At length, her tears ceased, her sobs turning to shaky inhalations and weary sighs, as she leaned against him. Using the damp silk handkerchief she held balled up inside her fist, she blew her nose and blotted her tearstained eyes.

Reaching into his pocket, he produced a fresh handkerchief. “Here, have another.”

She drew a hiccupping breath, and tried, but didn’t quite manage to smile. “You’re right, I have rather used this first one up, haven’t I?” Accepting the second square of white silk, she pressed the dry cloth to her eyes and cheeks and nose, pausing at his gentle urging to give “one more good blow” despite the inelegance of such behavior.

But he and Mallory had known each other for far too many years to stand on formality at this point. If they had, she would never have cried in his arms today at all, he realized.

“Gracious,” she declared, straightening slightly inside his embrace. “I must look a sight.”

But she didn’t, she looked beautiful, he thought. Her lashes framed her luminous aquamarine eyes in dark, spiky rings, while her cheeks were burnished as red as a crisp fall apple. As for her lips, they were swollen from her crying––plump and full and lusciously moist.

Sweet as candy, he thought. And every bit as delicious, he was sure.

“No,” he murmured in answer to her query. “You look lovely as always.” Then, before he even knew what he was doing, he bent and touched his mouth to hers, desperate for a taste, however brief it might be.

But a taste couldn’t begin to be enough, yearning roaring to life inside him, burning in his veins as blood beat between his temples and pooled lower in his belly and between his thighs.

She gave a clearly startled whimper, but didn’t try to push him away. If she had, perhaps he would have stopped. Instead, desire urged him on, encouraging him to take more. He’d waited years to hold her like this and kiss her. He’d dreamt countless times of how her lips would feel against his and the way her small, supple body would curve into his own much taller one. Yet his imagination was as insipid as water to wine when compared with reality––the sensations, scents, and flavors more divine than anything his mind could create.

Mallory, my love, he whispered in his head, as he gave in to what he craved and deepened the kiss. Parting her mouth, he claimed her with a long, slow, sultry ease that was just this side of heaven.

She whimpered again, this time with confused hesitation, the relative inexperience of her touch impressing itself upon him as nothing else could have done. She might have been kissed before, he realized, but she was still a novice when it came to sex and the sensual arts. He, on the other hand, was experienced––extremely experienced––with a knowledge of things that would have set her blushing from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. Compared to him, Mallory was a dewy-eyed lamb wandering unaware in a peaceful meadow, while he was the hungry, ravening wolf lying in wait just over the nearest rise.

Suddenly aware of exactly what he was doing, he broke their kiss. She swayed slightly in his grasp, her eyes closed as breath puffed in tiny gusts from her mouth.

“Oh,” she sighed.

“Oh” didn’t begin to describe it. 

Taking a step back, he made sure she was steady on her feet, then he let her go.

Her eyes popped open and immediately fixed on his. “W-what was that?”

Rather than responding, he lifted a brow, schooling his features into a calmness that hid the violent need still coursing through his body.

“I-I mean I know what it was,” she went on in a breathless voice that made shivers run down his spine. “But why? Why did you k-kiss me?”

She looked utterly and completely bewildered.

“Because, my sweet,” he drawled in a smooth tone, “you looked as if you needed to be.”
 
***

Mallory stared, her heart racing frantically in her chest.

Stars and garters, she thought, Adam just kissed me. And not a peck either but a full-blown, passionate claiming that was unlike any kiss she’d ever had before. Even Michael had never kissed her like that and he’d been her fiancé.

She paused suddenly at the thought of Michael, yet she was so dazed, so mesmerized, that the usual melancholy she felt when she thought of him didn’t appear. All she could do was stand there, her entire body tingling with heat and pleasure.

For years, she’d been aware of the rumors about Adam’s prowess and reports of all the women who secretly––and not so secretly––clamored to share his bed. Once at a party in London, she’d accidentally overheard a pair of women––one a widow and another who wished she were––comparing a list of their lovers. None of them, the widow told her friend, came close to the ecstasy she’d found in Adam Gresham’s arms. Then she’d gone on to bemoan the fact that she’d only been with him once and that despite her best efforts to win him back, he wasn’t interested.

Apparently, Adam had a habit of never staying with any one woman for long, his elusive behavior seeming only to enhance his already formidable appeal among the fairer sex. And now that she’d experienced his kiss, she could see that his reputation for pleasuring women was in no way an exaggeration. Fully two minutes had passed since he’d ended their own kiss and she was still worried the top of her head might blow off, her riding hat along with it.
 
“Are you hungry?” he inquired, jarring her out of her musings.
“I had Cook pack us a little something again just in case.”

Hungry? How could he possibly think of food at a moment like this? Then she recalled why he said he’d kissed her.

Because, sweetheart, you looked as if you needed to be.

So it had been a sympathy kiss, had it? His embrace driven not out of any real sense of desire for her, but rather from a need to distract and cheer her.

What a lowering realization.

And yet, she knew he’d meant it in a kindly way and was only acting as her friend. Obviously, he was willing to do whatever it might take to rally her spirits, even if that might require shocking her out of her gloom with an unexpected embrace.

One that had clearly dazzled her more than Adam.

All she had to do was look at him to confirm that fact, since he seemed his usual calm, sophisticated self, unruffled and apparently unaffected as well. Considering all the women he must have kissed in his two-and-thirty years, why should she be surprised? She was just one among many, she supposed, memorable only by virtue of the fact that she was his long-time friend.

No wonder he was so unfazed.

For all she knew, maybe he hadn’t enjoyed their kiss at all. And if that were true, what must his touch be like when he really wanted a woman?
Her brows drew into a frown.

Adam cocked his head. “Shall we stay and eat or would you rather ride home?”

A mere half an hour ago, she would have opted to ride straight home. But a strange restfulness seemed to have invaded her system, along with a sense of shared understanding. Adam knew what it was to grieve. He’d experienced loss and come out the other side. As for his rather high-handed kiss, she supposed she couldn’t hold it against him, not when she knew his intentions had been good.

Besides, she’d left the house again this morning without eating breakfast and quite suddenly she realized she was starving.

“A light meal wouldn’t go amiss,” she admitted. “But don’t think we’re going to make a habit of riding together and sharing a meal in this spot every morning.”

“Of course not,” he said solemnly. Then he ruined the effect by smiling, his face so handsome her breath caught at the sight.

It’s only the kiss, she told herself, and she would forget it in a trice. She and Adam were friends, no more, no less, and he was only devoting himself to her at present because of that friendship.

For now she would let herself take advantage of his kindness and hope it helped her heal. Beyond that, she didn’t know. She would deal with each day as it came and care naught for the future.

His swirling cloak was what caught her eye, but even from across the crowded park, his aura of sadness and regret went straight to her heart. A little girl ran after him as he walked away, and when he stopped and knelt beside her, she held out her hand, offering him something. His long curling hair fell forward as he accepted it, revealing a streak of orange in the otherwise black locks. There was a brief exchange that Micayla couldn’t hear, but whatever the girl had given him must have been quite a treat, for his smile after tasting it was a mixture of wistfulness and delight.

Micayla had never seen him before, but, being a newcomer to Orleon Station, this wasn’t surprising. So far, Windura was the only one she saw on other than a coworker basis, and that was mainly because their quarters were next door to one another.

“Hey, Micayla,” Windura called out from the corridor behind her. “Let’s meet for lunch, okay?"

“Yeah, sure,” Micayla replied. Tearing her eyes away from the man, she turned to greet her Vessonian friend.

“Lunch would be great.”

“The main dining hall at eleven hundred?”

“Fine,” Micayla replied, forcing herself to smile.

Glancing over her shoulder, to her dismay she saw that the man had already gone. She strained her eyes to find him among the huge potted plants and benches of the space station’s “park.” “Did you see that guy—the one in the cloak with the long black hair?”

“A cloak?” Windura echoed. “Why would anyone be wearing a cloak? It’s hot as hell in here!”

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard Windura complain about the heat, but then catering to the preferences of a variety of different beings made the choice of ambient temperature difficult. “Maybe so,” she said doubtfully. “But some people are just cold-natured…” She stared off in the direction he must have taken. “What’s back that way?”

“Some of the more disreputable parts of the station,” Windura replied, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder. “You’re better off not going down there.” Micayla nodded absently. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said, but something about him was so compelling that if Windura hadn’t intervened, she’d have gone running after him in a heartbeat.

“We’ve got to get you better oriented to this place,” Windura went on. “A girl like you needs to know the ropes.”

Micayla frowned. “What makes you say that?”

Shaking her head, Windura replied, “If you don’t know that by now, then I can’t help you.” With a quick grin, she added, “See you at eleven,” and was gone. Micayla stood gazing blankly at the throng of children, unable to recall why she had gone to the park in the first place. Ordinarily it would’ve been a cold day in hell, let alone Orleon Station, when a man distracted her that much, but then she remembered: Tea. You’re here to get tea. Getting in line at Starbucks, she ordered a tall cup of hot, foaming chai and then headed off to work.

The communications center was a hive of bustling activity, and Micayla had to squeeze past several other officers to get to her station, nearly spilling her tea as she finally plunked down in her seat. The guy from the previous shift had left his candy wrappers scattered about, and she gathered them up, grumbling as one of them stuck to the console.

“Sorry about that,” he said from behind her. Reaching over her shoulder, he retrieved the last of them, his chest pressing lightly against her back.

Micayla shifted away from him slightly. Scott was Terran and an attractive fellow with a terrific smile, but he was getting a little too… chummy. As a female of an unknown species, if there was one thing Micayla had learned, it was that Terrans and whatever she was weren’t compatible—at least, none she’d met so far—and having grown up on Earth, she’d met quite a few. “That’s okay, Scott,” she said. “I’m sure I leave tea stains for Xantric to wipe up when she comes on duty.”

“Not sure she’d notice,” Scott said with a shrug.

“And if she did, you’d never know it. Twilanans never complain about anything.” He turned to leave, but then paused, adding, “Not much traffic on the system for the past couple of hours, but I’m sure it’ll pick up for you.”

Micayla took a sip of her tea and nodded. “It always does,” she agreed. “Get some sleep.”

Scott sighed. “Too bad you and I work different shifts. Otherwise, we could spend a little more time together—instead of me just going back to my quarters and dreaming about you.”

Micayla felt a pang near her heart and wished she could have felt something other than regret when a man said such things to her. Steeling herself against his inevitable reaction, she purposely avoided his eyes, focusing instead on resetting the instrument panel with her fingerprint on the log entry. “Dreams will have to suffice, big guy,” she said. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”

“You always say that,” Scott grumbled. “Sure I can’t talk you out of it?”

“You could try,” she said, wishing it really would work, just once, “but it probably won’t do you any good.”

“Ice Queen,” he muttered.

“I’ve been called that before,” she said wearily.

“Treacherous Temptress?”

“Been called that too.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“You’d be surprised.” Micayla sighed. “And believe me, it’s nothing personal, Scott. I have no problem with being friends, but if you want more than that, I’m simply the wrong species.”

Seeming to take this as an invitation, Scott turned and leaned against the partition that divided the workstations.

“What are you, anyway?”

“No idea,” she replied. “But I’m not human, that’s for sure.”

“No shit,” Scott said. “You’re better looking than any Terran I’ve ever seen. I love those cat-like eyes of yours. The elfin ears are nice too, and the fangs…” His voice trailed off there as though indulging in some erotic fantasy.

“The better to bite you with, my dear,” Micayla quoted. When her stepmother had first read her that story, she probably never realized that Micayla identified much more with the wolf than with Little Red Riding Hood—though, in truth, she looked more like a lion or a panther than a wolf.

If Scott’s response was any indication, being savaged by a lioness was the answer to his wildest imaginings. “Would you?” he asked eagerly. “Please? Pretty please?”

“Absolutely not,” Micayla said firmly as a hail came through the system. “Get going, now,” she added, shooing him away. “I’ve got work to do.”

Scott withdrew with obvious reluctance, mumbling imprecations under his breath as he went.

Micayla redirected the hail and wondered if it would be worth it to try to spend a little more time with Scott. He was a nice guy and it would take no encouragement whatsoever to—no, she decided. It wasn’t worth the pain. Her lack of interest in the opposite sex wasn’t her fault, but he would end up despising her for it and then she’d be right back where she started.

Her attitude wasn’t precisely a lack of interest, however; it was more a lack of desire, and though she knew what desire was supposed to feel like—she had one fantasy that never failed to elicit that response—it never seemed to work with a flesh and blood man. The man she’d seen in the park might have been different, though; she’d at least felt something for him, if only compassion. Had the little girl been his daughter, telling him good-bye as he left on a journey through space? Was she a friend or a complete stranger? Micayla had no way of knowing, but the more she thought about it, the more she itched to find out.

She glanced up as Dana took her seat at the next station, apologizing to Roxanne for being late. “I had such a tough time getting Cara out of the park!” Dana was saying. “She started talking to someone and didn’t want to leave. I’m surprised she didn’t go running after him.”

“Rhys,” she said softly, reaching for him.

He yanked away from her hand and got up from the bed, pacing to the window and pulling the curtain back to look outside. In profile, she saw his scowl, though all his angry emotions seemed to be self-directed.

“I can’t, Anne. I already told you I can’t make love to you,” he said, his voice strained with tension and emotions he normally hid.

She sat up, covering her breasts with the tangled bedcovers.

“Because you don’t want me?” she asked, unable to mask her hurt as easily as he seemed to mask his own.

He spun on her and now she felt some of the anger in his stare. In a long stride, he came to the edge of the bed and caught her hand. He jerked her fingers to his pant front and pressed them against the hard length of his erection that remained outlined there.

“I want you,” he whispered, his voice harsh. “But I can’t have you. I’ve told you why.”

Anne squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears, fighting frustration and resentment at his repeated denials of the future she had so carefully planned.

Finally, he sighed. “I need to leave you now.”

Anne’s eyes flew open and she stared at him in terror. “Leave me?” she repeated, thinking of the horrible days she had spent searching for him.

He shook his head. “Just for a while. I’ll return, Anne, I promise you that.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but he turned his back on her and left the cottage before she could speak, slamming the door behind him...

CHAPTER ONE

The man above Marissa York groaned loudly, his breath shuddering over her cheek. She turned her head and frowned at the wall as the room spun slowly around her. Goodness. This wasn’t going well at all. Thankfully, it seemed it was nearly over.

After an endless summer of pretending to look for a husband in London, Marissa had thought to treat herself to a night of forbidden pleasure. It was her family’s first house party of the hunting season, after all. Everyone else was having a rollicking good time, and Marissa had thought to find some fun too. But instead she’d found clumsy fumbling, not to mention a bit of discomfort and lots of grunting. Perhaps this was why girls were ordered to keep themselves pure for marriage. No matter how unfortunate the consummation, there was no turning back afterward.

“My love,” Peter White sighed into her ear. “My sweet, sweet Marissa. That was beautiful. Perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“Oh, yes.”

She stretched her neck, trying to ease the strain on her back. “Um, could you please... arise?”

“Of course, I’m sorry.” He pushed up to his elbows. Unfortunately, though this eased the weight on her chest, it pushed his bottom half more thoroughly against her. Everything down there felt rather... squishy.

“Mr. White, please? Get up?”

He gave her a sly grin. “Don’t you feel silly calling me Mr. White right now?”

“No.”

“When we are married, I hope you will call me by my Christian name, at least in--“

“Pardon?”

He leaned down to press a kiss to her nose. Marissa wiped it away.

“I’ll speak to your brother tomorrow,” he purred.

“You will do no such thing! Now get off. It’s taking you more time to dismount than you spent riding.”

Finally, the stubborn fool seemed to sense that she wasn’t limp with gratitude at his rutting. He drew back, squishing even more firmly into her.

“Oh, just get off me, you great dolt!” she cried.

He gasped, “Marissa!” and stared, shocked horror clear on his face, even in the dim moonlight that slanted through the drapes..

And that was when she heard the footsteps in the hall. Her eyes went wide. She pushed at his chest. And the door opened. Marissa held her breath. It was dark. The light from the hallway might not have reached them. If they just kept quiet...

Peter White cleared his throat. “If you would close the door, please. We require privacy.”

Before her shock could twist into anger, the figure in the door shifted. “Pardon me?” Her brother’s voice.

Oh, no. Not her brother.

The door flew fully open, and Marissa had to squint against the light from the hall, so she could only assume they were now visible. Her heart sunk down to rest on her spine. “No,” she breathed.

“Marissa Anne York!” her brother bellowed. Then the shadow of his head shifted and he lunged for the man atop her.

Mr. White was finally off her, but she could hardly summon a feeling of thankfulness. The shadows of the two men merged into one large beast that lurched into the darkest corner of the room. Vases shattered. A table crashed into the wall.

“Stop!” Marissa screamed, hoping her shout would put an end to the fight and stop time as well. If she could only go back to a half hour earlier when she’d finished that last glass of wine and then let Mr. White coax her into this room...

Tempted to jump up from the sofa and sprint to her chambers, Marissa instead chose the more daunting path. She tugged her skirts down and pushed unsteadily to her feet to face her brother. “Edward! Stop. Please.”

“You foul bastard,” her brother’s voice huffed.

A loud thump of flesh on flesh made Marissa flinch. The chaos ceased, and suddenly only the sound of the two men panting emerged from the dark. She could do nothing but stand there and shake.

“Edward?” she breathed.

Broken glass shifted against the wood floor. One of the shadows rose up and started toward her. Marissa backed away, afraid of her brother, only because she couldn’t see him. He would never hurt her, no matter what she did. But he looked like a goblin coming at her from the dark.

Or perhaps it was Mr. White, and her brother lay unconscious on the floor. “Edward?”

The shadow shifted at the last moment, her brother’s snarling face finally coming into the light, and he moved past her. Glass rattled. A match struck.

Light swelled slowly over the room. When it reached the farthest corner, she saw that Mr. White wasn’t unconscious at all, but sitting up with a hand pressed to his eye. At the sight of him, Marissa had to tamp down an urge to fly at his face and do further damage. Easier to be furious with him than with herself.

A shadow cast itself from the hallway, and Marissa glanced up to see her Cousin Harry standing there.

“What in the world is all the ruckus?” Harry asked. Oh, this was only getting worse. How many others had heard?

“Marissa,” her brother said, that one word full of worry and hurt and confusion and fury.

She wrapped her arms around herself and turned slowly toward him. “I apologize.” Her voice was steady, just as she wanted it to be. “I did not mean for you to see that.”

“See it?” he barked.

A maid appeared at Harry’s side, her apron clutched in her hands.

“Harry,” Edward said carefully. “Please wait for me in the study. And close the door.”

This situation would have to be handled very carefully. Her family was not known for coolness or rationality. Impetuousness flowed in their veins like blood, and she’d clearly gotten her own share of it. But now she’d need to chose her words carefully. “Edward. I’m sorry. Obviously, I acted as... I was not--“ She was interrupted by the worst possible statement.

“We shall marry immediately,” Mr. White said.

Her brother was already nodding.

Marissa shook her head to counter him. “We most certainly will not. I have no intention of marrying Mr. White. None at all.”...

# # #

“Did I thank you yet for the invitation?” Jude Bertrand asked half-jokingly as he followed Aidan York down the curved staircase.

Aidan tossed a sardonic glance over his shoulder and said nothing.

Jude had, in fact, thanked him several times already. For some reason, being on the York estate filled Jude with buoyancy. The house was large and airy, the windows looking out onto wild meadows and swaths of forest. The land enchanted him, and the family... Well, oddly enough, the family reminded him of his early childhood. Decidedly strange, as his early years had been spent in what had essentially been a French whorehouse.

Smiling at the odd comparison, Jude ran his hand down the banister, remembering his stay here last year and a certain strawberry-haired hoyden’s slide down the wood. She’d thought no one else awake at that early hour, and Jude hadn’t disabused her of the notion. He’d simply watched her slide down the banister and then he’d continued on his way, marveling that no one else seemed able to see the wildness inside her.

He was greatly anticipating seeing her again.

When they reached the first floor, Aidan York nodded to a few of the guests, but continued on toward his brother’s study. Jude followed. The door was closed when they reached it, and raised voices could be heard vibrating through the wood, but Jude felt no surprise. The York family was surprisingly dramatic for such an established peerage.

Aidan didn’t seem surprised either. He simply gave a perfunctory knock and walked into chaos.

The dowager baroness had draped herself across the settee and was weeping loudly into a lace handkerchief. The baron, Aidan’s older brother, paced in front of the fireplace, his red face giving him away as the source of the shouting. A cousin was there too. Harry, maybe? He looked decidedly morose.

Jude raised a hand in greeting to the mob.

“Aidan,” said Edward. “Thank God you’re here!” Then his gaze shifted to Jude. “Jude, you can’t be here. I’m sorry.”

“Oh. All right then.” He had spun halfway back toward the hall when Aidan’s hand stopped him.

“Don’t be melodramatic, Edward.” His dry voice was a direct contrast to his brother’s. “Of course Jude can stay. Now, what seems to be the latest crisis?”

Edward shook his head. “You don’t understand. This is serious. And a very private matter.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with the upstairs maid?”

The baroness finally roused herself. “Aidan! Don’t be disrespectful.” She cocked her head toward Jude, and he offered her a small bow while she studied him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bertrand, but you’ll have to...” She stopped and frowned. “Then again, perhaps Mr. Bertrand could be of use to us. He does bring a certain... perspective.”

Jude raised his eyebrows at that, wondering what she could mean.

“Yes!” the cousin exclaimed. “His mother!”

Ah. Jude nodded. His mother. Had Edward gotten a mistress pregnant? “If I can assist you in some way, I’d be happy to. And I was raised from the cradle not to tell tales, of course.”

But Edward was shaking his head. “The matter is too sensitive.” He tossed a glare in his mother’s direction. “As you all know.”

Aidan rolled his eyes and crossed the room to the brandy decanter. “This is ridiculous. I’d trust Jude with my life. If he can help you, just spit it out, old man.” He collapsed into a chair, so Jude wandered toward the sidebar and poured himself a drink as well. He should have left, perhaps, but he was more than a little curious now.

He supposed Edward’s whisper was meant to be discreet, but it easily filled the whole room. “It’s about our sister!” he hissed.

Jude froze and spun back to face the York family. “Marissa?” he asked.

All eyes turned toward him. ...

Paris, 1768

The visit with the lawyer had not gone well. Elinor Harriman arrived home just as her sister, Lydia, had finished dealing with their landlord, and she ducked out of sight so the old lecher wouldn't see her. Monsieur Picot had no patience for either her or her mother, but her baby sister was a different matter. All Lydia had to do was let tears fill her limpid blue eyes and make her Cupid's bow mouth tremble and M. Picot was destroyed, awash with apologies and assurances. He didn't realize he was being played until the door was firmly closed behind him and Elinor could sneak up the stairs, grateful that she hadn't had to defend Lydia's honor if M. Picot got carried away. He never did. None of the landlords and butchers and greengrocers ever took advantage of Lydia's delicate beauty. She radiated such an exquisite innocence that no one would dare. Even in this less than felicitous area of town, no one would even think of offering her an insult.

"Told you," Lydia said with an impish grin far removed from her Madonna smile. "It works every time."

Elinor flopped into the nearest chair, letting out a groan as an errant spring poked her backside. During their last enforced move they'd had to relinquish all but their most wretched of furniture. The tiny parlor on the edge of one of the least savory neighborhoods in Paris held three chairs and a meager table that served as a desk, a dining surface and a dressing table, and the chairs were barely functional. The bedrooms were as bad. One sagging bed in the first room held their mother's snoring body, in the other there was only a shared mattress on the hard floor. She refused to think about how Nanny Maude or Jacobs the coachman slept in the back area that served as kitchen and servants' quarters.

And how absurd it was to have a coachman when it had been years since they'd even had a horse, much less a coach. Not since their very first days in Paris, when their mother had been in love and the two sisters had reveled in their new adventure. But Jacobs had come with them from England, under Lady Caroline's spell as most men were, and nothing, not even a total lack of wages, could induce him to leave.

The lover and the money had disappeared quickly, to be replaced by someone almost as wealthy. In the last ten years Lady Caroline Harriman had been working her way down to a state Elinor couldn't bear to consider. At least right now her mother was too ill to cause trouble, to go looking for another bottle of blue ruin, another game of chance, another man to finance her more important needs, which had never included her daughters.

"So how much time have we got?" she asked, reaching for her knitting. She was a wretched knitter—her handwork was atrocious but she convinced herself she could do something useful, even if her socks and vests were full of dropped stitches. Nanny Maude had taught her, but as usual she was proving less than adept.

Lydia sighed. "He'll be back in a week, and I don't think I'll be able to put him off again." Sweet Lydia was perfect in every way, pretty and darling and clever, and her handwork was flawless. She could dance perfectly with only the cursory lessons their mother had once paid for, she could paint a pretty picture, sing like a bird, and any man who met her became her willing slave, from Jacobs, their elderly manservant, to the wealthy young Vicomte de Miraboux whom she'd met at the lending library. For a brief time Elinor had hoped their problems were solved, until the Vicomte's family caught wind of what was going on and the Vicomte had been swept away on...

From the book

1

Demon plane of Oblivion, City of Ash
Year 192 in the Rule of the Dead

"Do we go to our death--or worse?"

Malkom Slaine gazed over at his best friend, Prince Kallen the Just, wishing he had a better answer for him, anything to ease the apprehension in Kallen's eyes.

As the vampire guards shoved them along, deeper into their stronghold, Malkom suspected death might be welcome before the night was out.

"The rumors are likely untrue," he lied, putting up a renewed resistance as the dozen guards forced them down a flight of stone steps. But his bonds were mystical; Malkom was unable to teleport or break free.

At the base of the stairs lay a subterranean chamber with an ornate throne on a dais. Though the floor was of packed earth, the walls were hung with rich silks and tapestries. Rare crystal and glass adorned the room.

At once, Malkom began analyzing every inch of the area for an escape. Ahead, a pair of winded demon slaves stood beside a freshly dug grave. More guards lined the walls, with swords at the ready. In the back, a black-robed sorcerer worked at a vial-cluttered table.

Gods, let the rumors be untrue ... those whispers of the ScÂrba--the abominations.

Kallen muttered, "Can you see a way out of this?"

Normally, Malkom could. Without fail, he figured his way out of seemingly impossible predicaments. "Not as of yet."

The guards shoved Kallen and Malkom to their knees before the grave.

"Ronath will pay for this once I get free," Kallen grated. Ronath the Armorer was a seasoned warrior, the strongest demon after Malkom. He'd once been Kallen's favored commander. "The traitor will not see another night."

'Twas Ronath who'd turned Malkom over to the vampires. Disastrous enough. But without Malkom's unwavering defense, Kallen's fortress had fallen just a week later. The Trothans' beloved prince had been captured.

Blinded by his hatred for Malkom--a slave turned commander--Ronath had unwittingly doomed Kallen and all the Trothans.

Malkom had already planned his own revenge. As he was neither noble nor good like Kallen, his retribution would be far more vicious than the prince could ever envision.

Without warning, a vampire traced into the room, teleporting directly onto the throne. Clad in costly silk robes, the male was pallid, his skin untouched by Oblivion's blistering sun. His eyes were wholly red, his visage twisted by madness.

The Viceroy.

When the vampires had conquered Oblivion and turned it into a colony, they'd dispatched the Viceroy, their most malicious leader, to act as ruler of the plane.

"Ah, my two new prisoners," he said in Anglish.

Though Malkom and Kallen both were fluent in the language, they refused to speak anything other than their native Demonish--even as the use of that tongue was now punishable by death.

The vampire rubbed his narrow, clean-shaven chin. "At last, you have both been captured."

Malkom and the prince were the leaders of the rebellion, and to break them would be to break the resistance. The vampire overlords had searched for them relentlessly.

When the Viceroy snapped his fingers, the two slaves exited the room, returning moments later with an unconscious demon boy. One of their own, handed over for a vampire's refreshment. A leisurely repast.

Malkom started sweating. He strained even harder...

Chapter One

Rhys St. Maur, newly Lord Ashworth, was a broken man.

Literally.

By the age of twenty, he'd fractured his left arm twice--once in a schoolboy brawl at Eton, and then again during an army training drill. Cracked ribs . . . he'd lost count of those. Fists driving through bar- room haze to connect with his face had snapped the cartilage in his nose a few times, leaving him with a craggy profile--one that was not improved by his myriad scars. Since sometime around his thirtieth birthday, the little finger on his right hand just plain refused to bend. And in damp weather like this, his left knee throbbed with memories of marching through the Pyrenees and surviving the Battle of Nivelle unscathed, only to catch a Basque farmer's hoe to the knee the next morning, when he left camp for a predawn piss.

That left knee was on fire tonight, sizzling with pain as Rhys trudged through the granite heart of Devonshire, leading his horse down the darkened road. The moisture in the air kept dithering between fog and rain, and the night was thick with its indecision. He couldn't see but a few feet in front of him, which was why he'd decided to dismount and lead his horse on foot. Between the poor visibility and the surrounding terrain littered with chunks of stone and boot-sucking bogs, the risk of fatal injury was too great.

For the horse, that was. Rhys wasn't in the least concerned for himself. In fact, if he thought this godforsaken moor had any chance of claiming his own life, he'd cheerfully saddle his gelding and charge off into the gloom.

But it wouldn't work. It never had. He'd just end up with a lamed or dead horse, another broken rib perhaps, and the same curse that had haunted him since boyhood: unwanted, undeserved, and wholly wasted good luck.

No matter what misfortune befell him, this or any night, Rhys St. Maur was doomed to survive it.

The wind's low moan played his spine like a fiddle string. Behind him, the gelding balked. With a reassuring shush for the beast's benefit, Rhys marched on, turning up the collar of his coat to keep out the mist.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .

He'd been walking through this valley for a long, long time. Trod so far into death's shadow he'd felt his feet turning to dust in his boots, the breath in his lungs burning acrid as sulfur. A living ghost, that's what he was. He'd returned from war to a newly inherited barony, and his sole duty now was to haunt the English aristocracy. Hulk awkwardly in the corners of their parties, terrify their delicate young ladies, and cause the gentlemen to rub their temples self-consciously as they tried not to stare at the gnarled scar marring his own.

As Rhys rounded a sharp curve in the road, a vaguely familiar sight emerged from the gloom. If he'd read his landmarks right, this had to be it. The tiny village of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. At this distance, just a meager constellation of amber pinpricks against the black night.

The horse, scenting straw and safety, picked up his pace. Soon the cluster of stone and cob buildings came into focus. It must not be as late as it felt. A fair number of the cottages still showed light through their windows--yellow eyes peering out from beneath thatched-roof hats.

He halted in the center of the road. Wiping the moisture from his eyes, he squinted in the direction of the old inn. Fourteen years he'd been gone, but the same sign still creaked on its chains above the door. It read, in retouched...

There was a naked man on her doorstep.

Priscilla had been in the sitting room, curled up with a book, when she heard a thunderous pounding on the front door. She had jumped to her feet, a trifle alarmed, for it was rather late in the evening for any visitors. Moreover, the loud noise had rung with urgency. She had snatched up a candle from the table and hurried to the front door. When she swung it wide open, she had found this man standing there. He had on not one stitch of clothing, and his skin was covered with a thin sheen of sweat and decorated with a multitude of thin red scratches. He was breathing rapidly, his chest rising and falling as he took huge gulps of air.

She stared at him, for one of the few times in her life rendered speechless.

He was a huge man; he seemed to fill the tiny porch of Evermere Cottage, presenting a wide expanse of bare skin. Priscilla had never seen so much naked flesh in her life, all of it tanned, muscled and intensely masculine.

The man stared back at her. He looked dazed and exhausted as he swayed, muttering, "Help me." Then he collapsed at her feet.

Priscilla let out a little shriek of horror and reached out to grab him, but he was far too heavy, and his damp, bare skin simply slid across her palm as he crumpled to the floor of the tiny porch.

The door of her father's study opened, and Florian Hamilton stuck his head out. His graying hair was rumpled and sticking up in spikes from his habit of shoving his fingers through it whenever he was deep in thought. He frowned vaguely.

"Priscilla? What was that noise? Is there someone at the door?"

His familiar voice broke Priscilla's temporary paralysis. "It's all right, Papa," she said, in a voice that wavered only slightly from her usual brisk tone. "I will take care of it."

She turned back to the porch to survey her problem. The man now lay partly inside the house, on his side, most of his massive chest and arms on the floor at her feet, his long legs and the rest of his torso sprawled out on the stoop. It was obvious that she could not possibly move him herself.

Who was he? And whatever was he doing here—naked and unconscious? It occurred to her that it must be a jest; it seemed, in fact, just the sort of nonsense that Philip or Gid might think up. However, she could not imagine that even one of her mischievous brothers would send a nude man to his sister's door—and what man would be willing to run around stark naked? If nothing else, it was still early spring, and rather chilly. No, she concluded, it could not be a joke.

Her eyes went to the man's face. It was boldly chiseled, with a wide jaw and prominent cheekbones, a firm, full mouth and a long, straight nose. His was not a handsome face, exactly; it was too sharp and hard for perfect beauty, but there was power in it, even in slack unconsciousness—and with his eyes closed, the thick fringe of lashes shadowing his cheek, there was even a hint of vulnerability that made her heart twist strangely in her chest. She bent forward, holding her candle lower to light his features.

He was clean-shaven, his skin smooth and tanned, darker than her own milk-white color and that of most of the people she was accustomed to seeing. There was a narrow red scratch across his jaw, and another on his forehead. His hair was a thick, rich brown, and, as she held the candle closer, a glint of red shone through, like polished mahogany. A strand of it had fallen across his cheek, and unconsciously she reached out and brushed it back. He groaned and rolled over onto his back.

Priscilla's eyes moved lower, over his wide, muscled chest,...

Chapter One

Liz Sutton had always known the past was going to come back and bite her in the butt—she just hadn’t known it was going to happen today.

Her morning had started normally enough, with getting her son off to school, then going down the hall to her office, where she managed to write five fairly decent pages before having to stop for some serious pacing, followed by deleting three of the five pages. She was trying to figure out who she was planning to murder in the first chapter of her new book, not to mention how they would be murdered. Was decapitation just too predictable? Luckily her assistant knocked on her door, sparing her from making a decision.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Peggy said, frowning slightly as she held out a piece of paper. “But I thought you’d want to read this.”

Liz took the single sheet. It was an e-mail, sent to her website. There was a link there for fans to get in touch with her. Peggy handled most of the e-mails, but every now and then she found something she didn’t know what to do with.

“A crazed stalker type?” Liz asked, pathetically grateful for the interruption. When the writing was going slowly, even a death threat was more thrilling than the current work in progress.

“Not exactly. She says she’s your niece.”

Niece?

Liz scanned the sheet.

Dear Aunt Liz,

My name is Melissa Sutton. My dad is your brother Roy. I’m fourteen years old and my sister Abby is eleven. A few months ago, our dad went to prison. His new wife, our stepmom, said she would take care of us, but she changed her mind and left. I thought Abby and me would be fine. I’m really mature for my age. My teachers say that all the time.

She’s been gone a while now and I’m really scared. I haven’t told Abby because she’s still a kid, but I don’t know if we can make it. I don’t want to tell Dad what happened because he really liked Bettina and he’ll be sad she didn’t wait for him.

So I thought maybe you could help. I know we haven’t met before, but I’ve read all your books and I really like them.

Hope to hear from you soon. Your niece, Melissa.

P.S. I’m using the computer at the library, so you can’t e-mail me back. But here’s our phone number. Even though the lights are off, the phone still works at home.

P.P.S. We’re living in your old house in Fool’s Gold.

Liz read the e-mail a second time, trying to get the words to make sense. Roy was back in Fool’s Gold. Or at least he had been, before heading off to prison.

She hadn’t seen her brother in nearly eighteen years. He was a lot older and had left the summer she’d turned twelve. She’d never heard from him again. Apparently he’d married a couple of times and had kids. Daughters. Girls who were living alone in a house that had been rundown and disgusting twelve years ago. She doubted there had been many improvements since.

Questions tumbled through her brain. Questions about her brother and why he’d returned to Fool’s Gold after being gone so long. Why he was in prison and what on earth was she supposed to do with two nieces she’d never met?

She glanced at her watch. It was barely eleven. As it was Tyler’s last day before summer vacation, he was getting out at twelve-thirty. If she got the car packed in time, they could leave directly from his school and be in Fool’s Gold in about four hours.

“I need to deal with this,” Liz told her assistant, as she wrote an address on a piece of paper. “Call the electric company in Fool’s Gold and get the power turned back on. They should take a credit card for payment. Do the same with the other utilities. I’ll call the girls and let them know I’m coming.”

“Are they really your nieces?” Peggy asked.

“I guess. I haven’t seen my brother since I was their age, but I can’t let them stay there alone.” She shook her head, trying to figure out what else had to be done. Her next book wouldn’t be published until the fall, she so didn’t have to worry about publicity and book tours. She could work on her new story anywhere she had her laptop. At least that was the theory.

“I don’t know how long we’ll be gone,” she continued. “I’m guessing it will take a couple of weeks to get everything straightened out.”

Peggy stared at her. “Just like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you going to think about it? Most people would hesitate. You don’t even know these girls.”

True, Liz thought. But what choice did she have? “They’re kids, by themselves and family. I have to do something.”

“Which is just like you,” Peggy said. “You leap in and do what you think is right.”

“Someone has to.” Besides, she’d grown up having to take care of things. Her mother hadn’t bothered. “With luck, I won’t be gone too long.”

“Don’t worry either way. I can handle things here.”

Liz forced a smile. “I know you can. I’m going to pack and then go get Tyler. We’ll drive to Fool’s Gold today.”

“Maybe it will be nice to go home.”

Liz did her best to look normal. “Sure. Okay, I’ll call the girls.”

She waited until Peggy had left before picking up the phone. She dialed the familiar number, then let it ring eight times before hanging up. No answer. Of course, it was a weekday. The girls were probably still in school. She would try again later, from her cell.

She had to pack for herself and her son, phone a few of friends and let them know she would be gone for a couple of weeks, e-mail her editor and agent to tell them the same. Logistics, she thought as she collected the notes she’d made on her current novel. She was good at logistics. The ability to plan and deal with problems was part of the reason she enjoyed writing her detective mystery series. She’d always been good at the work. It was the rest of life that caused her to stumble time after time.

“Introspection later,” she murmured aloud. “Action now.”

She powered off her laptop, then disconnected it from the docking station. After collecting her notes, a few pens, pads of paper and her address book, she went down the hall to her bedroom.

An hour and a half later, she’d packed what she hoped was enough, loaded the car and gone over everything with Peggy. Her assistant would take care of the house and make sure the bills were paid.

“Are you all right?” Peggy asked.

“Sure. Great. Why?”

Peggy, a forty-something former executive assistant, frowned. “Just checking. This is a lot to take in.” She hesitated. “You know if there’s no one else to take care of the girls...”

Liz might suddenly be responsible for two nieces she’d never met. “I know. I’ll deal with that when I have more information.”

“Mac and I went to Fool’s Gold on our honeymoon. Back when I thought marriage was a good thing. I didn’t know you were from there.”

No one did, Liz thought grimly. She found life easier when she didn’t talk about her past. “I left right after high school. Moved here. San Francisco is my home now.”

Peggy smiled at her. “If you need anything, call me.”

“I will.”

Liz went downstairs to the single car garage and got into her Lexus RX350. She’d packed four suitcases, a couple of boxes with Tyler’s favorite movies, his Xbox, and a handful of books. She went over the inventory because that was easier than thinking about what she was doing. Going back to the one place she never wanted to be. The town where she’d grown up.

For a second she wondered if she really had to do this. Go rescue a couple of kids she’d never met. Then she shook off the thought. Right now there wasn’t anyone else. She couldn’t leave the two girls on their own. She would deal with the problem, get it resolve and return to her life. Staying was not an option.

Midday traffic was relatively light and she made it to Tyler’s school in about twenty minutes. He was talking to his friends, probably making plans for hanging out. When he saw her small SUV, he waved and hurried over.

“Jason says his family’s for sure going to Disneyland in August and they’re gonna call and talk to you about me going with them,” he said as he climbed into the passenger seat.

“Hello to you, too,” she said with a smile.

He grinned. “Hi, Mom. How was your day?”

“Interesting.”

“Great. Now can we talk about Disneyland?”

Her son was the brightest and best part of her life, she thought as she stared into his dark brown eyes. He had her smile, but everything else came from his father. As if her DNA hadn’t been strong enough to overpower his.

Tyler was smart, funny, warm and caring. He had dozens of friends, an easy-going disposition and plans to be an architect when he grew up. She knew that everyone said the early teen years were the worst with boys. That by thirteen or fourteen, he would be making her life hell. But that was a problem for another time. Today, Tyler was her world.

A world that had just been shifted off its axis and was tumbling freely through space.

“Disneyland sounds like fun,” she said. “I’ll talk to Jason’s mom. If they want to take you and you want to go, then we’ll arrange it.”

His grinned widened. Then he glanced toward the back of the vehicle.

“Whoa, are we going somewhere? Road trip?”

She pulled into traffic, heading toward I-80. She would take it east, until she turned off to drive into Fool’s Gold.

“Sort of,” she said and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

Over the years, she’d done her best not to lie to her son. Not about her past or his father. For the most part, she’d simply told him there were questions she wouldn’t answer. At four or five, he’d been easily distracted. At eight, he’d been determined to find out the truth. Now he asked less, probably because he knew he couldn’t wear her down. But she knew he wondered.

“I got an e-mail today,” she told him. “You remember I told you I have a brother?

“Uh huh. Roy. We don’t ever see him.”

“I know. He’s a lot older and he took off when I was twelve. I woke up one morning and he was gone. I never saw him again.”

She still remembered her mother’s sobs, made thicker and louder by the alcohol lingering in her system. From that moment on, her mother spent her life waiting for Roy to return. Nothing else had mattered, certainly not Liz.

Liz had left town shortly after graduating high school. She’d phoned home once, a few weeks later, saying she thought she should check in and tell her mother where she was.

“Don’t bother calling again,” had been the woman’s only response before hanging up the phone.

“So Uncle Roy e-mailed you?”

“Not exactly.” Liz didn’t know how much to reveal. Telling the truth was one thing, but sharing details was another. “He’s, um, in some trouble and I have to go help. He has two girls. Your cousins. Melissa is fourteen and Abby is your age.”

“I have cousins? You didn’t tell me about cousins.”

“I didn’t know about them until today.”

“But they’re family.”

True enough, she thought. And the word “family” implied caring and connection. Maybe in most places, but not in the Sutton household. At least not until Liz had had Tyler. She’d done everything she could think of to break the cycle of neglect. She’d been determined to be a warm, loving mother, to offer her child a safe haven.

“I didn’t know where Roy was,” she said. “He never got in touch with me after he left.” For six years, she’d waited, hoping he would come get her and take her away. Until he’d walked out, he’d always taken care of her. Been a buffer between her and her mother. Protected her from the worst of it.

By the time she’d been old enough to go looking, she told herself she no longer cared.

“Do they know we’re coming?” Tyler asked. “Do they know about me?”

“Not yet, but they will. We’re going to stay with them for a couple of weeks.” She didn’t mention the fact that Roy was in prison. Time enough for that later. Nor did she go into the possibility of the girls having to live with them permanently. Maybe there was other family who could take care of them.

“I grew up in a small town called Fool’s Gold,” she said. “It’s in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains.”

“Do they get snow?” he asked eagerly. Because at eleven, seeing snow was about the best it could be.

She laughed. “Probably not in June, but yes, they get snow. There’s lots to do there. Hiking, swimming. There’s a river and a lake.”

“We could go camping.”

She made a noncommittal noise in her throat, mostly because the thought of camping ranked right up there with being awake during open-heart surgery. Not even thinking about it was pleasant. But then she wasn’t an eleven year-old boy. She hadn’t been fascinated by worms and dirt and play cars and plastic guns, either.

More traits she knew he got from his father. Which was another problem. Not the traits, the man himself. Odds were Ethan was still in Fool’s Gold. The one place he’d asked her not to be. He’d made it clear he didn’t want her or his kid around.

Well, he was just going to have to get over it, she told herself. This was an emergency. She wouldn’t make a big deal about Tyler being in town and she certainly wouldn’t tell her son about his father. Not when Ethan had rejected them both so completely.

She would deal with the girls and get out as quickly as possible. If she happened to run into Ethan, she would be pleasant and distant. Nothing more. Because after all this time and all the ways he’d managed to hurt her, there was no way she was ever going to be vulnerable to him again. She’d learned her lesson. Fool me once and all that.

She gripped the steering wheel more tightly and glanced at her nav system screen. It showed the way to her destination and she was counting on the little device to be able to guide her back home when she was done.

# # #

Ethan Hendrix stood by the barricades between the crowd and the cyclists. The sun was hot, the spectators loud. The noise of a race was specific and not something he would ever forget. There’d been a time when he’d planned on seeing the world on the racing circuit. A long time ago, he thought, remembering the feel of the wind, the sensation of muscles burning as he dug for the will to win.

Winning had come easily. Maybe too easily. He’d gotten careless during a race. At fifty miles an hour, balanced on skinny wheels and a light-weight frame, mistakes could be deadly. In his case, he’d been left with a few broken bones and a permanent limp. For anyone else, it would have been considered lucky. For him, the injury had kept him from ever racing again.

Now, ten years later, he watched the cyclists speed past. He spotted his friend Josh, still making up time from his late start, and wondered what if. But he didn’t have a whole lot of energy for the subject. Everything was different now and he was good with that.

He turned away from the race, ready to go back to his office, when he spotted a woman in the crowd. For a second he thought he’d imagined her, that he was putting beautiful features he would never forget onto the face of someone else. There was no way Liz Sutton was back in Fool’s Gold.

Instinctively he moved closer, but the road with the barricades was between them. The redhead looked up again, this time facing him. She removed her sunglasses and he saw her wide green eyes, the full mouth. From this distance he couldn’t see the freckles on her nose, but he knew they were there. He even knew how many.

He swore softly. Liz was back. Except on the back cover of her books, he hadn’t seen her in over a decade. As of five seconds ago, he would have told anyone who asked that he’d forgotten her, had gotten over her. She was his past.

She looked away then, as if searching for someone. Obviously not him, he thought, then grinned. Liz back in Fool’s Gold. Who would have thought?

He eased his way through the crowd. He might not be able to find her now, but he had a feeling he knew where she would be later. He would meet her there and welcome her home. It was the least he could do.

# # #

Liz kept a tight hold on Tyler’s hand. The crowd around the bike race was big and seemed to be growing. She’d been foolish to think she could find two girls she’d never met in the throng of tourists. It wasn’t as if she even knew what they looked like.

She pointed toward a vendor selling shaved iced and bought Tyler his favorite flavor. Blueberry.

All around them, groups of people laughed and talked about the race. She heard something about a new bike racing school and a new hospital being built. Changes, she thought. Fool’s Gold had changed in the past ten years.

But not enough for her to forget. Despite having to detour around blocked roads, she easily found her way down side streets, and back toward the house where she’d grown up.

“You lived here before you went to San Francisco?” Tyler asked.

“Uh huh. I grew up here.”

“With my grandma Sutton?”

“Yes.”

“She’s dead now.”

He spoke the words as information, because that’s all they were to him. He’d never met Liz’s mother.

When Liz had first left town at eighteen, running away with a broken heart, she’d found her way to the city by the bay, had struggled to find work and a place to stay in a glorified shelter. Then she’d found out she was pregnant.

Her first instinct had been to go home, but that initial phone call had made her wary. Over the next year, she’d phoned home twice. Both times her mother had made it clear her daughter was no longer a part of her life. The rejection had hurt but hadn’t been much of a surprise. Her mother had also taken great delight in telling her that no, Ethan Hendrix never called or asked about her.

When the woman died four years ago, Liz hadn’t returned for the funeral.

Now, as she crossed a quiet street, she found herself in her old neighborhood. The houses were modest, two and three bedroom homes with small porches and aging paint. A few gleamed like bright flowers in an abandoned garden, as if the neighborhood was on the verge of being desirable again.

The worst house on the street sat in the middle. An eyesore of peeling paint and missing roof shingles. The yard was more weeds than plants or lawn, the windows were filthy. Plywood filled the space where one was missing. Her car sat in the driveway—the new model looking out of place.

She used the key she’d found under the front mat to let them in. She’d already done a brief tour of the house, to see if the girls were there. Judging from the school books piled on the dirty kitchen table and the clothes on the girls’ bedroom floors, she would guess summer break hadn’t started yet.

Now she walked through to the kitchen. Half the cabinets were gone, as if someone had started remodeling then changed his mind. The refrigerator worked, but was empty. There was no food in the pantry in the corner. There were a few potato chip wrappers in the trash and one small apple on the counter.

She didn’t know what to think. Based on her niece’s letter, the girls had been on their own for a few weeks. Ever since their stepmom had taken off. With their father in jail and no other family around, shouldn’t the state step in? Where were social services?

She had more questions, but figured she would deal with them later. It was after three. The girls should get home soon. Once they’d all met, she would see about getting food in the house and figuring out what was going on.

“Mom?” Tyler called from the living room. “Can I watch TV?”

“Until your cousins get here.”

Peggy had already called to say she’d paid all the amounts due on the utility bills and that everything should be working. Liz could see there was electricity. She turned on the faucet and water gushed out, which was a plus. Seconds later, she heard the sound of cartoons, which meant there was cable. Modern life as she knew it had been restored.

She walked back to the front of the house and took the stairs to the second floor. She made her way straight to the master. It was the only room with family photos. A wedding picture of a much older Roy standing next to a chubby blonde had been placed on the battered dresser. There were a couple of school pictures of the girls. Liz moved closer and studied them, looking for features that would be familiar.

Melissa seemed to have Roy’s smile. Abby had Liz’s eyes and freckles. They were both redheads, Melissa blessed with a soft auburn color. Abby was all carrot-top, which looked totally adorable. Although Liz had a feeling the eleven year-old wouldn’t appreciate her unique coloring for a long time.

She turned away from the photos to look at the room. The bed was unmade, the dresser drawers open and empty. In the surprisingly large closet, only men’s clothes hung. A couple of boxes were filled with socks and underwear—most likely placed there by Roy’s wife.

Memories crowded around, filling the space. As she moved back into the hallway, then into the bedroom that had been hers, they poked at her, making her remember things she’d tried so hard to forget.

She heard echoes of her mother yelling, inhaled the smell of alcohol. She remembered the low voices of the men who had come and gone. Most of her mother’s “friends” had stayed out of Liz’s way, but a few had watched her with an intensity that had made her uncomfortable.

She went into the room that had been hers. The wall color was different. The faded yellow had been replaced with a pale lavender. While the walls were fresh, the baseboards and trim had been sanded, but not finished. In the bathroom across the hall, the floor had been pulled up, exposing sheets of plywood below. She’d noticed a framed room off the back, sitting on a poured foundation. So many half-started projects that gave the already old and battered house the air of being wounded.

Easily changed, she told herself. A good contractor could have this place fixed in a few weeks. Or maybe the old house should simply be torn down and left for dead.

She shook off the morose thoughts. She’d been here all of an hour and already the place was getting to her. She had to remember she had a great life in San Francisco. Work she loved, a beautiful home, an amazing son. She’d left Fool’s Gold over a decade ago. She was a different person today. Older. Stronger. Able to deal with a few memories. It wasn’t as if she was settling here permanently. She would figure out what was going on, then either take the girls to wherever they were going to live, or pack them up and bring them back to her place. A couple of weeks, she told herself. Three at most.

She went downstairs and heard the sound of excited voices. There were racing footsteps on the porch, then the front door flew open.

Two girls stood there, the taller and older one looking both scared and relieved, while the younger hung back shyly.

“Aunt Liz?” Melissa, the fourteen year old, asked tentatively.

Liz smiled at them both and nodded. “Hi. I hope it’s okay that I let myself in. The key was right where—”

The rest of what she was going to say got squeezed out of her as both girls raced to her and hugged her hard, holding on as if they would never let go.

Chapter One

“Screwing two guys doesn’t make you a slut.”

Lainie Capshaw darted a quick glance at the crowd in Bucky’s Tavern. Luckily none of her coworkers—her male coworkers—lurked about. “Maybe you could’ve said that a little louder, Tanna. I don’t think they heard you on the dance floor.”

“Puh-lease. The men in this joint are too busy gawking at the cocktail waitress with the watermelon-sized tits to be eavesdropping on us.” Tanna sucked down a healthy swig of beer. “Twenty bucks says ’ol monster jugs pops a strap in the next ten minutes.”

“No dice. If I take that bet you’ll sneak up behind her and slice the damn strap just so you can win.”

“You’re no fun.” Tanna sighed dramatically. “I’m bored.”

Lainie rolled her eyes. A bored Tanna was a dangerous Tanna. “So let’s talk about Lainie’s lewd love life.”

“Let’s not.”

Tanna wagged her finger. “Ah ah ah. Suck it up, chickie. You walk the walk, you gotta talk the talk. Besides, who cares if you’re boning two guys? Cowboys are notorious for having a different buckle bunny every night, in every podunk rodeo town on the circuit. It pisses me off there’s still a double standard for women.”

“True. But...”

“But what?” Tanna looked at her quizzically. “You aren’t feeling guilty, are you?” She shrugged. “Maybe. Wouldn’t you?”

“Hell no.”

Bull. Lainie called Tanna’s bluff. “So if the buff babe in the yellow shirt sauntered over and said, ‘I wanna screw your brains out against my truck right now,’ you’d follow him out into the parking lot without question?”

“Or hesitation. Well, besides checking my purse for condoms.”

“Even when you’re already making time with that studly bulldogger from Austin?” Lainie challenged.

Tanna planted her elbows on the table. “I’d do it in a heartbeat, Lainie. What would you do if both your men showed up here tonight?”

Wet myself. “Umm. I’d probably run.”

“Like a contest to see who wanted you more? Whoever catches you first wins?”

Good Lord. Talk about an overactive sense of drama. “No. More like running from my problem.”

“Doesn’t sound like a problem to me. Two sexy men angling to thrill you between the sheets.” Tanna smiled brazenly. “Or against the bathroom stall, in Kyle’s case.”

Whoo-ee. Just thinking about the hot tryst with Kyle still fried Lainie’s circuits. Never in her life had she warranted an I-need-you-right-fucking-now bout of raunchy monkey sex. So yeah, it’d earned her bragging rights. Even been there, done that Tanna had been impressed by Lainie’s balls-to-the-wall behavior.

Tanna’s cell phone vibrated on the tabletop. She squinted at the number and snapped, “’Bout time you dumb bastard,” before she flounced out the side door, chewing the caller’s ass.

Lainie hunched over the table to discourage any cowboys from asking her to dance. Probably an unnecessary precaution since tantalizing Tanna usually garnered that type of male attention, not her.

Which was why it was so twisted that Lainie had captured the interest of not one, but two men. Two very hot, very alpha men on two different circuits.

Lainie liked working the rodeo circuits, even though the pay was crap. As a med tech for Lariat Sports Medicine, she split her time between the two largest rodeo organizations: the Cowboy Rodeo Association,known as the CRA, and the Extreme Bull Showcase, known as EBS.

The CRA was comprised of rough stock events—bareback, saddle bronc and bull riding, as well as timed events—calf roping, team roping, steer wrestling, also known as bulldoggin’, and barrel racing. The EBS had just one event--bull riding.

The CRA bull riders didn’t compete in the EBS and vice versa. Which was how Lainie ended up with a hot cowboy hook up on both the CRA and the EBS.

Fraternizing with cowboys could be career suicide for a woman in the male-dominated sport, especially when her job was to examine those glorious bodies. Lainie prided herself on avoiding the sexual temptation for damn near two years.

Until she’d met Hank Lawson.

She’d encountered the intense CRA bullfighter after he’d pulled his Achilles tendon during a CRA event and grudgingly limped into medical services. After she fixed him up, he asked her out on a date. Lainie refused--tempting as it’d been. Not only was Hank a 100% real Wyoming cowboy, who handled bulls with ease and panache, at 6’3”, with inky black hair and ruggedly masculine features, he embodied tall, dark and handsome.

She kept refusing until Hank invited her to dance at a sponsor’s dinner. A simple dance, what could it hurt?

If she appreciated Hank’s moves in the arena, his moves on the dance floor were equally fine. Whenever hard-bodied Hank studied her with those eyes the color of new denim, she experienced a rush of adrenaline that must have been equal to spending eight seconds astride a 2000-pound bull.

Two weeks later, Hank asked her to two-step at another rodeo event. Too much wine and too much Hank went straight to her head. One slow dance led them directly to Hank’s motel room for a little mattress dancing.

Mercy. Revisiting that romp with Hank caused Lainie’s thighs to clench with want. Intense concentration and instinctual reaction were the hallmarks of good bullfighters and Hank had both in spades. No surprise his single-mindedness carried over into the bedroom.

The man took his own sweet time making love; it was as maddening as it was arousing. Leisurely undressing her. Running his work-roughened fingers over every inch of her bared skin. Kissing everywhere his hands roamed. Wringing at least two explosive orgasms from her before he rode her hard and fast, or slow and sweet.

As phenomenal as the sex was, Hank rarely deviated from missionary position. Even if Lainie started out on top showing off her excellent riding skills, she’d end up underneath Hank at the big finish. She’d shoved aside her niggling doubts about Hank’s lack of sexual spontaneity because he made her come so many times she saw stars.

So why had she hooked up with bull rider Kyle Gilcrist from the EBS circuit? True, Kyle and Hank were opposites. Physically, Kyle was wiry rather than overly muscular. His green eyes sparkled with mischief, not intensity. With Kyle’s blonde locks and golden facial hair, he resembled a Viking.

After taking a year off due to knee surgery, Kyle returned to the EBS with a vengeance. He’d started dropping by the sports medicine room to chat, in the guise of having his previous knee injury reexamined. Very polite. Very much interested in showing her in explicit detail how a modern day Viking would utterly ravish her.

Her resistance lasted two months. The square-jawed, sloe-eyed, sweet-talker had literally charmed the pants right off her in a bathroom stall at Denny’s outside Chula Vista. That first weekend she’d had sex with Kyle six times—not once in missionary position.

It’d been freeing. Fun. Hot as sin...until the weekend ended. Away from the temptation of Kyle’s consuming kisses, she questioned if she’d become as loose and easy as the buckle bunnies trailing after the circuit cowboys.

But mostly Lainie wondered if she could juggle both men at the same time.

She and Hank hadn’t discussed exclusivity. For all she knew, Hank could be sleeping with half the barrel racers on the CRA circuit. Kyle hadn’t demanded promises either. Given Kyle’s charm and good looks, she doubted he spent his nights alone watching Country Music Television.

So it wasn’t the “cheating” factor that bothered her. It was the fact she really liked both men and she didn’t know who she’d pick if she had to choose.

Luckily, Lainie was in the catbird seat for a while. In the big world of professional rodeo, the EBS and CRA circuits rarely intersected geographically. Chances were slim she’d run into Hank if she was with Kyle or vice versa.

Feeling a little cocky, she sipped her beer.

Lainie’s smugness lasted all of thirty seconds before two rough-skinned hands covered her eyes and a deep, sexy male voice murmured, “Guess who?”

****

Kyle Gilchrist could not believe his luck. Mel was here. Right here. Her wild curls tickling his cheek. Her powdery scent teasing his nose. The sight of her lithe little body hardened his cock.

And to think he’d dreaded spending the eve of his CRA debut in some dive bar in Lamar, Colorado.

Cool fingers circled his wrists. “Kyle?”

He removed his hands and spun the barstool, forcing Mel to face him. “Hey, sugar. Surprise.”

“Omigod. It is you. What are you doing here? This isn’t your circuit.”

“Came in to have a beer and coerce a pretty woman into dancin’ with me. And look who I found first thing—the prettiest lady I know.” Kyle’s palms slid down her bare arms to grasp her fingers. “Come on.” Allowing her no chance to argue, he tugged her to the dance floor, right into the thick of the crowd.

“Kyle, this isn’t a good idea. What if—”

“It’s the best idea I’ve had in weeks. Come on. Admit it. You missed me.”

“Maybe.” She smiled against his throat.

He wasn’t much of a dancer, so he employed every seductive tactic he’d stockpiled over the years to draw her attention away from his two left feet. Brushing his thumb at the base of her neck. Gradually easing his thigh between hers. Swaying to the beat of the music while their bodies moved to a rhythm uniquely theirs.

The final chord of the tune rang out. He spun them until her back was to the main part of the bar.

She tried to push him away. “Kyle. Let go.”

“Not until you give me a kiss.”

“But, I can’t. Not here where everyone can see—”

Kyle settled his mouth over hers, treating her to the lazy kisses that always distracted her.

A soft protest exited her mouth, which he swallowed in another kiss. She thought too much. Worried too much. The best way to turn off her overactive brain was to turn her on in a whole ’nother way.

As luck would have it, that was one thing Kyle was very good at.

****

Hank Lawson paced in the shadow of the sleazy honky-tonk. “No, sir. I understand. Yes.” He grinned at the phone. “I’m committed to the next three weeks. Uh-huh. Well, sir—all right, Bryson—it’s a good opportunity for me to work with some of the rankest bulls in the CRA. No. I’ll cut it short if I have to. Absolutely I’ll be there. Tulsa. Looking forward to it.” He clicked the phone off and pumped his fist into the air.

“Yes!” Hank couldn’t wait to tell...he stopped. Wait a second. He couldn’t tell anyone. Dammit. That sucked. Biggest news of his career and he had to keep a lid on it.

Bullfighting. In the EBS. It was a callback from his pre-tryout test last month at a second tier event.

As much as Hank loved bullfighting in the CRA, for a bullfighter, the EBS was the big time. More money. TV coverage. More sponsorships. Fans. And he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone? Screw that. Hank scrolled through his contact list and hit dial.

“Hank?” she answered breathlessly. “What’s up?”

“News, but promise me it’ll stay under your hat.”

The noise in the background sounded like she was at a rodeo. “I scored another audition with the EBS.”

She squealed. “Seriously? That’s awesome! When?”

“A couple of weeks. Once I’m done with Cowboy Christmas.”

“They couldn’t get you in sooner?”

“Bryson asked if I’d be available for the Huntington Beach event next week, but I can’t. I’ve already committed to—”

“God, Hank, why can’t you let Gilly navigate the CRA trail on his own? It ain’t like he’s a rookie.”

He scowled. Would she ever get over her beef with his buddy? Probably not. The girl held a grudge like nobody’s business. “I’m not goin’ on the road as a favor to Gilly. Truth is, I’m doin’ this for me.”

“For the money?”

“Partially. But the more bulls I can get in front of the next three weeks, the better my chances in the EBS.”

“Unless you get stomped by one and blow your goddamn big chance,” she retorted.

“Thanks for the confidence, sis,” he groused.

“I have the utmost confidence in you, bro. It’s the bulls I don’t trust. That said, I really am excited for you.”

“I know you are. Remember, you can’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Abe?”

“I’ll tell him.”

“You’d better. But I’m afraid he won’t be as thrilled. Come to think of it, if you do get picked, it’ll be more work for me at the ranch. Maybe I oughta be rooting for the bulls.”

Hank laughed softly.

“Glad I amuse you. Shit. I’m up. Later.”

He said, “Up for what?” to the dial tone. He glanced at the time. Damn. He’d been outside for thirty minutes. Not only hadn’t he said hello to Lainie yet—and wouldn’t she be surprised to see him—he’d left Gilly hanging. Too bad he hadn’t introduced them before he’d taken the call. He headed back inside.

The flashing lights from the stage show inside the honky-tonk screwed with his eyes. Hank blinked a couple times, scanning the tables. The band wailed a decent cover of Billy Currington’s latest love song.

He stopped at the bar and ordered three Coors Light. Hank felt like a fish swimming upstream, juggling three bottles of beer as the people rushed off the dance floor after the tune ended. He’d made it to the table he’d spotted Lainie and her friend sitting at earlier, but there was no sign of her now.

Huh. Hank looked round the bar. No sign of Gilly either.

His gaze wandered to the dance floor. One couple hadn’t left yet, oblivious to the fact the music had stopped. They were twined together, mouths fused, body pressed to body.

Hank squinted. Hey. Wait a minute. Was that...?

Holy fucking shit. That was Lainie—his Lainie—in a clinch with some happy-handed cowboy.

Fury filled him. He’d fucking lay the bastard out cold. Come on asshole, show me your face so I can figure out where I’m gonna put the first bruise.

Then the loser in the cowboy hat kissing Hank’s goddamn woman lifted his head.

Not just any cowboy had his hands and mouth on Lainie; Gilly had his hands and mouth on Lainie.

Hank’s stomach dropped. And so did the bottles of beer.

Lainie and Gilly looked at him the same time the raucous crowd broke into applause at his clumsiness.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes off them. Tempting, to punch his buddy in the kisser for kissing her. Equally tempting to pull Laine outside and ask her what the hell was going on.

The couple stopped right in front of him.

Hank calmly said, “Lainie, sweetheart. I was gonna introduce you to my good buddy, Gilly, but I see you two have already met.”

Glen Ocham, Ireland
1181

Twilight descended, casting shadows upon the cashel in a fading veil of gray. It was a spring night of celebration, a time when the Irish gave thanks for their prosperity. But for Auder Ó Reilly, it was the beginning of the end.

Her skin was frigid, for the life she’d known was slipping away, like water from between her fingertips. In two days, she would travel north to the Norman settlement governed by Lord Miles de Corlaine, Baron of Maraloch, to be his bride.

The very idea of surrendering herself to the Norman made her shudder. Aye, she would protect the lives of her kinsmen, by forging this alliance. They would be safe from invasion, their lands joined together. And Lord Maraloch was a wealthy man who could give her everything she would ever need.

But that wasn’t the reason she’d agreed to marry him.

Auder’s gaze settled upon her mother, who was sitting apart from the other women. Halma Ó Reilly’s thin face held a serene expression, but there was pain and loneliness beneath it. The shadow of humiliation from her husband’s misdeeds surrounded her still.

It’s not your fault, Auder wanted to tell her mother. You don’t deserve to suffer for what Father did.

She wanted to see her mother laughing again with friends. She wanted her to have a reason to lift her head up, knowing that her daughter had created peace where there had been a threat. And for that reason, she’d agreed to the marriage.

Halma had protected her in so many ways. Could she do less for her mother?

Auder crossed the cashel until she sat beside Halma. The matron’s green eyes stared at the others who were feasting and gossiping. “You haven’t touched your food.”

“I’m not hungry.” Halma patted her hand. Concern lined her face, and she added, “Auder, I’m not so sure you should marry this baron. We don’t really know the man.”

“It was my choice, Mother,” Auder pronounced. “I’ve agreed to accept the honor.” Though she tried to summon a smile, she couldn’t. Right now, she felt as though she were disappearing from her own body.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” her mother said, touching Auder’s cheek. “You could have your choice of any man here. Why would you give that up?”

For you, she wanted to say. To take away the shame you’re feeling right now. To give you a reason to be proud again.

“None of the men here interest me,” she lied. “And don’t you believe the lives of our clan members are more important than my personal feelings?”

“You have the choice to say no,” Halma said. “No one will force you into this marriage.” Her face grew tight with worry. “Or his bed.”

A shiver crossed over Auder at the thought of submitting to the Norman. She was not a virgin, but the one time in her life she’d taken a lover, it had not been pleasant. Something to be endured rather than enjoyed. Afterwards, the man had left her without speaking, and she was left to wonder what she’d done wrong.

Since that time, she’d held herself apart from all men. Though she was never impolite, she’d made it clear that she had no interest in any of them. But instead of making them keep their distance, it only made matters worse. The men tried to compete for her affections, each believing that he was man enough to wear her resistance down.

“I’m feeling tired,” her mother said, rising from the bench. “I think I’ll go and rest for a while.” Her face was bright with embarrassment, as though she didn’t want to discuss Auder’s impending marriage any further.

When Halma had gone, Auder’s mood dimmed further. She didn’t feel like celebrating, not when she had only two days left. In dismay, she stared down at her hands. They were stained from madder root, not at all a lady’s hands. The markings were a part of her, a visible sign of her love of dyeing cloth. Women from all over the region traveled to bring her their lengths of wool and linen. It filled her with pride to see women and men wearing the rich crimsons, emeralds and saffrons.

If she wed the Norman, she suspected she would have to give it up. Ladies of noble birth did not soil their hands with common labor. Auder closed her eyes, wondering if she could convince her husband to let her continue her craft.

In the distance, she saw the chieftain’s wife Morren struggling with a basket. Auder pushed her way past the others, making her way towards the pregnant woman. Morren adored plants nearly as much as she did, and although she’d known the woman all her life, they had become closer friends over the past few months.

Auder took the basket from Morren and walked alongside her. “Tired?”

“A little,” Morren admitted. “I’ll be glad when this child is born, near the end of summer.” She risked a glance at her husband, who was standing on the opposite side of the cashel with several of their clansmen. “Trahern is more afraid of the birth than I am.”

Morren settled to rest upon a bench and motioned Auder to sit with her, her gaze turning serious. “Auder, you should know . . . the Norman soldiers are patrolling our lands again. Trahern has posted sentries, but I don’t know their intent.”

A coldness settled within her stomach, and Auder veiled her fear. “Perhaps they’ve come to escort me to my marriage.” Looking into the other woman’s eyes, Auder tried to show a courage she didn’t feel. “I’ll go with them if I must.”

Morren didn’t smile. “Until we know why they’re here, I don’t want you to be alone at any moment.” She looked around and caught sight of Gunnar Dalrata, beckoning him to join them.

Tall, with sun-darkened blond hair and cloudy gray eyes, Gunnar was one of the few men Auder felt comfortable around—namely because they’d been friends since four summers ago, when she’d visited her mother’s Norse family. Although he’d been handsome even then, not once had he shown her any interest. It was no wonder, since she’d been inches shorter and hadn’t developed as a woman.

But even after she’d arrived home, he’d kept his distance, not speaking to her at all. She’d caught him watching her from time to time, but it was as if their friendship had disappeared. Though it bothered her, she supposed his actions were out of respect for Clár Ó Reilly, whom he’d been courting.

“Gunnar, will you stay with Auder and guard her?” Morren asked, glancing back at her husband. “The Normans—”

“I’ve seen them.” His expression tightened with anger, but he gave Morren a nod. “And you’re right. Auder shouldn’t be alone while they are about.”
His tone made her feel like a child not old enough to be left by herself. He hardly looked at her, and the easy friendliness he’d always shown was gone. She couldn’t understand why.

“Good.” Morren rested one hand upon her spine as she stood and started walking away. “I’m going to speak to Trahern about the celebration tonight, and if you’d stay with Auder, I’d be grateful.”

Unrelenting and fierce, Gunnar stared at Auder in silent disapproval. “So. You’re still planning to go through with this?”

“That’s all you can say to me, after I’ve returned from traveling?” She crossed her own arms, sending him a dark look. “Not even a greeting?” It annoyed her for it seemed that she’d imagined their friendship.

Gunnar’s eyes turned to steel, and she was startled by the restless anger brewing within him. “I can’t believe Trahern would let you do this. He’s lost his wits if he thinks you should wed the baron.”

Auder straightened her shoulders, using her height to meet his gaze directly. “It’s the right thing to do, if it protects us from an invasion.” And if it protects my mother.

“We can defend ourselves, Auder,” Gunnar argued. “Just because there are more of them doesn’t mean we cannot fight.”

“But if I do this, there is no need for fighting.” The Ó Reillys couldn’t withstand another attack—not after the devastating massacre they’d suffered a year ago. The survivors were gradually returning, but the damage was done. Fewer than twenty remained.

Gunnar studied her as though he were trying to find a way to talk her out of the marriage. His gray eyes bored into hers, moving past her face and down her body. “And you don’t mind being used in that way? You’re just a girl.”

A flustered air enveloped her as his words conjured up the vision of her marriage bed. She imagined the Norman’s heavy weight bearing down upon her, while she had to endure his touch. Auder knew she wasn’t capable of feeling passion; her last lover had taught her that lesson well enough. There would be no pleasure; it was a matter of distracting herself with other thoughts while he satisfied himself.

“I’m not a girl anymore, Gunnar,” she made herself say calmly. “Not that you’ve noticed.”

He stared at her, his eyes meeting hers. “I noticed.” His mouth drew into a line, and he took a step closer. She could almost feel the palpable change between them, and she couldn’t have moved if she wanted to.

“I suspected you’d grow up into a beautiful woman,” he said, touching her cheek with his palm. “But I never thought you’d give yourself up to a Norman.”

A hard pressure built up within her throat, but Auder forced herself to look at him. “If this will protect my mother and the others, then it’s worth it.” The whispers about her father would eventually stop. And maybe she could bring something good out of Lúcás’s mistakes.

“There are other ways, Auder.”

She fell silent. The gentle touch warmed her skin, and her cheeks flushed. Though it was nothing more than the touch of friendship, she’d never expected to feel this uneasy around him.

This is Gunnar, Auder reminded herself. There’s no reason to be nervous. His interest lies in Clár, not you.

She tried to take a breath, but it was as if the air around her had grown thicker. She saw his mouth tighten in a thin line, and his grip upon her hands grew protective. An invisible cord drew her to him, and she noticed things she hadn’t seen before. There was a darker gray ring around his eyes, and he’d taken a blade to his cheeks, shaving them clean. She wondered what his skin would feel like against her fingertips. Or his mouth, heated and demanding upon hers.

Her embarrassment deepened when she saw his expression transform. He was looking at her as though he wanted to act upon her desires. Like he wanted to take her face between his hands and kiss her senseless.

Suzanne hustled to the door and opened it. She blinked to see Elec and Evan Monroe, Ty McCordle, and right in front, her gorgeous and annoying ex-husband, Ryder Jefferson.

“Hey guys, what’s up? I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

“We’re here for the wedding planning thing,” Ty told her.

Oh, no. That meant that Nikki’s fiancé Jonas had asked them…

“We’re the groomsmen.”

Damn. Just what she needed. None of them would listen or take her seriously. She’d lose control of the whole situation.

Ryder brushed past her, dropping a soft kiss on her cheek, his familiar cologne wafting up her nostrils, and acting like a sexual trigger. She smelled Ryder, her nipples got hard. They were just trained that way.

“Good to see you, babe. And lucky me, I’m the best man in this wedding.”

Suzanne fought the urge to grimace. Good God, this fiasco just got more and more ludicrous. Now she was going to have to spend a fair amount of time around Ryder for the next month, and she just couldn’t deal with that on top of all her worrying about her future. He made her crazy, plain and simple.

And there was no way this best man was sitting on her lap.

Ryder handed her a manila envelope. “Oh, and this came addressed to both of us. It’s from our divorce lawyer.”

Suzanne looked at it blankly. It did have their divorce attorney’s name on the envelope, and it was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Ryder and Suzanne Jefferson. Ouch. It had been a long time since she’d seen her name linked with his, and damn it, it still hurt, which pissed her off. It didn’t matter anymore, shouldn’t matter. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t open it. Figured you’d want it.” He moved past her and the other guys did likewise.

Jonas Strickland was coming up her walk and there was a gaggle of Nikki clones behind him, women in their early twenties, tanned and thin and indistinguishable from each other except for the color of their various sweaters. There was red and yellow and aqua and two in white.

“Hi, come on in. I’m Suzanne,” she said absently. “Nikki’s in the dining room.”

Curiosity killing her, Suzanne ripped open the envelope as she walked behind them, their giggles and chatter a buzzing backdrop. There was a pile of papers that looked like their divorce decree. Okay. She read the cover letter from the lawyer.

And stopped halfway down her hallway, the words blurring in front of her.

Oh. My. God.

She was going to kill Ryder. She was going to rip his arm off and beat him with the bloody stump.

This paper was telling her she and Ryder were not divorced.

They were still married.