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Run to Me
Lauren Nichols








“I’m sorry, Mac. This isn’t going to happen.”


It took a long second for her words to sink in. Then he said, “All right. Can you tell me why?”

“I just—a lot of reasons.”

He was entitled to an explanation, but she couldn’t tell him Charles would kill her if she ever let another man touch her. I’ll know if you betray me, Erin. I have many friends…and they have many friends. You belong to me. You will always belong to me.

She met the confusion in Mac’s eyes again. How could she tell him anything about her life with Charles and keep his respect? More to the point, how could she tell him anything, period? Her attraction to him went beyond anything she’d ever felt for a man, but he was still very much a stranger to her. She’d only known him for two weeks, and it took longer than that to establish trust. Her daughter had to be her first priority. One innocent word to the wrong person could turn their lives into a living hell.


Dear Reader,

What better way to start off a new year than with six terrific new Silhouette Intimate Moments novels? We’ve got miniseries galore, starting with Karen Templeton’s Staking His Claim, part of THE MEN OF MAYES COUNTY. These three brothers are destined to find love, and in this story, hero Cal Logan is also destined to be a father—but first he has to convince heroine Dawn Gardner that in his arms is where she wants to stay.

For a taste of royal romance, check out Valerie Parv’s Operation: Monarch, part of THE CARRAMER TRUST, crossing over from Silhouette Romance. Policemen more your style? Then check out Maggie Price’s Hidden Agenda, the latest in her LINE OF DUTY miniseries, set in the Oklahoma City Police Department. Prefer military stories? Don’t even try to resist Irresistible Forces, Candace Irvin’s newest SISTERS IN ARMS novel. We’ve got a couple of great stand-alone books for you, too. Lauren Nichols returns with a single mom and her protective hero, in Run to Me. Finally, Australian sensation Melissa James asks Can You Forget? Trust me, this undercover marriage of convenience will stick in your memory long after you’ve turned the final page.

Enjoy them all—and come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around, only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,






Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Editor




Run to Me

Lauren Nichols





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




LAUREN NICHOLS


started writing by accident, so it seems fitting that the word accidental appears in her first three titles for Silhouette. Once eager to illustrate children’s books, she tried to get her foot in that door, only to learn that most publishing houses used their own artists. Then one publisher offered to look at her sketches if she also wrote the tale. During the penning of that story, Lauren fell head over heels in love with writing fiction.

In addition to her novels, Lauren’s romance and mystery short stories have appeared in several leading magazines. She counts her family and friends as her greatest treasures, and strongly believes in the Beatles’ philosophy, “All You Need Is Love.” When this Pennsylvania author isn’t writing or trying unsuccessfully to give up French vanilla cappuccino, she’s traveling or hanging out with her very best friend/husband, Mike.

Lauren loves to hear from her readers. You can contact her at http: www.laurennichols.com.


I was blessed with four great brothers but was never lucky enough to have a sister, so this book is dedicated to my sisters of the heart— the terrific women who make my days more fun with their friendships, e-mails, phone calls, promises of prayers and, frequently, the threat of a three-mile walk to get me in shape (which is a lost cause).

For the one and only Anna Banana. For Karen Rose, Doreen, Shirley, Lisa and Gladys.

For my Looper pals: Ann, Jacki, Jan, Liana, Lorraine, Polly and Susan.

I love you guys.

And always for Mike, for taking such good care of my wimpy heart.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue




Chapter 1


The lies were getting easier to tell.

Hiding a stab of guilt, Erin Fallon carried her nearly three-year-old daughter out of Amos Perkins’s sturdy clapboard home to his porch, then held the wooden screen door for Amos. Once, a lie would have died on her tongue; her father’s cheating had hurt her mother so badly, Erin grew up with a deep respect for the truth. But for the past year, honesty had had to take a back seat to survival.

Christie’s warm breath and sweet baby whisper bathed Erin’s ear. “I’n firsty, Mommy.”

“We’ll get some juice in a minute, sweetheart,” she returned quietly, then shifted her attention back to her new employer.

Amos winced with exertion as he stepped over the threshold and onto the porch, then drew a few labored breaths. He continued the conversation they’d begun inside the house. “Then yer okay with the pay?”

“It’s more than generous, Mr. Perkins. Thank you.” The money was a godsend. Buying the first van had seriously depleted her funds, then, when in fear, she’d traded the white Ford Windstar in on an older vehicle, there’d been no refund. Not that she cared. Now she had an anonymous-looking gray van that few people would notice.

“’Course, your room and meals are included,” Amos continued, his wispy gray hair lifting in the early-June breeze. His cane thumped hollowly on the plank floor as he moved past two Adirondack chairs and an old green-and-yellow glider to brace himself against a porch post. “How soon can you ladies start?”

Alarmed that he would lose his footing so close to the steps, Erin put Christie down and wandered to Amos’s side. “As soon as you like. Everything we need is in the van.”

His startled look drew a smile from Erin. “Christie and I travel light, Mr. Perkins.”

“Call me Amos. And I s’pose now’s as good a time as any to start.” He nodded down the sloping hill to his right, indicating an old but well-kept barn, a split-rail corral and two small outbuildings. Beyond them a pasture stretched to meet a wall of Ponderosa pines, and in the distance the majestic San Francisco peaks rose triumphantly against the summer-blue sky.

“Like I said,” he repeated, “it ain’t much of a ranch. We run a few steers and horses for our own use. Couple-a cats to keep the mice busy.”

Christie clung to her leg, and Erin reached down to stroke her fine black hair. “It’s beautiful here.”

“We like it.” Amos’s brow furrowed. “You should know, not much happens here in High Hawk. We’re a whole twenty miles from Flagstaff—don’t have none of them nightclubs like you folks have back East. That gonna be a problem for you?”

Erin nearly laughed at the irony. After the scare they’d had in Maine, they desperately wanted and needed the seclusion. “Not at all. Christie and I like it quiet.”

“Good. You’ll get a lot of that here.” He jabbed his cane to the left, indicating the fairly new, light-golden-brown log home she’d noticed when she’d arrived. It was less than a hundred yards away, surrounded by trees and greenery, and separated from Amos’s home by a small, sun-spangled pond. “Go ahead and move your stuff into my grandson’s place.” A faint grumble entered his tone. “Lord knows he ain’t usin’ it. Since my stroke, he’s been hauntin’ my house.”

Amos’s tone evened out. “You’ll have more room over there, anyways. When we advertised for a live-in housekeeper, we didn’t figure on a young’un. Truth is,” he went on, “this housekeeper nonsense is his idea. I did just fine before the stroke, and I do just fine now.”

Erin smiled, but she could see that wasn’t so. Though his folksy speech hadn’t been affected—or if it had, he’d recovered—Amos’s right leg was weak, and the responsibility of running his general store in addition to his home chores was undoubtedly more than he could handle.

She glanced again at the sprawling log home with its deep wraparound porch, suddenly uneasy. “Mr…. Amos. Are you sure your grandson’s all right with us staying in his home? That is, did you mention it when you phoned him earlier?”

“If the boy’s gonna insist I get another housekeeper, he’ll hafta put up with the rest of it.”

“Then…I’m the second? Third?” And what had happened to her predecessors?

“Second and last,” Amos grumbled again. “First one had her cap set for me. I wasn’t interested.”

The roar of a rapidly approaching vehicle drew their attention, and Amos squinted toward the dirt road beyond his driveway. A moment later an old, pale blue truck with an emblem on its side appeared, trailing a plume of dust as it sped toward the house.

“Speak of the devil,” Amos said through a low chuckle. “Figured he’d hightail it back here soon as I phoned and told him to take down the Help Wanted sign at the store.”

“Your grandson?” Erin asked, unnerved as the truck came to a skidding, gravel-spraying stop behind her van. This wasn’t the arrival of a passive, agreeable man, she thought, her heart sinking. This man was churned up about something—and it was probably her. Suddenly she wondered if she could count on this job after all.

“Mac,” Amos replied, pride in his hazel eyes. “My daughter Jessie’s boy, God rest her soul.”

The broad-shouldered man who swung out of the truck was tall, tanned and so beautifully put together that for an instant everything in Erin stilled. The black Stetson he wore low on his brow covered most of his dark-brown hair, and his chambray shirt, rolled back over muscular forearms, was open throated, showing a hint of chest hair. As he moved unerringly toward her, Erin’s gaze dipped to the faded jeans that hugged his thighs and calves…and she drew a soft breath.

At her short-lived job in Maine, the pretty teenage waitress she’d worked with had had a word for men like him—men who brought a flush to her cheeks and sent her scurrying to their tables to take their orders. She could almost hear Trisha’s flirty whisper now. Smokin’.

But as Amos’s grandson crossed the weed-choked grass, giving her a critical once-over, another word occurred to Erin. Trouble. It was obvious from his long strides and body language that he didn’t approve of his grandfather’s choice in housekeepers, and he meant to do something about it.

Backing away from the steps, Erin lifted Christie into her arms again, turning her front and center. It wasn’t terribly noble to use her daughter as a bargaining chip, but when they were fighting for their lives, she’d use whatever weapons she had. Christie’s blue eyes and shy smile had totally disarmed Amos. His grandson would be a harder sell.

“Hello,” he said politely as he ascended the porch steps. “I’m Mac Corbett.” The firm, callused hand he extended all but swallowed hers. “I understand Granddad’s considering you for the housekeeper position.”

“I ain’t considerin’ her,” Amos snapped, “she’s got the job. It’s a done deal.”

Frowning at his grandfather’s precarious position, Corbett pulled a chair close and quietly asked Amos to sit. When Amos lifted his chin and belligerently stood his ground, the younger man sighed and dragged the chair between his granddad and the steps.

He worked up another smile and looked at Erin again. Christie promptly jammed her face into Erin’s neck.

“You’re okay,” Erin murmured. “This is Mr. Corbett. He’s a new friend.”

Corbett extended his hand to her. “Can we shake?”

“No!” Christie shrieked.

“Honey, don’t be rude.”

“She’s okay.” Corbett’s smile increased a little. “She has a right to pick her own friends.” He drew a deep breath, then spoke again. “Would you excuse Granddad and me for a minute, Mrs.—”

“Terri Fletcher,” she replied, praying Christie wouldn’t correct this new lie. She’d spoken to her about their new names, but few toddlers were good at keeping secrets. “And it’s Ms.”

“Nice to meet you, Terri.” He pulled open the screen door. “Granddad?” he prodded, glancing at Amos, then back at Erin. “We’ll be right back. Feel free to walk around—check out the place.”

“Thanks, we’ll do that.” Except, Erin knew that what he meant was, take a hike so I can grill my grandfather without being overheard. And she had a very good idea what he would say. We don’t know her. How can we trust her? Maybe Corbett even had someone else in mind for the position. All she knew was, whatever his motive for this tête à tête, the big man was miffed at being left out of the hiring loop. Seeing the return of that grim expression as he ushered Amos inside, Erin decided with a heavy heart that her chances of staying here were slim to none.

When the inside door as well as the screen door banged shut, she sighed and walked Christie to the van to grab a box of apple juice from the cooler and the local paper from the front seat. Hopefully, another look at the want ads would turn up something more promising. If not…they’d be moving on again.

Clamping the paper beneath her arm, she popped the attached straw into the juice box and handed the drink to Christie. “Here you go, sweetie pie. Now, what do you say?”

“Danka!”

Chills erupted on Erin’s skin.

Slowly she crouched down to Christie’s level, laid the paper aside, and dredged up a smile, meeting her daughter’s sparkling blue eyes. “No, sweetheart, we say, ‘thank you,’ when someone gives us a treat. Remember? Can you say it for me now?”

“Fank you,” she repeated happily, innocently unaware of what she’d done to her mother.

“Good girl,” Erin murmured and hugged her close, juice box and all.

Her sober gaze found Amos Perkins’s home again, and she wondered what was being said in there. She didn’t blame Mac Corbett for being cautious.

If he knew their past, he’d send them packing in a heartbeat.



Inside Amos’s living room with its mismatched furniture and dated wallpaper, Mac faced his grandfather. He was still startled by the nerves twitching beneath his skin. Terri Fletcher was a dyed-in-the-wool knockout, and that was an understatement—even with her pretty black hair pulled back from her face in that tight ponytail. Even devoid of makeup. The shapeless, beige cotton shirt and slacks she wore only made him wonder what was beneath them—and why a woman that beautiful didn’t want anyone to notice her.

Fat chance of that happening.

“Before you say one word,” Amos began, stabbing a finger into Mac’s chest, “I like her and she’s stayin’. She’s a nice woman, and she looks like she could use the money.”

“I’m not disputing that, Granddad, I just would’ve liked to talk to her before we made a decision. What’s her story? Has she done this kind of work before? What did her references say? Or didn’t she offer any?”

Amos pulled a folded sheet of tablet paper from the breast pocket of his red-plaid flannel shirt. “Got ’em right here,” he said defensively. “She checked out perfect.”

“Did you even call them?” Mac reached for it. “How many references did she—”

Amos snatched the sheet away and stuffed it back in his pocket, his hazel eyes insulted and his lined face stubbornly set. “Since I got sick, you been callin’ the shots—makin’ my decisions for me—and it’s time it stopped. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind or my intuition, and I say she’s fine.”

Silent seconds ticked by while Mac pondered his grandfather’s words. Then he nodded. Amos was right. He had been making all the decisions since the stroke. But everything he’d done, he’d done because he loved the old man. The last thing he’d wanted to do was hurt Amos’s pride, but apparently, that’s what he’d done.

“Okay. I’m sorry. It should be your decision. I just expected you to choose someone a little more…mature.”

“You don’t mean mature, you mean Mildred Manning.”

“She was a nurse for years. It would’ve made more sense.”

Amos stared as if Mac were completely out of his mind. “Don’t you know nothin’ about women?” He shook his head abruptly as though banishing a ridiculous notion, then answered his own question. “Never mind. ’Course you don’t. If you did, you’d have one of yer own. Sophie’d be mad as a wet hen if I hired Mildred to cook and clean for me. ’Specially when she offered to do it herself. And don’t tell me I ain’t right about that.”

Releasing a weary blast of air, Mac brought his hands to his hips. Amos’s wisecrack about his love life aside, the old guy had a point. Sophie Casselback was a good woman, but she would’ve made Amos’s life a living hell if he’d hired a woman their age. She and Amos had been “good friends” for two years—the primary reason, Mac suspected, that Amos had refused her help. No man—even a seventy-three-year-old man—wanted to look less than strong around the woman he was keeping company with. Or maybe he and Sophie were over now. Since his stroke and stint in rehab, Amos hadn’t returned many of her calls.

Amos continued to stare hard as Mac’s thoughts churned off in yet another direction. “Now what? There’s something else goin’ on under that hat. What is it?”

“The little girl,” Mac said. “Are you sure you’ll be okay with a child underfoot? You could trip, you might not get your right rest—”

“You just got done sayin’ it’s my decision to make. I made it.” Shuffling and cane tapping to the door, he threw it open, then shoved through the screen door, banging it against the white wood siding. Mac raised his eyes to heaven, but there was no help there. Obviously, the discussion was over.

Amos plopped himself down on the glider. “Now why don’t you help that gal take her stuff over to your place?”

“My place?”

“Little Christie needs some room, too. Can’t very well stuff ’em both in the guest room upstairs. Besides,” Amos groused pointedly as Mac’s exasperation grew, “you seem happy enough up there.”

“Granddad, I’m not set up for company.”

“They’ll only be here six ’r seven weeks.” Amos glared up at him. “Or do you have other ideas you ain’t told me about?”

“No, but my guest room’s full of boxes, and there’s no bed in there.” The other spare room had been turned into an office. That meant, if they moved in, Terri Fletcher and her daughter would be sleeping in his room.

In his bed.

Something tugged low in Mac’s gut at the thought of Christie’s slender mom beneath his sheets, startling him with its intensity and shocking the hell out of him by evoking a very physical, very unexpected response.

“All right,” he growled, needing to move, and accepting the arrangement because there’d be no changing Amos’s mind. “I’ll get it done.”



Erin followed Corbett’s brisk strides through his spacious, beautiful home, her stomach a ball of knots. She was astonished that the discussion had ended in her favor. Initially, he’d seemed to be the man in control, yet somehow Amos had won out. Relieved, Erin sent up a prayer of thanks that they had a roof over their heads again—and on the heels of that prayer, another went up that changing her name and relocating here would be enough to ensure their safety.

And incomprehensibly, amid so much turmoil, some part of her still found time to notice Mac Corbett as a man. Though she tried to ignore the pull, his rugged face and the smooth, loose way he walked made her feel things she hadn’t felt in a very long time. In fact, he was the most overtly male man she’d ever encountered, and incredibly, he didn’t seem aware of his appeal.

“Obviously, this is the bedroom,” he said, carrying their bags inside and tossing them on his king-size bed. A quilted navy, white and light-blue spread in a geometric print covered it. “You should be comfortable here.” He nodded at a closed door to the left of an oak chest of drawers. “Master bath’s in there.”

“It’s very nice,” she replied, placing the two duffels she’d carried beside her luggage. “Thank you. I…I’m sure we will be.” She’d always been good at small talk, but with this man—who didn’t seem inclined to make the effort—she was falling flat on her face.

Before they’d begun unloading the van, she’d given Christie her coloring book, crayons and a cookie, then settled her in the great room at Mac’s distressed-pine coffee table. Occasionally, as they’d carted things past the wide archway, Christie had looked up from her tuneless humming and scribbling to peek through her fringe of black bangs and smile a little—beginning to adjust again. And though that was something to be thankful for, it still made Erin ache to see her take each new town and change of address in stride.

Suppressing a sigh, she shifted her attention back to Mac and tried again for conversation. “Christie’s careful with her crayons, but I put a plastic play mat over your coffee table in case she gets reckless.”

“It wasn’t expensive,” he said flatly. “She can’t hurt it.”

“Still, I want you to know that we’ll leave your home in the same condition that we found it.”

His polite smile thanked her, then he nodded at the bare windows. “I never got around to putting up curtains. There didn’t seem to be a big need for them, living out this far. But I guess you’ll want some privacy. I’ll see what I can scare up for you.” He nodded at the bed. “The sheets are fresh, but you’re welcome to change them. Linen closet’s in the hall next to the family bath.”

“I’m sure the sheets on the bed will be fine.”

“All right, then I’ll make room for your things so you can start putting them away. I’ll finish unpacking your van in a minute.” Crossing to his closet, he pulled a duffel bag from a shelf, then started filling it from the oak chest of drawers.

“Mr. Corbett?”

“Mac,” he said, not looking up.

“Mac. First of all, you don’t have to unpack my van. I can do that.” Heaven knew she’d managed to do it enough times in the past year. “Secondly,” she said, unable to keep the uneasiness from her voice, “I know you weren’t expecting us to commandeer your home. So before we go much further—”

“You want to know if I have reservations.”

“Yes.”

His candid gaze met hers. “I do. Yes. But not about the two of you staying here.” He resumed packing. “It’s probably better that I sleep at Amos’s anyway. Most of my clothes are there. I moved in right after he was released from rehab—” his mouth twisted in annoyance “—came back here after the first housekeeper was hired, then hauled butt back to Amos’s when she left.”

Mac emptied the next drawer, stuffing T-shirts into his bag. “Besides, sometimes he needs help getting to the bathroom in the middle of the night.” He turned sharply to reassure her. “Once he’s up and moving in the morning, he’s fine, though, so your duties won’t be more than we advertised in the paper.”

“I don’t have a problem helping your grandfather to the bathroom.”

His expression softened slightly, then he looked away again and zipped his bag, his tone brisk again. “Thank you, but I was thinking of Amos. He has a lot of pride.”

“I noticed. And I’d never do anything to hurt it.”

“Good, because he’s all I have, and that makes him my number-one priority. I don’t like thinking he might be at risk—in any way.” He met her eyes again. “You do understand, don’t you?”

Erin nodded. He didn’t have to gush or expand on his statement. It was abundantly clear that he loved his granddad, and if Amos wasn’t treated with care and respect, that Housekeeper Wanted sign would go right back up again.

Mac slung the duffel’s long straps over his shoulder. “I didn’t see a crib or anything like it in your van. Christie sleeps with you?”

“Not always. Sometimes we find a furnished apartment with a twin bed. I have a portable safety railing that slides between the mattress and box spring. That works pretty well.”

“Sometimes you find a furnished apartment?” he repeated in a tone that was cuttingly judgmental. “Do you move around a lot?”

She knew she shouldn’t feel defensive—he had a perfect right to question her—but she did. She also knew that antagonizing him could prompt another discussion between Mac and his grandfather, and this time the younger man might win.

“Is that a problem for you? This job is temporary, isn’t it? Your grandfather said two months at the most, probably less.”

The thoughts moving through his dark eyes weren’t complimentary, and his face was carved granite. “Yes, it’s temporary. I still find myself wondering why you’re so mobile.” His gaze delved more deeply into hers. “Maybe if I ask a few questions—get a few answers—I won’t wonder so much.”

He barely paused a moment before he said coolly, “Ms. Fletcher, are you running away from something?”




Chapter 2


She didn’t know how she managed, but Erin spoke in a calm voice. “No. Are you afraid I’ll take off in the middle of the night with the good silver?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know you.”

Feeling a nervous flush creep into her cheeks, Erin turned away from him and began unpacking Christie’s clothes. “Then let’s remedy that right now. What do you want to know?” She was ready with her stock replies.

“All right. But keep in mind that this isn’t a personal attack. I just need to feel comfortable with the people who take care of Amos.”

“I understand. Go ahead.”

“Your van has Maine plates. You don’t have a Maine accent.”

She shook the wrinkles out of Christie’s pajamas and set them aside. “We were only there a short time.”

“You were employed there?”

“Yes, I’ve already told your grandfa—”

“Doing what? And why did you leave?”

Erin put down the tiny bib overalls she’d just plucked from the suitcase, then turned around, realizing that her answers might be better accepted if she were facing him. She hid a shiver of apprehension. The penetrating eyes beneath the shading brim of his Stetson seemed to see straight through her. But as she gazed deeper into those eyes, past the concern, past the strength and confidence there, she saw something else. Something that mirrors had reflected in her own eyes. This man had baggage, too.

She drew a breath. “My last job was waitressing at a small restaurant. It was fun. I enjoy working with people.” She got herself ready for the next lie. “I left because it took me away from Christie too many hours in the day.”

“You had to travel 2500 miles to find a position that kept your daughter with you 24/7?”

“No, Maine was beautiful, but cold. I decided we’d be happier in a warmer climate.”

“So you chose the Flagstaff area? Winters here can be—”

“This isn’t our last stop. I’ve never seen California.”

It was several seconds before he slowly nodded. Again the judgment and doubt in his dark gaze was a near palpable thing. “I assume you included the name and address of your previous employer in your list of references?”

“Yes.” She’d only offered two names—Millie’s and Lynn’s—and thank heaven, they were both confidantes and prepared for phone calls. It still stunned her that Amos hadn’t contacted either of them, saying that he was from the old school and judged people by the look in their eyes—and she looked all right to him. “Until last week I worked for Millie Kraft at Krafty Millie’s Café in Spindrift, Maine, just up the coast from Boothbay Harbor. Your grandfather has her number. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

Again, that long, slow gaze assessed her. But apparently the inquisition was over because he thanked her and walked out of the room. “There’s a twin bed in storage at Granddad’s house,” he called over his shoulder. “I think I can squeeze it in here.”

Erin trailed him through the hall toward the front door. “You don’t have to do that. Christie will be fine, sleeping with me.”

“She should have her own bed,” he said firmly.

Suddenly Christie barreled out of the great room, a page from her coloring book flapping in her hand. Her tiny face was all smiles, her voice a high-pitched squeak. “Wook, Mommy!”

Smiling, Erin scooped Christie into her arms, then held the paper out in front of her. She gasped dramatically at the wild purple and yellow swirls and swishes. “Oh, my! Did you do this all by yourself?”

Christie nodded excitedly.

“It’s beautiful. We’ll have to dig out our magnets and put it on the refrigerator.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks as Mac ambled back from the door. His deep voice gentled as he surveyed Christie’s handiwork, the way most adults’ voices did when speaking to a child. “Mommy’s right. This is a very nice picture. Can you tell me what it is?”

“Me!”

“I can see that now,” he replied chuckling. The skin beside his dark eyes crinkled. “Do you think you could make one for my grandpa’s refrigerator? I’ll bet he’d like that. I know I would.”

Beaming, Christie wriggled out of Erin’s arms and raced back to her crayons.

Mac’s gaze followed her. “How old is she?”

“Three. Well, she will be in three months. September.”

“She’s a cutie.”

“Thank you. I think so.”

His next words landed like a punch. “Her father must miss her very much.”

It was hard to breathe, hard to remain calm, hard to hide the jolt of fear that now accompanied any thought or mention of Charles. But she made it through the moment without betraying any of those things and stated simply, “He’s not with us anymore.”

“He passed away?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

When she didn’t offer more, new questions rose in Corbett’s eyes—curious questions—but apparently respecting her privacy, he didn’t ask them. Instead, the look in his eyes slowly began to change.

The difference was subtle, almost unnoticeable…but for the shortest of seconds, his gaze passed over her hair and the slope of her face—lingered for a heartbeat on her mouth. And Erin’s pulse quickened as awareness came tiptoeing back, all the more potent because they were alone, behind closed doors, and she now realized the attraction was mutual.

Time stretched out on tenterhooks.

The air between them quivered with a tension running just below the surface.

Then Mac abruptly jerked his gaze from hers and retraced his steps to the door. “I’ll see about that bed,” he said brusquely, exiting and closing the screen door behind him.

“Th-thank you again for your trouble,” Erin called.

“It’s no trouble. As I said,” he repeated, his growling baritone trailing, “she needs her own bed.”

Erin sank back against a polished pine wall. Their search for a safe haven was over. In a month or two they might have to look again, but they were all right for now. She stared through the screen at Mac’s broad shoulders and tapering back as he cut through the weeds bordering the pond on his way back to Amos’s…took in his trim hips and long muscular legs.

And suddenly she wondered if she’d traded one kind of danger for another.



Charles Fallon sat behind the antique desk in his opulent high-rise office, the glow of the setting sun coloring the Chicago skyline behind him. He adjusted the pocket silk in his Armani suit, smoothed his fine mustache and goatee, then steepled his fingers before him and called, “Come in” in answer to the soft rap at his door.

A good-looking young man with longish, sun-streaked blond hair and a pleasant smile entered and walked to Charles’s desk, his running shoes silent on the deep-orchid carpeting. He wore jeans and a white polo shirt with a sports logo on the breast pocket, and while he was not muscular, he appeared fit. He did not offer to shake Charles’s hand, and they did not exchange pleasantries.

They were alone on the floor. Everyone who worked for him here at Fallon Financial Consultants had gone for the day.

With an economy of motion, Charles took a folder from his desk and handed it to John Smith. It contained photographs and every scrap of information Charles could recall or gather that might lead Smith to her. Her pathetic little hobbies and interests, her education, the foods she liked. Still on Charles’s desk were her high school yearbook and a list of friends and associates she’d made at the elementary school where she’d once taught kindergarten. There was even a list of her e-mail contacts.

Several minutes elapsed while Smith studied the folder, the only sound in the room the hollow bubbling of the aquarium built into the cherry-paneled north wall. Presently Smith glanced up from the private detective’s report. “She was last seen near Boothbay Harbor driving a 1999 white Ford Windstar?”

“Read on. The vehicle is current, but my private investigator frightened her into running again. He was able to pick up her trail but lost her again in Boston. He said she obviously knew she was being followed, the way she changed lanes and used the on and off ramps.” So unlike his mousy little wife, who’d rarely driven in city traffic.

The square-cut diamond on his right hand caught the setting sun’s rays as Charles flicked a hand at the folder. “It’s all in there.”

Charles stared at the boy-man as he continued to peruse the file. He was thirty years old, and his name was not Smith. But Charles didn’t want or need to know what it was. He only had to know that Smith was short on scruples, long on patience, and used whatever means he deemed appropriate—legal or not—to accomplish his assignments. Which would make him far more effective than the fool who’d lost her.

Smith paged back to the photos. “Your ex-wife’s very beautiful. Little girl looks just like her.”

Charles nodded stiffly, hiding his rage as their faces coalesced in his mind. Beautiful, duplicitous Erin, with her serious cobalt eyes and raven hair, courtesy of the black Irish father who’d never given a damn about her. And Christiana. What an insult that none of his features had been repeated in his daughter’s face. He was the strong one. His genes should have been dominant. She should have had auburn hair and green eyes.

He thought of the divorce in which Erin had aired their private differences—differences every man and wife had—and the absurd judgment that had awarded her full custody because the judge considered him abusive, unfit.

Her lies had made him a pariah with friends and associates. If she’d remained silent, he could’ve forgiven her her fanciful request for a divorce. Not granted it, but in time, forgiven it. Now…now she would pay.

“You know what I want,” Charles said coldly, standing and bringing the meeting to a close. He placed the yearbook and lists inside a messenger’s pouch, then indicated with a nod that Smith should add the folder he held, as well. When he’d complied, Charles handed him an envelope containing thirty thousand dollars.

“Half now, half when the job is done.”

“Plus expenses.”

“Of course.” Charles held Smith’s gaze. “Don’t do it in front of my daughter. When you’ve finished, call me.”

“I’ll be in touch,” the young man replied, smiling cordially and accepting the pouch.

Charles smiled back. “Danka.”



Erin wiped the tomato sauce from Christie’s mouth and hands, then lifted her down from the booster seat. She handed her her Raggedy Ann doll and a cookie. Ten feet away, in the spare room, the rattle and clank of metal framework told her that Mac would soon be finished assembling the twin bed he’d found in Amos’s attic. And she was grateful. She wanted him gone so her popping nerve endings would give her some peace.

Mustering a smile, she led Christie around the butcher block island in the middle of the spacious kitchen to a bright, multiwindowed corner where a few toys and books lay on her open Barbie sleeping bag. “Can you read your dolly a story for a few minutes until Mommy rinses the dishes? We mustn’t bother Mr. Corbett while he’s working.” She also didn’t want her getting hurt.

Ignoring Erin’s protests, Mac had decided that Christie not only needed her own bed, but her own room—even though it meant transferring a dozen sealed boxes to his computer room. Even though Erin reminded him they wouldn’t be here very long.

“Can Waggedy Ann have a cookie?”

Erin smiled. “No, Waggedy Ann is too messy. When I’m through we’ll do something fun, okay?”

“Okay, Mommy.”

Another thud came from the spare room. Drawing a shaky breath, Erin carried their lunch dishes—their very late lunch dishes—to the sink, amazed that she’d managed to gag down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with Mac here. Christie’d had no problem at all with the small, microwavable container of macaroni and meat sauce from their bag of staple groceries.

She was running water in the sink and rinsing the milk film from Christie’s plastic cup when a deep male voice directly behind her said, “That should do it.” The cup flew from her hands, popping and rattling hollowly against gleaming stainless steel.

Hating her over-the-top reaction to him, she shut off the water and turned to face him. “Thank you. Again.”

“You’re welcome. Again.” He grinned down at Christie, who was chattering something unintelligible and grinding her cookie into Raggedy Ann’s painted mouth, then spoke to Erin again.

“I left a set of twin sheets and a couple of blankets from Granddad’s house on the bed. They’re clean, and the mattress was stored in a spare room, so it’s not musty smelling.”

His hat was gone now, and his dark-brown hair was mussed and…sexy looking. “Thanks,” she said, jerking her mind back where it belonged.

Mac waved off her gratitude, then strode to the refrigerator to check the crisper and meat drawers. In a moment he closed it again. “The only perishables in there are apples, and they look okay. Feel free to use them, and whatever you need from the cupboards.”

“That’s very kind,” Erin murmured, “but we pay our own way.” Wiping her hands on a paper towel, she looked for a wastebasket. Blood rushed to her face when he took it from her and deposited it in a stainless steel receptacle built into a lower cabinet.

“Your grandfather said he’d like me to start work tomorrow. Is that your understanding, too?”

“Yes. I’ll handle the meal tonight, but I’d appreciate it if you’d be at Amos’s by eight in the morning. I gave Martin—Martin Trumbull, our full-time clerk—the rest of the week off. He’s been putting in some long hours since the first housekeeper left, and he’s no spring chicken.”

At last, a familiar topic of conversation. “You mean the housekeeper who was interested in your grandfather?” she asked with a faint smile. “He said she’d…what was it? Set her cap for him?”

“That would’ve been nice if it had been true.”

“It’s not?”

“Amos tends to give answers he’s comfortable with,” he answered, then changed the subject. “There was no mention of it in our newspaper ad, but would you be able to drive him to his physical therapy sessions when I can’t get away from the store? We have two part-time high-school kids who help out, but I don’t like to leave them alone if I can help it.”

“Of course. Just give me directions. I’m not familiar with the area yet.”

“You’re sure? He has PT on Tuesdays and Fridays. I can take him tomorrow, but we’re expecting a fairly large shipment on Friday, and I need to be there to unload it. I don’t want Martin or the kids hoisting eighty-pound feed sacks.”

“I’m sure.” But she frowned suddenly, wondering if there might be a problem. “Will your grandfather be able to step up into my van?”

“Not without help. There’s a hydraulic lift that adjusts to any level off the back porch. I had it installed so he could ride in my Cherokee. Just steady him as he’s getting in.” Mac sighed wearily. “If he’ll let you. I prefer driving him myself so I can see and hear firsthand how he’s doing, but since I can’t, I’d appreciate it if you’d pay close attention to what—”

He stopped himself, massaged the furrows over his eyebrows. “Never mind, I can phone his therapist. As for directions, the hospital’s not hard to find. Amos can direct you.” He met her eyes. “Okay?”

It took that moment and that worn look to see that Amos’s illness had taken a very large toll on his grandson, too. “How long has it been since his stroke?” Erin asked quietly.

“Ten months.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. It’s been a long haul for him.” He glanced around as though he might say something else, but then his lips thinned. “I’d better get back. I don’t like leaving him alone for too long.”

Hopping up from her puffy nest, Christie ran after them, and automatically Erin took her hand as they went to the door. But her thoughts were still on Mac. It had to be a strain, putting your life on hold to tend to another person’s needs, no matter how much you loved them. Although, she sensed this man wouldn’t have it any other way. Handing his home over to strangers probably wasn’t helping his peace of mind, either.

“See you in the morning, Terri,” he said, closing the screen door and heading for the steps.

“See you. Thanks again for setting up the bed.”

Then, out of the blue, Christie delivered a giggling announcement that drove the air from Erin’s lungs and threatened to dump her on the floor.

Slowly Mac reversed directions, his dark eyes sharp again. He repeated Christie’s innocently spoken words. “Terri is Mommy’s new name?”

Blood thudding in her temples, Erin scrambled hard for another lie. It came to her like manna from heaven. Swinging Christie into her arms, she laughed, “Not ‘new’ name, sweetheart, nickname.” She grinned wryly at Mac. “We had a talk this morning about the names we use being short for our given names. Apparently, she got things a little mixed up.”

But Christie’s little brow was still lined in confusion, and her rosebud lips were opening. Before she could breathe another syllable, Erin peppered her face and neck with noisy kisses that started Christie squirming and shrieking at the top of her lungs. “And now that you have a bed, Lady Jane,” she teased over the noise, “it’s time for your nap.”

“I’n not Wady Jane!”

“Shouldn’t that be your new nickname?”

“No!”

“Okay,” Erin agreed over the pounding of her heart. “I like the old one better anyway.”

When her daughter’s giggles had dissolved into a sparkling smile, Erin faced Mac again, praying desperately that he believed the performance he’d just witnessed.

He seemed to.

“If you need to reach us at Amos’s, use the intercoms. There’s one in my room, one at the desk in the computer room, and one just inside the great room. Just press the button and speak.”

“I’ll do that, thank you.” But as he climbed inside the old blue truck and drove off, she knew she wouldn’t. There was no point in giving him an opportunity to ask more questions.

Easing Christie back a bit, Erin released a lung-clearing sigh and touched the tip of her nose to her daughter’s. “Okay, chatterbox, let’s get a sip of juice and visit the potty, then take that nap, okay?”

“Are you ezausted, Mommy?”

Erin smiled wanly. “You have no idea how exhausted I am, precious girl.”

She considered having another talk with her about their new last name, but thought better of it. To tell her again that it was a secret that only they could know might confuse her all the more—and might invite yet another knee-buckling announcement. As the old adage went, it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Fifteen minutes later, with Christie curled warmly against her and softly snoring, Erin stared up at the ceiling from Mac’s bed. Varnished pine tiles in various sizes and shapes formed a lovely mosaic overhead and met smooth, pine plank walls, just as they did in the rest of the house.

They were in. They’d passed the test. They had a job and a home until Amos no longer needed them. And Christie… Gazing down at her slumbering child, Erin felt a rush of emotion that brought tears to her eyes and thickened her chest. Christie was happy and secure, now. There were no longer any signs of anxiety or fear. No furious thumb sucking, no cries in the middle of the night. She stroked her daughter’s glossy hair, smoothed back several damp strands from her temple and cheek.

Children should never be afraid.



Between household duties and keeping Christie entertained, Tuesday morning and afternoon flew by smoothly. The only glitch happened at breakfast when Mac walked into the kitchen, fresh from his shower in a hunter-green oxford shirt and snug jeans. But he only stayed long enough to shatter her composure, tell Amos to be ready at one o’clock for his appointment, and say goodbye. The butterflies that had gathered in Erin’s stomach left through the same screen door.

It was nearly six o’clock when Amos shuffled into the living room to his recliner and the evening paper, and Erin started the dishes. She’d pushed two vintage, chrome and red-vinyl kitchen chairs together so Christie could stand beside her at the double-bowl sink and “help.”

Christie was butchering a nursery rhyme and dumping water from a plastic cup to a metal pan when Mac walked up behind them, nearly soundless in his stocking feet. He slipped his coffee cup into the frothy soap bubbles, and his warm arm grazed Erin’s. “Supper was delicious,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

Chills of awareness drizzled from the nape of her neck to the soles of Erin’s feet. Like a second shadow, the heat emanating from his body warmed her side and back.

“You’re welcome. I figured I couldn’t go wrong with chicken.” She hazarded a brief glance over her shoulder at him. He was standing so close, she could count every whisker in his end-of-day stubble, detect the faintest hint of a musky aftershave.

Her gaze rebounded to the plate she was washing. “The two of you left so quickly this afternoon, I didn’t have time to suggest a menu.”

“We eat anything,” he returned, settling a hip against the cabinet. “We’re not fussy.

“Still, you could have had a choice. What do you prefer?”

As she rinsed the plate and stacked it in the drainer to her left, Erin glanced at Christie. The front of her daughter’s pink-and-white shirt was drenched, and water slopped over the side of the pan as she stirred “water soup” with a big plastic spoon.

“Since Amos’s stroke, we’ve been trying to eat meals that are a little healthier.” He laughed softly, and his warm breath somehow carried to her neck. Or maybe she just imagined it. “Which only means,” he continued, “that I bought a bunch of those TV dinners with less fat and more vegetables.”

“I saw them in the freezer. I can serve those for lunch if your granddad likes them. I could also look for some reduced fat recipes—” a convenient thought struck her as she finished “—on the Internet.”

In time, she’d planned to ask a favor of him, but now that she had an opening, there was no point in putting it off. She hoped she wasn’t too early with the request.

Swallowing, she rinsed their silverware, placed it in the drainer’s cup and turned to face him. The sheer height and breadth of him still took some getting used to. He had to be six-two without his boots, seven full inches taller than she was.

“I have a laptop with a modem,” she began hesitantly. “But I won’t be here long enough to make subscribing to an Internet provider worthwhile. I was wondering if—”

He seemed to read her mind. “No problem. You’re welcome to use the computer in my office.”

“Thanks. Do you have any objection to my e-mailing a friend from time to time? I’ll pay any charges, of course.”

“There won’t be any. I have a local server. Just let me know when you want to use it. I’ll type in my password.”

Feeling like a child asking permission to do something wrong, Erin nodded her acceptance, then summoned a shaky smile. “Not to press the issue, but if you have a moment later, the sooner I dig up some recipes, the healthier you and your granddad will be eating.”

“Sure. I’ll come over after I bring in the horses and get Amos settled for the night. Probably around eight. He usually naps on the way home from PT, but he didn’t today.”

“Great.” She wouldn’t abuse his generosity. But she was afraid to use the phone or regular mail to contact Lynn, and after all her help, her friend needed to know that she and Christie were okay and settled somewhere new.

Thoughts of Lynn brought back the reason they were running, and an involuntary chill moved through her.

“Something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” she said with another quick smile. “I was just thinking it’s good that you have a lot of chicken and fish in your freezer if you want to eat healthy.”

Which had nothing to do with her shivering, but he didn’t call her on it.

“I wike fish!”

He smiled at Christie before his gaze rebounded to Erin’s. “I do, too, but we are going to have beef once in a while, aren’t we? Maybe the occasional pork chop?”

“Of course,” she laughed, “I work for you. You can have anything you like.”

The flicker of desire in his eyes brought back the disturbing flush that was now becoming second nature to Erin whenever she was around him. It was a look that made her think of warm nights and soft whispers, even though daylight still shone through the window over the sink.

Looking away, she busied herself searching for more silverware beneath the bubbles. “I don’t think an occasional steak or roast will do any harm.”

“Good,” he murmured. “I’d hate to think we were raising steers for the fun of it.” He pushed away from the sink. “I’m going to catch the news with Amos. Don’t dry the dishes—just leave them in the drainer. I’ll put them away later.”

“I can dry them. There aren’t that many.”

But Mac was nodding at Christie. “Leave them. Take her back to the house and get her into some dry clothes. It’s after six now. Your time’s your own.”

“All right,” she answered, realizing that Mac might want some private time with his granddad. She pulled the plug in the sink and lifted Christie down from the chairs, ignoring her flailing and whining for more playtime. “I’ll just finish up and see you in the morning.”

Mac’s gaze fell to the front of her shirt…and clouded.

Erin looked down.

There was a wet, child-size handprint darkening the light-blue fabric of her blouse. It couldn’t have been more strategically placed on Erin’s left breast if she’d handed Christie a diagram. Reddening, she looked back up at Mac, who finally realized he was staring.

Clearing his throat, he turned away, echoed her “See you in the morning,” then disappeared into the living room where Amos had suddenly turned up the volume on the TV set.

Erin swallowed hard as she dried the water splashes from Amos’s sturdy chairs, then returned them to the table. Because from the way Mac had stared at her, there was no mistaking the fact that, given the chance, he would have gladly made that wet mark on her breast man-size.




Chapter 3


The night air was still warm, fragrant with pine when Mac arrived at eight-thirty. Erin felt more than a little awkward when he knocked and waited to be admitted into his own home. Or maybe she was uneasy because darkness was falling, Christie was already asleep…and the last look they’d shared had been laced with tension. She mentioned her initial reservation as Mac walked inside.

His boots thudded softly as he crossed the large circular rug on the hardwood floor. “For the time being, this is your home,” he answered. “I’d never invade your privacy by just walking in.” He glanced around as he stepped into the office off the foyer and clicked on the small gooseneck lamp atop the computer desk. “Is Christie asleep?”

“Yes. She crashed around seven-thirty.”

“How does she like her bed?”

“She loves it—but she’s not in it.”

“No?”

She watched him frown at the collection of boxes he’d shuttled from the spare room to this one. Then, digging in, he moved a maple chair to the computer area and began stacking the boxes in the far corner of the room. Every movement showcased the powerful flex and play of his back muscles through his white polo shirt.

Erin gave herself a mental shake and answered his question. “She has fun lining up her dollies and stuffed animals on it for their naps, but I think she feels more secure sleeping with me right now. She’ll adjust. She always does.”

Mac slanted her another of those critical looks, then left the pile of boxes to turn on his computer. He motioned Erin into the office chair while he pulled the spare maple one close. Tiny blips of excitement danced along her nerve endings as he dragged his chair even closer, and the shifting air carried a scent to her that was part fresh citrus and all musky man.

“It’s pretty standard,” he said. A dozen bright icons appeared on the monitor. “Click on the telephone icon to connect to the Internet, then when the search engine comes up, you’ll see another icon on the task bar. Click on the little mailbox, and you’re in.” He paused. “Go ahead.”

When his e-mail page came up, he reached across her, the dark hair on his forearm brushing her arm. With a few quick keystrokes, he entered his password and set the computer to remember it. Then he sank back in his chair. “Okay, my password’s saved, now you can use it whenever you want. All I ask is that you use the start button to park it before you shut it off.”

“I will. That’s the way my laptop’s set up, too. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Do you want to post a message now?”

She shook her head. No, she wanted to write to Lynn, but she didn’t want him anywhere in the vicinity when she did it. She needed privacy when she contacted people from her past. She was fairly certain she could contact Lynn safely using Mac’s e-mail address. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll do it later.”

“Sure.” With a few more keystrokes, he shut it down, then turned to her as if to say something more. Erin felt her pulse quicken as their gazes locked and the temperature in the small, intimately lit room inched up several degrees.

Abruptly she pushed to her feet. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t sure what was going through his mind, but she knew what was happening in hers, and it was dangerous to remain sitting here. But while putting some distance between them was the best solution, she couldn’t ask him to leave his own home. “I made a cinnamon coffee cake earlier if you’d like to have a slice.” At least that would move them to the kitchen table where the lights were brighter, and they’d be sitting a respectable distance from each other.

The look in Mac’s dark eyes told her that he’d sensed the change in temperature, too. “Coffee cake?” he repeated, slowly coming to his feet, too, and towering over her.

She nodded. “My thank-yous were getting repetitive, so I thought I’d express my gratitude with food. There’s fresh decaf to go with it. If you want.”

Abruptly, Erin shook her head in frustration. “I’m sorry. I’m not doing this very well. I seem to be playing hostess, but this is your home and I—” She pressed a finger to her lips, then removed it. “I’m just not sure what the protocol is at this point.”

“I’ve already told you, for now, it’s your home. Tell you what. If you’ll stop feeling uncomfortable about living here, I won’t feel uncomfortable if I have to get something from my rooms or check my own e-mail.” He smiled a little as he headed for the door. “As for the coffee cake, I know I’ll be sorry, but I have to pass. As I said earlier, I don’t like leaving Amos unattended for long periods of time. My not being here this morning when you arrived was a fluke. I got a call and had to take care of something at the store.”

“Of course,” she murmured, following and still embarrassed, hoping he didn’t think she’d been offering more than cake. “I’ll bring it to the house tomorrow morning and you can both enjoy it.”

“Sounds good,” he said, stepping out on the porch. “Thanks.”

It was fully dark now, a few stars and a sliver of moon shining through the thick pines, but light from inside spilled through the windows. Mac paused beside the door, his expression troubled.

“There was something else I wanted to talk to you about tonight. Amos’s PT.”

Concerned, Erin stepped out on the porch, too. “I asked him how it went, and he said it was fine—that he’s getting stronger every day.”

A skeptical tone entered his voice. “He also told you that we fired the first housekeeper because she was interested in more than doing laundry and baking cookies.”

“And you said that wasn’t true. Why was she let go?”

He considered the question for a long moment before he answered. “One night Amos had to use the bathroom during the wee hours, and she made him feel ashamed for needing her help. Sometimes it takes him a while to get his bad leg moving—it stiffens on him. He was depressed for days afterward because he couldn’t handle a simple thing like using the toilet on his own.”

Erin felt a rush of sympathy. “Oh, Mac, how awful for him.”

“Yeah. It meant a lot when you said you wouldn’t have a problem with that sort of thing.”

It had? At the time, he’d barely acknowledged her statement. “What about his physical therapy? Isn’t it going well?”

“It is, and it isn’t. He’s getting better—and he wants to get better. But he’s not doing the exercises Vicki gives him as often as he should. It’s slowing his recovery.”

“How can I help?”

Mac released a burdened breath. “I can’t tell you how much I hoped you’d say that. The exercises she gives him can easily be done while he’s lying on his bed or sitting watching TV—exercises to strengthen his leg. Having said that, he’s also getting too fond of his recliner. We need to get him up and moving.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” she replied decisively.

He wasn’t convinced. “It won’t be easy. He’s a world-class crab when he’s forced to do anything. He climbs all over me when I suggest it.”

“Then Christie and I will make it so much fun, he won’t mind.”

Mac cocked his head, obviously amused. “Forgive me, but how do you propose to do that?”

Erin smiled, feeling a sudden kinship with the tall man looming over her. Dealing with Amos would be like dealing with Christie. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d had to improvise to get some cooperation from her. “I don’t know yet. This is still new territory. But we’ll think of something.”

“Understand, I’m not asking for miracles—and of course, we’ll increase your pay.”

“Don’t do that. Helping him exercise will make me feel a little less like I’m taking advantage of your hospitality. Believe me, I’m getting a lot more out of this arrangement than you are.”

“No more than anyone else we would have hired.”

That wasn’t so, but she could hardly explain. She didn’t know him well enough to explain. She would never know him well enough. Suddenly that made her a little sad.

“You know,” he murmured, “I had my doubts about you when I saw how young you were. I wanted someone older. Someone we knew.” The night song of the crickets played in the darkness, wrapping them in another kind of intimacy, an intimacy that was somehow more potent. “I figured you’d be just one more woman who needed a job and phoned it in.”

“I’d never do that.”

He nodded as though he knew that now. Then he paused, reached out…and stroked her face.

Erin stood breathlessly as his index finger trailed down the slope of her cheek to her chin. It was the gentlest of touches. It was no more than a whisper against her skin, and it was hypnotic because she’d never been touched so tenderly before. Her nerve endings thrummed as he tipped her face up to his.

“You honestly care about people, don’t you?”

“I try,” she whispered, knowing this was inappropriate, yet unwilling to stop it. He was good and decent and so toe-curlingly sexy and attractive…and it had been so long since a man had shown any interest in her as a woman. So long since she’d wanted any man to show interest.

Mac’s head dipped slowly and surely toward hers, his voice taking on a husky rasp, his warm breath bathing her lips. “You can’t imagine how refreshing that is, Terri.”

The crash of a thousand cymbals couldn’t have jolted her more.

Erin backpedaled away, her pulse and heartbeat banging triple time. She wanted to say something, but suddenly, didn’t know what it was. Was there a correct thing to say at a time like this? Apparently not, because her lips weren’t moving and not a sound was coming from her throat.

Mac swore beneath his breath and expelled a ragged blast of air. “Well,” he said with obvious self-loathing, “that wasn’t the brightest thing I’ve ever done. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

She did. It was the same thing she’d been thinking. “There’s no need to apologize,” she managed, working to bring her popping nerve endings under control. “Nothing happened.”

“No?”

Yes, it had. But confessing that she’d wanted that kiss, too, was begging for trouble. Worse, if he hadn’t called her Terri just then, she might have let him do a whole lot more—and that was a staggering realization for a woman who’d come to dread sexual contact.

“Okay,” she amended, “gratitude happened. You needed to talk about your granddad’s illness, and I was a convenient sounding board who said what you needed to hear. Don’t worry about it.” Her voice was stronger now, but a jittery warmth still pinged through her bloodstream. “Good night. And thanks again for letting me use your computer. I promise not to blow it up.”

The moon was a faint light, but she could still see relief in his eyes, hear it in his voice. “If you blow it up, we’ll get it fixed. See you in the morning.”

“We’ll be there at eight.”



Mac stalked back to the house, thoroughly fed up with himself. Good God, where was his mind? She was Amos’s housekeeper, not a woman they’d brought in for his use! He checked on Amos, then strode down the sloping hill to the barn, his nerve endings still bouncing around like jumping beans. He’d groom Pike. He needed to do something to work off his tension, and cold showers sure as hell didn’t turn him on—or off.

Clicking on the light in the tack room, he grabbed a brush and currycomb, and a moment later was murmuring to the horse and taking the comb through Pike’s tangled mane. The gelding bumped a nose at him—probably to tell him it was almost nine-thirty, and the rest of High Hawk had retired to their TV sets or beds by now.

“Yeah, I know,” Mac grumbled, stroking the chestnut’s white blaze. “But I won’t be hitting the hay anytime soon. Mind keeping me company for a while?” The horse nosed into his hand again. “Good. Then let’s get you spruced up. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Unfortunately, as he combed and smoothed, his thoughts were elsewhere. He couldn’t get those darkblue eyes out of his mind, or that hair she insisted on tying back tight to her head. It was beautiful hair…hair that should be hanging loose around her face. Hair that would feel like silk against a man’s chest.

He scowled as his libido got squarely behind that thought and started a new response south of his belt buckle. He hadn’t felt a gut-gnawing attraction like this since Audra. Half of the free world knew what a colossal mistake that had been. But early on, he’d been so blinded by her wide smiles and teasing eyes that he couldn’t see how different they were. Way too different for the “opposites attract” thing to work. And who in hell ever decided that having absolutely nothing in common was a sure path to falling in love and staying there?

But he had loved her. Deeply. Madly. Stupidly.

Pike shifted and stomped in his stall, and Mac realized the grooming process had gotten more energetic than he’d intended. “Sorry, boy,” he muttered. “It’ll be just another minute, then I’ll go bug Gypsy and Jett, and let you get some shut-eye. One of us should sleep tonight.” And he doubted it’d be him.

A half hour later Mac trudged up the stairs to his room, grabbed a pair of running shorts, then retraced his steps. He’d shower in the new bathroom, the one off the laundry room he’d had installed while Amos was in rehab. The upstairs pipes rattled, and he didn’t want to wake Amos.

Only the glow from a night-light shone through the partially open doorway. Mac entered, flicked on the overhead light…and stared.

He would never get used to seeing the grab bars and supports around the tub and toilet, or the long bar against the wall. Ditto the shower curtain, which provided easy access instead of the glass doors Mac had originally suggested. For some reason, tonight it all made him feel lousier than usual.

Stripping, feeling his mood plummet, he turned on the water, waited a few seconds, then stepped inside.

Dammit, the strong man who’d raised him was getting old. Amos, who’d taught him to ride bareback and shown him how to topple paper-cup pyramids by flicking rubber bands off his fingertip.

Amos, who’d once hoisted eighty-pound feed bags with ease and now sometimes needed help getting to the bathroom.

Mac’s throat tightened as he scrubbed the soap over his chest and arms, lathering away the smell of horse-flesh, seeing his granddad as he was the day he opened his door and his arms to his daughter’s ten-year-old son. Except for college and four years in New Hampshire’s White Mountains, he’d been with Amos for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years! And his grandfather had always been as strong as an ox.

Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to see the telltale signs of aging as the years passed, or face his granddad’s mortality. Amos was all he had in the way of family, other than an aunt, uncle and a couple of cousins in Texas.

Shelving the soap, Mac braced his hands against the front wall and let the heavy spray beat his hair down to his brows. Let it beat his shoulders and back.

There was nothing like a healthy dose of reality to ground a man. Suddenly his need to jump Terri Fletcher’s pretty bones wasn’t nearly as important as it was a while ago.



Wednesday and Thursday were busy but mostly satisfying, Erin decided, because Mac made himself scarce, arriving home only an hour before she took Christie back to their quarters. He didn’t exactly ignore her, but he was distant—cordial in a stranger-to-stranger way as he discussed various local topics during dinner. His reserve didn’t include Christie, however, and he joked and played with her until she giggled uncontrollably, warming to him in a way she’d never done with Charles. And that was fine with Erin. They needed to keep their distance now that they both recognized the attraction simmering beneath their socially correct behavior.

On Friday afternoon a violent storm came out of nowhere.

“Just open them doors and move outta the way, pronto!” Amos shouted to her from the porch. “They’ll come in fast!”

“I will!” she yelled back over the howling wind and rain. Erin pulled Amos’s hooded poncho more tightly around herself and ran toward the barn, rubberized canvass flapping. The rain was coming down in sheets.

She’d been aware of the rain, but she hadn’t known it was a problem until thunder jolted Amos from his post-PT nap, and he’d sat bolt upright, insisting he had to get the horses back in the barn. “Lightning spooks ’em so bad, they’ll beat down the fences!” he’d persisted. But no way could he manage the task, so that left Erin to manage the situation. Thankfully, Christie was still napping.

A new bolt of lightning ripped and crackled through the dark thunderheads, and the earth trembled. Erin ran faster, seeing the horses now. Grouped together at the far side of the long corral, they skittered anxiously, ran in circles—whinnied and tossed their big heads.

Yanking open the barn door, she hurried inside and passed the stalls, blinking and wiping the rain from her face as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was only a little after four o’clock, but the weather and dense cloud cover made it look more like eight.

Striding up an aisle lined with hay bales, she spied the wide doors that opened onto the corral and rushed toward them. Lightning flashed again and lit up the barn. Fumbling with the latch, Erin threw open the double doors to the raging wind and rain, then blanched as the horses picked up the movement and, wheeling, thundered directly for her.

Heart slamming into her throat, she hugged the wall, afraid to breathe as they ran inside, the darker horse nearly losing its footing on the wet straw. Then, just as Amos said they would, they slowed, calmed and found their respective stalls.

Bracing herself, she hurried into the rain again to snatch the door rings, lost her hood in the wind, then yanked the double doors shut and relatched them. Rain still punished the shingled roof, but with the doors closed, the barn was a little quieter now.

Relieved that she hadn’t been trampled, Erin turned around.

Adrenaline jolted her as her unsuspecting gaze collided with Mac’s. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and rain streamed down his face and dripped off his chin to his soaked shirt.

“You’re drenched,” he growled, reaching overhead to click on a bare-bulb light. He whisked the rain from his face. “What in hell are you doing down here?”

She shot him an affronted look. What did he think she was doing down here? “The storm was spooking your horses. The only way I could keep your grandfather from bringing them inside—rather, attempting to bring them inside—was to do it myself.”

Mac swore, exasperated. “Where’s Christie?”

“At the house. She’s asleep on the sofa.” Erin reached beneath the poncho and plucked her baby monitor from her waistband. Toddler snores flowed from it, though they were almost drowned out by the pouring rain and the low sound of Amos’s TV program.

Then suddenly what he’d said and the critical tone he’d used pushed her annoyance to anger. “Did you think I’d leave her wandering the house alone with a man who’s recovering from a stroke? How nice. You barely speak directly to me in two days, and when you finally do, you practically accuse me of negligence.” She pushed past him. “I have to get back to her.”

“Terri, wait.” Mac grabbed her hand. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I was just concerned. And Amos should have realized that I’d come home and take care of the horses when I saw that a storm was brewing. They would’ve been okay until I got here.”

“He was sure they’d break through the fence or hurt themselves.”

“They would have been fine,” Mac repeated.

Erin took a few seconds to compose herself, then nodded. “All right. I’ll know that next time. And I’m sorry I overreacted about Christie, but I’d never put her at risk. She’s my whole life. Now I have to go. I don’t want her to wake up, be afraid of the storm and find me gone.”

“I’ll drive you. The truck’s right outside.”

“What about the horses? Shouldn’t you—”

“I’ll get some of the water off them after I take you back.” She felt another jolt when he reached behind her neck to pull Amos’s floppy hood up over her wet hair. “We’ll pick up Christie, then I’ll take you both down to the house so you can change. You’re soaked to the skin.”

“That’s okay. I haven’t started dinner yet.”

“We’ll order takeout.”

“Mac, I have chicken thawing.”

“It’ll keep.” With a hand on her back, he guided her to the open doors at the front of the barn. Rain was still coming down, and thunder rumbled overhead.

Something must have struck him funny then, because the skin beside his dark eyes crinkled and he started to laugh.

“What’s so entertaining?” she asked, thinking about being annoyed again.

Mac fingered her dripping hood and the long wet bangs that stuck to her forehead and sides of her face. “I was just thinking that you’ve done enough today. If you did any more, we’d have to give you hazard pay.”

Grinning, he gestured through the pounding rain to the truck he’d parked close to the doors. “Okay. Run for it, Terri Fletcher.” And suddenly she was grinning, too.

They had to run again when they got to the house, though Mac took the truck as close as he could to the porch steps. Amos was there to scold them when they entered, wiping their faces and laughing.

“Are the two of you daft?” he asked crossly, though there was a hint of humor in his eyes. “Never saw two people more happy to be wet.”

“Never had so much fun getting wet,” Mac returned, and smiled at Erin. And against every warning bell clanging in her mind, her heart grew wings.

The mood was still light when he drove Erin and Christie back to their quarters after an early dinner of delivery pizza, tossed salads and fresh apple cobbler. She’d dug in her heels and insisted she didn’t need to change to dry clothes—and eventually Mac had conceded. Besides, she’d pointed out to him, someone had to stay with Amos while he tended the horses. Erin knew it was wrong to feel this content, but she couldn’t stop herself from embracing it. It had been years since she’d laughed over something silly.

“You’re a good cook,” he said, carrying Christie over the wet grass and up the steps to the house. The heavy rain had stopped, and a smudge of sunlight shone faintly through the thinning cloud cover. He held the door for Erin, then he and Christie followed her inside.

“Thanks. Of course, the most difficult dish was the pizza.”

“And it was excellent.” Mac nodded toward his computer room. “Mind if I pick up my e-mail messages before I head back?”

Feeling a guilty twinge, she said, “Of course not.” Then more casually she added, “I need to get Christie in the tub and ready for bed, so take all the time you want.”

As the two of them headed for the bathroom, Mac lingered in the doorway, listening.

“Hey, sweetie pie,” Erin murmured. “How would you like a bubble bath tonight?”

“Waggedy Ann, too?”

“Nope. Sorry. Raggedy Ann would take forever to dry, and she likes to sleep with you. You don’t want to sleep in a wet bed, do you?”

He didn’t hear Christie’s reply because they’d gone into the bathroom, but he assumed she’d said no.

Mac pushed away from the doorframe and went to his desk, then started his PC. He paused to listen again as the rush of running water and giggles echoed from the bathroom. On the heels of that, the smell of shampoo and bubble bath carried to him. They were nice sounds. Nice smells. A reminder of a life he’d once looked forward to having. But Audra had changed that.

A nerve leaped in his jaw as he indulged in a little leftover resentment. Then he reminded himself that that part of his life had been over for a long time, and concentrated on his e-mail. There were four messages, one of them from his New Hampshire friend, Shane Garrett, who was just touching base. He answered Shane’s note first, then moved on to the others.

He hadn’t realized how much time he’d spent until Terri walked in, holding Christie’s hand.

The sight of the little girl’s rosy cheeks and damp, baby-fine hair curling at the ends brought a smile to his face. “Don’t you look pretty,” he said.

“I taked a bubbo baff!”

“You took a bubble bath,” Terri said. “And now it’s time for bed. Can you say good-night to Mr. Corbett?”

“’Night, Misser Corvet.”

“Sweet dreams, honey,” Mac answered.

When Terri returned a few minutes later, all thoughts of Christie vanished. She’d gotten rid of that rubber-band-thing strangling her hair, and now it curved softly over her forehead and brushed her high cheekbones, then fell to her shoulders.

He tore his gaze away, beginning to hear jungle drums pounding in his head, beginning to feel the heat. “There were no e-mail messages for you. I recognized all the senders. You might want to tell your friends to put your name in the subject line so I don’t open any of your mail by mistake.”

“That’s a good idea. I haven’t written to anyone yet, but I’ll probably do that soon. Thanks again for letting me use your e-mail address.”

“Sure.” He paused for a beat. He didn’t want to leave, but there was no offer of coffee tonight. Besides, he had to get back to Amos. Mac ambled to the door, rested a hand on the doorknob. “With the rain and all, I didn’t ask how PT went today.”

“It went really well, I think. Vicki asked me to come in and watch, so I saw the exercises your granddad is supposed to do—especially on the days he doesn’t have a session. And guess what? He did a few of them when he came home.”

Mac feigned shock. “You’re kidding. Without being badgered?”

“Completely on his own. I’m not sure, but I think—and I could be wrong about this—that he wants to please me. I caught him glancing in my direction occasionally when he was doing his leg lifts. I told him if he kept that up, I’d be looking for another job sooner than I’d planned. He seemed to like that.”

Mac felt a swell of gratitude…and something else he didn’t care to name. In just five short days—without even trying, it seemed—she’d found a place in Amos’s heart. She and Christie both had. He smiled down at her, liking the way she smiled back. “You’re a miracle worker.”

“I doubt that.”

“I don’t,” he murmured, and captured her hand. He held it for a long moment, giving her time to decide if she wanted it back. Then, when she didn’t tug it away, he brought it slowly to his lips. Mac watched her eyes widen as he rubbed his lips over the tips of her fingers, good sense gradually losing out to the new heat stirring in his blood.

Then without really knowing how it happened, suddenly she was in his arms, his hands were sliding through all that hair, and his eager mouth was slanting over hers.




Chapter 4


Mac slid his hands over her body, deepening the kiss, molding her soft curves to his hollows and planes, hearing those drums again and letting them fill his blood, his lungs, his very soul. It had been so long since a woman had felt this good in his arms, so long since he’d wanted. And now he wanted with every breath in his body.

With a muffled sound, Terri jerked away.

His fevered haze cleared the instant he saw the startled look in her eyes. Oh, hell. Hadn’t she wanted this, too? Or had his deprived libido just made some male-friendly assumptions and plunged ahead?

The awkwardness seemed to stretch out forever…until Terri backed away a few steps and filled the silence.

“I’d better check on Christie,” she said quietly.

Mac released a ragged breath and nodded. Of all the things she could have said, that was probably the best. If she wanted to pretend the kiss never happened, that was fine with him. No harm, no foul. It seemed to him that there was an unwritten code of honor that said you didn’t mess with the help, and he’d nearly done it twice.

Opening the door, he stepped out on the porch and spoke through the screen. A thin, drizzling rain had begun again. “Tomorrow’s Saturday so you’ll have a short day. I’ll be closing the store at three.”

“Your…your granddad mentioned that. Would you like me to start supper?”

“Thanks, but I can do that.” He considered offering an apology, but he knew he’d never be able to pull it off. He wasn’t sorry. She’d tasted like every sweet thing he’d been missing in life, and his blood was still pumping in all the wrong directions. If she hadn’t pulled back— Shaking off that thought, he descended the steps. “Good night, Terri.”

“Good night.”

Mac heard the door close behind him as he climbed inside the truck, fired the engine and flicked on the windshield wipers. Backing away from the house, he drove onto the dirt and grass lane that joined Amos’s driveway to his.

Two nights ago, he’d vowed to keep his distance. Now, forty-eight hours later, he was on her like a rutting Neanderthal with bad teeth and a knobby club. Man need jump. Get in cave.

He bumped the truck through the ruts, grimly renewing his promise to stay away from her. Even if she wasn’t an employee, from the way she’d balked when his hands slid to her hips, she wasn’t the one-night-stand type. She was also an unknown commodity and liked the road too much for him to consider her anything but temporary. So logically, since there would be no sex with her without a commitment—and he wasn’t interested in one—keeping his distance should be easy.

Mac pulled up to his granddad’s house and stared bleakly at the low lamps burning in the windows while his pulse continued to beat to the tune of his need. Yep. Easy. Easy as walking on water.



Erin’s hand shook as she turned off the light in the foyer, then watched the cherry-red taillights in Mac’s truck wink out in front of Amos’s house. She heard the low thud of the truck’s door shutting.

Why hadn’t she stopped him when she saw that kiss coming? She knew it was a mistake. Instead, she’d stilled for it, breathlessly awaited it, almost willed his warm, talented mouth onto hers. She swallowed the lump in her throat. But hadn’t she deserved just one tiny moment of tenderness and touching? Just one brief moment of feeling like a woman again, not just Christie’s mom or someone’s employee or an habitual newcomer to a new town who was always in fear?

But instead of being tender, that very short kiss had been electric. Pulses still throbbed, from her head to her toes.

Pulling herself away, Erin walked to Mac’s room where Christie lay sleeping on his giant bed, the sheet kicked off, her smooth little legs jutting out from her ruffled baby doll pajamas. Her thumb was nowhere near her mouth, and Erin breathed a thankful prayer. It had taken time and talking and tenderness, but Christie had finally given up that needed comfort a few months ago.

Erin slid the sheet over her daughter’s legs and stroked her sweet face, then quietly left the room to put the kettle on for tea.

She could still feel a tingle on her lips, still feel her nerve endings vibrate beneath her skin. But Mac was forbidden fruit. An involvement of any kind was impossible—with him or with anyone else. Despite her promise to care for Amos for the next six to eight weeks, she knew life could change in the blink of an eye. She pulled a thick mug from a cupboard. What happened in Maine could happen again. It was pointless to start something she couldn’t afford to finish.



Bells pealed from the soaring spire of the tiny, nondenominational church in High Hawk on Sunday morning as Erin and Christie filed out, exchanging vague pleasantries with members of the congregation, then shaking hands and complimenting the aging minister on his service. Overhead, the sun shone brightly, and as they walked to the van with those church bells still clanging a welcome, Erin felt almost normal.

Suddenly she grinned down at Christie. “How would you like to have breakfast at a restaurant this morning, sweetheart?”

Christie’s eyes sparkled. “Wif Aunt Millie?”

“No,” she answered, wishing it were so. “Aunt Millie’s restaurant is far away.” In the five months they’d spent in Maine, Millie had become a wonderful friend and Christie’s aunt-of-the-heart. Erin missed her, too, sometimes terribly, but there was nothing she could do about that. She continued speaking to Christie. “How would you like to eat at the little place with the funny stools that spin? Remember? You had French fries there when we first came here.” Bending low, she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “We could have pancakes!”

That was all the temptation Christie needed.

But twenty minutes later as Christie dragged her silver-dollar pancakes through a river of syrup and Erin sipped from her coffee cup, a niggling fear crept in again and she found herself sliding veiled looks over the room, checking for men who glanced away or hid behind newspapers when she caught them looking. Maine was over two weeks behind them, and though she knew Charles would never stop searching for them, there was no good reason to think they’d been followed here. She’d lost the private investigator’s dark-blue sedan just outside of Boston, and she hadn’t used her credit card or done anything else that would create a paper trail. Just the same, the short hairs at the nape of her neck began to prickle, and suddenly Erin had the eerie feeling that someone was watching them.

Then she saw him. A man in a back booth, youngish, wearing a light navy windbreaker and tinted glasses. He sent her a slow smile and rose from his seat, carried his check to the front of the room.

Erin’s pulse skyrocketed. Pushing aside her half-eaten English muffin, she took Christie’s fork and fed her to hurry her along.

Then a waitress called him by name, asked how his sister’s wedding went, and Erin’s heart settled down. She had to relax. She was jumping at shadows. The man was simply one of the locals, probably curious at seeing a new face. Still, she needed to be careful. She hadn’t been careful enough in Maine.



The phone rang. Mac pushed away from the table where he’d been tallying the week’s receipts, then went to answer it before it woke Amos. Last time he’d checked, his granddad was snoring in his recliner, enjoying a post-supper nap, sections of the Sunday paper strewn in a half moat around his chair. Mac had gathered the papers and set them aside, irked that Amos hadn’t seen them as a danger to his slipping and falling.




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