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More To Love
Dixie Browning
Diet was a four-letter word. But then again, so was Rafe, as in Rafe Webber, the hard-edged playboy - and culinary wizard - who'd suddenly invaded Molly's week in paradise. A week in which this small-town girl had vowed to reinvent herself. But with every sexually charged minute of their acquaintance, Molly's hunger turned into something else altogether….From the boardroom to the kitchen, Rafe was always in control. But when he found himself stranded with the delectable Molly Dewhurst, his self-control disappeared. Molly refused to believe that his intentions were true, and Rafe was determined to show her that she was every inch the woman for him!




Rafe Was Used To Women
Trying To Seduce Him—
wanting something from him. But when it came to playing the game, he prided himself on being one of the best, making certain first that everyone knew the rules.
Molly probably didn’t even know there were rules.
She smiled at him. When she forgot herself long enough, she was surprisingly attractive. Friendly, warm, engaging…pretty.
Pretty? Hell, she looked beautiful!
But what was he going to do about it?
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the world of Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with romances that can only be described as passionate, powerful and provocative!
Fabulous BJ James brings you June’s MAN OF THE MONTH with A Lady for Lincoln Cade. In promising to take care of an ex-flame—and the widow of his estranged friend— Lincoln Cade discovers she has a child. Bestselling author Leanne Banks offers another title in her MILLION DOLLAR MEN miniseries with The Millionaire’s Secret Wish. When a former childhood sweetheart gets amnesia, a wealthy executive sees his chance to woo her back.
Desire is thrilled to present another exciting miniseries about the scandalous Fortune family with FORTUNES OF TEXAS: THE LOST HEIRS. Anne Marie Winston launches the series with A Most Desirable M.D., in which a doctor and nurse share a night of passion that leads to marriage! Dixie Browning offers a compelling story about a sophisticated businessman who falls in love with a plain, plump woman while stranded on a small island in More to Love. Cathleen Galitz’s Wyoming Cinderella features a young woman whose life is transformed when she becomes nanny to the children of her brooding, rich neighbor. And Kathie DeNosky offers her hero a surprise when he discovers a one-night stand leads to pregnancy and true love in His Baby Surprise.
Indulge yourself with all six Desire titles—and see details inside about our exciting new contest, “Silhouette Makes You a Star.”
Enjoy!


Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

More to Love
Dixie Browning


To all of us “generous” women

DIXIE BROWNING
has been writing for Silhouette since 1980 and recently celebrated the publication of her sixty-fifth book, Texas Millionaire. She has also written a number of historical romances with her sister under the name Bronwyn Williams. An award-winning painter and writer, Browning lives on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. You can write to her at P.O. Box 1389, Buxton, NC 27920.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven

One
To think she had actually considered slipping peacefully into a midlife crisis, never mind that according to one article she had read there was no such thing. She’d had all the classic symptoms. Worry about her looks, about broken relationships and career disappointments, about the waning importance to her family.
Besides, the alternative seemed so selfish. Wanting something for herself.
But a midlife crisis? At the age of thirty-six? Hardly. And Annamarie was still depending on her, which was the reason she was here. As for her new career, it looked promising, once the electricians and painters and plasterers got finished so that everyone could move in again. Being head housekeeper in an assisted-living home might not be the most glamorous career in the world, but then, Molly was nothing if not a realist. And she was finally doing something about her looks. As for the other symptom—the relationship thing—her one shot at happy-ever-after had given her a genuine distaste for fairy tales.
Only four days ago Molly had caught her first glimpse of the ocean. She had seen a sand dune that was almost as big as one of her own West Virginia mountains. She had collected a bushel of tourist brochures on her way down the Outer Banks, telling herself she would read every one and see everything that looked halfway interesting.
And it all did. The miracle was that for once in her life she had time on her hands. The only thing she had to do was feed and water a couple of birds and clean their cages, and look after one elderly cat.
The ferry ride from Hatteras to Ocracoke had been just the beginning. There was an observation deck, but as it had taken her about twenty minutes of the allotted forty to work up enough nerve to step out of her car, she had never made it up the narrow ladder. Instead she’d grabbed hold of the metal railing and waited to see if she was going to be sick. It had taken a few more minutes to get used to the gentle rolling motion of the deck, but there was so much to take in that she’d soon forgotten all about her queasiness. Flocks of seagulls following the ferry swooped down to catch scraps of bread tossed by three pretty girls standing at the chain across the stern. They passed another ferry headed in the opposite direction, and people waved. Feeling bold and adventurous, Molly released her grip on the railing and waved back.
It had to be fate, she remembered thinking at the time. First, the lightning strike that had caused Holly Hills Home where she worked to be shut down for repairs. Next, the fact that Stu and Annamarie had rented a cottage on Ocracoke Island and then decided to take a week off for a side trip and needed someone to look after Pete, Repete and Shag. Molly couldn’t remember the last time she had taken a real vacation. She hadn’t even had to think twice when Annamarie called to ask if there was any possible way she could come down and take care of the critters for just a few days. It was only a five-hour drive, one way. Ferry included.
Molly had gone right out and splurged on three new outfits suitable for a beach vacation in late April. If she could have found a T-shirt that said Live For The Moment, or Go With The Flow, she would probably have bought it, never mind that she was built more for tents and tunics than T-shirts.
She remembered singing “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” under her breath as she’d stood there on the ferry watching the water of Hatteras Inlet flow past. Where better than an island to adopt that attitude?
The teenage girls had giggled and postured. They were a bit underdressed for the weather, which was still cool. But then, if she’d had their figures she might have done some showing off, too. The ferry had been loaded with fishermen, some of them young and attractive. A few were asleep in their vehicles, a few more were outside comparing fishing gear. Most were watching the girls, except for one who was—mercy, he looked like a young Sly Stallone!—watching her!
Watching her?
Pretending she hadn’t noticed, Molly concentrated on a big black bird sitting on a post out in the water, his wings spread as if he were about to take off.
“Cormorant,” said the Stallone look-alike, edging closer along the railing. “Drying his wings.” Up close, he was only a few inches taller than Molly’s modest five foot two, and already he was showing signs of a beer belly, but he had a nice smile.
She glanced up at the cloudless sky, then back at Sleepy Eyes. “How did they get wet?”
“Diving for dinner.”
She remembered trying to look as if she knew precisely what he meant, but as the whole experience had been so new, she probably hadn’t been too convincing.
“First time down here?” he asked.
“Actually, it is.”
“Me, I come every year, spring and fall. Me and my buddies enter tournaments all up and down the coast. The weather can turn on you real quick this time of year, though. You shoulda waited a few weeks.”
“Fishing tournaments?”
He pointed to the small pennant flying from the antenna of his dark green pickup truck. “O.I.F.T. That’s Ocracoke International or Invitational, anyway you want to call it.” He went on to describe several such tournaments and his prowess at each while Molly soaked up the novelty of sunshine and seagulls, a moving deck underfoot and the full attention, for the moment at least, of a handsome young man. Could someone have waved a magic wand, turning plain, plump Molly Dewhurst into someone her own mirror wouldn’t recognize? Had the lumbering old ferryboat been a pumpkin in a previous incarnation?
“Cut bait’s what you want. Some like bloodworms, but me, I like salt mullet best.”
All right, so his charm was a little on the rustic side. No one had ever accused her of being a snob.
Reaching into the back of his truck, he took a can of beer from the cooler, offered it to Molly, and when she refused, popped the top and drained half the contents in one thirsty gulp.
Molly fingered a strand of blowing hair away from her eyes. Sunglasses. She should have thought to get herself a pair. Big ones. Then she could ogle all she wanted to without getting caught at it. She’d invested in a new lipstick, a new hairstyle and the new outfits, but spending money on herself took practice. She hadn’t quite got the knack of it yet.
“Where you staying?” he drawled. He had one of those raspy voices that went with his sleepy eyes.
Molly swallowed hard and tried to sound terribly blasé. “It’s a cottage. My sister’s. Actually it’s not hers. She’s only renting it.”
“So maybe I’ll see you around?” Was that an opening or a dismissal?
She took several mental steps back. She didn’t do casual flirtations. The old Molly had never had a chance to learn, and the new Molly needed to work on self-confidence first. “Maybe so,” she said airily. “If I don’t see you again, good luck in the tournament.”
“When it comes to fishing, I make my own luck.” He flashed her a lazy grin. “There’s sixty teams in this one, with a mile-long waiting list. If you’re a betting woman, put your money on ol’ Jeffy Smith.”
“Thank you. I’ll, uh—do that.” Molly remembered thinking at the time that men based their ego on the strangest things. Her ex-husband, for instance, made certain everyone knew he’d gone to Yale, never mind that he’d lasted only a single semester. Jeffy Smith evidently took pride in his prowess as a fisherman—or maybe in being a member of an exclusive group. But he’d been friendly. He’d seemed nice. He was attractive in a rough sort of way. And as she had recently cast off her old persona, determined to take a cue from a recruiting slogan and become all she could become, she’d responded with a smile.
And then Jeffy had tossed his beer can over the side, patted his belly and belched. So much for her ferryboat Prince Charming. He was obviously a man’s man. But then, she’d reminded herself, her ex-husband had been a ladies’ man. Of the two, she preferred the slob.
Correction. Of the two, she preferred neither. Still, it was a shame. Her very first shipboard romance, and it had ended before it even began.
“We’ll be landing in a couple of minutes. Now, remember, if you need any help learning how to hold a rod, you just call on ol’ Jeffy.” His eyes had twinkled. He had black eyes, black hair and a three-days’ growth of beard. Molly hadn’t known if it was a fashion statement or one of those things men did when they were off the reservation. With Kenny, it had been just the opposite. When he was home, he never bothered to shave or even comb his hair, but if he’d been going out anywhere at all, it was full-dress parade, from the fancy designer shoes he had charged to her account to the expensive cologne he splashed on his throat before he buttoned his designer shirt and knotted his designer tie.
Once when he’d gone on and on about designer this and designer that, she’d asked him who designed the clothes that didn’t bear a designer’s label. He’d given her a blank stare and asked for fifty dollars to tide him over.
That was another thing about Kenny Dewhurst. He was totally devoid of a sense of humor. He was equally devoid of any funds except those provided by his doormat of a wife.
Ex-doormat, Molly remembered thinking. Breathing deeply of freedom, diesel fumes and salt air, she had smiled at the semi-handsome slob leaning on the railing beside her while the heavy engines throbbed beneath her feet. Here she was, under a cloudless blue sky, off on an island adventure, and before she even set foot on the island, a friendly man had struck up a conversation with her while only a few feet away three really cute girls, size zilch, were flirting with his fishing buddies.
The engines had changed pitch as the ferry swerved into a narrow channel. Her Stallone look-alike had said, “Guess I’d better load up. So…I guess I’ll see you around, huh?”
“Probably. I understand it’s a small island.” Nice going, Molly. Not too eager, not too cool. She had climbed back into her car and watched through the rearview mirror as he rejoined his friends. There were some knowing grins, a few elbows to the ribs, and then they stowed their gear and climbed into their muscle trucks.
“Stowed their gear,” she repeated smugly now. Pretty nautical for a woman who had never before set foot on an island. Never even set foot outside West Virginia until four months ago.
She was going to like this new Molly just fine. She had…well, maybe not style. At least not yet. But she had attitude, by heck, and that was the first step!

That had been four days ago. That very afternoon Stu and Annamarie had caught the last ferry headed north, after writing detailed instructions on how to care for the two African Gray parrots and Shag the cat. The next morning Molly had introduced herself to the next-door neighbor, Sally Ann Haskins, who told her how to find the general store, the post office, and tried to tempt her into taking a puppy off her hands.
“Mama Dog’s plumb worn out. I’m going to get her fixed. She had seven this time. Last time it was eleven, poor thing. You sure you couldn’t use a nice retriever pup? Your sister said she had too many animals already, but she said you might be interested.”
“I’d love one, but—” Mama Dog flapped her tail lethargically, but didn’t even lift her head when Molly knelt and reached for one of her squirming babies. “But the place where I live has this rule about animals.”
“Reckon I could offer it as a prize in the fishing tournament? Biggest catch of the day gets a free puppy? Fishermen mostly drive pickup trucks, and every pickup has to have a dog to ride in the back. It’s a state law.”
So then Molly had told her all about the ferryboat encounter with a fisherman in a dogless pickup truck. “Just when I was starting to think he had real possibilities, he threw his beer can overboard.”
“You know the old saying, garbage in, garbage out.” Sally Ann worked for the ferry department, which Molly considered wildly exciting. “Maybe the jerk’ll hook into his own beer can and wreck his gear. They say there’s a big low headed up the coast. Last three years in a row, the weather’s been so bad, most folks left after the first day. You don’t want to try surf fishing in gale force winds—the sand’ll cut the skin right off your face.”
“Mercy. Why not schedule it for when the weather’s better?”
“You know anybody that can schedule the weather? They set it for when the fish are supposed to be here.” Sally Ann finished ironing a uniform shirt, unplugged the iron and plopped it on the kitchen range to cool. “Trouble is, if the weather closes in, they wait until too late to get off the island. Once the highway’s flooded, they’re stuck with nothing better to do than shoot pool and tell lies about the big one that got away.”
“Still, it doesn’t sound like good planning to me.”
Sally grinned. A strawberry blonde, she had a weathered face, perfect teeth and the biggest, bluest eyes Molly had ever seen. “Makes for some fun, though. Socializing’s a big part of these tournaments. If the weather shuts down and they get tired of baling hay, they head for the pubs. And let me tell you, if this low hangs around too long, there’ll be some hot old times down at Delroy’s Pub.”
One hand on the doorknob, Molly paused. “Uh—did you say baling hay? I thought they were fishing?”
“Catching eelgrass. With the water so rough, the bottom’s all tore up. Seaweed’s about all they haul in.”

The next day dark clouds closed in, bringing stiff winds that tore new leaves from ancient trees and set small boats to bobbing like corks at the wharf. It was raining, but not heavily when Molly left the general store with a sack of apples and headed back to the cottage. Rain or shine, she was determined to walk each day as part of her new regime.
Diet and exercise. Ugh! Traffic had tripled since she’d arrived only a few days ago. Idly she wondered what had happened to her ferryboat acquaintance. Had he left? Was he shooting pool and swapping lies, or fishing in the rain?
The fish wouldn’t know if it was raining or not…would they?
Remembering Sally Anne’s warning, that he might try to score a little something on the side just to make the trip worthwhile, she had to laugh. It was flattering to think a warning would even be necessary. The new Molly must be coming along faster than she’d thought, if she had to worry about men trying to pick her up.
“Hi there, pretty lady.”
Molly nearly dropped her apples as the familiar-looking dark green truck pulled up beside her. “Oh, hi. How’s fishing, uh—Jeffy?”
“Tournament’s over. We drew a lousy spot this year, but at least I didn’t get skunked. I’m staying on a few more days, long’s I come all this way—headed out now to look over conditions. With the wind like this, the beach’ll get cut up some. Might be a few promising new sloughs. Wanna come along for the ride?”
A small voice in the back of her mind whispered, “Watch it, lady, you might’ve shed a few pounds, but you’re not ready for prime time yet.”
The old Molly was aghast to hear the new Molly say cheerfully, “Well…sure, why not?” She accepted the callused hand and hauled herself up into the high cab. So he was something of a slob. So his grammar wasn’t perfect and he belched and tossed beer cans. Back in Grover’s Hollow some of the nicest people she knew probably did the same thing when no one was looking. But he was friendly, and after all, she wasn’t committing herself to anything more than a drive along the beach, which she certainly couldn’t do in her own car.

Rarely did Rafe Webber find himself in an awkward situation, thanks to excellent instincts and an impeccable sense of timing. On the few occasions when he blundered, he usually managed to finesse his way out with the minimum amount of damage. This time things might be different. His instincts had been signaling trouble ever since Stu had called to tell him he was getting married to the most beautiful, brilliant, wonderful woman in the world. Rafe had strongly advised a cooling-off period, meaning, wait until I have time to check things out, little buddy. Unfortunately Stu had been too charged up to listen.
Rafe had been on his way out of the country at the time. He’d been held up a lot longer than he’d expected, missing Thanksgiving and Christmas completely. Not that he was sentimental—no way! Still, he’d always made a point of getting together for holidays, just to give the kid a sense of stability. He’d read somewhere that establishing traditions helped ground rebellious adolescents, which Stu had been when Rafe had first got him. For the past ten years, Rafe always cooked his special turkey dinner, regardless of the holiday.
So he’d missed the wedding, too. By the time he made it back to the States, the deed was done. But tomorrow was the kid’s birthday, and regardless of the bride and an inconvenient nor’easter, he wasn’t going to miss that. He’d checked the weather when he’d filed his flight plan. Two separate low-pressure areas were due to join forces just off the North Carolina coast, but he figured he had plenty of time to slide on in before the weather closed in. What he hadn’t figured on was finding the whole damned island foundering under a load of surf fishermen. While it might be good for business, it was a damned nuisance when a guy got in late, needing a decent rental car and a room for a couple of days.
Before leaving Pelican’s Cove, Florida, Rafe had cleared his calendar for a week, even though he figured it would take only a couple of days to make things up to the kid and find out how much trouble he’d gotten himself in. Not to mention what it was going to take to get him out of it. Stu’s taste in women was notorious. From the time Rafe had taken over the care and feeding of a freckle-faced adolescent with too much money, too many hormones and too little common sense, Stu had been a target for every predatory female in range.
This one had waited until Rafe was headed out of the country on a little unofficial business for the government and then reeled in her catch. Stuart Montgomery Grainger III. Old family, new money. Gullible Grainger, green as his daddy’s billions. Rafe had dared hope that, with a college degree and a brand-new teaching job waiting for him, his half brother might have matured enough to be let off the leash. The lady had outsmarted him. She’d sprung her trap before any of the family had had a chance to check her out. Not that anyone besides Rafe would even bother, unless it was Stu’s father’s lawyers.
Ten years ago Rafe’s mother had dropped in out of the blue with a scared, resentful fifteen-year-old in tow and announced that as the two of them were half brothers, it was time they got to know one another. To say Rafe was appalled would be an understatement. The only thing that had kept him from flat-out refusing was the fact that the kid obviously felt the same way. Rafe could remember all too well how he’d felt at that age, being shunted between summer camp and boarding school so as not to cramp his mother’s lifestyle.
They’d spent the next five years getting to know each other, with Rafe trying his damnedest to instill a few survival instincts in a kid who hadn’t a clue.
Evidently he hadn’t succeeded. Those wedding pictures that had been waiting when he’d finally made it back to the States had pretty much told the story. Gorgeous bride wearing a knock-out gown, grinning groom wearing cake on his face. The kid still looked about fifteen. You had to wonder if the bride would have been so determined to tie the knot if his name had been Joe Jones instead of S. M. Grainger III of the shipping and banking Graingers.
About all Rafe could do at this point was damage control. Fly in unannounced, apologize for missing out on all the festivities and cook Stu his favorite holiday dinner, which happened to be the only family-style dinner Rafe knew how to prepare. It would serve as a birthday treat, a reminder to Stu that he had family standing squarely behind him, and a similar warning to the bride. It would also tell him a lot about this paragon the kid had married. If she could be bought off, he’d be better off without her.
Rafe wondered how much Stu had told her about his wildly dysfunctional family. There was the father who couldn’t be bothered to keep in touch. The mother who sent extravagant birthday gifts on the wrong date. Somewhere there were some half siblings who might or might not know him personally—not to mention a big brother who had invested a lot of years into keeping him on the right track.
At the moment Rafe was more concerned with the woman. On the way north he had settled on a test he used often in business: the element of surprise. Setting things up, then observing the way people reacted to the unexpected. Having a stranger drop in out of the blue with an armload of groceries to commandeer a woman’s kitchen might not be quite as effective a test as being stranded together in a leaky cabin cruiser, but it should do the trick. He could hardly come right out and ask the bride if she was more interested in the trust fund Stu stood to inherit at the age of thirty-one, or the shy, good-natured guy with a good mind, a heart of gold but damned few social skills.
While he secured the plane, taking extra precautions against the wind, Rafe ran through a few old chestnuts about brothers’ keepers and no man being an island in an effort to rationalize his guilty conscience for having dropped out of sight at a time when Stu had needed him. He didn’t do guilt well. When he’d found out the honeymooners would be spending a few months on one of the islands off the North Carolina coast, it had seemed like the perfect chance to mend a few fences and at the same time see how much trouble Stu was in with this bride of his and what it was going to take to sort things out. Happy marriages did not run in their family.
Unfortunately marriage did. Stella, the mother they shared, had been married four times to date. A six-foot-tall ex-Vegas showgirl, she was still a beautiful woman at age fifty-nine-and-holding.
Rafe’s father had been married three times to successively younger women, and was currently working out prenuptials with number four. Probably a high school cheerleader this time. Rafe didn’t know about Stu’s old man, but figured he was probably in the same league, marriagewise.
It was when Stella had been about to set out on honeymoon number three a few days before Thanksgiving that she’d turned up at the door of Rafe’s condo with the kid. Once he’d gotten over the shock of finding himself unexpectedly landed with the care and feeding of a half-grown boy, Rafe had scrambled like crazy not to blow it. He’d canceled a nine-day trip to Vancouver with Linda—or maybe it had been Liz. He had taken a crash course in basic cooking and started reading every book on adolescent psychology he could lay his hands on. Over the next few years they had weathered countless minor mishaps and a few major ones. He liked the kid.
Hell, he loved the kid.
He’d done a good job of raising him, too, if he did say so himself. Stu was no athlete—they’d both reluctantly faced that fact after half a dozen or so spectacular failures. He was a fine young man, smart as a whip when it came to books. Trouble was, he was dumb as a stump where women were concerned.
That was where Rafe had always come in. Sifting the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. Unfortunately it had mostly been chaff up to now, but at least he’d managed to keep Stu out of major trouble until the call had come a couple of months ago. Rafe had been within hours of leaving the country on another unofficial fact-finding trip. As a small-time Gulf Coast resort developer with a modest charter boat fleet, he had the perfect excuse to explore the coastal regions of Central and South America. Having served a hitch in the Coast Guard before Stu had come to live with him, he was well aware of the fact that DEA was undermanned, underfunded and overwhelmed.
Which was how he’d happened to miss the wedding. Thanks to a small misunderstanding with a bunch of entrepreneurs in a little fishing village in Central America, he’d been out of circulation for the next several weeks, but at least he was going to make the kid’s twenty-fifth birthday.
What he hadn’t figured on was the size of Ocracoke Island in relation to the concentration of tourists. Wall-to-wall fishermen, according to the fellow who’d driven the rental out to the airport to meet him. He should have made advance reservations, in case the honeymoon cottage lacked a guest room.
The airport was little more than a paved landing strip with a phone booth and an open pavilion, all within a few hundred yards of the Atlantic. It was crowded and exposed, but adequate. He’d seen a lot worse. Knowing the weather was likely to deteriorate before the low moved offshore again, he took his time with the tie-downs and chocks. Hatteras Lows were notorious, even in Florida. Once he was satisfied, he slung his gear, which included several large grocery sacks, into the only available rental vehicle, an SUV with a gutted muffler and rusted-out floorboards.
He dropped the driver off at the rental place after learning the location of Yaupon Cottage and roughly how to find it, and toyed with the notion of checking into a hotel first. He decided against it. The turkey needed to go into an oven, or else they’d be lucky to dine before midnight. And while that didn’t bother him at all, Stu and whatsername might have other ideas.
Mission underplanned.
Traffic was bumper-to-bumper. Locating Yaupon Cottage wasn’t quite as easy as it had sounded. The village was laid out as if someone had tossed handsful of confetti into the air and then built something wherever a scrap of paper landed. With the low cloud cover, there was barely enough light left to see his way up and down the narrow, winding roads with vehicles parked haphazardly on both sides.
He managed to find the place, and then had to squeeze in between a picket fence and a tan sedan. By then the rain had started coming down in solid, wind-driven sheets. Hatless, coatless, he jogged up the path to the front door and knocked. And then he pounded again and waited. There was no light on inside. It might not be wise to walk in unannounced on a honeymoon couple, but dammit, his backside was getting wet. The grocery sacks were melting. So he pounded a few more times, then tried the doorknob. Finding the door unlocked, he opened it and called, “Hey, kids? Stu? Anybody home?”

Two
Dammit, they couldn’t be too far away, or else they’d have locked the place. Pushing the door open, Rafe shoved the groceries and his battered leather bag in out of the rain. He should have called first. He should have called before he’d ever left Florida.
Too late now. After a quick look around, he set to work on the surprise birthday dinner. He preferred to think of it as that rather than as a test for the bride, but he was beginning to have a funny feeling about this whole affair. If things didn’t work out, Stu was going to take it hard. From some unknown ancestor, the kid had inherited the genes for vulnerability and sensitivity. Thank God those had skipped Rafe. If there were two things he was not, it was vulnerable and sensitive.
The place was a dump. If there was a level surface anywhere, it wasn’t easily discernible. It was small to the point of claustrophobic, and the two refrigerator-size birdcages in the room across the hall didn’t help. Stu had mentioned that his bride had a couple of birds. Rafe had pictured budgies. Maybe canaries.
Through the open door, he eyed the two red-tailed gray parrots in the next room. Tilting their heads, they eyed him back. Feeling vaguely self-conscious, he turned his attention back to the turkey he’d bought in Tampa and allowed to thaw on the way north. He probably should’ve opted for something simpler, but the grand gesture had been part of the plan. Showing up with deli food and a bottle of wine wouldn’t do the trick. It had been his experience that wives didn’t care much for surprises, and a raw turkey definitely qualified as a surprise.
Rafe had had a wife of his own, briefly. He’d like to think Stu would have better luck, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Marital bliss was not a component of their gene pool, on either the maternal or the paternal side, he reminded himself as he rummaged underneath the counter for a roasting pan. If the kid found himself married to the wrong kind of woman, who better than Rafe to lead him out of the wilderness?
Judging strictly from the wedding pictures that had been waiting in his stack of mail when he’d gotten back from his extended stay in Central America, the lady was gorgeous and at least three inches taller than her bridegroom, who’d been grinning like Howdy Doody in every single picture. Knowing Stu, Rafe figured his half brother probably hadn’t bothered to draw up a prenuptial agreement.
Knowing women in general, the bride probably would have talked him out of it even if he had. His baby brother all but carried a sign that said Kick Me.
The range was an ancient model, the oven barely big enough to hold a roasting pan and the sweet potato casserole he’d planned. In the years after Stu had gone off to college, Rafe’s cooking had been limited to intimate dinners for two, usually followed by breakfast. Other than that, he ate out. Domestic, he was not. A woman he’d once known briefly had called it a defense mechanism. She’d been into pop psychology and thought she had his number.
Defense mechanism? No way. He simply liked his life just fine the way it was, and saw no reason to change it. And dammit, he was not lonely, no matter what anyone said! Anytime he wanted company, all he had to do was pick up the phone. Could a man have it any better than that? All the fun, none of the hassles?
There was a row of broken shells on the kitchen windowsill and he wondered if that was a clue to the kind of woman Stu had married. Was there some hidden psychological meaning here? What sort of person would bring home broken shells? Judging solely from the wedding photos, the bride could be a model or a starlet. She had the looks. According to Stu, she was supposed to be working on a degree in linguistics.
What the hell was linguistics, anyway?
A long-haired yellow cat with a wide head and ragged ears stalked into the kitchen and glared at him. Rafe glared back. “Don’t even think about it, friend,” he growled, plopping the turkey into the sink.
“Balderdash!” screamed one of the two African Grays from the living room.
“Yeah, right,” Rafe grumbled as he ran water through the cavity and wondered if he’d remembered to buy prepared stuffing. He was getting a low-pressure headache. Either that, or second thoughts were piling in faster than his brain could process them.
The second parrot tuned up with a creditable imitation of a squeaking door, followed by a realistic smoker’s hack. From there, things went rapidly downhill.
Rafe wanted to get dinner in the oven before he started checking around for a hotel room. At least since his first disastrous attempt to create a Thanksgiving feast for a desolate kid, he’d learned to remove the unmentionables inside the bird before cramming in the store-bought stuffing.
“Help! Lemme go! Bad-ass, bad-ass!”
“Shut up, you red-tailed devil, or you’re going into the oven with baldie here.”
If Stu’s lovely linguist bride was responsible for her birds’ vocabulary, she was a hell of a lot tougher than she looked. Remembering the pictures of the gorgeous vision in white clinging to a beaming Stu reminded Rafe of another reason why he was here instead of being back in Pelican’s Cove, Florida, inspecting his latest acquisition to get some idea of how much was salvageable.
Belle was getting married this weekend. Long-legged, sexy Belle, his mistress of the past eight months, who was every bit as good in bed as she was on the tennis courts. They’d met at a yacht christening and promptly entered into the relationship with both pairs of eyes wide open. Rafe had made a point of sharing his philosophy right up front. Except for the five years when Stu lived with him, his motto had always been easy come, easy go. Work hard, play hard, and avoid encumbrances. If he lost everything today, he’d start over tomorrow. Once he’d launched his kid brother and gotten his own life back on track, he had quickly reverted to his old lifestyle. Life was an adventure, he remembered telling Belle at some point. He made a point of not setting up any false expectations. While he was scrupulously faithful to one woman at a time, the last thing he wanted was an anchor holding him down. When the time came to move on, he simply moved on. When both sides clearly understood the ground rules, moving on was easy.
Both he and Belle were in their late thirties and unencumbered. Rafe had been wildly attracted to her body and Belle had been equally attracted to the lifestyle of a young, moderately wealthy bachelor. Rafe prided himself on being a generous lover, both physically and financially. And he had been, right up until Belle’s biological alarm clock had gone off. Six weeks after she had regretfully handed him his walking papers in exchange for a gold charm bracelet and a block of stock, she’d snagged herself an insurance salesman. The last time he’d heard from her they were shopping for a house near a good school.
Rafe wished her luck because he’d genuinely liked the woman. But he’d been feeling increasingly restless ever since he’d heard the news. He’d had his personal assistant pick out an expensive wedding gift, and then he’d rearranged his calendar and filed a flight plan to an off-the-beaten-track island on North Carolina’s Outer Banks.

A mile away, Molly struggled to hide a yawn. They’d spent a few hours driving along the beach, and for a little while she’d felt like the heroine of one of those adventure movies, racing along the beach, splashing through the surf with the wind blowing in her face and an attractive man at her side.
Jeffy liked open windows. Said he could smell a school of fish a mile out at sea. Over the roar of the wind, he had told her about his father’s concrete block business and his own high school football career, and the trophy-size channel bass he’d taken a few years ago. He had perfect teeth, Molly noted absently during the monologue, and a really nice smile. Actually, he was good company if she overlooked a few minor detractions. His jokes were a little raw, but then, the new Molly wasn’t going to be as big a prude as the old Molly had been.
After driving from one end of the island to the other, Jeffy insisted on stopping off for a seafood dinner at Delroy’s Pub. By that time she was too hungry to resist. Which meant she was going to have to starve for days to make up for the fried scallops and French fries, even though she had left one of each on her plate.
And then someone fed the jukebox. As soon as the music started, two couples got up to dance. From a corner booth, Molly watched, tapping time on the tabletop.
“Hey, come on, what do you say we show ’em how it’s done?” Jeffy stood and held out his hand. There was a chorus of whistles and catcalls from the bar and he turned and bowed, grinning at his buddies.
“I don’t—” she started to say, but he cut her off.
“Sure you do, honey. Everybody does. Just do what comes naturally.”
What came naturally was to disappear. To hole up in her room with a book. But that was the old Molly, and she had sworn that once she left West Virginia she was going to reinvent herself.
The music was loud and fast. Even those who weren’t dancing were swaying and tapping their feet. It was a convivial group, just as Sally Ann had said. Ready for a good time. Beer was served by the pitcher and everything on the seafood platter was fried. And so far, Molly had enjoyed everything except the beer.
But dancing? “I’m not very good at this,” she protested breathlessly while Jeffy twisted and snapped his fingers. She wasn’t dressed for it, either. Some women weren’t built for snug jeans and T-shirts. She was getting there, but she still had a long way to go.
“Just shake it, honey. That’s all you have to do.”
She slid out of the booth and tried her best to “shake it” without actually shaking it. The music was mostly beat with no discernible melody, but the rhythm was contagious. She was actually beginning to enjoy herself when one of the men at the bar yelled, “Hey, Jeffy, what happened to that gold ring you usually wear?”
Without answering, Jeffy managed to twist around until he was between her and the men at the bar. “Ignore ’em. They’re drunk.”
They weren’t drunk, but neither were they sober. She asked breathlessly, “What ring is he talking about? Did you lose one at the beach?”
“I never wear a ring when I’m fishing.”
And then, just like that, it hit her. It was written all over those bedroom eyes of his. Guilt. She should have recognized it, having seen so much of it in the past. “What ring? Jeffy, are you married?”
“Aw, c’mon, honey, do I look married?”
“Not to me, you don’t,” she said, and he could take that any way he wanted to. She headed for the table, where she’d left her damp, sandy embroidered denim jacket and her shoulder bag. She would pay for her own darned supper. She was going to be paying for it in other ways, she might as well go all the way.
“Come on, Moll, be a sport.” She dug into her bag and came up with her wallet.
Jeffy shook his head. “No way—put your money back. When a gentleman invites a lady out to supper, she don’t have to pay her way.”
“Then thank you.”
“Aw, come on, sugar, be a sport.” He was whining. If there was one thing she hated in a man, it was whining.
“You could have told me.” She headed toward the door, with Jeffy right on her heels. People were staring, some of them grinning, a few calling out comments.
“You tell him, sugar!”
“Go get ’er, tiger!”
Feeling her face burning, Molly was glad for the dim lights.
“I was going to tell you, honest. See, me and Shirl, we been having a little trouble and I figured on getting to know you better and then maybe asking how you’d handle it if you was me. I mean, a woman like you, I could tell right off you were the understanding type.”
“No you couldn’t, because I’m not,” Molly said flatly. She had done all the understanding she intended to do, and it had gotten her nowhere. She might be a slow learner, but eventually the message got through.
It was dark. The rain was coming down in solid sheets, blowing across the highway. She hesitated, trying to get her bearings, and then Jeffy opened the door of his truck. “I’ll drive you home. I owe you that much.”
She was tempted to refuse, but even the old Molly had better sense. It was pitch dark and pouring rain. Given her track record she would probably walk right off the edge of the island and drown.
Jeffy drove her home. He was a sullen companion, but then, so was she. She didn’t know whom she was angrier with, Jeffy or herself. She should never have gotten into the truck in the first place. So she’d met him once before on the ferry—he was still a stranger. He’d seemed friendly and likable, but he was a man—a married man. She couldn’t afford another of those in her life. Her bank balance hadn’t recovered from the last one.
His fishing buddies had stood at the bar all evening, drinking beer, laughing, talking. It hadn’t struck her at the time, but not once had any of them come over to the table to be introduced. That had to mean something…didn’t it?
Feeling more miserable by the minute, Molly wondered if he had done the whole thing on a dare. Five bucks says you won’t pick up the fat girl. Ten says you won’t show up with her at Delroy’s. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been the butt of a joke.
She wasn’t all that fat, she thought defensively. She had measurements. She might use up a few more inches on the measuring tape than some other women but she had a shape.
Jeff double-parked outside the cottage, blocking the street. The yard light was on, and for the life of her, she couldn’t recall if it was automatic or not. There was a beach buggy wedged in next to her own ten-year-old sedan, the two vehicles squeezed between a picket fence and a massive live oak tree. Sally Ann had warned her that parking was a haphazard affair at best, and once the season got underway, it was next to impossible.
“Thank you for supper and bringing me home,” she muttered, all in one breath.
“Hey, Moll, I’m sorry. Really.”
“Why me?” There was obviously something about her that attracted lying, conniving losers.
“’Cause you’re nice? ’Cause you looked sort of lonesome on the ferry, and I just decided, what the hell? You know how it is.”
“No, not really.”
“Most women—you know, like they expect a man to blow his paycheck on ’em, and then they cut him dead if he wants a little fun.”
“And you wanted a little fun, right?” Sally Ann had warned her about that, too, but she hadn’t listened.
“If it had worked out that way.” He shrugged. “I wish now I’d told you about Shirl—my wife. Like I said, we’re having some problems. She wanted me to skip the tournament just so I could go to this reunion thing, and we sorta had us some words before I left. You’re a real good listener. You prob’ly could’ve given me some tips on how to handle situations like that.”
Oh, yes, she was a grand listener. She had listened to a description of every fish the man had caught in last year’s tournament, legal or otherwise, including the weight and length, and what type of tackle he had used. She had listened three times to the description of his game-winning touchdown against Marcus P. Struthers High in the regional play-offs.
Just as she had listened to another man explaining earnestly why he could never hold a job, or why he needed to dress for success, and what he was going to do for her once his ship came in.
Kenny’s ship had never left harbor. The last thing she needed was a man whose only ship was a smelly old ferryboat. And what’s more, she didn’t care if he never caught another fish in his entire life, she was tired of trying to solve problems for men who didn’t have the gumption to solve their own.
“Thanks again for supper.” She opened her door and dropped to the ground before he could come around and help her out, not that he made a move to get out of the vehicle. It was raining hard, after all. Head down, she jogged up the path to the cottage, stomped the sand from her feet on the front porch and opened the door.
The kitchen light was on. It had been midafternoon when she’d left, so she wouldn’t have turned on any light except for the one by the birdcages. Molly swallowed hard, clutching the plastic bag that held her apples and the broken shells she’d collected earlier. Could Stu and Anna have come home early? Could she have made a mistake and barged into the wrong house?
Hardly. Not with those familiar raucous cries coming from the living room. Not with that smelly long-haired cat wreathing her ankles. She’d gotten lost more than once before she’d found her way around the village, using the map on the tourist brochure, but not this time. This was definitely the right house.
Cautiously she moved inside and peered into the kitchen. The bag fell from her fingers. Apples rolled across the sloping floor. She stared openmouthed at the tall, tanned and sun-streaked guy with a dish towel tucked into his belt and a dead turkey cradled in his arms.
Rafe, on hearing a car door slam outside, had peered out the window to see a woman jump down from a dark green pickup truck and hurry up the path to the front porch. He waited for Stu to join her, but the truck drove off.
But then, Stu didn’t drive a truck. He drove an expensive toy his father had given him for his twenty-first birthday to make up for a lifetime of neglect.
It also occurred to Rafe that unless the wedding photographer had used a trick lens, this was definitely not the bride.
Rafe was still standing there with the bird all ready for the oven when the woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. Neither of them spoke for a moment. “Surprise, congratulations and happy birthday, kid,” didn’t seem appropriate.
No way was this Stu’s bride. Somebody had a lot of explaining to do. Even wearing wet denim instead of white satin, there was no resemblance. Stu’s bride was a tall, slender beauty. This woman was none of the above.
Housekeeper? Housebreaker? Mother-in-law? Friend of the family? “You want to go first?” he offered.
“I think you’d better go first, starting with what you’re doing in my kitchen.” Her voice was the most striking thing about her. Husky, but with a hint of firmness that was unmistakable.
“Your kitchen?”
“I asked who you are,” she reminded him with a take-no-hostages glint in her whiskey-colored eyes.
“Actually you didn’t, but I’ll tell you anyway. Name’s Rafe Webber. And if this is your kitchen, then you must be—?” He was momentarily distracted by seeing her eyes narrow. Eyes that big and slumberous weren’t equipped to look suspicious, but she managed it anyway.
“Rafe Webber? Is that supposed to ring a bell?”
Well, hell… He wasn’t used to having to explain himself. He’d long since earned the privilege of asking the questions, not having to answer them. “You have the advantage of me, Miss—?” A gentleman to the bitter end, he thought with wry amusement. His headache wasn’t getting any better.
“Until I know what you’re doing here, I don’t have to tell you anything. How did you get in?”
“Front door. It wasn’t locked. I figured Stu would be back any minute.”
“You know Stu?”
He decided to cut her some slack. Had a feeling it might save time and trouble in the long run. “He’s my brother.”
“Stu’s name isn’t Webber. Try again.”
The lady was sharp. In no mood to go into the convoluted relationships in his immediate family, Rafe kept it simple. “We’re half brothers. Same mother, different fathers.”
“Do you have some identification?”
Deep breath. Open oven door, insert turkey, shut door and smile. Turning back, he said, “Dammit, lady, I don’t need any identification, I know who I am. And I know you’re not Stu’s wife, so suppose you produce some identification of your own.”
In clinging wet jeans and a baggy wet jacket it was obvious that she was carrying a few extra pounds. For reasons he didn’t even try to dissect, a few of his defenses crumbled. The place wasn’t big enough for a full-scale war. It was your bottom-line basic seventy-year-old cottage, with slightly newer appliances. He thought about the wedding gift he’d had shipped to Stu’s apartment in Durham, a fancy piece of equipment that did everything from poaching salmon to pouring tea, or so he’d been told by the salesman. With it he’d ordered monthly shipments of salmon and prime beef. God knew where they were now. Rotting in some post office, probably.
The woman stared pointedly at the towel around his waist until he whipped it off and flung it at the counter. It fell to the floor. In the next room, the parrots cut loose with a stream of profanities, which didn’t help matters.
“They’re next, as soon as I get another pan ready.” He nodded to the oven.
Her eyes widened without losing the look of suspicion. She glanced down at the apples on the floor as if wondering how they’d got there. Glanced at him as if wondering the same thing.
Rafe had to admit the kitchen was a mess. When it came to cooking he was used to state-of-the-art equipment and someone to clean up after him. He said, “You’re wet.”
Without breaking eye contact, she said in that firm, husky voice, “It’s raining.”
So what now? he wondered. He scooped her apple bag off the floor and discovered it was half full of shells. Sandy, broken shells. At least one mystery had been cleared up, which left only a dozen or so to go.
She slipped off her wet jacket and hung it on a hook by the back door. Rafe let his eyes do the walking. The term Rubenesque came to mind. As for her face, it was…interesting. At the moment she looked as if a smile would fracture her jaw, but her skin was the kind a woman had to be born with. Cosmetics could never achieve that buttery smooth texture. He’d seen too many women come to regret having spent half their lives sunbathing not to recognize the difference.
“I don’t suppose you know where they are?” He decided on a flank attack. She still hadn’t told him who she was, but that could wait. Once the honeymooners got home, they could do the honors.
“Who, Annamarie and Stu?” The look of suspicion was replaced by a look of puzzlement. Or maybe she was just nearsighted. “They’re supposed to be in Jamestown.”
“Jamestown,” he repeated. And then “Jamestown? As in Virginia? What the hell are they doing there? I’m cooking their supper.”
“Um…studying the diggings. I guess.”
“Studying the diggings. You want to run that by me again?”
“It’s Annamarie’s birthday present.”
He shook his head. “Somebody gave her a trip to Jamestown for a birthday gift?” A change in barometric pressure always did a number on his head. This time it had evidently affected his hearing, as well.
With a majestic sigh, the woman said, “It’s Annamarie’s gift to Stu. He’s the historian, as you should know if you really are who you say you are. While they’re down here working on her thesis, she’s giving him this side trip for a birthday present.”
Rafe pressed his cool fingertips above his eyes and rubbed. With a sigh, he said, “Look, Miss—”
“Dewhurst. And it’s Ms., not Miss. Annamarie is my baby sister.”
“Ms. Dewhurst,” he repeated. Great. He’d come all this way, planning to check out his new half sister-in-law and make up to Stu for all the missed occasions with a belated birthday feast, and now he was stuck here with Ms. Congeniality.
“Actually, it’s Molly,” she said in that quiet, husky voice of hers that kept getting between him and his anger.
Make that frustration. “Well, Molly, whoever you are and whatever you’re doing here, I hope you like turkey. And candied sweet potatoes and spoon bread and whatever green vegetable I can find in Stu’s pantry. It’ll probably be canned peas, but with enough butter and seasoning, they’re not half bad.”
“Balderdash, balderdash, balderda—!”
Moving swiftly, Rafe closed the door between the two rooms, making the kitchen seem smaller than ever. The whole cottage would fit nicely into his suite at his latest acquisition, a small resort hotel on Florida’s Gulf Coast.
“I think we’d better talk,” Ms. Molly Dewhurst said as she shucked off a pair of very wet pink sneakers. “But first I really need a cup of coffee. It might be April, but I’m freezing.” As if to prove her point, she sneezed, begged his pardon and said, “You’re welcome to a cup if you don’t mind reheated.”

Three
The coffee was weak and decaffeinated, but it served to wash down a couple of aspirin. “Okay, so talk.” His company manners were fading fast.
“Talk. All right. What if I pay you for the groceries and you catch the next ferry out?”
He didn’t bother to tell her he’d flown in, and until the weather broke, he wouldn’t be flying out again. “I’ve got a better idea,” he countered. “What if you catch the ferry and I stay here and house-sit until the happy couple gets back?”
Slowly Molly shook her head. A few more lengths of damp brown hair worked free to brush her shoulders. Dry and left to its own devices, it would probably pass as a crowning glory. Thick, red highlights and a tendency to curl.
“What was that?” Distracted, he’d missed her reply.
“I said I’m not going anywhere. I promised Annamarie I’d stay here and look after Shag and the birds, and I always keep my promises.”
“Always?”
“Practically always.”
“Then you’re one woman in a million.”
“I don’t know what to say to that, but I’ll tell you this much—I’m staying. So if you want to hang around until they get back, I hope you’ve secured a room. I know it’s early in the season, but with this tournament thing and all, they’re probably pretty full.”
Rafe never knew what made him dig in his heels. It sure as the devil wasn’t the woman’s personal attractions. She was a frump with pretty hair, a sexy voice, nice eyes and great skin. Period. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you book a room?”
“Because I can’t afford it,” she said flatly. The last thing he was prepared for was a straight answer. Unless she was angling for a pay-off. “And because I promised I’d take care of things. I’ve never met you before, never even heard of you. That is, I knew Stu had a brother who didn’t bother to show up for the wedding, but for all I know, you could be just another—another beach bum, looking for a place to stay.”
Rafe tipped his chair back and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was still there. Obdurate. Yeah, that was a good description. “What if I pay the tab? Would you go then?”
Huffy. Another good description.
“I beg your pardon,” she said loftily.
He had to laugh. Headache and all. “Well, of course you do, honey. What about, How dare you? Want to run that one by me while you’re dishing up indignation?” And then he relented. “Look, you don’t trust me and I don’t particularly trust you.” Actually he was almost beginning to, which came as something of a surprise. “So what do you say we strike a bargain? I’ll check out the room situation, but if I can’t find a vacancy, I’ll bed down in the room with the miserable-looking cot buried under all the junk, and you can have the queen-size bed with a view of the cemetery.”
“Oh, but—”
“I’ll do the cooking, you look after the birds, we’ll both watch to see that nobody steals the family silver, and if the honeymooners aren’t back by the time the weather breaks, I’ll leave.” He might. He might not. “Fair enough? Meanwhile I’ll do my best to stay out of your hair.”
Which was beginning to curl around her face. Half the women he knew had gone red this year. He’d lay odds she was the genuine article. Even her eyebrows were auburn.
Outside, the rain pounded down harder than ever. The trouble with Hatteras Lows was that they had a tendency to hang around too long, flooding highways, cutting new inlets, generally messing things up.
“Well, I guess… I mean, all right, we’ll give it a try. But I’m warning you, if I find out you’re not who you say you are—”
Rafe taught the parrots a new word. “Look, can you think of another reason why any man in his right mind would show up on Ocracoke Island in this kind of weather when he could be down in sunny Florida sharing a pitcher of margaritas with a pretty woman and watching preseason baseball?”

The truce lasted until dinner was served. Molly had already eaten dinner, but that had been hours ago. Since then she had burned up a lot of emotional energy. She had spent the last few hours trying to ignore the tempting smells permeating the whole house while she shifted stacks of books, tapes and taping equipment off the cot and spread it with clean, if musty-smelling, sheets. After that she’d spent an hour or so trying to concentrate on the paperback novel she’d brought to read on the beach while the stranger in her kitchen slammed pots and pans together and muttered under his breath.
He might or might not be Stu’s brother. Men lied. Besides, they didn’t look anything at all alike. Stu had freckles, red-blond hair that fell over his forehead and a jack-o’-lantern grin. He claimed to have three sisters and one brother, but none of them had showed up at the wedding. His mother was supposed to be somewhere in Europe, and he wasn’t quite sure where his father was. According to Annamarie, they weren’t at all close.
As for the volunteer chef, he looked like an advertisement for some tropical resort. Tall, tanned, with sun-bleached hair and a pair of pale gray eyes that were clear as rainwater yet impossible to read. Like a trick mirror. His features were far from perfect—his nose a tad too large, his jaw a bit too strong. His cheekbones were more flat and angular than high and aristocratic.
All of which made it hard to understand why she suddenly found herself redefining everything she had ever considered physically attractive in a man. If she needed to prove how wretched her judgment was when it came to men, she had two perfect examples to refer to. Smooth-talking Kenny and Stallone-look-alike Jeffy. Even their names sounded immature.
Their names sounded immature? Oh, for heaven’s sake, it must be the weather. On a rainy night like this, with nothing to distract her, her mind obviously had a mind of its own.
“Blue cheese okay?”
Molly glanced up at the man in the doorway and caught her breath all over again. Telling herself to quit staring, she managed to say, “Blue’s fine.”
Any kind of cheese was fine, since she wouldn’t be indulging. She had a feeling she could gain weight just looking at that delectable mouth of his and wondering…
Wondering nothing. All she needed to know was what he was doing here, why he was going to all this trouble and how long he intended to stay. At the rate it was raining, the roads would soon be flooded. Sally Ann had mentioned something about high water tables and creeks backing up. If it got much worse, not even the ferries would run, which meant they would be trapped here together.
What if he was lying about being Stu’s brother? Men always lied when it was to their advantage. Her ex-husband was a prime example. As her neighbor back in Grover’s Hollow had said when she learned that Molly was planning to marry Kenneth Dewhurst, “You don’t want to do that, honey. He talks real pretty but there ain’t a speck o’ truth in him.”
Jeffy of the beer cans and bedroom eyes had lied, at least by omission. This man could be lying, too, but for the life of her she couldn’t think of a single reason why he should. There was no reason for him to stay, as Stu wouldn’t be back for several days. Let him head on back to Florida and his margaritas and pretty women.
With a restless sigh, she laid her book aside. Her stomach growled, either in protest of the fried food she had consumed earlier or anticipation from the delectable smells issuing from the kitchen. She was accustomed to eating early and going to bed before she succumbed to late-night temptation. Not even to herself would she admit that tonight’s temptation might involve more than food.
She wandered over to the birdcages and checked the water cups. There was a grape in one. “Messy, aren’t you? I’ll take care of it tomorrow. It’s your bedtime now.”
As usual, her comments were greeted by a cacophony of gutter language and filthy suggestions, “Stick it up yer arse” being one of the milder ones.
“Eat soap and die,” she growled as she snatched her fingers from the danger zone.
“Bill-ee, shaddup! Bill-ee, shaddup!”
“Both of you shut up, or I’ll—”
“Balderdash. Hell-oo, honey!”
“Don’t you honey me, you dirty old man.” Their names were Pete and Repete. A little too cute, but then, they were Annamarie’s problem, not hers.
Pete—or maybe it was the other one—did a flushing toilet and then a series of noises that reminded her of someone cracking his knuckles. Molly ignored it and reached for the sheets to cover the cages.
“Belly up, down the hatch, belly up, down the hatch!”
“Just hush up and go to sleep.” Her stomach growled once more as she picked up her book and settled down in the slipcovered easy chair again. It was a grisly murder-mystery, the last thing she needed on a night like this with a stranger in the house.
And she was hungry again. It wasn’t fair. Both her sisters, Annamarie and Mary, took after the Stevenses, who were all tall and lean and burned up calories without even trying. Molly had taken after her mother’s family. The fact that hips and thighs were supposed to be the healthiest place to store fat didn’t help. She’d rather not have to store it at all.
It was almost eleven. Normally she would have eaten a light supper at six and been in bed by now. Shag, the half-Persian, half-coon cat Annamarie had had for years, climbed onto her lap, circled and settled down. He smelled like fish. She’d been buying him special treats at the fish market so that he wouldn’t wander away and get lost and break Annamarie’s heart.
“Dinner is served, madam. I thought a nice merlot. Okay with you?”
She didn’t even know what a merlot was, only that it was a wine, and if she had to use up her daily allotment of calories, she intended to use it on something she liked a lot better than she did wine. “Um…water will be fine.”
The kitchen table had been spread with a sheet. There was no dining room. No table linens, either. But there were hurricane candles, and her genial host—a little too genial to be trusted—had stuck them into a pair of red glass holders he’d found somewhere and used them as a centerpiece. There wasn’t room on the table for the turkey.
“Oh, no, not candied yams.” She uttered a soft moan.
“Butter, coconut, orange juice, pecans and brown sugar. Here, try some.” He’d cooked enough to feed a platoon.
“Just a taste,” she said, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “I ate earlier.” Darn it, she’d come so close to having cheekbones. She had lost weight during the breakup of her marriage, but after Kenny had followed her to her next job and made such a pest of himself that they’d found an excuse to let her go, she had nibbled the pounds back again.

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