Книга - Because of Jane

Because of Jane
Lenora Worth





The heat of Lenny’s calloused touch burned through her


Jane took in a breath. Did he see the loneliness, the isolation of the wall she’d managed to build around herself to keep others out?

Did he see her as a successful life coach, or a pathetic woman who’d come in hopes of using his name and his fame for her own purposes?

“Lenny, I can help clean up your grandmother’s house. For her sake. She’d want that, don’t you think?”

“You know something, Coach. I’m beyond help. I appreciate your efforts, but you should leave while you’ve got a chance.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Jane replied. And this time, it had nothing to do with ulterior motives or professional recognition.


Dear Reader,

This book is very special to me because even though I write for Steeple Hill Books, this is my very first Harlequin Superromance novel. I love writing for Steeple Hill Books and hope to continue doing that, but this story was a bit different, so I was thrilled when the editors of the Harlequin Superromance line decided to publish it.

I was born and have lived in the South all my life, and this is a Southern story. My heroine, Jane, lives in Arkansas, a state known for Razorback football, but she hates the game! It makes perfect sense that when she gets the assignment of a lifetime—to use her life-coaching skills to help ex-NFL quarterback Lenny Paxton get over a serious midlife crisis—she’ll take the challenge. But Lenny proves to be a hard case and doesn’t want to be tamed. These two opposites are definitely attracted to each other. Soon, Lenny has a plan to give Jane a bit of coaching, too.

This quirky Southern story was such fun to write. I’d love to hear what you think. You can contact me through my website—www.lenoraworth.com.

Lenora Worth




Because of Jane

Lenora Worth










ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Lenora Worth has written more than forty books for three different publishers. Her career with Steeple Hill Books spans close to fourteen years. Her very first Love Inspired title, The Wedding Quilt, won Affaire de Coeur’s Best Inspirational for 1997, and Logan’s Child won RT Book Reviews’ Best Love Inspired for 1998. With millions of books in print, Lenora continues to write for the Love Inspired and Love Inspired Suspense lines. Lenora also wrote a weekly opinion column for the local paper and worked freelance for years with a local magazine. She has now turned to full-time fiction writing and enjoying adventures with her retired husband, Don. Married for thirty-five years, they have two grown children. Lenora enjoys writing, reading and shopping…especially shoe shopping. This is her first Harlequin Superromance novel.


To Tara Gavin, Wanda Ottewell and Patience Smith.

Thanks to each of you for believing in me, pushing me to be my best and letting me write this story!

And to Steve Miller, of course.




Contents


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE




CHAPTER ONE


FROM HIS SPOT atop the hill, Lenny Paxton watched as his friend Henry Powell ran around the old truck to help the passenger. Amusement at Henry’s chivalrous antics changed to dread inside Lenny’s heart.

It couldn’t be. But it was. Henry set suitcases and tote bags down on the dusty road, tipped his hat to the woman standing there. Then with a grin, the man ambled back to the idling vehicle and took off, spinning rocks as he headed on up the mountain road.

“I don’t believe this,” Lenny said, his words edged with aggravation. He watched as the woman grabbed at her luggage and trudged up the rocky dirt driveway toward the farmhouse, purses and bags falling down her arms.

“Trouble, double trouble,” Lenny said, thinking a man could certainly reach his limits on days like this one. He’d just had words with ex-wife number two and now this.

Another woman in his life. An unwelcome, unwanted woman. And most of the women in his life were that way these days. He’d have to nip this in the bud right now.

But the primal male in him shifted gears. She did look kinda cute carrying all that baggage up that hill. Taking his time, he watched, a trickle of his old wickedness making him smile. He should go help her, but he wasn’t nearly as noble as old Henry. “Let her sweat a bit.”

Then she swayed, tripped on a rock and popped one of the heels off her pretty pumps. Lenny had to laugh at the words the cute woman uttered. A tad feisty underneath all that gabardine, wasn’t she?

When she threw down the bags and held up what was left of the heel of her right shoe, her expression full of exasperation and frustration, in spite of his aversion to the female population right now, Lenny knew he couldn’t let this one slide. This might get interesting.



SHE’D BROKEN A HEEL.

Letting out a groan, Jane Harper held that heel and looked up from her now ruined black Italian leather “client-meeting” pumps to the two-storied whitewashed farmhouse sitting with forlorn loneliness up on the hill in front of her. At least she was here now. And from the looks of the place, she’d be here a while. The yard was weed-covered and drought-thirsty. An old International tractor sat lopsided near a giant live oak on a hill, looking like a petrified bug. The steps were cracked, the porch paint was peeling. And the porch was lined with several pieces of vintage wicker furniture and Victorian plant stands, along with exercise equipment and piles of various brands of empty beer cans.

Jane glanced around, hoping the rumors she’d heard about shotguns weren’t true. She envisioned this place clean and well repaired. She could see this house renewed and invigorated, shining brightly with fresh white paint and ferns sitting pristinely on those fabulous old stands. She could almost smell freshly baked bread coming from the open kitchen window, hear the sound of someone practicing piano from inside the parlor. She’d plant daisies near that old tractor and make it into a backdrop instead of an eyesore.

Jane’s heart hurt for this place. All it lacked was a little nurturing. Her organizational skills were sorely needed. For this house, and for the man who’d been holed up here—allegedly armed and dangerous—since last spring.

“Certainly have my work cut out for me,” she mumbled to the broken heel of her pump.

But if anyone could get rid of the clutter surrounding the quaint Victorian house, Jane could. And if anyone could bring former NFL quarterback Lenny Paxton out of his self-imposed isolation after losing the Super Bowl, losing his beloved grandmother and then losing his cool in front of the world, Jane could. She also planned to get the scoop on the story everyone wanted—what in the world was wrong with Lenny Paxton?

Maybe everything that had happened up to now—the long drive from Little Rock, getting a flat tire out on the main road, then meeting the skinny, philosophical Henry in the old red pickup (he’d been kind enough to give her a ride and to warn her that she might get shot) and now her broken heel—had all been signs that she should have stayed in the big city.

Never one to take bad luck as the gospel, Jane dug in her one good heel and worked on calming thoughts. Forgetting her damaged shoe, she stood in the warm sunshine of this fall Arkansas afternoon, sweat pooling underneath her lightweight gray wool dress, steam fogging her black-rimmed glasses. After some steady deep-breathing, she once again looked over the meticulous notes tucked in her leather tote bag.

Subject: Leonard (Lenny) Paxton, former NFL quarterback with two Super Bowl wins to his credit and one big loss still on his mind. Dallas Cowboys, Denver Broncos, multimillion-dollar contracts, messed-up shoulder, messed-up knees, messed-up head, early retirement. Meltdown during a press conference. Now hiding out in the cluttered farmhouse where he’d been raised by his grandparents, refusing to honor the million-dollar endorsement deal he’d signed two weeks after announcing his retirement.

That was the short version.

Jane had the long version in precise typewritten notes in her briefcase and stored in her laptop.

She blew a hot breath up toward the wispy dark blond bangs falling away from what had started out this morning as an efficient chignon. She had her reasons for being here. Reason number one—prestige.

Jane’s mother and father had been pushy when it came to their firstborn. Academic achievements and career aspirations ranked right up there with Arkansas Razorback football fever at the Harper house. Jane had learned from the rigid, structured habits of her overly educated parents. She’d become the perfect overachiever. She’d accomplished a lot of the goals she’d set in her life, but she still needed that one assignment that would push her status to new heights and maybe land her a major book deal.

Too bad the one drawback was that the subject at hand was a jock. Her entire family loved football, and since Lenny had once played for the Razorbacks and had gone on to NFL fame, her University of Arkansas alumni parents would be impressed. But Jane wasn’t. Sitting around a football stadium, watching grown men run straight into each other just to capture a strange-looking ball didn’t appeal to Jane’s delicate sensibilities. And chanting rival fight songs and belching barbecue and beer was not her idea of a great Saturday afternoon. But then, jocks had never flocked to the shy girl who wore glasses and read books instead of swooning like a cheerleader whenever one of them entered the room. If she got the scoop on Lenny Paxton, she’d up her esteem in her parents overly critical eyes.

And that brought her to reason number two. “It’s certainly a challenge.” Jane loved a challenge. From what she could tell, breaking Lenny Paxton would be both a challenge and a chore. His list of transgressions made for interesting psychological fodder.

Jane took her assignments very seriously. So while her car sat on the interstate with a flat, Henry had promised he’d get the tire changed while she got right to business. And in spite of having a very strong aversion to superjocks and guns, Jane would get Lenny Paxton whipped into shape. Or her name wasn’t Jane Harper, Ph.D.

She was efficient, dependable, reliable, thorough, no-nonsense, and she had earned her Ph.D. in Psychology from the University of Arkansas. And even though her academic parents and siblings frowned on Jane’s status as a life coach, she had worked with everyone from supermodels to burned-out ministers to stay-at-home moms who needed some self-esteem. And that, Jane Harper reminded herself, was why she got the big bucks. And the exotic assignments. This assignment just might beat the band since she’d received a phone call from the notorious Sidelined sports magazine that prided itself on getting the scoop on the most interesting and infamous sport figures in the world.

They wanted her to write an in-depth exposé on Lenny Paxton. Jane had agreed, but only after she’d told the magazine’s gleeful editor that she couldn’t reveal any client/therapist secrets without the client’s permission. While the editor wasn’t too happy about that, the man had reluctantly agreed to her doing the article on spec. Now, Jane’s main goal was to win over Lenny enough to get him to open up so his inspiring story could help other people.

In spite of the remote, rather quaint location—Mockingbird Springs, Arkansas, population 989—this one had been too tempting to pass up. Famous athlete and ladies’ man extraordinaire Lenny Paxton was in trouble. He’d disappointed his team and his fans, and lost his confidence. He’d quickly retired in disgrace only to turn around and sign another contract—this one with a major pharmaceutical company. But now he wanted out of his contract. So his hotshot sports agent, Marcus Ramon, had resorted to drastic measures to get Lenny back on track. He’d called Dr. Jane Harper.

She’d come, after being wooed by Lenny’s hyper agent and by Sidelined magazine, from Little Rock to this backwoods village to help a man who was having a very public, very intense midlife crisis that he was trying hard to keep private. And because Jane hated jocks and especially hated football, she was going way outside her comfort zone. Only because she knew she could learn from each new experience. And, hopefully, make a name for herself that would please even her discerning parents.

She dropped her briefcase and leather tote, then turned to unzip her suitcase to find a pair of low heeled buttery-soft brown loafers. Then she took off her prized pumps and put them in her tote, broken heel and all.

Better. Not as professional, but a lot more sensible.

Gathering her things along with her pride and some fresh determination, Jane started marching up the dusty drive toward the rambling old house set against the backdrop of the Ozark Mountains. “And reason number three—the money. Always good to get a giant bonus for expediency.”

Jane Harper, psychologist and relationship therapist, nonfiction author, authority on the human psyche and all-around consummate life coach and perfectionist might have just taken on the most challenging assignment of her career. She’d probably get network interviews and her name in People magazine.

Lenny Paxton was not only a challenge. The man was a walking mess, so macho and such a jock, and so in trouble with everyone from ex-wives and angry girlfriends to just about the entire world of sports media, Jane couldn’t wait to take him on.

So she pulled on the handle of her heavy rolling suitcase and took another step toward the inviting comfort of the white rocking chairs sitting amidst the jumble on the wraparound porch.

From inside the house, a dog barked then whimpered as if it were already bored with the quarry walking up the driveway.

Jane hitched a breath. “Great. I’m allergic to dogs.” Then she saw the overgrown morning glory bush by the steps. “Now that’s pathetic.”

From somewhere at the side of the house, a voice barked in what sounded like a very aggravated tone, “Pathetic—now that’s a good way to describe this situation.”

Jane turned at the smirking words coming from the deeply male voice. Turned and came face-to-face with the real-life-legend-in-his-own-time Lenny Paxton. He was standing underneath an enormous old live oak and he was holding a very big shotgun.

Jane swallowed back the metallic taste of fear as she inhaled what she hoped was a steadying breath. He’d been hidden from view, which meant he’d had the distinct advantage of studying her before she could study him. Drat on that, she’d study him now. After all, that was why she was here. And she wouldn’t let that gun stop her. Mainly because he didn’t have it aimed at her.

Yet.

Dropping her bags, she gave him a long, completely professional appraisal, from the top of his dark, thick hair to the tips of his battered, dusty cowboy boots. Hmm.

Okay, she’d prepared herself for the confounding variables of this case. One being his lethal charm. She was so immune to that, thanks to the many titillating articles regarding his love life. Both fascinated and repulsed, she’d pored over them for days on end. Lenny Paxton was the typical love ’em and leave ’em type—very predictable and very commitment-shy.

She’d prepared herself for his skeptical nature—or at least Marcus Ramon had warned her in person to watch for that—warned her in a loud, shrieking voice, his hands flapping in the air as he kept stating, “Don’t fall for that dry wit and oozing charm, Jane. It’s just a front for all his cynicism and stubbornness. And for his pain. You have to be professional at all times or he’ll sideline you.”

And she thought she’d prepared herself for Lenny’s good looks, but mercy, the man was even better-looking in person than in all the pictures she’d managed to dig up from the newspapers, sports magazines and tabloids. In his faded cream-colored T-shirt, tight jeans and scuffed brown cowboy boots, he sizzled white-hot right along with the Indian summer sun hitting the dusty clay at her feet.

And of course, her low blood-sugar dizziness chose that very moment to kick in, making her vision get fuzzy and her legs turn to mush. Should have had some protein, Jane thought belatedly.

“Are you all right?” he asked, meeting her disoriented gaze with one of his own, his whole stance so domineering and formidable, she could understand why he’d put fear in the hearts of opponents all across America.

“I was talking to myself,” Jane said, rather defensively. Don’t let him smell any fear. Because she absolutely was not afraid. Anxious to get on with it, maybe. Determined to change his life, definitely. But not afraid. But being nervous was a good thing. It kept her on her toes. She’d faced down worse subjects. But never one who looked so…tempting.

Just to prove she was capable of overcoming temptation, she added, “I like to talk out loud. It helps me to remember things.”

He grinned, showing a row of million-dollar white teeth set against the aged tan of his face. “Well, then, don’t let me stop you. Go ahead, answer yourself.”

Flustered but not defeated, Jane waved a hand in the air then regained her balance. “I’m not that far gone yet.”

“Yeah, right.”

She watched as he whipped a spiffy cell phone out of the pocket of his jeans and hit a key. “Marcus, you’re fired.” Then Lenny popped the phone shut, put his gun against the big oak and headed toward her, lifting her tight, efficiently packed suitcase with all the ease of a gorilla.

“You must be way gone, lady, to come all the way here after I specifically told my fool of an agent to stop you.” Hoisting the suitcase with one hand, he started toward the house. “For the record—I don’t want you here.”

“You didn’t just fire your agent, did you?”

“I did.” He kept walking. “But I fire him once a week for good measure anyway.”

She registered his expected hostility and denial. Nothing a little behavior modification and open discussion couldn’t fix. “That’s terrible. But at least you know who I am and why I’m here.”

He gave a short chuckle, his melancholy blue eyes flashing fire. “Oh, yeah, I know who you are, all right. And I can tell you right now, I do not need a life coach and I sure don’t need a stranger coming into my home to get it organized. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” He shook his head at the notion, the skin around his eyes crinkling nicely as he smirked. “Life coach, my—”

“You don’t want me here,” Jane interrupted, glad to be rid of the heavy suitcase and glad to get the nasty denials out of the way. Hurrying to catch up with his long-legged stroll, she added, “That is perfectly understandable, Mr. Paxton, but I can assure you, we will work through that.”

“I’m Lenny, and it is not perfectly understandable,” he replied as he stomped on his battered boots toward the house. “I’ll put this in my Jeep and we’ll get you back on the road to Little Rock, because we don’t have anything to work through.”

Jane stopped at the bottom step, looking up at where he’d dropped her suitcase amid an old pile of pots and pans on the gray-colored, planked porch floor. “I’m not leaving. Your agent said the judge who presided over your last court hearing and arraignment—for cracking a few heads in a bar in Dallas—specifically said you needed a psychological evaluation. I can give you one and get that judge off your back at the same time. And maybe we can also work through getting this house and your life organized.”

He turned to stare down at her with ice-hard disdain. In spite of his freezing look, more sweat beads popped out down her backbone. His voice went deceptively low. “No, you’re not going to analyze me, Ms. Harper. And, yes, you are leaving.”

“I can’t,” Jane replied. “I promised your agent we’d get you in shape for that big endorsement contract. You know, the one with certain stipulations—the first being that you show up sober for the preliminary photo session and press conference and you don’t try to back out on the contract that you technically already signed.”



LENNY DECIDED he didn’t want to play this game after all. “I didn’t want to sign that contract,” he retorted, his reasons for bolting too raw and harsh to explain to this perky stranger. “And I did not agree to this stupid idea that Marcus and some judge concocted about cleaning up my act.”

Then he looked out at the autumn-tinged mountains beyond this quiet valley, wondering why he even bothered to explain. She wouldn’t care about his newfound insecurities and fears. And he was too much of a man to spill his ugly history to anyone, let alone some skinny shrink who was probably only here to garner a mention in the press, just like everyone else who shadowed him.

“And not that it matters, but I was not drunk that day of the press conference and photo shoot. The night in the bar, yes, but not the day of the press conference.”

She put her dainty hands on her dainty hips, reminding Lenny of one of the pretty dolls his grandmother liked to collect. “That’s not how the tabloids saw things.”

“Yeah, well, the tabloids lie.” He shifted, let out a grunt. “I don’t need you here, Ms. Harper.”

She stared at him with so much clinical intensity, he actually got nervous. “You know something, Lenny, you’re an amazing specimen of manhood. So completely male, the testosterone is bouncing off you like laser rays.”

“Glad you noticed,” he said with a lift of his chin. And a testosterone-filled angry glare.

Score one for Lenny. She touched a hand to her burnished hair, while an equally burnished blush moved down her throat. “All of that aside, you’ve made a mess of things. You need a life coach.”

He said something crude then shook his head. “No, I don’t believe I do. I am perfectly fine and I wish my superagent could get that through his thick California skull.”

“He’s concerned about—”

“He’s concerned about the money,” Lenny said, coming down the steps to take her briefcase and tote. He handily tossed them up beside her carry-on, oblivious to the crinkle and crash of her files and personal items. “He doesn’t want the Lenny Paxton gravy train to end. And I’m pretty sure it’s my money he’s offering you to come here for this exclusive therapy session.”

“I wouldn’t exactly look at it that way,” she said through a cringe of distaste. “He just hates to see you wasting away.”

He lifted his hands then winked at her to hide the bulletlike accuracy of her words. “Do I look like I’m wasting away?”

Looking appalled and attractive, she shook her head. “You look okay. Maybe a little out of shape and you do have dark circles under your eyes. But we can fix that with diet and exercise and meditation, and in just a few weeks.”

“A few weeks?” Lenny stomped a foot against the wooden steps, causing caked mud to fall away from his boots. He couldn’t handle this kind of talk for that long. “You’re not serious?”

“I’m very serious. I came to stay for the duration, since part of my assignment is to go through this place and get it in tip-top shape. Usually it takes about a month, but I’m prepared to stay longer if necessary.” Then she leaned forward like a mighty little warrior. “You see, it’s not so much about the clutter in the house, but more about the clutter in your head.”

He put his hands on his hips then nailed her with what sports reporters called the Paxton Scowl. “Meditation? You’re really serious?”

She smiled prettily. “Very.”

He scowled nastily. “Really?”

“Really.”

“We’ll just see about that. I’d hate to resort to shooting a woman.”

Her frown wasn’t so surefire. “You won’t shoot me and you can’t send me away. I’m tired and I’m hungry. I drove all day, so I’d have my own car. But I got a flat out on the highway, and Henry came by. I endured Henry’s smelly, oil-guzzling old truck and even older Hank Williams eight-tracks. At least let me stay the night, then we can discuss this like two civilized adults.”

She sounded so pitiful, Lenny had to challenge her, just because he was in a really bad mood. “Depends on what happens during the night, don’t you think?”

Touchdown. She turned as red as Henry’s old truck. “I’m here in a professional capacity only, Mr. Paxton.”

Lenny figured he could change all that, but refrained from suggesting anything specific for now. “Of course you are, Ms. Harper. Don’t worry. You’re not really my type anyway.”

His cell phone rang. “Henry?” Lenny gave Jane a cool look. “Yes, Henry, she really is a life coach. No, I didn’t shoot her, and no, I’m not keeping her.” He hung up. “Henry sends his regards and said to tell you he’s already changed the flat tire. He’ll bring the car around sooner or later.”

“That was nice of him,” Jane replied. “I didn’t have a spare.”

“Yeah, Henry’s real nice. And you should always carry a spare.”

He went back up the steps and stared at her tote and briefcase. Because some of her pens and paper clips had fallen out, he bent to pick them up and shove them back inside her bag, his hand clutching her tube of “Cinnamon Sweet” lipstick a little too long. When he stood, he tried to hide the pain shooting throughout his body. No need to let her see how he’d been battered and bruised in the name of football. And no need for her to see into his battered and bruised soul, either.

But she noticed anyway. Her tone hinted of understanding and sympathy. “I can’t leave. You look as if you need someone to talk to and I’m tired and I need a solid meal. Please?”

Lenny wanted to be mean and tell her to take a hike, but he couldn’t do that to a stranded woman, even if he really didn’t want to deal with another woman. “Fine, then. Make yourself at home, but just for tonight.”

He pointed toward the screen door. “There’s a big room upstairs on the right.” He paused, looked out toward the mountains again, thinking he’d regret putting her in that particular room, but at least it was clean. “I guess you can stay in there, but you’d better not rearrange anything, understand? The kitchen is straight down the hallway to the left.” Leaning close, he added, “And don’t expect room service.”



LENNY MARCHED past Jane, the smell of sweat and spice surrounding him in a heated mist that hit her nostrils with all the force of something both forbidden and enticing. Since when had her sensory awareness escalated to the point of bringing on an adrenaline rush? Just nerves and being tired, she told herself as she watched his retreating back.

“You have a dog in there, right?”

He turned, a wolfish grin causing his words to come out in a snarl. “Yeah. I hope you like animals, because the dog stays—but you won’t be here long enough to get to know my dog, or me.”

Memo to self, Jane thought, watching the frown increase on his face. This man is hostile and unyielding. Marcus hadn’t told her Lenny didn’t want her here. Marcus hadn’t told her a lot of things. Such as, this man was obviously hurting in more than just a physical way.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” Jane called after him, a nervous twitch forming over her left eyebrow. “You won’t regret this.”

“I already do,” he shot back, his tone dismissive and condescending. “Just leave your bags there. I’ll bring them up later.”

Then he picked up his gun and disappeared around the side of the house.

Jane turned toward the cool darkness of the hallway beyond the screen door, dragging her bags since she was certainly capable, for goodness’ sake. There she was met by the biggest, ugliest dog she’d ever seen. A dog that immediately started drooling on her loafers.




CHAPTER TWO


“UH, OH.” Jane did not like animals. Animals were smelly and slobbery and usually an all-around pain in the neck (just like football players, come to think of it). Her eyes already burning, she said, “Get off me, you big lug.”

Taking her verbal plea as an invitation, the dog pawed his way up her dress, whimpering for attention. Jane grabbed his dirty paws, desperate to get him away from her personal space. “I said, get off me.” She backed against the screen door, causing it to squeak and creak. Grabbing onto the doorjamb, she tried to save the last of her dignity before Lenny found her standing here, cowering.

But it was too late. The groaning door gave way while the dog kept advancing toward her. Jane backed up, her hand slipping from the doorjamb while the screen door banged open.

She fell back against Lenny Paxton’s hard chest, felt the solid wall of his body and immediately felt a charged current of energy radiating from him. Before she could pull away, the dog came running and crashed into her—front side. While Lenny held her—back side.

“Boy!”

At Lenny’s harsh command, the dog dropped, whimpered a retort then gave Jane a big-eyed look as if to say, “Aren’t I lovable enough for you?”

Jane looked around at the man fogging up her usually sensible brain right along with her really sensible glasses. Lenny lifted her away, his movements shaking the old floorboards of the porch, his famous frown locked inches from her nose.

Looking just about as flustered as she felt, he said, “I told you I have a dog.”

“Is that what this is?” she managed to ask through a shaky laugh, her eyes on the huge monstrosity sitting at her feet. “More like an ox.”

Judging from the smirk on his face, Lenny was enjoying her discomfort. But Jane also saw something else in his diamond-edged eyes. Fear and apprehension. He’d done this on purpose. Let her walk right into this big animal. His scare tactics weren’t going to drive her away, just because he was afraid to have her here. She’d take an allergy pill and get along with this big brute. And the dog, too.

To prove she was in this for the long haul, Jane wiped her sweaty hands on her dress then leaned over and tentatively patted the dog on its splotchy gold-and-white head. “Nice doggy. What a nice fellow.”

Lenny gave her a once-over, surprise settling on his face like a flag falling after a football play. “Boy—his name is Boy. And he’s harmless but overly friendly. It’s part of his charm.” He smiled as if to say it was also part of his charm. Then he lifted her bags to settle them in a spot by the stairs.

At least her bags were advancing, even if she wasn’t.

Jane followed, stepping around groaning bookcases and ancient sideboards stacked with dishes and dolls, hoping to open a dialogue. “Boy? Your dog’s name is Boy?”

Lenny shrugged, stalked to the refrigerator in the long, multi-windowed kitchen. This room had a lot of country charm, all frilly and old-fashioned and overdone with roosters of various sizes. And more dishes, along with cabinets filled with pots and pans, and more dolls on some of the counters. The only saving grace—the big windows were thrown open to allow the crisp fall breeze to play through the lacy white curtains.

Lenny Paxton looked as out of place in here as a gladiator in a queen’s sitting room. Which only added to his mystique. Why had he come to this particular place in this particular time of his life? And how could someone so intimidating and burly live with all this dainty stuff?

Jane jotted copious notes in her writing pad. When Lenny turned around, she hid the pad then pushed at her glasses. “Boy?” she repeated, trying to work up some meaningful discussion. Since he seemed to love the dog, she decided to start with that. Except that every time she said “Boy” the dog looked at her with hopeful expectation. The man did not.

“Yes, his name is Boy.” He patted the dog’s head. “It was the only thing he’d answer to when my granddaddy found him up on the highway. It kinda stuck.” He looked out over the big backyard. “Granddaddy died about a year after he found Boy.”

Jane registered that information and the reverent way he’d told her, since she hadn’t been able to find out much about his early years. Famous she could research; private, what-makes-you-tick stuff was harder to investigate. “I’m sorry. Were you close to your grandfather?”

He turned with another attempt at a smirk, his hostility bouncing off the walls like the beats of a big brass drum. “You are not going to get any fodder out of me, so don’t even try. I don’t have any issues. I’m perfectly content. Or at least I was until you got here.”

“Sorry. I was trying to be polite.”

Lenny gave her a long, curious stare, then nodded toward the dog still hassling at her feet. “At least Boy seems to trust you. But then, he’s dumber than dirt.”

“What exactly is he?” Jane asked as she brushed off her dress. She could feel the hives working their aggravating way up her neck. Thankfully, she had a good supply of hand sanitizer and allergy pills in her bag.

“Part hound, part collie, I think.”

“Are you sure there isn’t some wolf and wild boar mixed in there somewhere?”

That actually made the man smile. He had a nice, devastating smile.

Clearing her throat, Jane watched as he took a vintage Fiestaware pitcher out of the refrigerator then poured some water into a plastic Razorback cup. Pushing at the various dishes, he found a dainty crystal glass and filled it with water then shoved it at her. “Drink this.”

Jane took the water, watching as he picked up the plastic cup then lifted it in a salute. When he downed the whole thing, desire flooded through her system with a thousand-watt brilliance. Desire for the water, not the man, she assured herself. And just to prove that point, she also downed part of her glassful.

He turned, stared at her as if she were in the way then shrugged again. “I’m so sorry. Where are my manners? We need to sit down and talk about how to get you back to wherever it is that shrinks go to roost.”

He was playing hard to get, siccing his dog on her, making insults. Typical hostile male behavior. Meaning this would not be a good time to tell him she was also on assignment with Sidelined magazine. “Just pass the water jug again, would you? I’m hot and tired, and the least you can do is allow me the courtesy of your time. I might be able to help you if you give me a chance.”

He stood back, his intimidating crystal eyes shot full of misgivings. “Is this one of those shrink games? A trick to make me change my mind?”

“No, absolutely not,” she said, advancing a step. Boy followed her, stopping whenever she stopped. She didn’t like playing the helpless female, but Jane had to try a different tactic with this one. “I was counting on this assignment. I like the money, of course, and I need some time away from my other patients.” Almost to herself, she added, “They’re really getting on my nerves.”

He arched his thick eyebrows, his nostrils flaring as if he’d just sniffed something in the air. “I thought it was your job to keep people from going crazy.”

“It is. I mean, I do. Actually, I just help people to gain self-esteem and get rid of some excess baggage in both their personal and emotional lives. I’ve written books, based on some of my experiences, with my clients’ permission, of course.” She glanced around at the ceramic roosters filling the kitchen, her fingers itching to straighten things about as bad as the hives on her neck were itching to be scratched.

“Don’t count on doing that with me,” he retorted, his tone quiet and deadly, even with lace curtains lifting behind him in the afternoon breeze.

“Uh…well…it’s not just that,” she said, wondering if she’d ever gain his trust. “Sometimes, it’s good to get out of the office now and then.” Rummaging through her purse, she found her allergy pills, took one with the water then sat the glass on the one clear spot amid the sports magazines and obvious unopened bills on the table.

Lenny cranked up a portable CD player sitting on the counter. Steve Miller’s “Abracadabra” filled the air. “Running from something, doc?”

Jane realized her mistake. Lenny Paxton thought she was too wacky to advise anyone. And maybe he was right. She was a klutz at times. And she did have her own issues. Especially regarding jocks. She was so not a jock-type woman.

Reminding herself to stay professional, she pushed at her chignon. “Could I sit down, please?”

He found a clear chair—all chrome and red aged vinyl—then with a flourish, lifted his hands toward her and said in a sarcastic tone, “By all means, sit, take a load off.”

Jane urged her tired bones toward the cushioned chair. Didn’t this house have air-conditioning? In spite of the cool breeze coming from the window, she felt flushed.

“Thank you,” she said, taking in the old, linoleum-topped breakfast table. Then she sank against the table, causing its chrome legs to scrape across the wooden floor. “I didn’t want to be a part of all the Razorback hoopla back in Little Rock. My family tends to take game day very seriously.”

He grinned the way a warrior with a spear would grin as he went in for the kill. “You don’t like football?”

Jane stood up straight, trying to focus, trying to reach the volume dial on the CD player. “Not at all.”

Lenny pushed her hand away. “But you came here anyway, to fix me? Or is that it? You hate football, so it’s your goal to fix all football players?”

She cleared her tight throat. “It’s a paying assignment, regardless of the unpleasant subject matter.” Then Boy decided to make another play for her. Gasping, Jane backed up against the chair. And got dizzy again.

Lenny caught her by her elbows, then frowned an inch away from her face. “What ails you, anyway?”

“I…missed lunch.”

“Sit down,” he said, shoving her onto the chair. “You obviously aren’t used to this late-summer heat.” His mock-concerned look didn’t give her hope that the man did have a heart.

“I grew up in Arkansas,” she pointed out, a triumphant tone in her voice to undermine her wobbly legs. “I know all about heat and humidity. It’s rather nice out today and the leaves are just starting to turn.” She smiled, squirmed, looked away. “All in all, rather enjoyable. In fact, I’d forgotten how lovely the fall leaves are.”

“Too bad you won’t get to stick around. Fall in the Ozarks is really pretty. That is, when you’re out in the peace and quiet of the country.”

“All the more reason to be here, instead of cooped up in my office back in the city.”

He made a sad face. “If only you could stay.”

“Let’s forget all about that for now. Did you grow up in Arkansas?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he slapped her question back at her. “Did you grow up in Little Rock, or just find a place to roost there and hang out your shingle?”

“Yes, I grew up in Little Rock,” Jane replied, trying to be honest in hopes that he’d do the same. “My dad was in the air force so we traveled a lot, but when he retired we settled back in Arkansas. My parents are both college professors now. We moved to Fayetteville when I was in high school. They taught at the University of Arkansas there for years.”

And she’d been an awkward, geeky teenager who’d babysat instead of going to homecoming and prom. “So my family—I have a sister and a brother, both younger than me—are all Trojan and Razorback fans. My parents moved back to Little Rock a few years ago, and during football season, everyone congregates for football parties. Everyone but me, unless I’m forced to do so.”

“Wow, you really do hate football. Isn’t it sacrilege to miss a Razorback game?”

Jane felt the need to defend her position. “I work a lot. I keep a private practice, and my self-help books and magazine articles are doing quite well. I lecture at major companies, help train employees, get people motivated to live their best lives. I can do the same for you.”

He ignored that suggestion. “Why didn’t you move—say to New York or Los Angeles? You know, some place where all the really crazy people live?”

“I love Arkansas,” she said, not even daring to voice her real reasons for staying close to home.

The music ended and he didn’t move a muscle, but the tension in the room seemed to tighten with each breath Jane took. Lenny Paxton sure wasn’t the chatty type, and so far she’d shared more with him than she had intended. Which only made Jane want to question him. But she held her ground, smiling up at him with what she hoped was a serene demeanor.

He came toward the table then leaned down to plant both his big hands across the faded linoleum, his buff body hovering inches from her. Then he smiled, another real honest-to-goodness smile, but his tone was low and drawling, his eyes bright with a dare. “A southern girl. I like southern girls. And I especially like home-grown Arkansas girls.”

Jane pulled back. He was too close, way too close. She did not like people getting in her face. Or her space. “Could I have some more water, please?”

He pushed off the table, poured the water then turned to watch her. “See, I told you…even though the wind is cool, that sun is still hot. I think it addled your brain. You look flushed.”

“I’m fine, really.” Sweat poured all the way down to her toes, but she didn’t dare tell him that, especially with him looking at her as if he’d just met his next conquest and he’d already won. “My trip across the state was a bit rough.”

“All the more reason for you to not be here,” he replied as he handed her another glass of water. “Want a piece of peach pie?”

Jane’s stomach lurched at the mention of food, and at the way he’d changed from disagreeable to debonair. “No, I…I have a delicate stomach. I think something at the truck stop—”

“You should never eat truck stop food.”

“I didn’t. I skipped breakfast and lunch, but I grabbed a cup of something that resembled coffee and I had half a Luna bar in my car.”

“Some coach you are,” he retorted, reaching for a loaf of what looked like fresh-baked bread. “I’m gonna butter this and toast it for you and you’re gonna eat, okay?”

“Okay.”

She wasn’t used to being ordered around, but she was hungry. She should have eaten. Low blood-sugar and all that. But she was surprised by his abrupt need to feed her. Was it part of his obvious compulsions, in the same way his hoarding things around him seemed to be? Deciding to test that theory, she said, “Could you put some cheese on it? I need some protein and calcium.”

He gave her a perturbed look and then busied himself with cutting the bread, buttering it, laying the cheese down in precise order and finding a broiler pan, his actions methodical and organized. “You’re too skinny.”

“Thank you so much.”

“I’m just stating the obvious.”

At least they were making polite (well, polite on her part, anyway) conversation. She would have to build his trust one affirmation at a time. The man was notorious for his skepticism. And he had an ego the size of Texas. He had ticked off coaches and reporters across the country with his glib attitude and his blunt retorts, and he’d infuriated women on a global level with his definite lack of commitment. A tough case.

So why the need for perfection with the grilled cheese sandwich?

“You don’t have to put too much butter on the bread.”

He glared at her, looked back at the sandwich and then looked at the trash can.

“Don’t throw it away,” she said, knowing he wanted to do that very thing. “I’m too hungry to wait for another one.”

One compulsion won out over the other. He finished cooking the sandwich, but he kept lifting it with the spatula to stare at it.

Jane was sure she could handle anything this man tried to dish out. But she couldn’t help but admire his backside as he buttered that bread and crisped that sandwich.

About an hour later, after one perfect grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of sweet lemonade, Jane felt refreshed, but sleepy. That surprised her. She didn’t require much sleep. Maybe it was just the way the breeze moved through those lacy curtains, or the way Boy sighed in his doggy slumber at her feet. Or maybe she needed to rest and try to get her brain back on task, instead of wondering why Lenny had hidden himself away behind clutter here on this remote farm for eight months, when the world was waiting for his next move.

Pace yourself, she thought. You just got here. Plenty of time to get inside his head. If she could get past all that indifference and male-speak.

The good news—Lenny stayed with her while she ate. The bad news—he was reading the paper and listening to more Steve Miller—“Jet Airliner” this time—instead of talking to her. Although she couldn’t be sure if the issue he was reading was current since the small table was full of all types of publications.

She glanced through the arched kitchen opening toward the hall to the right into a formal dining room/living room combination, wondering why this house was part dainty organization and part mixed-up male. “Tell me about your grandmother, Lenny.”



LENNY LIFTED HIS GAZE toward her, then checked his watch. Exactly fifteen minutes. That’s how long she’d stayed quiet. He’d almost expected her to fall asleep right there at the table. No such luck. “Who wants to know?”

Shaking a finger at him, she said, “Well, I do. She had a lot of things from what I can see. Was she a collector?”

Deciding he’d best make hay while the sun was shining and answer some of her annoying questions, he said, “Yes, she collected antiques and junk and…dolls.”

That was an understatement. This old house looked like a flea market. Lenny knew things looked bad. Okay, worse than bad. But he just didn’t have the energy to deal with that right now. And he didn’t have the energy to get to the bottom of his new anxieties either. So he let all the collected things sit, neat and tidy, while he kept piling his messy things all around them. The clutter brought him a small measure of comfort. The questions from the perky woman across the table did not.

“What was her name?”

“Bertie.” He went back to pretending to read the paper. And put up a solid wall around his pent-up emotions.

“And how long do you plan to keep all of her things around?”

“Forever.”

Jane leaned forward, his noncommunicative mood seeming to bounce off her like sun rays. “Why did you walk away after losing the Super Bowl, Lenny?”

He looked up at her and saw the earnestness in her eyes, but Lenny put on his game face. At first, he didn’t answer. Then he said, “I was tired.” That admission seemed to make him feel a whole lot better about things. Maybe he did need therapy, after all. But who would believe him? The whole world had given up on Lenny Paxton.

“You look tired now. You have dark circles under your eyes. Do you sleep at all?”

Lenny’s brand of tired creaked all the way to his bones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep. “I get by,” he said. “But I suppose you can help me find some new energy?” Exploring the possibilities of that proposition did intrigue him. Analyze a little bit; flirt a little bit. See which one of them caved first. That tactic had always garnered him a pretty woman on his arm. But then, maybe he didn’t have the energy to even flirt.

“That’s part of the therapy, yes.”

He watched as she started stacking magazines, clearing away the section of the table she had somehow managed to take over. “Even if you think you’re too old for football, even if you don’t get this current contract dispute settled, you could be a commentator or a spokesperson. Your agent says you’ve got offers all over the place, endorsement deals, movie offers—”

His halfway good mood turned to ice as a kind of panic knocked the wind out of him. “My agent—the one I just fired—talks too much and presumes too much. Those deals aren’t worth the paper they’re written on. Most of them are comical or beneath my dignity. I’m not ready for stupid reality shows about has-beens.” He flipped open his phone, then shook his head. “Eight messages from Marcus already. Got him backed against a wall.” Then he closed the phone but kept his bravado. “I’ll let him stew a little bit more.” Getting up, he cleared away their dishes. “Oh, and did I tell you—you’re fired, too.”

Jane got up, whirling and almost running into him as he turned from putting the dishes in the sink. He brought his hands up to block her at the same time she brought her arms out to keep from ramming against him. Their fingers touched.

Lenny felt as if he’d taken a direct hit from some force of nature. Worse than a linebacker coming at him. Her sleepiness seemed to disappear as her eyes opened in a rush of pure awareness. His very cells zinged with a renewed energy. And he didn’t feel so tired anymore.

Lenny backed away, while Jane looked startled, her hazel eyes changing like the leaves outside. “Sorry,” he said in a deep-throated grunt, the scent of her floral perfume hitting him.

“I…it was my fault.” Her jittery laugh caught in her throat. “My father always said I was clumsy. Always rushing, running into things, banging my knees, scraping my hands, falling, always falling.”

“I don’t see that.” His gaze took a stroll down the tiny length of her. “You seem very sure of yourself.” He held her hands, looking down at her taupe-colored nail polish. “And your hands don’t seem to be all scraped and battered, not like mine, anyway.”

She turned his hands in hers, her touch as gentle as the brush of a soft wind, her gaze following the deep calluses on his fingers, the surgery scars on his wrist.

“You do have a lot of scars. Football is not a kind sport.”

If only you knew.

“Battle scars,” he retorted, trying to hide behind the ice again. But with her tiny hands holding his, Lenny felt something solid and rigid slipping into a slow melt inside him. Acknowledged it and held it back. He couldn’t open that floodgate. Not yet. With a gentle tug, he removed his hands from hers. “We all have battle scars, don’t we, darlin’?”



JANE TOOK IN A BREATH, the lingering heat of Lenny’s calloused touch burning through her. Then, because he was staring at her, she wondered what he really saw when he looked at her. Did he see the unmarried, nearly middle-aged woman who’d given her life to her education and her career? Did he see the loneliness, the isolation of the wall she’d managed to build around herself to keep others out, but more importantly to hold herself in?

Did he see her as the successful life coach, or the pathetic woman who’d come traipsing up his driveway on a broken shoe heel in hopes of using his name and his fame for her own purposes? The woman who worked to keep her own sorry personal life at bay, who stayed close to family simply because she needed the noise they could provide? Appalled, Jane wondered why was she analyzing herself instead of the subject at hand.

“Hey, are you all right?” Lenny asked, his icy eyes turning warm.

“I’m fine. The food helped.” Then she put her hands down by her side. “Lenny, please let me help get this place in order. I can help clean up your grandmother’s house. For her sake. She’d want that, don’t you think?”

His expression turned taut and pinched. “Maybe I don’t want to get this place in order.”

“But you need to get your life in order. I can help you with that. And I think you’ll feel better afterward.”

He shook his head. “You know something, Coach. I’m beyond help. I appreciate your efforts, but you should leave while you’ve got a chance.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Jane replied. And this time, it had nothing to do with ulterior motives or professional recognition. And why had that plan changed? she wondered.

Because this bitter, melancholy man has you all twisted and confused, she thought, anger clouding her better judgment. And you don’t get twisted and confused.

She was about to tell him to stop playing his flirty little head games with her when an alarm went off on his watch. Boy jumped up from his spot at the back door, barking at the buzzing noise.

And then Jane noticed something really amazing about big, bad Lenny Paxton. He looked up the hallway, his consistent frown changing with all the beauty of a cloud passing through the sun’s rays, his eyes going from cold and distant to bright and full of excitement.

“What time is it?” he asked as he hit his watch. “This thing is slow sometimes.”

Jane looked around at all the various clocks in the kitchen. Not one of them was working. “It’s four-thirty.”

Lenny made a whistling sound. “This infernal expensive watch has never worked. I have to go feed the hogs before I go to football practice.”

Noting his stress coming and going, she said, “Hogs? You have hogs?”

“It’s a farm,” he said, his words long and drawn out so she could catch on.

“You’re going to feed the hogs, before… What…? Did you say football practice?”

“Peewee football,” he said, grabbing her by the hand. “We have practice and I can’t be late. C’mon, you can help.”

“With the hogs?”

Lenny nodded, clearly proud of himself for thinking up this idea. “Yeah, and then, Miss Life Coach, you’re going to sit tight while I go to practice. This week we have opening night for the Warthogs and I’m their head coach. If you’re still around later in the week and if you behave, I might let you go to the game.”

If you’re still around… He was thinking of letting her stay! A good sign. But about the immediate plans…

Jane backed away. “I don’t do hogs and I don’t do football.”

Lenny turned to lean down, his nose level with hers, his eyes sparkling like fireflies at midnight. “Then what are you doing in Razorback country, lady?”




CHAPTER THREE


JANE WENT UPSTAIRS and entered the first room on the left, her mind reeling. After she’d stood there dumbfounded, her throat too dry to speak, he’d told her to change her clothes. Then he’d dumped her suitcases up here. “Hurry up. We’re burning daylight.”

After meeting him on the rather narrow stairs—or at least the stairs seemed narrow with him blocking her and with all the clutter of old newspapers and magazines on almost every step—she’d silently watched him stomping away with a parting shot over his shoulder. “Wear something sensible—like jeans and a work shirt.”

“I don’t have a work shirt. I mean, I have blouses and jeans, and workout clothes, of course, but what exactly kind of shirt do you mean?”

His smirk had deepened as he turned, one hand on the newel post, those crystal blue eyes sweeping over her. “I mean something to keep the bugs off. I’ll find you one of mine. Oh, and we might run across some other varmints. You know, snakes, mice. All kinds of critters hang out around the hog pen.”

The man was testing her endurance again. She’d thought they might have reached the first breakthrough there in the kitchen, but this was going to take a while. But she was organized and thorough and after having seen where Lenny’s priorities were, she knew this mission was important. Lenny needed to learn to let go. And she was the perfect woman to teach him exactly how to do that. As long as she could keep her own scattered reactions to the man at bay.

“I’ll be down shortly,” Jane had countered, the dare in her words unmistakable. “I can’t wait to see the little piggies.”

Now, unable to stop the rapid progression of her thoughts, she got out her laptop to make notes on her first impression of Lenny Paxton. Good thing she always carried a tiny tape recorder and notebooks. In five minutes, she’d done a passable first draft of her analysis and saved it on both the hard drive and a flash drive. She’d pretty things up for the magazine article.

Pushing her guilt about that aside, she rushed around stripping off her business clothes with one hand while she talked into the tiny machine which she held in her other hand.

“Subject seems unwilling to try therapy. Concerned that he might be hostile toward working through his problems. (Big surprise, that!) Note: He did make me some food and he can be very pleasant when he sets his mind to it. But it’s all an act, I think. He needs to clean up his clutter, both emotionally and in his physical residence. Messy and overstuffed in both areas! Subject seems extremely attached to his grandmother’s possessions. Refusal to maintain contact with friends and coworkers indicates a deep-seated need to connect with something from his past—something he has lost.” She stopped, took a long breath. “Saw a bit of hope when he turned soft and told me I should leave. It wasn’t a threat. It was more of a plea. I think I’ve made a hint of progress. And for that reason, I think I need to stay.”

A paradox, Jane thought as she shut off the tape machine then put it on the old walnut chest of drawers. Lenny looked so out of place in this bulging antique-filled house. And yet, he seemed right at home here, too.

“I think he has a heart,” Jane said as she pulled on an old pink T-shirt she’d brought to sleep in. “I intend to find that heart and get it back into shape. And I also intend to find out why Lenny refuses to get back into action. Does he truly want to retire from all public life, or is he just scared of failing? Does this cluttered house bring him comfort, or keep him from going through his real feelings? He’s stuck in the past so he can’t commit to the future.”

No way was she leaving now. This challenge was too important, for her career and also…for Lenny.

Suddenly excited about the prospect of helping Lenny to deal with his problems, Jane delved into her findings with renewed energy. She quickly plugged in her 3G Internet card and pulled up information on hog farms, scribbling notes and making faces about what the poor animals had to endure. Soon, she had information on peewee football, too. She might be a fish out of water, but she could swim upstream if need be.

A loud knock followed by Lenny’s bellowing voice brought her head up. “How long does it take to put on a pair of pants, Coach?”

“Oh, I’m almost ready,” Jane said, grabbing the jeans she’d tossed on the bed. He’d called her Coach—a term of acceptance if she’d ever heard one. That was a good sign, a very good sign.



ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, Jane wondered if she’d died and gone down below. It was that hot and miserable and stinky in the pigpen. And these animals—brutes, all of them! They snorted and pushed and gobbled and drooled in such disgusting, sickening ways. And the stench! Wishing she had on a protective face mask, Jane tried not to inhale too deeply as she distributed grain, old fruit and wilted vegetables to a passel of grunting, rooting animals.

This was not exactly the industrial-sized operation of a real pig farm; it was more like a few sows and one very-pleased-with-himself, ton-sized boar hog who’d obviously sired the twenty or so squeaking, squealing piglets of various sizes and shapes. No, this was more like an old-fashioned pigsty.

And it smelled worse than anything Jane had ever sniffed in her life.

Reminding herself that she had to get through this first test in order to show Lenny she had staying power, Jane tossed more pig feed into a dirty metal trough and waited for the onslaught of muddy sows and squealing older piglets. Gingerly stepping out of the way, she turned to survey the round pigpen. This was the last of the feed and every trough had been filled. Her work here was done.

Turning with a satisfied smile on her face, she saw Lenny sitting on the wood-and-wire fence, grinning at her, the smirk of his trickery evident on his face.

“How’s it going out there, Coach?”

Jane held her pristine smile in place, in spite of the thumping beat of elevated blood pressure in her temples. “Just dandy.” She sneezed. “These piglets are so adorable.” Then she added a few choice suggestions. “Tell me, though, have you ever considered using sow stalls or gestation crates to lower your birth production costs? And what about iron? Are these piglets getting daily doses? You know, you could probably produce a better pig if you take my advice.”

The proud smirk left Lenny’s face as he hopped off the fence and came stomping through the mud toward her. “This isn’t some mass market pig farm, Ms. Harper. This is just me—trying to do what my granddaddy always did—raise a few animals for meat.”

Jane gasped. “For meat? You mean you’re going to send all of these cute little pink pigs to the slaughterhouse.”

His laugh was as coarse as a hog’s snort. “Of course. That’s what the fancy farms do. Or did you think I was raising them for pets?”

Jane glanced around, eyeing one particular little runt who couldn’t seem to get anywhere with either the grain or his mama sow’s offers of dinner. “But, Lenny, look at him. He’s so precious. You can’t mean to send him into such a horrible death.”

“Now don’t go all PETA on me,” Lenny said, reaching out to take the empty grain bucket from her. “This is just a way of life on the farm. Always has been.”

“But Precious there shouldn’t have to give his life just so you can have bacon for breakfast.”

He glared at her then frowned at the struggling little piggy. “That pig’s getting all he needs from his mother. He’s growing up just fine. I let him out of the stall last week. He’ll be all right until he’s full grown. So stop worrying over him like an old mother hen. Besides, that sow isn’t exactly fawning all over the little runt.”

“You obviously know nothing about a mother’s love for her child,” Jane said, trying to find his sensitive side.

That tack didn’t work.

His glare changed into a look Jane would never forget. He stepped toward her, then stepped back, his face red with anger, his eyes igniting in a blue-colored flame. “You have no idea what I know about that,” he said as he reached to yank the bucket from her.

Jane held it back, realizing she’d stumbled onto something that Lenny had buried deep inside himself. “I’d like to know all about you.”

“I’m warning you to stop,” Lenny said. “Don’t ask me another question. I don’t want you picking my brain.”

She had one more question that needed to be asked. “About clutter or your mother?”

That did it. He grabbed for the bucket while Jane stepped backward to keep it from him. Just as he caught at the old, dirty bucket, his foot slipped in the slimy mud. He moved in slow motion toward Jane, his hand reaching for her arm. Then she started slipping with him, right into the middle of all the piglets.

Jane tried to stop the fall, but it was too late. And Lenny, realizing what was about to happen, tried to keep them both balanced. But his efforts were in vain. All he could do was hold on as they both slid with a sickening thud right into the dirty wallow of pig heaven.

“Oh, no,” Jane screamed as the bucket went in one direction and her legs went in the other. “Lenny!”

He held her close enough to manage to take the brunt of the fall, but before it was over they were tangled together in wet, coffee-colored mud. With squealing, pushing hogs and pigs all around them.

Jane looked up to find Lenny’s eyes on her, his expression bordering on confused and contrite. “Are you all right?” he asked, huffing as he tried to sit up.

But he kept slipping back down and taking her with him. Jane screamed then tried to stand. She felt as if she were caught in quicksand. “Uh, oh. I can’t—”

Then they heard a deep-bellied grunt, followed by the sound of agitated boar flesh heading in their direction.

“Lenny?” Jane managed to point with one mud-caked finger toward the boar. “Is he mad?”

Lenny glanced over his shoulder then said something underneath his breath. “You bet he’s mad. And so am I.”

But, mad or not, he found the strength to pull both of them out of the mire. “Get behind me,” he shouted as he tried to block her from the rooting boar.

Jane did as he said, while Lenny grabbed the bucket and threw it to ward off the attack.

“Now what?”

“Now, we run,” Lenny shouted as he pushed her toward the fence. “Go! Run now!”

She did, her loafers heavy with clinging mud, her breath leaving her body in a burst. She cleared the fence just as the male hog charged at Lenny. Lenny sprinted to the right, groaning as his leg apparently twisted. Jane went out the unlocked gate, turning to hold it for Lenny to pass through while Boy barked and ran in circles behind her. Lenny used some more of his impressive football moves to zigzag away from the angry boar, then ran through the open gate, grabbing it to push it shut just before the massive animal slammed at it. Jane saw the white of the mad hog’s eyes and smelled the stench of his breath, but now there was a fence between them at least.

“You did it. We’re safe.”

Winded and dirty, Lenny and Jane fell on the grass outside the dirt pen, looked at each other, then burst into laughter.

Then Lenny turned toward her, triumph replacing his earlier anger. “So, had enough? Are you leaving now?”

“No way,” she said, determination replacing her fear of hogs. Her family lived for taking dares. And Jane was up to this one. “I’m just getting started.”

He gave her a long, muddy look that turned from triumphant to calculating. “I tell you what, Coach. How ’bout you and me make a deal?”

Jane didn’t like the challenging dare in his eyes. The way he looked at her made her insides quiver like that mud they’d just fallen into. Because she was wet and it was getting cool as dusk descended on them, and because she was wearing one of his old shirts, she shivered. “What kind of deal?”

“You can stay for a little while—just a little while—and…uh…coach me back into shape.”

“I can?”

“If you let me do a little coaching with you.”

“I don’t need a coach,” she said, turning to get up.

His mud-splattered hand on her arm stopped her. “Oh, yes, ma’am, you most certainly do. You look as uptight as a porcupine.”

That unflattering image didn’t set well with Jane. “I am not uptight. I’m a professional.”

“Yeah, too professional if you ask me.” He pulled her up to her feet, his hands on her arms, his eyes a smoky blue now. “I think we could both learn from this situation.”

“You do?”

He nodded, then shot her one of his famous Lenny Paxton lady-killer looks. “Oh, yeah. You know, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours? Could be fun.”

“I don’t like it,” she said. But the memories of his touch made her mind play little tricks on her. “I didn’t come here to fraternize, Lenny.”

He let her go, slapping his hands together to get rid of mud. “Suit yourself. In that case, you will be leaving the premises first thing tomorrow morning.” He whistled for Boy. The big dog came running from where he’d just taken a muddy dip in the pond.

“But—”

Lenny stomped away. “No buts. I might need help getting organized and maybe I need help with this mess I’ve made of my life, too. But it’s my way or the highway. Might as well mix a little pleasure with our business.”

The man was giving her an ultimatum?

Anger flared hot and fast inside her system. “Oh, that is so not fair.” She didn’t need him coaching her. That wasn’t how this was supposed to work.

He whirled with athletic ease in spite of the mud weighing down his clothes. “No, what is not fair is that you had to come here and harass me just because my agent thinks I’m having a midlife crisis.”

“Aren’t you?” Jane hurried to him, her mind clicking with precision. He thought he’d scare her away with all that charisma and charm and…nearness. But his challenge just made Jane more determined than ever. “All right. I’ll take you up on that deal. Then we’ll see who needs coaching the most.”

She was rewarded with a grunt and a look of utter shock that made his eyes turn from crystal to diamond-hard.

With what little dignity she could muster, considering she was dirty and reeking, Jane prissed ahead of him back toward the house.



LENNY WATCHED HER GO, the mad in him wrestling with the sad of his situation. He’d just made a fatal mistake, thinking he could out-dare the little life coach. She’d actually taken him up on that dare. Double-triple-trouble.

“She was right about the pathetic part,” he told Boy. Watching the wet, dirty dog bounce and bob around him, he said, “Maybe we both need help.”

Female companionship wasn’t so bad. Well, unless you married a female just to fill a void in your life. Especially if you married in haste and divorced in a lengthy, well-documented court battle. Three times.

He wouldn’t let that happen again, Lenny told himself. This was a little fun with a woman who clearly needed to cut loose and have some fun. And he was the perfect man for that job. He knew how to kick up his heels. He just didn’t know how to stay true to one woman. His one flaw, according to the many women who’d stomped out of his life, was not being able to open up and share the angst he carried in his heart. But a man had his pride. Lenny shut down because he couldn’t take anyone’s pity. He’d seen enough of that growing up and he’d seen it the day he’d lost the big game. And he sure wouldn’t open up to this cute little woman who wanted to analyze him and dissect him. No, sir. So he’d have a little fun, put on a good act. And do his best to drive her away. Why change his reputation now?

“So, Boy,” he said to his faithful, uncomplicated dog. “How ’bout we let the little life coach unclutter us while we teach her all about throwing caution to the wind?”

Boy’s bark indicated it was a solid plan. Lenny wasn’t so sure. He might get cured or this little exercise could drive him even deeper into seclusion.



AN HOUR LATER, Jane sat waiting for Lenny to come back from practice but she hadn’t wasted her time. She’d gone into a work-related blitz, making more notes and jotting down a list of things she wanted to go over with him. Earlier, after taking a water hose to the worst of the gunk plastered on her borrowed shirt and her dirty shoes, she’d finally managed to get upstairs to take a hot bath in the old-fashioned claw-foot tub in the bathroom next to the frilly bedroom. And realized this was probably the only room in the house that was neat and clean.

The room wasn’t very big, but the soft mattress on the four-poster bed seemed to float like a flying carpet each time she sank down on the yellow chenille bedspread. The pillows were covered in lacy white cases embroidered with dainty yellow roses and ribbons. The room smelled of sunshine and fresh air. A high-backed chair with a cane seat sat in one corner near a beautiful ornate armoire. A tall white bookcase brimming with all sorts of literature bespoke someone who loved reading. All the classics were there—from Little Women to Pride and Prejudice to the Brontë sisters and Flannery O’Connor, as well as several bestselling women’s fiction books. And displayed all over the room on every available tabletop and armoire were beautiful porcelain dolls of all shapes and sizes. Someone certainly was a hopeless romantic.

Or had been. Bertie?

Marcus had told her about Lenny’s grandmother. Bertie had died of Alzheimer’s in February, a week after the Super Bowl game. The game Lenny and his team had lost.

That’s all she knew at this point. Lenny valued his privacy a lot more than he seemed to value his public image. Or maybe he had just valued his grandmother’s privacy.

Thinking about Bertie’s influence over this house and her grandson, Jane tried to imagine Lenny running through the halls of this dainty, overstuffed cupcake of a house. Wondering if Lenny actually ever read anything other than the sports section of the paper and the back of cereal boxes, Jane shook her head.

“Can’t wrap my brain around that one,” she said as she got dressed in khaki pants and a blue cashmere sweater.

But she did need to wrap her brain around why Lenny was living here in seclusion. He’d spent a lot of time here growing up, so this place had to have a special meaning to him. Obviously, he’d taken his retirement seriously, even if his goofy, hyped-up agent and the rest of the sports world hadn’t.

Then she thought about Bertie and the memories Lenny must hold for her and his grandfather. Memories he wasn’t willing to let go of. While it was natural to mourn a loved one, it wasn’t healthy to refuse to touch anything that loved one had left behind. It would be hard to make him see that this place needed to be put back in order so he could get his own life straight, too. Jane knew hoarding usually began with a traumatic event in a person’s life. What had happened to Lenny?

He loved his grandmother. Was that why he’d told her he didn’t intend to leave, ever? Or could the real reason be so very private and very hurtful that he refused to even discuss it. What had happened to Lenny’s parents?

Lenny Paxton had given up on his career and fame to come home to Arkansas and the one place where he felt safe. But why? Had he really lost his confidence? Did he feel useless and used up? And why was it that way with athletes? Why did they seem to think that winning a game was the most important thing in life?

“Oh, Lenny, you can’t do it on your own,” she whispered, all sorts of thoughts rushing through her head. “You can’t heal. Not until you work through this meltdown everyone keeps talking about.”

And why had he put her in this room that seemed so sacred and silent and yet so alive with his grandmother’s memory. Why?

We made a deal, Jane thought. And she intended to stick to that deal even though she knew he would put her through her paces. But right now, she had work to do before the Warthogs big game two days from now.

Somehow, in spite of Lenny’s need to find some solace, Jane had to show him he’d been looking for it in the right place, but in the wrong way. It wouldn’t be easy. Because from what she’d seen so far, Lenny Paxton wasn’t going to budge. The man had stubborn written all over his handsome face.

Deciding she’d try to get him to talk more when he got home, Jane headed downstairs. It was nearly dark now, and the old house glowed with a golden thread of light that looked like spun silk falling out across the wide hallway. Dust particles moved through the last of the sun’s rays, dancing with abandonment in the still, crisp air. The whole house had the illusion of home and hearth, but Jane could also sense a forlorn kind of sadness floating through those sun rays, too. The house, probably much like the woman who’d once lived here, was trying valiantly to remain prim and proper in spite of certain deterioration.

And her grandson was trying to salvage the memories and the comfort of her love to fill a void in his heart.

She could make this place shine, Jane thought. And she could help Lenny decide what he wanted. Then she remembered falling into his arms in the mud, a delicious shiver radiating throughout her body. Such eyes the man had. No wonder supermodels and housewives alike fell all over him. And in spite of the reports that he’d grown complacent and out of shape, Jane remembered nothing but hard, sinewy muscles and a sense of strength that took her breath away. Which was silly, of course. She wasn’t one to get all fluttery and breathless around men. Maybe because she didn’t take the time to be around men unless they were in crisis. She didn’t date clients, so that was that.

But when she heard Lenny’s truck growling up the drive, she did a save of all her notes and tidied up her work space, anxious to talk to him. Her phone vibrated against the oak dresser.





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