On Wings Of Love

“Are You Sure You Want Me To Stop, Katy?” Letter to Reader Title Page ASHLEY SUMMERS Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Copyright

“Are You Sure You Want Me To Stop, Katy?”

He was so close, his breath brushed her mouth. The voice coming from deep in his chest was pure, sensuous persuasion.

“I don’t know, Thomas,” she whispered, meeting his gaze. “I truly don’t know.”

He ran his fingers down her cheek, his blood leaping at the feel of smooth, warm skin. Passion hardened his body, coiling low and deep and demanding. She made a sighing sound. Her lashes fluttered down as she lifted her face to his in soft surrender.

Thomas stilled, his body and mind clashing. The urge to take was maddeningly strong. But there was something else. His hand fell from her cheek.

“I think you should know whether or not you want me to stop. After all, we are adults,” he said matter-of-factly. “I want you very much. I also want the feeling to be mutual. It’s been a long day, so...good night, Katy....”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to a wonderful new year at Silhouette Desire! Let’s start with a delightfully humorous MAN OF THE MONTH by Lass Small—The Coffeepot Inn. Here, a sinfully sexy hero is tempted by a virtuous woman. He’s determined to protect her from becoming the prey of the local men—and he’s determined to win her for himself!

The HOLIDAY HONEYMOONS miniseries continues this month with Resolved To (Re)Marry by Carole Buck. Don’t miss this latest installment of this delightful continuity series!

And the always wonderful Jennifer Greene continues her STANFORD SISTERS series with Bachelor Mom. As many of you know, Jennifer is an award winner, and this book shows why she is so popular with readers and critics alike!

Completing the month are a new love story from the sizzling pen of Beverly Barton, The Tender Trap; a delightful Western from Pamela Macaluso, The Loneliest Cowboy; and something a little bit different from Ashley Summers, On Wings of Love. Enjoy!

Senior Editor

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On Wings Of Love

Ashley Summers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ASHLEY SUMMERS

is an insurable romantic who lives in Texas, in a house that overflows with family and friends. Her busy life revolves around the man she married thirty years ago, her three children and her handsome grandson, Eric. Formerly the owner and operator of a landscaping firm, she also enjoys biking, aerobics, reading and traveling.

To Virginia and John McKinney

and my beloved niece, Terry Hartley

One

Katy Lawrence parked her car in the shade of an ancient apple tree and slowly got out. Oblivious to the gravel under her bare feet, she stared at the place that would be her home for the next five weeks. A chill of wonder went up her spine. The Victorian house, all sparkling white paint and lacy gingerbread trim, drowsed in the mists like a sweet, vague memory from the distant past. It was a most bewitchingly haunting feeling.

Keeping her gaze on the house, Katy found her sandals and slipped them on with only a quick downward glance. The mossy brick walkway leading to the front door was a perfect touch, she thought. She felt another feathery chill.

“For heaven’s sake, it’s just an old house, Katy,” she chided herself. She was not usually given to whimsy.

She quickened her pace and mounted the steps, then crossed the veranda. Above the old-fashioned door knocker hung a hand-written sign that read, “Come on in, I’m around somewhere.”

Hesitantly she opened the door and stepped into the cool, shadowed entryway. “Hello?” she called. “Hello, anyone home?”

No answer. She waited for a moment, then walked on. When she reached the living room, her peculiar sense of déjà vu deepened to tiny shocks of recognition.

Katy nibbled her lip as she gazed around the airy room. She had never seen this house before, yet each object her eyes encountered evoked the same puzzling sense of familiarity. The words Of course! sang through her mind. Of course there were lace curtains at the windows. Of course there were gleaming wooden floors, and the sensuous curves of wicker furniture stained the exact hue of sweet-clover honey. Even the fresh flowers were a given, as was the basket of green apples on the coffee table.

Three perfectly round, black-and-white stones lay beside them, luring her fingers to caress their water-smoothed surfaces. Resisting the urge to touch, she made another appraisal of the room with a travel writer’s critical gaze. Since it was a bed and breakfast, not a hotel, she’d give the place three stars on first impression alone, Katy decided. Whoever lived here had a good eye for the small touches that made a house so welcoming to a traveler.

Who lived here? she wondered. This was a professional establishment, surely accustomed to the arrival of guests at some point during the afternoon. So where were the hosts?

Silence. The soft heat of an island summer drifted through the open windows, fragrant with the enticing scent of new-mown grass and the faint seawater tang of Puget Sound. Catching back the golden strands of hair tickling her cheeks, Katy eyed the tray sitting on a wicker table. It contained a pitcher of iced lemonade. For guests? Deciding it was, she poured a glass and drank it with hearty enjoyment.

Cold lemonade on a hot summer day. With a poignant sense of loss, Katy suddenly realized why this warm, elegantly time-worn room tugged at her heartstrings. It reminded her of her grandmother’s house in Spokane.

“God, I haven’t thought of Grammy in ages!” she whispered, shivering as the long-ago memory opened a tiny crack in the mental dam that had kept her safe. The specter of loss slipped through, and she was overcome with a frightening sense of vulnerability.

“No,” Katy said, squaring her shoulders. She forced herself to focus on the photographs adorning the fireplace mantel. She studied them, her mouth softening. Children, parents and grandparents. Two young couples in various poses, with and without the children. A handsome teenager holding up a string of fish which, judging from the rod in his other hand, he had caught. Family, she thought, and felt the familiar pinch of longing.

Her gaze shot back to the young fisherman. Above the mantel was a large framed portrait of the same man. He appeared to be thirty or so at the time it was painted. His skin was tanned, his coal-black hair charmingly tousled. Her gaze stopped on his face, suddenly riveted as a sweet quill of feeling arrowed through her. He had a strong, aquiline nose and a stubborn chin. But it was his eyes that caught and held her attention. Those sky blue eyes seemed to be looking directly at her.

Entranced by the clarity of his gaze, Katy studied his face. There was something about his expression, an openness she found very pleasing.

She started as a sound broke her bemusement. Someone was whistling. Turning, she glanced through an interior doorway, past a golden-oak table and out a bank of windows that overlooked the back lawn. Behind the house lay a meadow. And striding through the lush green grass was the man in the picture.

Whistling as he walked, he swung a small metal bucket in each hand, brimful with ripe raspberries. He was dressed in a T-shirt, faded jeans and scruffy sneakers. Her breath caught, and she had to force herself to exhale. Even from this distance he was an arresting man.

Drawing herself up to her full height of five-feet-three and one-quarter inches, Katy took a step forward, only to stop in sudden indecision. Should she wait to be discovered or walk to meet him? And while she stood here and dithered, he swung lithely across the lawn and down the redwood deck to the screened door.

Katy reminded herself that she was twenty-nine and a little too old to be thrown by an attractive male. But damn, he was appealing! Ruggedly so, with the kind of muscles that came from hard work, not a gym.

She saw his vivid blue eyes widening as he stepped inside and saw her, then crinkle at the corners with a smile.

“Well, hello!” he said. “This is one of my nicer surprises today.” He set down the buckets and stuck out his hand. “I’m Thomas Logan. And you are...?”

Katy started to shake hands, then realized she still held her empty glass. Putting it down, she slipped her hand into his hard, brown fingers.

“Katy Lawrence.” She paused expectantly. “I’ve just arrived. On the ferry,” she went on when he tipped his head quizzically Idiot! Of course you arrived on the ferry, she chided herself silently. How else could you get on and off the island? Except by plane-and you’ve just driven all the way from California to avoid flying.

“Mr. Logan, I called and made reservations. For five weeks?” she prompted. “A woman answered the phone.”

“That would be Maddie. She handles most reservations.”

Who was Maddie? Katy reclaimed her hand, conscious of a tingling in her fingers. “Maddie? Is she the owner?”

“Maddie’s the maid. I’m the owner.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You run this B&B?”

“Yes. Shouldn’t I?”

That quizzical smile shaped his mouth again.

Katy blushed, a maddening trait. “Yes, of course, I was just...Mr. Logan, do I have a room or not?”

“Yes, Miss Lawrence, you have a room.” His voice deepened. “It is miss, isn’t it?”

Rattled, she gave a brusque nod.

He relaxed into a grin that weakened her knees.

“Welcome to Tumbling Brook Farm, Miss Lawrence.”

“Thank you. Is it a real farm?”

“No, not really, not anymore. But I liked the name, so I kept it.” Pulling a red bandanna from his rear pocket, he wiped his damp forehead. “Warm out there! Where are you from?”

“Southern California. San Diego, to be exact.”

“And you drove here?”

“Yes. I like to drive.” Hearing the hint of defensiveness in her reply, Katy lifted her chin, her gaze a tad defiant.

Thomas turned away. “Well, you’ll find this a very restful place, ideal for restorative purposes,” he said lightly. “Your bags still in the car? Five weeks, you say?”

“Yes.” Katy followed him out the door. “That’s not a problem, is it?”

“Not at all.”

He glanced back at her and she noted the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. Mid-thirties, she decided. An experienced charmer, no doubt. Why hadn’t she been told about him? Her friend, Patsy Palmer, lived on the island and had recommended Tumbling Brook Farm. But she hadn’t mentioned its handsome owner.

All those telephone chats, Katy thought dryly, and not once had Thomas Logan’s name come up. “That little minx!” she muttered wryly.

Thomas’s long legs had already carried him to her car. She hurried past him and unlocked the trunk. Easily he lifted out the two large leather bags, leaving only a camera case and favorite pillow for her to carry.

Just as she reached inside the trunk for her things, Katy heard a sound that stiffened her slim body to a taut line. A small airplane flew overhead, its engine loud enough to hurt her ears. She stilled, mentally following its flight. She felt a scream welling up—the plane was too low, surely it was too low! She shuddered, struggling for control. But the sound swelled into a snarling roar that filled her entire being. Suddenly, reality vanished, and she was caught in a steely web of memory.

For a desolate moment, Katy felt powerless to free herself; the memory that froze her in place was crystal-clear. The combination of grief, horror and impotent rage was so strong she could taste its bitter tang...

“Miss Lawrence? Are you all right?”

The husky male voice had the effect of a soft touch on bare skin. There was incredible tenderness in it. Like splintering ice, the spell broke, and Katy let out the breath she’d been holding. A swift glance over her shoulder located Thomas standing at the edge of the driveway, waiting for her. Had he noticed her reaction to the plane? Idiot! Of course he’d noticed. Color scalded her cheeks as she met his concerned gaze.

Katy forced a laugh. “Yes, my goodness, of course I’m all right! It was just...” She inhaled, laughed again, shook her head at her foolishness. “I don’t usually freak out when an airplane flies over, but this one was so loud. And so low!”

“Just a friend buzzing me. On his way to pick up a couple of tourists, I imagine,” Thomas said. “I’m sorry it disturbed you.”

“It just startled me. Let me get my camera and pillow, and I’ll be right with you.” She’d covered pretty well, Katy thought. She picked up her camera case. The sound of the plane had faded into the distance. The memory had faded, too, but it had left its calling card.

With practiced discipline, Katy drew a long, deep breath and stilled her inner trembling. Then she grabbed her pillow, closed the trunk and turned to face him with a bright smile. “Can’t sleep without my special pillow! I’ve had it since college.”

His deep chuckle sent a rush of warmth through her body. Katy stepped around him and led the way back up the mossy, brick walkway. Her gaze, circling the yard, was curious and eager. On one side, young pear trees held a bounty of miniature fruit. On the other, a well-tended bed of huge pink peonies backed by white daisies flowed along an old stone fence. Pots of pansies and sweet alyssum flanked the steps. An inviting white wicker swing graced the porch.

“Who’s the gardener?” she asked.

“I am. It’s a great way to forget your troubles.”

What kind of troubles? Biting back the question that sprang to her lips, she stepped over a sleeping calico cat and preceded Thomas Logan to the door.

Once inside, he took the lead. The wide staircase rose to a windowed landing, turned sharply and continued to the second floor. He stopped before an open door and allowed her to enter the airy room that would be her private haven for a while.

A bed with carved pineapple posts centered the room. A goose-down comforter in pale blue with tiny white polka dots suggested cozy nights. There was a fluffy rug for her bare feet, and on the dresser, a pewter vase of blue delphiniums.

Lovely, Katy thought. Who was the decorator? Not that there were any signs of professional decor; everything was comfortably worn. Just enough to invite a person to kick off her shoes and relax, she thought, eyeing the maple rocking chair heaped with plump pillows. A stack of snowy towels and washcloths lay on the trunk at the end of the bed. No private bath?

“No,” he said when she voiced her thought. “But it’s just down the hall, and you’re the only one here.” He put down her bags and leaned against the doorsill. “You like it?”

“Yes, I do. Very much.” Katy gave a silent gasp as she turned to speak to him. Either the room had shrunk or he’d stepped closer. Of course, neither had happened. As far as she could tell, the room was the same size and he still leaned against the doorsill. She placed her camera on the dresser.

“Do you live here alone, Mr. Logan?”

“Thomas, please. And yes, we’re alone. But you needn’t worry, I’m quite well known on Orcas Island, and there’s a lock on your door.” His mouth quirked, and there was a hint of devilry in those heavenly blue eyes. “And I’ve yet to ravish a female left at my mercy.”

Katy found herself blushing again, as much from the melting effect of his azure gaze as from his words. “I was simply trying to get some idea of my surroundings,” she replied haughtily. “You mentioned a maid?”

“Uh-huh, Maddie. She comes in at eight and stays until five or so. Your credit card is on record?” he asked without much concern. Katy nodded. “Well, then,” he concluded briskly, “I’ll leave you to get settled in. Any questions?”

“No, no questions.”

His teeth flashed. “I have one. How did you come to choose my place? I don’t advertise at all.”

“I didn’t choose it, my girlfriend did. She lives on the island, so naturally I asked her to find me a decent place to stay,” Katy said. He was smiling at her again, his smile especially for her, it suggested. She felt another rush of warmth, this time in the vicinity of her heart.

Disconcerted by her lightning-quick responses to this stranger, she placed a hand on the bedpost to steady her nerves. What’s with you today, Katy? she demanded. First his house and now the man!

Realizing he’d asked the name of her friends, Katy hurriedly replied, “Patsy Palmer. Do you know her? She’s a potter, has what she calls a ‘wee place’ at that artists’ colony down by the ferry landing.”

“Of course I know Patsy. I’ll have to remember to thank her,” Thomas murmured. Maybe even send her flowers, he thought, listening to Katy’s spontaneous little laugh.

He put one of her suitcases on the luggage rack, using the act to cover another quick but thorough study of his guest. Which he’d been doing since that first dazzling glimpse of her, he admitted. Her image was already fairly well set in his mind, the golden curls intent upon escaping from beneath her baseball cap, her apple cheeks and slanting eyebrows, the soft, sweet, generous mouth he had a compelling urge to taste.

His own mouth insisted on curving as he watched her place her pillow on the bed just so. Her eyes were an incredible color, somewhere between purple and blue. Violet, he decided. She was small, even fragile in appearance, but he sensed the steel in that slim spine. Expertly he appraised the white silk blouse tucked into tan slacks, the diamond solitaire that glittered at her throat, the tiny gold watch on her wrist.

Her nails were tapered ovals of soft, glossy pink. Nails that had never dug in a garden, he’d warrant. She wore sandals, and even her toenails were the same shining color as her fingertips. Pedicured feet, he decided. Pretty feet. Not that he had a foot fetish, but... Thomas raked a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture. Not that women made him nervous... Oh, hell. Enough already, he admonished himself.

His guest was beautiful, all right, but he couldn’t help wondering at the shadows that haunted those enchanting eyes. What had caused the sadness that lay deep within their depths? Had someone hurt her? A man? Clamping down on his unsettling need to know, Thomas gave himself a brisk mental shake. “As I said, if you need anything... Oh, I’ll leave a key on the table by the front door. You can pick it up at your convenience. You can also sign the register later.”

“Yes, I will. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He certainly seemed eager to leave, Katy thought with an unseemly touch of resentment. Biting her bottom lip, she watched him stride out the door. His hair curled at his nape like a little boy’s. But this was no little boy, she was quick to warn herself. This was a man, a sinewy length of vibrant masculinity that warmed a woman all over.

He must drive the females on this island crazy, she thought. Patsy, too? Chagrined, Katy turned away to unpack. Even so, she was very much aware of him leaving the room.

It felt a little strange to think she’d be here alone with him. “Oh, Katy, he’s the host, for heaven’s sake!” she disparaged her nervousness. “Don’t go getting any crazy ideas about him.”

A late-afternoon breeze wafted through her window, and with it, the sound of Thomas Logan’s voice. He was speaking to the cat, chiding it, his laugh gentle.

The same gentleness she had sensed when he’d asked if she was all right. “When you went into orbit just because an airplane flew by a little lower than usual, Kathleen. Idiot!” she muttered.

Realizing she’d called herself an idiot for the third time in less than an hour, Katy smiled at herself. The usually derisive term was actually an affectionate catchword between two sisters. Katy even remembered the first time they’d used it. Karin, nine years old, red-faced and furious, lobbing Easter eggs at Katy and screeching, “You’re an idiot, you know that, Katy? An idiot! I do not like that creepy Bryant Hurst!”

Punishment was swift, of course; Nell, their beloved nanny, did not tolerate rudeness, not from anyone, and especially not from her young misses...

Oh, Karin, I miss you, I miss you! The lump in Katy’s throat, for all its familiarity, was painfully hard to dislodge. Suddenly aching with loneliness and grief, she hugged herself with a little swaying motion until the pain dulled to a manageable level.

With a physical effort, she closed the door on her memories and indulged in an elaborate stretch. Lord, she was tired! Every muscle ached with the strain of her long trip. She glanced at her watch. Six o’clock, too late for a nap and too early for bed. A walk, then, she decided. From her window overlooking the meadow she could see woods and inviting glades. The fragrance of clover and wild grasses beckoned to her.

Katy changed clothes, choosing sneakers, walking shorts and a cotton blouse, then tied the sleeves of a pink cardigan around her shoulders. Her hair, trapped under a baseball hat for so many hours, was a tangled mess and required a thorough brushing. The heavy, loosely curling, perennially tousled mane contained a dozen shades of gold, from dark honey to the palest blond. Leaving it loose around her shoulders, she hurried downstairs.

Thomas Logan was not in sight. She walked through the dining room to the French doors leading out to the back terrace. Borders of pink shrub roses separated the yard from the meadow. A fieldstone path led down the slight incline and impulsively she took it, following the sound of running water.

Just as the name of the B&B suggested, there was indeed a brook and it did tumble over black rocks, through banks of wild yellow iris and tall pink and white foxgloves in full, regal bloom. Beyond, the path ran uphill for a way before forking sharply. She followed the right fork to a gazebo perched near the edge of a bluff that descended almost straight down to the water.

Her absent Mr. Logan was painting the small structure; his lithe torso lengthening as he brought the paintbrush upward in a long, powerful sweep. A sharp little thrill rippled under her skin. Katy stopped, trying to decide whether to go on, or go back.

But, too late; he’d already seen her. “Hello, again,” she called, making her way along the stony path. Coming round the side of the gazebo, she gave a little gasp of pleasure.

“Nice view, huh?” he murmured.

“Nice,” Katy answered, thinking wryly that nice didn’t do it justice. Below her, spread out like dark green jewels on a velvet cloth of water, the San Juan Islands lay drowsing in the sunlight. The Washington coast was a dark blur in the distance, and clouds drifted down the highest hills to become tangled in the tops of soaring firs. Her camera was in her room, worse luck. But there would be plenty of time to take pictures.

She looked up and found his gaze on her face. “It’s s lovely,” she said.

“Yeah, lovely.” Putting down his brush, he walked over to stand beside her. “I love it. Always have.”

“Always? You’ve lived here all your life, then?”

“No, this was my grandparents’ home. I grew up in Baltimore, but I loved to spend the summers here when was a boy.”

She had turned her attention back to the view. While he spoke, Thomas let his gaze play over her again. Honey-toned skin everywhere he looked, face, arms, long shapely legs. Masses of honey-colored hair blowing in the wind.