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LESLIE KELLY

“Ms. Kelly has a delightful and engaging voice that had me laughing out loud and relentless in reading every delicious word.”

—The Romance Reader’s Connection

“Leslie Kelly continues to show why she is becoming one of Harlequin’s most popular authors.”

—The Best Reviews

“Ms. Kelly never fails to deliver a captivating story.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“The story is filled with uproariously funny twists, scintillating conversations and steamy hot passion.”

—Romantic Times on Thrill Me

“[Leslie Kelly’s] characters are the kind of people you would love to hang out with.”

—The Best Reviews on Suite Seduction

Dear Reader,

I have to confess: I’m a reality-show junkie. I’ve watched the greats and the stinkers, been enthralled by The Mole and disappointed by Joe Millionaire II. So when Harlequin gave me a shot at writing my very first single-title-length romance novel, you can bet the reality-show idea popped into my mind.

There was someone else who’d been occupying my mind a lot, too.

Mick Winchester is a guy I’ve wanted since I wrote about him in my October 2003 Temptation novel Trick Me, Treat Me (Jared & Gwen’s story). He was so unrepentantly wicked, so sexy and playful and…just bad…that I found him irresistible. When he popped up again in my novella “Thrill Me” (Sophie & Daniel’s story), which appeared in a Harlequin collection called Reading Between the Lines in January 2004, I knew he had to have his own story.

It just remained to find the perfect woman, that blend of sexy, sassy, smart and strong, who could not only capture a man like Mick, but also hold on to him. TV producer Caroline Lamb is just such a woman.

I hope this story makes you laugh. I hope you can’t put it down. More than anything I hope I give you a few hours of real reading pleasure. That’s all any writer can ask for.

Happy reading, and thanks for all your support!

Leslie Kelly

Killing Time
Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one’s dedicated to all the wonderful,

supportive people at Harlequin,

who have given me so many opportunities.

Brenda Chin, Birgit Davis-Todd, Marsha Zinberg

and Tracy Farrell, thank you for your faith in me.

I won’t let you down.

And to all those reality-show contestants

and crews. Thanks for the laughs

and the entertainment.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER ONE

“DROP YOUR PANTS.”

Today certainly wasn’t the first time a woman had told Mick Winchester to take off his pants. From playfully suggestive, to wickedly sultry, the sentence conjured up a variety of pleasant memories. Of women. Lots of women.

He just loved them. And he was a lucky enough son of a bitch that they usually loved him back. Usually.

A lot of people had told Mick that women would be the death of him. He’d heard it from ex-girlfriends, from his mother, from buddies who envied his romantic success. Hell, just yesterday his own grandfather had given him a lecture on settling down before some female went Fatal Attraction on him.

He’d laughed off the warnings. How could something he loved as much as women bring about his downfall?

Unfortunately, as he stared down the five-inch barrel of an old Colt .45 handgun, he was beginning to see the possibilities.

“Louise, you don’t want to do this,” he told the woman holding the gun. “Whatever’s wrong, we can work things out.”

“Drop ’em, loverboy.”

She didn’t say another word, merely waiting patiently, watching him the way a hawk might study a tempting bit of prey—with stoic determination and a bit of outright hunger.

He wished he’d opened the blinds as soon as he’d gotten into the office this Monday morning. Perhaps then someone outside might have noticed something odd. Unfortunately, since he had an appointment with an out-of-towner looking for a room to rent, he’d come in early and hadn’t opened the office. He’d left the blinds down and the lights dim in the reception area. No one outside would notice a thing. And his secretary wouldn’t be in for a little while yet.

The out-of-towner wasn’t due for an hour. So whoever the Hollywood woman was, she’d probably walk in after Louise Flanagan finished whatever the hell it was she was trying to do here.

“What are you waiting for?” she finally said, sounding so perfectly reasonable, as if they’d just bumped into one another at the diner or the bank. “I know you’re not hard of hearing.”

“I’m trying to understand why you want to kill me.”

Hell, of all the women in Derryville, this one had the very least reason to hate his guts. And that was saying a lot, since he could easily name several females who would probably like to see him strung up by the nuts.

But Louise? He’d always been polite to the woman, giving her a smile when other people had laughed at her. He’d been nice to her in the old days, when the high school hierarchy had liked to crucify the farmers’ daughters who wore their coveralls to school and smelled of their daddy’s dairy farm.

She gave him a small smile. “Oh, Mick, you old silly, I’m not gonna kill you. Now get naked. Pretty please?”

This was beyond ridiculous, even for him. Oh, sure, he’d been caught naked with women before, once even in the coat-check room of an upscale Chicago restaurant. But never so close to home. Never in his own realty office. Never with a local girl whose family would riot at the thought of their darling hooking up with the wickedest playboy in Derryville, Illinois.

And never, never with Louise Flanagan, his lab partner from tenth grade biology. Louise not only outweighed him by forty pounds, she was the four-time champion hog wrestler at the state fair. Plus, Mick’s and Louise’s grandfathers were long-standing enemies.

“Louise, I’m not going to take my clothes off.”

She cocked the hammer.

“Shit.” He tugged his shirt from the waist of his pants.

“That’s good. Shirt first, that’s proper. But no more cursing,” she said with a tsk. “That’s one of your bad habits. That, your drinking and your cigar smoking are going to be the first things you give up when we get married.”

That one nearly made him choke. “Married?”

She nodded. “Yessir. And soon. Got to get you tied down and rescue you from your overactive manly urges.”

Manly urges. If he’d ever had any in his life, the image of marrying Louise wiped them out of his memory banks.

She continued. “I mean, I knew when I heard about those TV people coming here to do their show that I had to step in before it was too late. I can’t have you losing your head and giving this whole town more reason to think you’re just a good-for-nothing playboy. Not when I know better.”

She gave him a worshipful smile that told him he’d been residing on a pedestal and had never known it. That almost distracted him from the fact that she’d called him a good-for-nothing playboy. But nothing was distracting him from the loaded gun, which she wagged suggestively toward his body.

“Louise…”

“Come on, your shirt’s easy. Just pretend it’s Saturday.”

The twisting turns in the conversation were giving him a headache on top of his hangover. “What?”

“Half the women in this town make a point of driving down your street on Saturday afternoons because they know you’re gonna be mowing your lawn,” she explained.

Half the women in town? No wonder his street was like Daytona during Pepsi 400 weekend when he cut the grass. “So?”

She sighed heavily, explaining as if he were a six-year-old and she a weary parent. “So…you always do it sooner or later. It’s usually after four, when you’ve finished the cutting and you’re just doing the edging and cleanup. And by the way, Mick, you do such a nice job on your lawn, much better than when the Edgertons owned your house.”

“What do I do, Louise?” he asked, still wondering whether she liked him or hated him, wanted to marry him or wanted to kill him. Hmm…when he thought of it that way, she suddenly reminded him of just about every other woman in his life.

“You know what you do,” she said. “You know when you’re almost done, and you’re ready to cool off with a long, wet soak from your garden hose…? That’s when traffic’s the heaviest.”

She gave him a look that said he was supposed to understand what the hell she was talking about. He didn’t. Rolling her eyes, Louise said, “You weren’t this thick in high school.”

“Somehow my brain doesn’t work well when it’s envisioning taking a bullet.”

“Sorry, it can’t be helped. I know even as nice as you are you won’t get naked and be forced to marry me by my daddy unless I force you to get forced first.”

He began to see, as crazy as it was. Louise, the girl he’d been nice to back in high school, wanted to force him to get forced into marrying her so she could help save his unsalvageable reputation. “My head hurts.”

“Stop drinking so many beers on Sunday nights with the fellas after your football games.”

“So, you know my entire weekend schedule, not just my Saturdays in the yard?”

“Oh, yes, Saturdays. Back to the shirt. You always take it off when you hose yourself down after you’re done. Then you get a beer from the fridge on your porch and you pop open the bottle and guzzle the thing down while you’re all wet and shiny.” A pink flush rose in her plump cheeks. “Tons of women plan their Saturday shopping around your yard work. Except, of course, on rainy days. Then they meet in the basement of the dress shop and play cards.”

Welcome to small-town life. Christ, why the hell did he live here again? “That’s crazy.”

Louise obviously saw his disbelief. “Men. You’re all thick. Didn’t you realize why Mrs. Richardson crashed her brand-new Buick into the back of your neighbor’s old AMC Pacer? She was watching you, watching all that sweat mix with the dirt and grass on your shoulders and your arms. Trying to see what we all want to see.”

His hands instinctively dropped to the front of his pants.

Louise giggled again. “Not that.” Then she stammered and looked away. “Well, yes, that. But also, your, um, you know…”

“My…” Hair? Back? Earlobes? What was the woman talking about? And who the hell knew women were as lewd as men when it came to ogling the opposite sex, even if it was a complete stranger? Of course, no one was really a stranger in Derryville.

“Your thingie,” she whispered.

His thingie. A number of thingies on his body tightened up as he waited to hear what all the women in town wanted to peek at.

“My what?” he asked, hoping she meant his checkbook, which should be enough to scare off most women. But he doubted it.

“Your…tattoo!”

He stiffened, his jaw clenching, the response as instinctive as it was predictable. Few people knew the origins of his tattoo, the one spread across his lower back, just below his hips, riding his ass like a low-slung pair of jeans. The tattoo was one subject that was off-limits in his life. As was the woman who’d originally inspired him to get it.

“Forget about seeing my tattoo or anything else. I’m not taking off my clothes.”

Her smile broadened. “Oh, yes, you are.”

“Put down the gun. You already said you wouldn’t kill me.”

She lowered the gun and took careful aim at every man’s Achilles’ heel. The one between his legs.

Muttering another curse—which earned him another tsk—he yanked off his shirt, dropping it to the floor. His Northern brain had no part in that decision. The Southern one had simply taken over in pure self-preservation.

“That’s better. Keep going.”

He hesitated, wondering how this could be happening in his nice little real estate office on the nice main road of this nice small town. If any of his poker buddies ever found out a woman had held him at gunpoint and made him strip, they’d die laughing. Of course, if the story had involved one of his more typical female friends, they’d probably be jealous as hell.

When he didn’t move fast enough, Louise let out an impatient sigh. “You know I wouldn’t kill you. But I can shoot well enough to make sure you behave from now on.” Her stare followed the direction of her pistol, and she let out a quivery sigh as she looked at his pants. “I guess I’d like to see what all the women fuss and carry on about.” Then she squared her shoulders in self-sacrifice. “But if it comes right down to it, I don’t mind having a marriage without those carryings-on between the sheets. Whatever it takes, I’ve got to save you from yourself.”

Marriage and no sex. Funny, at the thought of being married to Louise, he could suddenly understand the appeal. “That’s very kind of you…but I promise, I really don’t mind my reputation.”

She frowned and shook her head. “I do,” she said fiercely. “You’re the nicest man in this stinky town. I’m sick of everyone thinking you’re nothing but a walking cock-a-doodle-doo.”

The cock-a-doodle-doo bit almost made him laugh, particularly because a brilliant flush had darkened Louise’s cheeks when she’d said it, as if she’d uttered an unforgivable swearword. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

Her expression told him she wasn’t. “It’s because they’re jealous you don’t take up with local women. You go casting your rod into the ponds of other towns, ’steada right here at home.”

She was right. That was one of his unspoken rules, which he’d adhered to for the past several years. Never fish in a tiny lake where it’s not so easy to throw one back.

“But I know with those Hollywood floozies coming to town, the urge might be too much for you. So I’m going to save you.”

Hollywood floozies. It took a second, but he finally figured out what she meant. Derryville was about to be invaded by a TV crew. A new reality TV show called Killing Time in a Small Town was set to film right here. That was the reason for this morning’s meeting. One of the producers was looking for a short-term rental, since Derryville’s only inn was going to be filled up with the cast and camera crew of the show.

“I know you’re not ready to settle down, Mick, but that’ll change once we’re married. Daddy should be here in fifteen minutes or so, after he takes my brothers to football practice. That gives us enough time to get you naked and me—” she flushed again, more brilliantly than before “—mussed.”

Fifteen minutes. Knowing Louise’s no-good old man, who was late on everything from his mortgage payments to his own weddings, that equaled more like an hour. Meaning he had that long to convince her to give up her crazy idea.

A number of possibilities quickly ran through his mind. He could sweet-talk her, reason with her, cajole her…

Or, given her brilliant blushes and the fact that she had never had so much as a date, he could do one thing that was sure to send her scurrying out of here like the scared virgin he knew her to be.

Exactly what she asked him to.

Without another word, Mick Winchester dropped his pants.

THE DERRYVILLE REALTY office was easy to spot on the main street of this small town. Caro Lamb smothered a sigh when she saw the sign, complete with engraved drawing of mom, dad, kid and dog playing happily on the lawn in front of their little house.

A sign like that in L.A. would have to show a hillside mansion and a kid being shuffled between Mom and her pool boy, and Dad and his trophy girlfriend. The dog would be replaced by low-maintenance, no-pooper-scooper fish. The lawn would become a skate park.

Home. A word of infinite definitions. None of which had really rung her bell as yet.

She parked the rental car, which she’d picked up in Chicago after landing there late the night before. Then Caro grabbed her briefcase and stepped out into the bright Illinois morning. “No smog. I don’t think my lungs can take it,” she mumbled.

“Eh?”

She hadn’t even realized an older man pushing a broom was standing on the sidewalk near her car.

“Nothing,” she mumbled, embarrassed to be caught talking to herself. Talking to oneself was something that could really start a rumor in Hollywood. Do that on Rodeo Drive and by the time you got back to your studio office, the execs were calling Betty Ford while your office mates planned your intervention.

Nothing was as “in” in L.A. as the occasional breakdown. Of course, as fun as they were, they also spelled death to a production career in TV. Stars, talk show hosts, radio deejays—they “got well” or “got clean” or “got acquitted” and the studio loved them. But lowly assistant producers hoping for a shot at a lead gig on a prime-time network show and an escape from the lowliest cable fodder featuring an ’80s one-hit-wonder sitcom refugee?

Huh-uh. Death. Absolute death.

There was, of course, one thing worse than the lowliest cable fodder featuring an 80s one-hit-wonder sitcom refugee.

“You’re here for that reality TV show, aren’t cha?”

That’d be it.

“I can tell by the rental plates. And your clothes. And the bored look on your face.”

Caro’s eyes widened. “I’m not bored. I’m just—” procrastinating “—thinking.”

“Bout?”

About being stuck here for three weeks with her entire future on the line. About trying to salvage her third-rated network by riding on the reality TV wave that had crested last season.

“About what a nice, normal town this is.”

That was true. Derryville certainly seemed to satisfy all the requirements the network had laid down when planning for this next volley into the reality TV arena. Killing Time in a Small Town was supposed to take place in an average, all-American place where neighbors were friendly, doors weren’t locked and movie stars’ wives didn’t end up dead in their cars or on their doorsteps.

No crime. Peaceful. Serene. That was what was called for. And then the show would spice it up with a fake murder mystery, with the contestants competing to solve it before getting “bumped off” themselves.

“You been up to the Little Bohemie Inn yet? I hear there was some camerapeople up’t there to do some picture taking.”

“The advance team was here a few weeks ago,” she told the man as she slammed her car door. “They did some exterior filming of the inn and the town. We’ve already started working on commercial spots.”

He didn’t look impressed. That could be a problem, since the town’s residents were supplying the backup to the cast. Killing Time in a Small Town would utilize the residents of Derryville as often as possible. Maybe even the old man leaning indolently against his broom. But that might not work if the rest of the residents looked as uninterested as this fellow.

“I’m sure the town will benefit from the exposure,” she continued. “And America will love this down-home, normal atmosphere.” That’s the plan, anyway.

“Ayuh, she’s a normal small town all right. With everything that goes with it,” the old man said. He gave her a lazy grin, gave himself a comfortable scratch on the belly, and began to laugh. The sparkle in his eyes showed genuine amusement.

Caro had the feeling he was laughing at her. He’d probably pegged her as a big-city L.A. know-it-all who thought small towns were as sweet and simple as they’d appeared in 1950s sitcoms. If only he knew.

She swung her soft-sided briefcase over her shoulder, locked her car and joined him on the sidewalk. “It’s a town like a lot of other ones,” she said evenly, letting him know she understood his laughter.

He studied her. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

But it was. Transplant this place to Kentucky and it would have been the same burg where Caro had grown up. And from which she’d fled as soon as she’d graduated high school.

Small. Quiet. Boring. Judgmental. Unable to forgive or forget, particularly when it came to town bullies and bad boys.

And their daughters.

Small towns hadn’t changed. They all smiled on the outside, but seethed within. She’d never move back to one. Caro Lamb hadn’t ever been tempted. At least, she amended, not tempted for several years. In that instance, she had to admit, it hadn’t been a town tempting her. It had been a man who lived in such a town. The kind of man who could tempt a nun into stripping off her habit to do a bump and grind worthy of the Vegas stage.

Enough, Caro. That subject’s off-limits.

“You really think Derryville’s gonna make it big on the TV?” the man asked, looking as if he didn’t care one way or the other.

“Oh, absolutely,” she replied with vehemence. “This place is just perfect for a reality TV show. Killing Time in a Small Town will be a huge success.”

She prayed it would. It had to be if she ever wanted to make it past assistant producer. By nailing this assignment, keeping costs in line and producing a decent show that lasted more than the kiss-of-death four-week replacement slot, she’d have a shot at a prime-time gig.

She could hardly wait. No more road trips looking for funny home videos, or scouting out wacky ideas for the next grand experiment in the reality game. She’d be in a studio, in charge, in a position of power for the first time since she’d hit Hollywood. Eight years ago, right after she’d gotten her heart broken and dropped out of college to head west.

“You going into the realty office?” the old man asked.

“How did you know that?”

He shrugged. “Saw the owner show up early. Only reason to do that is if he had an appointment.”

“I guess he got my message,” she said. She was only in town for the day to find suitable accommodations. She’d called the realty office yesterday, asking the secretary if she could come in an hour before her scheduled appointment time, since her return flight was earlier than she’d expected.

The woman had promised to try to notify the Realtor. Obviously, since he’d come in early, his secretary had succeeded.

“Enjoy your visit,” the old man said. Then he casually stepped away, continuing to push his broom, stirring up nothing but some stale summer air, puffs of dust and a few random cigarette butts.

“Thank you,” Caro said to his retreating back. Then she turned toward the office of Derryville Realty. The place looked closed from the outside. The blinds were drawn, with no hint of interior light peeking through to indicate anyone was around. The old man had said there was, however, and he seemed like the kind of person who knew all, saw all. And commented on all.

Unsure whether to knock, Caro first tried the door handle. When it twisted easily in her hand, she stepped inside. The outer reception area was, indeed, dark and deserted. Before she could decide whether to just sit down and wait, or step back outside, she heard voices coming from an inner office.

Glancing at her watch, she made out the numbers in the semidarkness. “It is 8:00 a.m.,” she whispered. And since she had to first find accommodations, do the paperwork, and then get back to Chicago for her flight home to L.A., she wasn’t in the mood to sit patiently.

Following the sound of the voices, she rounded a sofa and coffee table loaded with sale flyers, finance company brochures and photo albums. An archway revealed a back hall, lined with closed doors, one saying Meeting Room, another Restroom. The rest were unmarked offices. One of those doors was partly open, the inside brightly lit. That’s where the voices were coming from.

Standing in the darkened hallway, Caro had an easy view of the people in the room. But it still took a moment for her to mentally assess what was happening.

A woman stood inside, with her back to the hall. She hadn’t even noticed Caro’s entrance. Stepping closer, Caro realized why the woman was so distracted.

She was staring toward a man. A bare-ass naked man.

A bare-ass naked man with a very nice ass.

“Son of a….” she whispered.

They didn’t hear. Obviously whatever was happening in the room had engaged their complete attention.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Louise, haven’t you gotten a good enough look yet?” the man asked over his shoulder, his back to his captor.

Though the question obviously hadn’t been directed at her, Caro immediately answered for the woman. No. Huh-uh. Not enough. Not nearly.

“Nope,” the woman replied.

Good answer, Louise.

“Can I at least turn back around?”

Oh, please please please please please.

“Not just yet.”

Argh.

Finally realizing exactly what she was doing, Caro sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and stepped back, pressing herself against the corridor wall. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she struggled to control her ragged breathing, wondering why the duo couldn’t hear her shocked inhalations.

Obviously, the Realtor hadn’t been showing up early for her benefit. He’d had another kind of appointment altogether. The sexual kind. The kind that urged her to move her feet and get the heck out of the building before the panting and moaning commenced. At this moment, Caro really couldn’t be sure she, herself, wasn’t already doing one or the other.

“Good Lord, no wonder the women in this town are all fools whenever you’re around,” Louise, the woman in the office said.

One fool standing in the hallway completely concurred.

A discreet person would have left immediately. A calm business executive would have cleared her throat to alert them that someone was present. A sane woman would have resisted thinking about how the rest of the naked male body might look.

Caro did none of the above.

She stayed right where she was. Waiting, trying to work up the strength of will to leave quietly and not steal another peek. Finally, good sense won out. No matter what, she was not a Peeping Tom. She hadn’t been reduced to the level of a woman who hadn’t had sex in so long she had to live vicariously through other people’s sexual adventures.

Preparing to walk away and come back later when the Realtor was less, um, occupied, she pulled away from the wall. But before she could take one step, the woman in the office said something that made her freeze in place.

“I hope I don’t have to shoot you, because there isn’t a place on ya that isn’t just about perfect.”

At first she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. She replayed the words in her mind as the truth dawned.

She hadn’t interrupted anything as mundane as an office romance. Either these two were playing some kind of fun and kinky sex game—burly prison guard attacks sexy, helpless, naked, studly criminal came to mind—or else a crime was being committed.

One scenario said she had to leave. The other demanded she stay. Because, it was entirely possible Mr. Naked Guy was about to get shot.

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED to turn tail and run,” a male voice said, sounding both weary and amused.

The voice sent a shiver of awareness down Caro’s spine. It sounded silky smooth, much too calm for a person being held at gunpoint, which made her think these two were, indeed, playing some kind of game. For some strange reason, the man’s voice sounded familiar to her ear. She’d just been too much in shock to pay attention the first time he’d spoken.

The woman laughed. “It takes a lot to make me run away.”

Caro inched closer to the door frame. There was just something about that man’s voice—not to mention his naked body—that made her itch to take another quick peek.

“That’s why you stripped, even though you knew I wouldn’t shoot you?” Louise asked. “You thought I’d run away at my first sight of a naked man, even though I have four little brothers?”

Caro took a deep breath and worked up her nerve to steal one more glance just as the man muttered, “Something like that.”

Louise had moved slightly out of the way. From this angle, Caro could only see the man from the waist up.

Wow, what a waist. Wow, what an up.

The man had crossed his arms in front of him, so his shoulders and triceps flexed and bulged. His hair was light brown, cut a little long, but not long enough to hide the thick strength of his neck.

Caro gulped. If she’d been the one with the gun, she figured it would’ve slipped from her hand due to the sweat breaking out all over her body. Good Lord, how could anyone be that close to a man so hot and not get weak in the knees?

“Oh, sweetie, you’re so funny. I helped raise the boys. Plus I grew up on a farm. I’ve seen male equipment. And while you’re, well, of generous proportions, you can’t compare to Buddy.”

Caro had to wonder who Buddy was. If the mysterious Louise really did know some man named Buddy, and he was better built than the guy in the office, Caro thought perhaps her stay in Derryville might be more interesting than she’d expected. Though she wasn’t sure her heart could take it. Not to mention her diaphragm, which had been sitting unused in her medicine cabinet for so long she could probably use it to strain pasta.

Truly, though, she didn’t see how anyone else could compare to Mr. Naked Real Estate Guy. At least not from her angle. She doubted anyone could look as good from behind as this man did, and she included a number of Hollywood heartthrobs in that assessment.

“Buddy’s a bull, Louise,” the man said, his voice shaking with what some might have interpreted as fear, but which Caro recognized as unbridled laughter.

Bull-like. There was something a man would aspire to, right? The thought inspired several wicked images. She had to back away again, if only to force herself to stop trying to peer around the armed woman for another tantalizing glimpse of the hips and down.

Wow, what hips. Wow, what down.

“I know. But for some reason, you made me think of him,” the woman replied.

“I don’t know many men who would compare favorably to a bull. But thank you very much, all the same.”

Still hidden in the near darkness, and still wondering whether the two were playing some sort of lovers’ game, or if she’d really stumbled into a hostage situation, she took a few calming breaths to decide what to do.

Look some more.

That worked.

This time, she gave into her impulse, dropped to her knees, and peered around the door from a lower angle. Definitely a better angle. For assessment purposes only, she told herself, knowing she was a big fat liar whose pants, if she had been wearing pants, would be incendiary right about now.

She stayed hunkered down, assessing the couple. The woman was a puzzle. Broad in girth, huge in stature, she wore an unflattering pair of jean overalls, which, Caro was sad to say, seemed to have come back into fashion for some bizarre reason. Not in Hollywood, of course. But they were showing up in the rest of the country—which pretty much meant another planet, as far as most people in L.A. were concerned.

Louise appeared taller than the better-than-average-height man, and heavier by a large amount. So maybe the hunk had a thing for big girls. In which case, he’d never spare a glance at Caro, who only stood five-seven when she wore two-inch heels.

She certainly wasn’t an imposing figure now, down on all fours in a closed real estate office, spying on a pair of lovebirds, or a female rapist. She still hadn’t decided which was the most likely explanation. Either the man was a philandering Realtor having a kinky good time—complete with props like fake guns—on a Monday morning. Or he was a poor innocent victim being held up by a naked-Realtor-robbing Amazon.

Not sure which, she curled her back and neck a bit, hunching lower until she was able to see that, yes, the woman was definitely holding a real—if rather old-looking—pistol.

The hostage wasn’t turning around. He remained still, his body aligned with the sight of the gun. His back was perfect. Smooth. Sculpted with layer upon layer of thick muscle. Tanned, taut skin glistened with a sheen of sweat that probably had more to do with the situation than with the temperature.

His thick arms flexed with the tension. That, more than anything, convinced Caro that while his tone might be flip, and his voice might hold laughter, he wasn’t relaxed. He was, in fact, completely tense, obviously waiting for his chance to extricate himself from this unusual situation.

The overall-wearing bandit was still too busy staring at that naked tush to move. Caro couldn’t blame her—she couldn’t do anything else, herself.

She’d never really considered herself a butt woman. A man’s eyes were so much more important. Or at the very least his smile. A pair of lips that could instill a sense of shimmering heat while widened in laughter used to make her completely crazed. One smile, in particular, had nearly been her undoing.

But as for the rest? Good looks, as she’d found in Hollywood, didn’t always equal good men.

That didn’t mean they weren’t fun to ogle. Particularly in this case, with a man whose backside looked hard enough to crack a walnut, and hot enough to make her legs go weak.

Then the man shifted, as if he planned to turn around. She hissed. Weak, nothing. At the thought of seeing the full-frontal onslaught, Caro’s legs turned to jelly. If not for her arms holding up the front part of her body, she probably would have fallen face-first on the carpet.

“Don’t turn around,” the woman said matter-of-factly, apparently noticing her victim making a move. “Please stand there and look away while I get myself mussed before Daddy gets here.”

Daddy. Mussed. Caro began to understand. This was strictly TV Writing 101 stuff. Tons of shows, from soaps to sitcoms, had explored this scenario in every conceivable way. This woman wanted to be caught in a compromising situation with Mr. Studly. Enter the enraged, armed papa. Fade to commercial.

“Please don’t take off your clothes.” He sounded more nervous than he had when she’d threatened to shoot him.

No commercial, Caro, this is real life.

“Fair’s fair.” Then the woman chuckled. “At least now I know what all the women in town are dying for a glimpse of.”

His thighs? His flexing calves? His arms, which looked strong enough to carry a woman to the nearest flat surface and make love to her from here to Sunday? All of the above?

Most especially that hard, sweetly curved rear that cried out to be caressed, held, stroked and clenched in mind-numbing passion? Caro gulped as her nervous habit kicked in: she started to hum the theme song from Sex in the City.

“Who would’ve thought those little black points were the tips of his ears?”

It took a second for Caro to understand what the woman meant. Then she leaned in farther, blinking off the haze of lust to take a really good look at the man. That was when Caro noticed what was above his perfect, hard, finger-licking-good backside.

A tattoo. A sexy, wicked, playful tattoo. It told a story that revealed quite a lot about the man it adorned.

Part of it, the little creature in the small of his back, riding just above his right cheek, made her pause. Because it looked familiar. Very familiar.

“Impossible,” she whispered, not believing her own eyes. She studied it, blinking a few times, wondering if she was really seeing what she thought she was seeing.

It was a lamb. A cute little furry white lamb, as incongruous as it was adorable when decorating this hunky man’s body. “Crazy,” she called herself, knowing there were millions of men in the world who had millions of tattoos.

Maybe some other hunk had decided to put a cute little lamb on his backside in honor of some other woman whose last name was the same as hers. Maybe that other hunk had called that other girl a sweet little lamb the first time they’d been introduced.

Or maybe she’d wronged someone in another life and karma was getting even. That was the only explanation about how fate could be cruel enough to bring him back into her world.

“Please, no,” she whispered. But even as she did so, she knew it was futile. Somehow, Caroline knew this particular tattoo belonged to only one particular man. “Lord help me.”

“Okay, Louise, this is getting ridiculous. And I’m getting cold,” the man drawled.

This time, because she was listening for it, she did, indeed, recognize the voice.

Mick Winchester. Good God, it was him. She hadn’t seen the man for eight years and already he had her down on her hands and knees, playing Peeping Tom. In two minutes flat, he’d turned her into a mindless, brainless female. Just like she’d been during the crazy, passionate year of their relationship.

She couldn’t help staring at him again, gobbling him up with her eyes, knowing that once his face was turned to hers, she wouldn’t be able to look her fill. Because he’d be watching her, laughing at her, knowing how she reacted to him.

Always had. Probably always would. Dammit all to hell.

In the office, Louise said, “It’s good you keep your tattoo covered.”

Remembering the tattoo, Caroline stared at it again, studying the whole image. The old tattoo was now part of a bigger picture. The glimpse of the lamb had made her cringe at the thought of facing Mick again. But studying the whole thing and assessing its meaning made her want to punch his lights out.

Because the louse had gone and ruined it.

“That’d just feed the gossip mill, wouldn’t it?” Louise said. “They already think you’re a horny, hungry devil.”

A horny, hungry devil. How appropriate for this horny, hungry, insatiable, exasperating man.

Her teeth clenched and her eyes narrowed as she stared at what the creep had done to the poor little lamb on his hip. Directly across from it, extending from the base of his spine and down over part of his taut left cheek, was a cartoon character. With gaping jaws, a wicked twinkle in its eye and very sharp teeth.

She recognized the character instantly. From the spiky black fur, and the two pointed ears that might, indeed, peek out from a pair of low-riding jeans, to the glistening, salacious smile, the Big Bad Wolf sat silently on this man’s body like a predator watching for some tempting prey.

And he had some. Lamb chops en brochette.

It was funny. Comical. But intensely sexual. A literal warning to any lamb to be wary of wolves with big smiles and knowing eyes. She didn’t know whether to drool or kick him.

But what really made her react with gut fury was the realization that her little lamb—the one Mick had gotten during his junior year of college in honor of their first anniversary—was no longer alone. A miniature herd of the furry little beasts marched across his back, waiting for their turn to run willingly into the Big Bad Wolf’s waiting mouth.

And Caroline Lamb had led the way.

She simply couldn’t help herself. With a strangled cry of fury, she half stood and launched herself into the room.

“Do the women of the world a favor and shoot the bastard,” she snarled at Louise.

Then she promptly ruined her grand entrance by losing her battle with gravity and falling flat on her face.

MICK DIDN’T KNOW who the woman lying on the floor was, or why she’d stumbled in just in time to prevent him from trying to physically wrest the gun from Louise Flanagan.

He did know, however, that she looked damned sexy, face-down, with her short white skirt riding up high enough to show him the hem of her filmy white panties.

As for why she’d want to shoot him, well, there could be any number of reasons. The first one that came to mind was that he did know her. The legs certainly looked familiar. Then again, any gorgeous legs looked familiar to a leg man.

“Louise, I think you’ve done enough for this morning,” he said, reluctantly, but necessarily, focused on the woman with the gun, not the woman with the silky underwear. Because as much as he’d prefer not to be the only naked one in the room, he had the feeling the likelihood of the gun going off was better than the likelihood of the brunette’s panties coming off.

“Your plan obviously isn’t going to work if your father shows up and sees another woman here. Knowing him, it’ll just reinforce his already bad opinion of me. He’ll think I was trying to draw you into something terribly…unsavory.”

Her face flushed and her mouth dropped into an O shape. “He wouldn’t think I’d do something like that!”

“He might. So maybe you should go now,” he told her. Despite everything, he felt touched that she cared enough to try to save his reputation. Even if she’d had to shoot him to do it. Somehow, that made about as much sense as anything else in Derryville.

“We’ll forget this ever happened. Go home.” Then he said, “Leave the gun.” The prankster and movie lover in him almost added “Take the cannoli,” but he doubted either of the women in the room would appreciate the Godfather reference.

“I…I would never want my daddy to think such a thing,” Louise said, lost in thought, her voice sounding shocked. Her trembling hand dropped to her side, leaving the gun dangling there, pointing at the floor.

Speaking of dangling…“Can I please get dressed now?” he asked no one in particular.

The prone woman in the short white skirt, who’d been pounding her fist on the floor and muttering the word “no” over and over into the carpet, finally looked up at that one.

Looked up. Direct line of sight. Got an eyeful.

Then he recognized her face and the bottom dropped out of his gut. “Caroline.”

“Mick.”

Louise stared at them both. “You two know each other?”

Know each other. Knew each other. Oh, yeah. A lifetime ago.

“Go, Louise.” Mick’s voice was thick, his throat tight.

Caroline Lamb. Here. In his office. Jesus.

He yanked his khaki pants off the floor and pulled them up over his hips, more to stall for time and regain his suddenly questionable sanity than anything else. It wasn’t like he was covering up something Caroline hadn’t already seen a number of times. Up close. And personal.

He began to sweat. Caroline slowly rose to her feet, watching his every move. Louise didn’t budge an inch.

“I can’t believe you did it,” Caroline said, glaring toward his half-covered body.

“She was holding a gun on me,” he replied in self-defense.

“Not that,” she said with derision. Brushing past the wide-eyed Louise, she stalked to stand toe-to-toe with him. Mick felt her anger wash over him as tangibly as a blast of heat. Caroline had always blown over him like a blast of heat. Always. Whether she’d been in a rage, laughing, teasing him or kissing him like they needed each other’s breath to survive.

“I can’t believe you had that…obscene representation of your own shortcomings tattooed onto your back.”

He almost grinned, suddenly knowing why she was so ticked off. Then his grin faded. No, Caroline wouldn’t like what he’d done with “her” lamb. But he’d had to do it, had to try to make their relationship mean nothing, seem like nothing. Because it had, once upon a time, meant too damn much.

“Okay, I guess you two do know each other,” Louise finally said as she inched toward the door, probably seeing by the fury in Caroline’s eyes that an assault was, indeed, about to take place here. But instead of defending him, Louise looked ready to leave him to his fate. She also looked amused.

“The gun, Louise,” Mick said, unable to keep his stare from drifting back to the face he’d never thought he’d see again.

He heard a thud, and assumed the gun had dropped to the carpeted floor, but he couldn’t look away from that amazing familiar face long enough to make sure. Then the door clicked shut, leaving him alone in his office with Caroline Lamb.

She’d changed. Matured. Oh, she was still a knockout, but she’d lost that small-town-girl look that used to make her eyes a little brighter and her smile a little sunnier than anyone else’s. Not that she was smiling now.

“Great entrance,” he murmured. “Graceful as always.”

She merely closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath as they both struggled to regain their composure.

She was really here. In the flesh. Very nice flesh.

While she got a grip on herself, he took a moment to devour her with his eyes, noting the things that had changed over time and those that had remained the same. It was easy to tell—her image had been burned into his brain since the day they’d met.

He studied the way her new, chin-length haircut accentuated the sweet curve of her face and the vulnerable delicacy of her neck. Her makeup was designed to accentuate the alluring, vivid blue of her eyes. God, those eyes, such a stunning contrast to her thick, dark hair.

She wasn’t quite as slender as she’d been in college, but the curves were in all the right places. His college girl had grown into quite a woman. From the top of her chestnut-brown hair, to the tips of her expensive shoes, she screamed totally-in-control female.

But she wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

“Yeah, well, I see you haven’t changed much either,” she finally said with a falsely sweet smile. “Why am I not surprised to bump into you after eight years and find you with a woman, naked and displaying your best side?”

His eyes narrowed. “Used to be you thought my front was my best side.”

She raked a thorough look across his bare chest and arms, his stomach, the unfastened waist of his slacks.

Everywhere her gaze touched, his body tightened and grew hot. His reaction to her was instinctive, and had been since the minute he’d met her in his sophomore year of college.

Somehow she managed to look as though she’d studied him and found him lacking. Which was, he knew, total bullshit. The flush on her cheeks and the way she couldn’t quite control her deep breathing told him her dismissing look was as fake as her perfectly manicured nails.

Caroline was a nail biter. A blusher. And a heavy breather.

But she gave it her best shot. Crossing her arms, she managed what would probably pass for a pitying smile. “That was before I got to know you. I’m all grown-up and I’ve figured out that the rear is always the best side of a horse’s ass. The better to watch him walk away.”

He grinned, unable to help it. Damn, the woman always had been able to throw a good insult. Her prickliness had been one of the things that had so fascinated him in the old days. Because it came in the sweetest, most adorably sexy package.

“So what are you doing here, Caroline?” he asked, struggling to remain casual and calm, as if his world hadn’t rolled over the minute he’d seen her face.

She ignored his question. “Are you going to call 9–1-1?”

He raised a curious brow.

“A woman just threatened to shoot you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want you to end up in jail so soon. I mean, we just met again. We haven’t had time to catch up yet.”

Her eyes narrowed as she tapped her fingers on the top of his desk, near the gun Louise had dropped. “I’m talking about your big friend.”

“Louise? She’s harmless.”

She gaped. “She had you at gunpoint.”

“Right.”

“She made you take off all your clothes.”

“She didn’t really make me,” he explained in his own defense, not wanting Caroline to think he was a pansy-ass who’d let a woman—even an armed one—make him do anything he didn’t want to do.

“Oh, so you just decided it was too warm in here this morning and decided to strip down to nothing to get some fresh air?”

“No.”

She tapped the tip of her fingertip on her cheek. “Let’s see, you’ve become a nudist since the last time I saw you?”

“Not exactly.”

“So, she was right? You consider yourself hot enough that she’d fall over in a faint when she saw your manly magnificence?”

“Something like that,” he replied with a long, low chuckle.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not all that, Mick.”

He raised a challenging brow, daring her to be honest. Once upon a time, he’d been all that and a lot more to this woman.

No, Caroline hadn’t exactly fainted away the first time she’d seen him naked. But she had dropped to the nearest flat surface pretty damn quick.

“She’s a nice, misguided lady, who I don’t think has ever had a date in her life,” he explained, recognizing that Caroline really did think he should call the police on poor, sad Louise. “So, yeah, I somehow thought I might be able to scare her off.”

“But you’re no Buddy.”

He remembered Louise’s comments about her daddy’s prize bull, who was famous in these parts. “Ahh, you were eavesdropping for quite a while, hmm?”

She pinkened. “Just…scouting out the situation before I decided what to do. I wasn’t sure whether I’d interrupted some lovers’ tryst, a robbery or a bizarre sex crime.”

Mick pulled his shirt on, tucked it in, then refastened his belt. It was easier to deal with Caroline when fully dressed. Half-naked felt too damned vulnerable. “So, what would you have done if it were a lovers’ tryst?”

“Backed out gracefully.”

“Bizarre sex crime?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Called the police.”

“And since it was neither,” he said suggestively, “you just decided to, uh…watch.”

She straightened her back, looking so stiff he thought she might break in two. “I did no such thing.”

“You were out there a long time,” he countered, keeping his voice at the level of a purr. “Staring at the…scenery.”

“The only scenery I was staring at was the nightmare on your butt.”

He couldn’t prevent a triumphant smile for getting her to admit she’d been staring at his naked body.

“I was trying to figure out what kind of man would shout his true nature to the world. ‘I am dog, hear me roar.’”

Tsking, he clarified, “It’s a wolf.”

“Same species.”

He shook his head. “Actually, no. But same genus, I think.”

She let out a soft groan, and he knew he was driving her crazy. He’d always been able to drive her crazy, just like this. A highly emotional person—easily swinging from the highest highs to the lowest lows—Caroline had been a perfect foil for someone like Mick, who was so difficult to rile he’d been accused of having no heart at all.

She’d been the one to accuse him of that, come to think of it. Then she’d stormed out, missing the damage Mick was capable of when his emotions really got the better of him.

“Want to sit down? You look flushed,” he said, thinking she was doing a good job getting riled up all on her own this time.

Ignoring the offer, she shook her head and walked across the office, leaving them separated by a few feet and an ocean’s worth of emotional baggage. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

She was wrong there. He had changed. Not that she’d see it, not that he’d admit it out loud. But he wasn’t the same guy she’d known.

Actually, he wasn’t sure who Mick Winchester was these days. But that was okay. Because nobody else was quite sure who he was, either, other than the black sheep of the Winchester family. The playboy of Derryville. The tattooed bad boy who was much more often found playing poker with the guys on a Sunday than having a weekly after-church gathering with family.

“Still Mr. Cool, aren’t you?” Caroline said. “Still trying to pretend you’re untouchable.”

Untouchable. Perhaps, but only in the emotional sense.

Caroline wasn’t the only one to accuse him of hiding his emotions behind an easy laugh and a charming grin. His little sister, Sophie, had told him more than once he was an emotional teakettle, at full rolling boil just beneath a calm, smooth surface.

Sophie was probably right. No one had ever been able to get Mick to completely lose his control and erupt. Except once. With the woman standing right in front of him.

Of course, Caroline hadn’t been around to see. That had been after she’d left. After she’d waltzed out of his life, accusing him, judging him, sentencing him and walking away without even giving him a chance to defend himself. Hell, he hadn’t even done anything. He’d been guilty of what he might do in the future, and that was enough for her.

Such trust from the girl he’d asked to marry him.

That was the only time Mick had ever lost himself to anger. He still had the scars on his knuckles from where he’d broken several fingers punching holes in the wall of his room.

Not that her lack of trust and his perceived inability to commit were the only things to break them up. There had also been geography. She wanted west. L.A. Big city, bright lights. All that star-studded stuff a lot of college girls seemed to want. Mick had never been able to picture anything but what he’d always known. Small-town life. Home.

So she’d taken off. He’d torn apart his dorm room and gotten kicked out of school. End of story. Until now.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked again, unable to keep baiting her when he simply felt weary and off balance. “Why after eight years did you track me down?”

“I didn’t track you down. I’m your appointment.”

He simply stared, not sure what she meant.

“Your renter.”

His renter. One of the studio executives looking for a place to rent in Derryville for a month.

Caroline Lamb was moving here? To this tiny town where they’d be running into each other all the time?

His dismay must have shown in his expression, because for the first time since she’d stumbled into the office, a genuine smile brightened her face. “Doesn’t that just make your day?”

He couldn’t even fathom what life would be like if he had to get used to Caroline being back in his world. The thought of having his youthful stupidity and heartbreak thrown into his face on a daily basis was more than he could stand.

Striding out of his office, he nearly tripped on something, but kicked it out of the way. He continued down the darkened hallway, reached the front door and yanked it open.

“Louise,” he bellowed into the street. “Get back here and shoot me!”

CHAPTER THREE

“SOTELL ME, what is this rumor I’ve heard about you renting a room to one of these TV people?”

Sophie Winchester smothered a groan as her peaceful Monday morning was interrupted immediately after she’d stepped into the church office. There was no mistaking that voice. It was Miss Hester, sister of Pastor Bob, her boss at the First Methodist Church of Derryville. Miss Hester’s sweet tones—so often heard dispensing wisdom, advice and fortitude to the congregational flock—usually spewed criticism and gossip in private.

“Is it true?” Miss Hester shut the door and turned around. “I heard the rumor yesterday.”

So much for keeping her plans a secret. Criminy, she’d only told her brother, Mick, two days ago that she wanted to rent out her house while it was up for sale. And already, the grapevine had gift-wrapped and hand-delivered the rumor to the proprietress of all things proper and good in Derryville, Hester Tomlinson. The one who’d been preaching from her own bully pulpit against allowing any Hollywood types near Derryville.

“Where did you hear that?” she asked, knowing Miss Hester wasn’t going to move her considerable girth out of the way to let her go to her desk until Sophie had spilled her guts.

“Tell me it’s not true. You, a respectable church secretary, are not opening your doors to a Hollywood gigolo who’ll ruin your reputation, destroy your engagement to Chief Fletcher and make a mockery of everything my dear brother preaches each Sunday.”

Oh. So, Miss Hester didn’t have the entire story straight. She thought Sophie was going to be rooming with some TV people. When she learned the truth—that Sophie was—gasp—going to live in sin with her fiancé for a couple of months—she’d shit bricks. Church secretaries simply didn’t do such things.

Not that Sophie was much of a church secretary. That was just the public life she’d lived for the past few years in order to keep her private one a secret. The public job wasn’t going to be hers much longer. She’d already been planning to resign. When Miss Hester learned she planned to give up her house to live with her fiancé, Daniel Fletcher, it’d be imperative.

“Everyone is talking about making it rich by renting out rooms to those…those Hollywood lowlifes.” Miss Hester sounded as if she was talking about insects, rather than human beings.

“Yes,” Sophie admitted, “it’s true. I’m going to rent out my house. I plan to sell it when Daniel and I get married, anyway.”

Miss Hester moved away, shutting the door behind her and striding toward Pastor Bob’s private inner office. “Come with me,” she said, her authoritative tone allowing for no argument.

Sophie began to smile, almost relieved that things were coming to a head. It looked like she might be quitting her job sooner rather than later. That meant she could unglue her tongue from the back of her teeth and tell the old battle-ax what she could do with her stupid job and her stupid rules and her stupid nosiness and her stupid self.

Once Sophie got into the other office, Miss Hester crossed her arms over her massive chest and frowned. “Your wedding’s not until October. Halloween, as I recall, as if anyone could forget a bride choosing such an unholy day for her sacred nuptials.”

When the truth came out about who Sophie was, and what she really did for a living, the wedding date might make sense.

“Actually, I’m going to go ahead and move out now.”

She felt relieved it was going to be over soon. She wanted it done, wanted to stop living a lie. She had her letter of resignation ready, though she’d planned to give it to Pastor Bob. But if Miss Hester pushed too hard, the letter would be hitting her so fast she’d think she’d missed someone yelling “fore.”

“Whoever rents the house would be there alone,” she added.

“Oh,” the woman said. “That’s better, at least.” The woman sounded approving. Sophie recognized the tone. Miss Hester used it on everyone, trying to convince most residents in Derryville that she really was the kindly hostess of her widowed pastor brother, rather than just a small-minded woman who lived on gossip and titillation. “Where do you plan to live in the meantime, dear?”

Sophie didn’t fall for the softened tone or the endearment.

“Are you staying with your parents?”

“No,” Sophie said, waiting for the right moment to tell Miss Hester that sweet little Sophie Winchester was going to be shacking up with the new police chief.

Before she could continue, Miss Hester was distracted by the ringing of her phone. Since Sophie wasn’t out in the reception area, the woman had to answer it herself, leaving Sophie to work up the right words that would mean, basically, take this job and shove it, but wouldn’t sound quite so truck driver-ish.

Not that Miss Hester didn’t deserve such language. The woman was like a scouring pad pretending to be a cotton ball. But Sophie had been directly in contact with the steel wool these days and knew there was nothing cottony soft about the woman.

Which made it awfully easy to picture killing the old broad. Killing. Mutilating. Maiming. Burying. Oh, yeah, Sophie had done it all in her mind. Not as herself, of course, but as her alter ego, R. F. Colt. The hottest horror fiction writer around today.

There was the main reason for quitting her job. Heaven knew she had enough work to do on her novels without living a secret life as a small-town church secretary. But, even though Daniel had convinced her people liked her for who she really was—not who she pretended to be—she had her doubts. Her family? Yes. Daniel? Yes. A few close friends and associates? Absolutely.

But if she told Miss Hester? The woman who’d pray for her poor, sorry soul and preach to her about the evils of a dissolute mind and a wicked imagination? No way. Not a chance. She’d only planned to reveal her secret once she was ready to whip out that resignation letter and switch to another church on Sundays. Which appeared to be right about now.

Miss Hester finally finished her phone call and turned her attention back to Sophie. “So, where will you be living?”

“I didn’t see the point in missing the summer real estate season, so I’m going to put the house on the market right away and rent it out in the meantime. It doesn’t make sense to wait until October.” Offering the other woman a tiny smile, Sophie added, “So I’m just going to move in with Daniel now.”

Miss Hester gasped. “You can’t. You simply can’t.”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“It’s a disgrace. I’ve worked too hard to let you ruin things.” The woman’s voice rose to a near shout. “If you do this, don’t bother to come back the next day.”

Sophie shrugged. “You got it. I quit.”

Miss Hester’s jaw fell open, setting a few of her chins a-wiggling. “You ungrateful, miserable little sneak.”

Hmm…Miss Hester looked pretty ferocious when she was pissed off. Maybe the next time she included the woman as a character in one of her books, she’d make her the villain instead of just a comic relief secondary character or a gruesomely murdered victim.

“You’re as shameless as that no-good brother of yours.”

She’d brought Mick into this? Low. Very low. “I should defend Mick, but I mind my own business and leave my brother alone.” Let her stew on that.

Miss Hester did, quickly realizing the insult. “You are no longer welcome in this office.” Then, as if she had a direct line to God and could issue his invitations, she added, “Or in this church.”

Sophie shrugged. “There are other churches.” Just to be evil, she added, “I’ve been wanting to check out the synagogue, anyway. Or maybe that Buddhist temple up in Chicago.”

Miss Hester clutched a hand to her heart. “You wicked girl.”

Sophie wasn’t listening. She’d already turned toward the door, giving one last mutter. “Oh, drop dead.”

Feeling damn good, Sophie breezed into the reception area.

It was then that she noticed the crowd. The one who’d been listening to every nasty word. Mrs. Carlton who had an appointment with Miss Hester this morning. Dr. Ogilvie, a local dentist, who headed up the food-for-the-needy program. A red-faced Louise Flanagan. Darla from the nail salon. Every last one staring at her.

Damn, when she burst out of the closet, she did it in a big way. Giving them all a bright smile, she murmured, “Good morning,” then walked out the door into the sunshine.

EARLY THAT AFTERNOON, trapped inside a car with the most exasperating man she’d ever known, Caro was on the verge of a meltdown. Every rental in Derryville had something wrong with it. Either the owners were old, loud and nosy or young, loud and obnoxious. Or the rental room was painted a garish Day-Glo green. Or the chain-smoking owner had created a lot of fragrant memories.

Nothing suited her. Least of all the man showing her place after place, a faint smile always evident on his lips. That smile told her more than his silence ever could.

“You’re enjoying this,” she said, watching him wave to yet another local on the streets of Derryville.

He gave her an innocent look. “Enjoying what?”

“Enjoying watching me sweat.”

“I’ve always enjoyed watching you sweat,” he replied, completely unrepentant. “Does you good to get a little worked up once in a while. You look so…” He gestured toward her pressed linen suit, the stylish linen jacket and short white skirt, as if he found the latest fashion lacking.

“So what?”

“So buttoned-up.”

“Professional, I think is the word you want.”

“I was thinking more like cold.”

Cold? He thought she was cold? Good grief, one of the most difficult things she’d overcome when arriving in Hollywood was the impression that she was an innocent young girl, big of heart, warm of spirit, always ready to listen to a sob story. Impressionable, exuberant, naive but clever, they’d called her.

Now Mick was calling her cold. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but, deep down, it did.

“Let’s stick to the subject—finding me a place to live.”

“You’re the one who’s being picky. I’ve shown you four reasonable places.”

“Ugh. Reasonable?”

“You didn’t have better luck on your own,” he reminded her.

No, she hadn’t. Not that the jerk had to bring up the fact that she’d tried. This morning, after their initial run-in in his office, she’d stormed off, determined to find someplace to live without his help. She’d been back an hour later, disheartened and frustrated. The local paper hadn’t listed one single rental. Nor would any of the people with For Rent signs in their yards agree to let her come through without a Realtor.

“Are you the only Realtor in Derryville?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nah. I have two associates working with me.”

Her spirits perked up at that. Then he dashed her hopes. “But they’re both off this weekend.”

She groaned and stared out the window. “How is it that the only hotel in this town looks like it rents by the hour?”

“Because it does.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you’d know.”

“I’m sure Hollywood doesn’t have such sordid goings-on.”

She couldn’t hide a smile. “Okay, you got me on that one.”

The tension seemed to ease somewhat, probably because she’d finally lightened up. Mick had always been able to lighten her mood. Heck, Mick had always been able to make anybody feel better. It was impossible to be down with someone who was always up.

“Tell me about this TV show,” he said, obviously trying to keep the conversation friendly and impersonal. They both seemed to have reached the same silent conclusion that the past was better left undiscussed, at least for now. “Why’d you decide to film it here? Why the Little Bohemie Inn?”

Safe ground. They could talk business without Caro feeling the urge to reach over and play with his earlobe. Either that or give his hair a good yank because he’d made her so angry every time she’d thought about him over the years. “We’re always on the lookout for new shows. Reality TV had been really hot the last few years.”

He sighed. “Yeah. I was wondering when they’d start the live execution show. Or ‘Who Wants to Let Their Dog Marry a Millionaire’s Dog?’.”

She laughed, unable to help it. Because what he described wasn’t so far off the mark. She felt pretty sure that, somewhere, a desperate Hollywood down-and-outer had thought of just such an idea as a way to try to get back in. “This isn’t going to be anything quite as gratuitous. Actually, the owner of the inn gave us the idea for the show, herself. Gwen…um….”

“Winchester.” He didn’t so much as crack a smile, but she heard the amusement in his voice.

She sighed heavily. “Don’t tell me…”

“She married my cousin last spring.”

Another Winchester. Oh, joy. Another wonderful day-to-day reminder of the only guy she’d ever loved. Her trip to Derryville should be renamed a visit to purgatory.

“So how’d Gwen give you the show idea?”

“A review of the inn in a Chicago paper mentioned they were doing in-character murder mystery weekends. Someone at the network saw it, thought it would be an interesting concept and came up with Killing Time in a Small Town.”

Mick nodded. “Those in-character weekends at the Little Bohemie Inn are something else. And you should probably thank my cousin, Jared, for inspiring the idea.” He wore a secretive look, as though he had a story to tell, but instead kept the conversation away from personal matters. “I’d heard it was a murder mystery show. I don’t suppose society has fallen quite so low as to have real murders for our viewing pleasure?”

“Only on cable. Not on one of the big three networks.”

He gave her a sideways glance, nodding his appreciation of her humor. Where that humor had come from, she couldn’t say. Her mind told her she was still mad at him, still hurt by him, still insane to spend even one minute alone with him.

But her body, her spirit, her long-dormant sunny, open, good nature, reminded her that she’d always liked being around this guy. He’d always been able to make her laugh, make her give in to crazy impulses and live for the moment.

That thought doused the good humor. She’d stopped living for the moment a long time ago. Judging by the fact that some local woman had thought she needed to “save” Mick from himself, he hadn’t.

He hadn’t stopped being the kind of impulsive person who did what he wanted, when he wanted, with whom he wanted. He was still self-indulgent, still a creature of his senses, still a walking testament to living life for fun and pleasure. Exactly the kind of man she’d predicted he’d be. Exactly the kind of man she’d decided to exclude from her life. No matter how much it hurt.

“How does the show work?”

She cleared her throat, trying to regain her better mood. “It’s supposed to walk the line between reality TV shows and the scripted variety. It’s like that old party game, where one person is a killer and nobody knows who it is until they get ‘winked’ at. Then they are murdered and out of the game.”

He nodded absently. “So the contestants aren’t taking part in challenges to see who wins. They could actually get outwitted and killed?”

“They take part in challenges to try to figure out who, among them, is the killer. And also to earn exemptions on murder nights.”

“Are they actors, playing roles?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Real people, not actors. Playing themselves, but always ‘in character.”’

Mick gave her a questioning look as he directed the car off the main street through town and turned toward another subdivision with another rental possibility. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, they will have to do some acting because they’re supposed to behave from day one as if they’re really registering at a spooky, possibly haunted inn, and suddenly murder and mayhem erupt in the town around them.”

And that was the tricky part of this entire reality show adventure. Because the contestants couldn’t just be themselves. To make the show a success, the cast had to act as if everything—every murder, every drop of blood, fingerprint, mysterious stranger and unexplained noise in the night—was real.

Unfortunately, she imagined the closest some of them had ever come to acting was faking the occasional orgasm.

He nodded. “An in-character reality TV cast. That’s not so unusual, I guess. I mean, aren’t a lot of the contestants of these reality shows acting like sweet, marriageable girls when they’re really foot fetish models or all-around bitches?”

She chuckled. “Right.”

“Do they have to follow a script or something?”

She shook her head. “Nothing that happens is scripted beyond outlines of where they all need to go every day and the locations and descriptions of the murders. And the murder plot. We’ve set up the first few victims of the ‘Derryville Demon,’ but as for who dies after that, it’s anyone’s guess.”

Before Caroline could continue, she saw that an attractive woman was placing a “For Rent” sign in front of the pretty house that had caught her eye. Her spirits lifted. “Is this it?”

Mick glanced over, gave a surprised look, then shook his head. “No, this isn’t the one.”

“Stop anyway,” she urged, liking the profusion of flowers beside the front porch, and the way the big maple tree out front shaded the windows of the lovely yellow house.

“You wouldn’t be interested in that one.”

“Who says? Stop the car.”

“She’s renting the whole house, Caroline.”

“It’s Caro.”

“Caro’s syrup. It’s not a name, it’s something you put on pancakes,” he muttered.

“No, maple syrup’s what you put on pancakes. Caro’s—oh, would you just stop?”

He pulled the car up to the curb of the house. The woman, who’d just finished placing the sign, instantly straightened.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he said softly.

But Caro was already stepping out of the car, smiling at the homeowner. Mick might think she was a big-city snob now, but frankly, Caro couldn’t think of a lovelier place to stay during her upcoming weeks in Derryville. The house was small, a one-story cottage with a freestanding one-car garage. With the quiet street, well-kept yard and friendly appearance of the owner, she felt sure this was going to be the place.

It was only when Mick brushed past her, striding over to the small brunette, that Caro realized she might be wrong.

Then she noticed the woman looked upset. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Mick asked as he tenderly touched the woman’s cheek.

Caro swallowed hard, suddenly remembering the kindness of which this man was capable. Yes, Mick had always been a flirt, a rogue, a…dog. But he’d also always been a sucker for someone in distress. Especially if that someone was a female.

The woman didn’t respond in words. Instead, she threw her arms around Mick’s neck and hugged him tight.

Oh, but it hurt to see that. Obviously the reason Mick hadn’t wanted to stop at this particular house was because its owner was his current…whatever. He’d tried to stop her. It was her own fault she had to witness yet another moment with Mick and another female. Kinda like the one that had broken them up.

Well, no way was she going to let him see she was the least bit bothered by that idea. While Mick and the woman talked quietly in the yard, Caro wandered up to the porch, noticing how fragrant the flowers beside it smelled.

“I’m so sorry,” a woman’s voice said. “You guys caught me at the wrong moment.”

“Right moment,” Mick said, his arm draped casually over the other woman’s shoulders as they walked up to join Caro. “It’s not every day you get fired.”

“Fired?” Caro frowned. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

The woman shrugged. “I didn’t get fired. I quit. Sort of. It was kind of mutual.” Then a frown pulled the woman’s pretty brow down. “I just wish half the town hadn’t heard it.”

“You’re exaggerating, honey,” Mick murmured.

Honey. Ouch.

“Anyway,” the woman said, extending her hand toward Caro, “welcome. I’m glad you might be interested in the house. I’m anxious to move, especially now that I don’t have to worry about how it will affect my job. My name’s Sophie Winchester.”

Good Lord. Winchester. Had she been stricken so numb at seeing Mick again that she hadn’t even noticed a gold band on his left hand? Then she remembered something. Her instant relief surprised her. “Sophie. You’re Mick’s baby sister, right?”

The woman looked surprised. “Yes. How did you know that?”

Caro felt heat rise into her cheeks as Mick watched, an obvious grin on his face. He was enjoying this, enjoying watching her sweat as she tried to explain to his sister that she and Mick had once been very close. Often close enough that not a thing had come between them—including clothes. “Mick and I were college friends,” she said. “I remember him mentioning you.”

“Small world.” Sophie graciously dropped the subject as if she read Caro’s discomfort. “Come on inside.”

Ten minutes later, after touring the house with Sophie, who was both funny and charming, Caro had reached two conclusions. First, the house was perfect for her.

And second, it would never, never work.

Because Sophie had a cat. A big fat cat who reacted as every cat did when Caro came in contact with one. As if knowing which people either didn’t like or were allergic to them, felines always curled around her, purring and wanting to be petted.

Just breathing the air in the house was clogging up her throat. Petting Mugs, as Sophie called him, could put Caro in the hospital. There was no way she could live here, even with a thorough cleaning. Caro’s allergies were simply too severe.

Which left her stuck, again, in two ways. First, she still had no place to live. Second, and even worse, she had to get back in the car to do more house-hunting with Mick Winchester.

MICK SHOULD HAVE known better than to take the side streets back to downtown Derryville to his office. He should have stuck to the main road, getting Caroline to her car and out of his life as soon as possible. He should have done everything in his power to bring their interaction to an end, letting her figure out on her own where she was going to live.

He’d done none of the above. Instead, some demon deep inside him made him cut through a quiet neighborhood with which he was very familiar. He told himself it was shorter. That was bullshit.

The truth was, he was still ticked at her. Still affected by her. Still wanting her gone but not wanting her to leave.

Still stunned that she was here.

Caroline Lamb, right back in the center of his world, and sending it as crazily off balance as she always had. Things had never been peaceful and calm with them. They’d struck sparks off each other from the time they’d met, and Caro had always known how to push his buttons.

Like today. The never-ending house hunt was pure Caroline Lamb. Okay, so old man Snorkle was a heavy smoker and every surface in the house was a sickly beige nicotine color. And yeah, Mrs. Spencer was color blind and the spare room in her house would have been perfect for a patriotic leprechaun. And right, the McKenzies were old and deaf but refused to use hearing aids so their conversations were at the decibel level of a jackhammer.

Picky, picky.

The fact that she’d refused Sophie’s place had really ticked him off. It would have been perfect for her, and would have helped out Sophie. Not that Sophie needed the money. He almost chuckled at that one, remembering how shocked he’d been to learn his bratty kid sister was a famous hack-’em-up horror novelist. So successful she could probably buy and sell him ten times over.

But it would have helped her out to know that someone quiet, respectable and responsible was taking care of her house while she was living with her fiancé.

His jaw tightened at the thought of Sophie living with a man. Then he eased up. Divorce was so common, he’d rather Sophie and Daniel give things a try now than have regrets later.

But Caroline hadn’t wanted Sophie’s house. When he’d accused her of rejecting it to try to avoid him, she hadn’t denied it.

So, she wanted to avoid him. Huh. That’d be a trick in Derryville.

What really bugged him was the evidence that Caroline had turned into such a coward. The girl he’d known back in college wouldn’t have given a damn where he went, what he thought or what he did. Caroline had been all fire and energy, a whirling ball of excitement, always up for adventure, whether it was going four-wheeling up in the mountains in a borrowed Jeep or taking a spontaneous twenty-hour road trip to the beach one weekend.

That girl was gone. Long gone. Not at all in evidence in the tight-lipped, tight-formed woman sitting in his car.

So he couldn’t really say what had made him choose this particular street—his anger, his sense of adventure or his need to once again see Caroline Lamb sweat. Probably all of the above.

“Stop!” She pointed. “There, that one.”

He knew which house she was pointing to. The one on the corner. The big old two-story with the nicely treed lot and the driveway that circled around the front.

“There’s a Room For Rent sign.”

Yeah, there was. “Not this house, Caroline.”

“You only have one sister.” She reached for the door handle. “Don’t tell me another one of your family members lives here.”

He shook his head. “Nope, I’m not telling you that.”

Then, because Mick just could never resist giving someone enough rope to hang themselves with, he let Caroline get out of the car and walk toward the house. He followed her, coming close to telling her the truth, but deciding against it.

Caroline went to the sign and pulled out a flyer. Her eyes sparked with indignation. “You have this place listed for rent.”

“Yep.”

“So why didn’t you tell me about it?”

Because I’m not a freakin’ lunatic?

“I didn’t think it would suit,” he replied, wondering why the hell he didn’t just admit the truth so they could get out of here. Somehow, though, he was starting to have a little fun.

Caroline kept reading. “It has an in-law suite and there’s only one resident. How bad could that be? I mean, there’s no ax murderer or psychopath living here, is there?”

“Not as far as I know,” he said with a chuckle, “but you can never be too sure about some people.”

As if on cue, the front door to the house opened and a very familiar older woman walked out. Mick smothered a sigh, having no doubt what she had been doing inside. Baking.

Caroline shot him a glare as she saw the older woman, complete with iron-gray hair, a pair of wire-framed glasses and a brightly colored dress. “Oh, I’m shaking in my shoes,” Caroline muttered, sotto voce. “I won’t sleep a wink wondering if she’s going to have a raunchy sex party.”

He gulped at that image. Then he gave her a bit more rope…because she deserved it for bringing up the word sex when that was about all he’d been thinking about since he’d laid eyes on her again.

Sex. With her. Lots of it. The kind they used to have when they were young and hungry, when every cell in his body had contained a raging hormone and every one of them had been screaming her name.

“I can’t believe you didn’t mention this place. Did you intentionally make me suffer with all those other ones this morning? Was this some kind of ploy to get even because I dumped you back in college?”

Talk about déjà vu. They’d been in each other’s company only a few hours and once again she was accusing him when he hadn’t done a thing to deserve it. Just like she had when they’d broken up, when she’d thrown ugly words like playboy, irresponsible and “unable to be faithful” at his face. All because she’d seen a questionable moment and chosen to believe the worst.

“The rent is very reasonable,” he replied evenly, not responding to her barb.

The older woman walked down off the porch and finally noticed them standing on the front walk. “Oh, you caught me,” she said, giving Mick a guilty-looking smile. “I just took a pie out of the oven and left it to cool on the counter.”

Caroline extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Caro Lamb.”

“Caro..lan? How nice to meet you, dear.”

“Uh, Lamb. That is…never mind. It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m interested in the room for rent.”

Mick suffered under a ten-second stare from a pair of eyes that had been able to make him spill his guts with just a glance from the time he’d been a kid. “She’s with the reality show and needs a place to stay for a few weeks.” One fine gray brow arched a bit. “I’ve shown her every rental in town,” he added.

Those stiffened shoulders eased a bit. “Well then, how wonderful. I’m sure you’ll love it. I have a hair appointment, so I’ll get out of your way and let you go look.”

Mick watched her leave, then turned his attention to Caroline. She went up to the porch, gave the two-person swing a little push and stood up on tiptoe to sniff at a flowering plant hanging by the door. Her smile was evident from down here on the lawn. She suddenly looked much more like the girl he’d known, which didn’t make him feel one bit better.

She even sat down on the swing, setting it in motion with a kick and wiggling to make herself more comfortable while she waited for him to open the house.

“This is wonderful,” she murmured.

She liked the place. Damn, why did that hurt so much?

“I want to see the inside. If it’s as perfect as the outside, then I think I’ve found where I want to live.”

“You’re making a mistake…”

“No, I’m not,” she said, rising from the swing and staring down at him from three steps above. “Stop telling me what I want and what I don’t, Mick. I would have thought you’d learned a long time ago that I don’t take well to that kind of thing.”

He stiffened. Like he’d needed a reminder of how she’d reacted when he’d tried to insist she didn’t really want to move out to L.A. That her future was with him.

The anger in her voice and condemnation in her eyes was the last straw. He didn’t protest as she looked at the house. As predicted, she loved it. She really went crazy over the rec room with the amazing TV setup. Caroline was ready to move full speed ahead and sign a lease on the spare suite of rooms.

So be it.

An hour later, after she’d signed the papers and paid the full four weeks’ rent in advance, he watched her pull away from his office without a backwards glance.

“You made your bed, babe. Now you can lie in it.”

He just couldn’t wait to see what she said when she found out that bed was in his house.

CHAPTER FOUR

“SO, TELL ME ABOUT this Caro Lamb.”

Great. Just the person Mick didn’t want to talk about. And just the person he didn’t want to talk about her with—his mother—who’d beelined for his table at Ed’s Café the minute she’d entered. So much for his nice, quiet Friday morning breakfast. “Her name’s Caroline. And there’s nothing to tell.”

His mother sniffed, knowing better. Mick watched, amused, while the very predictable Marnie Winchester picked up a napkin, wiped off the seat and made a harrumphing sound as crumbs floated to the floor. She sat across from him, keeping her purse in her lap, hands folded neatly on top of it. He knew darn well she’d ask the waitress to wipe off the table before she ate a thing.

“Sophie seems to think you knew her before.”

Sophie, you’re a dead woman.

He merely shrugged, neither confirming nor denying, hoping his mother had lost that whole mind-reading ability once her kids were out of the house. But he doubted it.

“Well?” she persisted, not at all put off by his signals.

She’d been relentless about Caroline since the afternoon when they’d bumped into her coming out of his house. She’d been there baking him a nice homemade pie. Why? Because his mother was convinced he hadn’t eaten a decent meal or a good wholesome home-cooked treat since leaving home ten years ago.

“I’ve told you, she’s a producer with the TV show,” he said.

“The TV show?” Tina Laudermilk, who was sitting at the next booth listening to every word they said, turned around and gave Mick a good-morning smile. “I hear they’ve started to arrive.”

From behind him, Mick heard a man’s voice. “I saw a bunch of trucks at the inn yesterday when I was making my deliveries.” It was Earl Donovan, the UPS guy, and an aspiring actor who’d been following the TV show goings-on with avid interest.

Earl and Tina began a conversation right over Mick’s and his mother’s heads, talking back and forth as if the other booth was not between them. “I stopped by the trailer and picked up the paperwork to be an extra.”

“Is it true they’re going to do scenes here?” Tina asked.

Ed, the owner and cook, popped his head up from behind the half wall separating the kitchen and the counter. “Yep. And they’re paying me, too.”

“Better save the money for future food poisoning claims,” Mick muttered.

Judging by the way his mother’s lips twitched, she’d heard.

“I saw the director fellow in the drug store yesterday,” Tina said. She made a gooey-eyed face that told Mick what she’d thought of the man. “And did you hear the host is going to be Joshua Charmagne, from that cop show? What a dream.”

The whole thing was more like a nightmare to Mick.

“He’s a flamer.” This from Donnie Jordan, a truck driver who ran diesel throughout the state. He swiveled on his stool and jumped into the conversation. “No real man wears purple shirts like he did.”

“He’s no such thing,” Tina retorted. “He was a gentleman detective and back then in Miami men did wear purple shirts and white suits. I bet he doesn’t wear purple shirts in real life.”

Donnie was not convinced. “Nope. Probably wears those rainbow ones to show his pride.”

Before Tina could launch herself across the table to tackle Donnie for casting doubts on the manhood of her favorite has-been TV star, Mick figured he’d make his getaway.

“Check, please!” Mick hoped to pay his tab and escape while his mother was distracted by the conversation that had erupted around them. That was typical. Everywhere he went these days, the topic of conversation surrounded Killing Time in a Small Town.

His mother wasn’t distracted. “She was very pretty.”

“Who?”

She just smirked. Yeah, she still had that mind-reading thing going on. Caroline hadn’t left his thoughts for a minute.

And his mother was right. Caroline was beyond pretty. She was damned beautiful. Thank God there was no way she’d really move in with him when she arrived for her month-long stay. “Was she? I didn’t notice.” He dropped his napkin onto his plate, trying to make eye contact with the waitress as he feigned indifference.

He should have known better. “Who are you, and what have you done with my son?” She reached over and put her hand on his forehead, like she used to whenever he tried to fake sickness to get out of going to school.

“Am I feverish?”

“Delirious.”

His mother’s droll tone made him laugh and drop the pretense. “Okay, yes, she was very pretty. But not my type.”

“Is there such a thing?” This came not from his piercing-eyed mother, but from Deedee Packalotte, his regular waitress.

Deedee had been trying to rekindle an affair with him for years. Not that an affair was what he’d call the three or four afternoons they’d shared in her parents’ basement, back when he’d been delivering papers and she’d been a teenager going to beauty school. She’d dropped out. Which would be pretty obvious to anyone who took one good look at her hair.

No, he and Deedee had had more like a Mrs. Robinson thing. She’d been the older woman—though only by four years—who’d taught him how to last longer than sixty-five seconds in the sack. Or, rather, on top of the washing machine, or the nearest flat surface they could find in the basement. He wondered if Deedee would be surprised to know he’d once gone sixty-five minutes. Not counting the foreplay.

“I’ll have coffee.” His mother frowned at Deedee for interrupting. “And, dear, would you get a rag and touch up this table?”

God love her.

Mick used her distraction to firm his resolve against talking about Caroline to his mother. His sister had been bad enough. It was hard to keep anything from Sophie. She was an observant person who hadn’t been put off by his claims that Caroline had been a casual friend. Luckily, since Sophie had moved in with Daniel and begun telling people her real identity, she had enough to focus on without worrying about his love life. Or, past love life.

Not present. Caroline was definitely not part of his present.

“So you’re going to rent out a room in your house. I still can’t understand why you didn’t just tell us if you needed help making the mortgage.”

An old story. His parents were always trying to help, whether it was popping by to cook enough food for a battalion or offering him money. No matter how many times he’d told them he didn’t need their help, they never stopped offering. Sophie suffered the same endless good will.

“I don’t need help making the mortgage.” True. He was fine, at least until the slow winter season came. That was the worst time of year in his business. So he’d thought he’d rent out a room in his big house—which he’d bought at auction and fixed up over the past two years—to fill in some. Of all the bad ideas he’d ever had…

“And this Caro, she’s going to be living in your house, but you still say she’s not your type?”

“She’s not going to live in my house,” he insisted as he sipped his rapidly cooling coffee, inhaling its aroma. Ed’s served good coffee. Good thing, since the food sucked.

“What do you mean?”

He sipped again. I mean the minute she finds out she’s signed a lease to room with the big bad wolf, a Day-Glo green room or a little cigarette smoke ain’t gonna seem so bad.

“She’ll make other arrangements when she arrives Sunday.”

In fact, he was going to make damn sure of it. He was ninety-nine percent sure Caroline would storm out on her own the minute she found out she’d rented a room in his house. And he’d give her every penny of her money back. The look on her face would be payment enough.

But just in case, in the slim event that she liked his house enough to overlook the company, he’d developed a plan to help…uh…convince her.

He wasn’t sure how yet, but one thing was definite. When Caroline Lamb arrived in Derryville, she was going to find a welcoming committee she’d never forget.

CARO HATED FLYING. It seemed unnatural that something so big should stay in the air, defying gravity. If humans were meant to ride in airplanes, they’d be born with a frequent flier card and an airsick bag.

Unfortunately, her job sometimes required long-distance travel. Like today. But, for once, landing didn’t seem much better than flying, which said a lot about how little she wanted to arrive at her eventual destination.

“Derryville, Illinois,” she muttered. “How on earth could I have forgotten the name of Mick’s hometown?”

She quickly put him out of her mind. Unfortunately, as had been the case for the past three weeks—not to mention the past eight years—he was never completely gone.

She killed time in the usual way during the flight. And, as usual, she drew a few sidelong looks from her seat-mates and the passing flight attendant. Because she was singing.

Oh, she tried not to, tried to do it just in her head, but she couldn’t help it. When Caro was nervous she couldn’t stop herself from breaking into song in a low, quavering voice. This time as she sang, she pictured Tootie and Blair and the gang.

The woman next to her shot her a puzzled look. Caro almost identified the song as coming from The Facts of Life. Then she realized the woman probably wasn’t curious about the song. More about the wacky singer.

Okay, so she was a professional twenty-eight-year-old woman with a great hairstyle, perfect makeup, wearing a thousand dollar Donna Karan suit and carrying a leather briefcase that had cost more than her first junker car.

And she sang TV jingles under her breath.

Sue me.

Everyone had their quirks, didn’t they? At least she wasn’t clicking her teeth or cracking her knuckles or blowing her nose into a tissue and then peeking at the goods like other people she’d sat next to on airplanes.

All in all, her nervous habit seemed pretty innocuous. It was just the TV part that made it look weird. If she’d been humming the latest Alanis Morissette song, nobody would have looked twice.

But Caro’s nervous singing habit stuck strictly to her childhood repertoire of TV theme songs and jingles. Like a gambler might only play at a particular table, or an athlete wear a particular pair of socks, Caro relied on her old standby for good luck in avoiding things like midair collisions: television.

It had been her baby-sitter, then best friend and closest companion throughout her childhood. She’d needed somewhere to lose herself with two parents who worked all the time and either fought like cats and dogs or went at it like bunnies—depending on their moods—when they were home. Either way, she’d learned to keep the TV turned up as a kid. Loud—to block out the sounds. So loud that she could swear she still sometimes heard the tune the Huxtables had danced to in 1983 or every note from the Family Ties ditty.

Family Ties or The Cosby Show her family definitely was not.

From the seat in front of her, a man began to hum the song from Cheers. Funny how everybody responded to TV. Like it or not—and Caro liked it—television was as intrinsic to American culture as a Big Mac. It sparked water cooler debates, show-watching parties, betting pools and hairstyles.

It was also good for airline small talk. Caro strictly avoided weather chats on airplanes, because of the whole lightning, burning, crashing thing. She stuck to TV. She just had to be sure she didn’t talk about any disaster movies of the week. Sitcoms were safe. Soaps were right out.

This wasn’t the first time Caro had gotten distracted from her fear of flying by getting into a discussion of how the dancing midget had been the beginning of the end for Twin Peaks, or how lame the last season of Roseanne had been.

Or this. “Mikey from the Life commercials did not die of a Pop Rocks and Pepsi eruption,” she said to the older woman sitting across the aisle. Caro was in the biz. She knew the urban legends.

“Well, I heard he did.” The woman sniffed and turned away.

The one beside her in the center seat continued to feign sleep, probably wondering why she always ended up beside the psychos on airplanes. Caro didn’t mind seeming psycho. It kept her distracted from the flying. Or, rather, the crashing. That was the part about flying that she really didn’t like—the crashing part. She wasn’t MacGyver, who’d crashed with four teenage gang kids and survived by making stuff out of other stuff.

“Another one down,” she whispered after the plane landed.

“Next time take a sleeping pill,” she heard. Turning, she saw her seat mate. The woman smiled. “I do. It works every time.”

“Thanks.” Caro could have been put out with general anesthesia and she didn’t think that’d relieve the anxiety. Frankly, she’d rather be conscious and alert in the last few minutes before her death, if she really was going to do the crashing and burning thing.

“Crash and burn,” she muttered. Funny, that’s pretty much what had happened on her first ever plane trip. Okay, not on her first plane trip, but rather right before it.

She and Mick had crashed and burned right before she’d dropped out of college and flown out west, needing to make a fresh start somewhere where she wouldn’t hear rumors about his latest escapades or run into him with his latest girlfriend. A distinct probability since the first couple of times she’d met Mick had been when he was with his girlfriend of the week.

She’d heard the stories from the time she’d started school. Mick was the guy who’d climbed down a third-floor drainpipe to avoid being caught with someone in an on-campus sorority house. The charmer who’d somehow managed to get Hootie and the Blowfish to play at the homecoming dance. The prankster who’d rigged the electronic scoreboard at the football field to flash the answers to an upcoming midterm exam in a tough sociology class. The one who’d drawn over a thousand bucks in a charity bachelor auction…from the ex-wife of one of the professors, no less.

The one she’d found hiding in the storage room of her dorm, trying to avoid the two girls he was dating at the same time.

God, what a dog. And she’d been crazy about him. Crazy about him for a year, up until the day she’d realized being crazy about a bad boy was a much different thing from being in love with one.

Crazy was cool. Crazy was just fine for a college kid. But in love? Even worse, in love with Mick Winchester? Insanity.

Exiting the plane, she got her bags and the rental car the studio had reserved. Then she hit the road to Derryville.

By the time she arrived, it was full dark, a lovely September night with a sky full of stars and a huge watery moon. Too perfect a sky to be over a place Caro had begun thinking of as her personal hell.

All except the house. Inside the pretty house was a lovely mother-in-law suite, waiting just for her. With antique furniture, a four-poster queen-size bed, an old-fashioned claw-foot tub. Plus a huge window overlooking the kind of neighborhood the Huxtable or Keaton kids would have lived in.

Not the trailer park where Caro had grown up. Not the high-rise where she paid a fortune for her own small apartment now.

All she could think about was arriving at the little oasis in Derryville. The lovely home with the nice, quiet old landlady on the nice, quiet old street. The house would be her home base, a place to escape from the frenzy that always erupted on a reality television show set.

Best of all, the landlady would give her a physical barrier. She’d be a perfect chaperone in case Caroline lapsed into momentary insanity and lusted for Mick Winchester.

No. No lust. No stroll down a mind-numbingly hot memory lane with a guy who’d always been able to fry her circuits with a smile or have her flat on her back with a touch of his hand.

Damn. No woman should ever be unlucky enough to have a Mick Winchester as her first lover. Starting out with the best meant everything else was downhill from there. And it had been, until it got to the point where she hardly found sex worth it anymore.

Another reason to hate the bastard. He’d ruined her sex life.

When she arrived at the house, she parked in the driveway, surprised to note there were five or six cars parked on the street in front of the house. “Sewing circle night,” she mused aloud. “Or maybe a bake sale meeting.”

Though she was tired, this would be a perfect time to meet some of the matriarchs of Derryville. With the production schedule set up by the studio, she had to get the cooperation of the townspeople as quickly as possible. The crew was arriving today and tomorrow, the cast at the end of the week. All the extras had to be screened and signed, the locations set, the schedule firmed. They needed the residents on board from day one.

Swinging her soft carry-on bag over her shoulder, she left her other luggage in the trunk of the car. She wanted to sit down and have a nice hot cup of tea. Maybe some cucumber sandwiches or whatever small-town ladies served at Ladies’ Guild-type meetings.

The front door was wide open, the screen propped as well, propped by a small refrigerator sitting on the porch. It was probably filled with lemonade, or raspberry iced tea. Buttermilk.

“Okay, this isn’t Seventh Heaven,” she muttered, forcing the images of small-town family dramas out of her mind.

This was real. Not TV.

She raised her hand to knock, then noticed something funny. The noises coming from inside the house didn’t sound like a Ladies’ Guild meeting.

Another indication that she wasn’t going to be walking into a room full of nice gentle ladies was the smoke. Thick. Spicy. Obviously from a cigar. Or ten.

She froze, focused on the sounds. Male laughter. Deep. Raucous. Obviously from a man. Or ten.

Holding her breath, she entered the house, instinctively keeping on her toes to prevent her heels from striking the hardwood floors. She followed the noise, the laughter and a loud stereo playing some deafening music.

And suddenly found herself in a room full of testosterone.

Ten. Yep. That’s about what it looked like, though a quick count told her there were really only five.

Five men. Five big, laughing, smoking, drinking, scratching, snorting, belching, card-playing men. They were gathered around a card table that had been set up in the middle of what she remembered was the rec room.

It looked wrecked, all right. Male paraphernalia covered every flat surface. Overflowing ashtrays. Empty beer bottles. A half-empty bottle of Jim Beam and a three-quarters empty one of Crown Royal. Empty glasses. Chip bags. Remnants of pizza in some large boxes littering the floor. Cards. Gambling chips.

And right there in the middle of it, staring at her with a big ol’ shit-eating grin, sat a sexy-as-sin Mick Winchester.

MICK HAD KNOWN she was there the minute Caroline walked into the room. Even if he hadn’t been expecting her he’d have noticed the change in the air. Female molecules, scents and energy stood out in this place. Especially when they were such attractive molecules, intoxicating scents and seductive energies.

He was the only one who saw her at first as she stood there, clad in another one of those power suits tailored to fit perfectly against her curvy little body. And another pair of wickedly high-heeled shoes that accentuated the long, soft legs he remembered.

Forcing his mind out of his crotch, he continued to wait, keeping a casual eye on his cards, the other on her.

Caroline looked shocked. Confused. Ready to faint. Then, ready to kill. She’d obviously seen him.

“Hey, Caroline!” he called, keeping his teeth clamped on the soggy end of a half-smoked cigar.

All the men at the table, his card-playing baseball team buddies, glanced around to follow his stare. He should have told them about her, or at least prepared himself for their reactions. That may have prevented his fists from tightening as Ty Taylor made a soft wolf whistle and Ty’s twin brother, Eddie, muttered something mildly obscene under his breath.

Why he’d want to smash in the teeth of one of his longtime buddies, he really couldn’t say. But he gave Eddie a warning look that instantly shut the other man up.

“What is going on?” Her voice was thready and shaking.

“Poker night. Five card stud. Ten dollar max bid,” Mick explained. “And Jimmy here is kicking our asses.”

She clutched her bag. “I mean, why…why are you here?”

He ignored the question. He also ignored his own slight tinge of remorse for planning this outrageous welcoming party for Caroline. He could have just called her and told her the truth any time over the past few weeks. But her snippy, impersonal little e-mails and faxed messages had kept him from doing it.

“Guys, this is Caroline Lamb. She’s the producer for the new TV show being shot up at the old Marsden place.”

Though he would have sworn not one of the men in the room would have held a door for his own mother after two hours of bourbon, cigars, raunchy talk and cards, each of them stood up and nodded to Caroline. Mick rose as well, acknowledging what he’d always known about Caroline. She brought out a basic male instinct from any man she came across. The good, the bad and the ugly. “The ugly” might have accounted for this whole welcoming reception, which had seemed like such a fine idea the other night over a few beers at the Mainline Tavern, but was making him feel a bit small now.

He shrugged off the feeling, remembering that Caroline was a champion at making people feel small.

“Nice to meet you,” Ty said. His greeting was echoed by the other card players.

Mick quickly went around the table, introducing them all. Caroline remained silent until he reached the last name.

Then she just stared, waiting for the punchline. So he gave it to her. “Caroline’s my new roommate. How are you doing, roomie? Have a good flight?”

He almost heard her back crack as she straightened it in a stiff stance a Master Sergeant would envy. “This is your house?” Her voice didn’t so much as quiver.

“Yep.” He sat back down, throwing his cards face-down onto the pile in the center of the table. “Damn.”

“This is your house?” she repeated.

He looked up. “Uh-huh.”

Her already creamy face went a shade paler and her lips trembled a little bit. He wasn’t sure whether that was fury or dismay and had to gulp down another bit of unfamiliar guilt.

“Who was the woman? That day. Who was the older lady I met here, the one who baked the pie?”

“My mom.”

The guys, who’d slowly retaken their seats around the table, snorted. Then Jimmy said, “You need to change your locks.” He gave Caroline a glance and wagged his eyebrows at Mick. “Never know when she’s going to walk in on something, uh…personal.”

“Hey, she make you any of her chocolate chip cookies lately?” Eddie asked. Mick ignored him.

“You let me think…” she began.

He shrugged. “I tried to tell you this wouldn’t suit you.”

“I thought this was her house,” she said, not seeming to care that she was basically repeating herself.

“I never said she was the landlady. And you never asked.” Chuckling, he leaned back in his seat, kicking his feet out in front of him and crossing his hands behind his head. “Hope you don’t leave panty hose and women’s crap all over the bathroom.”

“You’re a dead man.”

Mick shrugged, reached over and picked up the new hand of cards that Ty had dealt. The other guys just watched. Considering how wildly unpredictable Caroline had been in the old days, he couldn’t have warned them what they might expect. She could turn and stalk out, not even giving him a chance to laugh and tell her he’d arranged for her to stay at Sophie’s place…and that he’d give her back every penny of her rent.

Or she could pick up the nearest object—even the shoe off her foot—and lob it at his head.

Instead, she shocked even him. Shrugging off the suit jacket in a smooth, feminine move that made her silky blouse pull tight against her curvy body, she kicked off her shoes and strode over.

“Deal me in.”

IN HER SMALL room in her brother’s rectory, Hester Tomlinson sat on her narrow bed. She stared at her black-and-white television as a commercial for Killing Time in a Small Town came on. She recognized the street scene, seeing familiar buildings as a man’s voice talked about bucolic small-town life.

“Some heavenly place,” she said with a snort.

The fellow doing the voice-over made Derryville sound like some Norman Rockwell painting. It wasn’t, as Hester knew better than anyone. “This town has secrets,” she mumbled, keeping her voice quiet since Bob was praying in the next room.

Praying for her, most likely, as he’d undoubtedly done every day of the nine hundred and sixty-two days since she’d come to live under his roof. Not that she was counting or anything.

She’d been doing some praying of her own lately. She prayed for practical things. A decent steak for once. A big fat emerald necklace that would look much too gaudy for a God-fearing woman.

And she prayed for more secrets. For the power that came with those secrets. For the money that came with the power of those secrets. Yes, indeed, she knew all about secrets, how to spot them, how to figure them out and how to benefit from them.

Hester considered herself a fine judge of character, in spite of her brief lapse in figuring out what was going on with that trashy Winchester girl. “Spiteful, ungrateful little wretch.”

The idea that Sophie Winchester had said what she’d said…had done what she’d done…had given Hester more than a few sleepless nights lately. Because if she could so completely misread a mealymouthed girl like that, what else might she have overlooked going on right beneath her nose here in Derryville?

A lot. Perhaps a profitable amount.

All that seemed somehow unimportant now. She turned her eyes to the TV again, unable to stop the dart of fear that made her quiver in her 3X cotton high-necked Sears nightie—the one she’d had to order from the catalogue since this lousy little town didn’t even have a decent department store. One more example that she was the queen fly on a dung heap.

But it was better than being queen of nothing.

Coming here to live with her younger brother after his spineless wife had died three years ago had given Hester something she’d never had before. Status. Respect. A position of authority. She wanted to keep it. So the minute she’d heard TV people were coming to town, she’d begun to panic. Bob had worried, too. The two of them had done what they could—him preaching in the pulpit, and her working the more insidious gossip lines.

It had happened anyway, thanks mostly to those Winchesters. That was one family even the powerful standing of the first lady of the local church couldn’t touch, as Sophie Winchester had already proved. No matter what Hester had done to spread rumors about the girl living in sin with the police chief, the thrown mud had slid off her like butter off Teflon.

Sometimes there was no justice. Sophie got away with her disrespect. Her brother Mick…well, he was fine to look at, Hester wasn’t too old to note that. But he was a sinner. One had only to look at him, at the way he smiled at women, at the way he wore his pants and the way he walked. Wicked.

Not that it mattered, because now the town was going to be filling up with wicked people. Those Hollywood types, with their prying eyes and their prying cameras. People who liked to learn secrets, just like Hester.

What if one of these sneaky newcomers, by remote chance, recognized her? It seemed doubtful. She’d changed in the past thirty years, Lord knew. But it wasn’t impossible.

And that was the only thing in the world that scared Miss Hester Tomlinson.

Exposure.

CHAPTER FIVE

CAROLINE HAD LEARNED how to play poker from her Uncle Louie, who was almost as much of a no-gooder as her own father. Uncle Louie had finally settled down and married Aunt Luanne; they were now affectionately called Loulou by everyone who knew them. He’d become a perfectly content husband, unlike her father, who was living someplace in Florida with his third wife.

One thing was sure. Uncle Louie had been a good teacher, beating Caroline out of every last penny in her piggy bank whenever he came to visit.

Thank you, Uncle Louie. She just loved being able to kick ass at cards. One ass, in particular. Mick’s.

“Hell, Caroline, if I’d known you were a card shark I would’ve charged you higher rent,” he muttered as he threw down another hand in disgust two hours later.

She shot him a disbelieving look, amazed that he had the nerve to bring up the subject of rent and renters. That conversation was coming, no doubt about it. But not now, not in front of witnesses who could be used to testify against her in the trial: the one she anticipated after she killed the guy.

She sipped at her now very watery scotch on the rocks, staring at her cards and humming the Alias theme under her breath. Kick-butt woman. That was appropriate tonight. Because she was going to kick Mick’s butt all over the place once they were alone.

But it’s such a nice butt.

No. No thinking of how Mick had looked while naked in his office a few weeks ago. Even as she ordered herself to get him out of her head, however, she knew she’d be unable to do it. The picture of Mick had remained in her brain every minute of every day since she’d seen him again.

The other men in the room were wonderfully good-natured about losing their money to her. Which was a good thing, since two of them were going to be extras on Killing Time in a Small Town. Finally, when the eleven o’clock news came on in the background, the one named Eddie leaned back in his chair and gave an exaggerated stretch. “Workday for me tomorrow.”

Yes, it was, even for her. Unfortunately, she still had no idea where she was going to sleep tonight. But it was worth it to see the way Mick was squirming, wondering when she was going to erupt, and how she would handle her rooming situation.

She knew the answer to both questions: when they were alone, and, at the rent-by-the-hour no-tell motel out by the interstate.

“It was grand, boys,” she said as she accepted her pile of money and tossed her final hand toward Mick. “I think I’ve earned back a week’s worth of the rent this snake slimed out of me.”

Mick sipped his water. She’d noted he’d switched to nonalcoholic drinks after Caro had announced she was staying. Probably for the same reason Caro had nursed just one scotch all evening. She needed all her wits about her. Not so much for the game, because Mick’s friends, while they might have been all-stars on the baseball field, really stank at cards. But no, she needed to keep clearheaded to deal with Mick once they were alone.

Which looked like it was going to be very soon.

“Night, Caroline,” Eddie, a thick-waisted Italian guy with a shaggy mustache, said.

“It’s Caro,” she murmured.

“Like the pancake syrup?”

She shot Mick a glare as she heard him chuckle.

“Welcome to town,” said Eddie’s brother, Ty, who looked just like him except for the absence of about forty pounds. She liked Ty. He hadn’t tried to suck up to her by letting her win the first round or two, like the other guys had. He’d gone right for the gut. She liked a man who wasn’t intimidated by a strong woman.

Like Mick. He hadn’t cut her any slack either. It had been a real pleasure to cut his jacks-over-eights full house out from under him with a royal flush.

If only he didn’t look so darn cute. So male, so king of his domainish. She couldn’t imagine why she had ever thought this house belonged to the nice old lady—his mother, for heaven’s sake. Because while it was old, and tastefully decorated with antiques, it did scream male inhabitant.

The rec room with the completely drool-worthy forty-three-inch flat-screen TV and the five-speaker surround-sound system should have been a tip-off. Little old ladies didn’t usually watch their Matlock or Murder She Wrote reruns in such high-tech surroundings. Caro had just been too deep in lust with the TV setup to question it.

The rest of the house had held similar hints. From the paneled office with the cherry desk—which she’d originally thought might have belonged to the nonland-lady’s late husband—to the overstuffed leather furniture in the living room, she should have expected this. Well, not this. Not Mick. But she should have at least considered the possibility that the woman she’d met was not the owner of the house.

When they were finally alone, Mick walked over to plop on the recliner facing the TV. Following him, Caro found the remote and clicked the off switch. Nothing happened. Spying another remote, she grabbed that one and tried again. Still nothing. “Do you not have batteries in this town?”

He didn’t even look around. “The little one’s for the stereo. The silver one for the CD player. The fat black one works the DVD and the really long one runs everything else.”

Great. A remote-inept roommate. “Ever heard of universal?” she asked, digging into the sofa cushions for the long “everything else” one.

Mick wasn’t helping. “Can never figure out how to get the damn things to work. The one time I tried it, it kept turning on my coffeepot. I thought I’d end up burning my house down.”

She saw a nearly hidden smile. “You’re so full of it.”

“And so are you. You know damn well you’re not planning on staying here. Why didn’t you slap my face and walk out the minute you realized what I’d done to you?”

He gave her one of those lopsided, cocky grins, as if daring her to get close enough to slap his face. She didn’t take the dare. Stepping close to Mick would make her hand itch to do something far removed from slapping.

She already wanted to touch him. Had wanted to touch him since that first moment in his office. But that was a dangerous, slippery road, one she couldn’t afford to travel. She took one tiny, nearly imperceptible step back.

“So tell me,” he said, apparently not noticing the sudden flush in her cheeks, “why haven’t you left yet?”

She crossed her arms in front of her chest, still standing over him. “Where, exactly, do you suggest I go?”

“So you definitely don’t want to be roomies?”

“Not even if you’ve turned into Tom Hanks from Bosom Buddies.”

He rolled his eyes. “Still living life as a sitcom, huh?”

She glanced around the dirty room, which still held a hazy cloud of smoke and a strong smell of liquor. “Still living life as a frat boy, hmm?”

He chuckled. “Christ, how did I survive eight years without hearing those smart-ass comebacks?”

That made her catch her breath, and Mick instantly seemed sorry to have said it. He stared at her, their eyes meeting and exchanging a long, unspoken conversation. Where has the time gone? Where have you been? How has life treated you? What brought us together and what was it, really, that tore us apart?

None of the questions were asked. Much less answered.

Instead, Caroline voiced another one. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you set me up like this?” She instantly regretted it, especially when she heard the note of vulnerability in her own voice. Dammit, she’d pulled off strong and in-control all evening. Why’d she have to go and turn into a girl now when they were alone?

He met her stare unflinchingly. “Because I was mad at you and I was being a mean-spirited shit.” He rose from his chair and stepped closer, sending prickles of awareness throughout her body. “I’m sorry.”

Mick had never been a liar—as someone who reveled in his badness, why would he ever need to be? So Caro knew he was telling the truth now.

“I was going to tell you earlier—before you thoroughly trounced me at cards—that I’ve arranged for you to have Sophie’s house. It’s vacant. And I’ll give you back all your rent money.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t live in Sophie’s house.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Caroline, is a clean, vacant, pretty little house worse than living here with someone you despise?”

She thought about it. He looked slightly insulted that it took her so long to answer, probably because he’d been angling for a protestation that she didn’t despise him. He wasn’t getting one.

“I can’t live in Sophie’s house, Mick, because of my allergies.”

He quirked up one brow.

“Cats. Remember?”

“What about them?”

“I’m allergic.”

“The house has been thoroughly cleaned.”

“You don’t get it,” she replied, breathing an exasperated sigh as she dropped to the sofa and waited for him to sit opposite her. After he did, she continued. “I have major allergies. Those few minutes I spent in her house nearly made me break out in hives. No matter how much it’s cleaned, unless the place has been HEPA-vacuumed and recarpeted, I can’t spend more than a half hour in there or I’ll end up in the hospital.”

He looked stymied. “Have you always been allergic to cats?”

She nodded, crossing her arms. “Don’t you remember Coolie? My hairless? I had pictures of him all over my dorm room.”

Mick frowned. “I always thought he was a rat.”

She picked up a pillow and threw it at him.

“So, Sophie’s place is out.” He looked sheepish. “Damn, I really am sorry.”

Caro recognized the look. Mick was a notorious prankster, a joke-player, but whenever one of his harmless pranks turned out to be a little less than harmless, he’d always been the first to apologize and try to make things right.

She didn’t let him off the hook that easily. “You should be.”

Mick leaned forward and dropped his elbows onto his jean-clad knees. Caro followed his every movement with her eyes, wondering why eight years hadn’t been enough to make Mick Winchester look old and unattractive. She didn’t know that eighty years could.

He might still be a ruthless prankster, but he had definitely changed physically. Seeing him naked that morning a few weeks ago had proved that. Seeing him now, in his threadbare, stone-washed jeans and tight cotton T-shirt reminded her again.

As a young college guy he’d been a long, lean stud. Now he was thicker, filled out, bulkier and harder, with the kind of solid, muscular arms that said he did more than work in an office all day. His face had matured, too, losing its cute boyishness and gaining a heart-stopping male maturity that a lot of guys in Hollywood would have loved to have. But that grin, and that twinkle in his vivid green eyes was the same.

She drew in a shuddery sigh, forcing herself to pull her attention off his body and back on his rotten practical joke. “I guess I’d better get out of here.”

He instantly stood. “Where are you going?”

“I plan to go stay at the motel on the interstate for the night, even if I do have to pay by the hour.”

“You can’t.”

For a second, she thought Mick was being protective. Then he added, “The county fair is in town this week and that place is sold out.”

So much for tender and considerate. She scowled. “This is your fault.”

He nodded. “I know. So I guess you’re going to have to live with Day-Glo green. I think that’s the only rental one of your Hollywood buddies didn’t snatch up, so that’s your only choice. I’ll call the owner right now.” He gave her another apologetic look. “And I’ll pick up the rent.”

Her only choice? Not quite. Before she had a second to think about it, she replied, “I do have a lease, you know.”

He just stared.

“You rented me a room in your house and money exchanged hands. You can’t throw me out.”

This time his jaw dropped. “You can’t really live here.”

“Why can’t I? I’m legally entitled.” Knowing that Mick was appalled at the idea of having her under his roof for four weeks made Caro start to appreciate the merits of her impetuous idea. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it. “I have been looking forward to a nice, quiet room in this lovely old house, and you rented it to me. Unless you want the studio to sue for breach of contract.”

He thrust his hands through his thick, wavy hair, sending a few strands sticking out in a boyish tumble. For an insane moment, she thought about walking over and straightening it. Her fingertips rubbed against each other as if remembering the feel of that hair against her skin.

“This is impossible.”

Crossing her arms and feigning a calm she really didn’t feel, she leaned back into the couch, making herself right at home. “You made this bed.” She let a Cheshire cat grin cross her lips. “Now I get to sleep in it.”

MICK FINALLY AGREED that Caroline could spend the night, at least one night, while they figured out what to do. Caroline kept insisting, right up until the minute she shut the door to the spare room in his face, that she was staying put for the length of her lease.

“Staying put, my ass,” he said as he stood in the hall staring at the closed door. A door—such a minor thing standing between him and Caroline. Not even half a continent had been enough to get her out of his brain for the past eight years.

“Your tattooed ass!” he heard from within the room.

He muttered a quieter curse, but as he walked away, Mick was unable to resist breaking into a smile.

Who would have imagined an evening like this? A month like this? Caroline, back in his life, sleeping in his bed—okay, not the same one he was sleeping in—but a bed he owned, nonetheless. And that he’d be smiling.

He should have been throwing things. Cursing. Getting into his car and driving away from her, from the memories, from the thought of what an immature jerk he’d once been and what a scared brat she’d been.

“Well, hell, who said twenty-one-year-olds know anything?” he said aloud as he walked into his own bedroom and kicked the door shut behind him.

Especially not him at twenty-one. Christ, he couldn’t figure himself out now, at twenty-nine. So how could he have thought, as a college junior, that he knew what love was? Knew enough to propose to a girl?

“Propose.” He shuddered, the word tasting strange in his mouth. He hadn’t thought about getting married since that one crazy spring break when he and Caroline had taken a road trip up to Canada. He’d asked her to marry him while the two of them had frozen their asses off under a thin blanket and an endless midnight sky.

She’d said yes. Then a week later, she’d said a resounding no. All because Mick had never lost that need to charm, to flirt, to get his way in the same manner he’d always gotten his way: with a grin, a wink, an irresistible laugh, a little flattery.

He’d been using that technique ever since he was old enough to figure out his place in the large Winchester family. The Winchesters were to Derryville what the Kennedys were to Massachusetts. He’d been raised with cousins as siblings, grandparents up the block or in the kitchen, and various great-aunts, uncles and their kids perfectly willing to comment on everything he did from the time he was old enough to talk.

Probably that old-enough-to-talk thing was what had done him in. His first word had been cookie. And, according to family legend, it had been accompanied by such an adorable two-toothed smile that every woman he said it to would present him with exactly the treat he’d asked for.

Many women had lined up to give him their cookies over the years.

That was okay. Randy little flirt seemed as good a position in his family as anything else. His cousin, Jared, had already nailed down the role of smart and serious one, and Jared’s older sister—now living in Florida—claimed the role as oldest and boss-of-the-world. His own sister, Sophie, was the baby doll who hid a will of steel behind her sweet blue eyes.

So Mick was the prankster. The kid with the toothy grin who’d broken windows with baseballs but always gotten invited in for lemonade when he went to fess up. The one who made enough in tip money to buy a new bike just because the ladies on his paper route thought he was the cutest little thing in town.

He was the first one to admit he’d cruised through life. He’d found his place, settled into it and hadn’t bothered challenging himself too much in an effort for more. It hadn’t seemed worth the bother when no one in this town would ever see him as anything more than he’d always been.

Going away to college had been his first hint that he could be more than he’d always been. Being with Caroline had given him a real taste of adulthood, of a different kind of future. He’d had juvenile dreams of the two of them coming back to Derryville and creating the most respectable, responsible, warm and friendly family anyone had ever known.

“Gag me,” he muttered as he yanked his T-shirt off his body and shucked off his jeans.

Warm and friendly? Yeah. That was good. Respectable, responsible? “Gag me twice.”

Caroline had realized before him that he’d wanted what he wanted for all the wrong reasons. She wanted to go west, to L.A., to live a big life, take chances, be young and wild.

He’d wanted to go home. To…to…“To show them,” he murmured as he sat naked on the edge of his bed.

Yeah. He’d wanted to show them. To show the world that Jared wasn’t the only straight-up, all-around-great-guy, destined-for-success Winchester in town.

“How stupid was that?”

Very.

He tried lying down but that just kept him thinking about the stupid mistakes he’d made in his life. Being so rigid with Caroline about what he wanted to do once they got married. Letting his anger with her push him into a risky situation with another girl…who’d been after him for months. No, nothing had happened in that situation, but Caroline hadn’t believed that. Hadn’t trusted him. Had accused him, found him guilty and dumped his ass, all in a five-minute time span.

All because she’d wanted to live, and he’d wanted to prove something.

Finally, sick of calling himself a bunch of names in his head, he got up and pulled his jeans back on over his naked body. Though the evening was slightly chilly, he didn’t bother with a shirt. It had been a while since he’d heard any noises coming from Caroline’s room, which was separated from his by only one thin wall—wasn’t that thrilling.

Going downstairs in the darkness, he made his way to the rec room, still cluttered with overflowing ashtrays and half-filled glasses, and plopped down on the leather recliner. He dug around, came up with the universal remote he’d lied to Caroline about not having, and flipped on his TV.

He’d done about three minutes of serious channel surfing when the air suddenly changed. His body reacted to Caroline’s scent before his mind even registered that she was there. He grew tense, aware. He sat up straighter in his chair, not turning around, not needing to see her to know she stood there.

Caroline had always worn sweet, flowery perfumes when they’d dated. The college girl had been stuck in her Southern roots, with a tiny bit of a twang in her accent and a bit of steel in her spine. But since going west, she’d lost not only the accent, but also the light fragrance. Now her skin was perfumed with something headier. Warmer. A fragrance that had driven him crazy that day a few weeks back when they’d been sequestered in his car, looking for a place for her to live.

It wasn’t just her scent. He could swear he heard her breathing, felt her warm breaths touching the bare skin on his shoulders as she stood behind him.

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