“I really should go.”

“How many times are you going to say that?” Hudson asked.

“Until I convince myself to follow through, I guess.”

“I like you, Amanda. I also want you. I guess that’s no big surprise. But maybe it would be better if we didn’t go there.”

She nodded. “Much wiser.”

“Good night, then.”

“Yes, good night.” She turned, got as far as the door, actually had her hand on the knob when she turned to look at him one more time.

The naked hunger she saw in his eyes did her in. No man had ever looked at her like that, as if she was the last morsel of bread on earth. And Amanda could no more deny her own desire than she could stop breathing.

“Don’t look so glum about it. I have to lower my blood pressure, too. We can work on it together.”

She brightened. “Could we make it a contest? Whoever lowers their blood pressure the most gets, um…” Gets to kiss the other one senseless.

The Millionaire Next Door

Kara Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Texas native Kara Lennox has been an art director, typesetter, advertising copywriter, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and has conducted telephone surveys. She’s been an antiques dealer and briefly ran a clipping service. But no work has made her happier than writing romance novels.

When Kara isn’t writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of weird hobbies, from rock climbing to crystal digging. But her mind is never far from her stories. Just about anything can send her running to her computer to jot down a new idea for some future novel.

Books by Kara Lennox

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

841—VIRGIN PROMISE

856—TWIN EXPECTATIONS

871—TAME AN OLDER MAN

893—BABY BY THE BOOK

917—THE UNLAWFULLY WEDDED PRINCESS

934—VIXEN IN DISGUISE *

942—PLAIN JANE’S PLAN*

951—SASSY CINDERELLA*

974—FORTUNE’S TWINS

991—THE MILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR

Rx

Name: Hudson Stack, M.D.

Diagnosis: High Blood Pressure

General Instructions:

• Take a vacation in a small Texas town.

• Spend some quality time with your adorable daughter.

• Learn how to fish.

• Fall head over heels in love with your beautiful blond neighbor.

Signed: George Blake Stimson, M.D.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Prologue

Hudson Stack, M.D., sat in the office of George Blake Stimson, Chief of Surgery at Boston General, his irritation rising as he learned the results of his mandatory physical.

“Your blood pressure is in the red zone,” George said, continuing a long harangue. “Your cholesterol is off the charts, your triglycerides are completely out of whack. Your caffeine consumption is three times what it ought to be. Your reflexes are slow, you’re sleep deprived, and you’re irritable. And no doctor, I don’t care how famous or how popular, is going to operate on patients in my hospital when he’s falling apart.”

“Are you telling me I’m fired?” Hudson asked, alarmed. He’d had these little discussions with George before. Usually the crusty old surgeon warned him to take it easy, eat healthier, get more sleep, that sort of thing.

Hudson had believed his job was secure. He’d recently become the hospital’s best public relations tool. Inventing an artificial valve that was going to save millions of lives had put Hudson’s name in the medical journals. Saving the mayor’s life with an emergency quintuple bypass had put his name in the headlines. Most recently, Boston Life magazine had named him “Boston’s Hottest Bachelor,” ensuring he remain in the public eye far longer than Hudson would have liked.

“Of course you’re not fired. Administration would tar and feather me if I did that. But you are going on vacation, starting now.”

“I can’t,” Hudson immediately replied. “I’ve got two surgeries in the morning and three more—”

“Those surgeries will be reassigned to other surgeons.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can and will do whatever it takes. Would you want a surgeon in your shape operating on your heart?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Your test results speak differently.”

Hudson knew that arguing was fruitless. George’s word was like God’s around here. Hudson could appeal to no one; no one would take his side.

“I suppose I could use a few days off,” he finally said, grudgingly. And maybe it was true. He hadn’t seen his daughter in a week—at least, not awake. He usually got home long after she was in bed. He would spend a few minutes just looking at Bethany as she slept, reassuring himself that she was fine.

“I’m not talking about a few days,” George said. “I want you to take off at least a month. And I want you to get far, far away from Boston and go someplace where nobody knows you. And I want you to learn to fish.”

Hudson just sat there, stunned. A month? He couldn’t take that long away from his work.

“Hudson, I’m not speaking now as your superior, but as your friend. You’re a heart attack waiting to happen. Maybe not this week, or this year, but you’re heading in that general direction. I even heard you were seen smoking.”

“What snitch told you that?” He smoked two, maybe three cigarettes a day. Smoking gave him an excuse to slip outside, alone, and do nothing for a few minutes.

George rolled his eyes. He handed Hudson a piece of paper with an address and phone number on it. “Ed Hardison and I were in med school together. He lives in Texas. I want you to call him. He’ll find a place for you to stay. He has a fishing boat and all the tackle.”

This was like some drug-induced nightmare. Texas? In the summer? “You’re serious about the fishing?”

“It’s the best therapy for stress I can think of,” George said with a dreamy look in his eye. “Take your kid. Spend a month or two doing absolutely nothing. After that, you’ll have another physical. If you look better then, you can come back to work.”

Hudson went straight home, cursing the entire time. He was just angry enough that he was going to call George’s bluff. There were probably half a dozen hospitals in the Boston area drooling to have him on staff.

As he waited for an interminable traffic light to change, he checked his cell phone messages. Janey had called with a litany of reminders: have his tux cleaned, have his car serviced, call his aunt on her birthday tomorrow. Oh, and the Heart Association fund-raiser was Friday night.

His mother had called with a similar list—and he was planning to take Janey to the fund-raiser, right?

He sighed. He hated black-tie affairs, but they were a necessary evil, he supposed. At least he never had to scrounge for a date. Janey was always available. He probably should just marry her and get it over with. He knew she would say yes if he asked. Lord knew she’d been hinting at it long enough.

Another message was from some radio station that wanted to interview him. He erased that one. The last thing he wanted was more publicity.

The final three messages were from women he’d never heard of who thought they were just what a lonely but rich doctor might need to make his life complete. He made a mental note to have his phone number changed—again.

He parked his Jaguar at the curb and stomped through the front door of his Back Bay brownstone. Though he owned two other houses, he’d bought this one because it was close to the hospital. He’d intended to spend only an occasional night here, when he didn’t want to face a long drive home late at night. But he’d found it so convenient, he’d ended up living here full-time.

He headed straight for his home office. But the sound of a little girl’s laughter stopped him.

Bethany. Guilt needled his conscience. He really should spend more time with her. Though his mother and mother-in-law took turns caring for Bethany, and they both seemed anxious for the privilege, nothing took the place of a father’s love and attention. He set down his briefcase and headed up the stairs to the living room. It was lunchtime. He would eat lunch with Bethany, he decided. Then he would figure out his next move.

He found Bethany sitting on the floor of the living room watching TV. She had spread the sofa cushions all over the Persian rug in some game of pretend, and was now sprawled across them, her thumb in her mouth.

“Bethany!” his mother, Judith, called from the dining room. “Lunch is ready. Come quickly, now, before it gets cold.”

Bethany, not seeing Hudson, hopped up and scampered to obey her Grandma Judith. Hudson smiled. His daughter was a well-behaved girl, thanks to the time she spent with her grandmothers, who were already grooming her to be a debutante.

Looking forward to eating lunch with his daughter, Hudson paused to pick up the sofa cushions so his mother wouldn’t fuss. Since his housekeeper always prepared too much food, he knew there would be plenty.

“Is Philip eating with us?” he heard Bethany ask from the dining room. Philip was Judith’s chauffeur.

“Bethany, dear, Philip is a servant. Now that you’re a young lady, you don’t eat with the servants.”

Hudson cringed. He was all for Bethany growing up into a refined young lady, but he didn’t condone snobbery. His mother, however, had been raised in a different era, and she couldn’t be talked out of her opinions about class and station.

“But I like Philip,” Bethany argued. “When he takes me to school, I tell everybody he’s my daddy.”

Hudson froze, horrified.

“Now, Bethany,” Judith said in a very reasonable tone, though her voice shook, “we’ve talked about this. Philip is a very nice man, and you should always be kind to him. But he is not your father.”

Hudson didn’t think, he just acted. He waltzed into the room, a smile pasted on his face.

Bethany stared at him in surprise. “Daddy!”

At least she recognized him. “Good news,” he announced. “Bethany and I are going on a father-daughter vacation. We’re going to learn to fish.”

Chapter One

“Look, Daddy, a cowboy!” Bethany squealed.

Hudson had just pulled his rental car into a space on the Cottonwood, Texas, town square. Sure enough, a wiry man wearing faded Wrangler jeans, pointy-toed boots and a white cowboy hat climbed out of the truck next to their car. He saw them, smiled and tipped his hat before going on about his business.

Bethany stared at him in rapt fascination, and kept right on staring as she climbed out of the rental car. Everything delighted her.

He took her hand and they walked into Tri-County Realty, which George’s friend Ed Hardison had recommended. A woman in her fifties with a bleach-blond beehive and thin, penciled eyebrows sat behind a desk talking on the phone. She made eye contact with Hudson and held up a finger to indicate she’d be with him in a minute.

Hudson nodded, his irritation rising. He’d been looking forward to escaping all the attention he’d been receiving in Boston, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be ignored.

He wandered over to a bulletin board that featured photographs of various properties for sale and for rent. Bethany climbed up on a chair to study the photos with him.

“I want to live here, Daddy,” she said, pointing to the most opulent home on the board, a huge mansion on the lake. The asking price was almost a million dollars, which seemed cheap to Hudson. In Boston a property like that would cost three or four times as much.

“That one’s for sale, not for rent,” he explained, though he had no idea if Bethany understood the difference. “When the nice lady gets off the phone, we’ll see everything that’s available.”

“Margie never gets off the phone,” a voice from an interior office called out. The voice was brisk, but with a honey-edged Southern accent.

Intrigued, Hudson followed the sound of the voice through a doorway, finding himself in a large, well-appointed office with a view of the town square. But the woman who worked here apparently didn’t want to take advantage of the view. She had her desk turned so she had her back to the window, and the shades were drawn.

Her walls were covered with plaques—top seller for her company, at least three years running. Million Dollar Club. An award from the chamber of commerce for Cottonwood’s Ambassador of the Year. Other spots on the wall were filled with framed letters from grateful clients. Hudson recognized the name of a country-western singer and a former lieutenant governor.

The woman stood up and held out her hand, shaking his with a firm grip that made him fear for his surgeon’s hands. It seemed odd that such a delicate hand could wield so much strength. “Nice to meet you. I’m Amanda Dewhurst.”

“Hudson. Stack.” He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable reaction. Back home, if someone didn’t instantly recognize him, they at least knew his name. Oh, you’re that bachelor doctor guy. At which point they would wax eloquent about their uncle’s heart disease or try to set him up with a little sister.

He was tired of dealing with that. He didn’t want anyone bothering him, inviting him to parties, interviewing him for the paper or trying to seduce him. He just wanted to be a guy on vacation with his daughter. He didn’t hold out much hope. His notoriety as a surgeon might not extend this far from Boston, but everyone knew who the Boston Stacks were. They were right up there with the Kennedys. For generations, Stacks had been senators, judges, philanthropists and tycoons.

Amazingly, Amanda didn’t bat an eye. “Pleased to meet you.” She turned a dazzling smile on Bethany. “Hi, sugar. What’s your name? Would you like a piece of candy?” Amanda looked up at Hudson. “Can she have a piece of candy?”

“I don’t eat candy,” Bethany said primly. “It rots your teeth.”

“So it does,” Amanda replied, her composure unshaken. “How about an apple?”

A tiny refrigerator sat behind Amanda’s desk. When she opened it, he caught a glimpse of can after can of Slimfast—and one red apple. She grabbed the apple and brought it out, offering it to Bethany.

Bethany accepted the apple, thanked Amanda, then didn’t eat it. She seemed enthralled with the beautiful office—and with Amanda herself, whom Hudson confessed wasn’t bad to look at. She was petite, with silver-blond hair and a pixie face. Her hair was unfortunately pulled into a tight twist, piquing Hudson’s curiosity. How long was it?

She wore a red skirt with a sheer white blouse and a black patent-leather belt at her slim waist. Her nails were shiny red and salon-fresh, her complexion fair and flawless, her lips skillfully painted. She was about as well put together as any woman he’d ever seen, and he’d spent his whole life around females with wealth and style.

The surprise was finding her in this backwater town.

“What can I do for you this fine spring day?” she asked.

“We’re looking for a furnished house to rent. Ed Hardison said I should go through Tri-County.”

Amanda smiled. “You’re friends of the Hardisons? Such nice people,” she went on without waiting for an answer. “I sold Allison Hardison’s house a few months ago when she and Jeff got married. What kind of house are you looking for?”

“We want a house with a lake,” Bethany said.

Amanda beamed. “We have some lovely lakefront homes available. Are you new to the area?”

“Just visiting,” Hudson said. “We’ll only be here a month. We’re looking for a furnished rental.”

Amanda’s smile faltered. “Oh.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It’s just that most of the rentals require at least a six-month lease. But that’s okay. I can find something. Let me check our listings.”

“We want the big house—out there,” Bethany said, pointing to the outer office.

Amanda got a dreamy look in her eye. “You must mean the Clooney place. It’s the prettiest house on the lake. Unfortunately, it’s not for rent.”

Hudson almost agreed to buy it. It was hard for him to deny his daughter anything. But the house probably wouldn’t come with furniture, and he didn’t want to spend his whole vacation buying stuff for a house he would occupy for a few weeks, tops.

“I’m sure we can find something else,” he said.

Amanda’s pretty hands flew over her computer keyboard in a curiously sensual way. Hudson found himself staring at those hands, and the way her breasts jiggled ever so slightly with the enthusiasm she put into the typing. That sheer blouse revealed a lacy camisole underneath.

She called up property after property on the computer, rejecting each one for one reason or another. Some weren’t furnished. Some wouldn’t take children. Some were already rented.

“You don’t have any pets, do you?” Amanda asked.

“No,” Hudson said. Thank God.

“But I’m going to get a pony,” Bethany said hopefully.

Amanda pored over her listings, but she couldn’t locate a single rental house on the lake that didn’t have some barrier to Hudson renting it. He could have offered more money. Every fussy landlord had his price. But he didn’t want to call attention to his financial status. He was playing the part of an average guy, and an average guy didn’t have money to burn.

“I have several rentals in town,” Amanda said hopefully. “There’s a beautiful Victorian right on the square.”

“I want to be on the water,” Hudson said firmly. “I’m here to fish.”

“What about the Skillman cabin?” Margie called from the reception area.

Amanda’s face stiffened. “I don’t think you’d be interested in that one.”

“Why not?” Hudson asked.

“It’s small, for one thing.”

“There’s just the two of us.”

“And I’m little so I don’t take up much room,” Bethany added.

“It’s furnished,” Margie called.

“Margie, do you want to come in here and work with Mr. Stack?” Amanda asked, though the teasing tone in her voice softened the sarcasm. “I could take a coffee break.”

“Well, I’m just trying to help. Jeez.”

“So what about this cabin?” Hudson asked. “Do you have a picture of it?”

Amanda sighed. “Yes, somewhere. It’s not in the computer yet. I’m afraid it doesn’t have much curb appeal. It’s rather…rustic.”

Bethany climbed up in her chair and leaned over the desk, to better observe what Amanda was doing. “What does rustic mean, Daddy?”

“It means, um, old-fashioned and not very luxurious.”

“Like Grandma Ruth’s apartment?”

“Sort of.” Hudson’s mother-in-law lived in an old brownstone, with fashionably worn Oriental rugs, creaking wood floors, 1960s appliances and a rotary telephone. He supposed some people would consider that rustic. Ruth Hanover had enough money to buy any modern luxury she wanted, but she insisted nothing worthwhile had been manufactured in the past thirty years.

Finally Amanda produced a creased photo of a no-frills A-frame log cabin, not very big. But it did have a dock.

“Does it have electricity and running water?” Hudson asked.

“Sometimes. I really don’t think—”

“It’s like Abe Lincoln’s house!” Bethany exclaimed. “I want to live there, Daddy.”

Well, that cinched it. “Can we go see it?”

“Okay,” Amanda replied without much enthusiasm.

AMANDA WISHED Margie had kept her suggestions to herself. She didn’t want to rent out the Skillman cabin, because it happened to be next door to her own. Every single renter who’d leased the cabin had been noisy, annoying and low class. The last tenant had thrown loud parties and trashed the place, and the Skillmans hadn’t bothered to clean it up. Now it was empty, and Amanda preferred it that way.

Still, Hudson didn’t appear to be rowdy, though it was always hard to tell on a first meeting. He was good-looking, that was for sure. Though he was at least in his mid-thirties, his body had a youthful vigor, all lean muscle and smooth coordination. His hair was short and dark, but she could tell it had some natural curl to it. He had a square jaw, square shoulders and square hands—not much softness to him.

She liked that.

His East Coast accent called to mind Kennedys and Rockefellers. But somehow she doubted he fell into that category, or he’d be vacationing in Martha’s Vineyard or some such place. Cottonwood’s reputation as a fishing and boating mecca was growing, and it drew visitors from Dallas and Houston. But Boston?

The fact Hudson was even considering the rundown Skillman cabin meant he probably didn’t have a lot of money. Still, a commission was a commission. Maybe he’d like it here and decide to stay, and she’d sell him a house.

At any rate, she wasn’t going to let Mary Jo Dickens get him. Mary Jo was vying with Amanda for first place in sales this month, and Amanda didn’t like it one bit. Amanda had boasted top sales every month for four years, and she intended to maintain her streak. Even a small commission might be enough to edge Mary Jo ahead of Amanda.

She unlocked the doors of her silver Lincoln with a press of a button on her key chain.

“This is a pretty car,” Bethany said when they were all settled into the soft leather seats.

“Thank you,” Amanda said. The payments were eating her alive, but she firmly believed a luxurious car put her clients in the mood to buy. “So what brings you to Cottonwood?”

“Daddy got fired,” Bethany announced, as if it were something to be proud of.

Alarm bells went off in Amanda’s mind. If Mr. Stack didn’t have a job, how was he going to pay for even a small rental house? Lakefront property wasn’t cheap, not even the Skillman cabin.

“Let’s call it a leave of absence, Bethany,” Hudson said quickly. “A long-overdue vacation, really.”

“And what sort of work do you do?”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought he tensed at the question. And he didn’t answer right away. Finally he said, “I work at a hospital.”

She observed him from the corner of her eye. His clothes, while a bit rumpled, appeared to be quality made. He had a good haircut and nice teeth that had probably seen braces. Nice eyes, too, a very deep, sincere brown.

“Are you a doctor?” she finally asked when he offered no more details.

Again, that slight tension. “I do repair work.”

Was he lying? Was he an escaped convict, or a non-custodial dad who’d kidnapped his daughter?

Well, it was none of her business, so long as he could pay the rent. And if he really was a repairman, maybe he could do some work on the Skillman cabin. The owners would probably give him a break on the rent if he did a little patching and painting. She mentioned this possibility to him.

“I’m on vacation,” he said. “I plan to relax.”

Well, that put her in her place.

“Here it is,” she said as she pulled into the gravel driveway. She didn’t bother pointing out any of the house’s finer points, because there just weren’t any. As Hudson wandered through the house, silently observing the ancient appliances and leaky plumbing, the worn carpet and musty odor, he said little.

Bethany, however, was running through the house as if it were a playground.

“Look at this, Daddy!” she exclaimed, pointing to a sleeping loft. The only access was by ladder. “Can I sleep up here, Daddy, please, please? I want that to be my room.”

Amanda smiled at the child’s enthusiasm. Children had a way of filtering out the unpleasant and focusing on the positives. She remembered some of the places she’d lived as a child. Though they might have been dumps, her father would always manage to sell her by pointing out the things children loved—a tree with a tire swing, or a patio with a picnic table, or a nearby creek where they could catch tadpoles. And she could overlook leaky roofs and peeling paint.

Actually, the Skillman cabin was a palace compared to some of the places she’d lived.

HUDSON WAS ON THE VERGE of grabbing his child and running back to Boston. This place was a trash heap! But then he thought about what George would say, and he controlled the urge. He could stand anything for a month.

There was no way to fake this vacation, either. He’d thought about checking into a four-star resort in Florida or California and simply staying out of touch for a month. But he couldn’t lie to George, who’d been his mentor for a dozen years. George was convinced Cottonwood was the medicine Hudson needed, and nothing else would do. He wanted Hudson to be bored.

They walked out onto the rickety dock. “Are there fish in this lake?” Hudson asked.

“Oh, loads,” Amanda replied.

“Can I catch some goldfish?” Bethany asked.

Amanda laughed. It was a musical, tinkling laugh that seemed to shiver down Hudson’s spine. For the first time since he’d met her, Hudson thought he saw through Ms. Super-Efficient Realtor to the real woman beneath. And he liked what he saw.

“No goldfish in Town Lake,” she said. “But the pet store on the square has goldfish. That’s one pet you can keep in a rental house.”

“Who lives in that house?” Bethany asked, pointing to a tidy A-frame home next door to theirs. It was similar in style to theirs, but quite a bit larger—and nicer.

“A fairy princess lives there,” Amanda answered in a confidential whisper.

“Really? Where? Where is she?”

“She’s standing right here on the dock with you.”

“I don’t see her.”

Amanda laughed again. “I’m only teasing, Bethany. Actually, that’s my house.”

Hudson’s interest in the rental cabin ratcheted up a notch. He’d heard the saying location-location-location, and a desirable neighbor could make the location sweet.

“Can I come visit you?” Bethany asked.

“Anytime you like. Although I’m not home very much.”

“Neither is my daddy,” Bethany said.

Another twinge of guilt. How long would it take to regain Bethany’s trust? Ah, who the hell was he kidding? He’d never had it to begin with. Bethany had been only two years old when Elaine had died in a skiing accident—while skiing with her boyfriend. The shock of her death and her infidelity had been too much for Hudson. He’d thrown himself into his work like a demon. Immersed in a complicated surgery, he could forget Elaine and her painful betrayal.

Unfortunately, in forgetting Elaine he’d also neglected the emotional needs of his daughter.

Well, he intended to make up for his shortcomings as a father. Children were resilient and forgiving. He would get back in Bethany’s good graces if it killed him. And if she wanted to live in this ramshackle cabin and sleep in a loft and visit the fairy princess next door, so be it.

“I’ll take the cabin,” he said abruptly.

“Really?” Amanda seemed surprised. “I haven’t even told you how much it is.”

“How much is it?”

“Seven hundred.”

“A week?”

She laughed. “A month.”

Holy cow, that was cheap. He’d never lived in a place that cost so little. “That’s fine.”

They returned to the Tri-County rental office, where Hudson was required to fill out an application, though Amanda assured him it was only a formality. His pen hovered over the space marked “Occupation.” He’d misled Amanda, but he couldn’t make himself lie on paper. He wrote in “doctor” very quickly and hoped no one would read it.

He wrote out a check for one month’s rent plus a security deposit. It had been so long since he’d actually written a check, he had to stop and think about it. He had a business manager who handled all of his bills. When he did have to deal with financial things, he used credit cards.

When he’d hastily packed for this trip, he’d grabbed his old checkbook from a desk drawer, realizing not everyone accepted credit cards, especially out in the sticks. He congratulated himself for thinking ahead.

Amanda took the check and the application, paper-clipped them together, and stuck them in a folder on her fanatically neat desk.

“Thanks for helping me out,” he said as he stood.

She stood also and handed him the key to the cabin. “Thanks for the business. Please let me know if I can help you with anything else. And welcome to the neighborhood.”

He shook her hand again, holding it for a little longer than was necessary.

THE FIRST THING Hudson did upon arriving at his new, temporary home was to locate the yellow pages and hire a cleaning service to give the place a good going-over. Rustic he could handle; filthy he couldn’t. With a little prodding, he arranged for a housekeeper from Sharon’s Personal Service to come out that afternoon. “If I’m not here, the door will be open.” It wasn’t as if a thief would want to steal anything here.

Next on the list was groceries. He’d never had to prepare his own food before. At Grubbs Food Mart, which appeared to be the only grocery store in town, he filled his basket with frozen foods, snacks and lunch meats for sandwiches. Bethany made her choices clear. She wanted macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly and something called Lunchables that appeared to be cheese and crackers in a box.

George had told him to eat healthily, but since Hudson couldn’t cook, he was severely limited. He bought a few apples, some peaches and, at Bethany’s urging, a bag of celery.

“I like it with peanut butter,” she announced.

In the cleaning products aisle, he picked up some dishwasher detergent. Wait, did the cabin have a dishwasher? Hell, he didn’t think so, now that he thought about it. And laundry, how was he supposed to clean his clothes? How was he supposed to relax if he had to worry about all this stuff?

He was putting his groceries in the trunk when he saw a woman barreling toward him through the small parking lot. Not just any woman, he realized. Amanda Dewhurst.

His momentary pleasure was soon blunted by the fact that she was scowling.

As soon as she reached him, she waved a piece of paper in his face. “Would you mind explaining this?”

He grabbed the paper from her hand, which he now saw was his check. “What’s wrong?”

“You know damn well what’s wrong.”

“You’re not going to tell me it bounced, are you?” That was ludicrous. He had thousands of dollars in his ready assets account.

“I put it through Checktronic,” she fumed. “The account was closed two years ago!”

“What?” With a sinking feeling, Hudson examined the check more closely. Then he realized the names printed on the check were Hudson and Elaine Stack. He’d grabbed the wrong checkbook. This was the account mainly used by Elaine, and his manager had closed it.

He tried to explain the mix-up to Amanda. She listened stoically. “It was an honest mistake,” he concluded. “I’ll make the check good.”

“You can’t make a check good on a closed account.”

She had a point. Hudson felt his collar growing tighter—then realized his collar was open. “I don’t suppose you take credit cards.”

Amanda tapped her foot.

With a sigh, Hudson reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He pulled out all of the cash and counted it into Amanda’s hand. It amounted to four hundred thirty dollars and change. “I’ll get you the rest tomorrow, okay?”

Amanda studied him, considering.

“I’m good for it. Have a heart. I’ve got a car full of frozen food that’s rapidly melting in this heat.”

“All right.” She stuck the cash in her briefcase. “But I really need it by tomorrow. I’m ahead of Mary Jo Dickens by twenty dollars, and tomorrow is the last day of the month. If I have to deduct the commission from this rental, I’ll lose.”

“Lose what?” he asked, bewildered.

“I won’t be top seller for May. And if I have to see that trophy sitting on Mary Jo’s desk for all of next month, I’ll puke.”

He recalled all those plaques in her office. Million Dollar Club. Top selling Realtor for the past four years running. Those framed letters of appreciation.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “So? What’s the big deal about having a trophy on your desk?” But then Hudson realized it was a big deal for Amanda. She was as serious and committed about her job as he was about his.

Tomorrow some other doctor would be doing his surgery, and he didn’t like that, either.

He smiled. “I’ll make it good. Don’t worry. You’ll beat the pants off this Mary Jo, whoever she is.”

Amanda managed a watery smile. Then she turned on her shiny black pumps and walked away.

Chapter Two

Amanda’s face burned as she walked back to her office, and it wasn’t just the summer heat. What in God’s name had possessed her to tell Hudson Stack about her rivalry with Mary Jo Dickens?

“Hey, what’s with you?” Margie asked the minute Amanda walked through the door. “You look like a herd of demons is chasing you. Is Mary Jo hassling you again?”

Amanda set her things on one of the plush client chairs and sank into the other one. For once, she didn’t feel like rushing back to her office to generate new leads or update her contact list.

“It’s not Mary Jo, not this time,” Amanda said. “It’s me. I just chased down Hudson Stack in the street and gave him hell for writing me a bad check.”

“Good for you. He could go to jail for that.”

“Except that…I harangued him in front of his little girl. And maybe he did intentionally try to defraud me, but maybe it was an honest mistake. And if it was, I’ve alienated him permanently. And he’s friends with Ed Hardison. You know what’ll happen to my business if Ed tells people I’m a harpy?”

“You’ll never sell another house,” Margie added, deadpan, “and you’ll have to move out of town and go into another line of work. Maybe change your name. Go into the witness protection program.”

“I think you’re making fun of me,” Amanda said suspiciously.

“Oh, honey, you’re just too damn hard on yourself. No one can be sweet 24/7. So, you lost your temper. You got a little flustered. Who wouldn’t, dealing with that guy?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but he’s quite the studmuffin.” Margie fanned herself with the Cottonwood Conversation, the town’s weekly newspaper.

Amanda had noticed, all right. Even as she’d been yelling at him, her eyes had been focused on things they shouldn’t have been—like the worn places on his jeans, and that little tuft of chest hair peeking out over the top button of his shirt.

“I didn’t just yell at him for the check,” Amanda confessed. “I also told him about how Mary Jo was going to beat me this month in sales. As if that justified my turning his bad check into a federal case.”

Margie had the nerve to laugh. “Boy, you really are bent out of shape. Does it matter so much if she beats you one month?”

“Yes! I mean, no, except that it’s not just this month. She’s been nipping at my heels all year. If I’m not careful, she’ll take my title away.”

“And would that be so bad? I mean, jeez, Amanda, you’ve been top seller four out of the past five years. The whole idea of these awards is to inspire agents to work harder and make more money for themselves and the company. Obviously, Mary Jo’s inspired, and the competition has helped both of you. And you’re already doing better than you did last year. The company’s doing great. It’s a win-win situation, and that little trophy on your desk, and the plaques on your wall—they’re just dumb pieces of wood and brass.”

Amanda stifled a gasp. “Margie, they’re not dumb.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to minimize your accomplishments. I’m just saying, get some perspective.”

Amanda sighed again. “I can’t help it. I just get crazy at the idea of Mary Jo beating me. If it was Hank or Emily, it wouldn’t bother me so much. But Mary Jo? She just got her license last year!”

“And how do you think Emily felt when you came along? She was the queen of the Top Seller trophies and plaques before you, and the ink on your license was still wet the first time you beat her.”

Amanda had to think back. Had she been like Mary Jo? God, she hoped not. Amanda was ambitious, but she was ethical. She’d never snooped in other agents’ appointment books, stolen a list of contacts or slept with potential clients. Mary Jo had.

“Does Emily hate me?” Amanda asked.

“No, of course not! Her sales overall have gone up since you’ve been onboard. She has a healthy rivalry with you and with Mary Jo. You, on the other hand…”

“Just stepped over the line. I know.” Amanda stood. “Okay, I’m turning over a new leaf. Healthy rivalry. Team player. No more sniping about Mary Jo, the witch, behind her back.”

“Ix-nay, here comes the itch-way now.” Margie gathered up a handful of pink message slips. “These came in for you while you were gone.”

The door opened and Mary Jo swept in, all five feet, ten inches of her. She had a model’s slender hips and legs, but not the flat chest. In fact, her double-Ds challenged whatever blouse she wore, though she always managed to look stylish. Her midnight hair hung straight as water, almost to her waist, shimmering even in the artificial light of the office.

She came from a rich family in Tyler. She had a college degree in marketing, but it was her finishing-school sheen that Amanda secretly envied. Mary Jo had a natural confidence, an ability to talk about anything with anybody. And though she was always decently dressed, her sexuality billowed out from her in clouds, like cheap perfume did on other women.

In a crowded room, like a chamber of commerce meeting, people just naturally gravitated toward Mary Jo, whereas Amanda usually had to initiate contact with people.

“I just showed someone the Clooney mansion,” Mary Jo said exuberantly. “They spent almost an hour there. I think they might make an offer!” She addressed the comment to both women, but she looked at Amanda.

If Mary Jo sold the Clooney mansion, she would shoot ahead of Amanda and would probably be uncatchable.

Damn.

“Good for you,” Amanda forced herself to say, pasting on a smile. “It would be a plum for the whole company if one of us could sell that puppy.”

“Keep your fingers crossed. Do any good business today, Amanda?”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“Well, cheer up. The day’s not over.” With that she breezed past Amanda toward her own office, grabbing her phone messages on the way.

Amanda bit her tongue. She wanted to say something nasty. That gloating, patronizing bimbo! But the new leaf, and all.

“I’ll be in my office,” Amanda grated out. She picked up her things and shut herself off from the rest of the world. Maybe she’d have something interesting in her e-mail inbox.

The next time she came up for air, it was eight o’clock and starting to get dark. Her stomach was a gaping cavern of emptiness. She hadn’t eaten since she’d wolfed down a bagel for breakfast.

She reached behind her to the refrigerator to grab a Slimfast. But the sudden movement made her head spin, and she realized she needed to eat a real meal before she passed out. She grabbed a couple of real estate magazines—she wanted to draft some new ads, and she needed inspiration. She stuffed them in her briefcase for later, then headed out.

Amanda always felt a rush of pleasure when she drove up to her house on the lake. She’d bought it last year—her very first home. It wasn’t grand, as lake houses went, just a modest two-bedroom A-frame. But it was clean—most of the time—and snug. She hadn’t needed to do any work on it, and she’d hardly changed a thing except to hang a few pictures.

The important thing was that it was hers, and no one could take it away from her—unless she failed to make her house payments. That possibility was never far from her thoughts. Though she’d had no trouble qualifying for the loan based on her previous three years’ income, the real estate business was iffy. One turn of the economic roulette wheel and her income could disappear.

That was why she stockpiled so much. Though her banker urged her to invest in a diverse portfolio, she was content to keep her cash in a money-market fund, where it was readily available for any emergency. She had enough to see her through a whole year, should something happen to her income.

But that didn’t stop her from worrying.

She was just a worrier. That was her nature, and there was nothing she could do about it.

And speaking of worrying, what was that taped to her front door?

Instead of entering her house through the garage door, Amanda walked around to the front and up the stairs to her porch. A fat envelope with her name on it was taped to the door. She pulled it off and opened it. It was full of cash—and a note.

She read the note and smiled. Hudson Stack had made good on his check. All that worry for nothing—this time. Maybe she would keep her little desk trophy another month after all.

Her pleasure over this small victory was blunted when she saw what a mess the kitchen was. Her brother, Mick, had obviously been home, had dinner, then left again. The empty pizza box and cardboard had been left on the counter; her microwave was covered in melted cheese; and the greasy plate and leftover crusts had been dumped near, though not in, the sink. An empty pop bottle sat on the counter, mere inches from the pantry door where the trash was stored.

Amanda gritted her teeth and cleaned up the mess. Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she just stopped cleaning up after Mick. Would he even notice? But nagging didn’t do any good, nor did threats. He was a twenty-two-year-old boy-man who simply hadn’t grown up yet. As soon as she got him through college and he got a job, he would move out on his own and fall in love with some woman, who would reform him.

As she threw a frozen pasta dinner into the microwave, her thoughts returned to Hudson Stack, and she started worrying about something else. What if that cash was all he had? His daughter had said he was out of work. What if he’d needed this cash to live on?

Okay, if this was all he had, he wouldn’t have rented a lake house. Unless he’d promised his daughter…

No. She was being ridiculous. Hudson was a grown man, and she had no business worrying about his financial status. If he’d rented a house he couldn’t afford, that was his problem. She had her cash up front, and that was all that mattered.

Right?

A PRESSURE AGAINST Hudson’s stomach woke him up. He cracked one eye open to a pitch-black room. Bethany was sitting on his rib cage.

“Daddy! Are you awake?”

“I am now.” He’d tossed and turned until the wee hours of the morning. It was too quiet here. He missed the white noise of traffic, horns, sirens. He liked the idea that there were people all around him. This house was too isolated. The only nearby neighbor was Amanda Dewhurst, and he’d managed to alienate her.

The quiet had nearly driven him crazy.

“I’m bored,” Bethany announced.

Hudson checked the illuminated dial on his watch. It was a little after five o’clock. “Go back to bed. It’s too early.” It would be six, Boston time. He would already be on his way to the hospital, mentally preparing for his first surgery.

“I can’t sleep,” Bethany said.

Bethany had never awakened him before. Back home, if she cried in the night or had a bad dream, she went to the live-in housekeeper. She’d been told not to disturb his sleep, because he needed plenty of rest if he was going to stick a scalpel into someone’s heart the next day.

Now he had no such excuses. His daughter was his responsibility, totally. It scared him a little.

“Do you want to climb into bed with me?” he asked, a little apprehensively. He wasn’t sure that was proper, but maybe it would help her feel more secure if an adult was nearby.

“No. I want you to get up. I’m hungry.”

Hudson groaned. “Get a Pop-Tart. They’re in the cabinet.”

“I can’t reach.”

Hudson reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. His daughter stared at him earnestly. He would have to get up—he didn’t know what else to do. Maybe he shouldn’t have made Bethany take that long nap yesterday.

He set her on her feet, then climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans.

As he was fixing Bethany a Pop-Tart, he looked out the window and noticed lights on at the house next door. Amanda must be an early riser. He thought about asking her over for coffee. It would be nice to have another adult to talk to. He was going batty here, and he’d been here less than a day.

Then he realized how stupid an idea that was. First, he didn’t have any coffee. And even if he did, the cabin didn’t have a coffee maker. Second, an attractive woman in his cabin would only make his blood pressure go up. And the objective was to make it go down. He’d brought a cuff with him and he intended to check it often. The moment he got the numbers down to normal, he was heading back to Boston.

Third, Amanda probably wasn’t speaking to him. Although he hoped the cash left on her door would lessen her anger with him.

He thought back to the way she’d gone off on him yesterday. Her eyes had sparked fire, and little wisps of blond hair had pulled free of her tight twist, framing her face in a shimmering halo. He’d liked seeing her that way, free of her ultraprofessional real-estate-lady persona. He just wished her anger hadn’t been aimed at him.

He thought about her loss of composure and wondered what it meant. Yelling at him about the check he could understand. But that business about Mary Jo Whoever stealing her trophy—that was over the top.

The light upstairs went out, and another came on downstairs. Maybe he could take her out for coffee. Did Cottonwood have a Starbucks? He doubted it, but he’d seen something called the Miracle Café that served breakfast all day.

“Are you gonna give me that Pop-Tart or what?” Bethany asked.

Hudson realized he’d been staring at the house, lost in thought. The Pop-Tart had popped up and was cooling off. He plucked it from the toaster, set it on a paper towel, and handed it to Bethany.

“Grandma Ruth says we always have to eat at the table.”

“At home, maybe. But we’re on vacation.”

“What’s vacation?”

“You know, a trip. Where we have fun.”

“I’m not having fun.”

“You didn’t like sleeping in the loft?”

“Yeah. But I’m awake now.”

“Let’s go watch the sunrise.”

“Why?”

“Because…because it’s pretty. Because that’s what people do when they stay in a lake house, I guess.”

“What about fishing?”

When Hudson had checked out the house yesterday, he’d seen some fishing equipment in the garage. “Sure, why not? We’ll eat breakfast, get dressed, and by then the sun will be up and we can go fishing.”

Thirty minutes later, showered, dressed in old jeans and reasonably well fed with two Pop-Tarts, Hudson was in the garage sorting through a pile of dusty old fishing equipment. He selected what looked like the only two poles that actually had working reels attached. He sort of figured out how the reel worked. He found a tackle box that had an assortment of esoteric things inside, including hooks. He tied a hook onto the end of each line, using surgical knots.

“Piece of cake,” he murmured.

All the while, Bethany watched intently, asking him what he was doing each step of the way. He tried to act as if he knew the drill, but he’d never been fishing in his life except for the time he went deep-sea fishing on a yacht. This was a little different.

“The fish bite onto these hooks?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

“Why do they do that? Are they stupid?”

“No. We have to trick them into biting the hook by putting bait on it.”

“What’s bait?”

“It’s something the fish would like to eat.”

“What do fish eat?”

That was a very good question. He rifled through the tackle box, finally coming up with some rather crusty artificial worms. Maybe these would do.

The point wasn’t really to catch anything, right? This was an exercise in boredom.

The sun was just coming up as Hudson and Bethany walked out to the end of the rickety dock. Hudson put a rubbery worm on the end of each hook, then pulled out some extra line so the hook would dangle in the water. He gave one pole to Bethany, cautioning her for about the tenth time about being careful of the hook. Then he sat down beside her and put his own hook in the water.

Nothing happened.

“This is nice,” he said, trying to convince himself. “Just you and me, doing a little father-daughter bonding.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Is anything happening with your line?”

“No.”

“Mine, neither. But I understand you have to be patient to be a fisherman.”

“Fishergirl,” she corrected him.

Oh, Lord. At four years old, Bethany was a budding feminist. Her grandmother would have a fit. Finally, something to make Hudson smile.

“I’m bored,” Bethany said after exactly seven minutes.

“Let’s talk to pass the time.”

“Talk about what?”

He had no idea what. “What do you like to watch on TV?”

“Princess Pony.”

“Tell me about that.”

“There’s a white pony, and she’s a princess, and then there’s a bad Palomino Queen who wants Princess Pony to go into this cave and never come out.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“But now I can’t watch it because we don’t have a TV.”

Originally he’d been pleased the cabin didn’t have a TV. Bethany watched far too much at home, and the point of a vacation like this was to get outdoors, get some exercise, get healthy. Watching TV wasn’t healthy. But it might help Bethany not to die of boredom. Maybe he could compromise, buy a TV and VCR and rent some educational videos or classic children’s movies.

“Is anything happening with your line?”

“No.”

Eleven minutes had passed.

They tried a different color of worm. They tried an orange lizard. They tried a silver metal fish with spinners on it. The fish were about as interested as Hudson would be at a vegetarian buffet.

“Can we go inside now, Daddy?”

“Not until we catch a fish.” He didn’t know what he would do with the fish if he caught it, but he didn’t like to fail at his endeavors.

AMANDA GULPED DOWN the last bit of her coffee, then strode through the living room and beat on the bedroom door. “Mick? Are you up yet?”

No reply.

She cracked the door open. Mick was sprawled on top of the covers, still fully clothed. It was all Amanda could do not to yank him by the ankles and toss him to the floor.

She’d heard him come home last night—at two in the morning. She’d hoped he was at the university library in Tyler, studying. But seeing him now, she knew she’d been naive. Mick had been out drinking—she’d stake her life on it. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t recognize the signs. She was very afraid that Mick was his father’s son.

Resisting the urge to fit her hands around his neck, she instead shook his shoulder. “Mick. Wake up.”

He opened one bleary eye. “Huh?”

“Get your hungover butt out of bed. You have a class this morning.”

“Not till nine.”

“Get up now, or you’ll fall back to sleep.”

“Get off my case.”

“You think this is on your case? Just wait and see what happens if I ever catch you drinking and driving again.”

She left him with that thought. Back in the kitchen, she grabbed her keys and was about to head out the door when she spotted something interesting out the living room window. Hudson and Bethany were sitting on the end of their dock, fishing.

She watched them for a few self-indulgent moments. Her father used to take her fishing when she was a little girl. It was one of her nicest memories of him, nearly obliterated by other, more recent and far less pleasant ones. But now the images came flooding back—baiting hooks with wiggling earthworms, breathlessly watching the float bob up and down as a fish toyed with the bait, feeling the sun beating down on her bare arms.

And listening to her father tell stories. Sometimes he told real stories from his youth. Sometimes he made up fairy tales. And sometimes she couldn’t tell the difference. But she didn’t care. She just loved to hear him talk. He could weave an interesting tale around the most mundane of events and keep her endlessly entertained.

She wondered what Hudson and Bethany were talking about.

As she watched them a bit longer, she realized they weren’t catching anything, not even little perch or sunfish. The longer she watched, the more she realized they hadn’t a clue about what they were doing. They didn’t even know how to cast!

It’s none of your business, she reminded herself. Fishing was very personal. Maybe this was the technique that worked for Hudson.

She had to get to work, anyway. She had an appointment in a couple of hours with Clea Marsden about selling her rental property. But she could go over and thank Hudson for leaving her the cash. And she could give him a few pointers on fishing. It had been years since she’d dipped a hook in the water, but she hadn’t forgotten how.

Yes, that was the polite thing to do. She would have to live next to Hudson for a month. Might as well try to be on good terms with him. Besides, what if he really needed the fish to supplement his groceries?

Her mind made up, she marched next door, then tiptoed down the dock. If there were any fish around, she didn’t want to scare them.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

Hudson jumped a good six inches, and Bethany peered over her shoulder. “Why are you whispering?” she asked.

“So I don’t scare the fish,” she explained.

“The fish are underwater,” Bethany said patiently. “They can’t hear us.”

“Oh, but they can,” Amanda assured her. Then she looked at Hudson, who appeared touchably rumpled and unshaven. Normally she didn’t care for that un-shaven look, but on Hudson it worked. He wore a pair of jeans even more faded than the ones he’d had on yesterday, and a Harvard T-shirt.

Harvard? “Your alma mater?” she asked, pointing to the shirt.

He looked down at it. “This? Someone gave it to me.”

“Oh. Well, anyway, I wanted to thank you for making good on the check.”

“I told you I would.”

“I know, but I’ve learned not to trust people when they say things like that. So many don’t live up to their word. I appreciate that you did, and I’m sorry I lost my temper yesterday.”

He smiled. “It’s forgotten.”

“So, you’re fishing, huh?”

“Yup.”

“What are you using for bait?” She didn’t see a bait bucket anywhere.

“Right now? Some little wooden fish we found in the tackle box.”

Ye gods! No wonder they hadn’t caught anything. You couldn’t use plastic worms or plugs or other artificial lures for bobber fishing. And now that she was closer, and Hudson had his hook out of the water, she could see they weren’t using floats or sinkers, either. This was the most pathetic fishing effort she’d ever seen.

“What are you trying to catch?”

Hudson shrugged. “Anything.”

“Would you mind a few pointers? I mean, you aren’t familiar with this lake.” She didn’t want to point out his complete ignorance in front of his daughter.

“I would be grateful for some pointers.”

“Okay. First of all, if you’re just going to hang your hook in the water, you need live bait. Minnows, or at least earthworms.”

“We don’t have any of those things. These fake fish look pretty realistic to me.”

Amanda shook her head. “Yes, but you have to wiggle and move them to make them attractive. They won’t work if they’re just hanging still in the water. Also, most of the fish will already be in deeper water this time of the morning. They come close to shore only at dawn and dusk.”

“I don’t have any worms or minnows.”

“Well…if you’re not too particular about what you catch, raw bacon might work in a pinch. At least it smells good to the fish.”

Hudson shook his head. “I have hot dogs.”

“That might do.”

Hudson sent Bethany back to the house for hot dogs, an errand she gladly performed. “She was getting tired of just sitting here, anyway,” Hudson admitted.

“Well, she won’t be bored when you start catching fish.” Bethany dusted off a spot on the dock and sat down, careful to protect her stockings and her modesty in her short skirt. In a couple of minutes flat she had both poles properly outfitted with sinkers, floats and hooks. Bethany returned shortly with a package of franks. Amanda took a small bit of wiener and worked it onto one of the hooks in a way that would disguise it.

“Now. You need to cast your line out a little ways from the dock, and let the current move it along.” She and Hudson stood, and she demonstrated the correct procedure. As she stretched her arm back preparing for the cast, she got the distinct impression that Hudson wasn’t watching her form—not her fishing form, anyway.

After a few practice casts, Hudson had the technique down pat. He cast Bethany’s line for her, showed her how to slowly crank the reel to take up slack in the line, then threw out his own line.

In less than thirty seconds Bethany’s bobber wiggled, then plummeted below the surface.

“You’ve got a fish!” Amanda exclaimed.

Bethany got so excited she shrieked and almost dropped her pole in the water. But with her father standing behind her helping her reel it in, and with Amanda’s verbal coaching, she managed to pull a little sunfish out of the water.

“I caught a fish! I caught a fish!”

“Yes, you certainly did,” Amanda enthused. “And a magnificent specimen it is, too.” It was about three inches long.

“I’m gonna name him Shiny.”

Hudson and Amanda exchanged a look. “You didn’t tell her what we do with the fish we catch?” Amanda asked.

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