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Her Montana Millionaire
Crystal Green



Stories of family and romance
beneath the Big Sky!
Damned long legs.
He tried to cleanse all impure thoughts from his mind.
Gams. A French starlet mouth pouted with red lipstick. A svelte figure covered by an elegant black-and-white dress suit.
Where had this woman come from?
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, sliding her hand across the table, laying her fingers over his own. His skin heated from the contact.
Excellent. He was forty-three years old. Wasn’t he too mature to be getting excited over hand-holding? Evidently not.
He shifted in his chair when she started stroking his thumb.
“Relax, Max. I don’t bite.” She smiled. “Not unless you want me to.”

Her Montana Millionaire



Crystal Green


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CRYSTAL GREEN
lives near Las Vegas, where she writes for the Harlequin Special Edition and Blaze lines. She loves to read, overanalyze movies and TV programs, practice yoga and travel when she can. You can read more about her at www.crystal-green.com, where she has a blog and contests. Also, you can follow her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/people/Chris-Marie-Green/1051327765 and on Twitter at www.twitter.com/ChrisMarieGreen.
Karen Taylor Richman:
thank you for your support and faith

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One
Just as Jinni Fairchild swooped into a prime parking space at MonMart, some uptight prig laid on his horn.
“Sorry, cupcake,” she said to no one in particular. “I’m the best parking pilot there is.”
Even in her younger sister’s sardine can of a compact car, Jinni was the queen of smooth moves, the duchess of derring-do. Not that it mattered in a small town like Rumor, Montana, where the citizens drove down the autumn-hued roads with lazy-Sunday nonchalance. Put them on a New York street and they’d be road kill in a matter of seconds.
She sighed on this wave of nostalgia. She really did miss the city.
The runner-up in the parking lot contest jammed on his horn once more, but this time it was a long, angry blast. Almost like unintelligible curse words strung together by one, endless electronic howl.
Unconcerned, Jinni turned off the Honda Civic’s trembling engine and yanked on the emergency brake. She had a lot to do at MonMart, shopping for her sister, Val, who was recovering from breast cancer.
That’s right—cancer. Her own baby sister.
It was unnatural, a thirty-five-year-old woman contracting a life-threatening disease. Jinni was the eldest, the one who’d hit the big four-oh this year. Why hadn’t she been the recipient?
Jinni shook off the sadness. Val wouldn’t want her to break down in tears again, especially in the parking lot of a middle-class shopping mecca. Would she?
No, absolutely not. Instead, Jinni would concentrate on getting over the fact that she was about to enter a store that sold food products, clothing and goods at discount prices. Sadly, it was no Saks Fifth Avenue.
Yikes. Going inside might taint her forever.
Nonetheless, she’d brave this trek into primitive bargain territory for the sake of her sister. Besides, once Val got better Jinni could wave goodbye to MonMart and Rumor and return to her own life. And if this last week of sheer boredom hadn’t hurt her, she’d survive intact.
Outside the car, a door slammed. Jinni paid it no heed. She was used to noise—lots of it. The snarl of traffic outside her Upper East Side window, the squeal of brakes and the rapid stutter of shouts, the shuffle of a thousand footsteps as they passed under her luxury apartment.
She whipped a tube of lipstick out of her Gucci handbag, tilting her starlet sunglasses down to the bridge of her nose in order to achieve maximum damage with the fiery cosmetic.
A polite tap shook her window. Wait, almost done with the lipstick. Blot, blot, blot. There, ready for the world.
She adjusted her glasses back over her eyes, finally giving the time of day to her caller.
The first thing she noticed was that it was a man. Oh, grrrr, and a good-looking one, too. Eyes the brilliant blue of airport lights against the night, hair dark and thick, touched with just a splash of gray throughout. A strong chin, slightly dimpled.
Jinni rolled down the window, allowing in the ash-bitten October air. The recently doused fire that had damaged the surrounding area still haunted the atmosphere with a tang of smoke and charred wood.
“Well, hello,” she said, smiling.
The man stared at her as if she’d taken off her delicate lace brassiere and snapped him in the face with it. Then, after a moment, he stood to his full, impressive height—so high that Jinni had to crane her neck out the window to catch sight of his face again.
He motioned to his car, which was idling in back of hers, angled toward the parking place as if it could squeeze right on in and butt her out.
A Mercedes-Benz. In this speck on the map known as Rumor. Very interesting, indeed.
“You roared into my space like you owned it,” he said, his voice deep, rich and livid.
Jinni let his tone pour over her. Males. She loved the timbre of their words, the breadth of their hands. She batted her lashes, forgetting that she was wearing sunglasses. At least she could carry the flirty gesture over to her voice. It was a distinctive talent.
“Oh, did I goof? I didn’t realize that you Montana men defend your parking spaces with such territorial zeal. How excitingly alpha.”
She made sure that she didn’t sound rude, just cheeky. But this guy wasn’t getting it. In fact, he seemed even angrier.
“Listen, lady. The last thing I need is another confrontation, another thing to tick me off.”
Well. This wasn’t amusing at all.
With infinite care, Jinni rolled up her window, fixed a wide-brimmed black hat over her blond French twist, then opened the door and stretched out a stockinged leg, capped by a four-inch, black-and-white Prada pump. With clear fortitude, the man tried to keep his eyes on her face, but when she curled the other leg out of the car, he lost the battle.
But not for long. As she stood to her own five-foot, ten-inch frame—her height, oh, the misfortune of it since so many rich, famous men were deceptively short—she came up to just beneath his chin.
Jinni all but swooned. It wasn’t often she had to peer up at a man.
“Hey, studmuffin,” she said, her New Yawk accent emerging with a cheerful challenge, “you lost. Got it? I had the speed and the skill. Now, if your fragile male ego can’t accept that fact, I and the rest of the female nation apologize profusely.”
Was that a smile nudging at his lips?
No. Oh, no. It was a frown. Completely the opposite.
He nodded, as if each motion was another slashed pen stroke on a growing list of what he didn’t like about Jinni Fairchild.
“Hmph.” She turned around to lock and shut her door. Darn town. No limousine service, not even a nearby car rental agency.
When she faced him again, the man had taken a defensive stance, arms crossed over his heavy coat, crisp button down and classy tie. Looked like Armani, to Jinni. Even his wingtip shoes were polished, expensive, much like his linen pants with their dollar-bill-edged creases.
“You’re not actually from this one-horse town, are you?” she asked.
Mr. I’m-So-Natty ignored her question and ran another gaze over her body, especially her legs. “Around here, we don’t drive like bats out of hell and steal parking spaces. We’re slow and considerate, easy as summer at a swimming hole.”
Wait. She was still on the “slow” part. As in slow kisses, slow… Yow.
Now wouldn’t he make a great diversion while she was in Rumor?
“Slow is nice for a good deal of things,” she said, lowering her voice to a purr. “But driving isn’t one of them.”
He grunted. “Where’re you from?”
“New York.”
“Jeez, no wonder. I should’ve known that you fit in about as well as Cinderella’s stepsister trying to shove her foot into the slipper.”
That sounded like an insult, especially since the stepsisters were known to be warty, shrieky supporting players. “Mister, from what I hear, you people already have some big-city attitude around here. Like New York, you have your share of violence.”
She tilted her head in his direction, and he grinned. Not with happiness, really. It was the grin of the big, bad wolf slipping into the wrong fairy tale, only to find that wicked stepsisters were tasty morsels, too.
“Violence? Lady, remember when I said I didn’t need something else to chap my hide? Referring to our recent rising murder rate would be one of those matters.”
Jinni’s sense of a good story surfaced. After all, she didn’t make a fabulous living writing celebrity biographies without knowing how to ask questions.
With the most compassionate mien she could muster, she asked, “Is what they say true? That a man murdered his wife and her lover up on Logan’s Hill?”
He stared at her, as if not believing she’d pursued the subject even after he’d warned her about it.
Jinni continued. “And what about the stories going around town? That he’s, of all things, invisible?”
His silence stretched between them as Jinni raised her eyebrows in an open invitation to spill the facts. Somehow, through the years, she’d cultivated the ability to draw information out of people and transfer it to bestsellers.
But this guy wasn’t playing that game.
“Don’t ask again,” he said, boring a hard glare at her before starting toward his car.
Intrigued, Jinni watched him pause at his door, then turn to face her again.
He said, “And I’ll know if a long-legged stranger is strutting around town, nosing about. Curb your curiosity and learn to drive.”
“Wait.” She took a few steps toward him, making sure to wiggle while she walked. Just for effect. “I have to say that you’re the most fun I’ve had since coming to this place. I mean, really, no one knows how to yell about parking spaces like you do. And as far as shopping goes, this MonMart is the only store for miles, and there’s not a trace of DKNY or Versace to be found.”
He was assessing her again, wearing a miffed frown, almost as if she was a wild child who’d scampered out from the woods in a burlap sack. Yeesh. The image even gave Jinni the shivers.
She snapped open her handbag, retrieving a pad of paper and a pen. As she scribbled down her name and number, Jinni didn’t stop to think that he might not have taken a fancy to her.
Why wouldn’t he? She always got her man.
When she finished, she tucked her information in his jacket pocket. His disbelieving gaze followed her manicured hand.
“I’m Jinni Fairchild, and that’s my number. Call it.”
He chuffed, staring at her again.
“Really. I should’ve been in London this week, chatting with Prince Charles over dinner at a posh restaurant.” Don’t dwell on that, Jinni, she thought. It’s no use musing about the biography that should’ve been and never will be. The big fish you haven’t been able to catch. Just like Princess Monique of Novenia.
Instead, she reasserted her smile. “You can take my mind off what I’m missing.”
She waited for him to give her his number, but it didn’t happen. He merely slid into his expensive car, shaking his head, muttering, “Incredible.”
Maybe he’d forgotten to return the gesture in kind, but it didn’t matter. Him not being attracted to her wasn’t even a possibility. Men loved her as much as she loved them.
She sighed as he drove away. He’d call, all right. Not that she’d be waiting.
Life had too much to offer for her to be lounging by the phone.

Damned long legs.
As Max Cantrell drove down Logan Street, back to his estate, he tried to cleanse all impure thoughts from his mind.
Gams. A French starlet mouth pouted with red lipstick. A svelte figure covered by an elegant black-and-white dress suit. An Audrey Hepburn half smile and sunglasses covering a face with high cheekbones and pale skin, making him itch to see what she really looked like beneath the shade of her glamorous hat.
Where had Jinni Fairchild come from, for God’s sake? Did New York really grow women who were that out of the ordinary?
For about the thirteenth time since leaving the parking lot, he looked at her name and number, clutched in the same hand that guided his steering wheel. He’d thought about throwing it out the window, but Max didn’t take too kindly to anyone—even himself—ruining the beauty of the fence-studded grass, the pines and cottonwoods lining a stream that ran parallel to a massive iron gate that announced his driveway.
In the distance, the Crazy Mountains loomed over the top of his mansion, a Tuscan-styled wonder of architecture with its multileveled, beige-bricked pile of rooms resembling a quaint, meandering village he’d visited in Italy during his honeymoon. He’d been such a damned sucker for romance when he’d built it. Eloise, his ex-wife, had requested the style, back when she’d almost loved him.
Ah, what good did it do to think about Eloise, especially now, after she’d left him and their now fourteen-year-old son, Michael, so many years ago?
Max crumpled Jinni’s number, letting it fall from his fingers to the carpeted floor of the Benz. He didn’t need to bother with another woman. Even one whose attractive figure had just about socked him in the gut with all the inactive hormones he’d been keeping under his thumb.
Max sped up his driveway, zipping past the twenty head of cattle, the few ranch-hand houses he kept on his artesian well-irrigated ninety acres. It was almost as if he was driving like a demon to get away from MonMart and the confrontation he’d had with that crazy New York woman.
Hell, he’d even jumped straight into his car, deciding to forget his plans to pick up some steaks for dinner. Running into that lady inside the store would’ve sent him over the edge for certain, and the last thing he needed was more grief in his life.
After parking the Benz in his spacious garage between the Rolls-Royce and the Hummer, Max headed into his mansion through the massive, echoing kitchen.
“Hello, sir,” said Bently. His right-hand man—one of the reasons Max had become a multimillionaire by the age of thirty—was garbed in a full-length apron, slicing vegetables at the enormous cutting block in the room’s center. “No steaks tonight?”
“Bently, I am not a sir. Not even when I’m seventy will I be a sir. What’s cooking?”
“Vegetables julienne, sir.” The elderly man’s mustache, which he’d spent years growing, was waxed up into slim handlebars, defying the laws of gravity. “MonMart is rarely out of meat, so I assume something hindered your steak hunt?”
Talking about that woman was out of the question. He wouldn’t do it. “Where’s Michael?”
“In the driving simulator room.” Chop, chop, chop. “I suppose we shall merely pretend to eat a good portion of beef tonight, then?”
“How clever you are, Bently, especially in light of my brother’s invisibility rumors.”
“An old man knows when you’re distracted. Even when you were a young boy I could determine your moods. For example, when that reporter—Brittney Anthony, I believe it was—wrote about you in Time, hailing you as a child prodigy, it bothered you. Sullen for weeks, you were, sitting in your room, staring at the blank walls. When I asked, you told me you didn’t like to be labeled. You only wanted to go about your business and solve the world’s overpopulation problems using that special form of calculus I taught you. Noble child, if I do say so myself.”
Bently went back to his culinary tasks. “It never hurts to ask if something’s eating at my employer.”
Uh-uh. He wasn’t going to say a word about legs or sultry voices or…
“I got tangled up with this woman today at MonMart’s parking lot.” Max grabbed a shred of carrot from Bently’s growing pile.
“That’s all?”
“Hey,” Max said, putting back the vegetable after absently inspecting it, “don’t take that tone.”
“What tone, sir?”
“That yippee-he’s-interested-in-a-woman tone. Because it’s no big deal. Is that clear?”
Bently tightened his lips, his mustache quivering. “Sharply.”
“It’s just…” Max walked by the island, lightly slapping at the tiles with a fist. “It’s just that she screeched into the parking place I wanted and acted like it was no big to-do.”
“Shocking times in Rumor.”
“Tell me about it. A stranger, taking over the town. Next thing you know, she’ll be nosing in on Guy and making things worse than they already are. She was asking questions about him, you know, wondering about the so-called murders, digging into my business. I don’t take kindly to being inspected and analyzed.”
“Everyone has questions.”
From above their heads, a thump sounded, just as if a heavy weight had been dropped on the floor.
Bently clicked his tongue. “Raccoons?”
“Please, not another thing to deal with. If it’s not my software company, it’s Michael. If it’s not Guy and his disappearing act, it’s—” He cut himself off before he could say something stupid like, “beautiful strangers in movie-star dress suits and pumps.”
As Bently crossed to the stove, he said, “Don’t concern yourself. Those sounds have been escalating for the past couple of weeks. I’ll get to it.”
Oil sizzled in a sautée pan, sending the aroma of garlic through the room.
“Thanks, Bently.” Max started to leave. “Sorry about the steaks.”
“We’ve got red snapper waiting in the wings.”
Max grinned at the older man, then left, knowing he’d lucked out when his parents had hired Bently to tutor him as a five-year-old. Regular schooling hadn’t been challenging enough for Max and Guy, so with Bently’s guidance, they’d explored new academic territories, conquered new ideas. Even when he’d reached the age of twenty, riding the beginning wave of software companies, Bently had advised him, encouraged him.
Damn, he only wished the old man had all the answers. When it came to Michael, Max had no clue how to handle matters.
He passed through the parlor, passed a couple of game rooms with different virtual reality set-ups housed in them, passed his in-home movie theater, passed his train room, with old memorabilia and photos of railway wrecks.
Finally, he reached the driving simulator, where the teenage Michael sat behind the wheel of a car shell, driving over a computer-generated road.
Max switched off the mechanism, a prototype his company was developing to train drivers. The censure earned one of his son’s practiced glowers.
“I was almost done with this scenario, Dad.”
“When did I say you were allowed back on any of the games?”
Michael hefted out a dramatic sigh. “In another two weeks.”
“And why?”
“God, like we need to go through this again?”
Max’s temper crept over his sight, straining it. “Evidently, we do.”
“Jeez.” The teenager paused, probably knowing that he was singeing his father’s nerves. “Strike one—I sneaked into Uncle Guy’s house even though it’s been taped off by the police and off-limits. Strike two—I sneaked in said house because I wanted to catch a smoke.”
“Even though Rumor came this close to being wiped out by a wildfire.” Max quelled his nerves, telling himself that his son’s close relationship with Guy didn’t factor into his frustration. Just because Max and Michael had nothing in common and were constantly at each other’s throats didn’t mean Guy had stolen Michael’s affection.
The teen rolled his eyes. “And strike three—I’m your victim of the week and have to suffer the consequences.”
“That’s enough.” He hoped he didn’t sound too weary. He really wasn’t up for another confrontation today. “I don’t want to catch you playing around with the simulators.”
Michael got out of the device, tugging a baseball cap backward over his dark hair. “The simulator’s gonna make me a kickin’ driver when I take my test. It gives me practice. I don’t see why you won’t let me use it.”
“You’re so deprived, Michael. Deal with it.”
Michael’s black hair—so much like his own—escaped the hat and flopped over one blue eye. His baggy jeans and flannel shirt hung from a lanky frame, making Max think that the boy hadn’t reached his full height—or temperament—yet.
The teenager said, “You’re right. This punishment stinks up the ying yang. Ever since Mom left—”
“You were four, Michael. Don’t bring this up again—”
“—you’ve been in a bad mood.”
Neither of them said a word for a second.
Max ran a hand through his hair, thinking that there was a good reason it’d sprouted more gray this past year. He couldn’t do anything right by Michael, especially when it came to women. Whenever he brought one home, his son inevitably found a way to alienate her and Max.
No wonder he hadn’t gone on a date in months. Who needed the grief?
“You’re right,” said Max, bitterness getting the best of him. “Maybe you know what’s best.”
The words went unspoken between them, as they had for years. Max had fouled up one marriage and messed up his relationship with Michael.
Maybe his son did know more than he did.
“This is bull,” said the teen, rushing out of the room.
“Where’re you going?”
Without looking back, Michael said, “To Grandma’s. You can’t hound me there.”
Hound him?
Max let him go. At least he’d be in a safe place tonight, not puffing on cigarettes in houses that were being watched by the police or getting into even more trouble.
He waited until he thought he heard footsteps. Then a door slammed.
Life was the pits. First Guy, then Michael….
God, he hoped his younger brother was okay, hoped that these invisibility rumors were only that. Rumors.
And he didn’t even want to think about the possibility that Guy had murdered his wife and Morris Templeton, her lover.
Damn. He should have more faith in his brother. He couldn’t have murdered anyone. Could he?
Max left the auto simulation room, trudging down to the kitchen, where Bently was putting the finishing touches on dinner.
“Sorry, chum, I’ve got to blow off some steam,” Max said.
Bently held a platter of garnished red snapper. “We all need to decompress sometime, sir.”
“Will you do me a favor? Call my mom’s to see that Michael is staying over? He’ll pitch a fit if he finds out that I’m the one checking up on him.”
“Certainly. And how about dinner?”
Max smiled at the older man’s concern for the commonplace. “I’ll grab something at Joe’s Bar.”
“Oh.” Bently sniffed. “The dive.”
“It’ll erase memories of a bad day, Bently. And as for the food, why don’t you go ahead and call that lady friend of yours. Share a romantic meal.”
Bently cocked an eyebrow. “Sound advice. Phone when you require a ride home. Please.”
“I will.”
With that, he rushed out of his mansion, intent on wallowing in cheap beer and even cheaper company.

Chapter Two
When Jinni pulled the Honda into her sister’s driveway, she vowed that she would somehow, some way, get another car. What kind of woman could retain any sense of class in a vehicle that staggered down the road like a drunk weaving through the aisles of a society wedding?
Not her.
She shook out her legs after alighting from the Fantasyland carriage—flippancy seemed an effective way of dealing with the vehicle problem—and stretched her arms toward the sky, grinning at the always-amusing quaintness of her sister’s home. White siding with dark trim on the shutters and window boxes. A dark cedar shake roof. A jaunty, serene yard, its lawn decorated with trees and flower beds.
Jinni thought it looked like a doll house with rancher flair. Par for the course in Rumor.
She unloaded groceries from the cramped back seat, her hormones still singing from her encounter with Mr. Tall and Mysterious. Had he called yet? Maybe she shouldn’t seem too excited, just in case Val was in a pensive mood, as she’d been so often lately.
As she strolled into the house and set the groceries on the kitchen counter, she noticed that all the lights were off. Doffing her hat and glasses while moving into the family room, she found Val, staring out the window into the backyard, where a deer had wandered.
Jinni’s heart clenched as she watched her sister, the soft hue of twilight shining over Val’s light brown hair and reflective countenance.
Thirty-five years old.
For the first time in her life, Jinni felt no control over a situation. She couldn’t find the words to comfort.
And for a person who made their living using words, that was unforgivable.
The deer bolted from the window’s view, and Val peeked over her shoulder. Her aqua-blue eyes seemed sleepy, her posture wilted.
Jinni sat next to her, smoothing back a strand of hair from Val’s forehead. “You okay?”
“Just tired.”
Today’s round of chemotherapy must have gotten to her, but after they’d gone to the hospital this morning, Val hadn’t seemed overly exhausted.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Val. Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?”
Her sister touched Jinni’s hand, then guided it away from her face, reminding Jinni of how Val never used to allow people to get close to her. Not until now.
“I’m fine,” said Val. “We needed groceries. You can’t always be at my beck and call.”
“I thought your chemo treatments were mild. Why do you look so tired?”
Val straightened up, as if trying to prove to Jinni that she wasn’t letting the cancer get to her. “I’m fine. Come on, brighten up. Where’s my fun-loving older sis? I see a gleam in your eyes, so don’t try to hide it.”
A spark of joy bounced around Jinni’s chest. Should she tell Val about the man from the parking lot? Let her sister know that Rumor had possibilities after all?
No. Maybe that would be something like gloating, emphasizing the fact that Jinni still had her health and everything that went with it. It didn’t feel right.
Again, the words escaped her. She could only hope her presence would be enough to help Val through these tough times.
“Shopping always puts a bounce in my step.” Jinni smiled, suspecting that her life-style seemed shallow in the face of Val’s challenges.
“Darn. I thought that maybe you’d gotten yourself engaged again. I wouldn’t mind hearing another romantic tale from your files.”
Val leaned against the cushions of the sofa, grinning slightly. Heat tightened Jinni’s throat from looking at her. Her sister: so beautiful, so young to be dealing with something so wrong.
“No, dear. I’m afraid I haven’t found a worthy candidate for my hand in this town.” The Mercedes-Benz man flashed through her mind: blue eyes, dark hair, lean-tall build…. “Though I wouldn’t mind adding to the list.”
“List? I thought you’d compiled a ledger by now.”
Well. If anyone else had dared to make light of Jinni’s ill-fated history with men, she would’ve given them some big-city attitude. But Val was the exception.
Val sighed. “There you go again, getting glum.”
“Who me?” Jinni tried to smile. How could she help it if this was the first time she’d encountered real despair in her life? She had no idea how to offer Val solace.
She tried anyway. “Listen up. I’ll make a deal with you. I promise to remain sunny and vivacious if you stop staring out windows. Shake on it?”
Val laughed softly, extending her hand. “Done.”
Jinni grabbed her sister’s fingers, squeezing them. “I love you, sis. You’re all the family I have left, and I’d fight any battle for you.”
“Me, too.” Val rubbed Jinni’s arm.
Every day they grew closer, opened up more to each other. It was a switch from how they’d grown up, with their wealthy socialite parents in New York. Val had always been the quiet one, headed for life in a small town like Rumor. But not Jinni. Since she hadn’t shown any talent at much, she’d decided early on to distinguish herself by stepping into her mother’s party slippers, loving the gossip-column mentions of her name at society functions, the explosion of the reporters’ flashbulbs as she presented her brightest smiles, the approval she’d earned from her mother with all the pretty pictures Jinni made.
Even when their parents had died years ago, Jinni and Val hadn’t experienced this sort of bond. It had taken breast cancer to bring them together, to help them share secrets while Jinni accompanied her sister to the Billings hospital where Val received treatments.
“You know what we need?” asked Jinni. “Makeovers. Wouldn’t that be a gas? Unless, of course, there’s nowhere that gives them around here.”
“Donna Mason owns The Getaway. It’s a spa off Main Street.” Val lifted her eyebrows. “You seem surprised.”
“Yes, after all, this isn’t the sort of place I expected a spa to pop up. But that’s good news. Let me know when you want to perk yourself up with a good herbal wrap or mud bath.”
“You spoil me.”
“You deserve it.”
If only The Getaway gave life makeovers. Wouldn’t that be the perfect thing? Jinni sorely suspected Val could use one to pull her away from all the windows she was staring out of.
Jinni stood, gave Val’s hair a little swish, which earned a smile. Then she went to the kitchen and started packing away the groceries.
A makeover. Maybe she needed one, too. Not in the physical sense, of course. But perhaps mentally.
Ever since she’d come to Rumor, Jinni had suspected she was out of her element. People here didn’t care about parties or premieres or fashion. She’d gone from the shallow end of the pool into something much deeper.
For instance, if she were in Val’s place—let’s even get more philosophical here, no matter how much it hurts—if she were to die next month, what would the world say about Jinni Fairchild? That she wrote celebrity biographies but didn’t really have a life worth mentioning? Would they say she sustained her soul with the best champagne and beluga caviar? That she’d been engaged more than several times and hadn’t settled down once?
How horrendous. She didn’t have much to crow about, when it came right down to it. Did she?
The phone rang, shaking Jinni out of the dumps. Val answered it, talking with the caller while Jinni finished with the groceries.
“That’s Estelle,” said Val, hanging up and coming to stand by Jinni.
She reached into her mental Filofax. Estelle Worth, the retired nurse whose husband worked with Val at the animal hospital.
“Good,” said Jinni. She wondered if the older woman knew of any tall, handsome, Mercedes-Benz-driving males who frequented Rumor.
“Jinni, you’re going out tonight.”
She started. Had her yearning been that obvious? “Excuse me? Did someone build a discotheque while I wasn’t looking? Where would I go in Rumor?”
Val was gently guiding her toward her room down the hall. “Scoot and get ready now. You’ve been pacing the carpet like a caged animal for the past week. Besides, Rumor’s got plenty of places a sophisticate like you would enjoy. There’s the strip joint—”
Jinni’s motor revved. “Strip joint? Do they have men there?”
“Just in the audience.”
“Oh.” Jinni shrugged. Maybe it would be fun anyway.
Better than watching TV.
“And we’ve got Joe’s Bar—”
“Ding ding ding,” said Jinni. “Tell me where it is. I mean, no. Val, I really should stay with you.” She straightened, expressing her genuine desire to take care of Val.
“For heaven’s sake, Jinni, watching you prowl the house is not relaxing. Besides, Estelle’s very entertaining, full of good stories. She’s going to stay over in the third room.” Val gave her a surprisingly healthy shove down the hallway. “Go. Have a crackerjack time. Meet some people around here. You might even like them.” She was thirsting for a nice swig of Dom Perignon or…something. Maybe even beer and the sight of a muscled ranch hand would do for now.
“Are you sure?” said Jinni. “I don’t want to desert you.”
“Get.”
Jinni sighed, then smiled at her sister as she walked down the hallway to her room.
It was hard being a martyr.
After she’d showered and slipped into a black Dior sheath, which—tragically—she had to cover with a matching cape to guard against the chill of the night, Jinni headed to Joe’s Bar.
Right when she stepped inside, she knew that this was the best party she’d find for the time being.
Loud jukebox music, though it was country, but who could complain at this point? A dance floor, complete with cowboys and scantily clad women doing some sort of ritualistic boot-stomping shuffle. Chintzy beer and food signs, advertising cheap beverages, pizza and Rocky Mountain Oysters.
Hmm. Oysters. Maybe this place wasn’t so bad after all.
Jinni slipped out of her cape and hung it on a hook next to a row of cowboy hats. Then she dove out of the way of a homely rottweiler chained near the door. How charming. A guard creature.
As she glided through the tobacco-laced air and the peanut shells littering the wood-planked floor, she noted a back room where pool and dart games were in progress. Then she took stock of the nurses who gathered around the tables and the booths in the rear, the ranch hands drinking their longnecks and staring at her from under the semicover of dim lighting.
This was slumming, all right. But she smiled at the men anyway, loving the attention.
At the bar, she slid onto a stool, crossing her legs for pure show, then ordered whiskey. When the bartender brought the beverage, she took a demure sip.
Yooowwww. Not exactly Johnnie Walker Black Label, but it was better than drinking out of a paper sack while sitting on the curb.
Okay. This was fun. Sitting alone. Drinking.
Was she too old for this crowd? Were they wondering why a forty-year-old—who, by the way, didn’t look a day over thirty-four—was barflying in Rumor, Montana?
Jinni reached for her handbag, took out a cigarette. She hadn’t smoked in months—applause, please—but sometimes the feel of that smooth rolled paper tucked between her fingers lent a sense of control. A little stick of death couldn’t hurt her. No, siree. She’d whipped the habit, and it felt good to know that.
As she ordered another whiskey, she tried to think of additional ways to cheer herself up. It’d been one heck of a downer day—except for the hunk in the parking lot. Yet even that hadn’t ended in fireworks.
Was she losing her touch?
No. No possible way. She was just off her game in a new environment.
Anyway, back to cheering up. She could get her publisher off her back by hunting for a new biography bestseller. Pity that Prince Charles and Princess Monique were out of the question.
God, what she’d give for a good subject right now, someone to take her away from sorrow.
How about Rumor itself? There were the murders. Or maybe someone interesting would show up to entertain her.
Jinni twirled the cigarette through her fingers. Right. The people in this town were about as exciting as the ash and dirt blowing off Main Street.
She stared at the cigarette. It called to her, beckoning her back to a life of smoky parties in the glittering cities of Europe, times when she didn’t have a darned thing to worry about.
A man flopped down in the seat next to her, and Jinni’s male radar burst to life. She peered at him from the corner of her eye.
Egads. MonMart Man.
Her pulse skittered like champagne bubbling from a fountain. The night had just gotten more intriguing.
“Hey,” she said, posing with her cigarette.
He sort of grunted in response. Well, at least he was speaking the same language as this afternoon. He could play Neanderthal all he wanted as long as it kept turning her on.
She swiveled the front of her body toward him, legs brushing his pants. Uh-huh, still looking like he’d just come from a high-class wheeler-dealer meeting, except for his hair. Now the salt-and-pepper locks had tumbled all over themselves, slouching over his forehead.
What a cutie pie.
He ordered a shot of tequila from the bartender while talking loudly over the music. “No peace for the wicked.”
Didn’t she know it. “Rest isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
He glanced at her, ran his gaze over her body, leaving a shimmer of heat over Jinni’s limbs. God bless Val and Estelle for letting her loose tonight.
Definitely a wonderful way to pass the time in Rumor. She liked fire in a man. In fact, she couldn’t get over the way he’d hunkered into his fancy car today, shooting a burning glare at her….
Wait. Mercedes-Benz. Snazzy threads.
Did this guy have a life worth writing about?
As his brilliant-blue gaze traveled back up from her breasts to her face, Jinni batted her eyelashes at him, smiling.
He merely looked away, then threw down his shot of tequila.
Hello? The eyelash trick always worked. And, actually, it had been the prelude to more than a few marriage proposals. What was this guy…immune?
And was it possible that he didn’t recognize her? No. Unthinkable. Jinni Fairchild did not go unnoticed.
Not before, anyway.
She “hmphed” and absently stuck the end of the cigarette in her mouth, reaching for her purse.
Suddenly, the item was snatched from her lips. The next thing she knew, she was watching the man snap her death stick in two with one hand.
“Hey,” she said, about to give him a piece of her mind. What nerve. What cheek. What…hands.
Oooo. Long, tapered fingers. Large and able. Hands—one of a man’s many admirable features.
He tossed the remnants of the cigarette onto the bar, ordered another tequila, then offered one of those hands to Jinni. “Max Cantrell,” he said.
The name sounded familiar. Cantrell.
Before she could say a word, he was talking. “Sorry about that, but I can’t stand the sight of those things. My son was caught smoking in my brother’s abandoned house, and every time I see someone about to light up I go ballistic.”
Jinni settled in her chair, nodding, interested to see when he would recognize her. In the meantime, she’d get a little flirting in.
Max continued, running a hand through his hair. “Damn. Michael, he’s my son, you know, has been driving me to distraction lately. We can’t talk without butting heads. It might help if he were a normal teenager, but he’s smart. Incredibly smart. And it carries over to his mouth. I’ve been thinking he’s from another planet, we’re so different. Planet Attitude. Yeah, that’s where he’s from. And I don’t speak the language or understand the customs.”
Resting her chin in the palm of a hand, Jinni continued taking it all in. This guy really needed a shoulder to cry on, and that’s what she was best at. Maybe there was a biography in this, a Horatio Alger rags-to-riches story coupled with the struggles of an all-American father.
Gulp. If he was a father, then…
She looked. No wedding ring. Curious.
“Doesn’t your wife help you out?” she asked.
Max narrowed his eyes. “Ex-wife.”
“Hmm.” Score one for Jinni.
“What do you think?” He leaned on the bar, his ruffled hair making her want to cuddle him, press him to her shoulder, her chest….
Oh, baby. Come to Mama.
Jinni tilted her head, widened her eyes. “What do I think about your son?”
“Yeah. No. I shouldn’t be mouthing off like this. You’re a total stranger, but—”
“Sometimes strangers can offer the best perspective.”
He nodded. Max Cantrell really had no idea who she was. She’d lost her je ne sais quoi for certain.
Sighing, she said, “I’m not exactly an expert on boys. Never even baby-sat a day in my life.”
Scratch that. She was a master if there ever was one. Jinni Fairchild had a great deal of experience with teenage boys. Just not recently.
“Actually,” she said. “I do know a lot about males.”
He looked her up and down again. “I’m sure.”
Flirt away, big boy, she thought.
Responding by instinct, she wound a lock of her platinum hair around a finger, toying with him. “I’ve always had an innate curiosity about guys. I mean, let’s face it, every girl wants to know what goes on in the locker rooms.”
He watched her work the hair. “Michael’s not into sports.”
“Good thing, because jocks are plain wacky, let me tell you. When I was in high school—I went to this very conservative prep school, but we had a highly esteemed football team, you see—I was puttering around the halls one day after classes when a lineman asked what I was up to. Well, before I could open my mouth, he’d tossed me over his beefy shoulder and was carrying me toward the locker room.”
She couldn’t stop herself, even if Max was staring at her with that disbelieving expression from the parking lot again.
“I gave a few token ‘put me downs’ but it was too late. He’d set me on my feet right in the middle of the showers. Now, I wasn’t sure what to think, and neither did those poor, jock-strapped boys. We just gaped at each other for a minute, gulping air and wondering how to communicate, almost like one of those science fiction movies where two alien civilizations meet and they don’t know what to do with each other. But finally I just sat myself down on a bench and said, ‘Continue,’ and they all laughed, going about their business.”
Max was, by now, shaking his head.
Jinni smiled, unsure of herself now that the story had unspooled from her mouth in such a fantastic manner.
She added, “They let me sneak in a few more times, so, really, I know my boys.”
“Incredible,” said Max, echoing his sentiment from today’s confrontation. He stared at her as if she’d ridden down from the ceiling on the curve of a showgirl’s moon, a combination of disbelief and disdain in his gaze. With a shake of his head, he belted down his tequila.
That’s when Jinni knew that he recognized her.
And she wasn’t sure it was a good thing.

Chapter Three
He’d bellied up to the wrong seat at the bar and poured out his soul to a weirdo.
Sure, she was beautiful in her body-hugging black dress while her hair—as fluid as fine, pale wine—tumbled over her shoulders, and her blue eyes bored into him, fringed by those sooty, batting lashes.
If he’d thought she was gorgeous this afternoon, when he’d wanted to rear-end her car out of pure frustration, he was wrong. Jinni Fairchild was exceptional, statuesque as a goddess.
Goddess? Man, he’d had too much tequila.
“I think it’s time for me to go,” he said, moving to get off the stool.
“Wonderful idea,” she said, latching on to his arm. “That pool room is quiet, I’ll bet.”
Her touch sizzled into his skin, even through his button-down shirt. He hadn’t been this attracted to a woman in… Damn. Forever.
Suddenly, sitting in an area where they didn’t have to yell at each other over music didn’t seem like such a bad notion. He led her over there, to the room where he’d been playing darts before deciding to get something stronger than beer at the bar, a place he could camp out and not talk to anyone.
But then he’d had the luck—good or bad, he didn’t know—to sit next to Jinni, the locker-room groupie.
He loosened his tie with his free hand, threading through the line dancers and leading her to the pool room. The music faded slightly as they sat at a table in the corner, under an old-fashioned scotch advertisement.
“Cantrell,” she said, leaning her elbows on the surface and cupping her chin in a palm. “Why does that name ring a few bells?”
Great. She wanted him to fire off more information. Hadn’t he talked too much already?
Yet somehow he found himself speaking. “Cantrell Enterprises. Or maybe you’ve put two and two together and realized my brother, Guy, is the so-called invisible man.”
Jinni coolly lifted an eyebrow, surprising Max with her lack of response toward Guy’s rumored situation.
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You’re the same wunderkind Max Cantrell who keeps the state financially afloat with your business? I read an article about you in Forbes magazine last year. They said that you refused to be interviewed, that you’re somewhat of a recluse.”
Thank goodness she hadn’t pursued the subject of Guy. “I’m one and the same. And, yes, I like my privacy.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
She slid a hand across the table, laying her fingers over his own. His skin heated from the contact.
Excellent. He was forty-three years old. Hadn’t he progressed beyond the fascinated giddiness of a teenager and his whacked-out hormones? Wasn’t he too mature to be getting excited over hand holding?
Evidently not.
He shifted in his chair when she started stroking his thumb. “See here, Jinni, I—”
“Relax, Max. I don’t bite.” Jinni smiled, brilliant white teeth making her seem as glamorous as a fifties movie star. “Not unless you want me to.”
The image of her moving down his body, her hair streaking over his chest as she nipped his skin, sent his brain into a tailspin.
She laughed. “I’m joking, of course. I didn’t mean to fry your circuits.”
Removing his hand from hers, Max tugged on his tie again. Hell, it was already looped halfway down to his belly. “You’re a real piece of work.”
“You say that as if you’re almost amused.”
Maybe he was. Maybe this vibrant, melting ice sculpture of a woman got to him in a way that wasn’t altogether unpleasant.
“I wasn’t so tickled today in the parking lot,” he said.
“I beat you to the spot, and that’s all she wrote.”
“And I told you earlier that we don’t drive like that here. Your style is too aggressive.”
Jinni leaned back in her chair, considering him with what seemed like a hungry grin. “It seems to me, Max Cantrell, that a lady doesn’t succeed with you unless she’s a bit…hmm, let’s think of a better word…assertive.”
He chuckled. Either Jinni Fairchild was a wishful thinker or she was a mind reader. Either way, she was right. The only time Max interacted with females was if they came to him, even if the scenario involved a near car crash.
He couldn’t bother with women, especially with Michael on the warpath. Especially with the way his ex-wife, Eloise, had played kick the can with his heart.
Jinni was watching him, her eyes sparkling like a wink of blue light in a diamond engagement ring. “Why don’t you tell me about your business?”
Phew. At least she knew when to back off.
But did he necessarily want her to?
“Are you intrigued by software?” he asked, realizing he’d left himself open to more insinuations with the whole “software” topic.
She pursed her lips, as if holding back the temptation to come back with a flirtatious pun. “I’m a collector of information. Tell me all about it.”
Disappointment settled in his gut. He’d been half looking forward to bantering the night away.
“Cantrell Enterprises got its start with software—business and some gaming—and we’re developing more. But I want to take it in another direction. We’re exploring virtual reality.” This time he was the one leaning on the table, spurred on by his subject. “You know, it never took off like it was supposed to when it was first introduced. The first VRs were uncomfortable, cumbersome. The sound resembled two tin cans tied together with string. Viewing quality left much to be desired. And there was a total lack of software. All in all, virtual reality was expensive and inaccessible, with no basics to support its success.”
He checked to see if Jinni had nodded off yet. Usually, people would tune out his intellectual computer-nerd talk after the first three seconds.
But Jinni’s head tilted, her eyes connected with his. “And that led to the downfall of virtual reality’s possibilities?”
“Yeah. That’s where we come in. I’m looking at ways to make VR more available to the average user. In fact,” he could feel a smile dominate his mouth, “my passion is to develop the female market.”
She angled her chin down, peeking at him from beneath her eyelashes. “I’d say, with a little more effort, you’ll corner it.”
He could live with a woman glancing at him like that.
No. Actually, he couldn’t. Michael would tear her apart before she could step both feet into their mansion.
Get the conversation back to comfortable ground, he thought. She’s way out of your league and you don’t want her to venture into yours.
“At any rate,” he continued, watching two ranch hands playing pool at the nearby threadbare table, “Cantrell Enterprises is working on virtual reality for the training arena: medical, industrial, cultural. And, of course, entertainment.”
He thought for certain that she was dying to say something about joysticks, but Jinni kept her silence, simply watching him.
During the ensuing pause, the men at the pool table started to argue, trading barbed words.
Jinni didn’t seem to mind them. “You fascinate me, Max,” she said, her voice low, smooth as the cream in a chocolate truffle.
His belly tightened. Someone found him interesting. And that someone was a woman whose legs stretched from here to China, whose bearing reminded him of Grace Kelly on acid. She was a potent combination of class and sex—and Max had never seen her equal.
No way she should be interested in a guy like him. A brain. A whiz kid who’d never really socialized with other people while growing up. No one had ever understood him. Not intellectually, at least.
Eloise had tried, for about an hour, and that’s how Michael had been conceived. But after she’d decided she needed to “find herself” in Tibet, she’d left him a single father, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong.
The arguing ranch hands were getting feistier, bumping chests like primates. Max protectively reached across the table toward Jinni out of instinct, and started to rise from his chair.
Ignoring the developing fight, Jinni followed suit, slipping her arm through his, fitting herself right against his side.
Damn, he shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t need to be with a woman like Jinni. It wouldn’t work out, so why get into it?
“Let me see you home,” he said, guiding her away from the sound of a shattering beer bottle and toward the main bar, the hat and coatrack. He glanced over his shoulder to see the two ranch hands going at each other, while other cowboys herded into the pool room.
“Home?” Her voice rose over the loud music and shouts. “It’s early!”
She retrieved an item of clothing that resembled a cape. Typical. Dramatic, sophisticated.
And here he was, wearing a tie as a hangman’s noose.
“I thought…” he began.
“Don’t think,” she said as he helped her wrap the cape around herself. “Live.”
Live. He hadn’t really been doing that for years. Had he?
Maybe he could enjoy a lovely woman’s company, just for tonight. It’s not like Michael had to know.
He donned his own coat, then followed her out the door, hardly believing he was doing it.

Ha-ha, yes! Jinni Fairchild hadn’t lost her appeal. That’s right. She had Max Cantrell wrapped around her ring finger, and the night was young.
They hadn’t walked far in the cool air, only to a grass field where Max had laid down his coat, inviting her to sit on it. After they chatted about the spell of unseasonable weather and made calls home on his cell phone— Jinni wanted Val to know she’d be out late—he’d sat next to her, arms resting on his knees as he stared at the sky, stars spangling the clear blue like lost fairy dust.
“It’s good to finally see things clearly,” he said. “We had a raging wildfire before you came to town, and the smoke hindered visibility.”
“What do you know. Usually things heat up after I enter a place.”
She shouldn’t have said that. Dumb, stupid Jinni. Two people had died, as far as she knew. Wanda Cantrell and Morris Templeton.
She quickly added, “Is everyone safe?”
“Dee Dee Reingard’s and Old Man Jackson’s homes burned down. And no one knows where Jackson is. He’s gone missing, just like Guy.”
“What about the two bodies that were found?”
Max glanced at her, the slight wind mussing his hair. “My sister-in-law and her boy toy? The cops suspect my younger brother torched them, I think. But Guy hasn’t been around to deny his involvement with the fire. And then there’re those invisibility rumors started by Linda Fioretti, Guy’s fellow teacher. Everyone in town is buzzing about how they think my fool of a brother’s peeping in their windows or stealing socks from their dryers. But you know that much already, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Jinni wasn’t used to men who’d call her out, keep her honest. As a biographer, she tended to ask a lot of leading questions. Maybe Max would be more of a challenge than she’d first thought. “Does the sheriff think Guy murdered Wanda and Morris out of jealous rage?”
“That’s their story.” His jaw muscles twitched, his long fingers dug into his arms. “They don’t realize that Guy hasn’t a violent bone in his body. Sure, he’s scatterbrained and intense when it comes to anything scientific. We were both like that, even as kids. But Guy—” He clamped shut his mouth.
The Montana night enveloped them: pine needles scented the aimless drift of air, bringing with it the faint twang of country music from Joe’s Bar.
Jinni touched his shoulder, allowed her hand to brush down his biceps. There were some muscles under that shirt.
Whoo. She loved good arms.
“No wonder you were fishing for the worm tonight,” she said.
He shot her that miffed glance again.
“Drinking tequila, Max. It’s a colorful way of referring to that worm at the bottom of the bottle?”
“I don’t drink that much.”
“Really? You seem to handle liquor well.” She laughed. “What am I saying? You’re a big guy. I’m sure it takes a lot to affect you.”
“I walked into the bar affected,” he said, shaking his head. “And here I am, laying all this frustration on you. I should’ve just kept my trap shut about Michael, my business, Guy….”
There it was again, that slight trailing off at the end of his brother’s name, just like a mysterious parchment note where someone has written a horrifying phrase: “Something is outside my door, something is coming for me…” and the ink trails off into a tragic, last-breath squiggle down the page.
Having a brother suspected of murder must’ve been equally horrifying. Jinni could sympathize with Max; she knew firsthand what it was like to worry about a sibling.
He hadn’t shrugged off her hand on his arm—not yet—so she began to stroke back and forth with her index finger, feeling a line of sinew beneath the weave of his shirt.
He gave a short, seemingly bitter laugh. “I’m a terrible brother. I must be, because there’re times when I can’t help thinking that Guy might’ve done it.”
Jinni felt her eyes widen. Lord help her, but the biographer, the researcher, the curious monster within was screaming, “What a story! This is your next subject!”
She ignored the ambition, the excitement of catching on to an exclusive opportunity like Max Cantrell—a multimillionaire recluse who didn’t talk to the press.
Still, she couldn’t help asking, “What makes you think your brother could murder his wife and Morris Templeton?”
“Nothing. Just a doubt, a what-if.” He glanced at her. “Told you. I’m a terrible human being.”
Here he was, suffering a major philosophical dilemma while she sat next to him in a Dior ensemble. The juxtaposition couldn’t have been more ironic if she’d been the main character in a Kafka story.
She was as useless to Max as she was to Val, having no idea how to handle a situation more pressing than choosing between two soirees on the same night. But that’s what happened when you distanced yourself from emotion and concentrated on things that didn’t matter so much.
Life hurt much less that way.
Yet somehow Max Cantrell was forcing her to face the music. Face the child who’d been so afraid of her mother’s disappointment that she’d followed in her shallow footsteps.
“You’re not terrible,” was all she could think to say. “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t have doubts.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. But I seem to have more than my share of trust issues. My brother, my son…”
Trailing off again. Jinni wondered whom he was cutting from the list. That ex-wife?
He lay back on the grass, arms tucked under his head as he closed his eyes. As he reclined, she trailed her fingers down his chest, letting them rest there, feeling his heart beat through her own skin. She watched him for a second, hoping he’d switch from Melancholy Max to a gear more befitting a lover’s sky.
She waited. Nothing happened.
“Welcome to my midlife crisis,” he said. “Can’t say I know how to handle one, either, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to dump all my problems on my nemesis from the MonMart parking lot.”
“Hey,” said Jinni, finally taking her hand away and lying down next to him, using his coat as a blanket, “I’m all ears.”
And all worked up, truth to tell.
She listened to him breathe, his chest rising and falling, making her want to rest her head on him, seeing the world float up and down.
He turned his head in her direction. “You won’t know about hitting that midlife brick wall for a while.”
“You flatter me so.”
“You’re…?”
“Yes, forty. And not afraid to admit it.”
She hated her age. It made her want to sit on a park bench, pretending to feed the pigeons like a nice old maid should, and trip all the premenopausal women as they walked by.
“That’s right,” she continued. “Forty’s just a number.”
“You don’t look your age at all. I thought you were maybe thirty-five, thirty-six.”
She gasped, trying to ignore the pain of reality. Even her fake, delusional age was over the hill.
So, now that he probably thought her skin was crumbling to dust right before his eyes, what were the chances of him rolling over and planting a kiss on her? Probably nil.
Joy. Now she knew what all the average girls in school felt like. You know, the ones who were always the guys’ best friends, the ones who listened to the boys’ dating problems while slowly wilting away inside?
Bother with this. Jinni turned on her side, propping her head up with one hand while resting the other on her hip. Very come-hither. It had to work.
Make your move, honey.
Max just grinned at her. “You’ve turned out to be a good listener. I’m glad we met up tonight.”
Oh, brother. “Glad to help. Is there anything else you’d like to do?”
“You mean chat about? Nah. I’m all talked out.”
Okay. He wasn’t getting it, and as a result, she sure wasn’t getting it.
She decided to change tack, lowering her voice to hit-him-over-the-head-with-passion mode. Used only in emergency situations.
“Isn’t it romantic out here? The stars, the moon, the fact that we’re all alone?”
He made an uh-uh sound. Perfect. He’d bared his soul to her, but he couldn’t bare anything else?
Jinni flopped to her back again, losing hope. She didn’t have it anymore. Forty had sucked all the attractiveness out of her. Rumor had already shaped her into Granny Ankle-High-Nylons.
She was done for.
Once again, her gaze lingered over his length. The wingtip shoes, the crisp slacks, the stylish tie. Sigh.
Wait a second.
“Max?”
“Yeah.”
“Wouldn’t a Barbra Streisand song make the moment?”
She held her breath, hoping, praying….
“Bently likes her. Sometimes he’ll throw on one of her CDs, so I’ve got no choice but to listen.”
Bently? Who was Bently?
Ahh. Maybe this was the problem. Maybe Max wasn’t touching her because he was…confused. That would explain it.
Midlife crisis, indeed.
He jerked to a sitting position. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’m not a Barbra Streisand fan. Because I think I know what you’re asking and… God, is that what you were asking?”
“Just wondering.”
He cursed.
“Hey, don’t revert to sailor speak just to prove your manhood.”
“I can’t believe you thought…”
Jinni sat upright, too. “And I can’t believe you think I look thirty-six!”
“You said you didn’t care about age.”
“I don’t.” She smoothed her hair, trying to seem glacial. “Age is immaterial.”
He cursed again, this time with a slight amount of mirth.
She was about to chide him for his course language, but the whole alpha talk bit was lighting her fire. She liked it when he showed some raw emotion.
Too bad he couldn’t extend some of that passion in her direction.
Once again she felt inadequate. So she did the only thing that could cheer her up—reminding herself that she was wanted.
“You remind me of Jordan Clifton,” she said.
“Who?”
Jinni smiled tolerantly at him. “The movie star with five films in the top ten list of worldwide grosses?”
Max shrugged, probably still smarting from the whole “gay” misunderstanding.
“Well, you’ve got the same dimpled chin. When we were engaged—”
“You were engaged to a movie star?”
“Three, actually. But when we were engaged…”
He wiped a hand over his face and slumped back down to his reclining position. “Incredible.”
Good, she’d gotten a rise out of him. Could she hope that his frustration stemmed from the slightest bit of male jealousy?
Jinni followed his lead, leaning over him. “You don’t want to hear about other men, do you?”
Her heart jumped when he took her chin between his index finger and thumb, pulling her toward him. Right next to his mouth.
“Quiet, Jinni. Why don’t you just be quiet.”
Now this was more like it.

Chapter Four
He had her now.
She hovered over him, pouty lips inches from his own, her breath warming his skin as his fingers framed her chin.
Her exotic scent washed over him, a blend of kiwi and citrus, colorful and wild.
“What perfume are you wearing?” he murmured, his mind muddled by the rounded weight of her breasts pressing into his chest.
“An original bouquet named after me by the perfumer.”
Well, la-de-dah. Since he was still smarting from her engagement confession as well as her inquiry into his sexual preferences—Barbra Streisand, his foot—he used a dash of sarcasm to respond. “Were you engaged to him, too?”
She arched over him, almost making Max groan with longing. “No. He keeps asking, but he’s not my type.”
It was enough to take away his steam. Max let go of Jinni, causing her to creep back to his coat blanket, tucking her knees under her with an unreadable expression on her face.
Why had he even entertained the notion that he could be attractive to this woman? He wasn’t the type to sweep ladies off their feet. When Eloise had left him, she’d made sure that she’d packed his ego right along with all her belongings. Hell, his self-confidence was probably on some Tibetan mountaintop at this moment.
She spoke, so softly that he wondered if it wasn’t just the breeze murmuring through the pines. “I thought so.”
He sat up, wanting to run his palm down her back, to feel the sleek shape of her body under the cape and dress.
“Thought what?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
For some reason she sounded so sad. Why would a woman who had men dripping from her fingertips be so down in the dumps?
They didn’t talk for a long time, just watched the dark sky pale with the promise of morning, listened to birds escort an elk from the cover of the trees and into their open field. After a few minutes the animal moseyed back into the safety of the pines.
Three movie stars, huh? That was some back list. Had those jet-setting men made her happy with their fast-lane parties and private love scenes?
She might be married if they had.
But three engagements? Damn. Jinni Fairchild seemed to go through men like most women went through hairdos.
“Jinni?”
She peeked over her shoulder at him, slapping Max with a sting of desire. Something about those lively eyes rubbed against the flint inside of him, creating sparks.
“Yes?”
“These movie star guys—”
“Let’s forget about them. Shall we?” Her smile froze on her face, hinting that maybe she regretted bringing up the subject in the first place.
“Fair enough.” He lay back down, tucking his arms under his head once again. “What’s your pleasure?”
A low, sultry laugh was his answer. Damn him. He’d intended to bait her with a suggestive comment, hadn’t he? Jinni was converting him to her flirty ways, and he was a sucker for it.
But he wouldn’t allow the fun to go too far. He couldn’t.
She also reclined on the ground again, and he was much too aware of her proximity, the length of her body next to his. They’d be a perfect match, skin to skin. Not like Eloise, where he’d had to worry about how tiny she felt in his arms, how he’d had to treat her like a delicate, porcelain doll. Jinni seemed so together. Unbreakable.
Still, if he ever had the chance to hold her, he knew he’d treasure the contact, would stroke her with soft caresses, anyway.
Damn, what was he thinking? Michael would shatter any hopes of a successful relationship with one sharp comment, one hard glare. Bringing home a woman would definitely put more of a strain on their already tenuous relationship.
“You’re suddenly reticent,” said Jinni.
“I’m holding on to the moment.”
“I see.”
Could she tell that he couldn’t afford to see her again? That this was the only peaceful moment he’d had in the past few years and it wouldn’t last forever?
“You just keep on holding,” said Jinni.
He smiled, closing his eyes. The wind brushed over his skin, but he wished it were Jinni’s fingertips instead.
The next thing he knew, he really did feel fingers coasting over his temple. His eyes blinked open to catch her touching him while a wisp of long, platinum hair fluttered against his chin, tickling it. Tendrils of dawn softened Jinni’s face as she smiled down at him.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
He sat up, bringing her with him. “Did I doze off?”
“We both did.”
She was still so close that he could breathe in that scent she wore. So distinctive, so original, just like the woman herself.
“I’ve got to get you home,” he said, standing. He held out his hands, helping Jinni to her feet.
When she rose to her full height, she wavered against him, losing her balance for a second. Long legs and curves, pressing into him, pressing against his heart.
“I’ll drive. My car—” she held up an index finger “—rather, my sister’s car is parked at Joe’s Bar.”
“You want to hide yourself in a vehicle on a dawn like this?” He gestured toward the endless, blooming sky. “Who knows how long we’ll have this weather?”
Driving would be so much easier, true. But he didn’t want the night to end.
“Are you suggesting we walk home?”
He looked up and down her body, making Jinni bat one of those appreciative glances right back at him.
“You can’t stay in shape without exercising,” he said. “Right?”
“I do my time with a personal trainer, thank you. Exercising isn’t supposed to be practical.”
Max chuckled. “Welcome to the real world, Jinni. Out here some people labor to stay fit. You won’t catch many ranch hands jogging on a treadmill.”
She drew a finger down the front of his shirt, each button popping under her nail, echoing his self-control.
“Don’t tell me you’re some boy from the farm.”
“I’m no movie star, that’s for sure. But I do a little work with the cattle on my estate and… Well, I have a pretty decent gym on the premises.”
“See. You are my type. You just don’t know it.”
With that she picked up his jacket from the ground, loaded it in his arms—filling them with something that wasn’t half as good as Jinni would no doubt feel—and left, walking ahead of him.
After shaking his head, he followed, watching the swivel of her shapely hips as she pulled her cape around her.
The dark orange palette of morning lazed over the sky while they walked Main Street, sharing trivia such as favorite foods and travel destinations. Jinni had seen much of the civilized world, whereas Max had gone to places he wished he’d never been. Places where children’s bellies balled out of their skeletal frames, even though they were starving. Places where people lived in plank shacks, faces covered by flies that they didn’t bother to swipe away. He didn’t mention this to Jinni, but he’d made a point of donating money in the hopes that something could be done.
But there were so many problems.
As they approached Logan Street, he acquainted her with the subtleties of Rumor. Not that there were all that many. Off to the left, the silhouette of his mansion emerged against the horizon.
“What’s that?” asked Jinni after crossing the street. “A Tuscan village? It’s gorgeous.”
Max went to tug at his necktie, but it was still loose and nowhere near his neck. “That’s my place.”
“Place?” Jinni looked again, eyes wide. “You’re missing a letter. How about p-a-l-a-c-e?”
“It’s home.” Right. The Cantrell Mansion definitely set him apart from most of the others in town. Truthfully, even the Kingsleys, with their ranch-estate across town, didn’t measure up to his riches.
But none of it meant a damned thing with a brother who’d been running from the law for a few months now. Max would’ve given all his wealth to know that Guy was safe and innocent.
Jinni perched her hands on her hips. “What does your son have to complain about? You know, it’s always the most fortunate people who do the most whining.” She laughed, and he thought he detected a trace of irony. “I should know. I grew up with everything my heart desired, except for….”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, the usual. I rarely saw my parents when Val and I were growing up. They were always gallivanting off on some worldwide adventure or another. We had the best education, the best clothes and servants.” A faraway sheen veiled her eyes. “But Val and I only wanted one thing. Parents.”
He took a step closer to her, thinking that she could use the silent support.
“See,” she said, reverting back to her old self. “What did I tell you? Whine, whine, whine. This is something I don’t need to talk about.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s in the past.” She patted her hair, sighing. “Besides, I love my life. Wouldn’t give it up for anything.”
He had the feeling that she didn’t usually reveal much about herself to people, and the fact that she’d shared anything with him was a boost to his ego.
She glanced at his mansion again, a faraway gleam in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re a neglectful parent though.”
“That’s okay. I’m not. I know that. If you ask Michael, the opposite is true. I stick my nose in his business too often.”
“Like a good parent should.”
“You’d think. He’d be shocked to know how much pride I have in him, how much I admire what he’s accomplished in his short life. Did you know he won first place at the science fair this year?”

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