“Trent?” Annie’s lips were suddenly dry.

His gaze was focused on her mouth. “I’m trying to talk myself out of kissing you. It might help if you would push me away or something.”

She lifted a hand to his chest, but it simply rested there, feeling his heart beating strongly against her palm. “I should push you away,” she murmured, trying to convince herself.

“Yes.” His other hand rose, cupping her face. His head lowered until his mouth almost, but not quite, touched hers.

Impulsively, Annie tightened her fingers around the fabric of his shirt and closed the distance between them. She had come to Honoria to make her own decisions. To try new experiences. And she had just decided that kissing Trent McBride was an experience she didn’t want to miss. So, before she lost her nerve, she touched her lips to his.

She might have taken the initiative, but Trent quickly turned that around. He gathered her in his arms and transformed her tentative kiss into an embrace that nearly singed her eyelashes.

She should have known, she thought, wrapping her arms around his neck, that Trent McBride would kiss like this….

Dear Reader,

With every book I write, I start with the question “What if?” What if a man who was born to fly becomes permanently grounded by a tragic accident? What if this man, who no longer considers himself hero material, falls in love with a woman who seems to be in need of one?

These were the questions I asked myself when I began writing Secretly Yours, the second book about those Wild McBrides. Luckily, Trent and I discovered together that he is still more than “wild” enough to be the perfect hero for Annie Stewart, the young woman who’s come to Honoria, Georgia, to start a new life. And it’s a good thing, because Annie’s going to need a hero when her old life catches up with her….

What no one in Honoria knows is that there’s still one member of the McBride family they haven’t met—and this one could be the “wildest” McBride of them all. Mac Cordero’s whole life has been a scandal. He’s coming to town for answers—and a taste of revenge. Don’t miss Mac’s story in Yesterday’s Scandal, a Harlequin single title, on sale September 2000.

Enjoy,

Gina Wilkins

Books by Gina Wilkins

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

749—THE LITTLEST STOWAWAY

792—SEDUCTIVELY YOURS*

Secretly Yours

Gina Wilkins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my sisters-in-law: Lisa, Sandy and LuLu, who love to remind me that they’re younger than I am.

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

Epilogue

1

“YOU’VE DONE WHAT?” Trent McBride asked, in a voice that had been known to make his peers quake.

But Bobbie McBride had never been easily intimidated—and especially not by one of her own three offspring. She faced her youngest without flinching. “I’ve hired a housekeeper for you. You’ve heard us mention Annie Stewart, who’s been cleaning the McBride Law Firm offices since she moved to town six weeks ago. She’s very conscientious and she’s already got quite a few clients, but she still needs steady work.”

“I don’t need a housekeeper.”

“You most certainly do. You keep this place tidy enough, I’ll admit, but Annie will take care of the little details you never even notice. She’ll do your laundry, too.”

“I can wash my own underwear.”

His mother continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “She’ll come twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, and stay a couple of hours each time. I’ve arranged to have her start next week.”

Though he, better than most, knew the futility of trying to argue with his mother, Trent made the effort, anyway. “I don’t want her to start next week. How am I supposed to pay a housekeeper on what’s left of my insurance settlement? And before you even suggest it, I’m not letting you and Dad pay for this.”

“You never let us pay for anything,” Bobbie replied matter-of-factly. “All three of my children are stubborn as mules and irritatingly independent. But you, my dear Trent, have always taken first place. As it happens, I’ve worked out all the details regarding payment, too. I’m sure you’ve heard that Annie moved into the old Stewart place just down the road from here. Turns out strange old Carney Stewart was her great-uncle, and he left the house and property to her when he died last year. No one even knew Carney had family until then. Anyway, the place is in terrible shape, and it needs a lot of repairs. I told Annie you’re a skilled woodworker, and she’s willing to trade her services in exchange for yours.”

“I am not a handyman.”

“Perhaps not, but you’re certainly available. And it will be good for you to get out of the house more. As long as you’re reasonably careful, the exercise will be good for you, too. Not to mention the fact that you’ll be doing a big favor to a very nice young woman.”

“I don’t do favors.”

“You’ll do this one.” Her voice was as soft as his—and just as unyielding.

Bobbie McBride had been a schoolteacher for more than thirty years. When she got started on one of her famous lectures, there was no stopping her. And when that lecture was directed toward one of her three adult children, there was no point in trying to interrupt. Though Trent had recently turned twenty-six, his mother could still reduce him to a sullen adolescent.

“If you think for one minute that I’m going to let you live out the rest of your life brooding in this cottage like some sort of crusty old hermit, you are very mistaken,” she said flatly. “Do you want to end up like Carney Stewart, old and alone? I’ve given you more than a year to pull yourself together. It’s been eighteen months since the accident. It’s time for you to stop sulking and get on with your life.”

Trent kept his gaze focused on the unadorned wall in front of him. “I’m not sulking. I’m living exactly the way I choose.”

“You sit here alone for days. You rarely go out in public. You neglect your family and rebuff your friends. You aren’t eating right and you aren’t doing the exercises you were given. This is the way you choose to live?”

“Yes,” he answered simply.

She shook her gray head in exasperation. “Well, I’m not going to stand by quietly while you ruin your life.”

“Too late, Mother.” He tried to sound bored, but he was aware of the undertones of self-pity. “I did that eighteen months ago.”

“Sometimes,” she said after a moment, “what I think you need most is to be taken behind the wood-shed.”

He was surprised to feel one corner of his mouth twitch in what was almost a smile. “You just might be right.”

Bobbie reached for her coat. “I have to be going. Annie will be here Tuesday morning at nine. You two can work out the details of this arrangement then.”

As tempted as he was to refuse, he knew it wouldn’t be worth the effort. “All right. I’ll give it a month, but that’s it, Mother.”

Satisfied with her limited victory, Bobbie allowed him to usher her out of his house. Closing the door behind her, Trent growled and shoved a hand through his shaggy blond hair—his usual reaction to a visit from his mother. Now what had she gotten him into?

IT WAS A GLOOMY February morning, windy and gray, the heavy clouds overhead threatening a cold winter rain. Looking from the glowering sky to the darkened cottage in front of her, Annie Stewart tried to decide which seemed the most sinister.

She almost chose to risk the elements. Judging from the whispers she’d heard about Trent McBride during the past six weeks, she wasn’t at all sure what she would find inside his cottage.

Rumor had it that he’d been injured in a plane crash—one he had barely survived. They said the crash had left him scarred, physically and emotionally. He’d changed, they whispered, from the town’s golden boy to an angry, withdrawn hermit. Martha Godwin, one of Annie’s new clients who was known as the town’s primary source of inside information, had hinted that Trent hadn’t been “quite right” since the accident.

“Sits in that house out in the woods all by himself,” she had elaborated darkly. “Doesn’t go anywhere, doesn’t see anyone but family. Every time I ask his parents about him, they just shake their heads. There were plenty of local single women who were more than willing to nurse him back to health. Heck, there was a regular parade of them trotting out to his place with casseroles and silly smiles, but he sent them all packing. I tried to visit him once myself—just to be neighborly—but he wouldn’t let me in. Said he was busy, though I can’t imagine what he was doing.”

Since Annie had experience with Martha’s relentless prying, having fielded quite a few personal questions of her own, she didn’t blame the guy. But it did seem strange to her that a young man, not even thirty yet, would isolate himself from everyone this way.

Reaching his front door, she looked for a doorbell, but didn’t see one. Her hand was actually shaking when she lifted it to knock. She sighed in exasperation. What was wrong with her today? Why did she have this weird feeling that her life was going to change when she knocked on this door? She had made a lot of changes during the past couple of months. How hard could it be to add a new name to her growing client list—even if she had been warned that this client was different?

Gathering her courage, and castigating herself for her cowardice, she knocked. She was being ridiculous to let her imagination run away with her this way. Whatever Trent McBride’s problems, this was hardly a scene from Beauty and the Beast. For one thing, she didn’t consider herself any great beauty. And Trent might be wounded, but he certainly wasn’t a beast.

She knew his family, and they were all nice, normal people. How different could he be?

She knocked again, thinking perhaps he hadn’t heard her first timid effort. After another moment, the door opened.

A man she assumed to be Trent McBride stood in the shadows inside the darkened house, so that she couldn’t quite make out his features. She could see that he was tall—around six feet—and thin, perhaps a bit too thin. Blond, she decided, catching a glimmer of gold in the shadows. “Mr. McBride?”

“You’re the housekeeper?” His voice was deep, and slightly rough.

Though it still felt strange to hear herself identified that way, Annie answered simply, “Yes. I’m Annie Stewart.”

After another pause, he stepped out of the doorway. “Come in.”

When she instinctively hesitated, he reached out to snap on the overhead light. The cavelike room was instantly transformed into a more welcoming environment. The few pieces of furniture were very nice, she noted as she walked slowly inside, but the room had a spartan air to it. Even motel rooms had more personality.

Having procrastinated as long as she could, she turned to face Trent. She thought she had prepared herself for anything—scars, disfigurement, whatever evidence a plane crash might have left. She certainly hadn’t expected to be facing sheer masculine perfection.

Thick golden hair framed a face that Annie suspected had received more than its fair share of feminine attention. No wonder so many local women had been anxious to visit him after his accident. Behind the lenses of a pair of gold-tone metal glasses, his eyes were very blue. If he ever smiled—which she saw no evidence of at that moment—she imagined that his angled cheeks would crease appealingly. Whatever damage his accident had caused—and Martha Godwin had led her to believe it was extensive—it certainly hadn’t been done to his face.

If they had been playing a scene from Beauty and the Beast, she thought wryly, she suspected she knew who would be cast as the beauty—and it wasn’t her.

“You’re younger than I expected,” he said, studying her with an intensity that unnerved her.

You’re prettier than I expected, she would have liked to respond, but that sort of flipness didn’t fit her new position. “Is that a problem?” she asked instead.

He shrugged. “My mother said you need some repairs done.”

“Yes. My great-uncle’s house was in worse shape than I thought when I first moved in, and I’m afraid I can’t afford a lot of improvements just yet. She suggested that you could take care of some of the most pressing problems while I work for you, and I told her it seemed a fair trade, if you’re agreeable.”

She couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t look overly enthused by the arrangement, but he nodded. “I’ll head over to your place now. Anything you want done there first?”

“I’d really appreciate it if you could fix the front step,” she answered tentatively. “I’ve almost tripped a couple of times because it’s loose. I tried to stabilize it, but I’m afraid I’m not very good with that sort of thing.”

Another nod. “Do whatever you want around here—dust, vacuum, fluff—but don’t rearrange the furniture. I like everything where it is.”

She almost imitated him and nodded. Resisting, she said instead, “Of course. Any other instructions?”

“No.” He turned and moved toward the door, apparently intending to leave without another word.

She felt as though she should say something. “Mr. McBride?”

He glanced over his shoulder, looking impatient. “What?”

“If you need to go inside my house, there’s a key hidden beneath the big rock beside the front step.”

She certainly wasn’t surprised that his only response was a nod.

“Definitely an odd man,” she murmured when the front door had closed behind him. By the time she went out to her car to collect her cleaning supplies, both he and the old truck that had been parked outside when she’d arrived were gone. Carrying her things into his house, she found herself comparing him to the other McBrides she had met.

The McBride Law Firm had been one of her first clients, one she’d found only days after she’d arrived in town. Trent’s brother, Trevor, the man who’d hired her after a brief interview, was polished, charming, personable. Their father, Caleb, the senior partner of the firm, was the personification of a soft-spoken, good-humored Southern lawyer. It was through that custodial job that Annie had met Trent’s mother, Bobbie, who was talkative, well-intentioned and seemed to have an almost compulsive need to take care of everyone around her.

From her first impression, it was hard to believe Trent was related to any of the McBrides.

Not that she really cared whether he was unfriendly or even downright surly, she assured herself. Her only interest in Trent was that he had agreed—whether willingly or not—to do some much-needed repairs on her house in exchange for her cleaning his. A fair trade of services, no personal relationship implied. Which was exactly the way she wanted it to remain. Annie had no interest in forming a personal relationship with anyone in Honoria, Georgia, for now. After her recent debacle of an engagement, she certainly wasn’t interested in getting involved with another man for a while—especially one as difficult as Trent McBride seemed to be.

Even if he was gorgeous.

She pulled a spray bottle of kitchen cleaner out of her supplies and started to work on Trent McBride’s already-neat kitchen. No one would ever claim that Annie Stewart didn’t fully earn her pay.

THOUGH HE HADN’T SEEN it in years, the old Stewart place was in even worse shape than Trent had remembered. Even the lot had gotten smaller as the surrounding woods had been allowed to encroach on what had once been a decent-size yard. It wasn’t a bad house—good, solid structure overall—but it had been allowed to deteriorate before old Stewart had died, and had been vacant for almost a year since. The place needed a lot more than he could do in a month, he decided, pushing his glasses up on his nose, but he could at least make it reasonably safe for its present occupant.

Okay, maybe he had been a little bored lately—though he wouldn’t have admitted it to his mother for any reason.

Remembering what Annie had said about the front step, he set his toolbox beside it. He noted immediately that the step was not only broken, it was actually dangerous. It was a wonder Annie hadn’t fallen, landing on the oversize rocks that had been used to outline the unplanted flower beds on either side of the front door. He frowned as he recalled her saying that she’d almost tripped several times. She was very lucky she hadn’t.

Pulling out a hammer, a handful of nails and a level, he found himself thinking about Annie Stewart. She hadn’t been at all what he’d expected. For some reason, he thought she’d be older—much older. But she’d looked even younger than his own twenty-six years—and was so small and delicate he could hardly imagine her tackling heavy cleaning every day.

He supposed she could be considered pretty—if he had a taste for a heart-shaped face dominated by big, long-lashed brown eyes. Or a tip-tilted nose and a full, soft mouth bracketed by shallow dimples. Add to those attributes her glossy, shoulder-length, chestnut-brown hair and a petite, but definitely feminine figure, and most men would probably start fantasizing about getting to know her better. Trent, on the other hand, had taken one look at her and made a silent vow to keep his distance.

If there was one thing he didn’t need in his life now, it was a sweet young thing who seemed to be in even worse shape than he was, judging from what his mother had told him. Annie apparently had no family, no friends in town yet and obviously no money if she was forced to live in this dump. He, on the other hand, had more family than he knew what to do with, old friends who were determined to stay involved in his life even though he had tried his best to push them away, and a nagging uncertainty about his future that seemed to have no workable solution.

He definitely had no interest in getting involved in Annie Stewart’s problems—whatever they were. He would make this house reasonably safe for her to live in—at least as much as he could accomplish in the four weeks he’d granted her—and then he would sequester himself into his own sanctuary again. No matter how hard his mother and others tried to drag him out.

BY THE TIME Annie finished cleaning Trent’s place, she was in love—with his furniture. Polishing his wood was the most sensual experience she’d had in ages, she thought ironically, slowly stroking a hand over a satiny-smooth cherry tabletop.

The solid wood, raised panel cabinets in his kitchen were works of art. The tables and chairs were solid, exquisitely crafted and so beautiful she found herself wasting several minutes just admiring them. An oversize rocker beside the stone fireplace in his cozy living room proved an irresistible temptation; she was unable to deny herself the pleasure of sinking into it, putting her head back and slowly rocking for ten blissfully lazy minutes.

The hand-crafted furniture was the only evidence of personality she found anywhere in Trent’s four-room cottage.

Bobbie McBride had claimed her son was a skilled woodworker. If these pieces were examples of his work, Bobbie had been guilty of major understatement.

Before she left, she wrote Trent a note and stuck it to the refrigerator with a magnet. It was simple and to the point: “Mr. McBride, the lightbulb in the bedroom blew out. I don’t know where you keep the replacement bulbs.” She wasn’t able to resist adding, “Your furniture is beautiful.”

Long after she left his house, while she was cleaning and scrubbing other places, Annie regretted that impulsive postscript. He’d made it clear he wanted to keep their arrangement strictly professional. She wouldn’t be the one to cross that line again.

THE FIRST THING Trent noticed when he limped into his house four hours after he’d left Annie there was the faint, fresh scent of lemon. It smelled clean, he thought.

The scent reminded him of Saturday afternoons from his childhood; his mother had spent nearly every Saturday morning cleaning and polishing. Because he didn’t like to dwell on the carefree days of his youth, days he wouldn’t see again, he pushed the memories away and headed for the kitchen in search of a cold drink and a pain pill. His back ached, letting him know he’d done too much today. He hated being nagged—even by his own abused body.

He spotted Annie’s note as soon as he entered the room. Prissy handwriting, he thought, deciding it looked like her. He could still hear the prim, polite way she’d called him “Mr. McBride.” He read the note, his attention lingering on the last line.

She thought his furniture was beautiful. Had she guessed that he’d made most of it himself? Had she somehow known that his woodworking was the only thing he took any pride or satisfaction from these days? It annoyed him that her compliment pleased him.

Scowling, he pulled the note from the refrigerator and tossed it into the trash.

ANNIE CLEANED the McBride Law Firm offices three afternoons a week—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She usually arrived just as everyone else was leaving and then locked up when she finished. She was running a bit late on Wednesday, the day after she’d cleaned Trent’s house, and everyone was already gone except Trevor McBride, who was working late in his office behind a pile of papers. A still-steaming mug of coffee sat at his elbow. Photos of his wife and his two young children lined the credenza behind him, giving a sweetly personal touch to the otherwise ultraprofessional office.

He looked up with a smile when she entered. “Hello, Annie. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you, Mr. McBride.” She pushed a limp, damp strand of hair away from her face and returned the smile ruefully. “Except for resembling a drowned rat, of course. It’s really pouring out there.”

He cocked his head, listening to the rain hitting the windows. “So I hear. It doesn’t seem to be letting up.”

“I hope it stops before I get home. The way my bedroom roof leaks, I’d hate to drown in my sleep,” she said with a wry smile.

“Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

“No, thank you.” Having left her wet raincoat in the rest room off the lobby, Annie felt confident that she wasn’t dripping on the carpet when she crossed the room to empty his wastebasket. “I’ll be working in the other rooms. Let me know when you’re ready for me to clean in here.”

“All right. By the way…”

She paused in the doorway, studying him. Blond and blue-eyed like his younger brother, Trevor was an attractive man, though perhaps not as breathtakingly spectacular as Trent—at least in Annie’s opinion. She imagined his wife would probably disagree about which McBride brother was the most appealing. “Yes?”

He seemed to choose his words carefully. “Mother told me about the service-swapping deal she made between you and Trent. That’s a satisfactory arrangement for you? You didn’t let my mother railroad you into it, I hope.”

She smiled. “It’s a very satisfactory arrangement for me. I actually feel as though I’m getting the better end of the bargain. Your brother’s house is small, and he keeps it very neat. It definitely doesn’t need much cleaning. But he worked very hard at my place yesterday. I couldn’t believe how much he’d gotten done in just one morning.”

Trent had repaired her precarious front step, replaced a broken board on the small porch and tightened a shutter that had hung loose at one window. He’d even mended the screen door, which had previously hung crookedly from a broken hinge.

“Trent needs something to do to get him out of the rut he’s got himself into,” Trevor said. “This will be good for him.”

“I don’t know about that, but it’s certainly helpful to me. It’s really sweet of your brother to do this.”

Trevor choked on a sip of coffee. “Sweet?” he repeated, recovering his voice. “Trent? Er…have you actually met him, by any chance?”

“Only briefly, yesterday morning.”

“And you thought he was, um, sweet?”

“I said what he’s doing is sweet,” she corrected, hesitant to apply the word to Trent, himself. “Helping me with the repairs, I mean.”

“I see.” He chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Prior to his accident, I heard my brother referred to as wild, cocky and reckless. During the past year or so he’s been called sullen, surly and rude. I’m not sure anyone has ever called him ‘sweet.”’

Though she was intrigued, Annie didn’t think she should be gossiping about one of her clients, even with his brother. “Still, I appreciate having my front step fixed so I won’t break my neck. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”

She heard him laughing softly behind her when she left his office. It seemed that Trent wasn’t the only odd brother in the McBride family, she thought with a bemused shake of her head.

TRENT WAS in his workshop Thursday night, rubbing wood stain onto a newly finished shelf, when the cellular telephone he’d brought in with him rang. He glared at the intrusive instrument, wishing he could simply ignore it, but it was probably his mother. If he didn’t answer, she would come charging over to find out what was wrong. He lifted the receiver to his ear. “What?”

“Hello to you, too,” Trevor said, apparently amused rather than offended by his younger brother’s curtness.

“What do you want, Trevor? I’m busy.”

“I’m fine, thanks, and so are the wife and kids. Nice of you to ask.”

“If you only called to needle me…”

“No, wait. Don’t hang up. I really do have a reason for calling.”

“Well?”

“Jamie wants you to come to dinner tomorrow evening. She’s trying out a new recipe for gumbo.”

Trevor swallowed a sigh. He didn’t want to hurt his sister-in-law’s feelings, but he really hadn’t been in the mood lately for cozy family dinners. He’d made that clear enough to his relatives, and they generally respected his wishes, but every so often they felt compelled to drag him out again. He understood, sort of, but he wished they could just accept his need for more time and space to come to terms with what had happened to him. “All right. I’ll come.”

“Try to contain your enthusiasm, will you?”

“Is there anything else you want?” Trent asked pointedly.

“No, but it was ‘sweet’ of you to ask. Of course, I’ve been told recently that you’re a very ‘sweet’ man.”

“Who the hell told you that?” he asked, startled.

Trevor laughed. “Your housekeeper. Apparently, you’ve earned her undying gratitude by fixing her front step.”

“It’s a wonder she hasn’t broken a leg on it—or worse,” Trent muttered.

“Pretty, isn’t she? Intriguing, too. I haven’t figured her out yet.”

“You shouldn’t be trying. You’re a married man.”

“Mmm. But you’re not.”

“Forget it. Not interested.”

“Then you’re even more of a cretin than I gave you credit for.”

“Goodbye, Trevor.”

“One more thing,” his brother said quickly, hearing the finality in Trent’s tone. “Annie mentioned that her roof is leaking. You might want to look into it, but don’t take any unnecessary risks. If you need help, give me a call and I’ll—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“All right. We’ll expect you for dinner tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there,” Trent grumbled, then hung up before his brother could prolong the conversation.

Pushing the lid onto the can of stain, he considered what he knew about Annie Stewart. She thought he was sweet. And she liked his furniture. And something about her shy smile made his stomach muscles quiver, damn it.

This was going to be a long month.

2

ANNIE wore a briskly professional smile when Trent opened his door to her on Friday morning. The smile momentarily wavered when she saw him. As she’d left her house that morning, oddly nervous about seeing him again, she had tried to convince herself that he couldn’t really be as gorgeous as she’d remembered. But he was—and then some.

Not that his attractiveness should make any difference to her, of course. She was here to do a job, not to drool over her client. “Good morning, Mr. McBride.”

He seemed to study her smile for a moment, then nodded and reached out to relieve her of her supplies. Without speaking, he held the door so she could enter with her lightweight vacuum cleaner.

She had to pass within inches of him to step inside, which made her even more aware of his height and the intriguing width of his shoulders. Chiding herself for being so easily and so uncharacteristically distracted from the job at hand, she asked, “Is there anything in particular you want me to do here today?”

He shrugged. “Whatever needs doing. I heard your roof is leaking. How bad is it?”

She frowned. “How did you…Oh, you’ve talked with your brother.”

“Yes. So, where’s the leak?”

Unsure how she felt about knowing he and Trevor had been talking about her, even in passing, she replied, “The worst leak is in my bedroom, but there’s also a small drip in the kitchen.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“If there are any supplies you need, I’ll pay for them, of course.”

He nodded. “I get a discount at the local hardware store. If I need anything, I’ll put it on my account there and you can reimburse me.”

She hoped the supplies wouldn’t be too expensive. The money she’d brought with her to Honoria had been severely depleted by utility deposits and other expenses required to move into the run-down house she’d inherited from her eccentric great-uncle. She still had money in her savings account from the sale last year of her uncle’s possessions, but she wanted to spend it wisely. Until she built a more solid clientele for her cleaning service, her income was somewhat limited.

She thought wistfully of the bank account she had in Atlanta, money she wouldn’t touch unless it was absolutely necessary. After ending an engagement that had been the worst mistake of her life, she had boldly declared her independence from her family and their money nearly two months ago during a blazing row with her overbearing father. It had been her twenty-sixth birthday, and she had announced that she was quite capable of taking care of herself, paying her own bills, making her own decisions. She only wished she had known just how daunting—and expensive—such a declaration would be.

The money wouldn’t have made any difference, she assured herself, still convinced she’d made the right decision. But at least a little forewarning would have kept her from being so overwhelmed by the financial reality of owning an old, neglected house.

Realizing that Trent was studying her intently, and that she must have been standing there frowning for several long moments, she smoothed her expression. “Thank you all the work you’ve done, and especially for fixing my step. I feel much safer on it now.”

He answered in a growl. “It was an accident waiting to happen. You’re lucky you haven’t broken your neck.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing special you want me to do here today?”

She was beginning to think he wasn’t going to answer when he surprised her by saying, “I’m out of clean socks. You can do a load of laundry, if you have time.”

She smiled, pleased that he’d made a request for a change. “Sure. No problem.”

“Lock up when you leave,” he said, turning abruptly away.

“Yes, I will. And Mr. McBride, I—”

Whatever she might have said faded into silence when he left without another word. He was walking stiffly today, she noted. Had he hurt himself working at her place Tuesday? She couldn’t help worrying about those injuries Martha Godwin had hinted at, but she suspected Trent wouldn’t appreciate personal questions.

Since she was no more interested in answering personal questions than he probably was, she decided she had better just mind her own business.

IT HAD BEEN a long time since Trent had been drawn out of his own problems enough to be actively curious about anyone else. But as he sat on Annie Stewart’s roof, pounding nails into loose shingles, he found himself wondering about her. He knew why he had chosen to live a hermit’s life during the past year—mostly because he hadn’t known what else to do—but what was Annie’s story? What had brought her to Honoria? Where was her family?

She seemed intelligent enough and he would be willing to bet she was well educated. So why had she chosen to clean houses for a living? Had she no other goals, no plans? No dreams?

Had her dreams, like his, been taken away, leaving her lost and aimless—a condition he knew all too well?

“I had a feeling I would find you up there.”

Frowning, Trent pushed his glasses higher on his nose and looked over the edge of the roof. His brother stood on the ground below, his hands on his hips as he gazed upward. “You should know better than to sneak up on a guy who’s alone on a roof.”

“And you should know better than to be alone on a roof. You want to risk ending up in a wheelchair again?”

Trent hated being reminded of his limitations. “You’re the one who told me Annie’s roof leaked. I’m fixing it.”

“I also told you I would help you.” Trevor planted a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder propped against the side of the house.

Trent suddenly realized that his brother wore jeans and a sweatshirt rather than his usual suit and tie. “Don’t you have to work today?”

Joining him on the roof, Trevor shook his head. “Nope. I took the day off. Mental-health day. I don’t have to be in court, and all my appointments can wait until next week. Jamie’s teaching, Sam’s in school and Abbie’s with the nanny. Today is all mine.”

“So you decided to spend it on Annie’s roof.”

Trevor shrugged and reached for an extra hammer from Trent’s toolbox. “I decided to spend it with you.”

Trent had to make an effort to grumble. “I’m having dinner at your house this evening. Isn’t that enough family togetherness for you?”

Unoffended, Trevor moved to a curled shingle and examined it. “The roof really needs to be replaced altogether.”

Remembering Annie’s cautious look when she’d offered to reimburse him for supplies, Trent shrugged. “I don’t think she can afford that right now. I’m patching the leaks as well as possible until she can have the whole job done.”

Trevor reached for a handful of roofing nails. “Having any trouble with your back?”

His back ached every time he stretched and bent, actually, but he had gotten used to pain. On a scale of one to ten—and he was all too well acquainted with ten—he considered his current discomfort a six. “I’m fine.”

“Good. Just be careful not to overdo it.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Mom.”

Trevor made a production of looking horrified. “God forbid.”

A small plane passed overhead, flying low as it headed for the private airstrip on the north side of town. Trent’s gaze was involuntarily drawn upward. He noted automatically that the craft was a Beechcraft V-tail, that the landing gear was already down, the descent slow and smooth. His knuckles tightened around his hammer, and he could almost feel the yoke in his hands.

The plane disappeared behind a line of trees. His memories flashed to the last time he’d flown. And then moved further ahead, images so vivid he could almost smell the smoke again, hear the creak and pop of heating metal, feel the pain of his injuries and the sick certainty that he would die there in the wreckage of aircraft and ego, a casualty of his own recklessness.

“Trent?”

Something in his brother’s voice made Trent suspect it wasn’t the first time he’d spoken. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

“Are you going to talk or nail shingles?” Trent retorted, chagrined at being caught in one of his frequent daytime nightmares. The ones during the night were even worse, but at least he had no witnesses then.

Trevor sighed and moved to a new spot. “Forgive me for being concerned,” he muttered.

Pointedly ignoring him, Trent went back to work, concentrating fiercely on the task and pushing the memories to the back of his mind.

THERE WAS ANOTHER NOTE on Trent’s refrigerator when he arrived home that afternoon. “Your laundry is folded on the bed,” it read. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to open closets and drawers to put things away. I forgot to ask.”

Again, there was a postscript: “Did you make that big rocker by the fireplace? It’s fabulous.”

Shaking his head, Trent reached into the fridge and pulled out a cola. He drained a third of it in one long guzzle, then read the note in his hand again. Annie seemed to have a thing for his furniture.

Remembering the worn odds and ends of furniture he’d seen when he went in her house to check the ceiling for signs of leaks, he suspected that most of it had been chosen for economy rather than personal taste.

She was definitely an odd cookie, he thought, tossing the note onto the counter. Pretty, but odd.

He moved into his bedroom to put his neatly folded socks and underwear away, and found himself wondering again what her story was. It irritated him to realize that he was suddenly feeling rather protective of her. Working on her roof earlier, he’d had the irritatingly satisfying feeling that he was helping someone who needed him.

As if he had anything to offer Annie—or anyone, he added with a heavy scowl.

THE FIRST THING Annie always did when she returned home on Tuesday and Friday afternoons was to find out what Trent had done that day. It amazed her how much he had accomplished in the three weeks that had passed since they had begun their arrangement. Their only personal interaction during those weeks had been the mornings when she arrived at his house to clean.

She thought she’d done a decent job of hiding her reaction to him during those fleeting encounters. She wanted to think he had no idea that she all but melted every time he looked at her in that sizzlingly intense manner of his. But she wouldn’t be surprised if he suspected it, anyway. A man like Trent had to be used to finding puddles of women at his feet.

His mother had warned her that Trent considered their arrangement only temporary and was likely to end it at any time, but Annie wasn’t worried. Even if he decided today that they’d swapped their last service, she still believed it had been well worth it. Her front step was safe to walk on now, her roof hadn’t leaked during a fairly heavy rain yesterday, he had cleaned out her gutters and unclogged her drains. She didn’t know how many hours he’d spent there—he was always gone by the time she came home—but she knew he’d spent more time working at her place than she had at his.

Determined to repay him, she had worked very hard at his place—cleaning, scrubbing, shining and polishing everything in his house. He’d given her free rein, so she had scrubbed floors, cleaned the oven and refrigerator and washed windows—inside and out. She’d dusted and vacuumed everything that hadn’t moved, but it still didn’t feel like enough.

There was an odd intimacy to spending so much time in his home while he was working in hers. She didn’t feel that way about her other clients, seeing their houses as just rooms to clean and money to earn—but it was different, somehow, with Trent. She told herself it was only because she was aware that he was as familiar with her home as she was with his. There was certainly no more personal element involved between them.

When she walked into her place on the first Tuesday afternoon in March—her fourth week of working for Trent—she was startled to find his big wooden rocker sitting in her living room. No, not his rocker, she realized, taking a step closer. Just as beautiful, but not the same. The color was slightly different, the grain not quite like the other.

There was a note taped to the back of the chair. In printed block letters it said, “You said you like my rocker. This was the first one I made. I broke the arm and had to glue it, but if you want it, it’s yours.” He hadn’t bothered to sign his name.

Her heart in her throat, she studied the rocker more closely. She found the break he’d referred to, eventually. The wood had apparently split when he’d nailed it, but he’d repaired it so expertly that only an obsessive perfectionist could find fault with it. But she was crazy about it, trivial flaw and all.

Hardly able to believe what he had done, she sank into the chair and began to rock, her work-weary muscles almost sighing in relief. Annie had grown up surrounded by beautiful, expensive things, but she had never fallen this hard for any inanimate object.

She could picture herself sitting in this wonderful chair on the cold nights still ahead, rocking, resting, listening to music from the stereo she was going to buy as soon as she had saved enough. Everything her uncle had owned had been sold at an estate auction, by his request, a few months after he’d died, and the proceeds had been deposited into an account for her, so there had been no furniture when she’d moved into the house he’d left her. She’d had to pick up a few odds and ends at secondhand shops to get by until she could do better. This chair was now the nicest piece she possessed. Having this beautiful rocker to relax in would certainly brighten up her evenings.

She had never envisioned herself living alone this way, but there were times when she actually enjoyed it enough to forget about the loneliness.

Had her uncle Carney enjoyed the solitary existence he’d led here? Eccentric and free-spirited, he’d rebelled early against the stringent expectations of his family—something Annie now understood all too well. She hadn’t seen her uncle often, only when he breezed through Atlanta to make contact with his only living relatives—her father and her—a total of only half a dozen times or so that Annie could remember. But he had always seemed fond of her, telling her wonderful stories about all the places he had seen, all the adventures he’d had.

He’d settled in Honoria—for reasons no one but him had ever known—after he’d broken a hip and had no longer been able to travel as he once had. He’d lived here nearly ten years before his death, but apparently hadn’t really gotten to know anyone in this town very well. Annie hoped to make a few more friends here than her great-uncle had. She only wished that she could have gotten to know Carney, himself, better. He would have understood, as no one else could, her need to break away from her parents, her father, in particular.

Her hand still stroking the chair, she glanced at the telephone nearby. Trent wasn’t the type to graciously accept gratitude—he’d always brushed her off when she’d tried to thank him for the work he’d done here—but she couldn’t wait until Friday to tell him how much this meant to her.

He answered in his usual curt manner. “H’lo?”

She spoke without bothering to identify herself. “Thank you. The chair is beautiful.”

“You didn’t have to call. I said you can have it if you want it.”

“Of course I want it. I love it. But—”

“Good. It was in my way here. I don’t need two.”

“I’d like to pay you for it,” she offered boldly. “You must have spent hours making it. Not to mention the materials.”

“Forget it. It wasn’t for sale, anyway. I told you, it’s flawed.”

“But—”

“Look, do you want the chair or not?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Fine. Enjoy it. See you Friday.”

A dial tone sounded in her ear before she could say anything else.

Blinking, she hung up the receiver, then laughed incredulously, shaking her head. Trent McBride was one of the most exasperating men she had ever met. Rude, moody, withdrawn—and yet there was a streak of kindness and generosity in him that he hadn’t quite been able to hide from her.

She had learned a little more about him during the past three weeks. She hadn’t asked questions—she would consider that both unprofessional and unethical—but the people here seemed anxious to volunteer information about each other. They’d told her that Trent had been hospitalized for weeks after his accident, and that his injuries, whatever they were, had put an end to his air force career. And now everyone wondered what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

Annie wondered about that herself—not that it was any of her business, of course. Several of her clients had tried to pump her for information about Trent, but she refused to cooperate, skillfully changing the subject whenever his name came up.

She crossed the room, stroked a hand over one satiny-smooth arm of the rocker, then sank into it again. Putting her head back, she closed her eyes and began to rock. The pleasurable sigh that escaped her seemed to echo in the quiet room.

GIVING ANNIE THE CHAIR had probably been a mistake, Trent thought glumly as he stared into his refrigerator on Friday of the following week. He’d thought she might like it, but he hadn’t been prepared for her to show her gratitude quite so…fervently. A stack of casserole dishes—enough for several days of meals—were neatly stacked in the fridge. Two loaves of fresh-baked bread sat on his counter. There was a plant on his kitchen windowsill, for Pete’s sake.

He’d only given her an extra chair that had been sitting in his workshop—a chair with a patched arm, for that matter. Had no one ever been nice to the woman before? He should have tried harder to talk himself out of the impulse when it had first occurred to him.

He closed the refrigerator and reached for the cup of coffee he’d poured a few minutes earlier. He’d thought he was hungry, but seeing all that food in there had killed his appetite. No more generous gestures, he promised himself. He didn’t want to encourage any more awkward expressions of gratitude.

She knocked on his front door just as he finished his coffee. As he went to let her in, he hoped she wasn’t bringing food or flowers this time.

Fortunately she was only carrying her cleaning supplies. She gave him one of her dimpled smiles when he reached out to relieve her of the heavy tote. He hated the way his abdomen tightened when she did that.

He was trying his best not to be attracted to her. But he was. He didn’t even particularly want to like her. But he did. Damn it.

“Good morning,” she said.

He nodded, dragging his gaze away from her sweetly curved mouth. “I thought I would fix that kitchen-cabinet door by your sink today. I noticed it keeps swinging open.”

Her smile tilted ruefully. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hit my head on it. I was beginning to think I was going to have a permanent goose egg on my forehead.”

He glanced automatically at her smooth forehead, seeing no damage there. No flaws at all, for that matter.

“Anything special you want me to do here?” she asked, her voice suddenly uncertain—as if the tension he was feeling this morning had rubbed off on her.

He shook his head. “I’m on my way out.”

He left quickly, before he could make a total fool of himself.

As he let himself into her house a short while later and inhaled the lemon-and-flower scents that he associated now with Annie, he reminded himself that the month he’d originally granted for this arrangement was over. He’d gotten quite a lot done on her house; he could quit in good conscience now. Of course, it had been kind of nice having his house cleaned regularly, his laundry done, his fridge filled with ready-to-nuke meals. And her house did need quite a few more repairs.

Maybe he would give it a couple more weeks. After that, it would probably be better if everything went back to the way it had been before.

“THAT WAS VERY GOOD, Sam,” Annie told the six-and-a-half-year-old boy on the piano bench beside her the following Monday afternoon. “You have a lot of natural talent.”

The boy seemed pleased. “I like music.”

“You still want to learn how to play the piano?”

His head bobbed affirmatively. “I want to play like John Tesh.”

His stepmother, Jamie McBride, had entered the room just in time to hear that statement. She laughed and rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sammy’s the only six-year-old in his class who would rather listen to John Tesh than the latest pop group. He saw him on TV at Christmas and he’s been playing at the piano ever since. We’ve tried to find a teacher for him, but the few local teachers were either booked up or think he’s too young to start.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Annie gave the boy a bracing smile. “I think Sam’s old enough as long he’s willing to do what it takes to learn. And that means practicing at least twenty minutes a day to start out, even longer as you progress further. Do you want to do that, Sam?”

He nodded eagerly. “I’ll practice an hour a day.”

Annie chuckled. “Eventually, you may very well practice that long, and more, but there’s no need to burn yourself out at the beginning. Would you like to play for your mom now?”

Jamie raised her eyebrows. “You learned to play something in your first lesson?”

He beamed. “Two songs. One’s called ‘Happy Hands’ and the other is ‘Buzzy Bees.’ Do you want to hear them?”

“Of course I want to hear them.”

His lower lip gripped between his teeth in concentration, Sam positioned his right hand on the keyboard, looking at Annie for confirmation that he was beginning correctly. She nodded encouragingly. The boy drew a deep breath and stared intently at the open music book in front of him as he played the very simple, four-measure melodies Annie had taught him during the past hour.

Jamie applauded enthusiastically when he finished. “Sam, that was great! I can’t wait until your dad hears you. Who’d have thought you’d be able to play the piano after your very first lesson?”

He gave her a reality-check look. “It wasn’t very hard.”

She laughed and ruffled his blond hair. “Give me a break, will you? If you’re going to take piano lessons, I reserve the right to be disgustingly proud every time you learn something new.”

Though he was smiling, Sam made a production of rolling his blue eyes. “Oh, man. This is going to be embarrassing.”

“Bet on it,” Jamie assured him cheerfully.

Annie noticed that the boy didn’t look particularly dismayed. Quite the opposite, actually.

She stood and stepped away from the piano bench. “That’s the end of our first lesson. Practice your exercises and I’ll see you next Monday after school, okay, Sam?”

He nodded, his attention already focused again on the music book in front of him. “See you, Ms. Stewart.”

Jamie motioned toward the doorway. “Would you join me in the kitchen for a cup of coffee, Annie?”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

Jamie led the way through her comfortably decorated house to the kitchen. She had just filled two good-size mugs with fresh-brewed coffee when they were joined by Abbie, who was almost three.

“Juice?” she asked Jamie hopefully.

Jamie obligingly poured apple juice into a spillproof toddler cup, handed it to the blue-eyed, blond cherub, then joined Annie at the table. “Sam certainly seems to have enjoyed his first piano lesson.”

“I can tell he’s going to learn quickly. You were right, Jamie. He has a genuine affinity for the piano.”

Jamie beamed. “Of course. I know real talent when I see it.”

“Yes, I suppose you do.” Annie knew from gossip that Jamie had spent nearly ten years working as an actress in New York before moving back to Honoria almost two years ago to teach drama at the high school.

Some people had expressed surprise that the flamboyant redhead had married Trevor McBride, a conservative lawyer and widowed father of two. Having seen Jamie and Trevor together on a couple of occasions at his office, Annie had sensed the deep, loving bond between the couple that had made their differences irrelevant. And it was very obvious that Jamie was crazy about her stepchildren.

“Speaking of talent…have you ever done any acting?” Jamie asked, studying her guest in a manner that almost looked assessing.

A bit warily, Annie asked, “Not since college. Why?”

“I knew it. You were a music major—musical theater?”

“Piano, mostly, but I had a few singing roles. What—”

“Have you ever longed to be back on stage? Missed the sound of applause ringing in your ears?”

Though she couldn’t help smiling at Jamie’s whimsical questions, Annie still asked, “What are you talking about?”

“I’m involved with the Honoria Community Theater. We’ve done a couple of plays already, but now everyone wants to put on a musical for the first time. Would you be interested in trying out, maybe for a fall performance?”

Annie didn’t know if she would still be in Honoria in the fall. She hadn’t planned that far ahead. As for performing in a musical… “I don’t know, Jamie. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like that. And I’m really not sure I would have the time.”

“Think about it, okay? We’d love to have you. We’ll be holding auditions in early June.”

“I’ll think about it,” Annie promised, though her first impulse was to refuse on the spot. She’d been fairly content to live in the shadows lately; she wasn’t sure she wanted to take a chance at losing that comfortable anonymity.

“So how are things going with the repairs on your house?” Jamie asked, obligingly changing the subject. “Trevor told me he and Trent worked on your roof. Did it help? Is it still leaking?”

Surprised, Annie asked, “Did you say your husband worked on my roof?” It was the first she’d heard of it.

“You didn’t know?”

“No.” She bit her lower lip.

Now it was Jamie’s turn to look surprised. “Does that bother you?”

“A bit.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t paid him anything. The arrangement I have with his brother is that I clean his house in exchange for the repair work.”

“Trevor doesn’t want to be paid to help out a friend. And besides, you clean his offices and you’re giving Sam piano lessons.”

“But he’s paying me for both of those. I still come out in his debt.”

“So you can do him a favor sometime,” Jamie said with a shrug. “Don’t worry about it, Annie. It isn’t charity.”

Jamie had zeroed in on the reason for Annie’s discomfort, of course. She’d been so adamant about making her own way, about not needing assistance from anyone, that even the suggestion of charity made her uncomfortable. It was the reason she’d been so anxious to repay Trent for his work and for the rocker he’d given her. She never again wanted to feel as though she was living off someone else.

Jamie didn’t let the conversation lag. “How’s your arrangement with Trent working out? He’s been helpful to you?”

“Extremely,” Annie said fervently. “You wouldn’t believe how much he’s accomplished during the past six weeks.”

“He did the cabinets in here, did you know? Trevor and I remodeled a few months ago, and Trent helped us out. He wasn’t quite as far along in his recovery then as he is now, but he still managed to do most of it by himself, with Trevor helping only a little. It took a lot of nagging on Trevor’s part to get him to do it, though. Trent seemed to be afraid he’d mess it up, though I don’t know why since he built all the cabinets in his parents’ house when he was home from the Air Force Academy one summer holiday. Working at your place has been good for him, I think,” Jamie mused without pausing for breath. “It’s getting him out of his house, making him think about someone other than himself. He needed that. He’s gotten very self-centered lately.”

Annie couldn’t help frowning. “He’s hardly self-centered. He’s worked so hard on my house—much harder than I have at his. I’m sure he’s practically exhausted himself, but he just keeps going back. I’ve never asked him to do anything except fix my front step, but he’s done so much more—all on his own.”

Jamie’s eyebrows rose in response to Annie’s spirited defense of Trent. “I wasn’t really criticizing him. Just making a comment.”

Annie cleared her throat. “It’s just that I’m very grateful to him. I couldn’t have afforded to pay anyone for all the work he’s done for me.”

A quick, sharp rap on the back door interrupted the conversation, to Annie’s relief. Her relief turned to self-consciousness when Jamie opened the door and the man they had just been discussing walked in.

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