PRAISE FOR CATHERINE LANIGAN: Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen TENDER MALICE Copyright

PRAISE FOR CATHERINE LANIGAN:

“Lanigan knows her genre well....”

—Publishers Weekly

“As a storyteller, Catherine Lanigan is in a class by herself.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Catherine Lanigan’s books...represent the changing—and booming—genre of women’s fiction.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Catherine Lanigan will make you cheer and cry.”

—Romantic Times

“Catherine Lanigan is a master storyteller.”

—Rave Reviews

Catherine Lanigan is the bestselling author of the novelizations of the blockbuster movies Romancing the Stone and The Jewel of the Nile.

Dear Reader,

February, month of valentines, celebrates lovers—which is what Silhouette Desire does every month of the year. So this month, we have an extraspecial lineup of sensual and emotional page-turners. But how do you choose which exciting book to read first when all six stones are asking Be Mine?

Bestselling author Barbara Boswell delivers February’s MAN OF THE MONTH, a gorgeous doctor who insists on being a full-time father to his newly discovered child, in The Brennan Baby. Bride of the Bad Boy is the wonderful first book in Elizabeth Bevarly’s brand-new BLAME IT ON BOB trilogy. Don’t miss this fun story about a marriage of inconvenience!

Cupid slings an arrow at neighboring ranchers in Her Torrid Temporary Marriage by Sara Orwig. Next, a woman’s thirtieth-birthday wish brings her a supersexy cowboy—and an unexpected pregnancy—in The Texan, by Catherine Lanigan. Carole Buck brings red-hot chemistry to the pages of Three-Alarm Love. And Barbara McCauley’s Courtship in Granite Ridge reunites a single mother with the man she’d always loved.

Have a romantic holiday this month—and every month—with Silhouette Desire. Enjoy!

Melissa Senate

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

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

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

The Texan

Catherine Lanigan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CATHERINE LANIGAN

As a college freshman, Catherine Lanigan was told by her creative-writing professor that she had no talent and would never earn a living as a writer. With ten bestselling romance novels and praise from Affaire de Coeur, calling her “an unequalled and simply fabulous storyteller,” Catherine has proven him wrong in a very big way.

Catherine is also the bestselling author of the novelizations of the smash movies Romancing the Stone and The Jewel of the Nile. When not writing, she enjoys entertaining her friends with innovative gourmet meals.

For Charlotte Breeze and Karen Taylor Richman.

My thanks for all your hard work and plugging away

on this project long enough for serendipity to take

the credit.

Prologue

Houston, Texas

“I won’t believe for a second that I’m finished,” Rafe Whitten growled as he catapulted his six-foot-two-inch, wide-shouldered frame out of the brown leather chair in his accountant’s office. “Defeat is not in my vocabulary, Matt. You of all people should know that.”

Matt Leads instantly hung his head and shook it in frustration “It’s this ‘die-hard’ attitude of yours that’s gotten you into this financial black hole, Rafe. Tele-Cept was your brainstorm and probably would have gone on forever. Embezzlement is not easily recoverable.”

Raking his hand through his thick dark hair, Rafe placed his booted feet wide apart, folded his arms across his expansive chest and glared at Matt. “Don’t I know it. But bankruptcy? Matt, I can’t do it. It’s not the Whitten way of doing business. My clients believe in me. I’ve made promises I must keep.”

Matt was only a year younger than his thirty-three-year-old friend, Rafe, but it was at times like these he felt as old as Methuselah and twice as wise. “If you’d listened to me—”

“The ranch is all I have left,” Rafe interrupted him. “When my parents died they intended for me to keep it for their grandchildren.”

“Considering fatherhood is one of your least favorite topics, why are you letting the ranch and a bunch of horses keep you from making good at least the majority of this debt?”

Rafe ground his jaw and shoved his hands into his pockets. “They’re not just horses to me, Matt.”

“Sorry,” Matt apologized. He knew how close Rafe was to his menagerie of horses, bulls, cats, dogs, ducks, birds and any other animal that was smart enough to recognize a sucker when it saw one. Matt knew from Rafe’s receipts at the Waller County Feed stores that he would rather spend money on animal feed and grain than on food for himself.

“I’ve had a lot of dreams about that ranch, Matt. I always believed I’d make them come true. Now you’re telling me it’s impossible.”

“I never said that. Miracles happen every day. It’s just that I’ve never seen any.” Discernment narrowed Matt’s brown eyes. “Have you?”

Rafe immediately stopped pacing. “No.”

Despite his resolve to banish his anger toward his former business associate, Paul Thomas, haunting visions of their college comradery bored deeply into Rafe’s trusting heart. Letting even more blood over the situation was the fact that his five-year relationship with Cheryl Hudson had ended the day she walked out of his life to be with Paul. She’d left Rafe a note saying she couldn’t wait forever till Rafe made his millions. She’d already wasted too much of her youth. She wanted to “live.”

The fact that he’d given his heart to a gold digger hurt Rafe’s pride, but not nearly as much as the knowledge that she’d never loved him in return. He’d been a fool.

More than anything Rafe hated the way his stomach still turned over every time he thought about Cheryl. Her betrayal had been so razor-sharp that he felt he’d been left for dead before he even knew he was cut. Paul’s part in Rafe’s annihilation was secondary, but it was easier for Rafe to talk about Paul than about Cheryl. At least his emotions didn’t stick so viciously in his craw.

Rafe had learned all too well that the only way to fight anger and bitterness was to turn himself off... completely. Detachment was becoming a way of life for him and it suited him just fine. Nobody could ever hurt him again as long as he didn’t allow it, he’d told himself.

Rafe turned cool blue eyes back to Matt. “What’s done is done. I can’t change the past. If you truly believe selling the ranch is the way I should go...”

“I do. There’s a slim chance we won’t have to declare bankruptcy.”

“Bankruptcy is not an option for me. Few people realize it, but that black mark is made with indelible ink.”

Rafe looked out the nineteenth-story window at the Houston skyline. Beyond downtown stretched miles of highways, out to a second skyline of buildings around the Galleria and then further out to the northwest where the sprawling city was no more than scattered pockets of houses. Where land and sky drew together on the horizon was his beloved ranch. His mouth went dry knowing he’d lost it.

How cocky he’d been just a year ago. He’d thought Houston sat squarely in the palm of his hand. Every top executive wanted to do business with him. His technology was on the cutting edge of the lightning-fast world of global telecommunications. Rafe Whitten was the “man to watch” the Houston Chronicle had written. Even the Wall Street Journal cited him for his clever deal-cutting. Money marketers and stockbrokers in every major city were salivating over the day he’d take his company public. He was going to be a multimillionaire overnight, or so everyone thought.

But his partner, Paul, had gotten too greedy, too soon. He not only blew the deal, he sold Rafe down the river while doing it. With the company coffers wiped out, Rafe owed his initial investors millions of dollars. He’d sold everything he owned, the townhouse inside the Loop, his cars, ski boat and the lake condo at Walden. This was worse than the oil crash less than a decade ago. He’d weathered that downturn despite the fact he’d only been twenty-six years old. This time, his situation was much worse; the bust came from a viper at home.

Matt could tell from the flinty look in Rafe’s eyes that his friend was thinking about Cheryl.

Rafe’s hollow voice broke the silence. “I should have listened to you, Matt. From the day I met that blond she-devil at the Houston Livestock and Rodeo Show, you told me she was bad news walking. I remember accusing you of being too cerebral, too analytical and maybe even a bit jealous. Being a good friend, you kept your mouth shut. For a while we were happy, though. The company was moving along slowly but steadily in the kind of way that makes you CPAs comfortable. I gave Cheryl enough trinkets to keep her amused. Obviously, it wasn’t enough.”

Matt stood and went over to Rafe, put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I wish I’d been wrong about her.”

“Me, too.”

“You know, Rafe, we accountants like everything neat and tidy. So I hope you won’t get mad at me if I ask you something.”

His blue eyes, now reflecting a hard steel gray, never wavered from the horizon. “What is it?”

“Something here doesn’t add up. You’ve never been gullible a moment in your life that I’ve ever seen. So how is it that someone with your brains and savvy fell for her tricks? It just doesn’t seem right. There’s a very large piece of this puzzle missing.”

Rafe shrugged. “Hey, love is blind.” He finally turned to Matt, but his eyes were colder than ever. “You can bet one thing. I’ll never let any of it happen to me again. Once bitten...”

“You can’t mean you intend to be alone forever.”

“I don’t see a problem with that. You see a problem?” Rafe asked angrily, a nerve along his jawline twitching.

“Gotcha,” Matt replied quickly, not wanting to upset his friend anymore.

Turning to the brass hatrack, Rafe took his black cowboy hat off the top hook and settled it on his head. He put his hand out to Matt. “Thanks for all your help. You’ve been a good friend.”

Feeling somehow guilty and responsible for Rafe’s solemn mood, Matt said, “Why don’t we go out for a drink before you head back to the ranch?”

“Naw. The last thing I want is to be around a bunch of people who...”

Frustrated with Rafe’s seemingly implacable need to cut himself off from humanity, Matt interrupted. “Who might be having fun? Who might take your mind off things?” Suddenly, Matt was on a mission. If he let Rafe drive home in his present mood, he would only retreat into a deeper depression. True, Rafe had good reasons to be gloomy, but he’d been telling Matt he was giving up on life. Thoughts that black had to be attacked before their stain set in permanently.

“I have things to do,” Rafe replied, as he turned toward the door.

Matt caught him by the arm. “Well, I don’t. Since I know you can’t possibly pay me all you owe me, the least you can do is buy me a beer on my birthday.”

“Aw, you’re kidding. I didn’t know it was your birthday. Of course we’ll go out.”

“Great!” Matt said grabbing his briefcase and shoving his arms in his jacket. “Actually, it’s not my birthday,” he confessed sheepishly as he held the office door for Rafe.

“Why, you little...” Rafe playfully raised his fist.

“Watch it. You’re bigger than I am. It was only a little lie. Besides, today must be somebody’s birthday.”

“Look, Matt. I’ll have a beer with you, but I’m not going to celebrate,” Rafe said with finality as they left.

One

Houston, Texas

“I’m giving up men forever,” Angela Morton sighed glumly to her friends and co-workers, Ilsa Prentiss and Julia Freeman. As Angela sank her chin into her hand, one of the black-and-silver “Over the Hill” balloons that was tied to the back of her chair bobbed up and down, hitting her in the face. She batted it away.

“This is supposed to be your thirtieth birthday party. It’s time to have fun!” Ilsa replied with a wide smile.

“Don’t be so hard on her,” Julia scolded Ilsa, with her usual mother-hen tone of voice. Julia was the receptionist at the offices of Patrick Gallagher Realtors and being the oldest of the three at the ripe old age of thirty-two, she felt she was not only more experienced in “men matters,” but she’d been married and divorced when both Angela and Ilsa had not been married at all... yet. She was confident her advice was always on target.

“Look at her,” Ilsa said, pointing at Angela. “I’ve never seen a more perfect portrait of doom. The bags under her eyes are packed for Europe.”

“What bags?” Angela asked and instantly looked under her chair for her purse. “Since when have I ever had bags? God! Getting old is the pits,” she said, but Ilsa and Julia weren’t listening. They were too busy dissecting Angela’s life for her. “I’ve been working overtime lately. I’m trying to make a living,” she replied with false haughtiness. “I would never waste a minute’s sleep over a man. You can be sure of that.”

“Certainly not,” Ilsa commented as her eyes zeroed in on a tall, lean, blond cowboy in a very tight pair of jeans and a black hat. “Anyway, I overheard Randy barking orders at you last week to get your sales up.”

“Don’t remind me. Not on my birthday. Okay?”

“I think she’s absolutely right to give up men,” Julia said flatly as she took a long sip of a gigantic frozen margarita in front of her.

“You do?” Angela’s eyes widened in shock. “Why?”

“Take a look at your track record. First was James. What a loser that guy was. He couldn’t keep a job for more than six months. Once you finally kicked him out of the apartment, you discovered he’d maxed your cards.”

“That was six years ago,” Angela said.

“Yeah. And it took you eighteen months to pay off the bills. Then there was Rick who thought it was okay to hit on all your girlfriends.”

“A real peach of a guy,” Ilsa agreed, munching on her sixth handful of snack mix.

“Last but not least was Larry. The jerk of all jerks who not only married your college roommate, but screwed you out of at least six months of real estate commissions. Remember the rules? Never sleep with a Realtor.”

Angela was more depressed than ever. “Let’s not drag up the past, shall we?”

“We learn from the past,” Julia wagged her finger at her friend.

“That is precisely what I’m talking about. Men today aren’t real men like...my great-grandfather was.”

“Do we have to hear this story again?” Julia frowned.

Ilsa cut her off. “But it’s so romantic. Tell us again, Angela.”

“He fell in love with my great-grandmother the first time he laid eyes on her at the Governor’s Ball in New Orleans. He told her they would build a wonderful life together on his ranch west of San Antonio. She loved him, too, and married him the next month. She worked right alongside him every day of her life. They were never apart. Not even for a single night. Until the day they died, they were kind and considerate toward one another.”

“I do love this story,” Ilsa sighed.

“Men today are afraid of commitment. Afraid of working. Afraid of children. Afraid to live. So, why should I waste my precious time on any of them?”

Julia munched on the piece of lime in her margarita. “You have a point. However, this isn’t 1895. This is the Post Oak Ranch. It’s a bar. A meeting place. Not a real ranch, okay?”

“I’m not an idiot, you know,” Angela sniffed.

“No, you’re our best friend,” Ilsa chimed in while giving Julia a stabbing look.

Julia’s eyes filled with apology. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I want you to be happy. And I’m going to make up by finding you just the right dancing partner for tonight. Let’s see,” Julia’s eyes scrupulously examined every unattached man. “No, too old. That one is too cocky. And that blond, tall drink of water over there is... is... heading this way.”

“Oh, my God!” Angela blushed, then smiled at the handsome man who smiled back at her. At least that was what it seemed like he was doing.

The man walked up to their table and put his arm on the back of Julia’s chair. “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

Julia’s breath caught in her throat. “I—I—” She looked at Angela who nodded back. “I’d love to.”

Not five seconds later a dark-haired younger man wearing jeans, a plaid shirt and tennis shoes asked Ilsa to dance.

Angela was alone at last, which was just the way she liked it. “Now I can daydream all I want without feeling guilty,” she mumbled to herself as she let her mind wander.

She knew her friends meant well, but they simply didn’t understand her. Glaringly aware of all her past mistakes, Angela resolved that on this birthday, the beginning of a new decade in her life, she would never, ever fall in love again, though she really didn’t want to give up men all together.

If there ever was a “next time” in her life, she would be sensible. She would test his motives and learn to be friends first and lovers later. Integrity and loyalty in a man counted for more than just sexual attraction. She would never again settle for anyone who wasn’t the kind of man her great-grandfather had been.

“See? This isn’t so bad, is it, Rafe?” Matt asked as the bartender placed two long-necked beer bottles in front of them.

Rafe took a long draw on the beer as he looked around the room. It was the usual mesh of working girls looking for a man to take care of them and the even more usual ogling businessmen who wanted to do the caring...but only for one night. “Nothing changes much, does it?” Rafe scoffed and turned back to the bar.

Just then, out of the comer of his eye, Rafe caught a glimpse of bobbing black-and-white balloons. “I don’t believe it. It really is someone’s birthday,” he said with surprise.

Rafe was about to make another wisecrack when the softest pair of brown eyes set in the most ethereal face he’d ever seen looked straight at him.

His breath caught in his throat as her eyes settled on his face with a look of endearment he’d only previously seen in his mother’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if she was actually seeing him or looking through him. She didn’t appear to mind that he was staring back. Neither smiling nor acknowledging his presence, her face shone with an inner peace he wished he’d cultivated for himself.

Looking rather out of place amid the harshly made-up women around her, the “birthday girl” as he mentally referred to her, wore little makeup and her blond hair fell in soft, natural waves down the sides of her heart-shaped ivory-pale face to her shoulders. He wanted to believe she used very little hair spray and certainly would never entertain the thought of having her hair “woven” with acrylic strands, the way Cheryl had. Women had millions of beauty secrets from fake eyelashes to plastic nails, silicone breasts and dyed, false hair to make them beautiful. Rafe wanted to believe that just this once, he’d found someone whose beauty was natural. Maybe it was possible this “birthday girl” could restore his faith.

Matt started to respond to Rafe’s quip but stopped himself in time to watch his friend’s decidedly strong reaction to the pretty blonde who looked as if this birthday would be the one to truly bury her. Matt couldn’t figure out what held Rafe so spellbound. She wasn’t half the “looker” type Rafe usually preferred and she looked so utterly... sad. Matt thought his friend needed a cheerleader to zap him out of his depressed state. A quick fling would do the trick, Matt thought. This girl was too much peaches and cream and too much of a real person.

Rafe slid his beer bottle onto the bar.

“Where you goin’?” Matt asked.

“To celebrate someone’s birthday,” Rafe said without looking back at Matt.

Angela was unaware of the soft dreamy look on her face as she mused about her fantasy hero. He would be tall, strong and good-looking, but he would have a gentleman’s manners and a code of ethics others would admire. He would be kind to children and animals. And when he spoke, he’d have a voice that sounded like...

“Happy birthday,” a velvety, sensual voice poured over her.

Angela was so entranced by her own reveries, she thought she had imagined the voice. She stared blankly at the tall, handsome dark-haired man with flashing blue-gray eyes.

“Tell me I’m the first to dance with the birthday girl,” he said.

“You are?” Suddenly, Angela realized she was not dreaming. “I mean, you are! Yes, I mean, I’d love to.”

His smile revealed perfectly white even teeth between full, sensual lips. His jawline was sharply hewn and his cheekbones were high as if he had Indian blood somewhere in his ancestry. His Western clothes were faded and snug on his lean, fit body.

Angela stood very close to him when she rose from her chair. She couldn’t help detecting the faint smell of leather, as if he’d ridden into town on his horse. She would have swooned, but modern women didn’t do such things.

His touch was gentle yet possessive as he took her hand and led the way through the crowd around the dance floor. It wasn’t until she was behind him that she noticed his massively wide shoulders and chest that looked as if he could carry the weight of the world on them. Surely, he was a man of great responsibility. He’s my kind of man.

Whoa! Slow down, Angela, she thought to herself. Get a grip, girl. He’s only asked you to dance.

Melancholy strains of the country-western song being played filled the room as couples clung to each other under the dim colored lights. Angela wished she’d paid more attention to Ilsa’s dance instructions, but the truth of the matter was that Angela was the first to volunteer for overtime and the last to frequent the clubs with her friends. The result was that she did not follow well. Nor did she line-dance or square-dance. None of that mattered because this man, who seemingly had walked out of her dreams and now held her body in a forceful yet graceful manner, had actually made her feel as if they were one of those dance teams in an old Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire movie.

“Do you think we fit well?” he asked with that maddeningly sensual voice.

“I’m not sure,” she replied coolly, wanting to prove to herself she was over men forever. This killer-looking hunk was not going to foul her newly planted resolution. If she could resist him, she could do anything.

The logical side of Angela’s personality was quite pleased with her performance, but it was her romantic and heretofore overly impetuous side that shouted: You idiot! Why don’t you tell him what you’re really feeling? Other girls would already have him wanting to take them home to bed. “I mean, I think we fit fine.” That’s being assertive? Angela, girl, no wonder you never get a real man.

His breath was like a lover’s caress on her neck. His hands were callused and no matter how she fought it, another image of him, on horseback, streaked across her mind. His chest was rock-hard and as she pressed her fingers into the tight muscles in his shoulders she could feel her body responding to him. She couldn’t help leaning into him a bit more.

His hand slipped from the middle of her back to her waist and with splayed fingers, he pressed her body to his. Then he began moving his hips in rhythm to the music.

All this time, she’d thought he was coming on to her, but instead he was showing her what it was like to feel the music with her body. It was an incredible experience. He taught her how to catch the melody with her head and translate it into body language. They glided, swayed, turned and dipped according to the beat, the pulse and soul of the music. When the crescendo exploded, he spun Angela around so many times she was dizzy. She lost eye contact with the people around the dance floor as the room seemed to disappear. In order not to lose her balance, she was forced to lean against him. She looked in his eyes.

He gazed at her with smoky blue pools that seemed to promise eternity.

Quit, Angela! Wasn’t it only moments ago you promised yourself not to ever fall under a man’s spell again?

That’s right, she thought. From now on she was going to be adult about all her relationships. She tried to look away from him, but his feet quick-stepped around hers so fast that she was no longer aware of touching the ground. She’d taken flight and he was the pilot.

The music fluttered into a second chorus and the tempo eased them back to gentler movements.

“And what’s the birthday girl’s name?” he asked, placing his slightly rough cheek against hers.

“Angela Morton,” she replied haltingly. It was tough pretending her heaving lungs and banging heart were from the exuberant dance and not from him. After all, she wasn’t affected by men anymore.

“Nice name,” he whispered. “You feel like an angel.” He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, he thought. Rafe had to shake his head to dispel the romantic images from his brain. What was he thinking?

God, I don’t think I can stand this much longer. He’s doing everything right! He would have to call her “angel,” just like her father and grandfather had. Not one person she’d ever dated had figured that much out.

“I do?” she asked.

“Yes. Soft. Sweet and very, very warm.” He pressed his hand against her back again.

Her vow of becoming friends first and lovers later was becoming a dim memory as her breasts pressed against his granite chest. She didn’t like the fact that her breasts were far too sensitive for her own good. She couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like for him to touch her delicate skin. She squeezed her eyes closed, hoping the thought would disappear.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Everything’s wrong. I’m responding to him more than any man in my entire life. I wish to heaven there was something I didn’t like about him.

“You closed your eyes so tightly, I thought maybe you’d lost your contact or something.”

“I don’t wear contacts.”

“I was holding you too tightly then?” he asked, putting his hand up to her chin and lifting her face to his. “I’ve been accused of getting carried away when I dance. It’s just that I’m a sucker for these torchy ballads. I’ve always liked music I could understand the words to... sing to.”

Angela felt her mouth go dry. Wouldn’t you know it? Just my luck he likes the same music I do. I’ll find something wrong with him yet. After all, nobody’s perfect. “Country-western is too whiny for me. I like real oldies... like Cole Porter.” I’ll bet he’s never heard of Cole Porter or Gershwin for that matter.

“Where did you come from? The stars? I’ve always thought no song will ever top ‘Night and Day,”’ he replied, flabbergasted.

Angela gulped. She’d never met anyone who liked her music. “I would have thought you were the George Strait type.”

“Honky-tonk bars and good-time lovers?”

“Yes,” she said feeling oddly nervous about his caustic reply.

“I’m that, too.”

I thought so . Angela dragged her eyes away from his cool, steady gaze and pretended his honest answer was just fine with her. The last thing she needed was a cavalier cowboy who racked up affairs like notches on a gunbelt.

They danced silently for what seemed like an eternity before Rafe broke the tension by asking her where she worked.

“I’m a Realtor. My office is on San Felipe, so it’s not far to my townhouse,” she replied, looking up at him and forcing herself to feign the same aloofness he’d injected into his voice.

Without warning, he kissed her.

An unbelievable fire leapt through her body the instant their lips touched. He held nothing back and claimed her mouth with such raw passion, she wondered how she’d survive the intensity.

His arms pulled and pressed her body into his, though they undulated to the music. Breast to chest, belly to belly and with his pelvis crushing into hers, her dream man locked his body to hers. Wonderfully, she felt as if she were melting into him. There was such a possessiveness about his kiss that she felt as if she was precious to him. Never had she felt so close to anyone. His kiss was magic. His lips were not hard or unrelenting, nor were they too soft, lacking purpose. His kiss was the kiss she’d imagined in her dreams all her life. He tasted divine, she thought as his lips slanted over her mouth. His tongue traced the edge of her mouth and then prodded her lips apart stroking the interior. She matched his low, sexual moan of surrender with one of her own. She thought she could almost feel their hearts entwine.

She breathed in his breath. She tasted his warm juices as she buried her hand in his nape. She could never allow this kiss to end. This was heaven. This was the feeling she’d always dreamed of, but never dared to admit to anyone, not even to herself.

He showed no sign of wanting to stop. Instead, his tongue probed more deeply, sending rivers of chills cascading over the hills and valleys of her body. Torrid blasts of desire mercifully extinguished the chills. As perspiration broke out between her breasts and between her legs, she felt herself begin to move to the rhythm of the hypnotic melody he was creating within her. She could no longer hear the sad refrain from the stereo system. She was listening with her heart. She could only hope he was hearing the same song.

Slamming, pounding against her rib cage, her heart told her that she’d never been this alive. The heat of his body matched hers degree for degree. His breath came in the same halting pants as hers. They were in sync with every nerve in their bodies. Angela knew that she would never again find anyone to thrill her so much with just a kiss.

Hearing nothing but the ancient crescendo their bodies played, Angela was unaware the music had ended. A rock tune began; its only purpose was to break lovers apart.

Reluctantly, his tongue bowed out of the dance with hers. His lips pressed her mouth with tiny remembrances of the passion they’d shared. Whirling through the galaxy, Angela found her return to reality jolting.

“Thank you for the dance,” she whispered pressing her forehead next to his as they gazed at each other.

“I hope your birthday kiss met your expectations,” he replied with husky tones.

“It was beyond belief.”

“Good. Then I’ll return you to your friends.”

Angela felt as if she’d been dashed with icy water. Her legs were still half numb, though she forced them to move off the dance floor. She blinked twice trying to remember where she was and what she was doing here. This was a dream. He was her dream man. Magic like this only happened in dreams. Her dreams especially.

Then she remembered Julia and Ilsa. They were still on the dance floor and hadn’t seen what had happened.

He held the chair for her again as she sat down and smiled up at him. She touched his hand. He’s real! I’m doomed! She sighed. I suppose there’s some solace in the fact that I haven’t gone crazy.

“Won’t you stay and meet my friends?” she asked.

He shook his head. His smoky blue eyes had changed color again—now they were steel gray. Somehow, he looked like a stranger. “I can’t. I have a prior commitment.” He kissed the top of her head. ″Sorry.″

Without another word he walked back to the bar, where he was met by another man dressed in a business suit. Angela couldn’t believe it. The man of her dreams had walked into and out of her life and she didn’t even know his name.

Matt’s startled expression didn’t deter Rafe from his purposeful dash to the exit. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Are you nuts? She liked you. I could have sworn you liked her, judging from that kiss.” Matt said as he followed quickly behind.

″So?″

“So maybe she’s just what you need to snap you out of your depression.”

Rafe pushed the door open with the flats of both palms. “I am not depressed. I’m being smart.”

Matt pulled up short as Rafe came to a sudden stop. “Look, you can’t go around letting one bad experience dictate the rest of your life. Besides, this girl looked kinda sweet. Like a—”

“She’s a Realtor, is all.”

Matt noticed Rafe was beginning to calm down as he talked. “What’s her name?”

“Angela Morton.” Rafe dug in his jeans pocket for his truck keys. “I gotta get back. Feed the horses, you know.”

Matt glanced back at the entrance doors. “Have one more beer.”

“No, Matt.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed to icy slits as he started toward his truck.

In exasperation, Matt yelled after his friend. “She was an angel What’s the matter with you?”

Without looking back Rafe muttered, “Temporary insanity.”

Two

Nestled at the far end of Post Oak Lane beneath the shadow of the twenty-seven-story One Riverway building, a group of elegant, cosmopolitan townhomes had been built during the oil-boom days of the late seventies and early eighties.

As Angela hit the automatic garage door button and drove her BMW inside, she remembered the day she bought her home. She’d only been twenty-six years old when she’d discovered this building, with its open and spacious floor plan. It had been about to go into foreclosure. Though the Houston real estate market had been in the doldrums back in 1992, Angela believed enough in her own abilities and talents to know that, no matter what, she would always make the mortgage payment. Having saved the bulk of her commissions ever since she’d graduated from University of Texas with a business degree, she had not only negotiated the price to thirty thousand dollars below the appraisal value, she’d used just half her savings for the down payment, keeping the rest in U.S. Treasury bills. She knew that the overpriced homes in that area would never appreciate, and if she ever did eventually break even on her investment it would be due solely to her negotiating skill. She had also believed that living in a safe neighborhood less than ten minutes from her office was peace of mind money could never buy.

At the time, Julia, Ilsa and every other person with whom she’d had even the briefest encounter thought she was nuts. Four years later she’d not only moved the last of her family heirlooms out of storage, had them refinished and reconstructed, but she’d created a nostalgic blend of Old West and an early 1920s “prairie” look that suddenly was now all the rage.

Though the sweeping circular staircase might have seemed out of place with her Navajo rugs, chandelier, dark brown leather club chairs and off-white-cotton-slipcovered sofas, she redeemed it by ripping up the old white carpeting and installing honey-colored wood steps to match the same-hued wood on the first floor.

She remembered the two-story ranch house her great-grandfather, Daniel, had built for her great-grandmother, Evelyn. The open prairie had been a stark contrast to Evelyn’s extravagant surroundings in New Orleans. She’d let Daniel have his way with nearly all the house designs, except for the staircase. She’d told him from the day they were married in 1885 that she intended that he wait for her at the bottom of the stairs every evening before dinner, because she wanted to see his face light up the way it had when she’d walked down the aisle at their wedding. The staircase was his wedding gift to her.

Angela was the first Morton in generations to move out of that house. At the tender age of eighteen, she had lost both her parents in a private plane crash near Ruidosa, and had suddenly found herself responsible for not only all the funeral arrangements and the will, but also for a large mortgage that her father had taken out on the house to keep the cattle ranch going “until things turned around.” Angela realized she would have to sell the ranch.

Sentimentally attached to every rock, tree, bird and bush on the property, and to every brick and board of the house, Angela cried for weeks over the prospect of losing her family home. However, once she understood that her future depended on no one but herself, she slipped out of her teens and into adulthood overnight She listed the house herself, showed it to every prospective buyer and negotiated the final sale. Without a backward glance she packed everything down to the last dish, and put it all in storage to wait until she had finished college and built or bought a house of her own.

It took her nine years to build up the capital she needed and in the process she developed a credible reputation as a Realtor in the nation’s fourth-largest city. Nothing had come easily to Angela but she’d always had twice the determination and drive of her colleagues, and certainly more than her competitors. She was proud of her home and her accomplishments.

Awkwardly loaded down with birthday gifts, mementos, balloons and bows, Angela entered the blue-and-white country kitchen. She leaned over and dumped her belongings on the kitchen counter. Glancing at her phone recorder she saw that the red light was steady. There had been no calls.

Walking into the foyer, Angela found her hundred-and-ten-pound pedigreed six-year-old golden retriever, Rebel, sitting on the third step of the winding staircase happily panting in anticipation of his usual bear hug.

“Hiya, fella,” Angela greeted him, putting her face next to his. Rebel licked the tip of her nose. “Oh, thank you for my kisses. Mommy likes those kisses.” She patted his head. “You had to wait up a long time for me tonight, didn’t you? Well, I really appreciate it,” she said hugging him again.

Rebel kissed her face again and she laughed at him.

“Was that my birthday kiss?” she asked. Suddenly, she heard her own voice turn hollow and empty.

I’ve already gotten my birthday kiss, but I don’t know his name. I don’t know anything about him except that he wasn’t as impressed with me as I was with him.

How very odd that this year she’d dreaded her birthday. Julia had wanted to chalk up her depression to ticking biological clocks and all that sort of thing, but Angela liked to think she was being practical. For the first time since college her birthday would not revolve around the breaking-up, making-up, or getting-over-it stage of another rotten relationship. This year she could honestly say she was “man-free.” She’d kicked the habit of rushing into yet another love affair in which she did most of the loving.

In the past year or so Angela’s greatest revelation had been that she’d always settled for less than Mr. Perfect because she’d felt alone ever since her parents died. She missed them greatly, but nothing could ever bring them back to life. Now she was in the process of teaching herself how to keep their memories alive, yet still continue on with her own life.

Being honest with herself, she had to admit that she liked the peace and serenity of being without a demanding relationship. She didn’t particularly want or need a man. With a wide circle of friends and co-workers who included her in their family traditions, Angela knew how to get through family holidays without a family. She wasn’t the least bit lonely.

The prospect of attending the upcoming holiday office parties and dinners without a date did not daunt her. She’d spent far too many Christmases having her illusions shattered by boyfriends who turned out to be nothing special at all.

“Then you had to show up!” she exclaimed, flinging her arms in the air.

Rising from the steps, she went into the living room and flopped on the new white-slipcovered antique sofa she’d had refurbished for the holidays. She crooked her arm over her eyes hoping to wipe out the vision of her dream man’s face. She could still feel the warmth of his arms and hear his heartbeat. He wasn’t a dream. If anything he was alarmingly real. His presence poked holes in every single one of her resolutions. He had made her want someone special in her life, just as her mother had told her she would.

Angela’s parents’ marriage was one of those incredible romantic flings that old Cary Grant movies depicted, except that their marriage had lasted over twenty years before they died. Perhaps if her parents had divorced, like nearly everyone else in the country, then Angela could at least have blamed her inability to choose the proper mate on her parents’ bad example.

Doomed to believe in true love practically since her first breath, Angela had finally come to understand that her trust in her fellow man was misplaced. The rest of the world was not kind to people like herself. It was too easy for her to be taken advantage of, duped and left brokenhearted. However, Angela had decided years ago she was not the cynical type, like Julia, even though Julia seemed to get through problems with greater ease. Angela’s only defense was to elect to leave the rest of the world to its own devices.

Her plan for the future had nearly worked.

This is all so silly. I don’t even know his name. Or where he lives or works. He only knows I’m a Realtor like hundreds of other women in this city. Crooking her arms behind her head she stared at the ceiling. And what was all that about a “prior commitment,” anyway? Probably some Heather Locklear look-alike with a Ph.D.!

Sullenly, she rose from the sofa, stepped over Rebel who was sleeping on the floor in the foyer, and went up the stairs.

She turned on the light in her bedroom, a mix of her mother’s beautiful Southern antiques and her grandmother’s delicate handmade lace spreads and bed linens. Crossing the room she stopped at the gilded French mirror that had once belonged to her great-grandmother.

Looking deeply into the reflection of her brown eyes she was surprised to see tears forming. Silently, the tears dropped straight to the vanity, not marking her cheeks. Angela knew why they were falling.

I’m the only one who will ever know what really happened to me tonight, she thought, turning toward her closet where she hung up her clothes.

The house held a chill that night, as gusty winds brought a cold front. Sleeping under a down comforter was a luxury in subtropical Houston. This was just the kind of night meant for snuggling, she thought as she crawled between the sheets.

“Julia is right, as usual,” she said aloud to herself. “I have exaggerated this whole thing. It was just a dance. Just a kiss. Nothing more.”

If it was only a kiss, then why can’t I forget his kiss like I have so many others? Why were his lips so divine that their touch has somehow wiped out the memory of every other man’s lips? If our meeting was so darned insignificant, then why can I still hear the particular sweet sound of his voice? Why can I still smell him as if he were lying here in this bed with me? Why is he haunting me like this?

Angela thought she could see his eyes looking at her, flashing like blue crystals in the night, seeking her out in the darkness. As if she were still wrapped in his arms, she could feel the tension in his muscles, still hear the soft sound of his breath as he placed his lips next to her ear. How was it possible to continue experiencing him as if he’d never left her?

Many times Angela had met a man and come home feeling as if she could dance on the ceiling, but there had always been signals telling her that something was not quite right. Maybe she’d forgotten the color of his eyes even on the fourth date. She couldn’t remember his name or where he worked. She didn’t like the cut of his clothes or the thousand and one bad habits or bad manners Tom or Allan or Sid had displayed. There had always been some tiny “thing” she’d convinced herself she would have to abide in order to make this or that relationship “work.”

But this man tonight was different. For the life of her she resisted saying those corny things she’d read in novels or heard in dialogue on the soap operas. Angela didn’t believe in soul mates or destiny. She believed in being practical with her life. For months she’d been hell-bent on raising self-reliance to an art form. Suddenly, she found herself wanting someone.

It’s just the romance of the holidays that is making me think this way. Feel this way.

She hugged herself and pulled the comforter to her neck. She was just fine within the cocoon of the life she’d created for herself. She didn’t need dream heroes walking in and messing up everything.

Besides, there was no such thing as a modern-day hero. The last of them had lived nearly a hundred years ago when her great-grandfather had lived in West Texas.

The man she’d met and danced with tonight would undoubtedly never think about her again. It was only right that she should banish him from her mind as well.

Confident she would awaken in the morning with only the faintest memory of her birthday kiss, Angela closed her eyes.

In minutes Angela slipped easily into sleep as her mystery man walked boldly into her dream.

Three

Angela walked out of the weekly staff meeting feeling like five pounds of dog meat. “Does Randy always have to pick on me?”

“Right now, you’re the only one screwing up. This isn’t like you, Angela. Last year, you were number one in the company and one of the top twenty-five producers in Houston. Then six months ago, your numbers started falling. Sometimes I think you’ve taken this birthday thing too much to heart.”

It’s not being thirty that bothers me. It’s finding out there’s no such thing as a “hero” anymore. “It’s an inner-growth thing, Julia. Don’t worry about it.” I’ll look for a group workshop for “fairy-tale junkies.”

Julia put her hand on Angela’s shoulder and pulled her aside. “I’m only saying this for your own good Randy’s right. Sales haven’t been this good in Houston since the oil crash. We’re all making money and you’re not. The problem is only with you, sugar. Maybe if you’d get that damn mystery cowboy out of your head, you’d...”

Feigning ignorance, Angela tossed her arms in the air. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.”

Julia leaned over conspiratorially as a trio of their fellow agents passed by. “I know guys like him, Angela. They breeze into your life, make you think you hung the moon and then whammo! You never see or hear from them again. You don’t even know his name. So forget him.”

“I will. I mean, I did,” Angela replied quickly, but from the quelling look in Julia’s eyes she knew she wasn’t fooling anyone. “I’m working the phones all this week. I even signed up for the graveyard shift on Sunday. How’s that?”

Julia shook her head. “I know it sounds as if I’m criticizing, but I’m just worried about you, is all. Besides, if you don’t make some vacation money how can we plan our February trip to Grand Cayman, huh?” she asked jovially.

Nodding, Angela smiled. “I came to the same conclusion myself, Julia. I can do anything once I put my mind to it.”

Just then Angela heard her name announced on the office PA system. “I’ve got a call. Maybe things are turning around already,” she said, rushing to her desk.

She lifted the phone. “Angela Morton.”

“This is Matt Leads. I’m a CPA and I got your name through an associate of mine. I was hoping you could help me out.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Leads.”

Matt went on to explain that through a series of misfortunes one of his clients had been forced into bankruptcy. Since Matt would be handling the sale of the property, Matt requested that Angela fax their company’s contract to him immediately. Then he asked if she could ride out to Waller County and take a look at the horse ranch and give him her professional assessment of what she felt it was worth. Matt wanted the property listed as quickly as possible.

“You realize that December is just about the worst time of year to sell, Mr. Leads.”

“I understand. However, I personally plan to advertise the ranch in several upscale magazines along the East Coast. Texas always looks appealing to someone caught in the middle of a blizzard,” he chuckled.

“I absolutely agree, Mr. Leads.” Thrilled as she was, Angela kept her tone professional as she noted down the particulars of the property.

“Could you take a drive out there this afternoon? I’ll let the owner know you’re coming,” Matt asked.

“Certainly. I’ll prepare this paperwork and I can be there shortly in the early afternoon. Say, one o’clock?”

“That’ll be fine,” Matt replied and hung up.

Angela didn’t waste a minute faxing the contracts to Matt Leads. She would need the owner’s approval, of course, but she was confident she was turning her life around.

Obliterating the memory of an angel-faced birthday girl required superhuman strength and massive outputs of energy, but Rafe had infinite stores of both. In the week since his brief but unsettling interlude with Angela Morton, Rafe had put two coats of white paint on the ranch house, mended the corral fence, swept every last autumn leaf from the three acres surrounding the house and horse barn on his riding mower and restocked the enormous pond with bass. He’d pitched hay, bathed and brushed all eight of his horses, soaped his saddles and bridles and done just about everything he could to exhaust himself.

He forced himself to remember the incredibly painful wounds his ex-fiancée, Cheryl, had inflicted. He rehashed how easily he’d trusted her and given his love to her, and how she’d made a fool of him. Never again would he allow himself to be put in that position. He’d been a lot of things in his life, but never a fool, he thought as he rammed his pitchfork into a mound of fresh hay. He spread out the hay on the floor of Rising Star’s stall.

Angela had seemed sweet, but then so had Cheryl in the beginning. Angela’s kisses had been like nothing he’d ever experienced. He’d known passion, tenderness, lust and fun sex, but Angela was different. When he’d kissed her it was as if he’d kissed her before, he didn’t know where or when. It was as if they’d had some kind of inner connection. Every move she’d made, even the most infinitesimal press of her lips against his had seemed familiar.

But that was impossible, he thought, stripping off his sweat-soaked plaid cotton shirt. He ground his jaw in frustration at himself. He should have been able to forget Angela. No one knew better than he that women were poison. Maybe if he repeated that to himself a thousand times he’d wise up.

Matt heard the blasting jangle of the horse-barn phone. Dropping the pitchfork and yanking a blue bandanna from his back jeans pocket to wipe the sweat from his face, Rafe picked up the phone. “Hey, Matt, how’s it goin’?”

Rafe listened resignedly as Matt explained that he’d contracted with a Realtor to list the ranch. Though he’d been preparing the house for sale, it was still a blow to know he was going to lose his great-grandfather’s land. “The company’s sending an agent around one? It’s almost that now.” Rafe glanced out the barn door and saw a baby blue BMW convertible pull up to the ranch house. The car door opened.

“I think the Realtor is here.” Rafe nearly dropped the phone when he saw Angela get out of the car. “Matt, you SOB!”

Matt chuckled with satisfaction. “I’ve never known you to react like that to a woman, Rafe. Maybe she’s what the doctor ordered.”

Rafe slammed down the receiver and stomped out of the horse barn. Rising Star whinnied approvingly as he sauntered into his freshly made-up stall.

Shielding her eyes from the bright afternoon sun, Angela surveyed the property. Thick clusters of oak trees still bearing half their leaves cast long wintry shadows over the newly painted ranch house. She couldn’t help thinking this was just the sort of house she would have built had she been born a hundred years earlier. It had a wide wraparound front porch with delicate gingerbread trim along the roof line. Huge Boston ferns hung between the hand-carved posts and pots of winter chrysanthemums decorated the front steps. Though only two wicker rocking chairs sat on the back porch nearest the door to the kitchen, she imagined wicker tables and chairs, covered in summer calico, ready for huge family reunions.

The dark green shingled roof and green shutters made the house look as if it were part of its natural surroundings. Angela couldn’t help smiling as she thought of the caption she could use to sell this ranch: “What home should be.”

From a distance, Rafe’s voice boomed across the corral and stretch of land like rolling tumbleweed. “There’s been a big mistake. You might as well leave.”

Mistake? Leave? Blasphemous words such as those she was hearing were not part of Angela’s professional vocabulary. She didn’t know who this Rafe Whitten was, but she wasn’t moving a single inch until she’d appraised this property.

Who was this truculent oaf, who dared to stand between her and a sizable commission, judging by the extent of land and the excellent condition of the house and horse barn. Whirling around to face him, Angela stopped cold. “You?”

Rafe covered the remaining distance between them in three strides. His chest was heaving as much from rage at Matt as from physical exertion. Though it was the first of December, it was over seventy degrees and he’d been hard at work since dawn. Sweat poured from the top of his head down the sides of his face and dropped onto his tan shoulders and chest. He didn’t realize every muscle in his body was corded making him look as if he could tear the house down singlehandedly. “I’m Rafe Whitten. It seems my friend, Matt Leads, has mingled in my affairs once too often. I’ m sorry to have put you to this trouble, Angela.”

A bit dizzy from the nearness of Rafe’s half-naked body and becoming just as aggravated as he at being the butt of Matt’s joke, Angela wanted to explode. Instead, for the first time in months she kept her wits about her. Though she would have given the world right then to throw herself into his unsuspecting arms and kiss the living daylights out of him, she only smiled calmly. “Matt Leads was the one waiting for you at the bar after you danced with me?”

“Yes,” Rafe replied, with a curious look in his eyes.

“Your ranch house and all this property are to be sold. Correct?”

“Yes, but...”

“And Matt is acting in your behalf to dispose of this land due to your bankruptcy?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m not leaving.”

“I don’t want you to be my real estate agent,” Rafe said flatly.

Angela’s eyes narrowed. Hardball was one of her favorite games. “Are you discriminating against me because I’m a woman? Have I in any way conducted myself unprofessionally in our dealings thus far?”

Taken aback, Rafe replied, “Well, no.”

“Then let’s get something straight, Mr Whitten. You and I shared a birthday kiss in a public place on a dance floor viewed by over a hundred people. I have attached no importance to it and neither should you.”

Surprised, Rafe sucked in his breath as she continued.

“My firm has contracted with your representative to list this property. I can guarantee I will do a better job for you than any other Realtor in this city for one reason, and one reason alone. I have a reputation for keeping my mouth shut.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if news of your bankruptcy were to leak out anywhere in this city, it would spread like wildfire not only in real estate, but other circles as well. People would think you must be desperate to dump this lovely home at fire-sale prices. We don’t want that. We want to get you every dollar you deserve for preserving its inherent beauty and tradition. I believe we can get you the right price, and we can also sell the property in a relatively short period of time—no more than three months—and at this time of year that’s considered rather fast. Not only that, when we do find a buyer, they will be the kind of people you’d like to invite for Sunday dinner.” She clasped her hands behind her back and rocked a bit cockily back on her heels.

His blue-gray eyes flashed merrily. “You’re damned good at what you do, aren’t you, Miss Morton?”

Angela didn’t miss the fact he’d dropped the familiarity of her first name. He was making a point. Well, so was she. “Yes, sir. I am.”

He stuck out his hand to her. “Then you have a deal.”

Angela shook his hand. Just as before, she felt a charge of electricity jolt through her body She wished to heaven she didn’t have to look in his eyes ever again. She wished she’d had the good sense to drive away when he told her to leave, but she hadn’t. She needed this listing. She needed to make the sale and redeem herself in her boss’s eyes. More important, she wanted to prove to herself she could be just as detached from him as he appeared to be from her.

He bowed slighdy, his washboard stomach rippling as he did, and gave her a mocking smile. “Then may I suggest I show you the interior, Miss Morton?”

“Fine. We’ll start with the kitchen,” she replied following him. He thinks he’s irresistible, with that cute apple-shaped butt, twisted steel arms and back, and that come-hither smile. The only thing is, none of it will do him any good, unless a lady is willing. Fortunately, this lady’s done that, been there, bought that T-shirt.

Angela was in the game now, deeper than ever But this time she was prepared.

Four

“The house was built by my great-grandfather in 1850, the year of the Great Compromise,” Rafe said breezily as he showed Angela the original kitchen cabinets and cupboards that he’d painstakingly oiled since he was a child, as had his father before him. He explained that all the solid brass hardware was original, as were the cypresswood floors, mahogany-interior doors and trim. Nothing had been changed or added except the appliances and the granite countertops he’d installed five years ago.

“I hadn’t expected to see anything quite this expensive or well done,” Angela said.

“I had more money than sense back then, I guess.”

Angela investigated the climate-controlled wine cellar with its rustic wooden crisscrossed racks. Rafe explained that his great-grandfather had built the room half below ground to ensure a cool climate for his homemade wines. It wasn’t until Rafe’s father, Michael, installed a modern cooling system in 1970 that their wines had been properly preserved

“You’ve got wines that old?”

“Yes,” he replied stiffly. “But some things are not for sale.”

As Angela toured the rest of the house, she realized how bitter Rafe’s words had been. Almost every room was completely bare of furnishings. Corners of rooms, where unfaded rugs met dark stained, untrodden wood, revealed the places where treasured family heirlooms had rested for nearly a hundred and fifty years...until now.

How devastating all this must be for him, she thought. To know that three generations had gone before him never losing, always gaining ground. Rafe was being forced to sell furnishings, china, silver and leatherbound books to settle a bankruptcy. Angela couldn’t help thinking she wished there was some other, saner way for someone in his position to recover his losses. Unfortunately, she knew of none.

She followed him up the stairs to the second floor noticing the runner had been removed. “What color was the stair carpet?” she asked, simply for herself, so that she could better visualize how it had looked a hundred years ago.

“Royal blue and gold. Persian. My grandfather bought it in Tabriz from a trader. He said the blue was the color of my grandmother’s eyes.”

Thinking she’d never heard anything more dear or poetic, she felt her resolve toward Rafe melting with every word he spoke.

The bedrooms were larger than she’d imagined and the ceilings were higher, which would help bring a substantial price. Only the master bedroom still contained the original furniture. The antique mahogany rice bed nearly took Angela’s breath away. She walked toward it with an outstretched hand, as if she were being pulled into another century. “He gave this to her, didn’t he?”

“My grandfather?” Rafe asked dispassionately. “Yes. Nearly everything of value was his. But I’ve adopted his philosophy.”

Angela touched the delicate handmade lace canopy, thinking it felt lighter than an angel’s wing. “Which is?”

“Things are meaningless...” He stopped in midsentence as Angela raised her face to him. At that moment she had that same faraway soft look in her eyes as she’d had the night they’d met. He didn’t know what it was about her when she looked at him like that, but it was compelling and he thought he would lose his mind if he didn’t touch her, hold her, kiss her...just one more time.

She hadn’t realized he’d moved so close and when she looked up at him she was still thinking about the people who’d made love in this bed, creating their children and preserving their family for the future. She was unprepared for the touch of his hand against her cheek.

With his thumb he brushed away a lone tear that fell from her eye. “You’re crying,” he said, without asking for an explanation. “I know why. Every time I walk into this room, I can feel the enormity of loneliness in the world. You feel it, too, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered. How could he feel her spirit so effortlessly?

He kissed her delicately as if she were the most fragile of porcelains. He cupped her face with his strong, callused hands making it impossible for her to turn away from him. Logical thoughts loomed in a faraway distance, but they had no place in this world of emotion and overpowering physical passion. Rafe was responding just as eagerly to her. How was it he could be so utterly cold one moment and then instantly transform into this inferno of desire? Which was the real side of Rafe Whitten?

Angela placed her hands tenderly over his. She knew she should push him away and keep their discussion on the business at hand. But all she knew was that if she didn’t let herself experience this man right here, right now, she might regret it for the rest of her life.

Never before had Angela abandoned herself to a man she barely knew, much less one she knew in her heart didn’t want her. Though Rafe Whitten was moved by the moment, remembering a family who’d obviously left him as alone in the world as she was, her mind told her that when the kiss was over she would never feel his lips on hers again. He’d tell her that he regretted his impulsiveness; that he didn’t want to get or be “involved” or “committed” to anyone. Angela had heard those words from men all her life. She’d never understood what it was about her that frightened them away. Perhaps in some deep way, she pushed them away, her inner self always knowing that none of them had truly been the right one.

Angela would be kind when he wanted to back away because she knew, as always, it would be for the best.

But for right now, it was as if they were suspended between time and space, hung in a netherworld of ghosts and dreams where the past met the present.

It wasn’t curiosity that caused her to open her eyes, but a yearning to have more of him. As if reading her thoughts, slowly he opened his eyes at the same time. It was the first time she’d see him without his icy self-protective shields. His eyes were like crystal blue ponds and as she dove into him, she began to understand what it was like to touch someone’s soul.

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