HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

Celebrates its 20th Anniversary

Two decades of bringing you the very best in romance reading.

To recognize this important milestone, we’ve invited six very special authors—whose names you’re sure to recognize—to tell us how they feel about Superromance. Each title this month has a letter from one of these authors.

Although critically acclaimed author Anne Mather—whose foreword appears in this book—has never written for Superromance, she has been reading the line since it began. “It is not difficult to see why Superromances have become so successful,” she writes. “I’d recommend that anyone who is looking for a longer, exciting read give them a try. I did, and I’ve never regretted it.”

The Newcomer by Margot Dalton is a worthy addition to our anniversary lineup. Margot began writing for Superromance in 1990 and has written 22 titles for the line. In addition, she was written five mainstream novels and has contributed to several continuing series and anthologies.

In The Newcomer, readers are taken back to the town of Crystal Creek, Texas. Margot wrote seven of the original CRYSTAL CREEK series titles, and Superromance is proud to present her newest book about that friendly ranching community.

Dear Reader,

Almost ten years ago, Harlequin approached a number of authors with an exciting new idea. We were given the challenge of helping to create a central Texas town and ranching community, along with a host of exciting, heartwarming characters to populate this setting. The result was the 24-book CRYSTAL CREEK series, which has remained popular with readers since publication of the very first book in 1993.

As an author, I loved everything about writing the CRYSTAL CREEK books. So you can imagine my excitement when the Superromance editors suggested I might want to return to Crystal Creek with a new series of books. I could hardly wait! The Newcomer, the third book in this trilogy, shows what kind of tension can arise when a close-knit town is divided by the arrival of strangers. It also wraps up the stories of Bella, who appeared in the first book, and her sister Lucia, who was trying hard to save the Crystal Creek middle school in the second book of the trilogy. And it introduces Douglas Evans, a handsome, kilt-wearing Scotsman who has somehow become the mayor of a small town in Texas!

I loved making this nostalgic return to Crystal Creek. I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I did.

Warmest regards,

Margot Dalton

Other Crystal Creek titles by Margot Dalton

Harlequin Superromance

#914—IN PLAIN SIGHT

#928—CONSEQUENCES

The Newcomer
Foreword by Anne Mather
Margot Dalton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

FOREWORD BY ANNE MATHER

I’ve been asked to write a brief foreword to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Harlequin Superromance, and I have to tell you, I was very flattered by the request. I have never written for Superromance myself, but I’m an enthusiastic book buyer, as well as a writer, and I have read many of the books over the years.

It’s not difficult to see why Superromances have become so successful. Harlequin has always kept a close eye on what its readers want, and when Superromances were first published, they were much longer than they are today. But, as with all new ventures, there have been obvious refinements and the line has gone from strength to strength.

I started reading Superromances at their inception, and naturally, I had my favorites. Many writers who started out with Superromance are household names today—authors like Stella Cameron, Sandra Canfield, Janice Kaiser, to name a few—and you may still be lucky enough to find their early books. I’m fortunate enough to have a collection of many of these novels, and they bear favorable comparison to what is being written today.

Of course, these days a whole new batch of authors is making their mark with Superromances. It’s a very fertile breeding ground, and I’m sure many of these writers will go on to become the household names of tomorrow. Whatever happens, I know Harlequin will support and encourage them in every way.

Because of their length, Superromances can explore character development in greater detail, and the stories reflect the lives of ordinary people—often in extraordinary situations. I’d recommend that anyone who is looking for a longer, exciting read give them a try. I did, and I’ve never regretted it.

Anne Mather

Anne Mather is a renowned and much-published author of romance and women’s fiction—one of the world’s most popular. She’s particularly well-known for her work in the Harlequin Presents series. Her distinctive stories offer intense passion and high drama—an unbeatable combination!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE CAROUSEL HORSES stood frozen in the misty chill of the February afternoon. Silver hooves pawed silently at the floorboards, dark eyes rolled wildly, while manes and tails streamed as if blown by the wind. A fitful sun broke through dark clouds above the hills, sparked fire from gold-mounted saddles and jeweled breastplates.

Lovingly, Douglas Evans caressed the blond mane of a fiery sorrel with bared yellow teeth, then knelt to examine a splintered board on the floor near the big tiger, whose jaws were drawn back in a menacing snarl.

The tiger had been discovered wrapped under layers of oilcloth in June Pollock’s cellar, more than sixty years after the dismantling of the Crystal Creek carousel. Unlike many of the other animals, this one had hardly needed any restoration. Its broad striped back was worn smooth from the thousands of tiny riders who’d sat on him, wide-eyed and awed at their own daring, as the tiger paced slowly around the carousel platform.

“Unca Dougie,” a small voice called from somewhere outside the carousel enclosure. “I’m cold.”

“Put your brush down, Robin, and come up here,” Doug said.

His rich Scottish brogue sounded loud and a little intrusive, even to his own ears, on this silent winter afternoon in the Hill Country of central Texas.

He smiled as his niece plodded up the carousel steps and tumbled at his feet in a bright plaid jacket and hood. She lay on her back and waved her green running shoes in the air.

Robin was four years old, a plump, happy little girl with golden curls, red cheeks and an irrepressible personality, as different from her older sister Moira as two children could possibly be. Doug loved his young nieces as if they were his own children, and spent a good deal of time worrying about them.

Especially nowadays…

Hiding his frown of concern, he bent and lifted Robin into his arms. Then he sat on the bench next to the tiger and cuddled the child, making a great show of putting his big hands over her ears and rubbing her cold cheeks.

She squirmed and giggled, forgetting her complaints, then settled contentedly against his denim jacket and looked around at the carousel. With a surreptitious glance at her uncle, Robin jammed her thumb in her mouth and began sucking it thoughtfully.

Doug gently removed the thumb and kissed her bright hair. She made no objection, just nestled more cozily in his arms.

“Tell me again about all the horses and stuff,” she commanded.

Doug settled back and extended his long legs in blue jeans and heavy work boots.

“Well, this carousel is the most wonderful thing,” he told the little girl, his burr becoming more pronounced, as it always did when he told stories to his nieces. “And the animals are verra, verra old.”

“How old?”

“Almost a hundred years.”

“Older than Mummy, then.”

Doug chuckled. “Yes, my sweetheart, much older than Mummy. These fifty-four horses, and the lion and tiger and giraffe were hand-carved, every single one of them, by a man called Franz Koning who lived in Germany. For many years the carousel was one of this town’s proudest possessions. But in the Great Depression, Crystal Creek lost its carousel,” he said sadly.

Robin frowned with anxiety, which she always did at this point in her uncle’s story.

“What happened?”

Doug cuddled the child, and reached over to stroke the tiger’s glossy head. “It was broken up and sold, piece by piece, to the highest bidders. The horses and all these other animals were scattered all over the world.”

“How did they get back here, Unca?”

“A very rich, very kind man found all the parts of the carousel, and paid a lot of money to have them restored to their former glory. Then he presented them as a gift to the town of Crystal Creek. This carousel is a symbol, my chickie.”

Doug nuzzled her hair again. Robin was warm and heavy in his arms; he could tell she was getting sleepy.

“Symbol?” she asked, her eyelids fluttering drowsily.

“It stands for the pride of the town.” Doug looked with satisfaction at the bright carousel in its enclosure on the lawn in front of the courthouse. “This is the jewel in our lapel, my darling. It shows that Crystal Creek has pride in itself and its history, and will always be a fine town to live in.”

But Robin was asleep by now, slumping against his chest.

Carefully Doug made a nest for her on the bench, using his jacket to wrap her against the chill and taking care to cover her little shoes with the sheepskin-lined denim.

He bent to kiss her again, then went down the steps and around a corner to find his older niece working doggedly, applying a coat of green stain to the lower portion of the carousel enclosure beneath tall Plexiglas windows.

Doug looked with fondness at the child.

Moira was nine years old, a timid, serious little girl with big gray eyes, straight blond hair cut in a Dutch bob and a thin body in blue jeans and a parka.

The girl had a quaintly old-fashioned air about her, as if she should be sitting in some Victorian nursery, dressed in a pinafore and buttoned boots, doing her sums and letters on a slate. Moira was always quiet and self-contained, with little of the pushing or shouting common to most children her age, and none of her younger sister’s cheerful ebullience.

Poor Moira carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, Doug thought with sympathy, picking up a brush to join her. And narrow, fragile shoulders they were, too.

“Robin fell asleep,” he reported.

“Where is she?” Moira looked around in concern. Taking care of her impulsive younger sister was one of her responsibilities.

He gestured over his shoulder. “She’s curled up on the bench next to the tiger.”

“Is she warm enough?” Frowning, Moira dipped her brush carefully and squeezed excess stain onto the edge of the bucket.

Doug chuckled and reached out to touch his niece’s shining cap of hair.

“Nine years old, but going on twenty-nine, you are,” he said teasingly. “Take care of us all, don’t you, Pumpkin?”

She smiled a little, then drew back tactfully from his hand. Unlike her sister, Moira disliked being touched or cuddled.

They worked in silence for a while. Doug, always sensitive to her moods, could tell something was bothering the child.

“So, Moira.” He carried the pail of stain around on the grass and knelt to paint a new section. “What is it, then?”

She looked away from him, biting her lip. Doug studied the vulnerable line of his niece’s neck, the pale curve of her little freckled cheek.

“Mummy cried last night,” she said at last, her face still averted.

Doug’s heart sank but he kept his voice deliberately casual. “Did she, now?”

Moira nodded, concentrating on painting a lower row of boards with extreme care.

“Well,” Doug said with false heartiness, “as I understand it, ladies cry quite often. When they’re upset, it makes them feel better.”

Moira cast her uncle a skeptical glance. “How do you know about ladies? You’ve never even been married, and you’re older than Mummy.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Indeed I am. In fact, I’m thirty-five years old and no wife anywhere in sight. But I’ve known a few ladies in my time, Moira dear, and they all seem to cry sooner or later.”

She kept her face turned away, but he could see her lower lip quivering. “Mummy cries a lot, Uncle Doug. She’s really worried.”

Doug set the brush down. For the second time that afternoon, he picked up a child in his arms. He sat on the steps of the carousel, cradling this older niece who almost never allowed herself to be held.

“Yes, Mummy has some problems,” he whispered into Moira’s silky hair. “But you mustn’t worry, dear. They’ll get worked out.”

Thoughtfully he gazed across the quiet streets, the church steeple and withered grass, the rolling hills that turned from blue to mauve to pale gray in the distance.

“Everything will work out,” he said.

Moira twisted on his lap to give him a tearful, questioning glance.

“How do you know for sure? Just because you’re the mayor?”

Doug laughed. “Oh, my sweetheart, I wish being the mayor of Crystal Creek gave me enough power to wave a magic wand and fix everybody’s troubles.”

“Maybe the magic lady will fix everything,” Moira suggested.

“What magic lady?”

“You know.” Moira glared at him impatiently. “The magic lady who drives around in her big car and looks at everything.”

“Oh, no. Not that again,” Doug said with a mock groan.

“Tell me about her, right from the start,” Moira commanded.

Her uncle sighed. By now he was weary of the story he’d made up to entertain his nieces, but the children still loved to hear it.

“Well, I saw her again this past week, lovey,” he said, squinting at the horizon.

“What did she look like?” Moira asked. “What was she doing?”

“She was a woman as lovely as a picture, Moira, in a big yellow Mercedes with California license plates. Doing the very same thing she’s been doing for months—driving around very slowly and looking at our town.”

“And from the very first time you saw her, you knew…” Moira prompted.

“I knew that huge changes were coming for Crystal Creek,” he said obediently.

“But will the changes make Mummy stop crying at night?”

Doug’s smile faded, and he hugged the child closer. “Your mother’s problems are separate from the troubles of our town, my darling. But perhaps the magic lady will work everything out at the same time.”

Moira wriggled from his grasp and stood erect, staring at the carousel with narrowed eyes. “I don’t believe in the magic lady anymore,” she said. “Nobody’s seen her except you. I think you just made her up to have a story for Robin and me.”

Doug thought about the big yellow car he’d first seen a few months ago, gliding silently past the hotel in the autumn sunlight.

And the beautiful dark-haired woman who sat at the wheel of the Mercedes, piloting her golden vehicle through the streets and avenues of Crystal Creek.

She’d looked around at his town with such intent, concentrated interest. And when she turned away, her profile was as finely sculpted as Waterford crystal.

“No,” he told the child, falling into a soft brogue as he remembered. “I didna imagine her, my lassie.”

“And she’ll make everything better?”

“Ah, yes,” Doug said with a hearty optimism he didn’t feel. “One day soon our princess will reveal her plan, and we will all be verra, verra glad to hear it.”

“You’re crazy, Uncle Doug.” Moira scrambled from his embrace and picked up her brush again. But she seemed a little reassured, and her face wasn’t quite as tense.

Doug grinned and followed her down the steps to replace the lid on his bucket of stain.

“Let’s go back for our scones and tea,” he said. “You bring the paint cans and brush, and I’ll carry that lumping great sister of yours.”

While Moira collected the supplies, Doug lifted the sleeping Robin into his arms, still warmly wrapped in the denim jacket. They started up the street toward the Crystal Creek Hotel, a bright little procession in the silent winter afternoon, Doug making a conscious effort to slow his long strides so Moira could keep up.

“Do you like it better here than in Scotland?” she asked, trotting along at his side.

“Much better,” Doug said briefly, glancing down at the child. “And how about you?”

“It rains all the time in Scotland. And the cities aren’t clean like this.”

“Exactly right, my pet.” Doug grinned at his niece. “The weather is generally a lot better in Texas, even if it does get far too hot in the summer for any sane man to enjoy.”

“But do you ever get homesick for Scotland?” Moira asked.

He thought it over. “Sometimes, but not for long. And you know what? As soon as I go back for a visit, I remember why I’m so fond of Texas.”

“Mummy and Robin and I have never gone back there for a visit,” Moira said.

“You girls and your mother only arrived a year ago,” Doug said. “And Mummy’s afraid that if you went home—” He fell abruptly silent, but Moira picked up on what he’d been about to say.

“She’s afraid they wouldn’t let us come back,” the child said. “That’s why Mummy cries at night, isn’t it? Because we might have to leave Texas.”

“Citizenship issues are too big a problem for a wee girl like you to worry about,” Doug said. “You mustn’t let it bother you, Moira.”

“But why won’t they let us stay?”

“The immigration laws are very strict,” he said. “Even more strict than when I moved here six years ago. Your mother brought you over to visit me, and then decided she wanted to stay. But the government still thinks you’re all just visiting.”

Moira’s small face grew pale. “So Mummy and Robin and I will have to leave here and go back to Scotland?”

“Not if we can help it,” Doug said. “I’m still trying to get things fixed up.”

“I don’t want to go back there,” Moira said gloomily.

Doug gave her a thoughtful glance. “But in Scotland you lived in a fine big house, and here your Mummy just has a little cottage.”

“I hated that big house,” Moira said with passion. “Every one of us hated it. The bedrooms were cold all the time.”

“I suppose they were.” Doug thought about the stately old home that his sister, Rose, had inherited from their mother. “A lovely place, that house, but not exactly cozy.”

“So what do you like the best about Texas?” Moira asked.

He thought it over. “The fact that Rory McLeod’s not here.” he said at last.

“Do you hate him, Uncle Doug?”

Doug shook his head, thinking about his mother’s second husband.

Stephen Evans, his father, had been a cultured, soft-spoken man, and much loved. But Stephen had died when Doug was nine and Rose was little more than a baby, leaving their mother a valuable whiskey distillery in the Scottish Lowlands.

A few years later she’d married McLeod, a hulking, overbearing foreman at the plant who’d soon insinuated himself into his wife’s inheritance. After college Doug had also gone to work in the family business, mostly to protect his mother’s property.

But his stepfather had always been a hard man to endure…

“No,” he said at last. “I don’t hate anybody, Pumpkin. But I’m just as happy to have an ocean between me and Rory McLeod.”

In fact, Doug had come to Texas six years earlier to set up a distributorship in the Hill Country for the family business. But his heart had no longer been in the work. The spring before his trip to America, their gentle mother had succumbed to breast cancer, and except for Rose and the girls, Doug had nothing holding him to Scotland anymore.

Something about the town of Crystal Creek had drawn him with passionate, irresistible force. Doug stayed a whole month longer than necessary, and afterward he went home only long enough to sell his share of the business, pack his belongings and begin the long battle to obtain a green card.

Now Doug owned the Crystal Creek Hotel, was mayor of the town, ran the real estate office and served as a stockbroker for local investors. Sometimes he felt as if his roots had already grown deeper into Texas soil than they’d ever been in the home of his ancestors.

“But why do you like it here so much?” Moira persisted with characteristic doggedness.

“Texas is almost ten times bigger than Scotland.” Doug shifted the burden of the sleeping child in his arms. “But it has only twice the population. And the sunshine warms me clear to the bones, Moira. I love this place.”

He gazed off at the rolling hills with their scattering of trees and rimrock outcroppings that sometimes reminded him of his homeland, especially on these blue, misty winter days.

“You know Mr. Wall, in the drugstore?” Moira gave her uncle a worried glance. “Mr. Wall says Crystal Creek is dying.”

“Does he now?” Doug said grimly.

“Yesterday Robin and I were in the store buying Gummi Bears, and he said I should tell you that half the people in the town will pack up and leave this year if they can’t get their taxes lowered.”

Doug, who was normally an easygoing man, felt a surge of real anger when he thought about the fat, gossipy druggist using children to carry his messages.

“Well, if Mr. Wall says something like that to you in future,” he told the girl, trying to keep his voice casual, “maybe you could suggest, my darling, that he might want to bring his concerns to me instead of telling them to a nine-year-old child.”

“I don’t like him.” Moira grimaced and scuffed her toe on the sidewalk. “Mr. Wall smiles all the time, but I think he’s mean.”

“Never trust a man who smiles too much,” Doug said. “Often they’re—”

He stopped abruptly, clutching Robin tightly in his arms.

“What’s the matter?” Moira asked, squinting up at her uncle.

Doug stared at the sandstone bulk of the Crystal Creek Hotel, a building on which he’d lavished a great deal of money and hard work since his arrival. The hotel’s facade glistened in the afternoon sunlight, its windows flaring gold against the darkening sky to the east. The freshly painted sign above the lobby entrance was as bright as a new coin, and all the windows shone.

A sleek yellow Mercedes was parked on the street in front of the hotel.

“Is it her?” Moira breathed, standing tensely at his side and staring along with him. “Do you think it’s the magic lady?”

“I believe it is.” Doug knew the reaction was absurd, but he felt his heart beginning to pound with excitement against his rib cage. “You know, sweetie, I do believe it is.”

“What does she want?”

He began to walk again, forgetting all about adjusting his pace to Moira’s. She puffed along at his side, looking up at him anxiously.

“Why is she here, Uncle Doug?”

“We’ll soon know, won’t we, Pumpkin?” Doug mounted the wide brick steps of the hotel and entered the lobby with the little girls, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the lack of sunlight.

Since her arrival the previous spring, Rose had worked along with Doug to redecorate the hotel’s interior. Now the old brasses shone, the woodwork gleamed with a satiny finish and chintz brightened the windows and the lobby furniture. The place had a rustic charm that drew guests from all over the Hill Country and beyond, making the Crystal Creek Hotel one of the few really thriving businesses in town.

On the back of a chintz sofa near the window, a big tabby cat drowsed lazily in the sun. She belonged to Doug and was named Dundee. Though he’d acquired her from June Pollock just a few years earlier, this plump female continued a long line of “Dundees” that stretched all the way back to his boyhood in Scotland.

But nothing in the lobby registered on its owner’s mind at this moment. Doug’s eyes were fixed on the scene at the reception desk, where Rose perched on a high stool behind the polished wooden counter, appearing so worried that Doug felt a stirring of protective concern.

Rose looked exactly like their mother, and a lot like little Moira. His sister was a small, dainty woman with fine blond hair and big blue eyes that often seemed anxious and frightened. She wore a blue sweater over a plaid shirt, and chewed the end of a pencil, gazing in distraught fashion at the hotel register.

Two people stood in front of Rose at the desk, surrounded by a small mountain of expensive-looking luggage. One of them was a handsome young blond man in khakis and a battered leather jacket. The other was Moira’s “magic lady”—the dark-haired driver of the yellow car.

The sight of them was confusing to Doug, rendering him temporarily speechless. Every time he’d seen the mysterious young woman she’d been alone. Somehow he’d never associated her with a man. He felt a sharp pang which he realized was disappointment.

But of course, that was ridiculous…

“They want a two-bedroom suite for an extended period of time.” Rose turned to her brother with obvious relief. “But they need all kinds of telephone outlets, too. I told them we only have the…”

Doug placed Robin carefully on one of the sofas by the old rock fireplace, then turned to face the group at the desk.

“We can give them the gold rooms on the second floor,” he said to Rose.

Rose smiled and handed him a key.

“It’s not exactly a suite,” Doug told the guests, “but the two adjoining bedrooms have doors that lead to a common sitting room.”

“Sounds perfect.” The young man gave Rose an engaging smile. “Don’t worry, ma’am, adjoining rooms will suit us just fine.”

Rose’s shy, delicate face turned an even deeper shade of pink. “This is my brother,” she said, her Scottish burr very pronounced. “He’s Douglas Evans, the proprietor of the hotel. Dougie, this is Margaret and Terence Embree, from Los Angeles.”

“Terry,” the young man said, coming forward to shake Doug’s hand. “Nobody ever calls me Terence.”

Doug pocketed the key and shook the man’s hand, liking the firm grasp, then turned to greet the woman who approached.

In spite of himself, she took his breath away. Up close she seemed even lovelier than all those times he’d seen her behind the wheel of her car.

She was tall and graceful, wearing leather boots and a long woolen skirt and matching jacket in pale taupe. Her face was finely sculpted, with high cheekbones and big dark eyes. A golden drift of freckles across the bridge of her nose added a touch of boyishness, an appealing contrast that seemed to heighten rather than diminish her elegance.

Her hair was long and dark, carelessly swept up and held at the back of her head by a big tortoiseshell clip. Doug studied the clip when she turned to glance at the sleeping child on the couch.

So tempting, he thought. A man would only have to reach out and unfasten that clip, and her hair would tumble down onto her shoulders in a rich, glistening mass…

He drew himself up with a guilty start.

What thoughts to be having about a woman whose husband was standing not ten feet away, he chided himself.

“Mr. Evans,” she said. Her voice was like honey warmed in the sun, sweet and husky. “I’m glad to meet you. Terry and I are planning to stay for quite some time in your hotel. We’ll need to make immediate arrangements to get a computer modem and fax machine installed in our room.”

She extended her hand and Doug took it, his whole body thrilling at the touch.

What was there about a woman that could make her very skin seem electric? Her hand was firm and slender, and he could have held it forever.

“A fax machine?” he repeated, still a little dazed. “Computer modems? That’s going to require some thought, Ms. Embree. Our rooms don’t even have phones.”

Her eyes weren’t as dark as he’d first thought, but heavily shaded by dense eyelashes. Her irises were exactly the color of those sunny backwaters in the Claro River where the water ran brown and cool over mossy stones. They gleamed with intelligence, and Doug could happily have drowned in them.

“Call me Maggie,” she said, then smiled down at Moira who stood watching her with awestruck solemnity.

As he shook Margaret Embree’s hand and gazed into that lovely face, Douglas Evans wondered if maybe the little girls were right after all.

Maybe this woman was magic.

CHAPTER TWO

MAGGIE DISENGAGED her hand from the big man’s grasp and stepped back to examine him.

Definitely a fine specimen, she decided. Tall and broad-shouldered, with an appealing rough-hewn look and a dancing light of humor in his green eyes. His hair was very black and crisp, with a lock that fell over one eyebrow in engaging fashion.

And she loved the gentle way he’d placed the sleeping child onto that couch, then covered her so tenderly.

The soft rich brogue of his speech was also attractive, although the incongruity of his accent, here in the heart of Texas, puzzled her a little.

Maggie tried to remember what she’d recorded in her notes about Douglas Evans. To the best of her recollection he was actually the mayor, though that title probably held little significance in a place like Crystal Creek.

And he also…

“Welcome to our town, Maggie Embree,” he said softly, looking into her eyes.

Ridiculous as it was, she felt her knees turning weak. A little thrill shivered all through her body, warm and moist.

The same thing had happened when he’d taken her hand.

Maggie gave him a smile that she hoped was cool and remote, then turned away to pick up a couple of pieces of luggage. Terry shouldered some duffel bags and the tall innkeeper took the rest, except for one he offered to the solemn golden-haired child at his side who seemed anxious to help.

Obviously sensing something going on, the tabby cat leaped down from the back of the couch. She yawned and stretched, rump in the air, forelegs extended, then joined the group.

They trudged up the wide staircase, and followed the big Scotsman and his cat down the hall. “You’re very lucky,” the proprietor said over his shoulder. “We’ve just finished some renovating, and this is our slowest time so you’re the only guests at the moment. You’ll find it very quiet. Although,” he added, “the pub still does a lively business.” He paused by a polished wooden door with a high transom, took out an old-fashioned skeleton key to unlock the door and led them into a charming room furnished with floral couches, matching drapes and a television set concealed in a mahogany armoire.

“There are bedrooms on either side, each with its own bath,” the man said to Terry, gesturing toward a pair of doors. “But if you and your wife should prefer to—”

“My wife!” Terry laughed, a warm, infectious sound in the quiet room. Even the little girl smiled. “Maggie and I are brother and sister, Mr. Evans.”

“Are you now?” The tall man glanced at Maggie, and she caught a surprising flare of light in his green eyes that made her tingle again.

All these wayward reactions were beginning to upset her.

Maggie turned away nervously and tried one of the doors, which opened into a bedroom with a wooden four-poster bed and a deep padded seat at a window enshrouded in clouds of airy white muslin. Hooked rugs covered the shining hardwood floor.

For a moment she forgot everything else in her delight at the beautiful room. It was like something out of the storybooks her mother had read to her and Terry when they were children.

The cat entered with her. Clearly familiar with the room, it sniffed daintily at a floorboard near the window, tail stiffly extended. Maggie, who loved cats, smiled and bent to scratch behind the furry ears. The cat purred loudly and rubbed against Maggie’s leather boot.

“You’re brother and sister,” Doug Evans was saying behind her in the sitting room. His deep voice sounded warm and thoughtful.

“It’s really funny, that you thought we were married,” Terry told the man.

“Why?” Doug asked.

“Well, I don’t know what kind of man would ever win my sister’s hand,” Terry said, “but he’d have to be a lot different guy than I am. A billionaire industrialist or a Texas land baron, maybe.”

“Indeed?” the host said. His voice was still solemn, but Maggie could now detect a note of teasing. “So your sister prefers wealthy men?”

Alarmed by this turn of conversation, she returned to the sitting room and gave her brother a stern glance. But Terry was clearly enjoying himself and, as usual, paid her no attention.

“No, I don’t think Maggie’s particularly attracted to money,” he told the Scotsman, “but she’s fond of strength.” He gestured at the coat of arms above the small fireplace, topped by a bit of tartan and a pair of ornamental crossed swords. “You know, maybe she’d even go for some kind of warrior chieftain,” he suggested with a grin.

“Do ye really think so, then?” the man asked, his burr deepening. He cast Maggie another glance, his green eyes dancing.

“That’s quite enough,” Maggie said firmly. “Terry, I’m sure Mr. Evans has no interest in speculation about my love life, or lack thereof.”

Nervous and confused under those sparkling eyes, she rummaged through her shoulder bag and withdrew five dollars, offering the bill to the dark-haired man by the door.

“Thank you for helping with the bags,” she said politely.

He glanced at the money, then looked down at her again, his jaw tightening a little.

Maggie realized, too late, that she’d made a mistake, but she was too rattled to back down.

“Please,” she said, holding the bill while the little girl and the cat pressed up against the man’s legs. All three stood watching Maggie solemnly. “You carried all those bags upstairs for us.”

“You and your brother are very welcome here, Maggie,” the man said quietly, making her feel even more ridiculous, almost like a child being scolded.

“But it’s not our policy to accept payment for assisting our guests.”

He turned with quiet dignity and left the room with Moira and Dundee at his heels.

Maggie went to the doorway and watched as he strode along the hallway. His shoulders looked wide and strong, and his hips were lean and hard under the faded denim jeans.

“Well, that’s great.” She came back into the room and closed the door. “A Scottish cowboy with lofty moral principles. Just what we need to complicate things even more than they already are.”

Her brother watched her with interest. “The guy really gets to you. Doesn’t he, Maggie?”

She shrugged and took off her jacket, then massaged her shoulders wearily. “I’m a little worried about that lord-of-the-manor attitude. This man’s going to be trouble for us, Terry. I can just feel it.”

“Trouble for you, maybe.” Terry removed his shoes and reclined on one of the couches, stretching contentedly. “I have nothing to do with this whole crackbrained scheme, remember? I’m just along to drive the car and provide technical support.”

“And to escape the paint fumes and sawdust in your apartment.” Maggie sprawled opposite him in a big overstuffed chair and tugged off her leather boots. “Are you sorry you came?”

“Somebody has to look after you, kid. Especially when Natasha’s being so irrational.”

“Look after me!” She smiled at him. “When you’re this deep into a book, you hardly even know where you’re living, even when your place is being renovated. I’ll bet a houseful of carpenters would hardly have bothered you.”

“I have two hundred pages left to write, Maggie,” he said, suddenly serious. “I need peace and quiet to finish the book. And this town certainly looks peaceful enough.”

“But you really don’t approve of what Natasha’s doing here, do you?” Maggie continued to watch her brother thoughtfully.

“Approve? You’ve got to be kidding. I think it’s the craziest thing I ever heard of. And so do you,” he added shrewdly.

“It’s what Natasha wants.” Maggie sighed and stretched her feet, wiggling her toes in relief.

“Well,” Terry said with a grin, “that would explain the craziness.”

“Look, what can I do, tell her she’s being completely irrational?”

“I think that’s a major part of Natasha’s problem.” Terry’s pleasant face turned thoughtful. “Nobody’s ever refused her anything in her whole life. Imagine what it must be like to have a hundred million dollars and everybody in the world falling all over themselves to fulfill your smallest whim. Anybody’s view of life would get a little distorted.”

Maggie watched him for a moment, then shook her head and dug into a leather briefcase. She took out a bulky file folder and sat back to leaf through it.

“Here it is,” she said at last.

“What?” He rolled his head on the chintz cushion to glance at her.

“Douglas Evans,” she said, reading aloud from a sheet of paper. “Hotel proprietor, mayor, real estate salesman and stockbroker. Thirty-five years old, bachelor, lives in a suite of rooms on the main floor of the hotel. Arrived in Texas more than six years ago from his native Scotland and immediately applied for a green card, became a naturalized citizen two years later. Rumored to be independently wealthy, and a passionate booster of Crystal Creek. More in love with the town, it appears, than many of the natives.”

“He sounds like a very nice guy,” Terry commented. “I like him.”

Maggie stared at the paper, feeling a rising concern when she thought about the stern look on Doug Evans’s handsome face after she’d offered him that money.

The man had seemed almost disappointed in her. But of course, that was ridiculous. He didn’t even know her.

“I knew he was going to be trouble,” she said again. “He’s the mayor, Terry, I wonder how much influence he has around here. Maybe I should…”

“It makes me nervous when you get that look in your eye,” her brother commented, smiling at her. “Keep reading the file, Maggie. What does it say about those two kids, and the sister?”

Maggie consulted the paper again. “Sarah Rose Murdoch, arrived from Scotland almost a year ago on a visitor’s visa, which apparently is near expiry. Rose helps in the hotel and rents a little cottage down near the river. She’s divorced and has two children. Moira, aged nine, and Robin, who’s four.”

“So those two kids belong to Rose,” he mused, staring at the stamped tiles on the ceiling. “Cute little things, aren’t they?”

“Very cute.” Maggie smiled fondly, thinking about Robin’s plump sleeping face and Moira’s solemn gaze. Then she began consulting other pages in her files.

“And their mother is cute, too,” Terry was saying. He shifted his long legs to a more comfortable position on the couch. “Did you notice how Rose got all flustered and pink when she was worried about finding rooms for us? Not many women actually blush anymore, did you know that, Mags?”

“It’s a lost art,” Maggie agreed, jotting down some reminders to herself on a sheet of paper. “Terry, how soon do you think he’ll be able to get us set up in here? Because I really don’t see how we can manage if—”

She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Maggie tensed and closed the file abruptly.

“Come in,” Terry called. He swung his feet to the floor and sat erect.

The door was opened by the smaller of the two girls, the one who’d been sleeping earlier on the couch in the lobby. She was wide awake now, her golden curls standing out all around her head, blue eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Mummy’s bringing you tea,” she announced, waving her hand at the hallway. “And oatmeal scones. They’re yummy. Moira and I always…”

“Now, don’t bother the lady and gentleman with your chatter, Robin.” The child’s mother entered the room and deposited a large silver tray on the table, laden with oatcakes, pots of butter and jam, a brown teapot and a pair of cups.

Moira followed, carefully bearing a small platter with cream, sugar and napkins. The cat came with her, striding along in lordly fashion.

“Rose, this is a lovely surprise.” Maggie beamed at the smaller woman, who still looked painfully shy. “How thoughtful of you.”

Rose Murdoch stood awkwardly by the door in her blue jeans and sweater, hugging her arms, with the two children close to her.

“We always have tea at this time of day,” she said in her appealing soft brogue. “And if you’ve driven a long way, I’m sure you could use a wee bite.”

Robin edged back across the room in her little green running shoes. She stood cautiously next to Terry, who was looking with appreciation at the contents of the bigger tray.

“Taste them,” the little girl whispered, pointing a finger at the steaming oatmeal scones. “Uncle Dougie says our mummy makes the best scones in all the world.”

“Well,” Terry said solemnly to the child, “your uncle Doug strikes me as a very smart man, so I’ll bet he’s right.”

He gave Rose a sunny smile and a wink, and the woman looked away quickly, appearing flustered.

“Rose, I love this cat,” Maggie said, mostly to set the shy woman at ease. “What’s her name?”

“She’s my brother’s cat,” Rose said, with a smile that made her face light up. “Her name is Dundee.”

“Uncle Doug always has a cat called Dundee,” Moira said. “But this is the best one ever.”

“Yes, she’s a beautiful cat.” Maggie smiled again at Rose, who ducked her blond head, murmured something to the two girls and hastened from the room, closing the door quickly behind her.

After they were gone, Terry bit into one of the scones and sighed in bliss, then reached for the teapot.

“Robin’s right, this is just delicious.” He gave Maggie a bright glance. “I’m glad to see you’re capable of learning, kiddo.”

“What do you mean?”

Terry spread strawberry jam on a bit of scone. “I was afraid you might offer the poor woman a tip.”

Maggie looked over at him, stung by the implied criticism. “Come on, Terry,” she said. “If this was a big-city hotel and I hadn’t offered a tip, the man would have been mortally offended.”

Terry poured a cup of tea and offered it to her. “But we’re not in the big city, Maggie. This is small-town America. That’s what you and Natasha don’t seem to realize.”

“The setting may be different,” Maggie said. “But don’t you think human nature is the same all over the world? Natasha’s so certain that when these people learn what we’re offering…”

She paused and took a sip of tea.

Her brother gave her a measuring glance over the rim of his cup. “Go on, say it. How will these people react when they find out a rich, famous movie star wants to buy their town, and turf them all out of here?”

“Natasha has no intention of turfing anybody out,” Maggie said wearily. “You know I’d never be part of something like that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re a nice, good-hearted girl, Maggie, underneath all that sophisticated big-city veneer.”

Maggie frowned, staring out the window.

“Natasha just wants to buy all the houses and businesses,” he said, “and then rent them back to the folks. What a great deal.”

“Oh, God, they’re going to hate it, aren’t they?” Maggie said in despair. “Even though most of these businesses are in financial trouble, and the houses are burdened with high property taxes. You know, Natasha truly believes her project will provide an infusion of cash that’s badly needed in Crystal Creek.”

“And in return, she’ll own the whole town. It’ll be Natasha’s private playground, to do with exactly as she pleases. She’ll get to be the undisputed queen of Crystal Creek.”

“I doubt if that’s what she wants, Terry.”

“How do you know what she wants?” he asked bluntly.

Maggie thought about Natasha Dunne, her baffling and enigmatic employer.

“I’m not sure anybody knows what Natasha really wants, or how she thinks about things,” she confessed. “But the way she explained it to me, this is entirely a sentimental project. Crystal Creek has always meant a lot to her.”

Terry helped himself to another scone and munched it with pleasure.

“Yeah, I know all about the sentiment,” he said. “How touching it is. Natasha films a movie here thirty years ago while her brand-new husband is fighting valiantly in Vietnam…”

“He was killed over there, Terry.” Maggie gave her brother a reproving glance.

Terry ignored her. “And only the warmth and support of the Crystal Creek townspeople helps our poor little Natasha to pull through and go on living. The whole story’s become a national legend.”

“So why do you sound sarcastic whenever you talk about it?”

He shrugged. “I just wonder about things sometimes. Sentiment doesn’t seem to me like sufficient motivation to buy a whole town. For God’s sake, who buys a town, Maggie?”

“Natasha does,” she said dryly.

“Hell, no. She sends her loyal administrative assistant to scout the area and buy the town, while she lounges on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean.”

“She’s recovering from surgery, Terry. You know that. Natasha’s in a great deal of pain.”

He chuckled. “You make it sound like a heart transplant. The woman had a face-lift, for God’s sake.”

“It’s still very painful,” Maggie said. “And she needs to recover in privacy.”

Terry looked at her curiously. “Why are you always so loyal to the woman, Mags? Even when she’s being completely bizarre and irrational. I know how much this stuff drives you crazy, but you hardly ever let me say a word against her.”

“I’m closer to her than you are,” Maggie said. “And you know what? I really like her. Underneath all the glitz and nonsense, there’s a core of goodness in Natasha. I think she’s a vulnerable person.”

Terry grinned and buttered a bit of scone. “I can’t say I’ve noticed the vulnerability all that much.”

“She helped us all those years before Mom died,” Maggie said.

“I guess so. But we were no more to her than names on a page, Maggie. Our family was Natasha’s designated charity—her tax deduction.”

“Aren’t you even a little bit grateful to her?” Maggie asked, sipping her tea.

“Sure I’m grateful. But I still don’t believe charity gives Natasha the right to own you, and make you do anything she wants you to.”

“Terry, eight years ago I chose to work for Natasha, and it’s been a damn good job. Certainly not some kind of indentured servitude, the way you’re implying.”

Her brother watched her thoughtfully. “So how much are you allowed to spend, buying this nice little place? What do towns sell for nowadays?”

“Natasha’s prepared to invest up to thirty million dollars. She’d like to acquire all of the business area, and a good portion of the private residences.”

“And what’s she going to do with them?”

Maggie shrugged wearily. “I told you, nobody really knows. Maybe she’ll change the name of the town to Dunne Creek, or have her picture on the postmark.”

“Maybe she’ll build a theme park, and call it Natasha Land.”

Maggie laughed at this. “You’re right, Terry. Who knows what she might do? Maybe after the cruise,” she added hopefully, “Natasha will change her mind altogether.”

“Well, if she doesn’t,” he said with an answering grin, his good humor apparently restored, “I sure don’t envy you the task of trying to buy this hotel from Doug Evans.”

Maggie’s laughter faded. She set down her teacup, staring at the window.

“I know there’ll be lots of opposition,” she said. “If Natasha insists on going ahead with this, the only hope would be to find one or two people who are willing to sell, and approach them first with offers to purchase. Once we’ve already acquired even a small block of local property, others might be tempted by the cash.”

“But?” he prompted.

“But I’m really hoping she’ll just forget the whole project,” Maggie confessed.

Terry got up and wandered across the room to look down at the quiet street. Maggie watched his casual, lounging figure, wondering what he was thinking.

“How old do you suppose Rose Murdoch is?” he asked without turning around.

Maggie looked at her notes again. “It doesn’t say, but I’d guess she’s about my age.”

“And you’ll be thirty-one in March, right?”

“How nice of you to remember,” Maggie said dryly. “I’m really touched.”

Terry ignored her, still gazing at the street. “Rose is probably closer to my age,” he said at last. “Late twenties, don’t you think?”

“If that’s true, she must have been married very young,” Maggie said, “because the older girl is nine years old.”

“Do your notes say why she got divorced?”

Maggie looked with sudden interest at her brother’s blond head, glistening in the late-afternoon light from the window.

“Terry, what’s this all about? Why the big concern about Rose Murdoch?”

“I just like the look of her,” he said, coming back to sprawl on the couch again.

“Yes, I noticed that.” Maggie gave him a teasing smile.

“She seems like a nice person,” he said with studied casualness. “Is it so strange that I’d notice a good-looking woman?”

“When you’re in the middle of working on that book, you never seem to notice anybody.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m not working at the moment. I haven’t written a word in the past week, since we decided to come out here on this crazy project.”

“You should have rented that apartment down on the beach while they were working on your place.”

“I didn’t want you out here all alone, dealing with Natasha when she’s on one of her tangents. And I don’t care where I live as long as I can work. But I won’t be working anytime soon,” he added restlessly, “unless your big Scotsman gets some computer equipment installed up here.”

“He’s not my Scotsman!” Maggie said hotly.

Her brother arched an eyebrow, his face sparkling with amusement. “Why, Maggie,” he said, raising a cup in her direction. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.”

“What?” she said.

“You’re actually blushing. You’ve turned as pink as Rose Murdoch.”

Maggie frowned and swatted her younger brother with the file folder while he ducked aside, laughing. Then she began hauling her luggage into the bedroom with its snowy-white curtains and four-poster bed.

CHAPTER THREE

MAGGIE AND HER BROTHER unpacked and rested for a couple of hours in their separate rooms. By the time they went downstairs, it was about seven o’clock in the evening.

Doug Evans was behind the reception desk, on one of the tall stools occupied by his sister earlier in the day. He pored over an open ledger and punched numbers onto a computer keyboard, looking annoyed. Invoices and receipts littered the desk. Dundee lay partly upon the stack of papers, occasionally swatting playfully at the keyboard.

“Can’t make head nor tail of this damn stuff,” Doug muttered, giving them a distracted glance. “I really should take a computer course to update my skills.”

Maggie, who was a certified accountant in addition to holding an advanced degree in business, looked with interest at the masses of paper.

Though her job with Natasha Dunne had involved all kinds of strange and exotic duties over the years, Maggie Embree’s first love would always be computers and bookkeeping.

“Why don’t you hire somebody?” she asked.

“Who would I find in this town? Anybody who’s remotely qualified has a job already. The hotel books were in a mess when I bought the place, and computer software seems to change every ten minutes.”

“What would you say is your most immediate problem?” Maggie asked.

“Hell, who knows?” He glared at the screen. “We need somebody to work here for a few days, at least, and design a profit-and-loss statement, cost projections and decent spreadsheets, some kind of a plan for our future computer development…”

“Maggie could sort that out for you in ten minutes,” Terry said. “Give her a set of books and a good computer, and this girl’s a marvel.”

Doug gave her a quick thoughtful glance that made her feel awkward again. She forced herself to meet his eyes casually.

“Is there by any chance a dining room in the hotel, Doug?” she asked.

For a moment he seemed both startled and a little unsettled by her casual use of his first name. Then he shook his dark head and leafed though a messy pile of invoices.

“We serve burgers and snacks in the hotel pub, but that’s about all. Most of our guests eat their meals down the street at the Longhorn. Nora makes the best home fries in the state.”

“The Longhorn,” Terry said, grinning. “Now, that sounds interesting. You’ll love it, Maggie.”

She gave him a warning glance.

“My sister’s a big-city girl,” Terry told the man behind the desk. “Maggie eats alfalfa sprouts and sushi. I’ll bet she’s never had a plate of home fries in her life.”

“Is that so?” Doug laughed. “Well then, she’s got a terrific experience ahead of her.”

Maggie headed for the lobby door, with Terry ambling behind her.

“Look, quit talking to that man about me as if I’m not even there,” she muttered to her brother when they were outside on the darkened street.

“He seems interested,” Terry said innocently as they made their way toward the restaurant. “Don’t you think?”

“I couldn’t care less if he’s interested.” A few minutes later they reached the Longhorn. Maggie pushed open the door of the restaurant, relieved to step into the smoky warmth after the chill of the street.

“You don’t find our laird Douglas Evans just a tiny bit attractive?” Terry followed her to a booth near the window.

“Not a bit,” Maggie lied, sliding onto the vinyl seat. “But even if I did, I’d have to ignore those feelings,” she added.

“You would?” Terry smiled at a waitress in a checked apron who arrived to hand them a couple of gingham-patterned menus. “Why?”

“Because feelings like that would complicate the job I’ve come here to do.”

“Mags, you have no intention of doing that job. Unlike our Natasha, you’re not entirely crazy.” His eyes sparkled. “Just a wee bit smitten,” he said in a mock brogue.

Maggie ignored her brother’s teasing and frowned at the menu. “Do you suppose they have something like a salad? It seems this is all meat and potatoes.”

“You’d better get used to some dietary changes if you want to make any friends here,” Terry said mildly. “Look at this place, Maggie. It’s terrific.”

She glanced around at the restaurant, which could have been lifted directly from a fifties movie. But the effect wasn’t cutesy and artificial like similar establishments in Los Angeles. The Longhorn had a look of authenticity, as if thousands of people had sat in these booths over the years, ordered from the same menus, studied their reflections in the polished chrome napkin holders and played selections on the individual jukeboxes above each table.

“Isn’t it great?” Terry said.

“Yes,” she said. “The place has a wonderful ambience. And,” she added with sudden inexplicable sadness, “I’m afraid it soon could belong to Natasha Dunne, along with everything else in this town.”

Terry gave her a quick glance but didn’t respond. They ordered mushroom burgers and home fries, and Maggie ate the rich food with guilty pleasure.

“Oh, this is so good.” she sighed, wiping a trickle of mayonnaise from her chin.

“Welcome to the real world.” Terry grinned, saluting her with a forkful of coleslaw. “Maybe this new assignment of yours is going to be a valuable experience for you, kiddo.”

“In what way?”

His face was suddenly grave. “I’m hoping by the time you’re done, this town will own you, instead of the other way around.”

“Terry, what do you mean?” Maggie asked, genuinely puzzled.

But he refused to elaborate. Half an hour later, he paused outside the restaurant with his hands deep in his pockets.

“You can find your way back to the hotel, can’t you?” He glanced at her. “It’s only a couple of blocks away, and I want to go for a walk.”

“Where?” she asked.

He turned, looking a little evasive. “Just down there by the river,” he said, then headed off into a darkness lit in ghostly fashion by street lamps circled with frost.

Maggie watched her younger brother, troubled by conflicting emotions.

Her research file had stated that Rose Murdoch and her two daughters lived down by the river…

But Terry was an adult, and his personal life was none of her business.

Maggie turned up her jacket collar against the chill and wandered back toward the hotel, pausing briefly outside Wall’s Drugstore, which appeared to be open for business.

A fat, swarthy man worked behind the counter, and a slim blond woman stood nearby. Muffled in a long coat and damask scarf, she leaned wearily against a tall cowboy in a sheepskin coat and Stetson. The woman held some toiletries, which she placed on the counter.

When the customer stepped back and her coat swung open, Maggie realized the woman was pregnant. The man at her side, a smiling, handsome fellow with curly auburn hair, hugged his wife and whispered something to her, with a look of tenderness that made Maggie feel lonely and excluded.

The couple gathered up their purchases and left. As they passed by and the two women glanced at each other, Maggie was stunned by the tall blonde’s effortless grace and style. This woman could have been the president of some major corporation in the city, or even one of Natasha’s glamorous friends.

Not exactly the kind of woman Maggie had expected to find here in Crystal Creek, shopping with a cowboy in the local drugstore…

“That’s Jim and Lucia Whitley,” the druggist said cozily, following her gaze. “They just got married at Christmastime. And not a minute too soon,” he added with a leer, “judging by the looks of her. Lucia’s got a bun in the oven.”

Maggie felt a sharp distaste for this overweight man with his narrow eyes and shiny red face. But he was clearly disposed to talk, and she needed information, so she forced herself to smile casually.

“Mrs. Whitley is a very lovely woman,” she said, examining a rack of grocery and food items that stood near the front desk.

“She’s the principal of the middle school, and her husband is one of the teachers on staff,” her informant said, as if this was a bit of juicy gossip.

Maggie glanced around at the drugstore, which looked and smelled like some vanished bit of childhood. She breathed in the scent of polished wooden floors, soap and lemon oil, dust and perfume and warmth. The place itself seemed ageless and comforting, even though its proprietor made her uneasy.

She found a couple of cans of ruinously expensive cat food and took them to the counter, rummaging in her bag. “So that woman’s the school principal,” she said, still thinking about the graceful blonde in the scarf. “I’d really like to meet her sometime.”

“Well, you better hurry, then, because Lucia won’t be around long,” he said with a wink. “The school’s probably shutting down.”

“Really?” Maggie offered a bill and stood looking at the man. “Why?”

He shrugged his fat shoulders and rang up the purchase. “Taxes are too high. Folks know we can’t afford that school anymore, and they want it closed. We’re voting on it next month.”

“Where will the students go?”

“On a bus,” the druggist said carelessly, “to the middle school over in the next town.”

“Is this common knowledge in town?” Maggie asked. “About the school closure?”

“Oh, sure. Everybody’s talking about it.” He leaned across the counter with a confiding look. “But me…well, I got kind of an inside track on things, you might say.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, because my wife is the chair of the school board.”

Maggie searched her memory, trying again to recall the careful notes she’d made.

Gloria Wall, she remembered. Chair of the Crystal Creek School Board, and wife of…

“So you would be Ralph Wall?” she asked with a polite smile.

“That’s right, I sure would.” The druggist gave her a gratified smile and squared his shoulders a little. “And your name is…?”

“Margaret Embree. I’m here in town for a while on business.”

“Movie business?” he suggested with an avid expression.

“I beg your pardon?” Maggie said, startled.

“We’ve all seen that big Mercedes you drive around in, with the California plates. Folks reckon you’re planning to shoot a movie here in Crystal Creek, the same way they did over in Wimberley last year, and make us all into big stars.”

Maggie considered his words, and decided that for the moment this was as good a cover as any.

“So would you like to be a movie star, Mr. Wall?” she asked.

“If it pays good enough.” His grin faded. He began to arrange the bright rows of gum and chocolate bars under the glass counter. “God knows, we could use some money around here.”

“How would you feel,” Maggie asked carefully, “if somebody who was making a movie in town should want to buy your drugstore?”

His close-set eyes sharpened with interest. “Why would he need to buy my store?”

“Well,” Maggie said, improvising rapidly, “you know, a lot of big production companies like to own the properties where they’re shooting, just to avoid possible legal complications.”

“But what would they do with my store after the movie was over?”

Maggie took a deep breath, a little appalled at herself for even broaching the topic. Hopefully the man would scoff at her suggestion, and then she could report to Natasha that the whole idea was impossible.

“I suppose,” she said with deliberate casualness, “the producer would buy out your property for cash. Then if you chose, he’d just hold on to it and rent it back to you. I think that’s how it works.”

His face took on a startled, cunning look. “You mean he’d give me cash for this place? Full market value? And then afterward he’d let me keep running my business like nothing ever happened?”

Maggie nodded. “And of course the new owner would be responsible for taxes and improvements to the property. Your only requirement would be the payment of a nominal rent.”

Ralph Wall’s cheeks glistened with excitement. Maggie could almost smell the scent of greed exuding from him, and had to force herself not to back away from the counter.

“So how many businesses would your movie producer want to be buying this way?” he asked. “Just my drugstore, or what?”

“I think it’s possible he might be interested in the entire downtown area,” Maggie said. “Possibly even a number of the residential properties.”

“But…” Ralph Wall stared at her, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. “But something like that…it’d have to cost thousands of dollars. Maybe…” His voice was hushed. “Maybe millions.”

“These days, even the smallest movies have multimillion-dollar budgets, Mr. Wall.”

She turned to go, but he reached out and clutched her arm.

Maggie paused, hating the feeling of his hand against her jacket.

“Look, Ms. Embree, is this on the level? This movie producer might really give me cash value for my drugstore, and then let me stay here and run it?”

“Does that really appeal to you?” Maggie asked with genuine curiosity. “I thought people always dream of owning their business themselves.”

“Not when they’re so strapped for cash they can hardly turn around, like most of us are in this town,” he said with a dark, bitter look. “Working for somebody else and having him take over the money worries sounds pretty damn good to me.”

There was no doubting his eagerness. If other people in Crystal Creek turned out to be this anxious to sell, Natasha’s ludicrous plan might actually be feasible.

“It’s not something I’m free to discuss at the moment, Mr. Wall.” Maggie dropped her voice, shook her arm free of his grasp and glanced toward the door. “And I’ll also have to ask you not to talk with anybody else about this, please.”

The fat man licked his lips, staring at her. “Not a word,” he breathed in a hoarse whisper. “I won’t say a word.”

“Thank you.”

Maggie headed for the door with her sack of cat food, glancing over her shoulder. The druggist already had his back to her and was dialing the phone, his body trembling with excitement.

Frowning, she strolled down the moonlit street toward the hotel, brooding over her first testing of the waters in Crystal Creek.

Ralph Wall had the look of an incorrigible gossip. Within a day or two, the story of the rich movie producer buying up real estate was probably going to be all over Crystal Creek, and then the discussion and argument would begin.

And judging by what Maggie now knew about the financial state of this town, maybe she wouldn’t even have to seek people out.

They would be coming to her, she thought, her stomach tightening with concern. All she had to do was wait a while, and begin signing checks. Unless she could somehow talk Natasha out of this whole grotesque plan.

Not that she hadn’t tried, of course. In recent months Maggie had spent long hours arguing with her famous employer, battling to convince Natasha that she could earn the love and loyalty of these townspeople simply by making a substantial donation to the small Texas community.

But Natasha wasn’t interested in being the town’s patron. She wanted to own Crystal Creek. And nothing, it seemed, was going to stop her.

DOUG WAS STILL WORKING over his snarl of invoices and computer printouts when Maggie came back into the hotel lobby. Apparently the younger brother had gone off somewhere on his own because she was alone now, carrying a sack from Wall’s Drugstore and looking preoccupied.

She seemed more approachable, too, dressed in pleated khakis, a cable-knit sweater and a duffel coat with hood. The enticing hair clip had been replaced by a long casual braid.

Again he thought about unfastening that braid, letting her hair fall free across her shoulders.

Doug loved the look of a woman with long hair. Especially when it was dark and glossy like Maggie’s, with chestnut highlights…

“Hi.” She paused by the counter. “How’s it going?”

“Not well,” he said, catching a whiff of the tantalizing perfume she wore. It smelled more woodsy than sweet, like the forest after a rain.

A lovely, elusive fragrance…

“So how much would I have to pay you to sort this all out for me?” he asked, gesturing at the computer and the messy stack of papers.

She stared, and again he was conscious of her classic features, the fine dark eyes and high cheekbones. “You’re kidding.”

“On the contrary, I’m deadly serious. How long would it take to bring my bookkeeping system into the new millennium?”

“A good accountant could analyze your needs and set up a couple of decent spreadsheets within…” Maggie glanced at her watch. “Oh, I’d say…a few hours. But it might take a day or two if the problems are widespread.”

Doug was almost dizzied by her nearness, to say nothing of this incredible statement. “If you could do that for me,” he told her, “I’d give you a week of rent-free accommodation.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Her darkly lashed eyes were so beautiful. He couldn’t stop gazing at them. And her body under the casual clothes was so enticing, slim and richly curved, with long legs and high, sweet breasts…

“Ridiculous?” he asked.

She hesitated, then tossed her package and duffel coat onto a couch, opened the little gate and came around behind the desk, perching next to him on another stool.

“Let me have the computer,” she said. “I don’t want to look at your books, but I’ll download a useful spreadsheet for you right now, and you can pay me back by giving me a drink of Irish cream in the pub later on.”

In the midst of his enchantment, Doug felt a sharp twinge of suspicion. This offer was too good to be true, and so was the lovely woman at his side.

“What’s the catch?” he asked.

She gave him one of the enchanting, luminous smiles that made his heart beat faster. “Are Scotsmen always so suspicious of ordinary human kindness?”

“We Scots have discovered over the years,” he said, “that a healthy dose of suspicion helps us to get along with our neighbors.”

“It does?”

“Well,” he amended after brief consideration, “suspicion and a bloody great wall.”

She chuckled, and he was undone. He would have given anything just to hear her laugh again. When she pressed closer to him, punching numbers on the keyboard, one of her breasts touched his arm and it was all he could not to sweep her into his arms.

“So you wouldn’t worry about a stranger looking at your business affairs?” she asked, dragging him back to reality.

“Why should I be? There’s nothing to hide in my books. The temps I hire to come up from Austin and wade through this mess, are all strangers.”

By now, Maggie was all business, entering instructions, pulling down packages of software he’d never seen before. Her fingers flew over the screen, and as she concentrated, she bit her full lower lip between perfect white teeth.

Her only pause came when Dundee edged closer and rested a furry chin on her arm, begging to be scratched. Maggie stopped and stroked the cat’s ears, then bent to whisper something to her.

Doug watched, moved by the tenderness of her gesture, feeling irrationally envious of his own cat.

“Do you like animals?” he asked.

“I really love cats, but I travel too much to have one of my own.” Maggie looked wistful. “Dundee is just such a beauty.”

She watched in obvious regret when the tabby leaped down from the reception desk and padded off in the direction of the hotel pub. When the animal was gone, Maggie sighed and returned to the books.

“Okay,” she muttered after a while. “That’s all you need for now. Look, you start with your ledger entries in this column…”

She demonstrated the use of the spreadsheet she’d established. Doug watched with interest.

“Could you go over that last bit again?” he said, frowning. “Like I told you, computers really aren’t my strong point.”

“I’ll tell you what, Doug.” Maggie glanced at him. “You’re right, a drink in the bar isn’t nearly enough payment for teaching you how to use this accounting software.”

“You greedy woman,” he teased. “I already offered you a week of rent-free accommodation.”

“And I said that’s ridiculous, though teaching you this would probably take me the better part of a week in my free time.” Maggie frowned at the screen. “Still, it’s an interesting challenge.”

“So how shall I repay you?”

As she looked over at him, a strand of hair worked itself free of the braid and fell across her cheek. He longed to reach up to smooth it back behind her ear.

“Hire a technician to put some phone jacks in our sitting room and our bedrooms,” she said. “I’ll consider that a wonderful repayment.”

Doug watched her curiously. “Nobody’s ever wanted a phone in their room before,” he said.

“Oh, come on. Whoever heard of a hotel without phones in the rooms?”

“This isn’t the big city, Maggie. Our guests always use the phone at the end of the hall, or down here in the lobby.”

“But my brother and I will be using two computers, a laptop and fax machine,” Maggie told him. “We need at least four phone jacks and two dedicated lines for e-mail and Internet access, or we can’t stay here.”

“And if I install them, you’ll teach me how to computerize my bookkeeping?”

“My brother’s a novelist.” She looked fully at him, her eyes grave and thoughtful. “He’s at an important point in the book he’s working on, and he needs to be able to write every day.”

“Is he published?”

“His first book comes out in late spring. He’s working on the sequel.”

“And what about you?” Doug asked. “Are you just along to nurse the creative genius, Maggie?”

Her cheeks turned faintly pink, a reaction that he found intriguing.

“Hardly.” She looked back at the screen. “I have work of my own to do.”

“In Crystal Creek?”

“You’ve never heard of networking?” she asked a little evasively. “With a computer modem and a good-quality fax, I could conduct my business from a mountaintop or a desert island.”

“Ah yes, ’tis a brave new world indeed,” he said in a soulful brogue, earning a suspicious glance from his companion.

When she frowned, a tiny vertical line appeared between her delicate eyebrows. Doug wanted to kiss it.

“So,” he asked, getting a firm grip on himself, “why have you and your brother chosen Crystal Creek as your desert island?”

She smiled, causing a dimple to flash briefly in her right cheek. He was even more enchanted.

“Maybe,” she suggested, “I’ve decided to learn the fine art of Texas cuisine.”

“And maybe not,” he said.

But she refused to rise to the bait, and before long they were fully involved again in the business of input commands and program files.

CHAPTER FOUR

DOUG EVANS WAS amazingly quick-witted, with an incisive grasp of new concepts that left her breathless.

“Let’s start putting some of this into practice,” she said at last, trying not to show how impressed she was with him. “Which part of your business would you choose to enter on the main ledger?”

“The pub,” he said without hesitation. “It makes more money than the hotel. It’s a real godsend during slow times like this.”

“And what do you consider the main areas of difficulty in your accounting?”

“Wage deductions and capital cost depreciation,” Doug said. “I’m afraid this old software has cost me a fair amount in taxes over the past few years.”

“You’re probably right.” Maggie frowned at the computer. “Now, if I can just remember where to find the Web site, I’ll be able to download the neatest program for calculating your capital depreciation. It works like magic….”

While she worked, Doug sat nearby and answered her questions until she had all the programs running in different windows. Then he got up and roamed around the lobby, sat for a while on one of the couches and leafed through a magazine, strolled into the back to lock the outside door.

“Come on,” he said at last, pausing by the desk. “You’ve been at it almost two hours, Maggie. Call it a night and have that drink with me.”

“Two hours?” she looked up at him, blinking in surprise. “Really, it’s been that long?”

He chuckled. “You love this, don’t you? I was watching you at that computer and your face was completely absorbed, like someone watching a good movie.”

She smiled and leaned back on the stool, stretching her arms. “You know, it’s really fun. Looking for the right software is like solving a mystery, or going on a treasure hunt.”

“So, are you going to find a treasure for me?”

“Well…” Maggie hesitated. “No promises, now,” she warned, “but I think you might be able to save quite a lot in taxes.”

“How?”

“Things like capital cost allowances, wage deductions and writing off some of the hotel expenses against the profit you make on the bar. This new software will help you with all that.”

He brightened. “If that’s true, I’ll have to raise your wages.”

Maggie laughed and switched off the computer. With his help she stacked the files neatly, then climbed down from the stool and followed him in the direction of the pub, which was called the Tartan Lounge.

Doug Evans had obviously been aiming for an old-world atmosphere in this part of his business, and judging by his casual statement about profits, his neighbors appreciated the effort.

The bar with its rows of colorful, gleaming bottles was topped by a crest that matched the one up in their sitting room. Bright swathes of tartan and crossed swords adorned the other walls, and a fire burned low in the big stone hearth, where Dundee drowsed in the warmth on a folded blanket.

Three young cowboys and their girlfriends were engaged in a lively game of darts, while a group of older couples chatted over cribbage boards in a corner.

The place was warm and welcoming, rich with quiet companionship, a cozy refuge from the winter night.

Doug settled Maggie near the fireplace, then went to the bar and came back with a martini, and a glass of whiskey-and-cream liqueur on ice for her. She looked at it, surprised to find he’d remembered the brief mention of her drink of choice.

Most of the men she encountered these days would have missed that comment, Maggie realized. They were usually too wrapped up in themselves and the impression they were making to pay much attention to a woman’s conversation, even when they found her attractive.

But Doug Evans seemed to be a supremely confident man. He was quiet and considerate, but gave no evidence of being worried about the impression he was making on her.

“You were joking about wages a while ago.” Maggie sipped the excellent liqueur. “And it made me wonder about something.”

“What’s that?” His hard face was highlighted softly by the flames.

Maggie could picture him as a Highland chieftain sitting near a turf fire, with his horses nearby and his warriors gathered around him.

She shivered in the grip of sudden sexual arousal, and forced her mind back to the topic.

“Do you have any full-time employees besides Rose?” she asked. “If not, the wage deductions won’t amount to very much.”

“I don’t even get a deduction for Rose,” he admitted. “She just works here to help out.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s on a visitor’s visa—not a work permit.”

“You mean she and the children are in the country illegally?” Maggie asked.

“Not exactly. But her visa is on the point of expiry, and she hasn’t been able to get it renewed.” He sighed. “It’s easier to find the Hope Diamond than get a green card.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Maggie asked curiously. “You don’t even know who I am, Doug. What if Terry and I were immigration agents, coming here to investigate your sister?”

He met her eyes steadily, with a gaze so probing that she was forced to look down at the table.

“That’s not who you are, Maggie,” he said gently. “I’m still not sure what you’re doing here, but I do know you’re not at all interested in my sister and her citizenship.”

Maggie traced the damp circle left by her glass on the shining wooden surface of the table. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m no threat to Rose.”

“So do you think I’m daft, Maggie?” he asked casually. “Opening my books to you?”

Maggie shook her head. “I never saw your numbers, not even one entry. I just offered a bit of computer software, that’s all. But I’d say your business seems pretty well managed.”

He chuckled, a pleasant sound in the cozy firelit pub. “Oh, I’m a good manager, all right. I’m just not much of a computer technician.”

She smiled at him. Their eyes met and held for a long moment, and again she was the first to turn away. “So Rose doesn’t want to go back to Scotland?”

“Not at all. Her ex-husband is a harsh, cruel bastard. He’s been abusive to Rose and a terrible influence on the girls. For the sake of the kids, she’d much prefer to keep an ocean between them.”

Maggie thought about the gentle blond woman and her two little girls. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Do you have any family there who could help her if she’s forced to go back?”

“Our father died when we were small and our mother remarried not long after. She’s dead now, too. There’s nobody left but a stepfather. And he’s not a man who’d help either of us, not unless there might be some profit in it for him.”

“How sad.” Maggie thought about the meaning of his words, and what his childhood must have been like. “So did you come to Texas to escape all that?”

“Not at the time. I was still working in the family business then. It was soon after my mother died, and I came here in the line of duty. But once I was here, I couldn’t seem to leave.”

“It’s a long way from Scotland.”

Doug laughed. “Moira and I were just talking about the same thing. In many ways the landscape in the Hill Country is similar to the place I grew up, you know. But there’s more sunshine here.”

“It sounds like you really love Texas.”

He considered her words for a moment, sipping his drink. “Not so much as I love the town,” he said at last. “This is the first place I’ve ever felt truly at peace with the world. Crystal Creek and my hotel…” He waved his hand at the comfortable room, the flickering glow on the hearth. “It’s home to me, Maggie.”

She felt a sudden tug of uneasiness, and a deep, painful feeling of guilt over what she was doing in Crystal Creek.

“What is it?” he asked, watching her intently.

She sipped her drink, avoiding his glance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You have a very expressive face. And just now, you look troubled.”

“Troubled?”

He reached out to touch her forehead with a gentle hand. “Whenever you frown, you get this lovely wee line between your eyebrows.”

She ducked away from his hand and shifted awkwardly on the padded bench.

“Look, Doug,” she said with forced casualness, “don’t keep watching me so closely, all right? I’m not used to it.”

His eyebrows arched in disbelief. “You’re not used to a man watching you? That’s hard to believe, for a woman like you.”

She stared at him, genuinely surprised. “You’re kidding.”

“About what?”

“I’m quite an ordinary person, Doug. And when you get to know me, I’m not even all that nice,” she added with another pang of remorse.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said with a gaze so warm that she felt the color rise in her cheeks again.

“Now it’s your turn,” he told her after an awkward silence.

“Me?”

“What’s the story of your childhood? Did you grow up in California?”

She shook her head. “Terry and I were raised on a farm in Ohio. We didn’t move to California until we were adults.”

“I see. And what took you from Ohio to the Golden Coast?”

She thought about the question. “Well, mainly the fact that we had a patron who sponsored our college education out there. Like you, we’d lost both our parents by the time we reached our late teens.”

“I’m sorry,” he said with genuine sympathy. “That’s a hard road, I know.”

“But our situation was the opposite of yours,” Maggie said. “Our mother died of ovarian cancer when I was seven and Terry was five. Our father did such a wonderful job of raising us on his own,” she added with a fond, faraway smile. “He worked all day on the farm, and then at night he was a mother to us as well, doing laundry and packing school lunches.”

“I never knew what it was to have a loving father,” Doug said. “I can’t even remember mine.”

“Daddy was our hero. And then when we were in our mid-teens and his life was starting to get a little easier, he was killed in a tractor accident on the farm.” Her eyes stung with unshed tears. “It was just a careless mistake,” she said, swallowing hard. “He took a shortcut up an incline behind the barn, and the tractor flipped over on him. He was pinned there all alone for most of the day. By the time we got home from school and found him, it was too late.”

“I’m so sorry, Maggie.”

Doug covered her hand with his own and waited for her to compose herself.

“Do you look like him?” he asked, clearly trying to set her at ease again. “You and your brother are not at all alike.”

Maggie hesitated, surprised by how easy it was to talk with this man. These were topics she almost never spoke about, even with people she’d known for a long time.

“Actually,” she said, “I was adopted. My birth mother was a high-school girl from Cincinnati. She was sixteen years old, an honor student and a talented musician. When she got pregnant, her family forced her to carry the baby to term.”

“And that baby was you,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

“Yes, it was me.”

He released her hand, and she was almost sorry. Again she marveled at how comfortable she felt, wrapped in this semilit intimacy with a man she barely knew, talking about the most emotional parts of her life.

“My adoptive parents wanted a baby for years before I came along,” she said in a low voice. “They made me feel so loved and wanted. It was part of the family history, how they got the call about the baby and they were so excited, packing up the little clothes they’d been saving all that time, and driving to Cincinnati to get me. I was nine days old when they took me home.”

Doug smiled, his face so warm and tender that Maggie had to fight the urge to reach out and lay a hand on his cheek.

“So what about your brother?” he asked. “Was he adopted, too?”

Maggie laughed and shook her head. “No, it was one of those classic cases. They’d been married ten years when they got me, and never been able to conceive. But a little over a year after I arrived, my mother got pregnant. They were so happy. Terry and I have been good pals all our lives.”

“So you had a nice childhood, happy and loved on a farm in Ohio.”

“Yes,” she said. “I really did.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I like to think about you growing up like that.”

The physical attraction between them had grown almost palpable. Maggie was afraid that if she stayed with him any longer, he’d invite her to his room and she wouldn’t be able to resist.

And that would be a huge mistake, something she certainly couldn’t afford at this point.

“Well,” she said with false brightness, “thanks for the drink and the nice conversation, Doug. It’s getting late, and I’d better head upstairs.”

He didn’t press, though his eyes burned a deeper green as he watched her get to her feet.

“Good night,” he said courteously. “I’ll see you in the morning. Do you think we can do some more work on those computer programs?”

“I should be free in the morning,” she said.

“That’s great.” He raised his glass in a quiet salute. “Until then, Maggie.”

Her knees felt suddenly weak. As she headed for the door, every part of her body was conscious of him watching her leave.

MAGGIE WAS UP early the next morning, drying her hair in the bathroom. A knock sounded on the door and she padded through the sitting room in her terry-cloth robe to admit a skinny young man in blue overalls, carrying a metal tool kit and a big spool of wire.

Dundee pressed by the man’s legs, then stepped daintily into the room and looked around with a proprietary air.

“Phone jacks and new lines,” the young man said curtly, moving past Maggie into the room. “Doug said you could tell me where they should go.”

“Phone jacks!” Terry said in delight.

He sat at the round table in the sitting room, where he squinted at the flip-up screen of his laptop.

“This is great. Maggie, your Scotsman is a man of his word.”

“Hey, I’m buying this technology with hours and hours of my time.” Maggie watched as the young man crawled around on the floor and tapped the wide oak baseboards with a hammer.

“And you’re loving every minute of it,” Terry told her. “There’s nothing you enjoy better than playing with computer software. Especially,” he added in a teasing undertone, “when there’s information you want.”

Maggie frowned at him, then turned to the phone technician. “We’ll want an outlet over there,” she said, pointing, “for our fax machine, and another one here by the table. And one in each bedroom under the window, if you can manage it. I think that would be the logical place, don’t you?”

“Okay.” The man popped a stick of gum into his mouth. “So where should I start?”

“In the other bedroom.” Maggie indicated Terry’s room. “I’ll be dressed in a minute, and then you can work anywhere you like.”

She hurried back into her own room, put on jeans, a white cotton shirt and moccasins, and dabbed on a bit of makeup.

Before she was finished she heard more arrivals in the sitting room, followed by the whir of equipment and the high-pitched voices of children.

Maggie pulled her hair back into a ponytail, pinned it on top of her head and went out to find Rose Murdoch, in khaki shorts and flowered apron, running a vacuum cleaner around the sitting room, followed by Moira, who plied a feather duster on every exposed surface.

Robin was there as well, squatting next to the phone technician. She had apparently been given the task of helping him, because she held a screwdriver and a couple of drill bits, and looked rigid and solemn with responsibility.

Terry had given up his work to move aside heavy pieces of furniture for Rose to run her vacuum underneath.

Normally her brother hated being interrupted when he was writing, but today he seemed calm in the midst of the uproar.

After they moved the couch back in place, Rose ran a hand over her forehead and gave Terry a shy, grateful smile. He beamed down at her so warmly that Maggie was a little startled.

“Terry, do you want to work in my room?” Maggie called over the roar of the vacuum. “It’s a lot quieter in here.”

“That’s okay.” Terry gave his sister an unabashed, cheerful grin. “I’ve just made a deal with Rose. If I help her with the vacuuming, she’ll make breakfast for me down in the bar.”

“It seems the Embree and Evans clans are making a lot of deals these days,” a deep voice commented from the hallway.

Doug entered, looking more handsome than ever in his jeans and shirt.

Maggie glanced around, unnerved by the way he seemed to fill the room. “My goodness,” she said with an awkward laugh. “There are seven people in here now, and one cat.”

“Are there really?” Doug grinned at her. “Then let’s remove a couple of these bodies, shall we?”

“You and me?” Maggie asked as he paused close by her side. His eyes were richly green in the morning sun, and so bright they were hard to look at.

“I was hoping you could give me a minute. I’ve run into a nasty snag in that program you installed,” Doug told her. “It won’t bring up any data entries prior to 1998. I need your help to unlock the thing.”

“Already? What a slave driver,” she said lightly, though she was excited and a little uneasy to have him so near.

“Hey, I’m already keeping my part of the bargain, right?” He indicated the technician with his small assistant.

“Doug, I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“Just as well. Nora sent a plate of her famous biscuits and some homemade jam. I’m hoping you’ll have breakfast with me.”

“But I…” Maggie glanced around in distracted fashion.

Rose and Terry had moved into the other bedroom with their cleaning equipment. Moira was with them, still dusting.

Maggie heard a steady hum of conversation over the noise of the appliance, accompanied by occasional bursts of laughter.

Terry, it appeared, was getting along very well with the local populace.

“Robin, I need that yellow screwdriver,” the technician said, frowning at a hole he’d drilled in one of the baseboards.

Solemnly, Robin handed over the proper tool, then gave Maggie and her uncle a proud smile.

“It looks like everything’s under control up here,” Doug said, taking Maggie’s arm. “By lunchtime you’ll be able to establish a Pentagon office in this suite if you want to. For now, come downstairs and have some breakfast with me.”

“And help you with your computer problem,” Maggie said dryly.

“Well, since you’re going to be nearby anyhow…” He gave her a boyish grin.

She didn’t resist further, mostly because it was so pleasant to feel his hand on her arm. A treacherous part of her wanted to nestle closer, and see if his long body was as hard and muscular as it looked.

Horrified at herself, Maggie suppressed the dangerous thought.

As they neared the lobby with the cat at their heels, a delicious aroma of fresh coffee and hot baking drifted up the stairs.

“Oh my,” she said. “Doesn’t that smell wonderful? By the time I leave here, I’m going to weigh two hundred pounds.”

A phone rang behind the reception desk. Doug vanished into his office and returned a few moments later, tucking a folded piece of paper into his shirt pocket.

“And when will that be, Maggie?” he asked quietly, lifting the little gate so she could walk behind the reception desk.

“Beg your pardon?” She perched on one of the stools and looked hungrily at the carafe of hot coffee, the platter of fluffy biscuits.

Doug poured her a cup of coffee and offered the biscuits, along with napkins and utensils.

“How long will you be staying, Maggie? And what,” he asked with a sudden steely edge to his voice, “exactly are you doing here?”

Maggie tensed, but forced herself to sip coffee and butter one of the biscuits with a casual air. “Well, the fact is, at the moment I’m working on a little research project of my own,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

He settled onto the stool next to her and helped himself to a biscuit.

“Because Ralph Wall’s been telling everybody within a fifty-mile radius that you’re working for a movie producer who’s planning to buy up all the real estate and shower the place with money. I was hoping you might want to tell me what’s really going on.”

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