“This is a very small town, and there are a lot of behaviors that are frowned upon…”

Brooke glanced at Jason, a provocative smile on her provocative mouth. He wanted to taste that provocative mouth.

“Are we having the sex talk?” she asked.

“It’s not a sex talk,” he protested, then rubbed his face where his scar was starting to throb. “It’s more of an anti-sex talk. I know you think you’re attracted to me, but hell, Brooke. I don’t want a woman in my bed because I bought her a shirt.”

It was the wrong thing to say…because off came her shirt. Jason tried desperately not to stare at the twin mounds of taut flesh. He failed.

“It’s your shirt. You think I want to sleep with you because you gave me a shirt? Okay, then. No shirt. No problem.”

He felt his mouth grow dry; his groin started to ache. “Put on the shirt.”

She smiled, ran a hand through her hair, dark against her perfect ivory skin…. “No.”

“Please,” he asked nicely, hearing the crack in his voice.

“No, I’m an adult, capable of following my instincts. And if your shirt is going to get in the way…”

Jason darted his gaze away from her, but it didn’t help.

He was doomed.

Dear Reader,

I come from a very frugal family. As a kid, I never realized this because we had the world’s greatest toys. A mismatched swing set, a yellow rickshaw, and this great brass bell that you had to hand-crank to bong (and yes, it did not ring, it bonged). I still own a chair made out of a tractor seat, and in our den sits a lamp made out of an old water pump.

Eventually, it dawned on me that it was not little elves that were making these toys for us, but my dad. After I was married, the husband and I bought ten acres of land in the Texas Hill Country. And I saw the same enterprising tendencies there.

In Texas, there are a lot of hands-on folks who know how to fix a car, how to saw down a tree, and can do all their own electrical work without missing a beat. I love that pioneer spirit in the Lone Star State, and I took full advantage of it when creating Jason Kincaid.

It’s always hard to say goodbye to all the characters in a series, and this one was no exception. I hope you have loved the Harts of Texas as much as I do.

Best,

Kathleen O’Reilly

Just Give In…
Kathleen O’Reilly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathleen O’Reilly wrote her first romance at the age of eleven, which to her undying embarrassment was read aloud to her class. After taking more than twenty years to recover from the profound distress, she is now proud to finally announce her career—romance author. Now she is an award-winning author of nearly twenty romances published in countries all over the world. Kathleen lives in New York with her husband and their two children who outwit her daily.

To the big-hearted people from the big-hearted state.

Texas, forever.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

1

EVERY FAMILY STARTED with a house, a mother, a father and a passel of squabbling siblings. Brooke Hart had no father, two unsociable brothers who seemed deathly afraid of her and a 1987 Chevy Impala.

As far as families went, it wasn’t much, but it was a thousand times better than before. Then there was the mysterious message from an estate lawyer in Tin Cup. They needed to “talk” was all that he said, and apparently lawyers in Texas didn’t believe in answering machines and voicemail, because every time she tried to call, no one answered. In her head she had created all sorts of exciting possibilities, and journeyed cross country to see the lawyer, bond with her brothers and find a place to call home, all of which was exciting and expensive, which meant that right now, she was in desperate need of a job. Money was not as necessary as say, love, home and a fat, fluffy cat, but there were times when money was required. One, when you needed to eat, and two, when your three-year-old Shearling boots weren’t cutting it anymore.

In New York, the boots had been cute and ordinary and seventy-five percent off at a thrift store. In the smoldering September heat of Texas, she looked like a freak. An au courant freak, but a freak nonetheless.

As she peered into the grocery store window, she studied an older couple who were the stuff of her dreams. In Brooke Hart’s completely sentimental opinion, the spry old codger behind the cash register could have been Every Grandpa Man. A woman shuffled back and forth between the front counter and the storeroom in back. Her cottony-gray hair was rolled up in a bun, just like in the movies. The cash register was a relic with clunky keys that Brooke’s hands itched to touch. The wooden floor of the grocery was neat, but not neat enough, which was the prime reason she was currently here.

They looked warm, hospitable and in desperate need of young, able-bodied assistance.

The one advantage to living with Brooke’s mother, Charlene Hart, was that Brooke knew the three things to absolutely never do when searching for a job.

One. Do not show up drunk, or even a more socially acceptable tipsy. Future employers frowned on blowing .2 in a Breathalyzer.

Two. Do not show up late for an appointment. As Brooke had no appointment, this wasn’t a problem.

And the last, but most important rule in job-hunting was to actually show up. Although Brooke believed that deep down her mother was a beautiful spirit with a generous nature and a joyous laugh, Charlene Hart was about as present in life as she was in death, which was to say, not a lot.

Frankly, being family-less sucked, which was why she had been so excited to track down her two brothers. Twenty-six years ago, a then-pregnant Charlene Hart had walked out on Frank Hart and their two young sons, Tyler and Austen. Seven months later, Brooke had been born in a homeless shelter in Oak Brook, Illinois. Charlene never spoke of Frank, or her sons. Charlene had rarely spoken of anything grounded in reality, and it wasn’t until after she died that Brooke found an article about Tyler Hart on the internet. After feeling so alone for all her life, she had stared at the picture of her brother, with the same faraway look in his dark eyes, and the world felt a little less gray. She knew then. Over and over she had repeated her brother’s name, and Brooke realized she wasn’t family-less after all.

To better appeal to her brothers, she’d concocted the perfect life. Storybook mother, devoted stepfather, idyllic suburban residence, and a rented fiancée (two hundred bucks an hour, not cheap). But her brothers had clearly never read the Handbook on Quality Family Reunions, and although they’d been polite enough, their shields were up the entire time. If they found out the truth of Brooke’s less than storybook existence? A disaster of cataclysmic proportions. Relatives never reacted well when poor relations with no place to call home showed up on their doorstep. They weren’t inclined to “like you” or “respect you” or even “want to be around you.” Oh, certainly, they might act polite and sympathetic, but homelessness was a definite black mark, so right now, she wasn’t going to let them find out.

And then, when the time was right, Brooke would spring the truth on the boys, and work her way into her new family’s good graces.

Her first step involved getting a job, paying her way, shouldering her own financial burdens. Second, find out what the lawyer wanted.

Slowly she sucked in a breath, bunching her sweater to hide the green patch beneath the right elbow. In New York, the mismatched patch looked artsy, chic-chic, but to two elderly citizens, it might seem—frivolous. Finally satisfied that she looked respectable, Brooke walked through the rickety screen door, catching it before it slammed shut.

The friendly old proprietor gave her a small-town-America smile, and Brooke responded in kind.

“I’m here about the job. I think I’m your girl. I’m energetic, motivated. I have an excellent memory, and my math skills are off the charts.”

The man’s jovial mouth dwindled. “We didn’t advertise for help.”

“Maybe not, but when opportunity knocks, I say, open the door and use a doorstop so that it can’t close behind you.”

Behind her, she heard the door creak open, as if the very fates were on her side. Her spirits rose because she knew that this small grocery story in Tin Cup, Texas, was fate. Emboldened, Brooke pressed on. “When I saw this adorable place, I knew it was my perfect opportunity. Why don’t you give me a try?”

The old man yelled to the back: “Gladys! Did you advertise for help? I told you not to do that. I can handle the store.” Then he turned his attention to Brooke. “She thinks I can’t do a gall-darned thing anymore.”

From behind her, an arm reached around, plunking a can of peas on the wooden counter. The proprietor glanced at the peas, avoided Brooke’s eyes, and she knew the door of opportunity was slamming on her posterior. She could feel it.

Hastily she placed her own competent hand on the counter. “My brothers will vouch for me. Austen and Tyler. I’m one of the Harts,” she announced. It was a line she had clung to like a good luck charm.

At the man’s confused look, she chuckled at her own misstep, hoping he wouldn’t notice the shakiness in her voice. “Dr. Tyler Hart and Austen Hart. They were raised here. I believe Austen is now a very respectable member of the community. Tyler is a world-famous surgeon.”

She liked knowing her oldest brother was in the medical profession. Everybody loved doctors.

The man scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “Wasn’t that older boy locked up for cooking meth?”

Patiently Brooke shook her head. If the man messed up this often, she would be a boon to his establishment. “No, you must have him confused with someone else.”

A discreet cough sounded from behind her, and once again the proprietor yelled to the back. “Gladys! Which one of the Hart boys ended up at the State Pen?”

Astounding. The man seemed intent on sullying her family’s good reputation. Brooke rushed to correct him, but then Gladys appeared with four cartons of eggs stacked in her arms. “There’s no need to yell, Henry. I’m not deaf,” she said, and then gave Brooke a neighborly smile. “He thinks I’m ready to be put out to pasture.” She noticed the can of peas. “This yours?”

“It’s mine,” interrupted the customer behind her.

Not wanting to seem pushy, Brooke smiled apologetically. Gladys placed the eggs on the counter and then peered at Brooke over silver spectacles. “What are you here for?”

“The job,” Brooke announced.

“We don’t need any help,” Gladys replied, patting Brooke on the cheek like any grandmother would. Her hands were wrinkled, yet still soft and smelled of vanilla. “Are you looking for work?” she asked. Soft hands, soft heart.

Recognizing this was her chance, Brooke licked dry lips and then broke into her speech. “I’m Brooke Hart. I’m new in town. I don’t want to be an imposition on my family. Not a free-loader. Not me. Everybody needs to carry their own weight, and by the way, I can carry a good bit of weight.” She patted her own capable biceps. “Whatever you need. Flour. Produce. Milk. And I’m very careful on eggs. People never seem to respect the more fragile merchandise, don’t you think?”

Gladys looked her over, the warm eyes cooling. “You look a little thin. You should be eating better.”

The hand behind her shoved the peas forward, sliding the eggs close to the edge. Smartly, Brooke moved the carton out of harms way.

“I plan to eat better. It’s priority number two on my list—right after I find a job. I’m really excited to be here in Tin Cup, and I want to fit in. I want to help out. Perhaps we could try something on a temporary basis.” She flashed her best “I’m your girl” smile. “You won’t regret it.”

“You’re one of the Harts?” asked the old man, still seeming confused.

“Didn’t think there was a girl. Old Frank hated girls.” From the look on Gladys’s face, Gladys was no fan of Frank Hart, either.

“I never actually met my father,” Brooke explained, not wanting people to believe she was cut from the same rapscallion cloth. “My mother and I moved when I was in utero.”

“Smartest thing she ever did, leaving the rest of them,” said Henry.

Brooke blinked, not exactly following all this, but she needed a job, and she sensed that Mr. Green Peas was getting impatient. “I really need a job. My brother Austen will vouch for me.”

Gladys’s gray brows rose to an astounding height. “Nothing but trouble, that one. Stole from Zeke…” Then she sighed. “He’s doing good things now, with the railroad and all, but I don’t know.”

“That was a long time ago.” Henry chimed in, apparently more forgiving.

“It’s getting even longer,” complained the man behind her.

Gladys shook her kindly head. “We’re not looking to hire anybody, and you being a stranger and all. No references, except for your brother…”

“I’m new in town,” Brooke repeated in a small voice, feeling the door of opportunity about to hit her in both her posterior and her face, as well. Doors of opportunity could sometimes be painful.

“I’ll vouch for her.”

At first, Brooke was sure she had misheard. It had happened before. But no, not this time. Brooke turned, profoundly grateful that the goodness of small-town America was not overrated. She’d lived in Atlantic City, Detroit, Chicago, Indianapolis and six freezing weeks in St. Paul. She’d dreamed of a little town with bakeries and cobblestone streets and hand-painted signs and people who smiled at you when you walked past. She’d prayed for a little town, and finally she was about to live in one. “Thank you,” she told the man behind her.

He was tall, in his mid-thirties, with chestnut brown hair badly in need of a cut. There wasn’t a lot of small-town goodness emanating from the rigid lines of his face. A black patch covered his left eye and he had a thin scar along his left cheek. In fact, he looked anything but friendly, but Brooke didn’t believe in judging a book by its cover, so her smile was genuine and warm.

“You know her, Captain?” Gladys asked.

Mr. Green Peas nodded curtly. “It seems like forever.”

“It’s about time you’re making some friends in town. We were worried when you moved out to the old farmstead, not knowing a soul in town and all. I’ll tell Sonya, she’ll be happy to hear that.”

Not sure who Sonya was, but sensing that Captain’s opinion counted with these two, Brooke faced the couple. “Please, give me a job,” she urged. “You won’t regret it.”

From somewhere in the tiny grocery, Brooke could hear a relentless pounding. A rapid-fire thump that seemed oddly out of place in the sleepy locale. Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa.

Gladys and Henry didn’t hear the loud noise.

No one did.

Because, duh, it was her own heart.

She told herself it didn’t matter if she didn’t land this job with this homespun couple. It didn’t matter if her brothers didn’t welcome her with open arms. It didn’t matter if the lawyer had made a mistake.

She told herself that none of it mattered.

All her life Brooke had told herself that none of it mattered, but it always did.

Her hands grasped the counter, locking on the small tin can. “What do you say?”

Gladys patted her cheek for a second time. Soft, warm…sorrowful.

“I’m sorry, honey. We just can’t.”

As rejections went, it was very pleasant, but Brooke’s heart still crawled somewhere below the floor. They had been so friendly, the store was so cute with its handpainted Hinkle’s Grocery sign over the door. She’d been so sure. Realizing that there was nothing left for her in this place, Brooke walked out the door, opportunity slamming her in the butt.

Her first day in Tin Cup. No job, no lawyer, an uneasy brother who didn’t know she was here, and—she glanced down at the can of peas still stuck in her hand—she’d just shoplifted a can of peas. Brooke fished in her jeans pocket for some cash, brought out two crumbled dollars, an old Metro Card and a lint-covered peppermint—slightly used.

Two dollars. It was her last two dollars, until she found a job, of course. All she had to do was go back inside, slap the money on the counter and leave as if she didn’t care. As if they hadn’t shouted down her best “Pick me!” plea.

Brooke turned away from the store with its cute homespun sign and restashed her money. Better to be branded a thief than a reject. It wasn’t the most honorable decision, but Brooke had more pride than many would expect from a homeless woman that lived out of her car.

Once she was gainfully employed, she’d pay back Gladys and Henry. They’d understand.

And was that really, truly how she wanted to kick off her new life in her new home? As some light-fingered Lulu, which apparently all the Harts were supposed to be, anyway?

After taking another peek through the window, she sighed. No, she wasn’t going to be a light-fingered Lulu, no matter how tempting it might be. And especially not for a can of peas.

In the distance a freckle-faced little girl on a skateboard careened down the sidewalk. Eagerly, Brooke waved her down, hoping to recruit an unwitting accomplice so that Brooke Hart wouldn’t be another unflattering mug shot on the Post Office wall.

“Hello,” she said, when the little girl skidded to a stop and then Brooke held out her hand. “Can you give this to Gladys? Tell her it’s for the peas.”

The girl examined the proffered money, then Brooke, innocent eyes alight with purpose. “You going to tip me for the delivery?”

Yes, the entrepreneurial spirit was strong in this one. Who knew that honesty was such a huge pain in the butt? And expensive, too. After jamming her hand in her pocket, Brooke pulled out her last seventeen cents. Reluctantly, she handed it to the kid, who stood there, apparently expecting more.

“Please?” asked Brooke, still wearing her non-stranger-danger smile. At last, the little girl sighed.

“Whatever,” she said and kicked a foot at the end of the skateboard, flipping it up into her hand.

“That’s pretty cool,” Brooke told her, and the girl rolled her eyes, but her mouth curled up a bit and Brooke knew that she’d made her first friend in Tin Cup. Sure, she’d had to pay for the privilege, but still, a friend was a friend, no matter how pricey, no matter how small.

“Whatever,” the girl repeated, then pulled open the screen door.

Now that Brooke’s fledging reputation was somewhat restored, or about to be, her job here was done. She dashed across the street, leaping into her eyesore of a car before anyone could see. She had big plans before she showed up on Austen’s doorstep, and it wasn’t going to be without a job, without any money and in a car that should be condemned.

Once safely behind the wheel, she tossed the can of peas onto the backseat, the afternoon sun winking happily on the metal. It fit right in with the hodge-podge of things. A portable cooler, one beat-up gym bag, her collection of real estate magazines, the plastic water jug and now peas.

Peas.

What the heck was she supposed to do with peas?

2

THE LED WAS blinking a steady green over his front porch, the motion detector nearly hidden beneath the old wood doorframe. From inside, he could hear the sound of a dog barking.

All clear.

Not that anyone was going to break into his less than fancy house, but old habits were hard to break. There was no dog, only a pimped out robotic vacuum cleaner with two golden LEDs for eyes and a mechanical tail that wagged. Not the cutest puppy, but Jason Kincaid had invented the only canine in the world that cleaned up after itself.

While Dog wheeled around the floor, Jason put down his keys, pulled on his faded Orioles cap and went outside to work. The missing can of peas didn’t concern him. Jason hated peas, but every Monday he went to the Hinkle’s store to shop. He hated shopping, too, but his father had told him he needed to get out more, so every Tuesday when his dad called, he could tell the old man—with complete honesty—that he’d been out shopping only yesterday.

Outside the house, the flat terrain was exactly the same. The front yard, the backyard, the four storage sheds and even the detached one car garage were filled with lawn mowers, vacuum cleaners, small engines, large engines, lumber and scrap metal.

He’d never invited his family to visit because the house looked too much like a junkyard, like the long neglected habitat of a man who needed to live alone.

Which it was.

Jason pulled down the socket wrench from the upright mattress springs that had been recycled into his Wall O’ Tools and got to work.

The current project was a five horsepower lawnmower in desperate need of a new carburetor or a humane burial, but Jason wasn’t ready to give it up for dead. Not yet.

He’d just gotten air to blow clean through the tube when the red LED on the porch began to glow. Motion detectors had been strategically placed across the ten acres of his land, wired to let him know whenever anyone decided to intrude—like now. Jason glanced toward the road and noticed the cloud of dust.

A HAV, or, in layman’s terms, a car still unidentified.

Salesmen didn’t come out this far. He’d never met the neighbors, which were four acres away on either side, so when people showed up at his gate, they were usually lost.

After pulling his cap down a little lower, Jason made his way to the front gate, an eight foot, black, metal monster that he’d rescued from an old sanitarium. It looked exactly like it belonged at the front entrance of a sanitarium, which was why Jason had wanted it, and why the sanitarium didn’t.

From behind the iron bars, he watched the beaten-up Impala approach. The rear door was black, the driver’s side door was red, and the hood was sunshine-yellow. If Henry Ford and Picasso had gone out on a bender, that car was what the hangover would have looked like.

Jason stayed steady and impassive, not angry or unfriendly, but stood and watched as a woman exited the world’s worst excuse for a car.

Her.

She still had the same never-say-die smile, which, considering the state of her transport, was just flat-out stupid. Once she was at the gate, a mere two feet from him, she held up the can of peas.

“You left these.” Her voice was nice, not high and birdlike, but no cigarette smoke, either. Sonya had a low, husky voice. At one point, Jason had thought it was sexy.

“You didn’t have to bring them all the way out here.” He probably should thank her for it, but he was distracted by the beads of sweat on her neck, and the green sweater had to be hot. Judging from the way it was clinging to her curves, the Hell-Car didn’t have air-conditioning. He didn’t like that she was sweating for him. He didn’t like the way his one good eye kept locking on her chest, like some reconnaissance tracking system doped up on Viagra.

“I don’t mind,” she told him, then put the can to the bars, as if she expected the can to slip through. Nope. Jason could have told her that metal didn’t work that way. It took five hundred pounds of force to dislodge metal, or eight hundred degrees of heat. Sometimes both.

However, Jason stayed silent because he had learned that people never liked to work too hard at a conversation. Eventually, they always gave up.

“Are you going to open the gate, or should I toss this sucker over the top?”

His instinctive response was to instruct her to go ahead and throw, but two things kept him from going with the default. The knowledge that he would have crossed the crazy-lonely-man line in his head, and the beat-up sedan. Frankly, that car out-crazied his crazy-line anyway, so while she might not notice, he would.

Those were his reasons. That, and he liked her breasts.

He typed in the combination on the keypad and the gate creaked open. He’d gone through a lot of trouble to get the creak exactly right. A haunted house creak. At the sound, the woman’s eyes grew wide, but not in fear. No, she liked it.

“I bet the kids love this place at Halloween.”

“People don’t drive out this far for a stick of gum.” People didn’t drive out this far for peas, either, but he left that part out.

“If they don’t, they don’t know what they’re missing.” While she talked, her eyes surveyed the yard, the seventy-year-old house, the mountains of scrap, the piles of engines.

Before she could trespass farther, he took the can of peas. “Thank you.” Then he nodded once, held the gate open and politely waited for her to leave.

Leaving didn’t seem to be part of her strategy. She ducked under his arm and wandered inside, looking at one pile, then the next. “What do you do with this stuff?”

Jason shrugged, not about to explain his hobbies to her, and not sure he could. Not that anyone would understand, anyway. Hell, he didn’t even know why.

His gaze followed her as she walked around, moving from one mound to the next, drawing precariously close to the house.

His pulse rate kicked up. Anxiety or lust? She was cute, short, stacked and curious. The clothes were out of place in the September heat, but he was grateful she was covered up, cause he didn’t think his pulse rate could handle any more. He liked her hair though. It was long, dark silk that hung down her back.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing to a modified bicycle. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me.”

Not that he would have told her anyway, so he stayed quiet while her fingers traced over the twisted metal hump with the leather seat mounted on top. Crouching down, she inspected the spring-loaded frame with the four iron-spoke wheels. It’d taken him three months to find the wheels, and eventually he’d bought them on eBay. They were perfect.

“It’s an animal?”

Still he waited.

She rose, studied the thing. “First, there are four legs, or wheels. Second, the elongated back is almost like a hill…a hump…” Her finger crept to her mouth, chewing absently. She had a nice mouth. Red lips that spent most of their time open. His mind, always running in a tangential yet somewhat practical direction, began to think of all the uses for an open mouth: eating, breathing, kissing, sucking.

Her mouth opened wider. “A camel!”

And now that twenty questions were over, Jason needed to send her on her way. As he headed to the metal gate, he thanked her for coming. There was very little sincerity in the words, but he didn’t think she would notice.

Her dark eyes flickered once. Okay, she noticed. He kicked a particularly heavy cast-iron drum. The pain was solid, well deserved. His foot would recover.

“That’s some car.”

Back and forth she shifted, like she was embarrassed about her mode of transport, but after seeing his mode of habitat, he couldn’t understand why she would care.

“I bought it in Tennessee.”

“Long drive for a car,” he noted, realizing he was making conversation, lingering in her company.

It was her breasts. Had to be.

Evil breasts.

His body hardened at the thought of touching her evil breasts.

“Tennessee was on the way,” she responded, hopefully not tuned in to his thoughts.

“Surprised the car made it,” he told her, channeling his thoughts into another more socially-acceptable direction.

Seeing her wince, he made a mental note to stop commenting on the dicey condition of her vehicle, but it was a little hard to ignore. The inside of the car appeared to be in as bad shape as the outside, with a blanket thrown over the backseat like a tarp. The tarp was most likely designed to keep out prying eyes—like his own. A gallon jug of water was sitting in the front seat, some food wrappers, a pillow, a half-open gym bag and a small sack for trash. Her home.

As he continued to stare at her mode of habitat, a flush crept up her face, and he knew her habitat was a taboo conversation topic, too. That worked out well for him since he wanted her off his place.

All of her, including her breasts.

“You’re staying with your brother?” he asked pleasantly. As parting remarks went, it wasn’t the best.

“Oh, yeah,” she answered quickly, moving to stand in front of her car, blocking his view.

“Good,” he said, not that he believed her. Considering the state of her car, her finances, he didn’t think she was related to anybody in town. If she had family, she would have gone there first.

Probably the brother thing was a lie, as well. In which case, she’d be jobless, living out of her car…

Not that he cared.

She reached for the door handle and yanked it open, the damn thing sticking so hard that her shoulder was now probably dislocated.

Jobless, dislocated shoulder, living out of her car…

Not that he cared.

“You need a job?” he asked, sounding exactly like he was offering her a job. The woman turned, her eyes swimming with hope—until it was gone.

“You know someone who’s hiring?” she asked, her eyes not so hopeful, unless a man was looking.

“I need some help here,” he offered, thinking quickly. “Organizing.”

Not that he wanted organization, not that he wanted human companionship, especially of the female variety, especially of the homeless, jobless female variety.

Most likely, she was needy.

His old army buddies would be laughing their asses off.

Of course, if any of them saw her breasts, they would understand.

“I’m a great organizer,” she said, hands clasped tight in front of her, prayer-like, and he realized how much she wanted this.

A job.

Not him.

Not that he was even thinking sex. A man who lived in a junkyard with one good eye was no prize. Nope, Sonya had made that clear, and that was long before his junkyard phase.

No, it wasn’t the sex. It was the idea of this woman being out there alone. Jason might not be the biggest people-person in the world, but sometime people deserved better. Sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—Jason noticed.

“It’d be temporary,” he added, in case she thought he was charitable.

“That’d be perfect. It’ll give me a chance to settle in town and find a permanent position.”

“Yeah. I can’t afford a lot,” he said, in case she thought he was loaded.

“I don’t need a lot,” she told him, obviously guessing he wasn’t loaded.

“Good.” They stood there and stared for a minute, and she didn’t seem to mind his eye patch. Since she was going to be working for him, not shrinking in horror was a plus.

Finally she spoke. “I’m Brooke Hart.”

“Jason Kincaid.” He should have offered her his hand, but he didn’t. A handshake implied a contract, a pledge. This was nothing more than one human being helping out a woman who needed a chance to get her life together.

Not that he cared.

“So, you’re staying with your brother?” he asked again, in case she wanted to come clean about her living situation.

“Yeah,” she answered, not coming clean. Message received. Don’t ask about the living situation, either.

“You can start tomorrow?”

“First thing.”

“Not too early. I don’t get up early,” he lied. Jason got up at the crack of dawn, but he thought he should straighten up his place first. Get things in order before she started….

“Not a problem. I have a lot of things to do.” She paused. “With my brother.”

“Sure,” he agreed like an idiot. Rather than letting her notice that he actually was an idiot, he headed back toward the gate.

“I’ll see you tomorrow around ten. That’ll be okay?”

The smile was back in place.

Not that he cared.

Then she nodded and climbed into the Hell-Car. Once he returned to the yard, he spent the rest of the day repairing an old wheelchair. Yet every time he looked toward the porch, it was the red LED that was lit, not the green. Sometimes animals set off a false positive, but not often, and not tonight. Someone was out there, or maybe someone had never left.

When night fell, and the crickets began to chrip, Jason quit working and then walked along the fence line, a man with no particular purpose at all. When he was a kid, he had sat on the porch with his dad, watching the sky and the stars, talking baseball and trusting the world to pass by peacefully.

After thirteen years in the army, he knew better. As he walked the fence line, he spotted what he’d been searching for. The old Impala, parked at the edge of the fence line. One dim reading light glowing from the interior.

It was dark outside and she was still out there.

Obviously no brother. No place to stay, but at least she now had a job. A temporary job.

Not that he cared.

There were a lot of things to do before tomorrow. Make the house habitable for human living, do some laundry and throw out the two-month old milk in the fridge. And while he was doing that, she would be out there alone. He tried to ignore the hole in his gut. There was nothing that he could do about the Impala that was parked at the edge of the road, but every few hours, he peeked out the window, making sure there was no trouble.

Not that he cared.

BROOKE CALCULATED THAT by day three she would have enough money to buy more suitable work clothes. First, she needed a cooler shirt, because the sweater was a merino-wool blend that was causing her to wilt. In order to have money for the car, she had sold most of her clothes in Nashville. At that time, a sweater had seemed practical. Now, not so much. The Shearling boots were looking sadder by the minute and would need to be replaced, too. Brooke believed that no matter the financial hardship, it was important to look capable and confident.

Unfortunately, the work that the Captain had given her was insultingly easy, as if she wasn’t capable of anything more. That morning, he’d handed her a sheet of paper and then indicated a knee-high pile of assorted mechanical whatsits, a tiny island in a yard of complete chaos.

“Here. Write down everything you see.”

“That’s an inventory, not an organizational system,” she pointed out, and he glared at her out of his one visible eye, which he probably thought was intimidating, but she thought it was more sexy pirate. She knew he wouldn’t want to hear that, so she pulled her features into some semblance of lemming-hood.

He didn’t look fooled. “Inventorying this pile is step one. Once that’s done, we’ll talk about step two.”

She nudged at a wheelless unicycle with her boot. “It’s going to take me fifteen minutes to do this. Why don’t you let me sort by type?” By all indications, he’d tried to do that in the areas closest to the house. Wood boards were stacked together, some kind of electric gizmos were lined up like bowling pins—wait, they were bowling pins.

He put his hands on his hips, doing that intimidating thing again. “You don’t know what each item is.”

Unintimidated, she picked up a springy thing attached to a weight with a circular metal plate on the end, some piece of the Industrial Revolution that’d gotten left behind. Probably on purpose. “You really know what this is?” she asked.

At the Captain’s silence, she dangled the part higher in the air.

As a rule, Brooke was usually a people-pleaser, but she had issues with someone thinking that poor people didn’t have a brain in their head. It was apparent that the Captain was giving her busy-work in order to give her money because he felt sorry for her. Charlene Hart would have taken the money and ran, possibly stopping for happy hour on the way. Brooke Hart needed people to see her as something more than a charity case—someone positive, someone good.

His gaze raked over her, inventorying her clothes, but lingering on the thingamaboobs beneath. Wisely Brooke pretended not to notice. “You’re not dressed for working outside,” he told her, because apparently his optimal working wardrobe was a thousand-year-old pair of jeans, a white undershirt, and a denim work shirt that hung loose on his rangy shoulders. Perhaps if Brooke had discretionary funds, she might have sprung for something more functionally appropriate. But no, she decided, even if she were as rich as Trump, she still wouldn’t be caught dead in clothes that were so…démodé.

Not wanting to argue about her outfit, she held the doo-dad up higher, just so that he would notice her chest. Cheap, yes, but effective. “You don’t know what this is, do you? Insulting my clothes won’t detract me from the truth. Exhibit one, an antiquated widget that got rusted over in the Ice Age.”

He muttered under his breath. “I’ll give you money. Go into town. Buy something. At least better shoes.”

And now she was back to being a charity case. Brooke placed the doo-dad on the ground and pushed up her sleeves. “I’m here to work.”

“You can’t work in those shoes.”

Seeing the stubborn set to his jaw, Brooke decided that there was no point in continuing the discussion. She walked toward the front gate, skirting one hill then another. A demonstration to the unbelieving that her boots were just fine.

Unattractive? Yes, but this was from a man who thought exterior appearances unimportant. Or at least she hoped so.

“Where are you going?” he yelled, just as she reached the gate.

“I can’t work under these conditions. You’re trying to micro-manage everything and I’m accustomed to more responsibility. I suggest you find some able-bodied teenager who needs detailed instruction and doesn’t mind a dress code.”

“It isn’t a dress code,” he yelled back. “More a dress suggestion.”

She turned, stared him down in silence until finally he shrugged.

“You win. I won’t say another word about your clothes.”

Still, there was disagreement in his face. Brooke stayed where she was. “I can help you with your inventory, but you have to let me do my job. Do you have a computer I can work on?”

“In the house.”

“Good. I can use the computer to look up whatever I don’t know, and you can work in peace. We’ll get along fine, and I’ll guarantee you’ll be happy with the results.”

At his nod of agreement, she picked a path from one pile to another, until she stood in front of him. Once again, his gaze drifted to her boots.

Brooke held up a hand in warning. “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

Judging by his four-letter response, it was a rule he needed to work on, but Brooke was down with that.

Like she’d said, if he’d let her do her job, they’d get along fine.

BY THE TIME THE SUN was baking overhead, Brooke had sorted and inventoried fourteen small heaps of contraptions that no man in his right mind would want, which only proved her suspicions that the Captain was a standard left-brainer. As even more evidence, not that she needed it, inside the house was a veritable smorgasbord of oddly designed gizmos and wuzzits. A push-button car radio hooked up to an iPod. Bookshelves made from stacked wooden pallets, a vintage Coke machine made into a bar and a small metal box with a blinking light that made her nervous.

That, and then there was Dog. The little, rounded ‘pet’ scooted around the floor at different speeds, and sometimes he sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” in a voice that sounded just like Marilyn Monroe. Some dog, indeed.

Everything seemed to belong in an art gallery, a museum or thrift store, possibly all three, but she had to give him high marks for creativity. Brooke would’ve never thought of an automated pot scrubber or a self-cleaning toilet. However, now that she’d seen them, she wondered why no one had ever thought of them before.

Judging from the never-ending materials she had left to inventory, he’d be making gizmos for the next two hundred years. A long trickle of sweat dripped in her eyes, and she dreamed of moving to the coolness of the house, but there were only three more piles to sort, and then she’d be done. Better to go forth and succeed, then celebrate an honest day’s work. Hopefully, air-conditioning would be involved.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the Captain watching her from the other side of the yard. In order to demonstrate her non-wimpiness, she hefted a ten-inch fly-wheel motor (thank you, Google) and placed it in a neat line with the others, before noting the type on her list. It was only after she had deposited the oily thing that she knew why he was staring. In the middle of the sweater was a supersized grease stain that no amount of artistic cover-up could disguise. Sensing the beginnings of another lecture, she waved happily, but it was too late.

The Captain advanced.

“I owe you a new sweater. That one’s ruined.” There was a glint in his eye as if he’d been waiting for just this moment.

Nuh-uh-uh.

Pulling at the wool, Brooke shot him her sweetest smile. “It looks like a map of Canada. I think it’s just the touch it needed.”

His jaw twitched.

“At least put on a cooler shirt.”

Certainly there was a logic to that. He seemed to be genuinely concerned, and she considered the idea, but it was only Day One, Hour Six. He’d given her a nonsense job, and now he wanted to put her in his clothes like some vagrant. So what made her different from any other hard-luck case on the mean streets of life?

Absolutely nothing, and Brooke Hart wasn’t just some other hard-luck case. No, she was going to work this off with grit and sweat, and probably a lot more grease, and the Captain would just have to deal.

Of course, she’d already put in a lot of grit and sweat. Fourteen piles were now neatly inventoried and identified. Maybe a cooler shirt was a fair trade, an old-fashioned barter sort of arrangement. Yeah, that seemed reasonable, and she was just opening her mouth to accept his offer, when he lifted a can of some unknown substance and threw it on her sweater.

Brooke’s mouth snapped shut as the wool plastered to her stomach like a skin mask gone bad.

Aha.

The unknown substance was glue.

3

AS THE SUBSTANCE BEGAN to dry, Brooke glared at the Captain, trying to find some words. Although as a rule she wasn’t usually a believer in violence and/or retribution, she felt here there were extenuating circumstances. Her hands fisted into small glue-encrusted WMDs.

Before she could move (flexibility was difficult when epoxified), he set the can at her feet, pushing a hand through his dark hair.

“I don’t think I should touch you but…ah, hell, Brooke, I’m sorry, but we need to get you cleaned up.” Oh, sure, now he looked sorry.

She plucked the sweater loose from her stomach, wincing as if she were in pain, just so he’d feel worse. “What’s the plan now?” she asked. “Hose me down with turpentine?”

He paused, trying to decide if that was a joke. Comprehension dawned slowly, and his mouth twitched with humor. “I wouldn’t have used a hose. Go shower before you harden and turn into yard art.”

Not a big fan of his sense of humor, Brooke stalked inside. If there had been a carpet or a rug, she would’ve worried about dripping. Not that she had any business being worried, since this was all his doing, but still…a nice rug would have done wonders for the faded wood floors, and given the place a marvelous homey appearance.

She found the bathroom, painted in a surprisingly cheery buttercup-yellow. His quiet footfall sounded behind her—so stealthy for such a big guy.

“I imagine this will take some time. The towels are where?” she asked, happy to see his face still covered in guilt.

The Captain held up a pair of large scissors.

Brooke frowned. “That isn’t a towel.”

“Unless you want glue in your hair, you’ll need to cut the sweater, and, uh, anything else I screwed up.”

Cut? Cut? Was he out of his mind? Didn’t he know this was high-quality apparel? “I’m not cutting this.”

“It’s gone. Let it go. I’ll replace it.” His smile didn’t look so sad, and that was when she knew, when his win-at-all-costs behavior became apparent.

“You did this just so that I’d have to trash it.”

He nodded. “Reason and logic weren’t winning the war. Sometimes covert maneuvers work best.”

And still he didn’t see the problem. “Aren’t you the least bit sorry?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding sincere…mostly.

Her eyes narrowed. “But you’d do it again, wouldn’t you?”

At her words, he wanted to lie. She could see the denial building on his face, but no, the man was damned to tell the truth.

“Probably. Although I’d have come up with something a little less drastic than accelerator glue. The smell’s killer. I didn’t get any in your hair, or your face?” He frowned. “Are you allergic to anything?”

“A little late to ask.” She grabbed the scissors, shut the door, and got to work destroying her most favorite sweater. After two not-so-awesome tries, she could see this was going to be a problem. The wool was hard, getting harder by the second, and the glue was mucking up the scissors. Determined to avoid asking for help, she hacked on, but the scissors were getting worse, and her fingers were starting to stick, and from outside the door, she could hear him pacing.

Three more times she tried, three times she failed, and finally, Brooke sighed. The shabby girl in the mirror wasn’t responsible, or plucky, or capable of surviving whatever life threw at her. Dark hair stuck out in sweat-damp clumps. Her wonderful sweater was now crusted over with a glossy sheen that looked wrong.

Her brothers would disown her…again. Maybe she didn’t have much, but she had her pride, she had her self-respect and she had a body that was uncomfortably stiff. All because of him. No, the Captain was going to pay for this and pay big. Slowly she smiled, the girl in the mirror looking less shabby by the minute. Thoughts of revenge did that to a woman.

Flinging open the door, Brooke brandished the scissors like a sword. “Ruined. Do you have something better? A blowtorch maybe?”

He studied her partial sweater-ectomy. Then he scratched his jaw, where the darkened stubble was starting to show. “Nah. Glue’s flammable.”

“This is no time for sarcasm.”

“Not sarcasm. Look it up.”

She glared. He shrugged. “Give me a minute.”

Less than thirty seconds later, he was back with a hunting knife capable of great destruction. The Captain’s face was tense, waiting for her to take the knife, but that wasn’t part of her plan, and so she spun around, giving him her back. “Make a clean cut, neck to hem,” she instructed. “You didn’t get any glue back there. It should go easier.”

The air crackled with his fear. “You’re sure about this?”

“Just do it,” she whispered in a teasing, taunting voice.

Gently he pulled aside her hair and in one quick slice, the sweater hung in two loose pieces, her back bare except for the single bra strap.

“You can…uh…handle the rest?” His words were rough, hesitant…awkward.

Oh, yes, revenge was a dish best served hot.

Brooke whirled around, plucked at the sweater’s remains and then pulled it off, standing before him in jeans and bra. His eye flickered, mouth tightening, but to his credit, he didn’t look down. Not once. The man had the self-control of a monk.

Well, pooh. However, Brooke wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

With a sticky-fingered snap she unhooked the front fastening, tugging at the tacky material, finally ridding herself of the bra, which was a genuine la Perla and had set her back an even fifty bucks.

Still the man didn’t look.

Here she was, stiff and uncomfortable, flaunting herself like some cheap tart. The least he could do was pay attention. Drastic measures were called for.

“You know, I might need mineral spirits for these babies, after all. Got some?”

This time, the eye flickered and his face flushed, the scar turning a liquid silver. One gray eye met hers, the same hot liquid-silver color as his scar. Brooke’s skin bloomed hot, then cold, the remains of the glue clinging to her chest, making her damp, moist, sticky…

Nope, not just the glue.

She thought he was going to touch her, was dying for him to touch her, but instead he spun on his heel and walked away.

“One can of mineral spirits, coming right up.”

4

JASON FLEW TO THE BACK shed before she spotted the tiny drop of glue on her knee and decided the jeans had to go, too.

God.

The word was a curse and a prayer, a testament to what a woman’s bare breasts could do to a man’s good intentions.

The shelves in front of him were filled with paint and oil and transmission fluid, and as his eyes scanned the contents, he realized that he didn’t have any damn mineral spirits.

Not that she needed mineral spirits on those beauties. The dusky hue of her nipples needed nothing more than a touch, a taste. No, chemicals would be a crime against nature. His fingers flexed, itched, copping a cheap feel from a nearby paint can that did absolutely nothing to relieve his pain.

Now what the heck was he supposed to? Her little striptease was payback, teasing, a cock-busting joke for throwing glue on her.

And who had thought of the glue?

No, he was going to have to face her, pretend that he’d never seen her naked, pretend that all this was no big deal.

After pulling down a tin of degreaser, he glanced at the no-big-deal bulge at his fly. She wouldn’t miss that. No, she’d laugh at his misery. She’d think that he deserved it.

Which he did, but he didn’t want her to know that.

Only one way to take care of that problem. Efficiently, Jason unzipped his jeans, taking matters into his own hand, and five minutes later, he was back to his normal-size piston, and all it had taken was the mental image of Brooke Hart, naked with dark-fire eyes, open-mouthed invitation, taut, perky breasts and the arousing shimmer of epoxy.

Oh, he’d been alone too long.

Once again, he felt the pull in his balls, the hardening in his cock, and he groaned in sexual agony.

Another ten minutes. That’d do it.

He was sure.

Maybe.

THEY BUMPED ALONG the road in the Captain’s pick-up, a tense ride because apparently the man wasn’t up to having a conversation.

Maybe she’d gone too far, maybe she’d ruined the image that she’d been going for. Slutty, instead of spunky. But slutty was preferable to pity.

She peeked at his profile, the right side of his face so normal, so capable. Then she thought of his bad eye, his scar. Lots of people would pity him, and he would hate it, just like she did.

It was a short drive to the heart of Tin Cup. Her new hometown. Her first day in Tin Cup, she’d tried to find the law offices of Harris and Howell, but only located lawyer Hiram Hadley. After hammering on his door for ten minutes, the dry cleaner next door said that he was in North Dakota taking care of his father who’d been ill. Other than that, she’d had little desire to explore, since she wasn’t eager to find Austen until she’d got herself in a more suitable situation. Still, she was deathly curious about this place, so she scanned the picturesque landscape, the neat clapboard homes, the rangy mesquite trees. It was so different from the places she’d been before, but the sight of the planters lining Main Street cheered her. It felt like home.

Not that she wanted to meet anyone when she was dressed like this. The Captain had given her a large, drab olive T-shirt. Though neatly tucked into her jeans, the shirt still looked wrong. That, and she wasn’t comfortable being without a bra. She crossed her arms over her chest, and he glanced at her. Then down.

Brooke smiled tightly.

“I shouldn’t have ruined your sweater.” This time, he sounded appropriately chastened. A no-holds-barred flash-job could do that to a man.

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“Aren’t you going to apologize, too?” he asked, apparently believing that she shared some blame in ruining her sweater.

“No,” she told him in a cheery, blame-free voice.

The Captain blew out a breath. “You don’t know me. You shouldn’t take stupid risks with someone you don’t know.”

This time, she blew out a breath. “Life is all about risks, taking chances. It doesn’t matter how safe and comfortable you want things to be. They never are.”

“No,” he agreed. “I’m sorry.”

This time he wasn’t apologizing for the sweater. He was apologizing for all the hardships in her life, which didn’t make her any happier. “I don’t want to be your cause du jour.”

“I don’t believe in causes.”

She doubted that, but kept quiet.

“You don’t have to sleep in your car,” the Captain said, braking at the lone stoplight in town.

“Inviting me to sleep somewhere else?” she teased. She wanted to hear him say it. She wanted to hear him admit that he wanted her. Some of it was pride and ego, some of it was that she wanted to be wanted, but the most urgent part was that she wanted him.

Charlene Hart wasn’t a fan of upstanding men. She liked her men footloose and flawed. And in the ten years since her death, Brooke hadn’t moved in the sort of circles where soft-hearted men roamed.

The soft-hearted man next to her looked at her, one eye that clearly saw so much. “No invitations. You can take the couch.”

She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.

Moments later he turned down Main Street, pulling to a stop in front of a tidy row of shops. The Hinkles’ grocery was there, a post office, Dot’s Diner and Tallyrand’s. “It’s not Paris, but Tallyrand’s has some good shirts. And shoes.”

Then he passed her a credit card. “Get what you need.”

She stared at him, squared her shoulders. “I’ll pay you back.”

“I know.”

Then she smiled, liking his confidence in her, liking the way the sun played in his hair. The Captain needed a haircut, and tomorrow, she would tell him. “Thank you.”

“Your brother should take you in.” He paused. “If he is your brother.”

Did he have to ruin it now? “You don’t ask me questions, I won’t ask you any, either.”

The Captain nodded. “Fair enough. Get what you need. An hour’s enough time?”

“More than enough.”

TWO HOURS LATER, and Brooke had yet to show up at the truck. Jason considered leaving her in town, but as tempting as the idea was, it was a hot afternoon, and he couldn’t bring himself to abandon her.

Her or her breasts.

Deciding that he had to find out, he made his way through the seven stores of downtown Tin Cup before finally tracking her down in the same place she’d started— Tallyrand’s. Tallyrand’s was a combination feed and clothing store, owned by Rita Tallyrand, who was the former Ms. Pecos Valley back in 1957. It wasn’t the sort of personal detail that Jason usually remembered except that Rita reminded everybody each time they came into the store.

“Captain!” Rita called out, and Jason managed a smile, immediately spotting Brooke next to the shelves full of shirts. She was still wearing his old T-shirt. Two hours of shopping and zilch to show for it?

Jason closed his eyes, telling himself to be patient, but then Rita waylaid him and he knew escape was impossible. What was worse than a nightmare?

“Captain,” she whispered, eyes fixed on Brooke. “You know her? Gladys said you knew her. Who is she? One of the Harts? There was no girl, but that’s how she introduced herself. Said she was a sister. I wanted to call the Sheriff, to find out what’s what, but the Sheriff was out babysitting for Mindy. Have you seen the new baby?”

It was gossip like that that kept Jason far away. “No.”

Rita frowned. “No, you don’t know her?”

“I know her,” he volunteered, choosing not to divulge any more of the pertinent facts he knew about her, not that they were facts, exactly. More supposition, he supposed.

“She’s a Hart?” Rita asked again.

Now this was where it got tricky. Jason knew that Gillian Wanamaker and Austen Hart were tight, and if he told Rita that Brooke was a Hart, and it turned out that Brooke wasn’t a Hart, but part of some wild, best-forgotten weekend from Austen Hart’s past, then Gillian would be crashing down Jason’s door because not only did Gillian Wanamaker have a possessive streak, but she was the sheriff, and also carried a gun.

After glancing at Brooke, he laughed in a knowing way. “She’s not a Hart. Not even a family friend. Seems like she read about the Hart family troubles and thought the whole thing was romantic in a Bonnie and Clyde trailer trash sort of way. Too much television in her life,” he added, not wanting Rita to think that Brooke was mentally unstable or anything.

Rita still eyed Brooke suspiciously. “She’s been browsing in the shirt section for two hours. Maybe Gladys is right about the girl’s possible sticky fingers, although I don’t see where she could hide a shirt.”

“She’s a good kid.”

Rita shot him a curious look. “Not a kid.”

Rather than confirm that Jason knew she wasn’t a kid, but a healthy, well-developed woman, he chose to keep his mouth shut.

“Can you get her out of here?” Rita asked. “I want to close up and make it home before I miss the news.”

There was nothing more that Jason would like than to get her out of here. As he approached her, Brooke smiled and motioned him closer.

“I can’t decide between the darker blue with long sleeves, or this plain cotton tee. The long-sleeved one is better quality, but—” she glanced at Rita and pitched her voice low “—it’s a little pricy.”

Patiently Jason removed both shirts from her hands and gave them to Rita. “We’ll get them both.”

Brooke grabbed the shirts back. “No. We won’t. One shirt.”

Rita watched the exchange, not saying a word. Smart lady.

However, Jason knew that Brooke wasn’t going to give in. Part of him understood her need to make it on her own. Part of him thought she was an idiot for being too stubborn, and part of him, a very masochistic part, wanted to see her naked again.

“One shirt,” Jason agreed. That was his hard-on talking.

“Which one?” Brooke asked, holding up one shirt then the other.

“The blue one looks nice with your hair,” Rita offered, now realizing that money would eventually change hands.

Brooke flipped over the price tag, chewed on her lip. “But it’s so expensive.”

“All cotton,” Rita explained. “And look at the seams. You’re not going to get that sort of stitching for a song.”

And still Brooke shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Slowly Jason counted to ten.

“It’s worth every penny.”

Brooke chewed on her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe if it was…oh, ten percent less. Then I wouldn’t feel so extravagant.”

Jason counted to twenty this time. Didn’t help.

Rita considered the offer and finally nodded.

“Ten percent, but only because you’re a friend of the Captain’s.”

“My family is from here,” Brooke said, following Rita to the register. Rita turned, giving Jason a knowing wink.

“Well, sure, sweetie. Is this cash, check or charge? I’ll need four forms of ID if you’re writing a check.”

Brooke handed her Jason’s credit card. “Charge, please. I’ll need the receipt.”

Jason knew the instant that Rita read his name on the card.

“Credit is so fast these days,” Rita murmured, folding up the shirt. “Just one quick slide and then, whoops, look what you’ve done.”

“I don’t believe in credit myself,” Brooke told her, noting the frilly bookmarks displayed on the counter, studying each one carefully. “It’s too easy to lose your head.”

Rita looked at Jason. “Isn’t it, though?”

This time Jason counted to ninety-nine in multiples of three. Still didn’t help.

After Rita handed the bag to Brooke, she smiled. “You’ll be staying with the Captain?”

“Oh, no,” Brooke laughed, as if the idea was ludicrous. “He’s my boss.”

Rita raised her brows. “Really?”

Brooke laughed again, not so quickly this time. “I needed a job, and he offered me a position at his house. Inventory. I think I’d like to organize things a bit better. It’s a little chaotic.” She pulled the package tight to her chest. “I’m new here. I’m trying to start off right. I know I’m a stranger, but I hope you’ll give me a chance.”

Seeing the sincerity in Brooke’s face, Rita thawed. Jason understood. “We don’t get much entertainment out here, so sometimes we make up our own.”

Brooke leaned in closer. “I know exactly what you mean. Maybe sometime I could come in and chat?”

Through the window, Jason could see the setting sun and he wanted nothing more than for this day to be through. “I think Rita wants to close up,” he told Brooke, in case she decided that now was a good time to chat.

Rita clucked her tongue. “They are always impatient, aren’t they?”

Brooke laughed and Jason hurried her out the door.

ON THE DRIVE BACK, Jason watched as Brooke took out her new shirt and laid it over her lap. Her fingers worked the buttons, and he realized that this was a woman who wasn’t used to a lot of clothes.

“I’m sorry about the sweater,” he apologized again, but this time, he felt like words weren’t enough.

“I wouldn’t have kept it,” she told him with a forgiving smile, as if it didn’t matter, but Jason knew she would have kept that sweater until she died. The right thing to do would be to buy her a new sweater. Something pretty. Something nice. Something extravagant.

“I’m sorry about what Rita was thinking,” he continued. Apparently, today was the day that apologies were flowing like wine. Sonya had always hated that he never apologized.

“She thought we were having sex. It’s not a big deal.” Brooke’s head was down, dark hair hiding her face from view.

“It wouldn’t be if it were true, but it’s not, so it is a big deal.” He sounded like the world’s biggest prude, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t know why he didn’t mind, but when Brooke smiled up at him, he knew he’d said the right thing.

“I can cook dinner for you if you like.”

Such nice words, such dangerous words. In the back of his head, Jason knew this wasn’t smart, but on the other hand, he didn’t want her to starve, either.

“I have a frozen pizza, not much else.” It wasn’t meant to be an invitation. But it was.

“A frozen pizza and a can of peas,” she reminded him with a smile that shot straight to places he’d rather not be thinking about right this second, but like a dog, he kept on thinking, anyway. He kept on panting, too, kept on remembering the sight of her perfect breasts.

A tiny voice urged him to take, but there was something in her eyes that held him back. He saw desire there, sure, but also he saw gratitude, and he felt as if he should lay out the ground rules before she did something they would both regret.

“Brooke?”

“Yes?”

Suddenly, a rabbit jumped across the road, and Jason swerved to avoid it. Brooke fell against him, her hand clutching his thigh, his engorged crotch.

Damn.

Quickly, her hand was gone, and Brooke shot to the opposite side of the bench seat. It was safer with her there.

Jason cleared his throat. “This is a very small town, and there are a lot of behaviors that are frowned upon.”

She glanced at him, a provocative smile on her provocative mouth. He wanted to taste that provocative mouth.

“Are we having the sex talk?” she asked.

“It’s not a sex talk,” he protested, then rubbed his face where his scar was starting to throb. “It’s more of an anti-sex talk. This is a dangerous situation and I know you think you’re attracted to me but, hell, Brooke. I don’t want a woman in my bed because I bought her a shirt.”

It was the wrong thing to say because off came her shirt. Jason tried desperately not to stare at the twin mounds of taut flesh. Failed. “Can we please wear our clothes?”

She turned, offering her breasts before him like some buffet plate. “It’s your shirt and you think I want to sleep with you because you gave me a shirt. Ergo, no shirt. No problem.”

His mouth grew dry, his cock started to ache and his foot was pushing as hard as it could on the gas. “Put on the shirt.”

She grinned and ran a hand through her hair, dark against her perfect ivory skin. “No.”

“Please,” he asked nicely, hearing the crack in his voice.

“No. I’m an adult, capable of following the call of my loins, and if your shirt is going to get in the way…”

Jason kept his eyes on the road, but it didn’t help distract him from his desire for her. Up ahead he could see his long, gravel drive. His bed, her laying across his bed, wearing nothing but him.

“Brooke,” he tried again, not looking. Damn. He was looking. The woman had the most perfect set of breasts on the planet, and apparently she wasn’t shy about showing them off.

This was probably how Hart got in trouble with her. They were probably somewhere in Vegas, she pulled off her shirt and kapow. Circuits were fried, good intentions were lost and sex was had. Halfway up the drive, he slammed on the brakes because he needed clothes on her before they made it to the house. In the truck, there were rules, gear-shifts. In the house, all bets were off.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, laying her arm across the back of the seat, so hot, so warm, so…

“Brooke,” he repeated, pleading, since all he wanted to do was touch her, kiss her, take her. Her fingers tiptoed across the edge of his seat, flicking against his neck. It was the first time she’d ever touched him.

Jason turned, met her eyes firmly. “No.”

She cocked her head. “You don’t want me?” She knew he did, but he couldn’t tell her. It was the last armament keeping him in check.

“I don’t want you.”

Her hand slid from his face to his hard-on. Softly, tortuously, she squeezed. “Liar.”

“This isn’t right.”

Brooke slid closer, her breasts brushing against his arm, and he could smell his soap on her, his shampoo. “Kiss me. Make it right.”

As she said the words, she licked her lips and that was all he could take.

Jason grabbed her, pulled her astride him, and devoured her mouth like the starving man he was. Her fingers stroked his hair, his face. So long, too long. He explored her mouth with his tongue, feeling her warm welcome. It was like drowning.

His hands grabbed her breasts, knowing exactly where to touch, and she arched into him, riding his cock like they were already there.

He wanted her already there. He wanted inside her. He wanted to feel her. All of her. With clumsy fingers he attacked her fly, feeling the metal give, sliding beneath the rough denim, finding…her.

His finger thrust inside her, and she nipped at his lip, and Jason knew he wouldn’t make it to the house.

It had been so long. She felt so good. His finger pushed harder, higher, feeling the wet heat. Each time he thrust, she rode him. Hard, sure…sweet.

A woman at a vulnerable place, a woman who needed respect and patience.

Sweetness.

Some of his calm returned and he kissed her again, trying to take things gentle and slow. Her mouth tasted like peppermint and fire and her hips kept arching toward him, riding him…loving him.

Patience?

He was going to die.

“Take me here, Captain. Please.”

Her hands poised over his fly, waiting.

And who was he to stay no? Resigned to his fate, Jason opened his one good eye, stared at his house, blinked twice, and then prayed that his vision was wrong.

Survival instincts kicked in, he pushed Brooke aside and fumbled for the damned shirt.

“What’s wrong?” asked the topless woman who didn’t think that modesty was a good thing.

Wrong? She had no idea of the trouble her breasts were about to get them into. Everything was wrong because approaching the truck in her ridiculous heels was Sonya.

Seeing the other woman, Brooke finally had the sense to cover herself. “Who’s that?” she asked, and he could hear the hurt in her voice. He hated the hurt.

“I’m Sonya Kincaid. Mrs. Sonya Kincaid.”

Brooke gasped, but before she could kill him Jason clarified the situation. “Ex. She’s my ex.”

5

OUT OF THE THREE OF THEM, Brooke was the only one completely relaxed. Inside the house, Sonya was perched on a barstool and the Captain brooded unhappily on his couch. Brooke pulled in a footstool from the porch and prepared to watch family dynamics in action. On television, families fought and then laughed, all in a thirty-minute interval punctuated with fast-food commercials. In shelters, families never fought, only stared ahead, silent and shuttered, not wanting to give anything away. Brooke suspected reality was somewhere in between.

She glanced curiously back and forth, until Sonya flushed pink.

“Could we have some privacy?” asked Jason’s former wife in a snippy voice that Brooke thought was stress rather than a natural condition.

“I could go out to the car,” Brooke offered cheerfully.

“She’s a guest,” the Captain said. “She stays.”

At his words, Brooke looked at Sonya and shrugged innocently.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” the Captain asked his former wife. Sonya Kincaid was very pretty in a very blond way and was wearing a sleek red suit that matched her lipstick perfectly. She wasn’t what Brooke would have expected of the Captain’s ex-wife. She was way too neat, but maybe that explained the divorce.

Sonya brushed at her skirt, which was immaculate like the rest of her. “Aunt Gladys called last night. I had been planning to drive out to see you anyway, so I decided it was time to stop by. She was concerned. We all are.”

The Captain scowled. “You drove out here for nothing.”

Sonya nodded at Brooke. “Apparently not.”

Sensing the tense undercurrents in the room, Brooke felt it was time to clarify the situation. “Primitive sexual urges are completely normal. No reason to worry about that. Giving in to our animalistic nature is inevitable.”

Sonya rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You’re taking advantage of Jason, and there’s no one out here to put a stop to it.”

The Captain stood and glared at his former wife. “Get the hell out.” His voice was low, gruff, and it was the first time that Brooke felt a shiver of fear.

Quickly, Sonya gathered her purse and started for the door, but Brooke called out before she could leave.

“Wait. Don’t go like this. You walked in on an awkward situation. I’m sure that seeing your ex locked in a torrid embrace with someone new was difficult, and you’ve got a right to be a little bitchy.” Brooke winked at the Captain. “But we’re all mature adults here, and I know the Captain is a big enough man to forgive you.” Then she smiled at him. “Isn’t that right?”

Sonya didn’t seem happy, but at least her nostrils had lost that pinched look. She stared at the Captain, and Brooke waited, hoping that she’d done the right thing.

Finally the Captain waved a hand, and Sonya sat. “So why are you here?”

“Can we discuss this in private?” Sonya asked, apparently not one to learn from her mistakes.

“No. Brooke stays.”

Once again, Brooke shrugged innocently and Sonya sighed. “I want to talk to you about the test well.”

Test well? Now Brooke was intrigued. This was oil country, the land of black oil and undiscovered riches. Her home.

“No,” snapped the Captain, apparently not so intrigued.

“Why?” his former wife asked, a perfectly reasonable question in Brooke’s opinion.

“After the discharge, I moved out here to be by myself. The last thing I want is people hanging around here.”

“You need the money,” Sonya argued.

“You mean you need the money,” the Captain replied. “You have the house in Killeen. I have this place. You got the better deal. Case closed.”

Sonya glanced at Brooke. “Let’s not have this argument in front of the girl.”

Brooke grinned. “Don’t mind me. I’m thinking of making popcorn.”

“Jason!”

“Brooke,” the Captain warned.

Brooke held up her hands to keep the peace. “No popcorn.”

By now the Captain’s color had returned to normal, his scar faded to the color of bone, and Brooke was happy to see the smile at the corners of his mouth. He was having a good time…just like she’d intended.

He leaned back against the couch, legs splayed, the faded jeans clinging to powerful thighs that were as hard as bricks. Remembering exactly how they felt beneath her, Brooke felt a momentary throb between her legs, a reminder of an itch that had yet to be scratched. Secretly, she checked the digital clock on the wall. Eight-seventeen. It was still early. Darn it.

“How’s Tom?” the Captain asked.

Sonya crossed her legs, uncrossed her legs. “He left, and please don’t lecture me. I don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m sorry,” the Captain said, and his former wife’s eyes were wide with surprise.

“Did you love Tom?” Brooke asked, which was not any of her business, but Sonya seemed heartbroken and Brooke wanted to know exactly who had broken her heart. The Captain or this Tom?

“I thought I loved him.” Sonya peeked under lashes at the Captain, apparently still fostering some hope. “I was wrong.”

While the Captain watched his former wife, Brooke held her breath. If there were still feelings involved, she certainly would get out of the way. It was the honorable thing to do, but…

Brooke frowned, not nearly so intrigued anymore.

Sonya stood. “I’ll leave now. I’m sorry for interrupting. Think about the well, Jason. At least then you could hire someone to haul away this junk.”

Brooke kept quiet, this wasn’t her concern, and after she heard the door close, she found the Captain watching her. There was no fire in his gaze, no feeling at all.

The apathy hurt, and she wished it didn’t.

“There’s a bunk in the shed outside,” he started, and Brooke managed a smile.

“I’ll sleep in my car. It’s more comfortable and I bought this goose-feather duvet in Oklahoma. It’s very nice.” Brooke moved toward the door, but the Captain took her arm before she could leave.

“I’ll take the shed. Sleep in the bed. You need the rest.”

Okay, rest wasn’t what she’d been thinking. The Captain noticed her look, and his hand fell away. “I knew this wasn’t smart.”

“You still love her?” Brooke hadn’t meant to ask, but the words were out before she could stop them.

“No. A long time ago I was stationed at Ft. Hood. I met Sonya. We got married. After I was in Iraq, she met Tom. Three months later we were divorced.”

And instantly Brooke understood the depths of Sonya’s betrayal. Wishing she could do more, Brooke covered his hand, marveled at the strength, the competence, the heart within him.

For a moment he held on before opening the door. Brooke frowned, wondering what she had missed. “Why are you leaving?”

He touched her hair, smiled sadly. Somehow the Captain seemed worldly wise. “It’s not right.”

“You think I’m taking advantage of you?”

“No. I think I’m taking advantage of you.”

The anger simmered slowly inside her, building, spilling over into something more dangerous. “Do I look stupid?”

The Captain took a cautious step back. “No.”

“Then why have you decided that this is a bad idea? You were a happy man earlier. You seemed thrilled.” She glanced at his crotch. “All of you.”

The Captain flushed. “It was a mistake. You’re in an uncertain situation. I’m the only person you know in Texas.”

“Except for Austen,” she reminded him.

The Captain’s expression was alarmed. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see him.”

Brooke sighed. “Well, no, not until I get back on my feet. And I will,” she added, seeing his skepticism.

“I know, but sex confuses things.”

She glared. “Do I look confused?”

“No.”

“Are you confused?”

“No.”

Somehow the Captain could be very dense. “Then why are you still wearing clothes?”

This time, she was happy to see an appropriate level of apprehension. “You haven’t eaten,” he pointed out, an obvious stall tactic, and Brooke took a predatory step closer.

“If I was hungry, I would say so. I have a tongue in my head. I know how to use it.”

The Captain took another step back. The door snapped shut.

“This is gratitude,” he argued.

Her hands went to the hem of her T-shirt.

“Not the shirt. Not again.” He swore, and Brooke realized that she needed to change her tactics, so she did.

She came to him, rose up on her toes, and laid her head on his heart. It was a good heart, a noble heart, and Brooke was pleased that Sonya had thrown him over.

Sonya was an idiot.

Ever so slowly, his arms wrapped around her, iron bands made of steel. Everything faded to silence, except for the beat of her blood. He tilted her chin, met her eyes, giving her a last chance to leave. However, he felt right, this felt right, and she reached up to trace the jagged edge of his scar with a gentle touch.

Instead of letting her touch him, the Captain bent, covered her mouth with his, kissing her urgently, with no gentleness at all. His strong hands skimmed lower, molding her hips to his, and when she felt the hard ridge honing between her legs, Brooke groaned happily.

This was what she wanted, he was what she wanted. He pulled her shirt over her head, and his mouth moved to her breast, her nipple, sucking until the flesh was taut and needy. The stubble on his jaw was rough against her skin, a friction that was both pleasure and pain.

There was something about this man that spoke to her, aroused her. Underneath the scars and the machines was a man who cared. A man who didn’t want to.

Tonight, she wanted to give him what he had given her. Peace. Hope. Happiness.

Needing to feel him, she tore at the buttons on his shirt, ruining a perfectly good garment, but his mouth was making her crazy, the prodding pressure between her legs was making her crazy. Her hands explored the smooth planes of his back. With her lips she tasted the warm salt of his neck, and her fingers teased his nipples until he told her to stop. The couch was too far, the floor so convenient, and they fell there, the Captain stripping off her jeans and her panties, thrusting a finger inside her. Her eyes locked with his, the gray darkened to smoke. With each stroke, her muscles pulsed, the pressure building higher and higher.

It was like nothing she’d ever felt. The pleasure, yes. The security, no, and that was the most erotic thrill of all. Her nails dug into the wall of his shoulders, anchoring there because her body was about to explode.

She could see the sheen of sweat on him, feel the strain in his body, his arms. Total control.

Her legs flexed and she shuddered, and still his hand moved. Faster, harder…

Yes…

A low whimper broke from her and when she was ready to come, he stole his finger from her. She whapped at his back, but then his mouth trailed kisses down her breasts, her stomach. With rough hands, he parted her legs, and Brooke’s heart stuttered and then threatened to stop.

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