Kate Fortune’s Journal Entry Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication Acknowledgments About the Author FORTUNE’S 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 Teaser chapter Copyright

Kate Fortune’s Journal Entry

There certainly have been a lot of weddings in the Fortune family lately. It’s a good thing we’ve hired such a capable wedding planner! That Mollie Shaw is just delightful. I do worry about her, though. She’s so trusting and innocent.-I’m sure Gray McGuire must ahve done something underhanded to convince her to marry him so quickly.

I know what you’re thinking—Kate Fortune, this is none of your business! After all, it’s not as if Mollie is family. And yet, since the day I met Mollie Shaw, I’ve felt some sort of...connection. You can dismiss it as the ramblings of an old woman, but take my word—Mollie is special. So you’d better watch your step, Gray McGuire. Harm that child and you’ll have me to deal with!

Dear Reader,

This May we invite you to delve into six delicious new titles from Silhouette Desire!

We begin with the brand-new title you’ve been eagerly awaiting from the incomparable Ann Major Love Me True, our May MAN OF THE MONTH, is a riveting reunion romance offering the high drama and glamour that are Ann’s hallmarks.

The enjoyment continues in FORTUNE’S CHILDREN: THE BRIDES with The Groom’s Revenge by Susan Crosby. A young working woman is swept off her feet by a wealthy CEO who’s mamed her with more than love on his mind—he wants revenge on the father who never claimed her, Stuart Fortune. A “must read” for all you fans of Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca!

Barbara McMahon’s moving story The Cowboy and the Virgin portrays the awakening—both sensual and emotional—of an innocent young woman who falls for a ranching Romeo But can she turn the tables and corral him? Beverly Barton’s emotional miniseries 3 BABIES FOR 3 BROTHERS concludes with Having His Baby. Experience the birth of a father as well as a child when a rugged rancher is transformed by the discovery of his secret baby—and the influence of her pretty mom. Then, in her exotic SONS OF THE DESERT title, The Solitary Sheikh, Alexandra Sellers depicts a hard-hearted sheikh who finds happiness with his daughters’ aristocratic tutor And The Billionaire’s Secret Baby by Carol Devme is a compelling mariage-of-convenience story.

Now more than ever, Silhouette Desire offers you the most passionate, powerful and provocative of sensual romances. Make yourself merry this May with all six Desire novels—and buy another set for your mom or a close friend for Mother’s Day!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to

Silhouette Reader Service

US. 3010 Walden Ave., P.O Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: PO. Box 609, Fort Ene, Ont L2A 5X3

The Groom’s Revenge

Susan Crosby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Leslie, daughter of my heart, for the joy, love and

friendship you give so passionately. Kevin must have

caught the leprechaun.

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to

Susan Crosby for her contribution to the

Fortune’s Children miniseries.

SUSAN CROSBY

believes in the value of setting goals, but also in the magic of making wishes. Ascribing to the theory that the “harder you work, the luckier you get,” she has been fortunate enough to receive Romantic Times Magazine’s Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best Silhouette Desire of the Year, as well as being a finalist for the Romance Writers of America RITA Award. Her books appear regularly on the bestseller lists.

Susan earned a B.A. in English while raising her sons, now grown. She and her husband live in the central valley of California, the land of winegrapes, asparagus and almonds. Her checkered past includes jobs as a synchronized swimming instructor, personnel interviewer at a toy factory and trucking company manager, but her current occupation as writer is her all-time favorite.

Readers are welcome to write to her at P.O. Box 1836, Lodi, CA 95241.

FORTUNE’S

Children

Meet the Fortunes—three generations of a family with a legacy of wealth, influence and power. As they gather for a host of weddings, shocking family secrets are revealed...and passionate new romances are ignited.

GRAY McGUIRE: This powerful tycoon is waging his biggest—and most scandalous—battle yet to avenge his father’s death. But will his victory cost him the only woman he’s ever loved?

MOLLIE SHAW: Mollie Shaw Fortune? Almost overnight, this sweet wedding planner is swept up into a glamorous world. But Mollie already has all she could want. Doesn’t she?

CHLOE FORTUNE: Her wedding’s just around the corner, but this debutante sure doesn’t look or act like a happy bride-to-be. Still, if there’s any man who can win the heart of even the most reluctant bride, it’s her handsome groom—Mason Chandler.

One

A leprechaun winked at Gray McGuire as he entered the quaint little Minneapolis flower shop—his second clue that this day would be different from any other.

Stopping mid-stride, he crouched in front of the foot-tall, molded-plastic creature that propped open the door of Every Bloomin’ Thing. Battery operated? he wondered.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye,” the creature shrieked.

Gray examined it more closely. Motion sensor?

“Top o’ the afternoon to you, Yarg!” a woman called from somewhere in the shop.

Scrutinizing the creature again, Gray waited for the elf to answer her. The whimsical notion caught him off guard, yet there was something about this place that lent itself to whimsy.

He looked around as he stood. Even with the door open, the shop smelled fragrant and exotic, a mix of oxygen-heavy scents. Moisture-laden air cooled his skin, warm from his having stood a long while in the late-July sun as he’d watched the shop.

No one had come or gone in the time he’d observed the tiny storefront tucked into the well-tended, older neighborhood. Hoping that meant Mollie Shaw, the shop owner, was alone, he’d finally crossed the street, anticipation churning inside him—his first clue that the day would be different.

Anxiety was foreign to him. He studied. He analyzed. He planned.

And he didn’t like the unfamiliar edginess now, so he took another minute to relax before he made his presence known, even though a sign on the counter invited him to ring the bell for service. A brass bell with a fairy creature perched on the tip of the handle.

“So, what do you think?”

He sought the source of the disembodied voice, wondering if the woman could see him even though he couldn’t see her. The shop seemed magical, after all

“I think it’ll make men look twice, don’t you?”

The woman was batty, Gray decided. No one answered her, and she certainly wasn’t talking to him.

“Of course I’m right,” she said.

He had to see this woman who talked to herself. Stepping silently around the counter he spied her attempting to shove an oak credenza along the floor. She seemed familiar, although she shouldn’t. He purposely hadn’t tracked down a photograph of her—which was out of character for him. Details were his life. He’d balked, however, at seeing her image ahead of time, this woman whose life he was about to change.

Who did she remind him of...?

Cinderella! Mollie Shaw—if indeed, this was she—looked like Cinderella. Her long hair was a rich coppery red instead of blond like the Disney movie character, but she wore a small, triangular scarf over it, keeping her hair out of her face Her pale green blouse and snug jeans sported streaks of dirt. He admired the picture she made from behind as she shoved again, her breath expelling with the effort.

“If Tony doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to pass out,” she muttered.

“Where do you want it?” Gray asked, coming up beside her.

Her eyes widened, eyes the color of a deep, dark forest, where mysteries beckoned. Where leprechauns might play—He dismissed the fanciful thought as he watched her reaction. She took a step back, not answering him, her lips parted. He couldn’t read her expression. Fear? He’d come upon her without warning, after all.

“You’re...you’re—” She stopped, seeming to catch her breath. “I can’t believe it.”

“I’m Gray McGuire.”

“I know. I saw you on CNN yesterday.”

His gaze strayed to a little smudge of dirt at the corner of her mouth and lingered until her words registered. She knew him? He shouldered her aside, deciding that her knowing could only help his cause. She would probably trust him sooner. “Just point out where you want this thing.”

She pointed.

He almost laughed. Then he muscled the credenza where she indicated.

“There’s more.” She gestured to a bookcase-type piece. “It goes on top. It’s a hutch If you’ll grab one side, I’ll take the...”

Her voice faded as he lifted the piece, then set it where it belonged. When he turned around he caught her sliding the scarf from her hair.

“Thanks,” she said, jamming the fabric into her back pocket. “I’m Mollie Shaw.”

She didn’t extend her hand, so he did. She hesitated, then finally rubbed her palm along her thigh before shaking his hand.

He knew she was twenty-two, which suddenly seemed decades younger than his thirty-three. He judged her height to be about eight inches shorter than his six foot one, her build as slight as the fairy on top of the bell. The bones of her hand were delicate, the flesh unpampered.

And she seemed a little starstruck, of all things, which could complicate his plans. He intended to propose a partnership with her, one completely unrelated to either her business or his. They would need a professional relationship.

She glanced over her shoulder. Tension radiated from her When she looked at him again, she smiled, but a smile mixed with—what? Embarrassment? She pulled him around the hutch and into the main section of the shop before she let go of his hand.

“You caught me redecorating,” she said. “I’ve been putting it off for months.”

Probably eight months, he thought. Since her mother died.

“Wednesdays are slow,” she hurried on. “I should’ve waited for my helper to get here. But once I got going, I didn’t want to stop.”

“What are you going to put in the hutch that will make men look twice?” he asked.

“Um, you heard that, did you?”

She wiped a finger along the counter without leaving a mark No dust settled in this hardworking woman’s domain.

“Men tend to spend more than women do,” she said as if sharing a secret with him. “Sometimes they want something in addition to flowers, so I thought I’d start carrying some jewelry too. Maybe some perfume. Pottery might sell well. One-stop shopping for the man who wants to appear romantic but who actually waited until the last minute.”

Or a man who’s hiding a guilty conscience, Gray thought.

He wondered whether her redecorating was the result of coming out of mourning for her mother or financial need. In a shop this size, she must barely eke out a living, he decided, anger brewing at the unfairness. She shouldn’t have to live like this It was a wrong Gray intended to right—with her help—as well as fixing what had been wrong in his own life for twenty-five years.

“Your initial investment could be substantial, and slow tc bring returns,” he said, protective of her but not questioning why. He knew why.

Mollie eyed the empty hutch. “Too much, do you think?” she asked, looking around and sighing, something she’d beer doing a lot lately. “Things haven’t changed around here in a long, long time. I want to drum up some new business, but I can’t afford to take any losses.”

“You should discuss this with your business manager.”

“Um, I’ll do that.” She dragged her tongue along the inside of her cheek.

“You don’t have a business manager,” he said, awareness in his eyes.

She shook her head, a smile tugging at her mouth. No one will ever believe me, she thought. Gray McGuire, the high-tech wizard from the Silicon Valley was here. In her shop. He’d materialized from her dreams and was actually talking to her. He’d touched her. Touched her.

“Tax accountant?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m sort of a full-service shop owner.”

He was even more attractive in person than in any photo she’d seen. Clipped. Saved.

His blue eyes were startling against his California tan, his dark brown hair shiny and thick. She’d admired the sculpted muscles of his arms when he’d lifted the hutch top onto the credenza as if it weighed no more than a wicker basket. The turquoise polo shirt and khaki pants he wore fit his body perfectly, showing off a well-toned physique, one that didn’t look like he spent his days behind a desk.

He was here. In her shop. Gray McGuire.

“I apologize,” he said, moving around the shop, looking at the merchandise. “You weren’t asking my advice.”

“I always listen to advice.” Standing in front of the counter, her hands clasped, she was content to watch him, afraid if she did something wrong, he would disappear in a puff of smoke.

He must think her crazy the way she was talking to him as if she’d known him forever. But, in truth, she felt she had. Although he lived in California, his photograph had been in the StarTribune following a gala charity event attended by the city’s most prominent family—the Fortunes—a month ago, and he often graced the pages of Time, Newsweek and the like.

Her obsession had begun harmlessly enough. She had made a completely innocent comment to her new acquaintances Amanda and Chloe Fortune upon seeing his picture in the newspaper—a comment along the lines of Mollie wishing that someone like Gray McGuire would sweep her off her feet. Amanda had promptly ripped out the picture and told Mollie to sleep on it, and maybe he would be hers.

Mollie had laughed at the joke, but kept the photo. After months of mourning her mother’s death, she’d found a new focus, something to think about other than relentless grief and loneliness. And after too many nights of dreamless sleep, she started dreaming again. So Mollie had read everything she could get her hands on about Gray McGuire, fixating on him because it made her feel alive again.

It didn’t even make sense that she was fascinated by a man who was the CEO of a software design and manufacturing company, McGuire Enterprises. A man who’d designed a computer operating system at age twenty. A man who spoke to Congress on computer security issues. He’d lunched with the president yesterday!

And if he’d caught a glimpse of that newspaper picture of him she’d taped under her counter, he would have hightailed it out of there faster than she could say, “You’re the man of my dreams. Literally.” She’d even been talking to his picture when he’d arrived.

She continued to wait as he set some wind chimes moving, then listened to the tinkling sounds. He dipped a finger into the recirculating pond that kept the moisture content of the room high, the bubbles more soothing than music. He sniffed a few of the potted plants, studied the markers, printed with the plant name and care instructions, that were jammed into each pot.

She didn’t want to hurry him, but she was more than a little curious about why he was there. Well, technically she was flabbergasted. But she was really, really curious. If this were a fairy tale, he’d be pulling a glass slipper out of his pocket about now and trying it on her foot—and it would fit.

“It’s a nice shop,” he said at last. “You’re also a wedding planner.”

“How do you know that?”

He pointed to the left. “There’s a sign in your window.” “Oh.” She smiled, feeling a little sheepish. She’d thought maybe he was her soul mate, after all—that he could read her mind.

“If you call yourself a consultant, not only would you be following the current market trend, you could probably charge a higher fee.”

“Why would I want to do that? My fees are reasonable. Anyway, I’m just getting started. You know the Fortune family, right? I’ve heard them speak of you.”

He returned to her side, his expression impassive. “You’re friends with the Fortunes?”

He stood so close she could touch him if she wanted. His clean, soapy scent made her nose twitch. “My good friend Kelly married Mac Fortune, and I pulled the event together for them. Then I was invited to do Mac’s sister Chloe’s wedding to Mason Chandler in a few months. One of those fairy-tale-princess weddings, with all the trimmings.”

“The kind of wedding you’d like for yourself?”

She shrugged. “It’s fun to plan.”

“But?”

“It wouldn’t be in my budget.”

Matter-of-fact words, Gray noted. “Your parents wouldn’t help?” he asked, surprised at her candor. People didn’t usually open up so easily to him. It was the magic of this shop, he decided. And this fairy-sprite woman.

“My father’s been gone since before I was born. My mother passed away late last year.”

She crouched in front of a flowering plant, seeming to inspect it for insects or dead leaves or something. He zeroed in on the scarf she’d tucked into her pocket, then was distracted by the distinctly feminine curve of her rear.

He lifted his gaze in a flash when her words registered. Been gone? What did that mean? Did she think her father was dead? “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Now,” she glanced up at him. “What can I do for you, Mr. McGuire?”

“First, you can call me Gray. I’m a little surprised you know me.”

She fussed with another plant. “The Fortunes have spoken of you.”

“But you recognized my face.”

“I told you. I saw you on the news yesterday.”

“Hey, Mol! Sorry I’m late.”

A young man swooped into the shop, Minnesota Twins cap on his head, baseball glove tucked under his arm. He was sixteen or seventeen, Gray decided, and into body building.

“What a game! Man, we destroyed ’em.” His gaze landed on Gray. “Hey, you’re that guy—”

“Gray McGuire,” Mollie said instantly, moving to stand between them, putting her back to Gray.

“Yeah, I know. He’s—”

“In town,” she interrupted. “Say hello, then get to the deliveries, okay, Tony?”

He knows who I am, too? Confused, Gray eyed the back of Mollie’s head. This was getting weird. Computers must be a passion of hers. Why else would she know of him?

Tony frowned. “What about the stuff you wanted me to move?”

“Later.” She grabbed his arm, pulling him along with her to a refrigerated case, housing cut flowers. “Those two boxes and the mixed bouquet there.”

“Okay.” As he took the items from the refrigerator, he spoke over his shoulder to Gray. “I’ve been trying to convince her to get with the times, you know? Get a computer? Maybe you can talk her into it.”

“I thought you liked working here,” Mollie said, exasperation in her voice.

He grinned. “All bark,” he said to Gray, then he headed out the door, his arms full.

Gray was more confused than ever. “Your business isn’t computerized?” he asked her when they were alone.

“No.” She moved around the counter, leaving a trail of scent Something subtle. Elusive. A four-leaf clover—

“Computers terrify me,” she said.

“You’d get comfortable soon enough.”

She crossed her arms. “They crash. They lose crucial information. They make people tear out their hair. Why would I put myself through that?”

“Convenience.”

Mollie smiled at his droll tone.

“Top of the mornin’ to ye!”

The leprechaun’s shriek brought a return of normalcy to Mollie’s afternoon. Yarg shouted a greeting every twenty minutes, which meant that Gray McGuire had been in her shop for that long, and she still didn’t know why.

“I’m assuming Computerphobics Anonymous didn’t send you my way,” she said to him. “What brings you to Every Bloomin’ Thing?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

Mollie felt her face heat at the images his simple statement conjured up. A proposition? One involving getting naked? Her dreams about him were romantic, not sexual—declarations of his undying devotion and a chaste, pure love. Certainly nothing physical...even if he did have a body that made her take more than a second glance.

“I hope I’m misunderstanding your meaning.” Shocked at herself, she felt a flush spread across her face Of all the stupid things to say to him. Of course he wasn’t interested in her—not in that way. How foolish could she be?

“Strictly business,” he said gently, making her feel even worse. He must think her so naive.

“Oh, Mollie, dear!”

Mollie stifled a groan as a tiny, white-haired woman marched past the leprechaun doorman and into the shop, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor. She nodded at Gray.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bauer,” Mollie said after sending an apologetic look in Gray’s direction. At this rate she would never find out why he was here. “What can I do for you?”

“Reverend Kruger is ill.”

“I hope it’s not too serious.”

“Serious enough that we will have a substitute this week. Reverend Schmidt. He’s allergic to stock.”

Gray listened to the exchange between the women as they discussed alternatives, deciding that “stock” was a flower that Mollie used in the floral arrangements she did for the church on Sunday. That revelation made him reconsider how much to involve her in his plans. He’d intended to align himself with her against Stuart Fortune. But the young woman who was afraid of computers, charged reasonable rates and made flower arrangements for Sunday morning worship, lived in a sheltered world that could not possibly have prepared her for launching a vendetta that would turn her into a media darling, especially one born of an old scandal he would bring to hght.

Mollie Shaw was a crucial component of Gray’s plan to make Stuart Fortune’s indiscretions and thievery public. But now that Gray had met this innocent young woman, how could he involve her?

How can you not? Justice must be rendered.

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” Mollie said.

He looked around. They were alone again.

“You have a proposition for me?” she prompted him.

He had to rethink this. “I have to go. I’m expected somewhere else in a few minutes,” he said, glancing at his watch, then heading for the door.

“Will you be back?”

Her words stopped him. There was something in her voice. A hopefulness he couldn’t ignore. He didn’t know what would happen next. He had to analyze—

“Please do come again,” she said softly.

He should resist the temptation of her vulnerability, which whispered to his conscience first, then somewhere deeper, bringing light into the darkness of his plans, his need for vengeance. Instead he said, “I’ll be in touch,” over his shoulder as he moved toward the door again.

Not wanting his last image to be of the fairylike Mollie Shaw, he looked at the leprechaun instead. He knew it had to be his imagination, but the elf seemed to smile with approval.

Stuart Fortune’s Twin Cities-based company, Knight Star Systems, occupied fifty acres of prime industrial property. The gated compound was ordinary—a large factory building with a parking lot to the west, receiving dock on the south and corporate offices attached to the north end. Knight Star Systems designed, manufactured and installed security systems for automobiles, homes, office buildings, hotels, airports, even sports arenas. Large commercial accounts made up more and more of their customer base each year.

Gray parked where he could watch the office employees exit. He glanced at his watch. Just a few minutes more. Stuart followed an unvarying routine. On Mondays he worked in the Fortune Corporation offices. The rest of the workweek he spent here, always the last to leave the office each day, although the factory hummed through the night. Three times a year they shut down for plant-wide vacations, each lasting a week.

It was a streamlined and successful operation—until recently. Small setbacks had compounded. Soon the struggle to keep their edge in the highly competitive market would impact the entire operation.

No one would have guessed Gray had choreographed the shocking downfall. He had moved slowly toward his goal, letting Stuart wonder, then worry. Panic would follow before long.

Gray sat up a little straighter as Stuart exited the building, a tall, fit man with a confident gait. His temples were dusted with gray; a few lines fanned from his eyes. Otherwise he didn’t appear fifty-five, much less the sixty-two he really was.

He shouldn’t look that good. That healthy. That happy.

He should look like a man with blood on his hands.

My father’s blood.

Gray’s jaw ached as he watched Stuart unlock his just-off-the-lot Cadillac, toss his briefcase and suit jacket onto the passenger seat, then slip behind the wheel. Within seconds he passed through the front gate, turned right and headed toward his home by the lake, a two-story stone structure with picturesque views from every window, a gated entrance, paved-brick driveway and six-car garage.

The trappings of success. How little they mattered in the end. What mattered to Gray was justice, Knight Star Systems, and now, Mollie Shaw, fellow victim. Stuart’s sons had grown up with every possible luxury, while his daughter deliberated about spending a couple thousand dollars to improve her business. The injustice burned like acid in Gray’s gut. Stuart had gotten away with too much for too long. His reign had to end. And Gray intended to end it—for his own peace of mind. And Mollie’s.

She deserved to know the truth, especially now that she was alone and struggling to stay afloat. Gray would force retribution—the financial settlement she deserved. It would help to balance the scales.

Mollie would be free of money problems.

Gray would be free. Free.

People would be hurt—like he’d been hurt. But he had recovered and moved on. So would they..

Mollie peeled the tape from Gray’s newspaper photo then slid the yellowing scrap into a folder of invoices hand-stamped Paid. The thought of his picture nestled within her uncomputerized paperwork appealed to her. Before she shut the folder she leaned her elbows on the counter and studied him, so elegant in his stylish tuxedo. He wasn’t even wearing a bow tie, but one of those collarless shirts not requiring a tie at all.

Something about him made her mouth water. Maybe it was his posture, which was perfect. Perhaps it was his hair, which invited a woman’s caress. Or his jaw, strong and oh, so masculine. He was infinitely touchable.

Unfolding the paper to reveal the half she usually kept turned to the back, she examined the whole photograph. Maybe what she liked most was the way he seemed to totally ignore the woman whose arm was tucked through his as if she owned him, whose breast pressed against him like an engraved invitation. Mollie hated her—Samantha Simeon, the caption said, someone whose path would not likely cross Mollie’s.

But then, she wouldn’t have imagined her path crossing Gray McGuire’s, either.

With a sigh she put away the folder, then locked the front and back doors before turning out the lights and climbing the stairs to her apartment above the shop. Her quiet, lonely apartment.

She’d lived there all her life, had never had the slightest interest in finding her own place after she graduated from high school. Her mother, Karen, had been her best friend as well as the only family she had. Their lives had been completely intertwined, and Mollie missed her desperately.

Maybe she should have developed more friendships through the years, but she’d been happy in her mother’s company—and Karen hadn’t pushed. She’d even seemed to encourage Mollie to stay home rather than going out much.

Which made Karen’s unexpected death so much harder to take. The only good thing to happen since was Kelly’s marriage to Mac Fortune, which gave Mollie a connection with the illustrious Fortune family that she’d never dared to dream about, although that relationship was more business than social, so far.

Into this rather bewildering new life had come Gray McGuire. Not by accident, either, but because he had a business proposition for her. What in the world could he possibly want?

She should call Kelly. Maybe Mac knew what Gray wanted. Perhaps he had even recommended her shop. Of course! That was it. Mac or one of the other Fortunes had recommended her for...for... something.

Mollie stared into her refrigerator and saw nothing that interested her, so she tucked her keys and a few dollars into her pocket then skipped down the stairs to enjoy the summer evening before the sun went down.

She stopped to buy a peach frozen yogurt then continued down the block to a park where she’d played as a child. Settling on a bench, she savored her dessert-for-dinner treat as children played. The familiarity inevitably brought back memories.

It was in this park that she’d learned of her mother’s dark, painful secrets. If Karen had lived longer, would she have confided in her daughter about her life before Mollie was born—and her controlling, eventually abusive husband?

Karen had kept that part of her life secret, writing the details in her journals, instead, which Mollie found soon after her death. Mollie had taken the treasures with her to this very park to read her mother’s life story, expecting an entertaining tale, discovering tragedy instead.

And triumph. Karen had shielded her—perhaps too much—because of her past and because she’d had to be mother and father, nurturer and provider.

Mollie scraped the last of the yogurt from the cup, scraping the memories away, as well. If Karen were there, she would tell her daughter that she’d mourned long enough. That life was short. That when an interesting man like Gray McGuire appeared out of nowhere—and could drop out of sight just as easily—she shouldn’t wait for him to make all the moves.

Except—what did Mollie know about “moves”? And interesting men? Regardless of the fact Minneapolis wasn’t a small town, she was a small-town girl with uncomplicated needs.

But, ever hopeful, Mollie figured tomorrow she would wear that pretty lilac dress she’d found last week marked down for the third time, bringing it into her price range. She could dust on some powder, add a dab or two of matching perfume. Perhaps even a little mascara. No blush, though. He brought color to her cheeks easily enough already.

It was a business proposition, after all, no matter what her hormones were singing in multipart harmony to the contrary.

Two

Although her heart rate zoomed from a waltz tempo to a thundering hard-rock beat, Mollie continued to fill a round vase with summer flowers as she watched Gray approach her shop around noon the next day. Daisy petals quivered as she slid the bloom amongst the others, her hands shaking. Last night she’d prowled her apartment until midnight, watched an old movie that made her cry, then finally fell asleep on the sofa. Her normally hazy, romantic dreams of Gray had been replaced with sharp, vivid images of him in the flesh.

He crossed the threshold, eyeing Yarg as he entered. His blue jeans showed off narrow hips and long legs. His baby blue T-shirt didn’t fit like a second skin, but didn’t mask his muscular torso, either. She pursed her lips, trapping an admiring sigh.

“Good day, Miss Shaw,” he said as he reached the counter.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye!”

Mollie’s gaze flickered to the screeching leprechaun. “And from Yarg and myself, Mr. McGuire.”

“Is there a volume control on that thing?”

“Just an on-off switch. I guess I’ve gotten used to it.” She wondered whether Gray’s real-life kissing technique would do justice to her dreams. Could anyone compete with a dream? “I hope you’ve come to put me out of my misery.”

“Did the suspense get to you?”

“I’m not too good at delayed gratification,” she said, openly flirting with him, trying to get a response. Instead he walked to the front window and stared outside, ignoring her.

Chagrined, she held her ground. Late last night she’d reread all the articles she’d saved about him. While he spoke freely about his work and vision, his personal life was apparently taboo. Speculation abounded, fueled only by brief quotes from women he’d allegedly dated. Some called him distracted and distinctly unromantic, one woman went so far as to brand him as “cold.”

Which apparently hadn’t stopped the woman from dating him more than once. Mollie wouldn’t call him cold. Steady, perhaps. Not given to mood swings. And the allegation about not being romantic... was probably true. She figured his mind was a minicomputer in which he probably maintained a mental agenda. Mollie was apparently an item on that list, and he would get to her in his own time.

He seemed to jar himself back into awareness as a dark-haired man wearing a brown delivery uniform breezed into the shop carrying a large box. “Hey, Mollie. I see you’ve joined the twentieth century just in time for the twenty-first.”

“What kind of riddle is that, Mike?”

He set the package on the floor beside the counter. “Your computer.”

“Computer? Me? I didn’t—” She narrowed her eyes at Gray, who leaned an elbow against the countertop and watched her impassively. “There’s been a mistake. You can load it right back on the truck.”

“There’s no mistake. I’ll be back with the rest of the stuff in a minute. You’ll need to sign for ’em.”

She waited until Mike climbed back into his truck, then she planted her fists on her hips. “That’s your company logo on the box,” she said after studying the package.

“I believe you’re night.”

“I can’t accept that kind of gift.”

“Did I say it was a gift?”

She sputtered. He expected her to pay for something she hadn’t ordered? And didn’t want? This was not the man of her dreams. Not even close. That man respected her, acknowledged her as an intelligent and independent person and admired her business sense. But the man standing in front of her had decided after a half-hour conversation that he knew her well enough to tell her how to run her business.

“I can’t pay for this,” she said, forcing the words out.

“I don’t send a computer unsolicited, then expect someone to pay for it, Mollie.”

“But you said it wasn’t a gift.”

“It isn’t”

“Well. That’s crystal clear.”

Gray enjoyed her temper, bright as a newly minted penny. “Sign for the delivery and I’ll explain.”

“I’ll just be calling in a pickup order for tomorrow.”

“That’ll be your decision. For now, just accept it. Please,” he said. Mike returned in time to overhear their discussion.

She cursed Gray with her eyes but scrawled her name across the signature pad when Mike slid it across the counter, grinning.

“He won’t keep Jus mouth shut,” she almost growled when they were alone again. “Everyone up and down the block will know.”

“I wasn’t the one making a fuss,” Gray said mildly.

“I would expect a man like you to get to the point,” she said through clenched teeth.

“A man like me?”

“Brilliant. Analytical.” She frowned. “Although People magazine also called you quirky.” She lost her fighting edge for a moment as she seemed to think about that.

Had she gone to the library last night and read up on him? He never had figured out why that reporter had labeled him as quirky, a definition Gray would never apply to himself. He’d told her she could ask questions while he jogged his eight miles, because he didn’t have time for her otherwise. Did that make him quirky? Or efficient?

“You work hard and you’re ambitious,” he said to Mollie. “I respect that You’re trying to take what’s already a charming little shop and make it more upscale, to attract new business, right?”

“Without losing any of the old customers.” Diverted from her argument, she mirrored his pose across the counter, leaning toward him.

“The coffeehouse down the block draws a different crowd into the area,” he said.

“There’s a lot of revitalization going on here. New businesses are mushrooming. There’s a lot of potential business because the neighborhood has changed. I would’ve moved my business here, if I hadn’t already been here.”

He nodded. He’d done some quick research on the subject. An infusion of cash would certainly help her give a fresh new look to her shop. “The whole area is on the brink of a renaissance.”

“And I want to be ready.”

“Then you’ll need to computerize your business.”

“Why?”

“For one, when you get on the Internet, you can locate other florists and see what they’re doing. You won’t believe the doors that will open to you.”

Interest flashed in her eyes before she clamped her mouth shut and pushed away from the counter. “Why do you care?”

He’d come up with his new plan last night, pleased with his solution. He had to buy himself some tune, let her get to know him, then convince her to help him ruin Stuart Fortune. For now, though, he just needed a reason to keep her in close contact.

“I want you to plan my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party.”

Surprise widened her eyes. “Twenty-fifth? But—”

“My mother and stepfather,” he said.

“Oh. I guess I assumed they lived in California.”

“They do. That’s why you’ll need a computer.”

Molhe frowned. Her world had stopped making sense the moment Gray had dropped into her life, the man-who didn’t know he’d helped her bury her grief. But not only did his request not make sense, it was downright ridiculous. Not just quirky. Ridiculous. Absurd. Preposterous.

So why did she just want to say okay without questioning his motives? Surely he had motives.

“You must have a choice of a hundred party planners where you live,” she said.

“Last month I attended a charity ball here in Minneapolis. You were one of the sponsors.”

“How do you know that?”

“I won one of the table centerpieces. A basket decorated with dried flowers. Very original. Your business card was taped to the bottom ” He pulled it out of his pocket and showed her. “I shipped the basket to my mother the next day, because I thought it was something she would like. And she did. Obviously you’re the right person for the job.”

The phone rang. She watched him peel off a packing slip from one of the computer boxes as she handled a frantic caller requesting a dozen long-stemmed red roses for a just-remembered anniversary. Yes, she had some on hand, she told the man with the stress-filled voice. Yes, roses were expensive, but his wife was priceless, wasn’t she? Yes, she took Mastercard. Yes, he could pick them up in half an hour.

Gray looked at his watch no less than five tunes in the few minutes she was on the phone.

After she hung up she moved to the refrigerator case and lifted out a tall vase filled with roses, then grabbed some baby’s breath, lemon leaves and leather fern.

She lined a long gold-foil box with forest green tissue paper, a task that soothed her with its familiarity. In a world turned upside down, she needed routine. “Why me?” she asked.

“Because I’ve seen and admired your work, as I said. And because you’re from home.”

“Here?” She’d stripped the lower stems of thorns and leaves before putting them in the refrigerator. Grabbing her paring knife, she made an angle cut at the bottom of each stem before sliding it into a water-filled tube. Gray wandered close to watch.

“My mother and stepfather were born in Minneapolis,” he said, his gaze following her hands as she worked. “So was I.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Is there a reason why you should?”

She layered roses, greenery and baby’s breath in the box. “I suppose not. I’m just surprised. Still, that’s hardly enough reason to put me in charge of a party that will take place so far from here. It’s not practical. Or are you planning to have the party here?”

“No. It’ll be near where they live in Atherton. That’s in Northern California, near what’s called the Silicon Valley. Near Stanford University.”

“When?”

“April twentieth.”

She dropped the length of ribbon she’d just snipped. “April as in next year? Nine months from now?”

“Does that give you enough time?”

“Gee, I don’t know, Gray. That might be cutting it awfully close.” She swiped the ribbon from the floor, then formed a big loopy, red bow.

“I figured we’d need to reserve the facility well in advance I expect several hundred people to attend.”

“What does it have to do with my having a computer?” she asked, chagrined that he was right.

“It’s the best way of staying in touch to handle the details.”

She looked up at him for a second, then focused on attaching the ribbon to the box. “You do remember we have telephones here in Minneapolis, right? And fax machines.”

“I prefer e-mail.”

“You would,” she mumbled.

“What was that?”

She could hear the smile in his voice and tried to decide whether she liked being a source of entertainment for him. “I said, ‘Oh, good.’”

“Are you interested in handling the party?”

“Of course I’m interested.” She set the box of roses in the refrigerator. “It’s just that I still can’t figure out why you’d use me. I’m new at this, plus the distance.”

“You won’t grow your business with that attitude.”

She laughed. “Grow my business?”

“Standard business terminology,” he said, although he smiled.

“I’d have to hire help for the shop.”

“Build it into your budget for the job.”

“I need to think about this.”

He put his hands in his pockets. “There’s no time to think about it. I won’t be in town for long. I need to set up your computer and teach you the basics before I go.”

Mollie skirted around him, deciding she needed the safety of the counter between them. Standing close to him had just made her want to kiss him even more. He had the most appealing mouth....

“I can take computer classes,” she said, dragging her invoice pad close and writing up a bill for the roses.

“I want to be the one to teach you.”

“Of course you do.”

Gray waited until she stopped writing and looked up at him. Had he come on too strong? Had she picked up on the intensity of his pursuit, even as he tried to go slow with her, to be casual? “Do I make you nervous, Mollie? Yesterday you talked to me like an old friend.”

“Yesterday you weren’t real.” She made a little sound, as if regretting her words. “I mean, the situation didn’t seem real. Your being here. What are the odds?”

“I already explained that. And you’re making this difficult, Mollie Shaw.”

Her eyes sparkled at his comment.

“I would’ve figured you for a man who likes a challenge, Gray McGuire. So, here’s the way it’ll work. I’ll use the computer until the party is over, then if I find I want to keep it, I’ll buy it from you.”

“At cost.”

“Well, of course. By then it’ll be a used computer. Hardly worth my paying full price.”

The sound of his own laughter surprised him. For a moment he’d forgotten that justice was within his grasp. He had to stay focused on his goal, not be tempted into forgetting his purpose. After all, justice would be hers, too.

“Where can I hook up the computer?” he asked her.

Mollie looked around her work space.

“While you’re learning,” he said, “your living quarters would probably be best. You can practice without interruptions.”

“That would be upstairs. I’ll show you the way.” She locked the cash register, then moved to the stack of boxes.

“You’re going to let me into your apartment? Just like that? When you hardly know me?”

She grabbed the top two boxes, leaving the heavy one foi him. “What could I have that you could possibly want?”

As she walked away shaking her head, he studied her long, shiny hair and slender back, her softly swaying skirt, envisioning the lithe body beneath it. A drift of something in the air had him breathing deeply. A rainbow would smell like that. Frowning at the thought, he followed her trail through the back of the shop and up the stairs to a small, neat apartment with a distinctly floral motif. Femininity personified.

After Mollie made a quick return to the shop, Gray surveyed the apartment. The first door led to a bedroom. Twin beds. She must have shared the room with her mother, a situation not conducive to romantic liaisons, for either of them.

One wall was dotted with framed photographs of Mollie and her mother through the years. He studied each picture, noting the same wide, smiling mouths and reed-slender bodies, the deep-copper-colored hair. The togetherness.

He wandered out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, with its claw-foot tub and garden-print shower curtain. The room smelled of woman, something flowery and fragrant and... comforting.

Comfort. Something he neither wanted nor needed. Be a man. His stepfather’s words echoed in Gray’s mind, as they had since the day his mother had married James McGuire when Gray was eight. No allowance for weakness. No quarter given. Go after what you want, no matter the cost. Winner takes all. Losers... die.

James McGuire was a winner. Stuart Fortune was a winner Gray’s father...

Go after what you want, Gray reminded himself as he returned to the living room to unbox the computer components. Along a wall, desk space had been created by laying a Formica countertop on two-drawer file cabinets, making room for two people to work simultaneously. He chose the side closest to the phone jack, wondering how much of a fuss Mollie was going to put up at having a second line installed. For now he would set up the modem on her existing line. He hooked up the hard drive, the monitor, the printer. He loaded software, including an Internet server.

All the while he eyed a cigar box bearing Mollie’s name in bright purple paint over a crudely designed birthday cake and candles made of sequins and glitter. It looked like something a very young child might have done as a school project.

Gray glanced toward the open front door. Mollie’s voice drifted up the stairwell from the shop. With just his forefinger he lifted the lid of the decorated cigar box. He leaned closer, seeing birthday-cake candles inside. A piece of paper was taped to each—

“Gray!”

Plunk. The lip dropped into place. He put his fingers on the keyboard at the sound of Mollie hurrying up the stairs.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly as she came up beside him. “Wow. You’ve got it all set up and going.”

“Just testing it out.”

“It looks confusing.”

“Pretty soon it won’t. Did you want something?”

She curved her hand over his shoulder and bent low to look at the screen with him. Her fragrance—heather?—dropped a net over him so that he couldn’t move, could barely breathe. Like some damned teenager, he thought, amazed. Heat flashed through him.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“E-mail from my office.”

“You can get mail on my computer?”

“I set you up with the same server.” He turned his head fractionally toward her. “Did you come up here for something in particular?”

She moved a little closer to him. “You seem a little warm.”

Warm, hell. His blood had begun to simmer.

She straightened. “Do you need the air-conditioning turned up?”

“I’m comfortable, Mollie. Is that all?” Move away.

“Did you want something to eat or drink? Tony’s here. He can get something from the coffeehouse. There’s not much in my refrigerator.”

He’d noticed. A pitcher of iced tea, two peaches, milk, several cartons of yogurt. A couple of unidentifiable items in plastic containers.

And a red-velvet, heart-shaped box of candy, half-full.

He glanced at his watch. “I’m fine for now. Why don’t I just order some takeout to be delivered around the time the shop closes? We can eat together, then get to work showing you how this computer is going to simplify your life.”

“Okay. If it’s pizza, I don’t like mushrooms.”

“Any other likes or dislikes?” He saw her glance settle on the cigar box.

Her cheeks flushed. Casually she swept up the box, tucking it close to her chest. “Not really,” she said.

“Are you adventurous?”

Mollie shrugged, letting him choose his own answer from the vague gesture. Adventurous? Hardly. More like “tiresomely sensible.” Except that less than a minute ago she’d almost pressed her lips to his. She wondered what he would have thought of that, considering his claim that everything was to be strictly business between them.

“Any particular wine you like?” he asked.

She shook her head. She’d had maybe five glasses of wine in her whole life. The box she clutched seemed to weigh a ton. Had he looked inside? Were her secrets no longer secrets? She must have been really nervous not to notice the box sitting out when she’d first brought him upstairs. She’d gotten used to it being there over the past several months, since her last birthday—the day she’d stopped believing in making wishes. She’d been working up the nerve to throw the box into the trash.

“I need to get back to work,” she said, aware of his watchful silence.

She hurried into the bedroom and shoved the box into a drawer, sliding it under her lingerie, a fancy name for her plain, practical bras and panties. But then, she was a practical person.

Mollie mumbled goodbye as she hurried through the living room and down the stairs, fighting images of Gray seeing just now practical she was. She knew there wasn’t a chance in leaven that he would be interested m someone like her, someone so unsophisticated And computer illiterate—a major strike against her, undoubtedly.

Don’t mix business and pleasure. How many tunes had she heard that? And if she took a chance on letting things become personal between them, then he rejected her, would she lose not only the job, but her dreams? For the past month she’d spun fantasies about him without any fuel other than magazine and newspaper stories and photos.

She needed him to fill up the emptiness. She also wanted to know the real man beneath those glossy pages.

There had to be some reason why she’d chosen him as her obsession when she’d never even had the slightest crush on anyone before, not even a movie star or singer. Gray was a businessman. A genius. An international icon—

Who had the prettiest blue eyes, the nicest smile and the most ncredible body she’d ever seen. And for the first time in months, she wasn’t lonely.

Three

Mollie’s mouth caught fire. So much for her first foray into adventure, she thought as she swallowed half a glass of Char donnay to douse the flames.

Gray had ordered Thai takeout, and while most of it was jus a little spicy and really delicious, the chilies in one dish burned her mouth, her throat and anywhere that the fumes alone touched. She didn’t care much for his amused smile, or the way he continued to eat the blistering dish as if it were macaroni and cheese.

“You said—” she panted “—it was hot.” She took another swig of wine. “But I didn’t expect fire. Your taste buds mus be cauterized.” She took her plate into the kitchen, grabbed a Popsicle from the freezer, then plopped back onto the sofa bedside him. She’d already consumed two glasses of wine, and the room seemed draped with gauze.

“It’s an acquired taste.” He closed the cartons with their left overs and carried them into the kitchen.

“Grab a Popsicle, if you want,” she said, then moaned as the frozen treat numbed her mouth at last.

“I’m okay, thanks,” he called out

She heard water running and realized he was rinsing the dishes, something she should be doing, but nothing could have induced her to put aside her icy first aid. Warm and lazy from the wine, she snuggled into the cushions and closed her eyes.

After a minute she felt him sit beside her.

“Something tells me you aren’t exactly ready for computer lessons,” he said, humor in his voice.

“Whose fault is that?”

“I didn’t know that two glasses of wine would put you under.”

“Now you know.” She opened her eyes and smiled at him.

“Your lips are red.”

“Cherry,” she said, then took the last of it off the stick as he watched. Her inhibitions nonexistent, she ran her tongue over her lips. “Cold, too. Wanna feel?”

He didn’t say a word. Smiling, she leaned across the cushion and touched her lips to his just long enough to feel how warm his were—and how unresponsive. He didn’t attempt to deepen the kiss.

She looked away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

“Is there someone in your life who might not be too pleased that you’re spending time alone with me, Mollie?”

“No.” She couldn’t just sit there. Embarrassment had probably turned her face as red as her lips. She took her Popsicle stick to the kitchen to throw away.

“No boyfriend?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“So the heart-shaped box of candy in your refrigerator...”

“Left over from Valentine’s Day.”

Which was probably as much of an answer as he was going to get, Gray decided as she disappeared into the kitchen. “Is there some woman who will challenge me to a duel for kissing you?” she called out.

“No.” She called that a kiss? A press of cold lips that had lasted all of maybe two seconds? She’d caught him off guard—which was probably just as well, since a more personal relationship wasn’t in his plans, which were getting hazier by the moment. The surge of protectiveness he felt toward her constantly surprised him, but the physical attraction amazed him. She was so young and innocent. And she had way too much faith in him.

If she only knew—

She came out of the kitchen. “Really, Gray? There’s no special woman?”

“Most women don’t like taking second place. My work consumes my time and energy.”

“But you date. I’ve seen pictures.” She frowned. “And not just Hollywood-type women. Samantha Simeon, right here in Minneapolis.”

“I come out of my cyberworld long enough to date occasionally. As I’m sure you do.”

She tucked her legs under her and rested her head against the sofa cushions. “I haven’t been on a date since my mother died.”

“You said that she passed away late last year ”

“An aneurysm. There was no warning at all.”

“My father died suddenly, too. I was eight.”

“Oh!” She lifted her head. “Oh, I’m so sorry. At least I had my mom a lot longer. She was forty when she had me, but she’d never even looked middle-aged to me. We even shared clothes. I thought she was invincible. Sixty-one is too young to die ”

“What about your father? You said he was gone before you were born.”

She plucked at the upholstery fabric. “I never knew him.”

Damn it. He couldn’t read her. Do you know that Stuart Fortune is your father, Mollie? “Any other family?” he asked.

“None. How about you? Your mother remarried, obviously. Do you have siblings?”

He shook his head. “I guess we have a lot in common ”

“Were you lonely as a child?”

Lonely was hardly the word. He’d been subjected to scandal, uprooted to California, given a new father and a new last name, commanded never to speak of his real father again. Ever. His life hadn’t only been turned upside down but also inside out. “I was a loner,” he said to Mollie.

“My mom was the best. It’s been very hard without her.” She touched his hand that had clenched into a fist. “We’ve become morbid, haven’t we? I think my head has settled down enough to take a computer lesson.”

“It’s probably a good night to learn how to use e-mail and maybe surf the Net a little.”

“No one is going to believe this,” she said a minute later as she sat in front of the computer. “I’m going to have to take pictures to prove you were here.”

He dragged up a chair beside hers. “You can invite your friends over, if you want.”

Mollie rejected the idea. Share him? No way. Not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever. He was her dream, after all. The reason for her sanity. She was afraid to diminish it by letting other people share in his attention. “Do you mind if we keep this relationship between us for a while?”

“Not at all. Show-and-tell was never my favorite part of the school day.” He pointed to the Power key and told her to press it. “Do you know how to type?”

“I took two years of it in high school.”

“Good. The rest is easy.”

The sun set and the evening cooled. He taught She practiced. He smiled at her contagious enthusiasm. She squeezed his arm when she found her flower shop listed in the on-line yellow pages. He was careful not to touch her, then a lock of hair fell over her shoulder and rested temptingly on her breast, rising and falling with her can’t-sit-still excitement, but at the same time curtaining her face.

She stayed focused on the screen as she searched page after page of florists. After a few minutes he used just his fingertips to pull her hair back from her face. Softer than silk, he thought. He wondered what it would feel like against his chest—

Awareness sizzled through Mollie as his fingers grazed her shoulder blade. She turned toward him. His palm skimmed her arm. If his goal was to seduce her, he’d accomplished it She tingled head to toe, partly from his touch, partly from his nearness, partly from the soapy scent that lingered on his skin, better than any spicy aftershave.

He pulled his hand back. Dam. She’d done something to ruin the mood. She lifted her brows in question.

“Your hair was in your face.”

“Was it?” She tossed her head, feeling the familiar weight shift then settle against her back. His eyes darkened. He was attracted to her. But the women he usually dated were so different. So sophisticated.

She waited for him to say something, all the while feeling his body close to hers—not touching, but near enough to transfer heat Conscious of how his gaze lowered to her mouth, she leaned toward him the slightest bit, willing to take advantage of the moment if he would only take the hint. Willing to test her theory that reality couldn’t be as wonderful as her dreams. Her lips parted.

“This is a good place to stop for the night,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing. “We can continue tomorrow, if you’d like.”

She grabbed the papers stacked next to the computer and straightened them. “Um, sure. I’ll provide dinner.”

“I don’t mind bringing it.”

“You must be sick of restaurant food. I’m a decent cook, I promise.”

“Okay. Good night, Mollie.”

She grabbed his hand. “I need you—” she almost laughed at the panic in his eyes “—to show me how to shut down the computer.” Could it be that he wasn’t as sophisticated as she’d thought? That women scared him a little? The intriguing thought settled in her mind. Was that why his media interviews came across as all business? Because his confidence didn’t extend to personal relationships?

No. He couldn’t have risen to the position of CEO if he was socially inept.

So was it her that threw him off stride? The possibility that she might in any way intimidate him stunned her. Maybe no one had ever treated him like an ordinary human before. He’d been placed on a pedestal when he was twenty and his computer operating system debuted. Fame and fortune had soon followed. Yet he seemed so alone...which was probably an illusion, or some wild imaginings on her part.

“You have to let go of my hand to turn off the program,” he said quietly to her.

He talked her through the steps, writing them down so she could do it again without him.

When the hum of machinery stopped, she turned to him. “Thank you.”

“Not as daunting as you thought, was it?”

“Not so far, but you’re also a patient teacher. Wait’ll we get to spreadsheets. I hate them even on paper. Math was always my least favorite subject.”

“The worst that can happen is that you lose the information and have to reenter it. Be fearless.”

Fearless. She would like to be fearless with him. She’d like to kiss him, really kiss him, to know how that spectacular body felt pressed against hers. She wasn’t brave enough to make the first move, though, no matter how many Cosmo articles she’d read giving women permission to be the aggressors.

However, the man was either dense or not attracted, because he headed down the stairs. She followed to lock the door, but their good-nights were brief and cordial. She trekked back up the stairs.

Needing to unwind, Mollie relaxed in a bubble bath. Normally in bed by ten and up by six, she was still awake at midnight, like the night before. Finally she gave up, turned on the computer and waited for it to open.

The e-mail icon was lit. She stared at it for almost half a minute, trying to remember what to do. Finally she clicked on it, A new screen appeared, identifying mail awaiting her from GKMcGuire, the subject left blank. She clicked it open and read the message.

“I wanted to be your first. G.”

Mollie felt her face heat. Her first e-mail, she assumed he meant. Either that or he had peeked into her birthday box before she hid it in her dresser.

She was trying to decide what to do when the mail icon flashed again.

From GKMcGuire: “I know you just got my message. An you going to write me back? G.”

How did he know? What trick was there to knowing that And the most important question—how could she answer him’ He’d told her how, but she hadn’t practiced or written it down

No sooner had she asked herself the question than the icor lit up.

From GKMcGuire: “Hit the Reply button, type in your mes sage, then hit Send. G.”

Mollie grinned, hit Reply, then typed: “Thank you for being so gentle. M.” Send.

She waited. The icon flashed almost instantly.

From GKMcGuire: “Was it good for you? G.”

She laughed as she clicked on Reply: “I’m still all aquiver M.” She waited a little longer for his next response.

From GKMcGuire: “I hope you remember me fondly. Good night. G.”

From MollieS: “We never forget our first. Good night and thank you. M.”

Gray shut down his computer, shutting down the temptation of her words at the same tune. He had sunk to innuendo with her, displaying all the maturity of a teenager. Except that he hadn’t done that even as a teenager. And she had responded ii kind—

Irritated with himself, he slipped into bed, turned out the ligh and tucked his hands behind his head.

Knowing her past, he’d expected to find a bitter young woman. Mollie Shaw was anything but bitter. She’d accepted him into her life as if he belonged, had made him feel at home faster than anyone ever had, yet she didn’t seem to want any thing from him except a kiss—and that, he figured, was the wine doing the asking.

Her vulnerability reminded him of his life before Stuart For tune had destroyed it. Memories of those carefree days surfaced too frequently now. He couldn’t get those days back, but he could make up for the loss. And he could get Mollie the fisca base she needed.

Muttering a curse, he switched on the light, tossed the sheet aside and crossed the room to where he’d draped his jeans over a chair. He dug into a pocket, coming up with a Popsicle stick, stained red, like her lips had been. Red and cold.

He returned to bed, jammed pillows behind his back and turned the stick over and over in his hands. He could barely remember snatching it out of her trash can when he’d tossed the empty wine bottle away. He’d acted on a whim, as she had when she’d kissed him.

That memory drifted in. Red and cold. And cherry sweet. Her cheeks had flushed afterward.

In his experience, kissing led to sex. Given their potential partnership, he couldn’t sleep with Mollie, therefore he couldn’t kiss her. It was that simple—unlike the woman herself, who was becoming more and more complicated.

He tapped the stick to his mouth, then tossed it on the nightstand, annoyed. Obsession was beyond his experience. It had been a long time since he’d wanted something he couldn’t have.

But she made him laugh. And she comforted without knowing it. Even better, she was as fiery as her red hair. In bed, too? he wondered.

And what would she say if she knew he was wondering about that?

Four

“Never?” Mollie gaped at the back of Gray’s head as she stood behind him the next evening. She’d closed her sho promptly at 6:00 p.m., then hurried upstairs. He’d spent the afternoon entering her previous year’s wholesale orders into “tracking program,” as he called it. “Gray McGuire, you have never in your life been on a picnic?”

“Not that I can recall.”

He was seated at the computer, watching the printer as cranked out sheet after sheet of graphs and charts. She looke over his shoulder at the monitor, where a colorful pie chart fille the screen.

“Maybe when I was too young to remember,” he added.

“That is un- American. Not even on the Fourth of July?”

“Not even.”

“We are filling that gap in your life experience tonight.”

“Okay.” He snagged the stack of papers from the printe “Take a look at these. As soon as I feed in the actual sale information, you’ll know exactly where your potential for los is. See here—”

Leaning around him, she reached for the papers just as he tipped his head back to say something. His head bumped against her sternum, right between her breasts. She didn’t move. Neither did he.

She matched her breathing to his, a rhythm that teased her with awareness of him as a man, a partner, a mate. She loved the weight of his head resting, almost nestling, between her breasts, making them swell and ache. Her nipples pressed into her bra. Down low, she felt her pulse pound.

Gray turned his head slightly, enough to feel the softness of her breast against his ear.

She stepped back, but the spell wasn’t broken for him. Need froze him in place.

“We won’t talk business until after dinner, okay? I’m going to change clothes, then fix our picnic. We’ll walk down to the park” Her voice faded as she moved away.

Her scent lingered. He wished he could pin it down, but it changed with her mood, her body temperature.

“I went to the grocery store before I opened up the shop,” she called out, jarring him out of his musings. “My refrigerator is overflowing with choices.”

“I brought wine,” he said. He typed a few keystrokes, sending the chart off the screen and bringing up a graph in its place. He waited until he heard her bedroom door shut before he took his hands off the keyboard. The back of his head still burned from the feel of her. Bells and whistles rang in his head, warning him of an impending crash of his logic system.

He checked his e-mail one last time. Another message from his stepfather, wondering when Gray would be resuming his responsibilities in California. The censure stung. He’d assumed his responsibilities early and well, had rarely taken a day off since he’d developed the computer operating system that had helped to revolutionize the fledgling home-computer industry.

Since then—a never-ending cycle of software to create, upgrades to design and the company to run since his stepfather had relinquished control to Gray years ago. The single-source business had mushroomed into a conglomerate under Gray’s risky push for growth. Some might even call it an empire He was grateful his stepfather had never figured out that Gray had taken such huge risks because he hadn’t created the company, therefore had nothing to lose.

He looked away from the screen, seeing nothing. He’d referred to James McGuire as his father since his mother’s marriage to the man almost twenty-five years ago. Had been ordered to, as if his real father had never walked the earth. His mother would not be pleased that Gray was thinking of James McGuire as his stepfather.

His mother, however, would not be pleased about a lot of things, particularly not Gray’s plans for justice. The past wasn’t only dead and buried to her, it didn’t exist. Life hadn’t begun for her until the day she’d become Mrs. James McGuire.

Life had yet to begin for Gray.

He shut down the computer without replying to the e-mail. It was Friday night. Date night. And Gray intended to enjoy it.

“Just because I haven’t been on a picnic doesn’t mean I don’t know how it works,” Gray said as he helped Mollie spread out a blanket that had probably been dragged along on a hundred picnics, given the tattered softness of the fabric. The evening was perfect, warm enough that Mollie wore shorts, and breezy enough to mold her blouse to her breasts.

“You eat fried chicken,” he continued, “potato salad and pickles, then watermelon for dessert. And you spit the seeds on the ground. Then you lie back on the blanket and groan about how much food you ate while you watch the fireworks.”

“You helped me pack the basket, so you know you got the food all wrong. And if you spit watermelon seeds on the ground, they sprout. It’s annoying.”

“But fireworks,” he said. “There have to be fireworks”

“If you want ’em, you’ll have to provide ’em.”

She bent to straighten a corner of the blanket, her legs pale and smooth, her rear an appealing focal point. Fireworks, indeed, but in the form of one Mollie Shaw, human sparkler.

They created sandwiches of fresh bakery bread, smoked turkey, two kinds of cheeses and a dark, tangy mustard. Other containers yielded pasta salad, fresh and marinated vegetables, and watermelon, already cut into bite-size pieces Then rich, chocolaty brownies, so moist and gooey they had to lick the chocolate off their fingers. And the California white zinfandel wine they drank managed to complement all the different flavors.

Mollie lay flat on her back. “I’m so full,” she groaned She’d nursed one glass of wine throughout the meal, having no intention of being tipsy again. He probably already thought she was too young for him, if his indulgent smile was any indication. Of some consolation was the fact he seemed to be losing some of his seriousness. Neither of them spoke of their e-mail exchange the night before, when they’d written things to each other that they never would have said aloud. She wished she’d known how to print them off and save them.

She glanced toward Gray as he rested his back against a tree and watched some children play nearby, hollering and laughing, bringing a smile to his face. She wondered how rare it was for him to relax. He took a sip of wine, then stretched his arm across his upraised knee, letting the half-full wineglass dangle from his fingers. His eyes closed.

Mollie closed hers, as well, feeling the warm evening drift over her.

“You’re easy to be with,” he said after a while.

She stirred, rolling to her side and propping her head on her hand. His words answered a question she’d been pondering—why did a man with his many responsibilities have so much time to spend with her? Answer? Because she didn’t demand anything from him.

“I suppose people always want something from you.”

“Pretty much.”

“Ever thought about changing your life?”

It took him a few seconds to answer. “Now and then.”

“What brings you to the Twin Cities?”

“I’m considering acquiring a company here.”

“Acquiring, as in buying it? Or taking over?” She regretted asking the questions, because he lost his contented look.

“Whatever works.”

“Yet you have time to teach me computers.”

“Not a hardship, I assure you,” he said He slid down to stretch out beside her, facing her. “You’re the best kind of student”

“What kind is that?”

“Balky.”

“Me? Why, Mr. McGuire, I’m the easiest-going woman you’d ever hope to meet.”

“Balky,” he repeated, matter of fact

“Well, you’re pushy.”

“Only when I know I’m right” He refilled her wineglass, then looked at her. “I’m going home tomorrow.”

Her heart skipped. “Will you be back?”

He nodded. “In the meantime—”

“I know. We’ll e-mail.” She wondered if he had hair on his chest. She wondered what he would do if she pressed her mouth to that tempting vee of tanned flesh revealed by his open collar.

“I may even call you,” he said.

“Be still my heart.” She thumped her fist between her breasts, watching his gaze drop, then linger, even after she let her arm rest on the blanket again. Her body tingled as much as it had in her apartment. And all he’d done was look.

A tiny leaf swirled down, landing on his head. She resisted the temptation to brush it away, because she liked how it looked against his hair—and because he didn’t seem comfortable being touched. Touch was one of the things she missed most these days. She and her mother had hugged every day. Every single day.

“We should probably get back to your place and start working,” he said, sitting up.

Gray had just put the first container into the cooler when he sensed her inching toward him. She lifted her hand. He went still. Her fingers brushed his hair, then she held a small leaf for him to see.

“It landed on you a while ago.”

His reaction was ridiculous—getting aroused by a touch so faint it was hardly worth calling it that A whisper of contact, no more.

“Thanks,” he murmured, tossing the rest of their stuff into the cooler, then jamming it shut.

“My mom and I used to picnic here a lot,” she said, a catch in her voice. “I’ve been back since, but this is the first real picnic.”

He looked at her. She gazed into the distance.

“At times like this, I miss her so much I can hardly breathe.”

He clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt. “I thought I’d never get over my father’s death,” he said, the memories slamming into him. He hadn’t talked about his father in so long. So very long. “Nothing ever replaced him.”

“No. Nothing could. But maybe having a family of your own would help?”

He hesitated. That was her dream, not his. Family life hadn’t amounted to much. But he appeased Mollie, anyway. “Maybe,” he said.

“I want a family of my own so much I can taste it.”

Her words didn’t surprise him, but brought anger instead. She had a family, one that had ignored her all these years. She should have had their support, their love.

The list of crimes against Stuart Fortune grew longer.

“One last thing to show you,” Gray said three hours later. He closed the screen, then opened another. “Here’s your dictionary.”

“I think it would be easier to use the real thing,” she said. “It’s two feet away.”

“Not if you’re already on-line. Here. Let’s look up something.” He typed the word leprechaun. “ ‘One of a race of elves in Irish folklore who can reveal hidden treasure to someone who catches him,’ ” he read. “One who screeches,” he added with a smile at Mollie.

“Yarg doesn’t screech, he shrieks. There’s a difference, you know.”

“Yarg. What kind of name is that, anyway?”

She didn’t answer right away. He took his gaze off the screen and saw her face pinken.

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