Hands On

Want to make Fate laugh? Try telling her who’s in charge.

Talented, down-on-her-luck puppeteer Ginnie Anderson’s life seems destined to fall down around her ears. Much like the rented bungalow that’s just collapsed in a heavy rainstorm, endangering her precious collection of marionettes. Her livelihood in need of protection and repair, she can’t refuse her landlord’s offer of temporary shelter in his magnificent home. Under his roof, though, she finds her hard-won grasp on her independence slipping—and herself falling into his arms. The hallmark of Harry Barrett’s business success: he never makes the same mistake twice, particularly when it comes to manipulative women. So why is Ginnie, who pulls strings for a living, like a siren’s song in his blood? It’s best to put temptation as far out of reach as possible. Yet when Ginnie’s past threatens to destroy the life she’s built for herself, Harry must decide which is more important. Holding tight to his sense of self preservation, or letting go to capture Ginnie’s fragile heart—before it breaks into a thousand pieces.

Warning: Contains sizzling sex between a powerful hero who likes to be in control, and a heroine whose talented hands teach him the pleasure of giving up the reins.

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520 Macon GA 31201 Hands On Copyright © 2010 by Christina Crooks ISBN: 978-1-60928-246-2 Edited by Linda Ingmanson Cover by Natalie Winters All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: November 2010 www.samhainpublishing.com

Hands On Christina Crooks

Dedication

For my husband, John.

Chapter One

The vintage rental house was old, but Ginnie didn’t expect it to fall in on her. Houses didn’t do that. Not even during Portland, Oregon’s famous rainstorms. And not even when stupid exes marched back and forth on roofs, making stupid, macho points. Still, when the ceiling began to crack and sag ominously, weighted down by debris Rick kicked loose, she had a sudden premonition. “Get off my roof!” she yelled again, but this time louder—good and scared. “It’s going to fall in!” “Say you’ll come back to me, then!” To Ginnie’s relief, she heard his voice moving toward the edge of the house, toward the trellis he’d climbed in his misguided attempt to harass her into returning to Los Angeles with him. As if she’d ever consider it, no matter what embarrassing, intimidating tricks he tried. But he’d always been a mule-headed idiot, and mean to boot. Good thing she’d finally figured it out before marrying him. “I’ll be back, Ginnie! You’d better reconsider!” She could just see him through the front window, sodden and hunched against the rain as he scurried to the pricey gold Cadillac Sport Wagon he loved so much. She didn’t breathe easily until she saw the glow of its taillights move away. Then, exasperated, she knocked her long, unruly curls off her face. Her fingers caught in the damp brown frizz caused by the wet weather. Or was it the humidity? A large, cold drop of water hit her forehead, splattering wetly over her nose and cheeks. She wiped at it and stepped backward, looked up. The rental broker’s voice haunted her: “It’s a great find for the neighborhood. They don’t build ’em like this anymore. Better pounce quick, before someone else gets it.” Ginnie laughed, watching as the wet stain on the ceiling spread. She knew she’d been a bit naïve in her eagerness to start a new life without Rick. The cute little Craftsman bungalow had charmed her, despite its evidence of neglect. Heck, the neglect had charmed her! The gently peeling paint, the unfinished basement, the foliage-shrouded porch, the untouched original ceilings, the dusty hardwood floors, the yellowing crystal doorknobs… It was everything Rick’s modern mansion wasn’t. The rain pelted down with a thunderous sound. Ginnie’s gaze went again to the large window above her thrift-store couch. All she saw now was a gray sheet of water. The rain pounded, a steadily increasing roar.

Hands On

“It rains all the time in the Northwest,” Ginnie murmured nervously, backing out of the wet living room to the kitchen. “It’s famous for it. That’s all this is. A typical rainstorm. The landlord will repair the roof and everything will be fine.” Her house groaned. Suddenly, with a bone-rattling crack, the floor tilted. Ginnie looked down and couldn’t believe her eyes. Her kitchen’s quaint vinyl floor ripped open, and the pressed wood beneath separated into two jagged edges. Earthquake? Ginnie looked for a table to crawl under, then remembered she hadn’t saved up enough money to buy one yet. And she was no longer in California, land of earthquakes. She was in Oregon, away from everything she’d known. Things would be different here. They had to be different. More of the floor sank, making her stumble backward. She threw her arms out for balance, trying not to panic. So, not an earthquake. What was it? It felt as if the bungalow was actually coming apart. It might crush her, along with everything that gave meaning to her world. She panicked after all. “The puppets!” Ginnie ran, skidding across the living room’s slick wood to the door leading to the basement. She flung it open and raced down the narrow stairway, even as she heard a window breaking above. How long did these crazy rainstorms last, anyway? Nothing could happen to her marionettes. She flung her body over one of the trunks containing her precious marionettes. Pieces of plaster and sheetrock particles pricked her skin. Her puppets and marionettes would not be destroyed. “Over my dead body!” she shouted furiously at the house. As if in answer, a subfloor support beam cracked loudly enough to hurt her ears. Suddenly more nervous than she’d ever been, she called out, “Kidding?” Then the house collapsed.

Harry flicked the wipers on his Aston Martin up to full speed, but he could still barely see the road before him. It wasn’t safe. If he wasn’t so familiar with the area, and if this task wasn’t so urgent, he’d turn right around and head home. But the house in question wasn’t far from his more upscale home farther up the hill. And after getting that outrageous news from Todd about Harry’s recently acquired property management firm, the situation demanded immediate investigation.

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As a millionaire a few times over, and by now the owner of so many real-estate-centric companies he didn’t bother tracking them anymore, Harry Barrett Sharpe normally enjoyed involving himself with the down-and-dirty work. Necessity required sequestering himself in the catbird seat at the very top more often than not, so he appreciated touching base with the Joe Blows, joining the construction gang on occasion to work with his hands, reminding himself of his roots. But this was different. Normally, middle-management matters didn’t sink to such levels of dangerous incompetence. Normally people’s lives weren’t at risk. Not to mention leaving him wide open for a devastating lawsuit. The woman running the property management firm had been criminally negligent. Sure, the administration, marketing and financials of all his rentals were technically handled and in the black. But the physical maintenance of his structures required capital expenditures she’d chosen to pocket instead. If her assistant Lara hadn’t clued in his assistant, Harry wouldn’t now be driving through one of Portland’s worst storms in a decade to check on the tenant—one Ginnie Anderson—who should never have been offered a lease on the small bungalow. A half-hour ago, Harry had seen the home’s pictures, seen the state of it. He’d seen the copies of advised repairs. So many major repairs. The roofing and chimney problems worried him most, especially in this rainstorm. He cursed the rain. He cursed the irresponsible woman he’d just instructed Todd to fire. He cursed the silly twit who’d moved into the ramshackle home. He cursed again as his car slid through a corner, but he corrected easily, some instinct making him drive even faster. When he reached the street, skidded to a halt behind the small Volkswagen parked before the house and jumped out, his first thought was that he’d overreacted. The house seemed fine. Harry wiped rain out of his eyes, his gaze focusing on the sharp line of one section at the juncture of the flatter roof to the steeply pitched dormer section. Was it darker? Sagging? It was! And that wasn’t all. As he watched with growing horror, the chimney crumbled as if it were the subject of a controlled demolition. Then a thick section of wood trim ripped loose, the wind guiding it through the yellow-lit kitchen window. Lit. The tenant was home. The tenant was inside the house! Without thinking, Harry immediately charged to the front door, used the master keys he’d brought and ran inside. He heard her cry out, “Over my dead body!” right before pieces of the roof began to fall and an enormous thud from somewhere below jarred his feet with a deep bass that rattled his bones. The basement. Harry ran downstairs.

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“Wake up. That’s it. Open your eyes.” The face that swam into her focus was unfamiliar. More’s the pity, she thought woozily, smiling at him. Dark brown hair framed a strong brow, sapphire eyes and a mouth wide but thin with a cynical twist to it. He had a ruggedness and vital power that attracted her. She especially liked his lips. His face and his lips floated closer, tilted for kissing, shaped like heaven. “No, keep your eyes open. Damn it…” She enjoyed the rich, deep voice that came from him as much as his warm, musky-male scent. She could feel the tickle of his sweet breath on her lips, nearly a kiss, a wonderful kiss… Wanting to touch him, she attempted to move her arm. He slapped her. “Hey!” she shouted, or tried to. Her eyes fluttered open. She could barely hear her own voice. She tried to shift away from him, feeling sluggish. Why did his warm blue eyes spark with anger? It disturbed her she’d disappointed him. Her heart spasmed with the old ache. Her body didn’t hurt, though. She tried to move again. She couldn’t feel her limbs. She couldn’t move. Alarm flooded her. He moved toward her again, and she cringed. An enormous weight lifted off her arm, and she winced at the pain. Still, she welcomed the sensation. At least she wasn’t paralyzed. “Move, now, get out of here!” he shouted, the roar of his voice hoarse. “This place is coming down. Please!” Relieved she could move at all, she tried to concentrate. Her mind felt swimmy and had to play catchup with his words. She frowned. She hated when people bossed her around. But he’d said please. Rick would never have said please to her. Ginnie focused on the man, marshalling her strength, her focus. The man crouched over her, his arms bulging with muscle and his face reflecting strain. He struggled to hold up the support beam that pinned her arm. With an effort that grayed her vision, she scrambled sideways, out from under the beam. A second later, it crashed back down. “Now, up and out.” He herded her, not gently. Ginnie shook her head, as much in refusal as to clear her vision. She squinted with the pain it caused, but at least she was able to see. “Oh no.” Her basement was a maze of debris. The puppet clothes and fabrics that had hung on racks now protruded in unsightly heaps, and wigs and cracked-open plaster heads

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made new terrain of the sealed basement floor, as did the smaller puppet stages, a pile of clip-on lamps and more scattered piles of painstakingly collected picture books and DVDs. How had the spare wood, metal, leather and string gotten spread around everywhere? The mold-making equipment leaned against fallen speaker stands. A mess. Some of it was replaceable. Still, she’d worked days to get the pirate puppet just right, and he was little more than wooden splinters, his metal sword buried under cinder blocks. What about her irreplaceable marionettes? She wheeled about, searching. There! Under a diagonal sheet of particleboard and behind the extension cord and reel, next to an ugly crack in the basement’s concrete floor, were the two large trunks. They gleamed with the sheen of lovingly polished wood. She moved toward them. The man grabbed her arm. “Are you insane?” She considered. “Nope.” She shook loose and hurried to the trunks. He spoke to her slowly, as if to someone of limited intellect. “You are in danger. The house’s ceiling is crashing in. The chimney already did. The foundation looks bad. The walls, the subfloor—they’re falling apart. There are gas and electrical risks. And you, you’re rummaging for keepsakes as if you were at an estate sale?” There was no mistaking the anger in his voice. She spoke over her shoulder. “I understand time is short. So, help me with these, please.” She tugged at a trunk, trying to drag it out from underneath where it was wedged. It wouldn’t budge. “Pretty please?” “This is for your own good.” It was all the warning she got before strong arms picked her up by the waist and slung her over a broad shoulder. He’d just made a mistake. The side of her head bounced against one of his firm jeans-covered butt cheeks before he started to pull her to a mid-back position. The automatic outrage she felt at being manhandled, plus the resulting stabs of pain to the various parts of her bruised body, not to mention the sight of her precious trunks being left behind, made her seriously cranky. “Put me down immediately,” she warned. He kept moving. Clearly he didn’t know about a puppeteer’s hand strength. She smiled grimly as she applied a muscular grip right where he’d least enjoy it. “Sorry,” she told him after he dropped her and staggered back with a curse. And she meant it. He was only trying to help, after all. “I have to get my marionettes out. They aren’t keepsakes. They’re my career. My life. What’s left of it.” He glared at her through slitted eyes.

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She stared back. He was a lot better-looking when his features weren’t all scrunched up. She remembered from when he’d leaned in to kiss her. Not that it was actually a kiss except in her imagination. She sighed and moved toward her marionettes. “What makes them worth risking your neck?” She turned to see his mouth had compressed into a thin, pale line of displeasure. “I crafted them all over a period of years. No one believed I could or should get into puppetry. But I did and I’m not leaving them behind now.” First she had to drag the heavy trunks out from under the particleboard. There was a lot of crap in front of the first trunk, and on top. She’d need to shift a broken cabinet door, chunks of paint and plaster, sagging wires and other random bits of house debris. She just hoped she didn’t electrocute herself. Or get crushed. Asphyxiated. Blown up. “Right, then,” she muttered, beginning to clear away the blockage. She stumbled when his hard body shoved hers to the side, but caught herself before falling. “Keep out of the way,” he commanded, large hands grabbing and throwing debris, clearing the trunks faster than she could have. He uncovered destruction. Ginnie inhaled sharply. One of the trunks had broken open, and the painstakingly wrapped and packed marionettes had spilled out. From where she stood, she could see one small, laboriously crafted puppet hand jutting from the crack in her basement’s foundation as if reaching for help. At her sound of dismay, the man turned. “What now?” he snapped. “I can see Little Jeffrey.” He froze mid-throw. His voice was more low and dangerous than she’d yet heard it. “There’s a kid down here?” “Not a kid.” He turned around to face her fully. She blinked, the sight of his wine-colored sweater fitting a heartbreakingly broad chest, and those jeans encasing one strong, perfect-looking lower half distracting her momentarily. A movement drew her attention back up. His hand, filthy with the dirt and dust of her wrecked house, raked through dark brown hair. He left a smudge on his forehead. “What, then? A pet?” He scanned the area around the trunks, impatient. “Where?” Ginnie blinked again. “A special marionette.” “A special marionette.” He blew his breath out in an exasperated whoosh. “We don’t have time for this conversation.” He turned his back, grabbed a trunk handle and lunged. He managed to slide one trunk out. Plaster rubble skidded off, hitting the hard floor with small thuds. The particleboard stayed wedged. It blocked access to the second, more damaged trunk.

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A concrete block the size of a refrigerator had flattened a full quarter of the box. Shards of wood fanned out from underneath, pinched securely. Puppets and their broken body parts lay at awkward angles. Small, still victims of disaster. Little Jeffrey’s hand seemed to summon her. Before the man could object, she darted into the space where the first trunk had been. She grabbed Little Jeffrey’s meticulously crafted fingers and pulled him up, careful not to scrape his paint. Placing him safely to the side with one hand, she reached into the crack to see if any more marionettes needed rescuing. She saw none. Reaching, stretching her muscles until they ached, searching, she winced when thick trunk splinters drew blood. The block of concrete didn’t even budge. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed by that,” her would-be rescuer said, stalking toward her. “Dumb luck. This house has always—” Something crunched under his foot. “No!” she shrieked, but it was too late. He froze, looking down. “Uh oh.” They both stared at the remains of Little Jeffrey. He grimaced, lifted his foot. “Whoops.” Her eyes were locked on her crushed marionette. “If it’s not too much trouble, take the closed trunk upstairs. Now, please.” She raised her eyes to his. For a moment, he seemed about to apologize. Then her house shifted with a deep groan. He moved fast, with more grace and speed than her old martial arts instructor, carrying the trunk before him up the stairs. After quickly filling her arms with as much as she could hold, she raced after him. When she ascended to the hallway, she felt another bass thump beneath her feet, followed by a displacement of air that blew her hair sideways. “Out. Now.” This time she obeyed. She trod on his heels getting out the front door, down her porch steps and into the rain. He carried one trunk with difficulty. He let it drop onto the sidewalk next to an Aston Martin. His, presumably. She opened the wooden trunk, placed her own armload inside as gently as if it were roses inside a casket, then closed it before the rain could damage things more. At the sound of wrenching wood and plaster, they both turned to stare at her home. The steeply pitched roof sagged, opening a gaping dark canyon that bisected her kitchen. One wall tilted to an unlikely angle, jagged holes appearing where its double-hung window had torn free, one windowsill jutting up like a broken tooth. The chimney had vanished. “Get in the car.”

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She looked at him doubtfully, though the rain still pounded. The car would be welcome shelter. He looked at her with exasperation. She began to think it was probably his usual expression. “I won’t hurt you.” “How’d you get into my house?” He jangled his keys in front of her, clearly impatient, and nodded to the car. “I’m getting in,” he announced. “You do what you want.” So he was her landlord? He seemed far too arrogant, too handsome, rich and confident to be a mere landlord. It had been a woman who’d shown her the place and initiated the paperwork. And another woman who’d answered the phone when Ginnie had called for repairs—repairs she never got. Maybe this handsome man was those women’s boss at the company? Ginnie shrugged, opened the door, slid inside. “I’m ruining your seats.” “Damn the seats.” He inserted a key into the ignition, turned it. He looked at her, then cranked up the car’s heat. “Are you okay?” The man touched her shoulder. “You look…” Ginnie knew how she must look. Probably almost as good as she felt. She peered out the side window. The rain had eased up. She focused on one of the small iron rings set in the sidewalk. The neighborhood was so old it used to accommodate horses. The house probably hadn’t been repaired since before the cars replaced the horses. She was lucky to be alive. She waited until she felt capable of speech. Then she straightened her shoulders and extended her hand to him. He enclosed it with a warm grip that seemed to impart much-needed strength to her. She felt an answering heat surge through her body that owed nothing to the car’s efficient heater. She smiled up at him. “You saved my life, I’m pretty sure. Thanks. My name’s Ginnie. Oh, I guess as the landlord, you knew my name already.” She looked at him expectantly. He stared back. She could almost hear the click as her gaze locked with his. The spark of interest in his eyes warmed her. His grasp lingered too long. She tilted her head, fascinated and feeling more than a little giddy. All the stress, she told herself. “You know…there’s an old Chinese proverb that says if you save a life, you’re linked to it forever.”

Harry stared at Ginnie. Linked to her life forever? Her direct gaze distracted him. What was she talking about, linked to her? Her tilted head gave her a severely flirtatious look, especially with her reddishbrown curls sticking wetly to her too-thin sweater. He glanced down her body, just long enough to verify her seductive shape. One of her shoes had come off. Her hazel eyes glinted with humor. She’d been joking about the linked-to-her-forever comment, of course. He’d like to be linked to her, he suddenly realized with a surge of heat. Just not forever, and certainly not just by the hand.

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He withdrew his hand, the air in the car chilly compared to her warm palm. “You’re welcome.” For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what to make of her. Or what to say. Unusual. She was a ditz, risking them both the way she had. She was also cute, distractingly so, actually, and he didn’t need that particular complication. He glanced at her body, just to check. She had “complication” written all over her. “I believe my link with you ends…” He checked his platinum Rolex, waterproof thank God, “…right about now. Glad to have met you, Ginnie. Where can I drop you off? Do you want me to call someone for you?” Harry reached for his cell phone. He almost made it. Her feather-light touch stopped him. “I don’t have anyone. No money. Nothing valuable except my puppets. And there’s an ex-fiancé who’s probably on his way back to stalk me some more since the rain let up. He was stomping around on my roof. I think he was trying to scare me.” The protectiveness and anger that flashed through him took him by surprise. Someone was stalking her? Unacceptable. He stared at her, having trouble imagining her scared. She’d handled her home falling in pretty well, all things considered. “There has to be someone. Everyone has someone.” Except him, but she didn’t need to know that. His solitude was by choice, and he certainly had the means to take care of himself. “Look, I have to drop you somewhere.” “I heard Portland is a pretty good city for homeless people. Soup lines and shelters.” Ginnie smiled, an uncertain quirk of the lips. Her eyes sparkled. It had better not be tears. She spoke of the city as if she was new to it. Maybe she truly didn’t have anyone. His need to return to his isolation tugged at him. But he couldn’t move. Harry felt a stab of lust at the way her sweater tightened over her chest. It didn’t, however, keep him from noticing the unnatural brightness in her eyes, or the tremor in her voice. Or the way she leaned a little too heavily on her armrest. “I just don’t want to abandon my gear. The puppets,” she clarified in a pained, soft voice. His heart thudded once, hard. She looked so hot, and so lost. And there was a stalker after her too? He glanced past her, at the house. The rental was demolished. Had it hurt her when it came down? He spoke gently. “Were you injured?” She looked down for a few long moments, as if considering her physical state for the first time. She kicked off her remaining shoe. When she met his gaze again, her eyes showed no trace of tears. “My knee’s weird.” He watched her bend her right leg. She flinched, then laughed, bewildered. “I don’t remember hurting it. I remember my arm being trapped, though. And then you slapping me.” “I didn’t slap you. Well, okay, I did, but—” “Slapped me awake. Lifted that beam like Superman. Saved my life.” She looked at him.

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“I’m not Superman.” Harry wasn’t at all comfortable with the way she was looking at him. “If you’re feeling better now…” “I think I might be in shock. Look.” She lifted her arm, pulled back her sleeve to reveal an ugly red weal seeping droplets of blood. He could see the flesh around it darkening. She would have a hell of a bruise. Her fingers trembled slightly, as if she were cold. Or in shock. “I should take you to a hospital.” “All I need’s some antibiotic ointment and a bandage.” She looked at him hopefully. “I have some in my upstairs bathroom at home. I’ll have to check, but it’s been awhile since—” He cut himself off. He would accomplish nothing by telling her his life story. Or by describing the layout of his house. Or by taking her home. What the hell was he thinking? Directing a pointed look at her, he asked, “Seriously. Is there someone I can call? I’ll be happy to phone your family. I can take you to them.” She just looked at him with a strange, sad smile. “A friend? A colleague?” “There’s no one local. I know the telephone numbers to literally no one here. I just got a job a few days ago. I only moved from California last month. Well, there’s the property manager who rented me that house. But I don’t really want to talk to her right now.” Harry gazed at the ruins of the house. “Can’t say I blame you.” The reminder of the irresponsible property manager he’d fired stirred feelings of guilt. He should’ve kept a better eye on the company. He’d spent too much time up there in that catbird seat. Too much time alone and aloof. When he didn’t say anything else, she seemed to draw herself inward, contracting. The evidence of a protective shell surrounding such a forthright woman piqued his interest. She was a complex one, all right. And really cute. And no boyfriend. Not that it was relevant, of course. She scooped up her single shoe. “If you don’t want to help me, I’ll manage.” She grabbed at the edge of the seat, as if lightheaded. “Whoa. Sparkles.” He had a vivid mental image of her getting out of his car only to tumble right back down onto the sidewalk in a faint. Breaking her neck. Suing him. She might already have grounds for a lawsuit. He’d have to consult his legal department. He could afford it, of course, but didn’t enjoy being sued. He really wouldn’t enjoy watching this woman crack her silly head open. With a curse, he revved the engine and whipped the steering wheel to the left in a tight and illegal U-turn. “My house is nearby. I’ll patch you up, then we’ll figure out where you’ll stay, and it won’t be with me.” “My puppets!” Her hand clutched glass. “We can’t leave them there!” “I’ll use the truck to pick them up. That wood trunk will fit on my porch. As I said, my house is nearby.”

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“My hero,” Ginnie told him while still clutching her shoe. He could hear the smile in her voice. He snorted his exasperation. She’d manipulated him as neatly as any scheming woman. She started by squeezing his nuts in her basement! And now this latest display of getting him to do what she wanted. He was beginning to remember why he’d chosen to remain alone and aloof. At least her dangerous hands were occupied, now. She sat as still and obedient as a schoolgirl. He remembered how warm and right her body had felt in his arms. Harry felt something in him loosen, even as new dread and misgivings raced up and down his spine, settling in his stomach. What was he doing, taking her home with him? For more than a year, his humble home’s secret location had kept him out of the prying public eye. He was bringing her to his only unviolated shield against the greedy world, and he was doing it because she’d played him like one of her puppets. As soon as he patched her up, he was tossing her out on her dirt-streaked butt.

Her handsome rescuer helped her inside only to push her unceremoniously onto a couch. The moment her grimy hands touched the whisper-soft material covering it, she froze. As a connoisseur of material, from the rarest European velvet stage curtains to regional tailored silks from India to clothe her marionettes, she knew shoddy from fine. The couch she sat on was the finest. Expensive. And cream-colored? Too late. She brushed at dirt and blood streaks surreptitiously. “Don’t bother.” Her landlord circled the metal-studded dark leather recliner diagonal from her, his eyes taking in every movement she made. “Lie back. Relax.” He looked anything but relaxed himself. She certainly wasn’t going to just lie back and relax. She scrubbed with an edge stretched from her still-damp sweater. “Blood stains are tough to get out.” “Forget it. And stay there while I get the bandages.” “If I’m obedient, do I get a doggie biscuit?” She looked up at him with all the charm she could muster. After all, her little injuries were in his hands. He was so cute, the way his brows knit together, half in puzzlement and half in exasperation. No sense of humor. She still liked him. After all, the first thing he’d done when they pulled into the impressively large Craftsman bungalow’s two-car garage was kill the Aston’s engine, instruct her not to move and immediately jump into a beat-up old truck to fetch her huge trunk full of puppets and equipment. He was pretty bossy. A take-charge man, the very worst kind. Too bad he looked so incredible.

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She looked instead at the ornate, leaded-glass front door, taking comfort that the trunk was sitting just on the other side, safe from the rain on the enormous wraparound porch. The man had good taste in houses. He had his priorities right. In fact, she liked his honest, gruff demeanor far better than Rick’s belligerent mannerisms. And far better than her mother’s sly machinations. She shuddered, the old ache still big enough to seize her heart and squeeze. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” But his penetrating gaze made her feel oddly naked. So did his thoughtfulness. She struggled against believing it, but found herself responding to that masculine tone of caring. She resisted, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. “I just realized I don’t know your name.” She waited, then raised her eyebrows at his silence. “You can call me Harry.” Then he was moving, disappearing up the stairs. Ginnie finally leaned back into the sofa with a sigh. Her gaze fell on the high ceiling, picture moldings bisecting the ivory color of the higher, curved section of wall and ceiling from the matte light moss of the lower living room walls. A lovely polished mahogany wood fireplace matched the original-looking woodwork and the heavy front door. Arched doorways and gleaming hardwood floors gave the large room an airy feel, warmed by new and antique furniture and area rugs in different, eye-grabbing textures and patterns. Even the doorknobs, Ginnie noticed, were made of the same original crystal as her rental’s had been, only his weren’t yellowed and chipped. And his leaded glass windows on the front of the house seemed in new condition as well, and perfectly in keeping with the architecture. The only jarring note was one of the pictures on the wall. The gilt frame was elaborate, but the picture itself seemed oddly modern compared to the rest in the room. Ginnie shrugged, then winced. Her scrape stung, as if to remind her not to get too comfortable. What was she going to do now? She’d flirted with Harry, finagled her way into his house. She knew herself well enough to know she was avoiding thinking about her situation, but it was time to start. If only he wasn’t so deliciously distracting. Sure, she was a woman in need, and he was her rescuer, but he clearly didn’t want her in his house. Or his life. Despite what her libido was saying, she knew he probably wasn’t any better than Rick. A sudden, overwhelming desire to leave swept through her. So what if she had nowhere to go, nobody she wanted to call. She would take care of herself. Hadn’t she always, in all the ways that counted? She hissed with pain as she pushed off the couch, her bad leg almost buckling beneath her. She tested it; it held. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Her rescuer held the bandages and antibiotic ointment aimed at her as if they were a pair of pistols. His irritated frown seemed almost menacing.

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“I, ah, just remembered. My mother.” “You just remembered your mother?” His expression turned quizzical. “I can call her. She’ll help me.” Constance would too—after a few hours, or more likely days, of I-told-you-so, scorn and an enormous serving of guilt. Psychological poisoning was her specialty. Ginnie trembled, exhaustion and dismay combining to make her feel slightly nauseated. Her mother, with her overly sweet advice and her tough-love insults, carved a little bit off Ginnie’s soul every time they spoke. Ginnie knew the woman couldn’t help it. It wasn’t her fault life had dealt her so many disappointments. Ginnie just wished she didn’t feel like one of them. “I can call her,” she repeated. She could feel Harry’s intent gaze on her. “What is it?” His voice had reverted to the low, molasses-coated tone that played so much havoc with the rhythm of her heartbeat. “You look…pale.” “I look atrocious.” Why did he have to sound so concerned? It made her feel uncomfortable. Out of control. Nothing worse than feeling out of control. He was too sexy for her own good, damn it. Unlike her, with her distinctly unsexy skin itching from all the drying mud and insulation fibers from her basement. She had to look ragged as an unfinished marionette. Harry, on the other hand, looked strategically rumpled, as if he’d just stepped out of an upscale magazine ad for luxury vacation homes. It wasn’t fair. “It was when you mentioned your mother.” His dark blue eyes narrowed. “You really don’t want to call her? Why.” A statement, not a question. All her senses came alert. Harry was probing, looking for her weaknesses. Like Rick. Maybe. She made her voice cool. “It doesn’t matter. Where’s your phone?” But when she took her first step toward what appeared to be a kitchen, her knee buckled. She caught herself with a quick palm to the edge of the couch. Harry saw and shook his head even as he closed the distance. She felt a strong arm encircle her waist and help her back onto the couch. He sat at her side, not looking at her. “You don’t have to answer.” His profile was dominated by his wide lips, turned down slightly in the corner, as if with cruelty. Or sadness. She found herself wanting to answer him. “My mother. We never got along.” Ginnie put her teeth together against telling him more.

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Hands On

It would take too long to explain how she never felt good enough for her mother, a woman to whom the word “motherly” was a pejorative. The woman was colder and more brittle than ever now that she’d husband-hunted the rich Vernon Greenwalt. One thing probably summed it up, though. “When I left my ex—the stalker one—my mom took his side.” Ginnie shrugged, made her voice light. “It doesn’t matter.” “Of course it does.” Ginnie heard the conviction in his voice. She wondered at it. He unscrewed the top off the antibiotic ointment with a sharp twist. “Someone you counted on let you down. Someone who shouldn’t have.” His brows knit together, and his mouth was a hard slash. She stared at him. If her little summary caused such a response, how would Harry react if she told him what Rick had done to her? “You talk about it as if you have some experience there,” she said, watching him carefully. His control was superb. Not even a twitch. He smoothly changed the subject. “So, what brings you to Oregon?” But at the same time he grasped her arm tightly, holding it immobile while he applied the ointment. Though he gripped her firmly, his fingers where he touched her wound were gentle. She felt trapped. Her impulse was to flee, and yet his delicate, sure touch made her want to arch her body toward him. She itched to bare more skin for him to heal. Disconcerting. Yanking her arm back, readying herself to make her escape, she failed to notice Harry was beginning to rise from the sofa himself. He held her a beat too long. Off balance, he fell on top of her. Fortunately, his quick reflexes prevented him from crushing her. He held himself just above her with his arms, as if doing a strange sofa-pushup. His warm breath tickled her face. Like in her basement. His chest just touched hers. The space between them suddenly felt electrified. Ginnie forgot all about her superficial wounds as her hand rose to his shoulders, his neck, his face, as if the part of her body had a mind of its own. It wasn’t the only part. She arched into him, hissing with pleasure as her nipples rubbed against his broad chest. She fingered his stubble. Fascinated with the way his quickening delicious breath and his warmth made her feel, she stroked his rough skin. His eyes closed, then opened in a long blink. Then he kissed her.

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Chapter Two

His kiss claimed her in a way that drove all other thoughts from her mind. Sensual lips teased her own, then firmly parted them. It felt powerful, yet skillful, with gentle rhythmic moves that made her want to give in to any desire he might have. He bent his arms, which made his body, so large and strong, close the distance between them. The glide of his clothes against hers, his scent, his touch all conspired to excite her. He tasted of good coffee plus his own unique flavor, making her hungry for more. She let her arms encircle his neck, encouraging him. Her body strained to be closer to his, to feel the full length of his pressed against the full length of hers. Her fingertips dug into his back with an urgency that surprised her. He flinched, letting his breath out in a quick hiss. “Easy, there.” She snatched her hands back. “Sorry.” Her face heated with something less enjoyable than lust. “Muscular fingers.” He grinned, and she lost her sense of embarrassment in marveling at the way the smile transformed his face. It was those even white teeth, the sexy five o’clock shadow, the sparkling dark blue eyes and that mischievous expression. She had the impression he rarely smiled. “That sounds scary…and maybe also a bit promising,” he said, kissing her fingers. “But the problem isn’t that.” She felt distinctly let down when he moved away, pushing himself to a standing position once more. He turned. Her gaze went to the spot of wetness halfway down his sweater, above his shoulder blade. The material’s burgundy color had camouflaged the patch of blood. “You’re bleeding!” She struggled to sit up. He pushed her back into the sofa. “Didn’t I tell you to take it easy?” he chastised. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” “You should’ve said something.” His response was a quick glance at her body and an ironically raised eyebrow. She blushed, but used her recalcitrant-child voice on him. “You march upstairs and bring back some bandages. I’ll patch it up, if it’s patchable.” “You’re kind of pushy, for an invalid.”

Hands On

“Never mind, then. I’ll go get it.” “A control freak, maybe.” He’d said it gently. But at her sharp inhale, he looked curiously at her. “Control enthusiast, then? No? Hey. Just teasing.” “No. It’s okay. Control freak is just something my ex used to call me.” “He did, huh?” Harry took a step from her. She thought he wasn’t aware of it—or of the impersonal mask that replaced his smile. She missed his smile. But Ginnie simply shrugged. “I have this bizarre belief that being in charge of your own life, being in control, is an admirable and necessary path to happiness. To self-knowledge.” She was psycho-babbling. Harry would tune her out any moment. She peeked at him. He shook his head, but looked thoughtful. Encouraged, she continued. “Rick said he didn’t agree with me either. But what he really meant was he wanted to be in control of me.” Ginnie didn’t tell Harry that she still missed Rick, despite his controlling ways. Or, at least, she missed the security of having someone take care of her, ensure she wouldn’t end up destitute, the way her mother always predicted she would. It was so much easier to have one’s life laid out rather than risking everything by striking off on one’s own. But of course, Rick had gone too far. And she’d been doing fairly well on her own. At least until her house collapsed. “I came to Oregon to live in a cute little bungalow and join the puppet team at Helping Hand Theatre, but the group’s grant got pulled. And you saw what happened to the bungalow. I loved that house. It had so much character. I’m sorry, I’m completely talking too much, aren’t I? I’ll shut up if you get bandages.” Harry looked ill. “I’ll go get those bandages.” He turned and marched up the stairs, holding his shoulders more stiffly than an injury would account for. Ginnie watched him go, her mouth hanging open at his rudeness. She closed her mouth, then her eyes. “A deal’s a deal,” she muttered and sealed her lips over further words.

Harry closed the bathroom’s mirrored cabinet door and stared at his face framed by tastefully aged, antique gold-leaf edging. His complexion looked aged too, just not as tastefully. More pale than usual, deeper bags under his eyes than usual, darker scruff than usual, even illuminated by the flattering periodaccurate yellow-frosted bathroom lights. Such touches abounded in his house, and why not? He had both money and an appreciation for fine things. No one would guess he’d bypassed college, preferring to educate himself in the building trades while making the initial investments that would eventually turn into a multi-million-dollar real estate development firm.

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Oh yes, he was rich. His lip curled, and so did the man’s in the mirror. Now he looked dangerous and a little cruel. It looked like the expression in his photo Newsweek ran, minus the beard. Another few days would give him the beard back, if he wanted. He’d been smart and he’d worked hard. He’d been generous. He’d made bequests to countless places. Including Helping Hands Theatre. All his do-gooding had counted for squat when Jaye Rae tried to ruin him. His beautiful ex-fiancée had nearly succeeded. In one way, she had succeeded. She’d driven him into a solitary life. To his surprise, he found seclusion suited him. He liked his old-fashioned house. It felt comfortable, like well-worn shoes. It felt safe. Aside from the trips to his downtown office building to meet with the board members or more important clients, or to have long business lunches with Todd, his right-hand man, he lived a quiet life by choice. Quiet, that was, until now. A sound emerged from his mouth, part laughter, part groan. Ginnie kissed as if he were giving her much-needed oxygen: wanting it, demanding it, pulling at him until he’d just about ripped their clothes off and had at that tempting body of hers. What was it about her that made his brain fall out his ear? Her sensual abandon? Her big, sincere hazel eyes? That long, unruly hair he’d be willing to bet had never seen a hint of hairspray? She had no idea she was kissing “Hairy Bear” Sharpe, tycoon and noted philanthropist. Or, did she? She didn’t seem to know it was his Sharpe Idea Foundation that had yanked donations from all his former recipients—ones like Helping Hand Theatre. Suspicion, second nature to him by now, flamed anew. Did Ginnie know? It seemed unlikely, but he’d been fooled before. She’d picked the wrong millionaire, if it was her strategy to tug on golden heartstrings. One way to tell. As he descended, he heard Ginnie’s voice. She was on his phone! Harry grimaced. She’d told him there was no one she wanted to call. He was a little surprised at the way his heart plunged with disappointment. A woman being deceiving and sneaky was no more than expected, so why did he feel so let down? He strode forward. “Okay, game’s up, get the hell off my phone and get out.” Ginnie was listening intently and writing something down. “Uh-huh. Five-four-two-four. Thank you very—hey!” Harry ripped the phone from her grasp and placed into the receiver. “Out.” Either she was an accomplished actress, or she was totally astonished. “What on earth? I didn’t think you’d mind if I used your phone to call information.”

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Hands On

“Information?” Harry watched her closely. “Yes. To get the number for my property manager. She has my security deposit. They’d better give me my security deposit back. I’m going to need it. And hopefully they’ll help me get my things out. Do you have a problem with that?” Ginnie folded her arms and waited. It could be verified. Harry swallowed. He’d made a mistake. The second in as many years, though by no means as severe as the first. Still, he’d screwed up. Ginnie certainly deserved her money back, and any help the company could provide. He’d see to it she got it, without blowing his own cover. “I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I misunderstood something. Feel free to use the phone as much as you like.” “I’m done.” Harry shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. “So. You’re trying to get hold of your property manager?” Ginnie nodded. The silence stretched. “Please.” He gestured to the phone. When she didn’t immediately reach for it, he handed it to her. “Can I get you some water? Iced tea. Hot tea? Or red wine. I have an extraordinary Cab I’ve been wanting to open.” Harry blinked at Ginnie’s small smile. It made her beautiful. He backed away. “Cabernet,” he clarified. “Nothing right now.” He would bring her some hot tea, or maybe soup. She was probably cold and damp, the way her long curls still clung to her shirt, which in turned clung to her skin so that he could see the outline of her bra. And her nipples. He’d give her something warm. He’d like to warm her with a hug. A naked hug. He hung between her and his kitchen, oddly indecisive. She dialed and spoke briefly. He gathered Ginnie had trouble reaching the property manager, which was no surprise since he’d fired the woman. Apparently the company’s party line was that she was taking a long vacation. However, the company was sending over an assistant immediately. Probably Lara, the one who’d tipped off Todd. Harry nodded, approving, until Ginnie spoke to him. “I need your address.” His mind whirled. Reveal his address and let Ginnie tell Lara too? But Lara didn’t need to know who he was either. Decided, he told her the address. She hung up the phone. Still with that smile, she said, “Take off your sweater. Let’s go back to the sofa.” Harry forgot about the hot tea and soup. Her voice was soft, almost seductive. He grasped the bottom edge of his sweater in one hand, pulled it smoothly over his head in a single movement. The pain caught him by surprise. He’d forgotten about his wound.

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At his muttered oath, she nodded. “That’s what I thought. Sit.” “Bow wow,” he replied sourly. But he handed her the bandages and went to the sofa. He’d possibly made the wound worse. It twinged. He felt warmth trickle. Ginnie would take care of him. She’d touch him and make it better. Nurse Ginnie. A distracting heat shot through his body. He shifted to conceal his burgeoning erection. He removed his undershirt. Flirting was one thing, but he wouldn’t get involved, of course. He was just being a Good Samaritan. An injured Good Samaritan. When she was done patching him up, he’d fob her off on the assistant to that irresponsible property manager. Then Ginnie’d be out of his house and out of his hair. Things could return to normal. But as soon as her warm fingers touched him, his desire returned. How could her fingertips be so gentle, so knowing? If she knew who he was, she’d be less gentle. “I guess I owe you an apology.” Her fingers stopped, then started moving again. “You saved my life, remember? I guess you’re entitled to be a little cranky. Hold still,” she admonished when Harry made a convulsive movement. Cranky? “I think you’ll live,” she declared, patting his bandage. Harry enjoyed the way she stilled when he pivoted to face her on the sofa, as if she were an animal scenting the presence of a predator. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Are you going to do me now? The bandage,” she clarified, indicating the roll of gauze and tape with a grin. She tugged on the edge of the gauze to illustrate. Her eyes twinkled. “Are you flirting with me, Ginnie?” He tried to sound disapproving, but failed miserably. He supposed the grin he felt spreading across his own face spoiled the effect. She met his gaze boldly. “I suppose I am.” Harry felt the connection between them solidify, a palpable and exhilarating sensation. Whoa. He stared at her, at her frank gaze, her alluring curves. Was she daring him? Tempting. He was balanced perfectly between devouring her whole and shoving her out the door. How did she do that? Manipulation, or natural allure? He was having trouble thinking, and that disturbed him to the point of falling back on his numbers. Whenever he found himself upset or disgruntled, for any reason, he counted. Sometimes he added. Sometimes he did long division. Construction material measurement numbers, company bank account numbers, ledger numbers, it didn’t matter so long as it was just numbers marching through his head instead of whatever bothered him. Numbers didn’t change, unless he changed them. Numbers were reliable. Unlike people.

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Hands On

He forced his hands to remain slow and methodical as he measured one length of gauze—eight inches of gauze, thirteen inches of tape—to wrap around Ginnie’s arm. He smoothed three lumps. He inhaled five times. “You’re good as new.” He cleared his throat. Twice. The way she was looking at him made his groin stir with pleasure. “No, I’m really not,” Ginnie confessed. “I’m damaged and dirty and very, very bad.” Her gaze made him clench the seat cushion to either side of his legs to keep from taking her up on the challenge in her eyes. A tattoo of knocks came from his front door. He stood, both grateful for and furious at the distraction. It was the property manager’s assistant. The young woman didn’t seem to recognize him, Harry saw with relief. Ginnie welcomed her. “You must’ve absolutely raced across town! Thanks for showing up so quickly.” “They paged me, and I was in the neighborhood. I’m Lara. Ms. Centa is away from the office. On business, she said, when I paged her.” Lara sounded skeptical. “Anyway. Your poor home! And poor you! We’ll get you sorted out.” Lara’s long hair fell in exotic waves of a rich, dark auburn over proud shoulders and down her back. He noticed her perfect makeup, her tapered waist and tucked-and-belted striped shirt, and the fact that she had a perfect butt. An attractive young woman. But his was an impersonal observation, lacking heat. He turned his attention to Ginnie. Heat hit him. Her pretty face had more color and an appealing hint of plumpness in all the right places: generously curved and parted lush lips, the dusky rose of her soft cheeks, the sweetly rounded chin. A curl of strawberry brown fell over her forehead. Her clothes were in charming disarray, and her hair untamed as it tumbled and twisted carelessly in gleaming red-brown locks around her neck and chest. She was light and rosy where Lara was dark and golden, and her uptilted breasts and curved hips seemed to call for his touch. He felt jealous of Lara hugging Ginnie so casually. He could see Ginnie’s bemusement as she returned the hug. “Wow, people are so friendly up here.” She proceeded to tell Lara the story of her rescue, puppets and all. Harry was absurdly gratified at the heroic role Ginnie gave him. Until Lara spoke. “How romantic!” Lara looked as if she wanted to hug Ginnie again. Then she saw Harry’s face. “Or maybe just lucky. Lucky someone was there at just the right time. Anyway.” She glanced from her to Harry, her eyes dancing with speculation and laughter. “Let me tell you the basic facts about how this will go forward. I’ll do my best to help out, take care of the paperwork and help you through this. It will be a

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little complicated, especially with Ms. Centa in hiding—I mean, away on business.” Lara made a face. “But the company wants to help you. I’ll dig up all your paperwork, help you get your deposit back plus a bit extra—a settlement, really, and it’s not ungenerous—and we’ll make your things as right as they can be as soon as possible. Here, let me share what I’ve got and show you what I’m planning to do.” “That sounds fair.” Ginnie smiled at Lara as the women put their heads together in obvious camaraderie. Harry escaped to the kitchen. With two women talking in his living room, it felt like someone else’s house. He was distinctly uncomfortable with the interruption of his routine, but he couldn’t exactly kick them out. Well, he could, but he wasn’t such a bastard that he’d throw a destitute, homeless woman out on the street. Especially one as cute as Ginnie. What was it about her that charmed him so? Her face, her body, her kiss? He could still feel the soft and giving hot little mouth, the inquisitive tongue. He slit his eyes against the wave of desire that hit him at the memory. He wanted more than just a taste. At the same time, he wanted her to get her mind-spinning kisses and tempting body away from him. She should just leave. Ginnie had just made a local friend, hadn’t she? Lara, who seemed nice and great at damage control. Was she nice enough to offer Ginnie a place to stay? Would Ginnie leave? Harry walked back into the living room, where a strange sight greeted him. Ginnie crouched behind his sofa with a silk pillowcase crunched up oddly in one fist. Lara watched from a short distance as Ginnie made the pillowcase walk, then tilt its head and then talk. “It’s the cutest house I’ve ever seen!” With merely a change in her voice and a shifting of position, Ginnie made the same crumpled pillowcase answer with a slithery, faux-enthusiastic demeanor. “This rental is a steal of a deal and will be snapped up within twenty-four hours. If I were you, I’d certainly pounce on it!” The predatory hand puppet stalked, making it clear how it wanted to pounce. And who it wanted to pounce on. Oblivious, the more naïve puppet replied, “It’s a darling bungalow! And in such a nice neighborhood too! Lucky me. It’s perfect.” “It suits you perfectly.” Such an evil voice. Such menace. Harry felt a thrill of distaste for the wicked puppet, and at the same time felt sorry for the innocent stalked puppet. He stared, astonished. Ginnie had serious skill if she was able to evoke such a response using just pillowcases. When Ginnie stood, Harry applauded. Lara quickly joined him, breaking into merry gales of laughter. “Wow! You really are good. I could totally see Darlene—I mean Ms. Centa.” “Thanks. You should see what I can do with marionettes.” Ginnie frowned, strode to the front door and opened it—to check on her trunk, Harry assumed. She lifted the lid and looked inside forlornly.

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“Hey.” Lara walked after her slowly, then paused, apparently considering. “You know, it’s probably against the rules, but I like you and feel bad about everything that’s happened. Do you want to come crash over at my condo, so you don’t have to dip into your savings? The deposit and settlement paperwork could take a week or two. There’s an extra room you can use for that long, and I’d love to have you over.” Mixed feelings struck Harry. They would go—Ginnie and her puppets and baggage and her tempting ways. And that was good. Very good. Excellent, even. It was her decision. Harry paced to the door, counting his steps. The women stood on his porch. Ginnie looked fondly at Lara, then her gaze slid to the trunk full of debris Harry had helped her rescue from her basement. Her eyes lost some of the laughter from before as she looked at it and the broken props and puppet parts piled inside. She stared longest at the few damaged marionettes she’d been able to grab. He wondered if she was remembering how he’d stepped on one back in her house. A twinge of guilt stabbed at him. Maybe that’s why he spoke up. “You could stay here.” Both women turned to stare at him. He frowned. “What? I have spare rooms as well. And the location isn’t inconvenient.” It wasn’t as luxurious as his vacation home in Cannon Beach, as cozy as his ski cabin in the mountains nearby, or as efficient as the high-tech marvel of his downtown penthouse. It didn’t sit on acres like his ranch outside Denver, or have the view of his Central Park condo. But it was a perfectly adequate house. Now both women were smiling at him. He felt his eyebrows knit together. He had to remind himself they didn’t know about Jaye Rae’s allegations and they weren’t about to mock or condemn him. He made himself wait, with as expressionless a face as he could manage. “Do you have a basement? A workshop,” Ginnie clarified. Harry understood immediately. “To fix the puppets. Yes, I’ve a full basement setup that will work very well for that.” Ginnie was staying. She was actually going to stay at his house. He felt both flattered and worried. Worried about his own judgment, mostly. What was he doing? He helped Ginnie finalize with Lara, then saw the friendly young assistant out. And then they were alone once more. “I’ll carry that stuff downstairs, if you’d like to relax. You’ve been through a lot today,” Harry told her.

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“You have no idea,” she murmured, passing the back of her hand across her forehead to smooth back a stray curl. Then her heated gaze locked with his once more. “I should relax. Or get to work. Or do something productive. But I’d rather flirt with you. Isn’t that strange?” “Are you always this direct?” Harry finally asked. Her innocent magnetism pulled him toward her, but he resisted. “So, ah, forward?” “Am I a slut, do you mean?” Ginnie laughed. “Oh please. I told you. I’m fresh out of a long relationship with a guy who frowned on my being a fraction as forward as I’m being with you. This is the real me.” “What an idiot he must’ve been.” “That’s so sweet.” Ginnie smiled, an open and honest expression that lit her up. Something in him melted further, even as second thoughts and suspicions were banished to the back of his mind. The sight of her, the sound of her, was working its magic again. “Flirting has consequences,” he told her bluntly. A warning. “You may not like them. You don’t really know me.” “I know. Isn’t it exciting?” Harry was speechless for a moment. “You really are appallingly honest, aren’t you?” “You’re very handsome. Tall but not too tall, with broad shoulders and hair on your chest—I could see when you took your shirt off. Your hair is soft and sexy. Except for the hair on your face, which is rough and grows too quickly to control with a daily shave, doesn’t it? You smell wonderful. And your kiss makes me feel…” Ginnie laughed, a seductive sound that made his erection return full-force. “Makes me feel forward. And honest. Not like the old me who kept all quiet about things until they were a mess. When do I turn into a pumpkin or wake up?” She approached him, gazing up at him with trusting, teasing eyes. “I want you. There.” She looked both pleased with herself, and a little frightened. The combination of that plus her obvious physical attraction—and her pointy nipples, God, did they have to be so obvious?—was his undoing. “I warned you.” He scooped her up again—it was getting to be a habit, he mused, alert for her hand positioning—and carried her into the nearest bedroom, the guest one off the living room. He lowered her until she sat at the edge of his bed. Her fingers worked at his pants even as he removed his shirt and sweater once more. “Take off your clothes,” he commanded, more to give himself time than anything else. Her scent made him feel lightheaded. The sight of lithe curves, and her eagerness for him, made him strain for control. He was dangerously close, with those teasing, strong, skillful fingers of hers brushing against his crotch—didn’t she know that? Her look up at him assured him she did. “I’m doing this because I want to. Not because you’re telling me to.”

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He groaned and took a step back from the nimbus of her body heat. She really was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. And the cutest. She didn’t look too much younger than he was, but she radiated a distinctly youthful, almost nymphet demeanor in the way she gazed at him with big eyes full of wonder. And desire. “Last chance,” he gritted out. “You’re vulnerable right now, and I’m not looking for a relationship, Ginnie.” “Neither am I.” She took her shirt off. Slowly. Then her bra. Even more slowly. When she spent three years unzipping her jeans, he remembered to exhale. “Okay, that does it,” he growled, and helped her by yanking them right off her body, panties and all.

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Chapter Three

The man clearly had no idea how unusual this was for her. Ginnie shifted her body, expediting Harry’s removal of her panties. And socks. He was taking the time to remove her socks. If just the skimming of cotton over her feet made her shiver with want, what would a more direct caress do to her? His touch promised patience. Expertise. Sensuality. The fine hairs on her body rose with anticipation. And the thing of it was, she felt perfectly shameless sitting there on the side of his large bed, naked. She wasn’t sure if it was the near-death experience in her destroyed house, or some kind of vibe he was putting out. Or maybe both. She simply wasn’t like this. Ginnie grinned, ran her fingers through his hair. She felt positively wanton. The nude woman who currently watched a sexy-as-hell man—a near stranger, for god’s sake—rise from his knees to unzip his jeans, bore no resemblance to the woman who played the docile role of Rick’s fiancée for so long. But Harry was no Rick. Her breath caught. With his pants off, he especially bore no resemblance to Rick. “Lie down,” Harry commanded, one warm hand sliding up her calf. She felt his breath against her thigh. He kissed her just above the knee, tongued her lightly. “Oh boy.” A zing of pure lust shot through her, lodged in her stomach. Her head felt pleasantly swimmy as she decided whether or not to obey orders. She wanted to lie back. Badly. She also wanted to touch him. To push him onto his back and jump his bones. It felt easier, better, to be in control. “Please,” she said. He looked at her inquiringly. “Can I…touch you?” He closed his eyes. Movement caught her eye as his penis bobbed once, heavily, as if in answer. She glanced back up. “I take it that’s a yes,” she said dryly and felt her heart give a small shimmy at the sight of his tight, pained smile. “You.” Harry pinned her with a gaze that spoke of frustration, humor and lust all at once. “You’re unbelievable. I haven’t been so—oh. Ah.”

Hands On

She cupped him with one hand, grasped and released with the other. “Impressive,” she declared. Not that she was an expert or anything. Rick had been her one and only. But comparatively speaking, Harry was magnificent. But it wasn’t only Harry’s size and readiness. It was his sensual abandonment to her touch. He moved with her, thrusting deliberately, as if demonstrating what he would do to her. Her breath caught, and tingles shot up her spine. She could almost feel him inside her, though she hadn’t even felt his body against hers yet. “I need you now,” she said, pulling him toward her. He grinned. “I know.” With a quick movement, his fingers found and caressed between her legs, then withdrew. His smile widened at her cry of pleasure. “It’s not a leash, sweetheart. Let me have it back now.” She let go, uncertain. Suddenly anxious. He looked at her. “You’re worried,” he said softly. “Your face changed. Just in the last few seconds.” He reached to touch her head, but halted the movement before contact. “I won’t hurt you, Ginnie.” “I know.” She said it automatically, but her heart leapt into her throat, making her feel a strange prickly tension. He said he wouldn’t hurt her. Rick used to say that. But Harry made a wild hope beat in her breast, fueling her desire until she shifted uncomfortably. She wanted to straddle him. She wanted to keep being the wild new woman he brought out in her. Her body ached to jump on him, take him in. She also wanted to simply lean into his hand. Why hadn’t he taken her suggestion to move onto her, into her? His delay made her ache. It also made her increasingly nervous. How could he have such control? She could see how much he wanted her. “I just… I don’t know.” Harry stared at her, thoughtful. It didn’t make her at all self-conscious. Oddly, it made her hopeful. “Hmmm.” Harry let just the tips of his fingers brush the ends of her hair. Her scalp tingled pleasurably and her nipples tightened. “You like this, don’t you. And you like touching me. Yes?” She was already nodding, emphatic. “Then touch me.” When she hesitated, he gave her a small smile. He didn’t move against her suggestively, or otherwise direct her. He just waited, hard, magnificent… Ginnie groaned. Her insides felt on fire, and her mind was full of wonder. How did he have such exquisite control? She sure didn’t seem to, not with him. With a growl that sounded feral and aggressive to her own ears, she reached for him, first with her hands, then with her mouth.

Harry drew in a shocked breath at the feel of her hot mouth on him. He’d asked her to touch him. But this—this threatened his already shaky control over himself.

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He saw the way her nipples had hardened and her breath came quicker at his suggestion she take charge. Control. It was the key to her. Another time, he might have been more curious about it. He let his breath go in a hard exhale. Very hard. How did she do that with her tongue…? Control! He had plenty over himself. His numbers. He’d be saved by the numbers. One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight… No. A countdown as if to ignition didn’t help his concentration. He was anticipating it way too much. Interest calculations instead. Four thousand three hundred forty-six rounded off to the…no, he never rounded. Rounding resulted in a number that was less precise. But easier and quicker to use. He wanted to use Ginnie. Quickly. Her fingers on him, sliding up his thighs to cup him, were not subtle. He liked that. What was this…? Was she tugging him as if it were a leash again? Harry laughed, a choking sound. She was. He fell onto his own bed. Felt her slide atop him. She needed to feel as if she were in control. That much was obvious. That was fine, for the moment. She was doing a fine job. Better than fine. A little too damn fine. But at some point, he would need to wrest that control back from her. He knew it, and knew some part of her knew it too. For now, he certainly wasn’t complaining. He gasped as the friction of her sliding body moved first up, then down him. She didn’t immediately seat herself atop him, though he wanted it desperately. Whatever past experience had put uncertainty in her movements and apprehension in her eyes wasn’t any part of her at the moment. Her teasing movements jerked a groan from him. Her hair, dry now, brushed against his shoulders. Strands trailed over his chest, a sensual caress where it touched the small hairs on his body. Ginnie’s quick little intakes of breath made him smile with pleasure. She was so sensitive. So wanton and erotic—when she wasn’t worried about issues of control, of course. His hands itched to grab her sweetly rounded hips, jam her down onto him. His mouth craved the smooth, firm heaviness of her breasts. He needed more of her. It would be so easy to place her right where he wanted her. He clenched his fists instead. Thrust up against her mound. Her moan made him close his eyes with pain/pleasure. “Ginnie. Now.” He could no more help the command than he could stop his own heartbeat. He didn’t think he could resist much longer.

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Her hands shook, warm and eager, as she grasped the length of him, moved him slightly. This time when he thrust upward, she met him. The tight heat of her made him shout. And she hadn’t even sat all the way down yet. He was so concentrated on the sensations that he barely noticed he’d bracketed her waist with his hands. He couldn’t help pulling her down, grinding her most sensitive areas against him. He reveled in being fully embedded. When he saw how his fingers dented her skin, he let go of her. Would she get all tense again? She murmured, “It’s okay.” Beads of perspiration made her face glow, and her parted lips and her cheeks flushed with color and exertion. The smile she gave him was shy, wondering. “You feel so big. So amazing. But please, I want your hands by your sides. Just in case.” Didn’t have to tell him what she meant. The difference between the woman who moved on him so sensually and the woman who’d been so fearful of losing control when he touched her was night and day. He much preferred the one seated on him—even though her hot, slick weight and her erotic moves threatened to unman him. He knew he wasn’t supposed to move. Regret suffused him that he couldn’t fill his hands with her breasts. He could imagine the hard pebbles of her nipples against his palms and the sharp intake of breath as he pinched them, caressed them. He growled with frustration. Then she moved again on him, moaning. Her raw sensuousness carried him to still greater heights, and he found he immediately needed to start calculating the interest rates—of his older, uglier, male clients. As if combating his control, her muscles gripped and stroked, hypnotizing him, making him strain against the inevitable…bank account numbers, divided by the number of sports cars he owned, times the number of floors inside the buildings with his name on them… Harry peeked at her. A mistake. Ginnie bounced, her eyes slitted with pleasure. She bent to rub her breasts against him, in what he’d normally interpret as an invitation. She ground down with abandon. Her little cries of pleasure, the slick noises of their bodies and his own heavy breathing was his undoing. “Ginnie,” he gritted out. “I’m going to…” Her louder cry cut him off. Her rhythm sped up, a tight, almost hurtful grip that turned instantly to an insistent pressure that he knew would result in a world-class orgasm. His pleasure reached a peak at the same time hers did. As she stiffened around him, he thrust upward, again and again with savage shouts. Her hair curtained her face. Her movements stilled slowly. She didn’t meet his gaze. The hell with it. He reached up to brush her hair back over her shoulders. Gratification filled him at the sight of her parted lips curved in a satisfied smile as she panted. He enjoyed the little tremors from her body from the inside.

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An amazing sense of completeness filled him. Did she feel this same bliss? He’d never experienced anything quite like it. She slid from him slowly. Shivers of delight followed the path of her body as she moved over him. She lay close enough to him that he could still feel her heat. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to turn, cup her face and kiss her gently. “That wasn’t so bad,” she finally said with a very womanly tone of satisfaction. “Not so bad?” He mock-scowled, narrowing his eyes fiercely. She flicked at him with a nail. “Silly. You know you’re amazing.” Her contented sigh had him hard and ready again. What was it about her that made him sappy and tender one moment, then dying to pound into her the next? He groaned and turned away. The thin line of her fingernail traced fire down his side. “You okay?” He hadn’t had a woman in far too long. “Yeah.” He wasn’t going to push himself on Ginnie. Nor was he going to hug and cuddle with her. Neither of those two courses of action would end well—for either of them. Harry pushed aside a stab of regret. His reaction was simply a result of long abstinence after the horror of Jaye Rae. Being alone too long had given him a big, dripping case of the saps. Harry sat up without looking at Ginnie and reached for his clothes. Ginnie sat up too. “Something I said? Something I did.” “Not at all.” He made himself keep putting on his clothes. “It’s getting late. I imagine that after the day you’ve had, you need to get some sleep.” She’d pulled the cover up over her body. “I don’t sleep with men like this. Spontaneously. The same day I meet them. Or the same month, even.” She looked at him searchingly. “You have to believe me. I don’t know what came over me.” “I believe you. And you don’t need to make excuses. It was wonderful. You’re wonderful.” He hesitated, then mentally shrugged. He sat back down on the bed. “Come here.” He opened his arms. She looked at his open arms, then his expression. Then she stood, drawing from him an unwilling grunt of appreciation as the cover slid from her body. She swung her shapely legs over the edge of the bed, stood and walked to him. Ignoring his arms, she leaned over—her breasts tantalizingly close to his face—and kissed him on the forehead. “I have a phone call to make, but you’re right. Sleepy-time for me.” She yawned, pulling her panties and jeans on casually, as if she were alone in the room.

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Harry remembered to lower his open arms. “Uh. Very well.” He finished dressing, oddly disconcerted. Now she was acting exactly as he’d hoped she would—casual. As her nudity disappeared, he pondered what to say. He should say something romantic. Something kind. It wouldn’t be difficult. He liked her. Soft emotions had the words perched on the tip of his tongue. And yet she’d refused a hug. Harry shook his head violently. Just as well. It might make him vulnerable, and he’d certainly make himself look foolish offering her affection she clearly didn’t want. She’d dressed and walked to the bedroom’s doorway by the time he pulled on his sweater. “Hey,” he called after her. She turned. “Yes?” Harry thought for a moment. “You can use this room. The bathroom’s right off the hallway. It has overnight supplies.” At her questioning look, he explained. “I keep multiple overnight bags packed for business trips. I hate to pack.” They stared at each other. “Got to make a phone call,” she finally said. “You’d mentioned that.” She took a step backward, then another, a half-smile making her mysterious and alluring. He couldn’t help but smile back. It wasn’t until he pulled on his shoes and heard her voice in his living room again that he remembered how she’d said she had no one to call except the property management lady. And Ginnie had already made that call. Frowning, Harry felt the accustomed but oppressive weight of suspicion descend on him again. Ginnie didn’t seem like a schemer. She probably wasn’t calling an ex-boyfriend, or worse. Probably. Long ago, he wouldn’t have dreamed of eavesdropping. In a time before Jaye Rae, just the suggestion would’ve offended him. Harry glided to the doorway, walking lightly. He cursed the soft roar of rain on his roof that made it difficult to hear. “…not too late. Oh good. Yes. The storm huffed and puffed and blew my house down. Literally.” Noise came from the phone, loud enough for Harry to almost hear a woman’s words. Ginnie sighed. “I’m fine, thanks. Oh, it’s a long story. But it’s late and I don’t want to keep you. Just, could you tell me something? Did Helping Hands get that replacement grant?” Harry could see the whiteness of her fingers where she gripped his phone. Then he heard her sigh. “Yes, I know it’s only been a few weeks. I’ll keep my fingers crossed, then. Yeah, me too. Thanks for your concern. Yeah, I think I’m okay. I’ll see you at the office after I get the house mess figured out. Then we can focus on the grant mess.” Ginnie laughed. Harry heard the effort in it.

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He wanted to tell her not to worry, he’d take care of the grant, but her next words froze him. “Ah, well. One rich fraud changing his mind doesn’t mean there aren’t other, better fish in the sea. Keep the feelers out and let me know what you find.” When she hung up, she crumpled a notebook sheet of paper and pitched it at the wall. “Damn him!” Harry watched her closely. “Damn who?” “Barrett Sharpe.” Ginnie paused, then knelt to retrieve the balled-up paper. “Sorry. Whenever I think about how that jerk pulled his grant at the last possible moment, making us slash our budget and cancel our biggest shows—disappointing hundreds of kids—I want to hit something—or someone.” Harry spoke slowly. “That sounds reactionary. If Helping Hands spoke against him the same way you are, it’s not surprising he’d decline to continue funding a grant. I believe Barrett Sharpe was never charged with anything illegal.” “Yeah.” Ginnie shrugged, distracted. “Maybe not. But he sure is hurting a bunch of kids and a lot of challenged adults with his funding yank. Not to mention damaging my job security. It’s a game of musical chairs there now, with too many people and not enough money. Do you know, he never even returned our calls or bothered to explain.” She turned, her expression both disdainful and a little hurt. “Too busy playing golf or yachting.” Harry felt again the frustration from all those months of fighting, unsuccessfully, to save his reputation. One embittered woman had done this. One manipulating gold-digger with whom he’d been too infatuated to see clearly. Well, he saw clearly now. “I’ll say goodnight now, then.” Ginnie’s gaze flew to his, startled by his tone. “I’m sorry, I should have waited till morning to follow up on this stuff. You must think I’m nuts to be making business calls at night, after the house crashed down, and also, well, after.” Her look would have had him blushing, or perhaps feeling affectionate enough to cuddle the woman he’d just slept with, but he still felt cold inside about the old allegation. It would follow him forever, it seemed. And yet, guilt stirred in him. He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, just to perform a forensic public relations analysis on all his beneficiaries, followed by cutting of all ties with those that didn’t pass muster. It was a natural and expected move after severing Jaye Rae’s involvement with his assets. It wasn’t Ginnie’s fault that Helping Hands lost the grant. He did, of course, have the power to reinstate the grant. He began to ask Ginnie about Helping Hands, about the organization’s current tax-exempt status under 501(c). Then he noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the way her hand trembled slightly when she went to brush her hair from her face.

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“Let’s get you tucked in,” he said instead. Her sweet smile made him want to scoop her up and carry her again, though there was no need. His loins stirred. Well, there was no need he couldn’t control. “Ginnie, Ginnie, Ginnie. What am I going to do with you?” She surprised him by walking boldly up to him and plucking at his shirt. She grinned at his raised eyebrows. “Do you happen to have one of these I can wear overnight?” He kept his hands by his side by sheer force of will. There were so many reasons not to get further involved with Ginnie. Lots of really excellent reasons not to strip off the shirt he wore and slide it over her. Slowly. Sensually. Until she begged him to take it back off, along with her panties again. “In the drawer,” he said, hearing the strangled sound of his own voice. “Next to the bed. You’ll find what you need.” He backed away. Turned. And marched his ass upstairs without looking back, for the good of both of them.

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Chapter Four

Harry swiveled in his custom-designed chair at the head of the conference room’s gleaming steel-andbamboo table, ignoring the others at the meeting, for the moment. The top-floor suite’s view out over Portland’s downtown and to the distant snow-capped Mt. Hood didn’t put his mind at ease. It failed to evoke satisfying thoughts of how he owned large, desirable pockets of what he viewed. Portland-headquartered Sharpe Development Companies had specialized in commercial and residential real estate. At its peak, the company was number twenty-four on the Forbes 400 list with an estimated worth of 1.8 billion dollars. His company’s holdings had included more than ten million square feet of commercial space in more than eighty-five buildings, eighty-two hundred residential units, and more assets and acquisitions than he could easily track. Then Jaye Rae happened. After that tumultuous year of personal problems made public, he’d sold off part of his company and retired from the public eye, remaining active mostly in a financial advisory capacity. And he’d sworn off women. Until Ginnie. He couldn’t get his mind off Ginnie. Her presence at his home—he found himself looking at the cityscape toward that section of town— tugged his thoughts away from business. A woman in his house. A temporarily destitute woman in his home. In his bed. Hot images of their joining seared his brain, and he had to shift in his chair. Her body, so beautiful and natural and eager for his. Her odd hesitations when he touched her. Her magnificent release atop him. “Hey. Boss man.” Harry snapped his attention to Todd. His best assistant—mid-twenties, fresh from college, already a millionaire and full of a fire Harry well recognized—looked solemn and spoke gravely. “Now that’s interesting.” Todd made a show of peering up and down Harry with a puzzled expression, but couldn’t suppress the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Uh-huh. Satisfied but distracted. Morning-after consternation. I’ve seen that look before.” “In your mirror, every day,” Harry retorted. The others on his team, the half-dozen he’d kept on twenty-four hour call who made up the core of his highly sought-after wealth management business, burst into laughter. Todd’s way with women was the stuff of legends. Harry sometimes envied Todd’s cocky confidence and easy humor. Usually, though, he just worried for his friend. One day, one of his stunning,

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sophisticated-looking bits of arm candy would take advantage of Todd’s financial success, easygoing nature and fondness for women, Harry was sure of it. “But enough about all our sex lives, wild as they may be. Or not,” Harry quickly added, deflecting the curiosity he could see on the faces of Andy and Theresa and the others. It wasn’t every day he came into the office, and he meant to make the most of it. His wealth management team knew the routine and ran down the list of updates in order of potential financial impact, positives first. Harry had Todd handling the Norbert Kenton portfolio for him, so Todd led off with the latest changes—risky transfer requests of Mr. Kenton’s, paired with some marginal investment instructions, as usual—that had Todd ready to throttle the man. Harry took the account paperwork from Todd, flipped through it. Complicated. It would get his mind off Ginnie. She had such a pure, spontaneous smile. He imagined the smile that would light up her face when she saw what he’d done in the basement after she’d fallen asleep. “Next?” Teresa gave them a presentation on the needs and expectations of medium-tier risk capital investors. “In closing, though these clients don’t have the deepest pockets, they’re a stable and growing section of our base.” Harry’s mind wandered. When Ginnie sank onto his shaft, she’d gasped, a delightful, sharp inhale. He remembered the noises their bodies made when they slapped together. Silence. Harry glanced up. He cleared his throat. “Next?” “Philanthropic activity,” Todd said. He shot a knowing glance at Harry, but his grin faded with his words. “Problematic. It’s past time we got this in order for next tax season.” He stared at his open laptop screen. “The Sharpe Idea Foundation gave in excess of three-quarters of a million dollars last year. But this tax year absorbed some, ah, staff layoffs”—Harry appreciated Todd’s delicate wording for firing Jaye Rae and her friends—“freezing all philanthropic activity pending individual, independent evaluation. It’s taken a while, but it’s nearly done. We really should finalize to defer some tax burden. The question is, how do you want to play Santa Claus?” It was an unfortunate choice of words. Todd blanched. His voice was low, horrified. “I didn’t mean…” The room had gone so silent that Harry could hear Todd swallow. “It’s okay, Todd. I know what you meant.” Harry pasted on a cool, businesslike smile. “Suggestions, anyone?” Not surprisingly, there were none. “Fine, then. Give it some thought for next time. I expect everyone here to have a list of ideas.” Harry pushed back his chair, stood. The meeting was ended. Blessedly ended.

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But as he headed out, Todd waylaid him. “Harry, I’m so sorry, you know that wasn’t anything like how it sounded. Man, I’m a clod.” “It was a long time ago.” “Less than a year. That woman should be tossed in jail for what she did.” “Seriously. It was a long time ago.” “Yeah.” Todd shook himself, as if throwing off a chill. “Anyhow. She didn’t leave much in the way of detailed recordkeeping. Kept most of it on her own computer. Now that she doesn’t control any of the purse strings, The Sharpe Idea Foundation can be transparent again, the way it’s supposed to be. No more secrets.” Harry started, surprised at the vehemence in Todd’s voice. He hadn’t realized how much Jaye Rae’s involvement had affected his people. He’d been so wrapped up in his own problems, not to mention the sell-offs and company reorganization, that he hadn’t paused to consider they might have strong feelings about his ex. Harry looked Todd in the eye. “I don’t make the same mistake twice.” Todd gave him a look that was full of enough admiration to make Harry a bit uncomfortable. “Of course not. Why do you think we all agreed to work for you after you sold off some of our favorite parts of the business?” “Masochism?” Todd made a rude sound, but Harry was relieved to see his cocky grin had returned. “Thinking about kinky sex, boss? A pleasant memory, perhaps?” Which, of course, made Ginnie’s naked body broadcast itself all over Harry’s mind. “None of your damn business.” “That’s what I thought. So, is it a serious thing?” Harry saw the flash of worry in Todd’s eyes. He shifted the Kenton file from one hand to another. “I’m done with serious. I do not make the same mistake twice.” He whapped Todd on one shoulder with the folder. “Back to work, wretch.” Harry steered him out of the conference room. For the rest of the day, though, his thoughts kept returning to Ginnie. Her scent. Her body. Her smile. The sound of her voice. She was like a song he couldn’t get out of his head, no matter how hard he tried.

In the harsh light of the next afternoon, the broken house looked as if a giant had stepped on it. The roof sagged, where it was still intact, and few of its decorative wood bits were still attached. The walls remained upright, but the bungalow didn’t resemble the home she’d rented. Yellow police tape encircled the entire heap and much of the yard, as if it was the scene of a particularly gruesome murder.

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She’d lived there. And now, too abruptly, she didn’t. The hollow feeling in her stomach intensified. She’d loved that little bungalow. Ginnie turned her back on the scene, glad she’d gone over and poked around before the officials arrived and the police put up tape to bar her and everyone else from the home “for her own good”. She’d retrieved some clothes and her purse and files and things in the pre-dawn light, listening for any sound of further collapse. There wasn’t any. She’d hoped there wasn’t much more to fall down on her. The hollowness became a prickly hurt in her throat. The cute little house had represented her dreams, her hopes for a new beginning. A new life. A happier life. The final break had come not when Rick had finally raised his hand to her, or when she’d told Rick it was over, or even the awful scene when she’d informed her mother. It had come when her key opened her new, cute, private home’s door. Nothing but a dangerous shack now. Of course, it could have been worse. It could have been her tomb. She got in her Volkswagen and drove the few blocks to Harry’s house, thoughtful. Her hurt receded as she contemplated the mystery of him. The man was a fascinating combination of contrasts. A strong, tough man who knew how to be tender. Caring, but elusive. Great for her physical well-being. Dangerous to her emotional well-being. But just the thought of him made her hurt disappear. All she had to do was close her eyes and she felt his hands on her body, his breath on her skin. Last night she’d even dreamed of him instead of having the usual nightmares. Ginnie exited her car and walked into Harry’s house. She smiled. Or maybe it was just the pure, spacious beauty of Harry’s house. Ginnie inhaled, scenting new leather and polished wood. She could get used to this. Exquisite furniture. Lovely rugs over gleaming hardwood. It really was a privilege to be surrounded by such a tasteful, color-balanced, beautiful… Ginnie frowned, her gaze snagged on something. That painting. The one she’d noticed the evening before. She walked to where it dominated the room despite its medium size and awkward, off-center placement near the teak armoire. An ugly oil painting. The colors, clear and cheerful primaries juxtaposed with muddy browns that may or may not have been intentional, combined to create a polo scene. The illegible signature was a proud black slash across the lower right corner.

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But the odd thing, aside from such a clearly amateurish picture encircled by an elaborate gilded frame, was that she could see numbers through the paint. The number four where the tan of a bamboo mallet thinned. A barely visible seven on the Velcro strap on a rider’s leather knee guard. It was a paint-by-numbers picture. Someone had finished it with sloppy disregard for staying within the lines and then framed it. And Harry hung it where it’d be the first thing anyone saw. “Huh.” Ginnie wondered what she was missing. Was it a child’s effort? The large, aggressive signature seemed to suggest otherwise. The overall effect struck her as modern and even daring, as if it was a sly mocking of art by virtue of sheer ugliness. Ginnie hated it. It really did dominate the room horribly. What a waste of a gorgeous frame. She wondered if Harry would mind if she moved the picture. Just to a less conspicuous place. Like a closet. No, that would be rude. She’d just see how the room looked without the atrocious thing, then put it back. Before she could change her mind, she’d pulled a chair over to stand on. She lifted the picture slowly from the wall. She was so involved with trying to remove it without scraping the wall, she didn’t hear Harry until he spoke directly behind her. “What do you think you’re doing?” Ginnie froze. “Um. Helping?” She felt his anger in the brusque, hard way he seized the picture from her. “Get down,” he said. She did, quaking a little inside. Why was he upset? “I’m sorry.” She hunched, backed away from him. “I didn’t mean anything.” Her brain and heart fell back into a familiar unpleasant routine. He took one look at her and immediately set the painting down. “Oh. Hey. It’s okay.” He showed the palms of his hands, as if to demonstrate he held no weapons. Ginnie smiled wryly. She made a conscious effort to square her shoulders. “Don’t mind me. Sometimes I get…nervous.” “You looked scared. Scared of me.” Harry half-smiled, as if the idea was ridiculous. Maybe it was ridiculous, but it was difficult to control her reflexes. She changed the subject. “I was only moving the picture. To see if it’d look better somewhere else.” “Why?” Something about the way his blue eyes held hers, so steady and calm, set her further at ease. “Your house is decorated beautifully. I’ve never seen such a lovely living room…except for this painting. I wanted to see how the room would look without it.” “So would I.” But Harry bent to retrieve the painting and re-hung it. She looked at him quizzically.

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“Oh, I know it’s cheap and ugly. That’s the point.” He smiled at her confused look, but the smile had some sadness in it. “You haven’t been down to the basement yet, have you? C’mon.” He steered her, and at the warm touch of his hand, her body wanted to arch into his—but he was steering her like a car. She dug in her heels. “Bossy, aren’t you.” He stopped, considering. “I am a boss.” He looked at her, not removing his hand. “But I don’t believe I’m bossy.” “I’m a boss too,” she said. “I have two employees at Helping Hands.” For the moment, anyway. She wasn’t sure what she was objecting to or why she felt the need to defend herself. Something in her rebelled at being controlled, as if to acquiesce would be giving away a critical part of her soul. “Sorry,” she repeated, wishing she could just be easygoing and unsuspicious and go with the flow. Of course, if she were like that, she’d still be with Rick. “I’d like a tour of your house now, Harry.” She placed her hand on his, sandwiching it between her palm and her arm. It felt nice. “To the basement,” she commanded. But Harry didn’t move right away. Instead, he tilted her head up to his, examined her face. “You know, you have serious control issues.” “Uh-huh.” She nodded agreement, which dislodged his hand. His sexy lips quirked into a small, ironic smile. “Well, you’re honest at least.” “Basement?” “Right.” He led the way down a stairway, then through another door, and the basement opened before her. Clean, finished and non-musty despite all the recent rain, the first and largest room seemed a natural extension of the house, and easily three times the size of hers. Or, what hers used to be. It even had its own separate entrance into the backyard. When he waited for her to proceed, she moved forward, past the workout equipment to the wooden workbenches. She thought she’d seen something familiar. “Little Jeffrey!” She rushed forward. Her beloved puppet sprawled, broken but recognizable, in the middle. Around him were the other marionettes she’d been able to grab yesterday. “How in the world…? I thought we left him behind. How did you find him?” “Same way you found this.” Harry held up the purse she’d left sitting on the end of the workbench. “I went back into a certain dangerously unstable house last night. There are more still down there that don’t appear to be buried too badly, but I figured you’d want that one right away.” Gratitude and awe coursed through her, leaving a pleasant warmth behind. He’d gone back after she’d fallen asleep, probably. His stamina astonished her, even as his thoughtfulness made her heart warm. “Harry,” she said, letting her affection, her admiration, color his name. “Thank you.” His eyes sparkled in the basement’s dimmer light. He handed her the purse. “Don’t mention it.”

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“But I want to.” She reached up to cup his face the way he had hers earlier. “You’re so sweet.” Looking into his eyes, she could feel herself falling for him, a tugging ache in her heart that made her want to cook him something, or maybe have his babies. But something had scarred him in his past, and she was pretty sure it probably had to do with a relationship. So she just gently patted his cheek. “That picture, upstairs. Does it have anything to do with why a handsome, heroic specimen such as you is living in this big house all by yourself?” Harry lifted her hand from his chin, fully extending her arm. He kissed her knuckles, once. A gallant gesture before he turned toward the workbench and took a few steps. Her hand tingled. She followed in his wake. And what a nice-smelling wake it was too. She knew from his clothes that he didn’t dig ditches for a living—as if the big fancy house wasn’t enough clue to his white-collar employment—but his clean, musky male scent confirmed it. Maybe it was pheromones. His scent attracted her more than cologne ever had. Intriguing, gallant, sensitive, good-smelling, fabulous lover… If she weren’t careful, she’d get her heart broken. He’d warned her of the possibility, since he wasn’t looking for a relationship. He must’ve been in a very bad relationship. Worse than hers, even. She approached the smooth wood where her marionette lay, her hands almost automatically clearing the tangles from the strings and taking in the extent of the damage. Bad, but not irretrievable. Harry watched her hands. She would need tools, glue, rags, paints…most of her supplies, really, but the damage wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. She could scavenge an arm from Odie, a little-used boy puppet, and at least replace that crushed limb. She worked and talked at the same time. “So. Who was she, and what’s the deal with that ugly painting?” “As you surmised, the two are related.” His lips thinned. Disapproval. Distaste for the woman, the artwork, or both? “I managed to get involved with the most conniving, lying gold-digger on the entire West Coast. Worse, I offered to marry her.” Ginnie glanced at his ring finger. “Oh, we didn’t get to the altar. Almost but not quite. Thankfully not quite. But you wanted to know about the painting.” She wanted to know about everything. Absolutely everything there was to know about the fascinating man. “Uh-huh.” Her hands continued to work as she listened carefully. “Jaye Rae lays waste wherever she goes. She’s beautiful, of course. Honey-tongued. Talented at the art of being arm candy. Not so good at oil painting, which was her hook. A passionate artiste”—Harry pronounced it “arteest” with such contempt that Ginnie froze for a moment—“in search of a real man who

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could understand her unique artistic temperament. So needy. So controlling. Anyway,” Harry continued, “it was a long time ago.” When Ginnie glanced at him, she could see the muscles in his shoulders all bunched up. He looked at his watch. “But what happened?” she asked quickly, before he made an excuse to leave. He didn’t want to talk about it, obviously, but he needed to. She knew. Plus she was dying to hear what happened. He paused, then answered, his voice clipped. “Long story short, she was an actual artist like I’m a bunny rabbit. She painted her contempt for art, and called it art. There was a period of time after she moved in that this whole space down here was supposedly her studio. She’d come down sometimes to keep up the deception. Painted crappy pictures with the help of pre-numbered templates. I kept one of them after she left.” Ginnie waited, but when no more info was forthcoming, she nudged him with her elbow. Her puppet bobbed with the movement. “And?” “And what? She moved out.” “You broke up because you didn’t like her taste in art?” There had to be more to it than that. Harry turned a cool look on her. “Of course not. We broke up because she’s a publicity hound. Jaye Rae loved the spotlight, but I’m a private man.” Ginnie stared at him, astonished. “She was famous for those paintings?” Harry stared back, strangely intent for a moment. Then he glanced away. “You’d be surprised at the public’s gullibility.” “Maybe.” Ginnie had the feeling she’d missed something. She also had the urge to hug him. He could use a hug. So could she, for that matter. She wanted to feel their bodies together again, the full length of his pressed against the full length of hers. Clothing optional. Something he said tickled her brain. “Gold-digger,” she mused aloud. “Sounds like she was doing pretty well already with those paintings. You must be seriously well-off for her to dig for gold.” “I do okay.” His voice was cool again. “So do I,” she countered. “It’s a nonprofit, but Helping Hands pays okay.” That got his interest. “Excellent. And you’re investing wisely, I hope.” She shrugged, frowning. Investing wasn’t high on her list of priorities at the moment. But he persisted. “A diversified portfolio is important. And so is a qualified financial advisor. It’s never too early to save for retirement.” “Let me guess. You’re a qualified financial advisor.” She teased him. “You trying to drum up business here?” His mouth fell open. “Drum up business?”

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“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s cute. ‘It’s never too early to save for retirement.’ You’re a nerd!” She gave in to the temptation that had plagued her since he first positioned himself so close and hugged him. She felt his body remain stiff for a moment. Then with an exhale that tickled her ear, he wrapped his arms around her too. The feel of him was better than she remembered. His warmth paired with his bulges and muscles in all the right places made a thrill of wanting zip all through her like forks of lightning. “A nerd. That’s a new one.” His voice, low and amused, rumbled against her. “And you, my dear, are entirely too tempting.” He held her even more tightly for a moment, letting her feel exactly how enticing he found her, then stepped back. The items on the bench seemed to grab his attention. His voice still carried warmth. “And motivated and talented too. You’ve already given Jeffrey a new arm.” Pleased, she pulled the string that controlled the arm and simultaneously levered the fingers. A wave. “I’m sure you earn your pay at Helping Hands. As you would wherever else you chose to work.” He sounded approving. “I wish I earned it doing this all the time.” The puppet trembled, then jumped to one side, cocking a hip, lifting a knee. Waggled his behind. A complex boogie. Ginnie smiled, feeling both proud and sad. “I’m in Events Management. Good money, right, very good, even, but…well, it’s not a creative position. Unless you consider setting financial goals, supervising grant requests and, most of all, controlling the workflow of subordinates creative.” “Controlling your subordinates?” Ginnie looked at him, but his gaze was on her hands as she untangled more marionette strings. “Someone has to set the performers and secretaries straight about the urgency of matters. Take the reins, be proactive, motivate people to do more than the minimum.” She didn’t tell him she’d been taken aside by two of the older ladies last week. During that closed-door meeting, she’d been accused of being a micromanager, too controlling, not a team player. But their reaction was due to being intimidated by her, Ginnie was pretty sure. She’d explained herself to them. “I’d sure like to be behind the stage instead, though,” Ginnie finished, wistful. “It’s a joy to make your work come alive, connecting with the audience and inspiring imaginations in ways TV and Hollywood can’t touch.” “So, why don’t you? If you enjoy it, do it.” “It’s not that easy.” She should know. She’d had the years of apprenticeship, building sets and creating marionettes, touring with a medium-sized company. She’d lived and breathed puppetry for the better part of a decade. She’d actually gotten quite good. Then Rick happened, and the gravitational pull back into her mother’s orbit and the accompanying destruction of the confidence she’d built up. “It’s never easy,” she said. “Especially when the most important people in your life think it’s a silly habit of just playing with dolls. It’s really not. It’s a challenging form of art to operate a good puppet show, not to mention making handcrafted, quality marionettes.”

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He nodded. Hesitated. “I occasionally perform construction on buildings along with the contractors. Woodworking, mostly. It can be rewarding to build something complex with your own hands. I imagine it’s like that for you?” “Yes.” A warm glow of gratification unfurled inside her. He understood. “Exactly. But then again, bills have to be paid. Besides, they need me where I’m at.” “Supervising.” Harry picked up a female marionette’s wooden handle. He jiggled it, and the painted girl jiggled too. He manipulated the finger-crank controlling her mouth—open, closed—and tugged on the strings to make her bend her knees. Delighted, Ginnie boogied Little Jeffrey in a half-circle around the girl, a vigorous courtship. The girl wasn’t that good of a dancer and seemed somewhat mentally challenged, the way she gaped her mouth open and closed like a fish. And Little Jeffrey’s smashed face appeared a bit gruesome, as if he were a victim of some horrible mugging. But Little Jeffrey’s undiminished ardor for the girl had him bending and twisting and occasionally high-kicking, as if he were possessed by a passion beyond his control. They danced awkwardly, and Ginnie laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. Harry had a broad grin too, she noted with satisfaction. “You’re a natural,” she praised him. “Liar. You’re the natural.” He laid the puppet aside with obvious reluctance. “That was fun.” “It is fun, isn’t it?” They looked at each other, still smiling. She dragged her gaze away with an effort. She noticed he immediately stepped farther away. He didn’t want a relationship. Why not? Not that she necessarily wanted one, either, but… He liked her and he wanted her, she could tell. And he was the sexiest thing she’d ever known. And he was a hottie with a fabulous house. And they had fun. She was willing to bet Harry didn’t have fun very often. “Harry, what did Jaye Rae do to you?” she blurted. His head whipped back, and his eyes ignited with an icy blue fire. He didn’t speak, only stared at her. It made her feel as if she were a novice with a puppet on stage for the first time, alone in the glare of spotlights without a clue what her line was supposed to be. “Never mind.” She gathered up Little Jeffrey. She needed more materials from her own basement. She needed supplies from the store. No, she needed answers. She put down the puppet. “Never mind the never mind. Harry, I don’t want to pry, but whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. You’re a wonderful, generous, attractive man in your prime. With great taste in tenants.” The joke fell flat. “Breakups can mess with your mind,” she said, speaking from experience. “I’m a good listener, if you want to open up about it. Go ahead. It’s safe.” Harry continued to stare at her.

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Finally he spoke. His controlled voice, so different from the carefree one of just a few moments before, gave her a chill. “I appreciate your good intentions. But don’t tell me what to do.” She felt slapped. “I don’t share, I don’t open up, I don’t have the slightest need to add up the same old problems to see if I can get a different solution. It’s done. It’s simple—I was a chump. Now I’m a cold son of a bitch, and I’m not ever going to change.”

“He’s impossible,” Ginnie finished after giving Lara an abbreviated version of things the next day. She spoke as she filled in the endless insurance forms and declarations that covered Lara’s desk. “We were having such a good time with the puppets, and then, boom. He leaves.” Lara’s curly, dark auburn hair gleamed even under the deadening fluorescent lights as she twirled first one lock then another around her purple-frosted nail. Darlene still hadn’t returned from her “business meeting”. She also wasn’t returning any of the property management company calls. Lara didn’t expect her to come back, she’d confided. Word was she’d been fired by someone at the highest level. Lara nodded. “So Harry just up and marched away from you? Definite hot button topic.” “He’s not the only one with a past,” Ginnie said. The more she thought about it, the more determined she felt. Just because someone once treated you badly, that didn’t mean you had to swear off relationships forever. Just look at her. If anyone was entitled to become a bitter old misanthrope, it was her. But she was actually considering another relationship. Something more than a one-night stand. Which of course reminded her of how non-celibate they’d been. An aftershock of lust slammed through her, lingering pleasantly, butterflies in her belly. “He’s unbearably sexy, isn’t he,” Ginnie murmured. “Work!” Lara commanded, shooing at Ginnie’s idle writing fingers. “And, sure, I suppose. If you like the buttoned-up, aloof, brooding type. I prefer a more fun-loving guy.” “Harry can be fun,” Ginnie protested. “Lots and lots and lots…” “I get it.” But Lara stopped smiling. “Ginnie. You have to protect yourself. I mean, he’s said he doesn’t want a relationship. He flat out, no-compromise declared he’s never going to change. I hate to break it to you. You know what I’m going to say, don’t you? Jeez, it’s not fair. You’ve had a couple of years’ worth of drama packed into a week, and here’s Mr. Wonderful telling you he doesn’t want a relationship. It sucks, but…you have to believe it. You can’t change people, however much it’d be in their best interest.” Her dark eyes were warm and sincere and sad. Ginnie stared in amazement. “You’re only, what? Eighteen? Nineteen? Too young to sound so experienced. And so smart.”

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“Twenty-two, and thanks.” Lara preened, her eyes full of laughter once more. “I likes me my funlovin’ guys,” she admitted. “It’s gotten so that I can read between their lines pretty easily now. But ‘I’m not ready for a relationship’ always means just that. They’re not available, no matter what other signals they send up. Like inviting you to sleep over. There’s a big mixed message there. Move in to my place.” “Huh?” Ginnie’s thoughts had to scurry to catch up after hearing ‘sleep over’. She and Harry hadn’t done much actual sleeping together. “Move in with you?” “Sure. I have a two-bedroom apartment, and only my cat uses the other room. When you get the deposit and settlement check—” She tapped the paperwork, “—you can get your own place. Or you can stay. We seem to get along pretty well.” Ginnie smiled at her new friend. Lara was a wonderful person. And maybe getting away from Harry would clarify matters. He probably preferred she go, anyway. The man didn’t want a relationship. Ginnie felt a pang of regret. “Okay. Later this afternoon? I’m packing pretty light these days.” Lara laughed. “Of course. I’ll help anyway. It’ll be fun to get another look at that fabulous house of his. That living room was like crawling inside a TV into Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. I’ve been in real estate for a few years now, and I’ve never seen a home as gorgeous as his, not outside of the historical register.” Ginnie had to agree, it was a stunning home. Her mother would be drooling over it and, if she could, picking Ginnie up and throwing her at Harry. She wouldn’t care that Harry said he didn’t want a relationship. She’d only care that he was single and rich. Her biggest concern would be that Ginnie would screw it up. Suddenly Ginnie was seventeen again, standing in the small bathroom she shared with her mother. She was getting ready for a date, brushing her hair, when her mother walked in. Her mom was dating, herself, in the aftermath of Ginnie’s father’s abandonment, and the woman was gazing in the mirror and smoothing a low-cut silky black cocktail dress. “What do you think, Mom?” Ginnie posed in her new jeans and a figure-hugging peach cashmere sweater. “Good enough?” Her mother stared. Finally she said, “No. You’ll never be a man-magnet. But if you’re shrewd and don’t do anything stupid like fall in love, you might do okay.” Her mother’s words were a curse, piercing Ginnie through the heart. She wanted to cry. She wanted to curl up in a ball somewhere dark and stay there forever. She’d gone on the date, but felt clumsy and ugly and painfully self-conscious the whole time. Added to the guilt she felt over her dad’s abandonment, it hammered her self-esteem into the ground. Where it more or less stayed. She hadn’t felt fully appreciated, or truly seen and cherished, until that night with Harry.

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“Ginnie?” Lara leaned across her desk. “Are you okay?” “I’m just realizing you’re right. I can’t change Harry. He doesn’t want me, not in any way that counts, so I shouldn’t do anything stupid like fall in love with him.” Lara scraped off a fleck of purple nail polish, thoughtful. She placed it carefully into the trash next to her desk. “He is an idiot,” she pronounced, with the gravity of a doctor declaring a time of death. “You’re right, we will get along fine,” Ginnie said, and they both laughed. The laughter eased her hurt. As for Harry, the man didn’t want her around. He’d made himself very clear. She had to respect that, and respect herself enough to let him go.

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Chapter Five

Ginnie opened Lara’s door and stared. At Harry. Harry stood on Lara’s porch. Only one week had gone by, and he looked exactly the same—pulled-together and delicious. Her heart gave a lurch. He was really here, just as she’d dreamed. She wished she weren’t wearing her ratty old flannel pajamas at one o’clock in the afternoon, and that her hair wasn’t flattened from being slept on. Most of all, she wished he wasn’t seeing her blotchy face, reddened eyes and cheeks wet with tears. “What are you doing here?” She wiped her face with her sleeve. His face was almost comical with guilt. At another time, she might have been amused. Or gratified. At the moment, all she felt was miserable. “Um. Are you okay?” Harry fidgeted. It was funny to see such a solidly built, in-charge man fidget. Clearly he thought he’d mortally wounded her. “I’ve been better. This…” She indicated her face, “…has nothing to do with you.” Best to get that fact across quickly. No sense in his thinking for a second she was moping over him. Even if she’d missed him worlds more than she’d thought she would. “What brings you across town?” “Your stuff. The trunk on my porch is gone. And one of the neighbors across the street saw a man putting it into a sport wagon. He didn’t know if the man was a friend of yours. Are you okay?” he repeated, with more concern. “I’m not sure yet. Give me a sec.” Ginnie held on to the doorway, taking deep breaths. “When it rains, it pours,” she finally muttered. “And then your house crashes down, and then… Okay. Where’s the hidden camera?” Harry looked pained. His expression was half-angry, half-guilty. “I should have put that trunk in the house.” “I’m the one who told you to leave it on the porch.” She remembered her cavalier words, her trust that it wouldn’t be stolen, her certainty she’d be right back to pick it up, and could kick herself. Somebody else had picked it up. Somebody who had a sport wagon to put it in. “I can’t believe he did that.” “You know who it was?” “My ex. Rick must’ve tracked me down. Gold-colored sport wagon with big, shiny chrome wheels? Raiders bumper stickers?”

Christina Crooks

He nodded. “I didn’t notice the bumper stickers. Ginnie, it’ll be okay. We’ll find him and we’ll get everything back.” Harry’s kind voice almost made her lose it. And he’d said “we”, as if they were a couple. When she started sniffling, he moved in and enclosed her in a strong, Harry-scented hug. She was grateful for it. “That jerk. When I left him, he’d said he was glad to see the back of me. Then my mom gave him my new address, and he drives up here to stomp all over my roof, and now he’s back to steal from me? He must’ve driven around and seen my car parked in front of your place. Why didn’t I pick up the trunk sooner? Why did my mom give him my new address? Why do either of them think I’ll go back to being a doormat and do what they say?” Her voice was muffled against his shirt, but she didn’t move. It felt way too nice. “First things first.” Harry stroked her back soothingly. “I’ve already called the theft in to a police officer friend of mine, and also to a few unofficial sources of information. We’ll get results soon, I promise. Second, you were upset before I arrived. Why?” She remembered why she’d been too distracted to pick up the trunk. “I lost my job at Helping Hands.” There, she’d said it. The last remaining symbol of her new beginning had exploded in her face. She was meant to be nothing, unwanted by everyone. “It was unanimous by the mucketies in charge. With the shrunken funding, one of the managers had to go, and they voted for it to be me. They said—for my own good, they told me—I should work on my faults of being overly pushy, too controlling and not a team player. My career is over.” She felt a tidal wave of sadness and self-pity welling up in her and would have soaked Harry’s shirt even more, but Harry suddenly vibrated. It threw off her emotions enough to hiccup instead of bawl. “What…?” Harry pulled the vibrating cell phone from the shirt pocket on the opposite pec, flipped it open. “Yes?” She stepped back as she felt him tense. “I see. I’ll be right there.” She pulled herself together, then looked the question at him. He answered, grim. “Your stuff. It’s been found.” At the tone of his voice, a little chill went through her. “I’ll get dressed.” He stared at her. “You know, your career is not over. Just that one position, which wasn’t a great fit for you anyway. You’re talented, beautiful and strong.” His vehemence was like a warm shot of adrenaline to her battered soul. “Thank you,” she breathed, plucking at her nightwear. “I’m not usually such a basket case.” “You’re a beautiful basket case.” Ginnie thrilled to the look in his eyes. She backed up. “I’ll get dressed,” she repeated. Her heart was definitely not safe around him.

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A few minutes later, they sped toward the reported location. Harry shifted gears, appreciating the power that surged at the slightest touch of his foot to the Aston’s pedal. “I think your car cost more than my little old rental house.” Ginnie ran a hand over the shiny walnut dash and poked at the crowded console. “Slightly less.” He shooed her hand away. “I can even control the temperature just on my side,” she said with awe. “This is great.” “There’s a seat warmer too,” he pointed out, glad she liked his car. Jaye Rae had found his Aston Martin “desperately ostentatious” and refused to ride in anything but his silver BMW. Or the limo. Which was, in his opinion, even more ostentatious. Who knew how that woman’s mind really worked? Or any woman’s. Ginnie was playing with the controls again. “You must be a very successful landlord.” “You’ll be successful, Ginnie. I have faith in you.” He shooed her hand away again. “You’re the only one who—oh no.” Harry only glanced at where she looked. He already knew what she would see. He slowed, spotting his friend, a client of his, waving from the corner. When the man saw Harry had spotted the debris, he folded his arms. Around his feet were some of Ginnie’s marionettes. Police sirens sounded in the distance. Ginnie seemed to shrink down in her seat. She looked horrified. “It’ll be okay,” he said. He hoped it would be. The bulk of her puppets lay strewn in the road, some recognizable as what they were, others shattered into bits of wood and cloth and string. Not only puppets, but theater sets, drapery, lights, clothing, wigs, DVDs and stuff he didn’t recognize all littering the street and gutters. Some marionettes dangled from the low branches of trees. “How could he?” Ginnie breathed. Before he could stop her, she’d opened his car door while the car was still rolling and bolted out. She raced across the path of oncoming traffic, ignoring the car horns to scoop up everything that lay in the road. With a curse, he yanked his steering wheel hard to the right, a crooked parking job, then darted after her, salvaging the few pieces she missed, helping her pile everything safely on the strip of grass at the side of the road. It began to rain. “How could he?” She sank to her knees, examining a broken marionette’s face. Her face was a mask of agony. Harry shook with fury. He averted his gaze from Ginnie, which was when he spotted the trunk. He shook his head with disbelief. This charming ex-fiancé of hers, this Rick, had emptied, then levered, Ginnie’s gleaming trunk into a large Dumpster. “Oh!” She’d spotted it. Harry shut his eyes.

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“How could he do this?” At least now she sounded more angry than devastated. “Into the trash!” Harry spoke with the client who’d waved him over, a well-to-do private investigator, while Ginnie circled the Dumpster. “Did anyone see the guy who did it?” The man shook his head and spoke with deferential softness. “Sorry, Mr. Sharpe. My buddies have two cars out looking for the gold sport wagon the neighbor described. And I’ve put the word out about your generous reward for information. Now, I’ve got to go meet a client in the Southeast. Sounds like the police are on the way. Unless you need help with anything else?” Cold drizzle iced Harry’s face as he shook his head. “No, thanks. I appreciate your assistance. I can handle it from here.” He hoped he could. His impulse was to fix what was wrong, but Ginnie’s emotions were beyond his ability to fix. Women’s emotions were strange and confusing territory for him. Until now, he hadn’t wanted to understand them. At least there were a few things he could fix. He made another call. He reached for her as she passed him. “Hey.” He missed, brushing her arm with his fingertips, then leaned farther and encircled her forearm as she went by wringing her hands and looking both pissed and desperately upset. “Ginnie. Hey. Hold up.” “What.” She stopped, at least. With one hand, she violently wiped damp curls off her face. “I have to get the trunk out of the trash. I have to get everything together. I have to—” “You have to hush. And let me help. You have more important things to think about. Like your career.” He could have bitten his tongue when she turned a stricken expression on him. “I’d forgotten about that. Oh, man, how could I have forgotten I was fired? That’s huge. My career is over. For good. I’m a total failure at everything.” “You’re not a failure.” “Am too. I’ve been rejected by everyone. My dad, who abandoned me and my mom. Then there’s my mom. I’m pretty sure she’s always blamed me for Dad’s taking off. Rick, who never wanted me until I was leaving and who now hates me enough to do this.” She flicked a hand toward the pile of puppetry stuff. “And Helping Hands. And you. You only wanted me for one night. I’m not good enough for more.” She should just stick a knife in his heart. It would hurt less. “Ginnie, that was different.” “Why? I’m seeing a pattern here. Nothing against you. It’s not you, it’s me.” She laughed. Harry didn’t like the sound of it. He was tempted to grab her and shake some sense into her, but managed to restrain himself. She’d had a shock. “It’s actually not you. Not with me, and not with the people in charge at Helping Hands. Just because they didn’t like your management style, and just because you’re the newest and easiest to let go,

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that doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for the business of puppetry. I’ve seen you with marionettes. You have a gift. Now you just need to figure out how to turn that gift into a career.” “How?” He thought desperately. What would he do, if he were her? “Start somewhere small and secure, maybe. Set achievable goals, working with an eye toward the kind of job that offers financial security. Earn a paycheck at a crafts store, or a nine-to-five temporary position or somewhere like that, and get some volunteer experience with established artists? I don’t know the career path for a marionette artist, but I know what I saw last week. You have talent.” “Then why does everyone reject me? Everyone thinks I’m a big b-b-” “Bitch?” he said helpfully. Her tear-filled glare filled him with remorse and a nearly irresistible desire to go down on his knees and beg her pardon. Or do something more fun. He compromised. Easing closer so that his arms could prevent her escape if she chose to bolt, he said, “You’re not a bitch. You’re nowhere near being a bitch, and believe me, I know what I’m talking about. You’re just…stubborn. Strong-willed. Not always sufficiently sensible, maybe.” She looked bleak, but at least she wasn’t making any sudden moves. “Not sensible. My mother always said that.” She breathed deeply, clearly straining for calm. “This is the same mom that gave your ex your new address?” Harry shook his head. “She was foolish to do that. She’s the one who’s not sensible. Now, the first thing you need to do is take care of yourself.” “No, the first thing I need to do is retrieve my stuff and see that it doesn’t get stolen again.” She looked fierce, a mother bear protecting her young. And then her eyes narrowed. “Um, Harry? Who are all those men in uniforms?” “Just a few helpers. The moving company I used to get Jaye Rae’s things out of my house did such a fast job that I’ve kept in touch, recommending their services to friends and clients.” Harry barely glanced at the five men threading belts under the trunk in the Dumpster, or the others carefully lifting puppet parts and other theater bits from where they lay on the ground. He waved to one, a brusque acknowledgement. “They’re conscientious workers. Ginnie, would you please move back into my house?” “What?”

Astonishment

rounded

her

eyes.

“I

moved

out

for

good

reason.

You

weren’t…comfortable…with me there.” The air between them seemed suddenly to hum, with neither willing to look away. The tension hypnotized him. It was like nothing else he’d experienced. Then she spoke again. “Harry. Why are you asking me to move back?” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I appreciate your help, but I can take care of myself.” Ah, he’d hurt her pride. He spoke smoothly, intent on convincing her. He felt passionate with his sudden intense desire to have her back in his house, but he kept his voice calm and logical. “Of course you can take care of yourself, but—”

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“I don’t need a keeper. All this, it’s just a setback.” He hid a smile at her throwing his words back at him. “A minor setback,” he agreed. He eased closer to her, noting the way her nostrils flared and her lips parted. She didn’t move away. He didn’t pause to think about why he was inviting her back into his house. He only knew he wanted her there. To make sure she didn’t cry again. To take her mind off her troubles. It was the same way he’d take care of a little sister. He had a brother, not sisters, but he figured the feeling was similar. Except for the sex. And the emotional stuff. He went for the deal clincher. “I was thinking you might want to fix your puppets in the basement workroom. And to be closer to your old house while it’s being repaired, so you can keep an eye on your remaining possessions. And,” he added, “so I can keep an eye on you. I don’t like this ex of yours.” He hadn’t meant to say that. She smiled at him, a sweet smile that made her eyes flash brilliantly. Her lips and the gleam of her white teeth had him remembering her satisfaction not so many nights ago. “Maybe.” She cocked her head at him. Sussing him out. “Please? Ginnie, I would really like to have you there. No strings attached?” He wiggled his hands as if manipulating a marionette. She snorted laughter, and he knew he’d gotten his way. “Let’s go get your stuff.” “Wait. Don’t we need to make a report to the police?” “It’s done.” “Well, don’t we need to tell the movers where to bring everything?” “I already have.” “Presumptuous, aren’t you.” She wore a stern expression. He wondered at the change. A moment ago she’d been smiling and agreeable. “It’s that I didn’t ask you first? Is that why you’re…” Harry fought back a certain sense of disgruntlement. He was just taking charge, managing the situation the way he always did. Taking control. Ah. “Ginnie? My dear?” A smiled played at the corners of her mouth. “Yes?” He could tell she wanted to be disapproving but she wasn’t quite able to pull it off. “I shouldn’t have assumed you’d agree to move back into my house. I apologize. Now, shall we go?” “Absolutely.” She grinned. Satisfaction surged through him. “Let’s go fix your puppets.”

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There was something about having Ginnie here in his house that was both exciting and disconcerting. He knew damn well why it was exiting. The disconcerting wasn’t entirely unexpected, either. The odd thump and rustle that came from the basement threw him right back to the bad old days with Jaye Rae. Ginnie had even chased him out in much the same way Jaye Rae had, saying he distracted her. She certainly distracted him. What had he been thinking, inviting her back into his house when she’d made it so easy for him by leaving? He’d let his impulse overrule his logical mind. The last time that had happened, he’d ended up in a world of hurt. Definitely disconcerting. Harry got out his calculator and tried to compare and contrast investment options for Norbert Kenton. The numbers proceeded in their good, orderly fashion. It was his mind that kept giving him errors. Error one: sleeping with Ginnie. Error two: inviting her back after she’d moved out. “Let me help,” he’d offered down at the basement workbench. The puppets and the remains of ceramic, wooden and paper-mâché marionettes covered the entire vast surface. “I’m handy with tools.” She gave him a look he couldn’t interpret. “You’re sweet to offer. But I really need to do this myself.” “If you need anything, I’ll be…” “You’ll be upstairs, in your office. I know. Thanks.” He wasn’t accustomed to feeling awkward, but he sure as hell did, retreating from his own basement. And it wasn’t out of sight, out of mind, either, the way it had been with Jaye Rae. His mind was having trouble holding on to anything not-Ginnie. His client’s prospectus and notes blurred and disappeared as Harry’s fingers caressed the glossy paper as if it were her smooth warm skin. Warm skin? Clearly it was time to shift gears, check the online updates. Harry typed the address for Mr. Kenton’s up-to-the-minute scrolling stock update, but he mistyped. Rather than stockmaster.com, he was treated to a fetish porn site. Harry laughed in disbelief, then peered at the screen, curious. He hadn’t realized that was possible. And, of course, all the women reminded him of Ginnie. Enough. With a curse, he flung the mouse from him, stabbed the computer’s Off button, and fled his office and his house.

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Chapter Six

Ginnie felt a stinging sort of shame after she hung up the phone. She’d just confessed to Lara that she’d moved back in with Harry. Her property manager’s assistant and one-time, oh-so-brief roommate had been understanding. Smug, even. She’d used the word smitten. Ginnie had to bite her tongue to keep from defending herself, explaining to Lara that it wasn’t because she was smitten. It was purely a business arrangement. The business of keeping an eye on her old home and its contents, and fixing her puppets and staying safe from Rick. Rick might do anything—take more things, burn down the rental house, if it would burn in Portland’s damp weather and frequent rain showers. Who knew what he would do? Crazy to think that less than a month ago, she’d had fantasies about Rick coming to her and begging her to come back to him. Then he’d shown up and acted like a belligerent jerk, reminding her why she’d left. Instead, it had been Harry to beg her to come back to him. Ginnie laughed, baffled. He hadn’t exactly begged, but still, it had been thrilling. A little too thrilling. Maybe she was a bit smitten. Little Jeffrey stared at her, his newly repaired face somehow accusing. “Oh, you’ll always be my favorite. You’ve gotten plenty of attention, haven’t you?” she asked the marionette. “Got a new face, touched-up colors, oiled hinges. You’re quite dashing,” she assured Jeffrey even as she moved him to the side to concentrate on the many others needing her experienced eye. Cracked heads, crushed limbs, snapped strings, clothes stained and torn beyond repair. Rick must really hate her. And the thing was, she thought he might be a little bit in the right. Very little. But, she had left him rather suddenly, with only a few attempts at serious conversation at the end to let him know how unhappy she felt. When she got the Helping Hands job offer, it had seemed like a sign. Rick had taken care of her. Strong to the point of aggression on occasion, well-off if not wealthy, he offered a reliable protectiveness Ginnie’d found comforting. Her mother approved of him, latched on to his obvious devotion to Ginnie, seeing nothing beyond the fact he wouldn’t abandon Ginnie the way she’d been abandoned.

Hands On

Ginnie shook her head. Seemed it was true. Rick wouldn’t give her up easily. Problem was, he didn’t particularly want her, either. Not the real her. He always made her feel as if she were silly and neurotic for sharing her feelings about puppetry, or her feelings about him, or about anything—which had had the effect of making her more insistent that he listen, which made him irritated, until he slammed out of the house or worse—and she’d figured out there was no point in continually stirring up a hornet’s nest. When she finally left Rick, arriving at her mom’s new place a few hours away, she’d hoped for emotional support and maybe shelter for a few nights. Solidarity against men would’ve been her mother’s forte considering the woman’s own background, she’d assumed. Ginnie’d been impressed by the gated ranch home on a lush city acre, courtesy of her mother’s newest and richest husband. Ginnie was more than ready to finally forge a real mother-and-daughter bond, so it had come as a shock when she was hit with “If you throw away a good thing, you’re stupid—don’t you make the biggest mistake of your life,” and “you made your bed, so you go on back and lie in it,” and worse, “just like your father, sneaking away in the night like a coward.” What echoed in her head, though, was the thing her mother had called after her as Ginnie finally fled her sharp tongue: “You’ll screw this up too!” But despite the agony of uncertainty and the sadness that called forth tears at the slightest provocation, Ginnie followed her dream, clinging firmly to her hope of a better, happier life. She’d held it in her mind as a True North, all the way to Oregon. And now Rick tried to intimidate her. It was pretty low of him to go after her things just because he knew she loved them. Ginnie lifted the two pieces of a puppet’s split leg, the knee joint’s tongue-and-groove no longer held together with a pin. The pin was long gone. Ginnie shuddered as if she were ill. Should she fix her marionettes, the way she desperately wanted to, or should she put it off indefinitely and to do the sensible thing of getting another job? She needed the money. She knew the right answer. It was a matter of financial prudence. She couldn’t live off her returned security deposit and the rumored settlement payout forever. She should do what Harry suggested—take a position at a temp place, or a retail shop, if they’d hire someone a bit overqualified. A craft store might not be too horrible. Even more financially prudent, she could acquire a mid-tier management position at another nonprofit company. Somewhere she wouldn’t be too passionate about the work. Passion got her in trouble. Passion made her care too much and try too hard and focus on the wrong things. Passion made her listen to her instinct rather than logic. Passion kept her from being an easygoing team player. A squeaky noise startled her, and she looked down. Clara, her slender African ballerina marionette, performed a slow pirouette. Without conscious thought, her hands had performed the repair work on Clara’s strings, so that Clara gracefully swayed on her ballet-shoe toes.

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Christina Crooks

Ginnie oiled a hinge. The squeak disappeared. Clara almost seemed to smile. Tears sprang into Ginnie’s eyes. How could she give this up, or relegate it to just an occasional hobby? Bringing puppets to life, telling their stories, was her joy. To her mother, and even to Harry, practicality and financial sensibility ruled. Head over heart. For her, that would be a living death. Ginnie suddenly knew what she had to do.

Harry keyed open his front door, nudging it with his shoulder so he could carry in the armful of archive folders he’d fetched from work. But even before he pushed the door shut once more, he could tell two things were very wrong. One, the house smelled delicious. And two, the sound of children’s laughter came from his basement. Folders slipped from Harry’s suddenly nerveless fingers, making muted thumps as they landed on the handmade Persian rug. Papers scattered. Children in his house? He fought back panic. This wasn’t another setup. Ginnie didn’t know, couldn’t know the ugly thing that had happened last Christmas. It was all perfectly innocent. His company’s last Christmas party had kicked off well enough. There was much mingling and many smiles, and Harry remembered taking great pleasure in the way women looked elegant and even royal with their formal gowns and jewels. The men looked like him. All successful, confident and proud in custom tuxes. The scent of pine candles tickled his nose, and everywhere flashed the glitter of red, green, gold, silver. Reporters covered the event. It was unusual to be allowed into the inner sanctum of the elusive H. Barrett Sharpe, but Jaye Rae had wanted them there. It had been Jaye Rae’s idea, his Santa costume. And her suggestion, too, holding the children on his lap for Christmas photographs. He’d given each kid a small present. When that six-year-old boy’s turn came, Jaye Rae led him by the hand and whispered—Harry had assumed—calming, encouraging things in his ear. Harry was feeling gratified at making the kids so awed and happy. Christmas music and childish laughter contributed to his sense of well-being. He remembered thinking Jaye Rae was taking his calling off their marriage astonishingly well. She’d been so enraged when he’d presented her with the prenuptial agreement, he’d just assumed she’d freak out when he ended their relationship. She’d been appalled at the time, deeply appalled and angry…but now she appeared the unshakeable, gracious hostess. It was as if he’d imagined the demon

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woman who’d castigated him so harshly. This was their last event as a couple before announcing the split publicly. The holiday spirit had him so mellow, and he was so impressed by her game-faced stoicism, that for a moment he’d actually reconsidered his decision. Then, disaster. “Santa touched my pee-pee.” Harry thought he’d misunderstood the boy’s mumble. He leaned closer, holding the boy’s legs so he didn’t slide off. “What?” “Santa touched my pee-pee!” The kid bounced, and Harry grabbed instinctively to keep him from falling. Cameras flashed, capturing his unfortunately placed hand. He remembered how Jaye Rae marched up and the way her palm stung his face. There’d been that awful silence, broken only by the shocked gasps of people he’d once thought of as friends, crucifying him. “I didn’t do anything!” he’d protested, but the inhuman cameras and their even less-human operators didn’t care for that. They were after dirt and they’d get it. Harry shook his head violently. They’d gotten enough dirt to wreck his good name, to kill his enthusiasm for running Sharpe Industries and being in the public eye, and to strike a shameful fear in his heart whenever he heard a child’s voice. Like now. In his house. He heard children’s laughter. Ginnie’s feminine laughter joined it. The sound of it touched him painfully, deep in his heart. It shouldn’t have to be this way, he knew. But it was. The voices increased in volume. Ginnie led two small kids down his hallway. She bent, listening to them, nodding and smiling. When she noticed Harry, she waved. “Hey! Lily and Tommy were just helping me test-drive some of the fixed marionettes.” Her smile slipped into a quizzical expression when she saw his face. “Get them out. Out of the house. Now, please.” Harry kept his voice calm and steady with an effort. Ginnie gaped. The kids, sensing the sudden tension, moved closer to her. “I mean it.” Harry opened the front door wide. He stood aside. “Out.” Ginnie looked bewildered. “But I made dinner. For four.” “Sorry.” Harry jabbed his thumb at the street. Out. After whispering something in their ears that made them look at him giggling, Ginnie herded Lily and Tommy through the doorway. After watching them safely descend the porch steps, she carefully shut the front door. Then she whapped him on the chest with one open palm. “Ow.” Harry rubbed at where his buttons impacted muscle.

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Christina Crooks

Ginnie grimaced too, shaking her hand in reaction. “Ow is right. Bulletproof vest? No? So, tell me, big guy. What the hell is wrong with you, scaring little kids?” “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Harry stooped, gathered papers, shoved them randomly into folders. He’d be reorganizing the mess for hours. “Chasing the kids out like some kind of boogieman.” Ginnie paused, considering him intently. “Do you hate kids?” “I have no use for kids.” “Ever?” “I’m not having this conversation.” Harry walked through the living room. Unfortunately, his automatic course took him straight to the kitchen, where the good scent of garlic and baking things made him salivate. He shoved the stack of folders into one unused corner of the granite countertop and made himself a stiff drink. “Want one?” he belatedly asked Ginnie, after tipping back half a glass of scotch. “Place smells good,” he added, after the liquor hit his stomach with a welcome warmth. Ginnie shook her head in exasperation and flipped the oven temperature to zero. She stirred the contents of one pot, then another, then answered him. “Yes. I’d like one.” Harry fixed it neat. Their fingers touched as he handed it over. “So, what’s cook—” “Oh, no you don’t. If you want this excellent dinner of filet mignon with wild shiitake mushroom sauce, you’ll tell me what happened out there.” “Nothing happened.” Harry finished his scotch. Put down his glass. “All righty then, guess you don’t want this homemade, perfectly grilled filet.” Ginnie threw open the oven door. Harry’s taste buds reacted to the scent by filling his mouth with saliva. He grimaced. Clearly the woman believed in fighting dirty. “Or this divine cream sauce, or this delightfully aged gouda with fresh crusty bread, or this—” Harry knew when he was beaten. “Did you call their parents first? To get permission for them to stay for dinner.” “Of course I talked to their parents first.” Her voice was haughty. “What kind of hostess do you take me for? I was down the street at the rental with Lara, and we walked around the neighborhood a bit to chat with people. They were out watching their kids play and they seemed pretty interested to hear I’m a puppeteer working out of your basement. I showed them the basement and my puppets—hope you don’t mind—and invited the kids to stay for a little show and some dinner. It’s too late now. Which is a shame, the kids were really hungry after the show and looking forward to dinner. But yes, of course I talked to the parents first.” “And their parents were okay with it?” Ginnie stared at him. “Any reason they shouldn’t be?”

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“No.” Harry played with his empty scotch glass. “But they might not know that.” He took a deep breath and told her about the Christmas party incident. He didn’t tell her his real name, though. If she knew his name, he’d be vulnerable again. She could potentially use that knowledge against him, the way Jaye Rae had. When he was finished, he held himself still. He realized he was holding his breath, and made himself breathe shallowly. How would Ginnie react? Would she be repelled? Part of him felt astonished at how much her regard had come to mean to him. She shook her head slowly, aghast. “What a bitch. I mean, I already didn’t think much of her, but now… That’s just unreal. Did you press charges?” Harry blinked. “Press charges?” “Against her. What she did is libel. Or slander. Or something. It can’t be legal for her to get away with that.” “She did, regrettably. A misleading photo ran in the newspapers. To fight against something like that, against indirect allegations, would’ve been to just give it fuel, and give her satisfaction. Unfortunately, people believed it. My friends. My business partners. My employees.” “All of them did?” “Enough of them.” Not all of them. Not even most of them, now that Harry considered it. Todd, especially, had been a staunch ally when he’d needed a friend. It had been humbling to see his newest employee so outraged on his behalf, so vocal in his support. But still, the damage had been done. “I’m not too hungry after all,” he said. He placed his glass in the sink. She plucked it right up again and brushed against him on the way to the liquor cabinet. “Yes, you are.” She filled the glass just the way he’d filled hers, neat, and handed it over. “Drink.” “Pushy little wench. No wonder they fired…” Harry bit his tongue, literally bit it. He hadn’t meant to say that. “I’m sorry,” he began, but when he saw her broad smile, he stopped, wondering at it. He wondered too how her lips would feel and whether her mouth would taste like scotch, or like Ginnie, or some exotic combination of the two. He was almost unbearably tempted to find out, he was so struck with that unexpected, happy, beautiful smile. He took a gulp of scotch instead. She nodded. He had the disconcerting idea she’d just read his mind. “Yeah, I can be a tiny bit pushy, sometimes. When it’s called for.” She tried to look stern, but couldn’t quite manage it. A potholder on one hand, a wooden spoon in the other, she prepared their plates of food. “I went back to them, Harry. To Helping Hands. I was thinking about what you’d said, about being practical and sensible and conservative. And I realized, if I took your advice about that, I’d be miserable.” “It was good advice,” he protested.

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“Yes, for a starting point. But it’s not how I want to set my career path.” She handed him a filled plate, as if to soften the blow. It worked. Harry led the way to the kitchen table. When was the last time he’d had a good home-cooked meal? He couldn’t remember. “Anyway, I went to Helping Hands. But not to get my old job back. There are lots of minimum-wage and stipend positions for experienced, flexible freelance puppeteers. And man, do I have experience! I got them to subcontract me, for more than minimum wage. And I can use those gig contacts for independent shows, which is a few more hundred every month.” She looked at him expectantly. When he didn’t comment, she nodded. “I didn’t really expect you to understand how big a deal this is for me. I can grow a puppet theater career this way. Slowly put together a troupe, if I want. It’s not that much money, though. I mean, a landlord like you probably makes five or six times that.” Harry choked on his filet. Five or six times? More like five or six hundred times. “I’m not just a landlord,” he finally said. “I run many businesses, primarily in a financial planning capacity.” “That’s wonderful. How do you like it?” Ginnie forked steak and mushroom sauce into her mouth. Her eyes narrowed with pleasure. “Do you enjoy your work?” “This is a wonderful steak dinner.” Harry avoided the other question. Harry had already nearly polished off his portion. “You should be a chef.” “Thanks. But I should be a puppeteer. And I am!” Ginnie grinned. “The first show is day after tomorrow. The Frog Prince. Good thing it’s a marionette show so I can rehearse my parts on my own.” “You’re happy.” Harry looked at her, wondering if he’d ever seen such a glow in a person. “You’re beautiful.” “You’re not so bad yourself.” Ginnie sipped her scotch as if it burned her tongue. “Too strong?” “Just strong enough,” she murmured, staring at him. “It’s just…overwhelming.” Were they still talking about her puppet job? He felt the pull of her, tempting him to ignore his better instincts. He suddenly wanted, very badly, to sweep the tableware aside, rip off her clothes and demonstrate she had nothing to fear from a strong, in-control man. How easy it would be to relax his guard. But he wasn’t the type of man to make the same mistake twice. He noted her empty plate. “Done?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but instead pushed his chair back and stood. “That was a magnificent meal. You cooked, so I’ll clean.” He grabbed plates and silverware and headed to the sink. “Wow, you do dishes? I think that’s so hot. Okay, what’s going on in your head now?” He gave her a quelling look, but it had no effect. Instead, she carried pots and silverware to him. “Well?” “Nothing.” She was cute, but a little bit of a slow learner, Harry thought. He simply didn’t do emotional touchy-feely stuff. When would she—

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“It’s the kid issue, isn’t it.” A plate slipped through his hands, cracking sharply in half when it hit the hard tile of his kitchen floor. “I don’t have issues,” he retorted, exasperated. He picked up the pieces—one, two, three, four, fivesixseven—and threw them away. “I’m perfectly happy,” “Harry? You work all the time. Don’t you want more out of life? Friends? Family?” “No. I like my life.” His voice sounded low and menacing to his own ears. He hoped she took the warning. “You’re pretty young to decide you never want to have kids.” “I don’t like kids.” She looked at him as if he’d spoken in a foreign language. “It’s not the fault of kids that your ex acted like such a witch. They’re innocent. That poor little boy on your lap, he was just a pawn.” “Stop.” Harry shut the dishwasher door with a little more force than necessary. “It’s not about that. I just don’t have time for kids. Or any use for them. At all. As I said, I like my life the way it is.” “Okay.” Her voice was subdued. A flash of guilt went through him. Then, anger that she’d made him feel guilt. She was manipulating him. “I don’t need people pushing themselves into my life,” he said brutally. “Maybe you don’t need it, but you want it,” she whispered. Emotions hit him unexpectedly. Pain. Longing. But then he wrested back his control. He shoved the emotions into their little compartments where they belonged, and made himself count backward from twenty, slowly. When he felt dispassionate again, he turned from her and strode from the kitchen. Ginnie followed. He looked at the space slightly to the right of her as he threw on a raincoat. “Thank you for dinner. I need to go out.” “Harry…” “Good-bye.”

Ginnie flinched when Harry shut the front door behind him, so softly and slowly, yet firmly. A notslam that really wanted to be a slam. Dinner sat like a rock in her stomach. She shivered, unhappy. She’d pushed him too fast. Been too aggressive. Too controlling. Again. She’d driven him away. Tears welled up in her eyes, making her vision a colorful prism of the stained glass inset above his door. Her heart ached. “I’m an idiot,” she whispered.

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He wasn’t completely free of idiocy, she knew. What kind of man ruled out kids completely based on one woman’s cruel vengeance? Still, Ginnie knew she’d been too intrusive and she owed Harry an apology. His sports car roared to life. Urgency flashed through her. He was leaving. She flung open the front door, flew down the porch steps even as the red rear lights swam over her. “Harry! Wait!” She ran. He never even turned his head. His tires spun for a moment, then bit. He sped away. Ginnie stopped at the sidewalk. “Crap!” She wanted to say something stronger and louder, but there were kids in the neighborhood. She laughed, shaking her head. She could make her apologies later. He’d come back eventually. Wouldn’t he? As if in answer, she heard the rumble of a big engine, and a sports car turned onto the residential street. Ginnie raised her gaze, shielding her eyes from the bright headlights. It wasn’t Harry’s sleek sports car. The vehicle pulled over in front of Harry’s house. A gold-colored sport wagon with shiny wheels. She stood, frozen, as Rick stepped out. “Ginnie.” His familiar voice, slightly high and nasal, threw her back in time. Here was the man she’d lived with and loved, the man who’d sworn to care for her, but who’d ended up truly caring only for football games and himself. “Here to steal more of my stuff?” Ginnie asked, remembering. Some of her theater supplies were still missing. She went to look inside the car. “Hey.” Rick sidestepped into her path. “I owe you an apology and I’m here to deliver.” She stared at him, waiting, but he added nothing else. “Rick, why did you walk on my roof, steal my things and then throw them in the street like trash?” Thin, pale strands of his hair were plastered to his broad forehead. His round chin and sloping jawline, so clean-shaved and so unlike Harry’s cute cleft and persistent five-o’clock shadow, twitched with the old familiar tension. His lips turned down at the corners for a moment. He had the grace to look ashamed, at least. Then he chuckled wryly. “Babe, if you knew what you’ve put me through.” She folded her arms. “Ginnie, I know I’m not the most sensitive guy in the world, but you could’ve told me you were ready to walk. I had no idea.” “I tried to tell you, over and over. You always got so angry…” “You’re not exactly easy to live with, yourself. Your mother agrees.” Now he paced. “Always getting on my ass about how I need to do more of this or less of that or become Mr. Sensitive.”

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“So that’s why you’re here? Revenge?” Ginnie looked around surreptitiously, but there wasn’t anyone currently walking their dogs on the sidewalk or enjoying the perfect Oregon twilight on their porches. She was alone. “That’s what you think?” He looked pensive, then smiled. “You might be a little bit right. I was pretty pissed when you abandoned me.” Ginnie inhaled sharply. Abandoned. Just like her father did to her and her mom. Had she hurt him that badly? “I’m sorry,” she began, but Rick just nodded and continued. “I missed you, you know. So, I’ve been thinking. I realized I haven’t always tried very hard with us. I drove all the way up here again to tell you that. To help you move your stuff back in with me. Your house! Man, seeing it wrecked like that was a surprise. Guess I got lucky, huh?” Rick stared at her. “But your house being crunched isn’t the only surprise, eh? There was this woman inside your house when I came, punching a calculator and taking notes. She said you’d moved in with your landlord right up the street.” Ginnie felt herself tense. “I looked around for your car, and lo and behold, there it was parked where she’d said. And there was that heavy wooden trunk of yours, sitting on his porch. Didn’t waste any time, did you?” His eyes began to flash dangerously, the way they did right before he threw stuff and hit walls. Or hit her. But that was only the once. “So that’s why you decided to toss my property in the street?” Ginnie stared him down. The memory of his violence and the thought of her puppets discarded like garbage spurred her own anger. “Yes, damn it!” Rick clutched his car keys so tightly she could see the white of his knuckles. Part of her wondered whether he’d throw the keys, maybe at his expensive sport wagon. Their arguments always ended violently. Never with physical violence against her, except for that once, but the threat of it poisoned something between them. As if he were reading her mind, Rick bared his teeth in a small smile. “You always were a ballbuster.” “You don’t need to worry about that anymore,” she shot back. “You didn’t let me finish.” Rick glared at her. “I was gonna say, maybe sometimes I had it coming. Not always. But… I know I didn’t try very hard with you, and I should’ve.” He opened his hands, one thumb folded over his car keys. “I realized a lot of things after you left. Ginnie, let me take care of you, the way I meant to. Your rental house is trashed. You’re a charity case sponging off your landlord. There’s nothing here for you.” A memory of Harry naked and straddled under her body flashed in her mind. “Or…is there?” Rick tracked her thoughts. His voice turned sinister once more. “I was right, wasn’t I? You’re into someone else already. This landlord, it’s a guy, right? A full-service landlord, eh?” “There’s nothing going on,” Ginnie said. And it was true, there wasn’t anymore.

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“Then come home with me. We can put most of your stuff in the Caddy and let the paper-pushers deal with all the house mess.” He nodded in the direction of her house. He chuckled. “I should have known you’d pick the worst one on the rental market. No sense. You need a keeper.” He looked at her fondly. His words erased any doubt. “Rick. I’m doing fine. I don’t need a keeper anymore.” “There is someone else!” “So what if there is? It’s not like you and I were happy together. You made it perfectly clear you thought I was a manipulative bitch, when I wasn’t being a total ditz. You’d be back to calling me a ballbuster in a day or two and making me feel like dirt the rest of the time. What kind of home would that be for either of us?” “But I said I’m sorry. I drove all the way up here to bring you back.” Rick sounded petulant, like a child who didn’t understand why he couldn’t have candy. “Thanks, but sorry. I’m staying here.” “It’s him, isn’t it?” His face sharpened with anger. “Who is this guy?” His fists clenched again, only instead of throwing his keys or stalking away, he stepped closer. He raised a fist. Fear belatedly knifed through her. Was he actually going to hit her again?

Harry skillfully piloted his Aston back up Hillview Boulevard, reining himself back from tromping the gas pedal. The sports car growled and trembled with power, wanting to go faster than he did. Much like Ginnie. He shouldn’t have rushed out like that. It smacked of cowardice, and he was no coward. The exasperating woman kept pushing, though. Poking at him. Trying to get inside his head. Looking for the lever to pull that would make him dance on her strings. Maybe. The crazy thing was, he was pretty sure she meant well. He could probably trust her. He wouldn’t, of course, but she wasn’t like Jaye Rae. If they were going to get along while she lived with him—no, not lived with him. She merely lived in his guestroom temporarily, by herself. But if they were going to be roommates, they had to get a few things clear. She had to understand he wasn’t a touchy-feely sharing sort of roommate. She had to respect that, because he didn’t want to boot her out again. She made a mean steak dinner. He turned up the residential street that led to a smaller road on which his house sat. He eased the Aston up into his driveway before noticing the couple next door. Then he saw it wasn’t the couple next door. Before he switched off the ignition, he recognized Ginnie, and some strange guy. The guy had his fist in the air, ready to hit. Harry’s tension level rocketed skyward. He leapt out of his car, keeping himself from running only because he’d gained the guy’s attention. He intended to keep it. His gut tensed and his muscles readied for a fight. Who was this jerk who threatened Ginnie? “Is this him?” the guy asked Ginnie. “Is this the reason you won’t come back with me?”

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“I’m not going with you because we’re done, Rick.” She frowned at him. “Please just leave.” “Just like that? I don’t think so.” Rick took her arm. “We’re not finished.” “Let her go.” Harry figured the menace and tension he felt communicated itself adequately, because the intruder took his hand off her. He still stood too close to Ginnie for Harry’s taste. “Now, get in your shiny wagon and go back to wherever it is you came from.” “She’s coming with me.” Ginnie shook her head. Did this Rick have a death wish? Didn’t he realize Harry would be delighted to pound Rick’s thick head into his thicker neck? This Neanderthal was obviously doing his best to intimidate Ginnie—standing too close, looming over her—but she wasn’t having any of it, Harry saw with pride. She tilted her chin up and refused to be pushed around. “I’m not going with you, Rick.” Harry’s rage slowly built at the way Rick wasn’t taking the hint. Harry stood ready to step in at the first sign of escalation—he had to hold himself back, actually—but he wasn’t sure if he should interfere. Of course he shouldn’t interfere, logically, but his urge to protect Ginnie bypassed logic. It propelled him toward a physical brawl. It just wasn’t like him. He knew better than to let emotions rule him. That’s what bothered him the most. Aside from this jerk bullying Ginnie. Harry placed himself right in front of her, facing Rick. “Hey. You like picking on women? Is that how you get your jollies? Huh?” He leaned forward, closing the inches between them. Rick took a step back, looking confused. “If you want a fight, I’d be happy to oblige.” And he would be too. Delighted, even. Rick read the news on his face. “I never hurt her,” he muttered. “Not that she didn’t have coming.” “Get in your car. Drive away. Don’t come back.” Rick’s eyes narrowed. Harry felt hopeful. But then Rick looked away. “Fine.” “Bye-bye, then.” Harry eased another millimeter into Rick’s space. Not even a little fight? Rick paled and took a step back. Guess not. As Rick turned and scurried back to his vehicle, Harry stared after him. Too bad he wouldn’t be able to burn off some of his energy. All the amped-up feelings roiling around inside him weren’t going anywhere. He turned to Ginnie. “I don’t like your ex.” “I don’t like yours, either.” They stared at each other, then, simultaneously, burst into laughter.

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Chapter Seven

Ginnie led the way into Harry’s house. He followed, closing then locking the door behind him. “That was weird,” Ginnie said. “Rick’s always had a temper, but he was actually menacing me out there.” She still felt indignant that Rick had made her afraid, but very glad Harry had come back when he had. “I don’t know what got into him. He admitted stealing my stuff. He said he was sorry, and then actually expected me to hop into his car and head home with him, like we could just pick up where we left off.” She shook her head, baffled. “I’m not surprised,” Harry said, staring at her. “He wanted you back, but on his terms. He’d probably pushed your buttons successfully before, and he thought he could do it again.” The truth of that hit Ginnie. “And he’d called me manipulative. He was the control freak. His style was just more passive, so I didn’t see it. I wasn’t a ball-buster.” She intercepted Harry’s look. “Oh yeah, he called me that. And control Nazi. And worse.” Grinning, she gave him a teasing look. “Then you rode up on your white horse and saved me again.” “I didn’t—” “Your armor all shining, ready to do battle for truth, justice and the American way.” “My armor is tarnished, Ginnie. Don’t—” “You’re my hero.” Ginnie batted her eyes at him. Was he blushing? He was! “You’re insane.” Harry stalked into the kitchen. Ginnie followed, delighted with him, but also still pondering his words. “Pushing my buttons,” she mused aloud. “I never thought of it that way. But he and my mom both always said I had a taste for being top dog. To, ah, a pretty large degree. And Helping Hands alluded to something along those lines too.” Harry fixed himself a scotch. He raised an eyebrow, holding up an empty glass. She nodded. “Ginnie.” He handed her a drink. “What makes you think you’re the only one allowed to take charge?” He took a sip of his, looking at her. His words brought her up short. “What do you mean?” “I mean, just because you have controlling tendencies—which isn’t always a bad thing—that doesn’t rule out others having those same tendencies. Rick clearly did.” “My mom too,” Ginnie said, sipping the strong alcohol. She laughed a little. “At least I come by it honestly.” She told Harry about her dad leaving her mother, and the awkwardness of her mom dating, and

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about some of the fights. She concluded, “I never felt good enough for her, or like anyone would appreciate the real me. Abandonment issues. I suppose pop psychology would say I’ve overcompensated by trying to put myself in positions where I can better control my environment.” She leaned on the counter, smiling, and looked at him under her lashes. “But I’m not a ball-buster by choice.” Harry smiled back at her. “Very glad to hear it.” He was so hot, her hero. She stared at the way a smear of liquor made his curvy lips shine, and jolt of lust zapped her. She traced a finger along the side of the counter, skating near his hand without touching. “Would you really have beat up Rick?” “I don’t like men who threaten women with violence.” “So, you would’ve, but it wouldn’t have been anything personal?” Harry stared at her. “It would’ve been personal.” He moved closer. A thrill went through her. The heat in his gaze ignited her all over. He looked ready to gobble her up. She could feel his intensity all the way down to her feet. Her body responded to his proximity, his scent, his unspoken message, with a surge of desire. And yet… “Am I making you nervous, Ginnie?” Her hand trembled, and she had to set down her drink. She looked at her offending hand rather than meeting his gaze. “A little.” Her hands never shook. Never. Her marionettes would look palsied if she didn’t have total control over her hands. Harry certainly did make her nervous. What she craved was for him to take her so wildly, violently and completely that she wouldn’t have the presence of mind to worry about whether or not she lost control. She’d never felt that way before. “What are you afraid of?” His voice was a deep and honeyed tone that snaked through her sensuously. She was afraid she’d lose herself. That she’d bare her soul to him only to have it measured and found wanting. “Nothing.” She picked up her glass with both hands. Sipped. Put it down carefully. With both hands. His gaze tracked the movement, then returned to her face. “I think I understand.” “If you think I’m—” “Shhh. Listen to me.” As if she could conceive of doing anything else with him looming over her, his heat and scent making her feel lightheaded. Or maybe it was the drink. He caressed her arm with his fingertips. Nope, definitely him. Her skin pebbled under his touch, her fine hairs rose, and she shivered pleasurably. It was the entire delicious six-foot package of him. She could have been frightened of him, the way he eased into her personal space as if he owned it. He’d intimidated Rick until her ex had slunk away like a defeated schoolyard bully. But she didn’t feel frightened of Harry at all.

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“I want to show you something. Close your eyes.” She thought about it, then did. “Going to be hard to see what you have to show me.” “Keep them closed.” She let out a little shriek and her eyes flew open when he scooped her up. “Trust me,” he said, his warm breath tickling her ear. It felt as erotic as another fine touch. He waited until she closed her eyes again. “Good.” She could hear from his voice that he wasn’t smiling. Somehow that both calmed her and stimulated her, as if he’d found some key to her psyche. He carried her slowly, not hurrying. “Keep them closed,” he insisted. “You think too much and worry too much. About who might hurt you. About who might take advantage of you if you let your guard down. And so you turn suspicious and untrusting, and you know what an untrusting person does? Hmmm?” He nuzzled her ear. She made a small sound. From the different scent of the air she could tell they were entering a littleused room. She wanted to peek, but didn’t. “I’m keeping my eyes shut.” “I know you are. That’s very good.” She felt his hair brush against her cheek as he walked, and then, surprisingly, his warm lips touched her forehead. Without sight, the sensation was intense. He continued talking as if he didn’t realize he’d just turned her bones to jelly. “An untrusting person tries to control her environment completely.” He let go of her legs, allowing just her toes to touch the ground, then loosened his grip on her torso slightly. She slid a few inches down his body. Every sensation felt magnified. She jerked as his voice suddenly invaded her other ear, filling her head with his deeptimbered murmur. “You’re not in control right now, are you?” He teased her with the feel of his body, then moved back slightly. “You have to understand. It’s much, much better when you’re able to let go completely. Sometimes it’s good to do so. You’ll find with me, it’s good.” He pressed her to him again, hard, and she gasped. He began to undress her. “Keep your eyes shut,” he commanded. He stripped her clothes off quickly and had his off even more quickly. He stepped close enough to her for their body heat to mingle and his delicious breath to tease the nerve endings of her face. His lips moved against hers. “I’m going to demonstrate something.” She felt and heard his smile. Her body seemed to open up, becoming sensitive all over. She heard a moan, felt the vibration against their lips and knew she’d made the sound. When his lips opened and his tongue plundered her, the electricity forked through her body. Taking effortless possession of her mouth, he lifted his other hand to the base of her head. He tilted it here or there as it pleased him. His tongue slid out, then in again to tease and play with hers. Then he stopped. Air rushed into the small gap between their faces, cooling her enough for frustration. “Don’t stop,” she breathed, feeling her eyelids flutter. “Hush, you,” he said with mock severity. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

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“Oh yes.” She barely recognized her own voice—breathy and full of want. She was more than enjoying herself. Her body ached for his. She moved against him. “No. Now I want you to sit on the edge of the bed. It’s just behind you. That’s right, sit. Now scoot back until your feet are at the foot of the bed. Very good.” He sat beside her feet and proceeded to caress them, thumbing her toes in a slow, sure movement before skillfully twisting a firm knuckle between the front pads. She could swear she felt the sensation directly between her legs. She groaned more loudly and reached for him. He laughed, tucking her arms by her sides. “Patience. Trust. You like what I’m doing to you, so why not just go with it? Let go of control. Try it. Just feel.” Was his voice becoming husky with desire? She was so tempted to peek, but was enjoying the things he made her feel way too much to jeopardize the situation. She squirmed happily on the bed. Was this what being out of control felt like? But what would happen afterward? She frowned, tensing. What if this was just his way of getting his rocks off, using her then abandoning her? It wasn’t unlikely. He’d said he didn’t want a relationship. “Ginnie.” His voice, a warning. “I don’t think I can…this way.” “You’re thinking too much. You know what the solution to that is?” She really wanted to know. “Tell me.” “Stop thinking.” He ran a hand up her leg. “Feel.” He leaned over, kissed her again. His hand toyed with legs, then her upper thighs, fingers teasing all around where she wanted them most. It did indeed drive the thoughts from her head. He laughed at her frustrated sounds and brought his other hand into play on her nipples. She gasped. Where on earth was she supposed to focus her attention? Her nipples sent fiery messages of lust straight to her core. Harry’s other hand played her like a puppet maestro intimately familiar with his marionette’s levers and strings. On top of all that, aftershocks from his kisses kept hitting her, tingling on her skin and vibrating in slow sensual waves to her stomach. Butterflies on steroids. All she had to do was remember Harry’s tongue in her mouth and she felt an eager warmth between her legs. It was as if he commanded her very mind to reject all doubt. Her breath came in short pants. The feel of his large warm fingers gliding against the juncture of her thighs tore a whimper from her. He moved in close, giving himself more leverage and allowing his taut body to brush against hers. His breath felt hot against her throat. His chest burned against her wherever it touched.

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The hottest conflagration was happening lower. His fingers felt mobile and deadly. But he wouldn't use his fingers the way she wanted him to. Harry wouldn’t be hurried. He continued the rhythmic stroking, the contrasting sensations making her muscles tremble and tense. “Please,” she begged finally, the word ripped from her. She thought she felt him grin against her neck, but suddenly all her awareness flamed to ashes as he worked his fingers just right. The deliberate manipulation jerked a small scream out of her, wordless and primal. “I thought you might like that.” Too soon, he paused. She heard the crinkle of foil, and then his fingers were replaced by something much larger. With a single, almost painful thrust, he made sure coherent thought remained an impossibility. Filling and stretching her, he felt wide and hard and deep, even better than she remembered. Ginnie wrapped her legs around him to draw him closer. “Open your eyes.” She shook her head. She was enjoying too much the tingles of want that surged through her, savoring the sensation of his hard body atop hers, of being taken just the way she’d hoped. His rougher skin slid against hers, foreign and erotic as he penetrated her deeply. The degree to which she responded stunned her. “Open your eyes, Ginnie.” “I don’t want to. I love this.” She felt him burying himself in her to the hilt, the meltingly sensual sensation of his hips working between her thighs, the intimate slap of flesh where she was most sensitive. Her desire for him overrode everything else. Harry laughed. She clenched around him and was rewarded by the jump in his muscles. His soft, suggestive laughter turned to a groan. She thrust against him, grinding shamelessly. He stopped. Her eyes flew open. “Hey!” she protested. “That’s better.” He supported himself with his arms and stared into her eyes as he began to move again. She found she couldn’t look away. He filled her. “I want you to see me now.” He withdrew. “I like your knowing I’m making you feel these things.” He pinched one of her nipples as he filled her again. Ginnie cried out, but managed to hold his gaze. She saw what he wanted her to see, in his steady, commanding stare. She saw the fire of his lust. She also saw something more, a shadow of something

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darker. Old hurt and betrayal and anger. It mingled with his look of hot desire so she couldn’t be sure, but there was something lonely that seemed to call out to her. Was she meant to see that? Either way, such vulnerability paired with his intense gaze and masterful lovemaking brought her right to the brink. “Oh, I want you, I want you like this always,” she told him fiercely. He felt so wonderful. She pulled him close, her hands raking his strong back and clutching his smooth buttocks. He was so perfect, so caring, so knowing. She filled her mind with the wonder of him, and what he made her feel. “Always, always, always…ah!” she cried out, closing her eyes involuntarily, and felt him thrust fast and deep as they were both hurled past the point of no return. It felt like shattering into a billion glowing stars.

From his private jet, Harry gazed at the dramatic mountains and striking glaciers and greenery of the unspoiled paradise below. But all he could see was his glaring mistake. He’d strayed from his own selfimposed guidelines. And Ginnie would pay the price of it. He’d broken his own rules. Rules he’d put into place after Jaye Rae used the power he’d given her to reduce him to magazine gossip fodder, an outcast from his former friends, a recluse by choice. He still felt rage at that injustice and sorrow for the trust he’d lost, not just in his ex-fiancée, but in all women. Not to mention everyone who’d believed her lies even for a second. He couldn’t risk anything like that again. It wasn’t necessary. Mind over matter. He prided himself on making rational decisions, and he told himself he was making one now. The rising spring sun turned the five-hundred-mile Inside Passage waterways a vibrant ruby, and bathed the mountains in brilliant purples and grays and blues. Southeast Alaska presented itself to his discerning eye, a dramatically contrasting landscape of jagged peaks, blue-white glaciers, emerald forests and untouched seas. Wild. Harsh. Different from Portland’s more temperate climate. The island he was considering for purchase came into view. Glacier-carved fjords extended into granite-ledged misty mountains. It was small, but accessible by floatplane, helicopter or boat. Wildlife reportedly abounded. Ginnie had moved like a wild thing beneath him the night before. How had Ginnie wormed her way so far into his head? Every detail of her body was carved into his memory. Her scent. Her sounds. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, even when he was a thousand miles away.

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Harry hit the side of the plane, cursing. “Sir?” “Yes?” Harry snapped, then shook his head. No need to take it out on the staff. It wasn’t their fault. What was the flight attendant’s name? “Yvonne,” he remembered. “I’d be grateful for another coffee. And have the pilot take us around the island five or six times. I want to look at it.” “Yes, sir.” Ginnie had been glorious, the way she’d given over sexual control to him. He wished he didn’t feel so damn touched that she trusted him. When she’d repeated the word “always” toward the end, he’d felt their minds reach a strange synchronicity, as if following the tempo of their bodies binding themselves together, never wanting it to end. Always. Forever. It had scared the hell out of him. For most of the year, he’d been craving the ideal of being master of his domain, without a care except his work—the thing he had absolute control over. Never again would he have to worry about former friends or colleagues rejecting him. Never again would he have to experience the particularly hurtful betrayal of a woman—one he’d loved. With all the money he’d made by selling off much of Sharpe Industries and the significant amount he made and would continue to make as a real estate investor and financial planner, he could attain his goal of perfect peace and security, surrounded by nature and beauty, without a concern in the world. He could fly to Portland headquarters once per month, just to make sure his company was implementing his wishes, but the bulk of his workload could be handled electronically. Maybe money couldn’t buy happiness, but it sure as hell could buy off problems and uncertainty. He could build a magnificent mansion near that slender ribbon of river he could see just off the balcony and wire the whole house for optimum connectivity and security. He’d do some of the construction labor himself, of course. He found it soothing, on occasion, to apply his knowledge of housing structure in the most fundamental fashion. Building a house. And on that lake he saw down there, he’d have a fishing boat. He probably wouldn’t build that one. He didn’t know boats inside and out the way he knew houses. There would be nothing but open sky and trees and wild animals to bother him. No neighbors within sight or sound. No children. Nobody. Harry wondered how the repairs on Ginnie’s rental house were coming along. He’d kissed her goodbye in the morning as she’d slept. She’d murmured a little and turned onto her back, right in the middle of the bed. He’d been tempted to crawl back under the covers and move her back to her own side, in his own special way.

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No! he told himself firmly. Look at the slope of the hill to the southeast, see how it settles into a verdant meadow? That would be the perfect place for a stable, and a garage for a small plane and a helicopter, and a snowmobile for the wintertime. No neighbors even within driving distance. If he ever did crave companionship, people were only as far away as a short helicopter ride. Ginnie thought he was beginning a relationship with her, but he wasn’t. He wouldn’t. Loving her would be as bad a risk as a high-growth stock in a bear market. He wasn’t about to chance another manipulative woman fighting dirty to gain control over him the moment things weren’t going her way. He couldn’t go through that again. “Take us down in Juneau,” he commanded abruptly. He’d put his money on the island before he could change his mind. It would be suitable for him, perfect for the recluse he intended to remain. Harry gazed down at his remote future home until it receded into Southeast Alaska’s mists. If only Ginnie would fade as easily from his mind.

“That’s so…naughty.” Lara covered her eyes, leaving plenty of gap between her fingers. Ginnie watched her as Lara continued to peek at the worker. “Is it safe to look yet?” Ginnie asked after a few moments. “Not yet.” Lara grinned, then, surprisingly, raised her hand above her head. She waved. “You didn’t just wave to him. Tell me you didn’t just wave to him.” Lara laughed, unrepentant. “I just waved to him. Wow, you can see his hunka-hunka all the way from here.” “Still?” “I’m pretty sure he’s giving me a show, at this point. Either that or he really had to go badly.” “Some show! He’s peeing on my daffodils!” “At least they’re yellow.” Lara cocked her head. “The repaired automated sprinkler system will rinse ’em off.” Ginnie felt suddenly proud of her new friend. “You remembered I have an auto sprinkler system. You’re fixing everything back to better than it was before. You’re not even the property manager.” “I am now.” Lara grinned. “They promoted me. And, unlike Darlene, I did my homework and I know my stuff. And I have a conscience. You need friends in a situation like this.” Lara gave Ginnie a frank stare. “You could use the allies, being in a new state by yourself and all. Especially now.” The surge of gratitude shook Ginnie. Her emotions were on one monster of a roller coaster ride, between the wrecked house, Rick and, of course, Harry. Lara’s kind words were more of a comfort than she knew. “Thank you.”

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“Least I can do. Besides, where else am I going to find such a fine concentration of man-candy construction workers?” Ginnie muttered a comment about toilet training. Lara emitted an unladylike bark of laughter. “They’re wild, they’re really hot, there’s a couple dozen of them and they’re probably a lot of fun. Construction workers usually are.” “Slut!” But Ginnie grinned. “Mr. Golden Showers over there isn’t in construction,” Lara continued, ignoring her. “He’s part of the landscaping crew. Clearly he missed his calling. He should have been a plumber.” Both women cracked up. Ginnie never saw the men approach, though she thought Lara had. It was in her mischievous smile and the glint in her eyes. “Hi, ladies.” Ginnie blushed. She recognized the work boots on Mr. Golden Showers. She raised her gaze to his friend rather than him. “Howdy,” said the cute, curly-haired worker. “I’m Ed, and this is my friend Burton.” Ed winked at her. “I’m Ginnie. I used to live in this house.” Ginnie wasn’t at all attracted to Ed, though his looks were blameless and he seemed nice. “I have a boyfriend,” she blurted out. An awkward silence descended. Thankfully, Lara smoothly took over the conversation, flirting with both men while including Ginnie with easy, socially bubbly graciousness. For her part, Ginnie admired Lara once again, this time for her outgoing social skills with two strange men—one of whom had inadvertently flashed her. She hoped it was inadvertent. Though Lara was right, it was pretty funny. As Ginnie stood witnessing their banter, controlling nothing and no one, she realized the old tension hadn’t gripped her. No sense of powerlessness compelled her to interrupt or direct their exchange. Which was a good thing. When it came to how to manage workers who peed on your foliage then flirted with you, Ginnie hadn’t a clue. Clearly Lara did. After the workers went back to breaking down two-by-fours to make them easier to transport, Lara shook her head. “They’re too transparent. I mean, you waggle your meat at me, you better at least make an honest effort to move the conversation beyond sex. What did he think, that I was just going to lie down in the bushes?” “Pee-stained bushes.” “And you.” Lara wheeled on her, mock severe. “A boyfriend? You have a boyfriend?” She looked at her watch. “We have awhile before the city permit people are due to get here. Come on.” They walked.

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“Aside from your crumbled abode,” Lara quipped, “which will be fixed up much better than new, this is actually a lovely neighborhood. Darlene was right about that, at least. So. What’s this about your having a boyfriend? Harry, right? I was afraid of this.” “You did warn me. But he’s just…he’s it, Lara. He’s the one.” “Oh, no.” Lara stopped walking and turned to face Ginnie. “He’s still a workaholic who doesn’t want a relationship. Right? Has that changed?” Ginnie remained silent. He hadn’t even been there when she’d woken up. “I didn’t think it had. He’s emotionally unavailable. He won’t change, and you can’t make him. Oh, babe, don’t look like that.” Lara appeared pained. “Maybe I’m wrong. I probably am. Look at the specimens I’ve got sniffing after me.” She nodded toward Ginnie’s backyard, coaxing a smile. “Speaking of specimens, I had a bigger prize than Golden Showers come after me last night,” Ginnie said. “My ex dropped by and tried to drag me home with him!” Lara’s shocked astonishment was gratifying. Ginnie told the story, finishing with, “And then Harry got all protective in front of me and told Rick, ‘Get in your car, drive away, and don’t come back.’ It was so romantic.” Ginnie felt all melty, remembering. “You have it bad.” Lara was grave. “You need to get your mind off Harry. Sure we can’t double-date some cute construction workers? Some fun surveyor dudes, or sizzling-hot electricians?” She looked at the men buzzing around Ginnie’s house-in-progress, then back to her hopefully. “C’mon, it’ll be good for you.” Privately Ginnie was convinced Lara just wanted the excuse to sample the workers, like trying on new clothes. She was clearly man-crazy. Maybe even too eager. It seemed odd she’d have to be, considering how pretty, likeable and vivacious Lara was. Ginnie said, “With my new job, I’m not going to have time for any man. Oh, I forgot to tell you!” She beamed with delight, happily sharing the good news of her new position as a freelance puppeteer. “It’s a fraction of the pay, but I’m already so much happier. Doing puppet shows for kids, challenged kids and mentally handicapped adults is the kind of thing I’ve always wanted to do. So gratifying. I have The Frog Prince and some private birthday parties to do, but the first big school auditorium show is next month.” “Yeah? That’s fabulous! Open to the public? Maybe I’ll bring a date,” Lara said, once more eyeing the workers. “Go for it,” Ginnie said, even as Lara excused herself to go talk to a shirtless roofer. Maybe Harry would want to come. The thought made her heartbeat speed up. It wasn’t completely the excitement of being around him, though that alone was plenty to get her blood pumping. It was the idea of him choosing to be a part of her life. Supporting her. Feeling proud of her. Accepting her—unconditionally.

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Seeing him in the audience, interacting with the kids, grinning and laughing at the marionette’s antics… Harry, whole and healed and accepting her as she was. It was a thought to bring tears to her eyes. Their physical relationship was compelling enough, even astonishing, but there was more to Harry, something that made her heart warm and seem to expand whenever she thought of meeting his gaze or being touched by those clever hands of his. She’d never known anyone else like him. Ginnie ached with longing. Was it too good to be true?

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Chapter Eight

Ginnie adjusted the amplification during intermission. She checked the microphone positions, the lighting and, lastly, the music queue. Wouldn’t do to launch into a Fang, the Too-Long-Tooth Chipmunk set with the soundtrack to Pokem Bellies. She’d performed singly before. A one-woman show was nothing new to her. But this… She had to admit she was worried. She paced behind her portable ten-by-ten stage, resisting the urge to again peek through the crack in the heavy velvet curtains at the children seated on the blanket in front. She was afraid she’d see the apathetic, drooling face of the birthday boy still staring at a space on the ground in front of him. What had she been thinking? To believe she was ready to go freelance even part of the time, performing for a specialty audience that probably required ten times her level of experience? She’d kicked off the birthday show with Pinocchio, the most famous marionette of all time, telling lies until his nose grew so long it popped his own birthday balloon (she’d inserted a small needle at noseend, just to make sure of the effect). The show was supposed to proceed with Pinocchio going from child to child until one of them gave him a replacement balloon, at which point the generous child was rewarded with ten larger balloons. A fun show, with a valuable lesson for the kids to remember. Only, these kids had reacted badly to Pinocchio’s nose. When he approached them for a balloon, they ran screaming. It became clear they were afraid of being impaled by the balloon-killing needle nose. Ginnie was forced to cut the set short and give every child extra balloons, just to calm them. The Pokem Bellies starred The Pokem Brothers, who never, ever laughed. They didn’t know how. The two marionettes discovered their ability to laugh when one accidentally poked the other in the belly. Soon they were poking each other in the belly, evoking more and more laughter, and then they invited audience participation. At least that set had gone over well. The birthday boy had smiled vaguely, and the soundtrack had others boogying in their spots and slapping the ground when they weren’t poking each other in the belly. She had to wow them in the last act. Ginnie started the music for The Magic Show. Three puppets contended for the prize of being voted the best magician. First, The Fat Lady ambled out, taking up much of the stage. At a drum roll, she blew bubbles out of her ear.

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Ginnie heard one or two people clap. Swallowing nervously, she manipulated the second marionette onto the stage. John the Tall proved he could make a coin disappear from a glass, using only a handkerchief and a piece of colored construction paper. Only one person clapped. Ginnie was pretty sure it was the birthday boy’s mom. Feeling the sickening moistness of flop sweat on her upper lip, Ginnie trotted out the last contestant, Little Jeffrey. The likeable freckled marionette waited for the drum roll, then opened his chest to remove a large speckled jellybean! Nobody clapped. Nobody. Ginnie walked the marionette forward with numbed fingers. Little Jeffrey held out the jellybean to the birthday boy, who took it indifferently, put it into his mouth and chewed. He immediately made a face and spat it out. Enough of a professional not to react, Ginnie simply ran through the rest of the set, getting the three puppets on stage all at once for the birthday boy to vote for the one with the best magic trick. “Is it…The Fat Lady?” Ginnie dragged the large puppet ponderously back and forth. Silence. She picked up the strings for John the Tall. “How about…John the Tall?” Silence. Ginnie’s heart plunged. This was a total disaster. Still, the show had to go on. “Then, it must be…Little Jeffrey and his jellybean trick!” The birthday boy scuffed a shoe against the other. It was enough. “Little Jeffrey it is! The winner and all-time Abracadabra champ! Yay!” Ginnie made the marionette boogie his way from the stage, reminded suddenly of Harry dancing his puppet with hers. Back when she’d thought she was a good puppeteer, a solid performer. A vast despair filled her. She’d bombed. “Excuse me?” Ginnie turned, trying to paste a smile on her face. The mother of the birthday boy stood before her. Probably wanted to ask for her money back, Ginnie thought, and who could blame her? She’d brought the little guy with her, Ginnie noticed. He hid half behind his mother’s khaki-covered leg, half of one small fist crammed in his mouth. “Hi there,” Ginnie said to him. The mother cleared her throat. “I know,” Ginnie began. “Let me just go get your original check—”

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“Pokem Bellies,” said the birthday boy. The mother startled Ginnie by whirling and sinking to her knees before him. “Oh, honey.” Ginnie stared, confused. “Pokem Bellies, Pokem Bellies.” He poked himself in the belly and looked pleased with himself. The mother looked up. Tears ran down her face. “He’s never spoken before. Not actual words. He’s finally… I never thought he’d…” She raised her hands to her face, wiped her eyes. “Thank you,” she breathed. “Oh.” Ginnie got it. “He’s never said anything before? At all?” “No.” The look of pure joy the mother turned on her made Ginnie feel strange. Giddy. She hadn’t been a flop after all. “You’re welcome,” she said feelingly. “I’m so very, very glad for you.” The mother suddenly enveloped her in a hug. “Your show is a miracle. You’re a miracle.” Affection for this caring woman suffused Ginnie. If only she could have as sweet and emotional a mother. “You’re very welcome. I’m glad the show helped.” “It’s wonderful. I’m going to tell everyone in the Portland chapter of Challenged Learning to give you a call.” After the woman and her son walked away, Ginnie stared after them for a moment. The exhilaration she felt wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while, she knew. “I’m a miracle,” she said softly to herself. Suddenly she boogied, much like her puppet had earlier. Fists clenched, eyes shut, gyrating wildly in a victory dance of one. That done, Ginnie broke down the ten-by-ten stage, then packed and loaded up her Volkswagen. She felt like celebrating, and she couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather share her good news with than Harry. She’d make him dinner again. She smiled, remembering what had happened later in the evening the last time she’d cooked for him. Then the smile slid from her face. If only her mother weren’t flying in to see her in a few days, her life would be pretty close to perfect.

“You’re cooking again.” Ginnie looked up from where she stirred the wine cream sauce into the perfectly sautéed shrimps and scallops. Harry’s expression, like his voice, was neutral. She was struck again with how handsome he was. “Hi, stranger.” She continued stirring, dancing a little to the rhythmic beat of one of Harry’s CDs. “Have a nice business trip?” “It was illuminating.” He looked at her. “What’s the occasion?”

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“I wanted to celebrate.” Harry didn’t offer her a hug, or a smile, but he did move a little closer to the bar stools lining up against the far counter. It put him almost within reach. “You seem happy,” he stated. She grinned. “I am happy.” She told him about the puppet show. “And the woman hugged me, Harry. She said I was a miracle.” Astonished and delighted anew at the memory, Ginnie almost forgot to add the shallots. “I wanted to thank you for your help. If it wasn’t for your advice, I never would have thought to do shows on my own.” “I never advised you to do that.” “That’s what I mean. You gave me your prudent, sensible advice. You told me to be careful and start small. So, I did the opposite.” Ginnie smiled at him. “I couldn’t be happier, and it’s all because of your advice.” Harry stared at her for a moment, then moved toward the liquor cabinet. “We’re having Pinot Gris with dinner,” she told him. “That’s nice. I’m having scotch now.” He pulled out a couple of glasses. “Want one?” She shrugged. “Sure.” She tapped the wooden spoon, set it between the gas burners and plucked the filled glass from his hand. “To new beginnings.” He looked at her, then he finished his with three swallows. She sipped from her own glass, admiring his strong neck, defined chest and broad shoulders. He wore a delightfully snug knit shirt. Cashmere, probably. Something that begged to be stroked. Much like she had the night before. She smiled a secret smile, gazing boldly into his eyes. “Smells good in here,” he said suddenly, moving away from her. Toward the source of the scent. Then back to the counter, where he stood as if uncomfortable. And back to the stove. “Nice,” he said, poking the wooden spoon at some shrimp. Then back to the counter. “Ginnie, I’m glad you’re happy. I got you something,” he said suddenly. “When I was on the business trip.” Ginnie stared at him as if he’d turned into someone else. In a way, he had. Harry seemed awkward. Uncomfortable. And he’d brought her a gift? “Okay, what’s wrong?” she asked him. “Nothing.” He didn’t quite smile. “Stay here,” he commanded, and left the kitchen. “Not going anywhere,” she told the air where he’d stood. Or was she going somewhere? Ginnie frowned. She knocked back the rest of her scotch. Harry was the most confusing, opaque, and, yes, handsome and heroic man she’d ever spent time with. But she didn’t understand him at all. They were so very different.

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What did she have to offer him, besides the food and fun angle? And he’d said he didn’t want a relationship. She kept forgetting. It was so easy to forget, with all the relationship-type activity going on. He probably hadn’t forgotten, though. His gift was probably to say good-bye. A jewelry memento, maybe, or something practical for her repaired rental, like a cordless drill. Maybe a rice cooker. Ginnie opened the chilled wine, poured, tasted. It was good, she decided as she finished the glass and poured a fresh one. It would numb the expected hurt. She prepared the plates, no longer enjoying the meal’s delicate scent. She lit the single, tapered candle, unfolded her napkin in her lap and waited. Harry returned holding a long, awkwardly paper-wrapped bundle by its top and bottom. “I wasn’t sure how to wrap this,” he confessed, holding it out, but by that time its shape told her what it was. “Oh!” She rose, her napkin slipping to the floor. She couldn’t take her eyes off the package and reached without thinking for the wooden handle at the top of the bundle. “A marionette!” Her heart hurt, but in an expanding, aching sort of way that brought happy tears to her eyes. “You’re actually giving me a marionette.” She held it against herself, as exhilarated as she’d been morose. “It’s not a cordless drill.” He looked at her oddly. “And it’s not a rice cooker.” Harry blinked. “Would you prefer a rice cooker?” “Not in a million years.” She ripped the paper off, carefully, and then suddenly forgot to breathe. “Harry.” “I got it in Alaska.” He got it in Alaska. One of the five most coveted, rare and exquisite pieces of marionette workmanship in the entire world. “Harry, do you know what this is?” “It’s a marionette.” His smile teased. “It’s a Tlinglit. It must have cost you a fortune.” The beautifully painted wood face seemed to move with subtle expressions, it was so cunningly crafted. The hand-carved puppet of a female stood nearly three feet tall, and the control apparatus allowed for a full range of movement, including moving her eyes and her mouth. Ginnie boggled at the attention to detail in the hand-crafted dress and individually punched real hairs. She explained, “Ritual surrounds the creation of a Tlinglit marionette, from the moment the mothers and grandmothers file into the forest to search for a perfect spruce tree, to the ceremonial circling of the tree to pay respects and apologize to it for cutting it into pieces, to the shrouded-in-secrecy formal sacrifice to the wood spirits so they’ll be happy to give their life to the marionette.” She warmed to the story, enjoying his rapt attention. “The native chief’s signature—always down the outer left leg—attests to all of it being done correctly.” Ginnie checked. Yes, the beautiful string puppet was signed. “Ten fortunes. It should be behind thick glass. In a museum.”

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“I hope you like it.” “Like it? I’m in awe of it. I’m scared to death of getting cream sauce on it.” Ginnie carefully placed it on a shelf where she could continue to admire it while they ate. Then she flung herself into Harry’s arms. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He hugged her back enthusiastically. “You’re welcome.”

Later, when they’d finished dinner and washed up, Ginnie taught Harry the rudiments of marionette manipulation down in the basement. “Marionettes can’t move exactly the way human beings can. The human body is very complex, so we have to be content with achieving an approximation of human movement. For example, a dancer would need mainly leg and body movements. And a marionette that lies down to sleep will need extra long strings attached.” She demonstrated with the smooth, incredibly responsive Tlinglit, delighting in its beauty and grace. It almost lived on its own. Harry tried to copy the moves with Little Jeffrey. He managed a passable walk, but the moves were jerky. “Little Jeffrey needs a light touch. Look at how little movement is necessary to give the suggestion of startlement. See how I’m taking my time moving his arm, to show his emotion? All your moves have to be subtle and controlled, to get the best result. Here. Just…suggest, you know. The audience will do the rest. They’ll project. Yes, even that mechanism for his chest, it has to be gentle, to give the impression of his pulling his chest open—you do that with your other hand.” “My left hand is otherwise occupied,” Harry informed her. He made Little Jeffrey’s legs march in place. “And my right.” He made Little Jeffrey’s mouth open and close. Ginnie grinned. “You’re discovering why puppeteering is such a difficult art to master. In some countries where puppetry is more widely revered, people apprentice themselves to masters for fifteen years to learn enough to work a show.” She let the Tlinglit woman glide, elegant and provocative, to Little Jeffrey. Touch his face, a glancing caress. And away, looking back over her shoulder while swaying her hips gently. To her surprise, Harry manipulated Little Jeffrey right after her, shuffling with an open-mouthed, limp-armed, foot-dragging gait that implied total infatuation. Ginnie laughed aloud, delighted. “Yes!” They played, the woman teasing, the clumsy boy clearly struck by Cupid’s arrow. The whole time, Ginnie tried not to read too much into it. Even though it was the second time they’d flirted via puppets, it didn’t necessarily mean anything. He seemed much more relaxed, more open and

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emotive with puppets involved. He seemed…relaxed. Happy. But Harry’s astonishing gift of a masterpiece to her, and their evening spent together, and now this… It didn’t spell a relationship. Was it a date, though, at least? It was dangerous to even think that way, but she couldn’t help it. She was smitten, just like Lara accused. She was head over heels, even more so than Little Jeffrey over the Tlinglit woman. And that was saying something. Little Jeffrey had cornered the Tlinglit woman. He’d gone down to his knees, tugging at the edge of her delicate skirts, looking up pleadingly. Begging for a favor. For a kiss. “Insistent, isn’t he?” Ginnie mused. Her gaze met Harry’s, and she gasped at the heat she saw there. “He likes what he sees.” “He has good taste.” Ginnie made the Tlinglit tremble, as if with emotion. “He does,” Harry replied, looking only at her. The fire in his eyes began to make a cinder of her. Ginnie allowed Little Jeffrey to kiss the Tlinglit woman’s hand. Then she glided her new puppet away. “We don’t always get what we want.” Harry’s hand closed over hers, effectively freezing both of them. “You don’t believe that.” She felt her breath speed up, and her hand trembled under his. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. You’re the one who doesn’t want a relationship.” “You said you didn’t, either.” “I do now.” She watched him carefully. She saw his uneasiness. “But you still don’t.” Harry flung her hand away. Her heart skipped a beat. Then she just hurt with the depth of disappointment she felt. Frustration came off him in waves. “No. But I want you, Ginnie.” He tilted his head, puzzled and angry. It gave him a very predatory look. She wished it didn’t add so much to his appeal. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I wanted to let you go, leave all the complications behind, but I couldn’t get my mind off last night. How it was with you. How you tasted. The way I made you scream—three times.” He glared at her. “So much for conducting business with a Ginnie in my head.” “You make me sound like a disease.” Harry’s eyes were wilder than she’d ever seen them. It still seemed impossible that the man would lose control over himself even for an instant, but for the first time she sensed what it took for him to maintain it. He looked at her, and her body felt suddenly as limp as a neglected marionette. How she wanted his hands on her, manipulating her to heights she’d only ever reached under his skillful ministration. They were meant to be together, couldn’t he see that? She made a small sound of wanting. It was enough.

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With a curse, Harry hung the marionettes on their stand, and then in the same movement pulled Ginnie against him for a savage kiss. All rational thought fled, and she clung to him as he swept her into his arms and carried her to his bed.

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Chapter Nine

“He’s wearing flannel.” “I know.” Ginnie stared at her lover as he helped lift an ornate, carved mantelpiece up the stairs for eventual placement around her rental’s rebuilt fireplace. Harry sure looked like he knew his way around a house. With his well-worn jeans, scuffed leather boots and what appeared to be an old flannel shirt, he seemed one of the workers. The facial hair he’d neglected to shave for a few days added to a certain rough, almost Grizzly Adams appearance. It was an entirely different look. Ginnie watched him hold the heavy wood without apparent effort, wingspan wide and strong, jeanscovered legs in an easy, muscular stance, and suddenly understood Lara’s interest in construction workers. “He looks familiar,” Lara mused. “He just resembles all your other cute blue-collar fellas.” “No, it’s not that.” Lara frowned, staring. “Something about the beard.” “Just a seventy-two hour shadow.” She knew—she’d kissed that face and been pleasantly and thoroughly scraped by the dark jaw and chin and upper lip. It was already the perfect day, and it wasn’t even mid-morning. She had a great new friend in Lara, even if she did scrutinize Harry a touch too intensely. Ginnie’s home was being repaired surprisingly ahead of schedule, according to Lara. The word from on high was to get the house fixed immediately, meticulously, and with no expense spared. That’s how Lara had explained all the extra workers, although even Lara had seemed surprised by the sheer number of people assigned to rebuilding Ginnie’s home. Best of all, Ginnie had Harry. The most handsome and talented lover on earth. Even the sun shone in rays through the clouds, as if to add divine spotlights to a grand romance. Not that Harry saw it quite that way just yet. He still had his unfortunate hang-up about relationships. Poor guy. He didn’t seem to realize he was in one. Finished with his task, Harry sauntered over. He swept her into his arms for a quick kiss. “Hey, beautiful.” Ginnie almost purred with satisfaction. “Hey, handsome.” What did it mean that the scent of his sweat made her want to drag him back into his house? His body against hers brought all kinds of pleasant thoughts to mind.

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“I’m getting you all dirty,” he finally said, grasping her waist as if he couldn’t get enough of her. He glanced at Lara a little guiltily. “Hi there. It’s very nice to see you again.” “I don’t think Ginnie minds. Even if you are pawing at her like a…bear.” He looked at Lara sharply. Ginnie gazed at Harry flirtatiously. “I don’t mind at all. You should have seen us last night.” Lara covered her ears. “Too much information! La la la…” She walked toward the workers, not uncovering her ears until she was out of earshot. “You look like her type now,” Ginnie informed him, running her hand up his flannel-covered chest to stroke his hairy jaw. “Should I be jealous?” “What do you think?” “She’s pretty.” Harry kissed her traveling fingers as they slid over his lips. “Stop fishing for compliments. I might set her up with Todd, though.” Harry looked at Lara speculatively. “She’s not his type, either, but he desperately needs a new type. A change from all the gold-digging plastic graspers. Jaye Rae’s ilk,” he explained. “Todd?” “A guy I work with. A good guy. He’s like family.” At hearing the word family, Ginnie’s heart chilled at least ten degrees. Harry felt her stiffen, and she knew he couldn’t help but notice the smile slide from her face. “What is it?” He chafed her shoulder gently with his thumbs. She focused on the sensation. It soothed, a little. “My mom called a few days ago. She’s flying in tomorrow morning.” Harry’s brows knit together. “Your mom? The same woman who said you’re an idiot for leaving your ex? Are you okay with her visiting?” She laughed, shaky. “Not especially. But, you know. Family.” “Not all family is flesh and blood.” He massaged her some more, then tilted her head up to him. His eyes searched hers. “I’m here for you.” Her heart thawed in an instant. Words of affection and love bubbled up inside her again, but she sealed her lips over them. There was no surer way to freak him out than to tell him what she was starting to feel for him. She contented herself with simply staring into his eyes and sighing. “Hmm.” Harry smiled slightly. “I really like that look.” “Like it enough to, ah, take a break from your hard labors?” Harry’s hand slipped sensuously down her side, settling on the small of her back. He pushed her gently toward his vehicle, a beat-up truck this time. “I’ll show you some hard labors. Very hard.”

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Ginnie walked faster until she was almost pulling him along. “I’m going to hold you to it.” “I’m going to hold you to holding me to it.” He swept her up again and, though she mock-kicked and protested as he carried her to the truck and tossed her into the cab, she couldn’t stop smiling. His arousal, his playfulness and his obvious caring all fed her soul like nothing she’d ever experienced. She wondered what he’d say when she finally told him she loved him.

Harry left her dozing in his bed. Totally worn out, he thought with satisfaction. The afternoon sunshine made fire of the silky brown locks of her hair spread over his pillow, and the smile still on her lips even in sleep made him want to kiss her awake and continue where they left off. But he closed the door softly behind him instead. He had business with Lara down the street. Fortunately the assistant had lingered, flirting with the workers. He followed the sound of their laughter. The woman had discarded her brown briefcase and her jacket on one of the painted wood back steps that led up to the small back deck. Lara, in her torso-hugging, deeply unbuttoned pinstriped shirt and snug black pants, holding forth to an interested half-circle of men, was a commanding sight. Not nearly as commanding as Ginnie would’ve been, of course. But weirdly compelling, in an officegirl-lets-her-hair-down way. She was telling a knock-knock joke. Harry slowed so as not to interrupt. “Knock knock,” she said to a brawny man he’d seen repairing the roof earlier. “Who’s there?” asked the man, playing along. “The interrupting cow.” “The interrupting cow wh—” “Moo!” Lara touched the man’s arm flirtatiously as they all laughed. Harry cleared his throat. “Oh. Hi, Harry.” Lara looked at him, her expression frankly curious. “Could I speak with you privately?” The men grumbled, but when Lara just nodded, they broke up and their attention returned to house repair. “Yes, Harry?” “Sorry to interrupt you.” “That was the cow,” she quipped. She scooped up her jacket, threw it over one arm, then picked up the briefcase.

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They walked. When they were out of earshot of the house, Harry spoke. “You know who I am.” She answered in the same soft tone. “You used to have a beard and moustache. Why are you calling yourself Harry? Not Mister Sharpe, or H. Barrett Sharpe?” Harry frowned. He didn’t like having to explain himself to someone he barely knew. “It’s my real name.” Lara stopped, dropped her briefcase and folded her arms across her chest. “That’s not what I meant. Ginnie doesn’t know she’s dating an infamous real estate tycoon. I should have recognized you sooner. I’m in the biz.” Harry wanted to object. He and Ginnie weren’t dating. His urge to explain the nuances of their…whatever it was…faded as he saw Lara’s narrowed eyes. Not that it was Lara’s business anyway. He started to tell her so, when she said the worst thing she could have. “I know who you are, and I remember the pedophile charge too.” True anger flared up inside him. “Totally baseless,” he hissed. “And I’ve shared that particular bit of slander with Ginnie.” “But you haven’t shared your identity?” Lara cocked her head. “Why not?” “You wouldn’t understand.” He felt a fierce dislike of her. Pushy woman. Way more so than Ginnie. “Try me.” She waited for a moment. “Or should I maybe just ask Ginnie if she knows who you really are?” Harry picked up her briefcase and steered her farther down the sidewalk with a firm grip on her arm. Lara yanked her arm away. “She’s a good person who’s been through a ton of crap. If you’re just playing her along—” “I’m not.” Harry glanced at the sky, seeking strength. He’d have to explain. “Look. Imagine your piles of money made you a target. Not just to gold-diggers, though you get plenty of those. But a target for lawsuits, for shyster reporters, for vengeance. For so-called friends stabbing you in the back the second it looks as if doing it might give them their fifteen minutes of fame. Now, imagine you meet someone you like. Maybe a lot. See where I’m going with this?” “You’re saying you like Ginnie a lot.” “No. Yes. I don’t dislike Ginnie, but that’s not what I’m—” “You don’t dislike her? What a lucky girl.” Harry made himself inhale deeply, twice, then a third time, before he trusted himself not to shout. “You are deliberately provoking me. If you listened to what I’m saying—” “That you’re lying to Ginnie because you’re afraid?” “I’m not afraid!” So much for not shouting. He lowered his voice. “I’m concerned about… Never mind. I can see it’s impossible to communicate with you, so I’m going to stop trying. Good-bye.” “I’ll give you twenty-four hours.”

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Harry was walking away. He stopped. “Excuse me?” “Twenty-four hours. One full day to tell Ginnie the truth. If you don’t, I will.” Lara smiled at him, completely unintimidated by his scowl. “Whatever you’re afraid of…excuse me, concerned about…it’s not worth starting a relationship based on a lie.” Then she was the one to walk away. Harry didn’t have the chance to tell her he wasn’t in a relationship with Ginnie. It was only friendship and some great sex between them. And Ginnie knew it. Ginnie seemed okay with it. Still, Lara’s words made a certain anxious uncertainty uncoil in his gut. He had a day, she’d said. One day until Lara took matters into her own hands and told Ginnie what she knew. He shrugged, tried to tell himself it didn’t matter one way or another. But he couldn’t fool himself. It mattered, or he wouldn’t feel so disturbed. Harry took his time walking back to his house. He noted that Ginnie’s home already looked structurally sound, if still unfinished. The extra workers and their overtime labors he’d funded facilitated excellent progress. It would be the same character-filled bungalow Ginnie’d said she loved, only safer. Some things, money could buy. Many things. But not everything. Harry walked home, trudged up the steps of his porch, but instead of going inside, he leaned against the railing at the top. It allowed an elevated view of most of the surrounding streets. Harry struggled with the uncertainty aroused by Lara’s pointed words. He hadn’t lied to Ginnie. He just hadn’t told her the entire truth, and the reason behind it went all the way back to Jaye Rae. If there was anything in his future with Ginnie—and he wasn’t planning on it, he hastened to assure himself—it hinged on her accepting him for himself. If he had to flaunt his identity as a real estate tycoon to get a woman, she wouldn’t be a woman worth having. As he’d experienced. The nagging doubt in the back of his mind refused to be stilled. Harry slammed his fist against the wood railing. He didn’t need this aggravation, this uncomfortable soul-searching. He’d been content before his tenant’s house fell in on her, and he’d broken his own rule about getting more than superficially involved with a woman. It was time to end it. Well, after Ginnie’s mom visited. She was due to fly up for the day. Ginnie seemed pretty worried about that. After what she’d told him about her mother, he could hardly blame her. It commanded his sympathy, though he couldn’t relate, as he was still on warm terms with his father and his stepmother. His mom’s death had brought him and his father closer together, even as his older brother Zach had spun out, dropped out of school and run away so often he’d kept a packed bag and his rolled-up trench coat in a corner of their shared room, ready to go at a moment’s notice. A rough period of time.

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Harry couldn’t imagine what it must be like to dread a visit from family. Ginnie’s mother must be a piece of work. He’d be there for Ginnie, in case she needed him. But afterward, that was the end. He’d break it to her gently, but he’d do it. He meant it this time too, he told himself as he entered his house, shutting the door quietly and walking lightly toward the bedroom so the noise wouldn’t wake Ginnie. He opened the bedroom door and saw her still sleeping like an angel. Harry grinned as she stirred, the sheet slipping down her chest to uncover her breasts. He could suddenly think of a number of interesting ways to wake her.

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Chapter Ten

With her skinny neck, high, sharp cheekbones and coldly watchful eyes, the woman looked a little like a vulture, Ginnie thought. She wasn’t supposed to have thoughts like that about her own mother, but she couldn’t help it. She’d picked her mom up from Portland International Airport with no problem—the pulled-together blonde with the jewels and fur coat stood out from the Northwest crowd as if she were an aged and shrunken Marilyn Monroe—but the short drive already stifled. Her small Volkswagen filled with cloying perfume until Ginnie cracked a window despite the misting rain that cooled her face. “You’ll catch your death.” Her mother’s gaze took in both the open window and the view through it, managing to convey disdain even in that split-second glance. “It’s nice and cool,” Ginnie replied, though she shivered with a chill deeper than the slightly overcast weather. “Mother, there’s a great brunch place down the street, if you’re hungry.” “Thank you, that’s very thoughtful,” her mom replied with more warmth. “Vernon takes me to the most enchanting bistros and restaurants, only in the best areas of town, of course. He’s a big believer in birds-of-a-feather. You shouldn’t have left so quickly, he was quite disappointed at not being able to meet my only daughter. I had to make an excuse for you. You know, he shows every sign of sticking around, unlike your father. Additionally, he gets on with Rick quite well. You’ll like him.” She’d hate him. “I’m glad you’re happy. So, food?” “Later,” her mother said, waving her bejeweled hand. “Let’s find out how much of a problem you’ve made for yourself this time.” Ginnie’s temper flared. But before she could make any reply, she turned off the street into the residential neighborhood. “Oh, this isn’t too terrible,” Constance murmured, gazing at the larger houses and well-kept yards. “This is your neighborhood?” “Mmm-hmm.” She took a savage pleasure in her mother’s gasp when she pulled over in front of her small, still-damaged house. “Oh no. It’s…” “It’s where I lived. I told you it was a work in progress. I’ll live there again when it’s fixed.” “At what cost?” Constance gazed at her, her overplucked eyebrows raised. At Ginnie’s silence, a small smile played about her thin, painted mouth. “You don’t know? Hmm. Why am I not surprised? The

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first thing to find out is what this will cost. I see quite a few workers. That costs money. You should know how much, to determine the starting figure for your lawsuit.” “It’s covered, Mother. I’m not filing any lawsuit.” “It doesn’t matter, dear. You’ll talk to my lawyer.” Ginnie’s lungs felt suffocated. “I need air.” She unfastened her seatbelt and lurched out of the car. Constance followed more gracefully, shutting the door with a moue of distaste. “With all the rain up here, one would think it would wash the dirt off your vehicle. At least the humidity will be good for your skin.” She swept up the driveway without a backward glance. Ginnie followed, feeling as if all the strength had gone out of her. As a child, she’d tried countless times to win her mother’s approval. As an adult, she’d tried countless more. Tried and failed. Ginnie looked at the back of her mother’s perfectly coifed blonde hair—not a curl out of place—and felt her head begin to throb. How was it that her mother made her feel like an awkward young girl again? Like a teenager who just wanted her mom to be proud of her. “I know you develop attachments, dear,” her mother called over her shoulder. “But have you considered the options? Drumming up a lawsuit in response to severely defective housing is advisable. One must occasionally do what one must, make difficult choices in order to claim a comfortable life. Even if it means leaving attachments behind.” “Kind of like what Dad did?” Ginnie muttered softly, but Constance turned quickly, as if she’d heard. “Rick misses you. You did a foolish thing, leaving him, you know. But fortunately he forgives you. He told me.” “Mother,” Ginnie began tiredly. “Why are you here? To talk me into moving back in with Rick?” At that moment, one of the larger, shaggier construction workers emerged from her house, wiping sweat and sawdust from his face with a dirty flannel sleeve. “Hello, Ginnie.” It was Harry. Ginnie grinned at him, her burden of hurt lifting for a moment. He wore the same broken-in jeans as yesterday, or similar ones, and his facial shadow had grown into the beginning of a full beard. He looked completely disreputable. She’d never been happier to see anyone. Her mother’s voice intruded. “You’re lucky to have a man who cares about you so much.” For a moment, she thought her mother meant Harry. Her mother’s gaze took in the house and the busy workers, gliding over Harry as if he wasn’t there before turning her most exasperated look on her. “Rick told me he drove all the way up here to fetch you. And you ungratefully told that loyal man to turn around and drive all the way back. I’d have thought you’d be smarter than to abandon him. You’re just like your father.” Ginnie felt as if her heart just got ripped out and shredded before her eyes. And Harry was a witness. Her face heated with embarrassment.

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“I’m just going to…” She stumbled away from her mother. “Please excuse me,” she said, trying to speak around the prickly lump that suddenly grew in her throat. “You reap what you sow, missy! I told you nothing good would come of it, and look.” Constance waved her arm at Ginnie’s house. “I was right. Just you look!” Ginnie looked at her house, but couldn’t see anything but blurs due to the tears in her eyes. One of the closer blurs was probably Harry. Ginnie groaned, a deep sound locked behind her lips. She turned away and fled down the sidewalk toward the shelter of Harry’s house.

Harry stared at Ginnie’s mother. His hands itched to slap her, and he’d never felt like slapping a woman before, not even Jaye Rae. But he had to go after Ginnie. Still he stared, as if at a spider. He’d never witnessed such cruelty before. The witch addressed him. “You. You’re working on this house. Who’s in charge of handling the paperwork?” “That would be me,” Lara answered before Harry spoke. She emerged from the porch shadows and descended the steps. “Lara Hueudepohl, from the property management agency. And this is Harry, the, ah, foreman.” “Constance Greenwalt,” she replied, her gaze remaining on Lara. “Yes. My attorneys will be looking into this matter. Clearly there are actionable items. My daughter, dunce though she is, has a solid case.” Harry’s rage, long simmering, finally boiled over. “Ginnie is your daughter, and you made her cry.” He stared at the woman as if he wasn’t quite sure what she was. “It wasn’t enough that Ginnie’s house collapsed. Or that she’s new to town, hardly has any friends here and she’s fresh from a painful breakup. You have to go and make her cry. What the hell kind of mother are you?” “She needs looking after,” Constance said, defensive, but her eyes flicked, uncertain, from Harry to Lara. “Rick provided that for her. Ginnie never could take care of herself. You say you’re the foreman?” “Ginnie can take care of herself just fine. She’s running her own business, a successful one, did you know that? She’s smart and she’s good.” “The puppets?” she sneered. “It’s time she stopped playing with toys. She needs to grow up.” “Grow up into a miserable, shallow woman like you?” “I think you’re more than the foreman. I think you’re interested in Ginnie.” “More than you are,” Harry bit off, fighting back disgust. “You should know that Ginnie has no interest in underprivileged men. She’s dated them before, but they never last. In that way, she’s not completely stupid. In that way, she’s just like me. She knows how to land a man who can provide the lifestyle to which she’s accustomed.” Her look told him she didn’t consider him even remotely qualified.

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Even as Harry silently counted back from twenty to keep from strangling the woman, a small sliver of doubt wedged itself in his brain. Was Ginnie a gold-digger? He’d vanquished that doubt, only to have this…this excuse of a mother raise it again. It was the same old, cold specter of doubt, like a decaying body that just wouldn’t allow itself to be buried. For the way she’d managed to insert such a taint, his dislike for Constance flared into something approaching true loathing. “We have a problem,” he told her, biting off his words carefully to keep from saying more than he meant to. “Ginnie deserves a mother. You had better start acting like one.” “Or what?” Ginnie’s mom put on a bored air. “Or you’ll beat me with your dirty laborer fists?” Oh, she was asking for it. Harry looked at Lara to verify. Lara nodded, shrugged. The woman needed a takedown. But Harry had more negotiation savvy than this horrible woman, who didn’t deserve a daughter as brilliant, as alive and wonderful as Ginnie. “Or I’ll seduce her. Oh yes,” he said, taking in her sudden frown. “You saw the way she was looking at me. I’ll just go comfort her now. Wipe her tears and give her a cuddle. Then I’ll rip her clothes off. She’ll love every minute. She’ll be walking bow-legged for a week.” He felt a tiny bit ashamed at the worry in the woman’s face as he spoke. But he had to admit he mostly enjoyed her shocked gasp when he got to bow-legged. Even Lara was coughing, trying to hide her laughter. Harry looked at Constance. “Is that what you want for Ginnie?” Constance shook her head frantically. “Then show some nurturing qualities. Be a mother. You might even find it fulfilling.” He stepped closer, inhaling the woman’s cloying perfume and trying not to gag. “But whatever you do, don’t make Ginnie cry again. If you do, I’ll make you a grandma. Many times over. Ginnie’ll live in my trashy singlewide. It’s a small trailer, but it’s home. You won’t be able to stay overnight.” “I… I…” “You’re right, where’s the hospitality in that? You can sleep on the couch. Just push the cats and dogs aside if they get too aggressive. They have to sleep somewhere too, you know, and it helps a body to stay warm in cold Portland winters. They’re mostly housebroken.” “Oh.” Constance backed slowly away, as if from a snake. “I kind of hope you decide to keep being mean to Ginnie.” Harry watched her back away then turn to walk quickly toward Ginnie’s car. “I really do. Ginnie’s a hot piece of—” “Harry.” Lara’s voice, laughing. “I think that’s enough.” Harry watched Constance enter the passenger side of Ginnie’s car, shut the door and immediately get on her cell phone. “Yeah.” Harry turned away from the sight. He went to go after Ginnie.

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Lara’s hand on his arm restrained him. Stars danced in her eyes. “That was pretty wonderful. You really do like Ginnie.” “Don’t you get her hopes up,” Harry warned. “I like her, but I’m not her knight in shining armor.” “Uh-huh.” Lara’s expression changed. “There’s a bit of pressure to get this house finished quickly. I’d wondered about all the urgent pressure for this job. Money no object, questions not encouraged. Of course you’re funding it.” Harry looked at her. “My trailer-boy act didn’t convince you, huh?” “It was pretty good. For a multi-millionaire.” “Are you going to inform Ginnie about the funding? And about my name?” “Are you?” she shot back. “First things first,” he snapped, still feeling angry at Ginnie’s mom. He pulled his arm free and kept walking. “Excuse me.” Ginnie needed him.

The knocking on the bathroom door made her stiffen with alarm, until she heard Harry’s soft voice. “I’m here.” “Just a sec. I’m, ah, fixing my mascara.” She blinked at the mirror. Pale brownish-black streaks rimmed the bottoms of her eyes and upper cheeks. The whites of her eyes were pink, and her flesh looked blotchy. Pathetic. Grimly, she wet a washcloth and made what repairs she could. She smoothed her hair. Better. She braced herself for Harry’s scorn and opened the bathroom door. “Hey.” He knocked the breath out of her, he moved in and hugged her so fast and tight. She tried to speak, but it came out only as a squeak. “Hush.” Harry relaxed his hold, but the brief tight squeeze had done worlds to bolster her spirit. Which levered her up from misery to aching unhappiness. Not to mention embarrassment. She snuggled into his broad chest, inhaling Harry-scent, glad she didn’t have to meet his gaze. He murmured against her hair. “Are you okay?” “She’s still here.” “So that’s a no.” Ginnie snorted laughter, but it was sad laughter. She forced herself to look into his eyes. “I’m sorry.” Instead of the scorn she’d feared, she saw friendly compassion. “It’s not your fault. You can’t choose your parents.”

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“No, I’m sorry for leaving you with her.” “Oh, that. Nope, unforgivable.” He tilted her mouth up to his and kissed her. “Completely inexcusable.” A gentle flicker of tongue on her earlobe. “There will be no pardon. I’m just going to take it out of your hide. If that’s acceptable to you.” He lifted her against him, letting her feel exactly how he’d take his recompense. Then he kissed her again, deep and wet and hard, until she trembled with desire. “Ginnie, I want you. You know what I think of being in a relationship, but you bring out the romantic in me. I want to get naked right now and have you up on the bathroom counter. I can’t help wanting you, and wanting to be with you. You’re like no one I’ve ever known. You’re smart, talented, stubborn, sensitive and totally passionate.” He kissed her again. Oh, how she loved him. The words hovered in her heart, then in her throat, then on the tip of her tongue as he nibbled on her lip gently. He moved against her, and she moaned. She wanted nothing more than to share the kind of lovemaking with him that would pound every other thought out of her head. But she pulled away. “Yes?” The bass of his voice vibrated from his chest into hers, a pleasurable rumble. “She’s still out there. My mother.” Ginnie regretfully extricated herself. “It’s the last thing I want to do, but I should keep her company this afternoon, until her flight back. Oh, she’s going to rip me a new one for this. She’ll say I fell apart, that I’m weak, that I’m a helpless, hopeless mess and not at all like her. I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t knock me out and pack me into her carry-on to get me back to Rick.” Ginnie tried to make her voice light and amused, but she didn’t think she succeeded. It wasn’t fear of her mother that she felt, but a bone-deep tiredness. Her nerves always got a workout around Constance, but never quite this badly. “She’s going to savage me.” “I don’t think she will.” “You sound awfully confident about that.” Ginnie scrutinized him. “Do you know something I don’t?” “I just don’t think she will. But she is right about one thing.” At Ginnie’s look, he said, “It’s true that you’re not like her. You aren’t. You’re better in every way.” “I hope you’re right.” “Would you leave your daughter alone when she’s upset? Last I saw your mother, she was. Just sitting in your car, using a cell phone.” “Oh no. I need to get going. She’ll be furious at having to wait.” Harry stopped her as she went by. “Ginnie. Don’t let her push you around or make you feel bad. You’re not like her. You’re not. Really. Okay?” Then, as if he couldn’t resist himself, he kissed the tip of her nose. “Okay.” Ginnie smiled, feeling better. It was as if his words actually held magic to heal years’ worth of conflict with her mother.

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It was an amazing testament to his power over her. Ginnie lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t see how shaken it made her feel. He simply had no idea of his effect on her. He would be terrified to know. Still, she had to tell him. Soon.

“The mother’s gone?” “The mother is.” Ginnie smiled at Lara, who looked concerned for her. It touched Ginnie. She’d gotten lucky to have a friend like Lara. It was a gift of something precious. She felt suddenly grateful for her luck, to have Lara to talk to rather than the other rental broker, the one who’d started the house mess. Ginnie pointed her key fob at her little car and made it beep to lock up. They both walked toward her bungalow. “She moved her flight time up. But before that…it was so weird. We actually had a civil brunch over at Mascique. Coffee and eggs and conversation. She only mentioned Rick once, and she seemed in a strange mood. I’d say she seemed more motherly, if that weren’t so improbable.” Ginnie pondered, then shrugged. “It was a nice change.” “Maybe she finally figured out she has a daughter and not a clone of herself. Maybe she realizes how much of an ass she’s been. Sorry. But, you know, she’s not exactly nice.” “Not nice at all. She’s vindictive, she’s materialistic and she holds grudges like nobody’s business.” Ginnie strolled up the walk with Lara to view the progress of her house repairs. It reminded her of something else. “She did say something interesting. She was making all kinds of charge-to-war noises about a lawsuit when she first got here. But after a phone call to her attorney, she’s backed off the entire idea. Says it’s inadvisable to sue. She said someone is funding this project to the tune of fifty thousand dollars. The property management company has really good disaster insurance, I guess?” Ginnie looked at Lara inquiringly. “Not exactly.” Lara stared straight ahead. “The repairs are coming along fast. I’m sure you’ve noticed.” She seemed to be looking around for something. Or someone. “It’s actually completely unprecedented, how quickly it’s going,” Lara said, leading Ginnie into the house. They viewed the kitchen. The intact roof blocked off open sky. The women listened to roofers above, their feet crunching against newly laid composite sheets as the men applied shingles to the sheathing. “With multiple bureaucracies and paperwork involved, this just never happens. Ginnie, there’s something I need to tell you.”

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“Um, okay.” Lara’s earnest expression seemed almost as odd as her mother’s niceness. “What is it? Is there a problem with the security deposit?” “Harry should have told you. I asked him to.” Ginnie stared. “What does Harry have to do with it? You’re worrying me, Lara.” “It’s been twenty-four hours. I don’t like how he’s keeping it from you. It’s not fair. That scandal last year doesn’t give him the right to deceive people about who he really is.” “You know about that?” Ginnie gaped at Lara. “The Christmas party disaster with the kid and the reporters?” “Oh yeah. It was in all the headlines, and even on national TV for a couple of days.” “Headlines? National TV?” Were they talking about the same Harry? “But it was just a misunderstanding. No wonder I don’t watch TV anymore. It’s shameful the way they scrape the bottom of the barrel for ratings, slandering a simple businessman that way. If you’re worried that he’s actually a pedophile, Lara, I can assure you he’s not.” Disappointment in her new friend filled her. She’d thought Lara was a better judge of character. “No, no, no,” Lara said. “Oh, Ginnie.” She waved her hands helplessly. “I don’t believe he’s that. But don’t you wonder how a simple businessman got so much news coverage?” Ginnie tapped her hip with one finger, impatient. “What are you getting at?” “He’s not a simple businessman. Ginnie, he’s H. Barrett Sharpe.” The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Lara huffed impatiently. “H. Barrett Sharpe. Barrett ‘Hairy Bear’ Sharpe, the real estate tycoon?” Ginnie took a quick breath of utter astonishment. “The one who pulled the funding from Helping Hands! Oh. I think I have seen him before. He had lots of hair. The hairy millionaire?” “Your Harry. He might be a billionaire by now, actually.” “Billionaire?” Lara laughed, but it sounded a little grim. “The Santa scandal was everywhere on the news last year. Lots of people around here are convinced it was his fiancée who set him up. She was a vicious piece of work. Called the newspapers and television before allowing the police in to check out his home computer. Totally staged.” “Of course it was staged. Harry told me about it.” Ginnie shook her head. Should she even call him Harry anymore? Harry the billionaire. He never said anything about that. “So, why’d the fiancée do it?” Lara stretched her lips in a mirthless grin. “Why else? Money. Or revenge. Both, probably. The gossip mill says she flipped out when Mister Sharpe—I mean Harry—insisted on a pre-nup. And after she went nuts, telling people that horrible lie, that’s when Harry sort of disappeared. I didn’t recognize him at all without his brown business suit and trademark long hair and beard.” Lara paused, thoughtful. “Sometimes it was a goatee.”

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“Harry had a goatee?” Ginnie felt slow. Her Harry had a goatee. “Why d’you think his nickname was Hairy?” Lara grinned until she saw Ginnie’s face. “I know. It’s kind of a shock to find out you’re dating a famous billionaire tycoon. Or ex-tycoon, I guess.” Ginnie felt faint. “Tycoon? Ex-tycoon?” Lara started laughing. “Let’s go get drinks. You need one, and I need to fill you in.”

That night, Ginnie lay on her side, curled up next to Harry. Her soft hair caressed his shoulder and her warm breath tickled his bare skin. “I hope you didn’t take it personally. How my mom treated you, I mean. She’s like that to anyone she considers poor.” Harry stroked her hair, playing with the silky curls so they grazed his fingers before falling back into waves, enjoying the way she shivered at the sensation. “No. I didn’t take it personally.” “I don’t know what happened, but my mom was really nice after we left the construction site. She even asked about my upcoming show at the school auditorium. She’s never asked about my career as a puppeteer before. Not politely, anyway.” The happiness in her voice let him know he’d done the right thing where her mother was concerned. The older woman needed more of a reality check than he’d given her, but at least she’d modified her behavior toward Ginnie. He sincerely hoped it stuck. Or else he’d be forced to fly down to her McMansion in the ’burbs and make his point more strongly. He doubted either Ginnie’s mother or the sugar daddy she’d married would appreciate that. “The house looked good,” she added and kept talking about the repairs and improvements. He felt a delightful languor suffuse him, listening to her sweet voice. A small tapping on his shoulder was all the warning he got. “Then Lara and I had an interesting conversation. She told me about a guy named H. Barrett Sharpe.” Harry’s fingers stilled in her hair. “You’re acquainted with him, I see.” Ginnie propped herself up on one elbow, her expression reproachful. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her soft words speared him. Harry tried to remember his reasons for the deception. They’d been good reasons, valid reasons. Why couldn’t he remember what they were with her looking at him like that? “I didn’t think… I didn’t realize…” He felt awkward with guilt. It was a singularly uncomfortable sensation. “You didn’t think we’d be together long enough for it to be an issue.” It wasn’t a question. Her eyes seemed to hold him prisoner. “It’s not just that.” “Just? Just that?” Her reproachful expression deepened into hurt.

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“In the beginning, I thought that way,” he explained. “Things are different now. You know I’m a private man, and a methodical one. It’s a habit to be cautious. A valuable habit in my line of work, and in my life.” His state of relaxation slowly disappeared. He missed it, but he knew it was his own fault. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. Is it a big problem? My being H. Barrett Sharpe?” “Maybe. I understand you’re the one who pulled the Helping Hands grant.” Her voice was cool. “Do you know how much unhappiness you caused by doing that?” “I examined where Jaye Rae’s donations went. She was temporarily in charge of that part of my business, and when that ended, I reviewed the grants. Helping Hands didn’t help themselves when they took an official position against my supposed pedophilia.” Harry had actually forgotten about Helping Hands. “I’ll re-instate the grant, if you wish. I want to make you happy.” Ginnie blinked. “Seriously? You’d do it, just like that?” “For you? Of course.” “That would be…amazingly generous.” She smiled, wondering and gentle again. “Harry. Barrett.” She was trying on his name. “I understand you might not want to advertise you have piles and piles of money. It might draw the wrong sort.” Ginnie shifted, brushing her body against his. Tingles ran up and down his body. He still wanted her badly, though they’d just finished making love. “I guess the biggest problem right now is that I don’t know what to call you.” She gazed down at him, a small smile playing about her lips. He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It would be okay. She’d forgiven him. She’d forgiven him pretty quickly. “Harry’s good. It’s my nickname. Everyone I like calls me that.” Why had she forgiven him so quickly? “It just seems weird for a billionaire tycoon to be named Harry,” she teased, snuggling once more against him. She ran her hand down his chest, over his taut belly. “You definitely have hair. Hmmm, yes, quite a bit.” He moaned in pleasure, but she reversed her hand, burrowing it like a small animal in his chest hair. “Hairy.” “Yes?” “I want to tell you something. Let me just say it, and then you don’t say anything back, okay? Just listen and don’t say anything back. Then I’ll turn off the lights and we’ll crawl under the sheets and fall asleep together. Just please don’t say anything back. Okay?” Any hope of relaxing drained completely away. Wariness filled him, stiffened his spine, made his voice cool. “I understand.” “Harry. I love you. I can’t help it at all. It’s completely out of my control. I’ve loved you for a while now, and I wanted to say the words. I love you. There, it’s said.” She turned over and reached to flip off the light. “Goodnight, Harry.”

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“Goodnight.” Harry lay on his back in the dark. She loved him. How had things gotten so deep, so quickly? It couldn’t possibly be real love. They’d met less than a month ago. Panic dried up all the saliva in his mouth and set his heart to pounding too quickly, frighteningly quickly. His stomach felt like a clenched knot. He’d let things go too far, too fast and now he had to fix matters. He’d told her he didn’t want a relationship. Why hadn’t she listened? What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking, he realized. She’d been feeling. She’d simply done what she always did: led with her heart, leaping first and only then looking around for a net. She clearly believed she loved him. Or did she really believe it? His thoughts raced dangerously. She’d said the words…but only after she’d found out he was a billionaire. Then she’d gone and turned out the lights. To hide her deception? No. Well, possibly. It had to be considered. With an effort, Harry reclaimed control over his wildly careening thoughts. It was all his own fault. He’d let her in. He’d opened himself up and asked for it. Now he had to deal with it. Too bad for her she’d shown her manipulative hands on the strings with her confession of love. That sort of relationship would end badly sooner or later. It had to end, now. Still, he didn’t look forward to cutting those strings. He could tell that her feelings weren’t completely feigned. He knew what he had to do was going to devastate her. He also knew he was going to do it anyway.

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Chapter Eleven

Ginnie shook granola into her cereal bowl the next morning while Harry showered. It wasn’t until she sat down to eat it that she realized she wasn’t hungry. The butterflies in her belly saw to that. She pushed the bowl away. Her fingers were trembling. She was bursting with nervous exhilaration and anticipation. And maybe a little fear. Maybe a lot of fear. Though she felt good about telling Harry the extent of her feelings for him, she wasn’t sure how he’d react. Would he consider it a meaningless endearment? Would he dislike her for manipulating him, controlling the bombshell of her declaration, then turning out the lights? Would he despise her for her weakness, the way her mother and Rick used to? Telling Harry she loved him made her feel vulnerable. Especially since it was still one-sided. She heard his getting-ready-for-work sounds—the pull of drawers, the creak of hardwood floors—and tensed. A few moments later, he strolled through the archway dividing the kitchen from the dining room, still towel-drying his hair. She let her gaze travel over his form, a reflexive admiration of the way his custom-tailored business shirt and slacks showcased his body. “Hey there, handsome man.” She stood to kiss him. He obliged, holding her lightly. The feel of his lips resting so briefly against hers didn’t quite reassure her. It was a cool, distant kind of kiss. “Are you okay?” She let her arms linger around his waist, trapping him for the moment. He became motionless. She could feel tension in his absolute stillness. His voice, when he spoke, was just as controlled. “I feel fine. Why?” Smooth. Inaccessibly so. She made a rude sound. “I was wondering what you thought about what I said last night.” “You said a few things last night.” A smile played about his mouth. He broke from her embrace gracefully and without a wasted movement. “All of them delightful.” “I meant after that. I was wondering if you’re okay with what I said.” Her body heated at the memories of their lovemaking, even as her heart sped up due to nerves. “Just before I turned out the lights?”

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“I know.” He opened a cabinet to reach for a coffee mug, then seemed to change his mind and shut the cabinet door again. “What I think is that you’re a lovely and lovable woman.” On the way out, he kissed her on the mouth again. He left. It wasn’t until she was halfway through her cereal that she realized he hadn’t said the words back to her.

Harry tried for the thirteenth time to analyze the advances and declines in a client’s tech stocks. But not only didn’t the numbers soothe him, they didn’t even focus him. The encouragingly green numbers crunched by his state-of-the-art financial software scrolled across his enormous monitor. But yet again, instead of seeing the numbers, he saw Ginnie. He heard her laughing in his basement as they danced their puppets together. He felt her warm curves as he carried her across his house to his bed. He smelled the fresh aroma of her hair and tasted the instantly addictive flavor of her mouth as their bodies moved together in a timeless rhythm. His large corner office always provided a refuge, a place to regroup and focus on his clients and on himself. Success was the name of the game. He gave up on the client’s tech stocks. With a click, he opened up the live intra-day market analysis of the U.S. stock and bond markets, technology stocks, economic releases, earnings reports and day trading highlights. Visions of Ginnie danced through his head. She’d said she loved him. Barely knowing him, she’d told him those words. It didn’t matter if she did think she meant them, he told himself. He knew he didn’t have it in him to give her the trust she deserved. Unlike Ginnie, he’d had his playfulness and childlikeness seared right off him, like a wart, like something he didn’t need or want at all, and he was comfortable with things that way. That’s what Ginnie didn’t get or didn’t believe. Sometimes there wasn’t any going back. Nor did he want to. Better that Ginnie realized it now rather than later. He’d hoped, oh how he’d hoped without even knowing he’d hoped, that Ginnie was different, but now he’d always wonder whether she was after his money too. Cursing, he switched off the monitor with such savagery he heard something crack. “Easy on the equipment, boss. We’re not made of money, you know. Well, I’m not.” Todd entered with his usual saunter, but his eyes were narrowed. He carried a netbook, as all Harry’s employees did. “You feeling okay?”

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“Fine.” He should feel fine. Things were about to get back to normal. Just as soon as he kicked Ginnie out of his life. “You look like hell.” “You’re fired.” Todd just grinned, but Harry noticed it looked strained. “Something up?” Now Todd looked downright uncomfortable. “Ah. The thing is…well.” He tapped the small computer. “Norbert Kenton’s portfolio just took an unexpected serious dip, and he’s pretty pissed,” Todd clarified. “What?” Harry snatched the computer from Todd’s hand, scanned the numbers. He’d personally overseen Todd on this particular client, who demanded only the best to handle his wealth. That was Harry. Harry felt the blood drain from his face as he absorbed the bad news. He shifted into damage-control mode, and in tense, staccato bursts, gave specific instructions to Todd for the dissemination of action plans to the international partners. The different time zones would allow them to salvage what they could of this particular screw-up. But it never should have happened. With the messages sent and the instructions given, Todd paused on his way out. “Hey. You okay?” He sounded worried. “And more importantly, am I really fired?” Todd should be worried. Harry’s daydreaming had nearly caused the head of the company to allow their best client to take a bath. Harry shook his head. He waved Todd out. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not even to Todd. He drew in a deep breath, turned on his computer and refreshed the screen to see the instant updates on Norbert’s account. Still red, but trending slowly back up toward green. Another few minutes should put the investments back in balance. Harry let out the breath he’d been holding. His head swam with the hugeness of the financial disaster he’d barely averted. Certainty filled him. He knew precisely what was wrong with him, and he knew how to fix it.

Ginnie hung up the phone, scrawling the date of the new gig on her Jim Henson calendar. She viewed the little boxes of filled-up days with satisfaction as she re-hung the evidence of her wonderful career. She put it right over the repair bench where she could easily see it. The word was getting out. People liked her, wanted her. She glanced around Harry’s basement at the bookshelves slowly filling with unpacked books and DVDs. She gazed at the closet rails set up in the free-standing wardrobes containing her equipment. There

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was everything, from the raw materials—plaster, wood, metal, wires, leather, string, wigs, paint, tools—to small sets of clothes hanging like accidentally shrunken tops and pants and dresses on standard-sized coat hangers. She even had her portable sound system with its speaker stands, her collapsible stages, her clip-on lamps. It all fit in one corner of Harry’s huge basement. She gnawed on her lower lip. Was she becoming more than a roommate to him? A little more? A lot more? She simply couldn’t tell. She began to repair a Sicilian rod marionette, Damian the Dragon. One rod controlled the gleaming mahogany creature’s head movements, while a second rod was attached to its brightly scaled right arm. The arm was controlled by a cord, and the lizard legs, which swung free, moved by their own weight. Some of the dragon scales had fallen off. Ginnie painstakingly re-attached Damian’s scales, but her mind flew ahead of the task. Her whole being anticipated Harry’s arrival back home. She refused to worry about his lack of mushiness—he’d say the three little words eventually. She wanted more of his hands moving magically on her. How astonishing, the way she’d reconciled her submission to him with her need for control. She remembered how it felt when he’d shown her how exquisite lovemaking could be if she trusted enough to let go of the reins. She remembered how his deep voice caused shivers up and down her body, and the boyish grin on his face when they’d danced together by puppet-proxy. Of course, he’d saved her life. He’d be entitled to a little bit of her affection for that alone. But he’d accomplished more. He hadn’t just saved her life, he’d rescued her heart. At some point after he’d sent Rick packing, he’d become the True North to the compass of her heart. He accepted her—flaws and all. It was a heady experience. “You’re a handsome dragon,” she told Damian. The dragon marched up and down the workbench, showing off his jewel-like repaired scales, tossing his head like a king of beasts. “Good as new,” she declared, putting him to hang with the others. The long workbench and well-lit basement made puppet repairs easy. She could get used to such a workstation. Maybe she’d have the opportunity to get used to it, if there was a permanent change in living arrangements… Never in her wildest hopes and dreams had she imagined her life working out like this. Just over a month ago, she’d been focused on leaving Rick, escaping her mother and starting a new life in another state by renting an adorable bungalow—which had promptly fallen in on her—and taking a job from which she was quickly fired. It had all turned out surprisingly well. Ginnie laughed aloud. She was happy in her work, she’d gotten along with her mother for the first time in forever, her house was being fixed thanks to her great new friend

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Lara, and she had a lover who made her feel delicious butterflies in her stomach whenever she thought of him. For the first time in what seemed like ages, she felt serene. Her life was moving in a wonderful new direction. She heard the door shut upstairs and grinned. Harry was home early. She ran up the stairs. He stood near the front door, his thick briefcase held before him in a strange, at-ease military-style. The new beard he hadn’t yet shaved looked odd with his expensive clothes and accessories, but she decided she liked it. The brown suited him. “Hey, hairy man,” she said with a smile as she crossed the living room. “I fixed a rhinoceros earlier that made me think of you. It has a big, hard, long…personality.” Harry didn’t smile. Instead of offering a hug or a word of greeting, even, he just nodded once. “I need to speak with you.” Ginnie got closer, wondering at the tight, controlled expression on his face. She felt disturbing quakes in her serenity. “What is it?” “I’ve let this go on too long. It’s entirely my fault, and I take full responsibility for allowing it to happen against my better judgment. But now it’s time to stop.” “Harry?” Panic like she’d never known before welled in her throat. His voice had sounded more empty and controlled than a robot’s. “What are you saying?” The silence grew tight with tension. Maybe this was some weird joke. He couldn’t mean what she feared. “This has been a mistake. I’m fixing the mistake. I never should have let you believe there was a chance for more. A serious relationship is what you’re after, but it’s not my goal. It’s not my choice.” He patted

the

briefcase

absently,

tapping

out

a

series

of

increasing

numbers.

One/onetwothree/onetwothreefourfive. “You’re after something I won’t give you, Ginnie. And you’re offering something I don’t need or want. Therefore, I think it’s time you left.” He spoke with a businessman’s rational, cold clarity. This was no joke. She felt as if her breath was cut off. A tight knot within her begged for release, but looking at his face, she realized it wasn’t going to happen. “You—” she began. He interrupted. “This isn’t open for debate.” He placed the briefcase on the entry table, opened it and extracted an envelope. “This is for a luxury hotel and any other expenses until your house is completed. This is also the deed to the house. I’m making a gift of it to you. I’ve arranged for the movers to be here within the hour. I’ll give you until the end of the day to clear out.”

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Ginnie wondered if she was in shock. She’d never felt anything quite like it. Her mind felt weirdly disconnected, as if she’d taken too much cold medicine. Her heart throbbed with a deep, muted pain. When she thought of Harry, which was every minute, her brain detonated the memories as soon as they arose. Painful specifics couldn’t be allowed. Only a haze of the pulverized thoughts. The haze covered everything. It made breathing an effort and made color disappear from her world. She felt abraded inside and out and didn’t want to touch anything or anyone. Somehow she kept from collapsing. Lara helped. It was Lara who discovered the twenty thousand dollars inside the envelope several hours later. “I’ll return it,” Ginnie said. “No, wait.” She struggled to a sitting position on Lara’s couch, grimacing as her elbow squished into a cool damp pillow. She grabbed the envelope, looked inside, pawed desperately through the deed paperwork. “There’s no note. There’s nothing personal inside. It just…wasn’t personal.” “Ginnie.” Lara sounded frightened. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” Ginnie tried to think. “Helping Hands. They need every little bit. I’ll give it to them.” “Don’t you need it?” What she needed was a new heart to replace the hurting one inside her chest. “Not really,” she answered. “Business is booming. And I own the house now.” The one lasting thing to come from Harry. She said as much to Lara. Lara looked uncomfortable. “Ah. Well…there is one other teensy tiny thing I may have forgotten to mention. Just found out about it myself yesterday, you know.” Ginnie felt tired. “Yes?” “The wealthy H. Barrett Sharpe has expedited your new home’s repairs.” “How much?” She was getting a headache. “I don’t have exact figures. It seemed to be more of a greasing of the palms, as it were. Plus he’s big in real estate, and people owed him favors.” “Guess.” Ginnie rubbed her temples. This was getting worse and worse. She still owed him something? Aside from her life, of course—which he’d sucked the joy out of when he’d broken her heart. So that debt was clear, at least. Lara looked at her, worried. “It’s not like he doesn’t have the money.” “Guess,” she insisted. Lara shrugged. “Maybe fifty thousand.”

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Ginnie suspected Lara was guessing on the low side. Harry…no, she should start thinking of him as Barrett. It felt slightly less painful. Barrett, then, didn’t do things by half-measures. “That’s way too much money.” She sighed, too sad to feel anger at the way he was throwing money at her, as if she was a mistress or hooker he had to pay off. “I’ll sell the house to pay it back. I should move out of this neighborhood anyway. Maybe out of the state.” “But you just got here!” Lara flounced to the sofa and pushed Ginnie to the side to sit next to her. “I want you to stay.” She sounded adorably young, Ginnie thought. Young and idealistic. “There’s no reason for you to move away.” Clearly Lara’d never had her heart broken. “I want to put up a For Sale sign right away.” But Lara had a point. “Okay, I won’t leave town. Business here is booming, after all. But I won’t keep his money, or his house. And I really can’t keep living right down the street from him. Seeing him drive by. Watching him bring home new girlfriends…” The sorrow rose up and up, clogging her throat with tears. “Oh honey!” Lara’s warm arms wrapped around her. “He’s such an ass! What an idiot he is, what a totally blind bastard.” She rocked for a while. Finally Ginnie took a deep breath and gathered the tattered remnants of her composure. She nodded. “He’s an ass for how he did it. But it’s not entirely his fault. He told me not to expect a relationship. He warned me. Why didn’t I listen?” “Everyone hopes for the best.” “Harry expects the worst. I thought I could show him not all women are schemers like Jaye Rae.” “But you’re not!” “I have my flaws,” Ginnie admitted. She might have been too pushy. Or too naïve. Or too aggressive in the bedroom. Too bossy, too clingy, too domestic, too easy, too boring…too not what he wanted. It didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t know which flaw he objected to. “I thought he accepted me for who I am.” She felt her lip tremble and had to clamp down on her emotions. Her body felt as if she’d been fighting a bad case of flu. Her muscles ached and her brain hurt. Lara frowned. “So. Everything’s fine, and then suddenly he announces he’s through for no good reason and tells you to get out? That’s not okay.” Ginnie played with the seam along the side of a pillow. “I told him I loved him. I’m pretty sure that’s what freaked him out.” Lara stilled. “Did you mean it?” Ginnie nodded. Her eyes filled with tears again. “I’ve dated other guys. Lived with a few. I’ve had crushes galore. But I’ve never been this much in love.” Her wounded heart was emptying, leaving cold deeper than ice at midnight. She knew it was a pain she’d always carry. She just wasn’t sure she could.

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Lara squeezed her shoulder. Her voice was gentle. “He’s more of an idiot than I thought. Do you want me to try to talk some sense into him?” “No. There’s nothing left to say. He’d have to choose to be in a real relationship to be with me, and I don’t think he’ll ever make that choice.”

The sky was clear, dark and full of stars when Harry pulled into his driveway late at night. He stepped from his car and peered at his house. It was back to being just as it had been before Ginnie, with no lights on except for on the porch. His house looked cold and lonely. Out of habit, he’d glanced at the progress on Ginnie’s house as he drove past. There was a large For Sale sign in the front yard. He’d nearly crashed his car. She was moving? Ginnie was moving away from him. A witches’ brew of emotion raked at him. Regret. Frustration. Anger. But mostly a quickly rising sadness. A raw and primitive grief held him in its grip, until he began to shiver with the night’s cold despite his Aston’s efficient heater. He forced his legs and arms to finish driving him home, then to propel him up the steps. He made his fingers manipulate the house key to get inside. He closed the door behind him and heard…nothing. Emptied of her presence, the house felt nearly as cold as it was outside. Harry checked the heater. No, the automatic heater was keeping the temperature a perfectly adequate sixty-eight degrees. There was no scent of good food in the kitchen. There were no boxes of Ginnie’s salvaged possessions or cabinets of puppet supplies in the living room or in the basement. The guestroom closet was empty. The bathroom was spotlessly bare. Silence beat on his ears. Ginnie was gone. Just like he’d wanted. And she was selling the house he’d given her. She was moving away from him. Harry tried to relax by putting on soft jazz music and getting some more work done. When he realized he was reading the same column of numbers over and over again, he gave up and went to his bed. He couldn’t sleep. For an hour, he stared at the ceiling, unable to close his eyes and having little success with censoring his thoughts. Finally he got up.

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He went down the stairs to the guestroom she’d used. He crawled under the covers and nestled his head into the pillow that still smelled like Ginnie. Ridiculous, he thought, even as he snuggled more deeply. Contemptible. Pathetic. He breathed the last little bit of her in and felt misery so acute that he wondered if it would ever go away.

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Chapter Twelve

Harry felt heavy with sorrow at work the next day. Seeing that damned For Sale sign first thing in the morning hadn’t helped. Neither had his obligatory look over the progress of the house. The electrical subcontractors were installing new fixtures and outlets, and the HVAC subcontractors were putting in new heating and a/c venting and ductwork. It was the finishing-touches stage of home construction. The workers went about their business with respectful nods to him, but Harry kept touring. After awhile he couldn’t help but notice it wasn’t the house progress he was really looking for. The roofers waved to him. Harry waved back, feeling surly. Ginnie would have her little house finished soon. Then she’d sell it and move away. Harry got in his car and drove to work. By the time he entered his penthouse corner office, his mood was black. Ginnie was probably already spending his twenty thousand dollars and laughing with Lara over how they’d fleeced him of that plus the expected house proceeds. At least she hadn’t gotten more, like Jaye Rae had. Things like access to his business and entire bank balance and what was left of his reputation. “Envelope on your desk, sir,” his secretary told him. He nearly snarled at her, which was completely unlike him, but then his gaze fell on the plain white envelope. His name was written on the front in neat, feminine handwriting, underneath a crossed-out name. “And Mr. Kenton is expected in ten minutes.” “Show him in when he arrives.” The secretary nodded and backed out, shutting the door gently in deference to his mood. Which would have irritated him more if he weren’t so interested in the envelope. It looked like the same one he’d given Ginnie. Without waiting another second, he raced over to it and ripped it open. He knew what he wanted, what he hoped for—a letter from Ginnie. It was her handwriting on the outside, but inside was a pre-printed receipt from Helping Hands. For the entire twenty thousand dollars. She’d given the money away. All of it. She hadn’t even kept the receipt for a tax deduction. That was financially imprudent of her.

Christina Crooks

Harry sat heavily. He’d been so sure she’d keep the money. He looked in the envelope, but there wasn’t anything else. No note from her. Nothing to explain her surprising move to give his money to her nonprofit of choice. Nothing saying she missed him, wanted him back…? He looked in the envelope again, just in case. It wasn’t like he could blame Ginnie. After the way he’d thrown her out, why would she bother? And why did he suddenly feel as if he’d made a mistake? Ginnie might be playing some elaborate game, sacrificing the twenty thousand to lull him into complacency. She might be… Harry exhaled, and it was as if his breath blew away the clouds obscuring the truth. Ginnie wasn’t a gold-digger. She wasn’t greedy. She was passion. She embodied passion and instinct combined, with every choice she’d made. And he’d thrown it away. “Sir? Mr. Kenton is here.” His secretary made way for the older man. Most of all, Ginnie wasn’t Jaye Rae. He’d cared for Jaye Rae, so much so that her betrayal had decimated him. But what he’d felt for his ex-fiancée was nothing compared to what he felt for Ginnie. A penny next to a shiny silver dollar. A shack next to a mansion. She’d fallen right into his arms, and he’d let her go forever. She’d never take him back now that he’d hurt her so badly. He wouldn’t, were their positions reversed. The old man cleared his throat. Harry leapt to his feet, all apologies. “Mr. Kenton, forgive me. Please sit down.” Harry all but held the chair for him until the man waved him away. “After yesterday’s excitement, I decided it might be a good idea to pay a personal visit.” Norbert squinted at him, evaluating. Harry had expected it. Hardly thinking about it, he launched into an automatic explanation of the vagaries of the market, the unpredictability of the high-risk investments Norbert had insisted upon and the importance of keeping a balanced, conservative portfolio. A few minutes into his spiel, Norbert cut him off. “Yes, yes. That sounds fine.” It was then Harry realized the man had something else on his mind. “Sir?” Harry waited, at a loss. Norbert smoothed his pants for longer than necessary. Finally he leaned forward as if confessing a dirty secret. “I’d like to invest in a very risky venture. So risky that it might be a total loss.” His eyes sparkled and a smile played about his thin mouth. “My own vineyard. Not just a tiny hole-in-the-wall place either, but a respectable thirty thousand-case, prime-location establishment out near McMinnville, or maybe in Washington, with a tasting lodge, tours, bed & breakfast—the works. And I want the best equipment and full-coverage national distribution. It’s going to be grand. If there’s a way to swing fifteen

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million up front, that’s what I’ll need, mostly for building, land and packaging costs.” Norbert’s excitement escalated until it seemed to beat at Harry in waves. Harry was flabbergasted. “But, Mr. Kenton. That would leave you…let me see…” He did some rapid calculations. “That would tie up nearly three-quarters of your portfolio. This isn’t just another speculation to add to your already overly aggressive profile. It’s quite possibly throwing money away, at a time when your retirement has to be considered. I have to strongly advise you against this.” The light in Norbert’s eyes dimmed. “Strongly? Are you sure?” He wilted back into his chair. The old man suddenly looked irritated, and all his seventy years of age. “Absolutely sure? I have to confess, I’ve always wanted to own a winery. It just…it never did seem to be a secure investment. I suppose it still isn’t, technically speaking.” “No sir. It isn’t.” Harry felt uncomfortable with Norbert’s ire. And he really didn’t like the older man’s obvious disappointment. Harry cleared his throat. “I don’t believe it’s a good investment, but if you like, I’ll call in a second opinion.” “Yes, do that.” Harry buzzed Todd in. He gave Todd the overview of Norbert’s proposed investment. As he explained the scope and scale of it, Todd began shaking his head. “Bad idea. At roughly fifteen million for a prime thirty thousand case winery, with building and land costs accounting for the largest percentage of total investment costs and cooperage accounting for the second largest percentage of total investment cost, you might see a positive cash flow by year three. Or, depending on your harvests, it might never operate as a self-sustaining entity. In other words, you’d be tying up money that should be more conservatively invested. Bad idea,” Todd repeated. “I concur.” But Harry suddenly wasn’t sure that he did. “Except…” Norbert sat up. “It depends on what makes you happy,” Harry said slowly. Todd glanced at him, eyebrows raised. Harry continued. “One purpose of investment is financial return. If the winery has the ability to meet operating costs and debt obligations and be self-sustaining in three or four years, great. And if it doesn’t…if it takes longer than expected, but you’re happy, Norbert…then the loss is offset, in a manner of speaking.” Norbert looked at him quizzically. “It’s not optimal, or even marginal, but it’s an investment.” “Unless the grapes don’t grow, or they taste terrible,” Todd said. “There is that.” Harry nodded. “It’s not an investment I can recommend. But it’s not one I can recommend against, either.”

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Todd moved in his chair, as if about to say something. “You want to own a winery. Well, why shouldn’t you? Why should you be afraid? You have plenty of money, it’s not as if you’ll end up destitute even if you lose your shirt on this.” Todd cleared his throat, but it was Norbert who spoke. “You don’t recommend…against it?” The older man’s face creased into a thoughtful frown. “Every investment is personal choice. The question to ask is, what do you want from it? What do you want from life? There’s more to life than financial security.” His words hung in the air. Harry could feel the weight of Todd’s stare. But Norbert nodded. “You’re right. It’s a risk I’m comfortable with, so why shouldn’t I do what I want? I’d like to talk specifics now. Wine grape acres planted, and accessing the proper funds to purchase the wine grape acres, and the costs of construction and operation, and the rest.” Harry had never seen Norbert look so happy. Or Todd look so worried. “Uh, sir.” He looked directly at Harry. “Are you comfortable with this particular investment advice?” It was pointed criticism, but Harry just smiled. “Yes. I think I am. If Norbert is?” Norbert nodded. “Well, then, everybody’s happy.” Todd nodded too, but Harry was pretty sure it wasn’t agreement. “It’s okay, Todd. Thanks for the second opinion.” It was a dismissal. His assistant rose, clearly hiding his troubled expression. With his long familiarity with the young man, Harry could almost recite his list of worries. It made him second-guess his decision. What had happened to giving conservative advice? What on earth had gotten into him? Had he completely lost his business acumen? “It’s okay, Todd,” he said as much to reassure himself as Todd both. “Though we appreciate the conservative take on matters.” “You’re quite welcome.” Todd gave him another penetrating gaze. “I hope I helped.” After Todd left, Norbert detailed his dream purchase with rapture in his voice. For his part, Harry began to doubt. He wondered whether he’d completely lost the very thing he’d prided himself on most. Lost his killer instinct. Lost his reputation as a wise old owl. Why on earth was he advising his richest client to throw his money away? Norbert chattered on, clearly excited and happy, and Harry nodded and smiled and cursed himself for a fool. Ginnie had returned his money unexpectedly. That wasn’t a valid reason to become sentimental. Not when his clients’ savings were on the line. He opened his mouth to tell Norbert he’d made a mistake, that he couldn’t possibly allow such an irresponsible investment. But Norbert sat all the way forward on the edge of his seat, as excited as a schoolboy as he talked over the winery project.

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Harry closed his mouth. He wouldn’t crush Norbert’s dreams, even if they cost the man his entire life savings. He couldn’t. Ginnie had changed him. Harry sat back in his leather office chair and listened to his client. Though he heard himself responding professionally to Norbert’s questions, Harry was appalled. He didn’t recognize himself anymore.

That night, Harry went down to his basement, flipped on the light and tried not to look at the bare workbench where Ginnie had worked. He went straight to his workout equipment and threw himself at the machines with a vengeance. He did three sets of twelve reps just to get warmed up. Then he did another, more aggressive, circuit. He counted. Aloud. But this time, his numbers didn’t help him. His numbers weren’t helping him much at all lately, he realized. He counted more loudly, frustrated, flexing and pushing until his muscles felt hot and exhausted. Still Ginnie lingered in his mind. Despairing that he’d ever get rid of her image and her influence, he threw himself into another circuit, flinging his body against the resistance. He didn’t usually work out so hard, and he found himself gasping for breath before long. Maybe if he fatigued his body, his mind would tire of its fixation as well. Maybe he could forget about Ginnie. Something gave in his arm, with a sharp, rubber-band-snap of pain. He yelled, held his arm. He moved it with a grimace. It wasn’t too sprained. Harry sat, breathing hard, waiting for the pain to subside. At least the one in his arm would eventually go away. He wasn’t so sure about the one in his heart.

Ginnie peeked through the curtains at the audience. For such a large auditorium, there wasn’t much noise. Then she saw the children in the semi-darkness and smiled. A feeling of pride welled up in her. Their expressions were wide-eyed, opened-mouthed and totally thrilled. The adults seemed riveted too. Sure, some of them fidgeted, and some of the kids did too. But the faces of the children in the auditorium proved the story felt utterly real and immediate. Her show was a success. Again.

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The puppet shows were a much-needed source of satisfaction in a post-Harry world. In the weeks since he’d tossed her out of his house and out of his life, she’d flung herself into puppet theater as if her sanity depended on it. As perhaps it did. Without Harry’s brand of magic coloring her life, puppetry felt like all she had. Theater was magic. There was something about the community experience, the dark, the mystery, the shared adventure with audience members. Together everyone agreed to take a voyage into another world. Ginnie concluded with her always-popular The Magic Show, where the puppets tried to out-do each other with the best magic trick ever. This time The Fat Lady puppet won with her trick of blowing bubbles out of her ears. Ginnie bowed the puppets in response to the applause and, when they were safely offstage, announced a question-and-answer period after a short break. It pleased everyone, adults and children alike, to have her as puppet master take questions from children about the art of puppetry. She put her puppets away, pleased with the night’s success. “Hello, Ginnie.” The deep, masculine voice made her jump, before she realized it wasn’t the voice she wanted. She turned to see who had snuck up behind stage to surprise her. Tailored suit, ash-brown eyebrows over liquid chocolate eyes, soft wavy blond hair, chest and shoulders to die for. If she hadn’t already been shot down dead by Harry, she might have been interested. But he looked younger than Harry, a baby in comparison, though his steady gaze reflected a strange soulfulness that intrigued her. Not as worldly or experienced as Harry, she thought. He did have the same clean-cut, banker-guy clothes. “Todd,” he introduced himself when she only stared. “Sorry,” she said, then paused to take her hand out of The Fat Lady so she could shake his hand. “Ginnie. But, ah, you know that. Have we met?” “You’re exactly what I expected,” Todd said, examining her. “No wonder Harry took it so hard.” Her heart gave a leap that she felt up to the crown of her head and down to her toes. “Harry took it hard?” She had to restrain herself from shaking this perfect stranger for more information, now, immediately! Then she remembered. “He did mention you. Todd. You’re his right-hand man.” “Yeah. That’s kind of why I’m here. Can we go for a walk?” “I have to be back in five minutes.” Todd waved his hand. “Sure, sure.” She picked her way over the props she should be putting away, not sure she liked Todd. He seemed distracted. But he knew things about Harry. That made him more alluring company than he knew.

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Todd led slightly, taking her through the double doors to the side parking lot. Ginnie stopped walking, needing to focus everything on the answer to her question. Why was Todd here? What did he mean, Harry took it hard? Hadn’t Harry forgotten her completely? It seemed probable. She still felt a killing ache in her heart just from hearing his name. And yet there was no indication that she’d been anything but a brief, unfortunate mistake to him. None, unless… “Todd, what are you doing here?” “Harry’s distracted, emotionally. He’s in pretty bad shape.” Her heart contracted painfully and her body flooded with adrenaline. She wanted to run to Harry, heal him, make everything okay. But he’d made it crystal clear she wasn’t welcome in his life. “I’m not sure how I can help. He doesn’t want me.” She felt the old wound open and start to bleed. “Look, I have to get back.” “Wait a sec.” Todd frowned. “I’ve been his friend for years. And after Jaye Rae, I never thought he’d hook up with anyone, not ever again. Then you came along. And now he’s worse than ever. He’s acting strange.” “What do you mean, strange?” But just then, Ginnie heard a sound that had her performer’s instincts piqued. The audience was applauding. “Uh, Todd? I’m sorry, but I have to get back.” She was already walking, her ears cocked at the unexpected applause. What were the kids applauding? She glanced at her watch. There was still a full minute before question-and-answer time. This time, she led the way. As she re-entered the auditorium, she glanced at the audience, confused. Then she looked at the stage. And froze in astonishment. “Told you he was acting strange,” Todd said from behind her. Ginnie turned, stared at Todd, who looked smug, then looked back at the stage. Little Jeffrey was on stage. Harry was behind stage? Her puppet spoke with Harry’s voice. “So, I heard there was a Magic Show competition for Best Magic Trick. Is that here? Am I in the right place?” The kids yelled back that it was. “Well then. I have a trick. If it’s not too late…” The kids yelled back that it wasn’t. Ginnie felt a little faint and leaned against Todd. “Is that really Harry back there?” “It’s really Harry,” Todd confirmed with a pat on her shoulder. “And he’s really not himself.” Ginnie straightened, glancing at Todd, who just grinned.

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Little Jeffrey spoke again, with an inappropriately deep voice, but Ginnie didn’t think the kids cared. “Okay then. For my trick, I will pull my own heart out of my chest. And I’ll give it to the woman I love. Bet you’ve never seen that before.” Shaking her head, tears beginning to form in her eyes, Ginnie murmured, “He isn’t really doing this, is he? Not Harry. He just wouldn’t do this. He hates kids.” Todd looked from the stage to the audience and shook his head. “Doesn’t look like he hates them to me.” “Me either,” Ginnie said. She could hardly lift her voice above a whisper. Hope was making her heart slam. Little Jeffrey appeared to be scanning the audience. But then Harry, with showmanship Ginnie hadn’t known he possessed, shouted, “Ready? On the count of three! One!” The kids counted with him. “Two!” Ginnie counted with them. “Three!” Little Jeffrey pulled open his chest and, sure enough, there was a red, plump, gummi-heart. The puppet pulled the heart out and held it aloft. “Ginnie! Where are you? Unless I give you my heart, I’ll die! Ginnie? Where’s Ginnie?” “Oh no,” Ginnie murmured, though she couldn’t stop smiling. “Harry put in a real-looking heart. The smaller kids might be traumatized by that.” But they didn’t appear traumatized. Every child in the audience, and all the adults, was hanging on his every word. “Where’s Ginnie?” they howled. “She’s right here!” Todd shouted. He gave Ginnie a little shove. “What are you waiting for?” She glared at him, but the sheer happiness that filled her own heart wouldn’t allow in anything but bliss. “Yeah. I’m here!” Little Jeffrey did a wild dance, and the up-and-down spasmodic gyration made Ginnie and the audience laugh. “Yay! I won’t die! Here’s my heart!” Ginnie plucked the little heart from Little Jeffrey’s hands. She made a little impromptu curtsey/bow, as the situation seemed to call for it. “Thank you.” She turned, made another small bow to the audience. Todd jumped in at that point, his deep voice bellowing, “And then the puppet master Ginnie and the puppet Little Jeffrey lived happily ever after!” She wasn’t prepared for the thunderous applause. Ginnie was pretty sure she was the only one who heard Harry’s low voice. “I guess they like May/December romances.” “I guess they do. But Harry…do you like romance?” “Come here.” She felt his deep voice all the way in her bones. Her heart thrilled to it, and her stomach fluttered with anticipation. She grinned as she ran around the puppet stage.

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Her breath caught when she finally saw him. He’d shaved recently enough that the dark shadow of his stubble hadn’t yet appeared on his jaw, but instead of a crisp business suit like Todd’s he wore faded jeans and a flannel shirt. He gazed at her with a hopeful smile. She’d never seen a more welcome sight. He opened his arms to receive her. “Ginnie.” She held herself aloof, teasing. “Harry. Or, is it H. Barrett Sharpe?” Harry swooped her off her feet, kissing her all over her face. “Yes.” “Yes is good.” “Yes is very good.” “If you two lovebirds can give it a rest, there’s an audience out there waiting for closure. Or a curtain call. Or whatever you theater types call it.” Todd raised an eyebrow at her. “He’s right.” Ginnie extricated herself. “Harry, can you help me?” “Yes.” “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask,” she teased. “You can ask me anything and I’ll say yes.” “People?” Todd tapped his foot. “Right. Harry, work Little Jeffrey. I’ll do The Fat Lady.” “What do I do?” “Improvise.” And they did. Ginnie had The Fat Lady throw a fit because Little Jeffrey had stolen her Magic Show first-place prize. Little Jeffrey gallantly conceded the prize, since he had all the prize he needed by winning the woman he loved. Both puppets left the stage happy. “Good job,” Ginnie breathed. “You’re a natural. If you ever want to give up that boring financial management thing…” “Theater awaits. Got it.” He stole another kiss. Ginnie didn’t complain. She did cut the question-and-answer session short. Good theater people knew to always keep the audience wanting more. After shaking some of the parent’s hands and chatting with some of the more interested children, she begged off. From the adults’ looks, she figured many of them knew why. But there was some unfinished business she had with Harry. When they finally walked through the same door she’d taken with Todd earlier, she dropped Harry’s hand and smacked him on the arm. “Ow.” “Ow is right.”

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Then Harry did something astonishing. He stepped in front of her, cutting her off. He went down on one knee. “Ginnie. I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry for what I said and how I hurt you. I can’t sleep.” He did look miserable. “I thought I knew what I wanted. I wanted independence. I’d gotten stuck playing it safe and conservative and goal-oriented and solitary—and then I met you. And now, this whole time without you I’ve seen nothing but the pain in your eyes. I’ve felt awful. I miss you. So much. I didn’t want to, but I can’t help how much I love you and want you back, Ginnie. Please…won’t you move back in with me?” “Move back in?” “Or at least stay in your house nearby. Though I’d rather have you closer.” “I’m selling the house.” “Don’t.” She saw the fear in his eyes and knew he’d been afraid of her going away forever. “Harry…” “I know I hurt you. I was cruel, and I won’t be ever again. You’ve changed me, Ginnie. With your magic. You have this talent, a talent for making someone believe. The kids suspend their disbelief, and the puppets come alive for them. That’s what you do. You’ve worked your magic on me too, because I’m suspending disbelief in you. If you’ll only give me another chance, I’ll show you I can be trusted with your heart. Just as I trust you with mine. In sickness and health. Through puppets and kids and anything else you want.” “Um. Are you saying…?” “Marry me, Ginnie.” She realized with his words how profoundly he trusted her, to embrace such a thing, after his experience with Jaye Rae. She took a moment to vow to herself never to abuse that trust. “I love you.” Her head spun with delirious happiness. “So you’ll marry me?” “Yes. Oh, yes. Do you think I should be your neighbor?” Ginnie tugged him to his feet. “You should be whatever you want.” Harry gazed at her with such heat that her body lit up all over. “Maybe we can make the house a guest quarters?” “Or a mother-in-law residence.” “Oh, why did you make me think of her?” Ginnie groaned, thinking of her mother in her little bungalow. But better there than in her own home. Her home with Harry. “Ginnie, I own more than a hundred residential properties. I can afford a thousand more. Want a house? It’s yours. Want to buy your mother a house? Though I don’t know why you’d want to…” Ginnie raised her eyebrows, but had to smile. “…then buy her a house. I love you. It’s unconditional.” The wonder and relief that bathed her made her giddy. “Harry.” “Yes, my dear?”

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“Let’s go home.” “Yes!” She laughed at his enthusiasm. Then he kissed her, and everything left her mind except the man who’d taught her to give up control, and who offered her in exchange the greatest treasure she could imagine: him.

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About the Author

Christina Crooks lives with her husband in Portland, Oregon. To learn more about Christina, please visit

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Virginity is overrated.

He’s The One © 2010 Jane Beckenham Taylor Sullivan doesn’t trust Cupid, but she plays one for a living. As a successful wedding consultant, she creates a couple’s ultimate fantasy—even though she’s never managed to create her own. And when her clients start asking her for wedding night advice, she’s sensible enough to know when to enlist help. Cade Harper knows two things about women. They either abandon him, or use him as a walking bank. He doesn’t do commitment, and marriage is a dirty word—witness the string of broken hearts he’s left in his wake. Yet Taylor’s business proposition intrigues him. In exchange for one night of no-strings passion, she’ll develop a promotional plan for his business. Who could say no? Never one to buy anything sight unseen, Taylor tests the waters with a kiss. In an instant she has the only answer she’s ever wanted—that Cade is the one she wants. As business starts tumbling into pleasure, Cade finds himself falling hard and fast. It’s a fantasy come true—if they can turn heartache into forever… Warning: Contains explicit, straight-to-the-heart sex between a hopeless romantic heroine and an abandon-all-hope hero. No need to dress up for this party—just curl up with a glass of bubbly and a box of tissues!

Enjoy the following excerpt for He’s The One: “Virginity is overrated.” Easy words? She’d said them often enough. Yet when Taylor Sullivan whispered them, the swell of panic threatened to take hold. She had to do this. It was time. Taylor exhaled every emotion she’d bottled for the past twenty-four hours, ever since she’d seen him: Mr. Perfect-for-the-Job. As she stood outside the bar, her bravado waned and panic set in. Who wouldn’t panic when they were about to make an off-the-wall suggestion to a stranger? She gripped her assistant’s arm. “I can’t. This is a mistake.” “No, it’s not. You said so yourself, he’s the one.” “What do I know? I mean, who is he?” “Cade Harper. Bad boy made good—and one sexy hunk. Is that enough for you?” Nita gave her a suggestive grin. Oh, yeah.

Taylor wiped her sweaty palms down the sides of her skirt. “The fairy godmother sure did hand out good looks at his bassinet.” He’d been the best man at a wedding she’d planned recently. Haloed by the light streaming in from the stained glass window, he’d taken her breath away. But now, twenty-four hours after that wedding, as the throbbing beat of music threaded its way out onto the kerb where she and Nita waited, Taylor’s wayward nerves vaulted into overdrive. “I should never have told you.” Nita shrugged. “Probably not, but, hey, I get those calls too.” “But you can answer them,” Taylor countered. “So, what are you going to do about it?” Taylor bit down on her bottom lip, chewing it as if it afforded her the luxury of time. “I don’t want a relationship.” “Who said anything about a relationship? This is a fling. A one-nighter. Get you past first base, so to speak.” First base! Taylor swallowed the lump that choked off her breathing. The icy chill that slid along her bones had absolutely nothing to do with Auckland’s balmy May evening breeze. Her fingers grazed the side of her handbag and snapped back as if scalded when she remembered exactly what her bag contained. Condoms! An appropriate reminder: preparation and safety first. She could do this. She could. She grabbed Nita’s arm. “Okay. Let’s go.” Nita stalled mid-step. “What? You expect me to come too?” “I need you. I can’t do this on my own. I need…” “Cade Harper is who you need, Taylor. You said so yourself. Cade’s a love ’em and leave ’em sort of guy. Now go.” Nita gave her a push toward the entrance and waved goodbye. Love and leave. Definitely perfect credentials. Cade didn’t know it yet, but he was the answer to Taylor’s prayers. Battling the raw panic lodged in her gut as every second edged her toward turning and running, Taylor surveyed the patrons. Her hands shook. She wanted to forget the idea. Forget sex. Forget Cade Harper. If she could. Instead she focused on the entrance, and her pulse quickened. The best man. How appropriate. Cade hadn’t been at the wedding rehearsal; otherwise she would have noticed him. But at the wedding, dressed in a black tuxedo that molded his broad shoulders and a crisp white dress shirt with diamond stud buttons, he absolutely stood out and, within seconds, she’d made her decision. He was perfect for the job.

Squaring her shoulders, Taylor shoved the bar door open. For a moment, she stood motionless, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, the noise and heat hitting her in an undulating wave. This was it. Taking a deep breath, she clutched her bag and ventured in. A single length of hand-chiseled wood operated as a bar and spanned one end of the room. Behind it were a medley of liquors and an ornate mirror etched with the slogan of a famous beer. Tables and chairs dotted around the room were mostly already taken. In one corner, a jukebox emitted ear-piercing rock music. In another corner, an eager group of players surrounded a pool table. All of this was of little consequence to Taylor, because all she could focus on was her quarry—Cade Harper. He stood behind the bar, a cocktail shaker in one hand and a salt-crusted margarita glass in the other. Tawny, sun-bronzed hair tapered over his collar, and an unruly tendril dipped across his forehead, seemingly refusing to be controlled. He looked good. Very sexy. No tuxedo tonight, but a black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled back, stretched taut over biceps that flexed and… Oh, God. Definitely a bad boy. Taylor wiped a hand across her brow and her tongue over suddenly parched lips. The temperature had escalated several degrees in one blazing second. Partially hidden by a potted ficus, heart dancing an erratic beat, she watched Cade. “Can I help you?” Taylor spun around. “I…” The voice belonged to a female version of Cade. She had the same coloring and the same dark eyes. Taylor glanced toward Cade over the woman’s head. “I’m here to see Mr. Harper,” she mumbled. Mister! Good grief! She wanted to have sex with this man, and she called him mister! “Cade?” his replica responded, eyebrows quirking upward. Taylor nodded, relieved the woman didn’t ask any questions, and wondered at the same time what her reaction would have been if she’d said, “It’s about sex.” “Follow me.” The young woman crooked her finger toward Taylor, turned and wove her way between tables. With trepidation and anticipation colliding inside her stomach, Taylor hurried after the woman. “Cade.” “Yeah.” He handed the margarita to a customer, and Taylor’s gaze followed the salt-rimmed glass. It shimmered under the overhead lighting, and she found herself licking her lips, almost tasting the delicious salt. “Lady to see you.”

The moment Cade turned, everything changed. Cade Harper. Bad boy. One sexy guy. Taylor’s voice stalled in her throat, and she knew, when his smiling eyes captured hers, she was in way over her head. Cade wiped his hands on a cloth and again Taylor’s gaze followed. Long, lean fingers. Fingers that would touch… Oh, boy! He smiled. “You wanted to see me?” She nodded and felt herself drowning in that smile. His dark eyes twinkled, a swirl of gold and chocolate brown. Just like Hershey Kisses. Kisses! Yep. She was definitely going under. “Lady, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got a bar to run,” he said, grabbing a knife and cutting a lemon into wafer-thin slices. Taylor shook herself. Okay. Come on. Just say it. “I’ve got a favor to ask.” “Ask away then,” he said, not looking up. Taylor burned and eyed the milling crowd. “Actually, it’s a proposition.” He definitely looked then, and his gaze focused on her. He placed the razor-sharp knife on the cutting board. His mouth quirked at one corner, smiling, gaze assessing. “Sounds intriguing.”

When a good man is hard to find, there’s only one thing left to do. Buy one.

My Gigolo © 2010 Molly Burkhart As far as Gabrielle is concerned, her life isn’t at all a mess. It’s simply taught her a hard lesson— never rely on anyone else for her own happiness. It’s not that she’s against having sex. Far from it. It’s just that if it comes with strings tied to the word “love”, she’ll pass. Now if only she could stop her sister and friends from trying to show her the error of her solitary ways. Especially after their latest trick—hiring a male prostitute for her birthday. In all his time as a male escort, Jack’s never met anyone as intriguing as down-to-earth Gabe. Or as determined to refuse his charms. She has no idea whom she’s dealing with, though. Jack’s a consummate professional in all aspects of his chosen field. Including coercion. One minute, Gabe is agreeing to a night of no-strings sex. The next, she’s staring up at a man who turns her body and soul inside out. Jack is staring down at a woman he can’t imagine never seeing again. Both are suddenly aware there are only two ways this could end: a match made in heaven…or sheer disaster. Warning: Explicit sex, illegal sexual practices, zombies, a clown, and the strangest minigolf course ever conceived.

Enjoy the following excerpt for My Gigolo: “If I were a Raiders fan, I’d never admit it to you. And I’d have never survived this long in Kansas City. No, I have to admit to being in a bigger pit of loyalty than you.” Straightening his expression, Jack sat up taller and folded his hands on the table. “If you must know, I am a Bears fan.” “Shut up.” “I will not. Da Bears.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I live for the times they beat Green Bay.” Gabe threw her head back, hooting at the ceiling at both his preference and at the mental image of such a fine specimen going berserk over a football game. Somehow, she’d have never guessed it of him. “Oh, Jack. Oh, God, that’s hilarious.” “I’m sure. And now I will point out that my reaction to your team preference was far less unkind than yours to mine. You so owe me.” She shot him a glance despite her winding down chuckles. He wore an absolutely angelic expression of patience that she didn’t trust any further than she could spit a dead rat. “Owe you what, exactly?” He picked up his spoon. “A boon, milady. A favor to be named at some later time.” His eyes met hers, darkening to forest shadows, and her laughter dried up. “Deal?”

Not sure why she was agreeing, she nodded, feeling a much less carefree smile quirk her lips. She had no idea what kind of favor a man like Jack would request, but she doubted she’d dislike it too much. They ate in companionable silence for a while, Jack even getting up for seconds and then thirds. She grinned and debated ribbing him about it, then held her tongue. She couldn’t think of any snarks that wouldn’t come off sounding flirtatious, and she didn’t really intend to flirt with him. Surely, they were beyond that stage. Or were there stages to a booty call? “How old were you when you and Mike ended up on your own?” The question sideswiped her, and she coughed into her milk, then swallowed wrong and choked. She thumped herself on the chest with her fist, trying to breathe and cough at the same time. Getting herself under control took a long, painful minute, and her eyes watered enough to need wiping with her napkin. Thankfully, he didn’t jump up and run around the table to give her the Heimlich maneuver. She’d never forgive herself if her weekend gigolo spent the evening performing CPR. “I am so sorry, Gabe. Are you all right? I didn’t think it’d catch you so off guard. Can I get you anything?” Blinking blearily, she shook her head, coughed again, then reached across the table for his water. He met her halfway with it, and she swigged a big gulp, trying to wash away the catch that made her want to choke some more. Feeling a little better, she handed his glass back. “Keep it. Are you all right?” “Yeah.” Her voice cracked. She sounded terrible. “I’m all right. You didn’t do anything. I just got ahead of myself.” She felt herself blushing and hoped he’d attribute it to the coughing fit. Fortunately, when she looked up, all she saw on his face was concern and sympathy. “Do you not want to talk about your family?” Shifting uncomfortably, she shrugged. “I dunno, really. I guess Mike and I just don’t talk about it. Something we got over, you know? It’s…kind of hard to think about. She was nineteen, and there she was with a twelve-year-old kid of her own.” He whistled softly and shook his head. “But you both turned out well, so she must have done something right.” “Everything Mike does is right. She’s got the magic touch. She makes success out of ashes.” His smile was more realistic than hers. “You admire her.” “I love her. She’s my sister. She gave up everything for me.” He tilted his head to one side. “She seems happy to me. At least, that’s what she said when I thought she was calling me for her.” Her eyes widened. “You what? What did she say?”

A sheepish grin made him look about half his age. “Well, keep in mind that most of my clients pretend to be looking me up for friends or relatives when they first call.” “I get that.” “Anyway, she let me know in no uncertain terms that she really was calling for her sister and that she was a happily married woman.” He shrugged. “So what, exactly, did she give up for you?” She frowned, doodling invisible circles on the table with her index finger. “Well, she’s happy now, but then…well, she gave up all her chances. She had a scholarship to a good college that she had to turn down. She had to go to work, though she got a bookstore job that she still claims she loved beyond all reason. I dunno. I guess I feel like she could have done so much more than get married and have kids…if it hadn’t been for me.” Her gaze firmly fixed on the wood grain of the table, she listened to him breathe for a long moment. She didn’t want to know what he was thinking. She didn’t want to be having this conversation. She didn’t usually talk to anyone—even her friends—like this, and certainly not to Mike. “I guess you’re entitled to your opinion, but she sounded happy to me.” “She is. I didn’t mean that she isn’t.” He stood and picked up his empty bowl. “Should I rinse these before putting them in the dishwasher?” “Nah. It’s a good one, so long as you don’t leave chunks.” He picked up hers, too, and she glanced up to gauge his expression. He didn’t look bored or falsely sympathetic. What was going on in his mind? Why would he care about her history? And when would they get to the sex, already?

It was only a matter of time before she asked him to leave. He watched her turn a page in her book as she swung lazily in the godawful porch swing, and he wanted to kick himself. Why was he inside, looking at her through the storm door, when he should be out there, getting to know her better? He should have made love to her last night. He’d wanted to, but he didn’t know how to just have sex when he wanted to do more. He’d had entirely too much sex. He wanted to make love. She’d made herself discreetly understood when they went to bed, and he’d muttered a lame response about leaving his bag downstairs and claimed to be too comfortable just holding her to get up and get a condom. What kind of excuse was that? Not only had he likely damaged any credibility he might have had with her, but he’d halfway insulted her, too. So he sipped his coffee and stared at her like an idiot, wondering when she’d come back inside and make up some excuse to send him on his way. Why was this so hard?

But he knew that one, too. It was hard because he wasn’t being completely honest with her. He wanted too much to give her what he knew she wanted. Could he fix it? If he walked out there right now and kissed her, would she let go of her suspicion? Would she let him lead her upstairs? Only one way to find out. He put his coffee cup on an end table and opened the door. She looked up from her book, as wary as when he first showed up for her birthday—as if any ground he’d made up was gone. “Good book?” “Not as good as I’d hoped.” “Please don’t tell me it’s Great Expectations.” She grinned, some of the wariness leaving her eyes. “Could you stand an interruption?” She shrugged and marked her place with a playing card. He courteously waited until she was done, then plucked the book from her hands. Suspicious, she watched him place it on the grill and then squeaked adorably when he reached down, picked her up around the waist, and tossed her over his shoulder. “Jack, what the—” “Hush, woman.” He flung open the storm door and strode through, bee-lining for the staircase. “What on earth—” “Shh.” She sputtered and thunked her knee into his chest hard enough that he grunted. “Hey! You know, if you hit someone hard enough in just the right place, you can actually stop their heart.” “What are you doing?” “I decided to leave today instead of tomorrow, so I am currently preparing to take off all of your clothes with my mouth.”

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