Letter to Reader Letter to Reader Title Page Acknowledgments Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Copyright

Dear Reader-Friend,

I am so pleased to be a part of Silhouette Desire’s 10th anniversary MAN OF THE MONTH promotion, and to return to the Blaylocks, the family in Midnight Rider (SD #726) and The Seduction of Jake Tallman (SD #811). Readers have often requested a return to the Blaylocks. Jake is a Blaylock cousin, and we met the Blaylock family in Dan’s book, Midnight Rider. The bachelor brothers were just too tempting, and Blaylock’s Bride, Roman’s story, reopens the saga of the Blaylock family; Rio’s story is next. The setting is unique: smalltown Jasmine, Wyoming (similar to the towns I travel through every summer), filled with ranchers and farmers from the valley, stuffed with wonderful characters and surrounded by the Rocky Mountains.

Poor Roman. A darkly brooding hero, he’s given up on love, hoarding himself in his work and ranch. He was just too fascinating to leave moldering. So I tossed Kallista—an exciting, furious woman out for revenge—into his lap and, as a writer, enjoyed the fireworks.

I hope you enjoy the Blaylock family, bound by love and land, and I look forward to hearing from you, my reader-friends.

Dear Reader,

April brings showers, and this month Silhouette Desire wants to shower you with six new, passionate love stones!

Cait London’s popular Blaylock family returns in our April MAN OF THE MONTH title, Blaylock’s Bride. Honorable Roman Blaylock grapples with a secret that puts him in a conflict between confiding in the woman he loves and fulfilling a last wish.

The provocative series FORTUNE’S CHILDREN: THE BRIDES continues with Leanne Banks’s The Secretary and the Millionaire, when a wealthy CEO turns to his assistant for help in caring for his little girl.

Beverly Barton’s next tale in her 3 BABIES FOR 3 BROTHERS miniseries, His Woman, His Child, shows a rugged heartbreaker transformed by the heroine’s pregnancy. Powerful sheikhs abound in Sheikh’s Ransom, the Desire debut title of Alexandra Sellers’s dramatic new series, SONS OF THE DESERT. A marine gets a second chance at love in Colonel Daddy, continuing Maureen Child’s popular series BACHELOR BATTALION. And in Christy Lockhart’s Let’s Have a Baby!, our BACHELORS AND BABIES selection, the hero must dissuade the heroine from going to a sperm bank and convince her to let him father her child—the old-fashioned way!

Allow Silhouette Desire to give you the ultimate indulgence—all six of these fabulous April romance books!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Blaylock’s Bride

Cait London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAIT LONDON lives in the Missouri Ozarks but loves to travel the Northwest’s gold rush/cattle drive trails every summer. She loves research trips, meeting people and going to Native American dances. Ms. London is an avid reader who loves to paint, play with computers and grow herbs (particularly scented geraniums right now). She’s a national bestselling and award-winning author, and she also writes historical romances under another pseudonym. Three is her lucky number, she has three daughters, and the events in her life have always been in threes. “I love writing for Silhouette,” she says. “One of the best perks about all this hard work is the thrilling reader response and the warm, snug sense that I have given readers an enjoyable, entertaining gift.”

Together again—To my new editor at Silhouette,

Joan Marlow Golan. Thank you, Joan, for giving me my

start in writing, for your patience in teaching me how to

write many moons ago.

Thank you, Melissa Senate, for being you, for being

supportive, for building my career and for the wonderful

years we’ve had together.

A special thank-you to my dear readers, who have asked

to see more of the Blaylock family after reading

Midnight Rider and The Seduction of Jake Tallman.

Author’s Note: The research for the Bisque Cafe was

done at the Paint Cafe in Springfield, Missouri, where I

painted my first smiling, belly-up hippopotamus.

Prologue

“You’re safe here with me, little bit...here on Llewlyn land,” Boone said to the little girl holding his hand. The wind sweeping across Llewlyn land was chilly, Wyoming’s early September ablaze with fiery quaking aspens amid the fir and pine trees; fur thickened on the animals now, a natural preparation for winter. On the Rocky Mountains above Llewlyn Ranch, the bears were fat with summer berries and fish and honey stolen from wild beehives.

Boone Llewlyn lifted his head, letting the wind—filled with the scent of the land, of the pines and earth and fields—now through his shaggy gray hair and caress his leathered skin.

He was old now, bent by age and shame. Boone kept the little girl’s fragile hand cradled in his large, rough palm, his scarred heart filling with love.

This was his grandchild, Kallista May. Her green eyes and sleek silky hair came from his mother, that stubborn edge along her jaw from Llewlyn blood. At six, and dressed in her favorite red jacket and boots, she was too thin, and had seen too much of life’s dirty ways.

To remind Boone who had the legal claim to the little girl, her mother would come to tear her away soon, and Boone’s wounded heart would weep. The cruel game used the girl as a pawn, to assure monthly payments to her mother and to Boone’s son, her father.

Boone swallowed the emotion tearing through him. He treasured his inheritance, his parents, and the land that had been left to him. But in his thirty years away from this valley, he’d amassed a fortune and spawned two irresponsible sons...bigamists and careless, lazy men now—Boone couldn’t bear to have them near his land.

So he paid them all—his sons and their harem of wives, married illegally under different names—and in return, they kept his secret from the good people of Jasmine, the Blaylocks and the rest. He’d bought his sons free of bigamist charges, because he couldn’t have his grandchildren publicly named as illegitimate.

As a young man, he’d been in love with Garnet Marie Holmes, but she had wanted to stay in the valley. He’d turned to another woman and the world—and both had shamed him. Sara had been knowing, cultured and totally devoted to creating the picture of success that Boone had wanted then. Still in love with Garnet, he hadn’t asked for love or comfort, and had chosen his glittering, cold wife to suit his needs for power and money. When the babies came, they had less of her than Boone and still hunting his fortune, he’d left them to survive in her care. Sara had burned out her life long ago, mourned by no one. In his pursuit for money, he’d forgotten that a child was a precious gift, and that it took care to make a child feel proud and strong. And so his sons were weak men. Their wives were—Boone didn’t want to think of the greedy, immoral women his sons had chosen.

After a time, Garnet Holmes had turned away another suitor, Cutter Lomax. Because Boone wouldn’t lend money to Cutter and had stopped his land schemes, Cutter believed that Boone had caused the ruin of his life. After that, Cutter bitterly blamed the loss of Garnet on Boone, and a longterm feud began. Garnet soon married Luke Blaylock, a fine man, and together they’d had a beautiful family. Boone had always loved Garnet Marie, and wished her well; he couldn’t bear to let that dear sweet, honest woman—or the rest of the valley—see inside his black shame.

He had to protect the land from his sons. Llewlyn land was for his grandchildren, if they came back...

Boone studied the Herefords grazing in the field; he barely noticed the deer moving along the fence. He’d created legalities to protect himself and Llewlyn land, but he mourned his grandchildren...The Innocents whom he wanted to claim for his own. Yet he couldn’t shame his parents...or truth be told, himself. His pride and his shame had made him weak, though he loved his sons.

He held the girl’s hand and kept her safe—while he could, this tiny precious part of his blood, though she didn’t know it.

There were other Llewlyn children who didn’t know he was their grandfather, and when they came to him, dropped off by a careless parent, he treasured every moment. The children all believed him to be a friend of the family.

“You remember to come home, here to Llewlyn land, when you want... when you’re grown, and you remember how beautiful you are, how much I love you,” he said to Kallista May and watched her trusting, freckled face turn up to his. He knelt beside her, enfolding her in his arms, and wished he could protect her.

Ten thousand acres of Llewlyn land would belong to his grandchildren. If they decided to live in the valley, they would each have their portion. If they did not, trust funds would be set up for them, and every one—when the time was right—would know who they were, and the proud blood that ran in their veins.

He held the little girl closer; she was a Llewlyn, already proud and strong. He’d given her that, and if she needed him through the years, he’d come for her.... “You remember, Kallie-girl, to come back home, to Llewlyn land.”

One

“If there is one thing I don’t need, it is that sassymouthed, high-nosed female. Big Boone wanted her back. I don’t. I haven’t seen her for four years, and that’s fine with me. But I promised I’d get her here, just like the rest on his list—back on Llewlyn land, then she can fly off on her broom when she wants.” Roman Blaylock rubbed the cheek Kallista Bellamy had slapped four years ago, with enough power to send him reeling back against the shelves loaded with ceramic bisque, waiting to be painted.

High on the Rocky Mountains behind the combined ranches of Roman and Boone Llewlyn, a lone wolf opened his throat and bared his aching soul to the moon. The sound suited Roman’s brooding mood; he settled into the shadows of Boone Llewlyn’s sprawling front porch.

The sound of the shattering bisque echoed in the April Wyoming night as Roman scowled, recalling the scene four years ago. He remembered the shattered ceramic shop and the big dragon that had crashed down on his head. He’d caught the broken tail, uncertain what to do with the furious woman who had just shoved his chest again. As a piece of shattered bisque bumped down his cheek, he’d wanted to kiss her, wrap her so tight against him that all that heat would burn away the cold years stored inside him.

Kallista had glared up at him. “Go ahead. You beat your wife. What’s one more woman?” Her green eyes had ripped down his dusty denim-clad body to his Western work boots; then her gaze had burned a slow, insulting path up to his face. “You’ve just destroyed my shop and terrified your wife. You’ve been drinking...you’re a mess...and you are a bully. You are not shoving your wife around in my shop. Get out.”

He had forced himself to let go of the dragon tail. As it crashed, he realized that he was clutching a smaller dragon in his fist—when he uncurled his fingers, it smiled cheerfully up at him. As his usually mild temper soared, the dragon had shattered on the floor. The remnants of white bisque around his Western work boots had been symbolic of his dreams long ago. He’d pushed his face down the good twelve inches to hers and spaced out the words. “I do not beat my wife.”

Kallista had flipped back her long, sleek black hair and leaned forward to meet his glare with her own. “Debbie said you were rough and things between you were not good. I assume that meant—”

“Me? Rough?” The implication that he’d hurt his wife, perhaps sexually, was a hard slap to his pride.

“You are a violent man and now you are drunk.”

The scorn in her tone had hitched Roman’s temper higher, at the same time feeding his need to taste those red, moist lips. The woman was raw passion, steaming, noholds-barred. He wanted a taste of that undiluted emotion and it bristled from her—he had wanted to reach out and take...

Boone had just served him two shots of whiskey and a careful reference to Debbie’s ongoing love affair with Thomas Johnston. Roman had not been aware other people knew of Debbie’s affair and he’d tossed back another whiskey at the exposure of the lie he’d been living in his less than perfect marriage.

“I have never hurt my wife,” he’d told Kallista firmly.

“She can’t bear for you to touch her, and she’s frightened of you—I saw it just now, when she ran away.”

Debbie’s lies, her deceit and his own, had covered the reality of their tortured marriage. Her withdrawal of then savings to pay the bank’s mortgage could cost him Blaylock family land, his heritage. He’d mortgaged the land tc build the house she’d demanded. “She’s got reason tc run,” he’d said before he’d stepped from his leashes, snagged Kallista in his arms and kissed her hard. When he was finished feeding on her mouth, he’d stepped back and promptly received another hard slap.

“Out.” The memory of Kallista’s voice, icy and accusing, still stung Roman four years later.

With the April night fragrant and still around him now, Roman leaned his chair back into the night shadows covering Boone Llewlyn’s massive front porch. Lights twinkling, the city of Jasmine, Wyoming, sprawled down in the valley.

Deer slid silently through the field, coming down to water at the stream, and Roman knew he’d fight to keep Blaylock family land. In another century, Boone’s ancestor, a second son of an English lord, had found a lasting friendship with Micah Blaylock, a rough woodsman descended from an Apache princess and a passing Spanish conquistador. The unlikely friends, Blaylock and Llewlyn, had settled in the valley; they had wagered who would marry and produce the first child. Llewlyn had sent for his fiancée while Micah had gone bride-shopping down the Natchez Trace. Micah had rescued a French seamstress from her first night in a brothel, and they were married. Both women produced sons, born so closely together that the friendly argument about who was the firstborn was never settled, and through the years, their friendship deepened. While the Blaylocks became a huge robust family, the Llewlyns dwindled until there was only Boone.

Boone. A man who treasured his inheritance, his land, haunted and fearful that he could not make amends for his tragic errors....

After Boone’s illness two years ago, Roman had moved into the Llewlyn House and had joined his spread with The Llewlyn, making them easier to manage. He’d plowed through the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated in Boone’s illness...and had been shocked by what he’d discovered—the children who had stayed at Boone’s ranch through the years had been his grandchildren. As executor of Boone’s estate, Roman had sworn to draw those children back to Llewlyn soil and their heritage. Kallista and the rest had been protected by Boone Llewlyn; he’d threatened to cut off the payments to their irresponsible parents if anything happened to the children. Boone’s bigamist sons and their shallow, coarse ex-wives used the children to torture and bleed money from him. When he came too close, loving the children, the parents swooped in and reclaimed them. Big Boone couldn’t stand the thought of his grandchildren knowing that he couldn’t protect them, so he became their safety, their friend.

Ashamed of failing his sons, Boone would not have them desecrate the Llewlyn name—not in Jasmine, at least. His pensions kept them away and Big Boone’s shame had been a terrible secret that Roman had sworn to keep.

Roman’s own shame ran deep; he’d hidden his empty marriage from his family, deceiving them. In a family whose foundations were rock solid in marriage and love, Roman had discovered on his wedding night that his petite bride couldn’t bear for him to touch her. In public, Debbie had cuddled him, but behind bedroom doors...

Roman again rubbed the cheek that Kallista had slapped four years ago; the stubble was as rough and the memory burned, insulting his honor—his family’s honor. The Blaylocks were known as loving family men and Kallista’s accusations had scored his pride.

Across a small slope Roman’s dark empty house stood in the moonlight. Built years ago for his bride, a home for their daughter until she died, Roman Blaylock’s ranch home had been swept clean of his dreams. In the distance, the moonlit silvery squares of the windows taunted him, the Rocky Mountains rising sharply behind it. It was now an empty monument to what he had wanted—a family as close and loving as his parents’. His marriage had been a lie from the first, and Debbie’s child wasn’t his. She’d been his only teenage sweetheart, but Roman had felt more like a big brother than her beau. When she became pregnant with another man’s child, Roman had come to Debbie’s defense, giving her the protection of his name.

Roman slammed the emotional door shut on his pain. He had enough to think about, managing his own ranch, The Llewlyn, and acting as Boone’s executor.

The sprawling two-story, turn-of-the-century house was stuffed with collections and antiques and memories of the beloved children—The Innocents Boone used to call them—who had passed through its doors. Roman surveyed the vast farm, covered with goats, pigs, sheep and cattle grazing in the moonlit pastures and thought of Boone.

As a young rakehell, Boone had left Jasmine to see the world. Thirty years later, a changed and worn Boone returned permanently to his family’s land and began building his secret empire. Whatever he’d done in the past, Boone was determined to make amends. A big man, he was nevertheless gentle, beloved in the town and yet alone, as if the shadows were his safety.

Roman understood loneliness; perhaps that was what drew the two men together—lone wolves sensing pain in each other.

As executor of Boone’s estate, Roman had promised Boone on his deathbed to bring Kallista back to the land. Spoiled, fiery, and strong-willed, Kallista was the last woman Roman wanted to deal with—but he would, for Boone.

Roman ran his hands through his shaggy black hair. It had taken a year to find her, and tomorrow she’d arrive.

He ripped off his shirt and boots and to unwind the tension in his body, began the slow series of strenuous Tai Chi exercises Boone had taught him.

Kallista turned her key in the Bisque Café’s lock and stepped into the shadowy interior, closing the door behind her. For reassurance, she touched the dangling silver half-moon earrings Boone had given her. “Remember who you are. Remember me and this place as your home. Come back to me, Kallie-girl, and the land where you’ll be safe.”

Troubleshooting for Boudreaux Inc. at a French resort in Nassau, she was too late to see Boone one last time, but she’d come back. She spoke a variety of languages, skimming from one position to another as easily as shedding clothes and putting on new ones. And in her lifetime, the only home she’d known was with Big Boone Llewlyn.

She owed Boone Llewlyn her life and her soul. Roman Blaylock’s takeover of Boone’s beloved land and animals was obvious to Kallista; Roman had moved in with Boone before he died, and he’d taken over....

Moonlight skimmed through the big windows and settled upon the white ceramic bisque, shaped into tiny animals, plates, cups, statues and lamps. A row of dragons on the top shelf reminded her of Roman Blaylock’s big hand wrapped around a broken dragon tail, the shattered remains on his dirty Western boots.

He’d been rawhide rough that day, a six foot three cowboy with leather gloves tucked in the back pocket of his jeans, raw with dust and sweat and leather chaps, tracking down his petite wife and calling her out.

Debbie had been managing Kallista’s shop—began on impulse and on the advice of Hannah Blaylock, an interior decorator and a friend. While Kallista did not often visit Jasmine, she’d created the shop to please Boone, and he’d backed her financially. It pleased him to help her, and the Bisque Café in Jasmine was more his dream than her own. He’d once said it was like having her near—but she wasn’t finished seeking a sense of belonging that had always eluded her.

Boone had kept the books on the café, pleased that it made a small profit, and through the years, various managers had taken care of the daily business. Kallista had built the shop six years ago, and Debbie, Roman’s wife, had run it until four years ago, when Roman Blaylock had torn it apart in a brawl with his wife’s defender.

On one of her infrequent visits to Jasmine, Kallista had come out of the back room just in time to see Debbie’s wide-eyed horror and the smaller, slender man punch Roman’s rock-hard stomach. Roman had easily shoved him backward, blocking the next punch. The whole shop had seemed to pop and crackle as all the shelves, laden with unpainted bisque, quivered and toppled.

The other man had reached for Debbie, huddling over her, protecting her as would a lover. Roman’s burning black eyes didn’t flinch as pieces tumbled down upon him, hitting his head, his broad shoulders and bouncing off as if nothing could hurt him. He’d ignored the thin trickle of blood from his forehead as he’d said one word to Debbie and the man, “Go.”

The word sounded like a whip cracking and an icy shiver had shot up Kallista’s spine, instantly followed by rage. His head had snapped back from her slap, more from pride than from the blow and she’d remembered the fiery hell in his black eyes. Then that quiet, solemn cloak had ripped away and he’d looked like his Mescalero Apache and Spanish conquistador ancestors—untempered by civilization—jutting, blunt bones pressing against his taut dark skin, black brows drawn into a fierce scowl, gleaming black hair dusted with bisque chips.

“You’re not keeping Boone’s land, Mr. Blaylock. Not while I am drawing breath,” Kallista promised, tearing away her memory of Roman four years ago. She leaned against a wall, years of traveling lodged in her body, draining her. She dropped her flight bag to the floor and freed the tears burning her lids. Boone was gone. The man who had always been her anchor.

Through her childhood, she hadn’t known her father and her mother had dropped her on Boone Llewlyn, the man she’d come to love for a lifetime. A big rangy man, with a huge heart, an ugly face and gentle hands, Boone had shadowy ties with her mother, lit by thunderous emotions that young Kallista couldn’t understand. He was always there, waiting for her with a bear hug. She was safe then, in Boone’s strong arms, while her mother met yet another lover, married again, and came to collect Kallista once more. Fury had raged between Boone and her mother; violence and hatred sprang from her mother, while Boone’s emotions ran to frustration and pain. As a girl, Kallista understood none of it—only the safety that her mother would repeatedly rip away. As a restless adult, she’d always come to Boone, salving herself against the world until she was ready to seek again.

She should have come back more... taken care of the only man she’d loved, who had shown her that men had hearts and loved. She should have come back sooner... now Roman Blaylocks, as executor, had his big, greedy hands on Boone’s ranch.

Kallista moved through the shadowy shop, lined with ceramic bisque on the shelves. The tables and chairs were empty now, but according to Hannah Blaylock who had managed the shop with others, the people of Jasmine loved painting their own designs on the ceramic bisque. Kallista picked up a dish lettered in a childish scrawl. “For My Mom. Patty Blaylock.”

Patty was Logan Blaylock’s ten-year-old daughter, and Else, the Blaylock’s eldest sister, had painted a big cup and saucer in an intricate design, duplicating a high priced Italian manufacturer’s. Kallista replaced the plate on the shelf and began checking the names on the bottom of the fired and painted ceramics. The Blaylocks, a close family, liked coming to paint their designs, though the male Blaylocks were conspicuously absent. The huge Blaylock family wouldn’t like her shaking Roman’s tight-fisted grasp over Boone’s estate.

An experienced troubleshooter who knew she was in for a fight, Kallista began making mental lists. First, she would check on the care and feeding of Boone’s beloved pigeons, his goats and sheep and the rest. She skipped her usual cool logic and hurled herself into the passionate dislike of Boone’s executor. Somehow, she would rip the estate away from Roman; she would expose his greed and—she glanced at Boone’s house, overlooking Jasmine, the lights glowing in the April night. Kallista stooped to jerk her small birdwatching binoculars from her leather flight bag and aimed them at Roman Blaylock’s house, which sat on the other hill. The house was dark, proof that Roman still lived in Boone’s home. From Hannah, married to Dan Blaylock, Kallista had learned that Roman had moved into Boone’s house when the old man became too ill to care for himself... and Blaylock hadn’t moved out when Boone died a year ago.

“Squatter.” Kallista muttered the Western term for those who would settle and claim another’s property. Enraged, she hurried out of the shop into the sweet-scented night.

The flashy little sports car soared up the Llewlyn ranch road, gleaming in the moonlight Roman appreciated the skill with which the driver changed gears, easing over the bars of the cattle crossing at the massive iron Llewlyn ranch gate. Then the sports car geared up again, hurling around the moonlit curves, that led upward to Boone’s big, two-story house. Roman flinched when a cow and calf wandered onto the road and the car’s tires squealed to a stop. The car slowly eased off the road, around the cow and calf and began more cautiously toward the house. Whoever was driving the car was mad enough to ignore a few fresh cowpatties. The car skidded to another stop beside Roman’s big dented pickup and Kallista Bellamy hurled her body out of the door.

Roman eased into the shadows, the exercise sweat on his body cooling in the night air. He watched her free stride toward the house, waist-long hair floating out in a black wave behind her. She glanced at the pigpens, the pigeon house and the cattle. She stopped in front of the steps, braced her hands on her hips and studied the house as if looking for one missing board, one untended potted fern.

She moved gracefully, her taut body eloquent and rippling with passion, impatience and fury. She looked the same as that day she’d slapped him, all fiery hot and full of life, and an unfamiliar restless hunger moved inside Roman. He shoved it away and studied Kallista’s long, curved athletic body, her pale heart-shaped face. In a classic style, straight back from her forehead and tamed by large silver combs on either side of her face, Kallista’s hair swung around her restless body like a curtain of sleek heavy silk.

In the framed picture beside Boone’s big carved four-poster bed her face wore a soft, tender look, her eyes luminous and green. Her smile at the photographer—probably Boone—was warm and loving.

Now, Kallista’s frown was cold and furious. Beneath her black shiny jacket, she wore a body-hugging black sweater and black jeans that fitted like a second skin. Roman’s body tensed as he noted the lush curve of her hips and endless legs. Her black combat boots added to the dangerous female-warrior look.

She hesitated, studying the old flower bed, heavy gold daffodils bent beneath the weight of raindrops. For just a heartbeat, her frown softened. Then, she flew up the steps in the easy movements of an athletic woman on a mission, and punched the doorbell furiously. Before Roman could move from the shadows, she had banged her fist on the door. In the next second, she had begun muttering and had extracted a small black kit from the huge leather bag slung over her shoulder.

When she crouched to pick the lock, Roman found his mouth drying at the curve of her hips. The instant desire to place his hands on her startled him, and he spoke too roughly, “The door isn’t locked. You’re a strong woman and I don’t want the stained-glass window broken. It was Boone’s mother’s treasure,” Roman murmured, moving out into the moonlit square on the porch.

“I know what that stained glass meant to him.” Kallista took a step backward, her narrowed almond-shaped eyes ripping down his body, pausing on his bare chest and then jerking back up to his face. At six foot three, Roman stood a head higher than her and Kallista’s frown said she resented looking up to him. She jammed the worn lockpicking kit into her bag. The firm edge to her jaw and the thrust of her chin reminded him of Boone. “I want you out of here. Now. You don’t belong here, not in Boone’s house.”

Roman took his time in answering, stunned by the exotic scent curling from her—part anger, part cinnamon and silk, and all woman. Sleek, tough, sophisticated and...wounded. From Boone’s file, Roman knew the shadowy corners of Kallista’s life. “He wanted me here.”

She glanced again at his bare chest, hesitated for a heartbeat, and then jerked her gaze back up to his face. “You took advantage of a dying man. You moved in and took over. You’re probably bleeding his estate dry.”

In the fraction of a heartbeat when she’d glanced at his chest, wildfire heat shot through Roman’s body, stunning him. She’d tensed just enough to prove that she’d been aware of him. At thirty-nine, Roman considered his sensual years behind him—if he’d had any—and settling gently into middle age without the complications of a woman, Roman wasn’t prepared for the sensual jolt slamming into his midsection. “I see your opinion of me hasn’t changed. You should have called. I tried to contact you for a solid year after Boone’s death.”

He noted the trembling of her fingers before she gripped the porch railing, gleaming with the rain that had passed. “I didn’t want contact with you. I don’t know what Boone saw in you.”

In the moonlight, Roman saw her resemblance to Boone, that sweep of feminine jaw clenched in rigid, righteous anger reserved for bullies and those who would hurt others. “Boone wanted me here...to take care of things.”

“I’ll just bet,” she snapped back, locking her arms around herself. “I want to see everything. Now. I want to see what you’ve sold off, what you’ve destroyed, and oh, yes, the books. I want to see just how much you’ve siphoned off into your own accounts.”

“No one has ever accused me of being dishonest,” Roman stated tightly, and wondered why this woman could set him off so easily.

“Afraid that I’ll see something I shouldn’t?” she taunted in a silky purr that raised the hair on Roman’s nape. “Something that might be missing? Something expensive?”

“It’s ten o’clock at night. Why don’t you come back in the morning, after you’ve had some sleep and cooled down?” Roman managed after taking a long, deep breath. Kallista knew just how to insult his pride. She’d launched her contempt without shielding it But then from his file on Kallista, Roman knew that she wasn’t sweet—she was a fighter.

She folded her arms across her chest, slanting a suspicious look up at him. “And give you time to fix what you’ve done? No.”

Roman locked his jaw before he said too much. “Let’s try this another way. I’m the legal executor of Boone’s estate. What makes you think that you have the right to examine anything?”

She shimmered in anger, as though she wanted to launch herself at him, and tear him from Boone’s property. Then, for just an instant her bottom lip trembled and Roman prayed she wouldn’t cry. He fought a shudder; he knew his limits. One tear and he’d go down like the proverbial ton of bricks.

“He was my friend. I loved that man,” she said finally and the raw pain in her tone tore at Roman’s heart, matching his own love for Boone.

“He left you something.” Roman reached past Kallista and opened the door. He noted the distinctive recoil of her body from him—die “wife beater.” “After you.”

She arced an eyebrow and nodded curtly. “You first.”

Roman smiled tightly and remembered his mother rapping him on the head when he forgot “ladies first.” Kallista didn’t trust him. Spitting mad, she looked like a weary, fragile kitten backed into a corner she didn’t understand. The tension in her expression was for Boone, a man who had kept her safe. Roman wanted to fold her into his arms, to keep her safe, just as Boone had wanted. Instead he curled his hand around her nape, tugged slightly and she leaped back, her indrawn breath a hiss of warning, as she gave him room to pass.

“Wipe those boots.” Roman Blaylock’s broad, tanned back rippled in front of her, gleaming with sweat and rain, and the primitive impulse to draw her nails slowly down the smooth dark surface, stunned her. When he turned, a mocking lilt to one corner of his hard mouth, Kallista forced her eyes to stay locked with his, keeping them from drifting lower—to that wide, fascinating expanse of his chest, tanned and lightly flecked with damp curling hair. The man was physically potent, enough to send women swooning, especially with his dark warlord scowl and shaggy, poorly cut hair. A physical man, she repeated, catching the scent of rain on his skin, sweat and a dark stormy presence. Roman moved like a mountain lion, smooth, rippling—a predator aware of his surroundings, his power. In Kallista’s experience, men who looked like Roman knew how to use their looks and she wasn’t interested. She focused on her mission—to see that Boone’s beloved house hadn’t been sacked.

A sweep of Roman’s hand invited her to look—the house was just as she remembered, big and cluttered, filled with pictures of people she didn’t recognize, other children latched to Big Boone’s safe body. The old upright piano, which had been Boone’s mother’s, loomed in the shadows. The furniture was old, overstuffed, and stripped of the doilies she’d remembered. Against the wall, covered by an oversized shawl, was the huge steamer trunk that he’d always kept locked. The hulking china cabinet was packed with old china and glassware, which Boone had said came from his mother and grandmother—me fascinating, elegant collection of ruby glass circled by gold had been Kallista’s favorite. Amid other framed childish drawings on the wall was her watercolor of Boone, a huge stick man, holding a little stick girl’s hand. Boone And Me And My Boots a young Kallista had printed in block letters, referencing her favorite red boots.

Emotion tightened Kallista’s throat and dampened her eyes. She never cried, and couldn’t afford the luxury now, because she had a job to do for Boone. She forced herseh to scan the house, because if anything was missing...

Kallista moved past the living room into another smaller less formal room. The chair was simple, solid lines of oal- big enough to accommodate Roman’s tall body. She scanned the room quickly—a television set, magazines books, and a dinner tray placed on a coffee table that matched the chair. Off to one side, the door to Boone’s study was open and Kallista entered the room in which he had held her on his lap. He’d cuddled a sobbing lonely child, deserted by her mother. He’d told her that he loved her, that love was the most important thing in the world and that she would always be his girl, that she could cal- The Llewlyn her home.

Boone... Tears burned her eyes and she slashed at them impatiently, shielding her weakness from Roman Blaylock “You still have his pigeons and pigs and goats and sheep and cows, don’t you?”

“They’re fine. You can check on them in the morning My brother Dan and his wife Hannah have the buffalo herd Big Al, Dan’s bull buffalo, wouldn’t stop tearing down fences until the herd was together. The stock is marked and can be separated.”

“Uh-huh, and we both know how the marking is done right? More for Blaylock, less for Llewlyn? What about his stamp collections and all the rest? The orchid house? I suppose you let that go to ruin.”

“You won’t find anything wrong with how the calves are marked. Dusty and Titus do that, and I wouldn’t like you questioning their honesty.” For the first time Kallista caught Roman’s low tone, like a wolf’s warning growl, and it lifted the hair on her nape. He hadn’t defended himself against her jabs, but his tone said he would not tolerate a slur on the elderly cowboys. He picked up an issue of Orchid Facts magazine and showed it to her, before tossing it aside. “I’m learning.”

The thought of Boone’s delicate orchids lying within Roman’s hard scarred palm caused Kallista to shiver. “I can’t imagine a man like you taking care of Boone’s orchids. What about his collections? The stamps and coins and—” Then Kallista remembered that Roman had just mentioned something more important than valuable items. “Dusty and Titus? Boone’s old ranch hands? You can’t fire them—they are old men now, and without homes... You know they can’t take hard physical work—”

“Did I work them to death? You’ve really got a high opinion of me, don’t you? They’re sleeping in the same bunkhouse where they have for fifty years. When their times come, Boone said to bury them in his cemetery up on the hill. Don’t worry, they’re healthy and they’ve got plenty to do looking after Boone’s pigeons, pigs, goats, and sheep without doing hard ranch work.” Roman studied her. “You can stay here, if you want. Boone wanted you back.”

“With you? No, thanks.” She pushed into the study, grand with books and a massive desk. The new computer sprang to life at her touch. The cursor blinked at her—Password? “Cute,” she snapped, glancing at Roman who leaned against the door frame and studied her. “That’s where you keep his accounts, isn’t it?”

She quickly circled the room, then stood in front of Boone’s massive antique desk. She ran her hand over the solid oak wood, and tugged at the brass handle of the rolltop. The lock held. She stared at Roman. “Figures. I won’t ask you for the key. I wouldn’t ask you for anything.”

Then she circled the room again, lifting gilt-framed antique pictures away from the wall until she found the safe. It was new, high tech and the instant she touched it, a deafening alarm sounded and outside, Boone’s registered beagles began howling. Roman sighed wearily and reached for the ringing telephone. “Mike? I know the alarm activated. Kallista Bellamy is here and prowling through the house. Right. I know a sheriff has better things to do patching things up with his ex-wife than to answer useless midnight calls. Mike...stop ranting. It’s only past ten.”

Roman answered the second call from a wall intercom and his expression softened momentarily. “Kallista is back, Dusty...go back to sleep. She’ll be here for a few days.... Yes, I’ll tell her you’d like to see her.... I’ll tell her that we redid the plumbing and there’s plenty of hot water now for her baths.”

He smiled briefly. “I know. Females like to take long baths. Yes, I’ll tell her that we have a dishwasher and a new washer and dryer. Yes, I’ll tell her that you and Titus missed her.”

Kallista turned on him when he replaced the telephone to the cradle. “I’ll see them tomorrow when I check out the ranch. I want a good look at what you’ve done to Boone’s land. I should have known. I’d forgotten how convenient it would be for you to come in here and take over. Mike is your cousin and you’re related to almost everyone in town. The Blaylocks had seven children and your family would come to your defense, wouldn’t they?”

“They’ll do what’s right,” he said slowly with the confidence of a man who had grown up loved and cherished.

She hadn’t been loved; she’d been a piece of luggage her mother hauled from marriage to marriage. She didn’t want him to see her pain, how much she loved Boone, and Roman’s black eyes were seeing too much. Spanish eyes, the locals had called the Blaylock eyes, a mark of their heritage on their father’s side—a sturdy mix of Scots and English and French on their mother’s.

Kallista hurried into the kitchen, away from him, from the memories of how wonderful life with Boone had been, how safe. Nothing had changed in the kitchen, not the big scarred farm table with its plain glass salt and pepper shakers, nor the mug stuffed with spoons. The old pottery bowls were stacked on the counter and every dish was still in the glass cupboards. The big gas cookstove had several ovens and burners and a shelf spanning the top. Boone had said it was his mother’s...that he’d dreamed of his wife using it, but she never had. Boone had little to say about his wife, or his children, but sometimes the faraway look in his eyes told of his pain.

The old blackened camp coffeepot that Boone said brewed the best, sat on the back of the stove.

She sucked in air. Or was it pain? Boone had sat her on his lap, poured himself a large, hefty mug of coffee and her small china cup half full, adding fresh cow’s milk to complete the measure. From the past, his voice curled around her. “This is how my mother did, little girl. Sat me on her lap, and told me how it should be for me, holding my own child on my lap and passing the time of day. But it didn’t come to be until now, and now I’ve got you. That’s her cup and now it’s yours. That’s real gold on the rim, and those are real English roses painted on real china—see? It’s so thin, you can see your fingers through it. We’re going to chat about things every day, sitting just like this, big stuff, like why flowers grow, and how people should keep each other in their hearts.”

The cup seemed huge, or was it because she was small and only five? Kallista slashed the hot tears from her eyes and knew nothing could take away the pain in her heart. She glanced at a woman’s handwritten note, posted to the old refrigerator by a magnet. “Come over tonight. Your favorite for dinner. There’s garlic bread in the foil, just place in the oven with the rest to heat. We need salad dressing and olive oil. I changed the sheets.”

A fresh wave of anger slammed into Kallista, and she jerked open the refrigerator door to find a large pan of lasagna. She slammed the door, rocking the huge pottery tureen on top. Roman Blaylock had not only taken over Boone’s house, he had installed a woman in his bed. “I’ll look upstairs,” she managed, brushing past him.

When she’d first seen the house, hiding behind her mother and peering out at this frightening savage land, she’d thought it was a castle and Boone was a fearsome giant who might eat her. Then she’d grown to treasure and to love him and now he was gone.

The hallway was just as wide, a table placed beneath a mirror and fresh herbs stuffed into a vase scented the air. Nothing had changed. Boone’s bedroom looked just the same: gleaming wood floor covered by a braided rug, her picture with those of other children by his oversized bed—a man’s Western boots placed neatly in a corner, gloves and a denim jacket discarded into an overstuffed chair. Roman Blaylock slept here; his masculine scent filled the room and a picture of the extensive Blaylock family sat on Boone’s mahogany chest of drawers.

She hurried to Mrs. Llewlyn’s room, soft with ruffles and floral patterns, the scent of lavender and roses hovering in the still air. Boone had said that she lived long enough for his return, then she had passed away. “Mrs. Llewlyn’s walnut wardrobe is missing. It’s huge and has drawers—like an armoire.”

“It needed repair and refinishing. It’s in the barn.”

“You just put it back.”

Her room was just the same, a single Jenny Lind bed, ruffles and flower prints and a brass vanity table and chair. Other girls had used this same room, layered with unfamiliar dolls and tea sets, and the other bedroom reserved for boys with model airplanes and trucks. The attic was stuffed with doll carriages and framed tintype pictures and memories. Kallista leaned against the door as layers of memories pressed painfully upon her. He’d tucked her in, placed a brand-new Raggedy Ann doll in her arms and told her that she was his. She’d never felt so safe—a horrible empty chill swept through her. “Oh, Boone...”

Downstairs, Roman waited for her, a well-loved, worn rag doll in his hand. “He wanted you to have this. When you calm down, there were other things he wanted you to have.”

“You’re not fit to sleep in Boone’s bed.” Kallista snatched the doll from Roman, holding it against her racing heart. One glance at the fringed Spanish shawl covering the huge steamer trunk and she knew where the doll had been stored. There would be other things in that trunk and she knew how to pick locks. She looked up at Roman’s impassive expression, and knew that she was going to destroy him. If Boone had stored her doll in the trunk, there had to be other things, perhaps something belonging to a relative who deserved Llewlyn House and the ranch. “You know, I think I’ll take you up on staying here—for the night.”

When Roman nodded solemnly, she added, “Don’t try anything. I can protect myself.”

An icy chill whipped through Kallista. She’d already proven that with one of her mother’s lovers—

Beneath his glossy black lashes, Roman’s eyes turned warm and amused, drifting slowly over her taut body and his deep drawl curled around her. “Now that’s quite an assumption, princess—that I’d want you. What would give you that idea?”

Two

After hours of denying that his body tensed every time Kallista’s very soft and athletic one tossed on the bed in the other room, Roman gave up on sleep. When he heard her creep from her room he reached beneath his bedside table to disconnect the alarms. With Mike’s romantic reconciliation underway, he wouldn’t want a second awakening at three o’clock in the morning. Roman stared up at the shadowy leaf patterns on the ceiling and listened to Kallista’s boots prowl through the house, built by Boone’s parents before the turn of the century. The rippling electronic sound downstairs said she’d turned on his computer, and after a solid fifteen minutes, another sound said she’d turned it off. A small beam of light lasered through the shadows beneath his door, and Kallista’s footsteps moved past Roman’s bedroom and up into the attic. He listened to the rhythmic creak of a rocker, too small for Boone’s size.

Roman placed his arms behind his head and waited, stretched out on the top of the bed, dressed only in his jeans, the waist snap unbuttoned. Kallista was the first of Boone’s “Innocents” on the list and if she was any measure of the rest... Roman shook his head; all he needed with his ranch chores and keeping up Boone’s silent business was a prying, nosy, bitter and sexy woman. He tossed in passionate, colorful and vibrant.

He backtracked to the “sexy,” and that long-ago kiss stung his lips. She’d been surprised, her sassy, full lips parted and the collision of their mouths wasn’t sweet, but rather all fire and storms and unleashed hunger, and for a moment she’d matched him. Kallista’s footsteps eased down the attic stairs and pushed into his room, stalking to his bedside.

Roman’s body leaped into heat, shaken by the passion in her slightly slanted eyes. Hands on her hips, she glared down at him. The rag doll peered at Roman from Kallista’s big leather shoulder bag. “Good. You’re awake. I want you to see me coming and know that I’m going to take Big Boone’s estate away from you, piece by piece.”

Kallista jerked a fat file from under her arm and slapped it on his chest. “Yes. I did pick the desk lock. You’ve been tracking me. Everything’s in there from my immunization shots that Boone started to every address where I’ve lived. It’s always wise to keep up with someone who might be a threat, isn’t it? You bet I’m a threat, Mr. Blaylock. You’re not the kind of man who should be taking care of Boone’s property.”

“Boone wanted to keep up with you. That’s his file. He’d want you to have it. It’s yours.” He was just getting worked up to tell her that he didn’t appreciate the invasion into his bedroom when the tears glittering on her lashes distracted him; inside Roman, a part of him slid into helpless mush. Then she reached out her hand and Roman reacted, grabbing her wrist and jerking her toward him. With a soft cry, she fell heavily upon him, and in that instant, in the soft whoosh of her curved body against his, Roman knew that he wanted Kallista. He whipped away the crushed file between them, urgent for her soft body against his. The next instant, he realized he was easy prey for her and the thought nettled; the old bed creaked as Roman flipped over, pinning her beneath him, his hands circling her wrists.

They stared at each other, breathing hard. Roman’s heart leaped into overdrive, his body instantly aware of the soft, feminine thighs cradling his own. Heat plowed through him like a steamroller, stunning him, upending his control. Her body taut, Kallista did not move, but looked up at him, the moonlight slanting on her smooth cheek and brushing her lips. She purred an insinuation. “Typical. Roman wants. Roman takes. But it won’t be easy and you’ll lose in the end. I’ll have an arrest warrant tacked to your skin so fast you’ll—”

A silky skein of hair slid slowly from his shoulder, a warm caress that startled and enticed him. He stared at her hair, spread across the pillow—black, long, fragrant and wild enough to make a man want to wrap his hands in it and tame. He sucked in his breath, aware of the soft curves beneath him. He hadn’t touched a woman in years—unwillingly, his gaze jerked down to her body, those soft thighs along his. Roman smothered a groan and pasted a growl over it. “That’s a lot of threats for a lady cat burglar who’s been prowling through my home.”

“Boone’s home,” she corrected, her black eyebrows fierce and drawn, her fingers curled as though if released, she’d dig into his flesh. “And you weigh a ton. Get off me.”

Pain shot through Roman, the memory of Debbie’s fearful glance at him. “You’re so...big...I can’t.”

He’d been ashamed then, of his size and power. Ashamed that the sight of him without his shirt made his delicate wife turn away, shivering in terror. But Kallista wasn’t frightened of him. Her narrowed eyes threatened; her fingers curled as though wanting to strike out at him. Fear wasn’t an element that Kallista experienced now... A steady hum of tension grew between them, and Roman slowly stroked the fine skin of her inner wrists with his thumbs, unwilling just yet to let her go. Her pulse rocketed to match his own, surprising him, but then, the woman was furious. He could feel the anger driving her. “I won’t take lightly to another slap, lady,” he said quietly, watching her eyes and wondering how they would look, meadow green and soft upon him.

“I was reaching for my picture. Boone took the snapshot. I don’t want you to have it.”

She shifted beneath him and Roman felt the deep shudder, searching her pale face, despite her furious expression. “I won’t hurt you. Why are you afraid of me?”

“Get off me,” she repeated unevenly and licked her lips, fascinating Roman.

Her lips were full and soft and silky moist—another shudder ran through her as their eyes locked in the shadows. Taking care not to frighten her, Roman eased slowly away from her, locking his hands behind his head. He didn’t shield his arousal and Kallista’s eyes swept down his body, widening at the obvious thrust against his jeans.

He met her darkening gaze evenly and eased a sweep of silky hair back from her hot cheek. “Blushing, Kallista? I’d think you’d be long past that.”

“Neanderthal. Leave it to you to lower the terms of this war.”

“Equal terms, lady. You push. I push back. You’d better get out of my bed now.” Roman fought the need to brush his lips across hers and knew it wouldn’t stop there.

She shook her head and a strand of hair slid onto his chest. Roman slowly looked down at the ebony stripe, sleek against his tanned skin with its light coating of crisp hair. For a moment, he went dizzy, the image of Kallista’s hair webbing across his body, enveloping him in her scents, her flushed face soft after lovemaking...

She glared at him. “I’ll flatten you. You have no idea what you have just started.”

“Don’t I?” Roman couldn’t resist running his fingertip across her hot cheek once more. He hadn’t flirted since his early twenties, before his marriage, when the Blaylock sons were prowling the country, stirring up females. Lying beneath him now, Kallista had stirred him on a more urgent, fiery, elemental level that hadn’t been scraped in his experimental years.

Kallista dashed his hand away, rolled to her feet, grabbed the picture and the file and stormed out of the house. She closed the front door gently, mindful of Boone’s treasured stained-glass window. Her car revved in the ranch yard and Roman stood to watch her through the darkened window.

“Damn.” Instead of driving back to Jasmine, Kallista’s headlights soared in the opposite direction. She left the main highway to drive toward his deserted house.

If only she didn’t remember his hard mouth on hers, that long-ago kiss as if he’d give his soul to her—wrapped in her unsteady emotions, Kallista had wanted to devour Roman. His body over hers had sent her senses leaping.

Fine. Roman Blaylock’s rugged face and build, his soulful dark eyes, would make any woman take a second look. His skin had a tanned healthy and weathered sheen that made a woman want to stroke those hard cheeks, that unrelenting jaw, and soften that grim mouth with her own—Then there was that arrogance that just made her want to take him down and make him pay. But the nice packaging wasn’t the man, and Debbie had clearly been frightened of her husband.

Kallista picked the door lock and stepped into the shadows of Roman’s deserted, dark house. A modern ranch home, built of rock and logs and surrounded by pines, the house settled into the slope of the Rocky Mountains as if it had always been there. After testing the dead light switch, Kallista panned her flashlight across the living room’s rough timber paneling, noting the lighter squares where once pictures had hung. The house was cold, shadowy and empty. The huge rock fireplace spanned one side of the room and a rumpled sleeping bag lay in front of it. An antique walnut church pew stood in the center of the living room, like a huge dark monument, marking the absence of a woman’s touch. Three of the bedrooms were empty; a fourth, a small one, was decorated in frills and flowers with Alice in Wonderland figures hanging from the ceiling. The tiny room was packed with antique furniture, piled haphazardly. A box of framed pictures sat on a tiny tea table, and a collection of arrowheads, Native American beads and hunting knives were stuffed into another box. Only the child and the man were noted in this room; Debbie had not taken remembrances of either with her into her new marriage.

Debbie. Petite, blond, blue-eyed—a dreamer, an intellectual and an innocent. Debbie would always need protection, unable to fight her own battles. Four years ago, pitted against Roman’s dark predator intensity, Debbie had paled.

Kallista had a lifetime of fighting to survive behind her; no one had protected her—except Boone. She ran her hand over a large scarred rocking chair, and cobwebs clung to her hands like shredded memories. She shut the door, remembering the daughter that Roman had lost; from Hannah, Kallista knew that he grieved—or did he? Was his grief a call for sympathy so as to shield his takeover of The Llewlyn?

She entered a large office, lined with filled bookshelves, and could sense Roman’s dark presence. Layered with dust, the rifle case was empty, the modern desk aclutter. The pantry was empty, the laundry room stripped. The kitchen was bare except for a half-full bottle of whiskey, a scattered array of photographs, some of them rumpled as though crushed in a furious fist. Kallista smoothed a photograph of Roman holding a baby in his arms, a tender smile on his tanned, rugged face. The other pictures were portraits of Roman as a loving father and Debbie the “little woman,” standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. A clutter of unopened mail lay on a card table. The house had been stripped, the windows without drapes. Kallista shivered; the house was a cold tomb.

She stooped to collect a crumpled ball of paper, smoothing it open on the counter and scanning it with her flashlight. Debbie’s faded big loopy writing spread across the page.

“I’m marrying Thomas and taking everything. We’ll need the start. I paid for it by living with you for thirteen years and by putting up with the Blaylock family. Though I appreciated you marrying me when I was pregnant with John’s baby, I want a man I can share my dreams with and my mind, and my bed. With Thomas, I won’t want separate bedrooms.”

Kallista remembered how four years ago, in the dreadful scene at the shop, Debbie had called out Thomas’s name. Later, she’d introduced him as a “friend” and a professor of literature, though their gazes had shared emotions more than “friendly.” Frowning, Kallista read on.

“He would have never come after me like you did at the Bisque Café. He lets me make my own choices and I like taking care of him. I am expecting his child. I won’t be back. Do not fight the divorce, or I’ll tell your family that the marriage was all a sham. That you married me to protect me from gossip and that I couldn’t bear to have you touch me all these years. Debbie.”

In contrast to the shattering note, but in keeping with her light-brain personality, Debbie had drawn a smiley face. She also dotted her name’s i with a circle. The P.S. was hurriedly scrawled, an afterthought.

“Thank you for being a good father to John’s daughter. Michaela’s birth hurt too much for me to really love her. I took the mortgage payment.”

From Hannah, Kallista had learned that Roman’s three-year-old daughter had drowned in a shallow plastic swimming pool, a freak accident. Roman had been in the fields, working on the tractor, and had returned to find his daughter drowned. Debbie had said she’d just run into the house for a moment to answer the telephone. He’d been griefstricken for years, and Debbie, a fragile woman, had proclaimed to everyone that she was a good mother. Soon after the child’s death, Debbie had set about making a new life to please herself.

Kallista folded the note and let it flutter into a trash basket. A fat envelope caught her attention, and she scooped it from the trash. Four years ago, the day that Roman had swept angrily into the shop, the checking and savings accounts in the name of Roman and Debbie Blaylock had been emptied. Debbie’s handwriting was on both withdrawals, which left a balance of ten dollars. When pieced together, a torn overdue payment on Roman Blaylock’s mortgage revealed the bank’s foreclosure notice.

Though it was not the present, four years ago, Debbie’s shrill voice cut into the shadows around Kallista. “I told you I didn’t make the last payment because I needed the money for something else. No, I will not replace our savings, not even enough for the payments due. Sell a tractor or a cow, or something—”

Roman had suffered, but he had probably taken other women to his bed for comfort. He was certainly knowledgeable about how to touch lightly, gently, just a stroke of his fingertip to arouse... He’d showered and the scent of soap and man clung to him, his hands rough with work, strong, capable. The heat in his eyes could cause a righteous woman to melt and tremble.

Kallista wasn’t righteous; she was a survivor who knew that with soft looks usually came conditions and payments. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared out into the gray predawn light to the knoll where Boone lay. Roman couldn’t be trusted and he had his big fists locked on Boone’s beloved estate. Cattle were milling in the pastures, sheep spread across the small knoll like a soft, creamy cloud, a dog barked, and Boone—the only man Kallista had trusted other than Channing Boudreaux—was dead.

She shivered, the empty house adding to the vacuum of her life. The impression of Roman’s hard tall body on top of hers sent a hot flush through her cheeks and another shiver through her body. He’d been aroused—and so warm, his shoulders sleek and wide, rippling with power. His chest had pressed against her breasts and his heart had raced, a pulse throbbing in his throat. That pulse had become an earthquake from his stomach down to his hips, his thighs heavy, taut, upon hers. Her heart had ricocheted the pounding beat of his and for just an instant as time stood still, a flood of desire wiped away her dislike of Roman. The denim of their jeans had not insulated the heat pouring from him—or was it her?

He knew how to look at a woman, to make her respond. More than likely, Roman hadn’t missed Debbie’s wifely affection. He was probably used to women coming to his bed on a regular basis. Boone’s bed. Kallista scrubbed her face with shaking hands. She’d come back for Boone, to make certain that his beloved treasures and his land were not sacked.

A key rattled in the door and Roman stepped into the shadows, followed by two leggy, thin dogs that moved quickly into the shadows. He lifted his black brows and tipped his Western hat on the back of his head. In the shadows, he looked like his Apache and Spanish ancestors—terrifyingly masculine, dominating, arrogant, an angular blend of sheer power. “Ma’am. You’ve had a busy night.”

Her head went back, ready to fight; she’d seen through those famous Blaylock ladykiller manners. The Blaylock men were known to be courteous and respectful of women—if they weren’t, their mother had applied a wooden spoon. “I can see why you wanted to move into Boone’s house.”

“It’s...convenient” He nodded slowly, watching her, and tossed his hat to the kitchen counter. Dressed in jeans, a work shirt and a battered flannel jacket, Roman’s shaggy black hair was rumpled, as though he’d been dragging his hands through it He glanced at the shadowy rooms and inhaled unevenly.

Kallista leaned against the kitchen counter and studied him. If he had weaknesses, this man of stone, she’d find them. She reached into her bag, pulled out a small apple and bottled water. She wiped the apple on her jeans and took a bite, studying him. After a sip of water, she asked, “You’re uncomfortable here. Why? It was your home, wasn’t it?”

“I built it for my wife. I thought it would make her happy.” The words were solemn, the promise of a man who took his marriage vows seriously. According to Jasmine gossip, Blaylock men held their marriages and their wives sacred. Boone had said that Blaylock men got moldy when they weren’t stirred up, and she intended to do a little stirring.

“Rumor has it that Debbie remarried quickly,” she pushed. She wondered just how much control Roman Blaylock possessed when tested.

“She did that. I wish her well.” Roman spoke too quietly.

Finished with her apple, Kallista pulled out a chocolate bar and peeled away the paper. Habit caused her to lick the chocolate tip before biting; she sensed Roman tensing and she cut right to his wound, sparing him nothing. “Come on, don’t hand me that. You were married for thirteen years. She was your childhood sweetheart. A professor of literature took her away from you. That had to hurt your pride.”

“You want it all, don’t you? To place all the pieces in a neat little picture? Well, lady, maybe the pieces don’t fit, no matter how hard you dig.” There was that dangerous edge, the lifted hackles, a warning of a private man as Roman ripped off his gloves and jammed them into his jeans’ back pocket. He crossed his arms, looking down at her, waiting.

Too bad. She wanted to know about Roman, to prove him unfit to be Boone’s executor. She munched on the chocolate bar, taking her time to nettle him. She retrieved a chip of chocolate with her tongue. “This house has been stripped.”

There was that quick intake of breath as though pain had sliced through Roman Blaylock’s big, lean, muscled body. “Debbie took what she wanted.”

The dogs moved restlessly; perhaps they sensed the prick of taut nerves, the clash of emotional steel...

“She left your daughter’s things and yours, the antique furniture.” By reading Debbie’s note, Kallista had insight into Roman’s life, one that the extensive Blaylock family had not known. She tossed her chocolate wrapper into the trash, covering Debbie’s note.

“Do you live out of that bag? What else do you have in there?”

“I travel light. I have what I need.”

Roman ran his hand through his hair and looked out into the predawn light. “Debbie had her own taste. My sister, Else, brought my share of my parents’ things here after Debbie left.” He scanned the house. “There was plenty of room. When Debbie...left, the bank came calling, I almost lost everything. Boone saw that I didn’t. I’m paying him back.”

“I’ll just bet. Several of his collections are gone. The miniature animals, his scrimshaw collection. How much did they bring when you sold them? Don’t tell me they’re in storage. I wouldn’t believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe. Marsha Gerald took care of his nursing needs and he wanted her to have the miniature animals. And Boone wanted Slim Woodard to have the scrimshaw things to remember him.” The words were said without anger or frustration, just a simple statement of fact.

“I’ll just check with them to see if you’re telling the truth.”

Her threat met a mild smile. “You just do that, ma’am.”

Kallista thought of the lovely old rocking chair, handed down from years ago, the massive plain walnut bed meant to last for centuries. The rocker was meant to hold mothers and babies, the creaking blending with lullabies. With a few cushions, the walnut church pew could be... She braced herself against thinking about Roman’s home and found herself studying the loneliness in his expression. “I’m going to take you down, you know.”

He turned slowly to her. “You’re going to try. I made promises to Boone, and I intend to keep them. If you decide to stay, you can stay here.”

Kallista smiled coolly. “Why, thank you, Roman. That is very nice of you. But I’d much rather stay at Boone’s.”

Roman’s black eyebrows lifted and he reached for his hat. “Fine with me.”

“I’ll be staying and I can watch Boone’s house. I have a little inventory I’d like to complete.” She tilted her head and fed him the challenge as she took a small notebook from her bag and checked the items she had noted remaining at Boone’s. “You could move back here and let me have the house.”

She handed him the notebook, which he scanned. Roman smiled slowly, white teeth gleaming in the darkness above her as he stuffed it back into her bag. His finger traced the strand of hair that crossed her shoulder and he tugged lightly. The lines around his eyes deepened with amusement, his black eyes warm upon her. “Now living apart wouldn’t be any fun, would it? That’s what you’re into, isn’t it? Fun? A thirty-four-year-old woman leading a footloose, carefree life. Working as a dancer, a hotel manager, a conference planner, and now a troubleshooter for Boudreaux, Inc.? No ties, no family, just plenty of road and sky and water.”

He made her roving life seem shallow, without love or roots to anyone, and Kallista tilted her head warningly. “I’ve been around. I make my own way and don’t owe anyone. Except Boone. There hasn’t been reason to stop.”

“Uh-huh.” Roman gently slapped his thigh and from the shadows two streamlined greyhounds came to his side. He rubbed their smooth heads. The dogs were old, missing teeth, their pelts scarred by beatings. “Boone took in racing dogs who weren’t wanted. Meet Igor and Luka.”

Boone had been legendary for his quiet moods and his kind heart. “I remember them. They’re shivering.”

Roman crouched to rub the dogs briskly, warming them. “They should be wearing their coats—little knitted sweaters that Else made for them. I’ll take them back to the bunkhouse.”

She reached to pet their heads and Roman’s big hand caught hers as he stood. “They sense your anger. Dusty and Titus will, too. Keep them out of this. I made a promise to Boone, and I’m going to keep it. This is between you and me and Boone. Understand?”

“What was that promise?” Kallista shot at him, looking for angles to destroy his grasp on Boone’s land.

Roman released her hand and jammed his big hands into his gloves. “That is between Boone and me and my wife—if I many again. That’s not likely.”

“No. You wouldn’t like the confines of marriage, now that you have what you want.”

“I don’t want a whole lot of what comes with marriage,” he said flatly.

“If there is a woman sharing Boone’s house with you—and his bed—get her out...or I will.”

Roman’s hair gleamed as he tilted his head. “You’ve got a suspicious mind and a fast mouth. When I live with a woman, she’ll wear a wedding band.”

“Yours?” Kallista asked, pressing him, looking for weaknesses.

“Keep it up,” he said mildly, with a tone that said his hackles were lifting, “and you’re headed for trouble.”

“I’ve always liked a good dollop of trouble.”

At eight o’clock on a mid-May morning, Kallista sat at the small desk in the Bisque’s cubbyhole of an office. She’d had two weeks of investigating Roman and organizing the shop as she wanted it. Hannah, and the rest of the Blaylock women had done an excellent job keeping records and maintaining supplies. The paint shelves were well stocked, the brushes cleaned and waiting in individual pots. The shop had a small but adequate income. The residents of Jasmine liked making gifts for loved ones and decorating their homes. After checking the latest bank statement, Kallista had ordered new supplies of greenware—the molded clay shapes that were then smoothed. After baking in the kiln, they were called “bisque,” which was painted and fired again to produce the final product. Both kilns were in working order. The shop was neat and airy, wire soda shop chairs and tables empty now, its shelves filled with standard bowls, cups, lighted Christmas trees and chess sets. Dragons matching the one that had battered Roman Blaylock peered down at her. Bisque ladybugs and turtles waited for painting.

Morganna, married to Jake Tallman and a cousin of the Blaylocks, breezed into the shop with Hannah. Morganna, Jake and their daughters were visiting with the Blaylocks before returning to their Colorado ranch; Jake, a cousin of the Blaylocks, had been orphaned and the Blaylocks had claimed him as one of their own.

Hannah carried a big box, and Morganna, oblivious to the darkening damp spots on her blouse, a sign that she was a nursing mother, clutched a grocery sack. After warm hugs, Morganna, a city executive turned ranch housewife and mother, dug into the box. “A shop warming gift,” she exclaimed, retrieving a high-tech cappuccino maker from the box.

“Yummy. Thanks. I’d say this gift is too much, but I’m dying for a cup,” Kallista murmured. Morganna read directions while Hannah and Kallista completed the start-up effort. The aromatic scent filled the shop, and soon three mugs of cappuccino, topped by whipped cream, sat on a table.

“Bagels, too.” Hannah placed bagels on napkins and plopped a carton of strawberry cream cheese onto the table. She stuck a spoon in it and grinned. “Dig in. What do you think about the shop?”

“You did a good job. Everything is in order.”

Hannah surveyed the shelves and the neat shop. “We tried. We couldn’t take time to develop new ideas, so everything is running as you left it Boone liked to come in here and watch, just watch, as if he were happy that others were happy. He liked to hold Delilah, our baby. He was such a—”

Kallista couldn’t sit still; the mention of Boone caused the tear in her heart to widen painfully. She stood slowly, cradling the mug that had been made in the shop. “Roman Blaylock is living in Boone’s house.”

Hannah spoke softly. “He took care of Boone in that last year. I think it gave him purpose. But Boone gave Roman something, too. A sense of belonging. He lost some of that with Debbie and kept to himself. It was as if he felt shamed that his marriage didn’t work, the only Blaylock to be divorced. We’ve tried to—”

“I don’t want to know about Roman’s pride,” Kallista stated flatly and ran her finger over the top of a bisque chess knight.

“I’d heard you’d already tangled with him two weeks ago. You took right up where you left off—Jasmine is still talking about the time you slapped him and that kiss,” Morganna purred silkily. “It appears that you two had a busy night, and disturbed Dusty’s and Titus’s sleep. The next morning, Roman slammed into the barn looking like a thundercloud. And at just the mention of his name, you look as though you’d like to tear something apart other than that bagel you’re shredding—”

Morganna’s gaze snagged on the long, tall cowboy leaning against the pickup outside. Her eyes widened and her lips parted as she licked them. She took a deep breath and sighed dreamily.

Hannah laughed outright. “Love. She can’t wait to get her hands on her husband. Two months after Feather’s birth, he’s looking more worn-out than she is.”

“I’ll be back. Glad you like the cappuccino maker,” Morganna said, hurrying out of the shop. At the doorway, she slowed, straightened her blouse and smoothed her jeans, and reached to smooth her hair. She sauntered to Jake and ran a finger down his chest. Tension sizzled between them, before Jake bent, scooped her up in his arms, and placed her in the pickup. She snuggled close to him and Hannah grinned. “He’s head over heels and so is she. She still makes tacos hard enough to break teeth, but she knows how to power-ramrod a business deal and has the much needed youth center up and running. They’re more in love than ever. Just like Dan and me.”

The Blaylocks were a loving family and Roman, a dark maverick who had separated himself from them, concerned Kallista. “Tell me what you know about Roman.”

Hannah looked evenly at Kallista and sighed. “You’ve been asking everyone about him.... Okay, then. It tore the heart out of him when his little girl drowned. His marriage to Debbie changed him slowly, and we see little of him. He’s been taking good care of Boone’s ranch and his own. He has to hire men to check fences and watch those ten thousand Llewlyn acres. It’s a big operation, and he hasn’t had much time to take care of his own. He won’t sell, though, because it is Blaylock family land.”

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