He’d come for her.

The wild, reckless boy of her dreams had turned into the dark, dangerous man of her nightmares.

Only his eyes were as she remembered—bold, piercing and purposeful.

He knew.

“You look good. Just as I remembered you,” he said.

And he still had the ability to paralyze her—that stomach-quivering, breath-hitching, knee-jellying, mind-numbing power to immobilize her with one curve of his mouth.

He had no right to sashay into her store, into her life. Not after all this time.

“Why don’t you crawl out the way you came in?”

Connor’s nostrils flared slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Same old sassy mouth, too.”

Dear Reader,

This May, we celebrate Mother’s Day and a fabulous month of uplifting romances. I’m delighted to introduce RITA® Award finalist Carol Stephenson, who debuts with her heartwarming reunion romance, Nora’s Pride. Carol writes, “Nora’s Pride is very meaningful to me, as my mother, my staunchest fan and supporter, passed away in May 2000. I’m sure she’s smiling down at me from heaven. She passionately believed this would be my first sale.” A must-read for your list!

The Princess and the Duke, by Allison Leigh, is the second book in the CROWN AND GLORY series. Here, a princess and a duke share a kiss, but can their love withstand the truth about a royal assassination? We have another heart-thumper from the incomparable Marie Ferrarella with Lily and the Lawman, a darling city-girl-meets-small-town-boy romance.

In A Baby for Emily, Ginna Gray delivers an emotionally charged love story in which a brooding hero lays claim to a penniless widow who, unbeknownst to her, is carrying their child…. Sharon De Vita pulls on the heartstrings with A Family To Come Home To, in which a rugged rancher searches for his family and finds true love! You also won’t want to miss Patricia McLinn’s The Runaway Bride, a humorous tale of a sexy cowboy who rescues a distressed bride.

I hope you enjoy these exciting books from Silhouette Special Edition—the place for love, life and family. Come back for more winning reading next month!

Sincerely,

Karen Taylor Richman

Senior Editor

Nora’s Pride
Carol Stephenson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Mom, with the angels in heaven, and Dad.

Because of your endless love and belief in me,

I reached for the stars and achieved my dreams.

This one is for you with all my love.

CAROL STEPHENSON

credits her mother for her love of books and her father for her love of travel, but when she gripped a camera and pen for the first time, she found her two greatest loves—photography and writing.

An attorney in South Florida, she constantly juggles the demands of the law with those of writing. I-95 traffic jams are perfect for dictating tales of hard-fought love. She’s thrilled that her debut as a published author is with Silhouette Special Edition. You can drop Carol a note at P.O. Box 1176, Boynton Beach, FL 33425-1176.

Rose Advice by Connor Devlin

1. Tuck roses into your jacket lapel…and hers, too

2. Sprinkle rose petals atop your steaming hot bathtub…and your bed

3. Build a rosebush nursery, so you always have fresh roses at hand

4. Develop a new kind of rose…and name it after the woman you love

5. Massage the woman you love with freshly plucked rose petals…everywhere…

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Prologue

Arcadia Heights, Ohio

Twenty years ago

Their hands.

When Abigail McCall opened the front door to her house, she first saw three pairs of hands, linked together across their bodies. So small, so fine, clamped white with tension.

Then, as she looked farther, she saw the three terrified pairs of eyes watching her above reddened cheeks. Three little girls joined together by blood and tragedy.

Abigail had been cursing the fates since she’d received the phone call yesterday. Her younger sister, Tess, had always been bent on destruction and had finally found it in a tawdry motel room. Thirty-five and dead of a drug overdose. Now the only evidence of Tess’s brief life was the three youngsters standing on Abigail’s porch.

Tess had never cared about the bindings of marriage, had never stayed with the same man longer than a few months, had never bothered to protect herself. Her foolishness had produced three daughters by three different men. None of their fathers had come forward to claim the girls.

In the end, Tess’s irresponsibility had come home to roost at her older sister’s door. Abigail had been tempted to tell the social worker who called yesterday to take a hike. Why should she let Tess be the albatross around her neck again? Why should she pay the price for her sister’s mistakes? She’d liked the life she’d made for herself in this small Midwest town, and she liked living alone.

But all thoughts of rejecting the girls shriveled and died the moment Abigail saw the poorly clothed little ones shivering before her. Their linked hands testified to their fear and their unified strength.

The tallest and eldest stood on the right, her thin shoulders hunched against the cold. Long black hair whipped around her pinched features.

On the other end, a pint-size blond angel waited patiently, her blue eyes wistfully fixed on the glowing light spilling from the front parlor onto the veranda’s weathered planks.

Sandwiched between the two was the youngest child, who fidgeted until the oldest looked at her. The girl went still and stared, owl-eyed, at Abigail. Wisps of cinnamon-colored hair straggled out from under the brim of her blue knit cap. She lifted one joined pair of hands to wipe her nose. The older girl rolled her eyes but didn’t let go, as if she feared someone would snatch her sister away.

Poor children. None of this was their doing.

Tears pricked Abigail’s eyes. In that moment she lost her heart to them. Her nieces had suffered enough. It was time for them to have a real home.

Abigail dropped to her knees, silently encircling her nieces with her arms. Three heartbeats later, the blond pixie shyly put her free hand on Abigail’s shoulder and frowned at her oldest sister. Eyes grayer than the November sky studied Abigail, judged her and came to a decision. The older girl’s hand came up to rest on Abigail’s shoulder. The smallest child, encapsulated by her sisters, flashed a dimpled smile and threw both hands around Abigail’s neck.

They were hers now.

Three nights later, after the girls were asleep, Abigail carried a steaming mug of hot chocolate into her workshop at the rear of the house and went straight to her bench. During the summer months, she normally trekked across the backyard to her pottery shop, which faced the main business street. But with winter’s unrelenting cold and wind, she retreated to a workshop set up in her converted den, which also accessed the back porch. Cocooned from the cantankerous weather, she worked her magic.

After unwrapping the plastic sheet from a block of ironware-grade clay, she placed the slab on the potter’s wheel. After sluicing water over her hands, Abigail kneaded the clay, getting the feel of the formative powers of this particular lump. She closed her eyes and began to run her hands up and down the cool, moist material. Gradually she relaxed, the familiar tempo of molding the clay taking over all thought. Only instinct pulsed through her now.

The lump lifted, separated into three pieces. Experiencing only the sculpture, Abigail lost track of time. She scraped, she hollowed, she smoothed the pliable material. As she refined and refined again, her thoughts and prayers poured through her busy fingers into the clay.

Thoughts of love, prayers of hope, promises of forever—all worked into the core of the sculpture.

Finally Abigail stopped, spent, and wiped her clay-covered arm across her sleepy eyes. She dipped her aching hands into water, then wiped them with a towel. Biting her lower lip, she studied this newest piece of her heart.

From behind she heard a whispered exclamation of “Gosh!” She turned to find her nieces, dressed only in their pajamas, huddled together for warmth on the oak floor. The youngest, Eve, squirmed with excitement, restrained only by her sisters from getting up; the ethereal angel, Christina, glowed with inner fire as she studied the statuette. She looked at Abigail and said, “It’s so beautiful.”

Nora, the oldest one, solemnly studied the form without any visible reaction. She had been the last to eat, drink, bathe and go to bed each night. She’d always put her sisters first. To gain this trio’s trust, Abigail knew she needed to win Nora’s.

Rolling her head to relieve the kinks in her neck, Abigail smiled at the potential critic. “What do you think, Nora?”

The girl rose and walked to the wheel. Almost against her will, she reached out, then flushed red and stopped. “Whose hands are they?”

Abigail glanced at her work—three small hands, clasped together and raised, fragile fingers reaching toward the sky. She reached out and drew the child’s stiff, resisting body to her side and rested her chin on the black silky hair.

“They are your hands, Nora. Yours and your sisters’.”

“Why?” The child’s voice was gruff. “Why did you bother to make our hands?”

“To remind you that the three of you will be bound together forever.”

Suddenly the other sisters draped themselves over her knees. Christina’s blue eyes were dreamy with enchantment. “Will it have a name? Like the other stuff you did?”

Abigail ran her hand over the soft, short cap of platinum hair. “Yes, Christina. I’m going to call it Sisters Three.”

Eve pursed her lips, her brown eyes surprisingly calculating in her six-year-old face. “Aunt Abigail, do you make lots of money?”

“Eve!” Nora glared at her sister, who grinned back, unrepentant.

Aunt. The word pulsed, shimmered in the air. Abigail swallowed a lump of emotion. None of them had called her that before. They were hers now, to protect, to raise, to love. And she would, until her dying breath.

“It’s all right, Nora. We’re a family now.” She paused, spotting a brief flicker of hope in the oldest girl’s eyes. Abigail wished she could chase away Nora’s fears. She couldn’t, not now, but she could nurture that spark of belief until one day it would vanquish the terror in her eyes.

To Eve she said, “I do all right with my pottery. Good enough that tomorrow we’re going shopping to buy you proper winter coats.”

Christina beamed. “I want a purple coat.”

“I want blue.” Eve patted Abigail’s knee for attention.

Abigail laughed. “I’m sure we can find a blue coat for you. How about you, Nora? What color do you like?”

Her stormy eyes too dark to reveal her thoughts, Nora shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. My coat’s okay. Eve and Christina need coats more.”

Eve expectantly held up her arms. Abigail lifted the child onto her lap. The little girl leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Nora’s always wanted a red coat, but Mama never had the money.”

Abigail smiled. “Then red it is for Nora.” She stroked Eve’s cheek, marveling at the smooth, velvety texture. She noticed Nora studying the statue. “Well, sweetheart, do you like it or not?”

“It’s missing one thing, Aunt Abigail.” The girl turned toward them and held her hand palm up. Her sisters brought their hands up, leaving a space. Three expectant pairs of eyes stared at her. Her vision blurry, Abigail lifted her hand and completed the circle.

Chapter One

Arcadia Heights

The present

The clay figurine slipped from Nora McCall’s numb fingers and exploded into a million pieces across the bare oak floorboards, shattering with it twelve years of Nora’s carefully structured life. Her heart pounded with fear.

The tall man with eyes the color of a deep-blue sky entered the pottery shop. Only one male had that hell-bent-for-trouble walk, and that was Connor Devlin.

The very same man who was definitely heading her way.

Find Abby and hide, she thought as the blood roared in her ears. Instead, she stood, frozen by the man’s determined gaze.

Her fingers flexed as she nervously glanced down at the floor. As she realized what she’d done a sensation of horror seeped through her.

Oh, no, she thought frantically. Not Abby’s cat. Nora knelt and, heedless of the jagged edges, began scooping up the fragments. It was totaled. She’d never be able to glue it together again. Never.

Scuffed boot tips stopped before her.

Nora’s hands stilled. One more crime to lay at Connor Devlin’s feet—he’d destroyed her daughter’s Mother’s Day present.

“Hello, Nora.”

She looked up. The wild, reckless boy of her dreams had turned into the dark, dangerous man of her nightmares. But he still wore the same rebel’s uniform he had always worn: white T-shirt, second-skin blue jeans and trademark well-worn bomber jacket.

“What are you doing here?”

“You always could bring me to my knees, Nora McCall.” Before she could rise and protect the precious pieces of Abby’s cat, he crouched beside her, his hands brushing hers as he began picking up the broken pottery.

“Go away, Connor. I don’t need your help,” she snapped. She tried to nudge his hands aside, but he scooped up the last piece of clay. Frissons of awareness tingled along her arm, only to explode into raging resentment when he gripped her elbow and propelled her to her feet.

She broke free. Time had taken the boy’s youth and replaced it with a man’s face of sharp angles and planes. The once tall, rangy body had hardened into whipcord toughness. Windswept, sun-streaked chestnut hair fell over his brow and collar. Only his eyes were as she remembered—bold, piercing and purposeful.

He knew. He’d come for her.

“You look good. Just as I remembered you.”

And he still had the ability to paralyze her—that stomach-quivering, breath-hitching, knee-jellying, mind-numbing power to immobilize with one curve of his mouth.

The shop bell chimed again, announcing visitors. Nora grabbed hold of her composure. This was their big day—the grand opening of Kilning You Softly—and she wouldn’t let a ghost from her past ruin it.

She was no longer a young, impressionable girl who could be swayed by gorgeous eyes and a sexy mouth. Since her one life-altering mistake, she had avoided following her mother’s path. The man before her meant nothing but trouble. He had no right to sashay into her store, into her life. Not after all this time.

She had to get rid of him.

The lawyer in her took over. “Why don’t you get back on your knees and crawl out the way you came in.”

Connor’s nostrils flared slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Same old sassy mouth, too.”

“My mouth is none of your business, Connor Devlin. Why are you here?” Needing space, she turned to the side and gently laid the pottery fragments on the hutch.

Connor moved to stand beside her. “Business.” He held his hand over the wastepaper basket to throw out the shards.

Nora clutched his arm. “No! Don’t!” She wrapped her fingers around his and pried at the shards. “Ow!” She snatched her hand away and cradled it. Blood oozed from a jagged gash on the base of her left thumb.

Connor dumped the pieces on the sideboard. “Here, let me see that.” His hand cupped hers.

Blinking away tears, Nora bent her head to get a closer look at the damage. Her forehead bumped Connor’s. She bit back a curse as he gently probed the wound on her palm. The backs of his hands were broad and tanned, with a faint dusting of golden hair. She could feel the rough texture of his calluses as he wiped away the trail of blood. The hands of the boy were now the hard hands of a man. Whatever had happened to him, Connor still used his hands for a living.

Nora slanted a quick look at him through her wet lashes. His brow was furrowed as he checked her hand. Surreptitiously she leaned closer. Beyond the leather and soap, she could smell the sun and the earth clinging to him like an indelible part of his makeup.

Connor dragged a black bandanna from a pocket inside his jacket and wrapped it around the cut. “What was so important about that…” He glanced at the fragments and apparently couldn’t divine their former existence. He shook his head. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth slicing off a chunk of your finger. It’s not as if it were irreplaceable like The Sisters Three.”

No, it was only her daughter’s attempt to console Nora over Aunt Abigail’s death. It was every bit as precious to her as Abigail’s most famous work, which glowed in its place of honor on the mantel in the store’s rear alcove.

But Connor wouldn’t know that. He wouldn’t know about anniversaries, birthdays or deaths. After all, he hadn’t been around for twelve years. Hadn’t cared to be present. And now he had the audacity to lecture her in her own shop, filled with people she knew. People he’d scorned. The moment he knotted the fabric, she jerked her hand free and stepped away from him.

Irritation flashed across his face. “If you’re worried about germs, that’s a clean bandanna.” He folded his arms. “I think you’ll live, but you’d better have Doc Sims take a look at the cut to make sure you don’t need stitches.”

“I’m fine.” And because Aunt Abigail had taught her better, she added, “Thanks.” She looked down at her wrapped hand and caught sight of her watch. Almost eleven. She needed to get him out of the store. Now.

Her sisters, Christina and Eve, crossed to her, and she drew comfort from their presence. She would get through this, just as she had every other obstacle tossed in her path.

Nora McCall, standing proud, was a bittersweet image branded in Connor’s memory. Once he had hoped to share his life with her, but that dream had never stood a chance. His pact with the devil, his mother, had seen to that.

Yet, over the years, doubt regarding his decision to leave town, to leave Nora, had snapped relentlessly at his conscience in the lonely hours when night met dawn. Now, seeing Nora and her sisters, a part of him felt at peace. The McCall girls were still together in a place they loved.

The devil had apparently kept her side of the bargain. She would not be pleased he was breaking his.

He nodded at the women. “Eve, Christina. Good to see you both.” But he kept his gaze on Nora, even though every muscle in his body wound tighter. Tense as rectitude, his mother would have said.

Nora was still a knockout. From her lustrous black hair to her pressed jacket, she was all trim and lovely. And he had this craving to touch her, to feel once more the jolt of her pulse. If he had succumbed to his urge to press his lips against the soft flesh of her thumb while he had tended her wound, would he have found heat still running deep beneath her cool exterior?

The jab of desire irritated him, but Connor absorbed it. His gaze strayed to Nora’s wrapped left hand. She wore no ring. If she hadn’t married, would things have turned out different for them?

She arched a brow at his stare. “Gee, Connor, other than the mileage on your face, you haven’t changed a bit. Very few older men can carry off that James Dean look. At least you’ve the good sense not to copy the hair.”

Connor stiffened. A muscle jerked along his jaw. “You always did have brass, kid.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m not a kid.”

He slowly looked Nora up and down. “No, ma’am. You’re certainly not.”

Nora colored fiercely, but he gained only a grim pleasure from her discomfort. Why should he care about her? She certainly didn’t care for him.

Shortly after he had left town, he had called his mother and said he couldn’t go through with the deal. His tormentor had been silent for a second before crisply advising him to keep moving.

“Your high-and-mighty McCall girl got married last week.” Even now, he could still hear the cold taunt that had ripped apart his soul.

Stunned, he had dropped the receiver and walked away from the phone booth. Nora had run into another man’s arms. She hadn’t waited. She’d never pined for him.

So he had kept moving, seeking to put as much distance as possible between him and his past.

“Connor?”

He realized Christina had spoken.

“What?”

“I said we were all sorry about Ed Miller’s passing.”

The dull ache whenever he thought about the loss of the old man who had been his surrogate father throbbed. “Thanks.”

Eve was brasher. “We figured you’d be there at the funeral.”

“I couldn’t get away.” His jaw tensed. Missing Ed’s service had torn him apart, but carrying out his promise to the farmer who had befriended him all those years ago had to come first. It wasn’t until he’d gotten Ed’s deathbed phone call that he’d learned he would finally get a chance to pay Ed back.

Nora accepted his statement without rebuke. “I’m sure you wanted to come, Connor. Ed was a good man.”

“Yes, he was.” More than anyone in the town would ever guess. Ed had been Connor’s remaining link to his past, keeping him bound despite Connor’s ending up in Florida. When Connor called Ed, the taciturn farmer had been circumspect about everything but his crops. Finally, desperate for news, Connor had asked the old man point-blank how Nora and her husband were doing. Ed had barked, “Husband. There’s no husband.”

Connor remembered his grim satisfaction in learning of her divorce. However, he never could ferret out any additional information in subsequent calls to Ed. All the farmer would ever mutter was that “the McCall womenfolk were doing just fine.”

He sure did miss the old coot.

Ever sensitive to other people’s emotions, Christina said softly, “Pastor Devlin must be thrilled you’ve returned.”

Pastor, not mother—Sheila Devlin would appreciate the distinction. She had certainly tried hard enough to distance herself from the role his birth had thrust on her. He hitched his shoulders. “She doesn’t know I’m here. Yet.”

Christina looked startled. “Oh.” She huffed out a breath. “Well.” Sadness flitted across her face. “Your mother performed a fine eulogy for Aunt Abigail.”

Connor realized he hadn’t offered condolences. He’d picked up the phone a hundred times when he had learned of their aunt’s death. He’d replaced the receiver a hundred times because he hadn’t known what to say.

He cleared his throat. “I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear about Abigail’s death. She was a good woman.” He gestured at the shop. “She’d be proud of what you’ve accomplished here.”

Eve didn’t mask her curiosity. “Thanks, Connor, but how did you—” The doorbell chimed. Eve narrowed her eyes.

A wave of new arrivals crowded around Nora and Christina. Breaking the crowd apart, Nathan Roberts, a tall lean man, sauntered past Eve, brushing so close that she had to step back to avoid contact. Watching the familiar byplay had Connor fighting to keep his lips flat. Some things never changed.

Nate crossed to Connor and clasped his hand. Behind wire-rim glasses, Nathan Roberts’s slate-gray eyes warmed with amusement. “So, the town’s favorite hell-raiser has returned. Will he receive a prodigal son’s welcome?” He thumped Connor’s shoulder.

Connor winced. “And you’re still spouting off the biblical references.” He studied his friend as they shook hands. Whatever life had chosen to throw Nate’s way, it hadn’t seemed to change him. His sandy hair was still shaggy from too-infrequent trips to the barbershop, his movements still languid as if he had all the time in the world.

Together, Nate and Connor had skipped stones across Miller’s Lake as young boys, chugged down illicit beers at age eleven and discovered the allure of girls in high school. Nate had been a true friend and was the only local Connor was genuinely delighted to see.

Releasing Nathan’s hand, Connor turned, cocked his head and curled his lip at the older man hovering behind his friend. “Nice to see you, too, Mr. Ames.”

The high-school principal, without acknowledging the greeting, darted back into the shelter of the crowd. Nate chuckled. “He’s never forgiven you for the time you set a skunk loose in his office.”

Connor’s grin was unrepentant. “It didn’t have its odor sacs.”

“A pity Ames didn’t realize that little fact before he pulled the fire alarm, bringing the entire department racing to the school. It was a day to remember.”

Connor shifted to keep Nora within his line of sight. At that moment she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. An intense awareness jolted through his system. He remembered the intriguing spot on her body where warm, soft skin contrasted with cool, silky hair. Nora looked up and caught him staring. Irked with himself, he offered a bland smile. She shot him a withering look and turned her back.

Even as Connor fell into easy conversation with Nate about their past adventures, he continued to torment himself with the tantalizing vision of the long graceful sweep of Nora’s neck.

On the other side of the shop, Nora was suffocating, the weight of suppressed, raw emotions pressing all air from her lungs. If one more person made a cutting comment about Connor, she would scream. She had to escape.

She glanced around and spotted Connor and Nate deep in discussion. Connor rubbed his knuckles along his deeply shadowed jaw. Fascinated, she remembered the rasp of his developing whiskers. How would his face, roughened with manhood, feel against hers? Connor looked across and caught her staring. A smile, slow and cocky, curved his mouth. Her cheeks heated as if she was standing too close to the kiln.

The two men broke apart, and Connor plowed into the crowd, heading in her direction. No, she couldn’t bear any more polite conversation with him while half the town watched. She bolted for the front door.

Outside she drank in the fragrant air. Deep breathing, a technique she had learned to calm pretrial jitters, slowly untangled the knots in her stomach. She rolled her head and stilled, the sky capturing her attention.

White plumes of cloud drifted across the achingly blue October sky. She lifted her face and took another bracing breath of frost-edged air, laced with woodsy overtones.

Her gaze lowered. Chased by the playful fall wind, crisp leaves of orange, red and yellow skipped merrily along the tree-lined street. Normally this was her favorite time of year, when autumn muscled aside Indian summer. The scene before her should have calmed her, but didn’t. Change was snapping at her heels, threatening to devour her, yet Arcadia Heights remained the same on the outside. It wasn’t fair.

Today should have been perfect.

The door behind her opened, crushing her solitude.

Nora warily watched Wilbur Ames march out, heading determinedly toward her. She cast a desperate look around her, but milling shoppers blocked her escape. No matter that she was a grown-up and an attorney, her old high-school principal could still reduce her to teenage status. Nora steeled herself.

“Thank you for dropping by, Mr. Ames. On your way?”

Jowly from one too many potluck dinners, Ames’s face was ruddy with exertion. The drapes of his flesh quivered with indignation. “I can’t believe that Connor Devlin has returned. His poor mother will be horrified.”

The insult to Connor irritated Nora, but she quelled her feelings. She might as well hear Wilbur’s tirade out. Wilbur’s washed-out blue eyes darted nervously about. “I saw him in the corner talking to his partner in crime.” Ames’s contempt was palpable. “We’ll have nothing but trouble with Connor in town. The boy broke his mother’s heart with all his hell-raising.”

Sheila Devlin never had a heart, especially not where her son was concerned. Even when the minister had stepped in and helped the McCall family in their time of need, Nora hadn’t been able to shake the sense that the woman had done it out of self-interest, rather than kindness. Remembering the extent of the obligation she owed the woman sent a chill down Nora’s spine. To date, Pastor Devlin had rebuffed all attempts to repay the debt. It was as if she was waiting to exact the perfect price.

Although Nora knew Wilbur would carry any comment straight to Sheila Devlin, she couldn’t ignore the injustice to Connor, even if it meant tipping the scales of her uneasy relationship with his mother. “It’s been almost twelve years since our class graduated from high school.” Her voice carried only the mildest rebuke. “We’ve all changed. We’ve all grown up.”

Ames’s beady eyes glinted with interest as he studied her. “Weren’t you two involved before he left town?” His tongue flicked out and ran over his protruding lips.

Of course he knew. It was why he had made a bee-line for her. Wilbur Ames never forgot anything, particularly the juicy transgressions of others.

Nora laughed lightly. She’d give him a little of the truth to take away his joy in the dirt. “What a long memory you have, Mr. Ames. Of course, I went out a few times with him. After all, what girl didn’t Connor date?”

His hungry eagerness deflated. “Yes, of course. Not that it was my business. Anyway, nice to see you again and congratulations on the pottery shop.” The principal turned to leave.

“By the way, Mr. Ames.”

He paused.

“Have you and the school board had a chance to consider my suggestion about the girls’ soccer field?”

“Not yet. We have a full agenda.”

“I’m sure you do, but the girls are playing—”

“Now, Nora. We appreciate your school spirit and such, but we’ll get to it all in due time.” He turned and walked off.

“You handled Wilbur well—right up until the end where he gave you the brush-off.”

Nora’s heart shot into her throat and performed a back flip at Connor’s rough voice. She slowly turned her heart pounding again. Connor stood with one shoulder braced against the gray clapboard front of the store.

Keep it light and general, she told herself, and maybe he won’t ask why she was interested in a girls’ soccer field. She shrugged and smiled in a what-can-you-do manner.

“An old community issue that he continues to ignore.”

“What a shocker. Wilbur Ames’s not seeing anything beyond his own self-interest. Some things never change.” Connor folded his arms. “I guess I should thank you for your spirited defense of me.” He studied her, his piercing gaze bright with speculation.

No. She couldn’t afford to have Connor think she still harbored any feelings for him. “It’s why I became an attorney. I enjoy a good verbal challenge.”

Something flickered in his eyes—disappointment?—but when he straightened, it was gone.

“Looks like your store’s a big hit.”

Satisfaction shone in Nora as she surveyed Kilning You Softly. After months of backbreaking scrubbing, refurbishing and polishing, she and her sisters had succeeded in making their tribute to their aunt a reality. Last night, as the final touch, they had placed Three Sisters on the gray marble mantel over the fireplace. There, under soft recessed lighting, the glazed pink figurine of three small hands glowed serenely in testament to all that Abigail McCall had given.

Now it was Nora’s duty to ensure her home remained intact. She gnawed on her lower lip.

A muffled groan startled her. A dismayed Connor stood beside her.

“Are you all right?” Nora asked.

He smiled ruefully, but he only nodded at the building. “I take it Christina picked out the colors.”

Both the shutters and the lettering on the sign over the doorway were a jaunty purple. Nora winced. “I missed the appointment with the painter.”

“I hear Christina’s going to run the place.”

Unease prickled across the nape of Nora’s neck. “You’ve heard an awful lot in a very short period of time.”

His response was an enigmatic smile. Nora’s unease ripened into panic. Why was he here?

She wrapped her arms around herself and turned away from his piercing stare. What did he know? Was he playing a cruel game of hide-and-seek with her?

When Ed Miller had died a month ago, she had been certain that Connor would return. After all, the farmer had been like a father to him. Her tension in the days leading up to the funeral had been worse than any trial nerves. But Connor never came. A lavish arrangement of yellow roses and a simple card delivered to Ed’s grave had been Connor’s only acknowledgment of the man’s passing. The townspeople had branded him for his disrespect, but Nora had been relieved.

Ed Miller. Nora thought of the sealed envelope in her briefcase. It contained documents for the unknown Miller heir, given to her by her boss, Charles Barnett, to deliver at noon today. She’d gathered from Barnett’s hints the new owner was a wealthy businessman and a lucrative new account. But Charlie had been tight-lipped about the heir’s identity.

Nora stole a glance at Connor’s worn jeans and jacket. It looked like the success he had hungered for had eluded him, but the roses for Ed’s service couldn’t have been cheap.

Roses. Abigail’s funeral. A memory tugged free. Two dozen sweetheart roses, each blossom a perfect deep-red velvet, had graced her aunt’s church service. The accompanying card had borne no signature, just the typed words “To a great woman.”

Nora swung around. “Connor, did you send flowers—”

He interrupted her. “I have to be going.”

Disappointment sliced through her.

Ridiculous. His leaving was what she wanted. She mustered a cool, professional smile. “How long will you be staying in town?”

Connor tucked his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and rocked on his heels. “Well, now. That question implies I’m only visiting.”

Nora stiffened, her heart hammering wildly, the blood humming in her ears. “What do you mean?” she asked as casually as she could manage. “Aren’t you just passing through?” She almost shrank back under the burning challenge in his eyes.

His tone, though, was chillingly calm. “No. I’ve come back to stay.”

The humming became a roar. He was staying.

The door to the shop slammed.

A tall slender girl, poised on the edge of her teens, rushed outside. “Hey, Mom! Do you know where my jersey is? I’ve looked everywhere.” Close behind her were Eve and Christina, both looking anxious.

Nora’s gaze locked with Connor’s. “Have you tried the laundry room? It’s folded on top of the dryer.”

Her daughter threw her arms around Nora’s neck and gave her a quick peck. “Mom, you’re the best.” Turning, she noticed Connor and immediately trotted out her practiced smile, designed to slay the male population. “Hi, I’m Abby.”

Nora saw the stunned but puzzled look in Connor’s eyes as he shook the proffered hand. Relief flowed through her. Her sisters gripped her arms, keeping her from sagging.

He didn’t know.

He had not known.

Standing before Connor was Nora, a girl again. But not Nora.

Her daughter. He could barely form the word mentally. The girl was the spitting image of her mother, all coltish long limbs. Connor blinked and took a closer look at Abby. No. There were some physical differences. Abby’s black hair was wavy; a hint of a dimple winked at the right corner of her mouth when she smiled; her eyes were the blue of a tropic sky, not the wintry gray of her mother’s.

Did she have her father’s eyes? Jealousy sliced through Connor. Nora had a child by another man. During all those long Florida nights, filled with restive dreams of Nora, he’d never once envisioned her as a mother.

Weary from fending off all the emotional punches he’d sustained in the space of thirty minutes, Connor rotated his shoulders. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to cut his losses and move on, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. The memory of the special gift Nora had given him was only that—a memory.

Connor realized Abby was studying him with the same intense concentration that her mother displayed, right down to the identical furrowing of dark brows. Despite himself, he smiled. The girl’s responding grin yanked loose one of the knots in his stomach.

“I’m Connor Devlin. I knew your mother when she looked just like you.” He waited a beat. Yep, here came the trademark McCall rolling of eyes. No one else had ever been able to do it with the same expressiveness as Nora. “And she was the prettiest girl in her class,” he smoothly continued. “So were your aunts. All major babes. Boys stumbled over themselves to catch sight of a McCall in the hallway.”

Abby turned and looked incredulously at the woman standing behind her. “My mother? A babe?”

Grimacing, Nora stepped away from her sisters and ran a hand over her daughter’s cheek. “Connor, hush. You’ll spoil my daughter’s image of me as a proper old woman.”

He looked at Nora’s open jacket, revealing her subtle curves. If she was old, then someone needed to put him out of his misery right then and there. The sudden need to feel the cool silk of Nora’s shirt against his chest before he explored the warm flesh beneath left him on edge. He’d thought his need for Nora had died years ago, yet the slow heat in his groin had him shifting his stance.

“Oh, Mom!” Abby straightened, all teenage righteous indignation. “Come on!”

Eve’s mouth curled. “Babes, huh?”

Connor stepped forward and pulled on one of Eve’s curls. “Babes then, babes now.” Eve flushed and jerked her head away. He winked, and Eve’s jaw dropped.

Pleased, Connor moved to Christina and lightly pressed her hand. “Good to see you, Christie.” His reward was a lightening of the haunted shadows in her eyes.

He next tugged Abby’s ponytail. “Nice to meet you.” Warmth unfurled in him when she smiled.

Connor then stood before Nora and took her injured hand. A test, for old time’s sake. Just a harmless test. When he turned it over and kissed the pulse at her wrist, the soft flesh jolted. Hot triumph burned through him—she still reacted to his touch.

Unfortunately his body reacted in kind.

Stepping back, he nodded. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure.” He turned and strolled down the sidewalk.

He had reached the next line of stores when Nora called out, “You weren’t serious about staying here permanently, were you?”

His step almost faltered. Everyone’s anxiousness to see him gone, especially Nora’s, angered him. He should set the record straight.

He looked over his shoulder. Did he imagine the flicker of panic in her eyes? He still felt contrary enough to let the half-truth stand—for now. “Very serious.”

He reached his pride-and-joy, a gleaming Harley-Davidson Fat Boy motorcycle, and straddled it. As he cinched on his helmet, he delivered his parting shot. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

Nora gaped.

After a careless salute, Connor revved the bike’s engine and roared off down the road. Next up, his meeting with the devil.

Chapter Two

The old church hunkered on the windswept hill at the west end of Maple Street. A third-generation building, it stood on the foundation of its predecessors. When the first two structures had succumbed to fire, no one had dared to move the location of the First Community Church of Arcadia Heights.

No minister had guarded the First Community Church tradition more zealously than its current minister: the town’s first female pastor.

The first thing that struck Connor as he sat on his motorcycle in front of the church was how little it had changed. Its clapboard still glared pristine white under the late-morning sun. Its steeple was a stark pillar thrusting upward to pierce the blue plane of the autumn sky. The steeple could be seen for miles. When its bells clanged on Sunday morning, few could escape their imperious summons.

Connor kicked down the bike stand and slung his helmet over the handlebar. He ran his fingers through his hair and tucked in his T-shirt. He walked along the bricked sidewalk. At the path’s split, rather than taking the steps to the church’s entrance, he veered to the right. At this time on Saturday, if the keeper of the faith maintained her ritual, she’d be polishing her Sunday sermon in the cottage’s study. His practiced eye noted the stern, cropped lines of the viburnum hedges along the perimeter of the church. He knew the shrubs weren’t pruned just for the oncoming winter. Come spring, no twig would be permitted to sprout its spectacular white flowers.

He turned the corner and faced the place where he had grown up. Reaching the pine-green-painted door, he opted to rap his knuckles rather than use the imposing brass knocker. He counted the seconds it would take the resident to rise from her chair and cross the hallway.

The door swung out, and a tall woman with a smile that didn’t quite mask her annoyance stood in the entrance’s shadows. “I’m sorry, but could you please come back later when…” Her lips thinned with displeasure. “Connor. What are you doing here?”

Because he knew it would irritate her, he leaned forward and brushed his lips across the woman’s cheek. “Hello, Mother. Nice to see you, too.”

She grimaced and, with her hand on the knob, retreated a step into the dim shadows of the entryway.

“Don’t bother inviting me in.” Connor leaned against the doorjamb, keeping one foot extended in case she tried to shut the door in his face.

Sheila Devlin folded her hands in front of her body and studied him. “I see you haven’t changed. Still look like a third-rate hooligan.”

Her disapproval, though expected, was a painful reminder of the abuse she once inflicted. “Thanks, Mom. I wish I could say the same for you.” He returned the survey. Gray hairs, like shards of ice, speared through her auburn hair. This sign of mortality only served to enhance his mother’s air of authority. Her aquiline nose and frosty blue eyes bespoke her Irish heritage, but the fine lines radiating from her full lips signaled rigid self-control. She wore her uniform of black tailored slacks, crisp Oxford buttoned-down shirt and polished black loafers.

She arched a well-shaped patrician brow. “I assume your return has to do with Ed Miller’s death, but you’re a little late. His funeral was a month ago.”

He shrugged. “There are other ways to pay one’s last respects.”

“What?” His mother was the only person he’d ever known who could snort with elegance. “Uproot a flower in his honor?”

Her barb, as intended, sliced deep, but Connor merely rubbed his chin. “What a great idea. Thanks, Mother.” He straightened. “I came by to let you know I’m here and will be staying at Ed’s farm.”

His movement allowed a shaft of sunlight to stream into the hallway and fall short at his mother’s feet.

“Why?”

“Because Ed left me the place, and I have plans for it.” Motes danced in the sunbeam. Funny, when he had been growing up, Sheila had kept the rooms white-glove clean. He didn’t recall her allowing even one speck of dust to occupy the same space with her. She certainly hadn’t permitted a young boy’s toys.

“What plans could you possibly have?”

He jammed his hands into his pockets. Better than ramming one into the wood frame. “Nothing to interest you. Just a landscaping business.”

“Still into dirt.” The motes scattered as if they could sense the derision emanating from her. “Have you seen her?”

Trust his mother to get right to the point. Connor set his jaw. “Yes.”

“We had a deal.”

And he had never been able to sweat off the weight of his wretched promise under the unrelenting sun of Florida. His voice was rough. “Never fear, Mother. It’s over for both of us. I met Nora’s daughter.” He doubted if he would have any success of working this particular ache out of his system this afternoon.

His mother laced her fingers. Despite the fact she couldn’t hurt him anymore, the gesture sent a chill racing along his spine. As a child, he’d learned that the linking of her fingers signaled her more violent outbursts. His gaze flicked up to her face; some emotion darkened her eyes momentarily. Then her face resumed its expressionless mask. “Good.” She hesitated. “I do hope your ‘plans’ won’t take you long.”

Connor removed his foot from the opening. “Your welcome is overwhelming.”

He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his mother’s posture became even more rigid. “I’m up for a promotion to a higher office. A much more affluent parish.”

His smile was rueful. “And you’re worried that my return will screw up your chances for ‘exalted-dom.’”

Her chin lifted. “Crude as always, but accurate.”

He turned on his heel. “Not to worry, Pastor Devlin. I’ll try not to lay too many sins at your door. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep with Nora about legal matters.”

He went down the porch steps.

“Connor!” The unfamiliar note of anxiety brought him around in surprise. Sheila’s emotions normally lay dormant, except when she preached. His mother ventured into the sunlight. “There’s nothing for you here. Certainly not that McCall girl. If you try to take up with her, you’ll just ruin her life.”

His hands clenched in his pockets. Keep them there, he warned himself. “How do you figure that?”

“She’s seeing Lawrence Millman’s son.”

“David?”

“Yes. The whole town’s expecting the engagement notice any time now.”

Her words only made his flame of longing for Nora burn brighter. He hitched his shoulders. “Good. I’m happy for them.” He moved. He needed to get to the farm and weed through his tangle of thoughts and emotions.

“Connor!”

He paused again, but didn’t turn around this time.

“It would be best if you left town now.”

He shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Mother. I have an obligation to fulfill.”

“What do you know about obligation?”

He looked over his shoulder and looked into eyes devoid of any maternal love. “More than you. While you were busy ministering to your congregation, you shucked your duty to raise me.”

He ignored her gasp and walked around the corner of the church.

Nora’s Mercury Sable groaned, its undercarriage scraping on the deep dip in the dirt track. She gritted her teeth and eased her foot off the gas pedal. The car’s forward momentum was due more to sheer pitching of its wheels from rut to rut than from the engine. Whoever the unlucky heir to the Miller farm, he would be forced to spend a mint paving this nonexistent driveway. With a final shudder, her car lurched around the bend and halted in the clearing.

Nora rested her forehead on the steering wheel, needing a few moments to compose herself. If she’d had half a brain, she would have heeded Eve’s suggestion and cut through the woods between their house and the Miller farm. A ten-minute walk on a well-trodden trail—that was all it would have taken. Eve had dryly suggested she lower herself to wear jeans and sneakers and actually enjoy the fall colors in the process of her visit.

But no, Nora had insisted that she needed to be professional. What new client would want to see his lawyer emerging all burr-covered from a forest? Eve’s mockingly raised eyebrow had sent her in a huff from the house, then over that miserable pitted track.

All because ghosts had awakened in those woods. Shadowy memories stirred by the flash-in-the-pan appearance of Connor Devlin. That was all it would be, too. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, fool herself, despite his puzzling parting comment. With a swagger and a grin, he was here today; without a look back, he’d be gone tomorrow. Just like he had been twelve years ago, without a thought for the consequences of his actions.

Well, she’d lived with those consequences, sacrificing herself to them. She would not feel guilty about decisions made a dozen years ago. The specters of youthful dreams and promises could lurk and linger in that bank of trees. She was in control of her life and would remain so.

Yeah, right, she thought. If she was in so much control, why did she feel eighteen, perched on the slippery precipitous edge of ruin once again? She could still recall the sweat trickling down her back that hot summer day when she had told Abigail. She had been so scared her aunt would turn against her in disgust. After all, wasn’t she just like her mother? Pregnant with no husband? But Abigail had opened her arms and her heart once more.

Now the father of her child had returned. What had he meant by his I’ll be seeing you around? Did he think he could take up where he left off?

She lightly thumped her brow against the wheel. Right now she needed to pull herself together before she met with her law firm’s newest source of income. Nora raised her head and studied the farmhouse. It was a big box of a place, two-story, with a steep-pitched roof and central chimney. Snuggled against the forest’s edge, the dwelling bore its dingy white siding, peeling forest-green shutters and dilapidated wraparound porch with quiet dignity. Yet, in the harsh noon light, its high narrow windows glistened, no doubt due to a recent application of elbow grease and glass cleaner. A sign of hope.

Hope, in the form of whoever owned the outrageous Ford F-350 parked in front. Big, bad and black—every boy and man’s fantasy pickup, topped off with gleaming chrome wheels and bumpers, an extended cab and dark-tinted glass. She would bet a dollar the interior was a wicked red leather.

Clean windows and made-for-sin truck. What kind of a man had Ed Miller left his spread to? She wouldn’t find any answers sitting there. Nora got out of the car and grabbed her leather portfolio. Hugging it close to her body, she hesitated. She couldn’t resist—she had to know. In case the owner was watching from inside the house, she made her way around the clearing, out of sight of the house, to the truck. She took a quick peek inside. Her lips curved. Yep, red-hot leather interior.

A muttered oath came from the far side of the building. Nora stepped carefully over the dirt surface to the grass, mentally ignoring the fact that her good leather pumps were sinking into the soggy turf.

She looked up, and stopped still. What once had been an expanse of green lawn was now freshly turned earth with roped-off areas. Shallow ditches contained pipes leading to one section, while nearby, a tarp covered huge translucent panels. Ed Miller’s pride and joy, a battered old American Harvester tractor, stood to one side, hitched to a tiller. But it was the moving forms that captured Nora’s attention.

A giant dog, its long black fur gleaming with a reddish sheen, picked up a stone, padded across the soil and dropped the rock on a pile at the side. Then it turned its massive head and studied Nora with chocolate-brown eyes. Nora braced herself to call for help, but the animal, with a smooth rhythmic gait, returned to the churned earth, sat and waited.

By the dog’s side worked a shirtless man, his back to her. The man’s powerful, well-muscled body moved with graceful ease as he yanked loose a large stone and tossed it toward the pile. He stretched to scratch the dog behind its ear. When he bent over once more to grip another rock, Nora spotted a tantalizing glimpse of even more skin. Sun-kissed flesh. All over his hard body. The image sizzled, so hot she almost unfastened the top button of her shirt. She gasped softly for air.

The man shot up and spun around. “What’s the matter, Nora? Having a hot flash?” Squinting against the sun, Connor grinned, slowly and wickedly.

Belatedly Nora spotted the motorcycle parked nearby.

Flash, no. Conflagration, yes. The boy she had known had grown up. Damp burnished hair covered the solid wall of his chest, tapering across his flat stomach before disappearing below his belt line. She glanced downward…and caught herself. Her cheeks burning, Nora cast a veiled look at Connor.

“So the ice goddess has mortal thoughts, after all.” His expression was dark, hungry. His eyes slid down her body, moving languidly, assessing her in turn. She shivered under his intense scrutiny.

Forgotten feelings, long frozen, sparked, flickered and spread like wildfire inside her. Want, need, desire. Too long leashed, they shot victoriously to her core.

Nora put a trembling hand over her abdomen. She yearned to touch all that glorious golden skin, slide her palms over the faint sheen of sweat on those wide shoulders. Connor’s strangled sound, half growl, half longing, summoned her. His intense gaze drew her in like a powerful undertow, ever closer to his heat. She felt she would incinerate if she didn’t break free. Summoning all her resolve, she wrenched her gaze away. She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes past twelve. The time was as effective as a cold shower on her roiling emotions.

Oh, Lord, what was she doing? The Miller heir could come outside any second.

“Put your shirt on,” she snapped. Rushing to where it was draped over a twisted tree stump, she picked it up and tossed it to him. “The new owner is a client of my firm, and I don’t want him imagining any funny business going on.”

The dog rose slowly; the movement edged her back a step. Connor placed a hand on the animal’s broad head and murmured, “She’s okay, Bran.” With that reassurance, the dog turned, picked up a small rock with its mouth and moved toward the pile.

Connor swiped the shirt across his brow without putting it on. “What’s wrong, Nora?” he asked, all innocence.

She gritted her teeth. “Nothing’s wrong. I just prefer my first meeting with my client to remain professional rather than Chippendales.”

Connor arched an eyebrow. “Somehow I think there’s a backhanded compliment in there.”

Nora stomped her foot. “Just put on your shirt.”

“Only if it will make you more comfortable, honey.” He slowly, very slowly, pulled it on, then raked his fingers through his hair.

She scanned the back of the house. “What are you doing here?” She recalled a comment her boss had made earlier in the week about employing cleaning help for the homestead. “Did Charlie hire you to do repairs?” Maybe she should go to the front entrance and knock.

“Can’t see the present for the past, can you?”

Before Nora realized what was happening, Connor stepped up and took her hand. “I’m the new owner.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Wha-what did you say?” Her voice was barely a whisper, so fragile it cracked.

“Ed Miller left me the farm.”

Realizing he still held her hand, she tugged it free. “How can that be possible? Why you?”

Connor shrugged, bent down and plucked a wild flower from a tall spiky plant. He slipped the deep-red blossom through a hole on the lapel of her jacket. “Remember how I used to work summers and weekends for Mr. Miller?”

She nodded and fingered the flower. The memory of another time, another flower, pierced her heart.

“Yes, I remember.”

A white rose. The last night she had been with Connor, he had given her the snow-white bud. Her first flower from a boy. Her hands had trembled, and she’d pricked her finger. He had cupped her hand, sucking gently on the drop of blood, his mouth warm and tantalizing against her skin.

Nora closed her eyes and clamped down on her rioting emotions. No, she would not let his spontaneous gesture of picking a flower weaken her resolve. She lifted her head, opened her eyes.

Connor shoved his hands into his jean pockets. “Ed and his wife never had any kids of their own, and none of his relatives cared about the farm. He used to complain about that while we were out in the field.” For a moment he smiled with the memory. Then his expression became remote. “Anyway, after Ed passed away, Barnett contacted me and said the old man had left everything in my trust.”

Nora took a deep calming breath. Perhaps he’d only returned to sell the spread. “But there’s barely any money with the estate, just the land. How are you going to pay the property taxes? Or are you selling it as soon as you can?”

Anger flaring in his eyes, Connor went from relaxed to battle alert. Nora took a half step back before stopping herself.

“You sure have changed, haven’t you, Nora? Prepared to think the worst of me like everyone else in this town.” She heard the pain rippling beneath the ice in his voice.

She had hurt him. Funny, she’d always thought no one could penetrate Connor’s armor. The boy she hadn’t understood was now a man she didn’t know. She flushed and gestured, indicating the farm. “But it’s 165 acres.”

Connor hitched his shoulders slightly. “So?” His tone was belligerent. “Do you think I can’t afford it? Pastor Devlin’s no-account son ran off to be a failure?”

His accusation hit Nora squarely. He was right. Part of her wanted to believe the worst about him. How else could she reconcile the cold truth that he hadn’t told her he was leaving, hadn’t contacted her in all this time?

She narrowed her eyes. “How should I know? How would I know anything about you? You left this town and didn’t look back, remember?” He hadn’t been there for her during those moments of terrifying need. Pain may have lost its sharp edge, but resentment could still carve deep.

She drew in a steadying breath before continuing. “You didn’t write, you didn’t call. For all I knew, you were dead.”

Liar, her inner voice whispered. If something had happened to him, you would have felt it.

Surprise flickered in his eyes. His smile mocked her. “I’m sure my mother would have broadcast the glad tidings of my death.” He paused, his face hardening. “Besides, wouldn’t it have been awkward if I called? The husband you snagged the moment I left might have objected.”

Nora blinked. That wasn’t the tale she and Aunt Abigail had molded. When had the lie of a college misadventure transmuted into one of marriage? Like a kaleidoscope, the fragments of her life shifted and formed a new realization. She almost staggered under its weight.

There was not going to be any escape from this quandary. She was going to have to tell him the truth. Then the town would hear. And…

Abby. Oh, God, what would the news do to her daughter? When Abby had been old enough to ask questions, Nora had spun the story of an ill-fated college romance and her decision to have the baby. If told the truth, would Connor disappear again? What would that do to Abby?

No. She needed more time to assess the man standing before her. Her daughter’s future was at stake.

She drew herself up, summoned her reserve of calm and looked straight at him. “You’re mistaken. I was never married.”

“But she told me…” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Your daughter, Abby,” he said carefully. “Is she…?”

Her heart hammered so loudly she feared he would hear it. She affected a nonchalant shrug. “The result of a failed romance. I met this boy and fell in love, but he wasn’t ready to become a man. He left me, and I’ve never heard from him since.”

God help her, she couldn’t resist the taunt that hissed up from her turbulent emotions. “Leaving town rather than facing responsibility seems to be a male proclivity.”

Connor’s expression darkened. His hands lashed out and yanked her against his body, his fingers digging into her shoulders.

“How dare you compare me to him!” His arms slid around her like a vise. “Didn’t what we shared mean anything to you?”

It had meant everything to her. “No.”

He drew her closer. They were flesh to flesh. Her senses overflowed with him. He was earth and sweat, muscle and power. Heat. Roaring, incendiary heat. She couldn’t inhale without breathing in his scent.

“No?” He lowered his head. “Then it won’t mean anything if you kiss me.”

“Cut it out.” She spread her hands against his muscled chest.

“Why?” His breath fanned her face. “It’s only a kiss.”

An image flashed into her mind, of her intoxicated mother giggling as she tussled with her latest leering paramour. He had pawed her mother, saying, “Give me a kiss, Tess.” After a few coy protests, her mother had lustily complied. “Get rid of the kids,” the man had ordered as he staggered into their mother’s bedroom. Tess had dragged the girls into their room, with Nora fighting all the way because they hadn’t eaten.

The snick of the closet-door lock. The taste of fear.

“Nora, take it easy. Look at me.”

With a start, Nora realized she was struggling in his arms.

“Breathe,” he ordered.

Shame smothered her panic and she stilled.

“Are you okay?” He eased his grip. She fought to take a normal breath. With a light touch, he ran his hands up and down her arms. Her tension ebbed with each stroke; in its place drifted comfort and something else…a stirring of the blood. She sighed.

“Nora?” Connor bent down and pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry for upsetting you, honey.”

Flustered, Nora stepped back. Too many secrets prevented even this closeness. “Thanks. I’m fine.”

Connor dropped his hands. “All right.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Look. I’m…sorry for what I said about Abby’s father.” Nora almost smiled. She didn’t recall him ever apologizing, let alone twice in one conversation.

“What’s done is done. I have no business prying.” He bent down, picked up her briefcase and handed it to her. His fingertips brushed hers, sending another ripple of warmth through her.

The dog appeared at his side, and Connor absently ruffled his head.

Nora eyed the beast. “Big dog.”

“He’s a Newfoundland. Bran—” he gestured at her “—I want you to meet Nora.”

On cue, the dog lifted his right paw. Nora knelt and solemnly shook it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bran.” It was all the encouragement Bran needed. He surged forward and gave her a generous lick on her face, the force of it knocking her backward. Only Connor’s hands under her arms saved her from a close encounter with the churned soil. With an ease that left her humming, Connor righted her. For a moment they stood, flushed face to flushed face.

Connor looked away first. “So.” In fascination she watched the flex of the muscle along his lean jaw. “Why don’t I show you how I plan to turn this place into a landscaping and nursery outlet, and what I’m going to need in terms of legal know-how?”

Lost in a whirlpool of emotions and questions, Nora tried to catch hold of the conversation. “What outlet?”

“The Primal Rose.” Connor turned and smiled with undisguised pride. “Follow me.” He gestured toward the fields.

Just like old times, Nora mused. Picking up her briefcase, she caught the now-crushed flower in her lapel.

Connor Devlin was starting a business here. He really had come home to stay.

Oh, God, what was she going to do?

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