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delighted by the length of the books, which allowed

the freedom to create, and develop more within each

character and their romance. I have always been a fan

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to come. Long live Mills & Boon!”

—Diana Palmer

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excitement when they were introduced, because the

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when the books came out I beat a path to the bookstore

to get every one of them. Here’s to you, Mills & Boon;

live long, and prosper!”

—Linda Howard

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me but for countless other authors. It continues to offer

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About the Author

CHRISTINE RIMMER came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves who loves her right back and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oregon. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com.

The Prince’s
Secret Baby

Christine Rimmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

“How could I not love a series devoted to my favorite

things—complex families and deep friendships? I’m

so proud to have been a part of this wonderful

tradition at Mills & Boon.”

—Sherryl Woods

Chapter one

“Stop here,” Rule Bravo-Calabretti said to the driver.

The limousine rolled to a silent stop at the head of the row of parking spaces in the shadowed parking garage. The Mercedes-Benz sedan Rule had been following turned into the single empty space at the other end of the row, not far from the elevators and the stairs that led into the mall. From where he sat behind tinted windows, Rule could also see the breezeway outside the parking structure. It led directly into Macy’s department store.

The brake lights of the Mercedes went dark. A woman emerged from the sedan, her head and shoulders appearing above the tops of the row of cars. She had thick brown hair that fell in well-behaved waves. Settling the strap of her bag on her shoulder, she shut the car door and emerged into the open aisle, where she turned back and aimed her key at the car. The Benz gave an obedient beep.

She put the key away in her bag. She looked, Rule decided, just as she’d looked in the pictures his investigators had taken of her—only more attractive, somehow. She wasn’t a pretty woman. But there was something about her that he found much more interesting than mere prettiness. She was tall and slim and wore a blue silk jacket, which was perfectly and conservatively tailored. Her matching blue skirt kissed the tops of her slender knees. Her shoes were darker than her suit, with medium heels and closed toes.

He watched as she settled her bag in place again, straightened her jacket and turned for the door to the breezeway. He thought she looked very determined and somehow he found that determination utterly charming.

She hadn’t glanced in the limousine’s direction. He was almost certain she had no idea that he’d been following her.

And his mind was made up, just like that, in the sixty seconds it took to watch her emerge from her car, put her key in her purse and turn to go. He had to meet her.

Yes, he’d always told himself he never would. That as long as she was running her life successfully, taking good care of the child, it would be wrong of him to interfere. He’d relinquished all rights by law. And he had to live with the choices he had made.

But this wasn’t about rights. This wasn’t about challenging her for what was hers.

He had no intention of interfering. He simply had to … speak with her, had to know if his first reaction to seeing her in the flesh was just a fluke, a moment of starry-eyed idiocy brought on by the fact that she had what mattered most to him.

All right, it was playing with fire. And he shouldn’t even be here. He should be finishing his business in Dallas and rushing back to Montedoro. He should be spending time with Lili, learning to accept that they could be a good match, have a good life.

And he would return to Montedoro. Soon.

But right now, today, he was going to do the thing he’d wanted to do for far too long now. He was going meet Sydney O’Shea face-to-face.

Sydney could not believe it.

The totally hunky—and oddly familiar—guy down the aisle from her in Macy’s housewares department was actually making eyes at her. Men like that did not make eyes at Sydney. Men like that made eyes at women as gorgeous as they were.

And no, it wasn’t that Sydney was ugly. She wasn’t. But she wasn’t beautiful, either. And there was something much too … practical and self-sufficient about her. Something a little too focused, as well. She also happened to be very smart. Men tended to find her intimidating, even at first glance.

So. Really. It was probably only her imagination that the drop-dead gorgeous guy by the waffle irons and electric griddles was looking at her. She pretended to read the tag on a stainless-steel sauté pan—and slid another glance in Mr. Eye Candy’s direction.

He was pretending to read a price tag, too. She knew he was pretending because, at the exact moment she glanced his way, he sent a sideways look in her direction and one corner of that sinfully sexy mouth of his quirked up in a teasing smile.

Maybe he was flirting with someone behind her.

She turned her head enough that she could see over her shoulder.

Nope. Nobody there. Just more cookware racks brimming with All-Clad stainless-steel pots and pans, Le Creuset enameled cast-iron casseroles and complete sets of Calphalon nonstick cookware—which, she firmly reminded herself, were what she should be looking at. She put all her attention on the business at hand and banished the implausibly flirty, impossibly smooth-looking man from her mind.

Yet another coworker was getting married, a paralegal, Calista Dwyer. Calista hadn’t bothered to set up a bridal registry anywhere. The wedding was something of an impromptu affair. Tomorrow, Calista was running off with her boyfriend to some tropical island for a quickie wedding and a two-week honeymoon in paradise.

Sydney had left the office before lunch to choose a wedding gift. It was a task she had come to dislike. It happened so often and always reminded her that other people were getting married all the time. She really should do what a man in her situation would do, just have her assistant buy the wedding gifts—especially in a case like this, where she had no clue what Calista might be wanting or needing.

But no. She was still her grandmother’s granddaughter at heart. Ellen O’Shea had always taken pride in personally selecting any gift she gave. Sydney continued the family tradition, even if she sometimes found the job annoying and a little bit depressing.

“Cookware. Necessary. But not especially interesting,” a voice as warm and tempting as melted caramel teased in her ear. “Unless you love to cook?”

Good gravy. Mr. Hot and Hunky was right behind her. And there could be no doubt about it now. He was talking to her—and he had been giving her the eye.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Sydney turned to him.

Breathtaking. Seriously. There was no other word for this guy. Jet-black eyes, sculpted cheekbones, a perfect, square jaw, a nose like a blade. Broad, broad shoulders. And the way he was dressed … casual, but expensive. In light-colored trousers and a beautifully made navy jacket over a checked shirt.

He arched an ebony brow. “Do you?”

She forced herself to suck in a breath and then asked warily, “Excuse me?”

“Do you love to cook?” He gazed at her as though he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

This could not be happening.

But wait. A gigolo? Maybe she looked like gigolo bait. Well-dressed and driven. Maybe it was the new black, to go trolling for a sugar mama in housewares.

And then again, well, he did look somehow familiar. She probably knew him from somewhere. “Have we met before?”

He gave her a slow once-over, followed by another speaking glance from those black-velvet eyes. That glance seemed to say that he wouldn’t mind gobbling her up on the spot. And then he laughed, a low, sexy laugh as smooth and exciting as that wonderful voice of his. “I prefer to think that if we’d met in the past, you wouldn’t have forgotten me so easily.”

Excellent point. “I, um …” Good Lord. Speechless. She was totally speechless. And that wasn’t like her at all. Enough with the stumbling all over herself. She stuck out her hand. “Sydney O’Shea.”

“Rule Bravo-Calabretti.” He wrapped his elegant, warm fingers around hers. She stifled a gasp as heat flowed up her arm.

The heat didn’t stop at her shoulder. Arrows of what she could only categorize as burning excitement zipped downward into her midsection. She eased her hand from his grip and fell back a step, coming up short against the steel display shelves behind her. “Rule, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Let me guess, Rule. You’re not from Dallas.”

He put those long, graceful fingers to his heart. “How did you know?”

“Well, the designer clothes, the two last names. You speak English fluently, but with a certain formality and no regional accent that I can detect. I’m thinking that not only are you not from Dallas, you’re not from Texas. You’re not even from the good old U.S. of A.”

He laughed again. “You’re an expert on accents?”

“No. I’m smart, that’s all. And observant.”

“Smart and observant. I like that.”

She wished she could stand there by the cast-iron casserole display, just looking at him, listening to him talk and hearing his melted-caramel laugh for the next, oh, say, half century or so.

But there was still Calista’s wedding gift to buy. And a quick lunch to grab before rushing back to the office for that strategy meeting on the Binnelab case at one.

Before she could start making gotta-go noises, he spoke again. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Ahem. Your question?”

“Sydney, do you love to cook?”

The way he said her name, with such impossible passionate intent, well, she liked it. She liked it way, way too much. She fell back a step. “Cook? Me? Only when I have no other choice.”

“Then why have I found you here in the cookware department?”

“Found me?” Her suspicions rose again. Really, what was this guy up to? “Were you looking for me?”

He gave an elegant shrug of those fine wide shoulders. “I confess. I saw you enter the store from the parking garage at the south breezeway entrance. You were so … determined.”

“You followed me because I looked determined?”

“I followed you because you intrigued me.”

“You’re intrigued by determination?”

He chuckled again. “Yes. I suppose I am. My mother is a very determined woman.”

“And you love your mother.” She put a definite edge in her tone. Was she calling him a mama’s boy? Maybe. A little. She tended toward sarcasm when she was nervous or unsure—and he did make her nervous. There was just something about him. Something much too good to be true.

Mr. Bravo-Calabretti either didn’t get her sarcasm—or ignored it. “I do love my mother, yes. Very much. And I admire her, as well.” He studied Sydney for a moment, a direct, assessing kind of glance. “You’re a prickly one, aren’t you?” He seemed amused.

So he had picked up on her sarcasm. She felt petty and a little bit mean. And that made her speak frankly. “Yes, I am a prickly one. Some men don’t find that terribly attractive.”

“Some men are fools.” He said it softly. And then he asked again, “Why are you shopping for pots and pans, Sydney?”

She confessed, “I need a wedding gift for someone at the office.”

His dark eyes twinkled at her, stars in a midnight sky. “A wedding gift.”

“That’s right.”

“Allow me to suggest …” He reached around her with his left hand. She turned to follow the movement and watched as he tapped a red Le Creuset casserole shaped like a heart. “This.” She couldn’t help noticing that he wore no wedding ring. And the casserole? Not bad, really.

“Very romantic,” she said dryly. “Every bride needs a heart-shaped casserole dish.”

“Buy it,” he commanded. “And we can get out of here.”

“Excuse me. We?”

He still had his arm out, almost touching her, his hand resting lightly on the red casserole. She caught a faint, tempting hint of his aftershave. It smelled fabulous—so subtle, so very expensive. He held her eyes, his dark gaze intent. “Yes. We. The two of us.”

“But I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t even know you.”

“That’s true. And I find that very sad.” He put on a teasingly mournful expression. “Because I want to know you, Sydney. Come to lunch with me. We can begin to remedy this problem.” She opened her mouth to tell him that as far as she was concerned there was no problem and lunch was out of the question. But before she got the words out, he scooped up the heart-shaped dish. “This way.” He gestured with his free hand in the direction of the nearest cashier stand.

She went where he directed her. Why not? The casserole was a good choice. And he was so charming. As soon as the clerk had rung her up, she could tell him goodbye and make him see that she meant it.

The clerk was young and blonde and very pretty. “Oh! Here. Let me help you!” She took the casserole from Rule and then kept sliding him blushing glances as she rung up the sale. Sydney sympathized with the dazzled girl. He was like something straight out of a fabulous romantic novel—the impossible, wonderful, hot and handsome, smooth and sophisticated lover who appears out of nowhere to sweep the good-hearted but otherwise perfectly ordinary heroine off her feet.

And did she actually think the word lover?

Really, she needed to get a grip on her suddenly too-vivid imagination.

“This casserole is the cutest thing. Is it a gift?” the clerk asked.

“Yes, it is,” Sydney replied. “A wedding gift.”

The girl slid another glance at Rule. “I’m sorry. We don’t offer gift wrapping in the store anymore.” She spoke in a breathy little voice. Rule said nothing. He gave the girl a quick, neutral nod and a barely detectable smile.

“It’s fine,” Sydney said. Like her grandmother, she not only bought gifts personally, she wrapped them, too. But she didn’t have time to wrap this one if she wanted to give it to Calista before her wedding trip. So she would need to grab a gift bag and tissue somewhere. She swiped her card and signed in the little box and tried not to be overly conscious of the too-attractive man standing beside her.

The clerk gave Sydney the receipt—but she gave Rule the Macy’s bag with the casserole in it. “Here you go now. Come back and shop with us. Anytime.” Her tone said she would love to help Rule with a lot more than his shopping.

Sydney thanked her and turned to him. “I’ll take that.”

“No need. I’ll carry it for you.”

“I said I’ll take it.”

Reluctantly, he handed it over. But he showed no inclination to say goodbye and move on.

She told him, “Nice chatting with you. And I really have to—”

“It’s only lunch, you know.” He said it gently and quietly, for her ears alone. “Not a lifetime commitment.”

She gazed up into those melting dark eyes and all at once she was hearing her best friend Lani’s chiding voice in her head. Seriously, Syd. If you really want a special guy in your life, you have to give one a chance now and then….

“All right,” she heard herself say. “Lunch.” It wasn’t a big deal. She would enjoy his exciting, flattering attention over a quick sandwich and then say goodbye. No harm done.

“A smile,” he said, his warm gaze on her mouth. “At last.”

She smiled wider. Because she did like him. He was not only killer-handsome and very smooth, he seemed like a great guy. Certainly there could be no harm in giving herself permission to spend a little more time with him. “So. First I need a store that sells gift bags.”

He held her eyes for a moment. And it felt glorious. Just standing there in Macy’s, lost in an endless glance with a gorgeous man. Finally, he said, “There’s a mall directory, I think. This way.” And then he shepherded her ahead of him, as he had when he ushered her to the cashier stand.

They found a stationery store. She chose a pretty bag and some sparkly tissue and a gift card. The clerk rang up the sale and they were on their way.

“Where to?” she asked, as they emerged into the mall again.

“This is Texas,” he said, his elegant face suddenly open and almost boyish. “We should have steak.”

He had a limo waiting for him outside, which didn’t surprise her. The man was very much the limo type. He urged her to ride with him to the restaurant, but she said she would follow him. They went to the Stockyards District in nearby Fort Worth, to a casual place with lots of Texas atmosphere and an excellent reputation.

An antler chandelier hung from the pressed-tin ceiling above their corner table. The walls were of pine planks and exposed brick, hung with oil paintings of cowboy boots, hats and bandannas. The floor was painted red.

They got a table in a corner and he ordered a beautiful bottle of Cabernet. She refused the wine when their waiter tried to fill her glass. But then, after he left them, she gave in and poured herself a small amount. The taste was amazing, smooth and delicately spicy on her tongue.

“You like it?” Rule asked hopefully.

“It’s wonderful.”

He offered a toast. “To smart, observant, determined women.”

“Don’t forget prickly,” she reminded him.

“How could I? It’s such a charming trait.”

“Nice recovery.” She gave him an approving nod.

He raised his glass higher. “To smart, observant, determined and decidedly prickly women.”

She laughed as she touched her glass to his.

“Tell me about your high-powered job,” he said, after the waiter delivered their salads of butter lettuce and applewood smoked bacon.

She sipped more of the wine she shouldn’t really be drinking, given she had that big meeting ahead of her. “And you know I have a high-powered job, how?”

“You said the wedding gift was for ‘someone at the office.’“

“I could be in data entry. Or maybe a top executive’s very capable assistant.”

“No,” he said, with confidence. “Your clothing is both conservative and expensive.” He eyed her white silk shell, her lightweight, fitted jacket, the single strand of pearls she wore. “And your attitude …”

She leaned toward him, feeling deliciously giddy. Feeling free and bold and ready for anything. “What about my attitude?”

“You are no one’s assistant.”

She sat back in her chair and rested her hands in her lap. “I’m an attorney. With a firm that represents a number of corporate clients.”

“An attorney. Of course. That, I believe.”

She picked up her fork, ate some of her salad. For a moment or two they shared a surprisingly easy silence. And then she asked, “And what about you? What do you do for a living?”

“I like variety in my work. At the moment, I’m in trade. International trade.”

“At the moment? What? You change jobs a lot, is that what you’re telling me?”

“I take on projects that interest me. And when I’m satisfied that any given project is complete, I move on.”

“What do you trade?”

“At the moment, oranges. Montedoron oranges.”

“Montedoran. That sounds exotic.”

“It is. The Montedoran is a blood orange, very sweet, hinting of raspberry, with the characteristic red flesh of all blood oranges. The skin is smooth, not pitted like many other varieties.”

“So soon I’ll be buying Montedorans at my local Wal-Mart Supercenter?”

“Hardly. The Montedoran is never going to be for sale in supermarkets. We won’t be trading in that kind of volume. But for certain gourmet and specialty stores, I think it could do very well.”

“Montedoran …” She tested the word on her tongue. “There’s a small country in Europe, right, on the Côte d’Azur? Montedoro?”

“Yes. Montedoro is my country.” He poured her more wine. And she didn’t stop him. “It’s one of the eight smallest states in Europe, a principality on the Mediterranean. My mother was born there. My father was American but moved to Montedoro and accepted Montedoran citizenship when they married. His name is Evan Bravo. He was a Texan by birth.”

She really did love listening to him talk. He made every word into a poem. “So … you have relatives in Texas?”

“I have an aunt and uncle and a number of first cousins who live in and around San Antonio. And I have other, more distant cousins in a small town near Abilene. And in your Hill Country, I have a second cousin who married a veterinarian. And there are more Bravos, many more, in California and Wyoming and Nevada. All over the States, as a matter of fact.”

“I take it that Calabretti is your mother’s surname?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what they do in your country, combine the husband’s and wife’s last name when they marry?”

He nodded. “In … certain families, anyway. It’s similar to the way it’s done in Spain. We are much like the Spanish. We want to keep all our last names, on both sides of our families. So we string them together proudly.”

“Bravo-Calabretti sounds familiar, somehow. I keep wondering where I’ve heard it before …”

He waited for her to finish. When she didn’t, he shrugged. “Perhaps it will come to you later.”

“Maybe so.” She lowered her voice to a more confidential level. “And I have to tell you, I keep thinking that you are familiar, that I’ve met you before.”

He shrugged in a way that seemed to her so sophisticated, so very European. “They say everyone has a double. Maybe that’s it. You’ve met my double.”

It wasn’t what she’d meant. But it didn’t really matter. “Maybe.” She let it go and asked, “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“I do.” He gave her a regal nod. “Three brothers, five sisters. I’m second-born. I have an older brother, Maximilian. And after me, there are the twins, Alexander and Damien. And then my sisters—Bella, Rhiannon, Alice, Genevra and Rory.”

“Big family.” Feeling suddenly wistful, she set down her fork. “I envy you. I was an only child.” Her hand rested on the tabletop.

He covered it with his. The touch warmed her to her toes—and thrilled her, as well. Her whole body seemed, all at once, completely, vividly alive. He leaned into her and studied her face, his gaze as warm as his lean hand over hers. “And you are sad, then? To have no siblings?”

“I am, yes.” She wished he might hold her hand indefinitely. And yet she had to remember that this wasn’t going anywhere and it wouldn’t be right to let him think that it might. She eased her hand free. He took her cue without comment, retreating to his side of the table. She asked, “How old are you, Rule?”

He laughed his slow, smooth laugh. “Somehow, I begin to feel as though I’m being interviewed.”

She turned her wineglass by the stem. “I only wondered. Is your age a sensitive subject for you?”

“In a sense, I suppose it is.” His tone was more serious. “I’m thirty-two. That’s a dangerous age for an unmarried man in my family.”

“How so? Thirty-two isn’t all that old.” Especially not for a man. For a woman, things were a little different—at least, they were if she wanted to have children.

“It’s time that I married.” He said it so somberly, his eyes darker than ever as he regarded her steadily.

“I don’t get it. In your family, they put you on a schedule for marriage?”

Now a smile haunted his handsome mouth. “It sounds absurd when you say it that way.”

“It is absurd.”

“You are a woman of definite opinions.” He said it in an admiring way. Still, defiance rose within her and she tipped her chin high. He added, “And yes, in my family both the men and the women are expected to marry before they reach the age of thirty-three.”

“And if you don’t?”

He lowered his head and looked at her from under his dark brows. “Consequences will be dire.” He said it in a low tone, an intimate tone, a tone that did a number on every one of her nerve endings and sent a fine, heated shiver dancing along the surface of her skin.

“You’re teasing me.”

“Yes, I am. I like you, Sydney. I knew that I would, the moment I first saw you.”

“And when was that?”

“You’ve already forgotten?” He looked gorgeously forlorn. “I see I’m not so memorable, after all. Macy’s? I saw you going in?” The waiter scooped up their empty salad plates and served them rib eye steaks with Serrano lime butter. When he left them, Rule slid her a knowing glance as he picked up his steak knife. “Sydney, I think you’re testing me.”

Why deny it? “I think you’re right.”

“I hope I’m passing this test of yours—and do your parents live here in Dallas?”

She trotted out the old, sad story. “They lived in San Francisco, where I was born. My mother was thrown off a runaway cable car. I was just three months old, in her arms when she fell. She suffered a blow to the head and died instantly, but I was unharmed. They called it a miracle at the time. My father was fatally injured when he jumped off to try and save us. He died the next day in the hospital.”

His dark eyes were so soft. They spoke of real sympathy. Of understanding. “How terrible for you.”

“I don’t even remember it. My grandmother—my father’s mother—came for me and took me back to Austin, where she lived. She raised me on her own. My grandfather had died several years before my parents. She was amazing, my grandmother. She taught me that I can do anything. She taught me that power brings responsibility. That the truth is sacred. That being faithful and trustworthy are rewards in themselves.”

Now his eyes had a teasing light in them. “And yet, you’re an attorney.”

Sydney laughed. “So they have lawyer jokes even in Montedoro?”

“I’m afraid so—and a corporate attorney at that.”

“I’m not responding to that comment on the grounds that it might tend to incriminate me.” She said it lightly.

But he saw right through her. “Have I hit a nerve?”

She totally shocked herself by answering frankly. “My job is high-powered. And high-paying. And it’s been … important to me, to know that I’m on top of a very tough game, that I’ll never have to worry about where the next paycheck is coming from, that I can definitely take care of my own and do it well.”

“And yet?”

She revealed even more. “And yet lately, I often find myself thinking how much more fulfilling it might be to spend my workdays helping people who really need me, rather than protecting the overflowing coffers of multibillion-dollar companies.”

He started to speak. But then her BlackBerry, which she’d set on the table to the right of her water goblet the way she always did at restaurants, vibrated. She checked the display: Magda, her assistant. Probably wondering why she wasn’t back at the office yet.

She glanced at Rule again. He had picked up his knife and fork and was concentrating on his meal, giving her the chance to deal with the call if she needed to.

Well, she didn’t need to.

Sydney scooped up the phone and dropped it in her bag where she wouldn’t even notice if it vibrated again.

With the smooth ease of a born diplomat, Rule continued their conversation as though it had never been interrupted. “You speak of your grandmother in the past tense….”

“She died five years ago. I miss her very much.”

“So much loss.” He shook his head. “Life can be cruel.”

“Yes.” She ate a bite of her steak, taking her time about it, savoring the taste and tenderness of the meat, unaccountably happy that he hadn’t remarked on her vibrating BlackBerry, that he hadn’t said he was “sorry,” the way people always did when she told them she’d grown up without her parents, when she confessed how much she missed her grandmother.

He watched her some more, his dark head tipped to the side in way that had her thinking again how he reminded her of someone. “Have you ever been married?”

“No. I’m Catholic—somewhat lapsed, yes, but nonetheless, I do believe that marriage is forever. I’ve never found the man I want forever with. But I’ve had a couple of serious relationships. They … didn’t work out.” Understatement of the year. But he didn’t need to hear it and she didn’t need to say it. She’d done enough over-sharing for now, thank you very much. She added, “And I’m thirty-three. Does that seem … dire to you?”

“Absolutely.” He put on a stern expression. On him, sternness was sexy. But then, on him, everything was sexy. “You should be married immediately. And then have nine children. At the very least. You should marry a wealthy man, Sydney. One who adores you.”

“Hmm. A rich man who adores me. I wouldn’t mind that. But the nine children? More than I planned on. Significantly more.”

“You don’t want children?” He looked honestly surprised.

She almost told him about Trevor right then. But no. This was a fantasy lunch with a fantasy man. Trevor was her real life. The most beautiful, perfect, meaningful, joyful part of her real life. “I didn’t say I didn’t want children. I do. But I’m not sure I’m ready for nine of them. Nine seems like a lot.”

“Well. Perhaps we would have to settle for fewer than nine. I can be reasonable.”

“We?”

“A man and a woman have to work together. Decisions should be jointly made.”

“Rule.” She put a hand to her breast, widened her eyes and asked him dramatically, “Could this be … oh, I can’t believe it. Is it possible that you’re proposing to me?”

He answered matter-of-factly, “As it happens, I’m wealthy. And it would be very easy for me to adore you.” His dark eyes shone.

What was this feeling? Magical, this feeling. Magical and foolish. And that was the beauty of it. It was one of those things that happen when you least expect it. Something to remind her that life could still be surprising. That it wasn’t all about winning and staying on top—and coming home too late to tuck her own sweet boy into bed.

Sometimes even the most driven woman might just take a long lunch. A long lunch with a stranger who made her feel not only brilliant and clever, but beautiful and desired, as well.

She put on a tragic face. “I’m sorry. It could never work.”

He played it stricken. “But why not?”

“You live in Montedoro.” Grave. Melancholy. “My career—my whole life—is here.”

“You might change careers. You might even decide to try a different kind of life.”

Hah. Exactly what men always said. She wasn’t letting him get away with it. “Or you might move to Texas.”

“For you, Sydney, I might do anything.”

“Perfect answer.”

A moment ensued. Golden. Fine. A moment with only the two of them in it. A moment of complete accord.

Sydney let herself enjoy that moment. She refused to be guarded or dubious. It was only lunch, after all. Lunch with an attractive man. She was giving herself full permission to enjoy every minute of it.

Chapter Two

The meeting on the Binnelab case was half over when Sydney slipped in at two-fifteen.

“Excuse me,” she said as she eased through the conference room doors and they all turned to stare at her. “So sorry. I had … something of an emergency.”

Her colleagues made sympathetic noises and went back to arguing strategy. No one was the least angry that she was late.

Because she was never late—which meant that of course there had to be a good reason for her tardiness. She was Sydney O’Shea, who graduated college at twenty, passed the bar at twenty-four and had been made partner at thirty—exactly one year before her son was born. Sydney O’Shea, who knew how to make demands and how to return a favor, who had a talent for forging strong professional relationships and who never slacked. She racked up the billable hours with the best of them.

If she’d told them all that she’d been sidetracked in Macy’s housewares by a handsome orange salesman from Montedoro and allowed him to talk her into blowing off half of the Binnelab meeting, they’d have had zero doubt that she was joking.

She knew the case backward and forward. She only had to listen to the discussion for a few minutes to get up to speed on the direction her colleagues were taking.

By the end of the meeting, she’d nudged them in a slightly different direction and everyone seemed pleased with the result. She returned to her corner office to find her so-capable assistant, the usually unflappable Magda, standing in the middle of the room holding an orchid in a gorgeous purple pot. Magda stared in dismay at the credenza along the side wall where no less than twelve spectacular flower arrangements sprouted from a variety of crystal vases.

The credenza was not the only surface in the room overflowing with flowers. There were two vases on the coffee table and one each on the end tables in the sitting area.

Her desk had six of them. And the windowsill was likewise overrun with exotic blooms. Each arrangement had a small white card attached. The room smelled like a greenhouse.

Rule. She knew instantly. Who else could it be? And a quick glance at one of the cards confirmed it.

Please share dinner with me tonight. The Mansion at Turtle Creek. Eight o’clock. Yours, Rule

She’d never told him the name of her firm. But then again, it wouldn’t have been that hard to find out. Just her name typed into a search engine would have done it.

“Smothered in flowers. Literally,” she said to her nonplussed assistant. She felt that delicious glow again, that sense of wonder and limitless possibility. She was crushing on him, big-time. He made her feel innocent and free.

And beautiful. And desired …

Was there anything wrong with that? If there was, she was having trouble remembering what.

“They started arriving about half an hour ago,” said Magda. “I think this orchid is the last of them. But I have nowhere left to put it.”

“It would look great on your desk,” Sydney suggested. “In fact, take the cards off and leave them with me. And then let’s share the wealth.”

Magda arched a brow. “Give them away, you mean?”

“Start with the data entry crew. Just leave me the two vases of yellow roses.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” She didn’t think Rule would mind at all if she shared. And she wanted to share. This feeling of hope and wonder and beauty, well, it was too fabulous to keep to herself. “Tell everyone to enjoy them. And to take them home, if they want to—and hurry. We have Calista’s party at four.”

“I really like this orchid,” said Magda, holding out the pot, admiring the deep purple lips suspended from the velvety pale pink petals. “It looks rare.”

“Good. Enjoy. A nice start to the weekend, don’t you think? Flowers for everyone. And then we send Calista happily off to her tropical honeymoon.”

“Someone special must be wild for you,” Magda said with a grin.

Sydney couldn’t resist grinning right back at her. “Deliver the flowers and let’s break out the champagne.”

Calista loved the heart-shaped casserole. She laughed when she pulled it from the gift bag. “I guess now I’ll just have to learn how to cook.”

“Wait until after the honeymoon,” Sydney suggested and then proposed a toast. “To you, Calista. And to a long and happy marriage.”

After the two glasses of wine at lunch, Sydney allowed herself only a half glass of champagne during the shower. But the shortage of bubbly didn’t matter in the least. It was still the most fun Sydney had ever had at a bridal shower. Funny how meeting a wonderful man can put a whole different light on the day.

After the party, she returned to her office just long enough to grab her briefcase, her bag and one of the vases full of yellow roses. Yes, as a rule she would have stayed to bill a couple more hours, at least.

But hey. It was Friday. She wanted to see her little boy before he went to bed. And she really needed to talk to Lani, who was not only her dearest friend, but also Trevor’s live-in nanny. She needed Lani’s excellent advice as to whether she should go for it and take Rule up on his invitation to dinner.

At home in Highland Park, she found Trevor in the kitchen, sitting up at the breakfast nook table in his booster chair, eating his dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. “Mama home! Hug, hug!” he crowed, and held out his chubby arms.

She dropped her briefcase and bag, set the flowers on the counter and went to him. He wrapped those strong little arms around her neck, smearing spaghetti sauce on her cheek when he gave her a big smacker of a kiss. “How’s my boy?”

“I fine, thank you.”

“Me, too.” She hugged him harder. “Now that I’m home with you.” He smelled of tomatoes and meatballs and baby shampoo—of everything that mattered.

At two, he was quite the talker. As he picked up his spoon again, he launched into a description of his day. “We swim. We play trucks. I shout loud when we crash.”

“Sounds like fun.” She whipped a tissue from the box on the counter and wiped the red sauce off her cheek.

“Oh, yes! Fun, Mama. I happy.” He shoved a meatball in his mouth with one hand and waved his spoon with the other.

“Use your spoon for eating,” Lani said from over by the sink.

“Yes, Lani. I do!” He switched the spoon to the other hand and scooped up a mound of pasta. Most of it fell off before he got it to his mouth, but he only gamely scooped up some more.

“You’re early,” said Lani, turning to glance at her over the tops of her black-rimmed glasses. “And those roses are gorgeous.”

“They are, aren’t they? And as to being early, hey, it’s almost the weekend.”

“That never stopped you from working late before.” Lani grabbed a towel and turned to lean against the sink as she dried her hands.

Her full name was Yolanda Ynez Vasquez and she was small and curvy with acres of thick almost-black hair. She’d been working for Sydney for five years, starting as Sydney’s housekeeper. The plan was that Lani would cook and clean house and live in, thus saving money while she finished college. But then, even after she got her degree, she’d stayed on, and become Trevor’s nanny, as well. Sydney had no idea how she would have managed without her. Not only for her grace and ease at keeping house and being a second mom to Trevor, but also for her friendship. After Ellen O’Shea, Yolanda Vasquez was the best friend Sydney had ever had.

Lani said, “You’re glowing, Syd.”

Sydney put her hands to her cheeks. “I do feel slightly warm. Maybe I have a fever….”

“Or maybe someone handsome sent you yellow roses.”

Laughing, Sydney shook her head. “You are always one step ahead of me.”

“What’s his name?”

“Rule.”

“Hmm. Very … commanding.”

“And he is. But in such a smooth kind of way. I went to lunch with him. I really like him. He asked me to dinner.”

“Tonight?” Lani asked.

She nodded. “He invited me to meet him at the Mansion at Turtle Creek. Eight o’clock.”

“And you’re going.” It wasn’t a question.

“If you’ll hold down the fort?”

“No problem.”

“What about Michael?” Michael Cort was a software architect. Lani had been seeing him on a steady basis for the past year.

Lani shrugged. “You know Michael. He likes to hang out. I’ll invite him over. We’ll get a pizza—tell me more about Rule.”

“I just met him today. Am I crazy?”

“A date with a guy who makes you glow? Nothing crazy about that.”

“Mama, sketti?” Trev held up a handful of crushed meatball and pasta.

“No, thank you, my darling.” Sydney bent and kissed his plump, gooey cheek again. “You can have that big wad of sketti all for yourself.”

“Yum!” He beamed up at her and her heart felt like it was overflowing. She had it all. A healthy, happy child, a terrific best friend, a very comfortable lifestyle, a job most high-powered types would kill for. And a date with the best-looking man on the planet.

Sydney spent the next hour being the mother she didn’t get to be as often as she would have liked. She played trucks with Trev. And then she gave him his bath and tucked him into bed herself, smoothing his dark hair off his handsome forehead, thinking that he was the most beautiful child she had ever seen. He was already asleep when she tiptoed from the room.

Yolanda looked up when she entered the family room. “It’s after seven. You better get a move on if you want to be on time for your dream man.”

“I know—keep me company while I get ready?”

Lani followed her into the master suite, where Sydney grabbed a quick shower and redid her makeup. In the walk-in closet, she stared at the possible choices and didn’t know which one to pick.

“This.” Lani took a simple cap-sleeved red satin sheath from the row of mostly conservative party dresses. “You are killer in red.”

“Red. Hmm,” Sydney waffled. “You think?”

“I know. Put it on. You only need your diamond studs with it. And that garnet-and-diamond bracelet your grandmother left you. And those red Jimmy Choos.”

Sydney took the dress. “You’re right.”

Lani dimpled. “I’m always right.”

Sydney put on the dress and the shoes and the diamond studs and garnet bracelet. Then she stood at the full-length mirror in her dressing area and scowled at herself. “I don’t know …” She touched her brown hair, which she’d swept up into a twist. “Should I take my hair down?”

“No. It’s great like that.” Lani tugged a few curls loose at her temples and her nape. Then she eased the wide neckline of the dress off her shoulders. “There. Perfect. You look so hot.”

“I am not the hot type.”

“Yeah, you are. You just don’t see yourself that way. You’re tall and slim and striking.”

“Striking. Right. Still, it would be nice if I had breasts, don’t you think? I had breasts once, remember? When I was pregnant with Trevor?”

“Stop. You have breasts.”

“Hah.”

“And you have green eyes to die for.”

“To die for. Who came up with that expression, anyway?”

Lani took her by the shoulders and turned her around so they faced each other. “You look gorgeous. Go. Have a fabulous time.”

“Now I’m getting nervous.”

“Getting? Syd. You look wonderful and you are going.”

“What if he doesn’t show up?”

“Stop it.” Lani squeezed her shoulders. “Go.”

Rosewood Mansion at Turtle Creek was a Dallas landmark. Once a spectacular private residence, the Mansion was now a five-star hotel and restaurant, a place of meticulous elegance, of marble floors and stained-glass windows and hand-carved fireplaces.

Her heart racing in mingled excitement and trepidation, Sydney entered the restaurant foyer, with its curving iron-railed staircases and black-and-white marble floor. She marched right up to the reservation desk and told the smiling host waiting there, “I’m meeting someone. Rule Bravo-Calabretti?”

The host nodded smartly. “Right this way.”

And off she went to a curtained private corner on the terrace. The curtains were pulled back and she saw that Rule was waiting, wearing a gorgeous dark suit, his black eyes lighting up when their gazes locked. He rose as she approached.

“Sydney.” He said her name with honest pleasure, his expression as open and happy as her little boy’s had been when she’d tucked him into bed that night. “You came.” He sounded so pleased. And maybe a little relieved.

How surprising was that? He didn’t look like a person who would ever worry that a woman might not show up for a date.

She liked him even more then—if that was possible. Because he had allowed her to see he was vulnerable.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she said softly, her gaze locked with his.

Champagne was waiting in a silver bucket. The host served them.

Rule said, “I took the liberty of conferring with the chef ahead of time, choosing a menu I thought you might enjoy. But if you would prefer making your own choices …”

She loved that he’d planned ahead, that he’d taken that kind of care over the meal. And that he’d asked for her preference in the matter. “The food is always good here. Whatever you’ve planned will be perfect.”

“No … dietary rules or foods you hate?” His midnight gaze scanned her face as though committing it to memory.

“None. I trust you.”

Something flared in his eyes. “Fair enough, then.” His voice wrapped around her, warm and deep and so sweet. He nodded at the host. “Thank you, Neil.”

“Very good, then, your—” Neil paused almost imperceptibly, and then continued “—waiter will be with you shortly.” With a slight bow, he turned to go.

“Neil seems a little nervous,” she whispered, when the host had left them.

“I have no idea why,” Rule said lightly. And then his tone acquired a certain huskiness. “You should wear red all the time.”

“That might become boring.”

“You could never be boring. And what is that old song, the one about the lady in red?”

“That’s it. ‘Lady in Red.’“

“You bring that song to mind. You make me want to dance with you.”

How did he do it? He poured on the flattery—and yet, somehow, coming from him, the sweet talk sounded sincere. “Thank you for the flowers.”

He waved a lean hand. “I know I went overboard.”

“It was a beautiful gesture. And I hope you don’t mind, but I shared them—with the data entry girls and the paralegals and the crew down in Human Resources.”

“Why would I mind? They were yours, to do with as you wished. And sharing is good. You’re not only the most compelling woman I’ve ever met, you are kind. And generous, too.”

She shook her head. “You amaze me, Rule.”

He arched a raven-black eyebrow. “In a good way, I hope?”

“Oh, yeah. In a good way. You make me want to believe all the beautiful things that you say to me.”

He took her hand. Enchantment settled over her, at the warmth of his touch, at the lovely, lazy pulse of pleasure that seemed to move through her with every beat of her heart, just to be with him, to have her hand in his, flesh to flesh. “Would you prefer if I were cruel?”

The question shocked her a little. “No. Never. Why would you ask that?”

He turned her hand over, raised it to his lips, pressed a kiss in the heart of her palm. The pulse of pleasure within her went lower, grew hotter. “You fascinate me.” His breath fanned her palm. And then, tenderly, he lowered their hands to the snowy tablecloth and wove his fingers with hers. “I want to know all about you. And truthfully, some women like a little more spice from a man. They want to be kept guessing. ‘Does he care or not, will he call or not?’ They might say they’re looking for a good man who appreciates them. But they like … the dance of love, they revel in the uncertainty of it all.”

She leaned closer to him, because she wanted to. Because she could. “I like you as you are. Don’t pretend to be someone else. Please.”

“I wouldn’t. But I can be cruel.” He said it so casually, so easily. And she realized she believed him. She saw the shining blade of his intention beneath the velvet sheath that was his considerable charm.

“Please don’t. I’ve had enough of mean men. I …” She let the words trail off. The waiter was approaching their table. Perfect timing. The subject was one that desperately needed dropping.

But a flick of a glance from Rule and the waiter turned around and walked away. “Continue, please,” Rule prompted softly. “What men have been cruel to you?”

Way to ruin a beautiful evening, Syd. “Seriously. You don’t need to hear it.”

“But I want to hear it. I meant what I said. I want to know about you, Sydney. I want to know everything.” His eyes were so dark. She could get lost in them, lost forever, never to be found. And the really scary thing was that she almost felt okay with being lost forever—as long as he was lost right along with her.

“What can I say? There’s just something about me …” Lord. She did not want to go there. She tried to wrap it up with a generalized explanation. “I seem to attract men who say they like me because I’m strong and intelligent and capable. And then they get to work trying to tear me down.”

Something flared in his eyes. Something … dangerous. “Who has tried to tear you down?”

“Do we have to get into this?”

“No. We don’t. But sometimes it’s better, I think, to go ahead and speak frankly of the past.” Now his eyes were tender again. Tender and somehow completely accepting.

She let out a slow, surrendering sigh. “I lived with a guy when I was in law school. His name was Ryan. He was fun and a little bit wild. On the day we moved in together, he quit his job. He would lie on the sofa drinking those great big cans of malt liquor, watching ESPN. When I tried to talk to him about showing a little motivation, things got ugly fast. He said that I had enough ambition and drive for both of us and next to me he felt like a failure, that I had as good as emasculated him—and would I get out of the damn way, I was blocking his view of the TV?”

Rule gave one of those so-European shrugs of his. “So you got rid of him.”

“Yes, I did. When I kicked him out, he told me he’d been screwing around on me. He’d had to, he said. In order to try and feel at least a little like a man again. So he was a cheater and a liar, too. After Ryan, I took a break from men. I stayed away from serious entanglements for the next five years. Then I met Peter. He was an attorney, like me. Worked for a different firm, a smaller one. We started going out. I thought he was nothing like Ryan, not a user or runaround or a slacker in any way. He never formally moved in with me. But he was … with me, at my house, most nights. And then he started pressuring me to get him in at Teale, Gayle and Prosser.” She said the name of her firm with another long sigh.

“You weren’t comfortable with that?”

“No, I wasn’t. And I told him so. I believe in networking, in helping the other guy out. But I didn’t want my boyfriend working at the same firm with me, especially not if he was hired on my say-so. There are just too many ways that could spell trouble. He said he understood.”

Rule still had his fingers laced with hers. He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “But he didn’t understand.”

“Not in the least. He was angry that I wouldn’t give him ‘a hand up,’ as he put it. Things kind of devolved from there. He said a lot of brutal things to me. I was still an associate at the firm then. At a party, Peter got drunk and complained about me to one of the partners. By the time he and I were over, I …” She sought the right way to say it.

He said it for her. “You decided you were through with men.” She glanced away. He caught her chin, lightly, gently, and guided it back around so that she met his eyes again. “Are you all right?” He sounded honestly concerned. She realized that her answer really mattered to him.

She swallowed, nodded. “I’m okay. It’s just … when I talk about all that, I feel like such a loser, you know?”

“Those men. Ryan and Peter. They are the losers.” He held her gaze. “I notice you haven’t told me their last names.”

“And I’m not going to. As I said, it’s long over for me, with both of them.”

He gave her his beautiful smile. “There. That’s what I was waiting to hear.” He let go of her hand—but only to touch her in another way. With his index finger, he traced the line of her jaw, stirring shivers as he went. He caught one of the loose curls of hair that Lani had pulled free of her French twist, and rubbed it between his fingers. “Soft,” he whispered. “Like your skin. Like your tender heart …”

“Don’t be too sure about that. I’m not only prickly, I can be a raving bitch,” she whispered back. “Just ask Ryan and Peter.”

“Give me their last names. Ryan and Peter and I will have a long talk.”

“Hah. I don’t think so.”

He touched her cheek then, a brushing caress of such clear erotic intent that her toes curled inside her Jimmy Choos. “As long as you’re willing to give men another chance.”

“I could be. If the right man ever came along.”

He took her untouched champagne flute and handed it to her. Then he picked up his own. “To the right man.”

She touched her glass to his, echoed, “The right man.” It was excellent champagne, each tiny bubble like a burst of magic on her tongue. And when she set the glass down again, she said, “I always wanted to have children.”

He answered teasingly, “However, not nine of them.”

Suddenly, it came to her. She realized where she’d been going with her grim little tale of disappointed love. It hadn’t really been a case of total over-sharing, after all.

“Actually,” she said. “This is serious.”

“All right.”

“There’s something I really do need to tell you.”

His expression changed, became … so still. Waiting. Listening. He tipped his head to the side in that strangely familiar way he had. “Tell me.”

She wanted—needed—for him to know about Trevor. If learning about Trev turned him off, well, she absolutely had to know that now, tonight. Before she got in any deeper with him. Before she let herself drown in those beautiful black eyes. “I …” Her mouth had gone desert-dry. She swallowed, hard.

This shouldn’t be so difficult, shouldn’t matter so very much. She hardly knew this man. Holding his interest and his high regard shouldn’t be this important to her.

Yet it was important. Already. She cared. A lot. Way, way too much.

He seemed too perfect. He was too perfect. He was her dream man come to vivid, vibrant, tempting life. The first minute she saw him, she’d felt as though she already knew him.

Yes, she should be more wary. It wasn’t like her to be so easily drawn in.

And yet she was. She couldn’t stop herself.

She thought of her grandmother, who had been a true believer in love at first sight. Grandma Ellen claimed she had fallen for Sydney’s grandfather the first time she met him. She’d also insisted that Sydney’s father had fallen in love with her mother at first sight.

Could falling in love at first sight be a genetic trait? Sydney almost smiled at the thought. She’d believed herself to be in love before—and been wrong, wrong, wrong.

But with Ryan, it hadn’t been like this. Or with Peter. Nothing like this, with either of them.

Both of those relationships had developed in the logical, sensible way. She’d come to believe that she loved those men over a reasonable period of time, after getting to know them well—or so she had thought.

And look what had happened. She learned in the end that she hadn’t really known either Ryan or Peter. Not well enough, she hadn’t. With both men, it had ended in heartbreak. Those failures should have made her more wary. Those failures had made her more wary.

Until today. Until she met Rule.

With Rule, her heart seemed to have a will of its own. With him, she wanted to just go for it. To take the leap, take a chance. She didn’t want to be wary with him. With him, she could almost become a believer in love at first sight.

If only he wasn’t put off by learning that she already had a child….

“It’s all right,” he said so gently. “Go on.”

And she did. “I was almost thirty, when it ended with Peter. I wanted to make partner in my firm and I wanted a family. I knew I could do both.”

He gave a slow nod. “But the men were not cooperating.”

“Exactly. So I decided … to have a family anyway. A family without a man. I went to a top cryobank—a sperm bank, at a fertility clinic?”

“Yes,” he said in a way that could only be called cautious. “I know what a cryobank is.”

“Well, all right.” Her hands were shaking. She lowered them to her lap so he wouldn’t see. “I went to a sperm bank. I had artificial insemination. The procedure was successful. I got pregnant. And now I have a beautiful, healthy two-year-old son.”

“You have a child,” he repeated, carefully. “A boy.”

She folded her hands good and tight in her lap to still the shaking. And her heart seemed to have stopped dead in her chest—and then commenced beating way too hard and too fast. It hurt, her own heart, the way it pounded away in there. Because she knew, absolutely, that it was over, between her and Rule, over before it had even really begun. And it didn’t matter how perfect he was for her. It didn’t matter if he just happened to be her dream-come-true. It didn’t matter that he made her want to believe in love at first sight. She was absolutely certain at that moment that he wouldn’t accept Trevor. And if he didn’t accept her son, she wanted nothing to do with him.

In a moment, she would be rising, saying good-night. Walking away from him and refusing to look back.

She drew her shoulders tall. Her hands weren’t shaking anymore. “Yes, Rule. I have a son, a son who’s everything to me.”

Chapter Three

And then, just as she was dead certain that it was finished between them, Rule smiled.

A real smile. He laid his warm, lean hand along the side of her face. “How wonderful. I love children, Sydney—but I already said that, didn’t I? When can I meet him? Tomorrow, I hope.”

She blinked, swallowed. Almost sick with emotion, she put her hand against her churning stomach. “I … You what?”

He laughed, a beautiful, low, sexy sound. “You thought I wouldn’t want to meet your son?” And then he frowned. “You don’t know me very well.”

“I … You’re right. I don’t know you.” She took slow, deep breaths, ordering her stomach to settle down, stunned at how much it mattered, that he wasn’t rejecting Trevor. That it wasn’t over after all, that she didn’t have to rise and walk away and not look back. She could stay right here, in this beautiful restaurant, at this private table, with this incredible man. She chided, “I have to keep reminding myself that I don’t know you well, that we only met this afternoon.”

“Unbelievable.” His frown had faded. “I had forgotten. Somehow, it seems that I’ve known you forever.”

She confessed, “I have that feeling, too.” And then she laughed, a laugh that felt as light and bubbly as the excellent champagne. “I had it the first moment I saw you.”

“You did?” He wore that boyish look, the one that made her think of Trev.

“Yes. I thought how you couldn’t be looking at me. And then I thought how familiar you looked, that I must have met you before….”

“Of course I was looking at you,” he said it with a definite note of reproach. “But you were very busy reminding yourself that you were through with men.”

“I was. I admit it. How dumb was that?”

“It’s all right. Now that you’ve told me why you gave up men, I thoroughly understand. And I’m not complaining. If you hadn’t decided to stay away from the male sex, you might have found someone else by now and I wouldn’t have a chance with you.”

“And that would have been a tragedy,” she teased.

“Yes, it would. A true catastrophe. But you did give up men. Now all I have to do is convince you to give one more man a chance.” He raised his glass again. She clinked hers against it. “Are you ready for the first course?”

Suddenly, she was starving. “I am, yes.”

He cast a glance beyond the open curtain. That was all. Just a glance. The waiter appeared again and made straight for their table.

Two hours later, Rule walked her out to the valet stand and had her car brought around. He tipped the valet generously and then took her hand and led her away from her waiting Mercedes. “Just for a moment …”

She went with him, down the sloping front entrance, to a shadowed area next to a large brick planter thick with greenery, beneath a beautiful old oak. The spring night felt warm and close around them.

He turned to face her. His eyes gleamed like polished stones through the darkness and his fingers trailed up her bare arm, a long, slow, dancing caress that left her strangely weak and slightly breathless. “Sydney …” He clasped her shoulders, and then framed her face between both wonderful hands. “Sydney O’Shea. I was becoming frightened.”

His words confused her. She scanned his shadowed features. “But why?”

“That I would never find you. Never meet you …”

“Oh. That.” She felt a glad smile curve her lips.

“Yes. That.” His sweet breath stirred the loose curls at her temples as he bent his head closer to her.

A kiss. His kiss. Their first kiss. She tipped her face up to him, offering her mouth.

He held her eyes as he lowered his lips to hers.

Warm. Soft. Easy …

Her eyes drifted shut as his mouth touched hers, lightly, cherishingly. And she trembled, the moment was so exactly as she’d imagined it might be during their lunch that afternoon, during the long, glorious meal just past.

“Sydney …” He whispered her name against her mouth and she opened for him.

Instantly, she wanted more, wanted to be closer. Had to be closer.

Surging up, she wrapped her arms around him. A tiny, hungry cry escaped her at the sheer glory of such a perfect moment.

He took her cue and deepened the kiss, gathering her into him, cradling her against his body, so that she felt his warmth and solidness all along the length of her. He tasted of coffee and the heavenly pistachio mascarpone cake they’d shared for dessert. And the way he kissed her, the way his warm, rough-tender tongue caressed her … oh, there was nothing, ever, in her experience, to compare to it.

Nothing to compare.

To his kiss …

She wished it would never end.

But of course, it had to end. He took her shoulders again and reluctantly lifted his mouth from hers.

“Tomorrow,” he said, gazing down at her, his eyes heavy-lidded, holding her a willing captive with his light touch at her shoulders, with his tender glance.

“Yes,” she vowed, though she didn’t even know yet what he planned for tomorrow.

He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek, and then up to her temple, causing those lovely shivers to course across her skin. “In the morning? I could come and collect you and your little boy. We could … visit a park, maybe. A park with swings and slides, so he’ll have a chance to play. My little niece and nephew love nothing so much as a few hours in the sunshine, with a sandbox and a slide.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a niece and a nephew.”

He nodded. “My older brother, Max, has two children—say yes to tomorrow.”

“But I already did, didn’t I?”

“Say it again.”

“Yes—and why don’t you come for breakfast first? You can meet my best friend, Lani, who has a degree in English literature, is a fabulous cook and takes care of Trevor while I’m at work.”

“I would love breakfast. And to meet your friend, Lani.”

“I have to warn you. Breakfast comes early at my house.”

“Early it is.”

“Seven-thirty, then.” She took his hand, automatically threading her fingers with his, feeling the thrill of touching him—and also a certain rightness. Her hand fit perfectly in his. “Come on.” She pulled him back toward her car. “I’ll give you my address and phone number.”

“Where’s Michael?” Sydney asked, when she let herself in the house at quarter of eleven and found Lani sitting on the sofa alone, wearing Tweety Bird flannel pajama bottoms and a yellow cami top.

“How was the big date?” Lani asked, with a too-bright smile.

Sydney slipped off her red shoes and dropped to the sofa beside her friend. “It was better than … anything. Wonderful. I’m crazy about him. He’s coming for breakfast at seven-thirty.”

“Good. I can check him out. See if he’s good enough for you.”

“He’s good enough. You’ll see. I thought maybe one of your fabulous frittatas …”

“You got it.” Lani took off her glasses and set them on the side table.

“Hey.” Sydney waited until her friend looked at her again. Then she guided a thick swatch of Lani’s dark, curly hair behind her ear. “You didn’t answer my question about Michael.”

Lani’s big eyes were a little sad, and her full mouth curved slightly down. “Tonight, when I watched you getting ready to meet this new guy, putting on your makeup, fixing your hair, waffling over that perfect red dress …”

“Yeah? Tonight, what?”

“I thought, ‘That. What Syd’s feeling. I want that.’“

“Oh, sweetheart …”

Lani’s shoulders drooped. “And then you left and Michael came over and I thought what a nice guy he is … but I couldn’t go on with him. Because he’s not the guy.” She laughed a little, shaking her head. “Do you know what I mean?”

Sydney reached out. Lani sagged against her and they held each other. “Yeah,” Sydney whispered into her friend’s thick, fragrant hair. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

The next morning, the doorbell rang at seven-thirty on the nose.

“I get it!” Trevor fisted his plump hand and tapped the table twice. “Knock, knock!” he shouted. “Who’s there?”

Sydney kissed his milk-smeared cheek. “Eat your cereal, Bosco.”

“Banana!” Trev giggled. “Banana who?”

Lani said, “The coffee’s ready and the frittata’s in the oven. Answer the door, Syd.”

“Orange. Banana.” Trevor was totally entranced with his never-quite-right knock-knock joke. He banged his spoon gleefully against the tabletop. “Orange your … banana …”

Lani took his spoon from him. “Well, I guess I’ll have to feed you, since you’re not doing it.”

“Lani, no! I eat. I do it myself.”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

She handed him back the spoon. “Go,” she said to Sydney, canting her head in the general direction of the front door.

Her heart doing somersaults inside her chest, Sydney went to let Rule in.

“Hi.” She said it in the most ridiculous, breathy little voice.

“Sydney,” he replied in wonderful melted-caramel tones. Could a man get more handsome every time a woman saw him? Rule did. The bright April sunshine made his hair gleam black as a crow’s wing, and his smile had her heart performing a forward roll. He had a big yellow Tonka dump truck in one hand and a red ball in the other.

“I see you’ve come armed for battle,” she said.

He shrugged. “In my experience, little boys like trucks. And balls.”

“They do. Both. A lot.” She stared at him. And he stared back at her. Time stopped. The walls of her foyer seemed to disappear. There was only the man on the other side of the open door. He filled up the world.

Then, from back in the kitchen, she heard her son calling out gleefully, “Orange. Banana. Banana. Orange …”

Lani said something. Probably, “Eat your cereal.”

“It’s the never-ending knock-knock joke,” she said, and then wondered if they even had knock-knock jokes in his country. “Come in, come in …”

He did. She shut the door behind him. “This way …”

He caught her elbow. Somehow he had managed to shift the toy truck to the arm with the ball in it. “Wait.” He said it softly.

She turned back to him and he looked down at her and …

Was there anything like this feeling she had with him? So fine and shining and full of possibility. He pulled her to him.

She went willingly, eagerly. Close to him was where she wanted to be. She moved right up, snug and cozy against his broad chest, sharing his strong arms with the red ball and the yellow truck. “What?”

“This.” And he kissed her. A brushing kiss, tender and teasing. Just right for early on a sunny Saturday morning. She felt his smile against her own.

When he lifted his mouth from hers, his eyes were soft as black velvet and full of promise. “May I meet your son now?”

“Right this way.”

Trevor was shy with Rule at first.

Her little boy stared with big, solemn dark eyes as Sydney introduced Rule to Lani.

“And this is Trevor,” Sydney said.

“Hello, Trevor. My name is Rule.”

Trevor only stared some more and stuck a big spoonful of cereal in his mouth.

“Say hello,” Sydney instructed him.

But Trevor turned his head away.

Rule sent her an oblique glance and a slight smile that said he knew about kids, and also knew how to be patient. He put the ball and the truck under the side table against the wall and accepted coffee, taking the empty chair between Lani and Sydney.

Lani served the frittata and they ate. Rule praised the food and said how much he liked the coffee, which Lani prepared to her own exacting tastes, grinding the beans with a top-quality grinder and brewing only with a French press.

He asked Lani about her degree in literature. The two of them seemed to hit it off, Sydney thought. Lani was easy with him, and friendly, from the first. She told him her favorite Shakespeare play was The Tempest. He confessed to a fondness for King Lear, which had Lani groaning that she might love Lear, too. But she had no patience for thickheaded, foolish kings. Sydney didn’t know a lot about Shakespeare, but it did kind of please her, that Rule seemed well-read, that he could carry on a conversation about something other than the Mavericks and the Cowboys.

He turned to her. “And what about you, Sydney? Do you have a favorite Shakespeare play?”

She shrugged. “I saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream once. And I enjoyed it. Everybody falling in love with the wrong person, but then it all worked out in the end.”

“You prefer a happy ending?”

“Absolutely,” she told him. “I like it when it all works out. That doesn’t happen often enough in real life.”

“I like trucks!” Suddenly, Trev was over his shyness and back in the game.

Rule turned to him. “And do you like balls?”

“Red balls! Yes!”

“Good. Because that truck and that ball over there beneath the table? They’re for you.”

Trevor looked away again—too much attention, apparently, from this intriguing stranger.

Sydney said, “Tell Rule ‘thank you.’“

“Thank you, Roo,” Trev parroted obediently, still looking away, the soft curve of his round cheek turned down.

But Rule wasn’t looking away. He seemed honestly taken with her little boy. Her heart did more wild and lovely acrobatics, just to look at the two of them, Rule watching Trev, Trev not quite able to meet this new guy’s eyes.

Then Rule said, “Knock, knock.”

Trev didn’t look, but he did say, “Who’s there?”

“Wanda.”

Trev peeked, looked away, peeked again. “Wanda who?”

“Wanda cookie?”

Slowly, Trev turned and looked straight at Rule. “Cookie! Yes! Please!”

Rule actually produced an animal cracker from the pocket of his beautifully made lightweight jacket. He slid a questioning glance at Sydney. At her nod, he handed the cookie over.

“Grrr. Lion!” announced Trev and popped the lion-shaped cookie in his mouth. “Yum.” He chewed and swallowed. “Thank you very much—Orange! Banana! Knock, knock.”

Rule gamely went through the whole joke with him twice. Trev never got the punch line right, but that didn’t have any effect on his delight in the process.

“It never ends,” Lani said with a sigh. But then she grinned. “And you know we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“All done,” Trev told them. “Get down, Mama. Play trucks!”

So Sydney wiped his hands and face with a damp cloth and swung him down from his booster seat. He went straight for Rule. “Roo. Come. We play trucks!”

“It appears you have been summoned,” Sydney said.

“Nothing could please me more—or almost nothing.” The teasing heat in his glance hinted that whatever it was that pleased him more had something to do with her. Very likely with kissing her, an activity that pleased her a bunch, too.

He tossed his jacket across the family room sofa and went over and got down on the floor with Trev, who gathered all his trucks together so they could roll them around making vrooming noises and crash them into each other. Sydney and Lani cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. And soon enough, it was time to head for the neighborhood park. Lani begged off, so it was just the three of them. Since the small park was only a couple of blocks away, they walked, Trev between Sydney and Rule, holding both their hands.

Trev was an outgoing child, although he was usually pretty reserved around new people. It took him a while to get comfortable with someone. But apparently, with Rule, he was over his shyness after those first few moments at the breakfast table.

Trev chattered away at him as they strolled past the pretty, gracious homes and the wide, inviting lawns. “I walk fast, Roo. I strong! I happy!”

Rule agreed that he was very fast, and so strong—and wasn’t it great that he was happy? “I’m happy, too,” Rule said, and shared a speaking glance with Sydney.

Trev looked up at them, at Rule, then at Sydney, then back at Rule again. “Mama’s happy, too!” he crowed. “Knock, knock!”

“Who’s there?” asked Rule. And then he went through the endless loop of the joke two more times.

They stayed at the park for three hours. Sydney watched for a sign that Rule might be getting tired of pushing Trev on the swings, of sitting with him on the spinner, of playing seesaw—Trev and Sydney on one end, Rule on the other.

But Rule seemed to love every minute of it. He got down and crawled through the concrete tunnels with Trev, heedless of his designer trousers, laughing as Trev scuttled ahead of him calling out, “You can’t catch me, I too fast!” Trev popped out of the tunnel.

Rule was right behind him. Rule growled, playing it scary. Trev let out a shriek of fear and delight.

Finally, at a little after eleven, Trev announced, “Okay. All done.” And he was. All the fun had worn him out.

The walk back to the house took a little longer than the stroll over there. When Trevor was tired, he dragged his feet and kept trying to sit down instead of moving forward.

But they got him there, eventually. Lani took over, hustling him to the bathroom to change him out of the diaper she’d put on him for the park and back into the lighter-weight training pants he wore most of the time now.

Alone with Rule for the first time since their kiss at the front door, Sydney said, “You were wonderful with him.”

His gaze held hers. She did love the way he looked at her—as though he couldn’t get enough of just staring into her eyes. He said, “It wasn’t difficult, not in the least. I enjoyed every minute of it.” And then he added in that charming, formal way of his, “Thank you for inviting me, Sydney.”

“It was my pleasure—and clearly, Trev’s, too. Had enough?”

He frowned. “Are you saying you would like for me to go now?”

She laughed. “No way. I’m just giving you an out, in case you’ve had enough of crashing trucks and knock-knock jokes for one day.”

“I want to stay, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” Now her heart was doing cartwheels. “Not in the least.”

Yes, all right. Maybe she should be more cautious. Put the brakes on a little. But she didn’t want to put the brakes on. She was having a great time and if he didn’t want to go, well, why should she feel she should send him away?

He could stay for lunch if he wanted, stay for dinner. Stay … indefinitely. That would be just fine with her. Every moment she was with him only convinced her that she wanted the next moment with him. And the one after that. Something about him had her throwing all her usual caution to the winds.

Was she in for a rude awakening? She just didn’t think so. Every moment she was with Rule only made her more certain that he was the real deal: a great guy who liked her—a lot. A great guy who liked children, too, a guy who actually enjoyed spending the morning playing in the park with her and her little boy.

As long as he gave her no reason to doubt her confidence in him, well, she wouldn’t doubt him. It was as simple as that.

He said, “Perhaps we could take Trevor and Lani to lunch?”

“I wish. But no. Trev’s going to need to eat right away, and since he’s been on the go since early this morning, he’s probably going to be fussy. So we’ll get some food down him and then put him to bed. His nap will last at least a couple of hours. You sure you won’t mind just hanging around here for the afternoon?”

“There’s nothing I would rather do than hang around here with you and your son.” He said it so matter-of-factly, and she knew he was sincere.

“I’m glad.” They shared a nod of perfect understanding.

As Sydney had predicted, Trev was cranky during lunch, but he did pack away a big bowl of chicken and rice. He went right to sleep when Sydney put him in bed.

Then she and Rule raided the refrigerator and carried their lunch of cheese, crackers and grapes out to the backyard. They sat under an oak not far from the pool and he told her more about his family, about how his older brother Max’s wife had tragically drowned in a water-skiing accident two years before, leaving Max with a broken heart and two little children to raise on his own.

“They were so happy together, Max and Sophia,” Rule said, his eyes full of shadows right then. “They found each other very young, and knew they would marry when they were both hardly more than children. It’s been terrible for him, learning to live without her.”

“I can’t even imagine how that must be for him. I’ve always envied people who find true love early and only want a chance to have a family, to grow old side by side. It’s just completely wrong that your brother and his wife didn’t get a whole lifetime of happiness together.”

They were sitting in a pair of cushioned chaises, the platter of cheese and fruit on the low teak table between them. He held out his hand to her. She took it without hesitation and let him pull her over to his chaise.

He wrapped an arm around her, using his other hand to tip her chin up. They shared a slow, sweet kiss. And then he spoke against her softly parted lips. “I love the taste of your lips, the feel of your body pressed close to mine….”

She reached up, touched the silky black hair at his temple. A miracle, to be here with him, like this. To be free to touch him at will, to be the one he wanted to touch. “Oh, Rule. What’s happening with us?”

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