“Sexual attraction is raw and immediate …”

“It’s about a man and a woman,” Rob said, tracing his fingers along the line of Hailey’s jaw. “The feel of her skin, the way she smells.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “The way she tastes.”

And he closed the short distance between them and put his mouth on hers.

Nothing could have prepared Hailey for the lust that punched through her system. A light, teasing kiss turned hungry and hot in a nanosecond. She made a little moaning sound in the back of her throat as she reached for him, wanting to feel the solid outline of his chest. His tongue teased and tormented her. She’d never been kissed like this. Never imagined anything close to this.

He kissed her for seven eternities, taking his time, not trying to rip off her clothes or talk her into his bed, but kissing her as though his whole existence depended on nothing but this moment.

Getting involved with Rob wasn’t on her agenda, but she knew that she’d been seriously compromised.

When he pulled slowly away from her, he grinned at her wryly.

“You can’t get that on the internet …”

Dear Reader,

I confess, I love those real estate shows on television. I love the ones where we follow a couple as they try to pick the perfect home, I love the ones where decorators turn disasters into showplaces. I even love looking at real estate listings in cities where I know I will never live.

I suspect I’m not alone, given the popularity of real estate shows on TV, the constant talk about where the market is and where it’s going. I think the fun is in the fantasy that that home could be yours. That couple squabbling over an extra bedroom versus a bigger yard could be you. So I set out to write a book where a Realtor falls in love, not only with the home she’s listed, but most inconveniently, with the guy who is selling it. And in particular with one big, beautiful four-poster bed in the master bedroom.

I hope you enjoy Hailey and Rob’s story, and get a little vicarious pleasure out of the story of how the wrong man in the wrong bed turns out to be exactly the right man in the right bed.

I love hearing from readers. Visit me on the web at www.nancywarren.net.

Happy reading,

Nancy Warren

About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author NANCY WARREN lives in the Pacific Northwest where her hobbies include skiing, hiking and snowshoeing. She’s an author of more than thirty novels and novellas for Mills & Boon and has won numerous awards. Visit her website at www.nancywarren.net.

Just One Night
Nancy Warren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Sally, the best stager I know!

1

“SICK LEAVE?” Rob Klassen yelled, unable to believe what he was hearing from the editor of World Week, the international current affairs magazine he’d worked for as a photojournalist for twelve years. “I’m not sick!”

Gary Wallanger pulled off his glasses and tossed them onto his desktop cluttered with Rob’s proof sheets documenting a skirmish in a small town near the Ras Ajdir border between Tunisia and Libya. “What do you suggest I call it? Shot-in-the-ass leave? You damned near got yourself killed. Again.”

Gary didn’t like his people getting too close to the action they were reporting on and his glare was fierce.

Rob put all his weight on his good leg, but even so, the throbbing in his left thigh was hard to ignore. “I was running away as fast as I could.”

“I saw the hospital report. You were running toward the shooter. Bad luck for you. They can tell those things from the entry and exit wounds.” In the uncomfortable silence that followed Rob heard the roar of traffic, honking cabs and sirens on the Manhattan streets far below. He hadn’t counted on Gary finding out the details he’d have rather kept to himself.

“You want to be a war hero,” his editor snapped, “join the forces. We report news. We don’t make it.”

Another beat ticked by.

“There were bullets flying everywhere. I got disoriented.”

“Bull. You were playing hero again, weren’t you?”

Rob could still picture the toddler cowering behind an oil drum. Yeah, his boss would have been happier if he’d left her scared and crying in the line of gunfire. But he was the one who had to wake up every morning and look himself in the mirror. Truth was he hadn’t thought at all. He’d merely dashed over to the girl and hauled her to safety. Getting shot hadn’t been in his plan.

Would he have acted any differently if he’d known what the outcome would be? He sure as hell hoped not.

He knew better than to tell Gary any of that. “You don’t win Pulitzers with a telephoto lens. I needed to get close enough to capture the real story.”

“Close enough to take a bullet in the leg.”

“That was unfortunate,” Rob admitted. “I can still handle a camera though. I can still walk.” He made a big show of stalking across the carpeted office, scooting around the obstacle course of stacked back issues, piled newspapers and a leaning tower of reference books. If he concentrated he could manage to stride without a limp or a wince though he could feel sweat begin to break out from the effort.

“No.” The single word stopped him in his tracks.

He turned. “I’m the best you’ve got. You have to send me back out on assignment.”

“I will. As soon as you can run a mile in six.”

“A mile in six minutes? Why so fast?”

Gary’s voice was as dry as the North African desert. “So the next time you have to run for your life you can make it.”

Rob paused for breath and grabbed a chair back for support. He and Gary had been friends for a long time and he knew the guy was making the right decision even if it did piss him off. “It was pure bad luck. If I’d dodged right instead of left …”

“You know most people would be pretty happy to be alive if they were you. And they’d be thrilled to get a paid vacation.” Gary picked up his glasses and settled himself behind his desk.

“They patched me up at the closest military hospital. It was nothing but a flesh wound.”

“The bullet nicked your femur. I do know how to read a hospital report.”

Damn.

“Go home. Rest up. The world will continue to be full of trouble when you get back.” Rob knew Gary was still aggravated by the fact that he didn’t compliment him on his photos, which they both knew to be superb. Instead of getting the praise he deserved, he was being sent home like a kid who’d screwed up.

He scowled.

Home.

He’d been on the road so much in the past few years that home was usually wherever he stashed his backpack.

If he’d ever had a home, it was in Fremont, Washington, a suburb of Seattle that prided itself on celebrating counterculture, considering itself the center of the universe and officially endorsing the right to be peculiar. Fremont seemed a fitting destination for him right now that he was feeling both self-centered and peculiar. Besides, it was the only place he could think of to go even though everything that had made the place home was now gone.

“All right. But I heal fast. I’ll be running six-minute miles in a couple weeks. Tops.”

“You’ll be under a doctor’s care and I’ll be needing the physician’s report before I can reinstate you for any assignments in the field.”

“Oh, come on, Gary. Give me a freakin’ break.”

Once more the glasses came off and he was regarded by tired hazel eyes. “I am giving you a break. I could assign you to a desk right here in New York. That’s your other option.”

He shook his head. No way he was being trapped in a small space. He didn’t like feeling trapped. Not ever. “See you in a couple of weeks.”

Once he was out of Gary’s office and in the hallway Rob gave up the manly act and tried to put as little weight on his injured leg as possible.

“Rob, you should be on crutches,” a female voice called out.

He turned, recognizing the voice and mustering a happy-to-see-you smile. “Romona, hi.”

A print business reporter making the transition to television, Romona had the looks of a South American runway model and the brains of Hillary Clinton. They got together whenever they were both in New York. Neither had any interest in commitment but enjoyed each other’s company and bodies. “I heard you were hurt. How are you doing?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Okay.”

Even though they’d never do anything as obvious as hug in public, the glance she sent him from tilted green eyes steamed around the edges. She dropped her voice. “Why don’t you come over later and I’ll kiss you all better?”

“I’m filthy. Haven’t shaved in days, had a haircut in weeks, my—”

“I like you scruffy. You look like a sunburned pirate.”

He knew he’d hit rock bottom when he realized he had no desire to spend the night with a passionate woman. His leg was burning, he had a vicious case of jet lag and he’d been pulled out of the field. He felt too worn-out tired even to get laid. All he wanted to do was hide out for a while and heal.

He shook his head attempting to appear more disappointed than he was. “Sorry. I have a plane to catch.”

She knew as well as he did that plane tickets could be changed and it was a measure of his exhaustion that this was the best excuse he could come up with.

She didn’t call him on it though, merely patted his arm and said, “Maybe next time.”

That was the great thing about Romona. She was a lot like him. He’d enjoyed any number of women over the years, loved sex, but had no interest in settling down. Career came first. Maybe it was shallow, and maybe there was a part of him that longed for a woman to comfort him, to listen to his stories, share his pain. The only woman who’d ever been like that, though, had been his grandmother. Ruefully, he suspected she’d been the love of his life.

And now she was gone.

He had so many frequent flyer miles that upgrading was no problem when he got to LaGuardia. He even scored an aisle seat so he could stretch his bad leg out a little.

Once airborne, he recalled that the family attorney had tried to talk to him about the Fremont house. What with getting shot and all, he hadn’t got around to calling back. He’d call him as soon as he got into Seattle.

It was something to do with Bellamy House, the old family place where he’d spent so much time with his grandmother.

He couldn’t imagine the place without her. As a stab of pain hit, he took out the paperback he’d brought and forced himself to read.

HAILEY FLEMING WAS a woman with an agenda. Two in fact. The electronic one that she relied on so heavily that she’d recently started keeping a backup paper day planner because the thought of somehow losing her electronic schedule made her feel too close to losing her mind for comfort.

She was nothing if not organized.

And both agendas told her that she was exactly on time for the best appointment of the day. An after-work glass of wine with a colleague who’d become a close friend, Julia Atkinson.

As she made her way into the bistro off North Phinney Avenue, a former record store turned trendy bar, she scanned the tables and was not surprised to find she was the first to arrive. She was always early.

And Julia was always late.

She settled at a table and ordered a glass of white wine then spent ten minutes going through tomorrow’s appointments and writing some notes on improvements she wanted to make on her website.

“Am I late?” a breezy, breathless voice said as Julia swished into her chair, a loose black garment that resembled a combination sweater, poncho and cloak settling in around her.

“Of course you are. You’re always late.”

Julia’s red hair was newly cut into a curly bob and her full lips curved in a smile. “I was at the opening of a new furniture gallery which has brought in several fantastic new lines from Milan. I got chatting, and there were these delicious cookies. I left after three. It was the only way I could stop myself. I don’t feel guilty. I bet you did a day’s work while you waited.”

“Half a day’s anyway.”

A waiter arrived and Julia ordered a vodka tonic. Which meant she was on another of her diets. Which meant …

“I think I’ve met someone.” She sounded so excited that Hailey leaned forward.

“Tell me everything.”

Julia unbuttoned the cloak thing and draped it over the back of her chair, revealing a black-and-red dress enlivened by one of the hundreds of chunky, glitzy vintage necklaces she owned.

“He’s an engineer who lives downtown. He was married, but his wife left him and broke his heart.”

“Wow. That was fast. I just saw you last week. Where did you meet him?”

Julia’s drink came and she took a quick sip. “I haven’t actually met him yet.”

“Huh?”

She shrugged, and the slight movement made all the rhinestones in her jewelry glitter under the bar’s chandeliers. “I met him on LoveMatch.com.”

“Oh. Online dating.”

“I’d never tried it before, but lots of women meet great guys online. So I figured, why not? It’s not like you meet men if you’re a home stager.” She thought for a second. “At least not straight men.”

“How do you already know so much about him?”

“We’ve been talking on the phone. He’s away on business in the Philippines, but I’ll be meeting him next Tuesday.” Her eyes were bright with excitement. “Do you want to see a picture?”

“Of course.”

Julia hauled her computer tablet out of her bag and within a few moments passed over the electronic device complete with a grinning blond guy. Not Hailey’s type at all. Too pretty for her tastes, but Julia liked her men pretty. “Wow.”

“My big fear is that he’s too good-looking for me. Oh, and he has the cutest accent. He was born in Manchester, but he’s lived all over the world. An army brat like you.”

Hailey regarded the electronic image once more. He was wearing shorts and a loose cotton shirt. Despite the square jaw, he seemed somehow lacking in character. She’d never say so to her friend. Besides, even she knew that her own taste was notoriously picky.

“He’s not too good-looking for you. You are beautiful.”

“Do you think I can lose ten pounds by Tuesday?”

“Stop it,” Hailey said, trying not to laugh. “He’s seen your photo, right? He obviously liked what he saw.”

Julia nibbled her lower lip. “I used one from after I took that fitness boot camp last year. When I was thinner.”

For a smart, self-confident woman, Julia had body-image issues and Hailey knew there was no point arguing. Instead she went with a reassuring “It will be fine.”

“I guess. I just have such terrible luck with men.” Julia took a last, longing glance at the picture and then put the tablet away. “How are you?”

Hailey let the excitement she’d been feeling all day bubble out. “I have news, too.”

Julia’s eyes bugged out. “You met a guy?”

“No. I don’t have time for men. I’m building a business. Once I feel more successful, then maybe in a couple of years …”

“I know. You and your agendas.”

“Lists keep me on track.” She sometimes thought she’d had so much chaos in her life that relying on lists gave her a sense of control and stability that she’d never had growing up. Moving twelve times in thirteen years when she was a kid had given her a need for order. Her poor mother had quit even trying to decorate their homes. What was the point? So home had always been temporary and she’d grown to hate the sight of a moving box.

She didn’t need psychoanalysis to understand why she’d chosen a career in real estate. She loved helping clients buy permanent homes. The kinds of places where you could plant a sapling and know you’d be around to enjoy the shade of the tree.

“Don’t you miss having a man in your life?” Julia lowered her voice. “Don’t you miss sex?”

“I have lots of men in my life. Realtors, clients, friends.”

One of Julia’s eyebrows went up. “And sex?”

“I have sex.” Even to her ears she sounded defensive. “Okay, not a lot of sex. It’s been a while, but sex for me means commitment. I can’t do casual.” She shrugged. “Ever since my engagement ended …” She’d believed Drake, who was a lawyer, was perfect for her. They’d worked together on a few closings. They were both hard-working and ambitious. It wasn’t until they were talking wedding dates that they’d realized how little their agendas meshed. He wanted to move to New York to a bigger firm. She was building a business in Seattle. He wanted children right away. She felt they should wait a couple of years until the marriage had strong roots. A year ago he’d gone to New York without her. Since then she’d thrown herself into work and hadn’t missed Drake as much as she would have imagined.

“He was a moron to pick New York over you.”

“Thank you. I agree!”

“So, your big news?”

“I got an amazing listing today. It’s my big break. Uncle Ned, an old friend of my father’s, called me out of the blue and offered me the Bellamy House.”

Julia’s eyes widened once more. “That beautiful old place on the hill?”

“Yeah. The woman who owned it died a couple of months ago. Uncle Ned is her executor. There’s a grandson and he okayed the sale.”

“That’s terrific.”

“I know.” She turned mock serious. “There’s just one problem.”

Julia grabbed her hand. “It needs staging?”

“Yes! The problem is I need it staged right away. I think I have the perfect buyers. I hate to ask you, but do you think you could stage it tomorrow? I’d love to show them the place Thursday morning.”

“Miracles are what I do.” Julia morphed from love-addicted friend into professional home stager, tapping at her tablet, then nodding. “Do you have the key to the place?”

“Yes.”

“If you can show me the home tonight, I’ll figure out what I need and by tomorrow night, you’ll have your miracle.”

“I can’t wait to show you. This house is going to change everything for us.”

2

ROB’S BACKPACK WEIGHED a thousand tons as he hauled it out of the back of the cab. His eyes were dry and gritty and his leg hurt like a son of a bitch. Fog had grounded the plane in Chicago turning a relatively straightforward eight-hour trip into a two-day ordeal. He’d never yet figured out how to sleep on airplanes. Not a real plus for somebody whose job required constant travel.

But he was finally home. Or as close to a home as anything he’d ever known.

As he stood gazing at the big old house, a pang of sadness hit him that was as vicious and intense as his bullet wound.

His grandmother was gone.

He hadn’t even made it home for her funeral, her death had occurred so quickly. Not that she’d have wanted him there, but he’d have liked to have been for his own sake. They’d seen each other a few months back when he’d come to visit between assignments. Had she seemed more frail?

Worse, had she known her end was near and not told him?

He shook his head. No.

At eighty-eight his grandmother had impressed him as being mentally as sharp as ever. She’d even chided him to hurry up and get married and give her some great-grandbabies before she got to a hundred. Naturally he’d told her the truth. That he’d never settle until he found somebody like her. Hadn’t happened in thirty-five years. He doubted it ever would.

She’d laughed and told him he’d have to set his sights lower. He grinned at the memory. No. His grandmother definitely hadn’t planned on dying.

Damn it. He was going to miss that woman.

There were affairs to settle and likely some papers to sign. Right now though all he could think about was a huge glass of Pacific Northwest water, the kind you could drink straight from the tap, a long, hot shower, and sleep.

Long, uninterrupted sleep in a real bed.

As Rob hefted his pack and limped up the path he noted that somebody had swept the front steps recently and even planted blooming bushes in the brick planters.

For early September the night was cool, but to a man who’d spent the past few weeks in the African desert, almost everywhere seemed cool.

He couldn’t imagine who would have planted bushes, or why. His brain was way too tired to puzzle out such minor mysteries. Tomorrow. He’d think tomorrow.

AS A REALTOR, HAILEY liked to think of herself as a matchmaker putting the right house together with the right buyer. As of today she had a new unattached single waiting for the right person to fall in love with it—a loft condo downtown that she’d listed this morning, thanks to a referral from a satisfied client. She was new enough to the business that every referral, every listing and especially every sale filled her with pride.

Now she was ready to make another match.

She had a gut instinct that the Bellamy House she was about to show Samantha and Luke MacDonald was going to be a fit. A real-estate marriage made not in heaven but in the offices of Dalbello and Company, where she worked fiendish hours to make her mark in a competitive business.

Like any good matchmaker, she’d prepped carefully, hiring Julia to stage the faded but solid turn-of-the-century Craftsman and bringing in cleaners and a window washer. Hailey had planted cheerfully blooming winter kale and pansies at the entranceway in an effort to keep the buyers’ eyes from going immediately to the neglected garden. She wished she had the time and resources to do more, but this was an estate sale.

Everything was as perfect as she could make it. The sun shining on the gleaming diamond-paned windows showed the gracious contours of the home that must have been a real showpiece in its day.

The young couple scheduled to see the place arrived at eleven as scheduled. “I think you’re really going to like this one,” Hailey said, passing them a feature sheet. “It’s just come on the market and I immediately thought of you.”

She unlocked the shiny black front door and light spilled into the foyer bringing out the gleam on the newly waxed oak floors. It was amazing what a good cleaning could do to a house. Not that the previous owner hadn’t been a good housekeeper; Hailey could tell from the order in the home that she had. Still, in the months since Agnes Neeson had died, the house had been shut up and grown dusty. Today the air smelled not of must as it had the first time she’d viewed it, but of the lilies and roses that Julia had placed in a glass vase on the entranceway table.

Her heels clacked on the original hardwood floors as she pointed out the spacious dimensions of the dining and living areas, the original heritage features such as the hand-carved fireplace mantel and the built-in glass-fronted cabinets. Julia had indeed worked a miracle, hauling clutter and the dated furniture to a storage facility and replacing it all with modern pieces and splashes of designer color in cushions and throws.

She could tell Samantha and Luke were excited and she shared a little of the thrill. Who wouldn’t want a great house like this? It was barely in their price range but she knew they could do it. She glanced over at the couple, arguing good-naturedly about where they’d put his wine fridge and how hard it would be to baby-proof the place.

“You could put in a new kitchen, the space is here,” she said as she walked them through it. Personally she liked the big old cupboards and the cheerful yellow walls. She suspected though that the MacDonalds would probably prefer stainless appliances and granite countertops. When Samantha reminded her husband that they’d have to build renovation costs into their budget she knew she’d guessed right. He groaned theatrically, but his grin indicated he was excited about the home, too.

Hailey loved being single in the city. All the same there were times, like now, when she got a glimpse of another life. A man at her side, a baby on the way—and a home.

She loved the way Julia had artfully tossed a purple woolen throw over a gray couch to give the impression that someone with great taste and no clutter lived here.

“Four bedrooms?” Samantha asked.

“That’s right. One’s ideal for the baby’s room, there’s a nice-sized room for a guest bedroom, a home office, and the master is a treat. Come on, I’ll show you.”

They reached the top landing. She first showed them the two smaller rooms and the main bathroom, fine but nothing special. Then she opened the door to the master. “This is my favorite room in the house. There’s a vintage four-poster that you might be able to buy with the house if you’re interested. It’s a large room with wonderful dimensions, a window seat, a fireplace and a full en suite.” She flipped on the overhead light. She knew the room by heart but wanted to watch their faces when they saw the blissful space.

Hailey ushered them into the room. “What do you think?”

She was so ready for squeals of delight that Sam’s reaction was puzzling. The woman’s eyes opened wide. She blinked, looking over at her equally stupefied husband.

Hailey turned around and saw that the white bedcover she’d so carefully smoothed to rid it of any wrinkles was marred, not by a wrinkle, but by a big unshaven man in a blue-and-green checked work shirt, worn jeans and socks that didn’t match.

He was sound asleep.

Two grubby sneakers sat on the Aubusson rug where he’d obviously kicked them off prior to napping.

Silence reigned for a moment.

“Does he come with the place?” Samantha asked.

Sleepy blue eyes blinked at them out of a lean, weathered, stubbly face. The stranger’s overgrown brown hair was more tangle than style. He regarded them, seeming to consider the question, and cracked a smile. “Everything’s negotiable.” His voice was low, a little husky from sleep.

Sam giggled, thank heaven, though Hailey didn’t find anything amusing about finding a homeless guy with a whacked sense of humor snoozing in the house she was trying to sell.

His gaze then focused only on her and she felt the strangest sense of connection with this utter stranger. For a second their gazes held, her heart sped up and she felt as though something that had been out of place suddenly had clicked back in. She closed her eyes against the strange sensation.

She tried to ask “Who are you?” and “What are you doing here?” but in the rush to get it all out her brain short-circuited and instead she asked, “Who are you doing here?”

The twinkle in his blue eyes deepened and when he smiled she noted he had Bradley Cooper–white teeth. No homeless guy she’d ever seen had teeth that gleaming. “I’m not doing anybody here.”

Sam giggled again as if they were at an impromptu comedy club.

“I meant what are you doing here?”

He yawned and settled himself onto his back. “Until you showed up I was sleeping.”

You didn’t get to be a top Realtor—okay, an up-and-coming Realtor—without a lot of tact, so she didn’t take off her shoe and throw it at his head, as much as she was tempted. “Okay, let’s try the other question. Who are you?” she asked, in a calm, clear voice.

“Robert Klassen. And you are?”

“My name is Hailey Fleming. I’m a Realtor and this house is for sale.”

He put up two hands with nails that could use a scrub and rubbed his eyes. “Is that why the place looks like a furniture store? I barely recognized it. My grandmother sure never had such modern taste. The only thing I recognize is this bed.” He glanced at the MacDonalds. “She died in it.”

Sam made a startled sound, and took a step back, glancing around as though a ghost might be hovering in the room.

Hailey’s sale fell through in that moment. She knew it as well as she knew that if she had her way that bed would see another casualty very soon.

“She didn’t die here in the house,” Hailey said through gritted teeth. “She passed away peacefully in hospital.” She doubted the MacDonalds would believe her. For some reason they believed this guy. Was he really Mrs. Neeson’s grandson? If he was, she had to tread carefully.

The house bore no signs of a break-in and the scruffy backpack leaning against the wall shouted Drifter. However, a pretty fancy camera bag leaned beside it. Hadn’t she heard the grandson was some kind of photographer?

Her unwanted visitor didn’t leap off the bed and race for the door, rather he simply grabbed hold of the two green silk accent pillows behind him and propped himself up. Even wearing mismatched socks, he was imposing, undeniably gorgeous in that annoying unkempt way that only certain men can pull off.

She had absolutely no idea how to proceed. Not that she had years of experience under her belt, but she doubted a scenario like this happened very often to any agent, no matter how experienced. And she really, really needed to keep this listing. It was her biggest break yet in an industry that was tough to crack. The estate lawyer was an old family friend giving her a chance. For some shaggy backpacker to come in here and take it away from her was too much.

However, until she got this mess sorted out there wasn’t much she could do, so she pulled herself together and turned to the MacDonalds. “I am so sorry. There is obviously some kind of a mix-up that I will have to sort out before we go any further.”

“We understand,” said Luke. He stepped back out into the hall. “It’s too bad though. It’s a great house. Perfect for our needs.”

“I know.” At least she had the satisfaction of knowing she’d been correct about the match. Thanks to tall, dark and shaggy, it wouldn’t fatten her bank account, but at least she knew she was on the right track. “I promise to get things figured out, and when I do, you’ll be the first people I call. In the meantime I’ll put together some more houses that will work for you.”

As they went down the stairs, Sam glanced back over her shoulder. “Did the previous owner really die in this house?”

“Of course not. If she had I’d tell you. Agnes Neeson died in hospital. She was almost ninety and lived here happily until a few days before she passed on. It was a stroke. She died peacefully without ever regaining consciousness. We should all be so lucky.”

She kept her bright smile intact until she’d seen the MacDonalds out and then she dropped the happy act and turned back to confront the complete stranger who was doing his best to upset all her careful plans.

Hailey had no intention of letting that happen and tall, dark and disheveled was about to find that out.

3

ROB YAWNED AND STRETCHED, wanting to close his eyes and finish that long sleep he so desperately needed. He heard the front door slam and groaned; clearly he wasn’t alone in the house.

With ominous certainty he knew the woman who had so rudely woken him was on her way back to the bedroom. And he didn’t think she was going anywhere anytime soon.

He listened as she marched up the stairs, striking the creaky section in the middle of the sixth step. There was another creaky spot on step eleven and she struck that one, too.

This house had no secrets from him.

When she appeared in the doorway of the bedroom he was ready for her. Not at so much of a disadvantage.

Of course, his grandmother would have been horrified to see him lounging on the bed, leaning against stacked pillows he didn’t recognize any more than anything else in this room.

He felt almost as though he were in a dream where things were familiar but weren’t. The woman currently surveying him was real though. No question there.

She was also hot, he realized, surveying her. She looked pissed off yet confused and unsure of herself all at once. An interesting combination.

He liked the neat way she’d put herself together. She had long blond hair and eyes that couldn’t make up their mind between gray and blue and so made you keep noticing them, to wonder.

She wore a black skirt and white blouse with chunky black jewelry. She had nice legs. She might have a nice smile; however, at the moment her lips were so tight together they could be sewed shut.

Then she opened them. Not to smile unfortunately. To speak.

“We have to talk.”

He let his head fall back, and if it weren’t for all the fancy pillows on the bed he’d have hit the walnut headboard. “Four most frightening words in the English language.”

He almost got a glimpse of her smile, but to his consternation she managed to suppress it. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”

“Yeah. I think so, too.” He glanced around the room once more. “Did you move in here or something?”

“Of course not. I told you, I’m a Realtor. I’ve listed this house for sale.”

“Well, unless my grandmother spent the last months of her life redecorating her house in condo-modern, somebody else’s stuff is in here.”

She looked at him as though he was missing half his marbles. He was tired, but he couldn’t be that tired.

“I had this home professionally staged.”

When it was clear he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, she continued.

“We clear out the clutter and bring in pieces and accessories to showcase the home in the best way possible. I think the improvement is amazing.”

“It doesn’t look like my grandmother’s house anymore.” Except for the big bed which he’d instinctively been drawn to last night. It had reminded him of home, tradition, his grandmother.

As he stared up at her, suddenly the four-poster filled him with other thoughts. Adult thoughts. Her slim hands wrapped around the bedposts while she writhed in passion. He blinked, glancing away before she could catch the lust in his eyes.

“It’s not supposed to. The concept of staging is to inspire the buyer to see the possibilities and leave them space to imagine their own furniture and personal items in the home.”

There were all sorts of things he could reply, such as, he wanted his grandmother’s stuff brought back. Even as tired as he was, still he knew that what he really wanted was his grandmother back and that wasn’t going to happen. So he went on the offensive. “You need to move all this crap out of here.”

Her eyes shifted more to gray when she got huffy. She crossed her arms in front of her. “I have a listing agreement.”

“Not with me.”

“My agreement is with Mrs. Neeson’s attorney.”

“That’s a funny thing, because the house was left to me.” He had to be honest though. “I do remember some weird-ass conversation with her lawyer. I was in Libya with a camp of rebels. It was a bad connection. Maybe he thought I said yes to listing the house when I didn’t.” He scrubbed his hands across his eyes. He’d kill for a cup of coffee. “I’ll probably sell, but I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do yet.”

“This puts me in a very difficult position.” She seemed not to know what to do. He got the impression that she was as staged as the house she was attempting to sell. All at once it occurred to him that she was pretty new at this biz. Probably hadn’t come across any difficult situations yet.

Well, she was in one now.

A frown marred her pretty face. “I don’t want to be rude but I have no proof you are Mrs. Neeson’s grandson.

He figured she had a point, and he already sensed she was stubborn enough that she wouldn’t leave until she was satisfied he was who he said he was. So he shifted until he could reach his wallet, took it out, seeing it through her eyes as a grubby, falling-apart-at-the-seams excuse for a wallet. He opened the Velcro flap that was only half stuck down and offered her his driver’s license.

She took a look. Stared at him and back at the picture as if she was a bouncer wondering if his ID was fake. “You don’t have the same last name.”

“That’s right. It’s a maternal/paternal thing.”

“I think maybe you should leave and we’ll sort this out tomorrow.”

He was no more going to leave this house than he was going to put up with being bossed around by an uppity blond in too-high heels. “That’s not going to happen.” Enough already. He wanted to get back to his nap. In peace. “Let’s call Edward Barnes. He knows me.”

“He’s on a wine-tasting trip in California. And if you actually know him, you’ll know he—”

“Doesn’t carry a cell phone,” he finished for her, feeling increasingly irritated. He prided himself on keeping cool in a crisis but this was getting ridiculous. “How did I get in?”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“I opened the door, which was locked. How did I get in if I’m not her grandson?”

“The key hidden under the planter. Probably the second place anyone would look, after checking under the mat.”

“I am not leaving here. I am the legal owner of this home.”

“All I’m asking you to do is prove it.”

He jumped up as the obvious solution struck him. “Photo albums with pictures of me and my grandmother.”

She looked guilty. “Remember what I told you about decluttering?”

“Where are the photo albums?”

“In storage.”

This was turning into a bad farce. You might as well try and milk a rhinoceros as reason with this woman. Some of the old neighbors might have recognized him but most had moved on. Or died.

It was difficult to think when he was in a bedroom, in a bed, and a very attractive woman was alone with him. In heels. Now he pictured her in nothing but those black heels stretched out on the white expanse of the bed.

He had to get out of here. And soon, before he was as hard as one of the bedposts. He shifted and sat up. “Follow me.”

She was instantly suspicious. “Follow you where?”

“My first choice would be to the front door—” he was lying, it was his second choice “—but if that’s not going to happen, then I want to show you something in my old bedroom down the hall.” He scowled as he maneuvered his legs off the bed, trying not to wince, and headed for the door. “I mean, what used to be my old bedroom. Before you turned it into a nursery.” Which was why he’d had to crash in his grandmother’s bed instead of his own.

His progress was halting at best. She followed slowly, then said, “Oh, my gosh. We moved a black cane into storage. I assumed it was Mrs. Neeson’s. Was it yours?”

“No. It was my grandmother’s.” He didn’t feel like explaining. Especially since she supposedly didn’t even believe he was Mrs. Neeson’s grandson.

“Oh, good.”

She wisely refrained from further comment and simply followed his slow progress to the room that had been his for what seemed like his entire life. His grandmother had let him redecorate it after his parents got divorced and maybe that had helped him feel like there’d always be somewhere in his life that was permanent.

The daylight filtered through the dormer window and he remembered all the mornings he’d lain in bed, gazing at the sky, dreaming of travel, of adventure, of a future where he set his own rules.

Under the dormer was a window seat. He noted that the stager had placed a fancy cushion on top of the spot where he’d folded himself into the space between the walls and read comic books hour after hour.

He removed the designer cushion, tossed it onto the faux-leather chair neither he nor his grandmother would ever have chosen. He pulled up on the wooden top of the box and it gave slightly.

“That doesn’t open,” she said in a smug tone. “We tried it.”

“Yeah it does.” He’d worked ages on the project figuring out an intricate puzzle opening to keep his stash of treasures secret. The cool thing about his grandmother was that she’d never asked him how to get into the thing. Never asked him what he kept in there. She was the kind of woman who respected a man’s privacy and trusted him with his secrets. He wished there were more women like that in the world.

When Hailey moved closer to check out what he was doing he caught her scent. Elusive, feminine, sexy as a woman in nothing but stilettos. And maybe a wisp or two of lingerie.

He slid his index finger into the familiar groove. His fingers were thicker now he’d grown up but he could still maneuver the latch that raised the top another inch, allowing him access to the second mechanism. It took him another minute and then he lifted the lid all the way, staring down into the hollow box for the first time in years.

There wasn’t much there. A few old comics he’d never part with. He pushed his first baseball glove out of the way, a dog-eared National Geographic, and there, underneath a wooden knife he’d carved himself in his Samurai phase, was the leather folder. He took it out, brushed a dead moth off, and handed it to her. He rose from his crouched position and looked over her shoulder as she opened it.

Once more he caught her scent. Not flowery. Citrus with underlying tones of heat.

The photograph and accompanying citation were among his few treasures. “You won a city-wide photography contest,” she said. “You were in high school.” When she turned to him he was struck again by the blue-gray eyes. Like her scent, the first impression was coolness, and then you caught the heat behind the cool facade.

“Yes, but that’s not the point. Check out the picture. And read the caption.”

An absurdly young version of himself in a sports jacket—one of half a dozen times in his life he’d ever worn anything formal—his grandmother and his mom stood in a little trio, him holding his winning photograph—a bear cub sitting on top of a Dumpster eating an apple. It wasn’t much of a big event in a person’s life but to him that award had signaled the beginning of a career. Becoming a photojournalist had given him freedom, adventure, life on the road and a reasonable salary.

She read aloud. “‘Robert Klassen, fifteen, wins for his photograph, An Apple a Day, while his mother, Emily Klassen, and his grandmother, Agnes Neeson, look on.”

He pointed to his young self. “That’s me and that’s my grandmother.”

Her expression softened in a smile. “It’s a great photograph. And you were a very cute teenager.” She closed the folder and handed it back to him.

“Are you satisfied now that I am who I say I am?”

She turned her head and he was struck once more by the impact of those in-between-blue-and-gray eyes. “You pretty much had me when you opened the Chinese-puzzle-box window seat.”

“I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.” He was, too. Apart from being a little high-strung, she seemed like a nice woman. “Thing is, I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to sell the place. And if I do I’ll want to choose my own Realtor.”

Her nostrils flared at that. “Do you have a relationship with a Realtor in Seattle?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, let me tell you, I am an extremely competent Realtor with excellent references. I think the MacDonalds were a real possibility.”

“They seemed freaked out that my grandmother died in her bed.”

She slammed her hands to her hips. Perfectly manicured hands, no wedding ring. “She didn’t. Your grandmother, as I’m sure you know, passed away in hospital.”

A shaft of pain stabbed him. Grief, he supposed. He tried to ignore it. “Not the point. If you’d known my grandmother you’d have wanted her spirit to stay in the house.” Maybe that was why he had such a heavy feeling when he thought of other people occupying this place. To him she was still here. “People who are scared of ghosts, they wouldn’t be my kind of people or my grandmother’s.” He knew he was overtired and would soon feel more like his old self; until then though he really had to get a grip. And probably stop talking before he made a fool of himself.

The woman smiled at him. “It’s hard to let go when we’ve loved someone,” she said softly.

“Yeah.” As trite as her words sound, they were sincere.

“Were you close?”

“Oh, yeah. She pretty much raised me.” He couldn’t imagine what would have happened to him if he’d been left with his mother. His grandmother had not only raised him; she’d saved him. Given him a chance to make something of his life.

When Hailey looked at him, he felt as though she could see inside him. It was the weirdest feeling and he knew she felt it, too, from how she took an instinctive step back toward the door. It was as if they both became aware at the same moment that they were alone together in a bedroom—even if the spread was covered in little yellow duckies. He could have sworn the temperature zoomed up a few degrees.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.

That’s when he became convinced she really could read his mind. “I would get on my knees and beg for a cup.”

A genuine smile tilted her lips. Finally. “No need to beg. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He thought about asking her to bring the coffee up but knew she’d get the wrong impression. Thing was, stairs were the hardest for him to navigate. For some reason, which he could not identify, he didn’t want this woman to see him limping. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll make some later.”

“I’d like a cup anyway. And besides, I do want to talk to you.”

HAILEY GAVE HERSELF a pep talk as she prepared coffee. Stay confident, she reminded herself as she poured freshly ground beans into a French press. Be positive. Luckily she’d stocked up on coffee the day before, even had fresh milk in the refrigerator, so it wasn’t long before her favorite scent in the world filled the bright kitchen.

She heard a noise behind her and turned to find Robert Klassen in the kitchen. He was taller than she’d first imagined and upright he was more commanding and definitely more sexy.

“Have a seat,” she said brightly, pointing to the oak chairs at the kitchen table that she and Julia had decided to keep.

“Thanks.” He seemed to hesitate, then moved forward. Slowly. Stiffly. When he went to sit down, he leaned on the table and lowered himself slowly into a chair.

She turned away, busying herself with coffee so he wouldn’t think she was staring.

“Do you take milk and sugar?”

“No. Black.”

She brought coffees to the table and sat opposite him. According to her electronic planner she had thirty-five minutes until she had to be at the office for the weekly meeting and pep talk. She was determined to use the time to save her listing.

He sipped coffee. Seemed to savor every drop.

“You like your coffee,” she said, somewhat amused.

“When you live the way I do, you don’t take things like coffee or a good meal for granted. Even clean water is a luxury.” He sipped again, caught her gaze and then said, “I got shot. That’s why I’m limping. It’s no big deal, but I need to rest up for a few weeks.”

“Shot? I thought you were a photographer.” She wished she’d listened more closely.

“I’m a photojournalist. I work for World Week.”

World Week was one of the top news magazines in the country, covering international affairs, finance, politics and the arts. “Wow. That must be fascinating.”

“It is. Obviously the nature of my job requires me to cover war zones, famines, devastation both natural and human made. As you can imagine there isn’t a Starbucks on every corner.”

She sipped her own coffee, for once stopping to enjoy the flavor. How often did she even really taste her morning brew? But, with only thirty-four minutes left, she couldn’t waste time savoring coffee. She had work to do.

“Do you have a wife and family?”

The question obviously startled him. He nearly choked on his coffee. “No.”

“Are you planning to live in this house?”

She asked it innocently, but he had to know where this was going.

A crease formed between his eyebrows. She could see that he was actually thinking about her question. She decided to help him along. “A house this size might not fit with your lifestyle. I imagine you’re not home very much.”

“See the thing is—”

He stopped talking when they both heard the front door open and a female voice called, “Can I come in?”

Julia. “Sure. In the kitchen,” she called back.

“So the coast is clear.” And then Julia walked in, a swish of red cashmere coat and black pants, saw the man sitting there and said, “Oh.”

His lips twitched, which made her feel once more that strange sense of connection with him. “Julia, this is Robert Klassen.”

“I go by Rob,” he said as they shook hands.

“Hi, Rob,” she said, and flicked Hailey a glance. “Are you interested in buying Bellamy House?”

“I might be, if I didn’t already own it.”

In a few seconds Hailey had filled her friend in on the situation. Julia poured herself a coffee and sat down. “It’s great that you’re here to see Hailey at work. She’s fantastic. This place will sell in no time.” She turned to Hailey. “How did the MacDonalds like it? I think we were genius to stage the small bedroom as a nursery.”

“I think they’re interested,” Hailey said, keeping her tone carefully neutral.

“They’re not the right people for this house,” Robert Klassen, call-me-Rob, announced.

Hailey and Julia exchanged glances. The unspoken message being trouble ahead.

There was an awkward silence, then Julia broke it. “I dropped by to see if you want me to finish the staging on Tuesday night. I had to rush on the upstairs.”

“Don’t you have a date Tuesday night?” Hailey had been so excited about the blond guy that she had added a notation to her agenda just so she’d remember to phone and ask how the date had gone.

“No. He had to postpone. His business trip has been extended. He’s got to go to Nigeria next week. I’ll meet him the week after.”

“Oh, too bad.”

“Gives me time to lose a couple more pounds before we meet.” She turned to Rob. “We connected through LoveMatch.com.”

“What kind of work does he do?” Rob asked.

“He’s a civil engineer.”

Hailey said, “I’m not sure about Tuesday. Can I let you know?”

“Sure.” Julia took another quick sip of coffee, and then rose. “Sorry to run, but I’ve got to write up a staging proposal and head to an old friend’s baby shower. And I’m already running late. Nice to meet you, Rob.”

“You, too.”

“I’ll call you,” Hailey said.

When her friend had gone, she only had twenty minutes to convince this man to let her keep the listing. She opened her mouth to get back to business when he surprised her.

“So your friend hasn’t met that guy?”

“What guy?”

“The one she has the date with?”

“No. Not yet. Why?” He was messing with her careful arguments on why she should keep this listing. And besides, what business was it of his if two people he didn’t know had a date?

“Tell her he’s probably a scammer.”

“What?”

“Nigeria is the scam capital of the world. And something about ‘civil engineer’ sounds fishy to me.”

“How can you be so judgmental? She’s talked to him on the phone. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Maybe. You spend long enough in the news business, you get an instinct.” Between telling prospective buyers ghost stories and trying to kill her friend’s happy buzz, she wasn’t too sure about his supposed instincts. Apparently he didn’t have much of an instinct for dodging bullets. “Just tell her, whatever she does, not to send the guy money.”

“All right. Fine.” She shifted and glanced at her watch. “Can we talk about us?”

He had the sexiest way of looking at her. She’d known the man all of about an hour and every time he looked at her thoughts she had no business thinking flitted through her mind.

“Us?”

As their gazes connected, she thought maybe Julia had a point. It had been way too long since she had sex if a shaggy drifter who was trying to mess with her career could make her overheated with a mere glance. She crossed her legs. “You know what I meant. The listing.”

He leaned back in his chair, savored another sip of coffee. Then he said, “Okay. Here’s what I propose. You can keep the listing. I’ll be living here so you have to work around me. I don’t want open houses. Appointment only. We’ll see how it goes.”

She was so relieved not to find herself fired before she’d started that she nodded. “Okay.” However, she wasn’t a complete fool or a pushover. “I have a condition of my own.” And she drilled him with her serious-business-woman look. “No more stories about your grandmother dying in that bed. As I’m sure Mrs. Neeson taught you, if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

4

AFTER THE HOT REALTOR LEFT, Rob drained the rest of the coffee into his mug and began to wander through the house.

She was right, of course. It didn’t make any sense for him to keep the place. It was too big, with maintenance issues always cropping up. It was a house meant for a family, and now that his grandmother was gone, he didn’t have one anymore.

Maybe he hadn’t been able to say goodbye formally at her funeral, but he could for damn sure make certain that the next people who lived in this house were a family his grandmother would have approved of.

He suddenly realized that was what had brought him back to Seattle.

He needed to hand on the house to the right people. Then maybe he could let his memories go and get back to his regular life.

If he owed anything to Agnes Neeson’s memory it was not to let weenies who were scared of their own shadows live in her place.

He didn’t have much of an idea what he was going to do with himself for the next several weeks, apart from get his strength back, so he called Dr. Greene’s office and wasn’t remotely surprised to get an appointment that very afternoon.

HAILEY BARELY MADE the weekly office meeting at Dalbello and Company, sliding in as the office manager was in the midst of his weekly speech. Normally she worked from home, not interested in renting an overpriced desk. She dropped by to use the photocopy machine and to visit with her mentor and friend, Hal Wilson, who’d been in the business for thirty years.

She saw Hal standing near the water cooler and went over to him. “Did I miss anything?” she whispered.

“Ted says listings are up overall in the city and the house prices are starting to creep up.”

“Good news.” There were about thirty Realtors in the open area where they held the weekly meetings. Rows of desks stretched out behind her all currently empty. Two high-end printers and photocopiers sat to the side underneath a line of windows. A big whiteboard dominated this end of the room.

Ted told a couple of jokes, gave them a weekly sales tip, and then moved on to the reason she had raced to get here.

“Let’s look at the new listings.”

He boomed out the listings like an auctioneer. The standard mix of houses, condos, a couple of commercial properties. “And Bellamy House. Listed by Hailey Fleming. Her biggest listing yet and the biggest listing for our office this week.” He turned to her with a big two-thumbs-up. “Way to go, Hailey!” He started clapping and all the assembled Realtors joined in.

Sure it was cheesy, but the clapping and cheering worked to make her feel more confident.

Naturally she didn’t bother sharing with a group of sharks, all of whom would love to list and sell Bellamy House, that her listing was hanging by a thread.

When the meeting was over, a stylish redhead walked over to Hailey and Hal. “Congratulations again.” Her name was Diane and her congrats were as fake as her smile. She was a successful Realtor with a reputation for ruthlessness. “When’s the agents’ open?”

She shook her head. “The client’s very clear. He doesn’t want any opens. I’ve got photos on my website. Give me a call if you’ve got clients who might be interested. We’ll arrange a private showing.”

“Will do.” Diane asked a couple of questions about the kitchen and made a few notes, then walked off when her cell phone buzzed.

When Diane was out of earshot, Hal said, “I heard she tried to get that listing. She has a contact in the hospital. If a property owner dies, she hears about it before next of kin.”

“No!”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

Good thing the lawyer was a family friend. “Hal, I’ve got a problem. I need some advice.”

“Okay.”

She told Hal about Rob and the tentative agreement they had that she could keep the listing as long as she didn’t disturb him. “I’m sure the MacDonalds would have made an offer if he hadn’t scared them off with stories of his grandmother dying upstairs in the bedroom.”

Hal took his time answering her, finally, saying, “This is a great opportunity for you. I don’t want you to lose it.”

“Me neither.”

“Some clients don’t even know what they want. Sounds like he’s one. You’re going to have to manage him.”

“Manage him? How?”

“Hailey, my dear. Use one of your greatest assets. Your charm.”

DR. GREENE’S OFFICE smelled the same as it had for the thirty years he’d been dragged here, Rob thought, as he sat leafing through an ancient golf magazine. And the decor hadn’t changed since he was a kid either, he realized as he shifted on the cracked vinyl seat in the waiting room. He tossed the magazine aside. He didn’t even like golf. He took out his phone and checked his email. Nothing interesting.

He hated waiting rooms. Hated anything with the word waiting in it. He checked the time on his phone. He’d been here fifteen minutes. It wasn’t even his idea to be under a doctor’s care. Damn Gary and his officious dictates. So his leg hurt. It would heal.

A mom and her kid emerged from the treatment room. The kid hunch-shouldered and coughing. This family doctor was so old-fashioned he only had one room. As soon as the outer door closed behind the cougher and his mom, the receptionist, Carol, who’d been sitting behind that old oak counter since before Rob was born nodded toward him. “You can go on in.”

Horace Greene had to be closing in on seventy. His hair, what was left of it, was salt-and-pepper, his beard was Santa Claus–white and his pale blue eyes focused as keenly as ever from behind bifocal lenses. Doc Greene had been his grandmother’s family doctor longer than he’d been alive, and if he had a family doctor, he supposed it was this one. Doc rose to his feet as Rob limped into his office and held out a hand.

“Rob, how you doing?”

“Been better, Doc.”

The physician gestured to the oak chair in front of his scarred oak desk and took his own seat on the other side. “Haven’t seen you in a long time. How long’s it been?”

“Must be five years.”

He nodded. He might be chitchatting, but Rob wasn’t fooled. Those old eyes didn’t miss a thing. “Sorry about your grandmother passing. It was a big loss for you.”

“Yeah.”

“And what’s this? You’re limping. What happened?”

“I got shot.”

If Doc was surprised by the news he didn’t show it. “Mmm-hmm, so when was this? Who’s looked at it?” He pulled out a notepad and began scribbling.

“About a week ago. On assignment in Libya. My boss pulled some strings and got me in to a military surgeon. He took some X-rays, said there were no remaining fragments. Gave me a few stitches and told me I was good to go.”

Doc glanced at him over his glasses and said, “I bet he or she also told you to use crutches.”

The military surgeon had said that and a few other less complimentary things. He shrugged. “You know what a fast healer I am. You’ve always said I’ve got a head like a rock.”

“But you’re not bullet-proof. I should take a look at the wound.”

“I’m going to need a report from you that says I’m cleared to go back to work.”

Doc Greene rose and headed for his treatment room adjoining the office. “Drop your duds and let’s have a look.”

Rob followed him, trying his hardest not to limp, and soon found himself sitting on the exam table, his pants folded over a chair, his leg bared to the doctor’s prying gaze. And fingers. “Ow.”

“No discharge on the bandage and the wound is healing nicely.” Doc nodded, tossing the old bandage into the trash. “You said it’s been a week since the injury. We’ll redress that for you and it should be okay.”

The older man fussed around in a cabinet, taking out the things he’d need. “I’m putting on a dry dressing,” he said as he began. “Dry gauze and tape. As soon as the wound stops weeping you can leave it open to the air to speed healing. That should happen in the next few days. Pat dry after showers.”

“Great, thanks,” Rob said after the new dressing was taped to his leg. He was happy he’d got off without a lecture on being careful or some other impertinence from the man who’d been doctoring him for three decades.

But he didn’t get off that easy.

“Put your pants back on and come on back to my office. There’s a few things I’d like to talk to you about.”

Reluctantly, Rob returned to the chair in front of the desk and slumped down.

Doc Greene pushed the pad aside and looked at him intently. “How are you coping?”

“Fine.”

A beat of silence passed but Rob wasn’t going to break it. Doc continued. “You’ve been through an emotionally exhausting time. You’ve lost someone special and you’ve got a significant enough injury that it’s brought you home. All that combined is going to take a toll.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, sounding less than fine even to his own ears. This was the man who had treated his grandmother through her few illnesses and had looked after her at the end. He licked his lips. “My grandmother—she seemed fine when I was home six months ago …” He let the unspoken question hover.

Doc sat back. No wonder patients were always kept waiting. He never rushed.

“Agnes Neeson lived a life anyone would be proud of. She kept her independence to the end.” Doc smiled. “And you know how important that was to her. She was getting frail. She had a massive stroke and died in hospital without ever regaining consciousness.” He didn’t need to consult a file. He knew all his patients and he and Agnes had been friends as well as doctor and patient.

“Would she have suffered?”

Doc shook his head. “There are no nerve endings in your brain. There wouldn’t be pain.”

“Good,” Rob said, relieved and somehow comforted. “I wish I’d been there.”

Doc nodded. “I know. Reading every issue of World Week cover to cover made your grandmother feel close to you. Nobody could have been prouder of you than she was.”

The prickling of tears horrified Rob. He cleared his throat and changed the subject fast. “There’s a Realtor who messed up the house.” He rubbed his sore leg. “She took out my grandmother’s furniture and staged the place. Everything’s different since I was here.”

“It is. I heard the place was for sale. It’s that nice young gal from Dalbello who has the listing. She’ll do a good job for you.”

Rob didn’t have the energy to talk about his confused feelings so he mumbled his thanks and struggled to his feet. Limping to the door, he realized that the doc was right. He wasn’t as okay as he tried to pretend he was.

JULIA RAN INTO BEANANZA, her favorite coffee shop. “Hey, Julia. How’s it going?” Bruno, her favorite barista, called over the hiss of the espresso machine.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she called back.

Bruno sent her a disbelieving look out of his big brown Italian eyes. “It’s raining,” he said. He wore a bill cap, one from his huge collection. She was pretty sure he was sensitive about the thinning patch of hair at the crown of his head, though maybe it was a fashion statement. Who knew?

He had a gold hoop in one ear and wore a T-shirt that said Decaf Is for Sissies.

When he’d served a hot chocolate and a chai latte to the customers in front of her, he started her drink. There was no need to ask, she ordered the same thing every day. A tall skinny latte. As though drinking enough of it might rub off and she’d awaken one day to find herself tall and skinny.

She lived in hope.

While preparing her drink, he said, “Brownies are fresh out of the oven.” As though she needed reminding, as though the smell weren’t enticing her to sin, leading her down the calorie path of doom. She could see them behind the glass case, the chocolate glistening on top, the cakey part dense and rich. “I can’t,” she moaned. “I’m on a diet.”

“Really? Who is he?”

“Why do you think I’m only on a diet because of a man?”

“Because you’ve been coming into Beananza nearly every day for three years. That’s like a thousand days in a row. And every time you tell me you’re on a diet there’s a guy.”

“Okay, there’s a guy.”

He smiled as he passed her latte over. She glanced down at the surface, as she did every morning. And laughed. He’d drawn a heart into the froth on the top of her latte.

She settled into one of the small tables to enjoy her coffee. Bruno always served coffee in china mugs unless a customer specifically asked for a to-go cup. Customers only made that mistake once. Bruno made it very clear he strongly disapproved of people carrying coffees around. He served his brew the way he believed it was meant to be drunk, sitting down and savoring it, and if you didn’t like drinking coffee his way, you could go elsewhere.

His café was always packed.

Julia had learned to appreciate Bruno’s point of view. She looked forward to settling into one of the small tables or the long bar by the windows. She would sip her coffee and read the paper or a magazine, or, as now, open her tablet computer to savor the latest email from her LoveMatch.

Hi sweetie,

She absolutely loved that he called her sweetie. It seemed so casually intimate. As though they’d been a couple for years.

The weather is hot and sticky here. I have to catch a plane soon. We’ll be looking at large pipes for a construction project. I miss you so much. I have never felt so close to someone before. I long to see you next week.

Love, Gregory

Not only coffee was meant to be savored, she thought as she read the message again, slowly. Love was meant to be savored, too. She only hoped Gregory wasn’t disappointed when they met in person.

She sent a worried glance down at her latte. Should she switch to green tea?

ROB LEFT THE DOCTOR’S OFFICE with an aching thigh from where the good doc had prodded and poked at him. He didn’t like doctors mostly because he didn’t like being sick or incapacitated.

As he limped along the sidewalk, clutching a scrawled prescription for painkillers he knew he’d never fill, he got caught in a downpour of rain. He loved the rain. After the heat and dry dustiness of the desert, the cooling water dripping from gray skies should have made him happy. Instead he felt as though the sky was suffering a massive outpouring of grief. Irritable, achy and at a loss for something to do, he just stood getting wet.

He didn’t want to go back to Bellamy House with all that designer stuff he didn’t recognize, and he didn’t want to visit the few friends he still had in the area. He wanted to get on a plane and get back to work. That wasn’t about to happen, though, until he could run a mile in six. He set his jaw, knowing he’d have to walk before he could run and not for the first time cursed the trigger-happy rebel who’d fired on him. He squinted up and down the street and saw the sign for a coffee shop a couple of blocks away. He figured that would do for a destination. He’d walk a few blocks today, a few more tomorrow, and in a couple of weeks he’d be up to running.

Crutches. As if.

He took a step toward the coffee shop and another one. Two women chattering away beneath umbrellas passed him. As he stepped around them, he stepped into a puddle and felt the cold wetness soak his sock. Yup, he was home.

By the time he’d gone one block he felt as though someone were jabbing hot pokers into his thigh. The remaining block seemed like such a long way he contemplated stopping where he was, sagging onto a bus stop bench and calling a cab. Turning his head toward the road ensured he no longer saw the tempting bus bench. He squinted at the coffee shop and pushed his foot forward. He liked the name of the café. Beananza. He vaguely remembered driving past it last time he’d been home but he’d never been inside.

He imagined how good that coffee was going to taste when he got past the next block, assuming he could get there before the place closed for the night. One foot in front of the other, he reminded himself. It was only pain, he could get through it.

A car slowed beside him and he paid no attention until the window closest to him slid down and a voice said, “Rob, I found you.”

He turned to see Hailey behind the wheel of a small gray SUV, looking as perky as ever in a blue raincoat. “Why were you looking for me?”

She pulled over and parked because it was that kind of a neighborhood—parking spaces were plentiful. She got out, popped a blue umbrella and then reached into the back of her car and took out his grandmother’s walking cane.

For a second Rob experienced a pang of grief so sharp it numbed the pain in his leg. That cane had been supporting his grandmother for years. Of course she’d resisted the thing like crazy and then had come to rely on it in her later years.

Hailey came around the back of the car and offered him the worn black handle. “Here.”

He wrapped his hand around the handle and tried out the cane. It was a little on the short side but he wasn’t going to complain. Strangely, clutching the spot where his grandmother’s hand had gripped made him feel better, connected to her in some sentimental fashion that still comforted. “How did you know?”

“Doc called me. He said you could use your grandmother’s cane.” She seemed a lot warmer than last time he’d seen her. As though she genuinely cared.

“My doctor called you?” His shock must have shown because she laughed. “So much for doctor-patient privilege.”

“Your grandmother had quite a network. They all know each other and their business. And their friends’ business, and their friends’ grandsons’ business.”

“He told me to go get crutches.”

“I know. And he told me you wouldn’t. He said to tell you to use the cane on the opposite side to your bad leg.”

He switched the cane to the other hand. “Huh.”

“Where are you going?” she asked him. “Do you want a ride?”

He shook his head. Under the blue glow from her umbrella, her eyes were as blue as the sky would be if you could see it. “Only tourists use umbrellas,” he informed her.

“And people who actually care about their appearance.”

“I’m heading for that coffee shop over there,” he said, hoping he sounded casual, as though he’d be there in a couple of minutes, no biggie.

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